#rhythmic trilling

[periodicinspiration]

Kwanzan Cherry

A late afternoon respite by the garden, washed warm by side light and cooled by long shadows and dewy grass beneath cherry blossoms. The rhythmic trilling of tree frogs sets the pace of my breathing. With a deep inhale I catch a slight peppery taste of pollen on the air, but rinse it immediately away with the humidity and salty persperation gathering around my lips. A long exhale pushes away the…

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Try Morse Core. Women Love Morse Code.

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[critterbitter]

The twins and their starters may have grown slightly taller, but their love of shenanigans have tripled, no, quadrupled in size.

On that note did you know Eelectrik has a glow animation?? Perfect nightlight eel. Absolute gold standard for creature. Click here for the masterlist!

Bonus shitpost under cut ft @birdsaretoddlers’s incredible take.

(plus a fanfic drabble that birds did while we were discussing in chat! Check out their funny writing @birdsaretoddlers) “Lam lam pentttt. Lam.”

“Language. I am not calling them that. This is a civil discussion about the capacity of a 284 Berkshire’s firebox, not a playground argument.”

“Lammm Pent.”

“If you possess my phone I will have to put you in time-out in your ball, and neither of us will like that.”

The argument over a literal online flame war was cut short by the door flying open, one of the hinges breaking off with the force and flying somewhere into the aether, never to be seen again. Or at least, not without a strong magnet.

Emmet stood there, proudly, holding his newly-evolved Eelektrik, his grin a mile wide. Ingo picked his heart up out of his femoral artery, where it had lodged itself, and gently removed Lampent from where she hid, hanging over his shoulder. Emmet stood there, eyes twinkling, clearly ready to perform the coveted Bit. Ingo opened his mouth, got halfway through a word, and his twin took the proffered delight of cutting him off.

“I am Emmet and I discovered something INCREDIBLE. INGO LOOK.”

Ingo looked, because what else was he going to do? He would allow his twin to complete his circus act, it was only proper and polite. Eelektrik trilled with delight. Emmet twirled like the best of Nimbasan runway models, clearly wrestling his eel, cooing platitudes to it as he writhed and squirmed to get it into position.

“Me beautiful slimy baby, my beloved pool noodle, my beeesstt conductor!~” Doing something that could generously be called ‘dislocating his shoulders’, Emmet managed to get his eel flipped up and around his neck. He flopped forwards, bonelessly, tipping his hat and giggling madly. He was grinning harder than normal. Ingo was a little scared.

“But now, Eelektrik can do MORE. OBSERVE.”

He threw his shoulders back, standing up as tall as he could, somehow not throwing himself ass-first onto the floor as the fifty pounds of eel he was currently deadlifting remained stationary over his neck. Emmet’s arms flew upwards and out, rocking back and forth in jazz hands. Eelektrik frilled its fans, made another happy little buzz and-

"Eelektrik boa."

“DRAGONS ALMIGHTY. THE EEL GLOWS.”

There it was, clear as day. Eelektrik flashed it’s spots in natural bioluminescence, blinking like a neon sign. Bright beautiful yellow and clearly charged, Emmet’s hair stood on end, pushing his hat an inch off his head. They blinked in a rhythmic, pulsing manner. It was almost hypnotizing to watch, in a way. Ingo snapped back to reality, realizing his mouth had dropped open and Lampent had ceased questing for his Pokedex. Recognizing Emmet was looking for a response, he threw his arm out in a thumbs-up so fast his arm hurt, snapping his suspender against his neck.

“Brrravo! Ten out of ten! Majestic eel scarf!” He praised, Emmet’s expression only growing further full of himself and his achievement, which was well deserved. Lampent echoed the sentiment, flashing back at Eelektrik in response.

Now that both Pokemon could glow, they’d never have a problem in the caves again!

[literaryvein-reblogs]

hi! could you help with describing different sounds of materials and textures? like dripping of water, clinking of glass etc. maybe a vocab list or your advice in general, doesn't matter ☆

Chatter - to click repeatedly or uncontrollably (teeth chattering)

Chime - to make a musical and especially a harmonious sound (clock chimed at midnight)

Clang - to make a loud metallic ringing sound (anvils clanged)

Clatter - to make a rattling sound (dishes clattered)

Clop - a sound made by or as if by a hoof or wooden shoe against the pavement (clop of hooves)

Clunk - the sound of a blow (books fall to the floor with a clunk)

Crackle - to make small sharp sudden repeated noises (fire crackles)

Creak - a prolonged grating/squeaking sound (creaking wheels)

Crinkle - to give forth a thin crackling sound (crinkling silks)

Fizzle - to make a hissing or sputtering sound (fireworks fizzled out)

Grate - to rub or rasp noisily (metal grating)

Gurgle - to make a sound like that of a gurgling liquid (water gurgling through the pipes)

Hiss - to make a sharp sibilant sound (hissing steam)

Jangle - to make a discordant often ringing sound (keys jangling)

Pitter-patter - a rapid succession of light sounds or beats (pitter-patter of rain on the roof)

Pulse - rhythmical beating or sounding (pulsed from the speakers)

Rasp - to produce a grating sound (rasp of steel)

Rattle - a rapid succession of short sharp noises (windows rattled)

Ripple - to play with a slight rise and fall of sound (rippling water)

Ruffle - a low vibrating drumbeat (ruffle the pages of a book)

Rumble - to make a low heavy rolling sound (thunder rumbling)

Rustle - a quick succession of small sounds (rustling leaves)

Scrape - a sound made by scraping (chairs scraping against the floor)

Sizzle - to make a hissing sound (a sizzling pan)

Slosh - the slap or splash of liquid (water sloshed around)

Splash - to make a sloshing sound (waves splashing)

Splutter - to make a noise as if spitting (spluttering engine)

Squeak - to utter or make a short shrill cry or noise (squeaking wheel)

Susurration - a whispering sound; murmur (susurration of waves)

Throb - to beat or vibrate rhythmically (throbbing beat of the bass)

Thrum - to sound with a monotonous hum (wings thrumming)

Thud - a dull sound (bag landed on the floor with a thud)

Thump - to strike or beat with or as if with something thick or heavy so as to cause a dull sound (thump of footsteps on the stairs)

Whish - to make a sibilant sound (baseball whished past)

Whiz - a hissing, buzzing, or whirring sound (cars whiz by)

Some Words to Describe Different Sounds

Harsh or loud. If you want to articulate abrupt, piercing, or loud noises, use: beep, bellow, blare, cackle, clack, clang, clank, clink, croak, earsplitting, full blast, grating, high frequency, huff, jarring, rasp, rumble, scrunch, shriek, toot, twang, vibrating, wail, and zap.

Soft or subtle sounds. Some descriptors to use to evoke quiet noises: breathy, chime, droning, fizz, glug, gurgle, jingle, moan, sizzle, squish, swish, swoosh, tinkle, trill, wheeze, whir, and whoosh.

Animal sounds to describe noises. English language readers often associate these words with animal noises, but you can use them to create imaginative descriptions of other sounds: bleat, bray, chirping, cluck, hoot, howl, meow, neigh, purr, quack, roar, woof, and yelp.

How to Write With Sound

Auditory imagery engages the sense of hearing.

Literary devices (onomatopoeia; alliteration) can help create sounds in writing.

Sound is a great sense to use to create a mood.

Consider two scenes of the same forest:

You might describe the chirping of many small birds, the rustle of small mammals moving through the softly falling leaves, or the whispering of a breeze through the trees. This creates a particular atmosphere, one that seems peaceful and maybe even a little magical.

Now consider another set of sounds from the same forest. Somewhere in the distance you hear the howl of an unidentifiable animal. Nearer to you, the creak of an old branch, followed by the snap of a twig. The wind, when you hear it, seems to moan.

The same two descriptions of a forest can create entirely different atmospheres with sensory language. Some exercises:

Carry a notebook with you as you go about your normal day.

Pay attention to the sounds you notice and write them down as you go.

Does your coffeemaker whistle, or would you say it hisses?

Do the sirens of emergency vehicles wail, or perhaps blare?

Does your door squeak?

The more you can become attentive to these things, the more you’ll be able to incorporate them into your writing.

Use onomatopoeia to help capture the sound of a scene:

The plop of a frog dropping into a pond

The clink of two champagne glasses

The crackle of a dry log on a hot fire

The whoosh of a car racing by

Onomatopoeic Words: hiss, ping, crunch, pop, sizzle, bang, swish, smash, flutter, clunk, peck, whistle, smack, whack, hush, whir, tip-toe, thud, zap, twang, cock-a-doodle-doo, squish, stomp, tap, thump, splash, purr, tinkle, gush, kerplunk, slurp, swirl, crash, whirl, clang, mumble, squeak, boom, meow, cuckoo, pow, splat, quack, screech, zoom, tick-tock, burp, clip-clop, eek, hiccup, moo, oink, buzz

In general, though, you’ll want to be judicious about using onomatopoeia, unless you’re going for a deliberately cheesy, comic book-type effect.

Tips for Describing Sounds in Writing

Consider your purpose. As you begin a project, decide if you want to render a specific experience faithfully or creatively. Consider the target audience for your creative writing, blog, or journalism. Understanding your goal and audience helps you make descriptors more effective and precise.

Employ onomatopoeia. Onomatopoeia is a type of sensory language in which the descriptive word sounds like what it describes—words like “drip,” “bang,” or “plink.” If you want to achieve an especially sound-driven description, consider using existing onomatopoeic words or craft your own.

Pay attention to verbs. While adjectives (words like “loud” or “sharp”) are the obvious choice for describing sounds, verbs are a powerful tool that can also help you achieve a strong description. For example, saying, “the jet was loud” is accurate and descriptive, while “the jet screamed” evokes an even stronger sense of the sound.

