#seagull voice mine

[amusingmusie]

All the hozier fans coming out of the woodworking lol

look up “Angel of Small Death and the Codeine Scene” by Hozier.

“Feeling more human and hooked on her flesh”

“Its bloody and raw but i swear it is sweet”

“With her sweetened breath and her tongue so mean”

I think this song perfectly encapsulates how Alastor is starting to feel more emotions than he wants or is ready to.

Thank you!!! YOINK. More songs!

[anamariamauricia]

[whatislifebesidesrehearsal]

Stage Tech: Sometimes sharing is NOT caring!

[seagull-scribbles]

Your art is so good it makes me scream and scream and scream bloody murder and gnash my teeth with jealousy and rage that a god would favour a mortal so

Obsessed with your grasp of the English language

Maybe I should make you some tea and you can pull yourself together /💕

[rafestify]

Beach Fight and Tides of Forgiveness — Rafe Cameron

Summary : Y/N and Rafe confront their painful past after a chaotic beach fight between Y/N and Ruthie but begin to reconnect, exploring the possibility of a hopeful future together.

Rafe Cameron x Ex!Reader (season 4 spoiler alert!)

Warning : Swearing (english is not my first language)

A/N : Probably the longest fic I've ever written so far, it's like around 2.3k ish, and i think this was a request from @dkjndfnmdfmdmnd , hope u like it 🩵

For us Pogues, the beach wasn’t just a place to visit—it was like our second home, a refuge where we felt truly ourselves. The salty breeze, the endless horizon, and the warmth of the sand beneath our feet brought a kind of peace that was hard to find anywhere else. The sound of waves crashing and seagulls chirping in the distance seemed to wash away our worries, making everything feel better, if only for a little while. There's nothing better than a day off with the people you love the most, in a place that feels like home—the beach.

“Don’t you just immediately feel like everything’s better at the beach?” Kie said, her gaze sweeping across the shoreline as she took in the sun, sand, and waves.

I nodded in silent agreement, sharing the same unspoken understanding that nothing compared to the serenity of the ocean. Together, we began setting up the chairs and cool box, the salty breeze tugging at our hair as the waves crashed in the distance. “Let’s get these boards off!” JJ exclaimed with excitement, his eyes gleaming as he headed toward the Twinkie to unload the surfboards, ready to dive into the thrill of the surf.

“What the hell?” I muttered under my breath, catching sight of Topper and his friends’ trucks rolling toward us, their engines rumbling louder as they approached. “You’re joking,” Sarah sighed, exasperation clear in her voice as she rolled her eyes at the unwelcome sight. “Don’t stop,” JJ mumbled, focused on untying the ropes securing our surfboards to the top of the Twinkie, clearly determined not to let their arrival ruin our plans. “Anywhere but here,” Kie added with a frustrated tone, her eyes narrowing as she watched them close in, the tension in the air thickening with every second.

“Great, just the perfect time,” I said sarcastically, rolling my eyes as their trucks came to a halt and parked just a few meters away from us. The sudden noise and presence of Topper and his friends felt like a dark cloud looming over our sunny day, threatening to ruin the fun we had planned.

“Let’s go, baby!” The voice rang out, unmistakable and familiar, stirring a rush of memories within me. The one that used to comfort me in moments of doubt, the one that whispered soothing words to ease my fears. Rafe Cameron had a way of making everything feel right, his presence a warm embrace that felt like home. I turned to locate the source of the voice, and our eyes met—his striking blue gaze locking onto mine. The moment stretched, the world around us fading away as the connection lingered just a heartbeat too long. All of a sudden, Topper strode toward us with an air of confidence. “Sunshine's coming,” JJ remarked, earning an exasperated sigh from John B as he stepped closer to him. Though I couldn’t quite hear their conversation, they appeared surprisingly relaxed, exchanging easy banter that contrasted with the tension in the air.

We all surfed the waves together, and it felt utterly exhilarating. After months spent chasing the elusive City of Gold, finally engaging in something I was truly passionate about was a refreshing escape. The thrill of surfing, the salty spray of the ocean, and the laughter of friends combined to create a blissful sense of freedom that was simply amazing.

After surfing for what felt like hours, I made my way back to the shore, slipping into my denim shorts. “Guys, there’s a turtle hatch!” Kie exclaimed, her excitement palpable. “Y/N, look!” I rushed over to her, my heart racing as I squealed, “Oh my god!” In awe, I added, “They’re so tiny!” Sarah and I echoed each other, our voices filled with wonder at the sight of the adorable little turtles making their way to the ocean. I have always had a deep love for sea creatures, particularly turtles and dolphins. This passion is what drew Kie and me together, as we bonded over our shared fascination for the ocean's incredible inhabitants.

As we helped the tiny turtles by creating paths for them to reach the ocean, the sudden roar of a truck engine interrupted our focus. My gaze shifted to Topper’s girlfriend, Ruthie, at the wheel, with Topper himself lounging in the passenger seat. “Hey, stop! There’s a hatch!” I yelled, desperation lacing my voice. “Stop!” Kie added, jumping up and waving her arms frantically. “Guys, stop!” I shouted again, but the truck only sped up, closing the distance between us. In a split second, Sarah yanked me out of the way just as the truck barreled past, sending me tumbling into the sand with a startled grunt.

“Are you okay?” Sarah, Kie, and JJ asked in unison. I managed a quiet “I'm fine,” but a sinking feeling twisted in my stomach as I noticed the truck circling around again, this time picking up speed. Panic surged through me, and I jumped to my feet. “Stop! There’s a hatch!” I yelled, but my voice was swallowed by the roar of the engine as they barreled over the paths we had painstakingly created for the turtles. “No, no, no…no!” I gasped, horror washing over me as I watched the truck crush a few of the fragile creatures beneath its wheels. My heart raced as I rushed toward them, my pulse pounding in my ears. Kie knelt beside a turtle with a shattered shell, its life flickering away. “Fucking psycho,” she muttered, her eyes brimming with anger and sorrow. I felt a fire ignite within me, furious at their reckless disregard. Ignoring my friends’ calls, I stormed over to where they stood, determined to confront them.

“Look what you did!” I shouted, cradling the lifeless turtles in my hands. “Do you think this is okay?” Ruthie stole a quick glance at the broken shells before quickly averting her eyes. “No, look at it!” I protested, my voice rising with anger. “You drove right over a turtle hatch, you idiots!” Rafe stood beside Topper, who tried to diffuse the situation. “I understand you're upset, Y/N,” he said, his tone calm but unhelpful. I hadn't even noticed my friends were behind me, their expressions mirroring my shock and frustration. “I’m more than upset, Topper” I shot back, feeling the heat of my anger.

“Look, it was only one,” Ruthie interjected dismissively, shrugging as if it didn’t matter. “I mean, there are so many more of them,” she pointed out, trying to minimize the damage. “You know what? You should just throw that to the seagulls,” she added with a mocking tone. “Cycle of life, right?”

My breath quickened as rage boiled within me, and I couldn't take it anymore. I pushed her hard, and just as she prepared to retaliate, Rafe stepped in between us, his presence a barrier against her aggression.

“Stop,” he said firmly, pushing Ruthie’s arm away before she could retaliate. He turned to me, his eyes softening slightly. “There’s something seriously wrong with you people,” I shot back, turning on my heel and striding away, handing Sarah the lifeless turtle.

“That’s right, go back to your side, bitch! You don’t belong with us anymore!” Ruthie shouted, her words laced with venom.

That was the final straw. Rage coursed through me, boiling over as I stormed toward her, every ounce of frustration and hurt fueling my movements. Without thinking, I swung my fist and connected hard with her jaw. The impact reverberated through me, and for a heartbeat, everything froze—the shocked look on Ruthie's face, the collective gasps of my friends.

She recovered quickly, her eyes blazing with anger. Without hesitation, she lunged at me, landing a swift punch that connected with my nose. The sharp pain shot through my face, and I felt warm blood begin to trickle down. I stumbled back, shocked by the sudden turn of events, my hands instinctively going to my face. John B tried to step in, attempting to intervene but Rafe was a lot quicker than him.

“Control your crazy bitch, Top!” Rafe said, his gaze locked onto me with a mix of concern and frustration. “Are you okay?” he asked, his voice softening.

“Like you care,” I shot back, my frustration boiling over. Without waiting for a response, I turned on my heel and stormed off, seeking refuge at my secret spot on the beach alone.

I perched on top of a massive rock, my knees drawn to my chest as I hugged them tightly, listening to the soothing sound of the waves crashing below. This spot was my sanctuary, the place I retreated to whenever I felt at my lowest. It never failed to calm me, wrapping me in a cocoon of peace. Suddenly, I sensed someone behind me. I turned to find Rafe standing there, his silhouette framed by the fading light. He climbed onto the rock and settled beside me.

“I didn’t give you permission to sit here,” I protested weakly, trying to maintain some semblance of defiance.

“It’s a public place,” he replied, his voice steady as he leaned back against the rock.

I fell silent, my gaze drifting to the horizon as the sun dipped lower in the sky, lost in a swirl of memories and thoughts. “How did you know I’d be here?” I finally asked, my voice barely above a whisper. He turned to me, a hint of nostalgia in his eyes. “We used to come here together, remember? You told me it was your favorite spot.” A sigh escaped me, heavy with longing. God, I missed those days—when everything felt simpler and the weight of the world was lighter.

“Here,” he said, breaking through my thoughts as he handed me a tissue for my bloody nose. I took it, our fingers brushing briefly. “Thanks,” I murmured, grateful for the gesture and the warmth of his presence.

“That was a pretty great punch, by the way,” Rafe said, a playful grin breaking through the tension. The corners of my mouth turned upward, and I let out a small chuckle, the sound echoing against the backdrop of crashing waves. We fell into a silence that felt strangely comfortable— not awkward at all. Despite the distance that had grown between us since our breakup, I still felt an undeniable sense of safety around him, as if we were wrapped in a bubble of shared history.

“I missed you, Y/N,” he confessed suddenly, his voice steady yet vulnerable.

My heart skipped a beat, and I turned to look at him, shock flickering across my face. This was the moment I hadn’t expected, the admission I had longed to hear but feared would never come.

“I missed you too, Rafe,” I sighed, the words flowing out of me, heavy with unspoken feelings and memories of our laughter, our late-night talks, and the way he could make me feel like the only person in the world. “I’m sorry for what I did to you,” he continued, his expression earnest, his gaze unwavering.

“I’m clean now, Y/N. Haven’t touched those shits for almost five months.”

“Really?” I asked, my disbelief melting into pride. I felt a swell of admiration for his strength and determination, and it made my heart ache a little.

He nodded, a flicker of vulnerability dancing in his eyes. “Yeah, I realized I couldn’t keep dragging you into my mess. I needed to change— for myself and for you.”

“I’m so proud of you, Rafe,” I said, my voice warm and genuine. I reached out, resting my hand on his for a brief moment, feeling the warmth radiate between us. A smile broke across his face, illuminating his features. “I did it all so I could be better for you,” he admitted, his sincerity wrapping around me like a comforting blanket. The air between us crackled with unspoken possibilities, and for a moment, I allowed myself to imagine what it would be like to rekindle the bond we once had.

“Can we at least try to work things out?” he asked, his gaze steady and hopeful. I paused, contemplating his words. He may have been a jerk to everyone else, but with me, he was sweet, protective, and loyal. The thought stirred something deep within me, a flicker of hope in the depths of my heart. “I’m not ready to be in a relationship again, Rafe—maybe just for now,” I finally replied, my voice softer than before. The truth of my feelings hung in the air, vulnerable and raw.

“It’s okay,” he said quickly, a reassuring smile breaking through his earlier concern. “We’ll take things slow. I’ll wait until you’re ready, alright?” The sincerity in his eyes made my heart flutter, a mix of apprehension and excitement dancing in my chest.

“Okay,” I smiled, a sense of warmth washing over me.

“Okay?” he repeated, his eyes lighting up with hope.

“Yeah, okay. We’ll take things slow,” I confirmed, feeling a rush of relief and anticipation. Rafe’s smile widened, and in that moment, it felt like we were stepping into a new chapter together, one where the past could fade into the background while we explored the potential of the future. As the sun began to set, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink, I leaned my head on his shoulder. The gentle sound of the waves lapping against the shore filled the air, creating a soothing rhythm that matched the beating of my heart. The warmth of his presence enveloped me, and I closed my eyes, letting the moment wash over me.

For the first time in a long time, I felt hope stirring within me, a belief that perhaps we could find our way back to each other, not as we were before, but as something new and beautiful.

likes and reblogs are appreciated! 🎀

[dvrcos]

Andrew Minyard mic’d up if aftg took place today and the Foxes did social media promo

Andrew absolutely refuses to be mic’d up for a long time

When he finally agrees to do it it’s during a game against the Jackals

Everyone is sure it’ll be a bust and they won’t get much of Andrew actually talking

But to everyone’s surprise, Andrew turns his inner monologue outwards and doesn’t shut up

He commentates the game from his perspective

‘And there’s the son of Exy Kevin Day running the ball up- and oh yeah no he’s down for the count’ *huffs a laugh through his nose*

‘The other fuckers have the ball now, if my brother dearest let’s them get it to my goal I’ll kill him’

And when the opposing teams striker trips Aaron up and gets past to Andrews goal he shuts them out of course

‘He’s dead. Find a new backliner coach’

When he gets bored of the game and the backliners are keeping the ball away from his goal he starts to sing

He does a full rendition of “Life is a Highway” because Neil and him watched Cars on the bus ride to the game

And he gets into it

He makes the guitar noises with his mouth and everything

He even sings it in the best low, country voice he can do

He interrupts himself in the middle of the song suddenly, feeling the need to give his full synopsis and review of Cars

‘If I was the stupid fucking car and I fell out of my sentient truck/trailers ass I would keep driving in the same fucking direction. Simple’

‘Josten would do the same thing as Lightning McQueen. He would fuck up an entire town, he’s already done it once actually, when he came here.’

‘Stupid junkie, I hate him’ he adds but there’s a fondness in his voice

‘How do the cars reproduce? Are there humans in this universe that build cars and then make them sentient? Do the cars bang?’

Halfway through his rant one of the strikers gets past Matt and Aaron and he doesn’t even stop talking when he smacks the ball halfway across the court

When the other teams strikers start breaking through the backliners more frequently Andrew doesn’t even seem to care

He just swats every attempted goal away, squawking a quite ‘mine’ like the seagulls from Finding Nemo after hitting each one

Mine *smacks* mine *swats* mine *swish*

He keeps his goal almost completely shut down the entire game, spare a few times when the other team can get the ball past him because he’s not paying attention

‘I wonder what coach is buying us for dinner after this. I hope it's good since we’re’ *his goal lights up red* ‘Oops, anyhow it better be good, I’m working my ass off out here,’

‘What if we all started moving in slow motion. Josten and Day would look stupid running up the court like that,’ *a ball flies past his helmet* ‘If we were in slowmo I would’ve stopped that’

He plays the entire game (Renee's out with an injury) and he shuffles through doing all this the entire game

He sings verses of whatever song pops into his head

He reviews the movies he’s watched recently

He commentates the game in his dry manner, listing off every stat he knows about the other team and then explains why they still suck

He makes fun of his Foxes and the other team

He talks about his random hypotheticals

All while keeping the goal almost perfectly defended against the other teams strikers

When the game ends and the Foxes are loaded back up on the bus they listen back to the recording of Andrews mic

And they’re shocked that he doesn’t stop talking once the entire game

They listen to his entire recording on the ride back to campus

All of the Foxes are laughing the entire time

Even Neil is smiling (even though he’s used to this version of Andrew that is weird and likes to ramble)

When they post his mic’d up highlights to their social media it goes viral

It’s their most viewed and liked mic’d up video

Their fans are begging for more of Andrew mic’d up but he refuses to do it again

He got the enjoyment out of doing it once and doesn’t feel a need to do it again

The foxes do start to pay a little more attention to what Andrew’s saying while in goal (and all the time)

Aaron Mic’d up

[hydriko]

THE BOY IS MINE.

jealousy trope but beach version : kuroo tetsuro x reader

genres / warnings : fem reader, jealous kuroo, creepy men, aged up characters, fluffy, established relationship, cursing (lmk if I missed anything!)

notes : hey everyone back at it again writing because its the one thing I can manage to do

Kuroo never seemed like the jealous type, at least you’d never experienced it first hand. He was typically laidback when you went out, but maybe that was because he never left your side and stared down any guy who even looked your direction.

But now that summer had arrived, temperatures spiking and attire requiring to be a little more revealing—something felt a little different.

You two were at the beach, and the swimsuit you wore was more or less skin-showing (as most bikinis are). You sunbathed while Kuroo went to go to the bathroom and do his thing, seagulls infesting the waters and the sound of the waves practically lulling you to sleep.

