#odor blindness

[poll-palace]

(Anosmia is being unable to smell things)

[i90o3]

hi!! i was wondering if i could request a little scenario/fic with mr crawling and just… pampering him? cuddles? maybe set after the ending where you take him home :3 i can’t explain how but he gives me major cuteness aggression…

Pampering.

context: post blissful love ending. You take care of him <3

Homicipher. mr crawling x reader. | Anypov. Fluff.

He also gives me cuteness aggression, like sometimes I just wanna squeeze him until he pops. HES SO CUTE!!!!!!! even if I kind of slandered him in this post..

requests r open !! (read rules)

Few things you noticed about Mr. Crawling..he’s all bloody, dirty, and he SMELLS.

You couldn’t have him stinking up your house with his nasty odor, and you honestly smelt bad too since you haven’t showered..so, what’s better than a self care day? Take care and pamper your ..boyfriend? (I don’t think he understands labels..)

It was a little..complicated? first getting him out of his clothes. He was confused as to why you were taking off his clothes.. but I think after you running the bath and getting out of your own clothes he joins you.

He looovveesss the feeling of you washing his hair and massaging his scalp, literally in bliss. Your hands just feel so good! (pause-) Honestly even your hands scrubbing his body feels good—lathering him up with soap and giving him all the attention! Along with some head pats and kisses, of course. You even guide your hands and let him wash your hair and body, even if he’s a little clumsy.

After getting out of the bath and drying yourselves off, (he has to stay in his towel because you gotta wash his NASTY ASS clothes), you sit him in front of your vanity and start applying all sorts of face masks and stuff to his face, letting it sit while you brush (detangle..) his hair. Both him and his clothes are all clean! and he just smells and looks so much better. Although you really weren’t sure what to do about his eyes (or lack of therefore..), but he didn’t seem to want to wear a blind fold like Mr. Silvair..so you just let his hair cover it.

(now he’s allowed in your bed because he’s not STANK)

And for the best part of self care day, is spending the rest of the night cuddling in bed, your arms wrapped around him as he lays on your chest, your hands patting his head and kissing his face until you fall asleep, watching over you and admiring your sleeping features. His fingers will occasionally brush against your cheek or your collarbone, featherlight, not enough to wake you up. And he’ll even take your wrist and make your hand pat him on the head while you’re busy sleeping. He’s a little lonely while you sleep, but give him plenty of cuddles in the morning and he’ll be okay!!

9:23 pm. 11/03/2024. @i90o3

[johnbrand]

The Tanning Booth

With @breedertfs

Chris approached the tanning booth, attempting to hold back the apprehension that suddenly flooded his system. Had it been silly to think he, a petite, pale kid from middle-of-nowhere Wyoming, could become a porn star? And a gay one at that? He was not a virgin, but his hole also had not reached the point of no return. He just needed the money, bad, and after a hookup had recommended this as an easy way out, Chris decided to try his luck.

Of course, Chris would try his best to stay safe in the industry, but the producer he had signed with had noted changes would be necessary. Even though his future audiences would know he was homosexual (some porn stars were just there for the money, not the sex after all), Chris understood he had to sexualize himself a bit more. He had followed the producer’s suggestions, shifting his diet and focusing on exercising different muscle groups. And now, just days before his first shoot, he was getting a tan.

“That tanning light is gonna change more than just that pasty skin tone,” the producer had joked, as if it was some kind of turning point. Yet now, standing before the menacing machine, Chris almost felt like it was. Deciding it was best not to dwell on his trepidation further, he took a step forward and heard the door click shut behind him. Waiting, naked and alone, Chris began to literally understand what it meant to do anything for money.

After a moment, a magenta light blasted the room in color, momentarily blinding Chris. The fan above his head began to run, slowly redistributing the air throughout the room. Chris felt himself relax, growing lighter as his shoulders began to droop. He did not register that the process had begun, the tanning spray emitting from the walls as droplets carefully coated his body.

The misting began at his feet, covering his toes before moving across the soles to the ankles and slowly carrying up. Due to his loosened consciousness, Chris did not see his tanned feet bloat larger. The toes crept forward as his feet widened, thickening out with a putrid odor as if to announce its grand entrance.

The spray had already moved on however, having stretched out Chris’s legs and added some definition to his calves. Dustings of hair began to emerge across his skin as the droplets darkened his thighs, inflating them to the point that Chris had to readjust and hold a wider stance. Now vulnerable, the droplets swept up across the front and back of Chris’s midsection. His buttocks billowed out into two juicy bubbles while a thick cock bloomed forward with his heavy balls flopping down.

Unbeknownst to Chris, the tanning booth was also laced with a minor stimulant, boosting his libido as it passed over the now properly-sized equipment for the porn star. The producer however knew this, smiling as he watched his newest employee begin to stroke himself absentmindedly through the camera attached within the tanning booth.

Chris began to moan as the spray glazed over his arms and chest. The hand tugging his much larger meat began to grow in size, gradually becoming fit to carry his massive load. Muscle spilled out of Chris’s torso as abs popped in one by one, followed by two pillowy pecs. To compliment, his upper arms ballooned appropriately, forcing his shoulders outwards as the vapor began to darken his neck. While the only physical change involved a fuller circumference, the changes in depth were apparent as each grunt of sexual elation grew deeper and more animalistic.

Finally came the head. At the exterior level, the tanning booth worked its magic over the pimply boyish offerings. Soft jaw replaced by crude angles, brow brought forward with more prominence. Bigger nose, larger forehead, crafting a perfect face oozing of breeding masculinity. But internally, the tanning spray was contaminating Chris’s identity, staining his individuality.

His personality, his background, his morals–all of was subject to corruption. If Chris was to be a porn star, then the producer had to get rid of any doubts or hesitations. He would have a new history, a new story as to how he got to this point, perfectly constructed to never leave or disobey his boss. Chris the hopeful American twink may have made a decent profit, but the rougher, tougher, gay-for-pay Russian stud Kristofer would certainly fatten his wallet. After all, the best gay porn stars were the ones only in it for the money!

So now, happily, the producer watched as Kristofer came to the surface, tantalizingly stroking himself off for his gay fans. The fans he cared nothing about. It took him a moment, but eventually Kristofer spotted the camera, giving it his signature wink while dreaming about which chick he would like to dump a load into before the producer had him on his next shoot.

[trashmouth-richie]

ad caelum vel ad inferos, tecum sum to heaven or hell, i am with you

the final part [4.6k] geta x reader summary: death, smut, GORE

🥀dulcis ut rosa 🥀dulex 🥀vitiosis + deliciosus 🥀frangere me

s/o to my beta @rxqueenotd , and anyone else i’ve screamed at with over this fic 🤎

Blue skies could never compare to the icy hatred that filled Caracalla’s eyes as he stood above you, flanked by soldiers on either shoulder. “Perhaps the dungeon will help you remember which Emperor you are to be serving? Hm?” 

Blood trickled down your hairline, collecting in a slow drop from your chin onto the dirty floor. The cell was barely wide enough to lay down in. A piss pot stood full in one corner, its odor still more pleasant than the sickly aroma of Caracalla’s breath when he found you waiting for Geta. 

You had been startled seeing him instead of the man you had spent the last many nights crying for. Trying to run you were hit hard and the rest was gone until you woke up here. 

A swift kick to your legs and chest, had you doubling over, the pain boiling hot in your veins. 

“How incompetent do you think I am?” Caracalla spit. “My brother doesn’t move throughout these walls without me knowing. Months! He’s been fucking your mouth raw, spilling his seed down your throat after nights spent in luxury with me!” A giggle bullies out from his lungs, “did you think I hadn’t a clue? An inkling as to why his chamber stood empty at the same moment that you left mine?” 

You haven’t said a word and you refused to, he didn’t deserve an explanation. 

A tear slips down his rouge painted face, “I confided in you, we were soulmates you and I. Geta is nothing! He feels nothing!” 

You shook your head, unable to accept his words. “How did you do it, magae. How did you bewitch my brother to fall for your wickedness?” 

Raising your chin in spiteful defiance, you glared into his disgusting putrid eyes, “You pathetic, sniveling swine— I am no such witch, but I can not wait to witness the carnage Geta will bestow upon you.” 

Caracalla giggles in a high pitched tone, “oh my dear, he will be long dead before that shall ever happen,” he looks around at the moldy holed dungeon, “maybe you can charm the rats while you’re rotting away waiting for your precious Geta.” 

—

Wind and insects scratched at his face as he pushed his horse faster, hooves kicking up sand and rocks in a storm as they raced for Palace Hill. Geta screamed with rage when Acacius told him of your demise, knowing exactly who was behind it. What a fool he was for leaving you unattended. Caracalla must have found out, and maybe he himself was too blind by Cupid’s lust to notice the changes within his own kingdom. 

Tears squeezed from the corners of his eyes as he imagined the perils of danger you were now in— because of him.

His reins slapped sharply against the muscled backside of his horse as he pumped every ounce of strength from the mare to get home- to get back to you.

Whatever Caracalla had done, heads would fucking roll once he got back. That was a promise. 

—

How many days had it been? Four? A week? The dark had made you lose count. 

At times you weren’t sure if your eyes were open or closed, the pitch black was endless, curling around you like smoke and suffocating any happiness you had tried to muster. 

The dungeon was crawling with vermin, caked with disease and body fluids from decades before you had been tossed in here like a rabies riddled dog. Food had stopped coming, water was scarce except for the trickle of fresh springs that siddled down the stone wall. At least you told yourself it was a fresh spring that you were consuming, but more than likely it was tainted water that kept you alive. 

You prayed to the Gods that Geta would come for you. That he wasn’t head first into a war that he agreed to when you pushed him away. You were so stupid for doing so, but you couldn’t help the racking sobs when you pictured how hurt he was… and crying harder yet when realizing, that was the last time. 

Days had passed and you could feel your mind slipping from you. Exhaustion, dehydration settling in had you hallucinating images of the Emperor. It was almost comforting the way your mind was protecting itself, throwing you into an alternate reality of laying in his lavish bed instead of the hard shit-soaked stones. 

You could feel his blunt nails tickling your sides, but in truth it was beetles gnawing on your bare skin. Geta kept you warm and safe in your head, even though it was apparent from the lack of food, proper sunlight, and clean water—that you were falling ill. 

—

It hadn’t been that long since Geta had left, but approaching the Hill had his skin crawling. Dismounting his mare, everything seemed odd. 

It was unusually quiet. The air felt sharp against his skin. Smelled of pungent rot, souring his nose. The wind seemed to howl a song he hadn’t recognized— the sickly tune of a kingdom at war with itself. 

His father had trained them both on how to rule with force, how to command an army, to hold rank and battle to the blood flowing end—their enemies head on a stake. 

Caracalla by himself was juvenile when it came to war tactics, knowing the basics of stationing men on watch, high in the walls on the terraces. Two men for each direction, pointing their noses North, East, South and West. A handful of guards on the entrance. 

If this was a war with any other enemy— Geta would have spent a full sun tracking their movements meticulously. But never had his enemies captured something so dear to him. 

Acacius landed from his own horse beside Geta’s kneeled form, knowing his thoughts before he could even act on them. 

“It’s unwise, my lord…” he said carefully, placing a weathered hand on Geta’s shoulder, “we cannot risk the element of surprise when our emotions are clouding our judgment.”  

Geta’s eyes twitched as he stared ahead at the palace, his mind traveling to where you were being kept, knowing in his heart it was in the deepest part of the palace, the south dungeon.

He breathed raggedly through his nose before he spoke between gritted teeth, “I will paint all of Rome with their innards for what they’ve done, and I will not stop until their bodies are drained of all their blood.” 

Acacius shook is head in worry, clearing his throat, “you’re mind is unclear, you should rest before—”

Adrenaline raced through Geta’s veins as he mounted his mare, “I’m going, with or without your help. What good am I to her waiting for calculated time?” 

Acacius threaded a hand through his salty peppered hair, eyeing his emperor— his friend. His voice was riddled with pain when he spoke, “what good are you to her if you’re dead?” 

Geta pondered this, but his reply was simple, and he said the most truthful thing that has ever passed his lips, “I’ll be the man she makes me want to be.” 

