#sea dog's sway

[omgeto]

☆ R U GONNA STAY THE NIGHT? — fratboy!GETO SUGURU

summary:geto suguru, 'top dog' on campus, is used to ploughing through all the ditzy little freshmen without any concern for their feelings. but now his biggest challenge, is you, and it's not getting you in his bed, its getting you to stay in it.

wc: 4k (look guys I did it)

cw: afab!reader, all types of fucking, masturbation, you ride his dick, you ride his face, he gives you like two spanks, he's kinda whiny but then at the same time not. you both think you're the boss of this situationship and you are both wrong. MDNI slight angst if you squint, or maybe angst angst idk

an: first fic in 10 days, is this what you call a comeback? idk but I hope you enjoy whatever this is I TRIED OKAY I TRIED! Also thanks bae @kazushawty for betaing some and bullying me in our chats

sleeping with a frat bro wasn’t on your to do list during your freshman year, but there is something about geto suguru that you just can’t shake. you thought that you were one of many, after hearing all the rumours about him that spread throughout campus and that didn’t phase you as long as he could get you off, you didn’t care what else he did. but little did you know he is all about you and he is finally gonna let that be known tonight.

"excuse me," a whisper brushes against your ear, a deep, low hum that sends shivers down your spine. hands press lightly on your waist, shifting you ever so slightly. you glance over your shoulder, eyebrows furrowing when you realise there is more than enough room for the person to pass. it's geto suguru, and you shoot him a withering glare.

"what's the problem?" he asks, a low chuckle escaping his lips as he observes the hard look you're giving him. but instead of answering, you simply turn away, refusing to acknowledge his presence.

geto, undeterred by your cold response, takes a step closer. his presence is magnetic, and you can feel the heat of his body inches from yours. the music pulses around you, the crowd dancing and laughing, but all you can focus on is him.

“y’know me” he leans in, his breath warm against your ear, and his voice drops to a seductive murmur. "can’t resist the opportunity to get a little closer to you."

“oh fuck off geto,” you hiss, but your words had no real bite, you move your elbow to try and deter him but his stance remains fixed behind you.

“you’re a hard woman to please,” he sighs, with mock sadness, “but as frat president i can’t have one of my party guest having a bad time at one of my parties can i?”

“maybe you just aren’t trying hard enough,” you retort quickly, finally turning around to face him head on, a teasing smirk appearing on your face, “what would you know about pleasing me?”

“i think we both know what i know about pleasing you,” he offers his hand out, “c’mon let me show you a good time.” you hesitate, seeing the spark in his eyes and he puts his hand out further, urging you to take it. you close your eyes swiftly, taking a deep breath before letting him drag you into the crowd of people.

geto hand remains a reassuring hold as he drags you through the sea of intoxicated dancers. he pulls you into him, his dick already bricked up as brings it to your ass, your turn your head and raise your eyebrow, and he flashes a smile in return his hands sliding down to hold your hips as he starts to gyrate against you. you quickly match his pace, throwing back your ass, your hips swaying in time with geto and the music.

he places his hand at the small of your back, forcing you to bend slightly, as he widens his stance and forces his body into your further. your mouth parts, at the contact, and you smile at the feeling — geto suguru actually has rhythm. he’s quick to pull you up, peppering light kisses against your face as he grinds into you.

his arm hooks around your neck in a gentle but firm hold, as he bends down to your ear, his lips whispering words only meant for you, as he continues to rub his clothed dick in the crook of your ass. geto manoeuvres his hands up and down your body, his fingers teasingly toying with your tits, as he explores all you, right on the dance floor.

you could feel the heat between your legs grow, so you pull away from geto turning around to face him, his hands coming down to hold you close to him as if he was afraid you'd run away. “not bad huh?” he asks, knowing that you feel the exact same as he does, you both didn’t even notice all the eyes on you, as the crowd of partygoers just witnessed you almost fuck on the dance floor.

before you could even respond, you could feel the wind being knocked out of you as a broad chest collides right into you. geto keeps you upright, so you don’t fall on your ass and places you behind him as he steps to the person responsible for almost knocking you over. 

as the fog of the moment clears, you see the cause of the commotion—gojo satoru, geto's best friend, is in a blissful state of drunkenness, a wide grin plastered across his face.

"heeeeyy, suguru," gojo greets loudly, his bleary eyes darting between the two of you. "is this you, yeah?" his words slur slightly, but it's clear he's trying to figure out the situation. geto doesn't respond verbally, but the subtle smirk on his face and the bashful look on yours speak volumes. "you know what we could do to make this night greater," gojo announces with an exaggerated flourish.

geto sighs, on a usual day he’s all up for entertaining his friend but tonight all he wants to do is entertain you. “what is it satoru?”

“shots!” he cheers, looking around the room to be completely ignored, in too much of a drunken state to even notice, “c’mon sugu, you love shots, you can even bring this pretty little thing you’ve got with you.” he finishes, gojo’s eyes linger on you a little too long as he sizes you up, his bottom lip pulling into his teeth and all you could do is raise your eyebrows up at him, puzzled.

“bro,” geto commands, and gojo’s eyes snap to his friends as he raises his hand in mock surrender, “just take us to the fucking shots.” the subtle tension between the two guys didn't go unnoticed by you, but you brush it off, chalking it up to frat boys being frat boys. 

it was soon forgotten anyways, with you sprawled across a table of the frat house, drunken partygoers jeering at you as your shirt is half pulled up just stopping at your breast and gojo is cheering as he’s sprinkles salt on you and lines your stomach with shots.

“care to do the honours,” gojo taunts geto as he finishes pouring the final shot. geto sends a glare his way ignoring him as he makes his way over to you, giving you a long stripe of his tongue down your stomach, before quickly downing all the shots on your stomach, his eyes stuck on you. gojo offers him a lime, which he snatches straight out of his hands. gojo tuts, shaking his head, “someones touchy.” and just to add fuel to the fire, gojo has his own lick at your stomach, more slower and sensual then geto’s was, and he pours himself a shot, giving you a wink as he drinks it.

“what the fuck man?” geto interrogates, stepping to his friend, slightly wobbling as the shots he just backed in swift succession, hit him quickly.

“what’s wrong suguru?” gojo teases with a playful grin, he wasn’t dumb he knew who you were before he even saw you, geto talks about you all the time. so when gojo finally saw you with him, with geto still downplaying how he hard he actually fucks with you, he couldn’t help but fuck with his friend a bit, “you jealous?”

“don’t even start with me ‘toru,” geto warns, and you begin to sit up with an eye roll, you couldn’t deny you were a bit tipsy, but no amount of alcohol could make you bear to see this lame exchange of fray boy bravado. 

“oh whats your issue man,” gojo brushes him off, going to pour himself another drink, but geto is hot on his tails. “bro we literally always share the hot freshmen, what makes her any different.”

“because she just is,” geto snaps, in an attempt of a hush tone but you hear him loud and clear.

“i think i’m going to go,” you say out loud, and geto hears you pausing, slightly panicked. forgetting all about gojo his focus back onto you.

“no no, you don’t have to leave, we were having a good time right?” he stammers, rushing to persuade you stay. you couldn’t deny that you were having a good time, geto suguru is actually fun to be around, and the way he was staring at you, begging for you just stay with him, hits you right in your core. he pulls you close to him as he murmurs to you, “i know you felt what i felt when we were dancing, just give me a chance and like i said earlier i could really show you a good time. if you let me.”

geto just wanted to get you alone, he could see that the heavy noise of the club was clearly not your vibe, but he couldn’t let you leave just yet. he offers out his hand just like he did at the start of the party, but this time you didn’t hesitate to take it. letting him cart you off upstairs as you both ignore that wolf whistles coming from gojo, “you better get some suguru, go and get some for the both of us!”

when you get up into geto’s room, you try to disregard the slew of people strung out in different rooms across the house. but geto was confident, he had no reason not to be with you in his arms, wanting him just as badly as he wants you.

“c’mere,” he beckons you, as he sits down, patting down his thigh. you happily skip over to him, perching yourself right on his thigh, your arms hooking around his neck, your hands clasping together, locking him in. you face inches closer to his, your lips part ready to taste him but he halts you, smirking as he says “you're cute, y’know that right?”

“how so?” you ask, entertaining him with an eye roll.

“you always sit in class with me, trying to act all bothered by my presence,” he comments, “but turns out all it takes is for you to come to one of my parties, and for you to dance with me, to get you cumming in my lap… literally.”

“are we gonna fuck?” you say bluntly, catching him off guard, “or are you gonna continue to talk nonsense.” even though he wasn’t talking nonsense, he was right, tonight really did change your perspective on geto. but you weren’t dumb he was the president of the frat, and his best friend gojo’s comments earlier only further cemented the type of people frat guys are.

you press your lips against his before he has a chance to respond, your tongue darting in his mouth as he moulds into you. one of his hands works its way down your body whilst the other stays caressing your face. you groan against him, driving yourself against his thigh, your clothed cunt, already dripping just from the friction alone. 

“you getting off on my thigh yeah?” he teases between kisses, and you nod, desperately pushing yourself into him. he hikes you up further, his lips still moving in tandem with yours, and he spreads you into lap so you could properly straddle him. you both had quick movements, both of you are needy and wanting of the other. geto’s hands slide down your back and keep your ass in a firm hold as you begin to rock against him.

geto pulls away from you, his lips already plump from the way you’ve been gnawing at them. you pout at the removal but he laughs, “patience, princess.” but you ignore him your hands darting into his pants, ready to free his dick and land it, but he places his hand on your wrist, his eyebrows raising in warning, “what did i just say?”

“to take out your dick and sit on it right?” you shrug coyly, chuckling at your joke, and he smiles, but the warning in his eyes doesn’t leave.

“strip,” he commands, the single word having you folding like a chair, as you fling off your clothes leaving you in your underwear. he pulls you by the waistband of you panties, ripping them off you in one swift motion, biting his lip as he’s met with your wet pussy. “she’s so pretty,” he comments, flicking at your clit and as he slides his finger down your slit, just about to enter he pauses, putting his finger in his mouth instead of in you. he swirls it around his tongue, “sweet.”

“suguru,” you whine, at his teasing, “this isn’t funny.”

“play with yourself,” he says, disregarding whatever you were saying.

“what happened to you giving me a good time,” you argue.

“c’mon show me how bad you want it,” he persuades with a grin, leaning back, waiting for you to put on a show for him, “i’ll make it worth your while.”

despite everything, you could just never tell geto, no. it’s the way he looks at you, the way he talks to you, how he carries himself. with how he is just leaning back in his bed, his eyes low in anticipation as he waits for you to pleasure yourself for him, exciting you to do whatever he wants.

your hand works its way down to your pussy, your thumb landing on your clit rubbing against it as your finger part your sobbing cunt, letting geto see how wet you really are for him. “f-fuck,” you moan out, as you push your fingers inside of you, your eyes clenching shut at the contact.

“oi,” geto calls out to you, your eyes opening and landing on him, “keep your eyes on me. okay?” and you nod, as you quicken your pace, watching as geto palms his dick at your performance.

“this is boring,” you complain as you continue to rub at your pussy, trying your best to reach your climax on your own, “need your fingers, need your di—”

“keep going,” he orders, smirking, he could tell by the way your stance weakens and your legs tremble, that you were close. you were predictable and even though you were hungry for his dick, he knew you’d be able to cum with just your fingers and his eyes on you. call him cocky, but the influence he had over you was unmatched.

you roll your eyes at him, but you listen, continuing to finger yourself as he told you. your mouth parts, and you exhale feeling yourself about to cum, you push your digits in you harder, and your eyes stay fixated on geto and he shrugs his shoulders letting you do as you please—for once. you moan loudly as you cum all over your fingers, releasing hard as you spill out all down your thighs.

“see wasn’t so hard was it?” he taunts, pulling out his dick that has been hard from the moment he saw you at the party. he gives it a few strokes, pre cum oozing from the tip and you hungrily pounce on him, your pussy still dripping with your cum as you hover over his dick. you pause before sliding down on him, hissing at the feeling of you stretching you wide. “fuck man,” he groans out as he feels you clench over him, “your shit’s so tight.”

you bounce up and down on him, as he thrusts up into you, his hips hitting yours in a hard flurry of repeated connections. you press your hands flat on his chest, as his hands stay cupping your ass, keeping you upright as he drills into you.

his pace is unmatched, as you try and keep up, grinding your pussy down on him, desperate to have him stuff you up even more. “sugu ‘ts too much, f-fuck you’re relentless.”

“c-cant help it,” he stammers, still maintaining his merciless strokes, his dick twitching inside of you, “your pussy is just too good, or should i say my pussy,” he finishes with a wink. 

“y-your pussy?” you retort, laughing at his seriousness.

“yeah it’s mine right?” he interrogates, sending a slap to your ass to prompt further confirmation, “tell me it’s mine.” you don’t respond, a teasing smile spreading across your face, as you stare down at him, still riding his dick. but geto pauses, halting your movements and he slightly eases you up off of his dick, “what was that?” he prompts.

“it’s yours,” you give in quickly, not even bothering to entertain it any further with how needy you are to cum, “of course it's yours.” satisfied, geto charges his dick back into you with no warning, and you immediately go back to pushing your ass down on him, spreading your legs wider to straddle him more, taking him in deeper.

“t-that’s all i needed to hear,” he stutters, feeling himself about to cum, so he gives you a few sloppy thrusts before easing you off of him, cumming all over your stomach. you're quick to follow, your cum spraying his sheets, as you slump over him, dripping down on his body. “i made sure to not cum in you this time, i know how angsty you get over that shi.”

“oh how gentlemanly of you,” you deadpan, “all gives love a stomach covered in salt and semen.”

“well what would you prefer? your pussy filled with my cum,” he taunts, smirking as you still, “i know i would.” you didn’t answer pulling your sticky body away from his, as you come down off of your high.

“are you gonna stay the night?” geto asks with a grin it was like clockwork, everytime you finish fucking he’d always ask the same question, never getting bored when you mutter the same tired words.

“you know i don’t sleep in frat houses suguru.”

he shrugs casually, propping himself up on his elbows and admiring your naked figure. "you fuck in them though," he remarks, as if that justified everything, "so what's the difference?"

rolling your eyes, as you begin to do the laborious task of trying to locate your underwear—geto always had the habit of throwing them across the room. "the difference is," you pause, looking over your shoulder at him, "I can wake up tomorrow in my own bed, feeling just a little less gross for even fucking you in the first place."

a mock expression of hurt crosses his face as he crawls up behind you on the bed, pressing his face into the crook of your neck. "oh, how you wound me, princess," he coos, his breath sending shivers down your spine, "just stay."

“no, i shouldn’t” you argue, letting out an exhale as his lips attach to your collarbone, sucking against your skin, pulling and nipping at it with his teeth. 

you try to distract yourself by putting on your bra but geto is quick to fling it off you, his mouth trailing down to your tits peppering kisses all over your nipples, murmuring “stay” between each kiss. 

he takes your boob into his mouth, sucking on its flesh as his other hand toys with the other, massaging your nipples with just enough roughness to have you writhing in his palms. your back arches involuntarily, your tits pushing further into his touch, aching to feel him further, “see,” he smirks as he toys with you, “you do wanna stay.”

“i won’t, if you keep talking” you warn, gritting your teeth as he pinches your nipples, rolling them between his fingers. “now c’mere, convince me on why i should stay,” you lift his head off your tits with your fingers, eyeing him down as he stares back at you with pure lust in his eyes. you press a kiss to his lips before steering his head down towards your pussy.

“since when do you run things?” he doesn’t budge, his eyebrows slightly raise as he chuckles.

“you’re the one that wants me to stay, no?” you counter, your eyes locked with his.

“well what i want is for you to come sit on my face and my head can stay sandwiched between your thighs, how about that?” his grin widens as your mouth parts, speechless. he tugs you by the arm close to the head of the bed, you climb up his body your pussy still wet from he fucked you before, leaking out your juices all over his chest. “so hop on girl, a man’s gotta eat,” he mutters impatiently, smacking your ass to urge you onto his lips.

he takes you in hungrily, his mouth enclosing on your pussy with such greed that he is practically drowning in your scent. he laps at your cunt, his tongue giving such long, deep strokes which have your hands pressing against the walls, grinding down on his face. 

geto grips and claws at your ass, he grins, his nose burying into your pussy as your thighs clench tighter around his head. “s-sshit suguru,” your hands slap against the wall as you squeal out, trying to grasp at something to keep you afloat, as the way geto is working your pussy and how his fingers dig into your ass cheeks, has you buckling over about to topple off of him. 

he hums against your pussy, the vibrations jolting right through you, having you moan even louder. his tongue darts against your clit, swirling at it vigorously, nipping at it lightly with his teeth. 

“sugu i—” you pant, trying to ease off of him, the pleasure getting too much for you, but his hands stroke both your thighs keeping them in place. “bout to cum sugu.”

you could hear him mumble something, you didn’t care what, but the two taps he gave to your thigh let you know you could release all over him. you cry out as you cum, feeling yourself spill out all over his face. geto continues to eat you up, drinking in everything he can take, his chin getting covered by what he couldn’t swallow.

 “you are way too good at that.” you gasp as you slowly come up off his face, your breathing still laboured.

“only the best for you princess,” he jests with his eyes half open, a blissful smile on his lips as his tongue swipes at the remains of you left on his face.

“yeah me and all the other freshmen you fuck,” you mutter, to yourself but he heard you loud and clear.

“what was that?” he urges, wanting you to repeat your claims. before you started fucking geto, you knew he was and what he was about and technically you didn’t care, you only wanted him for his mouth game—which proved to be very useful. but when he tries to sweet talk you you couldn’t help but be reminded of what kind of guy he is.

“i think you heard me,” you shrug, “i’m saying it to insult you or anything, i'm just telling the truth. you like to fuck everbody and everything.”

“wait? is this why you won’t stay the night?” he says, sitting up, staring you down. 

“you must be only a pretty face, if you thought otherwise,” you laugh at his shock.

“no it’s just i think its crazy that you just won’t stay,” he complains, glaring at you as you put back on your clothes, “we could get to know each other properly.”

“like we agreed when we first started messing around,” you cringe, pitying the pouty look on his face. “let’s just… keep this casual”

“but that was ages ago,” he tries to reason, “some may say you’re just using me for sex.”

“suguru we use each other for sex,” you respond quickly, you step towards him pressing a peck on his pouty lips, with a smirk on your face as you see his lips chasing yours as you pull away, “well i'm gonna go now, i’m sure i’ll see you at one of your many lame parties you and your people always throw. it’s been fun as always” geto raises his eyebrows in acknowledgement, blowing out a hard breath, as he watches you strut out of his bedroom.

“she’ll stay the night eventually.” he murmurs to himself, maybe it’s wishful thinking, but a guy can dream.

AN: she’s only gone and done it. but yeah how was it guys 🥺? There’s only two lines in this whole fic that I actually thought “damn I cooked here” if you guess the lines you win a reward. ALSO IDK WHY I WAS DROPPING HINTS AT SOME GOJO ON SOME MR STEAL UR GIRL TYPE SHIT but I just went with it. But geto is sooo sweet HE JUST WANTS U TO STAY and you don’t even fuckinnn stay 😭😭 looool aren’t u mean. Technically I wrote the fic backwards it was meant to start with the “r u gonna stay the night” AND then gojo and geto would have a a conversation about you AND the it would end w the party and u tucking but I wanted to keep if one continuous flow and ANYWAYS this an is becoming a diary entry so LMK UR THOUGHTS PLEASE CAUSE THIS HAD ME STRETCHED

[the-summ0ning]

Sleep Token HC: being in a relationship with vessel

Hello, I hope you like my final HC for Ves. Fluff elements with highly NSFW ideas. 🤠 I’m always open to HC requests as well 🤭

Vessel, vessel, vessel—where do we begin?

Vessel the bf that is so deeply profoundly in love with you

If he could he’d rip his heart out of his chest for you and just hand it to you, he would.

His love languages would be words of affirmation and physical touch

He often battles with icky thoughts of himself, and you’re his ever radiant light in his bleakest days, so he would go out of his way to make sure it was known

Notes everywhere around your house, even a month and half into tour, you keep finding them

Praises in your medicine cabinet, crumbled pieces of paper at the bottom of your bags bc he know you won’t find them right away. Little Sonnets on your desk or on the fridge just so you know how much you are loved by him

Once you stopped finding them around the house or in your things, he’d start sending flowers or treats with love notes attached. Just because gestures especially if the night before you told him what a long week it was and knew you were struggling

You have so many of these notes, post its, scraps of paper you’ve compiled them in a scrapbook/binder and it’s on your bookshelf now

Texts for when you wake up reminding you to take your meds/vitamins, and to keep up with your water intake—voice memos too

Honestly he’d send you voice memos all the time like it was your own little podcast

Having black paint smeared on you because he couldn’t keep his hands to himself

Or would want you to apply his body paint before a show. Squirming underneath your fingers as you apply it because of your featherlight touches, listening to his quiet hisses when you’d go too low and gentle

“We’re not going to make it out of this dressing room if you keep doing that, love.”

Vessel would love to be big spoon, having you tucked underneath him or your back against his chest. Tracing patterns on your arms, hips, and thighs

He always loomed around you, everyone knowing if you were there, he was somewhere lurking around 95% of the time. He was a quietly protective man.

Coming up when you were talking with friends at an event, a comforting squeeze to the nape of your neck and a drink to quietly check on you

Wearing one of his extra robes backstage. It was so big and light, perfect for the hot and humid venues, a great blanket tbh where you could use the hood to cover your face

There’s a folder in his phone dedicated with pictures of you in many spaces of the venues they played just sleeping with his robe over you

Also the amount of videos of you two just frolicking around backstage, helping him with dance moves whilst in his robe that dragged on the floor, nearly tripping on it, when you wore it because it was so long on you

You liked to go into the crowd during the shows, enjoying the atmosphere of fans. Vessel would get a kick out of that, and you two would make it like a game almost

Instantly being able to spot you in the crowd through the lights and smoke. Always looking in your direction to lowkey serenade you and do little inconspicuous moves directed for you. In return, you’d run your hands through up and down your body swaying your hips to his voice. His own little siren in the sea of people

He loved watching you jam tf out with the fans so careless in your own world dancing with everyone or receiving bracelets from the fellow concertgoers (he would panic slightly watching you try to go into the mosh pit every time tho, one time he actually had to send a member of the crew to discreetly retrieve you.)

I imagine vessel being codependent af, and the simplest of tasks you were always requested to tag along

groceries, pharmacy trips, picking up takeout—he needed his emotional support person. Bribing and rewarding you with little treats to lure you with him thinking you’d say no how could you he’d hit you with the puppy dog eyes I just know he’s master at that

Staying up or waking up to listen to his late night rambles/dreams/conspiracies tucked under his arm while sharing a joint or bottle of spirits

Or sitting beside him as he wrote song lyrics, quietly running them by you for your opinion. You just blinking slowly in awe with what his mind created unable to provide the input he wanted

I thinks it’s a mutual consensus among us: Vessel loves to bite. He can’t help his carnal primal urge to. He does it with his friends, you… Everyone had a mark from him at this point

I don’t imagine him being into quickies (unless he was absolutely throbbing and thirsting for you) this man would take his time. Setting the pace all during the day teasing you

He loved nuzzling his face in the crook of your neck, pressing kisses below your ear and whispering the filthiest things to get you flustered

“You look so good right now, I could take you right here.”

