#playing at fear just for the sake of clinging together

[lydia-too-late]

(Another) Desert Vignette

Tula is looking up at the sky, squinting at the stars through tissue-paper clouds, the atmosphere gone faint hellfire above the distant city lights, a rolling-Earth harbinger of terrible orange-red. One may think the wildfires won. One may think of calamity. One may think: Three hours until certain death.

The suburbs dissolve beneath their feet as they venture farther from San Narciso. Out here, the scrubby hills and city repose together on the landscape. Slums somewhere, too, sloughing off the edges of everything.

"We could just run." Silk scuffs their boots. They inhale just to snort. "Hay unos veinte kilómetros, algo así. Maybe we even make it back." A leathersounding shrug. "That's a joke."​

In the moonlight, Silk's lashes cast heavy shadows over their eyes. She follows the darkness to the hollow beneath their cheekbones, between their parted lips, behind their tongue. She touches the bite marks on her wrists. Red, raw and open, glistening, but they don't bleed. They don't hurt.

The desert is always half dream. In the distance, a coyote screams into the night's silence and rouses a chorus, offering their unearthly din to the moon's slow descent. She's seen Luna there before: the tall, whip-thin silhouette on a distant hill, surrounded by her pack. But not tonight. We could just run. One of Tula's fingertips presses into her wound, splitting it obscenely open. It does not bleed, but it hurts.

(She shrugs, not-quite-smiling. "I'm sure there's a car trunk somewhere along the way…")

Her throat feels tight. She lifts her wrist to her lips, tonguing the puncture like a child, an animal. The warm, saltmetal taste sits on the tip of her tongue.

Silk is looking at her, all sleepy eyes and strange, hard beauty. Tula is looking at them too, eyes wide and rich-girl hungry above her wrist. Their jacket has fallen open, framing a starved waist and soft hips. The bones of their sternum between the halter's illusion of breasts. The excruciating shadow of hair trailing several inches below their navel. The profanity of their shorts, the way they pull tight around their hips and thighs. She wants to push them down to the ground. Make them say her name. Make them moan her name. Make them say it, say it…

Tula jerks herself back; her wrist falls away guiltily. "Just hungry," she dismisses the moment, shrugging like Silk shrugged, her shame hidden with a scowl. They could never outrun it, neither one of them.

[genderlessdude92]

IT’S OKAY TO NOT BE OKAY

PAIRING: Alastor x Reader

SUMMARY: In a tranquil meadow near Cannibal Town, Alastor, the Radio Demon, returns to the sanctuary he shares with his beloved y/n, seeking solace from his chaotic life. Upon finding y/n in a state of distress and in the middle of harming herself, he realizes the depth of her pain and the hidden struggles she's been enduring. Through gentle support and heartfelt conversations, Alastor reassures y/n of his unwavering love and commitment, promising to face their challenges together.

WARNINGS: MAJORR ANGST but a really fluffy ending :3, established relationship, a little bit ooc alastor idk, usage of y/n, depression, self harm, mental health struggles, emotional distress, suicidal thoughts, graphic descriptions, mature themes, but all in all a happy ending! short for my mental sake :D

NOTICE: please don't copy or steal or translate any of my work or you will be haunted in your dreams and i will spawn something unpleasant at your porch the next day. But...thanks for liking my work !! >.<

Requests are open, support is highly appreciated!

〰ଘ(੭ˊᵕˋ)੭ ..。.:*･ﾟ♫₊ ♪ *♬‧₊enjoy!~

In the quaint, otherworldly meadow that lay a stone's throw from the bustling Cannibal Town, there stood a house. This house, with its whimsical architecture and warm, inviting glow, was the sanctuary of Alastor, the Radio Demon, and his beloved, y/n. It was a place where the chaos of the Hotel was left behind, replaced by the gentle whispers of the zephyrs that danced through the tall grass and the soft hum of distant demonic activities. The walls were adorned with an eclectic mix of macabre art and personal mementos, a testament to their shared love of the unconventional.

On this particular day, Alastor had managed to carve out some much-needed time from his hectic schedule at the Hotel. The burden of managing the unruly work and maintaining a semblance of order in the underworld had weighed heavily upon him, and he craved the comfort of his partner's embrace. He strolled through the meadow, his dear shadow following behind him, and approached the house with a smile, as always, playing at the corners of his lips. The door creaked open, and he called out, his voice echoing through the stillness, "Y/N, my dear, I'm home!"

Silence greeted him. The house felt eerily empty, the air thick with a tension that was as palpable as the absence of his lover's presence. He stepped into the living room, his eyes scanning the area for any sign of life. The couch was untouched, the books on the shelf undisturbed, and the radio flickered with static.

He made his way to the kitchen, half-expecting to find y/n lost in thought over a cup of tea, but it was as vacant as the rest of the house. His heart sank.

He knew she had been struggling lately, her depression clinging to her like a second skin, and he feared that her inner turmoil had taken a darker turn.

But, he didn’t want to jump to conclusions. Maybe she’s just napping or taking a bath, he reassured himself.

Walking down the hallway, the floorboards groaned under his weight, as if sharing his anxiety. He reached their shared bedroom, his heart racing. The door was ajar, and a sliver of soft light peeked through, casting a warm glow across the floor. He pushed it open, his eyes searching the room.

There she was, curled up on the bed, her back to the door. The sight of her brought a wave of relief, until he saw the fresh scars on her arms and thighs. His breath caught in his throat, a silent scream of pain and anger at the sight of her suffering. She hadn't moved since he'd called out, and the quiet was deafening.

Alastor's shadow grew more pronounced, reaching out towards her, a silent plea for her to turn around. When she finally did, her eyes were red and swollen, a stark contrast to the pale, almost ethereal glow of her skin. The room grew colder, the air heavy with her sadness. She looked at him with a mix of guilt and fear, as if she'd been caught in the act of something unforgivable.

"I didn't mean for you to find out," she whispered, her voice trembling like a leaf in a storm. "I just... I couldn't help it."

Alastor felt his heart break into a million pieces. He stepped closer to her, his eyes never leaving hers. His voice was calm, soothing, a stark contrast to the turmoil in his soul. "…Why would you hide this from me, dear?"

That’s when y/n broke. Her eyes welled up with tears, and she wrapped her arms around herself, as if trying to shield her own body from his gaze. "I didn't want to be a burden," she choked out. "I know you have enough to deal with at the Hotel. I just... I don’t want you to hate me for being weak." She sobbed, her body convulsing with each painful word.

Alastor's shadow retreated, his own eyes glistening with unshed tears. He sat down beside her, his hand reaching out to gently touch her cheek. "I could never hate you," he murmured, his voice a soothing balm to her frayed nerves. "You are the light in my eternal darkness. Your strength is in your ability to keep fighting, even when it seems there's no hope."

He wrapped an arm around her shuddering form, pulling her close so he could plant a soft kiss to her forehead. "You are not a burden," he whispered fiercely. "You are the reason I wake up every day, the reason I continue to fight. I love you, y/n, with every fiber of my being, and nothing will ever change that."

Her sobs grew louder, and she buried her face in his chest, her hands clutching at his shirt. He held her tightly, his thumb tracing gentle circles on her back as he rocked her gently. The room was a cocoon of sorrow, but within it, there was a silent promise of understanding and support.

"You can tell me anything," Alastor murmured, his voice barely audible above her cries. "I'm here for you, no matter what."

Y/n took a shaky breath, her voice muffled against his chest. "I know," she said, her words tinged with despair. "But what if one day you just can't handle it anymore?"

Alastor froze. He knew the gravity of her question, the deep-rooted fear that had compelled her to hide her pain from him. He took a moment to gather his thoughts, stroking her hair tenderly once more. "Y/n," he began, his voice firm yet gentle, "I will always handle it. You are the one I want to be with, no matter what demons or angels you- no, we will have to face."

He leaned back to look into her eyes, willing her to see the sincerity behind his words. "I know you're hurting, and I can't pretend to understand the depth of your pain. But I can be here, every step of the way, to support you, to listen, and to help you heal." His hand slid down to gently grasp hers, turning it over to reveal the new scars. "These don't define you," he said, his voice a whisper. "You are so much more than this."

Her gaze fell to their intertwined fingers, the stark contrast of his warm, golden skin against hers a stark reminder of the barriers she felt between them. "But what if I can't stop?" she asked, the question hanging in the air like a specter.

Alastor's grip tightened, his eyes never leaving hers. "We'll find a way together," he assured her. "I won't let you go through this alone."

He lifted her chin with his free hand, his eyes searching hers for any hint of belief. "Look at me," he urged, his voice steady despite the turmoil within. "You are not alone. I am here, and I will always be here.”

Y/n's gaze was a tumultuous sea of doubt and pain, but there was a flicker of hope that grew stronger with each passing moment. "Promise?" she whispered, her voice a shaky plea.

"I promise," he said solemnly, leaning in to kiss her again, this time with a gentle firmness that spoke of his unwavering dedication to her.

They sat there for a while longer, wrapped in the quiet comfort of their shared embrace. The shadows in the room danced in the fading light, but the love between them remained steadfast, a beacon that pierced through the gloom.

As the sobs subsided, Alastor began to talk again, his voice low and calming. He shared his own experiences with pain and loneliness, the moments that had driven him to his darkest corners. He spoke of his regret for the sins of his past, and the solace he had found in her love.

He told her about the Hotel, the chaos that was his daily life, and how her presence made it all seem bearable. "You're not just my partner," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "You're my sanity, my reason to keep going."

Her eyes searched his, and she could see the truth in every word. Slowly, she unfurled from her protective ball, allowing his warmth to seep into her very bones. She leaned into him, her head resting on his shoulder, her breathing evening out.

"Let's get you cleaned up," Alastor murmured after a long silence. He stood, pulling her with him. His touch was gentle, almost reverent, as he led her to the bathroom, filling the tub with warm water and adding a soothing scent that reminded her of their first date.

Together, they washed away the physical evidence of her pain, his touch tender as he helped her into the tub. He sat beside her, not saying a word, his presence a silent promise that he would be there for her, no matter what.

As the water turned pink with the remnants of her self-inflicted torment, she felt a weight lifting from her. It wasn't gone, not entirely, but it was lighter. With each ripple of the water, she felt a piece of her anguish being carried away.

When they emerged from the bathroom, refreshed and clean, the sun had set, leaving a soft, velvety darkness in its wake. Alastor led her back to the bed, now made up with fresh linens, and tucked her in. He laid beside her, holding her close, his wings wrapping around them like a protective blanket.

Their conversation grew quiet, their hearts beating in sync. They talked about their fears, their hopes, and their love for one another. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, y/n felt truly seen, truly understood.

And as they drifted off to sleep— well, maybe just y/n because Alastor usually just watches her— the shadows of the room grew less menacing, the silence less oppressive. In the quiet of the night, wrapped in the warmth of Alastor's embrace, she realized that maybe, just maybe, she could face another day without the comfort of her destructive habits.

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END NOTES: HIII!!! This is, erm, not like the other fics i write, but i like comforting the community soooo if you struggle with these things, this one is for you!!! I originally wrote this for myself after an ‘episode’, but i feel like this one can be comforting to others as i said before. If you ever need somebody to talk to and are struggling with any of these things, please contact, like text or call, the number 988! i love you guys, goodnight!

-Lynn Lazybones

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[delopsia]

Please [Rewrite] | Rhett Abbott x Reader

Word Count: 9,000 Cross Posted on AO3 Warnings & Notes: 18+, AFAB!Reader, begging, handjobs, teasing, grinding in public, riding, unprotected sex, surprise orgasms. Cock warming and edging if you squint. Brief Summary: Getting Rhett to beg isn't as easy as it's cracked up to be.

It's not easy to break down a man like Rhett Abbott.

The kind of blue-collar man who has only ever known one way of life, maybe two, if he's lucky. Expected to be tough from the moment he took his first breath; raised to forget emotion in favor of building up a mountainous, rocky exterior that does not give way when the west wind blows. Thick-skinned and with a backbone made of steel, the kind of man who can roll with the punches but carries just enough humanity to avoid coming off as soulless or dull. 

So strong, yet so afraid of the word 'weak'.  His power, his dominance, clutched tight in an iron fist, never to be let go of, even for a second. Too used to this one way of life that he fears the slightest hint of an unknown, of losing control, getting himself hurt, and being stripped of the precious title of being a man. 

And it's small towns like Wabang that will forever cry about such nonsensical ways of living for the sake of tradition. A place trained to think that change—that weakness is always a bad thing. 

So many generations of passing along crippling expectations have led you to this. 

Here. Gazing into the wide, frightened eyes of a cowboy who has long since tucked himself into the far side of your couch like a cornered animal. 

"Absolutely fuckin' not," you wonder if he knows how pitchy his voice has grown within the past thirty seconds. "I ain't...that's—what kind of man do y' take me for?"

A man who's too horny to be so vanilla, but that's neither here nor there.

Your eyes dart to your laptop screen, still paused on the video that sent him into this downward spiral in the first place, then back up to his pale face. "It's not that bad in the grand scheme of things." And you're about to follow that up with a list of worse suggestions, but he doesn't give you the chance to.

"I ain't beggin' to cum," he blurts it like he won't be able to say no if he doesn't get it out of his mouth quick enough.

Curious, your head tilts to the side. "Not even once?" 

"No. That's..." hesitating. Hasn't gotten to think that far, gears twisting and turning in his head as he searches for the words he wants to say, "It's demeanin'. That's what it is."

You suppose you can guess what his reaction to toy handcuffs would be. 

The conversation drops just as quickly as it was started with closing up your laptop and pressing play on the movie that you've long since forgotten about. Resuming that same steamy scene, the main character grinning at the way her love interest's face contorts as she squeezes him at his base, denying him what she's just worked him up to.

"Say please," she whispers, so eloquently and feather-light that it sticks in your head. 

But you can hardly pay attention because, in the corner of your eye, you've caught him. 

Those ocean-blue eyes have long since fixated on the screen. Shameless. Doesn't realize you've caught the way his cock twitches in his sweats, hand curling into a shaky fist. Clinging to a composure that you've only seen him lose when he's had one too many at the bar. 

...so that's how it's going to be. 

Alright, two can play this game. 

Or maybe you're the only one who's playing because Rhett seems to forget the conversation before the night is over. Blissfully unaware of the plan that's formulating in the back of your mind. Bits and pieces of thoughts and memories coming together to build a grand scheme so elaborate that you catch yourself taking notes on your phone.

And so what if you let him bend you over the kitchen counter when you know full well that your plan explicitly involves denying him sex out of hopes of him getting desperate? You needed the refresher on what makes him tick. 

Starting out slow is the key to flying below Rhett's radar. Observant to a fault, so sensitive to change that he notices the tiny, inconspicuous things, like that time your thermostat was set a degree higher than normal. All you had done was accidentally hit the button one too many times, but there he came, kissing up the back of your neck as he asked if you were cold.

So it's a fine line that you straddle when you begin to take up extra shifts at work. Offhandedly telling him that one of your co-workers is pregnant and needs the help. It's not a total lie. You just...happen to be leaving out the fact that she's only three months along. 