—

“Up! Get up!” 

Caracalla had figured once Geta found out that his precious whore was locked away and starved that he  would be on his way to come and rescue you. He waited day and night for his brother’s return. And finally— there was a spec in the distance. His brother returning in all his glory. 

He skipped down to the dungeon— literally skipping and hopping on one foot in glee as he came down to the depths of the palace to retrieve you for the final act.

A hand clasped harshly in your hair, yanking you from a deep sleep, followed by a taunting giggle.

You had grown weak in your time secluded from light and clean air. Unable to stand on your own properly, Caracalla brought you to your feet like you were a doll, the flame he held showed just how manic and possessed he had become. 

He was like a poisoned animal practically foaming from the mouth with insanity. Biting his lip constantly, chewing and gnawing, infesting it with sores. He wore his best robes, bangles jingling as he brought you closer to his face. 

Jumping back, he lets your body slump against the bars, a hand to his chest, “Yuck— you smell like horeshit! Maybe we should have fed you more, bathed you… I’ve never been very good with keeping pets…” 

Caracalla rubs his chin for a moment, then as if he is brought back from a different time, he claps twice,  “oh well, time to go, your precious Geta is here and it’s time to play!”

You try to fight back feebly, trying to shove his face away from you, your filthy fingernails clutching at his doughy powder coated flesh.

“C’mon!” he pleads like a child, pushing your hands down and bringing a blade to your neck, “you’re going to be the star of the production and you simply can’t miss the show!” 

When sunlight hit your skin it was like you were being burned alive. Your feet scuffed against the stone steps, and you were winded from the climb. Everything was so bright as if you were looking directly into the suns beams. 

Caracalla hissed into your ear, the pungent smell of fruit and fish combining into a stomach twisting aroma as he whispered, “you’ve been such a delight to us here, I will be so upset to see you dead… I’ve been practicing my tears and cries of mourning for when you’re laid to rest with my brother.”

“You won’t be triumphant against him,” you croaked trying to wiggle free from his hold. 

Caracalla giggled before winding back and slapping your cheek, “why do you have to speak such lies? You will die by his hand— squashed like the gnat you’ve become.” 

—

The palace walls roared. 

Thundered like a storm of bees defending their hive. Clashes of swords and weapons gleamed like lightning against a dark sky. Amongst the clouds of dust from the lack of harvest rain, blood splattered the stones like oil paint to a canvas. 

Geta’s revengeful carnage had begun. 

Carnage was colored with maroon and deep sets of rubies in a hilt. Specs of pinkish brain membrane laid out like flower petals at a wedding. 

Carnage was the sound of teeth chipping at the root being ripped away from the gum line, the sheath of a knife embedded into a lung, an abdomen, the muscular thigh of one of Caracalla’s more prominent men. 

Carnage reeked of shit and death. The humble hands of Pluto himself, stretching his claws to welcome home another victim. 

Carnage was Geta, annihilating anyone who stood in his way to get to you. A force built with bared teeth and rippling muscles, sweat dripping from his honey hair. Eyes as black as coal— soulless in every sense of the word. 

The men falling dead by his hands trembled in cowardice when they saw him coming, forgetting how powerful he was with a sword. 

Swords drew silent, the only sound being the pooling fountains now tainted with blood from the dead. Everyone in the palace was either lying deceased or were in hiding, waiting for this hell to end. But Geta had only just begun. 

“Brother!” he shouted, his voice echoing against the marble stone, deep and ragged with exertion. He was standing at his throne then, bodies laying at a heap by his feet, his body covered in their blood, “I know you’re around, Caracalla—answer me!” 

Beyond the pillars behind the tapestries, Caracalla stood with a knife pressed into the meat of your neck, his breath hot against your cheek— a giggle forming in his throat like a child tucked away during a game of hide n seek.

“It’s a shame, Geta,” he announced, his voice ricocheting off the walls, “a fucking shame that you are so soft for this common whore when you’ve had so many, father would be disappointed.” 

Geta’s eyes narrowed, listening for any bit of noise underneath Caracalla’s feet to give him away. He moved on nimble feet, each move more quiet than the next as he waited with trained ears for Caracalla to speak again. 

“What is between you and I, has nothing to do with her— she is merely caught in the middle of our feud— let, her go.” 

Caracalla’s laugh pierced your ear, ringing loudly like a hyena as spit flew from his manic mouth. “She is much more than a simple bystander dear Geta… otherwise you wouldn’t care so proudly.” 

Geta strode towards the direction of his brother’s voice, waiting in the shadows. “You have always been less, why do you think mother and father had me? I was to make up for your shortcomings, so that Septimius Severus would have a decent heir. One who could actually keep the family name in Rome.”

“Enough!” Caracalla screamed, shoving you forward into the clearing, his blade still pressed into your neck, a line of crimson dripping from it, his frantic panicked laugh bubbling behind a shriek, “there will be no heirs for you, brother! I was going to offer her life in place of your crown, let you both be on your merry little way but you just don’t get it do you? I will rule on my own, and you will both be left to rot in the dungeons. Poetic isn’t it?! Two lovers dead by my hand.” 

With the way your head was arched toward the ceiling, you couldn’t see Geta. You could only hear a hitch in his throat at the sight of you. The sodden robes you wore, the filth caked to your skin. 

Geta didn’t move, knowing that Caracalla would be more likely to accidentally cut you deep enough to kill you if he tried to do anything drastic. But the look of you made his stomach curdle like cows milk left in the summer heat.  

The once plump and luscious curves you had were gone. The robes you wore were next to rags. You had been locked away far longer than he had imagined. Possibly weeks before he had even got word of it. If you truly had been with child, there was no tell of it now. Tears stung behind his eyes, but he wouldn’t let them drop.

“Mother should have drowned you in the river like a litter of pups,” he nearly whispered, eyes trained on his brother, “release her or I will slaughter more of your men leaving their poor wives to be widowed.” 

“Now why would I do such a thing? I’m having the time of my life orchestrating this production.” They both moved then circling like the gladiators would in the coliseum, baiting one another to strike first.

Geta’s eyebrows furrowed at Caracalla’s choice of words… production? 

“Must you be so dense? So surface leveled?” Caracalla answered, “Jessaphina, that wart—terrible actress but she did the job, made this concubine believe every word.” Caracalla grinned like a opossum eating a pile of shit, dragging you with him, your hair wrapped tight in his clutch.

Geta’s eyes never leave Caracalla, his movements smooth and languid as he counts his steps, seconds. 

“Pliteus, the guard who told her to meet you at ‘your spot’ another spy, made actor by yours truly, for the Theatre, of course. And all that leaves is you, Geta. You will be the widower, the brute left in tears of sorrow pleading for a whore’s life. Gods!— I shall be famous when this is through!” 

“You’re demented,” you managed against the sharp blade, cutting yourself in the process, “sickenly so.” 

Caracalla wretched his hand twisting your head back with a snap, causing you to yelp, ”I’m an artist you rancid cow! Can’t you see that?! This was all a form of expression— your uneducated brain would never be able to appreciate such a thing— it’s why I put this all into motion!” 

“So what?” Geta spit,  “you were bored? Needed an activity to keep your cogs oiled enough for you to not slit your wrists in the baleneum, again? You’re a child!” 

Caracalla giggled wickedly mad, “People will write about me for the end of time and how I bested Publius Septimius Geta! You will be nothing more than a myth—erased from memory entirely!” 

Geta stopped, his sword pointing toward his brother. The wind didn’t howl, silence fell between them.

“It will be a true honor to breed my empress in a bed of your blood while she wears her crown.” 

With a jerk of his head, Acacius moves, causing the distraction they had planned. The arrow missing Caracalla’s foot purposefully, causing him to lose his balance and hold on your body. You fell to the ground taking advantage of his blundered state, crawling on all fours away from him. 

Just as the swing of Geta’s blade was centimeters from the skin of Caracalla’s neck, it was stopped with his knife, a crude smile licked onto his lips. “I know your moves dearest brother, you forget it was you and I as children playing these games.” 

Caracalla pushes the sword from him and jabs the tip of the knife into Geta’s bicep. Tearing through tendons and muscles with each twist of his hand. 

“War is not a game,“ Geta gritted, tripping Caracalla with a swipe of his foot until he was on his knees before him, “…and it’s time you realize that.” 

A toss of Acacius sword into Geta’s open hand, and he pressed two blades crossed beneath Caracalla’s chin. 

Caracalla’s throat bobbed against the sharp steel, accepting his defeat, “make it swift precious brother, I intend to see father before the sun sleeps.” 

The blades sung as they severed his head from his spine. Blood sprayed and pooled from the limp teetering body of Caracalla, swords clattered to the ground as Geta stumbled to your side, holding you to him in a bone crushing grasp. 

“You’re safe now.” A tear fell onto your head as he cradled your body into his. 

Your body was still weak as you clung to him practically lifeless as he lifted you from the ground. He instructed Acacius on what to do with the mess. Geta carried you to his private bath, stripped you gingerly of your clothes and bathed you with exceptional care. His lips kissing tenderly to every scrape, every bruise. 

He tutted through his teeth and hissed when your tears fell as he gently wiped the dirt and infection from your cuts. His own tears flowing down his cheeks, mumbling how sorry he is how stupid he was for ever leaving. 

When you tried to speak he shushed you quietly, “not now my dulcis rosa,” he soothed as he scrubbed soap into your hair, you lifted a hand to caress his cheek, coaxing a small smile from him.

Geta called to his servants— that weren’t killed—to gather fresh robes and to fix you something warm and easy to eat. 

He dried your skin once you were cleansed. Rubbing oils and ointments into each ache and pain, dressing the wounds in such expertise you wondered if he had done this often, probably to his own scars. 

Up those winding stairs he carried you to his quarters, never wavering, never once adjusting you in his strong arms.

The room was thrown into its usual cozy dark ambience. His bed was made with enormous feathered pillows, a tray next to the bed with a plate of porridge dressed with honey and figs. 

Once Geta had set you gently onto the pillows propping you up so you could eat, he shook his head when you reached for the spoon. 

“Let me,” he commanded quietly, his eyes large and wet. 

More tears slipped past your lashes as he sniffed largely, blowing gently on the bite of food. “When was your last meal?” 

“I’m not sure of what day we are in,” you answered quietly, “or how long I was there… I lost track.” 

Geta bit back a sob as he brought the spoon to your lips, “It shouldn’t have happened, I shouldn’t have left you so vulnerable.” 

“Please,” you practically begged, swallowing the warm sweetened wheat.  He looked broken, his under eyes dark and his eyelid twitching uncontrollably. Weeks the two of you had been separated and you couldn’t bear the thought of him spiraling for what had happened.

“We are together again,” you whispered, “I do not want to live in past mistakes. Caracalla is gone now, we must move forward, no dwelling.” 

“Forgiveness of thyself has never come easily for me,” Geta admitted wiping a dreadful sigh from his face, “but I can only hope you now know that there has never been another for me—I am so deeply in love with you, gnat.” 

You reached for him pulling him into you until the weight of his body melted with yours. Feverish lips tasted the sweat from his neck as you desperately ached for more of it, pressing your own devotions into his skin, your own words of cupid's love.

Geta’s strong arms wrapped around your back, holding you tenderly as if you were glass. pressing a single searing kiss to your collarbone before leaning back, his eyes staring into yours, “In this lifetime and the one that follows, I will forever be yours— ad caelum vel ad inferos, tecum sum.”

“Ad caelum vel ad inferos.” 

—

Caracalla’s room was sealed off. His belongings burned in the coliseum along with his body, as if he were a monster that could only be considered dead by smoldering licks of flame. 

Geta left the fate of the others up to you. He had wanted them dead the next day, hung from a rope by their necks as they swung with the breeze, paraded around behind his team of horses until they’re skin was pulled from their bones. But you… had other plans. 

Animals from other territories were brought in by the shipload, each more vile and vicious as the next. They were hungry, trained to attack at the smell of garments worn by a certain woman with a healing broken nose. 

It was maybe a bit too grotesque, maybe a bit unhinged the way you had Acacius’s best men tie Jessaphina up from her ankles and wrists one to each post in the center of the coliseum.