“I can’t wait to get you home and be deep inside you later, doll.” He would murmur, his hand squeezing your hip pulling you back into him feeling his already hardening length pressing in the soft flesh of your ass

Then when it finally happened, he goes at a nearly agonizing pace—he wanted to worship you. He didn’t like to fuck, he liked to make love.

intense and passionate, hips slowly rolling into you up til you were full of him. And he kept hitting that spot that made your eyes see stars and lulled to the back of your head.

He was not shy about how he felt, always moaning and praising you, but wasn’t too loud. Vocal fry as he quietly moaned about how good you made him feel

“You’re squeezing me so well,” rasping out, trying to look at where your bodies connected, resisting the urge to close his eyes

“Fuck, you look so pretty under me.”

He’s 100% a morning sex person

Not even letting either of you have a chance to get out of bed, one hand slipping down your front rubbing you softly while the other gripped your throat to turn your face so he could slowly kiss you—devouring your mouth with his—all in a blissed out half sleep stupor

Hehe, I woke up from my nap and chose violence horniness, sorry. Anyways thanks for the support and all the love on these 🫶🏻✨

[butteriish]

list of all the new things i’ve found in the new stardew valley 1.6 update (so far)

sea and river jelly

moss on trees (which drops when you hit them with an axe) (i’m not sure what it’s purpose is yet)

the bookseller + new festivals

you can now customise certain buildings (such as the pet bowl)

also you can have more than one pet bowl (potentially you can have more than one pet but i’m yet to test this myself)

hats on cats (and dogs)!!!! personal fav

the menu in robins workshop now tells you how many days things will take

new jojo mart letter background

new pop up that says “you have some things to sleep on” when you level up a new skill

new seeds (so far i have found carrot seeds and summer squash seeds). can be found from the ground from things that look like the worms where artifacts are but they have green at the top and they kinda have a swaying animation

multiplayer saves now can have up to 8 players

new pet options!!!

also new waterfalls around town that i don’t think were there before

when the mayo machine is finished as well as having a picture of the mayo floating above it it also has a little gold star if it’s gold star quality!!

also you can drink mayo (which i think everyone knows but just fun to include too)

baring in mind this is only after one day so there is probably a bunch of stuff that i haven’t seen yet but so far it’s been really fun and i’ve been having a blast with it!! also if there’s any stuff you guys found that i haven’t included i’d love to know!!

[mykneeshurt]

Hello! I was wondering what you think 141 & Alejandro, König & Rudy’s reactions be if their partner tried to get out of bed after a very spicy night & ended up falling/couldn’t walk?😳 Also yes I’m over 18😂

Of course!! My first ever head cannon! Apologies about Gaz and Rudy I don’t really read any fics on them, hence why they’d so short 🙈 I hope they’re ok! Hehe - I’ve tried to keep this Gender Neutral, if something needs changing tell me so I can fix it! ❤️

Price 🥃

He would be loving and attentive. Price would run you a warm bath, and as you soaked your aching body in the hot water he’d make you a strong cup of tea. 2 sugars.

You struggled walking to the bath, your knees wobbling, your thighs aching, small bruises littered you skin. He’d watch you as you walked to the bathroom, your hips swaying back and forth hypnotising him.

Price would then join you in the bath, he’d sit behind you, caressing your shoulders. Peppering your skin with light healing kisses. He’d check in on you, constantly. ‘You alright love?’ … ‘god, you took me so well’

He’d lean you back against his chest, kissing your forehead, whispering praises to you. He’d slowly work his way down to your aching core, massaging your inner thighs.

‘You feel so tense love. Let me help.’

Price would hand you your tea, letting you sip it slowly, savouring the taste as he caressed your chest. He’d plan the day for you, to take your mind off the ache, the pleasurable pain. Walk the dog in the country side, find a quiet tree he could kiss you against, before returning home where he could cook for you. Worship you.

Before starting all over again.

Ghost 💀

Riley would tease you, degrade you slightly, ‘couldn’t take my cock huh?’ … ‘pathetic.’ You knew he didn’t mean it, you got off of degradation from him.

He’d make small gestures to show he cares, breakfast in bed. A back massage. Firm slow kisses on your swollen lips from the night before. Caressing and squeezing your neck, something to distract you from the pleasurable pain you felt.

If you got out of bed your knees would be weak and wobbly, earning you your new pet name ‘Bambi.’ He’d throw you over his shoulder and slam you back on the bed. ‘Stay.’

He’d work you up, again. Making you want him despite the pain you felt from him fucking you the night before. You’d beg, plead and whimper for him take you again. You’d drag your nails along his bare muscular back, pleading for him to take you again.

He’d bruise your skin, holding himself back from fucking you again. He wanted you. Needed you. But he knew you needed to rest, heal, so he could have his way with you once more.

‘Careful love, sure you could take me again?’

Soap 🧼

Wee John, oh he would worry, worry he’d hurt you, but be low key proud at how well you took him. Deep, fast, hard.

‘You were so good for me hen.’ … ‘fuck you felt so good, so tight.’

He wouldn’t let you leave the bed, he’d keep you tucked into him as he cradled your face. Checking in on you constantly. Needing reassurance he didn’t hurt you too much, despite seeing you waddle to the toilet. Now that made him chuckle.

He’d whisper bad jokes to you to ease the burn you felt, he’d make you laugh to distract you. ‘Why did the beach blush? - because the sea-weed.’

He’d explore your body with his fingers, teasing you as he made his way to your aching centre. ‘Fuck off Johnny, it’s so sore.’ He’d secretly smirk to himself feeling somewhat proud, he did tell you he’d ruin you. And yet you didn’t believe him, till now.

Gaz 🇬🇧

Gaz would worship the ground you walked on for the entire day. All the chores? Done. All the cooking? He’s cooking what ever you want. Bath? Consider it run with essential oils, a glass of wine ready and your favourite candles.

‘You alright babe?’ He’d ask as you hiss when standing up. You’d kiss him sweetly, reassuring his lil head that you’re fine.

Losing your balance because your knees are so weak would cause him to giggle endlessly. ‘Fuck are you giggling at’ you’d snap throwing a pillow at him, grinning. ‘Never thought I’d see you so weak in the knees for me’ he winked.

Rudy ❤️

Rudy. What a sweetheart. He’d make you the finest hot chocolate, made from cocoa beans he brought from Mexico. The thickest whipped cream as well as mini marshmallows. Of course.

He’d put your favourite film on and you’d snuggle up on the sofa all day. ‘Eres tan hermosa’ he’d whisper to you as you buried your head in his chest. - you’re so beautiful

Stroking your head he’d check in on you ‘estas bien?’ - you ok?

As you’d lay there he’d be thinking about the positions he had you in the night before. Bent over the bed, at his mercy. He’d slowly become hard thinking about it. Your moans echoing in his memory.

Feeling unable to hold himself anymore he’d guide your lips to his as he devoured you in a moment of intense passion.

Alejandro 🌹

Alejandro would be on you again as soon as you opened your eyes. Pulling you into his embrace, intertwining your limbs together once more.

‘Te necesito mi amor’ he’d whisper into your neck ‘eres como una droga para mi.’ His sultry voice washed over you as his hands massage your skin.

He’d pepper you with kisses, with praise at how well you took him last night. How much he needed to feel you again. To feel you become a liquid beneath his as your moans injected themselves into his veins.

Wiggling out of his grasp you’d try and go to the toilet, but your knees were weak, muscles sore and tense. Losing your balance he’d be by your side within seconds. ‘Mi amor, let me help you.’

Pulling you in he’d place a lingering kiss on your lips before carrying you bridal style to wherever you needed to go.

König ✨

Definition of ‘lady in the streets a freak in the sheets.’ Wee man struggles with his anxiety in social situations but not when it’s just the two of you.

This man is obsessed with you, hence why you cannot walk this morning. You tried getting up to go to toilet but you knees gave out. You collapsed in a pile on the floor in a fit of laughter.

The mountain of a man peered over the side of the bed at you ‘mein Schatz’ he murmurs, smirking. Adoration in his eyes. He offers you his arm to help you up, before rolling you into him.

His huge arms keeping you trapped against his chest. You giggle against him, your ass bounces slightly against his cock. ‘Careful Liebling’ he growls into your ear.

He places a possessive kiss to your temple muttering words of love and praise in German to you.

He takes you to the shower, over his broad bulky shoulders and puts you gently into the tub. Leaving you to shower he quickly gets dressed and faces his demons to go to the local shop. On his return he presents you with a small bunch of flowers and your favourite hot drink.

You’re thrilled and surprised ‘König?! Are you ok? Did you manage?’ You chirp, a huge smile on your face. Pride swelling within your chest.

He found it difficult but he’d do anything for you, anything to see your face light up for him.

[joelalorian]

neighborhood watch

neighbor!frankie morales x f!reader | wc: 5.7k | masterlist

Summary: When someone - or something - starts causing mischief around your new neighborhood, you and your neighbor Frankie are paired up for the new neighborhood watch.

Warnings: Not much, just cursing. Though this fic is rated T for Tame, this blog as a whole is 18+ mdni. Fluff and humor. Reader is a blank slate. No use of y/n.

A/N: This is my contribution to @punkshort's AU August Challenge to celebrate Shortie's 1-year tumblrversary. I was given the AU prompt neighbor!Frankie and ran with it. Hope you enjoy!

Palm trees lined both sides of the road, fronds gently swaying in the sea breeze as you drove through the picturesque neighborhood of bungalows to your new home. After a long and winding journey nearly halfway across the country to get there, you sighed in relief when you pulled your Wrangler into the small driveway. With all your – admittedly limited – worldly possessions shoved into the backseat, truck, and every other available crevice; you couldn’t wait to get out of the cramped space.

An old Florida 2/1 painted the color of green sea glass, the bungalow greeted you with a charming porch and two large windows bisected by the front door. The gabled roof offered taller ceilings and the wood flooring was original. By far, your favorite feature was the reading nook nestled into the living room with built-in shelves for books and the comfiest cushion to lounge on while reading or simply staring out the bay window.

Yeah, everything about this place beat what you left behind. Shitty apartment in a shitty part of a shitty town and an even shittier ex-boyfriend. Not that you were bitter about that or anything. You were still in awe that you managed to dig yourself out of that toxic situation before it completely destroyed you and scrounge up the money for this place. Thankfully, it came furnished. You didn’t have much money left for anything else.

You spent the afternoon unloading your belongings, organizing, and rearranging the place to your liking, blinds open to let the natural light in – anything to save on electric when the AC unit would be running nonstop. With the router and wifi connected, you curled up in the reading nook and watched as your new neighbors started coming home from work or set about walking dogs and mowing their small yards. A few glanced curiously at the sight of a vehicle in your driveway, no doubt wondering about the new resident.

Was this the type of neighborhood where neighbors would bring you casseroles to introduce themselves? Surely that was something only done in television shows and cheesy movies, right?

No less than an hour later, a kindly looking older woman knocked on your door, a covered dish in her hands. She greeted you with aged eyes and a toothy smile when you opened the door.

“Well, hello dear. I’m Stella and just wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood.” Stella casually peeked into the house as she spoke, not bothering to hide the blatant snooping, and you shook your head in amusement.

“Nice to meet you, Stella,” you replied, offering your name. “Would you like to come in?” The woman practically craned her neck to get a look, how could you not invite her in.

“Oh! That would be lovely, dear. As long as you don’t mind. Maybe we could snack on this key lime pie I made for you?” She bustled right in, making herself at home at your tiny dining table and you shut the door to follow her, grabbing plates and forks along the way.

“Would you like something to drink, Stella?” you asked from the kitchen. “I don’t have much yet, but I made lemonade.”

“Lemonade is great, thank you.” After a moment, she added, “Will anyone else be joining us?”

“Unless there’s a ghost hiding out in this place, I doubt it,” you replied, taking a seat across the table from her.

For the next hour, Stella grilled you for information – where were you from, what brought you to this particular neighborhood, were you single. The list of questions went on and on, but she was so kind and friendly about it that it didn’t feel intrusive. Still, relief washed over you when she changed topics from you to sharing information about the other neighbors. Much of it went in one ear and out the other until she got to someone who piqued your interest. Stella talked A LOT.

“There are two men about your age a few doors down. They are the nicest boys, always offering a hand when they can. Benny and Frankie are their names and they have been friends since they served in the military together. Quite handsome, too.”

Stella watched you as she spoke, keen eyes gauging your reaction, and she smiled when you perked up.

“Oh?” you said wanting to hear more.

“Mmhmm, thought those two might get your attention,” the older woman chuckled merrily. “Frankie is the one with dark hair and soulful eyes. He’d run into some sort of trouble a bit ago, which is why he lives with Benny while getting back on his feet.”

You hummed. “I know how that goes.” You wondered what kind of trouble he got into, but you didn’t ask Stella. That was something you’d want to hear firsthand from Frankie, if he ever wanted to share, not the rumor mill.

“Don’t we all,” Stella agreed. “Benny is the blonde one, a little younger and full of energy. Comes home with a bruised face a lot. I think he boxes or something. I’ll never understand young men and their desire to beat each other up.”

You smiled dreamily, mind wandering as Stella continued talking. While all the neighbors sounded normal, you looked forward to meeting Benny and Frankie from just the little Stella shared. They seemed most like your kind of people. The broken souls just trying to make it through life one day at a time.

It took a week to fully settle in and meet most of the neighbors. Stella lived right next door with another older couple, Ann and John, next to her. Benny and Frankie lived next door to them. One the other side of you lived a young couple, Kara and Matt, newlyweds who moved in not too long ago, followed by a quiet woman by the name of Lynn, and a busy couple in their 30s with two small children, who you referred to as “The Kellys”, finger quotes included. They scurried to and from their house like cockroaches afraid of the sun, never stopping to interact with the neighbors. You found it oddly amusing.

Across from you was another eclectic bunch of neighbors – an artist, two retired teachers, a retired cop, an insurance agent and housewife, and a variety of others whose names you were still learning.

You met Benny pretty quickly, crossing paths one morning while going for a run. Stella hadn’t lied, he was cute, but in like a golden retriever kind of way that made you want to scratch his head and throw him a ball to fetch. He was just not your type, if you even had a type. Given your track record… nah, you weren’t going down that road.

Frankie, on the other hand, was an elusive creature. He tended to work a lot if the hours were available, Benny told you. It took an extra week to meet him, and it happened completely by accident while going to check your mail. A collective mailbox area sat next to the small clubhouse, and you started swinging by at the end of your morning runs to check your mail. It gave you some time to cool down and get rid of the junk mail before you got home.

Eagerly awaiting the severance package from your last job, you excitedly rushed around the corner after that morning’s run to get to your mailbox. The collision with a hard chest knocked you right off your feet, leg muscles too fatigued from your three-mile run to stabilize after the impact.

“Oomph,” you grunted at the initial impact, quickly followed by, “Oh, shit!” as you fell backwards on your ass.

“Fucking hell! I’m so sorry!” came the rushed, masculine reply as strong arms shot out to catch you just a moment too late.

You stared up, wide-eyed, from your seated position on the grass – at least you didn’t crash down on the sidewalk – to meet the prettiest pair of baby cow eyes you’d ever seen, the irises a shade of coffee brown you could just drink in for days. Your eyes roved the man’s face, meeting tanned skin flecked with stubble and pouty lips, dark locks curled out beneath a ball cap, twisting around the backs of his ears and along the absolutely kissable stretch of skin on the back of his neck.

One large hand moved to rub along that exact expanse of skin, a nervous tic perhaps, as the other reached out to help you back to your feet.

“Are you alright? I’m really sorry ‘bout that. Wasn’t watching where I was going,” the man said once you stood before him.

Brushing the grass off your ass and the back of your thighs, you waved him off. “No, no, I’m fine and it was completely my fault. I charged around the corner like a bull in a China shop.”

The man laughed in relief, blush still visible on his pinchable cheeks. “Yeah, you kinda did. Almost knocked me off my feet, too.”

Eyeing his exceptionally broad form doubtfully, you shook your head. “I’m your new neighbor, by the way,” you said, reaching out a hand and giving him your name.

“Oh! I’ve heard about the pretty addition to the neighborhood,” he winked at you, taking your hand in a firm grip. “I’m Francisco Morales, but everyone calls me Frankie. I think you met my roommate Benny already. He’s the one who said you were pretty. He wasn’t lying.”

Heat rushed your face at the rambled compliments. Frankie was a delightful mix of flirty, nervous, and shy which you found incredibly endearing. He was also gorgeous.

Flustered and overheated, the need to flee overwhelmed you. “Well, it was nice to finally meet you, Frankie. I’m sure I’ll see you around,” you called over your shoulder as you moved to your mailbox in the back corner of the space.

“You can count on it,” he called back before departing. He didn’t notice you peek around the corner to check out his backside as he walked away. His jeans hugged his ass in a pleasing way and his shirt stretched across his shoulders, the seams hanging on for dear life.

Frankie was going to be trouble; you could feel it. The best kind of trouble, yes, but trouble none the less.

Working from home allowed you to keep a great schedule. No more long commutes to the office, getting caught in traffic on the interstate, spending too much money on gas, or racking up the mileage on your car. You loved the Wrangler, but fuel economy was not its best quality. Instead, you could sleep until a respectable hour, still get a morning run or walk in, and have time for a shower and breakfast before plopping down at your desk for the workday.

And you loved your new job. Not only did you get to work from home, but you were paid to learn and develop learning programs for corporate trainings all day. The nerd in you danced with joy every time you learned something new or received feedback on something you put together.

The only downfall to this new life of yours?

Loneliness.

Sure, video calls with clients and colleagues peppered your days and you occasionally ran into a neighbor on your morning runs. But real human connection? No, there was none of that. Aside from talking to the plants or yourself, you didn’t even have a pet to provide companionship.

Three weeks after settling in, you found yourself at the shelter browsing adoptable animals. Growing up loving animals but never allowed to have pets – even your asshole ex was adamant about not having any in the house, which you should have seen as a giant red flag much sooner – you were finally able to add a furry little being to your family. You weren’t picky either, going in completely open-minded and letting the universe choose a fur friend for you.

The universe delivered ten minutes after arriving at the shelter when a big-eared, blue-eyed, black and white shepherd looking dog bounded up to you excitedly, darting directly between your legs and goosing you so hard it felt like your soul left your body with the yelp that burst from your lips.

“Joshua! No!” a harried volunteer called out, rushing over to you and the overly eager four-legged fiend. “I am so sorry! He loves people and picks out his favorites with a little too much zest.”

The woman wrangled the dog, which was no easy feat. Bigger than a breadbox but smaller than a German Shepherd, Joshua was a sturdy boy – and strong, based on the visible muscles in his hind legs – presenting a challenge when he put his mind to it.

Right then, his mind focused on you, and he refused to leave your side, licking at your hands with his pink tongue, booping you with his snout until you scratched his head, ears perked up as he gazed at you with those ice blue eyes.

You fell in love instantly. Plopping down on the ground, right there in the middle of the kennel walkway, you ruffled Joshua’s short-haired fur. He practically smiled in delight and melted into you as you pet him, tongue lolling out of his mouth as he presented his belly.

A pile of paperwork and a small fee later, you and Joshua the two-year-old McNab Shepherd headed to the pet store for goodies to start your adventure together. Joshua herded you around the store with single-minded determination, choosing his toys and treats while you spoke to the staff about the best food to feed him. Hundreds of dollars later, a gangly teenager helped you load a large dog bed, 50-pound bag of dry food, and two bags full of toys and treats into the Wrangler. Joshua sat shotgun, head hanging out the window as you drove home.

Joshua settled right in with minimal fuss, spending his days laying under your desk while you worked, booping you with his snout when he needed attention or walkies, and – worst part – chomping on your right ass cheek when you weren’t going in the direction he wanted. That was a habit you needed to break, asap. With Joshua at your side, you found yourself outside more, stopping to talk to all the neighbors and being recruited to join the new neighborhood watch. Suddenly, you no longer felt lonely or left out.

Tim, the retired cop who lived across the street, started the neighborhood watch out of boredom, you reckoned. He served the public in larger cities for much of his law enforcement career, and the small-town life took a while for him to get used to. Thus, Tim liked to patrol the neighborhood, self-identifying as the Sheriff of Paradise, keeping an eye out for mischief.

Recently, Tim noticed evidence of some mischief in the form of knocked over garbage cans and missing or broken lawn ornaments. Minor things that could potentially be explained away by blaming the occasional trash panda searching for a midnight snack. Like a dog with a bone, Tim was unwilling to chalk it up to mischievous racoons and began recruiting neighbors to join him in keeping an eye on the neighborhood.

That’s how you found yourself seated on a couch in Tim’s living room, squeezed between the broad shouldered forms of Benny and Frankie, with other neighbors scattered around room. Tim stood in front of the small group with a dry erase marker in hand; a large whiteboard perched on a chair next to him.

“Thank you all for your interest in keeping this neighborhood safe. There have been several concerning things happening lately and I would like for us to make a collective effort in heading them off before things escalate,” Tim began.

His speech continued and the sudden vision of Scruff McGruff the Crime Dog popped into your head. You barely managed to stifle your laughter.

Out of the corner of your eye, you caught Benny flashing Frankie an incredulous look and mouthing “Is this guy for real?”

You wondered the same thing but kept those thoughts to yourself and listened as Tim continued.

“I took the liberty of assigning teams of two and setting patrol schedules,” he said, turning to the whiteboard. The sound of the dry erase marker squeaking across the board was the only noise in the room for a solid five minutes as you all stared at Tim’s back.

This dude was intense.

Frankie’s knee started bouncing next to you, jostling the cushion a little. Smiling warmly, you reached out a hand, placing it just above his knee to get him to stop. The warmth of his skin flowed through his jeans, igniting a fire inside your belly as his wide eyes shot to you, a hesitant smile on his face as he mouthed “Sorry”.

Tim spun around and called out the pairings then, breaking the eye contact between you and Frankie. Your breath caught when he announced your name and Frankie’s as the third team. Frankie beamed at you and bumped your shoulder.

“Looks like we’re a team,” he said, dark eyes shooting to frown at Benny over your shoulder for a moment. You turned to see what Benny did, but the man just grinned and winked at you.

“Yeah,” you replied, still a little flustered from the heat bubbling in your core. Jesus, could you not think of anything witty to say?

Tim called the meeting to an end ten minutes later – thank the fucking Lord above! – and you followed Frankie outside. He and Benny basically walked you to your door just to say hi to Joshua.

Your happy fur baby bounded down the front steps to say hi the moment you opened the door, tail wagging so hard his whole booty shook with the effort.

“No jumping, Joshua!” you called with a laugh as Benny practically fell to the ground to play with him.

After getting a few pets in, Frankie left the rambunctious pup to wrestle with Benny while he moved closer to you. “He’s really just a big kid,” he said with a chuckle.

“I can see that,” you replied, meeting Frankie’s chocolate eyes as a smile spread across your lips. Damn, he was gorgeous, and you could easily get lost in those eyes.

“So, uh, looks like our first neighborhood watch shift is tomorrow night from 9 ‘til midnight,” Frankie said as you both watched the makeshift WWE match happening in your little front yard.

“Yeah, that’s past my normal bedtime so it will be your job to keep me awake,” you responded with a laugh and a shrug of the shoulders. “Sad, but true.”

“Not a night owl? Me either. I’m sure I can come up with a few ways to keep you awake,” Frankie replied boldly, though a blush crept up his neck into his face.