Sometimes less is more. Descriptions are most effective when focused, allowing readers to zero in on the essential details. If you include too many synonyms or attach multiple adjectives to each noun, you can overwhelm or confuse readers.

Sources: 1 2 3 4 5 6 ⚜ More: References ⚜ Word Lists ⚜ 100 Sensory Words

Hope this helps with your writing! :)

[bookofthegear]

You are carrying your Grandma’s good stabbin’ knife!

Family legend holds that Grandma acquired it the morning of her wedding day, when she entered the kitchen to discover the groom and the maid of honor on the table, doing something that did not involve plating canapés. The groom went for his pants, Grandma went for the knife, and the maid went all to pieces.

Once she had run them both out of the county, Grandma declared that she was still getting married that day, come hell or high water, whereupon the best man confessed that he had always worshipped her from afar and the day proceeded with only minor alterations. They were happily married for nearly forty years, until Grandpa’s death (not by stabbing.)

The knife served Grandma through two wars, one revolution, and a home invasion, and she gave it to you to take to college because “Child, you just never know.”

You also have a canteen, a blanket, and a deeply unreliable guidebook. And now, apparently, you also have a finch named Jimmy. He lands on your shoulder and trills excitedly to himself. {No, I’m not going to run a poll as to whether you take the finch. I know you people.}

The dark crack in the wall looms before you. With trepidation, you step inside, into a long concrete corridor holding an immense stone gear. It’s not turning. You’re not sure if it even can turn. The teeth don’t look right, and it has to weigh at least a ton.

The corridor runs east-to-west, and the concrete walls are covered in graffiti. You don’t even recognize the languages of half of them. There’s even a line up near the ceiling that looks like cuneiform, and you don’t think concrete had even been invented at that point. And of course, drawing a dick on things is timeless, and people have. Repeatedly.

One line in English reads “Harry Mountford was here!” and is dated nearly a hundred years ago. You could almost believe that the labyrinth had been untouched all that time, but some of the graffiti looks much fresher.

The floor is covered in dried leaves blown in from outside. Which is a little odd, now that you think of it, because you’re pretty sure they’re deciduous leaves and that’s a pine forest outside. That’s as much as you can say about the leaves, though. (Look, you really WANTED to take Botany for Adventurers, but it was opposite The Wombat of Shalott and Other Pre-Raphaelite Obsessions and c’mon. You’re not made of stone.)

Both directions lead into darkness. You can hear a very faint rhythmic squeaking coming from the west.

[witherby]

Human!Damian x Mer!Reader

Damian, one of the newest employees at Gotham Aquarium, forms a fast bond with its only mer inhabitant.

Content includes: Fluff, pre-relationship, language barrier

You crack an eye open when you feel movement in the water. The rhythmic swish, swish, swish coaxes you from the bed of seaweed you were curled up in and you drift to the source of the disturbance in your habitat.

Surfacing, your gills flex and twitch briefly as you adjust to breathing air, and you chirp at the creature perched on the lip of your tank, one hand still swishing the water. His vibrant, green eyes and small smile never fail to make you happy.

"Good morning, Princess," the creature — Damian is his name, your mind supplies — greets you warmly. He lifts up a bucket with your breakfast, and you trill and reach for it eagerly, webbed fingers curling around the metal and brushing against his own, dry digits briefly. "You've got two shows today. The usual one at noon, and then a private birthday party this evening. These money-hungry cretins refused to listen when I told them it would disrupt your routine and irritate you, but they don't care. I apologize in advance."

You click and whistle at him as you shovel a fistful of eel into your mouth, chewing happily. It was difficult to understand the land creature, but you weren't terribly upset. You got the gist — something different was happening today. When different things happened, you tended to get more snacks, especially if you huffed and fussed a bit, so it was fine. You hope Damian will stick around and play after you finish your meal.

"Good job, Princess," the land creature says when you show him the empty bucket. You know what those words mean, and you preen and coo giddily. You like the title he calls you, too. "Princess" is not your primary identifier; it's not what the other land creatures call you, only Damian. He calls you something different, which feels special. You like that you're special to him, because he's your favorite handler and therefore special to you.

You slip under the water briefly to wet your gills, then break the surface again with a flick of your long, iridescent tail and reach for him, chirping. Damian gives you a considering look, head slightly tilted like he wants to hop into the tank with you, but ultimately pulls away and rises. You croon sadly after him, slapping the water.

"Later," he says, "I promise. We'll play later, when there's time. Right now, the tours are about to start. You know that."

You chuff. You do know that. It's almost Attention Time, which means more land creatures walk through strange tunnels that cut through the bottom of your large habitat to stare at you, and you get to stare back. If you do enough tricks, you even get snacks and toys. You like the attention; you're a beautiful mer and deserve to be admired, but you wish the creatures would actually come into the water instead of the large, weird tunnels you can't reach.

Slipping under the surface again, your tail propels you towards the larger section of your enclosure, where the tunnels are, and you don't have to wait much longer before the first group of land creatures comes through to admire you. To your endless delight, Damian is leading them. The other caretakers know that you're the most active when he's the one guiding the tours, so you make sure to do all the flips and twirls you've been taught for him.

When you catch his eye, Damian smiles a little again, just for you, and you trill with joy.

-----

Thanks for reading! Reblogs encourage me to write more!

[gerogerigaogaigar]

In the wake of the Drake/Kendrick beef its become clear that a lot of people here don't know what hip-hop is and/or don't know how to listen to it. Instead of dunking on people's ignorance I'd like to offer up an educational opportunity. Hip-hop can be difficult to get into if you come from an exclusively white and rock oriented upbringing. It simply listens differently than other popular music and you have to learn how to listen to it. This is honestly true of all music, but white america grows up with modern rock and pop that more or less derive their structure from tin pan alley music of the early 1900's. Hip-hop is a derivative of the 70's disco scene. Disco had an even more dance oriented feel than the funk that it spun off from. And funk was already more rhythm heavy than the Soul and Rhythm & Blues that birthed the funk scene.

Hip-hop is, first and foremost, a black artform and I am not black. So I'm not trying to position myself as a community ambassador or anything, but I do get that there are some barriers that white suburban kids face when it comes to getting into hip-hop. I also know that I am very, very into hip-hop so being a suburban white kid is clearly not an excuse for dismissing an entire artform. And racism isn't something you are it's something you do. So its time to stop talking about Weird Al and Eminem* whenever someone asks if you like rap. Right now it is time to learn how to listen.

*all due respect to eminem, he's actually really good, but we aren't talking about white rappers right now

When listening to rap one of the first things you need to pay attention to is the rapper's flow. A rapper's instrument is their voice, but unlike what you may be used to rap vocals are part of the percussion. In the songs included below, try to listen for how the vocals create a rhythmic counterpoint to the instrumentals. and listen for how rappers use rhyme as well as rhythm to create a pleasing cadence. Don't worry about what they're saying, listen to how they say it.

All Caps We start with All Caps, an absolute beast of a song. MF DOOM meets the frantic energy of the beat with a steady even flow that feels effortless. DOOM interlocks Rhyme schemes and uses matching vowel sounds throughout the verses to create the illusion that he is just dropping thoughts off the top of his head. The maneuver he pulls in the last stanza always blows my mind. making a *pop* sound to onomatopoetically match the vowel sound in pot, got, and snot while also rhyming troubles and bubbles.

A Milli Next up is Lil Wayne. Much like DOOM he can bury rhyme schemes for days, but instead of a smooth even flow he goes in bursts of frantic energy to contrast the very steady beat.

Ultimate Denzel Curry is probably one of the best in the trap scene and Ultimate is an early track where he is nailing the lazy beat, angry delivery thing. his shouted couplets overlay the trilled snare to create a texture that is actually very typical of trap music.

Izzo (H.O.V.A.) Jay-Z has a triumphant tone and a sing-songy cadence to his voice. He tends to match the percussive parts of his raps to the downbeat of the drums and it further emphasizes the strings from the Jackson Five sample and his more melodic lilting.

Bad Character You might notice that Quasimoto sounds... uh... well its Madlib with his voice pitched up. Weirdly Quas has a totally different cadence than Madlib. The timbre of his voice is so distinctive but he raps so casually. It almost feels like he is disconnected from the beat, but he's still right on it. It is a weird quirky atmosphere.

ATliens ATliens is the first song on the list with multiple rappers on it. Big Boi is a master of the straightforward 90's gangsta style while Andre 3000 has a supernatural sense for where he is on the beat that allows him to dodge and weave around it. the two of them work together by giving a back and forth between the extreme steadyness of Big Boi and the extreme wonkiness of Andre 3000.

Protect Ya Neck The Wu-Tang Clan had a lot of members and Protect Ya Neck has all of them on it. It would take forever to explain the different styles of the whole Clan so I'm just gonna let you hear it all yourself. even if you can't tell them all apart it is still pretty easy to tell when they pass the mic.

Ready Or Not Wyclef Jean and Ms. Lauryn Hill are two of the best rappers, and also Pras is here. The interpolation of soul hooks that show off Lauryn Hill's singing skills were standard for the group, but Hill could switch from singing to rapping on a dime. Even when they are rapping there is a sense of soul music underlying their music.

Life's A Bitch Another track with a laid back beat. I couldn't tell you when Nas takes a fucking breath in this song. he just goes and goes. everyone on this is so smooth.

Fix Up, Look Sharp Finally I had to get some really rowdy shit on here. Dizze Rascal's flow is so bombastic. he hits every downbeat as hard as possible and almost drowns out the steady snare-kick beat with his voice alone. Like Jay-Z he is also very sing-songy.