And maybe it was a bit over-the-top when you personally rubbed greasy fat and cow entrails all over her body to taunt the beasts on even further. 

But Geta only smirked at your own impressive drive for bloodlust when you stood before your throne hollering for the men to open the gates, releasing the hungry scavengers one by one letting them sniff out their meal. 

Geta watched in admiration as your eyes turned dark, black pools taking over your pretty gaze as Jesspahina’s screams rang through the air

You couldn’t get your hands off of him when her body lay ripped to shreds, her bones being tossed around between snarling teeth and sharp black claws. The sand colored in her crimsoned blood. You pulled him from his own throne by the front of his shirt, yanking him into a small private room covered by a drapery for a door.

“My little demonic empress,” Geta growled as he pushed himself further into you, groaning when you whimpered out, your lip bit between your teeth, robes rucked up to your chest, “you just might be more evil than I am, have my ways rubbed off on you?” 

The passion between you two had never dulled. Each day it seemed to grow with fervorous desire. Some days Geta fucked into you until you were too sore to walk. Your bodies were both painted with stains from sucking mouths and marks from gnashing teeth. Each time better than the last. 

You were soaked when Geta knelt before you, his nose pressed into your sex as you circled your hips onto it. He stood and shoved his clothing out of the way, yours already stuffed beneath your chin. and when he slammed his fat cock into you the darkness returned. Two demons fucking at the loss of life and smell of blood in the air. 

“Practically getting off to a hideous murder in front of my mother and the others, my my…” he hissed, wrapping a hand around your throat squeezing until your breath rattled beneath his palm, “you truly were sent to me from the Gods weren’t you?” 

You nodded, moaning when he attached his lips to your neck, pinching your nipple until it purpled. “Nothing makes me happier than seeing the deserved slaughtered.” 

Geta groaned as your clenching pussy gripped him as you came undone, his own release following closely behind, yelling out your name. 

“I have a surprise for you,” he breathed raggedly into your neck, adjusting your robes back into place, sweat pouring from his brow.

Your smile squeaked against his ear, “it is not even my birth date, Geta, you are spoiling me.” 

Leaving the room Geta kisses your palm, “no,” he agrees, “it is not, but am I not allowed to gift my wife with divine luxuries?” 

“You are, but you don’t need to give me anything…” you say, holding your belly with which the healer confirmed that you were indeed with child all along. Something Geta never let you forget that he knew you better than you knew yourself. 

His lips pressed to your cheek, his hand laying delicately on your stomach as you whispered, “you’ve given me enough as it is.” 

He smiled wickedly pulling back to lace your fingers with his own, “come,” he commanded, pulling you back towards the palace. 

—

The great stone table stood bare except for a golden cloth. Acacius proudly stood guard next to it, bowing upon the sight of you. 

“My lady,” he greeted, smiling at the sight of your radiant face, then facing Geta with the same warm smile, “Emperor.” 

“Thank you,” Geta said, rubbing his hands together excitedly, “hope you didn’t have any trouble getting it?” 

Acacius smirked and adjusted his sword on his belt, “not at all, they were quite thrilled to be rid of it.” 

Geta rippled out a laugh from his throat as he stood behind the table, his large hands pressed into it, “I can only imagine… Gnat, my love, are you ready?” 

“As I will ever be,” you said cautiously, stepping up to the table. 

Acacius stood back as Geta pinched a piece of the cloth between his fingers, “presented to you, my undying devotion,” he said sweetly before pulling the cloth revealing your present. 

Anyone else would have ran and screamed, damning him to hell. But you were unlike everyone else, and you saw the beauty in his gift and the meaning behind it. 

Blood had been drained, the smell minimal, and judging by the way the darkness that filled Geta to the brim and now poured into yourself was clouding your eyes, the mad tick of your lips as they perked up in greed: you were pleased. 

“It is exquisite, amor meus,” you smiled wider, getting closer to your present. 

Geta looked at you proudly, his eyes inky and shining. His gnat, his dulcis, his wife, his empress— his tainted heart content for the first time in his life, and it was all thanks to you. “Where shall we put it, the mantle?” 

You picked it up, holding it high to the sky for the Gods to see, “a gift more precious than gold deserves to be seen, for all—don’t you think?” 

Sat on a pedestal, his name engraved on a piece of wood, a large red rose sewn between his lips, was the severed head of Caracalla. 

taglist: @joejoequinnquinn @fallout-girl219 @all-will-be-well-love @anythinggoesemily @eddiesguitarskills

@prestinalove @razzeith @workingwndrz @probablyin-bed @songforeddiemunson

@avobabe87 @creative1writings @liminalpebble @screaming-blue-bagel @spookyquinnbie

@ghosty-boo-shh @creepycranberry @aphrodites-divine-nectar @hillarymurray4 @iamchallengerred

@alyisdead @honey-eyed-munson @justiceforfelicityfeatherington herington @hereforshmut @runningupthatvecna

@rxqueenotd

[exhaslo]

Puzzle Pieces (Mafia!Miguel x Shy!Reader)

Part 1 of who knows how many parts :)

Warning: Eventual Smut so Minors DNI, mentions of abuse, blood, murder, language, fluff, bullying, mentions of sex

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

The heavy sound of rain flood the streets of Nueva York. The dim street lights felt faded as the mist blocked their glow. Despite the downpour that washed the streets, the stench of blood still lingered. A foul odor that could never truly be cleaned from this city.

Nueva York was riddled with crime. Each part of the city was owned and govern by their own mafia. Drugs, alcohol and fights were always a topic and always a cause to stay indoors. Only the smart stayed away from the mafia. They were the ones to survive this city unscathed. They were the ones to avoid trouble.

You had just moved into the city, unaware of its true face, nor did you really have a choice. You were desperate to get away from your old life. Despite for a fresh start. So much so, that you landed in one of the worst parts of the city. The place you rented was small, but it was enough to keep you hidden.

A soft whimper escaped your lips as you near cried at the sight of a roach. Tears threaten to spill as you sprayed the roach spray against the foul creature for dear life. You had just moved into the place. You were warned by your friends and family of the filth of the city, but they didn't know anything. They didn't know the pain you were in.

"Ew, ew!" You whined as you grabbed the broom, throwing the roach away.

Once you were freed from that horrid task, you continued to clean and unpack. You double checked everything for roaches and mice, wanting to sleep soundly for once. You shuddered at the thought as you pulled out old photographs of your high school days. Within those pictures was the cause of your depature.

Your ex.

You had fled your hometown due to your abusive ex-boyfriend, Eddie Brock. The man was so kind to you at first, treating you well until you officially started dating. Your college life was cut short due to his beatings and yelling. You were always at fault. You could never be good enough for him. You were always the problem.

The thought made you sob. You moved to this city on a whim thanks to your small job. You just wanted to stop living in that hell. Everyone loved your ex. They never truly saw what he was. They never even asked how you were.

"I-I need to s-stop crying." You whispered to yourself as you looked out the window, "I-I have work tomorrow. I...I need to be ready."

-----------

Meanwhile, a few blocks over, Miguel was sitting before his large patio, watching the rain. He held a glass of vodka in his hand, watching the lightening brighten the sky more than the city lights itself. He inhaled to the loud roar of thunder before being interrupted by a knock at his door.

"Que? (What)" He hissed lowly. Lyla smiled as she walked over with a folder, placing them on his desk,

"Just something for the morning." She chirped and approached the door, "There's another one waiting outside. Shall I send her in?"

"Ha, and get some fake praises. She can only come in if she wants a quick fuck. I won't deal with gold diggers." Miguel grumbled.

Lyla just hummed in response before shutting the door. Miguel could only groan in annoyance as he placed his glass down. His night would have been better off alone. Closing the blinds to his patio, Miguel approached his desk to the file. It was going to be another long day tomorrow.

---------

There was a scurry to your step as you tried to please your new boss. It was your first day working in the chain supermarket, and you were stressed. This version of your old job was far busier, louder and ruder than what you were used to. You were a shy and quiet person, so having so many people yell and pull you around was breaking you.

"(Y/N)! Deli needs a hand, you ever did that?" One of your coworkers asked. You flinched at the sudden yell,

"I-I have helped packaged an-"

"Good enough, go help and put a kick in it!"

You just agreed and hurried to the deli. You grabbed a hair net and gasped lowly at your fellow coworkers there. They were all so tall and mean looking. You were like a deer in headlights the moment they saw you enter their kitchen. You just bowed your head slightly and quietly made your way to the meat wrapping station.

"Why'd they put her here? She don't know anything yet," One of the taller men whispered. You're ears perked up since whispers weren't exactly in their volcabulary,

"She's a scaredy cat. Ain't nothing comin' outta her mouth. Same like the rest of us,"

You wanted to ask them what they were talking about, but you were too scared to find out. That, and you learned the harsh lesson of minding your own business. Dear ol' Eddie gave you that cruel lesson. Shaking your head at the thought, you didn't want to be known as the employee who cried on their first day.

"Hey, new kid," One of your coworkers called out, approaching you, "Yer new here, so let me warn you. We got three freezers in the deli. One is full of the fresh meat we get. Leave that to us big guys. You can enter the second freezer with the small cuts for the customers. The third freezer, you never enter. Don't ask questions about it. Don't peak into it. Just pretend it never exists. Oh, and don't make eye contact with those who enter it."

"Okay,"

Hell fucking no. You were going to stay far away from dear freezer number three. That was a lot more information than you even wanted to hear. Hell, you weren't a fan of entering freezer number two. Once your coworkers were reassured by your understanding, they returned to work.

Your hands trembled over your station as you tried to focus on your job with the seven men yelling around you. This was your sad new life. You had to get used to this. You were either going to make it in the city or die trying.

--------

Miguel lazily glanced out his window seat, spotting the upcoming supermarket. There was a rumble in his throat as he leaned back in his seat. His men tailing behind him in different cars. Miguel told his driver to stop, wanting to walk the rest of the way while his men parked around back.

"Peter, take our guest into the freezer. I'm going to make a pit stop at the deli," Miguel said over the phone.

"Miguel, we talked about this. You're the boss, let us handle the work." Peter tried reasoning over the phone.

Miguel wasn't even paying attention. He hung up and proceeded to enter the supermarket. His presence alone made the managers cower and the workers silent. Of course, none of the regular customers knew anything. None of them suspected that he, Miguel O'Hara, CEO of Alchemax, was the leader of the Spider Mafia. One of the biggest and ruthless mafia in town.

"The usual?" One of the deli men questioned. Miguel glanced over his shoulder, noticing you shaking like a leaf while avoiding your coworkers,

"And they say I'm cruel. New hire?"

"Transfer from out of town," The man replied.

Miguel raised a brow towards you. You were pale in the face as you apologized for getting in people's way. Miguel couldn't help but snort. It was cute. Something he was not used too. Returning his attention to the deli worker, Miguel could only smirk as he watched his men drag their guest into freezer number three.

"The bird needs to be plucked." Was all Miguel said for the man to understand.

-------

You whimpered softly as you moved away from everyone's path. It had gotten far too busy for your liking. Once you caught a break, you noticed the deli supervisor talking to a handsome man. You tilted your head, stealing a glance. The man was tall and gorgeous. He wore a slick all black suit. Something very fancy for this part of town.

The man took notice of you and smiled. Your cheeks immediately started to heat up as you quickly returned to your job. As you did, you noticed some men enter the third freezer. You paled instantly. It was your first day! Biting you lower lip, you tried to focus on your work. Right as you did, you noticed the handsome man from earlier walk by you and towards the freezer,

"Keep up the good work, conejita (bunny)." He whispered.

You felt your heart race as the door shut. His voice was so deep and low. If only he hadn't entered the freezer. Perhaps, you would have gotten to know him as a regular.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Next Chapter!

[bowdownperv]

😩🙈Waking up horny for billy. You want to ride him and he mumbles agreeing but trying to go back to bed. You get under the covers and ride the hell out of him and he lets out the biggest moans into your neck, grab your hips and makes you grind harder into his huge cock.