You shot him a mock scandalized look before collapsing into laughter. “Yeah, I’m sure you could.” After a beat, you steered the conversation back to the neighborhood watch. “What do we need to do on this shift? I’ve never been part of something like this and, to be honest, I tuned out half of what Tim droned on about.”

Frankie’s smile widened until the dimple in his cheek popped, drawing your eyes. “That guy sure could talk, huh?” When you nodded, he added, “I guess we just walk around and make sure nothing’s happening. I’ll meet you here tomorrow night with flashlights in case we need them, feel free to bring Joshua. Nothing will get past the three of us.”

True to his word, Frankie stood at the base of your walkway at five minutes to 9 pm with a backpack containing bug spray, water, snacks, and flashlights. Joshua bounded towards him the moment you opened the door – you should have known to put his leash on first, but you were just as eager as the pup to see the handsome man waiting for you.

After handing you a flashlight, Frankie gestured for Joshua’s leash, clipping it to the dog’s collar and gripping it tightly in his right hand. You let Joshua lead the way, stopping every so often so he could sniff at something interesting.

You weren’t nervous, per say, but you did have some concerns about how awkward these three hours might be. Those concerns were all for naught as conversation flowed easy and free between the two of you as you both asked and answered questions about each other.

Frankie told you a little about his time in the military and how he met Benny and his other friends. He shared about his current job working on helicopters and trying to get his pilot’s license back after some misunderstandings. You told him about ditching your old life to start fresh, how your ex turned out to be controlling and isolated you from your friends. You told him about your new job and how happy you were to be in control of your own life again.

“Sounds like that guy was a real asshole. Me and the boys could go kick his ass for you, if you wanted.”

You appreciated the offer but turned it down. Instead, you asked about his love life. “You mean my complete lack of one?” Frankie replied teasingly.

“Hmmm,” you hummed distractedly. Something seemed off about Stella’s front garden. Your eyes narrowed, searching the shadows from the streetlights and Frankie followed your gaze, brows furrowed.

“That wasn’t like that when we passed by on our last lap,” he said as you both took in the destruction. Potted plants toppled over, some clay pots shattered, leaves ripped from shrubs, flowers crushed, and sporadic holes dug in the topsoil.

In a word, it was a mess.

“No, it most definitely was not,” you replied and immediately glanced around searching for the culprit. The street was empty save for the two of you. “I don’t see anyone. Whoever did this is hiding or long gone.”

“We better write this down in our notepad for Tim. He’ll want full documentation, so we can’t leave out a single detail.” Frankie pulled the small, spiral bound notepad and a pen from the front pocket of his backpack, handing them to you. At your raised brow, he shrugged with a boyish grin and added, “I’m holding a flashlight and your dog’s leash. Besides, you probably have much neater handwriting.”

“You’re lucky you’re cute.” Rolling your eyes, you accepted the items and flipped the notepad open to the first page. Noting the date, time, and location, you wrote a few notes about the destruction in Stella’s garden. After a moment, you pulled your phone from your back pocket and snapped a few pictures. Tim would appreciate the effort.

“You think I’m cute?” Frankie teased once you finished, sounding pleased as punch at the idea. You ignored him.

The rest of the night passed with no further incidents, and you waved to Frankie as he walked back to his house after handing you Joshua’s leash. Despite the exhaustion plaguing your body, your mind fixated on thoughts of Frankie for two more hours before you finally fell asleep with Joshua snuggled against your side.

Things only got stranger the next two nights you patrolled the neighborhood with Frankie.

“So, what do you do for fun, Frankie?” you asked, making conversation as you walked along the sidewalk.

“The usual, I guess. Hanging with friends, listening to music, playing the occasional video game, and having a few beers. Mostly just hang with the boys and reminisce about the old service days. Oh! And flying, of course. Can’t wait to get my license reinstated.” Frankie ran a hand along the back of his neck, a little embarrassed about how boring he sounded. “How about you?”

“Oh, you know, the same stuff,” you laughed. “I lead a very exciting life. I read, lounge on the couch watching reality tv shows, run in the mornings. Stuff all the cool kids do.”

“We’re an exciting pair, huh?”

“It only goes downhill from here.”

You bantered back and forth as you worked your way through the neighborhood, keeping an eye out for signs of mischief. Frankie was the first to spot the trouble in the mail area. A few mailboxes were wrenched open with envelopes and magazines ripped and scattered across the ground. Joshua sniffed at them unhelpfully.

“How’d someone even get these open?” you questioned. “They need a key.”

Frankie shrugged. “Must’ve pried them open with something. Wouldn’t be too hard, actually. These aren’t the best locking mechanisms. Here, write it down while I take some pictures.” He fished the notepad from the backpack and handed it to you, snapping photos of the mess while you jotted down observations.

“How long have you lived here?” you asked Frankie once you tidied up the mess into a small pile for the other residents to sort through in the morning.

“A few years. You?” He froze, realizing the stupidity of the question, and grimaced. “I clearly have foot in mouth disease. Forget I said that. Please.”

Waving him off with a chuckle, you told him not to fret. “Have you noticed anything like these shenanigans happening before?”

Silent for a few moments, Frankie thought about it. “Not that I recall, but I’m not too sure I paid much attention.”

“It’s weird though, right? Like all of this seems like something a couple of middle school kids would do but they wouldn’t be out this late. Shit, I haven’t even seen kids that age in this neighborhood.”

Frankie nodded. “Come to think of it, we haven’t seen any footprints or litter either. Kids always leave a mess, right? Like candy wrappers and soda cans and shit.”

The next night, things got more bizarre. Joshua stayed at home, exhausted after visiting the vet that afternoon and getting a few shots, leaving you and Frankie on your own.

Frankie spotted a light on in the detached single-car garage at Kara and Matt’s house after a few laps through the neighborhood. Both of you swore the light had been off the other times you passed by. It wouldn’t be so odd if it was a weekend night. But you knew the couple got up really early for work and there was no way one of them would be tinkering in the garage after 11 pm on a worknight.

The pair of you approached the garage warily, sounds of rummaging and glass breaking coming from inside the wooden structure. You looked to Frankie for direction. He gestured for you to stay put a couple yards back, shrugging the backpack from his shoulders, and pulled a handgun from the front pocket.

Your eyes widened at the sight of the weapon. “What are you gonna do with that?” you whispered as he handed you the bag.

“Nothing unless I have to,” Frankie replied quietly and edged closer to the garage. He crept up to the garage door, trying to peek through the dirt smudged windows, but it was impossible to see anything. Instead, he slowly made his way around toward the side of the garage.

A few steps from the corner, his foot caught on a stray cinderblock, causing him to trip with a yelp. The sound within the garage ceased, immediately followed by a scramble and rustling in the wooded area behind the garage. By the time Frankie righted himself and turned the corner, who- or whatever it had been in the garage was gone. A small window on the side of the garage sat open and Frankie peered inside, finding utter destruction within the garage.

“Well?” you inquired from your position. “Anything?”

“Nothing but a mess. I didn’t see anyone and there was nowhere for someone to hide.” He motioned you over now that it was clear. Slipping the weapon back into the bag, Frankie pulled out his phone and took photos through the window.

Gazing at the window, you said, “I can’t imagine they leave this open like this. It must be a person, right? How would an animal get a window like this open? Or turn on the light?”

Frankie shrugged. “I have no fucking clue. We should let Tim know about this. He’ll want to talk to Kara and Matt in the morning.”

Sliding the window shut, Frankie led you from the property.

“This is just getting ridiculous,” Benny muttered from the backseat. “I can’t believe that dickhead has us on a fuckin’ stakeout on a Friday night. Who died and made him Sheriff of fuckin’ Palmingham.”

“Sheriff of Palmingham,” you repeated with a guffaw. “Good one, Benny boy.”

You, Benny, and Frankie were parked at one end of the street in Frankie’s truck, with a few other neighbors stationed at the other end. A stakeout was Tim’s brilliant idea to finally catch the culprit terrorizing the otherwise quiet neighborhood. He created a few teams and stationed them at the end of the two main streets of the small neighborhood. Tim wanted the culprit caught tonight.

The first thing you learned about stakeouts was they were boring as fuck. If not for the company of two handsome men, you’d have been banging your head against the dashboard after the first fifteen minutes. After the first hour of staring through the windows, you and Frankie resorted to playing a variation of twenty questions.

“What is your favorite food?”

“To make or to order out?” you questioned. When Frankie rolled his eyes playfully, you added, “What? There’s a big difference!”

Nodding his head, Frankie laughed. “Ok, if you say so. Tell me both then.”

Sitting back in your seat, you tapped your chin with a finger. “Salmon to cook and beef wellington or scallops to order out. What about you?”

Benny watched from the backseat as the two of you went on and on. “For fuck’s sake, I feel like a third wheel on a first date,” he complained. “Will you just ask her out already?”

“Damnit, Benny,” Frankie growled. Enjoying the conversation with you so much, he almost forgot his friend was even there.

“You want some cheese to go with that whine, Ben Ben?” you teased. “I know little girls who whine less than you.”

“You want some cheese with that whine,” Benny mocked in a high-pitched voice. Leaning forward in his seat, Benny perched his chin on the back of the front bench seat, a shit-eating grin playing across his lips. “You know, if you like Salmon for the omega 3 fatty acids, my boy Fish here has some mega D fatty acid for you. It’s a lot better, or so I’ve heard.”

“What the fuck, Benny?!” Frankie exclaimed as your mouth dropped open in shocked amusement. He glared over his shoulder at the younger man before looking at you with dark, pleading eyes. “Please ignore this fucking idiot.”

“Come on, man. That shit was funny!” Benny insisted, broad shoulders shaking with laughter.

You patted Frankie’s thigh reassuringly. “I mean, it is pretty freaking hilarious, I’ll give him that. And Fish? Is that your nickname or something?”

“At least your girl has a sense of humor.” Benny slumped back in his seat at Frankie’s scowl.

Still staring down his friend in the rearview mirror, Frankie explained the call signs from their army days. Movement down the block drew his attention mid-sentence and he drifted to a stop. “Can you guys see that?”

You reached for the binoculars sitting on the dash, raising them to your eyes to peer into the distance. Something darted from the shadows into an area of the street brightened by a streetlight, and you gasped.

 “It’s a fucking monkey!”

The rest of the night turned into a shitshow as the three of you chased a small monkey – a capuchin, you guessed – around the neighborhood. After a quick call to Tim, the other neighbors on stakeout joined you in the effort to capture the mischievous little bugger. Shortly before dawn, someone found the monkey asleep on a low-hanging tree limb and scooped the thing up, quickly containing him in a travel pet crate.

Exhausted yet exhilarated, you walked toward your house when a sudden commotion sounded a couple doors down. Ann and John rushed from their home, frantically searching for something in the yard.

“Where could he have gone?” Ann called out to John.

“How did he even get out?” John yelled back, moving to search the backyard.

Pausing mid-step, you turned toward where Frankie stood talking to Tim. The capuchin monkey sat in a pet crate at the former cop’s feet as they talked about what to do with it. Eyes narrowing, you looked back at the older couple scouring their yard.

The pieces clicked into place, and you rushed over to Frankie. “Hey, uh, I think this little cutie belongs to Ann and John,” you said, pointing over your shoulder. “They’re searching for a missing pet, and it seems awfully coincidental.”

Sure enough, the older couple were searching for the little monkey named Cosmo, who they were pet sitting for their grandson. The little rascal had been sneaking out each night to wreak havoc on the neighborhood out of boredom. Cosmo was used to a much higher level of activity than the older couple could offer. Thankfully, the grandson was coming later that day to take Cosmo home.

“Hey, you wanna come over for some brunch?” you asked Frankie once all the drama wrapped up, not wanting to part from him just yet. You really enjoyed his company and wanted to get to know him even more. “I’m thinking pancakes and mimosas. What do you think?”

“I, uh, think that sounds like a perfect first date,” he replied with a shy smile, one hand lifting his cap as the other combed through his curls.

“Oh yeah? I think this might count as a third date given all the time we’ve spent alone together this week.”

Frankie’s lips spread until his smile split his face and his dark eyes burned with want. “Third date, huh? Do you have a rule about third dates?”

“Why don’t you come in and find out?” Grasping his large hand in yours, you led him inside.

[sunni-stuff]

I've been thinking about pirate!Ghost for the past couple weeks. I needed to get this out now.

-🌤! Tags: Afab, Uncontrollable Horniness, nsfw, age-gap. (early to mid 20s.)

The Sea Dogs were an entire ship full of ragtag men, each with his own story and reasons for joining the crusade across countless seas. Captain John Price, the leader of this crew, was a renowned figure known for his leadership and countless achievements. He had led his crew through years of wear and tear on the unforgiving waves, making their name heard far and wide.

None were as infamous as Ghost, his trusted gunner, known for his quick dagger throws and even quicker shots. A hulking man with a standoffish demeanor and unwavering cautiousness, Ghost never fully showed his face. He wore a black bandana tied around the lower half of his face, with black paint smudged around his eyes, revealing nothing yet leaving his harsh brown orbs to pierce the soul of anyone who stared too long.

To those who did not know him, Ghost was intimidating, deadly, and most of all, someone to avoid. He was fine with this. He relished the benefits his appearance gave him, how people shrank away at the mere sight of him, even from a distance. It made sense–who in their right mind would want to be near a man who had put a bullet through so many men that he couldn't count them all on his fingers?

Ghost was ruthless.

A silent marauder who took what he wanted without a second thought, plundering from men and women alike. Wherever he walked, the bodies and blood of the lives he took at sea seemed to follow. The culprit, his calloused hands bore the weight of his trusted flintlock, a companion who would even accompany him to his very grave.

A dirty bastard indeed.

Too dirty for the likes of you.

You.

You, who he sees, enter the blacksmith's forge. You, who wore a simple white dress with a black corset tied tightly around your waist. You, who smiled so innocently to the islanders as you carried out your chores. Running errands for your father all around the quaint island, carrying a simple woven basket filled with bread and biscuits in your delicate arms.

His mouth runs dry.

Ghost can't take his eyes off you as you walk past him, saying, “hello.” to a nearby merchant. Your sweet voice renders him speechless, drowning out everything else around him. He can’t hear Price bartering anymore. He can’t hear Gaz and Soap ribbing on who can pull in the most lasses. All he can hear is the sound of his heart beating and your brief yet lovely hello. He watches the sway of your hips beneath the fabric of your dress, how your stays lifts your delectable bosom with each breath.

He wants—needs to sink his teeth in you.

Ghost is desperate to touch you, to possess you completely. He craves the feeling of his hands on your skin, his lips ravishing yours as he listens to the sweet moans in his head. He wants nothing more than to thrust himself inside you and claim you as his own, burying his thick cock deep within your weeping pussy.

You’re a real peach. All smiles and fluttering lashes. A young thing, he assumes, based on the way the people dote on you so as you pass by shops, making your way back to your father’s bakery.

He’s an older man, one weathered by storms and battles, which do nothing to deter him from his new conquest. After all, the older the berry, the sweeter the juice.

And Ghost believes himself sweet enough.

Ghost discreetly adjusts the growing bulge in his pants and conceals any weapons he may be carrying.

He couldn't afford to scare off his darling pet.

And with that, Ghost followed after you, a maiden worth more than any treasure.

🌤 I had really bad writers blocked and was unable to write for a while, but this has been floating around in my pea brain for so long, so please enjoy.

P.S. This wasn't proofread.

[yeyinde]

LEASH CALLED YOU

PUPPY (RUINER) x F!Reader | 18+ Good dogs get rewards, and Puppy thinks you are the best prize to be found in this hovel. So, he takes you.

WARNINGS: smut | P-in-V, rough sex; D/s undertones; VERY HEAVY DUBCON!!; slight breathplay. female gendered anatomy. implied/referenced human trafficking, sex work. canon typical violence. implied threat of violence. loss of agency. obsessive behaviour. this is basically playing house with a psychopath who decides you're his. and he pretty much killed half the city and the guy who was kinda a god. or a king. or something. so like, what are you gonna do? say no? Pff. WORD COUNT: 7,4k imagine writing like, 7k for Some Guy after seeing one (1) gifset of him.

He finds you in South Rengkok.

Nestled amongst a conglomerate of seedy, black market shops in the red light district, you gaze out at the sea of people from a vaulted window in a seamy bordello. A voyeuristic view into the coquettish bedroom they placed you in—red satin sheets and pink, heart-shaped pillows. All dolled up and pretty. 

The harsh light cuts shadows under your eyes and frames you in a heavy, oversaturated glow. You look like you're bathing in red. In blood.

The sight makes something curdle in his stomach. He isn't sure why. There's not much of a difference between you and the other workers—all locked up tight; enticing passersby to join in on the garish body auction set to take place soon—but where they see the dollar signs in this, dancing and swaying their hips, pressing their palms flat against the window plane and fluttering their lashes, all lovely and coy, at the men who press back, you sit. Motionless. A little doll.

You don't belong here, he thinks. You're something much too soft and fine, like silk in his hands, and much too delicate to be in this part of town that stinks like wet, oxidising metal and saltpetre.

The slip of your black, lacy kimono barely covers your skin. He tracks it. The shadows, the dips. The curves. His eyes fix on the protrusion of your collarbones beneath the moody fabric, pushed to the side, and hanging off your shoulder in what, he guesses, is meant to be enticing. Kittenish.

They dolled you up to skirt this line between sultry vixen and twee innocence. The sight of it does something to his guts. Has them rolling over each other in tandem with each heavy thud of his heart. It's the way you look that catches his attention, sure, but more than that, it's the look in your eyes.

They glow under the neon smear, hazy and drifting far away, turned inward. Lost.

And then you look up. Catch his gaze through the glass. 

There's a moment when everything inside of him dims, quiets. Thoughts, missions. Reason, purpose. It falls under a thick blanket of whisper-soft snow. It's just him—something, nothing—and you. This little cosm of his own making. 

You make a motion, then, as if to entice him inside but you hesitate, staring back at him instead. He knows the LED screen on his mask is doing something funny, voicing the thoughts he can't say, because your lips quirk slightly at the corners—bemusement, maybe; he's never been good at reading people—but then HER is husking out orders in his head, all biting witticism, and acerbic humour. 

Later, Puppy, comes the clandestine whisper—hot oil down his nape—and he catches the warbled curiosity as it trickles through. Good Puppy’s get rewards. But there's work to do. 

Work. Yes, work. 

His helmet flashes. He catches the red flicker on the smeared reflection of the window. Garish red. Kill, kill, kill. 

You see it, and you flinch. 

Good, is the sudden thought. Good. 

Puppy isn't sure about much—not anymore, and maybe not ever—but he knows this: he likes the way your eyes widen. Fear, undoubtedly. Round and doe-eyed as you take in the horrible words scribbled in neon. 

Fright, dread. It looks good on you. 

Pretty, pretty, pretty.

His hands shake. He thinks about how you'd feel under him. How he'd feel inside of you. And—

Purpose, he thinks. Purpose. 

There's an emptiness inside of his heart. A hole left over from the remains of LITTLE BROTHER. The dream, the reason, turned into a ghost. Shrapnel in his chest.

He doesn't blame HER for his absence. For the machinations, the schemes. It all led somewhere in the end, even if that place was here. Alone. Stuck, now, with a gaping wound in his chest. 

But—

Not for long, maybe. 

It'll be an awkward fit—BROTHER was this unknowable, untouchable shadow that lingered in his peripheral vision; a driving force keeping him moving. The space carved inside Puppy for him feels like a cavernous chasm. You're so slight, so small, in comparison to that gaping void, that he wonders if you'll be enough to quench the hunger that brims up from those depths. Rapacious. Wanting. 

It's different, of course. You are real. BROTHER was—

Not. 

He satiated himself on artificial dreams and empty memories. Those spectral, hallucinatory feelings of desperation to save his younger brother carried him to the very end. 

But BROTHER was always chimerical. 

You are something he can touch. Have. Keep.

He sees the flash of uncertainty etched into the painted lines of your face as you look around the cesspit you've fallen into, and he knows that you, too, could be that for him. Purpose. Purpose. Purpose. 

(His, his, HIS.)

The people wandering around, perusing the shops, stop and stare at you. At this little wisp, all shaken and terrified, and in need of saving. Needing him—

His hand clenches around the pipe. 

You're too good for their eyes. For this place. 

He'll kill them all, and come for you. 

The room that houses his new target is in a penthouse on the better side of the city. Vaulted ceilings. Golden chandeliers. Crystalline glass in a mosaic of iridescent pastel. It looks blemishless, clean, in comparison to the hovel that is South Rengkok. It scrapes against the chalky insides of his skull as he slinks forward, and emerges from the shadows.

He makes his way through the levels, one by one, until all that remains behind him is a river of blood and a breadcrumb trail of dead bodies. Boss’ finest. It's all mostly just—

Cleanup. 

A necessary evil, HER calls it, and so, he sees it through. 

When he gets to the top, he hears noises. High-pitched, elongated. A sharp grunt. 

He finds his target sitting down on a sprawling chaise, knees notched apart. A woman sits in his lap, hands pressed against his chest. 

Both of them are naked. Their clothes are in a messy pile by the door. 

Puppy watches for a moment. Enthralled, almost, by the sharp juxtaposition their bodies make, and then—

Confusion. 

She looks just like you. 

His meaty hands are tight around her waist, jerking her down with each sloppy cant of his wide hips. Dwarfing her frame in his bearish paws. She mewls into the room, the reecho of her synthetic moans daggers into his temple. 

The pipe in his hand jerks with the rough spasm of his fingers. 

Puppy doesn't care much for killing. Doesn't care much for anything at all, really, except for HER, BROTHER. The mission. His objectives. 

Cold, they call him. Unfeeling. 

He thinks, suddenly, of Wizard. About something he'd said back when Puppy didn't have a name. 

You're—heh, you're a killing machine! It must feel so good, you know? To kill.

It doesn't. He feels nothing at all. Neither pity, nor guilt. Regret is an abstract concept in his mind; intangible. Unreachable. 

He's—

Ambivalent, HER once supplied. You feel nothing, Puppy, because you are nothing. 

Yes. Yes, he thinks. And yet—

There's a strange heat in his veins. A caustic feeling welling deep inside of his guts at the sight of them coupling. His hands on her body is an affront. An insult.

It makes him angry. Furious. 

He'll kill him, he'll—

(Go, Puppy!)

In the man's hands, she looks soft. Delicate. Breakable. 

Yes, so breakable. So—

She moans, then, and he jerks his chin up, catching her reflection in the marble pillar. 

Ah, he thinks. Ah. 

She isn't you. 

He gets to work. 

The success of his mission has HER offering a bleak congratulations in the back of his head. Job well done. He takes it all in, feeling a distinct thrum in his bones that is usually absent following his massacres. Its place, in the hollow gaps of his ribs, is strange. Foreign. 

Excitement, he finds. How peculiar. 

It offsets the adrenaline rush, the lingering anger coursing through his veins. Killing the Target, his companion who was entirely too similar to you, leaves him feeling satiated and starved at the same time. A paradoxical sensation that shouldn't exist together, but somehow found a way, a home, within the slurry of his chest.

He wants to find you. Has this pulsing need in the back of his head to make sure that the woman he killed wasn't really you. But you are contralateral to his current mission. His objective.

Almost pityingly, the route HER generates takes him right past you: a tantalising tease.

Puppy isn't sure what to call this. Madness, perhaps. Don't be stupid, Puppy, comes the choppy, mechanical whir in the back of his head. You are—human, after all. 