And so what if you start spending more time with your friends? Always seeming to be wrapped up in a new outing that leaves you too sleepy to entertain the sweet cowboy who grinds up against your ass. His lips peppering across every inch of exposed skin he can find, three-day-old scruff tickling you. 

"You sure you're feelin' alright?" He murmurs, and you can't see him, but you can feel the way his eyebrows furrow, laced with a concern that you've seen too many times recently. "Y've been tired all week."

Oh, oh, oh, you shouldn't have looked down. 

Had only been meaning to avoid meeting his eye in the mirror, but now you've found yourself fixated on the forearms that have long since wrapped around your waist. Rippling muscles and protruding veins, putting on a mouth-watering show, all for you. 

"Haven't been sleeping well, I suppose," your weight shifts, leaning back into that familiar, firm chest, tilting your head until your cheek bumps into his. 

The entire point of this plan is to string him out until he's desperate. So worked up and needy that rationality and higher thinking go out the window, too focused on getting what he's craving that he doesn't care about how. The same kind of tunnel vision that he gets when he climbs on the back of a bull fixated on the title, the infamy, the belt buckle that comes with winning the Amelia County Finals. 

But God, settling for toys after he leaves your house just isn't the same as the real thing. 

And maybe that's why you don't stop yourself from pressing your ass against him. 

Can't stop. 

A soft grinding backward that has him twitching up into you, hard cock straining against the thin material of his sweats. Firm. Dripping. All for you to feel and gasp at. Giving in to him one time can't hurt.

Yeah...yeah, one time isn't all that bad. 

"Thought y' were tired," that sinful, hot mouth presses wet kisses at the juncture of your jaw, where it meets your neck. Has long since figured out that it'll make your knees wobble if he does it right. "Not that 'm complainin'."

Your socks slip against the tile floor as you spin in his arms. Noses bumping into one another. So close that you can spot the vague constellations of freckles hidden along his pale face. Not quite as expansive as the ones on his shoulders, but just as marvelous. 

The open palm of your hand flattens against him, blatantly cupping him through his sweats, "I guess it's up to you to keep me from falling asleep then."

Those long eyelashes flutter. Each pass over his iris leaves them a shade darker, shifting like a mood ring. The corner of his lip rises, a chipped canine tooth glinting in the light, "think I can help y' with that." 

You don't make it to the bedroom, finding yourself bent over the arm of the couch as your oversized cowboy fucks you from behind. His thighs trembling against yours, grunting into your ear. So, so sensitive from your lack of rendezvous. You're getting somewhere with him. Making progress. Grinding him down to a neediness that overrides the thoughts drilled into his pretty head. 

But oh, is it difficult. 

Getting out of bed the next morning had might as well be the worst thing you've ever done. Because as soon as you turn around, toothbrush in your mouth as you peek into the bedroom, you meet a pair of sweet blue eyes. Big hands open, fingers wiggling as he tries to lure you back into his arms, tucked up against his naked body. 

"Come back," he whines, squinting to see you through the blinding bathroom light, "'m cold."

You've still got to get yourself dressed and ready to go out; you've got festival plans and friends that will badger you to no end if you cancel on them for the second year in a row. But your sweet cowboy provides such a convincing argument when a yawn breaks across his face, still trying to beckon you back into bed.

"I promised I wouldn't cancel this year," you don't know if you're justifying it to yourself or him, maybe both. "I'm sorry." 

The corners of his eyes fall, almost pouting. Like a puppy who's just been kicked, those big eyes drop down to the bed. Only to flicker back up at you, some insistent spark of hope glinting across his face, "five more minutes?"

...oh, what the hell. 

"Five more minutes," you repeat, and this time, you know you're directing them toward yourself. 

Because Rhett Abbott's arms are like velcro. Nearly impossible to escape once he's curled them around you, securing you to his broad chest as he subjects you to a flurry of thank-you kisses peppered across your cheeks. So soft and ticklish, the kind that has you squirming and dodging his incessant mouth.

As quickly as it starts, it ends. Settling into a comfortable silence as Rhett nuzzles his cold nose against your forehead, absolutely determined to steal your body heat away from you. His icy fingers dancing up and down your back, tracing idle shapes into the skin there. Any colder, and you think he might start getting icicles in his hair. 

And it's only October. Winter isn't even in full swing yet.

"You're so busy anymore," he whispers, not quite meeting your eye, "ain't got to cuddle in forever."

Your hand tangles through his hair, unable to avoid acknowledging the way he nudges into your touch, "I'm sorry." 

On its own, your mind wanders. Unleashed, free to roam the possibilities and what ifs. Whether this whole shtick of yours is even worth it or not. If sitting him down and getting to the bottom of his fear is what you should actually be doing. If he would even listen or if he would fly into another stonewalled panic.

And then there are your plans. You've been jittering over the thought of this festival for weeks, but you've missed these arms, this man, even more. Him, the sweet kiss he's pressing to your forehead and the muscles that ripple as he pulls you closer. Like he'll be able to keep you here forever if he tries hard enough. 

"Do you want to come with us?" You mutter, after a moment, or twelve. 

His eyebrows rise, forehead wrinkling with it. "Hm?"

"To the festival, I mean," you're pretty sure you can already hear the answer; he's never been much for these types of events. Not the type to peruse through shops and look at things that you don't technically need. 

Blue eyes dart across your face, searching for something. Or maybe he's thinking, considering. "Well, I ain't got nothin' else planned," he says after a moment. 

Inviting him goes against every bit of meticulous planning you've done these past few weeks. Completely uproots the purpose of your scheme and turns it on its head. But for some reason, you can't bring yourself to be worried about it in the slightest. Holding his big hand as you walk out to your car like it was always meant to work out this way.

Even as you settle behind the steering wheel, fumbling with your keys, the only thing you feel is giddy. 

The car shakes as Rhett all but falls into the passenger seat. Knees knocking into the dash. 

"Holy shit," he swears, legs awkwardly propped against the glove compartment. The seat far too far forward for his stature, quite nearly folding him in half. "Was your last passenger a gnome?"

Over his shoulder, you think you can see his hat sitting on the ground. Knocked clean off his head.

"How many times are you gonna do this before you learn to quit falling into my car?" Your eyes roll on their own accord, twisting the key in the ignition. You've long since lost count of how many times he's done this, foolishly tossing himself into the seat without bothering to check if he's big enough to fit. 

"Dunno," the seat groans as Rhett pushes it as far back as it'll go, freeing himself of his self-made prison. "How many more times are you fixin' to be a gnome chauffeur?"

At least your car doesn't have a busted side mirror from a bar fight, but you'll be saving that comment for another time.

A part of you isn't entirely sure why Rhett agreed to come to this festival. He said he didn't have anything else to do, sure, but if that's the case, then he would have tagged along to a lot, lot more invitations. So what gives? Is he lonely? Longing for the tranquility of being by your side?

Or did he just want to stare at your ass this entire time? 

You can feel him. Heated gaze locked onto your backside as you meander through booth after booth like he'll miss something crucial if he tears his gaze away for too long. Thick arms crossed in front of his chest, biceps straining against his white t-shirt, and chewing on the inside of his cheek. Looks like he just walked out of a damn magazine. 

But he always looks like he just walked out of a magazine, and he's looked you over with that hungry gaze so many times that it shouldn't make your knees wobble. Weakened just by his sheer presence, and it's not fair. 

This wasn't a part of your plan at all. He's the one who's supposed to be so eager and desperate that he throws reason out the window. But instead, it's you who is considering pushing him up against the trunk of this Oak tree, dropping to your knees, and sucking him off right in the middle of this festival. Uncaring of the greedy eyes and unwitting ears who may become witness to it.  

You don't quite recall picking up this knick-knack, a ceramic cow, pink and white in color, and missing one of her legs. It's cold in your palm, just enough to draw you from your stupor, brushing away the heated clouds fogging your thoughts.

If you're aching, then surely he is, too. His sex drive has always been a smidgen higher than your own, raring to go at the drop of a hat. So if you're weak in the knees over his sheer presence, then he must be even worse. 

Your head turns; fully prepared and ready for what darkened gaze you may find. 

...except he's not looking.

No, he's got something small in the palm of his hand, grinning down at it like it's some great discovery. His warm eyes flick up to meet your face, setting your cheeks alight. 

"Found the fella you've been drivin' 'round," he chirps, holding the little thing out for you to see. A three-inch tall gnome with a tall orange hat, oversized nose poking out the bottom. Fits perfectly in his grasp, fluffy, unruly white beard waving in the breeze. "Think I should grow a beard like that?" 

"Only if you wear the funny hat," you wink, just for extra measure. 

The last thing you're expecting is for him to buy it. Carrying the little thing about like it's a faithful companion, only putting it down to fight with you over who is paying for your things because he might just die if you pay for that t-shirt with your own money. Unaware that you'll just stick the cash in his wallet when he's asleep tonight. 

You've been foiled by a two-dollar gnome. 

Takes a good two days for you to get ahold of yourself, fighting urges that aren't helped by the cowboy who keeps reminding you that he's feeling it, too. The both of you dangling by a single thread, waiting to see who breaks first. 

And it's almost you.

God, it's almost you. 

Because Sunday rolls around with a vengeance that torments you from the moment your eyes open in the morning, overcome with a heat so strong that it ought to burn you alive. Biting at an invisible bit, getting yourself off in pure silence while Rhett bustles about in the living room. Mere yards away, one call of his name and you know he'd be on his knees in an instant, eager to taste you on his tongue, but your plan. You can't abandon your plan.

But it's nothing compared to the rodeo. The adrenaline that leaves your hands shaking even after Rhett has fallen off the bull and stumbled out of the arena. Trembling like the leaves in the brutal autumn breeze, crisp but with a sinister bite that you recognize as the beginnings of winter. 

It's the kind of sharpness that almost manages to distract you from the chapped lips kissing up the back of your neck. The vibrations of a cowboy's voice as he murmurs your name over and over like an incantation. A spell thats got you leaning into him, feeling the way he strains against his tattered jeans, pressing into the curve of your ass.

"Darlin'," blazing breath tickles your ear, his teeth grazing the shell of it, "what d' ya say we got outta here, hm?"

The edges of your composure are crumbling faster than you can glue them back together. Rhyme and reason whisked away by the wind, and suddenly, you can't remember all the reasons why you've been holding out on him. No longer caught up in the possibilities of what Rhett must sound like when he begs.

All you can think of is this. Now. The oversized hands dragging up your sides and the gentle suction at the soft spot of your neck. This man and the faint remnants of his leathery cologne, and how you're going to make it to the truck without getting—

"Rhett!" A familiar voice calls out, spurs echoing down the empty walkway. "Rhett!" 

All of a sudden, your backside is cold as Rhett steps away. Mere seconds before the familiar, gruff face of his best friend comes around the corner. How did he know to look for you behind the concession stands? 

 "The fuck y' doin' out 'ere?" It's dark, but you can still see the way Archie's hands fly up, only to fall back down and smack against his thighs. 

"Fixin' to go home?" Rhett grumbles it like a question, his head tilting to the side.

Archie's silence is...deafening. His shadowy figure is still as can be, and it's not directed at you at all, but even you can feel the daggers he's staring into Rhett's forehead. You don't recall any post-rodeo bonfire being scheduled for tonight, and it's far too quiet for the rodeo to be still going. 

But right as you're beginning to think that the vicious wind has frozen Archie solid, his mouth opens. "Y' done fuckin' forgot 'bout th' paper comin' t' take pictures t'night."

Pictures. 

That's right, the Amelia County newspaper was planning to put the bull riders on the front page. How did you manage to forget about that?

To say that you were saved by the skin of your teeth is an understatement. By the time they let Rhett and the other riders go home for the night, adrenaline has worn off, leaving behind a yawning husk of a man who can hardly keep his eyes open. Struggling to stand upright in the shower as you rinse the shampoo from his hair, too tired to bend you over the nearest surface and break you down.

He's cracking. 

You're cracking. 

Getting up for work in the morning is harder than you ever remember it being, and those extra hours drag by slower than a snail race. You want to go home. Fuck, you want to snuggle up to Rhett on the couch and let his chaste kisses devolve into sloppy ones that trail down your naked chest. But giving up now means all of this was for nothing. 

So you keep drowning yourself in work. Turning down every too-heated kiss and stepping out of his arms before they can start to test the waters. Getting up early to walk back into the gates of hell, away from the heaven that is Rhett Abbott. 

Until once again, your week is over, and Sunday has rolled around with the same vigor as it did before. 

This week's rodeo is different, about two hours away from home, on the border of Wyoming and Idaho. Some tiny town you've never heard of, the kind of place that only recently got two stoplights installed. Home to a whopping three hundred, with incredible landmarks such as a mom-and-pop gas station and a bank that's been set up on the first floor of someone's townhouse. 

The hotel is a floor above the only bar in town. It's not much, just enough space for a queen-sized bed, a television stand, and a bathroom so small Rhett can hardly turn around in it. Still better than driving an hour to a motel whose Google reviews promise a complimentary inclusion of bed bugs.

By some catastrophe, the rodeo grounds are far too small for the amount of people traveling to see the event. Already flooded with locals by the time you get there, a sea of fold-out chairs taking up every bit of free space that can be found. Even Cecelia's been outwitted, forced to dig her stash of chairs from the back of Royal's truck. She's brought just enough to seat all of you.

At least, she did. 

"You're in my seat," you grumble, squinting down at the cowboy who has already locked his eyes on the cheese fries you've got in your hand. The fruit of your efforts for standing in line for thirty minutes. 

"I know it," Rhett's big hand pats his thigh, inviting you into what is certainly a trap. 

But all you can think about is how he's supposed to be over by the chutes, warming up for a ride. Your head twists to look over at the empty side of the arena, then back to his stupid, smug face. 

"We got delayed," he continues, seems to have heard your question without you needing to voice it, "Somethin' 'bout technical difficulties." 

You're going to have technical difficulties.

Sitting in his lap isn't anything new. Not by a long shot. But there's something about doing it now. When you're still hanging on to your composure by a singular thread, nearly set off by the wrinkles of his jeans against your thighs. 

A part of you only means to readjust yourself. To squirm a little further backward so that you can comfortably lean against his chest. You don't intend to push your ass into his half-hard cock, but you do, and it's got him choking around the fry he's stolen.

"Oops" is all you can be bothered to provide because, though it wasn't on purpose, you certainly intend on doing it again. 

It's not hard to disguise. Not when Cecelia covers the two of you in a blanket, fussing over your choice of a short-sleeved shirt, saying that just the sight of you is making her cold. Unintentionally handing you the perfect shield, blocking the view of your hips as they begin to squirm. Subtly grinding down into that rapidly growing bulge, basking in the way his breath hitches, a strong arm curling across your waist.

"Y'd better not be tryin' t' get me all riled up, sweetheart," he murmurs, that low tone of his tickling down your sensitive spine. Only serves to spur you on more, squirming against his cock like it'll kill you to stop. And those arms are growing tighter around you, drawing away every bit of that precious wiggle room, but he's shamelessly twitching against you. A soft noise falling from his lips as you fully settle into him now. 