Morning Wood [B.H]

Warnigs: 18+, sexual content

It was one of those mornings where you were awakened naturally by the gleams of yellow through your bedroom blinds. Yawning with an eye rub, you looked over at your boyfriend still sleeping. Highlights of sunshine making his warm skin glow. He looked ethereal. You noticed small things about him. Like how his chest lifted up and down with each one of his peaceful snores. And how his closed eyelids fluttered like butterflies flapping their wings. You also noticed big things about him. Such as his massive morning wood.

Billy took up a lot more of the bed than you. His muscular body sprawled out so invitingly. His thick legs spread, large arms and pecs bulging. He was the shape and embodiment of a man. You so desperately wanted to hop on top of him and milk his cock. Feel his hot cum shoot up into your pussy while you bounce up and down on his thighs letting his cock stretch you out.

“Billy?” you asked placing a hand on his breathing chest.

Nothing.

You nudged him again.

“Billy.”

Still, nothing.

You shook his body as hard as you could.

“Billy!”

You heard him groan and watched as his body squirmed.

“Mmm...whats wrong baby?” he mumbled eyes still closed.

“I’m horny,” you whispered shyly.

“Hmm...what?” he replied, still barely conscious.

“Fuck, Billy! Can I ride your cock?”

“Uh...yeah sure," he grumbled throwing his head back down tiredly on the pillow.

You dove your body under the white covers. It was a new world down there. The aroma of Billy’s masculine odor. The morning light muted and echoing throughout the material of the duvet fabric. And there it was. Billy’s cock. Standing straight up holding his briefs up like a tent. You were amazed by how hard and long it could be even when Billy was asleep and it had no use. You were ready to give him a reason for being so hard.

Underneath the covers you crawled your way to Billy’s cock and released it. Flinching as you yanked down his garments causing his cock to spring out and slap you in the face. Normally you’d play with it a while, give it a few good licks. Give him a sloppy blowjob. Suck his balls. But right now in this moment, your mind was so set on giving him the ride of his life.

After hastily tossing your panties off. You revealed your swollen little pussy already leaking out a couple drips despite him doing absolutely nothing. Static making you hair stick to the sheets above you as hovered your core over his manhood and assumed your position. With your hands on his pecs for support and your legs spread in both directions, you began lowering your body down.

Your tight pussy walls were squeezing onto his cock so tightly that you were slowly struggling to get all the way down. You felt everything. The mushroom shaped head of his cock being the hardest to get squeeze in due to its bigger size. The veins of his raging cock pushing against your pussy’s walls. Billy had a great cock, and he knew how to use it. Whether that was when he was grabbing your hips with his big hands and fucking your mercilessly doggy style, or after a date night when he would get on top of you and fuck you in missionary until you were both cumming together. But this time was different. You were on top. Dominating him.

There was no lube, no condom. Just pure raw sex.

Your mouth remained agape the whole time as you felt your ass finally cushion itself on his big balls. You were right there. Sitting on top of your sleeping boyfriend. With a giant cock standing inside of you.

There wasn’t any movement and you were already ready to cum. Just the feeling alone of his pulsing cock inside of you and your pussy walls fighting around it trying, but failing, to acustom to his massive size. Billy was a sex god, and you were his little devil.

You leaned forward to place your small hands on his hard chest. Keeping his cock well tucked into your folds. You looked at your boyfriend, sleeping so beautifully with eyes still closed. He looked completely unaffected meanwhile you were losing all your composure. You felt like your pussy was going to explode. You too, baby steps. Pushing down on his chest with your little hands as hard as you could. Feeling the tension of his mighty cock pulling downwards in your little pussy. You were whimpering from the feeling. Despite you being on top and in charge, his cock was still completely destroying you. You shook your ass a little trying to get your pussy loosened up as you shimmied yourself way down his cock.

Eventually, you began getting the hang of it.

Your pussy replaced and you were able to begin hopping up and down his length. You felt sexy. Your hands moving up your chest and grabbing your bouncing tits, then going up to your hair and running your hands through it as your ass was able to hop up and down keeping the momentum. There was a power in watching yourself dominate such a big and powerful man.

When Billy first woke up he thought he was having a sex dream. This was even better.

“Oh shit, baby,” he groaned. “You’re really taking my cock like that all on your own?”

"Mhmm," you moaned, tossing your hair over your shoulder.

Billy's hands lazily latched onto your hips. Not hard enough to take control of you, but just enough to appreciate his warm touch.

Billy's tired gaze on you was full of pure lust and excitement. You watched as his deep eyes locked onto your body like he was enchanted. How his head nodded up and down every time you bounced on his huge cock. He was under your spell. Hypnotized by your body.

Suddenly, he was sitting up and leaning into your body. His face falling into your neck as he took control of your hips, throwing them up and down with his strength. All you could do was gasp. Billy's large hands were squeezing the skin around your ass making it turn red. Holding onto your body so tightly as he commanded you on his cock. His baritone moans echoing throughout your throat.

Billy was a mess. His sloppy morning hair bouncing wildly as you felt him kiss and moan your name into the fragile skin on your throat. Giving you deep hickeys as his saliva dripped down your breasts. His hips working hard thrusting into your cunt while his hands roamed to your bouncing tits cupping and squeezing them.

It was as if each time his cock thrusted into you, it was hitting a button that sent you straight to Heaven. You could see stars. Your head was falling back with a whine as Billy's hips drove his cock deeper into your cunt than ever before. Your legs shaking, pussy swollen, and vision blurry. Your breasts and hips being manhandled by Billy as he occasionally delivered a hard slap to your ass every other bounce. His way of encouraging you as he continued pulling and thrusting you into his cock.

Finally, Billy pulled you all the way down on his cock and held you there; staring at you. You glared back at him with innocent doe eyes. That’s when you felt it. His cock twitching, and like a cannon, blasting his huge load of cum straight up into you. His warm semen swimming up your pussy. He kept his cock tucked inside you, forcing you to hold his cum.

The extreme fullness and stimulation immediately triggering your own orgasm. You were practically crying as your pussy drained itself, squirting all over your boyfriend huge cock and swelling from his impressive size. With his softening cock still tucked deep inside you, Billy wrapped his arms around you and pulled you into his embrace. The mixture of your combined cum dripping onto the sheets as he pulled you down to lay on his chest. Your fingers danced throughout his hair while he cock-warmed you back to sleep. Hoping that when you woke up he'd be ready for round two.

[innerfare]

Random Shanks Headcanons 

Summary: A random collection of Shanks headcanons

CW: None // SFW

———

Has a fake arm that he uses for gags. Only he and Yasopp find it funny. Beckman once tossed the arm overboard after Shanks ‘lost’ the arm in a pot of Lucky Roux’s stew, only for Shanks to enter the mess hall the next morning with another attached to his body. 

Can do magic tricks, especially good with coins and cards. A very skilled sleight of hand artist. Also not above using these tricks to cheat while playing cards. (Inspired by the coin game w/ Luffy flashback). Cheating is the only way he can beat Beckman, who’s by far the best player on the crew. But he doesn’t even cheat to win, he just likes the thrill of getting away with it; also enjoys the thrill of getting caught. There was a rabbit loose aboard the Red Force for a solid month after the captain tried to learn how to pull it out of a hat.

The best beer pong player in the New World, probably the entire world. Would challenge all of his enemies to a game of beer pong to settle their disputes if he thought they would respect the results of the game. Good at drinking games in general (has a little too much experience).

Is an infamous gossip. If a member of the crew wants word to get out about something, they just mention it to their captain. 

Enjoys playing matchmaker. Always acts as a wingman for his crew when there’s a pretty bar maid. The only one he never tried to fix up with one of his crew mates was his darling Makino. 

Are soap operas a thing in the One Piece universe? Because if so, he has a favorite that he never misses an episode of (fights hardest on Thursdays so he can be home in time to catch the latest episode of Search for One Piece, a pirate drama based loosely on Roger’s life. He particularly enjoys the harlequin character). 

Loves meddling in any drama that comes up aboard the ship. Sometimes even starts drama just for entertainment, like the time he told Lucky Roux that he saw Limejuice sneaking steaks from the freezer, or when he robbed Beckman blind and left traces of a turkey leg at the scene of the crime. 

Thinks childish pranks are the funniest thing in the world. Pranks prospective crew members to see how they respond; screens them based on whether they find his jokes funny. Beckman insists this is not the best way to do things but Shanks persists. But Shanks isn't just being childish. He's making sure everyone who joins his crew has a good nature as that is, in his opinion, the most important thing. If you can't trust your crew, you're dead in the water.

Was definitely posing when the government snapped the photo for his wanted poster but pretends it was completely candid. Has a habit of comparing his wanted poster to the posters of his enemies.

He also uses his wanted poster to fish for compliments, especially from his crew. “That’s a pretty good picture, isn’t it?” “I don’t look half bad in that, do I?” “The real reason the marines are hunting me- the sight of my wanted poster makes their wives swoon.”  

Refers to himself as, “that handsome devil.” 

Smells like body odor and weed, but in a Matthew McConaughey kind of way (that is to say, it works for him). 

Animals and babies always like him. He insists the trick is to act uninterested. 

He is genuinely good-natured, but he definitely uses his sense of humor to disguise how terrifying he truly is. Is a pro at lulling people into a false sense of security. Definitely slouches on purpose to seem less intimidating.

Secretly paid off Luffy's "treasure tab" at Makino's bar. Didn't do it just to be kind to the poor kid but actually because he believed Luffy when he said he'd pay it back in full and did it to annoy Luffy a decade or two down the line. (When Luffy finally goes back to pay Makino and she informs him Shanks already did, Luffy blows a gasket.)

———

Hope you enjoyed it! If you want more, you can check out my masterlist here!

[bonefall]

Hi there! I know you've made posts about warriors who have lost their sight and hearing, but would you have any ideas of how losing their sense of smell could affect a cat? I have to imagine it'd be a pretty big deal for a hunter or medicine cat

You know, you'd think it would primarily affect "tracking" skills, since as humans we tend to think of following scent trails and hunting down wild game, but the truth might shock you a little;

The first thing the other cats would notice is that the warrior is getting lost a lot.

When it comes to scents, the most important use that cats have for their sense of smell is navigating their territory. Through scent, they can tell the direction towards camp, exactly where they are in a territory, and if they're getting close to a border.

Most media (including WC itself) tends to depict scent like a floating, colorful "trail." A direct line leading you to the target, like this;

But this is actually not very accurate. You'd have to be dealing with a VERY stinky animal for this to be the case, like boar or elk.

Scent acts more like this;

It "collects" on solid objects the animal brushes past or intentionally marks, sometimes including the ground if they've lingered there. Newer brushes on the object have more of the scent particles present just as a matter of not having enough time for the odor to disperse. Think of it sort of like liquid; a "stale" scent is like an object that was soaked now simply being damp.

A warrior's "scent marking" is like a big stink bomb. It will make the entire area smell. Anyone who has been unfortunate enough to have an intact cat spray their house knows that it's not a dainty little spritz. It's STINKY.

To a cat though, the marks that are placed down by individuals and patrols give the entire area a sort of comforting "aroma." Because of the smell, they can perceive their home territory as if it's a map.

"Hub" areas have a stronger smell than "limnal" zones, and camp has its own unique scent. Just by combining these two things, you will always know EXACTLY where you are and how to find your way back to safety.

(Note; this is a major reason why I assert that blindness should be one of the least debilitating sensory disabilities for a warrior to have. Cats have a built in scratch-n-sniff RPG map.)

I mentioned in passing, earlier, that this is comforting. That's the second thing that would probably start to affect a warrior losing their sense of smell; it would be very common for them to start developing anxiety.

It's VERY unsettling for a cat to be in an unfamiliar place, and this is usually because nothing smells right! Providing the right pheromones is actually a way to treat anxiety, and this is the reason why you can often find a lost cat by putting one of their blankets outside. Pride aside, an elder might request more escorts outside of the camp simply as a matter of comfort once their nose isn't working so good.

For tracking itself, though-- in comparison to their Clanmates, hunters with a bad sense of smell would be bad at finding prey. Being a solitary hunter would become unfeasible.