The way it's said by HER has his hackles rising, but he doesn't have enough insight on the topic to pursue the strange cadence any further.

Indulge. You earned it.

Your face flashes before him—different, this time. Gone is the thick gold on the crease of your eyelids, the heavy red on your lips. You're barefaced. Gaunt. Your complexion reminds him of the bruised blue of the sky above. Midnight. Iridescent rainbows in an oil spill.

He wants to touch you. His hands shake. 

A series of numbers flicker at the bottom. The price, he surmises, for you. 

An auction. Right.

Tonight, HER supplies. He feels the clinical amusement in the back of his head. Oh, but Puppy—

To offset the generosity, HER pulls up the amount he carries on him. Cruel. Mocking. It's compared and contrasted. The difference is staggering. He can't afford you. Doesn't even come close to the asking price.

(Couldn't even afford the entrance fee.)

Sorry, Puppy—

The mechanised warble is pushed down before it can start.

That's fine, he reasons, dismissing it all. Dismissing HER.

He has no intention of paying for what's rightfully his, anyway. 

The bordello—boasting some strange mix between classic geisha-sensualism and modern sex appeal (and somehow missing the mark for both)—appears closed for the night.

A fallacy, of course, as everyone is just inside. Squirrelled away with cheap vodka, cigars. Waiting their turn to cash in their victory tokens. 

He looks at your window, shutters closed with a looping scrawl on neon pink that says be back soon~!, and makes his approach. 

There's no plan for this. Not that he's ever really had any to begin with—most of what he does is driven by an endless need to fulfil someone else's objective through the brutal physicality he wields—but he makes an effort to go stealthier than usual. 

He doesn't want to risk triggering a failsafe that will keep him away from you any longer than he needs to be. 

Not that it matters—

These lowlives—some assemblage of Creeps, local gangsters, and general nobodies—are mere nuisances in the face of his ice-cold ire. His rage. Tearing through them is nothing. The fight they put up is flimsy. Tissue paper defences.  He supposes they never really anticipated him showing up to reap his dues at an event that has been advertised for several weeks now (how he missed your face on those gaudy billboards hanging above the taverns in the red light district, he'll never know). A high-class event, they snicker from behind the thin doorways.

Politicians gambling away public funds to buy pretty prizes. Gangsters, pimps, all looking to pocket more flesh for their own abattoirs. 

Killing them is insubstantial to this cleanup mission, he knows, but there's a thrum of vindictiveness that roars through his chest when they squeal, begging for forgiveness that they must know won't come. 

(He's barely merciful on a good day.)

HER is a cheerleader in his ear, egging him on. Go, Puppy! Get your prize, Puppy! and he lets it fuel himself forward until he's covered in viscera and gore—a jaw bone breaks off, tacks on to the lip of his boot; blood drenches the sleeves of his leather jacket, stains his collar—and surrounded by pulpy, broken bodies. Alone. 

It's quiet, now. The only sound is his heavy, ragged breath muffled by the mask covering his head. The harsh thud of his pulse cottons his ears, blotting out everything except the heady rush of blood raging in his veins. 

HER watches with an alien sense of amusement that prickles in the back of his head. Wrongness permeates from their mirth as they take in the carnage spread out amongst the halls. 

It all means nothing to him. A means to an end. 

Nothing to them, either. To HER. This is a game.

The wet end of the pipe drags against the herringbone floor in a metallic squeal done to announce his presence from anyone unlucky enough to survive the brutal apathy of his initial assault. He hears nothing. Just the grind of rusting metal on wood. Porous. Hollow. 

It all ends in a muted bloodbath. A bloodied trail of bodies leads right to your door. 

Untouched, despite the garish horror painting the walls in rotting red. Congealed blood blackened under the thin oxygen in the room. 

There's no movement from within, but he knows you're here. Can feel you through the wood. Catch the rabbiting of your heart. Your gasping breath. 

With the hand not clutching the pipe, he reaches for the handle, turns. Locked. He expected it. You must have propped something up against the knob during the first onslaught of his fury. Smart. 

But it's not enough to keep him out. 

He pries open the door to your room with one hand, shattering the flimsy back of the vanity stool you jimmied beneath the handle. Cute. Resourceful. His heart pounds in his chest. He can't wait to have you. 

Go, Puppy!

He takes a moment to shut the door behind him—no escape—before he slowly swivels his head toward you. Taking you in. 

(Finally.)

You stare at him with that same look on your face as before. Terror, he reasons, and tries to piece it together on the men who looked at him as he cracked skulls open with the blunt end of his pipe, tore jugulars out with his bare hand. Fear, he thinks. They look at him with fear. Loathing. 

But you're missing that one. There's no hatred on your face, no curses spat out even when he stalks forward with the same steady gait as always, the bloody end of his pipe leaving a macabre breadcrumb trail for anyone to follow. 

There's a sea of dead bodies behind him. Businessmen. Lowlives. Commonfolk. The other girls. It didn't matter. 

They were in the way. 

All of them. 

(The man, too, who came to collect you like a prize winner at a seedy casino. His head, in particular, is rendered into nothing but a pulpy mess of grey matter, tissue, blood, and bone.) 

He thinks you might cry, but you don't. You stare. Owlish. Wary. Between the thick, brick wall—your cage—and him, there's nowhere for you to run. He slows at that, coming to a stop several paces away. Watching you back. Assessing. Calculating.

You're nervous. Shaken. He's under no disillusionment that you hadn’t heard the screams just outside of your door. Heard the thuds. The cracking of skulls. The breaking of bones. A bloodbath only several paces away. A massacre. Scary enough to you that it made you try to save yourself, to lock whatever it was that stalked the halls from getting to you. 

How terrified you must have been. 

Puppy doesn't feel much for anyone. Maybe the odd moment of sympathy for the inhabitants of his city, the ones who beg and plead for his help with the things they can't control, can't fight back against. He extends small mercies where he sees fit. 

But for some odd, unfathomable reason, he has the sudden inkling to reach out. Pity. You're so pitiful to him. Poor thing. You poor, poor—

In a moment of pure absurdity, the words: are you good? flash across the curved plain of his mask, and you make a noise somewhere between a yelp and snort. Mangled in the back of your throat. 

“Does it matter?” 

And, oh—

Your voice does something to him. Turns his insides liquid. He's melting, he thinks. Burning up and turning to a heap of molten ore by your feet. 

He tries to reign himself back in, forcing himself to focus. Focus. Puppy ponders your question for a moment before ultimately deciding that it doesn't. 

(Or, rather, it does; but maybe not in the way you'd want it to.)

In the end, he gives you a shrug. Banal. Dismissive. It makes your brows furrow. A valley forms between them. Irritation bleeds through the flat apathy you forged. 

There's a scoff. He thinks you look prettier like this—a feral, hissing cat. He wants you beneath him, clawing at his chest. Spitting curses in his name. 

(Wants to try to tame you. Wants to fail.)

“Of course,” you hiss, hands fisting in the sheer fabric of your kimono. “You're no different from anyone else, are you?” 

Puppy shakes his head in response. He isn't a good man. He's made of spare parts stitched together to create an amalgamation of likeness to some king he barely even knows. A megalomaniac. A madman. 

In all honesty, there probably isn't much that separates him and the men who vied for your affection, paid for your attention. Threw coins toward an auction just for the possibility of taking you home. 

But there is a difference. 

Puppy will have you. This he is certain of. 

There's nowhere for you to go. This city doesn't want you. Doesn't deserve you. He'll take you with him, chained at the wrist if he has to. Shackled. Caged. 

You are so funny, Puppy, HER intones, amused. A puppy with a puppy. 

Yes, he decides. His puppy. All his. 

He found you first. 

Puppy lets the pipe—drenched in blood, bone; in viscera that makes you recoil sharply with a flinch—fall to the floor with a metallic clang. With his hands free, soaked, he lifts them up, offering his palms to you. 

It's not a peace offering, but he's seen what untamed cats can do when cornered. And while you're no match for his unfathomable physicality, he'd rather you didn't hurt yourself trying to maim him. 

Still—

Mine, mine, mine flashes, lightspeed, across his visor. He gives you a moment to let the words, the meaning sink in. 

—you’re his. With that ironclad notion comes the freedom to do whatever he wants. 

Whenever he wants. 

And then he moves. 

The difference in your size is almost hideous. Grotesque. He towers above you—a looming mountain—and knows that it would take at least three of you side by side to even hope to match the width of him. 

His hands, too, dwarf you. 

It curls something noxious inside of his guts. A poison-soaked miasma that subsumes in his bloodstream, pulses in the base of his spine. A hunger. A heat. You're so small in comparison to him. So delicate. He could break you in two, shatter every bone in your body. 

And there's not much you could ever hope to do to stop it. 

He shudders at the thought, and knows he likes it more than he should. 

Later, though. Soon. He wants your hands on his skin. Wants to see you come to terms with the vastitude of him, and watch as the realisation that you are well and truly his sinks in. 

He reaches out, palms upward, and waits. 

It doesn't take long. 

(Well-trained, is the hiss. He ignores it, lest he claw his own skin off.)

You flick a scathing glare in his direction first, caustic and hateful, but you bend to his whims without a word. You touch him hesitantly, running the soft pads of your fingers over the metal of his hand, feeling the bumps. The groves in his circuitry. 

Everyone so far has tried to chisel in his head. Galvanise him down into a mindless toy (HER makes a noise, he ignores it), but you seem to avoid his head. Touching the places on his arms not smeared with blood or gun oil, running down the thick wires in his artificial arm. The veins on his real one. The hair dusting his knuckles. 

Then you spot the blood caked, dried and blackened, under his nails, and you recoil slightly. Pulling back. Dropping to his chest. 

His breath whirs out in a deep tremble when you shiver at the muscles—hard iron, brass—that hums under your palms. It's tentative. Soft, almost. Exploratory as you navigate the newness of his body and this strange situation you've found yourself in. 

There's a fractured look on your face that he can't quite place when you slide the cup of your hand over his beating heart. 

(Surprise, maybe. You must have thought him a machine.)

You stay there for a moment, quiet. Pensive. Gaze inward as you mull something over, something he can't fathom, can't ascertain. 

“You…” your voice comes out on a stilted breath after a brief silence. “You killed them all.”

It's not really a question. He grunts his affirmative, anyway, and reaches out to settle his hands on your hips. You jump when he touches you. Tense and angry in his arms, but you let him pull you in close. Are almost docile when he tucks his chin against your crown, lets his hands slide to the small of your back. 

You make no move to pull away. He lets that notion marinate in the back of his head, bending reality to suit his whims when he decides that you must not want to. He hugs you tighter, nuzzling the top of your head when you shudder. 

He's not sure where you're going with this particular line of thought. Doesn't, entirely, see why it matters much. Everyone is dead except him, you. The only two breathing in this disgusting bordello that reeks of thick, spicy incense and myrrh to hide the scent of sweat, stale cigarettes, and sex. Something plastic. Synthetic. Lubricant, he imagines. Latex. 

Knowing that you spent an insurmountable time in this cesspool has anger spiking inside of him once more, but it's quelled, immediately, when remembers what the other men who lurked in these dilapidated corners look like now. Viscera, tissue, and bones are now all painting the cheap panelled walls in a deep maroon splatter. 

(He'll burn it all down before he leaves tomorrow.)

He keeps you close, shackled. A parody of a lover's embrace. 

Your hand drifts up, a slow crawl to the base of his neck. Puppy lifts his chin. The bright red question mark shading the room in an ethereal neon glow. 

“You killed them,” you repeat, knuckles grazing the over-sensitive skin where his mask melds to flesh. “But you didn't kill me. Why?”

He feels the press against his jugular. A soft ache in his throat. It doesn't hurt, but he knows you want it to. 

Puppy's puppy has fangs. 

Puppy reaches up, snatching your wrist in his mechanical hand. Feels, instantly, the grind of delicate bone under harsh, unyielding metal. 

You don't flinch. 

“Why?” 

Under the harsh edges of your anger, your feigned indifference, he catches sight of the look that drew him to you in the first place. Absolute despondency. A vacancy in the hollow of your eyes. Misery, maybe. 

If he were someone else, he might have felt pity for you. Ripped from the arms of whatever birthed you into existence, thrown into this disgusting hovel, and now—

A pet for a pet. 

Kept. Chained. 

Puppy will keep you forever. He knows this just as sure as he knows his heart pulses in his chest. The sun rises. Falls. He'll take you with him, wherever he goes.

You're his. 

A fine consolation prize you've found for yourself, HER quips, and he's content to ignore it for now. Their amusement is clinical, a kittenish scratch in the back of his head. 

But he does agree. You're a fine prize, aren't you? His little treasure found in a trash heap. 

His, his, his

all his, all his, all his—

(You look at the promises, the answers, flickering across the surface of his visor, and shudder—)

Puppy doesn't say anything when you lead him by the wrist to sit on your bed, simply opting to follow along with your demands for now. It's cute, he finds, the way you try to bully him around even when your hands shake, knees tremble. 

He rests his forearms on his thighs, letting his hands dangle in the space between his spread knees—the picture of ease; the manufactured torpor of predator—and he waits. Watching, rapturously, as you flit in front of him. All soft and pensive as you look him over. Taking stock of the blood on his leather jacket. The stains on his pants. The flat surface of his mask, broken only by the protrusion of his nose. 

Boss was a megalomaniac. A narcissist. Knowing that he's made in his image, his likeness (spare parts; a fractured failsafe), he can only assume you like what you see when you look at these scraps that make him whole. 

Whatever you find, it shades the appraising glance in a hue of calculative decision—suddenly firm, now: wily. 

“Okay,” you say, and bring your hands to the sash holding the sheer kimono in place. “I'll be yours—” his hands twitch; reaching for you already. You dance out of the way from his grasping knuckles with a scoff. “Only if you're mine, too.”

If he had a mouth, he might have grinned. 

You seem content to take the lead after a noncommittal response to your demand of shared ownership (the idea alone of which has him thickening in his slacks), placing your hands on his shoulders to steady yourself before swinging your thigh over his lap, taking (what he hopes becomes) your rightful seat. 

It places your barely covered centre right against his prominent bulge, sending an electric buzz down the base of his spine. The look when you feel him throb against you is equally as scathing as it is feverish, and nearly comes undone at your glare alone, panting harshly against your collarbones. 

“Down boy,” you murmur silkily before dropping your cunt right over him. 

Whiteout. Static. He sees nothing but blurry slashes of red, red, red—

His hands are bruising on your waist, and he's not sure if he's pulling you closer to him or pushing him away. Maybe both. Tugging, tugging, until he can feel the red-hot heat of you burning through the fabric of his trousers.

You can't kiss him so you pepper sweet, soft kisses against the column of his throat, teeth nipping the seam where metal meets flesh. Marking the column of his pale throat up with the brand of your claim. Your ownership. 

A collar in red, black, yellow, and blue—

He doesn't have a mouth to claim you back, but his hands punch your flesh until it's pressed harshly against bone. Bursting blood vessels under your skin. It puddles there. He runs his fingers against the pool of blood that softens your skin, and understands, then, why the sting in his neck feels so fucking good. 

He feels consumed. In a tailspin. You grind against him, and he sees stars. 

Puppy can't think when you do that, and you seem to know this because you don't stop rolling your hips over his straining cock, pinched tight in his slacks. It's too much. 

He wants you. Wants you. Wants you. 

You pull back, and huff at the projection on his face. 

“You're impatient,” you say, but you're slipping your hand inside the waistband of his pants in spite of your exasperation, fingers dancing over the soft skin of his groin. 

It feels molten when you touch the base of his cock with your knuckle. Just a nudge. Just a press. He thinks he could come undone like this. Just like this. With your hands on him. Soft, dewy skin. 

But he wants you pinned under him, taking him. Has thought about nothing except your knees spread, thighs open. Pussy bare to him. Full of him. Nothing but him. Him, him. It made him ache. Burn. A low grade fever in his guts at the enticing image of you beneath him. Pretty lips open, moaning. Eyes wide, doeish. 

“You’re too—”

You start to say something, but he can't take this anymore. It's too soft. Too gentle. He wants you bent over. Wants to be inside of you already. 

And so, he follows through. 

You make a noise in the back of your throat when he gets his hands on the underside of your knees, and unceremoniously tips you back onto the velveteen sheets. The flimsy silk of your kimono spreads, unveiling the softness of your body. Your bare breasts, nipples pebbling under his stare. 

With it haloed around you in an inky black spill over your arms, leaking from beneath your body, he thinks you look ethereal. Unreal. Otherworldly. 

The slip covering your pussy is barely in the way. He can see dewy lips peeking out from the sliver of black nestled across your slit, wet and red. Red. Red—

“P–Puppy—!�� You yelp when he tugs his trousers down with one hand, the other keeping your leg up, pinched tight on the underside of your knee. Spread open. Nearly bare. 

He presses the heel of your foot where his neck meets shoulder, keeping it in place with a soft pat to your calf, before dropping his hand down to join the other in ripping the thin scrap of fabric keeping you from him. He's graced with another yelp, but it isn't in pain or distress, and he ignores it outright. 

Mindless, it seems, in this pursuit to be inside of you as quickly as possible. 

Your panties—if they could even be considered such a thing—are pushed deep into his back pocket. Saved for later. 

And then he turns back to you. Spread open. Waiting and willing under him. The sight of you like this steals his breath from his lungs. Sparks embers in his guts that smoulder, billowing smoke through the hollow of his chest. 

He tastes ash in the back of his throat. Wishes, suddenly, that he could quench it on the slick, hot taste of you—

Gripping himself in one hand, he presses the blunt head of his cock against your slit, glistening from your wetness in the jaundiced glow of the moody light above your head. He's glad he didn't cut the power to this shithole because the way you quiver beneath him as he rubs between your folds is nothing short of mesmerising. 

You're wet. Soaked. All for him, even if you keep hissing out that this is just a bodily reaction to stimulus, don't be so full of yourself, you psychopath—

His hand drops. The flat side of his thumb pressed against your clit. You arch so prettily when he touches you like this, knees shaking, eyes fluttering. He presses harder, makes small circles against your sensitive flesh that have you whimpering. Whining. 

“No more, no more, no more—”

He can feel the molten centre of you flutter around his weeping tip. Silken, inviting. He wants more. Knows that you want it just as bad, too. 

Impatient now, he lifts his fingers from your clit, and wraps it tight around your thigh, gaining leverage before he slowly, agonizingly, begins to presses inside—just the tip, the first inch—but the way you wrap around him (all tight, wet silk) makes his mind grow fuzzy around the edges. Electricity rockets down his spine. 

He thinks he blacks out for a second, short-circuiting at the white-hot pleasure of being inside of you, because when his eyes focus, he's pushed all the way inside, trembling above you. 

You're whining his name with tears dripping down your temples, legs quivering around him, and he wonders if this is that version of heaven, the real one, he'd read about once. 

It's too much. Not enough. He rolls back on his hunches to see the way you swallow him down to the base. Pulled taut, and far too pretty for what he's doing to you. Poor, pitiful thing. He'll ruin you, he's sure. Mess you up so badly, no one else would ever be able to touch you without thinking of him. Only him.

It's a thought that sends a thrill down his spine, and he rolls his hips just to watch you squirm. Builds up a sickeningly sweet momentum as he forces your body to acclimate to his girth, to the unyielding stretch of his cock. You're too tight around him, and he worries that the taut stretch might be too much for you, but it's passing. Temporal. He knows he doesn't really care. You'll take it all. All of him. 

Nothing will tear him away from this pretty cunt of yours. 

It flicks against a long dormant part inside of his hindbrain, and he pants for it. Chasing this feeling, this high. 

The slow crawl within you isn't enough to satiate himself. His belly rumbles. His throat burns. 

Puppy gives you no warning before he snaps his hips into you as hard as he can. 

Your wet cries start the beginning notes of his new ascension, and he pounds into you harder. Faster. He fucks you like he's starved for it. Aching. Desperate. Belatedly, he thinks about your pleasure, about bringing you to the same highs the tight clutch of your pussy is bringing him, but he can't focus. Can't think. It's mindless, this lust. Turns him inside out and makes him greedy. Selfish. 

He wants, wants—

Never, in all of his insignificant life, has he ever wanted something as much as this. As you. Pressed beneath him, mewling out his name as he forces himself inside of you, as deep as he can reach—

(and then deeper still because Puppy wants to crawl inside of you; want to nestle against your heart, tucked under the bracket of your ribs and with the way he fucks into you like this, bed whining in protest with each furious, sloppy snap of his hips, he just might make that dream a reality—)

—and fuck. Fuck. 

Somewhere in the tangled web of his thoughts, all white-noise, static pleasure, he can hear HER utter things in secret under the heavy pants of his ragged breath (things like, you deserve this, Puppy; good boy, Puppy; treat your toy—kindly—Puppy), and it spurns him on. Makes him ache to drive those mechanised whispers out of his head, filling the space they leave behind with the sweet echo of your voice in ear. 

Scream. For. Me flashes across the visor in bloody red, and he sees when it registers in your glossy, wet-eyed stare. Cuts through the haze of sex, the lashings of fear that still curl in the shaded valleys when you look at him, and digs its talons into tissue, bisecting the chemical slurry turning your thoughts to mush. There's a moment of clarity. Brief, ephemeral, because he's pressing in as deep as he can once more, grinding against some spot inside of you that makes your eyes roll, and your head drop. 

My

Name

It flashes again, and finally—

Your pretty mouth drops open, spittle running down the corners as you struggle to keep up with his frantic, feverish pace, but nothing comes out—nothing he wants to hear, at least. Please, you beg, and he feels the plea like a punch to his gut. 

You're so pretty when you beg. 

But that's not what he wants. 

Bad girl

It comes as a warbling flicker. Distorted in his anger. 

You shudder under him, eyes widening when he drops his hands down to your throat, palm swallowing you whole from chin to sternum. For him, it's as gentle as he could be, but you gasp for breath, tears pebbling in the corner of your eyes. Hazy, murky, with fear and pleasure; the warring sensations separated only a hairline fracture, a thin sliver. 

He shifts forward and has you take on more of his weight, stifling more air from your lungs, and making you feel the power flex of his massive body cocooning you entirely. No escape. 

Your hands unfurl from the white-knuckled grip on the sheets, slamming against his shoulders as you try, futilely, to push him away. You're frenzied. Desperate. 

Puppy finds it endlessly charming.

His hand lifts, offering a slight respite that you seize eagerly, greedily, gulping down wet, feverish lungfuls of air. 

“Y–you bastard—”

He likes it when you cuss at him. A feral, hissing cat. He falls over you once more, shadowing you under his bulk, and pistons his hips into the apex of your thighs, feeling the slickness of your cunt drench his groin. 

Angry, spitting thing. And yet—

You're so fucking wet for him. 

You like this. The way he bends you mercilessly to his whims. Folds you in half. 

His hand stays around your throat, feeling each breath and moan that reverberates up his arm. The other drops from your knee, falling to the black, iron headboard that grinds into the wall with each thrust. Centering himself. Gaining more leverage. 

Puppy fucks you like this. Trapped beneath him—a tumulus over you—and unable to do much except take his cock however he decides to give it to you. And give it to you, he does—

(Mercilessly. Pounding you so hard, your breasts jerk, and your eyes flash vividly as you struggle to stay afloat in that equinox of pleasure-pain that rages over you.)