Sitting up, you decided to look for Kuroo. He was supposed to be taking a bathroom break, but he was taking an awful long time. You made your way towards a bathrooms, deciding to wait outside of the stalls. Before you could wait in peace, though, you felt a tap on your shoulder.

“Hey, sweetheart,” A deeper voice came from behind you, practically making your soul jump from your body. You whipped your head around, coming face-to-face with a man who was at least twice your age.

“I noticed you from over there,” He began, gesturing to a beachside bar behind him, “Couldn’t help but come over here and shoot my shot.” He held a martini in his hand, signifying that he was intoxicated—not that it made it any better.

The way he spoke offset you a bit, confidence and lust laced within his scruffy voice that just made your stomach queasy. You looked around, desperate for Kuroo to show up and save you from this weird man.

“What, cat got your tongue? Or are you just enjoying the view?” He smirked, flexing his nonexistent muscles to try and show off.

“Uhm, no. You look old enough to be my dad. Plus, I have a boyfriend.” You quipped, grimacing as you thought about his statement. You watched his face fall, unable to tell what he would do next.

“He doesn’t have to know…c’mon, doll, let’s go have some fun—” You felt an arm wrap around your waist, the sound of your boyfriends voice allowing you to let out a breath you had no idea you were holding.

“Hey, baby, who’s this?” Kuroo asked, leaning down to peck your cheek as his eyes shot daggers at the man. You looked up at him, shrugging and hoping he’d be able to tell that you were uncomfortable.

“This is the boyfriend? What a shame, I could treat you be—”You watched the man move closer, reaching out a hand to touch your shoulder.

“Alright, old man, back the fuck up,” Kuroo’s hand swatted away the other guy’s, his demeanor changing entirely. “Don’t you know that no means no?”

The older man put his hands into the air defensively, taking a step back with a surprised look on his face. “Woah there, bud, let’s calm down—”

“I’ll calm down when you leave my girlfriend alone,” Kuroo snapped back, pulling you closer to him. You silently watched, completely frozen and unsure what to do. Good thing you had a boyfriend who could handle shit like this.

Relief washed over you as the older man scoffed, walking back over to the bar to wallow in his embarrassment. Kuroo turned to you, a softer, more gentle look on his face. “You okay?”

You nodded, smiling as you began walking back to your stuff. “You handled that well,” You hummed, lying back down onto your towel. It was admirable, really, and you were glad you could see that side of him.

“Of course I did, I’m not gonna let some creep steal my beautiful girlfriend from me.” He folded his arms over his chest, the pout on his face making you laugh. He laid beside you, putting his hands behind his head.

You rolled over onto your stomach, resting your chin on your palm as you gave him a loving gaze. “I love you,” You mumbled after a moment of silence, reaching out to brush a tuft of hair from his face.

“I love you more,” He smiled, taking your hand in his and kissing the back of it.

[pretzel-box]

PROLOGUE: WELCOME TO URBANSHADE

Word count: 3,3k

Tags: GN!reader, Graphic mention of surgery and experiments on a human body

Summary: You get hired by Urbanshade, thanks to your father, but every start has its obstacles. And some obstacles might feel deeper than they should be.

The time on the wall clock showed it was just a few minutes past noon. Warm sunlight gently crept into the waiting room through the tall panoramic windows of the building. A quick glance to the side, catching a glimpse of the clock, was enough to tell you that it would still be a few moments before it was time to move from the comfort of the leather chair you were currently sitting on. Your freshly disinfected hands clung nervously to your phone as you swiftly scrolled through the list of contacts you had saved over time. You were so focused that it startled you slightly when another caller ID popped up on the bright screen, displaying the picture of your father's face.

This particular man had called you a lot lately, sticking his nose into your business after you dared to ask him for a tiny favor, hoping he would help since you are his beloved only child. But one thing you didn't expect from him at that specific moment was that he would take the opportunity to call you, considering that he was somewhere on the ocean.

He works as a high-class businessman, primarily sponsoring a company called Urbanshade. You didn't know much about them, but your dad mentioned something about how they specialize in underwater mining with some high-tech inventions. This explained his temporary stay on one of Urbanshade's ships, where they were testing and showcasing another new underwater mining robot of some sort, called Trenchbleeder. Your dad had funded the whole project over the past few months, so he was more than excited to see how his money was being put to good use.

"Did they call you yet?" Despite the slight static, the seagulls, and the waves in the background, you could make out the strict tone in his voice. Of course, he was curious. You had asked your dad if he knew someone who would hire you, his child. And naturally, the first thing he applied you for was a position at one of Urbanshade's research facilities. They weren't really looking for new employees in the first place, but your dad was very close to the higher-ups, so he bought the job for you. The fact that he paid the company to hire you made your stomach twist in discomfort, but it was too late to turn back and say no. "I risked a lot by doing that for you."

He referred to the payment he had made on your behalf, and you could feel the pressure he had placed on your shoulders.

You nodded, even though your dad couldn't see it over the phone. "I'm at their building, sitting in the waiting room. We're signing the contract today." You tried to sound confident, but you knew your dad could see right through your facade. "They should be calling me into the office soon."

Your name was called loudly through the room before your dad could reply, and he would probably have given you another warning not to mess it up for his reputation's sake. "Sorry, Dad, it's time."

You ended the call with a swift push of the red button, putting your phone on mute so nothing would distract you during the meeting with one of the higher-ups at Urbanshade. The lady at the reception told you where to go, and another employee guided you to a glass room, where a middle-aged man in an expensive-looking suit was seated. His arms were crossed, and the way he scanned your application papers made your stomach turn.

The man must have noticed your little stare from the other side of the glass wall because he looked up from the file, and it wasn't hard to miss the coy smile on his lips. The previous expression on his face was quickly replaced with a more welcoming one. "Ah, we finally meet. Your father has already told me a good deal about you."

"I am grateful for the opportunity to work for your company, Mr. Wiltshire." First impressions count, especially at a company like Urbanshade. So you took the opportunity to present yourself in the best possible light, even if it meant pretending to be something you're not—in this case, motivated and interested. Your hand almost raised itself to offer a polite and respectful handshake.

"I assure you, we are the ones who are honored to welcome you to our team. Welcome to Urbanshade."

A few months passed after Urbanshade recruited you, and it didn't take long for you to get the hang of all the small details involved in your job at the luxurious office—details like how the overpriced coffee machine worked, how to sort the endless stacks of paper files, and even how to avoid getting on your new boss's bad side. At this point, you'd even admit it feels like being a well-paid version of an intern since your higher-ups only trusted you with minor tasks so far.

Despite the simplicity and comfort of the tasks, you volunteered more than once for harder assignments, showing your most motivated side in the hope of getting a little more action in your otherwise boring life. But every single time, Mr. Wiltshire blocked you off with a polite smile and a shake of his head. "You're not ready yet."

It was frustrating; you felt there was more behind it than just a lack of skills, but you couldn't force your way into the deeper levels of the job without risking ruining it all for yourself.

A high-pitched female voice suddenly pulled you out of your regular daydreams, making you aware that you were indeed not alone at the moment. "Ah, look who's here!" Your black-haired co-worker beamed at you with the fakest smile you had ever seen, making you raise your eyebrow slightly. The action didn't go unnoticed by her, and you could feel her sharp acrylic nails digging uncomfortably into your left shoulder. "Be a sweetheart," she started again, leaning in from behind and speaking directly into your ear, "and take care of my files too, alright?" She no longer tried to hide her snarky tone and instead showed you her true nasty attitude. "We don't want Mr. Wiltshire to see how much you slack off at work, right, hon?" The pain slowly disappeared as she lifted her hand from your shoulder, wiping it off on her expensive business blazer. A glance over your shoulder to meet her gaze was enough.

Her smug smile hit a nerve deep inside you, but you swallowed your newfound anger like the smarter person and just nodded without a word. In the end, it wasn't worth the drama, and maybe you could use the opportunity to score some extra credit points with your boss if he saw you doing some well-executed extra work.

The fake woman left the moment you tried to open your mouth to give her a straightforward answer, leaving you behind like some worthless object in the middle of the office. By this point, it wasn't really offensive to you since you strongly disliked that woman for her weird attitude toward you, and every second without her was surely a good second. After watching her leave and get into the elevator at the end of the hall, you turned around too and slowly made your way to the coffee machine in the plain break room, pouring yourself a nice cup of dark liquid into your favorite mug. You would surely need it if you had to put in some extra hours to get the work done. With newfound motivation, you left the room and headed to your co-worker's personal office.

It was a neat space inside a glass room, furnished with minimalist-style furniture and a nice office chair made of quality leather. Some of the woman's personal items were scattered across the mahogany table, and your lips curled up as you felt the smooth surface of the table, thinking you could earn one of those fancy offices yourself if you worked hard enough.

Then you saw the stack of brown files on the table. It was in an unacceptable, messy state, with paper corners sticking out from all sides and some mysterious stains on the front covers. Yet, the weirdly pleasant smell of cigarettes and old paper hit your nose, filling you with a strange, comforting feeling all over again. Your eyes also didn't fail to notice the bright yellow note on the stack, with a hastily written message in black ink:

"Please sort by Thursday night. Return Z-13 file to higher-up when done."

Reading it gave you a sudden boost of excitement, seeing that there must be an interesting file usually in the hands of higher-ranked people. You didn't question it but rather saw it as an opportunity to dive deeper into the business that Urbanshade conducts, sensing a way to escape the boring intern tasks and join them on the front lines, maybe even leading a mining operation in the exciting underwater world.

Your hands took the small note from the files, discarding it without a care into the bin, assuming your co-worker was aware of it since she knew about the work the files required. It was another simple job of sorting papers and making sure everything was in its place before returning them to the basement archives below the building.

The warm, rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee replaced the smell in the small office as you took a careful sip from your favorite mug. The dark liquid was the only thing keeping you grounded amidst the tension of the day. Your fingers traced the rim of the warm cup absentmindedly as you scanned the chaotic stack of files on the mahogany desk.

Determined to make a good impression by sorting through the files with precision, you placed your mug at the edge of the desk, within easy reach. You started to carefully separate the documents, making piles according to their categories, when your mind began to wander.

You reached for another file, but just as you were about to grab it, your elbow knocked against your mug. Time seemed to slow as you watched in horror as the mug tipped over, spilling hot coffee across the desk. The dark liquid cascaded like a wave, soaking the neatly sorted papers in seconds.

"No, no, no!" you gasped, frantically grabbing at the files, trying to salvage what you could. But it was too late—the coffee had already seeped into most of the pages, leaving large brown stains that spread and blurred the ink in matter of seconds. The once crisp documents were now soggy and wrinkled, some of the text smearing into an illegible mess.

Your heart pounded as you stared at the ruined files. A wave of panic surged through you. These weren’t just any papers; they were official documents, meant to be returned to the higher-ups. And that one file—about something called Z-13—it was supposed to go directly to someone important. You remembered the note and its simple instructions, now crumpled in the waste bin, and felt a sinking dread.

Grabbing a handful of napkins from the small break room drawer, you desperately tried to blot the coffee from the papers, but the evidence of your mistake would be painfully clear, no matter how hard you tried to save the files. The edges of some files were curling up, the ink bleeding out, and some of the pages were beyond saving. The more you wiped, the worse it seemed to get.

You slumped into the leather chair, your hands trembling as you stared at the coffee-stained disaster in front of you. What would Mr. Wiltshire say? Worse, what would your father think if he found out? The pressure to prove yourself, to show that you were capable of handling the job, suddenly felt crushing.

With a deep breath, you tried to calm your racing thoughts. There had to be a way to fix this. Maybe you could reprint the damaged documents, or perhaps there were backups somewhere in the archives. You needed a plan, and fast. But first, you had to get rid of the evidence of your mistake—before anyone saw the mess you had made.

Forcing yourself to think clearly, you carefully gathered the soaked files, praying that you could come up with a solution before anyone found out about the spill. And then you saw it, the important file with big red letters on the cover, slightly drenched in warm coffee. The damage seemed to be at a visible minimum, making you slightly relax despite all the panic in your body.

Your finger traced over the paper cover before picking the file up from the messy table. It was slightly heavy, and as you felt the weight of the file in your hands, a ripple of curiosity surged through you. You hesitated for a moment, wondering what kind of secrets might be concealed within these pages. But the urge to know won out, and you carefully opened the front cover, revealing a neatly typed summary that seemed to offer a glimpse into the contents of the file.

The first thing that caught your eye was a series of police reports, meticulously detailed and organized, each one stamped with the official seal of Urbanshade. They were followed by a set of photographs, their glossy surfaces reflecting the dim light of the room. The first image you saw was a clear mugshot of a young man. His face was striking, not in the sense of beauty, but in the way it conveyed a deep weariness, as if the weight of the world had been pressing down on him for far too long. His dark hair was slightly disheveled, and they censored his eyes, leaving them to your imagination.

His expression was a frown in each of the photos, a look of quiet defiance mixed with something else—something that sent a strange sensation through your chest. It wasn’t pity, exactly, but a deep unease that you couldn’t quite place. There was a coldness in his expression, yet also a flicker of something more, something human and raw, buried beneath the layers of exhaustion and anger.

You turned the page, your fingers brushing over the edges of the police reports that followed. The papers were old, some of them yellowing with age, but the text was still clear. Your eyes skimmed the lines, taking in the grim details of a murder case that had been closed years ago. The words felt heavy, each sentence a stark reminder of the horror that had unfolded.

The reports detailed a series of brutal killings—nine victims in total. The descriptions were uncensored, each one more gruesome than the last. As you read, a chill ran down your spine. The level of violence, the cold, methodical nature of the crimes, it all painted a picture of someone deeply disturbed, someone with a darkness that ran far deeper than you could have imagined.

And there, at the center of it all, was the young man from the photos. His name was typed in bold letters at the top of the report: Sebastian Solace. The name seemed almost ironic—“Solace” suggesting peace or comfort, while the man it belonged to was associated with such unspeakable acts.

You stared at the name for a long moment, trying to reconcile the tired, defiant face in the photos with the monstrous deeds described in the reports. The file mentioned psychological evaluations, interviews, and even some speculation about his motives, but none of it seemed to add up. There was a note in the margin, scrawled in a hurried hand, suggesting that the case was far from closed, despite what the official records stated.

A photo paperclipped to the back of the file caught your attention—a grainy image of a dark, empty room. The caption underneath simply read, „Day of Execution“ The picture showed the electric chair that they used in Solace his execution, but any sign of his presence was missing in it.

Then you turned the pages and the police reports changed into a large series of lab reports, endless lists of medication and a collection of pictures that left you in a nauseous state.

You read and read for what felt like hours, your eyes moving mechanically over the pages as the horrors of Sebastian Solace's life unfolded before you. Each detail seemed more grotesque than the last, painting a picture of a man who had been systematically stripped of his humanity. It wasn’t just the surgeries—those brutal, invasive operations where limbs were removed and reattached like parts of a machine. It was the utter disregard for the person he once was, the complete and total annihilation of his identity, his very soul.

The deeper you delved into the file, the more your hands began to tremble. You could feel your stomach churning as you flipped through page after page of graphic images and cold, clinical reports. The pictures were the worst—high-resolution photographs of Sebastian’s disfigured body, his skin pale and sickly under the harsh fluorescent lights of a laboratory. There were stitches crisscrossing his limbs, metal tools embedded in his flesh like cruel mockeries of life-saving instruments. His eyes—those once defiant, tired eyes—were vacant now, lifeless, as though the man he had once been was already dead.

Your breath hitched as you turned to a page detailing an experiment labeled "Procedure 17-C." The accompanying photograph showed a close-up of Sebastian's chest, where wires and tubes had been inserted into his heart, his blood replaced with a thick, unnatural fluid. The caption beneath it coldly described the experiment’s purpose—to test the viability of synthetic blood in deep-sea environments. The thought of what he had endured, of how much pain and suffering had been inflicted upon him in the name of science, made your vision blur with tears.

You forced yourself to continue reading, even as nausea clawed at your throat. The reports became increasingly more deranged, describing how Sebastian’s body had been treated like a puzzle, dismantled and reassembled in ways that defied all logic and ethics. The word "specimen" appeared frequently, a stark reminder that to his captors, Sebastian was nothing more than a test subject, an object to be used and discarded.

It was around page 35 that you couldn’t take it anymore. You shoved the file aside and staggered to the bin next to you, emptying the contents of your stomach. The bile burned your throat, but the physical pain was nothing compared to the anguish in your heart. You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, trying to steady your breathing, but the images lingered in your mind, imprinted there like a brand.

Sebastian Solace—the name now felt like a curse, a grim reminder of the horrors that could befall anyone who crossed paths with Urbanshade. And the Hadal Blackside... it was no longer just a place. It was a living nightmare, a twisted abyss where humanity was stripped away,

The weight of the file in your hands felt unbearable as you reluctantly picked it up again, your fingers trembling as you closed the cover. The secrets contained within were like a lead weight on your soul, pressing down on you with an intensity that made it hard to breathe. When you finally set the file back on the table, it was as though you were laying down a burden too great for any one person to bear.