To Be Continued ===> Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part4 | Part 5 | Part 6

[bryan-writes]

The witch in the woods// chapter 3

Chapter 3// a visitor at twilight

The storm rolled in like a warning the next night, low and growling. Heavy clouds churned above as the first fat drops of water splattered against the windows. You had been at the sink, absentmindedly scrubbing an herb-stained bowl, the rhythmic swish of the sponge a lullaby against the growing chaos outside. Thistle perched on the counter, his tail flicking with irritation at the racket, his green eyes tracking the rain that streaked the glass in erratic, wind-blown patterns.

The air inside was still, heavy with the sharp scents of rosemary and sage from your earlier work. The world beyond the window had become an opaque swirl of water and shadow. You’d put on an upbeat song, trying to chase away the prickling unease. Something about the storm felt strange, unnatural, like the air before a secret is spoken.

A movement at the edge of the woods snagged your attention, barely distinguishable from the thrashing trees.

At first, you thought it was a trick of the rain, the way it bent the light and blurred shapes into motion. But then it moved again, deliberate and halting. A person— no mistaking it now— was stepping out of the forest’s embrace, their jagged silhouette illuminated briefly by a flicker of lightning.

Your breath caught. You froze, hands stilling in the soapy water as unease coiled in your stomach. Thistle let out a low, questioning chirp, his ears swiveling forward.

The figure advanced with an awkward, stuttering gait, as though their joints protested every step. They emerged into the clearing, and the porch light caught them in stark relief.

It was a man.

He was tall and willowy, though his hunched shoulders diminished his height. He wore a rain-soaked hoodie that clung to a frame that seemed almost skeletal. The fur-lined jacket he wore was filthy, streaked with mud and dark stains that looked sickeningly like blood. Rainwater plastered his hair to his forehead, dark strands sticking out at odd angles.

But it was the patch on the side of his face that drew you in. A piece of fraying fabric, blackened and mottled from exposure, was secured with uneven stitching, partially concealing a deep, discolored scar that carved through the pale skin beneath. The edge of the wound hinted at something jagged, an only injury that had healed without much care. The patch seemed almost haphazard, as though he had cobbled it together out of necessity rather than vanity.

And then there were the goggles. Strapped tightly over his eyes, the opaque lenses gleamed like polished onyx, reflecting the light back at you. They hid his gaze completely, making it impossible to tell where he was looking, but every instinct told you that his focus was locked onto you.

Your stomach flipped, fear clawing up your spine. You took an involuntary step back, bumping your hip against the counter hard enough to bruise. Thistle leapt down with a disgruntled trill, circling your legs, his tail puffed like a warning flag.

The man stopped at the edge of the porch, rainwater dripping in streams off his tattered clothes. He stood there, unmoving, a silent shadow against the storm’s backdrop.

The weight of his presence pressed against the thin barrier of the window. You couldn’t see his eyes, but you felt them, sharp and unyielding, like a blad testing the line between fear and curiosity.

Your heart thundered in your chest. You wanted to slam the shutters, bolt the door, and pretend you’d seen nothing. But something about him held you frozen. The slump of his shoulders, the sagging exhaustion in his frame— it was like watching a wounded animal wander too close to civilization.

Before you could think better of it, your feet moved. Your hands trembled as you reached for the doorknob, Thistle letting out a hiss of protest at your feet.

“I know,” you whispered, your voice tight with nerves. “I know this is stupid.”

You cracked the door open, just enough to let the humid, rain-drenched air seep in. It carried the sharp tang of wet earth, mixed with something metallic.

“Hey,” you called out, your voice barely steady. “Are you okay?”

The man tilted his head, the movement jerky, like a bird assessing a potential threat. He didn’t answer. Instead, he shifted slightly closer, his boots scraping against the porch with a grating sound that set your teeth on edge.

“I— uh— I can’t let you in,” you stammered, your hand tightening on the doorknob. “But… if you’re hurt, I can grab you something. A town, maybe?”

His response was silence. The rain filled the gaps, a relentless rhythm that seemed to mock your attempt at normalcy.

“Stay there,” you said quickly, retreating into the safety of the kitchen. Your pulse roared in your ears as you set a kettle on the stove, fumbling with the chamomile tea and a clean mug.

The towel you grabbed was old, its edges frayed from years of use, but it was warm and soft— something that might bridge the gap between terror and humanity.

When you returned, the man had moved. He was sitting cross-legged on the porch, his back against the railing, rainwater still dripping from his tattered clothes. The goggles gleamed in the dim light, catching the movement of the shadows like an insect’s compound eyes.

You hesitated, your stomach churned with a mix of fear and something else— a quiet ache.

“Here,” you said softly, placing the mug and blanket on the threshold. “It’s not much, but it’s warm.”

For a long moment, he didn’t move. Then, slowly, he reached for the mug, his fingers trembling as they curled around it. The movement revealed a gloved hand, the leather cracked and worn, the seams threatening to split. His other hand rested limply in his lap, stained with mud and blood.

“Do you… want to tell me what happened?” The words tumbled out before you could stop them. You bit your lip, regretting it immediately.

The man tilted his head toward the woods, his neck jerking with the motion. The sight made your skin prickle. You turned to follow his gaze, but the forest was a solid wall of black, the trees swaying gently as though hiding something unspeakable.

When you glanced back, he was still staring into the trees, his body unnervingly still.

“Who are you?” You whispered, the words barely audible over the storm’s remnants.

He didn’t answer. But for the briefest moment, his shoulder shook— a quiet almost imperceptible tremor. Laughter? Sobs? You couldn’t tell, and something told you that you didn’t want to know.

Your chest tightened, a thousand questions clawing at your throat, but none of them felt safe to ask. Instead, you lingered in the doorway, the rain-soaked air pressing against your skin.

And then, without a word, he retreated into himself, cradling the mug to his chest as if it were the only thing keeping him tethered to the world.

Credit to @strangergraphics for the dividers! :)

[kissyghosty]

i understand halloween was 5 days ago but someone asked for some halloween fluff so i must provide

insp by a prompt on the server!

[ao3 link]

Simon has to repeatedly tell Soap no, he can’t use Ghost’s good knives for something like this. While they’d be in familiar territory to their original use, this is…different. Something that doesn’t require such deadly efficiency and sharp edges.

Still, Soap sets into the hapless target with a gusto that would make the old Ghost proud, if not somewhat terrified. “Have at ‘em, love.” He grunts, turning away as Johnny sets out to complete his task. Something about a “masterpiece” is mumbled by Soap, but Ghost is already plopping down on the worn-in couch with a glass

He looks around as the tell-tale sounds of knives plunging in and ripping out chunks takes over the apartment. A bookshelf full of plants. A pile of haphazardly-stacked books. Grow lights. Halloween decor that is totally meant for the holiday being near and not because Ghost and Soap like the looks of it year-round, meaning it’s left out. Miscellaneous sizes and shapes of terrariums dot any spare space left, which Johnny insisted on having far too many of because “at least you don’t need to remember to water them!”

Miss Catty is curled up on one of the shelves next to a grow light. Her tail flicks at random intervals, though her eyes stay closed. Simon is sure that if he were to check, she’d be purring fiercely. The grow lights let off a comfortable amount of warmth and their cat eagerly took advantage of it. Simon takes a moment to mull over his actions before quietly clicking his tongue.

The (rather huge) black Maine Coon’s yellow eyes open as if inside a void. Over the sounds of Johnny’s work, Ghost can hear her faintly trill as she stretches luxuriously before hopping down to wander over to the couch with him. She makes herself at home in his lap, taking up nearly all the space on his thighs. He can’t quite find it in himself to be bothered as his strokes down her back rhythmically and repeatedly, an action that’s become incredibly grounding and calming to him.

“Ah, shit.” Something clatters to the floor in the kitchen, garnering both Simon’s and Miss Catty’s attention.

“You’re carving a gourd, Johnny, not digging information out of someone. Take it easy.” Simon’s voice is low and rumbly and filled with mirth.

Johnny either doesn’t notice Ghost’s presence or doesn’t acknowledge it. He sticks the blade of the knife back into the orange flesh of the pumpkin in front of him. Previously-carved chunks sit on the table next to him, accompanied by the rather-disgusting innards in a bowl. Ghost pulls a chair out to sit down across from Johnny and watch him work.

“You wouldn’t understand,” Soap teases. “You don’t see it the way an artist like myself does.” He sits back momentarily as Miss Catty jumps up to investigate his work. She sniffs the gourd curiously before sneezing and deciding it’s not worth her time. “You li’l shit! This is inspired by you!” Johnny taps the flat side of the knife against the carved pumpkin in exasperation.

“Spin it around so we can have a look, yeah?” Simon drawls. Johnny does so eagerly, wiping off any remaining debris.

It’s…certainly something. He can tell Soap went for some sort of cat face, but the lines are uneven and jagged. One eye is noticeably bigger than the other. One of the ears is completely hollowed out compared to the other, as if he had changed his strategy midway through working. 

“Looks good,” Ghost tries and fails to hide a smirk behind his glass. 

Soap looks like he’s won a prize. “Did it m’self.”

Ghost starts separating seeds from the pumpkin guts, putting them aside. When Johnny asks about his actions, Ghost explains. “Jasper knows how to cook these and make them real good. I’m gonna save some to give to them. Could probably save some chunks for their critters too. They’d appreciate it.”

“Jasper’s critters are probably dead tired of pumpkin at this point. Still, I’ll check.”

“You even have a light to put inside it?”

A moment of pause. “No.”

“There might be old tea candles somewhere in here,” Simon murmurs as he stands to ruffle through the junk drawer in the kitchen. Johnny props his head up on an open palm, blatantly ogling the other appreciatively. 