Your head tilts, peering at him through your peripheral. "What're you gonna do about it if I am?" 

If he had a response conjured up, then he must have forgotten how to speak because he doesn't say anything. Just dips his head down and rests against your shoulder, helpless. So needy for something that he has no choice but to lean against you and take what you give him. Grunting under his breath, eyelashes fluttering against your exposed neck. 

The muscles in your neck strain as you crane your head back, "Not gonna stop me?" Your lips brush the lobe of his ear, a visible shiver rolling down his spine. 

Just as quickly as his head dropped, it rises, blank blue eyes staring back at you. Not a thought behind them. "Nuh-uh." 

"Rhett!" Archie's voice slices through the evening air like a knife through butter. His hat waves through the air like a flag. "Get yer ass up outta that chair! We're on!" 

Rhett's head buries back into the juncture of your collar and neck. Unshaven jaw scratching the delicate skin there as he hugs you tight, grumbling. Hardly wants to let you step out of his lap, never mind letting you escape from his wandering arms. But you're getting up anyway. Because the rodeo waits for no one, and he didn't spend the past eight years of his life chasing this dream just to give it up now. 

...that doesn't mean he won't sulk as he walks away. Broad shoulders drooping, hardly has the forethought to readjust himself in his jeans.  

Your chair feels too big now that you're alone in it. Still warm from where he once sat, and if you focus hard enough, you can almost convince yourself that you can catch the sweet notes of his cologne lingering in the breeze. Wrapping around your senses like a hug on the last day of autumn.

Or maybe that's because he's tearing through the crowd. On a one-way path back to you. 

"Rhett?" You're already rising to your feet; did he forget something? Is the rodeo being called off again? So many questions, and yet you can hardly get anything off your tongue. "What...?"

But you're only met with the chime of his spurs. Darkened eyes anchor you in place, leaving you standing in the grass like a deer in headlights. Helpless to do anything but watch as he stalks closer and closer, not a word leaving his mouth, until, until—

It's the sudden gust of wind that carries those two muttered words to your ears, "forgot somethin'." 

And then his mouth is on yours, and it's the sweetest thing you've felt all afternoon. A mere chaste peck on the lips that steals your breath from your lungs and the thoughts from your brain. 

The bumping of your noses is the only thing to shake you from your stupor. "Still needing that good luck kiss, huh?" 

A cowboy like Rhett shouldn't have the audacity to let his gaze drop to his feet, the corners of his eyes wrinkling with his million-dollar grin. But he does it anyway. Shyly peering back at you through those thick lashes. You know it's merely from the stadium lights, but that doesn't stop you from fooling yourself into believing that his eyes sparkle at the sight of you.

"Can I have 'nother?" He whispers it like a secret, only meant to be shared between the two of you. 

You would consider denying him if you hadn't already lost the ability to do that. Already reaching to curl your hands around his cheeks, drawing him in for just one more. Then you're tilting his head down and pressing another kiss to his forehead. 

"For extra measure," justifying it to yourself more than anything. 

And oh, the things you would give to stop time, just to have him a little longer. 

It feels like entire days pass before you hear his name echo from the speakers. An announcer crowing at the top of his lungs as the chute opens, and Rhett bursts out of it. His right hand held high as he clings to the back of that raging bull. Two thousand pounds of muscle threatening to throw him off. Spiraling clockwise. Never seems to have more than two feet on the ground at once. 

He's sliding. Fuck, fuck, fuck he's starting to lose his grip. But he's still on. Clinging to that thin rope. Numbers rising on the billboard. 

Five seconds.

Six. His hat flies off. You're too frozen to look and see where it went.

Seven. Perry jumps out of his seat. Shoulders blocking your view. Fucking—move! 

A shrill buzz soars through the air. So loud and abrupt that you jump at the sound of it. But Rhett's on his feet already, and so are you. Those eyes are already looking your way, full of something that you can see from all the way over here. A sparkling want, a need, spurred by the adrenaline of a ride. 

A ride that's put him further into the finals. Another advancement that'll take you further away from home. 

But you can't think about that right now. After all, it's hard to worry about whether or not you'll be able to join him for next week's rodeo when you're tearing through a crowd in an unfamiliar arena. Dodging groups, twisting past couples, and squeezing between lines that extend to the parking lot. Your head tilting. Turning. Fighting to remember where that damn riders-only entrance was. 

There he is.

Between the stand-by ambulance and the parking lot. Rubbing the juncture of his left shoulder as he stands on his top-toes, trying to pinpoint you in the crowd. There's a group of girls next to him, dressed their best as they chatter, greedy gazes looking Rhett up and down like he's a tall drink of water in the middle of a desert. 

They're pretty, the kind of girls who can pull just about anyone they want in an event like this, but Rhett's only looking at you. An oversized grin breaks across his face as he darts forward, untamed hair flowing in the breeze, all but slamming into you. 

"D'you know what y' do to me?" That deep voice rumbles into your ear. So ready, so eager that he's speaking before he's pulled you off to some place private. And he's got just enough of your leg between his that he can press that aching bulge against you. Shameless. 

"I have a little bit of an idea," and you had a follow-up to that statement, but Rhett's gotten ahold of your wrist. 

Downright hauling you toward that forbidden riders-only section, past the sign declaring that the general public isn't allowed inside, and beyond. Through crowds and past the chutes, your feet nearly tangling as you try to keep up. Until Rhett's spinning and your back is thumping against a wall before you can realize you're moving backward. 

"Someone's got it bad," you're giggling; oh, the lips on your jaw tickle. A desperate frenzy that you aren't warmed up for and can't squirm out of.

"Yeah, wonder why," but you can feel the way he smiles through his words, so big that he can hardly press another kiss to your skin. Working his way up, up, up, until his chapped lips cover your own. 

Unyielding, his rough stubble scratching against your chin as his hand slides across your cheek. A gentle cradle of your jaw that holds you still. Doesn't let you squirm away from the other arm that wraps around your waist, drawing you near until you're chest to chest. So close that you think you can feel the drum of his heart.

Maybe that's what gets you moving. Your arms rising to wrap around his shoulders, hands tangling in his messy hair, as you lean into the kiss. Lips parting as he hungrily licks into your mouth, such a dizzyingly hot feeling that sends your head spinning. Every bit as strong and commanding as he's ever been. 

And yet, as your hand drops to cup him through those too-tight jeans, he jumps. 

"Fuck," he inhales so sharply that you can feel it against your lips. And it's been so, so long since you last heard that sweet sound. Since the last time you watched his head tilt back, swollen lips glistening under the twinkling lights set up for a collection of booths. Selling knick-knacks, homemade signs, and everything in between. Some little thing for after the rodeo—

shit.

As quickly as it pressed against him, your hand falls away, returning to dangle limply at your side. 

"Wh—" His eyes flash open, lashes fluttering like butterflies. Confused. "Huh?"

"I forgot," your head nods toward the unoccupied booths as you speak; their surfaces undecorated for the time being, but the moment the rodeo begins to wane, they'll be packed full of more items than you can possibly think of. "We agreed to see the sales booths with your mom, remember?"

"We really gotta stay 'n buy useless junk with my momma?" The corners of his lips turn downward, a perfect pout that you'd like to kiss until it rises back into a smile. 

You try. God, you try. Have already found yourself leaning in to press one, two, three chaste kisses to those perfectly thin lips. But it doesn't disappear, not even a little bit. "But you bought a useless gnome. the other week."

"He ain't useless!" Rhett sputters against your mouth. A little too loud. His voice carrying farther than it should have. "He keeps my cupholder warm."

"It's just another hour, cowboy," smoothing your hands against his chest as you speak in that slow sort of fashion that he once told you he liked. 

"But..." trailing off, his eyes darting down to his feet. Gaze too heavy for him to look at you. A wayward boot kicks at the gravel, stirring up a small plume of dust. "Please?" 

So faint. So quiet that you don't know if you've made it up in your head or not. "I'm sorry?" 

Rhett's shoulders stiffen, his breath catching in his throat. It's dark back here, but it's hard to miss the way he peeks up at you, a hint of red lingering in the tips of his ears. 

"Please?" Barely audible. A tiny noise that's carried away with the wind, but you've heard it. You know you've heard it because his Adam's apple is bobbing, and he's fully turning his head away from you now. "I'll...that, that thing you wanted...we can try—I want..."

It's shaky. Uncertain. Hardly sounds real. But it's there. 

There's something about the wait that's made this all the more sweet. 

A mouth-watering expanse of pale skin and rippling muscle, defined from a lifetime of manual labor, so rarely put on display like this. That thin sheen of sweat glistening as his hips squirm against this wine-red hotel comforter. The same one that he's clutching between white knuckles, clinging to it like he's seconds away from floating up to the ceiling. 

"Does that feel good?" You ask, hand tightening around his pretty, leaking shaft. So wet that he hardly needed you to drizzle that packet of lubricant over him, leaving him with a glide so slick that every pass of your hand squelches.

Untamed locks of hair bounce with his nod, "uhuh." 

The toned muscles of his stomach flex as he bucks up into your touch, chasing the sweetness of your touch. A whine rolls off his tongue, long and drawn out; you're not moving fast enough for his liking, but the hand that's gingerly rolling his balls in your palm is just enough to keep him from fussing. 

"Feels good," he rushes out, in between breaths, "fuck, it feels good."

He's yet to tell you, but you can already tell that he's close. Know it in the way that his jaw has slackened and in the way he's forgotten to blink. Too focused on the feeling to think of anything else. 

"Do you wanna cum?" Cooing in the softest voice you can muster, temporarily allowing your eyes to dart back to the mess that lies between his legs. Where his cock head has long since flushed a shade of ruby red, raging and desperate for a relief that has yet to come. "Talk to me, cowboy." 

"Uhuh," if he hadn't just spoken a moment ago, you'd think he forgot how to talk. 

But 'uhuh' isn't what you're looking for. No, no, no, you haven't spent the past weeks in sexual misery just for a huffed noise. 

"What do you say?" You're fighting to keep that smug grin at bay, the corners of your lips wobbling. The throbbing length in your hand feels too real to be a dream, but the edges of your vision have that trademark fuzziness that comes with the subconscious wanderings of your mind. 

This is too perfect to be true. 

But the widening of Rhett's eyes is so him. A detail that your wildest dreams could never capture. Always missing the fragments of uncertainty, the waver in his breath, and the anxious tongue that pokes out to wet his chapped lips. "I..."

Your hand stops firm at his base. Squeezing. Unmoving even as his hips jerk upward, seeking more of a touch that he doesn't receive. 

"Baby," he grunts, voice suddenly so worn and ragged that you hardly recognize it. 

Curious, you tilt your head, "hm?"

"'s fuckin' mean," that weak chuckle vibrates all the way down his belly and up into your hand, but despite the back-and-forth rocking of his head, he refuses to crack fully. Taping himself back together at the seams, clinging for that little bit of power that he was so desperate to hand over earlier. 

"All you gotta do is say please," you whisper, thumb swiping up to collect a bead of precum rolling down the underside of him. 

His Adam's apple bobs. 

...maybe this will convince him. 

Your grip slips off his cock, letting it audibly slap against his belly as one of your hands reach for that forgotten bottle of lube, the other taking hold of his wrist. He doesn't fight when you drizzle some of it over his fingers, even idly rubs them together to spread the fluid before it begins to drip into his palm. Makes it so, so easy for you to scoot further up until you're comfortably straddling his belly, able to guide those perfectly shaped digits between your legs.

He doesn't need any further help. Dipping his fingertips between your folds, stroking down to circle around your entrance. The delicate pressure of them punches a gasp from your lips, that aching stretch so dizzyingly perfect. 

"So tight," he muses, absolutely fixated on the way his index finger disappears into you. So, so much thicker than your own, and not one of your toys can curl to stroke against your walls like Rhett does. Rubbing past a spongey bundle of nerves that has your thighs tightening around him, only for him to slip out and nudge two back into you. 

The palms of your hands settle on his chest, just about the only thing you can do to brace your weight as he pumps those fingers into your cunt. Shamelessly paced, trying his damndest to work you up just as quickly as you did to him, and fuck is it working. Rough pads of his fingers swirl around sensitive nerves while his thumb rises to nudge against your clit. A touch that doesn't fully make contact but sends you jumping as if it did. 

"Rhett," whimpering high in your throat, oh, you've missed this feeling.

On its own, the corner of his lip rises. Smug. "Can feel y' pulsin' 'round my fingers, darlin'." 

And you can feel a heat bubbling up in your lower belly. Arising with a certain kind of fury that has you growing wetter around him. Only makes it easier for him to quicken his pace, fucking those thick fingers into your pussy with a fervor that makes your heart skip a beat. 

"Hold on, hold on," you sputter, and as abrupt as it is, Rhett freezes. Letting you drag his hand out from between your legs in favor of you reaching for his neglected cock. Has long since leaked a small puddle of precum onto his belly, still just as red and angry as it was when you last touched him.

You don't know if Rhett's the first to gasp or if it's you, but that first nudge of his cock head against your dripping sex is enough to have both of your mouths opening. Sensitive. So, so sensitive.

God, sinking down on him is even worse. Because there's an aching stretch that comes with the fat head of his cock, already splitting you wide and setting a tremble in your thighs. Only worsened by the calloused palms that smooth across them on their way up to settle on your hips. 

Rhett's always been big, not obscenely so, but thick in all the right places. Enough to have you shivering but not enough to have you struggling to take him. But fuck is it a tremendous task to keep yourself steady whilst you sink down on him. Forced to take it slow, to feel the way he twitches inside of you, blunt tip pushing deeper and deeper and deeper.

The hands resting on your hips rise, sliding behind your naked back until familiar, warm arms can comfortably curl around you. "C'mere," Rhett whispers, and it doesn't take much more for you to lean down. 

Your forearms brace against his broad chest as your mouths meet. Lazy. More of a clash of lips than anything else, too focused on chasing a breath that neither of you can catch. Your head spinning from the lack of oxygen as he slides further into you. That coil winding tighter and tighter—

"Fuck," you breathe as your hips come flush together. So full of him that it aches. "Rhett..."

It's only when you lean back onto your haunches that you realize how his eyes have glazed over, caught in a hazy trance that shatters when you involuntarily clench around him. His hips jerking upward, jostling himself inside of you. So eager for you to start moving. 

But that's not what you were going for at all.

"What are...?" Rhett's question evaporates as you guide his still-wet fingers back between your legs, "What're y' doin'?" 

Confused about your intentions. Yet his thumb presses to your clit all the same, almost eager to feel it throbbing under the pad of his finger. Gradually gaining confidence on its own, doesn't need your guidance for him to start toying with the little button in earnest. A gentle sort of pressure that has you clenching around his cock, sends him into a twitching spasm that nudges against your walls just right. 

"Y' ain't movin'," he observes aloud. Like it's something you haven't noticed. 

"I know," wriggling from side to side, if only to selfishly chase the sensation of him moving inside of you. "And I'm not planning to."