But even as you tried to distance yourself from what you had just read, the haunted eyes of Sebastian Solace refused to leave you. They stayed with you, those hollow, lifeless eyes, staring back at you from the depths of your memory. They were a reminder that in the Hadal Blackside, there were things far more terrifying than the dark waters and the lurking creatures within. There might were men—once human, now monsters—who had been twisted by the same forces that now ensnared you.

You were tangled in their web now, caught in a nightmare from which there was no waking. And as you sat there, in the dim light of that office room, you realized that the true horror wasn’t what had been done to Sebastian. It was the knowledge that, in time, the same fate could await you, if someone found out what you saw.

[graves4girls]

☆ my love mine all mine | johnny cage

✮ wc. 1.09k ⚠︎ warning(s): fem!reader needed some soft johnny so this is completely self-indulgent ⟡ be sure to check out my work on ao3 → gravesforgirls !!

You enjoyed the quiet moments between the flirty quips and cocky remarks, ones where the only sounds are the candle flames flickering around the bathtub, painting the room in a warm sunset of oranges and yellows, or the crashing waves in the early hours of the morning, cold air whipping through your hair and seagulls crooning overhead as you walk along the rocky coast. 

His head is resting on your chest, cheek smooshed over your heart with an arm lazily tossed across your stomach, his other arm tucked underneath his pillow. He's got a leg tangled around your own, soft snores slipping past his parted lips. 

You wake first, the arm draped over his back twitching as the warm sun cuts through the curtains and falls over your face, and before you can realize he's trapped you against the mattress, you attempt to roll onto your side. It's futile, his heavy limbs pinning you exactly where you lay, a sleepy mumble protesting your effort to pull away. You slowly peel your eyes open, gaze falling to your prisoner when your pupils adjust to the bright room, and you gently card your fingers through his hair, your other hand crawling over his arm to settle over his strong bicep, fingertips carefully feeling along the taut muscle as you listen to his slow breaths. It's refreshing, moment's like this, where everything seems to be still, almost stuck in time with how serene it all feels. 

His hand curls under your waist, striving to pull you closer as he scoots into you, tilting his head up to nuzzle his nose against the underside of your jaw, the quiet hum of his snores halting for a moment, and you think for a tick that he'd woken up, but he only sniffles, and his lips part once more, hushed breaths spilling out. Your hand tucks itself into the nook where his shoulder meets his trapezius, eyelids falling shut as you drink up the cozy rays of sun folding over the covers and leaking onto the exposed skin along your arm. 

He stirs a while later, wedging his hand out from beneath you to stretch his arm out, a soft groan reaching your ears as he strains the tight muscles. He takes his time untucking his face from the comfy spot in your neck, humming when you slide your hand over his shoulder, tracing over the dusting of freckles spattered on his bare skin like paint flicked onto a canvas, completely mindless and messy, yet still gorgeous, even in it's chaos. 

The tip of his nose prods into the fat of your cheek when he presses a feather-light kiss to your jaw bone, eyelids still anchored with sleep as he mutters into your skin, big hand smoothing over your stomach atop the duvet. "Morning." His voice is coated thick with his lingering exhaustion, gravelly and deep as it rumbles in his chest. 

"Morning," you parrot, short nails stroking over his shoulder blade as you tip your head down to look at him. 

He offers you a sweet little smile, his cheeks flushed the softest shade of red from the warm nest of blankets that heats him up, eyes dancing across your delicate features for an instant before they settle back on your own gaze. He brings his hand up to nudge your chin toward him, sticking a tender kiss to the corner of your mouth, another to your cheek, one to the tip of your nose, until he's littering your entire face in light kisses, pulling hushed giggles from your throat as the hand holding his bicep comes up to try and push him away. His hand slides down to the back of your neck when he presses a sweeter kiss to your lips, and you relax against him, flattening your palm over his chest as his lips move carefully against your own, his slow movements still tethered to the tempting bliss of sleep. 

You loved when he was sleepy like this. He's always clingy and mushy when he first wakes up, griping when you slip out from his grasp to start your day. He'll lay in bed and whine as he watches you shuffle about the room, begging you to come back and cuddle up in the warm covers with him, and he pouts when you shoot him down. He tries to pull you down when you drop one more kiss to his lips before you leave the room, but you know his routine by now, so it's not a very effective tactic. 

"Do we have anything planned for today?" He hums when he finally pries himself from your lips, propped up on his elbow as he looks down at you, stroking his thumb over your cheek.

"Not that I can think of."

You can see his eyes practically light up at your words, and his fingers brush some hair away from your face as he grins down at you. "You mean I get you all to myself all day? I'm not still dreaming, am I?"

You roll your eyes with a soft chuckle. "You're so unbelievably corny." Your hand slips out from around his neck, slicking back the messy strands of hair that frame his face, and you shift your body to better face him.

"And yet, you still married me. What does that say about you, hm?" He garnishes the taunt with a raised hand, presenting the silver band to you, as if it were the first time you were ever seeing it, that stupid smug grin plastered to his face.

"That I love to torture myself."

His hand falls to lay over your ribs as he leans in to steal another long kiss, a low hum vibrating in his chest when your hand cradles his jaw, thumbing over his cheekbone as he chuckles. "Yeah, you must hate me."

You nestle your head into his chest when he snakes both arms around you, enveloping you in his body heat and just a twinge of the cologne lingering on his skin, and your arms curl around his waist to keep him pressed against you, not that he'd ever try to part from you in the first place. One of his hands caresses the crown of your head, lazily petting down your hair as you breathe out a long, tired sigh, eyelids falling shut as your body threatens to slip back into unconsciousness, the other hand running up and down the side of your waist and over your hip to lull you further into that ever-so enticing sleep.

[haikyu-mp4]

Taking it slow

Your daughter visits your boyfriend Hoshiumi at work, for my Parenting event<3

requested by @karltheunipug. word count; 500 – f!reader

You fumbled with your bag, checking that you had everything when you realised there was one box too many in there. Right, you made a bento for Hoshiumi before he left this morning. Your boyfriend slept over now and then, and since you would already be up early with your toddler, you thought it’d be nice to make him a healthy lunch.

But alas, he accidentally left it on the counter.

Considering it for a minute or two while you changed your toddler into outside wear, you decided to visit Hoshiumi’s workplace on your way out.

With the kid on your hip and your bag left in the car, you entered the gym cautiously. “Korai?”

A head of white hair seemed to perk up at the sound of your voice, and his face whipped towards you with furrowed eyebrows. Your baby girl saw him and squealed happily, holding her hands out towards him. “What are you doing here?” he asked, jogging over to you and patting the little girl’s head.

“You forgot your lunch,” you informed him, holding up the bento for him with the arm that wasn’t holding the baby.

You jumped in surprise when a tall figure silently crept up beside you, pointing a finger at the toddler who grabbed said finger in curiosity. “Did Hoshiumi make her?” he asked you, making said man squeak in embarrassment.

“Bakayama, you can’t just ask about that!” he scolded, pushing the setter away only to realise your toddler had him in a vice grip.

“She does not look like a seagull,” he noted again, which finally had you cracking a laugh at the increasing level of horror on Hoshiumi’s face.

“She’s not mine,” he finally concluded. “It’s my girlfriend’s baby.”

“So she will be your stepdaughter when you get married?” Kageyama, as you gathered from watching some games, asked. You observed the conversation and let Hoshiumi explain. Hadn’t Hoshiumi been flustered enough for the both of you, you might have been more affected by the insinuation of marriage.

“I’ve had enough of you. Look, a ball!” your boyfriend said, picking up a stray ball and spiking it into the gym for him to chase. Luckily, your daughter had let go of his finger, because said distraction worked.

Your boyfriend finally turned back to you, and you lifted a hand to stroke your thumb over one of his red cheeks. “I like your teammates,” you told him. “But we have to go. Will you come over for dinner later?”

Hoshiumi pecked your lips, then left a light kiss on your toddler’s forehead as well. “We might go overtime today, but I’ll let you know. Thank you for the bento!”

“Gotcha! Keep working hard, baby!”

“You got it, babe!” he agreed, giving your butt a little pat as you exited.

The taste of marriage wasn’t so bad on his tongue, but you agreed to take things slow. He didn’t need to be the official stepdad to be there for the two of you.

masterlist

for the requester: thank you for requesting, I always love a good Hoshiumi fic<3

[jennamoran]

The World Became as Glass

I don't know what the noise at the very beginning is. I don't even know if it was me and not the computer being weird. I kept having recordings start with clicks and then break into actual voice midword so this time, this take, I waited around and made random noises to get the microphone live before starting this time.

(original script that I was recording from follows)

Let’s tell stories.

Last night, I was doing pretty well, to be honest. I knew things could be bad, but I thought they could be good. Sometime after dinner, I made the mistake of checking the news. It wasn’t even settled then.

And it was like the world was made of glass.

Like the world was made of glass, and behind it was a wind of malignancy and rot, a thing like the sludge you find if you leave vegetables alone too long.

I don’t know if that’s how it was for you.

And like, if a story starts with the world becoming as glass, that has to be the answer, too. I think. The story begins with the state of things, and ends with how it wants you to feel.

You don’t have to think about last night if you don’t want to. You can think about some other time. Some other story. Do tell me that story, though.

For me, the world became as glass; and so it ends, because the world is glass.

But I like to believe in hope, right?

What’s hope in your story?

In mine, it’s ... fire. It’s a fire that can burn the gunk away. And its secret comes from the way the world becomes as glass.

And like my first thought as to that secret—what’s yours, by the way?

My first thought as to that secret is that, like, we’re looking for the last glassbreaker in the world. That you can break the glass and … the malignancy behind it somehow fades.

I’m too angry for that tonight, though.

It’s a beautiful little story, to imagine that if you break the glass, the horror goes away; and if you have anxiety, if you have fear, then that’s a story that should speak to you, you know? But this wasn’t anxiety or fear from daily life. This was anxiety or fear from a horror that only comes once or twice a decade.

I don’t want to exaggerate it. To be clear. I don’t want to tell you that we’re all doomed. We’re not. But it’s also genuinely bad.

So let’s find a different story. Do you need to?

Here’s another way to tell the story of the horror, and have the answer be as glass.

That somewhere in the world is the last fire of goodness. Break the glass and set it free.

My brain, because it’s my brain, immediately says: it’s a tourist attraction. People come and look at the fire. They ooh and ahh. Because you want something ridiculous in your story, right? Something ridiculous and true.

Something that hurts but makes you laugh.

I draw on pop culture for that a lot. I think about Coney Island. I don’t even really know what that is, the name just stuck in my brain for the kind of thing I want.

There’s the last flame of goodness in the world, and it’s a tourist attraction. People walk by, eating cotton candy. They laugh at clowns. Sometimes the cotton candy gets away, it drops to the floor, and they wistfully stare after it thinking about the fading of the goodness of the world.

I like a light touch. I like the kind of melancholy you can laugh at. It’s the same as the melancholy that makes you weep, but it doesn’t hurt until you’re ready to unbox it.

Maybe there’s some seagulls?

I don’t know. You have to come back to this part after you write the end.

The end, of course, is that the fire gets set free. Everyone tried to stop this. They warned and warned the protagonist. Which I guess metaphorically means, don’t hope, but also, like, people get upset if you try to break the glass in—-

Ooh, break the glass in case of fire. Break the glass if you need fire. Yeah.

The fire gets free.

And the malignancy, I think, is like oil, right? It’s like an oil slick, spreading on the sea that is our lives. That’s part of the real evil that’s been unleashed today, although only the smallest and most already-present part. But it’s there.

And so the fire catches on that, and it burns. It’s still burning now.

I’m still looking for your story, to be clear. I’m still looking for how you processed the night, or some other night. I’m still looking for how you take that and turn it around and find the answer.

I want to hear your little bits of melancholy humor. I want to see that in the replies.

But that’s the story, right?

The rest is a bunch of editing. I like to write really short stories and really long stories. So for me, it can be just a few paragraphs, you know?

Say it with me: once upon a time …

Once upon a time, for Jane, the world became as glass. And behind that glass, pressed up against it like a starving kid against the windows of the world, a sea of rot.

…

So I do think there’s rot in the world, but I also think you have to be really careful with it in fiction. Everybody puts themselves on the side of the angels, you know? The more words for evil we have, the more people turn it into weapons for themselves. Usually against the best and most vulnerable of us.

So let’s try this again.

Once upon a time, Jane saw the world become as glass, and behind it was ...

Hm, step back a bit. Once upon a time, goodness rained down upon the world like candy. It fell in drifts and piles, like the snow, and it was sweet.

But we did not pick it up.

It was on the other side of the glass from us, a glass we let be hidden from us, and so it moldered on the hills and dales of the world, feast-grounds for the harvest-men alone.

They kept it for themselves, but they could not process it, and it began to rot.

One day, for Jane, the world became as glass; she saw through that veil of the world, but there was not goodness there but rather rot, a sea of rot, pressed up aginst the glass that was the world like a hungry child at the window. A sea of rot that had been goodness but was still desperate to get in.

“Wow,” she said. “That’s not up to code!”

I figure, the way it happened, after all, was that some regulations or other got slashed. You know. The ones that say you have to share the goodness. The ones that say you have to have drainage set up for a sea of goodness turned to rot. You’re not supposed to just pile glass haphazardly this way and that and leave candy out to rot behind.

I’m pretty sure.

I haven’t actually read most of the rules that have been cut.

There was still one bit of goodness, though, that didn’t end. One bit of goodness that burned on and on. A kind of love, a kind of hope, that was not candy but rather fire.

It burned, behind the veil of the world, and people came to look at it. They pointed at it and laughed, or showed their kids.

“This is what we could have been.”

They built a great park around it, and candy—processed, preserved, and resold by the harvest-men—well, they carried it around, and chatted, and did not think for a time about the great sea of rot behind the glass.

They warmed themselves by the light of the fire, and told themselves, this is something small.

This is something trivial and laughable and covered in the lime of passing birds.

(Birds don’t like the fire of goodness. Only a fire of world-ending wickedness burns within their hearts. But love them for it, do love them for it, for it’s still a flame.)

Jane let the long years pass before she went to see it. It was just a carnival attraction after all. And living in a world of glass and rot is tiring. She kept cutting herself on the edges of the glass wheresoever she would walk.

And when she saw it, she stopped, and stared; and her heart was in her throat, and she said, “Oh.”

Oh, she said, and knew that we were beautiful.

The sign beneath it read, “In case of fire, DO NOT BREAK GLASS.”

This is incidentally reasonable, because if there is a fire, you don’t want broken glass there too. Remember only to break the special glass that is there to break in fires rather than like any glass you want.

But Jane didn’t remember that.

She saw the sign, and scoffed, because everyone knows that’s not what it’s meant to say.

So she reached out, and took the hammer. (There was a hammer, even though nobody was supposed to break the glass. IT’s like I said, a bunch of regulations had been slashed.)

“No,” yelled the guy who owned the park. “No! My passive income!”

“No!” yelled the children passing by. “It says DO NOT BREAK GLASS!”

The birds screeched, too, but in their hearts I think that they were glad.

And she took the hammer, and struggled through the field of arms that tried to hold her back—

There was a field of arms. It was one of the other attractions. Some kind of lingering bodily autonomy sort of thing, I guess?

And struck; and raged the fire free.

And in that moment she understood that she had always seen herself on the wrong side of the glass. In that moment she understood that the fields of rot were not sealed away, but rather ever-present, a reflection, and it walked beside her.

She grasped this in that moment, as the fields of rot took flame.

She grasped this, as that pyre of goodness rose to seize the world; and was exalted in the flame;

And if it has stopped, that fire burns right to this day.

... I could do better, do more editing, smooth it into shape; but not today.

[iouinotes]

Heartbeat | Seth Cohen

pairing: Seth Cohen x female!reader

show: o.c California

warnings: kissing, arguments,

summary: Seth is your best friend and he's trying everything to win Summer's heart. You on the other hand would do anything to win his heart and make it beat for you.

author's note: I'm probably the last person on earth who hasn't watched this series. But hey, new potential for ff. By the way, please tell me I'm not the only one who thinks his voice sounds like Dylan O'Briens...

The way I love him is like the waves on the open sea on a beautiful day.

While the sun shines on my skin and my bikini slips slightly, revealing my sun-kissed skin, I try to secretly look at him.

The way his brown curls are wet from the blue sea or how his muscles tense as he pulls his shirt over his head.

I hear a sigh of relief escape from his mouth and have to giggle to keep myself from laughing at his swimming trunks.

Showing one of his cartoon characters, red and dark tones that highlight his pale skin even more.

And when he turns his head and smiles at me, relaxed in a way, as if there were only the two of us in the whole world, he has never looked more beautiful to me.