The simple solution is that they shouldn't hunt alone. Just having one good tracker in the team to bring the party to big game could work fine. In WindClan in particular, they'd get put on lagomorph hunts very often (since 2 average-sized rabbits feeds a Clan for a day, let alone a hare).

For a Cleric, it would force them towards retirement.

Tracking down herbs is one thing; they could still be good at knowing where things grow, even with the added risk of getting lost. More importantly, MOST of a cat's health information is discerned through smelling their scent-- through their glands, their breath, and most importantly their scent marks. A Cleric who can't smell would start making inaccurate diagnoses.

And all of this doesn't even factor in how much communication is done through scent. When a cat bumps you with their head, "kisses" you with their teeth, or runs their side along you, that's them putting a mark on you. It's saying, "I want you to smell like me and I want to smell like you, because we're part of the same group!"

The important thing about that is that it is happening a dozen times a day with different Clanmates.

Rosetail demonstrates the point with some gossip: "Did you notice that Snowfur smells a lot less like Bluefur, lately? Yeah, she totally reeks like Thistleclaw. Since you smell like Thrushpelt, I feel comfortable sharing this with you; I don't think they're a good match at all... don't tell him I said that, though, even though he's my brother he would get really mad if he found out I thought that."

A warrior who can't scent will feel VERY socially isolated. There's an entire social network behind who you're marking, and being marked by.

In summary;

Scent has a massive role in navigation, for cats.

Cats who can't smell are at risk of getting lost easier.

Try not to think of scent like a "floating trail," but more like a series of odor marks on the objects the target has brushed up against.

Scent marks are STINKY, they make a whole area reek.

However, that's comforting to cats. Not being able to smell this has negative impacts on mental health.

It's the "tracking" part of prey and herb hunting that would become difficult.

Clerics who can't smell are liable to start making bad judgements.

Scent marking is part of the social fabric, and there is an important aspect to Clan dynamics that a cat who can't smell would lose out on.

[syoddeye]

the warren, part seven - call

price x f!reader | 4k words | series page | ao3 tags: background ghoap, multi pov, animal death, mentioned oral both f! and m!receiving, manipulation a/n: new friend next chapter; had to split this into two since it was getting way too long. shout out to gemma and tats <3. mdni banner by @/cafekitsune. 🔪

Bonnie. Bunny. Rabbit. Skittish thing. Brave thing. 

Hasn’t met her face-to-face yet, but he likes her. Her scent carries. The sillage of her floral soap drifts through the air, lingering just as vividly as it does on her pillow. She reads a lot of books. Admirable. He doesn’t have the patience anymore. She must be clever.

From what he’s seen, her work isn’t half-bad. Rough around the edges but better than the shite he’d cobble together. Couldn’t pay him to pretend to care about some dead cousin or happy bride. She doesn’t know a thing about pay rates, though. Strangers robbing her blind. Makes him angry.

John orders him to sabotage the laptop. Says if he manages it, he’ll earn a spot on the boat. So, of course, it’s done. He slips in with Simon and works his magic. Doesn’t take much given the computer’s age.

He leans into it when Simon drags his nails from his scalp to his nape. He should’ve known then, when Simon called him a good boy, that he’d be sent below to check the rabbits. He sulks into the dark.

The reward for good work is always more work.

The air turns eldritch and metallic in the back of his throat the further he travels, a thick miasma prone to clinging. After all this time, he hasn’t grown accustomed. It fills his mouth with a heavy, sour tang, and swallowing doesn’t get rid of it. He should’ve stolen a pillowcase.

His nose twitches at the notes of an unfamiliar scent cutting through the fog. A faint, sickly-sweet rot, like meat left too long. The smell gradually envelops the passage.

A lantern illuminates the edges of the twin hutches. There is no movement in the shadows beyond, but that isn’t what stops him in his tracks. There is no sound. No rustling or thumps. The rabbits do not gather in their nervous, curious way to greet him.

Treading closer, his vision adjusts, and he spots the first rabbit. Unnaturally still with its limbs bent at strange angles. Milky-white eyes tinged red, blood seeping from every orifice.

Fuckin’ grand.

He fucking hates it when this happens. Always puts John in a foul mood.

Huffing loudly, he rolls his sleeves and slips on the gloves jammed into his pocket. Stomping toward the hutches, he mutters a string of curses.

The reward for good work is always more work.

~~~~

You wake with a start, your heart thrashing against your ribs. Beside you, John’s chest steadily rises and falls in stark comparison to the shudder of your own. Squinting, you latch onto his hand flat over his abdomen as a focal point, coming down from whatever nightmare you must’ve had.

Though as your breathing evens out, the vague scent of brimstone and iron tickles your nose. It drifts over the bed and disappears as quickly as the remnants of your dread, with no trace lingering behind when you sit up and take deep breaths.

You wince at the hour on your phone, and recheck the unknown number. No update.

>> F741 >> hold

> Who is this?

Cryptic, to be sure, but you’ve received a message by mistake. It’s likely a pocket text.

You return your phone to its place, and John stirs. His eyes remain shut, but he reaches for you, his voice rough with sleep.

“You alright?”

“A bad dream,” you almost laugh, because of how silly you feel. Old houses have their sounds. Odors, too, you suppose. In response to his rumblings, you let him pull you down, and trace a soothing line over his chest, hoping he won’t notice the tremor in your touch.

As you cozy in, already sweating from the furnace that he is, you cannot shake the feeling of something unseen, a shadow or a specter, hiding just out of sight. 

~~~~

Romance.

John snorts derisively at the garish covers depicting happy couples. Some far-fetched nonsense called Museum Muse and Just Sign Here. She is right. He’s not inclined to read them. However, it is reassuring to know she craves it, even if she’s wary of it—love.

She certainly fantasizes about it. She’d deny it if asked, but considering the collected evidence, that isn’t necessary. All her gasping and whining. The shame is the cherry on top, something to savor each time she smothers her noises, even when alone.

Hearing the shower across the cabin, the sound of its stream breaking against her body is enough to make his cock twitch. He’s half a mind to intrude, but after waking her up on his tongue, he reckons she needs a break. Instead, he double-checks Soap’s work and thumbs through the borrowed titles toward a bookmark, curious about her salacious stories. To see if there’s anything useful to—

His thumb catches heavy cardstock. He cracks the spine and his eyes narrow on official letterhead.

Phillip Graves.

That man is swiftly climbing his list of problems. A biting fly buzzing around the ears of the populace. He glances from the card to the bathroom, tongue swiping over his teeth. She’s proving to be quite the crafty liar, too, though it’s more from fear than intent. A wound that makes her flinch, learned from that ingrate husband of hers. That particular man’s one more bump in the road, but simpler to handle than a fed. Everyone knows what to do with rats.

His ears perk when the water shuts off. He makes an impulsive decision.

She doesn’t notice, padding from the bathroom to the bedroom in a towel, but she does when she’s dressed.

“Feelin’ better?”

The poor thing gawks, her big eyes not on him, but the novel. She fidgets. “I thought you didn’t like those sorts of stories.”

“No, sweetheart, you assumed,” He corrects, twirling the improvised bookmark in his free hand. “Don’t worry. I remember your place.”

That gets her moving. She closes the distance, hovering at his side, hands twitching and clearly caught between snatching up the book or card.

“It’s stupid to use as a bookmark, but it’s what I had after Phil gave me his card at the diner.”

“Phil?” What a peculiar familiarity. “I don’t recall him giving you a card.”

“Oh.” She falters. There it is. “That’s right, he…may have stopped by the other day.”

“May have?’ What was he after, darl?” He pats the arm of the chair for her to sit, and snakes an arm around her. His fingertips skim just under the hem of her shirt, her skin soft and smooth from bathing. Her vellus hair stands on end beneath his fingertips. He’s always found it curious that the human body knows before the brain. A narrow wire to walk, but he’s had practice.

“He…he wanted to know about those boys who came into the store. The ones who…”

“Crashed their car?” 

Fucking rats. It sets his teeth on edge. ‘Phil’ could’ve asked any number of questions. John doubts she will tell him everything. He needs to install audio as soon as possible. 

John grins. “Is he trying to claim we’re in trouble because we sold them beer?”

“He hasn’t contacted you?”

“No. That’s rather unprofessional, don’t you think? He’ll badger my lovely employee but not me?” He pauses, then hums as if he’s made yet another discovery. He rubs her hip, putting on a slightly dejected air. “Oh, I see.”

“What? What is it?”

“He came onto you, didn’t he?” He casts his focus elsewhere as if he physically cannot look at her. “You’re not seeing him too, right?”

Predictably, it pushes her buttons. “What?! No!” She angles toward him. A hand lands on his shoulder, journeying shyly to his face to cup a cheek. “No, John.”

He leans into her palm and kisses its heel. Such a lovely creature. “Sorry, sweetheart. It’s not you, it’s me.” He sighs. “It’s happened before. Two-timin’. Makes me paranoid. Nothing puffs up my chest faster than another buck sniffin’ around.” He slips his fingers under hers, minding how easy it’d be to hold on and never let go.

“Loyalty is everything to me, y’know. I may know just about everyone in these parts, but my inner circle’s small. I’ve lost a lot of folk over the years. Some ties severed by my choice, others, not so much. Fate’s been cruel, so I’m quite protective.”

John tilts his head, relishing the softness in her face. Romance.

“Sometimes, I think there’s a greater force at play. That I must’ve done something right to have found you.” He squeezes her hand. “Rather, you found me, didn’t you? Could’ve run to any corner of this earth, but you chose this slice of Eden.”

Her smile is a balm for the weary spirit, his most restless of all. 

“Maybe it’s luck,” she suggests, then adds, “Or something. I certainly feel lucky, with everything you’ve done for me…” 

Ah, this old refrain. 

He says nothing, just watches as she shifts her weight, her eyes flitting down before she slowly moves, as if testing her decision prior to committing to it. Then, to his surprise, she lowers. Kneels. It tests his restraint, every fiber of his being baying for suppliance. Her palms nervously fit over his knees.

It’s only polite to ask. “You sure?”

She reaches for his belt with a nod. “I want to.”

He forces his mouth into a shape passable for humility and studies her expression. Devotion practically radiates off her, and an eagerness to show it. That’s something the others lacked. This is a start. Initiative and promise. Love.

A contentedness spreads through him, rolling down his spine in sync with the descent of his zipper. Rich and heavy as honey, warming him with a satisfaction he’d longed to taste. 