Eyelashes flutter. Incredulous. "Huh?" 

"Not until you say please," because you didn't work this long and hard to give up now, but God, you've been craving the stretch of him. The ache that comes with having his cock wedged so deeply in your cunt, taking up every bit of space you have to offer and then some. 

Those eyebrows furrow in the same fashion as when he climbs onto the back of an angry bull. The kind of reckless determination that glues him to the back of that thousand-pound animal, ready to win or go down trying. 

You recognize that look so well that you're hardly surprised when his thumb aggressively changes gears. Working your clit with a fervor you haven't seen in weeks, massaging exactly how you like it. Not too direct but just enough to have your thighs clamping around his hips, head tilting backward.

But you're not moving. 

Fuck, you can't. Not when all you want is to chase the feeling, pushing further against his hand, unable to even think about drawing yourself away from it. Your vision is blurring, nearly makes you miss the way Rhett's lips part, whining at the way your pussy spasms around him. A perfect hell. 

And then you hear it, the whisper of an ever-so-faint, "please." 

"What did you say?" You can feel how your eyebrows raise, blinking away that blurriness to get a better look at his face. 

"Really?" Rhett's squint dissolves the moment you shift on top of him, his eyelashes fluttering once more. "Okay—fine." 

His head rolls against the pillow, gaze skittering around the room like he's searching for something. A hidden camera. An escape. Something to save him. But he doesn't find it. Has no choice but to look back up at you, a sudden wateriness in his eye, as he whispers. 

"Please fuck me."

Not another word needs to be said. 

Finally, finally, you draw yourself upward, teeth sinking into your lower lip, and the cowboy beneath you just about squeaks. A choked-off noise that rips out of his throat when you pull halfway off of him. Sends you sinking back down on him quicker than you should. Such a sudden thing that it makes your head spin, only worsened when you repeat it, weakly searching for the only rhythm that you can handle.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Rhett's sputtering, in his own little world, unfocused eyes rolling. 

If the image in your head had been a work of art, then you have no idea what to call this. The thick veins of his neck protruding, sweat running down his chest as his back arches up from the bed. Desperately chasing your every thrust, keening high in his throat, uncaring of who may hear or how far it may travel into the hotel hallway. 

"Is this what you wanted?" Your question punctuated by the lewd slap of skin on skin. God, you don't know if it was you who was being tortured or him. 

Brown curls bounce against the pillow as his head nods, mouth moving, but only a garbled cry comes out. Something torn between a "please" and a whimper. 

He's got no right to be hitting the little bundle of nerves within your walls, rubbing against them with every rise and fall of your hips. An indirect massage that has you biting back a noise. If Rhett wanted his control back, he could take it right here and now because your head is floating higher and higher into the clouds. Only able to focus on this, this, this. 

But he doesn't. 

"Wanna cum," he croaks, lucid if only for a moment, "'m gonna—I wanna..."

There's a tremble in your arms that wasn't there before, the kind of shaking that works its way through your entire body. Thighs shivering, weakened by the drag of his plush cock head inside you. And his thumb is still working around your clit, in those same frantic spirals, and it's too much, it's so, so...

You don't know how it happens.

One moment you're being greeted by his hip bones against your ass, and the next, you're clamping down around him like a vice. Mouth falling open with a silent cry as you cum around his cock. The edges of your vision go white. A ringing blooms in your ears that nearly covers up the wail beneath you. 

The cry of a cowboy who doesn't quite know what to do. Brought so, so close to the edge by the involuntary spasming of your pussy, but not quite enough to give him what he wants. Forced to lay beneath you and whimper until you can pry your eyes open once more. 

"Please." He pants, cheeks so red that he matches the comforter.

But what's meant to be a one-word plea devolves before you can comprehend what he was trying to say. "Please, please, please let me cum," he babbles, his head rocking back and forth, the hand on your hip squeezing tight. "Please, I need it, I need it, I want, please, I—" 

You're not ready to move, but you're pulling yourself off him anyway. Downright collapsing next to him, mattress springs squealing at the sudden weight. It feels like ice has formed in the joints of your hand, struggling to wrap your fingers around the flushed length lying against his belly. So heavy that you can feel the way he throbs.

"Darlin'..." there's more to Rhett's sentence, but it never comes out. His heaving chest effectively revoking his ability to speak.

"I've got you," delicate, your hand begins to move. Stroking him in that loose, lazy sort of way that doesn't overwhelm him too quickly. Drawing that pretty whimper right out of him, so beyond the point of trying to swallow his noises down. 

It's the kind of loud, unmistakable noise that you've spent months coaxing out of him. One of your favorite sounds of his, selfishly proud that it's you who is able to draw it out of him. Not the girls who bat their lashes at him at the rodeos. Not the girl who has had her eyes on him ever since she came back from college. 

Only you. 

Nobody else gets to lay him back and make him beg to cum. You're the only one who gets to hear the way he cries out when your palm runs over his sensitive tip. Only your eyes get to watch how he jerks up into your fist, too impatient to wait. So close that his jaw trembles with it.

Large fingers wrap around your other hand, fumbling with it until he can hold it. Squeezing. Like you'll leave if he doesn't keep you grounded here, with him. "I'm..."

"It's okay," you soothe, wrist flicking a little quicker, in the way you know he does to himself. His jaw falls open, another one of those whimpers gracing your ears. Back arching up off the bed, the muscles in his thighs trembling. Jerking up into your touch like its the only thing he's ever wanted.

"Wanna—I'm..." he's rattling on, muttering little things that don't quite meet your ear. A red flush spreading down his neck and into his chest, the hand in yours squeezing tight. 

Your grip tightens by a mere fraction. "Cum for me, Rhett."

Blue eyes roll backward. His mouth agape as he tips off the edge, a dizzying melody of whines rattling out of his throat as thick ropes of white paint his belly. Coating your hand, unintentionally spreading it down his throbbing cock, creates some sickly wet noise that seems to echo through the room. 

And for a moment, that's the only sound in the room. Your wet hand works his softening cock as he comes down from his high, drawing those soft whimpers out of him like it's your job. Shuddered breaths soar through the air, suddenly so sensitive that he's squirming up the bed to escape your grasp.

His bicep flexes as he pulls your laced hands toward himself, drawing you into him. Soft blue eyes still glazed over as he rolls onto his side, rubbing his nose against your arm. Yet his hand doesn't let go of yours, even as you try to pull it away in favor of wiping away the stray tear that's run down his flushed cheek. The back of your cum covered hand will have to do because he's not letting go. 

"You still with me?" You ask, your voice soft as you lean in to press a kiss to his sweaty forehead. Lazy, his head nods, the corner of his lip rising. Not a full smile, but it's a start. "Will you let me get a cloth to clean us up?" 

As quickly as his lip rose, it falls into a pout. 

But his hand unlaces with yours, freeing you to drag your exhausted frame off the bed and to the bathroom. Only takes you a minute to run a cloth beneath warm water, but it had might as well take an entire hour because Rhett's already reaching for you. Hand lazily waving in your direction, falling to the mattress with an audible thump.

"I'm here," you whisper, running the cloth across his belly, "I'm here," 

It's only when the wet material runs over his messy cock that you get a noise out of him. A soft little "ah" accompanied by the unhappy wriggle of his hips. So oversensitive that he can hardly stand it when you rub the inside of his thighs, chasing off remnants of lube. 

You can't be done quickly enough. Settling for tossing the cloth into the sink because there's a cowboy who needs your attention more. He's already squirmed under the sheets, his big, needy arms opening up to welcome you in. Eagerly wraps them around you and pulls you as close as he can get, cold nose nuzzling against yours.

"Are you alright?" You murmur, stroking his hair out of his face. In the back of your mind, you already know he's okay. He would have used his safe word if he wasn't, but you're asking anyway.

Humming, he leans in to steal a chaste peck from your lips, then another, and another, until he's stolen a total of six of them, "'m alright, doll."

"Was it as bad as you thought it would be?" It's too easy to comb your fingers through his hair, a tangled mess from tonight's escapades. Will surely be a bitch to brush out in the morning, but you'll worry about that when you get there.

For a moment, he's quiet, and then, "I...think I liked it?"

"Yeah?" You can't help the giggle that bubbles out of you as he nuzzles his face into your neck. Determined to fit himself into the small space and disappear completely. "Maybe we'll have to give it a second try then."

"Mm 'kay." And that's the last thing you get out of him before his eyes flutter shut. 

There's no doubt that he'll ultimately get you back for this. Use all of this pent-up desperation to wring you dry and remind you of just how competitive he can be. You haven't a doubt that you'll soon be waking up to lips kissing down your naked chest, eager to give you a taste of your own medicine. 

And that's alright. 

Because it's not easy for you to break a man like Rhett Abbott. 

But oh, when you do. 

[momobani]

&TEAM when you cry while watching movies

ot9 reaction | fluff | 0.4k

a/n: i'm one of those people that gets invested in films and dramas, so here's a little something

K - isn’t sure he heard the sniffle right the first time, but definitely did the second. When he notices he gets a little concerned because it was just a movie. Teases you gently, trying to make you laugh but still wipes your tears with a light thumb and finds you adorable of course. 

Fuma - instantly heartbroken, just complete sadness in his eyes. His baby? Crying? Who hurt you? He was going to make it go away if he could. Hugs you tightly to his chest and kisses your hair, rubbing your back, trying to calm you down.

Nicholas - really surprised and can’t believe his eyes. You hadn’t really cried in front of him before so it’s a bit of a shock and he freezes for a sec before pulling you closer and giving you a hug so you can just cry on his shoulder and let it out for a bit. Gets teary eyed and wants to cry too when he feels your body shaking </3 

EJ - is super sweet about it and adapts to the situation quickly. In a split second, there are tissues, some water and a fuzzy blanket he can just wrap you up in and then hug you. Asks if there’s anything else he can do for you or if you wanna stop watching the movie and see something else. 

Yuma - would be confused at first but then he’d try to calm you down and stop crying - gets you snacks to distract you. Probably would fail and then he might start to feel like crying too but stoically try and keep it together for your sake.

Jo - panicked, there’s fear in his eyes, deer in the headlights type of panic. Doesn’t know what to do, poor thing, so he gently (awkwardly) strokes your head/hair and tries to be supportive and patient, giving you some space to process. Hugs you if you want him to but mostly lets you do your thing.     

Harua - also a little freaked out but he tries to think of a way to distract you and cheer you up; ends up doing his (questionable) cat meowing impression and you end up laughing so hard while you’re still crying, but at least it’s happy tears now so he feels like he did a good job.

Taki - might laugh a tiny bit but not in a mean way! He just finds you so cute and how invested you are in the movie. If you keep crying, he might start crying with you tbh. Definitely hugs you as an emotional support pillow and lets you pinch his cheeks to feel better <3.

Maki - would start crying with you if he wasn’t already crying tbh. He’s an emotional baby omg and the two of you just cling together crying while the movie keeps playing, hands full of tissues and even though you’re crying, it’s a very cathartic experience - definitely makes you closer and relieves stress.  

thanks for reading <3

momobani masterlist

[kitorin]

2:59 am - Isagi Yoichi

kind of a part two to this, but can be read as a standalone!

Horror movies are cool.

The plots were fascinating, the acting and CGI were equally captivating. The problem was that they were scary.

It's obvious that they would be, that's the whole point; to evoke thrill and to trigger chemical reactions to simulate what it'd be like to be in danger. But Yoichi can't handle that well. Barely.

He loved all movies nights with you regardless of the genre, wrapped up together with a thick blanket, hours spent staring at the laptop with intrigue. Horror movies were no different since he was with you.

Even if it's a situation that physically cannot happen, like ghost stories or tales of the supernatural, for some reason he now suddenly believes that they exist.

Yoichi knows better than anyone else that he's always been a crybaby, bursting out into tears at the mere change in weather, or whenever his dad changed the channel to anything that wasn't soccer. He even started crying when he was watching his friend play Minecraft, and an Enderman teleported out of nowhere while screeching. Roblox horror games terrified him as a child, and his parents couldn't 'boo!' him because it'd always result in inconsolable bawling. It was obvious that jump scares was never his cup of tea.

But to be this affected, was almost embarrassing.

The clock's about to strike 3 am, the time that's dubbed as devil's hour. Yoichi doesn't even know why it's labelled as that, yet he's still paranoid something will happen, in the middle of your hallway.

There's a light on, for the sake of your younger siblings to feel a bit safer. Yoichi can't believe he's taking comfort in something that was implemented for a literal child to overcome their fear of the dark.

Just don't look left and right, focus on wherever's got light.

If he was thirsty he always could've waited for morning to come, but using the bathroom was a completely different story.

It's not his fault the premise of so many horror movies involved a dark corridor, and a grotesque entity emerging out of nowhere from the shadows. It's a miracle how you're able to sleep peacefully after a whole night of watching horror movie after horror movie.

Yoichi takes a deep breath, quickly striding from the restroom to yours. With a sigh of relief he gently closes the door, ready to join you to sleep again.

"Yocchan?" A groggy voice calls out to him.

He shrieks, loudly, it's so out of character considering his level headed and confident demeanor on field.

An awkward silence fills the room, as he realizes, it was just you.

God please kill me now, is the first thing that comes to mind.

You owlishly blink, still dazed from just awaking from your slumber. "Calm down, you'll wake up my siblings." You groan and yawn. "Did something happen?"

"No, you just surprised me there. Thought you were sleeping." Good, now please pass out so he'll never have to think of this moment again.

"Liar."

"It's true."

"You're a professional soccer player, you've been able to beat that German dude who's the best striker in your age group, and you're scared of me speaking?"

At this point he was praying you'd pass out right at this moment and forget about this by the time morning comes.

"I'm just madly in love with you to the point than anything you do makes me want to scream." It's an embarrassing truth, but far from a lie. "C'mon, you need to sleep, we stayed up really late."

You jokingly scoff. "Fine."

He slowly walks over to your bed, tightly wrapping his lean arms around you, hiding from his irrational frights. When you turn off the night light he's paranoid again, grip around you strengthening.

"Yocchan."

"Yes love?"

"You're clinging onto me, really tightly."

He gulps a bit, weakening his arms. "Sorry." He buries his face into your neck instead, still scared of his own thoughts. Only a few more hours til the sun rises and the day starts, he only has to endure this for a bit more, all he has to do is pass out and he'll be okay.

"You're trembling." You mumble as you're about to doze off. "Are you cold? I'll get you a hoodie and another blanket just in case-" You barely get up before Yoichi pulls you back into bed.

"No, tonight was just scary." No point in hiding it now. "Just stay. Please. I keep thinking that stupid doll from that one movie will appear."

"Idiot." You locked him into your embrace again. " You should've told me, I don't even like horror that much, I just didn't want to watch them alone." Your fingers reach towards his face to give his cheeks a firm yet gentle pinch.

"First you pretend you're good with chili at the noodle place now this?" His mouth almost burns at the mention and thought of the memory. Sure he couldn't handle it and was turning red, but they still tasted amazing and it was worth seeing you enjoy yours.