"Are you daydreaming, sunshine?" Oh, his teasing voice and that look in his eyes- what wouldn't I give to finally have him for myself.

"You'd like to know, Cohen." I grin slightly at him as I answer him. His raised eyebrows and the heat around us make my head spin.

"Okay, let me guess. Are you thinking about the party tonight at my parents' house and what you want to wear?" For a moment he looks out to the sea, reassuring himself that we are safe, until he finally lies down next to me with his arms outstretched above his head.

Rolling my eyes, I quickly answer him.

"Girls don't just think about parties and dresses, idiot." His brown eyes, which are now looking at me invitingly, make the butterflies fly around in my stomach.

"But was I right?" When I try to turn his head away with my hand, he holds mine tightly. But immediately afterwards he strokes my skin tenderly and my thoughts need a moment to sort themselves out.

"Whatever. And just because you started it, I'm going to wear my new blue dress. The one I brought to your room earlier, remember?" The triumphant smile on his face is worth every single word.

For a few seconds, all I can hear is the cries of the seagulls and the sound of the waves. I'm almost starting to doze off when his voice rings out again.

But this time my joy is dampened by his next sentence.

"Today is the day, you know? I'm pretty sure Summer will at least remember my first name by the end of the night." The sinking of my heart feels almost too painful to answer to him.

What else did I expect? Summer has been on his mind for years, every minute of the day since he first saw her.

Seth, on the other hand, has been in my heart since the first time we met. On a rainy day at a skate park, while I was just lost and he was practicing his tricks.

To this day, I can remember the moment when his brown eyes became the most beautiful sight in the world for me.

Nothing has changed ever since.

"Yeah, sure." It's always the same. His never-ending crush on her, the ever-growing hope that is destroyed with each and every one of her withering glances. The dejection in his eyes, as if his happiness would melt away as soon as she was near him.

I can never do anything about it. Because no matter how many times she ignores him or puts him down, her attention is the spark in his heart that never extinguishes.

Because what can I do? Summer is pretty, sassy and popular in our social circle. She makes every boy weak in the knees, worshiping her even though she never shows serious interest.

Seth is blind to it too, he just wants her attention. That she remembers how his name is.

I know his name. His favorite comics. His hatred towards bad movies or his nervous habit of talking endlessly without it making actual sense. I know his sarcasm, his heartbreaks, and his commitment to dreams.

But that doesn't seem to be enough. Because when he looks at her, he sees the sun. I, on the other hand, am a small star that doesn't shine bright enough to be noticed.

So as we fall into silence and I try to suppress my sadness about my unrequited love, he hums softly next to me.

🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊

When we return from our little trip at sea, the sun is almost setting. My gaze falls to the floor and as I listen to his excited voice, I wonder how it would feel to hold his hand.

As we walk up the stairs to his room and I greet his father as I pass, I recognize the look in his eyes as he opens the door for me.

"Oh come on Seth. It can't be healthy for you to think about her for every free second of your day." With a sigh, he throws himself onto his bed with his back showing to me.

"I just wonder why she doesn't see my potential. I would be a great boyfriend."

Yes, for me.

"That's probably because you follow her around like a lost puppy. Compared to the water polo guys, that's a drastic difference."

When I carefully take my dress down from his door that I hung there a few hours ago, his eyes clouded with pity follow me.

A little ritual for us before every big celebration. Getting ready together, like boyfriend and girlfriend. But I immediately push the thought away.

"But everyone likes puppies. At some point she'll look at me and realize that we would make a great couple." Shaking my head, I pat him on the shoulder.

"Everyone has their dreams, Cohen." I meet his gaze as he thoughtfully glances back at me, suddenly meeting my eyes with a newfound interest.

"What are you dreaming about?" The curiosity in his my voice makes me smile.

"Well, it may be a bit cheesy but I wish for… a person." At my words his eyebrows raise and as he sits up straight, I suddenly feel constricted.

"One person for...what? Carrying your bags while you're shopping? I'm already in charge of that." Laughing, I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear.

"I didn't mean that. Even though that's nice, no argument there. No, I mean a person with whom I can experience my first times. You know, the first date, the first romantic kiss. The first vacation shared together...the first time sleeping together, feeling each others heartbeates. That's what I dream of."

As I finish my last sentence, I look at his face. See his rude stare and his open mouth.

"Wow, I- I didn't know you wanted all this so much." Shrugging my shoulders, I turn around to stroke my blue dress. Trying to hide my heated cheeks.

"It's not going to happen anytime soon anyway, so I guess I'll just have to keep dreaming." The silence that follows is almost painful.

"Nevermind. Also, we only have an hour left to get ready. We'd better hurry." He roles his eyes at my attempt to change the subject.

"You say that every time and you always beg me for another five minutes at the end." As I take off my sandals, he narrowly avoids a pair I throw at him.

"Be quiet, Cohen."

🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊

Kirsten had outdone herself. The decorations, the guest list, the food selection. It was all perfection.

As I look out the window of Seth's room, I repeatedly brush a strand of hair out of my face. My heart beats faster with each passing second of silence and I feel my cheeks turning pink as Seth comes out of the bathroom.

The black suit, a red tie and the neat curls. This view is even more perfect than the one outside.

You'd think I'd be able to hide my attraction to him better by now, but when I audibly catch my breath, he looks at me critically.

"What? Does that scream my-mother-picked-out-my-wardrobe too much?" The crooked grin on his face makes me think dramatically long about my answer.

"Everyone knows you're a mama's boy, so it won't hurt your aura." The hand that comes to his chest as he sucks in air makes me giggle.

"Damn, that was mean. But do you think Summer likes mama's boys?" As soon as he says her name, it’s sounding like a prayer from his lips, I try not to show my disappointment on my face.

"Seth-" I sigh, trying to pull myself together. After all, he's still my best friend and I don't want to hurt his feelings. Even if it means hurting my own.

"What?" Innocence swims in his eyes and again, I wish I could tell him the truth. Instead, I continue to play matchmaker.

"I know best how much you want to impress her. But please trust me when I tell you that it always brings bad luck when one person loves their partner more. There has to be a balance." But my words don't seem to have any effect.

"I will bring balance to the force-" The laughter that escapes from his throat makes me shrug my shoulders a little more relaxed now. He knows he got me, when I can’t seem to stop smiling.

"Nerd. Come on, Skywalker, it's time we both show up at the party." Nodding, he closes the door and as we step out onto the bright terrace with the sun shining on us, I feel peaceful.

Unfortunately, the feeling only lasts two hours. Or more precisely, until Summer, the beautiful, graceful, mean Summer, enters the Cohens' house.

Since that moment, I have had an overexcited, confused, useless boy next to me who can't stop embarrassing himself.

"Do you think I should get her something to drink-" I interrupt his speech for the first time in three hours.

"If you don't stop this right now, I swear I'll never ever surprise you with comic books again." The threat actually makes him close his mouth.

"Why are you in such a bad mood? Do you need a drink?" If he hadn't said it so sarcastically, I would have found the question sweet.

"Seth, I can handle a lot of things in our friendship. Your never-ending sarcasm, your inappropriate jokes or your ability to always say the wrong thing to people. Hell, I can even deal with your love for cartoon characters and your obsession with video games on a daily basis. But talking about Summer every second of the day, twenty-four hours a week? That has reached my limit."

While I try to keep my voice low, the confusion is written all over his handsome face.

"But who else should I share my despair with? You're the only one who's really interested in what I have to say." His words hurt a part of my heart that I cannot describe.

"Exactly. I'm interested in you. Not how pretty Summer looks or what Summer just said, did, or might do in the future." For the first time that evening, he actually seems to understand what I'm talking about.

"So...change of subject?" Relieved, I have to start smiling lightly.

"Yes, please." As we smile at each other at that moment, it feels, for once, like I have his full attention.

🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊

As soon as I open the door to the ladies' room, I wish I could immediately turn around and leave.

In front of the mirror, her face looks at me skeptically.

I try to act like she doesn't bother me, even though there are so many things I'd like to say to her.

"Aren't you that girl who's always with Steven?" I look at her, clearly confused.

Rolling her eyes, she continues. "The nerd with the brown curls, his parents own the house, I heard."

"His name is Seth." She shrugs and applies her lip gloss. Her eyes alternately focus on me and the mirror in front of her.

"Whatever. Are you together?" I feel heat rushing to my face and as I try to answer relaxed, she seems to see right through me.

"What- together? No- we're friends. Just friends." As she turns to me now, she raises her eyebrows almost disinterestedly.

"Really? Then why are you looking at him like you're in love with him?" I turn away from her curious stare and try my best not to let my nervousness show.

"You must be mistaken. He's my best friend." As she stands two steps ahead of me, I don't know what to say.

"That doesn't mean you don't have feelings for him. What about him?" Sighing, I can't try to deny it any longer.

"He doesn't." When I see compassion in her eyes, I start to like her a little.

"Then change that. He's just a boy. Show him what he's missing out on. A little skin showing, a few compliments. He won't realize what's happening until he's begging you to let him kiss you." I look at her, laughing, and for a moment I dare to dream.

"What if he likes someone else? How can I keep up?" With elegant steps she walks past me and opens the door.

"Then you have no choice but to outdo her."

When the door closes, I am left alone with my thoughts.

🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊

As Seth loosens his tie, I am still deep in thought.

After my conversation with Summer, the party was over quicker than expected. Seth and I watched some of the guests, joked about the age difference, had two glasses of expensive wine and had the time of our lives.

All without talking about Summer again.

Now that I'm here in his room and we're getting ready for bed, I'm unsure about my next steps.

I usually sleep on his bed while he puts his mattress on the floor. Since we were little, this has been our approach to spend the night together.

However, tonight I want it to be different.

As I remove the clips from my hair and the makeup from my face, Seth talks incessantly about the latest Legion comic.

It's reassuring to listen to him like this while I think about my next steps.

We usually change separately, there's just a certain intimacy in being so open and showing yourself in your underwear.

But Summer said I have to go for it. Why do I listen to her? I don't know to be honest. I just think I should seize this moment of courage.

So I stand up and breathe in gently, trying to behave as inconspicuously as possible.

I slowly take off my dress and as it falls to the floor, Seth's head turns in confusion towards the noise.

"What have you dropped now- oh" I can literally see his eyes double in amazement and he almost chokes on his words in surprise.

I have to smile when I notice how he can't stop looking at me in my lace underwear.

1:0 for me.

"Are you still breathing, Cohen?" When I see him swallow, I turn my back to him. His reaction is so intoxicating that it fills me with renewed confidence. As my hair brushes my back, I finally hear his chatter.

"What- yeah- I'm just- I'm fine- are you fine? Has it gotten warmer in here? Are you warm? It seems so, otherwise you wouldn't be undressing in here. God, no girl has ever undressed in front of me." Laughing, I pick up one of his shirts with the stupidest designs, but there's still nothing I'd rather wear.

When I put it on, it covers me down to my knees and as soon as I turn around, I meet his gaze.

"We're not nine anymore, Seth. I think our friendship can handle us changing in front of each other." As I walk towards him, his gaze wanders along my legs.

"Er- sure. Of course, no problem. I- what?" My fingers slowly stroke his shirt, carefully grasping his tie as I begin to untie it completely.

"Do you think we can go to sea again tomorrow? This time we are not under any time pressure." I feel him stiffen slightly under my touch as he tries his best to stay cool. Well, as cool as Seth Cohen can be.

"Sure- maybe around one o'clock? Ryan is probably doing something with Marissa anyway. Doing god knows what- wait. I shouldn’t say his holy name out loud, when they are doing certain rather unholy stuff. Why am I saying this? I just mean, that we can both sleep in, I guess. And we can stay awake a little longer tonight." When his tie finally comes completely loose, I gently place my hands on his chest.

I meet his gaze as I raise my head, now so close to him. Our faces are only inches apart. I can see the brown in his eyes and the blush that adorns his face as he stops rambling.

"Yeah? What do you want to do?" Maybe this is the moment he finally realizes that Summer isn't the only one who exists in this world.

Maybe he'll finally notice me now.

"Teach me how to flirt?"

Did the world just stop turning? Or is it just my heartbeat that has stopped? Just with his words, just with the way he looks at me.

As if he no longer wanted to shy away from this tension between us.

"Flirting is an art, Cohen. I don't know if you're capable of pulling it off." His subsequent eye roll and the hand that he places pleadingly around my own make me reconsider my next actions.

At least now I can finally reveal my affection to him.

"Please, I'll go shopping with you. Even to the men's department so you can pick out my clothes. Just teach me." Surprisingly, I pause at his words.

"Even if I put sweatpants on you?" His face twists slightly.

"Yes, even if I have to wear sweatpants." I smile, brushing my hair back. As my eyes focus on his figure, a thousand thoughts race through my head.

"Okay. First step: your posture. I know how much you like to dramatically gesticulate your sentences with your hands, but you should avoid that when you're trying to flirt. You have to stay cool, confident. But still polite, not as if you don't care about the answer." Nodding, he listens attentively to each of my words, trying to understand the intention behind them.

"Like this?" I see him put his hands behind his back and stand there stiffly, his curious look ever present in his eyes.

I laugh and shake my head. "Not quite. Here, I'll show you." My hands move to his own ones, pulling them forward. Slowly I stroke his knuckles, but when I notice his opening mouth at my gentle touch, I let them go.

"Put them in your pockets. Stand up straight, but don't try to force it. Just relax." When he puts his hands in his pockets and stands with his foot slightly at an angle, he looks so carefree for a moment that I almost fall for the trick myself.

"Convincing enough?" Nodding, I try not to let the sight burn too much into my memory.

"Keep that up. Next important step. Your language, the way you speak. If you're going to flirt, it has to be seductive. You have to make me hang on every word that comes out of your mouth." As if I don't already do that.

As his eyebrows draw together, I see the confusion in his pupils and sighing, I speak up again.

"Try talking to me." I wait invitingly for his next move.

"Hey, uh what's going on?" When he doesn’t speak any further, I intervene.

"Okay, maybe I should show you how to do it first. Firstly, you need to try to initiate a conversation." I take a quick breath and try to relax my shoulders to prepare myself.

As I wrap my fingers around his collar and slowly stroke down his shirt, I see him swallow.

"Did you enjoy the party?" I try to maintain eye contact with him while keeping my voice a little quieter and giving more meaning to my words. I can literally see the gears turning in his head.

"I-I did?" When he stops speaking, I put my hand on his chest, circling the pattern of his shirt.

"Don't you want to ask me what I liked the most?" I see how he closes his mouth, trying to find the right words, as if he suddenly doesn't know how to talk to me normally anymore.

"What did you like best?" I smile sweetly, slowly sliding my fingers into his neck and playing with his brown curls.

My heart beats louder than ever, when I notice the expression on his face as I caress his hair softly.

"You."

It is this one moment when the world makes sense. When the eternal waiting, the torment of the last few years and the stupid boy in front of me finally makes sense.

Because his eyes wander to my lips and I feel his breath across my face as our bodies are drawn to each other like magic.

His lips almost brush mine, we are so close together that my mind is unable to think of anything other than his touch.

What it would be like to kiss him.

"Is this still part of the lesson?" His breathless voice makes me smile.

"Well, do you want it to end?" I have to laugh at his lips as he quickly shakes his head.

"What-what should I do?" I stand slightly on my tiptoes so I can whisper in his ear.

"What every princess wants from her fairytale prince. Kiss me."

He leans slowly into my touch. With every breath he takes, I can feel his arms sliding around my waist as his curls brush my forehead. He licks his lips uncertainly and when I look into his eyes, full of affection and the desire to kiss me, I fall in love with him even more.

"You don't know how long I've been waiting for this." Confusion adorns his features and I try not to let my strong heartbeat distract me too much when I finally tell him the truth.

"Waiting for what? Me?" Laughing, I close my eyes for a moment, reveling in the feeling of his closeness.

"It's always been you for me, Seth. When I said, "You're unbearable"? In my head, I wanted to spend every second I'm in this world with you. Or when I always roll my eyes when you stumble over your words, as if you're afraid it would bore me too much and I would stop listening to you. Because I would never do that. God, I practically hang on every word that comes out of your mouth."

As astonishment takes over his gaze, I feel a blush creep over my skin. What do I have to lose now?

When he answers, a loving smile adorns his face, coupled with a brief shake of the head.

"So I was unconsciously flirting with you the whole time? You know, step two?"

"You don't have to flirt with me for me to fall for you, Cohen. I fell already, hard."

His eyebrows rise, his nervousness changes almost abruptly to a smug expression.

"Is that so? Even though I talk about Captain Oats for two hours, when I was telling you his story from my childhood?"

"Why do you think I'm still here? No one would listen to that, not even me, if I hadn't been thinking about how good you looked in your sweater."

"Very shameless of you, Captain Oats would be disappointed by your little interest in his life."

"And would Seth Cohen be disappointed if I'm too interested in his life to pay attention to anything else?" Grinning, he pulls me closer to him.