He remembers her place. She’s learning it.

~~~~

When John leaves, you brush your teeth. You stare into the mirror, faintly disbelieving, as if your eyes belong to a stranger. Didn’t think you’d do that any time soon, but it must be growth. The months away from the desert have reshaped you, revealing a gentler line to your mouth, a brightness to your gaze, and an ease to your brow. The thought of being a little happier feels dangerous. Fragile and premature. And yet, you cannot deny the woman in your reflection. Soap’s words ring clear.

Love’s got a way of changing people.

A phantom weight presses on your tongue the longer you look, and your face grows hot. 

Still. You smile and like what you see. 

~~

Days pass, and the number never texts back. John doesn’t mention Phil again.

The peace is an uneasy one, but you’ll take it.

There’s a lull at the store after the holiday, a return to the usual pace. John’s business takes him around the area, leaving you to staff the counter for a few afternoons. However, you suspect Soap’s loitering outside is no coincidence. He doesn’t bother you, but you wish he would. He was friendly enough at the boat before Simon’s interruption.

Lover’s quarrel, John had said, but Simon’s face suggested otherwise.

You can’t help the twinge in your chest, a trip cord wrapped around your heart. Though Soap admitted he was scared of Simon, he didn’t seem frightened. You grapple with the urge to reach out, the impulse caught in your throat like a stone, weighty with your own memories.

When you finally work up the nerve to ask if he wants to chat while you close, Simon’s with him, a helmet tucked under his arm. 

Through the window, you watch the men, Soap’s face aglow with excitement, swaying foot to foot. You don’t interrupt, familiar with the possible consequences. You decide to wait and ask Soap to walk you instead.

Of course, you’re not so lucky. 

“I’ll take you. Johnny’ll wait for Price.” Simon thrusts a spare helmet into your hands the moment you step outside.

There’s no discussion or debate. Simon watches you shove the helmet over your head with a look of rancor, a harsh set to his jaw, then swings a thick leg over the ATV. He doesn’t help as you climb on, slotting awkwardly behind him. You try to leave space, but he reaches back, curls a hand under your knee, and hauls half of your body forward. Tilting nearly off-balance, you grab his waist, swiftly bracketing your other leg to his.

“Be good, Johnny.” He barks as the ATV roars to life between your legs.

Your hands slide around him as he backs up, burying into his shirt to feel a slab of muscle. A short, surprised cry bursts out when he abruptly accelerates, cutting off a car in the road as he peels out. You clutch tighter as the ATV jerks around the bend and forward, pulse revving alongside the machine as Simon throws it against the incline.

The ride itself is, thankfully, brief. The cats scatter as Simon veers sharply and sends a spray of gravel flying as he lurches to a stop. You clamber off, legs unsteady, and thank him as evenly as possible.

Simon does not immediately take the helmet from your outstretched hand. He stares with his mitts wrapped tight around the handlebars. Hard to believe hands the size of spades are dexterous enough for a trade like taxidermy. When he finally takes it, you flee with a shaky gait.

“Be good, rabbit.”

Laughter follows you to the door.

~~

Night presses in on the cabin. You tuck into the armchair with your book, grimacing at the business card. Such a stupid, stupid mistake, letting John find it. How close you’d been to spilling. Disappointing John worried you, but crossing Phil terrified you. His cryptic manner of speaking, all his dancing around what he meant. It didn’t inspire trust, nor did his badge. At least he’d gone silent. Not a word since his visit.

The agent lurks in your subconscious. You have some notion of how investigations work. If he’s run your name and if he’s discovered anything, wouldn’t he have dragged you back by now? Could he do that? Would he?

Eventually, you concede. Your mind keeps drifting and catching on everything else you’ve tried to avoid thinking about. You toss the book onto the coffee table with a huff and rise to prepare for–

The library’s label, clean and laminated, sticks out on the spine. The letters 'P', trailed by a line of digits.

Realization as cold as lakewater washes over you. 

>> F741 >> hold

It’s a call number. A book. 

~~

You reach for the phone as soon as the hour turns reasonable. Dialing Nikolai with one hand, you rub your eyes with the other, feeling hollowed out. You didn’t close your eyes all night.

To your relief, he answers. A jarring clang accompanies his greeting, underlaid by a rhythmic crank and humming.

“Nikolai, sorry if I’m interrupting, but I was wondering if there are any updates?”

“Ah, rabbit, darling, a moment.” It’s clear he’s set the phone down by the sound of footsteps and a distant grunt. His humming evolves into whistling, culminating in a faint rumble in Russian. What follows, erupting through the receiver, is a cacophony of mechanical sounds, jagged and violent. Something thrums with a relentless chorus of metal grinding against metal, punctuated by deep, resonant clunks and crunches that make you pull the phone from your ear and hold it at arms-length. 

It’s a minute before Nikolai returns, and the terrible noise grows quieter. He cuts you off before you get a word in, providing a non-answer about your car and a reminder about the cost of towing it to the nearest city. It is sorely beyond your budget.

“So impatient. Where are you trying to scurry off to? Do you need transport?”

“No, it’s nothing urgent,” Your jaw aches from clenching it. “I simply don’t want to bother John.”

“Why not? He’s your man.” He almost sounds annoyed. “Listen, rabbit, I’ll do you a favor and tell John you need a ride.”

You freeze. “Oh, no, you don’t need to do that–”

The line goes dead with an unceremonious click.

~~

“Why didn’t you come to me first?”

The truck bounces along the road, the warm air through the window merging pine and with John’s tobacco. You rest against the frame, watching the forest.

“I was going to.” A white lie or two can’t hurt. “I’m just anxious about my car. It’s been weeks, and Nikolai keeps dodging my questions. I’m close to threatening to tow it if he can’t fix it by the end of the month.”

John snorts. “Good luck. He does not like ultimatums, speaking from experience.”

You glance at John out of the corner of your eye. Lying to him stings, especially after he poured his heart out, but you know he’ll think you foolish about the mystery text.

“Did you…know there’s a closed mine shaft behind Nikolai’s shop? When we were there, I followed one of his shop cats and saw it.”

John’s lip quirks around his cigar. “You follow every cat you meet?”

“They haven’t led me astray yet.”

“S’pose so. And I do know about the mine shaft. The area’s full of them. Folk used to say Mount Grouse is hollow from the silver rush.”

The smile slips from your face. Silver. The West’s full of it—silver and promises. Dusty whispers in your ear from hundreds of miles away, from years ago. You pinch the bridge of your nose and breathe.

“You alright?”

“Think I’m getting a headache.”

Guilt flares when John tosses his cigar, turns the radio off, and slides a comforting hand over your thigh. Why his affection is offered to you, of all people, a liar, you don’t know. Certainly don’t deserve it.

For the remainder of the drive to the library, John keeps his hand on you and his mouth shut. Only letting go to park the truck.

“I’ll let you get your books. Gonna return a missed call.” John leans against the tailgate and nods at the entrance, dismissing you with a playful pat to your ass.

Your face burns all the way to the doors.

“Back so soon?” The librarian asks with a big smile. “Already finished with your selection?”

“I’m finished with two, yes, but I was actually wondering if…”

“If I have the book on hold courtesy of Mr. Graves? I was wondering when you’d come in for it.”

>> F741 >> hold

Phil. Your stomach falls like a torn, wet paper bag. “Yes.”

You absolutely cannot tell John about the text—or this—now.

“Come with me.” She crooks a finger over her shoulder as she meanders toward the circulation desk. “He picked a good one. Locally authored. However, although we classify it as nonfiction and shelve it with our regional materials, it’s an anthology of transcribed oral histories and diaries from mining camps, so take it with a grain of salt.”

Your vision swims as you process. “Really? That’s good to know.”

Jeanne retrieves the hold and it is thinner than you expected, wrapped in a worn, brown cloth cover. Veins of Blood and Metal: Mining the Silver Valley. Grim yet hokey, just like the man who picked it.

“Would you like a reading room?”

Your eyes snap up. “Can’t I check it out?”

“Oh, no. We don’t check materials from the local collection out.”

“Could you make an exception? I’m in Grouse Bay and I don’t have a car of my own, and I hate to be a burden on my…” Several terms collide and tangle like a rat king. “To my boyfriend. I promise I’ll take care of it. I don’t dog ear or annotate. I won’t even keep a glass of water near—”

Jeanne’s face softens. She pats your hand, bracelets jingling. “Sweetie, it’s alright. I’ll bend the policy. You seem like a good kid.”

If only you knew.

“Oh, thank you.”

“Just promise to take good care of it. It’s already a little damaged.”

“Yes, ma’am. And, uh, do you happen to know why Mr. Graves left this for me? Did he say anything?”

She puckers her lips in thought. “I believe he said that you would find it ‘enlightening’.”

Your fingers itch. You’re tempted to call, tired of his enigmatic nonsense, just to demand why he bothered masking his number if only to leave his name. If this is his way of operating, it eases your worry over his capabilities as a fed.

“Right. Thanks, Jeanne.” 

You stow the book from Phil in your bag and meet John outside as he hangs up. 

“Ready to go, darl?” He asks with a strained smile.

“Yes. Everything alright?”

“Right as rain. Need to make a couple of stops while we’re in town.”

Thankfully, he doesn’t ask about the library, but he’s unusually reticent again. After you stop at the depot and an outdoor supply shop, it’s back to Grouse. He grips the wheel tight and gazes at the road with a flat, distant focus. It’s impossible that he knows, but doubt sticks between your ribs.

Dust seeps in.

You remember how it felt with Dusty, that weight in the air, thick with the silence he would settle into for days. You’d wait, always, for some change in his facial expressions and the tension in his body, but somehow, it never felt like you were meant to know. It afflicted you with the need to both placate and pry.

You lick your lips and look at him through the rearview. “Are you sure everything is okay?”

“Nothing for you to worry about. Just a minor problem.”

The question rises in your throat, uninvited, like it’s pushing its way out despite the warning signs flashing. Curiosity runs headlong into self-preservation and makes it impossible not to ask. It’s not as if it’s outside the realm of possibility.

Your hand finds his knee in a bid to soften it.

“Is it at all related to those boys? To…Phil?” 

His attention flickers to meet yours in the mirror, a slight furrow to his brow. You wonder if he’s thinking the same thing you are—whether asking was a mistake. A millisecond later, he huffs and grins, shaking his head.

“Still worried about him? Oh, sweetheart. Didn’t I tell you? Must’ve forgotten, what with all the running around I’ve had to do.”

“Tell me what?”

“I had my own tête-à-tête with Mr. Graves. Answered his questions and sent him on his way. Said he’s going to Kellogg to continue his little investigation.”

“Oh, that’s a relief,” You swiftly assure, despite that revelation piling atop all your questions. “I was worried. He seemed dogged.”

A hand drops from the wheel to cover yours. “Not our problem anymore.”

Despite the strange book in the bag between your feet, despite Phil Graves’s odd behavior—you settle into a calm, a boat gliding into port to avoid a storm. John’s happy. You’re happy. The book can wait, especially after he sweet talks you into staying the night at his place for the first time. 

On the drive, you talk about nothing, mostly. The trees, the towns, how the road is barely wide enough for two cars. John teases you for holding onto the handle at every bend, and you laugh in your defense. There’s a gentle warmth, easy and growing familiar. It’s more organic, more natural, than what you had before.

You’re still giggling when he pulls around back. You hop out of the truck and pause, spotting a large patch of blackened, dead grass. The gears turn in your head until they click into place. 

“Where’s the hutch? The rabbits?”

You nearly walk into him with his abrupt stop. John’s face twists, and he sighs and rakes a hand down his face, then coaxes you into his arms. “This week put me through the wringer. Yet another thing I neglected to mention…It’s terrible, sweetheart. A rabbit got sick. It was infectious. Had to do the humane thing. Then I burned the carcasses and the hutch to avoid it spreadin’ to anything else.”

John’s grip shifts to your waist to lead you inside, but your gaze returns to the charred earth, and you stumble at sulfur wafting past your nose, brief and sudden but unmistakable. It plucks at your memory like a harp playing a discordant note.

His lips find your temple, his voice in your ear. “I’ll have fresh does, soon.” 

[mm-lurking]

When the rain stops

I got soaked in the rain so I wrote this. Not proofread. Written with Blade, Al-Haitham and Jiyan in my mind but you can imagine your favourites.

Warnings: x fem! reader, angst WC: 817 — Nothing registers in your mind except the icy freezing water that washes over your body in large raindrops. Your fingertips are cold and rock hard from the downpour that has caught you halfway through your journey. The slashes and stab wound you have obtained from your body bleed into your clothes and the ground you stand on.

Everything feels numb in comparison to the rain. You’re trembling as the clothes you wear stick to your body and the harsh breeze that passes by makes it worse. The water has pooled around your feet, soaking through your shoes and no matter how hard you try nothing keeps the aggressive battering of the rain away.

By the time you reach your destination the biting cold gets to you and you find yourself stumbling in your steps. The loss of blood further exacerbates your fragile state. Each movement of your feet feels heavy no matter how hard you push through. The rain blinds you completely and your vision starts to blur.