"Yes yes, I know I'm stupid. Stupidly in love with you." It's cheesy yet it still makes you grin. "I wanna sleep now. G'night. I love you."

He knows he shouldn't go overboard and do the things he doesn't synergise with well just because you like them. But anything's worth it if it's with you, he'll eventually recover from having too much chili and one day he'll be able to sit through a jump scare without his soul leaving his body.

"I love you too." You mumble in response, smile tugging at your lips and feeling the warmth of his proximity.

With the comfort of you and your words, and how the blanket engulfed you two, any intrusive thoughts remaining in Yoichi's mind dissipated that night; though your siblings still can't comprehend why and how that scream happened last night; and who did it.

Tagging : @kiyumiya

[kilfeur]

Mention intéressante c'est que bien qu'il semble comment faire plaisir à Stolas or il sait pas des choses plus intimes comme l'ambiance ou bien la taille (bien est ce que ça compte comme quelque chose d'intime ?). Bref on arrive à la scène où Blitzo et Stolas discutent et j'ai bien aimé cette scène car Stolas ne touche pas Blitzo. C'est seulement pour le cristal qu'il le fait ! Blitzo s'accrochant à ce qu'ils ont. Alors que Stolas souhaite quelque chose de nouveau pour leur relation, cette scène est importante car ça les testent justement.

Et on a vu Stolas rougir deux fois montrant qu'il est tenté mais se ressaisit pour leur bien de leur relation. Et bien sûr à cause de ses expériences passés, Blitzo croît que c'est un role play. Et de l'autre les deux ressentis sont compréhensibles, Stolas a comprit que leur marché n'est pas juste pour eux et veut donner le choix Blitzo. Et Blitzo qui a déjà été blessé et utilisé craint l'intimité personnelle et émotionnelle, ne croit pas que Stolas puisse dire une chose pareille. Mais vu ses yeux, je pense que ça le choque plus de voir que son bien aimé le voit de cette manière. Ça me fait un peu penser à son ancienne relation avec Verosika et quand justement, elle a essayé de se rapprocher intimement de lui c'est là qu'il l'a repoussé !

Aussi joli contraste de cette scène par rapport à celle où Stolas sauve I.M.P des agents.

It's interesting to note that although he seems to know how to please Stolas, he doesn't know about more intimate things like mood or size (well, does size count as intimate?). Anyway, we come to the scene where Blitzo and Stolas are talking, and I liked it because Stolas doesn't touch Blitz. He only does it for the crystal! Blitzo clings to what they have. While Stolas wants something new for their relationship, this scene is important because it tests them.

And we saw Stolas blush twice, showing that he's tempted but pulls himself together for the sake of their relationship. And of course, because of his past experiences, Blitzo thinks it's a role play. On the other hand, both feelings are understandable: Stolas understands that their deal isn't fair to them and wants to give Blitzo a choice. And Blitzo, who has already been hurt and used fears personal and emotional intimacy, doesn't believe Stolas would say such a thing. But given his eyes, I think it shocks him more to see his beloved see him that way. It reminds me a little of his old relationship with Verosika, and when she tried to get closer to him, he pushed her away!

It's also a nice contrast to the scene where Stolas saves I.M.P. from the agents.

[quinloki]

Kaido - Lust (and Sweet/Spicy)

Reader style - Afab she/her Time slot - After Hours Client Name - @anon-germany @t3arslikeglass CW: naked reader, alcohol, size difference extremely, canon One Piece Kaido size, ... oral? technically? I think.

I hope you two don't mind that I smashed these requests together, but I think it turned out well, for what I think is officially my first Kaido smut drabble.

I’ve said before I haven’t decided if I’m going to have the same size differences as OP in this Host Club AU or not. I’m leaning toward not, but I wanted to write this with full-sized Kaido in mind.

You were barely bigger than a cup, as far as the massive dragon Kaido was concerned. But you were one of his favorites, and as such you had nothing to fear.

In this particular case you were practically playing the part of cup for him.

Naked, laid out in the round red sake cup, you shivered a little in anticipation as his eyes moved over your form. His tongue slipped between his lips unconsciously, adding to the hungry look in his eyes. The cup was a little bigger than he would normally use, you weren’t quite that small comparatively, but it was just wide enough that your arms and legs still dangled over the edges.

Your arms were draped over the edges of the cup to help you stay in place, and you gasped a little as the cold liquid was poured into your little space. The scent of sake was enough to make your head go hazy. What was a sip for the dragon was enough to be a bath for you, and there were certainly certain dangers associated with that.

But Kaido only filled the cup when he was done admiring your body, and he was already bringing it to his lips. Your legs were open wide, heat flushing through your body as his lips sip the sweet liquid from between your thighs.

Kaido’s hot breath over your body sent shivers through you as it crashed against the remnants of sake clinging to you and the cup. Clear, sharp eyes watched you with an intensity most only saw when the dragon was in the midst of a fight.

Wet with drink, hot with desire, his tongue slipped out from between his lips and dipped into the cup. He licked slowly up the inside of the cup, the tip of his tongue pressing into your thighs, heavy and hungry.

He lapped against your thighs and pussy, up your stomach, flicking along your breasts. The flexible muscle twisted and slipped over and around you with ease. Your body trembled with building pleasure, and soft gasps escaped your lips as you held onto the cup, moving from one side to the other as his tongue urged you.

Eventually you were turned completely around, his tongue between you and the cup as you held onto the lip. Wet and rough it teased you so completely it was a struggle to keep hold of the cup, the rough bumps sending thrills through you as they caressed your clit and slipped over your stiff nipples.

There wasn’t a drop of sweet sake left, but he was far from sated.

“A little more,” his voice rumbles over you, cold sake splashing against you before his tongue goes back to work. One of his fingers holding the cup becomes something for you to hold onto, peppering desperate kisses against it as you whine into the thick, scaly skin.

When you cry out in surprise at a particularly well-place lick, he stills, letting you grind against his tongue. As your kisses against his finger turn into heavy moans of pleasure he brings your thighs to his lips, using his entire mouth to bring you to orgasm, again and again, until your small body leaked pleasure against his tongue enough to sate him.

[blakeswritingimagines]

Watching scary movies

Wednesday: She has seen her fair share of bloody and horrific movies in the past, but watching them with someone she cares about makes the experience all the more memorable. The fear of the unknown, the anticipation of waiting for the next jump scare or chilling moment, and the rush of adrenaline - all of these elements come together when you're watching the movie with another person. She usually watches these types of movies with you, and you always have a fantastic time together.

Enid: Well, when she watches scary movies with her partner, she's usually the one who gets scared. So she would hold your arm tightly and close her eyes whenever the scary parts come up. She may also try to hide under your arm. If you don't get scared as easily, she doesn't notice if you seem as affected by the scary parts. But you must still let her cling onto you for comfort.

Xavier: Ah, horror films. In the past, he generally hasn't been especially keen on them. But since meeting you, it has been nice to find that you both enjoy a good scare and will settle down with a scary movie and see if you can make it to the end. He would say you both enjoy a good fright but definitely don't overindulge. He does like to tease each other a little if something does seem particularly spooky.

Rowan: When he watches scary movies with his partner, he usually tries to make sure that he doesn't show too much emotion. He may seem a little bit uncomfortable or anxious, but he tries to keep a cool exterior. However, if the movie is really scary, it's hard not to react. He might scream or jump in his seat if something really scares him. But he makes sure to keep his fear in check and try to play it cool for your sake.

Tyler: He finds watching scary movies with his partner to be quite exciting and entertaining. You'll usually both get quite immersed in the plot and it is always fun afterwards to discuss what you thought of it and how you both reacted to each scene. Sometimes at night, he likes to lay back and watch a scary movie, so you can get a bit cozy and close to each other and experience the thrills together.

Ajax: When watching a scary movie with his partner, he generally has no problem with the horror elements, as he is always in a calm and rational state of mind during such situations more so if he's high. He enjoys the excitement of the story and the suspense created by the narrative, and the fact that you are often frightened by it only adds to the enjoyment of the experience. He is usually the one to suggest scary movies, so he is not afraid of their effects on him or you.

Bianca: She tries her best to stay calm and composed, but sometimes she may jump or get a little frightened. She tries to remind herself that it's just a movie and it's not real. However, she does enjoy watching scary movies with you because you both enjoy them and getting scared together can be a lot of fun. She also appreciates your comfort and reassurance if she does get frightened.

[vacantgodling]

#33: Helix Carmine

You were never right after you lost them. The days bled into weeks, into months, into years, perhaps, spent adrift in this hell. Your friends speak of fighting on, but you hardly have any fight left to give. It would be better if you were just a spector; better if you just rotted here. Perhaps when whatever life left clinging to you was gone, the two of you would be together in Cerullius. But still, you put one foot in front of the other; if only for the sake that you know they would not want you to die.

“helix” means particle of a spiral form. “carmine” means garden or crimson; sometimes both so let’s say crimson garden. 

37, nb (he/him), romance: yes, sex: yes, preference: feminine or other nb people

helix is deceptively smaller framed at 5’6”, but it only makes sense given his training was more for agility than muscle mass. his skin is soft and tan, and his eyes are rare but two different colors: green for one eye and yellow for the other. his hair is short and choppy but it frames his face, and is a sandy brown color. 

he was a RANGER in the AGoE before the accident, though in some senses he is still a ranger, though relatively bow-less. along with scouts, rangers are trained at pinella’s pass survivalist school, named for princess pinella of argos (aka the lady of the mists) who perished in a landbridge collapse in that very area after the day of fissures. it was here that helix met who would soon become friends and fellow guildmates: jihi, cameron, and miona. he works with a short bow and tends to shoot multiple arrows at a time, usually coated in posion or paralyzing agents to make it easier for his teammates to disable a foe. he’s only missed a shot once in his life, and that was the shot that cost him everything he held dear.

currently his whereabouts including his team members elodia, charissa, and altair is unknown. they are presumed dead, with jihi being the only “survivor” of their group… but there is more than meets the eye with this mystery that will be explored in plot.

helix is a quiet man, but not because he’s awkward or shy—like most rangers he is simply observant. however, he’s very cheerful (or was before the accident), and always goes out of his way to help others. he’s the romantic kind, but the soft kind of romantic where all of his “flirting” is acts of service, and all of this attention was directed at elodia, their romance only budding when everything occurred. he’s also generally amiable; is perfectly content with not being the center of attention.

3 fun facts about them: helix dabbled in being a bard when growing up and can actually play the lyre passably well; he still does occasionally when inspiration strikes him, or to cheer up someone in a bad mood. despite his short frame, he can actually jump from the ground to about six feet in the air without buildup, which allows him to reach most branches in trees quite quickly if he needs to get up and out of the way midbattle. despite how often he’s up in trees, he actually has a fear of heights, in the sense that his fear is being suspended or falling from a high place. its quite a juxtaposition, so he does his best not to fall out of trees.

[cosmictapestry]

C16? Can we get some suffering in this Chili’s tonight?

C16. safeword use

yes OF COURSE we can get some suffering

okay so i'm only using "safeword" as like, the trope name, because these guys don't use a safeword since neither of them are into that type of play. all their communication is explicit and implicit and never obfuscating.

additionally this makes use of a concept explored in my fic series we, divinity wherein damage to the dreaming (mass extinctions, genocides, general loss of hope on a wide scale, etc) hurts dream directly. "whump," as the kids say, but i think of it as Pure Horror

prompt list here

They are moving together, sensuous and slow, meeting one another thrust for thrust, skin sliding soft and hot and slick, breath humid and shallow in each other's space. His lips are swollen, parted, allowing the swipe of her tongue across his teeth, drawing blissful noises from him, rumbling purrs in his chest.

He fucks up into her, pulling her hips forward to meet him with a hand gripping her arse, the other hand clenched white-knuckled in the sheets. She runs her own hands up through his hair, holds him at the perfect angle to devour him, to slide her cheek against his when she pitches forward with the push of his cock inside her.

She feels Lord Morpheus duck his head further, bury it in the crook of her neck. His tears cool on her cheek, drop hot on her collarbone, and he heaves, stops moving his hips in favor of gripping her arse in both hands, grinding her up and forward, impaling her and punctuating each movement with a ragged, broken gasp.

Lucienne throws her head back, arches in his lap, slams herself down on him, moves sharp and snapping, feels him still completely, just holding her, not moving at all. She assumes he's coming, assumes everything is going well, even as his arms come up to wrap around her back, hold her close, press his skin all shivering and hot to her own.

She is getting close, burning, trembling, clenching, and she hears him say something. Reluctantly she slows, quiets her breathing, but he doesn't say anything more. "My lord?"

He shakes violently now. "Can we—" and he heaves a breath, sudden, crackling, nails sharp in her hips.

Lucienne slows even more, concern prickling at the back of her neck. "Morpheus—"

"Please stop," he whispers, hurt, tearful.

In one swift movement Lucienne pulls off him, tries to push him back to see his face, but he holds her fast and hides in her neck, and he whimpers like he thinks she's trying to leave. Lucienne, alight with panic, pulls him impossibly closer, one hand buried in his hair and the other arm wrapped around his shoulders. "Alright," she murmurs, "alright, that's fine, alright."

He's shaking apart, choking, clinging to her, every unneeded breath a tight, shivering sob. "Sorry," he manages, like it's important.

"None of that," Lucienne says, too quickly, and he flinches. She is struck by all-too-familiar fear that she will make everything worse, terror because it is so easy to frighten him. “It’s alright, my lord, I promise.”

He makes a sound, disbelieving, wretched, and he quakes.

“Was it something I did?” Lucienne asks, breathless with guilt.

Another sound, this time a vehement negative, punctuated by the way he shakes his head against her neck.

“Alright,” Lucienne breathes, and she pets his hair, and she tries to calm down for his sake, tries not to torture herself with warning signs she paid no notice to. “Just breathe, love, I have you.”

He does as she asks, he breathes, but he does not relax. "You don't. Need to stay," he says.

She closes her eyes. "What's wrong, Morpheus?"

Lord Morpheus does not answer quickly. Speaking at all seems difficult right now, the words jumbled in the chaos of everything else. "Hurts," he whispers, and then flinches, and he tucks his head in closer.

"Alright," she says. She understands, suddenly, can feel the creeping cold of the realm moving through her being, the echoes of a wound he cannot contain within himself. It's been millennia since she's seen him bow this way under injury. Pain made all the more intolerable in the midst of pleasure. "I've got you, I'm right here."

"You don't have to be," he gasps. "This is not—" He cuts himself off, leases breath harsh against her skin between holding it, like he's trying not to scream, tense and trembling like he's trying to push all the broken-glass parts of himself back into their prison. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

Lucienne gulps in a breath, feels it rattle with the tears building from her chest. "Please stop apologizing," she kisses the top of his head, turns her cheek into his hair, tries in vain to settle his shivering tension with soft pressure, safe sensation. "I want to be here. I always want to be here."

"I don't understand you," he spits, suddenly venomous, suddenly enraged even with his arms gentle around her waist. "This cannot be what you want. No one is so patient, no one can be. You're lying. You're waiting for something—"

"Stop that," she whispers to him. "Don't do that. I'm not leaving."