HER says he doesn't have a face, and maybe that's true. It might just be a flat mess of wires sutured to flesh. But

Puppy wants to devour you. Swallow you whole. Wants to taste the sweetness of your cunt on his tongue. Feel your lips on his. He wants to pry apart your chest and suckle from the marrow in your ribs. 

He wants you. 

Wants you. Wants you—

He's not entirely sure if he's human, but he breathes like you. Heaves. Gasps. Can feel the wet, molten clench of your pussy around the thickness of his cock as he spears you open. Pleasure blooms at the base of his spine. Punches through his groin. Bludgeons him. It makes his head feel heavy, fuzzy. Somnolent with the mindless drive ticking in the back that pushes him forward. Makes him want to imbue himself in whatever it was that made you. A pithy god of old. Stardust. 

He wants to remake himself in your image. Spare parts just for you—

How romantic, Puppy. 

“Fuck—!”

Your voice is saccharine in his ear. A velvet gust of smoke curls in the back of his head. 

With his hand around your throat, he feels the words before he hears them. It sends a thrill down his spine—dancing fingers pressing tight to each vertebra as it splits open the ventricles housing his spinal fluid, letting it all leak out into his bloodstream. 

It's ecstasy, maybe. Or the closest thing to it he could ever reach. 

“What are you doing to me?” You slur the words out against his metal cheek, hushed and fractured. Raw. “It feels so—good—oh, Puppy—!”

He shifts his pelvis into the bracket of your thighs. The head of his cock rubbing over that spot inside of you that makes your eyes roll back, and your cunt squeeze him tight. A pretty box wrapped, velveteen, around him. 

There's friction in the pit of his stomach. Tension in his groin. It pulls taut, feels heavy. 

He's close. So, so close—

You seem to realise this, too, your eyes growing wide once more as he twitches inside of you, pressed deep. Cockhead nudging into your seal. 

“No, no—”

Despite your protests, your body is tightening up, quivering under him. 

He takes it as an invitation.

Puppy's hips stutter to a slow grind as he hits the apex of his pleasure, cock throbbing, spitting his release, deep inside of you. 

Around him, beneath him, you tremble. Shake. He can feel the tremors of your own hastily reached climax when you squeeze his cock tight in a vice, undulating pulses that seem to rocket from the sensitive nerve endings around him all the way to his brainstem. 

It's good. Too good. 

He doesn't have any other ambition right now outside of burying himself inside of you over and over again. 

He wonders how deep his spare parts go for a belated second, how much of himself was forged in Boss’ likeness, but dismisses it immediately. It's unimportant to him. 

“You're awful,” you gasp sweetly in his ear. “Terrible. A terrible man—” And fuck. He wants to ruin you again.

Puppy pulls you close, pawing at you until you're situated in his arms. Manoeuvred around like a little doll. He finds you precious, really. So malleable. So soft. He presses you flat to the lumpy mattress and folds himself over you. Thick thigh strewn over your hip, pinning you down. An arm tucked under your nape, bent at the elbow to curl over your shoulder, fingers brushing your collarbones. Shackled.

This is new. Foreign. He's never felt this before—all soft edges; sickeningly sweet. Unable to help himself, he bears his weight down, arching above you. Staring, openly and unabashedly. Drinking you in. 

He wants to crawl inside of you. Worm his way to the place where you burn. 

You're stiff in his arms. Silent. 

But that's fine. That's okay. He'll melt you eventually. Make you understand that Puppy is yours now, silly. All yours. And you're—

All his. 

Just like you wanted. 

He owns you. And in turn, is owned by you. 

It's fitting, he finds, considering all his miserable existence was spent handing his leash off to whoever grabbed it quick enough. Their hands were rough. Indelicate. He takes your hand in his, knuckles bleached white from the quivering fist you've rolled them into, and pries your fingers loose. Threads his between the gaps before you can swat him away. 

He can feel your pulse like this, pressed palm to palm. A precious little thing. So fleeting. A hummingbird in an ivory cage. 

Poor thing. 

“What—what are you going to do?” You rasp, voice hoarse from the grip he had on your neck. The sound of it—gritty sand, smoke—makes him shiver. He likes it, he finds. Wonders if you'll sound the same if he scraped your throat raw with the tips of his fingers. 

His cock. 

You huff when you feel him twitch against your hipbone—cock tacky from his cum, your wet cunt—but make no move to pull away. 

He purrs. 

Keep you, is projected and you suck in a sharp breath like you'd expected that. Then, he adds a heart. A red one. Mine. 

“I'm not yours. I'm not anyone's—” he doesn't bother correcting you. You'll learn soon enough. “And you don't even know me. Why do you even want this? I could be a liability. I could kill you in your sleep—”

Could, not should, he notes, fondly. 

Hahahaha passes by and you let out an aggrieved snarl at the sight. “You're so fucking horrible—!”

He nods in response, and presses the jut of his nose to your sweat-slicked hairline. Breathes you in. Amber. Humus. Loam. You smell like ozone. The streets after a heavy rainstorm. 

You smell good. Like home. 

“Do you even like me? Or am I just something to fuck?” is whispered so softly into the air that he might have missed it if he hadn't been trying to suffuse atoms. 

He hears the fragility in your voice. The paper-thin foundation holding you aloft. 

In all honesty, he doesn't know what he feels for you. It's all—

Abstract, perhaps. Grainy smears of feelings, sensation, all roiled around inside of him. Intangible. 

He just knows he wants you. Has wanted you since he first saw you, sitting all pretty in a glass cage. Untouchable to anyone except the highest bidder in your upcoming auction. 

(Spare parts. A pretty bird in a cage.)

What a pair you make. 

He likes that, though. The way you fill this barren hole in his chest. Pilliating the listlessness that rolls like a marble inside of him. In turn, he wants to do the same. To stuff you full of him. So full, there's room for nothing else. No one else. 

There are flickers of life buried deep within you that he longs to dredge up. He thinks you'd be beautiful with your hands wrapped around his pipe (disgusting, Puppy), and that, for him, is enough. 

He's sure one day you'll feel the same. 

Until then—

His fingers tighten around yours and you wince at the pressure before gasping when the metal gears in his joints begin locking in place. Stiffening. Shackled to him, now, until he decides to release you. 

Goodnight flashes. He sees the words reflected in the glossy canyons of your eyes. Smeared red bleeding into the dawning realisation that you are his. 

And no one else's. 

There's no escape. 

[grogusmum]

A Dark and Stormy Night (oneshot)

werewolf!FRANKIE MORALES X F!READER

W/C: 3500ish

RATED: E (18+)

WARNINGS: well, monsterfucking, oral sex (f recieving), rough sex, unprotected PiV sex (it's a fantasy y'all you know what to do!!). As always, if you see something, say something. Message me in my DMs, I'm happy to add something I missed.

SUMMARY: You stumble into a lighthouse to get out of a storm, and meet the handsome light-keeper, who has a secret, but is irresistible.

A/N: Oberyn and the Merling was technically my first foray into monsterfucking, but that was like teenagers humping in the back of a car...this is, well, it's as no holds barred as I've ever gotten. I hope it doesn't suck, lol. Anyway wish me luck! 💚

This was posted as a multipart fic, but when I finished the second part it made more sense to be all one piece. I may write more for these two, but as it stands, it is a oneshot.

You follow a boardwalk that becomes a path as the clouds roll in, obscuring the moon. You know you need to find cover before the storm.

Focusing on the shifting sand under your feet, as the rain begins, you speed up. The skies continue to darken; soon, you reach the first rocks of the jetty while the rain comes down in sheets. Looking up, you find yourself at the base of an old lighthouse. The lens swings across the black water as it lights up the dark and stormy night for those lost at sea.

Beach rose thorns tear at your sweater as you race up the slope. Beyond, scrub pines and pin oak trees create a small amount of cover; the wind picks up, but not before you hear the baying of a wolf… no, not a wolf. A coyote, there are no wolves in these parts. But there's something different about the howl; you speed up and bang on the door of the great beacon.

"Hello?" You shout, "please! Is anyone there?"

As if in answer, another howl rings out, making you jump. After a crash of lightning for good measure, you try the latch and push the door open, willing to disregard good manners. Looking for a switch or a lamp, you find only a candle in a heavy brass holder on a small shelf and a black matchbox holder attached to the curved wall. 

Running the wooden match across the strike pad, it sputters to life, and you light the candle. Slipping your finger into the brass ring of the candle holder and carrying it before you, the Gothic horror mood of the whole situation is not lost on you. With a sigh and a shiver, you wind up the spiral stairs.

"Hell-lo? I don't mean to intrude, but…" you call again and then with a chuckle in an undertone, "Our car broke down a few miles up the road. Do you have a phone we might use?"

Shivering in your soaked clothes, you reach the first level, which contains the living quarters. You can't help but rush to the woodstove, which warms the round room.

You hear a creak below as you take off your shoes and socks. Did you forget to latch the door entirely? Biting your lip in worry, you continue to listen; bracing yourself, you pull a poker from the coal scuttle.

You wait and wait. Time spins out—the only measure is your heart’s tattoo, like a rabbit's. As the adrenaline clears your system, you become exhausted. Swaying where you stand, the iron poker clangs on the pine floor, bringing you back. Deciding it must just be “old house sounds,” you move to the bed and sit, and without so much as a yawn of warning, your eyes slip closed.

In the middle of the night, you feel a weight on your chest, soft and warm. Your eyes flutter open, and blocking the light coming from the woodstove is an enormous shape pressing on you; as your eyes focus, it huffs a breath, and you recognize it as a sleeping dog sound. It's huge, with pointed ears. How did you not see or hear it when you came in? Whether a watchdog or not, wouldn’t it have come to investigate? The trunk of the animal is on you, its muzzle at your collarbone, a front leg on either side of you, fully caging you in. Your hand comes up, fingers sinking into its plush fur, like a wolf’s… you shake your head, not a wolf, of course, but those dogs that look like them. Its steady heartbeat and relaxed breathing lull you back to sleep; elk-hound, that's what the one, you think, as you drift under again.

Waking again at full light, you find yourself tucked into a patchwork quilt, your shoes placed under the stove, warm and dry, no dog to be seen. The smell of eggs and bacon draws you up the stairs, halfway up you can hear the food sizzling on the stove. You feel this need to check yourself over, but you seem fine. You fell asleep on the bed of a stranger, who is apparently back- you shake your head at how unbelievably dangerous that was. Then you remember the dangers outside… it's a calculated, if hastily figured, risk.

His back to you, in front of the stove, you presume, is the light-keeper, a cable knit sweater stretched across his broad shoulders. 

"He-hello?"

He turns, soft brown eyes, brown curls standing up as though he’d run his fingers through them just a moment ago, a sharp nose that suits him, with crease of his bottom lip that accentuates his mouth’s natural pout. Not that you had any real expectations on what a lighthouse operator looks like but... maybe like some old-salt sailor type with a beard and pipe. Silly, of course. You remind yourself that you are not a cod fish and close your mouth.

"Morning," came his rich baritone voice.

"I'm so sorry, I- I - the storm-” you stumble as you try to pull yourself together.

"Don't worry about that. I hope you slept alright. "

"I did, thank you, but  I- should get going." You start putting on your shoes, “ I really didn't mean to fall asleep, " ...on your bed.

“'S not problem, really; that was one hell of a storm last night.”

“I should go-”

Well,” he says, bringing breakfast to a simple pine table, “that's the tricky part…” 

“W-why?”

“The roads are impassable and there's more rain on the way.”

“Oh.”

“Nothing to be done about it right now,” he says, “have something to eat.”

You begin to eat, and after a bite or two, you introduce yourself.

“Where are my manners- I’m Frankie. Spending too much time on my own, I guess.”

“Are you kidding, I burst into your house like Goldilocks! Found sleeping in your bed.”

“And was it just right, Goldie?” He smirks.

You fluster a little; he is very handsome after all, and broad and was that flirting… 

“Better to be Goldilocks than Red Riding Hood, I suppose.” He says you get the feeling it wasn’t meant to be out loud. “I guess that depends on who the huntsman turns out to be…” 

He notices your eyes widen and smiles apologetically, brushing his comment aside. “Sorry, like I said, spend a lot of time on my own.”

"S-speaking of Red Riding Hood, where’s your dog? It came and slept with me last night.”

“Hmmm?" Frankie murmurs as he sets the table, "Oh, he’s- around.”

“Well, he kept me very cozy last night. What a cuddle bug; what’s his name?”

“His, um - it’s Cisco. You better dig into those eggs; they're gonna get cold.”

“Right,” you take up a fork of scrambled egg, “I will be able to leave today, though, right?”

“We’ll have to see,” is all he says before digging into his breakfast.

Frankie goes about his light-keeper duties, including hunting for his lost skiff. You aren't sure what to do with your time-

“Is there something I can do to help? I kind of feel weird just sitting around-”

“Well, the weather isn't going to let us do much outside safely, but-”

Frankie pulls off his ball cap, ruffles his hair, and plops it back on his head, thinking, “I mean, you could help clean the lantern glass …”

“Really?” You stand, excited to do a real lighthouse job. 

“Sure, hard to mess up… no offense, and safe.” 

You take no offense; on the contrary, you clap happily to yourself, to which Frankie chuckles.

After showing you the supplies and giving you a quick demonstration, he starts down the stairs to continue with his other duties and then stops and turns-

"Thanks, Goldie," he winks and then descends the stairs.

After a time, you see him out on the rocks despite the wind starting up again from the east. He must be looking for his rowboat. You decide to scout the circumference of the lantern room, looking out the windows to see if you can see the craft. 

To the northwest, you see something red against the rocks. It doesn't look good.

You step out onto the gallery. Luckily, this isn't a particularly tall lighthouse, but it's tall enough, and the iron balcony was small enough that you feel a touch of vertigo looking down. It doesn't help that the wind's really kicking up now, reminding you that this is just a break in the storm. Closing your eyes, you take a deep breath and open them.

"Uh, Frankie!" 

Frankie looks up, hand going to the bill of his cap.

"Is that your skiff?" You point to the red “something” half in the water. 

He hollers his thanks and jogs over to where you are indicating, and you can see his frustrated huff as his hands hitch onto his hips in a disgruntled fashion.

Cleaning all that glass takes time, and your shoulders can feel the real work of it. You stop only when your stomach screams for lunch, and you find a sandwich under plastic wrap for you, but you haven’t seen Frankie, Lighthouse Keeper, the rest of your time working on it, nor Cisco, the Lighthouse Dog. 

He had brought the boat to a shed and disappeared inside it. When and if he came out, you didn't notice. You also realize you haven’t seen any signs of a pet anywhere; no bed or bowls. When you come down the spiral steps, you smell of the concoction used for cleaning the glass and lens; watered-down isopropyl alcohol and Woolight - but mostly the alcohol. 

“You'll want to wash your hands with this,” Frankie hands you a bar of soap at the first landing of the spiral stair. “It'll take care of the rubbing alcohol smell and keep your hands from drying out.” 

Frankie gives a crooked smile of apology at your startled jump. Murmuring your thanks, you take it and smell the bar that looks so small when in his hand. Fresh. Your mind wanders to how this fresh scent might mingle with Frankie's natural one. The bubble of revery is just a millisecond and pops like one the moment your eyes land on Frankie, who looks like he knows exactly what you're thinking.

When you join him in the kitchen, where he is again standing over the stove, the delicious scent of savory soup reminds you of coming home after a long chilly walk from school. The wind is howling now, and you can hear the crash of the waves, as high tide approaches, the pound of them like rumbling thunder. Its only rival is the whip crack of the actual thunder chasing the lighting strikes illuminating the windows. 

“Where’s Cisco?”

“Weather like this he likes to be below,” Frankie says after a beat, back still turned, “I have him set up with his bed down there so he doesn’t get anxious.”

“Oh,” you feel a little more at ease about not seeing neither hide nor hair of the beast of a dog all day.

“It'll be dark early due to the storm, and I’ll have duties up above. I’m going to ask you to stay in the living quarters. I’ll sleep up there, so, um, just - make yourself at home.”  

You do your best, but your mind is on Frankie in a way that makes what you would be doing at home, not at all appropriate, even when told to make yourself at home.  His dark eyes, big hands... him calling you Goldie. How many times your mind has gone back to him asking you if his bed was just right, you dare not admit, even to yourself. You don't know him, you remind yourself.

Suddenly, there's a bang and scuffle. Then you hear a yowl.

“Cisco?” You go to the door, preparing to go down to where you assume he's been set up, but a second sound confirms it's coming from above, not below… where Frankie is.                   

You turn and look up the spiral stairs. “F-Frankie?”

Your foot hesitantly lands on the first step -

“D-did Cisco follow you? 

More shuffling and a loud thunk on the floor bring you up short. Frankie asked you to stay below, but maybe he hurt himself, or Cisco made his way up there and was scared of the storm. Your feet start moving again up the winding steps. 

You pause, your head just above the landing, eyes adjusting to the strange light of the lantern room. Instead of finding a dog, on the floor is a pile of clothes, folded neatly, with Frankie's cap placed atop it. As you look up, you see Frankie from behind, sitting in the one chair the room affords. His skin gleams with a layer of sweat, and he gives a sudden quake.

“Frankie! A-are you alright? I heard-”

His head whips around and then down as you are still only partway up the stairs. 

“I told you to sta—” the lightning flashes, and you see Frankie's eyes have changed. They are no longer warm, sweet brown but glowing amber. 

“Wh- you- you're-” Everything in you screams to run as far away as possible, but when Frankie contorts in a new wave of pain, you scramble up the stairs. He almost wails in despair as you approach the chair. “Frankie, what is happening? How can I - hel -”

“ C-can’t, go G-gold-ie, please!” 

“I don’t understand, Frankie. What’s happening?” 

The light-keeper takes a steadying breath as if fighting every molecule of his changing form, Though he knows it’s too late. Too late to shield you. 

“C-come here,” he breathes.

Lighting flashes again, the boom of thunder right on top of it. When your eyes adjust yet again, you go around the chair to face him. Frankie takes your hand; long claw-like nails have sprouted, and you have cottoned on. Frankie is - 

While he has a firm grip, he causes no pain. Your brows knot as he pushes up your sleeve. 

“I will remember,” he says, as much for himself as for you. Then he presses his nose to your wrist, inhaling deeply, and his eyes flick up to yours. The storm rages, the lens does its steady turn, and Frankie continues to smell you. He stands, eyes never breaking contact, his bare skin glistening in the light.

 You had tried not to look down at his body. But he's so close, and when he stands, your resolve breaks. Frankie is strong and somehow more broad across the shoulders than when in the confines of his fisherman’s sweater but has a trim waist. His Adonis belt is so enticing, as is his soft belly. Below that, his uncut cock has an enticing curve. Your eyes travel back up. You find his waiting for yours; he lifts his head away from your wrist and pulls; you stumble a step closer, and his face burrows into your neck. He breathes in your scent.

“Didn't harm you last night, I won't… I’ll remember, promise. You smell so good, Goldie.”

The warmth you feel low in your pelvis is combined with a shiver as you clench on nothing.

“S-so, you-your…” you stammer as his clawed hands wrap around your waist; he tastes your collarbone, licking a long stripe as he finds his way below your ear. Your knees buckle, but Frankie has a firm grip on you. “Cisco?”

“ ‘m ssorry,” he slurs, his nose nestled where your ear and jaw meet. “You taste as good as you smell, Goldie… I wonder-” 

What Frankie is wondering is interrupted by a long canine whine as he pulls back, face contorted in pain as his teeth elongate into fangs.

The blood has surely left your face, and you're shocked as you become aware that it has rushed to lower regions. You can feel the wetness between your legs, and  Frankie, closing his eyes, breathes in how your scent has changed. 

The sinful look he gives sends more heat between your thighs; you know you're soaked by now. You can still see the handsome light-keep though his eyes glow, his ears are now pointed, and his hair is shaggy. A hungry tongue moves over sharp teeth. Teeth made for tearing your throat out.

The next thunderclap shakes the lighthouse, and it's only then that he breaks his grip on you. He cries out as his body continues to transform. It snaps you out of your trance. You run down the iron stairs, passing the kitchen, down to the living quarters, and you're brought up short by a full wolf bay sounding from above. 

“What am I doing? What am I doing!?” you look up the stairs, and almost against your will, you look through the doorway to the bed—the bed where Frankie had lain atop you as the wolf. Then your eyes drift upward again, biting your thumb in indecision. Or perhaps fear at the decision you're apparently making. You slowly undress, leaving the door open; you spread out on the soft bed and wait to see what happens.

How much time before you hear the click of canine claws on the treads of each step, you aren't sure. You only know the twist of arousal you feel arches your back, and Frankie hasn't even touched you. Are you afraid? Not as much as you think you should be. It's there; this danger lights up your brain and sends adrenaline coursing through you. But he didn't hurt you last night, and he said- he-

The wolf growls around the door; he is not on all fours but hunched, one front paw occasionally touching the floor. 

“F-f-” you stammer as his front paws press heavily on the bed. He is enormous, and he hulks over you. His snout investigates every crease and crevice. You close your eyes as he noses at your mound. “-fuck.”

The wolf's tongue dips between your legs, and you gasp as your legs open like an involuntary response, and Frankie seems to seize the opportunity to open you further, pawing at your thighs, opening them, holding them where he wants them. Claws press on your sensitive skin as he laps at you.

“Frankie!” Your fingers dig into the thick, soft fur as the twist in your womb tightens and you pulse. 

How much of the man is still present, you have no idea. You are, of course, banking on it, and you figure praying to every deity that he is there, keeping the beast from tearing you to shreds, can't hurt. 

You can feel the rumble from deep in Frankie's throat, and when his long tongue breaches your pussy, he is immediately rewarded with a gush as lights pop behind your eyelids and the coil in your belly snaps.

You cry out, and he drinks sloppily at your entrance. He doesn't stop until you start to come down from your high, your chest’s rise and fall finally slowing.

Then the beast towers over you, his cock weeping. In one swift move of inhuman strength, he's suddenly flipped you onto your stomach. His large paws holding your hips, he brings your backside up, and in one fast motion, he's sheathed himself to the hilt. 

As ready as his tongue had made you, you still are stretched beyond anything you've ever experienced. He is deep inside, and his snout nuzzles into the juncture of your neck and shoulder, making you feel utterly consumed by him. His brutal pace lifts your knees off the bed when he begins to move. His rhythm takes your breath away, his length hitting that delicious spot inside you that most find elusive, and it isn't long before the telltale swell of another orgasm begins to crest.

When you clamp down around him, he howls, and you know he has come right along with you. His rhythm stutters and slows. Frankie's tongue lazily drags over your shoulder blade, and he whines as his nose nudges at your hair.  As you both float back into your bodies, opening your eyes, the round room is drenched in moonlight. The storm has passed. 

The beast allows you to roll onto your side before covering you again, as he had the night before. He gives a chaste lick to your cheek, and you huff a laugh, wondering if you will even be able to look him in the eye in the morning. But you're too exhausted and drift to sleep before shame can take its turn to feast on you.

The morning sun blazes as it has a way of doing after a storm; shorebirds herald the day, and again, you wake to the smell of breakfast, sausage, coffee, and eggs. You're again tucked into the worn but well-cared-for quilt. Your eyes rove the room as you try not to overthink, and just as you reach for your clothes (which are neatly laid out at the end of the bed), Frankie, the man, comes in with a tray heaped with food—the smell of his delicious cooking filling the room.

“ ‘Morning, Goldie.” he smiles shyly. His eyes are not quite meeting yours, and he keeps himself busy with the breakfast tray. You return his smile, somehow his sweet bashfulness making you feel less self-conscious- 

“G’morning, Fran- Fran-cisco!”