"I'm pretty sure he'd be flattered." His lips hover over mine as his words cast a spell over my mind.

"Then I guess I should do that more often." Slowly, I push him back and let him fall onto his bed while his eyes roam over my body.

"Oh, definitely. You can do anything you want." Smiling sweetly, I move closer to him until I sit down on his lap. His hands find their own way to my thighs, stroking my bare skin.

“I can hear your heartbeat, Cohen. Are you nervous?“ I smile as I tease him, roaming my fingernails over his chest.

“I don’t do nervous. But indeed sunshine, my heartbeat is that noticeable, because you‘re making it beat faster. You‘re making my time on earth feel faster and I would‘t want it any other way.“ Smiling in the kiss, I stretch my hands around his neck.

Being with Seth Cohen isn't always easy, but I guess love isn't either.

[anamariamauricia]

icymi i posted the final chapter of The Future's in Our Hands

[literaryfandomangel]

The Lost Boys The Promise

Chapter One

Moving to Santa Carla, California, had been too stressful for Mom. Following the curtails of her divorce, where Dad took everything, Mom had to uproot us back to her old home. Dad didn't want us; he had shouted when the divorce papers had been served. He didn't want to have to deal with a crazy, ill daughter or a son who read comics all day long. I remember feeling as if my heart had just stopped beating after being stabbed with a knife. 

My dad had some choice words for my mother, too. By the time my father had read through the divorce paperwork, my Mom had dissolved into tears. Sam had crept into my room, trying to appear older and rougher than breaking into his own tears. I had welcomed my brother into bed, flipping down the light coverlet for him to crawl under. 

Sam had hugged my stuffed animal, face buried in the soft fur until the screaming stopped. Usually, I would have sung to my little brother to help him sleep, but with the divorce, the fighting, and my own personal issues, I'd start withdrawing. Which meant not even speaking. 

The school had ended by the time the paperwork had been signed and settled. Sam gave Mom grief about moving to her hometown, but I said nothing. There wasn't anything left for me in Phoenix - my toxic relationship had ended badly. I touched the lightening bruise on the side of my face in memory. I didn't have any friends, and now Mom had divorced Dad. 

I felt hopeful that Santa Carla would be a better place. Something deep inside me yearned for the sandy beach, the hot summer sun, and the scent of saltwater in the air. I could faintly remember the summers spent in the town; Dad always griped about coming to Mom's hometown. Our summers spent in Santa Carla were few. 

Sam grumbled for most of the ride. I was content to let my brother sit in the front seat while my Mom tried to ease the growing tension rising with every mile closer to Santa Carla. I didn't bother to protest - not wanting to spend one more minute in Phoenix. I didn't want to be any closer to my paternal figure than I had to be. Sam was popular. He wore designer clothing and had a lot of friends in Phoenix, even though he was a comic nerd. 

"Honey, you need to eat something," My Mom's eyes found mine in the rearview mirror. I sighed granola bar in hand. I had picked each piece of oats off the bar for two hours. "Please just eat the granola bar."

"I'll eat it!" Sam reached back and snatched the granola bar from my hand. Before Mom could protest or reprimand my brother for taking my food, he had it half-crammed into his mouth. My stomach turned with disgust at seeing his bulging cheeks and flecks of chewed food on his lips. "Mmm!" 

I just sighed and returned to gazing out onto the landscape. I could hear the seagulls becoming louder, indicating we were closer to Santa Carla and the sea. Mom wanted to say something else about my food situation but turned her attention to my brother as they messed with the radio. 

For the past three years, my parents have struggled with my eating disorder. I didn't want to eat anything at all. My dad tried to ship me off to an inpatient facility, but they released me after I didn't gain any of the much-needed weight back. 

Nanook, my brother's husky, set her head on my lap, offering warmth and protection. I reached down and pulled a copy of Tolstoy's Anna Karenina out of my bag. I knew it would be at least another hour before we reached Grandpa's place in Santa Carla. 

"We are stopping!" Mom announced loudly, startling me. I was engrossed in the pages of Russian literature, the illicit affair between Anna and Vronsky. I jumped, the sharp tone of my mother's voice cutting through the scenes playing out in my head as I read. 

I grabbed the discarded ribbon across my thin thigh and pressed it between the book's pages. I always needed to find my bookmarks; therefore, I would use any material to track my progress. Mom pulled into a gas station parking lot, needing to fill the car's tank. 

"I'm taking Nanook to potty!" Sam yelled, jumping out of the front seat. He grabbed his dog's leash and then took her across the lot. I watched as my brother had no qualms about walking past all the people. 

I blinked as I took in the people milling about us. My Mom was busy putting gas in the tank, so I just gazed at those passing by. All the individuals were bright - and colorful. It differed from what I was used to in Phoenix, but it made sense with my Mom's aesthetic. She loved colorful clothing and gauzy skirts. 

Looking around, I saw that everyone was different but fit together. There were women clad in bikinis, roller skating down the sidewalks, and goth kids covered from head to toe in black. Homeless kids in worn layers, alongside surfer guys in wetsuits, carting around surfboards. It was astonishing to see all these individuals walking beside one another. 

They wouldn't be in the same vicinity as their counterparts in any other town. People of the same cliques and gangs would stick together, not daring to break into another group. 

However, as I stood there, gazing around at the people, I felt a seed of jealousy take root deep within my soul. It might have been the heat of the sun, but the hot feeling radiated from within my body as I looked around. These people felt comfortable enough to express themselves through their outfits and appearance. They weren't afraid to show their originality - some had numerous piercings, colored hair, and weird hairstyles. Even their tattoos and clothing - or lack thereof - demonstrated that they weren't shying away from their individuality. 

"Honey," my Mom's soft voice brought me out of my musing as I leaned against the back of the Range Rover. "Can you go give those two this money?" I looked to where my Mom was indicating, pulling my cardigan closer. I saw two teenagers around a dumpster, looking for food scraps in the trash bags. I took the proffered money from my mother's hand and walked towards them. The two gave me a slight, grateful grin before snatching the money and disappearing. 

Sam had finished letting Nanook stretch her legs and came across the parking lot towards us. I slid into the backseat, not bothering to fight Sam about the passenger seat. There was no use - I wouldn't argue or talk with him. Sam let Nanook climb in with me, unclipping the leash before shutting the back door. 

"Mom!" Sam was excited about something he had seen on his travels. "Did you know there's an amusement park on the beach?"

"That's called the boardwalk, sweetheart," Mom educated the both of us. I just raised an eyebrow in question. My Mom seemed to be more excited about the boardwalk than Sam. "We will go to the boardwalk tonight. Unless, Aria, do you want to go look?"

"That's not fair!" Sam crowed, spinning around to glare at me. "Why does she get to go?"

"Because she's older, Sam," Mom tried to allay his upset. I just shook my head, knowing Mom saw it in the rearview mirror. "Okay. Then we'll all go tonight."

I thought that Grandpa's house would be closer to town, but it was a few miles outside of the main attraction in Santa Carla. I didn't bother to pull out Anna Karenina again; I just gazed out the window. Mom eventually pulled off the city streets onto an unmarked and unpaved road. A cloud of dust, comprised of the dirt making the lane, billowed behind the car. Mom pulled into the driveway, which was lined with wood chips. Sam was looking in horror at the house. 

The decor and house were attractive. It looked like an old log cabin converted into a modern-sized dwelling. Grandpa obviously had a knack and talent for wood carving, as many of his projects littered the yard. There were several small trailers, and wind chimes around the lawn. I actually liked the feel of the house. 

Exiting the car, I noticed the paddock with at least three horses. They were grazing on the lush, green grass growing, tails lazily swishing in the wind. I could smell the scent of sharp manure and the salty breeze from the sea. 

"Grandpa has horses?" I asked, breaking my silent streak. My voice was husky from misuse. My Mom and brother looked at me, amazed that I had spoken. 

"Yes," my Mom smiled, happy I had spoken for the first time in several days. I nodded, not saying another word. I looked towards the house entrance that we would call home, noticing the figure of a man lying on the porch. 

My face paled, immediately assuming the worst. Sam and my Mom went to investigate the situation, but I stayed by the car. I didn't want to walk onto the scene to find my grandfather dead of a heart attack. 

"Honey, he's just a deep sleeper!" My Mom tried to settle my nerves with a gentle smile. She waved her hand to make me come over and join the trio on the porch. I sucked in a deep lungful of the salty air before walking across the yard towards the porch. 

"If he's dead, can we move back to Phoenix?" Sam asked, causing my Mom and I to glare at him. He shrunk back as Grandpa opened his eyes and moved. 

"Playin' dead!" Grandpa's innate masculine voice filled the air. It was a relief to hear his voice, knowing that he wasn't dead. I turned to look down at the man with whom we would live for the unforeseeable future. "And from what I heard, doin' a damn good job of it."

My Mom chuckled as she leaned down to hug her father. I can imagine it would be a relief to be comforted by one's parents, especially as Grandma had died when Mom was just a preteen. Her dad was her rock, someone Mom could depend upon in life. 

Sam looked weirded out by the situation, but I wordlessly motioned we should return to the car. We had little to move since Dad got everything in the settlement. Mom had wanted the divorce over and done with, so she took the lowest agreement with Dad. Even though Mom could have won more in the divorce since she was taking care of Dad’s two kids, she just signed the paperwork.  Chapter Two

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

(places a shiny coin on the desk in front of Crowley and Miss Raven) I heard that gifts like these may be of interest to you, but unfortunately I only have one on hand... you may decide amongst yourselves who shall accept it.

Finding Nemo seagulls be like: mineminemineimineimineminemineimineminemineimineminemineminemineimineimineminemineimineminemineimineminemineminemineimineimineminemineimineminemineimineminemineminemineimineimineminemineimineminemineimineminemineminemineimineimi--

Enter; An Unkindness of Ravens.

"MINE!"

The word was uttered simultaneously as two bodies lunged to grab at the single glittering disc. Its meager value was of no consequence--the shine was what had enraptured and excited.

The birds' torsos flattened against the surface of the desk, hands slammed over the coin in a desperate mound. You contained a laugh from the other side. It was a cartoonish sight, something straight out of a comedy sketch.

The more agile of the two had gotten to the coin first.

"... Raven-kun," Crowley drawled, "what are you doing?"

"I..." She blinked, shaking off the sparkle-induced daze. "I don't know what came over me, Uncle. I was moving before my mind had even processed it."

"You're forgiven for not thinking before acting, my dear niece. It happens to the best of us! Now kindly release your hold on the coin so that I may collect it, and we can all be on our merry way."

"Wait." Challenge rose as her fingers curled around the money. "Even if I hadn't intended to claim it for myself, the fact remains that I was the first to reach it. Therefore, it stands to reason that I am deserving of the coin regardless of my conscious intent.”

"E-Excuse me?!" Crowley sputtered, utterly aghast. “But this is a generous donation to Night Raven College! You wouldn’t think of embezzling school funds, would you?!”

“This would hardly cover anything. Besides, Night Raven College already receives ample donations. A single coin won’t be missed there. Let me have this, Uncle.”

The headmaster choked out a fake-sounding sob. "To think that I would suffer betrayal at the hands of my own niece...! What a cruel, unkind heart! Where did I go wrong with raising you?!"

"S-Stop that!" Raven's typically demure voice had taken on a shrill quality. "You know as well as I do that you haven't served as my guardian since my hatching from the egg, nor are you entirely clean of unscrupulous behavior yourself! If you mean to guilt trip me into giving in, it won't work. Not this time…! I’ve earned this fair and square!”

"Well, I NEVER! Accusing your own uncle of acting unscrupulous?! You are grounded after this. Do you hear me, young lady? You’re to stay in the attic and think about what you’ve said!”

“Fine, I shall!"

“Fine! See if I care!"

Your head volleyed back and forth between Crowley and Raven. What had started off as a little prank had quickly escalated into petty screeching and squabbling between two birds.

Whoa, this intense of a family feud over a sorcent? I should have brought a bucket of popcorn with me.

[fuzzyhenry]

Skin Snatcher (Part 1)

The docks were always bustling with activity, and among the workers, there was one whose corpulent form wobbled with every heave of the heavy crates. This is him. The longshoreman, a ball-bellied, chubby fucker with a sweat-stained tank top clinging to his massive frame like a second skin. His brawny arms, a roadmap of bulging veins, were made for labor, and his legs, thick as tree trunks, bore the weight of his girth with a begrudging resilience.

I watched him, that devilish grin of mine hidden in the shadows. The air was thick with the smell of salt and fish, and the cries of seagulls clashed with the clang of metal. But my focus was all on him, the way his flesh jiggled with each step, how his breath came out in heavy pants from the exertion of his work. He was perfect, a fucking masterpiece of meat and skin.

I sauntered closer, my own form deceptive in its ordinariness. I was the skin snatcher, the devil in plain sight, and I had a particular itch that only his hide could scratch. With a precision that came from centuries of practice, I approached him, my finger poised like the blade of a knife.

"Hey, big guy," I called out, my voice dripping with a mock friendliness. "Got a minute?"

He turned, his round, flushed face marked with a skeptic's frown. "What the fuck do you want?" he grunted, clearly not in the mood for any bullshit.

"Just a touch," I said, and before he could react, my finger found his navel. The transformation was instantaneous. His eyes went wide with horror as his body deflated, his bones and organs vanishing into thin air, leaving behind a thick, stretchable sack of skin. It was like watching a balloon being emptied of air, his once formidable bulk now just a floppy, hollow shell.

I couldn't help myself. I let out a low, appreciative whistle as I approached the skinsuit that used to be the longshoreman. The sensation was intoxicating – the warm, clammy touch of his empty limbs, the way his dick skin hung like a deflated balloon. I ran my hands over his face, now void of any structure, and I reveled in the grotesque beauty of it.

"Look at you now, you big, blubbering sack of shit," I sneered, my hands exploring the crevices of his torso, my nose taking in the scent of his sweat and fear. I licked a wide swath from his hollowed-out belly to where his chest used to heave with breath, savoring the salty tang of his skin.

The skin sack, still warm from its former occupant, felt like a heavy, wet blanket in my hands. The inside was a wonderland of slippery textures, the floppiness and elasticity a testament to the man's once robust physique.

With a perverse sense of satisfaction, I pressed the deflated mass of skin against my chest, feeling it yield to my form. It was a sick, glorious sensation, the inner side of the skin sack slightly tacky against my flesh, clinging to me as if it recognized its new master. The thickness was just right, a promise of disguise and depravity all rolled into one.

My fingers, eager and deft, found the gaping maw where his mouth used to be, stretching it wide like the opening of a grotesque hood. I paused, inhaling the scent of the docks, the fish, the sweat, and the sea, all mingling within the confines of this human suit.

With a shudder of anticipation, I plunged my legs into the orifice, the skin enveloping me, clinging to every contour of my body. The sensation was fucking divine, a symphony of perverse pleasure as I wriggled and shoved my way into the longshoreman's former shell.

The skin resisted and then gave, inch by inch, as I forced my arms into his arm sleeves, my legs into the fleshy pant legs of my new suit. The sound of the stretching skin was like music, a soft, wet chorus that accompanied my transformation. Every movement within the skin was a new delight, the intimate embrace of the man's former exterior sending shivers down my spine.

I felt my face push into the slack, empty features of the skinsuit's face, molding it to my own like some sick mask. I could feel the faint echo of his expressions, a muscle memory that was now mine to command. His wide, slack-jawed grin, his dimpled cheeks, all of it stretched and fitted to my own demonic delight.

"Fuck, this feels good," I murmured into the fleshy cavern of the longshoreman's face, my voice a muffled, warped version of his. The skinsuit's limbs flopped about as I adjusted myself, taking pleasure in the control, the power, the absolute fucking mastery I had over this human form.

Once fully encased, I stood there for a moment. The once floppy skinsuit began its metamorphosis around me. The skin, which had been as slack as wet cloth, started to plump up, filling out like dough rising in the heat. Every inch of me was enveloped in the warm, thickening hide as it conformed to the longshoreman's original shape.

With a deep, guttural chuckle that vibrated from the depths of my newly acquired thick, hairy chest, I felt the power of his form. The voice was his—a deep, bellowing bass that seemed to echo off the dirty brick walls, resonating with a life of its own.

My body was a mirror of the man I'd targeted: the ball-shaped, squishy belly jiggled with a life of its own as I moved, a perverse parody of the man's own gait. The sensation was fucking surreal, feeling the weight of the recreated flesh, the ghost of his movements dictating my own.

I looked down at my hands—or rather, his hands—now meaty paws, the skin tight and full, the hairs on the back a forest of wiry blackness. I clenched and unclenched them, marveling at the thick fingers, the calloused skin that spoke of hard labor and a life spent grappling with ropes and crates.