"Why?" he sobs, devastated again. "I have nothing for you. This is all you ask of me and I cannot even—"

"This is all I ask of you," she insists, and she kisses his hair again and again. "My king, my lord, my love."

He melts into her, finally, turns his face against her chest, all agony in the wake of some tragedy she will read about in her library tomorrow. He shivers and he cries, silently, while the pervasive wrongness and chill sinks into the foundation of the Dreaming and then becomes part of it, undetectable. He folds it up inside him, painstakingly, and he clings to her through it.

"How often does this happen, my lord?" Lucienne asks, when his breathless sobs subside enough that she thinks he'll be able to answer. "While we are intimate, I mean."

His voice is raw, apologetic and bitter when he finally manages to speak. "I cannot help it."

"No, I—" she squeezes her eyes shut again, runs her hand in broad circles over the smooth expanse of her back. "I know. I know. I just—my lord, you can always say no, we can always slow down or stop or—I'm never going to be angry with you. Please tell me you understand that."

He kisses along her collarbone, like he's trying to distract her, or just thinking through his response. "I do," he croaks. "I do. You must understand..." her lord's shoulders heave. "This is never. I am never. Free of this."

Lucienne does understand this. Of course she does. She understands it better than anyone else. She just hates it, hates it so much it's a physical presence in the pit of her stomach, this agony for him, this rage at the unfairness of the universe from its primordial beginnings. "If you cannot let me help you, at least don't let me make it worse."

"All you do is help," he responds, the quickest he's managed to speak all night. "You are kind, and you wait for me. You wait for me even when you are so lonely you want to scream just so someone will ask you what's wrong." Another heavy, breathless pause. "I don't know how you do it. Or why."

"It's not so hard," Lucienne murmurs into his hair. He so rarely speak about how he experiences her, how she appears to him in all his inconceivable perception. "And I love you. You are my dearest friend, and I love you."

He says nothing more, drained and reeling from a blow that he does not let touch her. Tomorrow she will figure out what the damage was, so she might find words to soothe him—or so she might say nothing at all, and she might just hold him through the night.

[motownfiction]

young hearts

Charlie gets out of the shower and takes a good long look at himself in the mirror. These days, that’s one of the few things he can do. Quarantine used to sound like something out of a history book, something depressing, something no one would ever have to really touch. This morning, in front of the mirror, Charlie has to laugh. He doesn’t normally wish to go back to the seventies, but today feels like one of those days.

At least in the seventies, he was a child. And at least when he was a child, he felt important.

It’s been three months since the whole world was forced indoors – since New York had no choice but to fall asleep. He hasn’t been able to get out and play, and he had to teach the last eight weeks of his classes over the computer. It’s impossible to teach your students how to play “Cantaloupe Island” when you’re on mute. On mute. The one thing a musician should never be (or should always be, according to Cal, who had been trying to pass eighth-grade math in the same room). He looks at himself in the mirror. This is what he has become. A musician on mute.

The scary thing is, he recognizes himself more now than ever before.

Yes, with his patchy beard, old sweatpants, and sudden desire to make ants on a log for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, Charlie knows exactly who he is. He knows exactly who he’s always been. An unimportant, boring, musician on mute. He’s none of the things his mother said he was. Not a genius, not gorgeous, not anything. Just a musician on mute.

He can’t stop looking at himself and this time, not even for Narcissus’s sake. A long time ago, when his mother buoyed him, and all the young hearts in the jazz bar wanted his affection for the night, Charlie used to like what he saw. He used to want to grasp at his own face through the water, through the glass, through the metal spoon in his Cheerios. He used to want it. Now, when he looks in the mirror, all he sees is a middle-aged man who hurt the people he was supposed to love.

For years, he could pretend the past was the past. For years, he could cling to clichés about forgiveness and moving on. And it’s really easy when your wife works all day, you work all night, and your son is too busy hanging out with his friends to really think about you – what you did, and how that’s the reason he came to be. But when you’re all forced inside with no end in sight, stuck together by fear of the next day, you trip over memories. You hit the pause button with your elbow, and suddenly, the top hits of 2003 are playing all over again. “I Believe in a Thing Called Love?” More like “I Believe in a Thing Called I Neglected My Wife’s Emotions Until She Threw Me Out.” What happened to Miss Independent? She let Charlie Doyle back into her place, and she shouldn’t have.

Last night, they rented The Karate Kid on demand. Cal had never seen it, and Carrie wanted to show him a movie his parents saw together. When your dad said we were still just friends, she joked, and Charlie laughed along with it. Maybe they should have stayed just friends. Not because he’s not in love with her. Because she shouldn’t be in love with him. Not then. Probably not even now.

Charlie still has that song from the movie stuck in his head. Young hearts beat fast. That’s the part everybody remembers. They don’t remember the next part. Young hearts die young. Maybe they’re both true, but the second part feels truer. As Charlie looks at himself in the mirror, he sees how old he’s really gotten. How tired.

He wipes away the steam from his shower.

Another day of the same.

(part of @nosebleedclub january challenge -- day xx!)

[liightbringr]

𝐫𝐨𝐲𝐚𝐥, 𝐟𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐬𝐲 𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐜𝐞.

@thcrmr asked: (stolen kiss): sender kisses receiver before a battle, away from prying eyes.

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄 𝐓𝐎 𝐄𝐍𝐃 𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐏𝐘 𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐖𝐒 𝐍𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐄𝐑 with each passing moment. Preparations made, the plan to move on Origin falling into place slowly but surely. She plays her part && does so with pride. Orders given, orders received; the remaining dominants are to take flight && infiltrate the crystal that hangs so menacingly in the sky. Bred of a being that presses on solely in lieu of their own self-preservation. They do not give salvation. There is no paradise awaiting their followers. The praises that fall from lips fall flat, flutter to naught, under the weight of Ultima's oppression. && she has known this since the beginning. For the eikon that clings taut to her soul is kin to the being they would seek out. The rebel among the collective. A force to be reckoned with. Zodiark, who defected from they who sought only the destruction of this world to better suit their own means. && if she should die on this day to defend the realm, then until her last breath will she fight. For if Ultima overthrows Mythos, then the world will burn by Zodiark's will. To purge it of the existence of all living things including Ultima. A slate wiped clean for the sake of balance. Yet her mind circles back time && time again to her friends, her children, her husband---hands find refuge against the end of the table where her gear lies in waiting. The wood could possibly splinter beneath the influence of her grasp, but not before the whine of the door to her chambers. It brings the cast of gaze over the crest of her shoulder && she drinks deep the features of Waloed's king. && for a moment there is an ounce of frustration that lingers in the backs of her eyes. The way her eyes close && her head hangs thereafter. "..Please do not be angry with me." She's no fool to believe he has made well with the idea of her going off to battle. Moreover a battle that could just as easily steal her away from him permanently. The years have been so unkind. The will of his God && the influence of her eikon barred the way of their togetherness for decades. She remembers so fondly the years they were happy. As if just yesterday, he returned to her from his crusade that liberated Kanver. Where his heart swelled at the sight of her && naught could prevent the king from being with his queen. Or the way he revered her so. Or the way her hands still remember the feeling of his own locked with hers, tangled in love. "Curse me if you must.. but I will do everything in my power to rid the world of Ultima's existence." But he says nothing. No words of ire, no sharp tongue to buffer her claims. He is silent as he watches her. For all her reasons, all her ambition, all of the determination that wills her forward, he merely questions the strength of her will as a whole. He may never truly understand that the very fuel which bids her flame burn brighter starts with him. To see him free && loosed from Ultima's boot. She turns in the coming moment, shaken by his silence. && where her voice might be freed, it is swallowed down by the crash of his lips against hers in this sudden closeness. Strong fingers circled around the wrist of a knotted fist, the other caging against the nape of her neck to hold her in this moment. It is a mixture of uncertainty && anger && frustration && longing. && perhaps something more human. The inklings of humanity that remain, that begin to bloom once more, give unto her the hint of fear. && she yields to his touch. She has longed for it, fought to feel his hands upon her once more not unlike their past. It's as though they're frozen in this moment. All of their inhibitions laid bare && broken && battered.

They are still innately tied to one another. Of mind, body, && soul. Though the years have kept them apart && the divine proclaim forbiddance, they have always been one. && when the kiss finally breaks && wondrous blues peer up to him beneath lashes, they exist in a moment of silence... but only a moment. "...I will come back to you. And there will be nothing to stand between us ever again." Her forehead rests against his chin. "Evermore."

[senatushq]

NAME. Pluto AGE & BIRTH DATE. Prehistoric & Unknown GENDER & PRONOUNS. Male & He/Him SPECIES. Aspect OCCUPATION. Unemployed FACE CLAIM. Manny Montana

biography

King, God, Aspect. They’d found a thousand names for Pluto, but none of them really did him justice. Raised in a world of chaos, he knew nothing but blood, screams and wrath, following him everywhere. The screams turned into a melody over time, a symphony for his father, Nyarlathotep. Pluto grew up believing terror and power to be a useful tool to push others away, as seen with his father. An heir of sorts, Pluto tried to learn as much as possible from his father, not because he wanted to, but because he dreaded to end up just like him. So he studied every move of Nyarlathotep to outsmart him in the end. To keep his siblings safe, to play the protector and sacrifice himself for them by learning more and more about terror and chaos, seemed to be his calling. A destiny he didn’t question. 

Fleeing was the best option. Running away from the most feared through the Otherworld offered Pluto and his siblings a better life. It not only offered shelter from a life in chaos, but also a new opportunity to conquer. Alas, the moment Pluto stepped into the mortal realm, he could barely focus. A thirst, so volatile and fetting, he couldn’t focus on anything but his shapeless existence. Lured by its sweet scent, Pluto willingly surrendered himself to its taste. Breaking through the first mortal’s skin was easy enough, his teeth tearing through their skin like a blade cutting paper in half. Life filled his mouth, an experience he can recall to this day. Like a snake shedding its skin, Pluto was reborn. An original vampire, a creature of the night, a plague on this Earth. 

His siblings were the first to blend in, the first to find ways to become more powerful. Having spent his whole life in the midst of such power struggles and war, Pluto gladly retreated, unwilling to blend in after helping with the creation of the monarchy. Instead, he used his time to get drunk on blood, continuing his bloodline to plague this Earth in his stead. 

Ruling, although enticing at first, had made him tired. The more time he spent in this realm, the more he began to care for it. History would repeat itself, so he chose to explore. That’s where he met her, somebody who didn’t flinch at his touch but rather embraced the inevitable end. Immortality didn’t feel like such a burden anymore, isolation a construct he’d rather leave behind for the sake of his Beloved. A mere human, Pluto stole her away and turned her so they’d have all eternity together. Alas, eternity wouldn’t last. 

Ironically, he’d never felt more alive while the two of them laid waste to entire towns and generations, feeding until they’d end up as worthy sacrifices for his Beloved. Tragically, Pluto had never felt more devastated and hollow the moment canines tore her apart, ripping out whatever shred of hope he’d left. His revenge followed in no time, but did little to satisfy him nor mend his heart. Only grief remained, slowly eating him alive from the inside out. And thus a new type of monster was born – a heartbroken immortal, an original vampire trapped with his own mind and memories for all eternity. Much like an Omen, Pluto devastated entire towns on his own, alarming all others nearby, hoping they’d acknowledge his warning and flee, giving him an opportunity to chase.  

Hopeless, Pluto went to the Otherworld in need of something he could cling onto. As if history repeated itself, Pluto found another Queen able to enrapture his exhausted heart. Loving again had seemed to be impossible, but to be loved and love again only made sense to him as he laid eyes on her. He followed Kore’s soul to the realm that ran in between, towards a lone tree bearing a single pomegranate, ripe and red in color. He’d never tasted anything similar. Tasting the pomegranate seeds pushed all former thoughts of blood aside, even deeming it to be inferior. Kore would be the safest inside of him, until he finds a suitable vessel for his Queen.

Pluto returned to his siblings in an attempt to regain strength and numbers. Together they’d conquer and establish a new world order. Secrets, power and death were powerful tools to use and eventually reunite him with his Kore. And for the first time in forever, Pluto felt truly powerful. With a goal in mind he’d remain unstoppable, like a plague, like an Omen waiting to be fulfilled.

personality

+ persuasive, protective, alluring – vindictive, decadent, self-serving

played by saskia. gmt+1. she/her.

[sunlessea]

pride laid bare, here he finds himself, left to wonder what exactly it would mean for him to accept this between them so obediently, without nary a bite or scratch or denial. for once, just once... its nose against his doesn't startle him this time, even where he glowers at it, always annoyed to be praised or complimented, but this time with bitten tongue. its purr is so deep when its like this, he almost thinks he can feel the vibration of it along its body, and there's a part of him that wonders if it would be comforting laid across it. perhaps not in quite so scandalous a way — something softer, and kinder, and less humiliating.

"love is the most powerful thing in the universe, don't you know." he scrunches his nose, his response bitter, but not meant as an offense. "gods may weep, but kine are the ones left with broken hearts. my kind isn't strong enough to heal from it, when it shatters them. and even when you're in it, it can still hurt. why would you want to understand something so painful?" an irony from him, certainly, where he is left with sucked in breath at the feeling of its claws taking opportunity to explore him right back. he looks away from it because he can't bear the humiliation of his own racing heart, and somehow, busying himself with the once again slowing strokes of his hand is less embarrassing than admitting to his own feelings, even now.

he winces not from fear but sensitivity 'gainst the feel of its claws grazing his stomach, even where it does little but pull away the ill-fitting fabric still clinging to modesty. untucked, he doesn't stop it from then unbuttoning one of the layers this time, lips pressed together where he unfurls his fingers and instead lightly runs his fingertips along its hardened shaft.