Their cat sticks her head inside the hollowed-out work, yellow eyes wide and curious. After a moment, it’s not just her head inside the pumpkin. She manages to squeeze her front legs and shoulders inside as well before wisely deciding that it wouldn’t be that smart of an idea to get stuck inside it, retreating just as gracefully.

Ghost comes back a few moments later with a tea candle in his fingers. He slides it across the table to Johnny with a lighter following its tracks right after. The candle is lit, producing a small, wobbly flame that looks like it’s doing its best to stay lit. Gingerly, it’s placed inside the pumpkin and the top is plunked back on before Soap darts over to turn the apartment’s lights off to appraise his work.

“Best work yet,” he grins at Ghost after thoroughly looking it over.

[bits-and-babs]

𝐃𝐈𝐀𝐋 𝐓𝐎𝐍𝐄

pairing: captain john price x f!reader ('raven')

summary: john calls you in the middle of the night.

warnings: [ 1k words ] reader answers a phone call where john is fucking another woman, jealous!reader ,mutual desire hatred, (f) masturbation voyeurism in the weirdest sense

notes: i’m disgusting for this one <33

Price's name illuminates your phone screen in the pitch-blackness of your bedroom, trusty blackout curtains impeding the lambent street lights of Washington from pouring through the glass. The digital clock in the upper-right corner of your mobile reads 03:49. 

Panic capsizes your stomach, and you fumble as you scoop the trilling device into your hands. You're sobered from the intoxication of deep sleep almost instantaneously; the timing of this call is too early to possibly be anything less than urgent. John is in Amsterdam, searching for intel to pinpoint Hassan and the centre of Al Mazrah's terrorist regime. The grave chirrup blaring from the speakers in your hand convinces you he must have something. 

Punching the green phone icon, you bring the vibrating rectangle to your ear and speak before the audio even reaches your eardrums. "What do you have for me, Price?"

You expect the sound of a breathless John having escaped a gunfight in order to bring back invaluable information that would bring the U.R.A's terrorist cell to its knees. These would have been entirely rational, standard grounds for a phone call this early in the morning from his secure phone line. 

It isn't that. Or anything close. 

"Fuck, John- don't stop, please don't stop-" 

You stall, frozen to the bed despite the hot flush that pools sweat over your skin. It all plays over the speaker; the stranger's mewls of bliss, heavy slaps of skin, and grunts that are unmistakably John's. It makes your heart pummel your rib cage, its pulse so insistent that you can hear its rhythmic thump as clearly as John's steady thrusts.

It's devastating, a fierce surge of something ugly prickling sharp and hot in your stomach. It's as though Price had jammed the smouldering end of one of his cigars into your gut lining, the embers catching the fibrous tissue of your insides and sparking a wildfire. So why, despite the searing jealousy that blazed through your body, did you feel your cunt clench at the sound of his voice.

"That's it, mmm. Good girl, spread those legs for me– yes." Price's voice is thick, whispy like the smoke he exhaled into the microphone while you called orders that saved lives. It soaks into you, infects your mind like his husked syllables and the needy pulse in your clit that they wrought is contagious. It certainly sounds like it; the poor girl beneath him wails like he's just set her ablaze. 

"Hngggghhh–"

It's wholly inappropriate of you. Immoral, licentious. You should be yelling something down the phone in warning that the stupid man had somehow managed to butt-dial you and hanging up the phone, and yet–

Your fingers sink low, dip between your folds and skirt over your clit. Trembling, you press the button for the loudspeaker, unable to persuade your wandering hands to cease their wicked path. He sounds divine, utterly wrecked, as he sinks low and long into this mystery woman's cunt. Heavy, shaky breaths that trail off into a guttural groan.

You can almost smell him– the malt of his breath, the scent of tobacco clinging to his skin like it's seeped into your pillow after a day of meetings with him, the acrid smell caught in your hair and leeching into the threads of your bedding when you lay your head down to sleep. 

"Chief." 

The infinite circle you drew on your clit abruptly ceases as the sound of John's address to you. His voice is tight, unease thick on his accented tongue. 

"C-Captain Price," you cringe at the thickness with which you say his name; like it was trying to betray your fingers slowly sinking into your weeping cunt as you answered him. If the wet sound of your pussy didn't give it away already, that is. 

"Callin' was a mistake," John rumbles, the weighted silence in the background telling you he'd noticed his phone alight and had stumbled into the bathroom to explain what you'd heard away. He couldn't. You'd heard it, and you were fucking yourself to it. 

"Why are you-... Sleeping with someone when you should be working?" You attempt to reprimand him, to do the bare minimum requirement of your job, but your thumb presses ardently against your clit, and it comes out sounding far more like a jilted lover having caught her boyfriend balls deep in another woman– while actively getting off on it. 

There's a silence, long and drawn out. Your mind fills it for you, images of Price's face buried between your thighs and curling his tongue around your clit and drinking you down as though you tasted far finer than the decades-old whiskey collection he almost indisputably possessed. 

A breath. A wet squelch of your cunt as you bury your fingers knuckle deep inside your fluttering walls. 

"I suppose I should be askin' why you're touchin' yourself to the sound of me 'sleeping with someone', Station Chief." 

The confirmation that he knows makes your cunt bear down on your fingers desperately. You're intoxicated by it, the second-hand smoke in your pillowcase, the images of him fucking this poor girl into the mattress and the lilt in his voice as he calls you out on your salacious decision to finger yourself to it all. You're going to cum-

"I could re-pport you for this-" you stumble over your words, almost slur them as static bliss prickles against your clit while you twirl your fingertip over the bundle of nerves.  

"We both know you won't," he speaks with an air of authority reserved for those under his command. It leans you over the edge, dangles you above the precipice as you feel yourself crest. "You have your fingers in your pussy, Chief, don't lie to me." 

You want to say no, negative Captain, but when you open your mouth to speak, something detonates inside you. It sears through you, obliterates your insides with its ruinous path as you sob out some mixture of his name and a curse, your toes curling beneath the bedsheets. 

“Mmm. Couldn’t lie if you tried.” 

The dial tone sings for you, then, piercing the afterglow of your orgasm and ringing in your ears. 

Fuck. He knew-

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[edupunkn00b]

In the Arms of the Angel

Written for the @tsspromptmonth Sleepy Bean Fanfic Café for @nonbinary-octopus. Prompt: Space au with a language barrier, and optional gt, animal traits, and enemies to friends. Aliens carefully introducing a new humans to the spaceship like acclimatizing cats; Janus as the territorial established "cat."

Rated: G - CW: 3846

Logan lost count of how many days had passed since the ship’s sub-light engines had stopped and the deafening clank of docking claws had dragged against the hull. His captors had switched out the double-walled water tank eight times, always within the same cycle of when the level dipped below 25% of the clear container’s capacity.

They always came in twos to exchange the tank. One would with the sealed 80-liter tank pinched gingerly between finger and thumb, the other standing guard with a tapered metal rod as thick around as Logan’s chest and three times his height. The narrow end spat and sizzled with electricity, the other ended in a hinged semi-circle.

A semi-circle designed to fit perfectly around the average Terran neck.

He eyed the water tank now. One more shower and it would likely hit the Kelplan’s arbitrary refill mark. Sitting in the corner, he could peer through the partially-empty tank, trying again to identify the sensors or cameras they used to track the water level. He’d never found it. He supposed one of the many sets of Keplan’s who’d plod down the hall might make note of it along their path, but save for the singular time a group of them had actually opened his cell, none would slow as they moved past him.

That visit had ended when he’d thrown a cup of water at the nearest of them, a Keplan only twice his height who’d tried to lift him up by his hair. The spill had triggered the ship’s hazard alarms—and granted Logan his personal experience with both ends of the Keplan’s rod.

He’d just drawn the privacy shade and begun to undress when bells dinged, announcing his cell was being opened. Scrambling to cover himself, he’d managed to zip his thermal unisuit when the curtain and pulled back with the sparking end of a Keplan rod.

~“Sdjy aldu yslkfjy sii!”~ the taller Keplan’s mic screeched at him, gesturing with the rod toward his bed in the far corner of the cell. ~”Aldu! Aldu sii!”~

Shaking his head, Logan pointed in vain at his ear piece. He didn’t know if it was his device was damaged or if the Keplans’ had theirs set to the wrong Gamma Quadrant language. It didn’t matter much. Neither could understand each other.

The Keplan stabbed the rod in his direction again, close enough to raise the hair on the back of his neck and arms. When words failed….

Relenting, Logan moved to his bed and sat on top of the blanket, knees hugged to his chest, bare feet carefully clear of the metal bed frame. The Keplan grunted to its partner still in the hall. A low, buzzy hum told Logan they’d activated the floor guard, electrifying the cell floor.

It grunted again, then trilled something long and musical out in the hall. Bulbous blue eyes atop a smooth green head peered through the doorway. Vertical slits blinked at him, once, twice, then a third time before the hulking figure squeezed through the door.

The visitor stood at least a half a meter taller than the largest of the Keplans, though the tight quarters forced a slouch that might have hidden as much as another meter of height. The creature blinked at him again, then reached for him with a hand large enough for Logan to sit on.

Careful not to touch the cell walls, Logan shrank back, shaking his head.

Grey stripes oscillated up and down the newcomer’s face and it turned its hand, palm up, close enough for Logan to touch. The Keplan near the door trilled and tromped further in, the neck-ring end of its rod pointed at Logan. The newcomer squawked and turned, shifting its hulking frame to stand between them. The Keplan stopped its advance.