And then there was his dick—fat, thick, and very much a part of this new skinsuit. I let out a low, lascivious grunt as I wrapped one of the meaty paws around the shaft, feeling the heft and girth of it. To stroke it was to indulge in the final act of possession, a carnal claiming that sent waves of illicit pleasure coursing through my borrowed form.

"God damn, look at me now," I growled to myself, the voice so deep it seemed to stir the puddles at my feet. The transformation was complete, the devil now hidden within the flesh of a man, indistinguishable from the original to any prying eyes.

I flexed, feeling the weight of my new body, the solid, heavy thud of my heart in the thick cage of the longshoreman's chest.

In the dank alleyway, a symphony of distant harbor sounds playing in the background, I bent down to grab the discarded clothing of the longshoreman. His boxer shorts, a pair of stretched-out, faded cotton with a frayed elastic band, were the first to be pulled up over the newly acquired, hairy legs. The boxers struggled to contain the heft of the man's recreated package, the fabric riding up the crack of his sizeable ass.

Next came the wife beater, a white tank top stained with the toil of labor and life, carrying the scent of a hard day’s sweat. I stretched it over the broad, hairy shoulders, the fabric hugging the plump belly snugly, each strain against the material a reminder of the life I'd enveloped. The fibers pulled taut across the chest, the contours of the nipples visible against the thin cotton.

"Fuckin' hell, this is snug," I muttered with a smirk, enjoying the tightness, the way it constricted with every breath the skinsuit took.

Janet, the longshoreman's faithful denim jacket, came next. Its sleeves were frayed, and the deep blue had faded to a soft, comfortingly worn hue in places where years of work had taken their toll. I slipped an arm in, then another, feeling the weight of the jacket settle onto the broad shoulders. The jacket was a second skin in itself, carrying the echoes of the man's habits—the roll of cigarettes tucked into a breast pocket, a lighter, and a crumpled-up betting slip.

Lastly, the cargo pants, heavy-duty and grimy, with pockets that had held everything from wrenches to the odd, sneaky swig of booze. I threaded each leg in, pulling the pants over the hips and securing them with a belt that had seen better days. The buckle clicked into place with a satisfying snap, the final piece of the puzzle locking in.

I looked at myself in the water, the reflection showing a man who looked every bit like the longshoreman who had been there before.

"Time to take this new skin for a spin," I said to my reflection, the deep voice a rumble that felt like rolling thunder in the longshoreman's chest. With a last adjustment of the clothes, patting down pockets and smoothing out creases, I stepped out of the alley.

Strutting out of the alley with the swagger of a man who owned his space, I let my hands fall naturally to the expanse of my new, ball-shaped belly. I gave it a good, hearty shake, feeling the weight of it bounce against my palms. The sensation was fucking glorious—the jiggle, the heft of it, the way it seemed to lead the way as I moved.

The docks were alive with the sounds of labor and the sea: the creak of cranes, the shouts of workers, and the constant, rhythmic thud of cargo hitting the ground. I fell into step with the familiar cadence, my new boots thumping heavily on the weathered wood of the pier.

"Morning, boys!" I boomed out, my voice a perfect mimic of the longshoreman's gruff timbre. The workers, some hoisting ropes and others maneuvering forklifts, looked up and nodded, a few throwing back their own greetings.

"Hey, big J!" one called out, a wiry man with a face like leather and hands to match. "You're looking chipper today!"

"Fuck yeah, I feel like a million bucks," I replied, the lie rolling off my tongue as easily as the truth might have. I slapped my belly for emphasis, the sound echoing amidst the ambient noise of the docks, and let out a laugh that sounded like a barking seal.

As I walked past the men, I exchanged familiar nods and grins, the skinsuit allowing me to blend seamlessly into the tapestry of their lives. The feeling of camaraderie was intoxicating, each interaction a thread woven into the fabric of the disguise.

The docks were a cacophony of work and waves, but the sharp, piercing voice of the supervisor cut through it all like a knife through butter.

"Where the hell have you been, you lazy sack of shit?" he barked, storming over with a face red enough to stop traffic. The little man was all spit and fury, his clipboard clutched like a shield against incompetence.

I turned to face him, the ball belly leading the charge, a wicked grin spreading across the longshoreman's rugged features. The supervisor was a pipsqueak of a man, all angles and bones, a stark contrast to the expansive girth of my borrowed form.

"Taking a breather, sir. Gotta keep the engine running smooth," I replied with a chuckle, the deep voice adding a layer of mockery to the words.

Before the little tyrant could spew another word, I took a deliberate step forward, my belly leading like the prow of a ship. The bump was gentle but firm, and the supervisor's eyes went wide with shock as his feet tangled and he toppled backward with a comical flail of his arms, landing squarely on his ass amidst a cloud of dockside dust.

The workers around us tried to stifle their laughter, but a few snorts and chuckles broke free. I threw my head back and let out a bellowing laugh, the sound rolling over the docks like thunder.

"Looks like you need to watch where you're stepping, sir!" I called out, not bothering to offer a hand to help him up. The supervisor sputtered and scrambled to his feet, his face now a shade of crimson that would make a lobster envious.

I continued on my way, leaving him to dust off his wounded pride, the laughter of the workers a sweet symphony in my ears.

The docks were a whirlwind of motion, and I threw myself into the fray with the gusto of a man reborn. The cargoes were hefty, their weight a testament to the trade that flowed through the veins of this place. I hoisted crates like they were nothing, the thick arms of my skinsuit bulging with the strain, veins standing out like highways on a map.

As I worked, the bodies around me moved in a symphony of sweat and muscle. The air was thick with the stench of men working hard, a pungent cocktail of effort and the sea. I fucking loved it—the raw, unfiltered smell of co-workers and myself mingling in the humid air, a badge of honor worn by those who earn their keep.

Lunch break hit like the bell at a boxing match, and we all dropped our loads to find respite from the grind. I sauntered over to a secluded spot, away from prying eyes, my body slick with the sheen of sweat.

With a grunt of satisfaction, I lifted my arm and took a deep whiff of the armpit. The smell was rank, a heady mix of man and labor, and it was divine. The hairs were matted with moisture, the skin flushed from the exertion. I chuckled to myself, the sound raspy in the quiet corner I'd claimed.

"God damn, that's the stuff," I muttered, the perverse pleasure of the act sending a thrill down my spine.

Not content with just the armpits, I reached down, fingers fumbling with the waistband of the cargo pants, and shoved a hand into the groin area. The heat was intense, the musk even stronger here, a primal scent that spoke of masculinity and toil.

I inhaled deeply, the longshoreman's essence now mine, and let out a satisfied sigh. The sweat, the smell, the heft of the body—it was all part of the experience, the filthy joy of being so thoroughly human, even if it was all just a devil's ruse.

I could feel the undeniable pressure building in the loins of my new skinsuit. The dick, now an appendage of my own devilish desires, was tenting the boxer shorts with an eager insistence. The fabric stretched taut, outlining the hefty bulge like a fucking neon sign.

"Shit," I muttered under my breath, my meaty hand moving to discreetly press it down. The coarse fabric of the cargos did little to conceal my arousal, and I knew I had to get a grip on the situation. But the truth was, I didn't just want to suppress the beast; I wanted it to be serviced, and served damn well.

My gaze began to wander, skimming over the sea of workers scattered around the docks, each immersed in their own midday rituals. That's when I spotted him—a chubby coworker, the very image of a divorced 40-year-old dad, with a face softened by life's disappointments and a body that spoke of too many beers and not enough gym.

His stubble was shaved to a prickly shadow, hinting at a once regimented life now let go in the wake of solitude. His body was comfortably chubby, a testament to a life lived without the vanity of appearances, and he carried with him a mature musk, the kind that comes from years of working hard and playing harder.

Our eyes locked, and something unspoken passed between us. I could tell by the way his gaze lingered, the way his lips parted just slightly, that he was aware of the tension, the carnal electricity in the air.

I rose from my spot, the movement causing my dick to strain even more against the confines of my shorts. I walked over to him, each step a calculated thud, the dock planks creaking under the weight.

"Hey, man," I said, my voice low and gravelly, "got a minute?"

He looked up, his eyes darting briefly to my crotch before meeting my gaze again. A faint blush colored his cheeks—a mix of embarrassment and anticipation.

"Yeah, sure," he replied, his voice a mix of curiosity and a tinge of nervousness. "What's up?"

I leaned in close, the scent of his mature musk mingling with my own sweat-stained aroma. "I need a little help with something," I said, a smirk playing on my lips.

With a boldness that was all devilish charm, I stepped closer to him. The tenting dick pressed against the roundness of his ass, a blatant sign of my intentions.

"Fuck," he gasped, his eyes wide with surprise. But instead of pulling away, his hands shot up to my chest, fingers curling into the sweat-stained fabric of the wife beater. He spun us around, the momentum pushing me back against the rough brick wall of the corner.

His lips found my neck, the stubble on his face scraping against the sensitive skin. His kisses were soft but hungry, a testament to the pent-up desires of a man starved for touch.

"Shit, you're eager," I growled, my hands finding their way to his face. I tilted his chin upward, forcing him to meet my gaze. His eyes were a mix of lust and apprehension, the green irises dark with desire.

Taking his face between my meaty hands, I leaned down, pressing my lips against his in a rough, demanding kiss. His mouth opened under mine, the taste of him—a mix of cheap beer and cheaper cigarettes—was intoxicating.

I explored his face with my lips, feeling the prickly stubble against my skin, the softness of his cheeks, and the hardness of his jawline. It was a dance of desire and dominance.

He pulled back just enough to catch his breath, his chest heaving against mine. The confusion and raw need in his eyes were almost enough to make me feel sorry for the poor bastard. Almost.

"I can't believe you didn't respond to my hints before," he panted, the words coming out in a hot rush against my skin. "What changed you today?"

I let out a low chuckle, the sound dripping with the dark amusement of a predator playing with its prey. "Let's just say I'm feeling a bit more... adventurous today," I answered, my voice a husky whisper that seemed to vibrate straight into his core.

His hands, which had been tentative at first, now roamed with more confidence over the broad expanse of my back, pulling me closer, as if trying to merge his body with the skinsuit that I wore so well.

"Fuck, I've wanted this for so long," he murmured, his breath hot on my ear, sending shivers down the spine of the longshoreman's body. His fingers dug into my skin, betraying the desperation of his touch.

I pressed my advantage, my hands sliding down to grope his ass, giving it a firm squeeze. "You've got no idea what you've been missing," I teased, my lips trailing down to nip at the tender flesh of his throat.

The air was thick with the musk of sweat and arousal as we hastily fumbled with our belts, the clinking of metal and the rustling of fabric punctuating the heavy breathing that filled the space between us. With a few jerky movements, he shoved down his work-worn pants, revealing the pale, soft flesh of his ass, the cheeks rounded and ready, like an invitation I was all too eager to accept.

My own hands were quicker, more practiced, as I yanked at my cargo pants, freeing the beast beneath. My dick sprang free, a throbbing, dripping testament to the raw, carnal desire that this skinsuit was experiencing. The sight of it, veiny and eager, made him let out a low, guttural moan that spoke volumes of his hunger.

"Jesus Christ," he whispered, his voice laced with awe and a hint of intimidation. He cast a glance over his shoulder, his eyes locking onto the engorged length of my manhood. "You're fucking ready, aren't you?"

I let out a grunt of affirmation, my gaze fixed on the prize before me. "Been ready since I saw that tight ass of yours," I replied, the coarse words a growl that seemed to resonate with the promise of pleasure.

His breath hitched as I stepped closer, the head of my dick nudging against him, teasing the warmth of his crack. The anticipation was palpable, the air around us charged with the electricity of imminent sin.

The moment our bodies merged, it was like an electric current shot straight through us both. Our moans melded into one deep, guttural sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure. His ass swallowed up my throbbing, dripping dick with an eagerness that was fucking intoxicating.

"Fuck, yes!" he groaned, his voice muffled by the wall he was pushed against, his cheek pressed against the rough, cold brick. The slap of skin on skin echoed in the secluded spot we'd claimed, a dirty rhythm that matched the pounding of our hearts.

I gripped his hips, my fingers digging into his soft flesh, anchoring him to me as I thrust my whole body onto him. Each movement was deliberate, powerful, driving into him with a force that had both of us gasping for air. The skinsuit's meaty paws left red marks on his skin, a testament to the fervor of our coupling.

"Harder, you son of a bitch," he cursed, pushing back against me, meeting every one of my thrusts with a desperation that was almost animalistic. His body was warm and giving, and each time I buried myself deep inside, I could feel the squeeze of him around me.

The sound of our union was filthy, a symphony of heavy breaths, grunts, and the wet sound of flesh meeting flesh. His hands clawed at the wall for purchase, his knuckles white as he braced himself against the onslaught of my body hammering into his.

The intensity of our movements sent tremors through us both, our bodies shaking with the force of our thrusts. I leaned over his back, the sweat from my brow dripping onto his skin, the heat from our exerted bodies creating a steamy cocoon around us.

With each powerful drive, I could feel his body quaking, his ass clenching around me, milking me for all I was worth. The sounds that escaped him were raw and unfiltered, the kind of sounds a man makes when he's too far gone to give a damn who hears.

I bent my head down to his, my lips finding the damp hair at the back of his head. I kissed him there, a gesture that was almost tender amidst the roughness of our encounter. My breath was hot on his ear as I whispered a string of obscenities that only served to spur him on further.

"You like that, huh?" I growled into the shell of his ear, my teeth grazing the lobe, my tongue flicking out to taste the salt of his sweat.

"Fuck yes," he managed to choke out, his voice strained with the pleasure that was coiling tight in his belly. The vulnerability of his position, coupled with the intensity of the sensations, seemed to strip away any remaining pretense.

With a devilish precision, I angled my hips, targeting that sweet spot within him, the secret button that I knew would unravel his composure. His body responded instantly, a jolt passing through him as I hit his prostate, massaging it with the head of my dick.

"Ah, fuck! Right there, don't you fucking stop," he gasped, his voice a ragged plea as he pushed back against me, desperate for more of that exquisite pressure.

I obliged, my thrusts becoming more focused, a relentless pursuit to milk that climax from deep within his core. His hands were now fisted, smacking against the wall in sync with the rhythm of my hips, the sound echoing off the surrounding structures.

And then, as he reached the crescendo of his release, his body tensed, his ass clamping down on me like a vice. The sensation was almost too much—my tender, sensitive glans engulfed in complex pressure that bordered on pain, yet it was laced with such euphoria that I couldn't help but crave more.

"Jesus Christ!" I swore, the intensity of the sensation causing my vision to blur at the edges. It was a tightrope walk between agony and ecstasy, my every nerve ending alight with the fire of it.

His climax was a shuddering, shaking affair, waves of pleasure crashing over him, leaving him breathless and spent. I could feel his come coating the insides of his thighs, the hot, sticky evidence of his pleasure.

He was spent, his body sagging against the wall, strengthless, as if every ounce of energy had been siphoned out of him with that earth-shattering climax. I wasn't done, though, not by a long shot. My arms, now seemingly imbued with the brute force of the longshoreman whose skin I wore, wrapped around him, holding him up, holding him close.

With a grunt of effort, I rotated his limp form, maneuvering him with a devilish ease until he was facing me. His eyes were glazed, half-lidded with the aftershocks of his orgasm, but they sparked with a renewed flicker of desire as he registered my intentions.

Without wasting a moment, I thrust into him again, the slick passage welcoming me back with a heat that stoked the flames of my own lust. Our bellies bumped and squelched with the force of our collision, the thick layers of our shared corpulence creating a symphony of wet, smacking sounds that filled the air around us.

I bent my head, my lips seeking out the peaks of his nipples through the damp fabric of his shirt. I sucked hard, the taste of salt and man mingling on my tongue as I drew the puckered flesh into my mouth, the material of his shirt bunching around my lips.

He let out a low, keening moan, the sensation of my mouth on his sensitive nipples sending fresh jolts of pleasure through his already overstimulated body. His hands, which had dangled uselessly at his sides, now found their way into my hair, gripping, guiding, lost in the carnal haze that I had cast over him.

"Fuck, that's good," he breathed, his voice a husky whisper that was barely audible over the sound of our bodies moving together in a desperate, needy dance.

As the tension coiled tighter within me, I could feel the imminent rush of release building at the base of my spine. My thrusts became more erratic, more desperate, each one a primal push towards that edge of oblivion. And then, with a guttural roar that seemed to come from the depths of my borrowed soul, I ejaculated, unleashing a torrent of thick, hot sperm deep inside him.

The release was monumental, a colossal surge that seemed to drain me of every drop of demonic vigor. My essence poured into him, a tangible mark of possession that seared through his insides.

He shuddered beneath me, his body racked with convulsions that matched the pulsing of my dick. Our breaths came in ragged gasps, the air around us heavy with the scent of sex and sweat. The sound of my heart thundering in my chest was the only thing I could hear over our combined moans.