"did you find your answer?" he blinks from his reverie, attention pulled to the wing that envelopes them with no small amount of blatant interest. he gaze shifts from that to its face, pointedly aware of how hot his own still is... but there's little he can do about it now, where even in his heated state, he's left shivering as its claws press into his skin. its hands, such as they are, are softer than usual, silken ... its nails are sharper, though, threatening to nick him if tilted a certain way or pressed even slightly deeper than it already is. the realization makes him tense, and flustered beside. "tha—a—ah...—that's..." his free hand left 'pon its chest closes into a soft gift, tugging at its fur whilst he wilts 'gainst its touch, his body trembling the further up its claws travel. he is sensitive by comparison, but he's never felt quite so ... small, he supposes. keeping himself from falling into it is difficult, when it is surrounding him. "you're... giving up? i thought your... your goals with replicating—" he bites his cheek, swallows again, and keeps going, "—replicating love went deeper than just understanding it? if you know to nurture it now, then..."

he's not stupid, no matter how he plays at being so. he pretends to be clueless, during times when he should just accept things at face value, and he suspects fires know it too. at times it's because he's too embarrassed, or maybe just lacking in confidence... he would have to be daft not to understand the confession it's making to him right now, or the things it's saying for his sake. it would do this, too : murmur something nauseatingly romantic, whilst looking to have him fall apart. his own ministrations have paused only for the moment, his attention firmly 'pon his hand tangled in its fur to distract himself from where its own travel. his knees press into it at its sides as he squeezes his thighs around it, a breath he hadn't realized he was holding coming out in broken whimper 'pon its thumb finally brushing over his nipples. they'd grown hard, the further its touch had goaded him. he'd be more embarrassed, if he weren't the one with precum dripping in string at his back.

he sighs and lifts both hands temporarily to hold its face, inhuman as it may be — that leaves his fingers towards the top of its neck, palms cupping its muzzle. he'd pinch its cheeks in retribution were the mood different, but because it isn't, he swallows his own pride just this once and pushes himself up on his knees the distance required to lean up and press his lips 'pon its. it is odd, certainly, an exploratory gesture at first if nothing else, where he for the first time in his life feels the most human he ever has in hundreds of years. so accustomed is he to being the monster, the wretched, the caitiff, that he finds it exceedingly romantic, given the opportunity to kiss what their polite society would call a beast. less chaste is his own moan 'gainst it, unable to keep himself quieted where its fingers still pinch his nipples 'tween them.

and yet admirable he hods himself together for even a moment so purely, considering a moment later he falls back down into its lap, a victim fallen to the way it's taken to teasing his chest throughout. he does whine for it, but its quiet, pushed back in a stubborn attempt to keep quiet behind his faltering mask of composure. he only pretends to hold himself together better than it does, his breaths soft but growing notably ragged, brows furrowed in desperate effort to keep his voice down. his thighs tremble, too, how hard he has them pressing into its legs, and it takes a great deal of effort to look up at it again, gaze wavering in confidence. its claws leaving him to tug at his pants, instead, do little to help him maintain his decorum.

"fires..." he's not perceptive enough in the moment to realize why it's looking at him like that, with the remainder of the clothing he has still covering him plenty, but in a way that's ill fitting and not at all appropriate for his stature. his shirt's fallen off his shoulder a little, pants sagging at his waist far too thin without the belt to hold them up proper. he feels like a mess : what a joke, that it would almost look pristine as a curator, where he would end up falling apart. "our souls..." he huffs, though it's weaker than earlier, when he'd disparaged it before : he still doesn't know whether he really believes they have a soul anymore, if they ever did ... but its sentiment still leaves him deeply flustered, and silent. how is he meant to deny it, if it's going to be so romantic? he doesn't want to accidentally reject it...

he runs his hand 'long its chest, lower, to its stomach, and then it's abdomen, where he near sits. his fingers draw patterns where its fur is thin, but when he snaps out of his own reverie... he indulges it again, returning to its briefly neglected cock with an almost demure energy. his thumb presses to the head again, running in slow circles around its tip. the way it twitches in his hand makes him feel hot, and a little nervous ... it's ... so big. longer, thicker — he knows he wouldn't be able to take all of it without choking no matter how hard he tried, but the prospect of making it work doesn't bother him. it's the atmosphere that's overwhelming him, far more shockingly romantic than even he had anticipated. not that he had anticipated this. spur of the moment, in a sense... but not entirely.

"oh." realization dawns on him a little slowly, because how could he have ever fathomed it reaching this point? his heart might've skipped a beat just then, but— "...you meant i was the answer?" well. if he weren't blushing before, and he certainly was, he would've been now anyways. his heart's a mess, a mix of embarrassment and pleasure and, he supposes, love. he's almost surprised when it finally gives in and leans back, though less so at how it tugs at his pants, both expectant and unfocused. he slides his hand further down its shaft again, this time while lifting his hips up in blatant submission. the movement allows fires to tug his pants down, and in an act of either mercy or allowance, he uses his other hand to untangle them, and brush them off entirely into the rest of their clothes. he's still incredibly covered in comparison, but he's certain it's left him like so for a reason.

" ... you're really turned on, aren't you? more than usual," he finally points out, his voice just above a whisper. he knows it'll hear him, even above its own sighs and purring. he watches it with noted interest, however uncharacteristically tender he is about it. it's trembling, like it usually does when it's excited, but beyond that... there's so much precum making a mess of both of them already, and each time he quickens the pace of his hand, he can feel how tense it's getting, even before it starts to thrust into him. it's a terribly simple thing, but the way it starts to grind its hips into his ass whilst he's already pumping its cock, paired with its murmurs, is ... incredibly erotic to him. he's still struggling to keep his own breathing steady, but he can feel how hard its cock is pushing against his ass and lower back, never mind how each stroke upward along its shaft leaves precum on his clothes and skin alike.

perhaps it's so shocking in that he hasn't really done anything, at least beyond the beginnings of tease. this realization is dawning on him, too, little by little ... fires likes going slow, doesn't it? well ... then—

"yes sir..." he murmurs with surprising obedience, before stopping once more though only with the purpose of repositioning himself. as good as its cock feels grinding against him, the position is a tad bit awkward, at least for now, so he takes in a breath to steady his nerves and swaps the positions of his legs : he turns around to face its length instead, his back now towards it. he hurriedly gathers his hair and pulls it around his shoulder, nervous habit, then returns his hand to its shaft. he doesn't take very long to explore it this time, settling into a rhythm of slow strokes, broken up in monotony by pumping in occasional quick, harsh motions. his skin can't flush any deeper, he's certain, so it's with what little gathered pride he has left that he bends down to test his tongue against the tip of its dick. it comes back with precum clinging to his lip, but he licks it off before moving forward more pointedly afterwards — with free hand tucking the hair in his face behind his ear, he parts his lips and takes its cock into his mouth.

it is an adjustment — from texture to girth, he whimpers around it when he finds he can barely manage to take it in to begin with. but he does, however difficult, and more beyond that, as he bobs his head along the tip, he starts to take it deeper, experimenting with what, exactly he can even manage like this. he was right in his assumption that he can't take the full length, but where he hollows his cheeks and sucks it off, swallowing the majority of its precum whilst he does, he finds himself able to push a little further each time he presses down, until its tip pushes into his throat. his hand continues to stroke further down where he can't reach, pumping it in time with sucking its cock. his other hand trembles holding his hair back ... but eventually he gives up, and shifts himself to lay properly along its stomach so he can hook his arm under its thigh. his nails dig into its skin still, pulling at the fur on its legs in eager need for some kind of tension relief — but not for long. as he presses his tongue flat against its shaft, he too fights the lustful fog in his head long enough to press his other fingers to its clit beneath him.

and he is clumsy, at best, where he occasionally chokes on its cock when he presses too far, or fails to swallow in tandem, but each time he pulls away with spit and precum clinging to him, he regains himself, before opening his mouth to the head of its cock, and then the rest of it shortly after.

he's fascinating ... and humiliating. were it any other, it thinks it might be the slightest bit embarrassed, how enraptured he seems by its form. but however rare its worn its true skin, that does not make it unfamiliar, nor anything for it to be ashamed of. it has never grasped the notion of human shame, where it matters most, but it has gathered enough about other aspects of their culture to take mental note as to why he seems so transfixed. it is hardly as if it is any bit harder than he'd left it ... but it can gather that is not the issue, if there is any issue at all. he's shivering not unlike it, and it can see the red creeping further up 'cross his features between his wide eyes and fingertips. forgive it, for its piping laughter. it really isn't trying to make fun of him!

" you can be so cute, " it teases in jest, nuzzling up against his cheek a little more pointedly before it too is pulled from its delightful reverie, and left squeaking against how harshly he tugs it down by its ears. they're sensitive too! but it complies with no short amount of writhing, falling to its knees first before returning back to its original position. if it is embarrassed by anything, it thinks itself flushed by his own eagerness, the way he practically scrambles back atop its lap ...

" you never will give what i say so much as an ounce of credence, will you? " despite the way it tuts, shakes its head, there is no denying the tender edge in its regard of him. he's not terrified, quite, and that in and of itself is an accomplishment of its own merit ... be it cause of its own rivals or no, but he sits above it—straddling it—and the red flush of his cheeks makes him look as if this is their very first dance in intimacy; though it supposes, in some sense, it is ... a first, in a different sense. an intertwining of hearts so much as their bodies ... or it will be, inevitably, if he doesn't faint first. his reaction is everything it expects and yet nothing at all what it presumes it'd be : from his prolonged stares to the airs he puts on, he gifts it fascination. " you are the furthest thing from ordinary, little light, you are something exceptional. "

its voice carries strikingly well, all things considered—given it is ill-fitted for the languages made from kine, and more apt for the words that burn; a pleasant, silken purr, rumbling against its chest even as he starts to explore it. he lets it go long enough it can stretch its neck forward and tease bumping its nose against his own. and he's so much warmer, compared to it ... though the magic still does wonders, a heart fluttering behind its ribs where it so often was nothing better than dead, and it knows it races for far more than mere magic, when it stares up at him, eyes shining in brilliant embered red. " i have had a question long left unanswered, until i came to know you. do you know what that was? " it lets him explore, uninterrupted, watching his expression for a time with stare unwavering before it shifts to settle back and take in the feeling of his wandering hands, instead, breathing out a sigh. " i wanted to understand why love was such a powerful force to begin with, should it be strong enough then to make gods weep, " not to say it keeps itself still, however ... he gives it unspoken permission the moment he pulls its claws to his hips, and it is quick to take full advantage of the opportunity provided : it draws the tips of its claws along his hip, across the slim expanse of his stomach before unraveling, taking the fabric of his shirt carefully between its fingertips. and slowly, one-by-one, his buttons fall undone. it barely even bats an eye 'gainst the coarse fabric of the layer above it, easy to be removed in ample time. but it should give his skin some space to breathe ... it can feel his heat, no matter how smothered beneath—and it will not be the only one stripped bare! it is hardly in a state of decency, given ... well, everything. the fur really does leave little for the imagination, especially given the scarcity of it the thinner it becomes over its stomach and abdomen.

" what makes it so special? " it continues, and as it speaks, its hands draw higher over his chest, the largest of its wings enveloping them with the gesture. " and beyond that ... could it be replicated so convincingly, that it could fool the world itself? " its eyes narrow as the last button gives, but hardly for scrutiny. it thinks he can tell, even like this, the familiar curl of its lip and the way its purr deepens where its thoughts have drifted. " my experiments never succeeded. there was always something missing. and i believe it was because i never understood it, honestly. " all this casuality, as if it doesn't slip its hands now fully underneath the fabric, thumbs first pressing into his ribs where it slowly draws its touch up. " i don't wish to replicate it anymore. furthermore, i don't believe it is something that can be feigned, or forced. it is nurtured. "

it pauses here, teeth catching its tongue to keep it from rambling further ... yet. its savoring the sensation of his hands trailing its form, obvious for more than just its erection pressing into his back, but the never-wavering tenderness it regards him with. it hasn't even stopped purring, not even once! his hands look so delicate, like this ... and it always thought they were, no matter the temporary bruise, scratch, or callous, small and gentle ... and he treats it, for the most part, with delicacy, like he wants to memorize every detail of its form alongside the places 'cross its body that leave it shivering in its own excitement. more than usual, anyway. and it is still with some tender regard when it lifts its hands higher, teasing brushing its thumbs over the hardened bud of his nipples. he's already so red-faced, but it knows better than anyone it is not just for his embarrassment. his desire for it is no more shocking than his love, but it revels in hearing both.

and a cruel tease it makes, where its other claw tips tease his skin where thumb and index tease pinching and tugging the sensitive bud, just in hopes of hearing him moan, too. not that it keeps with the sensation long, before its attention shifts again, and its hands draw downward. much, much further downward, to the belt it'd loosened and abandoned. he thinks he's subtle—! it tugs, roughly, at the clasp ... and off it comes too, its brow would be quirked in curiosity over the slouch of his pants without anything securing them to his hips, but instead it cocks its head, huffs, and returns its attention back to him proper. " i told you ... " it murmurs, struggling only to keep its breath steady the further it feels his own hands trail, " i believe love is something that comes from the soul. and i know this because of you. "

there is so precious little time between its unwavering confidence and when it wilts quite so pathetically ... it feels like no more than minutes at its best, voice starting to tremble the moment his fingers return to curl around its cock, so briefly neglected. its shivering ... " so of course i— hhn— of course i ... want this— " it breathes out a sigh, eyes fluttering closed for however brief a moment where it finally gives in and settles down on its back, hands trailing down to his thighs to test just how far down it can tug his slacks where it is not otherwise unfocused. " wanting you was never a question, nor was loving you. it is an answer, a desire, and a— aah ...— a- an inevitability. " the erotic edge to its tone almost makes the sentiment all the more romantic ... how it has to pause to catch itself against his harsher strokes, and how rapidly it has to come to process how good it feels to have him explore it in its entirety. its unbearably sensitive. " keep going ... " it murmurs, half in a rumbling purr as it drops its claws from his thighs, hips grinding slow against the curve of his ass. even still covered, it knows he can feel it, just as it knows he knows the exact expression it'd wear, were it not so limited. " i want to see just how much it is you can take. "

[secret-diary-of-an-fa]

Have Yourself a Budget Little Xmas

TRIGGER WARNING: Eggnog, the KKK, Lycanthropy, Etc. You know, normal Xmas stuff.

Ho ho ho and happy fucking Cringletide to all you festive wretches out there in the blogosphere (a term that was last relevant in the early 2000s but which I’m going to cling to like a limpet just for the sake of being irritatingly pretentious). It probably hasn’t escaped your notice that the UK is in the middle of a cost of living crisis- meaning that quite a lot of us are having to choose between heating our homes and, er, eating. It��s a bit of a pisser, to say the least, and doubly so around the holiday season. How are you supposed to celebrate Xmas when you have to re-mortgage your own teeth just to get in the weekly shop?  Well, fear not! I have some suggestions for how you can celebrate the holidays affordably… which I’m giving to you now, at half five in the afternoon on Xmas day when they won’t do you any good. Because I’m a prick. Here we go!

1. Make Your Own Eggnog… … By fermenting old shoe leather and drain-cleaner in a tin bathtub. Yes, it’ll probably kill you, but you’ll feel like a proper Yuletide hillbilly and, at the end of the day, isn’t that what the season is really about?

2. Give the Gift of Influenza It’s flu season and, as we all know from the trenches and that last Star Wars film, nothing brings people together like shared suffering. So go forth, contract a virus, and take it home to your loved ones! You can celebrate Yulemas by huddling together, sneezing and complaining about your lurgies. Also, it’ll save money on the obligatory roast dinner, because you’ll all be too sick to eat it!

3. Play a Game This would actually be a dangerously sensible suggestion if I was advocating a rousing round of Cards Against Humanity or some other laugh-out-loud party game. But you know what’s even better than games everyone enjoys and that bring people together? Games that help forge unbreakable bonds by putting you in life or death situations! My personal favourite is the Wink Murder game, played with a silenced Walther .32 calibre pistol.