Brown eyes sparkling as Frankie's smile widens.

Taglist @pedrostories @beecastle @katareyoudrilling @elegantduckturtle @practicalghost @amneris21 @batdarkladyvampir @miraclesabound @greeneyedblondie44 @fan-of-encouragement @browneyes-issac @mswarriorbabe80 @nissameta1782 @seasonschange-butpeopledont @heavenseed76 @oonajaeadira @harriedandharassed @geekrenaissance @tintinn16 @deadhumourist @littlemisspascal @wannab-urs @animejunki5 @writeforfandoms @tae27 @chaoticgeminate

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[rottiens]

⊹ ˚. WRIOTHESLEY ┊ sfw, pinning, praising (good girl), awkward tension, fem reader. divider creds: cafekitsune.

Wriothesley's venomous tongue over time has become steeped in the sarcasm with which he speaks to his employees and criminals. Sarcasm that he has used as a shield to guard himself and his emotions over time. The same sarcasm and repressive tone drips out of him with you, the nurse at the Fortress of Meropide even though the things you do are not necessarily bad or wrong, not enough for him to snarl at you with disdain at least.

You are rarely surprised by his “Good girl” when you do something right —you are rarely praised or acknowledged for it —or his “Bad girl” in that caramelized tone he uses whenever he considers that, indeed, you have not done something to his satisfaction which includes not turning in a report on time or not arriving early to meetings he proposes as Duke of the Fortress.

After a while of breaking your back and feet overtime, taking care of him and the other prisoners you stop expecting recognition from him. You give up and accept that your boss is a grumpy dog with a very strong shell that you are unable to reach no matter how hard you try so you stop doing it, stop trying to please someone who seems to hate everyone.

The door behind you groans with a gruff grunt, begging for someone to grease its gears. You look up from the notebook where you scribble today's important notes to look at the culprit for interrupting your moment alone when you realize it's the Duke himself; he's wearing his tie a little loose and his hair more disheveled than usual indicating the long day he's had so far.

“Boss?” You smile sideways at him glancing at his disheveled appearance.

“I thought no one was here,” he excuses avoiding looking at you.

Wriothesley walks straight to the railing and leans back with his forearms on it admiring the view of Fontaine in the distance, the waves swaying more bravely as the sun sets, making a swirl of his hair and yours.

“I can leave if you want to be alone.” You offer despite being here first, willing to pick up your notebook that you clench between your fingers. This was your safe place after all, where you could sneak off to scribble in your journal when the day gets too heavy to pretend you're not mentally and physically tired.

“Stay.” Is all he says taking you by surprise. Wriothesley isn't even looking at you, his eyes are busy watching the waves move back and forth, you don't judge him, you too come here to do the same.

With a sigh you return your gaze to the deep sea for just a moment before you refocus on your notebook and the notes you have written, you grip the pen a little tighter and begin to write once more swiftly.

The cool wind soon turns cold, biting through your arms covered by a thin cloth shirt that does little to cover you. The breeze chills your cheeks along with the tip of your nose and as much as you've enjoyed the silence shared alongside your boss that somehow feels comforting you decide it's time to leave.

“Are you cold?” his voice startles you, pulling your eyes away from the ink soiled sheet to meet his, his cheeks flushed from the weather and brows furrowed. Wriothesley looks directly at you, first into your eyes and then briefly at your lips, causing you to lick them involuntarily.

The cold seems to freeze your brain, or maybe it's the eye contact. You don't respond quickly enough, but you still notice how he sheds his coat and, with a step forward, places it around your shoulders. The action immediately comforts you making your body warm internally, as the blood flows stronger. His coat envelops you, chasing away the cold and providing you with a sense of security— His natural scent mingles with the soft fragrance of his cologne, making you feel enveloped by his presence. Between unsure blinks, you finally thank him.

Wriothesley hesitates, and if the dim light doesn't fool you, you sense how the blush on his cheeks seems to expand a little more toward his ears.

“Do you want to go to dinner? I could use to get out and distract myself for a while,” the duke offers, taking a quick glance at your notebook before turning to you again. “You can tell me a little bit about what you've written in that journal of yours.”

You wonder how he knows about the journal, and the first thing that comes to your mind is that perhaps he has been watching you, noticing your writing as you work. You think maybe he knows you're a good employee, even if he sometimes has difficulty expressing it.

You reach into your back pants pocket and pull out something, which you silently offer him. Wriothesley looks at the white band aid with red hearts and a smile escapes his lips.

“For your scratch,” you comment, pointing to your chin with a light touch. “Rough day?”

“It always is at the Fortress,” he replies, unwrapping the band-aid to offer it to you. “Do me the honors?”

You take the band-aid from his hand and, taking a short step forward, reach out to place it over the scratch. Wriothesley's body serves as a shield against the wind for a moment as you share a moment in silence.

“Thank you,” he says in a soothing voice. “For always taking care of me…and everyone else,” he adds the last quickly.

You give him a smile ignoring how that makes you feel.

“Now about that dinner.”

“Ah, yes. I'm craving barbecued ribs, I know a place.”

[abbysbasement]

(Abby Anderson x Fem!Reader)

 — PAPI BONES

A/N: Hi, this is the formerly scrapped, 3x longer, 2 months writing project that I had because I wanted to fuck abby in a closet! this was actually supposed to be my first post on tumblr, but i got mad at it and sent it to the dungeon for two months :/ but yall wanted it, so I'm super happy i got to finish it, even though it took multiple days and cups of coffee to power through. sorry for the wait, hope you fuck wit her.

content tags (can you tell i don't want to write anymore ;w;): college au, childish antics at a big age, drinking, cool, ellie and dina are in this! kind of abstract sexual descriptions, assplay, cunnilingus (r!receiving), boob... touching? small mention of drugs because dealer!ellie, drunk sex, enthusiastic consent! :D, reader is kind of annoying sorry, men being assholes, reader catching feelings for a girl she fucked once, real.

wc: 7.6k ;w; (send help)

proofread?; barely.

tl : @clearheartgreyflowers, @oatmilkchaii, @ghostfacebunny, @ellsbclls (thank you to the sweetest deb @ellsbclls for helping beta read this, i appreciate your suggestions and encouragement and this would probably have been scrapped TWICE without your help ;w; )

synopsis: your best friend dina drags you to a college frat party. you hate shit like this, and you're painfully shy but when she does those puppy dog eyes you can't say no, so in a cruel twist of fate you end up in the closet with abby Anderson, and lose your virginity. yay college! (apart of the 'jackson university' thematic!)

Your idea of a Saturday night well spent wasn’t squeezing through a sea of sweaty backs; but like many things in your life, it wasn’t up to you, because you were easily swayed. Everything was overstimulating, the waves of bodies on bodies that pulsated and threw you between different poses and balances to keep on your feet, the ringing of laughter, of music, of every sound echoing in your head, around your body, vibrating through your very core. The smell of liquor and drunken antics and that one guy puking in the corner made you sick. But somehow, you were here, spurred on by peer pressure friendship and goodwill, trudging through the blackened room to your target; the snack table. 

Dina, your roommate, and determinant best friend held a firm hand on the small of your back, pushing you through the crowd and causing a small jolt to run down your body as she steered you around every obstacle and corner in the room. She was a woman on a mission, and the one who dragged you out of bed, convincing you - against your better judgment- that it was fatal that you accompanied her to a frat party. You knew she was good-natured, and your first friend when you moved 500 miles away from home to college. It was an instant click, but you were opposite best friends. 

Dina, ever the social butterfly, had connections in all different spaces; she could party with the sorority girls –hold the coke, please,– out-cram everyone, even the National Honor Society kids, all the way to the top of the class, hell, she was on the damn debate team, which was probably why it wasn’t a struggle to get a ‘yes’ out of you. You, on the other hand, were uncomfortable at bars, school sporting events, and parties, and one time you even thre– fuck, never mind. It was all effortless to her, in almost an enviable way. Dina loved to go clubbing, loved to hang, out, and she had been near-begging you to come out with her and her cool friends for months, not that you’re not cool, I mean. 

And somehow, despite everything, it worked. 

You could almost remember how you got there if you put away the sticky crunch of coke sticking to your shoes with each step, and reached back into the recesses of your mind. Or at least, back three-and-a-half hours ago. 

“They’re all great people, no weirdos, promise!” 

It was the emphatic plea made to you as you lay on your bed, queuing up the next episode of the apocalypse show you watched each week, watching her make Dina list off every reason why you just had to follow her out tonight. It was clearly very life-or-death shit to her, but you were unconvinced. It was just a party but there was going to be a smaller, more intimate kickback in a friend-of-a-friend’s basement. She was in the middle of getting ready, sitting at her school-issue desk and looking at herself in the mirror, dark hair coned over her head in a bun as she sat in deep concentration, words slurred and simple as she applied mascara, her mouth slacked into an O position.

“So you’re gonna like, fucking go, yeah?”

She said it as though it was obvious, like it wasn’t a question, but one look at you, –curled up in covers, laptop on chest, martini glass pajama pants and teddy bear teeshirt ON, unbothered– showed her that it would be a tall order, and that big guns would be needed. 

“Not interested, sorry.” 

“Not even a tinyyyyy bit?” Dina squeezed her fingers together for emphasis, throwing her head back in mock exhaust, a theatric groan rumbling out of her throat. “Not even a little bit.” You echoed, your roommate cutting her eye at you through her handheld mirror, but it was what it was. You weren’t into all of that stuff; the bump and grind of sweaty bodies wasn’t alluring, listening to someone else’s shitty music at ear-bleeding levels felt like hell, and if you wanted to get pitifully drunk and throw up all over yourself, there was a garbage can right under your bed. But your friend really, really, wanted your company and it made you feel, really, really bad to always blow her off. 

“Why are you going so hard on this?” You bemused as you propped up on your elbows, watching as she stalked around the room in her newly painted face, quickly rummaging through her drawer for a spare outfit. 

“Maybe because it bums me out to see my super cool roommate wasting away in her dorm every weekend?” In Dina’s mind, she was making a lot of sense. She was waiting for you to chime in, to say you know what, Dee? You’re right, I get it. But instead, you stared blankly, and she threw down her arms in exasperation. “You’re in fucking college, man! You don’t even wanna have one night of fun?”  She punctuated the ‘fucking’ with a wild gesture around her head, which made you chuckle to yourself.

“I mean, I was planning on wa–”

Your body was jostled by an insane amount of weight, almost turned completely over by two roughhousing dudes– a mess of limbs and arms, who looked at you and then at each other, as though they had spontaneously sobered up. You didn’t even have the time to start to be angry when they prattled off a blended, slurred apology and thrashed somewhere away through the mass of hands and faces in the dark room.

Fucking assholes, ruining the flashback sequence. 

The room was lit only by haphazard mood lights; soft LEDs and gaudy, flickering Christmas baubles, a solitary television, camped by stoners who laughed madly, and the dim auburn glow of the odd ceiling lamp nestled in the far back of the house. You were out of your element; you couldn’t dance, weren’t the most social, and even though you were with a friend, all of this made you feel very alone.

Dina cut through the crowd with her elbow, bellowing out “Ex–cuse me!” while she pushed you through gaps as they formed. Her voice fell to mutter again, barely audible, chunked and cut by the music bouncing from wall to wall, grumbling that she had places to be, and if E*&^$ didn’t get her off at least once, there would be hell to pay.  She was determined to get to the other side of the room, where it was arranged that by the chips, as smokers usually are, she would find her current fuckbuddy and her friends, waiting to hotbox and pregame a bit more before the room peaked. She was driven by horniness and selfishness, as one typically is after four shots of Tito’s vodka, and getting smoked out and ‘taken care of’ upstairs was half the reason she even came.

You’d never met her most recent suitor, and the question of her girlfriend was always met with a ‘no, she’s just my sneaky link.’ but you didn’t question it enough to know more. She was just the girl who Dina would go off campus to meet, and as long as she wasn’t a slasher, and her pre-rolls knocked you on your ass, it would be what it was. You were carried away by your friend’s excitement, by her heavy hand nearly lifting you off of your feet as she beelined to the kitchen, wrangling your twin bodies every which way. 

“Ellie! Ellie!” She yelled, jumping up and down a bit to compensate for her voice being swallowed by the bass. She burrowed through the wave, pushing you towards a girl leaning against the sink, nursing a red cup and low, hazy eyes. Her auburn hair was swallowed by a black docker, and a dark-coloured backpack jutted out from behind her as she smiled and waved the two of you –mostly Dina, into her orbit. She looped her head under your shoulder to be pulled into the strong hug of firm biceps, and Arms looked you over, offering a friendly nod. 

–

“It’s on streaming. You can watch ‘Many of Them’ literally whenever!”

“Live tweeting is a part of the experience.” You chided matter-of-factly, sitting up cross-legged. It wasn’t like the brunette was wrong, exactly, but you couldn’t give up too much at once. Going soft was not a part of the plan.

“Fuck, whatever– You know the girl I’ve been hooking up with, right?” Her eyebrow raised at your dispassionate ‘not really.’ “Well you know her fucking joints, she sells– weed, shrooms… pills?” Dina listed off with her finger, mulling over the last detail for a second, then confirming in her head with a nod. It’s fine, you’re cool, and the two of you had always bonded over your love of recreational joy anyways. “So, if you wanna smoke orsomething– I got you, all you have to do is show up.” Her hands were up almost sheepishly as she tested the waters, but you weren’t super convinced, and your idea of fun wasn’t exactly playing wingman while she got tongue-fucked by a drug dealer, and the pregnant pause was enough to cue her into having to bring out the big guns. 

“-And, and!  I'll wash all our dishes, and cleanyoursideoftheroomforaweek.” 

Damn, she practically ran through that last part, so under her breath you knew she was hoping that you didn’t hear. But you did, and for a second you could almost see a smirk play on her face as your eyes lit up. She was always up for a good bribe, and even though she would act annoyed, it was great for breaking you out of your shell. She would offer to watch the zombie show if you came out to the bars in your college town with her, pizza if you confessed to your crush instead of instastalking them three times a day, even though it didn’t work, –oh well, shooters shoot– and tonight? A week free from chores if you just spent a couple of hours in your own personal hell. Yeah, you would give her this one. 

“Now we’re talking. If you want someone to be the lookout while you and Jesse Pinkman go at it, who am I to deny?” You teased, kicking your legs over the edge of the bed. 

Your roommate craned her head up, momentarily stopping her mission of rifling through her clothes. “Who said that?”

“You’re in your ‘good panty’ drawer.” You whispered cheekily. 

“Well, you got me. Someone has to get fucked around here.”

“Oh fuck you, bitch!” You laughed, throwing your pillow, hitting smack in the center of her chest. 

Dina bounced around the room, practically billowing with glee. There was a descending, barely audible ‘fuck yeah’ as she traipsed down the hall towards the bathroom, rounding the corner and disappearing from your periphery. 

“By the way, you know Jesse’s last name is Huang, right, not Pinkman? And we’re uh– not together anymore.” Dina shouted through the silence.

“That’s a character from Breaking Bad. It was a joke– because he’s a drug de–” You stopped yourself midway. “Never mind. It’s not funny if I explain it.”

“Oh– I never watched Breaking Bad. Too Long.” She deadpanned. You chuckled to yourself, shaking your head as you slid your way off the bed. 

That’s how you found yourself in a dimly lit bathroom, missing the comfort of your memories as ‘Ellie’ rolled a blunt. You stood leaning against the door and Dina sat on the closed toilet seat. The dealer sealed the last of the leaf with a flick of the tongue and a lick of spit, maintaining direct eye contact with Dina so she could not-so-subtly show off. She passed it to the brunette first, who mimed a cheeky, ‘why thank you’ and drew poutily. You three sat there for a while, smoking and talking, steam from the hot shower wafting above your heads as music pumped through the foundation of the house. 

There was laughter outside of the door and it soon became awkward for you, Ellie and Dina finishing the blunt, –you were a lightweight– and chatting idly as Dina traced a fingertip against the outline of the tattoo Ellie was showing off. 

The temperature of the tiny room ran hotter between their reddened eyes, and it was as though you were being banished by a galactic force. You couldn’t mistake how the red-haired girl’s glance caught an extra second or so at the way Dina’s body was hugged just right in her party dress, cleavage strained against the fuchsia PVC of her neckline, and how she bit the corner of her lip when her eyes hooked on a dark mole on Dina’s breast that was framed by the feathers of her black hair.  

It was time to go, unless you were interested in seeing your best friend get dug out on the countertop.

You were already a little bit wobbly, hearing a giggle that slipped from Dina’s lips morph into a squeak as you slipped out of the crack you pulled in the door and into the fray, getting carried down the stairs and back over to the drinks. You crossed over a kissing couple, cutting into their makeout and heavy petting session, and through a huddled together group of girls whispering something about seeing an ex across the room. 

You gripped onto the countertop for stability when you finally broke free from the pulsating wave of bodies. There was a bit of everything surfing in deep bowls of ice and water, open bags of chips and snacks bunched up together on the island. You could not be sober for this shit. You wedged up the pop cap on a hard seltzer and brought it to your lips, the spirit coating your tongue and boiling its way into your stomach. There it was again, the familiar warm feeling in your hands and feet, the soft pressure already creeping across the flat of your face. Yeah, now that was it. The anxiety began to melt away, and you leaned against the countertop, flexing your legs. 

Wow, they’re inviting giants to the shindig too. You laughed to yourself as the scarlet-lit ocean parted, and a tall, wide figure walked through and into the darkness of a descending flight of stairs. If only it was that easy when you needed to piss, notwithstanding that you had already been in the bathroom.

 It’s fun being sardonic sometimes. 

Out of the corner of your eye, you could see your roommate coming down the stairs, the dealer’s deft fingers pulling down part of her dress that rode up her ass.  She arched her head up, straining left and right like the eye of a submarine as she looked for you; her eyes lit up, waving to you as she fisted her companion’s belt loop, bouldering through the sea of people. She was high as fuck, if her bright pink eyes were enough to speak to it, and your gaze lingered over the new expanse of a deep purplish hickey on her neck, small indents from teeth glimmering with saliva in the light.  

There was that hotness again that burned in the pit of your stomach, not from drunkenness or anxiety, but the can of fruity liquor in your hand covered up for the embarrassing flush of your wild cherry-coloured cheeks. You peeled your eyes back up to her face and smiled dumbly. You’d never had *that* before. You’ve watched things before at least, and obviously, touched yourself to the thought, but you’ve never had someone to fool around with in bathrooms or hold your skirt when it rode up.

There was your first kiss, but it was in middle school, so it didn't count. It was all clammy lips, two noses that couldn’t get the space between them *quite* right, and an overzealous set of chompers that left you with a bloody lip. Actual horseshit, but somehow, a core memory. It was annoying in a way, how it just didn’t come to you, but you wanted to be wanted. To be lusted over, desired even in that casual touchy way that simmered between your best friend and the girl you didn’t know very well.  Dina was making grabby hands at you, wide-eyed and bushy-tailed. Your drink bobbed as she whisked you to her will, you and Ellie sharing a knowing look as she pushed your bodies through the hall and down the darkness of the stairwell. 

– 

“RULES ARE SIMPLE,” some asshole in a hat bellowed as he stood over all of you who sat in the circle, mildly drunk off your asses and looking for easy fun. He held up a black beer bottle, carrying it like a trophy and swishing it around your noses for a closer look. “You kids might know seven minutes in heaven.” You didn’t know him, but according to Dina, this was his house, his party, and his very annoying rules. A light patch of raised skin played against his nose as he scrunched his nose over and over again, hands on hips, clearly trying to steal back whatever thought the liquor took from him. Jason, right? 

Whatever. 

“But we’re all grown-ups here, so I present to you–” He rolled the bottle in hand, clearly soft-launching his bright idea. “Fifteen minutes in purgatory!” There was a deep groan radiating from some, but there was a small minority that exploded in cheers, and whoops. “Pretty self-explanatory, two adventurers venture deep into purgatory, and come out forever changed.

“Two adventurers go deep into purgatory,” He gestured his head at the foreboding broom closet in the back of the room. “And return forever changed.” 

“We’ll use the bottle to choose our unlucky voyagers, and you’ll spend fifteen minutes in the closet.” He explained, dropping the mystique in the second half. “Alright kids, let’s start; and just for the record– If you’re a pussy, get the fuck out of the circle!”

The drunken cast of partiers whooped and cheered, hyping each other up, spilling beer out of red cups as they gestured wildly, entirely too grown for this. The room played ‘not it’ to pick who got the first spin, and the unfortunate soul was a blonde who sat cross-legged, blank-eyed at the black glass handed to her, nodding her head tersely. 

“We got our very own Abigail Anderson– !” Her eyes narrowed. “Andddd….” Hat praised, cueing her to spin. She took the bottle, pointing the tip towards herself and then spinning it, the glass doubling, tripling the circle, making you dizzy chasing it with your eyes, and everyone sat with bated breath. It slowed and slowed and slowed, until, like ugly fate, it stopped at your feet.

“Our newbie!” He got up to cheese, leaning over you, placing his hands over your shoulders, and rocking you from side to side. You laughed awkwardly, putting your palms up defensively at nothing. 

“Um– uh…” You were at a loss for words, only cut off as his head shot into your field of view, hot, hopsy breath tanging your nostrils. “What, you scared?” He taunted, all eyes on you, watching as you nursed a deep discomfort about the whole thing behind an uneasy smile.  

“You’re a fucking asshole, Jordan.” The girl, Abby, groaned. She looked up at you from her downward pointing head, swishing her bottle of hard cider in the hand propped over her knee. Jordan, that was the name of this dickhead. Yeah, fuck him. “If she doesn’t want to get in the closet, she doesn’t want to get in the closet. I’ll just spin again.”

Dina cut in, the redhead still leaning lazily against her. “Yeah, don’t–dont be a dick, Jordan.” Her face was tight, and Ellie was annoyed because Dina was annoyed, and the room held a pregnant silence, and even though it wasn’t your fault, you felt all too responsible and all too uncomfortable with all of the eyes watching you.

“It’s fine, guys. Let’s all– eh, chill out, okay? I’m going to take the dare.” You leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper, trying to steal back the vibe, trying to replace the tension with playful drama as you circled your head around, wiggling the fingers slightly of your held-up palms. “Because I’m not a little bitch.”

The crowd exploded in raucous laughter, each voice clashing together and mimicking the sound of a pipe bursting. You looked over at your partner, who seemed pleasantly surprised, a smirk playing on her peach lips. She placed down her bottle and stood, and as she towered over you, you realised that maybe you were playing with fire. She was scary and nonchalant, but the outer workings of her face were soft and gentle. She didn’t look like the girls in the videos you watched at night; she was something different, uncharted, and before you knew it, a nervousness, and something lower, darker, ran through your body. 

Then it was time to go, you piling in first, looking around at some of the half-darkness in the room, barely enough to fit two people in. 

The asshole patted the girl’s back, corralling her into the closet behind you. Blood rushed to your head, the pressure was too great, like getting skullfucked through your ears. show her a good time, you could hear him say, and then something that you couldn’t quite understand over the bass. The mountain’s eyes narrowed, but before she could shoot back, her large body crashed into yours and the space became tighter and tighter, just enough for the two of you to put your arms out to either side or turn around. For a split second, you could see Dina’s face from over Jordan’s shoulder, tightened in concern, a timid thumbs up at the side of her head. Then, he closed the door, and the last of the light slipped out through the crack in the wall. 