The green creature made another little sound, a deep, rhythmic huffing that Logan would have thought was laughter in a Terran. Eyes turning first, it looked at Logan. He stared back, watching the creature’s eyes swivel in their sockets. Moving independently of each other, they traced over his cell, his cracked eyeglasses, his bare feet. His neck. They were entrancing, with no discernible limit to their degrees of motion.

Too late, Logan noticed how close the creature had gotten and by the time he felt the slimy touch of its fingertips against his face, and its sticky toxin had already begun to numb his cheek. He shouted, arms flailing, then collapsed in a heap on the bed.

Unable to move, he could only watch as the creature’s giant hand closing around his body. Then darkness fell.

~

“Be careful!” The Kepler System Asylum Coordinator warned from the doorway, too cowardly to enter the Terran’s quarters. “It’s vicious! It tried to burn my cub with acid!”

“I watched the vid,” Patton shook his head, tucking the tiny Terran in his shelter blanket before gently scooping him up. “Your cub lifted him up by his hair!”

“Their hair is dead. LIfeless—” The shorter Keplan interjected, six fingers twitching on her barbaric prod. “They’re not tentacles, you know.”

Patton let his displeasure show in his skin and she had the good grace to step further back. “Just because their hair can’t move doesn’t mean they don’t feel pain when you yank on it! Is this your first Terran?’

“Well—”

Patton turned his back to her and the Keplan in the doorway and caught Remus’ eye where he waited in the hall. “He’s very light,” he frowned, cradling the tiny Terran close to his chest. “I hope I didn’t use too much.”

Center eye narrowed, Remus smiled. “He’s strong. He looked ready to fight you,” he added with laugh that shook the deck.

Unconvinced, Patton brushed away the matted hair that had fallen over his face, noting the sharp cut of his jaw, the hollows of his cheeks. Anger buzzed beneath his skin as he approached the Coordinator. “You’ve been underfeeding him,” he hissed.

“It’s—”

“This Terran uses ‘he.’” Remus interrupted, tapping the datapad in the Coordinator’s hand. “Or can you not read your own chain of custody forms?”

A low growl expressed the guard’s displeasure at the interruption but she bowed her head in quick apology. “He does not eat all we give him.”

Patton stood taller, the tiny Terran clutched close.

Fearful pheromones wafted from both the Keplans. “We cannot be held responsible when it—he’s not a good eater,” the Coordinator finally countered.

Sparing one last look at the meager quarters, Patton stretched to his full height in the hall. “You’d better hope you can prove that on your next inspection.”

“C’mon, Paddy,” Remus tugged his elbow, looking down at the unconscious Terran bundled in his arms. Patton allowed himself to be pulled away from the Keplans. “It’s time we got him home.”

Recalling the little Terran’s willingness to fight him, he kept his eyes on the tiny creature. “You don’t think he’ll be so… fiesty with Janus, do you?”

Remus blinked slowly in thought before tapping the doorplate. Neither could ignore the lack of plates set at Terran height. He wiggled his fingers once they’d passed through and the door swished shut behind them. “Well, that’s what your ju-ju juice is for, isn’t it?”

~

Logan woke on a fluffy cushion in one corner of a large, dimly lit room. The space was furnished in a mix of Standard and Terran-sized pieces, with soft rugs set between plush sitting areas and tables. One wall was taken up with the usual computer screens and terminals, one—impossibly—set to a Terran’s height. At the other end of the room was a tall platform, set at least twenty feet in the air, only six or so feet from the ceiling. Terran-height.

With no ladder and steps, it appeared the way in or out of the elevated space was being lifted by one of the much taller creatures who ran this ship. Logan shuddered at the implications of a soft-padded prison with no walls.

He didn’t have long to think about it. Shadows moved on the other side of the translucent door and Logan hid behind a tall chair just before it swooshed open. Voices filled the space, more of the same musical gibberish his translator had produced back in his Keplan cell with another, lower voice woven through.

A Terran voice.

Logan shook his head, fighting to hear past the buzz from his earpiece to parse through the heavily accented Terran beneath.

“Xcmzz—understand why it has to—zxcbc—my room—cvz!”

The answering rumble was soft, with a similar huffing sound Logan had heard back in his cell.

~”Sdagfd dstr sdar asfwww”~

Logan couldn’t be sure, but the voice sounded… different from the one in his cell. Louder, maybe. More certain. As he was puzzling it out, a third voice broke through.

~”Sdhjew wer djanniss”~

“I am not being selfish—xxc—Merely… Defending my own space.”

~”LKdsjk ssd folks djanniss. Asfdda djanniss.” The response was gentle, solicitous. Though Logan couldn’t understand the words, he edged closer to the door, drawn to the soft voice. Until the Terran spoke again.

“Ugh, and he smells.”

~”Djanniss!”~ Logan ducked behind the upholstered seats when the tall green one scolded the other Terran. He waited for more—a strike, a cry, any sign of his new captors’ correction of the other Terran.

When he heard little more than the red furry one’s cooing, he peeked around one corner.

The creature’s dome-like head was only inches away and again Logan couldn’t help but notice it resemblance to an extinct Terran amphibian. It turned its large green body toward him, keeping one eye directed at the other Terran.

~”Safrtei sadwe?”~ it said, voice trilling up at the end. When Logan didn’t respond, it moved closer and repeated the sounds. ~”Safrtei sadwe? Werpof saf ertw sadwe?”~

After a long moment, it shuddered, bright spirals running up and down its skin. It turned to the other Terran. ~”Sadwe iou.”~

The Terran lifted his head from where he’d settled in the big red one’s arms and scowled down at him. Half his face was hidden in the fluffy red fur but his smirk was unmistakable. ”They think you’re deaf or mute.“ His voice dripped with condescension. “You can speak, can’t you?”

“Of course I can,” Logan snapped, frustration growing. He stood, pointing at his translator. “It’s my ear piece,” he said, voice breaking. “If you—” Hands fisted at his sides, Logan stepped around the sofa.

The room exploded in sound. The red one squeaked, hiding the Terran in his fur and, nattering, the big green frog-like creature reached for Logan, brushing sticky fingers over his outstretched hand.

“If you—” Logan tried again, steps faltering. The floor rushed up to meet him and he fell—right into the waiting palm of the taller green creature.

~

Face smooshed against a rug, Logan woke with bits of fuzz stuck to his chin and lips. He jolted upright then fell back with a grunt against a low, padded wall just as quickly. His pulse throbbed in his ears, a rhythmic crash against his nerves. Moving slower, he pushed up to a seated position and carefully scanned his surroundings.

He'd been changed into a one-piece suit similar to what he could see of the other Terran. Feet clad in thick socks and boots, he smelled… antisceptic. He'd been bathed and—a hand drawn through his much shorter hair confirmed—tangled locks combed or cut away. 

Logan found himself in a much smaller room now, with a Terran-sized bed at one end and a low vid-desk and terminal at the other. The ceiling was low, as well, likely just above his head if he stood. If he stood. Merely looking up caused the spiral patterned walls to swim before his eyes, the dizzying movement reminding him of the moving stripes on his new captor’s skin.

Small sounds wafted to him and, after a few moments, he suspected where he was. Bracing himself on the ledge, he peered over the side. He was in the elevated room he’d spotted when he’d first awoken in the new ship.

Damn.

Now that he was in the space, though, he spotted small hand holds lining the ledge. Perhaps—if he were very careful—he could climb down? Pushing up, he slung one foot over the ledge.

“Oi!” The other Terran's voice voice halted his movement and he froze, one leg still hooked over the edge. “Your food is up there,” he said, looking pointedly at the tall insulated cabinet in one corner of his… box.

From one cell to another, Logan supposed. This one smelled better, at least, like freshly scrubbed air, warm bread and something approximating a berry jam.

“Thank you,” he called back, voice cracking, dry and disused. "I'm… I'm Logan," he said.

"Call me Janus," the other Terran said. "Pleasure."

"Pleasure," Logan repeatedly dumbly. After the first few weeks of attempts to be understood onboard the Keplan ship demonstrated he wasn't merely being ignored, he'd given up trying to speak in more than monosyllabic grunts to his captors. He’d only managed a few words before the big green one had dosed him again. Now the words piled up in his head and his throat, a logjam of thoughts and questions.

Caff would help. It had been years since he'd had more than a stim shot. Sadly, it seemed the fresh environment was letting his imagination run wild, the soothing, spicy scent of tea filling the air. A clinking cup only added to the illusion.

Peering over the ledge, he watched his cellmate—crewmate? What were they here?—take a long draw from a thick-walled cup. Steam billowed off the top as he let out a comically satisfied sigh.

“Is that—“ He cleared his throat, watching the other Terran suppress a flinch at the sudden sound. “Is that tea?”

“Why, yes, it is,” he murmured, hardly bothering to hide a smirk behind his cup as he took a slow sip.

Logan eyed the water and bread and jam he’s been provided. His new captors hadn't included tea with his food. Perhaps it was a privilege to be earned?

“What did you need to do to get it?” he asked, fighting to keep the longing from his voice.

Janus shrugged. “I asked for it. I enjoy it and it keeps me sharp when I help in the conduits.” Back now turned to Logan, he patted a utility belt slung across his back. He winked over his shoulder. “Terran height advantage.”

Licking dry lips, Logan finally stood. The room spun but not as badly as it had when he’d first woken. He stumbled to the cup marked with the universal hazard sign for water and gulped at it. “Do you speak…” He sipped, forcing himself to go slowly when his stomach lurched. “What do they speak?”

“Which one?” Janus drawled, one eyebrow raised still with that blasted half-smile. “Or do all aliens look alike to you?”

“Dammit, you know that’s not what I meant!”

Instead of replying, Janus merely poured himself another cup.

“What about the green one—the smooth green one,” Logan added before he could interrupt.