4. Get Bit, Dawg You know what’s really underrated? Being a fucking werewolf! What does that have to do with Xmas? Well, Xmas is all about familial togetherness- and there’s no family closer or more committed to each other than a werewolf pack. Why spend the holiday season as a weak, fragile human being when you and your loved ones could be out and about as irrepressible lupine monsters, frolicking in the snow and biting the heads off terrified peasants? Now that’s a Cringle’s Day activity the kids will remember and cherish for the rest of their lives. Just remember: lycanthropy is for life, not just for Xmas, so make sure you always know when it’s a full moon afterwards.

5. Steal Some Snow Are you dreaming of a White Christmas? Well, so are the KKK, but in a much more racist way. But that’s besides the point. You can’t make it snow… but you can go and get some snow from someone who has too much and won’t notice it’s missing. I hear Johnny Depp always has some going spare and often forgets to lock his door. To be clear, when I saw ‘snow’, I actually mean cocaine- the most festive drug there is!

6. Start a Santa Night at Your Local Fight Club Because even the all-singing, all-dancing crap of the world needs a little holiday spirit at this time of year. Instead of bunking off your fight club meeting to celebrate Xmas this year, why not bring Xmas to Fight Club. Give everyone Santa hats and decides who fights who by pulling crackers! Having a suitably Xmas-y prize for the winner- nothing stupidly expensive, just a nice pair of Xmas socks or something. Go on, it’ll be fun.

7. Punch Chris Chibnall in the Face It’s never a bad time to punch Chris Chibnall in the face… or to set him on fire… or to stand on an overpass with your cock out, wait for him to pass under and then widdle on him from a great height. However, it’s hard to find the time to do these things. With Xmas providing time off for much of the population and a good excuse to treat yourself, why not take advantage of all that to take your revenge. It’s the best present you could possibly give yourself and it’s free!

8. Hide Under Brian Cox’s Xmas Tree and Confess Your Undying Love When he Comes Down on Xmas Morning It’s the perfect gift for both of you! And yes, I know you all thought I’d forgotten about that running joke, but that’s silly. I’m oop North now, and, as the Starks are so fond of reminding us all: the North remembers.

9. Paint Your Own Xmas Baubles And by ‘baubles’, I do of course mean ‘testicles’. You’ll feel reet Xmas-y afterwards. And quite sticky, probably.

10. Liberate Some Turkeys It sucks to be a turkey at Xmas, though the stupid bastards do keep voting for it. Wait, sorry… I’m thinking of the British public, who every five years exercise their right to elect the party most committed to killing them all and issuing in the end of the fucking world (usually the fucking Tories). Hey! That gives me an idea- turkeys deserve to live and the British Public deserve to be deprived of things they love, so why not go and release a bunch of turkeys so they get to live and the endless prat-hoard don’t get to eat them. Just a heads up, though, I wouldn’t leave this one ‘til Xmas day, or you’ll jut be throwing dead, pre-roasted birds over garden fences yelling “be free, my beautifuls!” like a mad cunt.

And that’s it. I could go on… but I won’t. I’ve got my very sexy fiance dozing on the bed next to me, a Xmas dinner being prepped by family members much better at cooking than I am and an episode of Doctor Who from when it was still good to watch. Enjoy the holidays, fuckos: I’m off.

[devilyn]

is that too much to ask? | tsukishima kei

— alexa, play: love somebody by lauv

I don't wanna be the one to say

That we gotta have a conversation

I don't wanna watch the tears roll down your face

Know, I hurt you, and I, I'm sorry

All I wanted was to love somebody

— synopsis: tsukishima avoids physical affection with you as often as he can, and you wonder what it is that you’re doing wrong in your relationship.

— genre: angst, happy endings, & the product of my writer’s block

— word count: 2.6k

You knew Tsukishima wasn’t the affectionate type--you knew that when you asked him out in your second year of high school. You knew that if you hugged him in front of his volleyball teammates, he’d stiffen and cringe away from your touch. It was natural for you to start reaching your arms out towards him before stopping yourself and resorting to a proud pat on the arm and a bright smile. It was to the point where even Hinata once commented that he’d never even see the two of you hug.

Now that the two of you were in university, and almost three years into your relationship, you started wondering what exactly it was about physical affection with you that Tsukishima hated so much. You started to experiment--slipping your hand into his when you walked back to your shared apartment together after his long volleyball practices, or tossing your arms around his neck in excitement after he wins a tough match. Each time, he’d react the same way. He would pull his hand from yours, or he’d put his hands on your shoulders and put some distance between the two of you.

At first, you believed it to be embarrassment. He didn’t like PDA--you could understand that. Even you had a limit to how much you could flaunt your relationship status in public. But even when the two of you were in the comfort of your apartment, you wondered why he never initiated any physical affection.

“Kei,” you whispered his name softly, and he looked up from his phone to meet your eyes. “Do you...not love me?”

He blinked, raising both brows in genuine surprise and slowly lowering his spoonful of cereal back into his bowl. 

“...Are you dumb?”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes and tightening your grip on your keys.

“It’s whatever,” you murmured, pulling the front door open and not bothering to spare him a glance over your shoulder. “I’ll see you.”

You left quickly to not have to deal with the aftermath of your sudden question, the door shutting firmly behind you.

Was it selfish of you to want more proof of his love for you? Sure, there were small things. Things like how he always helped you study for your exams if he could, or how he’d make you a cup of coffee before you left because he knew you struggled with staying awake during your morning classes. You knew he loved you because of these things.

But there was always a small voice in the back of your head asking if he only did those things to drag your stagnant relationship on. For a year now, it felt as if every day was the same with him. Actions were repetitive, dates were infrequent and only occurred when you asked, and at times, each day with him felt like a clone of the previous. Which is why you started wanting to hold his hand, and melt into his warm embrace.

Your fingers tightened on your tumbler, holding the contents of your boyfriend’s love--the coffee he made you this morning. 

Even at home, he would merely pet your head when you cuddled into his side on the couch. Kisses were rare unless you initiated, and he’d always tease you whenever you whined about wanting him to kiss you first. It’s not like you two never had sex either, so what was so wrong about your relationship that left you wanting more?

Your phone buzzed in your other hand, and you glanced at it briefly.

u ok?

You tucked your phone back into your pocket without replying. You never should’ve asked. Now you’ve disrupted the peace you had in your stagnant relationship.

Though, maybe it was okay to want more.

“Is it really a problem?” Kuroo sipped his drink through his straw, raising a brow in your direction. “You’ve been dating for three years. I’m more surprised that you didn’t bring this up to him earlier.”

Your fingers tapped rhythmically against the half empty tumbler, teeth gnawing anxiously at your lower lip.

“...I think I was too scared in the beginning,” you murmured.

“Mm,” your friend hummed softly in agreement. “You’ve changed. You were always affectionate before.”

You blinked, raising your gaze from the table between the two of you to meet Kuroo’s grin.

“How’d you know that? We just became friends in uni--”

“Tsukki told me,” he cut you off, and your fingers stopped tapping against your drink. “And it’s not like I don’t notice that you hug me more than you hug your boyfriend.”

“First of all, don’t say things that can be so easily misunderstood,” you tossed a crumpled up napkin at the former captain, and he quickly dodged it with a short laugh. “Second, what do you mean Kei told you? He said I used to be more--affectionate?”

This was news to you. You never thought that he would notice how you changed to make him feel more comfortable with your relationship.

It was true that towards the beginning of your relationship, you were always scared of upsetting him, so you did everything you could to change to his needs. You held back words you knew he wouldn’t want to hear, and only ever spoke up if something truly bothered you. It worked up until the end of your first year before you started opening up to him slowly. But something you could never seem to breach was Tsukishima’s habit of avoiding physical affection. 

“You know how he is,” Kuroo waved his hand dismissively, “Your boyfriend’s terrible with emotions. I tell him all the time that I’m surprised you lasted so long--”

“Don’t talk badly about him like that,” you scolded your friend with a scowl, to which he snickered quietly.

“Well, you can’t deny it, can you? He sucks, but he has his good points. That’s why you’re still dating him, right?”

It was true that you couldn’t deny it. Tsukishima had many faults, and his lack of desire for physical affection was only one of them. Still, you were just as much at fault for not communicating with him out of fear that he’d leave you.

“He’s just scared, y’know,” Kuroo rested his chin in his upturned palm. “Just like you. Even after three years, he’s not used to affection. Why don’t you just talk to him instead of sulking about it to me? I feel like I might as well be the third person in your relationship with how often you two come to me about each other.”

You were quiet for a bit, swirling the now cold coffee around as you processed the thought of confronting the issues you’ve been burying for so long.

“...he’d never date you,” you finally murmured, turning your gaze out the window.

“Ah, and you would?”

You didn’t need to look up to see Kuroo’s smug smirk.

“You wish.”

But no matter how much you didn’t want to admit it, there was some truth in Kuroo’s words. You had used him as a therapist far too many times, when your issues could easily be solved by confronting your fears and sitting down to talk with the man you lived with.

If only speaking to Tsukishima about your problems was as easy as it sounded.

By the time you finally gathered up the courage to even speak his name, your boyfriend was standing from the dinner table to grab your plates and heading towards the sink where his dishwashing responsibilities awaited him. The sight of his broad back seemed to glue your lips shut. 

You couldn’t get the words out.

“Do you hate being touched by me?” was the first thing you wanted to ask.

“Is it wrong for me to ask for you to tell me you love me sometimes?” would probably be the second, paired with, “Can you just kiss me once in a while without complaining about it?”

It all felt so childish, even before the words left your lips. So instead, you sat frozen in your chair, gazing at your boyfriend’s back that you longed to embrace.

Slowly, you stood. Before your brain could tell you how stupid of an idea this was, your feet moved forward until you were standing just a step away from Tsukishima’s much taller form.

Your arms wrapped around his waist from behind, and you could feel the way he jolted in surprise as you rested your cheek against his warm back.

“I’m washing--”

“Do you hate me?”

Silence.

Well, that question didn’t come out as expected, though it’s not like you didn’t wonder that too.

“Don’t turn around,” you pleaded quietly over the running water. To someone else, you must’ve looked like a fool, clinging onto your boyfriend like your life depended on it while he soaped up your dirty dishes.

He granted your wish, and didn’t whirl around to pull away from your touch. Instead, he continued scrubbing at your dinner plates.

“You have until I finish washing the dishes to explain yourself,” he stated calmly, and your arms tightened around his waist. It was a demand.

“I heard...from Kuroo that you said I used to be more affectionate before we started dating,” you stammered out quickly, “If you knew that, then why do you get so stiff and push me away when I try to initiate physical affection even after we’ve been dating for three years? Do you hate being touched by me so much?”

The kitchen was quiet, now that your boyfriend was drying the dishes. His hand stopped moving robotically over the wet plates, and he slowly set them down on the counter instead. You could tell he wanted to say something, but wasn’t sure how. So you continued.

“I do know that you love me, Kei,” you murmured weakly, voice muffling against his shirt as you shifted to rest your forehead against his broad back instead. “I do. I know you’re always thinking of me, and I love that about you. But when you push me away, I can’t help but think that you’re just pretending to love me for the sake of convenience.”

“If I wanted convenience, I wouldn’t date you,” he mumbled under his breath, and the words stung to the point that your arms dropped from around the middle blocker’s waist.

No longer confined by your embrace, Tsukishima spun around and grabbed your shoulders, his eyes wide with panic.

“Y/N wait--I didn’t mean it that--”

“You’re such an ass,” you averted your gaze from his, trying to blink away the tears that began to blur your vision.

“Listen--” his voice was frantic, but you didn’t let him continue. You were scared to hear what would come next if you did.

“I guess I was wrong, and the voice in my head is right,” you cut him off, voice trembling. “So I’ll just tell you everything that I held back since it’s all going to fall apart anyway.”

It took all your courage to turn your teary gaze back to his deceivingly sorrowful golden eyes.

“Is there something so disgusting about me that you don’t even want to hold me? Even after this many years?” you began, fully prepared to spill every one of your fears from the past three years. “Am I asking for too much when I ask you to kiss me every once in a while? Is it wrong for me to want you to just tell me you love me sometimes? Am I a bad person for thinking our relationship has become so boring because neither of us want to make the first step to try and change because we’re both scared of scaring each other away?”

You rubbed your arm against your eyes, trying to pretend like you weren’t sobbing into your sleeve. Though you’re sure you weren’t a very good actor, with the way you hiccuped and took shaky breaths between your questions.

“Did I make a mistake trying to change myself to fit your standards? Should I have never confessed to you back--”

Your voice was suddenly muffled into your boyfriend’s chest, and you gasped at the suddenness of his hug.

“Please don’t regret it,” he requested weakly, his voice trembling just as much as yours.

Those simple words were all it took for your sobs to come out freely, your shaky hands clawing upwards to grip onto Tsukishima’s t-shirt, clinging onto him as if he was the only thing keeping you grounded. It was a hug you’d been craving for ages--one he initiated. You hated that it took you throwing your heart at him for it to happen, but what were you to do?

He allowed you to cry as he continued.

“There’s nothing wrong with you,” he murmured into your hair. “There’s nothing wrong with what you want. I was...just scared, like you said.”

“Of what?” was what you wanted to ask. And like he read your mind, Tsukishima elaborated.

“The more I hug you, and the more kisses we share, the more I fall for you,” he whispered, as if fearful of the words he was admitting to you. “The deeper I fall, the more scared I get that you’ll leave me when you remember how bad of a boyfriend I am. I want to give you 100% of me, but at the same time, I’m too scared to do exactly that.”

Your cries were quieting down, and you took shaky breaths, inhaling his familiar scent each time. Just his embrace managed to soothe your frantic sobs.

“So I avoided anything that would make me fall too much in love with you, but it’s already too late,” he laughed bitterly, pulling back slightly so he could cup your cheeks, thumbs brushing at the wet streaks staining your skin. Your lips pursed into a small pout, and he couldn’t help the smile that tugged at his lips. “I already love you too much to let go of you, and you know it.”

“...you’re really, really not allowed to be cute right now,” you grumbled, and he laughed.

“Yeah, I could say the same to you,” he joked, leaning forward so his lips could brush over your forehead.

“...can you kiss me now?” you murmured shyly, and his grin morphed into a weak smile before his hands tilted your jaw up towards him. His lips met yours softly, and though this wasn’t your first kiss, it was the first time you’d felt this way with Tsukishima in three years.

When he pulled away, you were crying again.

“Stop crying,” he cursed, “If someone saw you right now, they’d think I was bullying you.”

You babbled something incoherent through your tears of joy, and your boyfriend’s expression softened in a way you hadn’t witnessed in what felt like years.

“You have to take responsibility, you know,” his palms cupped your jaw, pulling your teary gaze back up to his as his thumb brushed over your lower lip. “For making me fall so deeply in love with you again.”

You laughed, tears dripping down your cheeks as you wrapped your arms around Tsukishima’s neck to pull him down into another love-filled kiss.

“Until when?” you grinned when you pulled away, his eyes closed as he sighed happily and rested his forehead against yours.

“Until I make up for the three years I put you through,” he mumbled, and you smiled softly as your lips grazed over his lightly. As you pulled back, he leaned forward and peppered kisses across your face.

“So, until forever?” you teased with a quiet giggle.

“Until forever,” he whispered, lips meeting yours once more.