Your knees give out causing you to go crashing into the gravel path. The metallic smell of blood mixes with the earthy rain assaulting your nose with the strangest odor you have ever encountered. Somehow, alongside the odor, you get a whiff of a familiar masculine scent, one that reminds you of him.

What follows are urgent footsteps and a warm pair of arms that envelop you from the back. Suddenly the rain stops above your head followed by a deep raspy voice you so dearly love to hear.

“You’re hurt.”

He says concerned as he discards his coat and kneels down to your level to wrap it around you. The additional layer of thick fabric greatly shields you from the rain and you can’t help but smile deliriously. Without a word he presses you deeper into his chest as he checks your injuries.

“This stab wound…who did this to you?”

You can sense a tinge of anger in his voice which further makes you smile. Something about him caring for you despite his reserved attitude surprises you. Instead of replying, you weakly cling your fingers on the thin fabric of his chest and lazily nod.

“Doesn’t…doesn’t matter…”

You mumble out and dig your head deeper into his chest. All you can think about is how incredibly warm he is compared to the raging rain that shows no sign of stopping. He wraps his hands tighter around you in response.

Then he immediately scoops you up in his arms making sure to avoid the injured skin before hurriedly walking to a place of retreat to tend to your weakened state. You’re cold and limp against his warm and alive body. Now that the rain no longer storms on you, you feel the pain of your wounds emerging from your throat as you uncomfortably groan.

“Shh…almost there.”

He responds soothingly to your agony. With the little energy you have left, you peek at the man who carries you so lovingly. All you can see is his sharp jawline and the popping of his neck veins as he looks ahead. You observe the rain soaks some of his hair and face, coating him with a glistening glow that makes your heart beat a tad faster.

“It’s alright…you don’t have to…”

He tries to ignore how shallow your breathing is and how your blood seeps into his own clothes. Your body feels more lifeless in his warm hands with each passing second. He notes how your tiny fingers have loosened their grip on his shirt and he tries not to panic at the lack of movement you display.

“Nonsense. We are almost there.”

His fingers almost dig into your skin despite the layers you have on. Even though his voice is unwavering and resolute, the pounding of his heart betrays him. Through the last few threads of consciousness remaining in you, you chuckle.

“You’re wasting your time on me…”

“Stop talking.”

He chides you and you smile. Everything is starting to feel more distant and dreamy as black dots swarm your vision. Your fingers that were holding onto his shirt so desperately drop into your lap and your head falls back. The sudden change prompts him to look at you and he feels blood drain from his face. You’re still like the waters of a lake with a tiny smile. He calls you out but you do not respond.

“Stay with me. Stay with me!”

He says with more urgency as he shakes you but only silence fills the air. There is a flurry of curses that run through his head as he finally reaches his destination and rushes to ask for help. When the rain finally stops and your wounds are observed carefully, all he can do is stare at your pale face in horror as your eyes remain closed and dried blood decorates your skin.

Maybe, just maybe it was too late.

⋇⋆✦⋆⋇ ©mm-lurking 2024 do not copy, steal or reuse my work.

[cheolism]

hello my beloved jupiter i would like to peek at the kinkiest jun thots inside ur brain pretty please 🤓

THE SCENT OF YOU

✰ wen junhui x reader ✷ wc is approx 1.5k ✰ warnings: nsfw! salirophilia and olfactophilia (attraction to the state of being dirty; attraction to body odor/scent). ✷ notes: based off of that one thing napoleon allegedly wrote to his wife asking her not to bathe before he came home. thank you mars (@onlymingyus) and junie for helping me w the names of the kinks!!

i.

jun wakes up to the uncomfortable feeling of being terribly warm.

the summer sun blazes through the bedroom windows, peering through the blinds and casting its light. the aircon kicks on in the next room, the box fan -- set on top of a dining room chair jun had dragged into the room -- whirling gently, casting a slight breeze onto jun's face.

he's still unbearably hot.

the two of you had gone to bed at midnight, the temperature dropping considerably compared to what it had been that afternoon. you turned the aircon to the perfect temperature; jun switched on the fan. he tucked the duvet around your figure, giggling alongside you as you wiggled your toes underneath. and then he had ducked underneath the covers, pressing his body to yours and tucking his face into your neck.

naturally, cursedly, time crawled on as the two of you slept and eventually the sun rose into the sky, coloring it a lovely blue. the room had heated up, despite the aircon doing its best, and so jun woke with his shirt sticking uncomfortably to his arms and his mind hazy with heat.

irritated, he throws off the duvet and swings his feet over the edge of the bed. he had stopped cuddling you sometime in the night, and perhaps that is why he's truly pissed.

he checks the temperature outside -- eighty-seven fahrenheit, what the fuck -- and then adjusts the thermostat. the aircon kicks back on, and he stumbles back into the bedroom.

you're frowning at him from the bed, lips in a pout and brow pinched. "why'd you leave?"

jun jumps back into the bed, throwing the duvet back over his figure and latching onto you. "was hot," he explains, and then he's ducking his face to press it against your neck.

his nose nuzzles into the baby hairs at the back of your neck, breathing. his hand settles onto your hip, and then he's sliding his fingers underneath the waistband of your boxers. jun doesn't do anything more, just keeps his fingers against your skin, warm from your body.

he presses his face against you, lips skimming over your warm skin. you're wearing a tank top, and he thinks, faintly, that just like the boxers the tank top is his.

you sigh as his mouth dips to your collar. he presses his lips against your skin, pushing his tongue out and feeling the hard bone hidden beneath.

he moves again. jun presses his face into the valley between your tits, concealed by the tank top. it's hot there, heat radiating off of your tits and trapped beneath the tank top, which in turn was covered by the duvet.

you're hot there, and when jun noses along the gentle curve of one of your tits he can smell you.

it's the smell that comes from sleep and heat. it's a smell that is so inherently, distinctly you. it's the smell of your soul, he thinks, his dick beginning to swell in his boxers and his fingers twitching down down down, until the tips of them are touching the hairs of your cunt.

"junnie," you hum, reaching out and looping an arm around him. he catches a whiff of that gentle scent of sleep and heat, and then he's mouthing at your tits through the fabric and settling his hand against your pussy.

ii.

"i'll be home late," you murmur into your phone. he can hear the noise of the conference through his phone speaker. you had told him, before you left, to prepare for as much; had, optimistically, said that it would be over at four but seungkwan had booked a room with a karaoke machine so you may end up staying longer.

"are you having fun?" jun asks, bracing against the counter with his free hand and glancing over the ingredients he had set out. he'll have to put the pork back into the fridge, package the chopped veggies and hope they'll be as fresh tomorrow. really, though, it's for the best; he's low on egg roll wrappers and doesn't know if he'll have enough for a full meal.

"yeah," you say, and he can hear the smile in your voice. it's like bottled sunshine, the way it seems to settle within him and lighten his soul. "we got free pens."

"holy shit," jun says, and you laugh. eventually, though, you hang up; he can hear seungkwan scolding you for being on your phone during a company conference before you manage to end the call.

jun packs away the veggies and pork, snapping the lids onto the plastic container and stacking them in color order in the fridge.

he throws two packets of ramen on the counter; checks on the rice in the cooker. with thirty minutes left for the rice to be done, he leaves the kitchen and begins wandering about the apartment.

there's a sock in the hall. he swoops down, grabbing it and balling it into his fist. he rounds into the bedroom, and he begins picking up your discarded sleep clothes.

he throws your shirt over the crook of his arm — it once belonged to choi seungcheol, but the man had left it in jun's gym bag when he borrowed it once and so it had been put into rotation as a sleep shirt for the both of you. you wore your own panties and shorts to bed, and he picks up those, too.

they're one of your favorite pairs. they’re on the side of nearly too-raggedy, the elastic loose around your hips. jun remembers the first time he saw you wear them, nearly two years ago; remembers how he had pulled them down your thighs; how they had been soaking wet from your cunt, how he hadn’t been able to resist the urge to bring them up to his nose and —

jun presses his thumb into the flat seat of your panties, stretching them. whatever wetness that may have been there from your cunt had long dried. he can see the faint bleaching from your fluids on your panties. 

he lifts your panties up to his nose; breathes in. he smells you, still, hours later. jun can smell yoru essence, the very fabric of your being. slowly jun slides his hand down his stomach, fingers gliding over the veins of his hips and following down down down. 

iii. 

you look, jun thinks, absolutely destroyed. 

the half-assembled desk still takes up a majority of the second bedroom, metals bars sticking straight up and wooden surface flat against the floor. you’ve paused the music you had been blaring for the past hour, staggering into the living room with your phone in hand and a scowl on your face. 

“you want help?” jun calls, setting his own phone flat onto his bare stomach and stretching. 

“i can do it,” you snap, dropping your phone onto the lazyboy. your hair is pulled up off of your neck, strands escaping and flying about. your face gleams from sweat and your natural oils. you’re wearing a baggy shirt and pants, and when you lift an arm to grab at the ceiling fan string, he can see a patch of sweat on the armpit of your shirt. 

you are destroyed; you had attempted to build the desk and came out of it sweaty and ruined, pissed and unsatisfied. 

jun pats his thighs, sitting up a bit. you huff, and then you’re waddling over to him. you throw your leg over him, knee digging into the cushions as you settle back on him. 

your jaw drops, and you reach back and slap his thigh. “what the fuck are you hard about?”

“you’re beautiful,” jun says, taking you in once more. you’re messy and sweaty, and he wants you. 

his hands go to your thighs, settling. he smoothes his hands over your sweatpants, grabbing, groping, feeling you. 

you roll your eyes. jun moves up, wrapping his arms around your body to keep you in his lap. he presses his face into your neck, and you groan something out about being too hot for this. he can smell your sweat, your stink; he can feel his dick swell in his pants, can feel it strain and want. 

“wen junhui —”

jun pushes his tongue out, sliding it against your skin and tasting the salt of you. you let your head fall to the side, and jun slides a hand into your hair, feeling how hot and sweaty they are at the very start of them. it takes some shifting to get your sweatpants down your thighs, to tuck them under your knees and give him some space, but he does. 

and then jun is shoving his hand against your cunt. it’s hot and sweaty here, too, just like he had hoped. he can feel, through your underwear, how wet you are. the cloth near the elastic, damp from sweat; the cloth covering your cunt wet from your juice. 

jun pushes back again, and then your shoulders are against the cushions and he’s between your thighs. he pulls your sweats and underwear the rest of the way down your legs, discarding them next to the couch. jun lowers himself, pressing his face against your hot, sweaty cunt and breathing in. 

[snakeredbirdbatkatana]

Tim has worked hard at least in his opinion.

Kept Batman off the deep end, rescued him from the time stream even helped to get all of the wayward sons back under dear old dad.

He keeps tabs on everyone surveillance that would make Oracle weap.

In a way he blames his mother for how he turned out she taught him that to be left blind was to be left dead.

So his big brothers little exploits into the realm of the blood suckers isn't surprising.

It is hurtful that once again he was gonna be brushed aside that Dick assumes that Tim wouldn't follow his Robin to the ends of the earth. That he wouldn't want to live by his brothers side for all of eternity.

Both Jason and Damian have already been turned they are doing a good job of hiding but none of them ever seen to remember he was a stalker first.

He watches quietly as they plot to take down Bruce he hears as they say he would have to go down too that he would never turn against Bruce.

Yes because that is all he seems to amounted to Bruce's little tag along.

Cass being turned was the last straw it was almost too easy.

A little bit of poison in coffee that Bruce took without a second thought no odor, tasteless it's league created never even shared with Damian having a working relationship with Ra's has really payed off.

He decides to take a page out of Jason's book comes to their oh so secret base with a duffle bag.

Hook.

It's funny as he walks in the shock as if they were so good he throws the bag down making eye contact with Dick the man who gave him everything and was just gonna let him rot.

"It's Bruce if you couldn't figure it out, I can't fucking believe you after everything, you didn't even try."

He can't help the tears that flow down.

"Once again compared to Jason and Damian I'm just the left overs fuck you Dick I would have done anything for you well I'm done enjoy Gotham I set it up for you don't ever speak to me again." He growls.

Line.

He turns looking each of them in the eye he sees shock, sadness, he knows how this will go he can't wait.

"Just remember I knew I could have stopped you I didn't because at the end of the day I thought you would know, that I was always your brother before Bruce's little soldier."