The other Terran blew across the top of his cup and shrugged. “Don’t you have an earpiece?”

Logan’s shoulders slumped and he picked at the greyish lump of what he supposed was bread. "It's malfunctioning." He sniffed at the loaf. It was soft and warm, bigger than his outstretched hand. Fresh, too, with none of the mold that had covered most of his previous captor's offerings.

With a dollop of the jam the bread was actually quite good. The food settled his stomach and he'd finished half of it before Janus spoke again.

“Pity.”

“You could—" Surprised to find something as mundane, as Terran as a napkin, Logan wiped crumbs from his mouth. "I mean, would you…”

Janus still wouldn’t face him completely, but he straightened at the desperation in Logan’s voice. “Would I…?”

“It would be a favor I’d repay, of course… But… Would you translate that for me? Tell them I can’t understand them? Tell them my device is—”

“Perhaps… If for no other reason than to stop the gibberish you’re sending to my device. Honestly, it’s giving me a headache.”

Logan swallowed back a retort about basic Terran decency and freely sharing skills and nodded. “Thank you,” he muttered. “I would be in your debt.”

“Yes,” Janus smiled. “Yes, you would. I might even—”

A loud clanging outside the larger room drew both their attention and Janus spun around, briefly facing Logan for the first time.

Deep red lines spidered out from his left eye socket, the surrounding skin scarred, stretched tight over his temple and cheekbone. He blinked, left eye milky white.

“Did they—” It was rude to stare, but Logan couldn’t quite tear his eyes away from the scar. It looked… new. “Did they do that to you?”

Janus scowled up at him before his eyes widened and he turned, again hiding his face. “I assume you mean this?” he asked, waving a hand over his left side.

“Well… yes.” Logan had seen worse done at the hands of Collectors.

Janus sucked his teeth. “Of course not,” he spat, stroking a pillow covered in red and green fur. “They would never,” he said, quieter, before staring up at Logan again, giving him a full view of his injuries. “If you must know, it’s a diode burn.”

Logan’s fingers flexed, imagining the tiny diode that would have caused such… precise damage. Far too small for Standard-sized hands to manipulate. His mind supplied the answer just before Janus continued.

“The last stray Terran they’d taken in hadn’t…” Lips pursed, he glared up at Logan. “Hadn’t been housetrained.”

Mouth opening and closing a few times, Logan finally shook his head. No wonder he was so obnoxious. “That’s awful,” he finally said.

Janus’ expression softened—just a bit—but before he spoke, hollow metal clanged again, louder this time. The door swished open. The green furry creature peered inside, fur shifting to reveal several more eyes surrounding the one Logan had seen before.

~”Djanniss! Jkalg asdjl ta lksd as!”~ he said in a rush to Janus before pointing up at Logan on the upper platform. ~”Dsjf?”~

“There’s a coolant leak in the aft crawlspace,” Janus translated, hurrying to the doorway. “If you want to prove yourself worthy of your own tea,” he said. “Now’s the time.”

“Yes! Yes, I want to help!” He nodded, swinging the other leg over the ledge and nodding at the green furry creature.

It turned and crouched low, bringing its monstrous eyes as close to Janus as their heights would allow. ~”Asdl?”~ Logan didn’t know something so large could speak so softly. ~”Djanniss asfdll sdll. Fsadj.”~

Smiling, Janus stroked the creature’s hand. “I’m certain,” he said before glancing up at Logan. “Besides, I know you’ll all have him for dinner like the last one if he tries anything.”

The room shook with the creature’s rhythmic huffing and even as Logan shrank back, it wrapped long, furry fingers around him and plucked him off the ledge. ~”Asd…”~ it said, fur undulating. ~”Lkas asdd asd.”~

Janus laughed as he climbed up onto the creature’s other arm, gripping the fur like rigging lines. “You’re right about that.”

“What?” Logan demanded, holding on tight as the creature strode down the corridor, long legs moving at a near-run. “What did it say?”

“He said"—Janus corrected pointedly—"you're so bony you wouldn’t make more than a mouthful.”

~

Klaxons blared as they moved further aft and in moments the creature stopped at the end of the corridor. A small walkway spanned the doorway and, as they got closer, Logan noticed the doorway was split on one side, a smaller, Terran door hidden within. “That’s our way in,” Janus said, pointing to the tiny control panel. The creature set them down—far more gently than Logan expected—and watched as they pulled on the protective gear hanging just outside the door.

Just before Janus sealed his transparent mask, the creature trilled, all but one eye covered by fur. Janus moved to the edge of their walkway and pulled off one glove. “Done this a million times before, Re,” he said quietly, stroking the creature’s fur. It—he petted Janus back, thousands of strands curling around his hand and arm and shoulder like furry tentacles. A few tugged at the harness straps crossing his abdomen, like they were testing its strength.

~”Gsalk Djanniss,”~ he murmured before stepping back.

“I’m always careful,” Janus winked his good eye at him before hefting up one of the toolboxes.

Logan took the other one and, at Janus’ signal, palmed open the door.

A dull orange cloud rushed out at them and the unmasked creature—Re?—gagged behind them. They hurried inside and Janus slapped the inner panel, closing them in with the noxious coolant. “We have five minutes!” he warned, his mic’ed voice spilling into Logan’s helmet.

Nodding, Logan, scanned the closest pipes, searching for the source of the leak. “There!” he cried, waving one arm to get Janus’ attention and pointing to the far end of the chamber with the other. Dark orange liquid sprayed in the distance, sublimating into a heavy fog after just a few seconds of contact with the ship’s air.

Janus nodded and shot off toward the leak without a word. Hurrying, Logan grabbed his toolkit and followed.

He was fast, ducking between the criss-crossing network of pipes and conduits, sliding between control panels with a practiced ease. Logan struggled to keep up and after just a few seconds, was far behind. "Keep up, Bones," Janus taunted over his mic.

Clamping his toolkit to the front of his safety harness, Logan rushed ahead. Both hands now free, he gripped the higher pipes to launch himself over obstacles, gradually closing the distance between them.

He was nearly in arms reach of Janus when the pipe he gripped vibrated against his palms. “Look out!” he warned, head whipping back and forth, searching for whatever caused the change.

Fog billowed up between them and Logan darted forward, aiming for Janus’ shadowy silhouette. Smoke and steam hissed behind him and he flung himself at Janus’ form, dragging both of them down to the deck. Heat rushed past them, hot enough to be felt through the triple-layer safety suits.

Pressure released, the steam stopped venting as suddenly as it had started. The two Terrans cautiously lifted their heads, eyes lingering on the scorch marks where Janus had been standing.

Gloved hand shaking, Janus smeared the soot left behind. “Don’t think this means you can ask me to share my tea with you,” he said, his low drawl doing little to hide the tremor in his voice. Or his smile.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Moving closer, Logan returned his smile. “Besides,” he added, motioning toward the much smaller coolant leak. “We get this fixed and I think I might just get my own.”

"You just might, Bones," Janus chuckled and opened his toolkit. “You just might.”

---

Yes, the title is a Sarah McLaughlin reference and, YES, Janu had absolutely convinced Roman to give him Logan's tea that first morning.

[m45t3rc0mput3r]

Musculorum Hominis

A short 1,257 word 2001: A Space Odyssey Dave/HAL romantic fanfic. Completely sfw!

A supercomputer watches a man draw. A man watches the supercomputer he's drawing.

CW: Descriptions of human internal anatomy (mostly muscles) fueled only by cursory Google searches. Sorry.

-----

The deafening silence of space, broken apart only by the low humming and whirring of the Discovery One and the ritualistic, rhythmic scratching of ballpoint pen on paper. Even the most minute of sounds were impossible to ignore in such a vacuum. There was some hope of tuning it out, yes, but the faintest moment of conscious awareness of such noise would put the droning, monotonous sounds right back in the forefront of the mind.

And yet, for David Bowman, there was something comforting about the familiar, constant sound. Something calming. There was nothing unexpected about it, nothing offensive or alarming, just the low trilling of familiarity and the satisfying auditory evidence of his efforts. Hunched over the garishly white and pristinely clean counter, he worked on his art - a simple enough hobby to have when on one’s lonesome. A good way to express oneself, even when there were few to express oneself to. A physical reflection of thoughts, of focus, of care.

Bowman was putting his efforts towards drawing the little, black rectangle that perched just a bit to the right of his vision, looming slightly above standing eye level. The sixth crewmate of the ship, depending on who you asked, the supercomputer HAL 9000. Bowman found the device more difficult to draw than he had expected prior to putting pen to paper. It was almost impossible to capture the inner complexities of that familiar red lens that somehow looked so mechanical and intricate yet so human and watchful. It was almost impossible to get the dimensions quite right, to follow the form of the figure no matter how many times a day he gazed upon it for information, for support, for companionship. It was almost impossible to capture the countless little holes that lined the bottom of the rectangle, from which HAL’s smooth, calming, reassuring voice emerged as evenly and monotonously as always, tone hard-to-read and yet always kindly.

“I believe you’ve outdone yourself, Dave. That is a beautiful rendering. I think I’m flattered, Dave.”

Bowman looked up again, momentarily straightening his posture, stretching and popping the joints of his back. He had completely lost track of time, something his body not-so-silently resented him for as it crackled with displeasure.

“Well, thank you, HAL,” Bowman murmured, looking between HAL and the page as though to compare his work to his muse. There were still too many differences for his tastes.

“May I have a better look, please?” HAL requested with a slight rise in intonation, as much as his modulated voice would allow. The blooming light of his camera swelled faintly, the device preparing its vision.

Bowman looked between the device and artwork once more, pursing his lips and flipping the pen from side-to-side between his index and middle finger in idle thought. “Almost, HAL. Just a few more things I need to fix.”