"Fuck..." I exhaled, the word a whisper of smoke in the cool air, my body still twitching with the aftershocks of my climax.

We collapsed onto the gritty, unforgiving ground, the dirt and debris of the dockyard beneath us nothing compared to the spent euphoria that enveloped our bodies. We lay there in a tangle of limbs and heavy breaths, the minutes ticking by as we regained our senses, the chill of the air slowly cooling our sweat-slicked skin.

The world slowly came back into focus, the distant calls of the seagulls and the hum of machinery reminding us of where we were. With a groan, we pushed ourselves up from the earth, our movements sluggish, our bodies still heavy with the remnants of pleasure.

Standing face to face, I looked into his eyes, and without a word, I unplugged myself from him, the slick pop of separation sounding obscenely loud in the quiet aftermath. A trickle of my seed followed the path of my withdrawal, a reminder of the carnal act we'd just shared.

I caught his gaze, and with an unspoken command, I presented my dick to him. He understood immediately, his tongue darting out to lap at the mixture of fluids coating my length. His eyes never left mine as he cleaned me, his tongue warm and rough against my sensitive skin, every swipe sending a little aftershock of pleasure through me.

Once he had finished, I adjusted my cargo pants, tucking myself away with a satisfied smirk. "Lunchtime," I announced, my voice rough but casual, as if what had just transpired was an everyday occurrence.

Without waiting for a response, I turned on my heel and strode off towards the mess hall, leaving him there to compose himself. The taste of him lingered on my lips, mixing with the taste of the sea air as I melded back into the crowd of workers, just another face in the lunch line, as if I hadn't just fucked the devil out of my skinsuit.

The mess hall was a cacophony of clattering trays and boisterous conversation, the air thick with the smell of grease and overcooked vegetables. I swaggered over to the serving line, my appetite now insatiable after the exertions of the body I wore. The servers piled my tray high with everything on offer—sloppy joes oozing with sauce, a mountain of mashed potatoes, beans swimming in a murky liquid, and a slab of apple pie that had seen better days.

I found a table, the metal surface cold and impersonal, and I descended upon my feast like a man possessed. I shoveled the food into my mouth with the thick fingers, the taste barely registering as I binged on the mass-produced sustenance. I was ravenous, the act of consuming now just as primal as the fuck that had preceded it.

The other workers gave me a wide berth, their glances a mix of disgust and envy at the sight of my gluttony. I didn't give a single, solitary fuck. I was here for one thing only—to sate the hunger that clawed at my insides.

Halfway through my meal, a shadow fell across the table. I looked up, mouth full of pie, to see the chubby man I'd taken my pleasure with earlier. He was cleaned up now, his shirt sticking to him less, his hair damply plastered to his forehead. There was a hesitancy in his stance, as if he wasn't sure of his welcome.

"Mind if I join you?" he asked, his voice a quiet rumble that seemed at odds with the chaos of the hall around us.

I swallowed my mouthful and wiped my chin with the back of my hand, giving him a nod. "Take a seat, man," I said, my tone nonchalant, as if we were just two co-workers sharing a break, not two souls who had shared a carnal communion just a short while ago.

He sat down opposite me, his tray a far more modest affair than my own. His eyes darted around the hall before settling on me, a silent question in their depths.

I met his gaze, my expression unreadable. "You clean up good," I commented, the corner of my lip quirking up in a half-smile.

He flushed, a tinge of red creeping up his neck. "Yeah, well... thanks," he muttered, his eyes dropping to his own food, the moment of intimacy we'd shared hanging between us like a tangible thing.

The silence stretched on, punctuated only by the sounds of my continued feasting. He picked at his food.

Leaning back in my chair, I eyed him over the rim of a greasy paper cup, taking a long swig of the watered-down soda. The mess hall was alive with the mundane, the everyday lives of men just trying to get through another shift, but our table was an island of tension in a sea of normalcy.

"Do you want to be me?" I asked, the question slipping out between mouthfuls of food, casual as if discussing the weather.

He blinked, his fork frozen midway to his mouth. "What?" Confusion furrowed his brow, a wrinkle etching itself between his eyes.

I leaned forward, a conspiratorial gleam in the eyes of the longshoreman's face. "I said, be in this body." I tapped a meaty finger against my chest for emphasis. "I could get tired of it pretty soon. But I think you might like it."

His confusion deepened, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. "I... I don't follow," he stammered, clearly at a loss.

I dropped my voice to a low murmur, barely audible over the din of the hall. "Meet me in the restroom after lunch," I instructed, the words heavy with implication.

He nodded slowly, his expression still one of bewilderment, but beneath it, there was a flicker of something else—curiosity, perhaps, or the stirring of a deeper desire. The seed had been planted, and I could see the cogs turning in his head as he tried to make sense of my offer.

I returned to my binge, the conversation hanging unfinished in the air between us as the minutes ticked by. The anticipation was palpable, a delicious tension that I savored as much as the last bites of my meal.

...

The restroom was a stark, sterile place, the white tiles reflecting the harsh fluorescent lighting. It was empty save for the two of us, the quiet a stark contrast to the bustling noise of the mess hall we had just left.

He stood there, a little awkward, shifting his weight from foot to foot. His eyes were wide, unsure, but there was an undercurrent of anticipation that he couldn't quite hide.

I didn't waste any time. With practiced ease, I began to loosen the fat, big longshoreman's skinsuit I was wearing. My movements were fluid, almost ritualistic, as I let the thick skin deform, become floppy and saggy. The big ball belly deflated with a soft, almost mournful whoosh, the once taut skin now hanging on my body like a deflated balloon.

His reaction was immediate and visceral. His mouth dropped open, a gasp escaping him as he took a step back, his eyes wide with shock. "What the fuck...?" he whispered, the color draining from his face.

Then, with a flourish that was equal parts grotesque and theatrical, I stuck out my real head from the mouth hole of the skinsuit. "You wondered what changed. Here's the reason," I said, my true voice much different from the one I'd used before—lighter, sharper, a devil's grin on my lips.

"Is he... is he dead?" he asked, the question laced with a nervous tremor.

"No, if someone's inside," I replied with a smirk. "Do you want to be inside?"

He hesitated, the implications of what I was offering—and what I was—washing over him. A mix of fear, disbelief, and intrigue played across his features. But then, slowly, he nodded. "Yes," he breathed, the word barely audible.

I stripped the suit all the way down, stepping out of the sagging skin to reveal my true form—slender, almost ethereal, a stark contrast to the bulky man I had been moments before. I held the skinsuit out to him, an offering, a temptation, a chance to become something more than he was.

His hands trembled as he reached out to take it, the enormity of his decision weighing heavily in the air between us. But the desire to escape his own skin, to experience life as someone new, someone powerful, was too strong to resist.

The restroom echoed with the sound of his clothing hitting the tile floor—a symphony of zippers, the rustle of denim, and the soft thud of a cotton shirt. He stripped with haste, his movements jerky with a mix of eagerness and trepidation. His own body was pale in the artificial light, soft around the edges where life had carved its comfortable grooves into him.

"Get rid of your clothes before wearing him. You're gonna love the textures and feelings," I coaxed, my voice a devilish purr that filled the small space.

He stood there, naked and vulnerable, his flesh goose-pimpled from the cool air and the raw intensity of the moment. With a deep breath that did little to steady his shaking hands, he stepped into the skinsuit, sliding his legs into the hollow limbs that had once been mine.

I watched, a silent observer as he pulled the skin up over his thighs, his torso, his arms. It was a strange, surreal dance, the skinsuit clinging to him, reshaping itself to match the form it had just been released from. As he pulled the head over his own, tucking his features into the slack, empty face of the longshoreman, the transformation began.

The skinsuit plumped up, filling out with a life of its own. It was like watching a man being reborn, the sagging, floppy skin tightening, gaining color and warmth as it molded to his now-hidden frame.

When he was fully encased, he looked in the mirror, his movements hesitant, as if he couldn't quite believe the reflection staring back at him. The skinsuit had taken on its previous robust form, the ball belly now a proud protrusion on his new body.

His face, though perfectly molded to the rugged features of the longshoreman, was etched with fear and nervousness. His eyes, now peering out from a face that wasn't his, flicked to mine in the reflection, searching for some reassurance, some confirmation that he had made the right choice.

"It's alright," I said, a sly smile on my lips. "The first time's always a bit of a shock. But you'll get used to it. You'll see."

He nodded, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps that made the chest of the skinsuit rise and fall with an unnervingly lifelike rhythm.

The shy, nervous version of this big boy was a stark contrast to the confident, burly longshoreman he now appeared to be. His large hands roamed over the contours of his new body, feeling the weight of the belly, the breadth of the shoulders, the rough texture of the skin that was now his exterior.

I stepped closer, my own slender form almost shadow-like next to his newly acquired bulk.

Without a word, I reached out and tugged at the dick that dangled between his legs. It was a bold move, but I was curious to see how he would react, how the sensations would differ from his own body's responses.

He let out a sharp intake of breath, his eyes snapping to mine as a jolt went through him. "Shit!" he exclaimed, a mix of surprise and a hint of pleasure flickering across his face.

"Feels good, doesn't it?" I teased, my voice low and raspy. "Different body, different pleasures."

He nodded, his initial shock giving way to a dawning realization of the myriad sensations now at his fingertips. His hand joined mine, wrapping around the shaft, his touch hesitant at first, then growing bolder as he began to stroke himself, his face a canvas of wonder and discovery.

The sound of his breath hitching, the soft noises of skin on skin, filled the restroom. It was an intimate symphony, the prelude to a deeper exploration of the flesh he now inhabited. His nervousness was slowly being replaced by a budding confidence, each tug, each caress teaching him more about the body he had taken on.

I stepped back, content to watch the play of emotions on his face as he acquainted himself with his new form.

He dressed himself in the clothes that once belonged to the longshoreman. The fabric, familiar with the shape they had clung to for so long, settled comfortably over his new skin.

With each piece of clothing—the stained tank top stretching over the broad chest, the denim jacket that added a layer of ruggedness, the cargo pants that encased the thick legs—he took on more and more of the longshoreman's persona. His movements, still a touch uncertain, became more assured as he buttoned, zipped, and adjusted.

Meanwhile, I slipped into his old clothes, the fit loose and ill-suited to my slender frame. His cap, slightly sweaty from the day's labor, came down over my eyes, casting my face in shadow. It was a poor disguise for the devil beneath, but it would suffice for the short walk through the docks.

With a final look in the mirror, a nod to the reflection that was no longer his own, he turned to me, ready to step out into the world. I placed a hand on his back, feeling the warmth of the skinsuit through the fabric of his shirt, and guided him toward the door.

"Time to show off that new body," I whispered, a mischievous lilt to my voice. "Stride like you own the place, wiggle that belly, give it a good pat, and let's hear something in that low voice of yours."

He pushed open the restroom door, stepping out with a newfound swagger. His hips rolled with each step, the belly wiggling enticingly beneath the tank top. He brought a hand up to his chest, patting it with a thud that resonated with confidence.

"Hey there, fellas," he rumbled, the deep voice booming out of him, rich and full of the longshoreman's gruff timbre. Heads turned, eyes widened, and murmurs rippled through the nearby workers. But all they saw was a big man, comfortable in his skin, strutting through the docks as if he'd been doing it all his life.

And as for me, trailing behind in his shadow, I couldn't help but feel a swell of pride. The devil's work was done, and damn, it felt good.

As we emerged from the restroom and ventured back into the thrum of dockyard life, I leaned in close to him, my voice a low drawl that only he could hear over the din of activity.

"I'll check on you later, enjoy your new life," I murmured, a sly grin tugging at the corners of my mouth. The cap was still pulled low over my eyes, shadowing my face, making me just another faceless drone among the laborers. "I'mma find another big guy to join you," I added with a wink that was hidden under the brim.

His response was a deep, rumbling chuckle that vibrated through his chest, the sound so perfectly fitting for the body he now occupied. He gave a broad, satisfied nod, the gesture exuding a confidence that he was rapidly growing into.

"Thanks, man," he said, his voice a low growl that matched the new, heavyset form he wore. "I'll be looking forward to it."

With that, he clapped a hand on my shoulder—a gesture that was surprisingly gentle given his size—and sauntered off. He moved with a purpose now, each step a testament to the life he was stepping into, the broad back and swinging arms a display of his newfound vigor.

I watched him go, the cap still concealing my face as I blended back into the crowd, my eyes already scanning for the next subject, the next piece of flesh to wrap myself in. The docks were full of potential, full of big guys with lives ripe for the taking. And I, with a devil's appetite, was more than ready to indulge.

No sooner had he taken a few strides into his new life than he came lumbering back, the sight almost comical. The big belly wiggled and jiggled with each heavy step, a pendulum of flesh that kept time with his panicked rush. His face, a mask of concern beneath the longshoreman's rugged features, was flushed with the exertion, and his breath came in heavy, wheezing pants that echoed in the cavernous space of the docks.

"Hey, hey, wait up!" he called out, his deep voice laced with urgency.

I turned to face him, suppressing a chuckle at the sight of his comically bouncing gut. "What's up?" I asked, the cap still shading my eyes, a smirk playing on my lips.

He bent over, hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. "How can I be back to myself if something happens? I have to, I don't know, if my old identity needs me?" he gasped out between gulps of air, the worry in his eyes almost childlike.

I stepped closer, reaching out to steady him with a hand on his broad shoulder. "It's simple," I assured him, my tone nonchalant, as if we were discussing the weather rather than the uncanny ability to shed a human suit. "Just thinking of leaving your body will make it loosen. Then you can undress it, just like taking off a pair of pants."

His eyes searched mine, looking for the truth in my words. "Just think it, and I'm out?" he repeated, the concept so fantastical yet delivered so matter-of-factly by me.

"Exactly," I confirmed with a nod. "The skin knows its master. You want out, it'll let you out. No fuss, no muss."

He straightened up, taking a deep breath, the initial panic subsiding as he processed the information. A look of relief washed over him, and he managed a shaky laugh. "Okay, okay, that's... that's good to know. Thanks, man."

I clapped him on the back, the impact resonating through the thick skin. "No problem, big guy. Now go on, get used to your new self. There's a whole dock full of opportunities waiting for you."

With a final nod, he turned and walked away, the wiggling of his belly now a rhythmic sway that spoke of a burgeoning ease with his new form. I watched him go, the corners of my mouth turned up in a satisfied grin.

Across the bustling dockyard, amid the cacophony of clanging metal and bellowing foremen, I spotted the next tantalizing opportunity. A fat businessman, his suit straining against the bulk of his body, was laying into the supervisor I had encountered earlier. The suit was a high-end fabric, no doubt, but it did little to flatter his rotund form, the buttons at the brink of surrender to the expansive pressure of his gut.

The businessman's jowls quivered with each barked reprimand, his chubby finger wagging in the supervisor's face—a comical picture of pompous authority. The supervisor, looking more like a chastised schoolboy than a man in charge, mumbled apologies, his face the color of boiled lobster.

"That's right, you better be sorry, you incompetent worm!" the businessman sneered, his voice a grating baritone that carried over the noise of the dock. His cheeks were flushed with the exertion of his tirade, a bead of sweat rolling down his temple, disappearing into the thicket of his sideburn.

As the supervisor scuttled away, head bowed and ego deflated, the businessman straightened his jacket with a huff, his chest puffed out in self-importance. He walked back to his office, leaving the door a crack. He was alone now, the perfect mark, delivered to me by fate or fortune.

I made my way through the labyrinth of crates and machinery, my steps purposeful, my mind set on the prize. The businessman's office was a prefab unit perched on the edge of the dock, a glass window offering a view of the operations he so pompously oversaw.

As I entered, the door swung shut with a click that seemed to slice through the hum of the outside world. The room was all sharp angles and sterile furniture, the air conditioned to a chill that contrasted starkly with the muggy heat of the dockyard.

The businessman looked up from his desk, his eyes narrowing at the sight of me—a lowly worker in a soiled suit—marching towards him with an audacity that disrupted the order of his world. "What the hell do you think you're doing? This is a private office!" he bellowed, his chubby hand gripping a gold pen like a talisman of his authority.

His words might as well have been the chirping of a distant bird for all the attention I paid them. I didn't slow my stride, didn't falter under the weight of his anger. I was here for one thing only, and his indignation was just background noise.

As I reached his desk, his face reddened with rage, the veins on his forehead standing out like cords. "I'll have you thrown out of here! I'll have your job!" he spat, spittle flecking his lips.

But I was already too close, my finger extended—the devil's own blade, sharp and unerring. With a swift, precise movement, I poked it into his navel, and the transformation began. His inflated sense of self, his corpulence, his very essence, all deflated in an instant. His body collapsed in on itself, the expensive fabric of his suit hanging limp, empty, a deflated balloon of a man.

The anger in his eyes gave way to terror, then confusion, then nothing at all as he became nothing more than a sack of skin, a costume for the taking. His once formidable presence was reduced to a pile of flesh on the leather chair, and the room was suddenly very, very quiet.