He leaves heading towards his bike, pounding of footsteps arms grab around him pulling him into a chest he knows better than himself.

"I never, I wasn't gonna make you choose Baby Bird I wasn't I wouldn't hurt you you saw my actual plans please Tim your my Robin."

Sinker

"I just why didn't you, I love you Dick, I'm your brother you promised me."

"We will fix this Tim, I can't thank you enough. I shouldn't have assumed, please work with us I'll make it up, you and I against the world."

"Ok"

"Let's get back in and you can explain everything you did I love you baby bird."

"I love you big bird"

Too easy.

[illwilledomen]

Negative Effects Headcanons

Here are a mere few of the various ways you can magically suffer in Minecraft.

Slowness — Disorientation and lack of coordination. Causes the individual to feel woozy and off balance, and their joints may lock up. Makes you feel heavier than you really are, and slows down your reaction speed. In high doses, can function as a tranquilizer. Overdoses can cause the afflicted to have difficulty swallowing, and can cause permanent paralysis.

Weakness — Light-headedness, difficulty breathing and tremors. The afflicted will begin to tremble uncontrollably and experience shortness of breath. Blood will not coagulate properly, and will flow freely in critical amounts from small injuries, causing severe blood loss. Can cause severe joint pain, headaches and even loss of consciousness in high doses.

Bad Omen — A strong, foul odor, and heightened paranoia. Small lapis lazuli crystals injected into a pillager captain’s blood enter your own through your pores, and you can be monitored and hunted down, like a tracked animal. It also causes a milder version of the mania that lapis-insertion causes, due to the soul reacting with the magic mineral.

Poison — Coughing, nausea and vomiting. Severe stomach pain and itching. In higher potencies, can cause migraines and hallucinations with lasting delirium.

Harming — Chemical burns, spasms and excruciating pain. The label doesn’t lie. Works like a very potent acid, but can only dissolve biological material. Can sear through layers and layers of body matter, even dissolving bone. When drunken, this will kill you in five painful, painful minutes. Weapons or tools are dunked in a non-lethal dilution of this frightful substance to be used as torture instruments, as well as brands.

Withering — Radiation poisoning but worse. Causes rapid growth of discolored, tumor-like material on the point of entry. Causes organ failure, confusion, vomiting and hair loss, as well as rapid atrophy of muscles and soft tissues (like eyes). Afflicted’s skin may bruise and blacken around the wound, and at the point of death they may be unrecognizable. Survivors of the effect will be permanently disabled, and may need amputation of afflicted area so the effect does not continue at a later date.

Hunger — Insatiable hunger (no way, really?) and indigestion. Any food eaten will come right back out. While the physical symptoms of starvation are not present, the brain is tricked into thinking it is starving, and the afflicted may act irrational and salivate heavily.

Bad Luck — A feeling of despondency and frustration. Causes depression and anxiety, and may cause the afflicted to feel uncharacteristically under-the-weather.

Darkness — Hallucinogen released by the sculk shrieker that causes blindness and eye irritation, as well as disorientation. Meant to cause prey to stumble about and make as much noise as possible so it reveals its location.

Levitation — Floating (obviously), a feeling of weightlessness, and a sinking sensation in the stomach felt as if you’re falling. Also, subsequent injuries causes from hitting the ground rapidly.

[koisuko]

Imagine:

You and Ghost are a happily married couple…sort of.

Tw: mentions of murder, potential gore, gn reader, toxic relationship, dead dove?, mentions of infidelity, mostly ooc, the names are from a random generator!!

Newly weds, happy and sappy and all that bullshit. Bullshit is all it was to Ghost. You and Ghost were compatible, sure, but sometimes you two become so close it’s borderline obsession. Ghost loves you, as much as you love him, and that terrifies him. To escape this unfortunate feeling, as Ghost puts it, he seeks out others to use and dispose. Something, anything to dull the fear he unwittingly feels deep down. Feelings he barely understands, feelings he’d rather drink himself to death numbing than speak about. Anyone with a brain could see how toxic the duo was, and would likely go to the edge of the earth to convince you two to separate. The both of you were too consumed by one another to leave, and too possessive to even think about letting each other see someone else.

Simon knew you felt the same way. He knew in the way you desperately tried hiding love marks imprinted on your skin. The way you stayed out late some nights under the guise of an “overtime” shift. How you seemed too tired to be intimate. How you shared yourself with someone other than him. His blood nearly boiled at the thought. You were his, and he would do anything to keep it that way. All the little giveaways you both did, unknowingly mirroring each other’s behavior like clones.

Anything was an understatement, evident in the huffs of exertion and long dragging sounds against wet soil. Under the cover of the darkened forest, Simon heaved the black trash bag behind him. Each step caking his boots in mud, masking the evidence of his actions that stained the leather surface. Anyone would likely turn a blind eye, if it weren't for the red liquid trickling down from a torn hole in the plastic. Behind him, trailed along a cloud of guilt and regret, and the stench of death. That gloomy overcast likely to dissipate with the body under the dirt, out of sight, out of mind.

It wasn’t until he noticed a distant figure, somewhat hunched, and headed towards the very spot he had chosen. The silhouette was unsteady and seemed to struggle with the heavy object trailing behind them. Ghost wasted no time in taking cover, slinking into the shadows without a sound. He watched, and waited, patiently, for the prime moment to strike. No witnesses, no regrets. It wasn’t until the person became more clear, and a familiar, “shit,” followed the thud of what appeared to be a body bag. None other than his significant other, carrying a bag just like him, to the same spot picked by him.

“Christ, what the fuck are you doing here?” His gruff voice caused you to jump, whipping around to meet his weathered skull mask face to face. “Me? What are you doing here?” Your attempt to appear confident in your confrontation was sabotaged by the heavy pants leaving your lips. Ghost gave you a scrutinizing squint, leaning to the side slightly to look over your shoulder at the bag on the ground. A normal black trash bag with blood, clumps of hair, and other questionable substances adhering dirt to the plastic. His nose scrunched at the awful odor, much worse than the bag he carried, and much more gruesome looking. “Who is that?” Despite the obvious evidence, and human shape inside the bag, you pulled an act of obliviousness to his question. “What? Who’s who?” Unamused, and slightly irritated, he grabbed his own bag and tossed it at your feet, “Brandon Dorsey, sound familiar?” Your eyes locked with the bag in front of you, remembering the night you slept with him solely to ‘get even’ with Simon. You scoffed, making a feeble attempt to drag yours towards him, “Olivia Marterson, ring any bells?” A smirk played on your lips at his lack of emotion given the circumstance, not a care in the world for the dead beneath him.

Ghost examined the body bag you dropped at his feet, its densely saturated exterior leaving little to the imagination on what was inside. Unlike yours, his bag was more neatly cased with very few stains marring the outside, aside from the blood dripping heavily from the corner — the plastic likely nicked by a tool in the bed of his truck, and a mess he’d unfortunately have to clean later. His bag was much smaller in size than yours, strangely so, and no shape at all to indicate the contents. “Something wrong?” You asked, hoping that maybe your actions somehow irked him, or made him second guess cheating on you. Instead, those deep brown eyes gave nothing away, trailing back up to meet yours, “sloppy work, you should be more careful.” Simon spoke in a deadpan voice, but something about his statement almost felt concerned.

Eventually, the two of you managed to dig a hole in the dirt big enough for both bags to fit side by side. Simon had to help you carry yours over, while you trailed behind him with a look of both defeat and slight irritation. “Thanks,” you’d grumble out, appreciative of him despite your anger. You heaved and grunted, kicking your boot into the back of the shovel and tossing dirt on the bags. By this time, your skin was glossed with sweat, and heart thumping against your ribcage. Finally, the evidence was hidden six feet under, and the smell gone with it. The shovel you used was now anchored into the ground and used as a rest for your exhaustion. “That’s the best hole I’ve ever dug up,” you chimed triumphantly, having puffed out your chest with pride. You glanced over at Ghost beside you, his figure stiff and brooding. “By the way,” you started, “how did you get your bag so small? Mine refused to fold any type of way once the rigor mortis set in.” He turned to walk away, not before answering your question, “butchered, fits better in my truck that way.”

[bloodismymedium]

🔪Even More Mona Lanius Headcanons🎨

🫀 Mona speaks in a flat, monotone yet raspy/scratchy voice and is almost always speaking in a whisper, she sounds like what I imagine a ghost sounding like, unnatural yet kind of beautiful.

🫀 Mona is a chain smoker, which is a contributing factor to why her voice is so raspy sounding. Bill was an alcoholic who used alcohol to drown his violent, psychopathic thoughts but he quit after meeting Mona.

🫀 Mona genuinely smells like death, like a mix of rotting flesh and strong paint/chemical fumes. Her smelling like a corpse is caused by a combination of bromhidrosis (chronic body odor) and the fact that she constantly surrounds herself with death and decay.

🫀 Mona will often mix some of the blood of her victims in with her paints when she makes their paintings, a way of further immortalizing them and what she did to them as well as a twisted way of paying tribute to them, like she’s actually “thanking” them in being a part of her artistic endeavors.

🫀 Mona is of Ecuadorian and Romanian descent. Mona has no real sentimental connection to her heritage however as she doesn’t speak a lick of Spanish or Romanian and her parents never really taught her anything about her heritage either.

🫀 Mona is scary good in using all types of knives and other kinds of bladed implements thanks to years in learning how to use them in many contexts, such as learning how to cut and dress meat after hunting trips with her father as a child to “practicing” on her victims. She knows a fair number of knife tricks as well.

🫀 Mona and Bill started off as equals, a real Bonnie & Clyde type of duo but Bill’s deteriorating mental state caused by fully embracing his psychosis and being fed a LOT of drugs and painkillers resulted in him essentially becoming more of a guard dog. Mona is fine with this since she finds it cute and likes that she has a more dominant role now ⛓️

🫀 Mona and Bill were not going to kill Tina but rather they were planning on “adopting” her because Mona became enamored with her and wanted to “keep” her. Mona blinded and deafened Tina in order to make her 100% dependent on her and was planning on cutting her arms and legs off completely as well to achieve this.

🫀 Mona in general exhibits an odd desire to be a mother, which is exhibited in quirks such as keeping dolls and playing with them as if they were her children. This is especially apparent in the “baby” she made for herself from what she deemed as the “best parts” of the babies she killed when she blew up a daycare, she sings/hums to it, cradles it softly and even keeps it in an old Victorian stroller.

🫀 Despite this, Mona fucking HATES kids because they all remind her of all the mistreatment and abuse she took from kids in her neighborhood when she was a child, which is why what she did to the Beck twins would become what most would consider to be one of her most brutal murders. To her, it was personal.

🫀 Mona has a habit of preserving things in jars of formaldehyde whether they be internal organs, fetuses/infants, cool bugs, even stuffed animals. She only does this when something has really stood out to her, even seemingly random things she has chosen to preserve has significant, even sentimental reasons behind it.

🫀 Mona, perhaps unsurprisingly, is a huge art nerd. She has studied art since a very young age and has great knowledge of art history, she’s surprisingly insightful and engaging when she talks about art and she actually would’ve made a great art teacher. Her favorite painter as a child was Frida Kahlo.

🫀 Mona’s favorite paintings are The Garden of Earthly Delights (Heironymus Bosch), Saturn Devouring His Son (Francisco Goya), The Hands Resist Him (Bill Stoneham), The Fall of the Rebel Angels (Pieter Bruegel), The Wounded Deer (Frida Kahlo), The Anguished Man (unknown) and Night Creeper (Zdzislaw Beksinski). She’s a big fan of Beksinski’s work in general.

[deepcollectionredbird]

Zach never would’ve guessed, in a million years, that pregnancy would make him so damn gassy. In all his years of hearing the whole “Birds, Bees, and Babies” talk, nobody ever warned him about the gastric side of it all… but, if he’d known that he’d be able to clear an entire room with a single fart, he would’ve thought twice before going out and getting himself knocked up with twins.

Before the babies, Zach was never a particularly gassy guy. He’d burp quite often, and fart every now and then… but his flatulence was nothing to write home about. It wasn’t very loud, or smelly, or noteworthy at all.

His guy friends could all burp the entire alphabet, fart on command, and compete in gas-offs, but he was never able to keep up with any of them. Even at the smelliest of times, he was somewhat nose-blind to the odor of his own brand. That old saying “whoever smelt it, dealt it” couldn’t have been further from reality, for him.

These days, though, with all of the strange foods that he eats, he even makes himself sick, with some of the stenches that come out of him. They always take him by surprise. Nobody ever told him just how awful they could be during pregnancy… but, now that he’s struck big and got a two for the price of one deal on babies, he’s learning that the hard way.