There was a deep silence, and somehow, like the hazy feeling you get right before you wake from a dream, you were chest to chest in the darkness with her blue eyes staring back at you, damn-near bioluminescent. You’d seen her around, because everyone sees her around, but it hadn’t registered that the giant who had parted all of those people in the crowd like they were just water, was standing right in front of you. Outside you could hear the rumble of the music, vibrations of the bass wrapping around you and shaking you from the inside out. The closet was too tight, too warm, too filled with smells from towels and coats and folded blankets and dusty boxes of light bulbs and two cramped, awkward bodies. 

Suddenly, you felt all too intimidated.

“You’re Abigail, right?” You questioned. “Off the rugby team?”

“Abby.” You couldn’t read her face in the dark, and though she spoke pointedly she didn’t seem angry, but the accidental overstep was enough to make you want to dig a hole through the floor with your bare hands and die in it. “And yeah– captain, of the rugby team.”

“Oh, sorry, sorry.” You yielded. “So… what are we supposed to do? In here, I mean.” You gestured at nothing, knocking some washcloths from a top shelf down in the dark. “Ah, damn it.” You cursed under your breath, bending down to pick up the small stack. You could hear Abby behind you, sucking her teeth with a judgy hum.  Her brows were almost touching her eyelids, captured in secondhand embarrassment, and she almost felt bad for how awkward you were, scrambling to pick them up from the floor.

  If you could see her face, you’d be able to tell how her eyes flicked up and down her body, taking everything in. Your black skirt slid slightly to bunch at the front, uncovering portions of your doughy thigh and the ever-so-tiniest range of fabric hiding your prettiest secret. She had to tear her eyes away, almost. She jumped, even, glad you couldn’t see as you popped back up. 

You were cute, holding the disheveled stack in your hands, a look of sheer pride on your face. You looked over to the side, tossing them unceremoniously on a free shelf, gravity taking a couple back to the ground. Your sated chuckle, the way your tits pushed up slightly, illuminated, almost framed like art by the neckline of your cream cardigan made her hungry. She pushed the ideas of what she wanted to do with them out of her mind, but damn, she could think about some things that would make the devil embarrassed. She stomped down her desire, stoicism crossing her for a second, only for her to open it back up on second thought.

“They want us to fool around, fuck, ideally.” She started, analysing your expressions for any hint of discomfort at the conversation. “But– we don’t have to do anything.” She tried to cut some of the thick discomforts with a placating smile, almost lost in detail in the low light. She was huge, more so than you, or most anyone else you knew, the jutting-out edge of a shelf knocking the back of her head every time she leaned her head back in the tight space. The hard washboard of her torso was framed by an opening of a grey hoodie and barely much else, just the thick band of her boxers peeking from her sweatpants, and the black of a cropped tank top that stopped right below her bra line. 

“Jordan… is typically a good guy, but when he gets drunk he’s a total POS.” Abby was sallow-faced, pursing her lips, tension running through her jawline. “I shouldn’t have let him put you on the spot like that. So… I’m sorry that you got pressured to get in here.”

“It’s fine, I just.” You started, ready to say that big phrase, the one that slightly burned your back to admit. “I’ve never done anything like this before.”

“What, played seven minutes in heaven? Yeah, kind of a jackass thing to suggest in your twenties.”

Shit. She was going to make you say it. 

“No. I mean I’ve never–” and you thought your tiny voice couldn’t get any tinier. “had sex before.” 

Abby breathed in the deepest sigh, pure anxiety crossing her face for a split second, before she was feeding you apologies. “It’s fine, we don’t have to do anything we can just sit here and talk. Or be in silence if you want it’s alr–”

“I want to do it.” You said doggedly, pressing yourself into a tiny corner. Her brow perched, and there was something in those narrowing blue eyes that said she didn’t believe you. You were pigeontoed, legs shifting against one another, declaring in your firmest voice that you wanted her to take your virginity. 

“Are you sure?” She breathed out, stepping a bit closer. “You don’t have to feel pressured to do anything because you think they want a show.”

“Oh, my god.” You were pouting, annoyed. “I can choose if I want to have sex you know, and I want to have sex right here right n–”

She kissed you, softly as possible, testing your waters to see how far you were willing to go. Her hands were patient, one lightly knotted in the woolen knit of your cardigan to lightly pet your lower back, the other making gentle grips on your sweatered arm. Her fingers were barely bruising, gripping around your wrist almost tight enough, and a tiny shockwave coursed between your thighs and convinced you that you wanted more. In this low light, in this dark room, in this place between space and time, you wanted to be her conquest. To be taken, touched, manhandled, to be made to weather the storm of her overwhelming strength against you, lost in the middle of the ocean.

It was perverted, almost, how the idea of her showing restraint raised hairs on your skin, how you deepened the kiss like you were being overcome with an insatiable, bloody hunger. You had to take back the moment, to steal her attention in a way she couldn’t deny before she thought you were all talk; you stepped closer, positioning yourself so that her thigh hovered right below the heated space under your skirt. Her hand was warm, soft as you grabbed it, moving it lower, deeper down the divot of your back and where the fat of your ass connected. She caught on, groaning into your lips as she kneaded around your body, her tongue sweeter and heavier against yours, working that one damned hand up your skirt to cup bare skin. 

You jumped. 

As fast as it had come, her hand slipped back from under your skirt and the touch was lost completely, awkwardly hovering for a second until Abby pulled it back into her pocket and stepped back. You were miserable, eyes welling up in frustration like a lost dog at the lack of feeling. She was pulling you into insanity but was too chivalrous to drown you in it, rubbing the back of her neck sheepishly as she looked down at you.

“Fuck– didn’t mean to be aggressive like that. I–” The redness bled across her cheeks, freckles on full display as her fingers met the wet spot that you were hiding, your hands guiding hers to the space between your thighs. There was a pause, a knowing, a challenge between the two of you as an unknown heat spread throughout your bodies, and you collided once more. The blonde’s mouth sucked a nasty pressure into your throat, agitating it with bites and licks as her head traveled deeper, hands playing at the front of your sweatered torso to undo the buttons that held your breasts hostage. 

Her entrance was assured as she popped the loops open, fingers gripping the fabric of your camisole and lifting up, taking your bra with it. She nipped at the exposed flesh, heat from her mouth traveling directly to your vagina, clit throbbing hard with need. Abby engulfed a nipple with the wetness of her tongue, closing her lips around the rapidly hardening bud to pull it to full attention, chuckling as she scraped the flesh with her teeth. The wet head was replaced with her palms, each thumb and forefinger rolling one or the other. The sensitivity of the tiny flesh was insane, enough to make you whine out loud as she continued, better than anything you had ever done to yourself. 

You were biting your lip, eyes big and doe-like as you waded through your pleasure, soft pants heaving your chest. She fished it out from between your teeth and hooked it within her own, popping the plump flesh into her mouth as she pared yours with her tongue. You swore the room was spinning, a wetness slicking between your thighs, a drip positioned between two pairs of hungry lips. You could’ve spent all fifteen minutes– or an eternity, in this beautiful hell, giving and taking and relishing in a different, sort of strange type of want.

“Don’t stop.” You moaned in between stolen breaths, the blonde chasing your mouth each time you pulled away.

“For you, pretty?” Gripping you tighter for emphasis, pressing you closer into the wall, angling further between your spread legs. “Never.” 

It was like you were some weird intoxication to her, a drug that she couldn’t get enough of. How your ass molded right into the divots of her palms, those tiny moans that rang through the cage you two were in, the rapid beating of your heart rippling through your body. She wanted to peel your cardigan from your shoulders, wanted to shred your clothes from your body and take you however she liked, and make you feel better than you knew what to do with. Needed to make you scream and fuck you until you cried. But it was your first time, so she resigned to being gentle and soft, like you were a little deer in the forest, and she was trying to get close without scaring you off. so she would give you only what you needed. 

She didn’t have a lot of strong feelings about that nickname she had earned in sophomore year, War Machine, from all of the pretty girls she ran through and left unable to walk, unable to talk for a couple of days or more. but when Jordan said it, in front of you, in front of sweet and innocent, pretty and tiny *you* she could’ve reeled back and torn him apart. But she still didn’t want to scare you. So she had forced an alright, the one a child forces when they get scolded, and hid the burning in her palms that made her want to fight in the pocket of her pants. 

Your eyes bored x-rays through her formidable thighs as she bent her knees to squad before you, strong hands rubbing up and down your thighs with contrasting gentleness to the hard angles of her face, the brow that was crooked down slightly in concentration, the slightly parted lips playing with mischief as they took you in. You were frightened for just a second, until Abby looked up at you with sympathetic eyes, a hand leaving your thigh and linking with your fingers, guiding you to the base of her skull to envelop her honeyed strands. 

She was back at you, the darkness in your stomach leaking out as you palmed her head, and she ran her hands upward, more upward, until the ruffles of your cotton skirt were overturned in her palms. From the waist down, you were completely exposed, a wet spot working itself into your panties from your innermost recesses and a musky scent betraying your shyness. 

Abby pressed herself gently into the fabric, her fat lips creating a cool pressure against the hot flesh, her nose itching lightly into your pubis. You bucked your hips unconsciously, nearly fucking her face in your abandon. A vibration from her laugh traveled through you, nestled inside of you, and more wetness began to slick your channel. That friendly ache formed in your rapidly hardening clit, and a similar pain throbbed in your pinkie and middle finger. Her other hand moved up, gripping fistfuls of your ass, less forgiving now, and forcing a squeak from your lips. 

You were dumbstruck; a stranger’s hands all over you, mouth nearly on top of your sacred place, nearly leaking from sheer lust. She had barely done anything. Your jaw slacked, and in your mind you felt like a fool, lamenting how you thought your first time would be special. Soft circles rubbed into your inner thigh as she pulled your legs apart, peppering angel kisses throughout the little divots. 

“S’okay, baby.” Her voice was barely a whisper, a tiny encouragement that calmed the buzzing in your mind. “Tell me how you want me. I’m yours.” 

and you thought that declaration would destroy you,’ I’m yours.’ and it felt very, very real. 

“I want you to touch me.” You said, barely a whisper, nodding as she pressed her face to your thigh, sliding down your panties to about knee-level. It was as though she had seen heaven’s gate open, awestruck at the blood rushing to engorge your lips, how your clit stood on end without even being touched. The thatch of hair curling between your thighs and around your depths. She had to have a taste, and there wasn’t much room for second-guessing as she pressed her mouth to the hot spot and flattened her tongue directly against the wettest space.

Juicy noises slid from her mouth as she rolled your clit between her tongue and sucked sharply with her lips, and it was as though you could’ve sunk to the floor, the way your legs became distinctly not yours. It was enough, enough, not enough, then too much. It was like you were an endlessly gushing fountain as Abby’s wet, firm tongue parted your lips, dipping ever so lightly into your hole as she licked out a string of nectar from your drooling cunt. It was as though you were animated, possessed even, as your hands flew into her hair, pushing her head down further and further, to that release you chased violently and madly. 

Abby was humble, letting you guide her where you needed her; she was soft at first, but you didn’t want soft, you wanted more. 

She obliged. 

The blonde slipped her fingers between your thighs and parted your slit, opening up an endless, waiting tightness. She was intrepid, pressing through your clenching muscle and opening you up more than you had ever done; thick digits tearing through you, fucking your pussy at an unforgiving pace, concentration forming in the muscles of her neck. You hid an inhuman growl in the pit of your throat, in the crook of your sweatered elbow, and she moaned out, satisfied with that which she had created inside of you. You were fucking her face in a tight, dirty closet, calf propped over a muscled shoulder for support, the heel of your booties pressing into the wall, locking her in.

 It was as though the two of you were fighting, every roll of your hips she chased with her head, every time you shied away from the pleasure she held you harder, taking you even hungrier, diving deeper to a spot you didn’t know was there; every taut pull at her scalp met with an even tighter grip into the flesh of your plush ass. The pads of her fingers violated the sopping warmth of your cunt, and you clenched your stomach unwittingly, walls flexing, holding her hand there. Drool dripped from between her lips, pooling and soaking down into the fibres of an old shag rug, caked with dust and whatever else. 

Your own slipped between your lips before you could suck it back in, and the silver trail bounced, the way it does when it breaks, and the thick drop cascaded down her temple, getting lost in your brow. The piece that was yours snaked down your collarbone and between your breasts and somehow, you felt a connection. 

Abby snorted, sucked in a breath as her fingers left you empty. Fuck. She didn’t go for her face, wiping them on the skin of your pussy, they traveled upwards, firm grips on your ass. She rubbed the flesh as though she was throwing clay, stretching the skin between her rough fingers, calluses on her palms coasting over every bump and groove. She had found what she had wanted, craning her neck lower, lower, until you could just barely see her eyes. Her fingertips prodded, greedy, opening your lips, tongue leching against your soft fruit as though she was funneling the juices directly into her mouth. You thought your thighs would give out but she held you, stronger, and you fed her willingly. 

Her middle finger dipped down into the slit, collecting juices, stealing a breath from your lungs, you wanted to scream her name but it was caught inside of you, so you stood slack-jawed, fuck drunk as she abused your walls, fucking every ridge painfully slow. The tight hole stretched around the meatiness of her finger, and she hooked it as though she was searching, retreating from the warmth, slick with your nastiest of liquids. Again, she split your ass with one hand, and you clenched your tightest hole without thinking about it. 

“Don’t worry,” She said, muffled against your mound as she latched against it once more, “gonna help you so fucking good.” You were confused, but you trusted her, a complete stranger. For a second you began to ask what there was to worry about, but your mind was pried away from you as you felt the pressure of her coated fingertip tracing around your asshole. A gentle kiss played at the head of your pussy, comforting you as you nodded your head wildly, something of a ‘yes’ flying from your throat as her middle finger parted that threshold. 

Your mind exploded, head shooting straight up into the air, a small yelp burning into a silent open-mouthed cry. You were spinning, the room was spinning, your body heated up instantly. Then, the wet warmth traveled back to your clit, her opposite hand nestling two fingers into your aching, needy twat, her tongue lapping as her fingers resumed digging and that one damned finger fucked in and out of your tightest hole painfully slow. 

She fucked you like an animal; you cried out like a bitch in heat. The music trembled through your ears, and you were afraid it wouldn’t be enough, that everyone would hear, everyone would know. You were both drunk and this didn’t matter, didn’t mean anything, but she was bottoming her tongue out in you and you wanted it to mean a lot. Girls talked and you fucking hated them all. She was loose, she got around, and you wanted to be hers. 

You wanted to capture her and be interesting to her and walk with her hand on your lower back around campus. Wanted her callused fist in your hair, around your neck as she took you every night. Wanted badly to fucking cum, to open the portal, to wash her face with this unholy water, wanted to kiss wet lips and taste everything. Wanted to know if she could ever like you, after you gave it up, quickly, bellowing like a foghorn against a rack of coats. You wanted to be kept, to keep her spit inside of you like a keepsake but she sucked it back in a quick second, before you could even feel her cheeks hollow between your thighs, and felt dirty for even thinking of it. 

A sweet pain formed between your thighs and you couldn’t stop the groan that rose from your throat, every muscle in your face clenching and unclenching, your eyes crossing as your orgasm came quickly into view. Abby fucked you through it, fingers slow and forgiving. It was as though a stream of slowly descending tidal waves were crashing against you, and you needed more, it hurt but you needed more. Something deep burned inside of you, endlessly hot, and you wondered how she could stand the heat as she hit it over and over again.  You sobbed, and swore that you could feel a tear roll down your cheek, feeling the need to rub your eyes for good measure.  

She looked up, entranced, face softening for a second, watching as you gave up your mind to your body. There was a hard knock at the door, the music lowered a decibel, silence filling the two of you, her fingers still deep inside of your two holes. A sing-song voice bellowed out ‘five minutes!’ and the darkness ridged her eyes. 

For the first time, her voice was hard, removing her hand from your cunt, making sure to curl the one in your ass tighter in compensation. She slammed the door twice with her fist, the frame bulging in a way that made you fear the whole thing would just fall down. “Fuck off.” Her voice was loud enough to tear through the uncomfortable tension. There was an apprehensive, ‘woah man,’ that you could barely hear, and the music regained, the party rejoiced, and hopefully, the fear of God being struck enough in your host to leave well enough alone. 

Her lips were still slick, soft, kissable with your juices. She flashed you a genuine, pretty smile.  Her hands gripped a little too tight but you wanted it all. She looked down at the mess between your trembling thighs, then at your heavy, panting face. She leaned back on her heels as a wide smile played on her face, satisfied with herself. A windy chuckle passed through her glistening lips, wiping her mouth and chin on the inside of her hoodie. “Fuckin’ insane.” She breathed out in between pants. 

“Abby.” She said, as though the strength of your orgasm traveled through your brain and made you forget the events of the last 15 minutes. “Constance Hall. Dorm 425 on the second floor.” It was as though your heart skipped a beat, but you punched it down, a weak smile playing against your lips. 

She was fucking disheveled, almost inhaling the last sweet smells of your pussy, creating a memory of the flavour and filing it away in her mind for safekeeping. She was delicate, pulling your white panties up to your thighs again, soothing a finger where those soft, curly pussy hairs were hidden again. She let down her hands, skirt furling down, covering the marks of dark possession that she left behind. “Come see me again sometime, ‘kay?” She chuckled, giggled even, and that glint in her eyes was enough to make you faint. 

She stood up, waiting for you to compose yourself and straighten everything out before she pushed open the now-unlocked door and peeked her head out.

Jordan was already on her as the door flew open, and you could hear his hushed nosiness as you hugged the wall and tried to act casual, eyes locked on her retreating back as she reentered the room, light haloing her. ‘So what happened?’ you swore his lips read, and your stomach dropped. But she cut through his questions, loud enough for you to hear, convincing enough that he wouldn’t have anything to run his mouth about later on. 

“Nothing man, we were just talking.”

Maybe she was actually just that charming. 

Yeah.

[tylermileslockett]

Monsters of Greek mythology

The Furies, or Erinyes, were relentless avengers of wrongdoing in Greek mythology.

Typhon, the deadliest monster in Greek mythology, challenged the gods of Olympus with his serpent-headed fury and storm-creating powers.

Hekate, the enigmatic goddess of magic and crossroads, held sway over the night and the spirit world.

Echidna, the mother of monsters, was a creature that gave birth to numerous legendary beasts.

Cerberus, the three-headed dog, guarded the gates of the Underworld, preventing both entry and escape.

The Greae, three ancient sisters who shared one eye and one tooth, were known for their wisdom and appeared in the myth of Perseus.

Cetus, a sea monster sent to ravage Ethiopia, was defeated by the hero Perseus.

The Minotaur, a half-man, half-bull creature, dwelled in the labyrinth on Crete and was vanquished by Theseus.

The Hydra, a multi-headed serpent-like monster, grew more heads when one was severed and was slain by Hercules.

Medusa, a Gorgon with snakes for hair, could turn onlookers to stone and met her demise at the hands of Perseus, who used her head as a weapon.

Support my book kickstarter "Lockett Illustrated: Greek Gods and Heroes" coming in early 2024. 

My self-published book on KICKSTARTER

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[eyesofbong]

Red Spider Lily ꕥ

art cred. @taak_CHOI on twitter/x

❀ pairing. Chrollo Lucilfer x Founding!Spider Reader

❁ warning. mention of death. Just pure angst ♡

✿ word count. 1.5k

✽ sypnosis. unrequited love, is still love isn't it just as beautiful?

A/N: This piece was inspired by the random red spider lily I found this morning, blooming in the middle of my yard right on time for September—its season. It was particularly strange since I’ve never had one grow before. (My dog tried to eat it.) Also, the chain I’ve had since I was a child randomly broke a couple of nights ago after being indestructible for years! I’m taking it all as a sign. side eye...

The crimson flowers danced in the wind, their delicate petals reaching out, as if grasping for something lost in the void. Red spider lilies—each bloom a splash of scarlet against the gray, lifeless earth. They thrived here, in this forsaken field, where death had long claimed dominion. You stood among them, feeling the chill of the breeze slip through the narrow spaces between the petals, carrying with it the faint, sweet scent of decay—a cruel reminder that beauty and death often walked hand in hand, inseparable, like lovers bound by some twisted fate.

For a long moment, there was only the wind and the rustle of flowers. You didn’t notice him at first. Not until his voice, soft as a whisper, cut through the silence, slicing into your thoughts like a blade you hadn’t seen coming.

“They say these flowers bloom along the Sanzu River,” Chrollo murmured, each word caressing the air like a secret. “Guiding souls to their next life. A fitting backdrop, don’t you think?”

You turned slowly, as if moving through water, your heart stumbling in your chest. And there he was—Chrollo, standing at the edge of the field. His dark cloak fluttered slightly in the wind, like a shadow with its own life. He looked almost like one of the flowers, swaying in the breeze, a figure easily lost among the shifting light and shadows. He gazed intently at the sea of red, a faint smile playing on his lips, yet it never reached his eyes. Eyes dark and deep, like an abyss that promised to swallow you whole.

His expression was unreadable and distant, as if he were looking at something far away, something only he could see.

“I always thought their beauty was wasted on something so fleeting as death,” he continued, his gaze never wavering. “But maybe that’s why they’re so beautiful... because they don’t try to hold on.”

Your breath hitched in your throat. His words hung in the air, heavy with meaning, yet they left you feeling hollow, like an echo of something you couldn’t quite grasp. There was a time when you knew that face so well, when every subtle shift in his expression, every flicker in his eyes, told you more than words ever could. But now, that face was a stranger’s—a mask you could no longer read, a portrait painted with shadows and cold light.

You longed for the warmth you once saw there, the softness that had made you believe in things you knew were impossible. His mind, once an open book, had become a locked room, the key stolen, leaving you stranded on the outside.

He stepped closer, and you felt the air shift around you, charged with something you couldn’t name. Your body tensed, muscles tightening as if preparing for a blow that never came. His fingers brushed against yours, so lightly it might have been a dream, as he handed you a single red spider lily. The touch sent a shiver down your spine, an electric jolt that numbed the ache you carried inside—the yearning you kept hidden, even from yourself.

The flower trembled in your hands, and you held it as if it were made of glass, fragile enough to shatter at the slightest pressure. It felt like a lifeline, a thread binding you to this world, to him. To everything you had ever wanted but knew you could never have. Because this was love to you. A quiet, desperate love with no place in words. A love that thrived in shadows, in stolen glances, in moments when his hand brushed yours and sent your heart racing.

You were content to hide it, to bury it deep where he would never see, because you knew he didn’t need to know. You’d rather pretend. Pretend that this was enough—that his presence, his breath mingling with yours in the cold night air, was all you needed.

You looked down at the flower in your hand. It was small and fragile, its petals a deep, crimson red, like drops of blood on bone. It was nothing compared to the treasures you had stolen for him, the riches you had laid at his feet, hoping for a smile, a word, a touch. And yet, it was everything. This single, fleeting gesture—a flower plucked from the earth, handed to you without thought or care—was worth more than anything. The fact that he had given it to you, even with such a cold, detached expression, made your heart flutter like the wings of a dying bird.

Your leader had given you a flower. You could survive on that alone, on the knowledge that, for one brief moment, he had seen you and thought of you.