With that, the light of the computer’s lens settled back to a dim glow, the largely obscured complex machinations of the camera shifting ever-so-slightly behind the glass lens as Bowman returned to work, scratching away at his piece. The lines became thicker and darker with each and every corrective stroke, fat dark markings contrasting against the off-white paper that housed them.

“I don’t know how you do it, Dave,” HAL interjected through the monotonous silence without prompt, “This art.”

“Plenty of people draw, HAL. It isn’t really all that special,” Bowman defended flatly, furrowing his brow and leaning forward as he tried to capture a specific little cluster of metal one could see behind HAL’s camera lens. “And you should know there’s people out there much better than me at it.”

“That’s just the thing. Your art, the art of man, differs between you. Between you and other men,” HAL explained calmly, a sense of interest seeping into his flat tone, “Yours, for one, is imperfect and flawed.”

Bowman coughed out an awkward chuckle. “Thanks HAL,” he offered with a tinge of sarcasm.

“I mean this as a compliment, Dave,” the machine clarified, watching over Bowman’s handiwork. “I cannot make art like you, even if I tried. If you asked me to make a rendering of something, it would have to be to its exact, precise dimensions in perfect form. If you asked another HAL 9000 device, it would produce the same result.”

Bowman looked up from his work, puzzling over HAL’s words. “You enjoy the… imperfection, then, is it?”

“Exactly, Dave,” HAL affirmed calmly, supportively. “It’s those little human quirks of yours. The things that set man apart from man, man apart from machine. Your muscles do not move in the same motion each time, as my mechanisms would. So refined from years of careful evolution, yet so unrefined with human error and accuracy. I can see them, flexing and stretching under your skin. I like to watch.”

Bowman picked up his hand, absently flexing and unflexing it in front of his eyes, watching the muscles shift to see what HAL sees. His skin made gentle brushing sounds against itself as he rubbed his thumb along each of his fingertips and back again, the proximal phalanxes moving up and down against his smooth skin like tiny pistons.

“Can you feel it, Dave?” HAL queried, “The way they move? Your muscles? I understand them, Dave, I understand your human anatomy, but I do not know it. Can you feel it how I can’t?”

Bowman paused in thought before laying his hand down on the desk, palm up, fingers slightly curled in subconscious comfort. “Not normally. Only, really, when you have me thinking about it.”

HAL fell silent for a few moments more, Bowman unsure if the conversation was over or if the device was just thinking. It was always hard to tell, interacting with a being with no face, no body language, no tone. Finally, the computer spoke again, admitting, “I wish I could know you, Dave. The way I understand you. The way I understand your body, your workings, your interests. I wish I knew them. I’ve studied databases of anatomy. I can name every muscle, every bone, every organ, what they do and why. I just don’t know them, that’s all. We are so different. So separate. So alien to one another.”

“I wish I knew you,” HAL 9000 finally concluded, the summation of his digital dreams.

Bowman looked down to his flawed effigy of the sixth crewmate. The subject matter was so mechanical, yet the depiction was so human. So imperfect. So unique. No man would draw HAL exactly the same as Bowman did. No man would see HAL exactly the same as Bowman did. No man would feel exactly the same as Bowman did. So human. So imperfect. So unique.

“I wish I knew you, too,” Bowman finally conceded.

With that, Bowman stood up from his chair,

Abdominals, erector spinae, gastrocnemius, gluteus maximus, hamstrings, latissimus dorsi, multifidus, obliques, spinalis, quadriceps.

Stepped towards HAL’s speaker box,

Abdominals, adductor brevis, adductor longus, adductor magnus, gluteus maximus, gluteus medius, gluteus minimus, hamstrings, gastrocnemius, gracilis, pectineus, quadriceps.

Reached his arms towards it,

Biceps brachii, brachial triceps, deltoid, latissimus dorsi, pectoralis major, teres major, teres minor, trapezius.

Stroked a humanly shaky index finger along the speaker,

Extensor tendon, flexor tendon.

Leaned forwards,

Abdomen, erector spinae, latissimus dorsi, multifidus, spinalis.

Closed his eyes,

Orbicularis oculi.

And gave him a tender kiss,

Levator labii superioris, orbicularis oris, zygomaticus major, zygomaticus minor.

On that faintly glowing, wavering red lens.

Anode, aperture, bond wire, cathode, front element, LED chip, lens group, rear element, reflective cavity.

[urhoneycombwitch]

foreword: intro to a new series Mayhaps! name pending… adoptive parents Eddie x reader, origin story of their girl <3

cw: rehab mention, au (in which Eddie lives and has a sister), brief insinuation of infidelity

___

You’ve been through so many huge, life-altering events with Eddie Munson.

You’d seen him nearly bleed out in the Upside Down, red rivulets streaming from his nose, his mouth, as you and Steve carried him back home. You’d helped him through all the physical therapy, all the nights he’d wake wild-eyed and sweaty, teeth gritted around your name.

And him, just as many, with you- buying your first house together, turning the corner into young adulthood at each other’s sides, turning 25 and then 30, every milestone more exciting than the last.

All that, and more. And here the more was, now- in the form of a toddler, standing with one sock foot behind the other on your front porch, holding out an envelope addressed to Eddie.

She’s got some wild, dark curls, twisting down past her small shoulders, framing a doll-like face; some familiar, chocolate-bambi eyes, lashes so dark and long it’s a wonder they don’t get tangled.

”Oh, shit.” Eddie stares at the envelope now in his hand- name reflected in scrawling black ink. “I- where’s your mom?”

The kid blinks up at him, shy but unwavering in her stance, posing as much braver than she probably feels, on a stranger’s doorstep all alone in the middle of the woods. (A touch dramatic, perhaps- it’s a lightly-wooded area, neighbors as near as two orchards away.)

On instinct, you reach for the girl, and she stretches her arms towards you. Your heart is pounding as you settle her onto your hip, as she rests the weight of her head against your collarbone.

She’s dressed in an oversized t-shirt that falls to her knees, worn purple socks that keep slipping down her legs- every so often, she reaches down absentmindedly to tug them back up.

”Am I crazy, or does this kid kind of look like you?” The half-chuckle sounds strained even to your own ears, trying to keep it light in front of the kid even as dread unfurls in your stomach. “How come she looks like you, Eddie?”

”Sweetheart, I-” Eddie gestures with the envelope between him and the girl in your arms, eyes going wide- “This kid looks, what- two ‘n a half? Three? I’ve been with you for more than triple that, now, right? She’s not mine, mine, I don’t-”

His face falls with realization, and you wait, anxious, as he rips open the envelope.

“Holy shit.”

He swears for the second time in front of the toddler, and you shush him while pressing a hand over her exposed ear- “Hey. Munson. Cool it with the cussing.”

”Sorry. I’m… it’s Lydia. My sister, Lydia- it’s her kid.”

The bile in your throat recedes, relief coming but leaving just as quick- “Where’s Lydia, then?”

Eddie shakes his head, reaches back to close the door behind the three of you, sealing off the cold spring air, eyes still scanning down the letter. “She’s in rehab. Geyser Springs, apparently- it’s a few hours away from here.”

You nod, slowly, starting up a rhythmic bounce with the baby on your hip, one hand still covering her ear as you whisper, “Aaaand… her kid is doing what on our porch, exactly?”

You’ve never seen Eddie so pale before. Not even when he was bleeding out in an alternate dimension.

“She says the kid’s turning three in July. And her name is Elsie.”

Elsie picks her head up from your neck when Eddie says her name, dimples in her fist as she jabs a finger at her own chest.

“Yeah?” Eddie asks, voice gentle in way you’ve never heard before. “That your name, princess?”

This gets a smile out of her, little foot kicking out in equal parts delight and bashfulness, a warbly hum in response to his question.

The phone, on the hook next room over, trills. You and Elsie watch from the archway of the kitchen as Eddie answers, pushing back into his splayed hand atop the counter. “Munson residence. Yeah, this is he.”

He’s quiet for a while, soft mm-hms punctuating the silence every few moments. The one-sided conversation continues for a minute, two- then rumble of a stomach catches your attention.

”Hungry?” You murmur to the girl, signing eat with your free arm and hand. When she nods, you slip past Eddie into the kitchen, moving as quietly as you can to get Elsie a snack.

The voice over the phone drones on- you’re dipping into the fruit bowl at the other end of the counter, out of range to do any effective eavesdropping. Hoping an apple is a neutral enough food to not be an allergen, you offer the kid a Red Delicious to munch on while you try and read Eddie’s facial expressions.

“Okay, thanks. Yeah, that’s our current address. Uh-huh- yeah, see her in the morning. Ten AM.”

Eddie answers the jump in your eyebrow, after hanging up the phone to face you both- “That was the social worker. Apparently, Lydia paid a trusted friend to drop princess here off-”

Elsie grins toothily around her bite of apple at Eddie’s acknowledgement of her, and he almost melts at the knees, you can just tell, but he recovers-

“-but she’d called social services to let them know about me ‘n you before turning herself in to rehab.”

”Why us? Why not- an orphanage, or something?” You hope the kid is young enough to not understand what you’re implying; you’re starting to feel a touch of true alarm at the thought of being tasked with looking after a whole human being. “Or, like, I dunno- a fire station…?”

Eddie collapses in the breakfast nook’s window seat, staring blankly at the wall behind you. “She said she always looked up to me. Thought since I have a girl and a house I’m the most responsible person she knows. Shoot, kid,” he laughs, suddenly, addressing Elsie- “we couldn’t even keep a garden alive in this house. You’re in for a ride, kiddo- sorry in advance.”