This was love to you, and you were content with it. Hiding your heart from him because you didn’t need to tell him. You’d rather pretend. Because your love was different—silent, enduring, untouched by the light of day. A love that thrived in quiet spaces, where hope and heartache intertwined like the roots of a tree. You would rather pretend, because its purity was its own reward. It wasn’t about wanting something in return. You knew he would never love you back—not in the way you loved him. And that was fine. You had accepted it long ago.

Your love was about loving him so deeply that you were willing to feel everything, even the pain of knowing he would never feel the same. You had become accustomed to that pain; it had become part of you, a constant companion, a reminder that you were alive, that you could love, even if that love would never be returned.

Your love had survived against all odds, even after he had led the massacre of the Kurta. It was a love that filled the spaces between words left unsaid, in looks that lingered too long, in the silent longing that never truly faded. He had always been out of reach, even when you were children. Always slipping through your fingers like smoke, like a dream you couldn’t quite hold onto.

Perhaps that’s why you clung to him so tightly, why you adopted his ideas as your own, why you never questioned his decisions. You would do anything for him. Anything, if it meant you could stay by his side just a little longer, even if that light were cold and indifferent.

Your love was both a gift and a burden, a testament to the heart’s ability to love fiercely without the promise of anything in return. Pakunoda had seen it—the way your love consumed you, the way it burned like a slow, smoldering fire that refused to go out.

“Can you make these feelings go away?” You had whispered to her once, hiding your face in her shoulder, her arms the only sanctuary you knew. “Can you make it stop?”

The sharp pain of the chain cutting into your heart brought you back to the present, tearing you away from that memory. Blood warmed your lips, pooling at the corners of your mouth, and the world around you blurred into a mess of color and sound. You clung to the lily he had given you, cradling it close even as the chains tightened around you, threatening to crush it in your grasp.

You didn’t blame Chrollo. Not for your pain, not for your death. These were choices you had made willingly, with your eyes open and your heart laid bare. You would make them again, a thousand times over, if it meant you could have this—a flower, a moment, a breath in his presence.

The chain user was gone, and you felt the presence of the other Troupe members drawing nearer, their shouts growing fainter in your ears, echoes from a place you could no longer reach. You had seen all the signs. You had known. But still, you had chosen to believe. To pretend. Because it was easier than facing the truth.

Your vision blurred, but you felt him there, his arms around you, holding you close. For a moment, your heart surged with hope—a foolish hope that maybe, just maybe, he cared. That maybe, this time, he would say something—anything to make the pain go away.

Your fingers tightened around the withering red spider lily, its petals soft and fragile against your skin. Through blurry vision, your eyes searched his face, desperate for a sign. But all you found was the same unreadable mask, the same cold distance. The silence between you was suffocating, more painful than any wound.

In that silence, you finally understood—he would never love you the way you loved him. You were just another piece on his board, another pawn in his game.

“But maybe that’s why they’re so beautiful... because they don’t try to hold on.”

Your grip weakened, and the flower slipped from your fingers, its petals scattering like the remnants of your heart.

So, you let go. Not just of the flower, but of the love that had been your constant torment. You released it into the wind, into the void between you, accepting the truth you had fought so hard to deny.

Maybe, as you crossed the Sanzu River, you would see the cities he burned—for you.

© eyesofbong / Do not plagiarize my work. If you see this content on any account that is not mine, please report it.

[bubbles-for-all-of-us]

Could you write an imagine with Ruhn x Reader, like maybe someone that isn’t rlly swayed by his look and is very out off by like the smoking and parties and for the first time he actually has to try to get the girl he wants??? Luv u!!!

Polar opposite

You frowned the moment the loud music hit you. It felt like a physical blow the moment you yanked the door open, trying to press through a sea of sweaty bodies. If it wasn’t for your best friend you would be miles away from places like that. But when duty called, you weren’t about to leave her in place like that drunk. You pull up your phone, hoping the Find Me app will magically guide you to your friends as you curse beneath your breath.

After bumping into an unimaginable amount of tipsy people and dogging at least four sets of hands you finally catch a glimpse of Merc’s silver hair. But the minute you move to take a confident step towards her a firm frame covers your view of the room. You let out a frustrated huff. “Want a hit?”, you don’t even need to lift your head to know who the voice belongs to. Biggest fuck boy this city had seen. But you know his type. Already faced more than one on your visit here. You look him up and down with a scowl, “Ah.. no thank you”, you shoot him a fake smile, trying to outstep the crowned prince only to come in contact with his outstretched hand. “I got the best”, he smirks, waving the cigarette in front of your face.

“Lung cancer?”, you muse, crossing your arms over your chest. “What?”, Ruhn frowns too high to follow through the conversation probably. “The best lung cancer”, you tap his shoulder, “Not interested”, you move to the side once more only for him to follow your lead. Was this guy seriously blind or something? Wasn’t your body language enough for him to understand that you weren’t interested?

“A drink?”, he wiggles his eyebrows, leaning in closer. “You know what I would love actually”, you smile at him as you back away ever so slightly. “Tell me”, Ruhn practically purrs, “I’ll get it for ya, gorgeous”, he beamed. You smile right back at him, hoping that he can’t see the way your eye is practically twitching with annoyance. “I would love for you to piss the fuck off”, you huff, using his surprise to push past him. Was this playing with fire? Most definitely. And was your heart practically beating out of your chest? Yes. But he didn’t need to know that.

A loud sea of “Uffffffff”, echoed around you both. “You just got put in your place”, someone muttered with a laugh, followed by a sharp, “Shut up”, by Ruhn himself. You pushed it all back. Choosing to focus on your friend who was puking into the potted plant. “Come on, Merc”, you breathed out, wrapping an arm around her middle as she tried to apologize but it all barely made sense. You could feel the same purple eyes watching your every move. Even outside as you tried to get your friend seated in your car. It felt as if someone was watching.

His skin had prickled with annoyance when you had kicked him to the curb as if he were nothing. He loved the chase. It was fun at the time. Got the blood flowing. But Ruhn just wanted a careless fuck that night. With someone who had no stupid agenda when it came to him. And too many faces around the room were familiar but he had never seen you before. There was something different about you. No twinkle of excitement as you walked through his living room. At first, he thought that this was just a mask. A game of sorts that would crumble as soon as he introduced himself. But you had looked him up and down the same way you had looked up the messy hallway and the sea of intoxicated people. “Dec”, Ruhn leaned closer to his friend, who even in the middle of the party had his computer propped up on the kitchen counter. “Hmm”, he barely acknowledged Ruhn, throwing back another shot that someone plopped in his hand. “Dig up everything you can find about her”, Ruhn breathed out. Dec lifted his head. Scanning his friend’s face before breaking into a knowing grin.

Ruhn had been leaning against his car for hours. At this point his cigarettes were running low and so was his patience. Until the back door opened up. “The library closed three hours ago”, his voice echoed through the dark alley. Making the person let out a loud shriek. “Urd spare me”, you hiss, hand over your chest as your blazing eyes lock in on him. “Are you insane? Are you following me?”, huffing you reached for the book that had slipped out of your hands, turning back to lock the door.

“Thought you weren’t the one to break the rules”, Ruhn flicked his cigarette one more time before, stepping on it with his foot. Killing the last bits of amber. “I have a card that…”, you stop mid-sentence, raising your head higher, “I don’t have to explain myself to you”. A smirk crept onto his face. Ruhn liked this. This push and pull. The fact that you didn’t want to cave in.

“How did you even know I’ll be here?”, you huff, stepping under the same lamp light. Eyes still blazing in annoyance. But such beautiful eyes. Eyes that pull Ruhn under for a heartbeat too long before he mutters, “Thought I’ll hand deliver an invitation to my party”, he pulls a folded card from his leather jacket. He never sends out invitations to his parties and from the way you raise an eyebrow at him, you appear to be aware of that information.

“No”, you say in that venomous sweet voice before turning away from him. “One party”, he calls over your shoulder but you simply wave him off. “Or are you scared?”, Ruhn throws the last desperate hook and to his surprise, you stop before turning back at him. “I don’t see a point in all that”, you simply shrug, “Drinking, smoking, drugs, strangers puking in your toilet”, you bend finger after finger as you list the things you hate. “Grim”, you add at the very end, making Ruhn let out a chuckle.

“What’s your form of fun?”, if only his friends would see him like this. He’s borderline desperate. To keep this conversation going. To keep you in his company. You just shake your head, “Something you would never like”. Your eyes dart yo to him and Ruhn doesn’t let his gaze falter. “Try me”, he almost dares you, “You might just be surprised”. He can see the way a breath hitches in your throat. You stay silent for a bit before muttering, “I like books”, and there it is, that glimmer, one that people have at his parties. The shine in the eyes, “I like book browsing and just walking through little shops”, your admission has your cheeks growing slightly pink. And fuck if it’s not the most attractive thing Ruhn had seen. He’s not sure what demon makes him do it but, Ruhn finds his mouth betraying him, “How about this. I go with you to do what you like and you do the same with my kind of fun?”, and it’s like you are both taken back by that suggestion. Ruhn catches a flicker of a challenge in your eyes before you nod, “Fine”, your breath, “But you have to enjoy yourself fully, not fake your way through it”, you breathe out, making Ruhn nod as he extends his hand towards you, “Deal”, he mutters. You hesitate to shake his hand for a moment but then your way smaller palm is sliding into his callused one and you are almost sure that you feel a shiver running through his whole body.

[lovlive]

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ ‘concert going’ - l.hc

SYNOPSIS - you and your boyfriend haechan finally get tickets to a concert and see the artist you love

PAIRING - lee haechan x reader

GENRE - fluff, established relationship

WARNINGS - i guess you could say that the reader is short (😭), reader is called ‘baby’, lmk if i missed something.

notes: i am so down bad for hyuck rn. like why is he so fine?! anyways, i used a random prompt generator to write this since my brain is dead from school and i got “get on my shoulders, you’ll see better.” hope you guys like it :3

both you and haechan have been obsessed with a new musical artist you’ve recently discovered. you’d both often find yourselves sharing headphones on the bus like in those romance anime movies listening to that one artist, or having their songs quietly play in the background while you complete your homework or some type of work you have due. so when haechan surprised you with tickets to one of their concerts, you nearly jumped out of your shoes with excitement (like literally, you were jumping up and down for the following 5 minutes and hugging (squeezing) the hell out of your poor boyfriend)

the day of the concert eventually comes and you wake up with a huge dumb smile on your face. you stayed up quite late last night trying to clear out as much unwanted things on your phone to make storage for the new photos and videos yoy were going to take, but nonetheless you felt as if you had slept atleast 12 hours with how energised you felt. you jumped up out of bed, giggling to yourself as you reached for your pre-planned concert outfit. you manage to change into it as you hear your boyfriend groan groggily, complaining that its too early for you to be getting up yet. you ignore his mumbling and drag him out of bed as you both head to the kitchen and have a breakfast. you let haechan get ready, and before you know it both of you are out of the house and driving to your destination.

you get to the venue, the smile from the morning still plastered on your face. it feels as if its stuck on your face, like you’d have to physically wipe it off with a tissue for it to be gone. you stand in line together, hands intertwined as you babble on about how excited you are to haechan. he teases you about your enthusiasm and how cute you are, squeezing your hand every now and again. eventually you get past all the security and other obstacles, reaching the hall. you get lost a couple of times trying to reach your seats because you cant read signs to save your life, leading to haechan snatching the phone out of your hand and leading you to your correct assigned area. the venue becomes more full by the second and your heart begins to thump in your chest as you wait for the artist to appear.

eventually the artist appears and you start screaming like a feral dog, haechan laughing at you hard. as the booming bass and electrifying guitar riffs filled the air, you found yourselves caught in the midst of the pulsating crowd at the concert. standing far from the stage, you struggled to catch a glimpse of the stage over the sea of heads. "man, I can barely see anything," you exclaimed, craning your neck to catch a glimpse of the performers.

haechan grinned mischievously. "i’ve got an idea. get on my shoulders, you'll see better!" you hesitated for a moment, unsure about the idea. but the infectious energy of the crowd and the excitement of the music convinced you to give it a try. with a laugh, you climbed onto haechan’s broad shoulders, feeling a rush of adrenaline as you rose above the crowd.

suddenly, everything changed. from your new vantage point, you could see the stage perfectly. the vibrant lights danced across the performers' faces, and you could feel the music reverberating through your bones.

as you swayed to the rhythm of the music, you both became lost in the moment. for a brief, exhilarating moment, it was just the two of you and the music. as the concert reached its climax, you couldn't wipe the smile from your face. you felt alive, invigorated by the experience of being lifted above the crowd and immersed in the magic of the music. when the final notes faded away and the crowd began to disperse, you climbed down from haechan’s shoulders, feeling a sense of gratitude for your boyfriend's spontaneous idea. "thanks for the lift," you said, grinning at haechan. "anytime, baby, your as light as a feather to me." he replied, his own smile matching yours as you giggled at his response.

⊹˚₊‧───────────‧₊˚⊹

you finally get home, both of you still giggling and yapping to eachother about your favourite moments of the concert. haechan decides to go take a shower as you decide to get in your pajamas and get cozy. you hold a bag of concert merch, excited to display it in your room and start wearing it on a daily basis. but before you do any of that, you want to express your gratitude to your boyfriend, of course. without him you wouldnt of even went to the concert since he was the one who bought the tickets for you both. you notice haechan walking out of the bathroom, hair dripping onto the fresh t-shirt that he’s wearing. you cant help to think about how handsome he is. he stands over the kitchen counter, supposedly turning the kettle on to make a tea as you creep up behind him. you stand on your tippy toes as you wrap your arms around his shoulders from the back, head turning to the side kiss his cheek. you take notice the immediate smile that appears on his face as he notices your actions. “whats up with you?” he teases as he spins around, now facing you and wrapping his arms back around your waist. “just wanted to say thank you for today.” you say, noticing his face leaning utterly close to yours. he chuckles at your response, feeling his hand tighten around you. “of course. you know id do anything to make you happy.” he smiled, closing the gap between you both and pressing a soft kiss onto your lips. you gently run one of your hands through his damp hair, enjoying the feeling of his warm lips against yours. the kiss breaks eventually, and you hear him mumble something out. “i love you.” the smile that has been on your face since this morning somehow grows even bigger as you respond. “i love you too.”

[fanaticsnail]

today being children's day we will have the pleasure of something thematic? 👀My dog really wanna know (but 0 pressure of course, just curious)

"0 Pressure", you say - but all I hear is "Dad Shanks and Baby Uta fic ASAP please."

I had no idea it was Children's Day today, and I had to pump this out because it lives in my head rent-free.

What do I do?

Masterlist Here

Word Count: 1,100+

Synopsis: Uta is going through a leap week and Shanks is an overwhelmed teenager. He does his best to soothe her, but becomes overwhelmed by the wailing cry of his daughter. He calls the one person he knows has hands on experience with a situation exactly like the one he's found himself in.

Themes: Not an 'x reader' fic. Baby Uta, teenage parent Shanks, supportive crew, uncle Rayleigh, parenting things, parenting advice, Shanks is a dad, fluff.

Notes: I hope you enjoy a little bit of a cathartic fic based on parenting experience. I cried writing the end. Happy tears.

Tag List: @mfreedomstuff @daydreamer-in-training @gingernut1314 @i-am-vita @indydonuts @feral-artistry @since-im-already-here @sordidmusings @writingmysanity @jintaka-hane

Down the hall in the dimly-lit corridor, the Red-Headed captain Shanks had his eyes hanging half-lidded and surrounded by a puffy purple hue. He attempts to soothe the inconsolable infant in his arms with a gentle rocking motion, and marching from one side of his quarters to the other. 

Why did he think he could do something like this? Why did he think it would be so easy to care for a baby he found at sea with his crew? He knew better than to go back to Beckman for help: his first mate had finally asked for a week off from “Uta-Duty” after doing nights while Shanks charted the courses he laid for the next destination.

The wails of her shrill cry carry on through the rocking and swaying, and tears begin to pool in the teenager’s eyes. Shanks feels so overwhelmed and helpless, wanting nothing more than to aid Uta through her ailment so he can finally get some sleep. She arches her back and straightens out her limbs with her face red and brows furrowed. 

“Shh, sweetheart,” he hushes in a soft tone, attempting to cradle her back into his arms and rock her, “Daddy’s here. Daddy’s got you.” Uta’s cries turn to whimpers, her vibrant purple eyes widened and looked up into his brown orbs. Both the teenage Shanks and the infant Uta held mirrored expressions. 

Wide globes of vulnerability stared into each other with a glossy sheen threatening to spill over their lash lines further. Uta’s reddened face scrunched up once more, her whimpers becoming a wailing cry with her eyes clamping tightly shut. Shanks sighed, his own tears finally spilling over his waterline, staining his cheeks with a trail of emotion, and trickling down to his chin. 

“I-I-...” Shanks began slowly sitting down at his desk with Uta continuing to cry in his arms, “...I don’t know what to do, sweetheart. What do I do? P-Please, Uta. What do I do?” 

He looks at his desk, noticing his Den-Den snail glaring at him with equally sunken eyes over his features. Shanks sighed, reaching for the snail and beginning to chart in the digits for the one person he thought would be able to help him. He lifts the receiver to his ear and sniffs back another sob into the mouthpiece. 

The Den-Den on the other end of the call rattles, a male voice picking up and giving a lazy “Kid, that you?” 

“...Uncle Rayleigh?” Shanks stuttered into the mouthpiece, the cries of Uta floating eagerly into the transceiver with his cracking voice. Rayleigh sighed into the mouthpiece, a soft smile growing on his lips. 

“That my favorite grandbaby cryin’ there, son?” Rayleigh’s easy drawl called through the receiver, “How many weeks old is she now, Shanks? About seven months or so?” 

“Y-Yes,” Shanks’ voice whimpered into the mouthpiece. Rayleigh hummed in contemplation, and Shanks could almost picture the soft bob in his head. 

“One o’ them wonder weeks, I think,” his rumbled tone relayed back to him, “All I can tell you is it’ll pass. You’re in the thick of it based on her cry, but it won’t be forever. Okay, kid?” 

Rayleigh waited on the other end of the call, his duvet slipping off his chest and falling to his lap as he spared a glance at the clock at his side. No sounds other than the cry from Uta reverberated in the mouthpiece. 

“You still with me, son?” Rayleigh asked the young captain, who only granted him a choked whimper in response. 

“How’d you do it, Uncle Rayleigh?” Shanks’ cracking voice and quivering lip physically depicting his distress with Uta’s cries only growing louder. “You were my age when you found me. How did you do it? Because I-I-... I can’t-... It’s-... Sh-She-... She doesn’t stop.” 

After a deep sigh from Rayleigh, he pinched his brows and turned once more to the snail.

“Lean on your crew for a few days,” he hummed thoughtfully, all truth and full of well-practiced patience. “Get your chef to prepare meals for you in advance. You sleep when she sleeps, you wake when she wakes, and you lean on your crew, boy. Trust them to guide you, give Uta to Beckman for a bit while you get a more lengthy rest, and do your best.” 

Shanks allowed his tears to flood his face, heavily sobbing as he listened to the first-mate of captain Roger. 

Both Roger and Rayleigh raised him aboard the Oro Jackson from toddlerdom. Shanks was found by Roger exactly the same as Uta was found by him. If there was anyone with sound advice and sure experience, it was this glasses-wearing, blonde haired, ex-first mate to the King of the Pirates. His Uncle Rayleigh. 

“Thank you, Uncle Rayleigh,” Shanks whimpered into the mouthpiece, feeling Uta beginning to settle in his arms and bury her face into his chest, “She-... She’s calming down a bit now. I think I’m gonna try and get some sleep.” 

“You do that, son. And know this…” Rayleigh spoke into the Den-Den quietly, prompting Shanks to lean his ear into the shell while cradling Uta into his arms. 

“...You’re doing great.”

Shanks sniffed back more emotion from escaping him as he hung up the Den-Den shell and slowly walked Uta to her crib at his bedside. Slowly placing her onto her back, Shanks looks down at her peaceful face and lays down at the very edge of his bed. Slotting his hand over her crib, he gently places his index finger within her balled fist. 

“You are so precious to me, my daughter,” he sniffed, his lip quivering the longer he stared at her smaller face, “We’ll get through this together. I promise, sweetheart.” He slowly retracted his arm and placed his hand beneath his face while lying on his knuckles. 

“I love you, Uta. My little song,” he whispered, his body finally giving in and prompting his heavy eyes to finally shut, “My precious daughter.”

The night carried on, the gentle swell of the waves shepherded both Shanks and Uta into a heavy slumber. The teenage captain never once regretted the decision to claim the child as his own, his decision to raise her aboard the Red-Force being one of the better decisions he had made. 

Before he woke, Rayleigh had already called Beckman’s Den-Den and filled him in on the interrupted night, and gave him several orders to follow to best support the young Captain. Beckman took Rayleigh’s word as law, barking orders to the crew to give Shanks all the time and space he needed to usher Uta through this stage of childhood development. 

Shanks remained ever grateful that he chose this assortment of sailors to travel with, his crew being the crutch he could lean on in his time of need. He loved each member of his crew so much, especially the small bundle laying soundly asleep in her crib beside him.

[hey-august]

Could we get more shy Buggy content pls 🙏😭 I'm love

YEAH WE CAN. We love a shy and awkward clown.

Let's have some headcanons about shy Buggy!

WC: ~500 Warnings: sfw, fluffy af, buggy x gn!reader

Buggy tries foods and drinks that you like, partly to get to know more about you, but also because he wants you to notice that you like the same thing and and start liking him because of it.

He researches your interests - looking through his books, listening in on your conversations, buying new books, stealing books, eavesdropping, finding a way to stand nearby so he can listen to you talk without you noticing - all to learn more and be knowledgeable. Whenever you bring up a particular topic, Buggy will jump right in full of confidence and showing off. You're paying attention to him, it's great! Until you ask about some specific detail and — OOPS SORRY, someone's calling him, he's gotta go byeeeee

GO DO MORE RESEARCH. Hours, maybe even days, later Buggy will swagger back up to you and act like no time has passed since that last conversation. Now he's ready to talk about it more. You see what's going on and give him a break. No hard questions this time. As adorable as it was to fluster Buggy, you also like when he's pleased with himself. If he was a dog (a dirty sea dog lol), his tail would be wagging so fast that it's a blur.

When you compliment Buggy on something, he is riding the high for the rest of the day. Playing it on repeat in his head, strutting around with his chest puffed out, he's practically glowing. (Wait, does his nose look a little extra lumiescent? Don't say anything, it's cute.) He keeps boasting about it too - "You're not fashionable like me. Maybe you should get a flashy scarf like this." "Only someone like me could have a belt like this!" "Oh, I wash my hair once a month, that's why it's so silky." (It's greasy, Buggy. You got the compliment because you showered yesterday.)

He also tries to get you to compliment him again. Wearing the same combination of clothes, putting his hair up the same way, whatever it was, he's doing it. But Buggy would say anything about it. It's like a weird trick, he'll flounce around and try to get your attention so that you compliment him again. Swaying and tossing his hair back. Standing in front of you, hand in a pocket so you can see his belt, or his hands resting on the jolly roger belt buckle. Fidgeting with his scarf.

Here's the problem, though. He can't handle it. He can't handle the way that your eyes flick down to his belt (his crotch). Or how your eyes are over his face, staring right through him, watching him lick his lips, looking at his neck, at his hands…

Even if you don't compliment him, Buggy takes it as a win. And he's definitely the kind of guy to fist pump behind your back.

Silly guy, he doesn't realize that you can see his shadow.