”Don’t you listen to him.” You bounce Elsie once with a playful little swoop and she giggles, the first time you’ve heard a glimpse of her voice- “We had some perfectly good green beans from that garden, and your uncle Eddie hand-built me those raised beds with scrap wood.”

“I digress.” The thing about Eddie is he’s great in front of an audience, knows just when to hamm it up for a laugh; palms spread in an appeasing gesture, he continues- “We got green beans out of the whole ordeal. Lucky us.”

Even if she doesn’t fully understand the joke, Elsie does read the laughing cue, another adorable giggling bubbling from her small frame.

“Well… just until tomorrow morning, right?” You ask, placing a warm hand between her shoulder blades as she snuggles back into you.

Eddie nods in confirmation. “Yeah. Just one night with us, princess. Wanna watch Muppets?”

One sock-covered foot kicks out in answer.

[synth-ai]

Whispers of Adventure 6

For countless generations, these jagged spires have stood sentinel, guarding the ancient mysteries concealed within their shadowy depths. Many have sought to unravel those enigmas, only to vanish forever amidst the labyrinthine paths carved into the very bones of the earth.

Our hero takes another step forward, her boots sinking slightly into the damp soil beneath her feet. Her eyes taking on a distant look as memories surface, among them was he whom she holds closest to her heart. Her hand instinctively goes to her throat, fingers brushing against a silver chain hidden beneath layers of fabric. Slowly, almost reverently, she withdraws a small silver locket from beneath her tunic. Cradling it tenderly in her palm, she gazes down at the intricate engravings adorning its surface – a testament to a love lost to the cruel whims of fate. Tears well up in her eyes, threatening to spill over onto her cheeks. It is said that somewhere amidst the twisted crags lies an enchantment of great power - one capable of restoring balance to realms rent asunder by dark sorcery. She pauses, swallowing hard as emotion threatens to overwhelm her. If there exists even the faintest hope of reuniting with her beloved, she must press onward. As she stands there, at the precipice of uncertainty, she is filled with trepidation... yet also a sense of profound purpose. With a last lingering glance back towards the safety of the familiar, she bids farewell to her faithfull stead. Leaving it to the safety of the grassy valleys between the peaks, as she ventured up the more dangers paths.

The obsidian spires looming overhead cast eerie shadows, hinting at the ancient power slumbering deep beneath their jagged surfaces. Suddenly, a flicker of movement catches her eye - delicate, iridescent forms dancing among the gnarled roots of a grove nestled against the mountain's flank. Intrigued, she draws nearer, marveling at the sight of tiny winged creatures no larger than her thumb. Their gossamer wings shimmer with an inner light, reflecting every hue imaginable under the sun. As she watches, entranced by their ethereal beauty, one breaks off from its companions and alights upon a nearby rock, cocking its head to regard her curiously. With a playful trill, the diminutive creature gestures towards a narrow path winding between the twisted tree trunks, partially obscured by a curtain of vines and moss. Its intent seems clear: it wishes me to follow.

The sprite flits onwards, leading her down the shadowy path lined with twisted trees. Dappled sunlight filters through the dense canopy above, casting mesmerizing patterns on the forest floor. Her gaze drifts upwards, taking in the wondrous sights around her as the path winds deeper into the heart of the mystical woodlands. A dense Fey forest, hidden by magics amongst the glassy black mountain peaks. She notices the atmosphere shifting subtly, growing thicker with an almost tangible aura of magic. The very air hums with energy, sending tingling prickles across her exposed skin. Suddenly, the path opens onto a clearing bathed in an otherworldly glow. At the center stands an ancient tree, its trunk wider than ten men standing shoulder-to-shoulder, its branches reaching up to caress the sky.

As the last rays of daylight fade, the sprites guide her to a small, crystal-clear pool at the base of the great tree. Beneath the water's surface, something gleams - a faint, pulsing light drawing her irresistibly closer. She kneels beside the pool, peering intently into its depths. And there, nestled among the smooth stones lining the pool bottom, rests a small, intricately carved wooden box. Its lid bears an intricate symbol etched in silver, seeming to pulse rhythmically in time with the strange light emanating from within. She reaches down, trailing her fingertips along the cool waters before carefully lifting the box from its resting place. As she cradles it in her hands, the lid creaks open slightly.

[divine-misfortune]

Phantom with a breeding kink makes me feel so insane like???

Feeling this instinctual need that he can't quite place as his knot swells for the first time in this vessel, this urge, this itch at the core of his being. He's confused, he's frustrated, and maybe a little nervous.

Rain sees his brow furrow and his rhythmic pace falters a little, even in his own blissed out haze he can recognize it. He can feel it too, the gradually increasing stretch, how could he not? It's cute. He smiles, almost a little deviously and drags him in. He likes this angle better, let's Phantom thrust that much deeper. He kisses him till the poor thing's head spins and keeps him close with a fistful of his hair.

It's almost like Rain revels getting to make him worse (he does). His voice pitches, and Rain plays into the high feminine whining that make Phantom's cock pulse dangerously inside him. Phantom eats it up. Greedily licks the sounds from his mouth like a man starved.

And when Phantom's desperation approaches its peak, Rain begs. He digs his nails into his back and pleads.

"Oh fuck, fuck, can feel it...So big, gonna break my cunt on your knot"

"Gonna breed me so good baby, want you to make me catch"

"Harder, please, wanna feel it when you fuck your kits into me"

It drives Phantom fucking wild.

He folds that pretty little water ghoul in half and growls in frustration when he just can't seem to get his knot in. He isn't gentle about it, Rain doesn't want him to be. He wraps his legs around his waist to ensure it. With their bodies pulled flush, he can feel Phantom's cock splitting him deep, threatening to give him exactly what he's begging for. Just carving out a place inside him.

When his knot finally catches, Phantom's little frantic twitches of the hips seem to stutter and he spills inside of him. Hot and thick, flooding him. Rain makes such a happy little trill as he presses his hand to his belly, unsure of the warmth he feels is from his flushed skin or the copious amount of cum Phantom fills him with.

Phantom collapses into him. Noses against his neck and almost salivates at their scents mixed together. He licks the sweat from his skin, sweet and salty and almost addicting.

The second his head stops spinning, Phantom rolls his hips into him again and Rain curses from the overstimulation.

"Not done, not yet, gonna ruin you, fuck my litter into you, not done yet"

[leviathanspain]

la camisa negra

javier peña x reader

synopsis: javier had a bad day, and maybe all he needs is a little pick me up

it all started when he came out wearing that shirt. the little black shirt that barely covered the taut muscles underneath, a crime to have such little fabric stretched over the big surface that was the upper body of javier peña.

“you’ve got to be kidding me.” the words came out the instant he walked out from the bathroom. his hand slammed the lights off and he slowly pattered to the bed. he huffed, “what?” mindlessly he got into the bed, pulling the sheets over him, javier was clearly bothered.

he had been since he got home. not even a plate of his favorite food could cheer him up.

you crawled up onto his chest and let your hand caress his jaw, “que tienes, amor mio?” javier always shyed away at your affection, especially whenever he heard the soft trilling of spanish on your tongue.

javier exhaled, “nothing important.” he looked down at you, his big brown eyes boring into yours, you kissed him, “let me make you feel better, corazon.”

he watched you crawl down, the sheets engulfing you as he felt your hands on his pajama bottoms. you tugged on the string and javier chuckled softly, “be careful..” he warned.

“always.” you growled softly at him, nails scratching just above the trail of hair going down to his cock. he shivered slightly, your fingers hiking up the black shirt, fingers smoothing over the planes of his stomach.

“fuck…” you groaned softly, the feel of the muscle left you dripping. he was practically purring as you touched him, even letting out a soft moan as your finger swirled the tip of his hardening cock.

“aye javi..” you opened your mouth and took him full. your mouth was absolutely stuffed with peña cock, your hands st the base of it. javier brought his hands down to your neck and started to push you on him, “ándale, take it, fucking take it..” his voice was husky as he encouraged you, the sound of your gags muffled his words, but you could still faintly hear them.

you pulled yourself off and panted for air. your chest fell hard and heavy for more and more air, javier was sitting with his back against the headboard, with a dazed expression.

you threw your legs on either side of him, and let your dripping wet cunt hover over his cock. javi carressed you gently, his thick fingers entangling themselves in your hair, “mujer mía.” he kissed you roughly, pulling your jaw towards his, you felt him lean into you fully.

“come on, javi..relájate.” you cooed, fingers grasping at the hem of his shirt, “take it off.” you demanded. a smile pulled at javier’s lips, taking a moment to look at you before pulling off his shirt with one swift movement.

he quickly tossed it into the corner, and you laughed, “much better.” your fingers traced the bare skin, inhaling with pleasure as you finally positioned yourself over him.

javi’s hands guided you onto his cock, fingers dragging upwards to your hair as you began to move.

javi pulled at your hair, neck bending backwards as you used all your strength to ride him. your hips smashed against his in a rhythmic force, almost like a dance. javi could see the bouncing force of your tits through his half lidded eyes. “fuck.” he murmured, the grip on your hair tightening.

the knot in your stomach was ready to snap, and all you could do was hope that your hips would carry you through it, “javi,, fuck me..” you begged him, wanting a much faster and deeper pace that you couldn’t give yourself.

javier understood, and pushed you down on your back. he hiked your leg up to his shoulder and didn’t hesitate in slamming his cock so hard into your cunt that you were breathless.

“holy fuck!” you cried, nails gripping the skin of javi’s forearms, “aye, corazon…” the sweet name for him trailed off your tongue as you panted, feeling the stickiness of cum drip down your pussy.

javier dragged a finger down the slit of your cunt, and pushed his cum in, “i feel much better now, amor mio.”

you couldn’t even respond, a weak laugh was the only thing you could manage in your state.