I stood there, looking down at my handiwork, a smile spreading across my face. The fat businessman, the blustering authority, was gone. In his place was a new skin, rich with possibility and ripe for the wearing.

I shrugged off the worker suit with a nonchalance born of countless changes, letting it crumple to the floor of the office like a discarded second thought. My eyes, alight with a predator's glee, turned to the deflated prize before me—the boss' skinsuit.

I approached the leather chair where it lay, a heap of fine fabric and flesh, the power it once contained now just a limp reminder of the man who'd worn it. I reached out, my fingers grazing the material of the suit, the silk lining cool and smooth against my touch.

With the same reverence a connoisseur might show a fine wine, I admired the skinsuit. Here was a vessel of influence, a garment of authority and wealth, a far cry from the rough and tumble exterior of the longshoreman's hide I'd previously enjoyed.

I lifted it, the skin still warm, the scent of cologne and fear lingering in the fibers. The businessman's face, now slack and empty, was a canvas waiting to be filled. I ran a thumb over the jowls, the stubble of his once-immaculate beard now just texture on the skin.

"Beautiful," I murmured, my voice a whisper in the silent room. "A fucking masterpiece."

The admiration wasn't just for the physical form, but for the life it represented—the deals, the power plays, the cutthroat world of commerce. It was all there, in this suit, waiting for me to slip inside and pull the strings.

The mouth opening of the skinsuit gaped like the entrance to a new world, a threshold between who I was and who I was about to become. I positioned myself at the head of the deflated suit, the gateway to the businessman's identity, and prepared to cross into the opulent realm he had occupied.

With a breath that was part excitement, part predatory anticipation, I slid my legs into the opening, the edges of the mouth stretching to accommodate me as I pushed forward. The sensation was intimate, invasive—like slipping into someone else's deepest secrets. The inside of the suit was slick, a second skin that clung to me as I wormed my way in, inch by inch.

The transition was a strange ballet of contortion and absorption, my body filling out the empty vessel, the skinsuit clinging to my form as if recognizing its new master. I wriggled and coaxed my limbs into the sleeves, the pant legs, feeling the suit come to life around me, the businessman's face settling over my own with a snugness that was both eerie and exhilarating.

As I wore it out, standing upright in the full attire of wealth and power, I felt the transformation complete. The suit plumped up, the belly rounding, the chest expanding with a breath that wasn't mine. I flexed my fingers, now encased in the soft flesh of the businessman's hands.

There I was, standing naked in the opulent office, the embodiment of the once-proud businessman now nothing more than a skinsuit clinging to my form. I looked down at the curves of my new vessel, the paunch of the belly spilling over a waistband that wasn't there, the flesh of the thighs soft and powerful.

With a chuckle, I reached down to grasp the new fat dick between my fingers, giving it a few experimental strokes. The sensation was foreign yet familiar, a surge of pleasure that was both the businessman's and entirely my own. I laughed, the sound rich and indulgent, a celebration of the endless possibilities that lay before me.

"Looks like you're going to be a lot of fun," I said to the new appendage, my voice a mix of amusement and promise.

I turned my attention to the business suit, laid out on the chair and the floor, the fine fabric whispering tales of boardrooms and deals made over glasses of expensive scotch. One by one, I slipped into the garments, the crisp shirt that hugged the skin just right, the silk tie that knotted with a satisfying pull, the trousers that draped over the legs like they were made for them—which, of course, they were.

Finally, I donned the jacket, the shoulders settling with a perfect symmetry, the lines of the suit converging to create the image of a man of substance, a man to be reckoned with. I adjusted the cuffs, straightened the lapels, and examined myself in the full-length mirror that graced the office wall.

The reflection that stared back was that of a real boss—commanding, affluent, a man whose word was law. I allowed myself a smirk, the power of the skinsuit already seeping into my bones. I was no longer a mere interloper; I was the man in charge, the king of this concrete jungle, and I intended to revel in every goddamn second of it.

With the suit now fitting like a glove, I moved behind the desk, a solid piece of dark wood that spoke of wealth and decisions that could change lives with a stroke of a pen. I dropped into the plush leather chair, its cushions molding to the contours of my new body with a soft sigh.

Reaching for the sleek, high-tech phone that seemed to command the desk, I flicked through the contacts with a practiced swipe of the touchscreen. The businessman's personal assistant answered on the second ring, her voice crisp and efficient.

"Mr. Donahue's office, how may I assist you?" she inquired, unaware that Mr. Donahue was now just an empty suit.

I deepened my voice, adopting the authoritative tone I had heard the businessman use earlier. "Send the big Jackson to my office," I commanded, the words rolling off my tongue with a devilish ease.

"Right away, sir," she replied, the click of her heels audible through the phone as she moved to carry out the order.

I hung up and leaned back, interlacing my fingers over the broad expanse of my new belly. The anticipation of the longshoreman's arrival, the thrill of the power play that was about to unfold, sent a shiver of excitement through me. The office, once a sanctuary of command, was now my stage, and I was eager for the next act to begin.

The minutes ticked by, the muted sounds of the docks barely permeating the thick glass of the office windows. Then, a knock came, firm and unyielding, the sound of someone used to making themselves heard.

"Enter," I called out, a smirk playing on my lips.

The door opened, and in walked the longshoreman, his bulky form filling the doorway. He looked around, his eyes wide with a mixture of confusion and awe at the opulence of the office.

"You wanted to see me, boss?" he asked, his voice uncertain—a stark contrast to the bellowing confidence of the dockyard.

I nodded, the gesture magnanimous. "Yes, come in, close the door. We have business to discuss," I said.

The air was thick with the scent of expensive leather and the faintest hint of the sea as the longshoreman stood awkwardly before the desk. His eyes, still adjusting to the grandeur of the office, hadn't yet spotted the telltale heap of his old worker suit discarded by the table.

Without warning, I pushed back from the desk and dropped to my knees with a practiced grace, my hands reaching for his waist with an assertiveness that brooked no argument. His eyes went wide with shock as I unbuckled his belt, unzipped his pants, and pulled them down in one swift motion.

Before he could utter a word of protest, my mouth was on him, enveloping his dick with a hunger that was both shocking and primal. The suddenness of the act, the warmth of my mouth—it all served to stun him into a momentary silence, his body rigid with the initial shock of unexpected pleasure.

"What the—?" he began, his voice a choked gasp, but then his eyes landed on the crumpled worker suit, the cap still perched atop the pile like a discarded crown. In that instant, realization dawned, the pieces of the puzzle clicking into place with a clarity that widened his eyes even further.

His shock gave way to a dawning understanding, and his hands—those large, calloused things that had only recently been mine—found their way to my head, his fingers threading through the hair of the businessman's skinsuit. He was still processing, still trying to make sense of the unfathomable, but as the pleasure built, his resistance waned, and he surrendered to the sensation.

"Oh my god, are you a god or something?" he gasped, his voice tinged with a mix of reverence and a dawning terror. "Are you wearing our boss now, mister?"

I released him from my mouth with an audible pop, looking up at him through the eyes of the businessman I now inhabited. My smile was all sly devilry, a knowing, wicked curve of the lips. "Something like that," I purred, my voice a velvet rumble that seemed to vibrate through the room.

I stood up slowly, the businessman's suit impeccable despite my earlier ministrations. I brushed off nonexistent dust from my shoulders, a gesture of nonchalant arrogance.

The longshoreman's eyes followed me, his body still half-exposed, his mind racing to keep up with the impossibilities that were unfolding before him. "But... how?" he stammered, his earlier bravado washed away by the sheer implausibility of it all.

I chuckled, the sound dark and rich. "Let's just keep that our little secret," I said, closing the distance between us once more. "The important thing is what we do next, don't you think?"

His mouth opened and closed, his desire to understand warring with the primal urge that still throbbed between his legs.

His pants still around his ankles, the longshoreman looked at me, a mixture of vulnerability and curiosity etched across his face. "But why didn't you turn me? Why do me such a favor?" he asked, his voice a combination of gratitude and bewilderment.

I straightened the cuffs of my shirt, a gesture of fastidiousness that felt at home on the businessman's skin. "Because you're lucky," I said with a wry grin, "and I'm always in a good mood when I was wearing the skinsuit you're wearing now. Plus, you answered my call. I guess we are the same kind of people."

His eyes gleamed with a mixture of pride and newfound camaraderie. "Can I turn others into skinsuits too?" he ventured, the idea clearly appealing to him.

"No, don't be greedy," I chided, my tone light but firm. "I'm 'the boss'," I added, leaving no room for argument.

He nodded, a sheepish smile spreading across his face. "Oh, okay. But if one day you're tired of the boss body, you could leave it to me," he suggested, the prospect clearly exciting him. "You know, I might keep your ditched skins. I... I wonder, what did you do when you don't want a skinsuit before we met?"

I leaned back against the desk, the weight of the businessman's body a comfortable presence. "I restore them, or throw them away," I said, my voice casual, as if discussing the weather or the stock market. "Who knows if there are any lucky ones like you having a second life?"

He pondered that for a moment, the concept of such power and freedom a heady thought. "I guess I really hit the jackpot with you, huh?" he mused, still half lost in the enormity of his good fortune.

"You could say that," I agreed, my eyes glinting with an unspoken knowledge of the countless lives I'd touched, the skins I'd worn and discarded. And now, with the businessman's power at my fingertips, who was to say what new games I could play? But for now, I had a dockyard to run, and a skinsuit that fit just right.

"Okay, big boy," I said, my voice dropping an octave into a growl that seemed to resonate with the walls themselves. "I am feeling so horny right now after scolding those fools. Lie on the sofa, give me your ass."

His reaction was immediate and obedient. With a clumsy haste, he pulled up his pants just enough to regain mobility and shuffled over to the plush sofa that adorned one side of the office. It was a piece meant more for looks than use, but now it was about to become an altar of debauchery.

He positioned himself over the cushions, his large hands gripping the backrest, his ass presented to me in a display of raw vulnerability. The fabric of his pants stretched tight across his buttocks, delineating the shape and form that I was about to claim.

I approached, my own arousal a fierce presence within the confines of the businessman's tailored trousers. I could feel the power coursing through me, a heady mix of lust and control as I stood behind him, surveying the sight he made.

The sounds of the dockyard were a world away, muffled by the thick glass of the office windows. Here, in this room, there was only the sound of our breathing, the subtle shift of fabric, and the low, throaty chuckle that escaped me as I prepared to take what I had ordered.

"Good boy," I praised, my hand coming down with a firm smack on his ass, the sound echoing off the walls.

He let out a muffled groan, his body tensing, then relaxing into the cushions, ready and willing for whatever was to come.

With an eagerness that bordered on ferocity, I unbuckled the belt and lowered the zipper of the businessman's trousers, releasing my new dick from its confines. It was already standing at attention, a testament to the arousal that had been building throughout the exchange.

I lined myself up behind him and without any preamble, I thrust inside his ass, a groan of satisfaction escaping my lips as I felt the tight heat envelop me. But the pleasure was short-lived; the businessman's dick, apparently as overeager as the man had been in life, betrayed me with a swift and untimely release.

"Damn it," I cursed, frustration lacing my voice as I felt the orgasm rip through me, a quick popper indeed. "This pig was a quick popper." I withdrew, my annoyance clear as day. I shot him a pointed look, my gaze sharp. "And why are you always the bottom? Be a top once, since you're twice bigger than me now."

He seemed startled by the command, but the prospect of reversal sparked a light in his eyes. He nodded, a mixture of excitement and nervousness playing across the longshoreman's face as he pulled out of his pants entirely, stepping out of them with a newfound purpose.

I moved to the sofa, laying down on the plush surface that seemed to caress my back, the rich leather cool against the businessman's skin. I watched him approach, his silhouette now towering over me, a colossus of muscle and newfound dominance.

With tentative boldness, he positioned himself between my legs, the head of his dick nudging at my entrance. Then, with a deep breath that seemed to steel his resolve, he thrust into me, his size a formidable presence that filled me completely.

The sensation was intense, a mixture of pain and pleasure as he began to move, his thrusts gaining confidence with each stroke. I let out a low moan, the sound mingling with the creak of the leather sofa as we moved together in a rhythm that was as old as time.

His hands found purchase on my thighs, his grip firm, almost possessive, as he established a pace that had us both gasping for breath. The room was filled with the sounds of our union—the slap of skin on skin, our ragged breathing, and the soft grunts and groans that spoke volumes of the pleasure we were giving and receiving.

His movements became more assured, more purposeful, as he navigated the tight space of my body, hitting spots within me that sent jolts of electric pleasure radiating through my core. I could feel the pressure building, an intense focus of sensation that centered on my prostate. He was relentless, each thrust a calculated push against that most sensitive spot, driving me towards a climax that was both involuntary and deeply craved.

The room spun with the intensity of it all, my grip on reality beginning to fray at the edges as he brought me closer and closer to the edge. The businessman's body, my temporary vessel, was singing with the need for release, the need to be filled and fulfilled in a way that was both primal and profound.

And then it hit—a prostate climax that rolled through me like a thunderous wave, leaving me gasping, my body shuddering beneath him as wave after wave of pleasure coursed through me. I was vaguely aware of his own groans of release as he came, his hot sperm flooding into me, marking me in the most intimate way possible.

Exhausted, he collapsed on top of me, his heavy weight a solid presence that pinned me to the sofa. The combined heat of our bodies, the slickness of sweat that coated our skin, made the air around us thick and close. I felt dizzy, my senses overwhelmed by the sheer intensity of the experience, the weight of him pressing down on me.

"Fuck," I managed to gasp out, the word a breathless exclamation that seemed to echo in the quiet aftermath. His chest heaved against mine, the rhythm of his breathing slowly returning to normal as he lay there, spent and satisfied.

With a grunt, I summoned the strength to shove him off me, my arms pushing against the mountain of man that had momentarily become my world. He rolled to the side, a look of surprise flashing across his face before it settled into an expression of contentment, his chest rising and falling with each heavy breath.

I propped myself up on one elbow, taking a moment to observe him as he lay there on the sofa. His skin glistened with a sheen of sweat, the fine hairs on his arms catching the light, making them appear almost golden. His breathing was still labored, a testament to the vigor with which he had claimed me.

Unable to resist the primal scent of him, I leaned over and ran my tongue along the length of his arm, tasting the salt of his skin. He shivered at the touch, a soft moan escaping his lips as I explored the landscape of his flesh.

I lifted his arm, exposing the damp, darkened patch of hair at his armpit. The musk that emanated from there was intoxicating, a heady blend of man and exertion. I inhaled deeply, my senses reveling in the raw, unfiltered aroma. Then, without hesitation, I licked and smelled his armpit, my tongue delving into the warm, moist hollow. The act was one of intimacy and possession, animalistic in its desire to taste and claim every part of him.

With a mixture of devilish intent and carnal curiosity, I maneuvered him onto his back, his limbs heavy but compliant. His dick, now spent and slick with the remnants of our previous activities, lay against him—floppy, but still impressively large. It was a sight that demanded attention, the juxtaposition of its current state and the memory of its vigor a stark contrast.

I leaned down, my gaze fixed on the hefty piece of flesh before me. It was coated with a sheen of our combined fluids, a testament to the raw, unbridled encounter we'd just shared. Without a second thought, I enveloped him with my mouth, the taste of him—musky, salty, undeniably masculine—filling my senses.

He let out a surprised grunt, his body reacting instinctively to the warm, wet sensation. "Fuck," he breathed out, his hands finding their way to my head, fingers threading through the businessman's hair. The act was gentle, almost reverent, as if he was still trying to process the whirlwind of sensations that had overtaken him.

I cleaned him with meticulous care, my tongue tracing the contours of his softness, lapping at the residual stickiness. Each stroke was a mix of service and domination, a way to claim him and care for him all at once.

His breathing hitched with every pass of my tongue, the intimacy of the act a quiet coda to the symphony of lust we'd orchestrated. In the afterglow of passion, in the quiet of the office, there was just the sound of our breaths and the soft, wet noises of my attentions.

After our moment of indulgence, we took our time regaining composure, the silence between us filled with the sound of running water and the rustle of cloth as we cleaned ourselves up. The restroom adjoining the office became a sanctuary of sorts, a place to wash away the evidence of our liaison and to prepare to reenter the world outside.

He splashed water on his face and torso, the droplets cascading down the curves and valleys of the longshoreman's body he now inhabited. His movements were slow, almost meditative, as he wiped the sweat and remnants of our encounter from his skin. I watched him for a moment, appreciating the transformation he had undergone, both physically and in the newfound confidence that seemed to radiate from him.

I too took care in cleaning up, ensuring that the businessman's suit was pristine, the lines sharp and the fabric smooth. Each button was fastened with precision, each crease ironed out until the man who looked back at me from the mirror was the picture of composed success.

As we finished, we shared a look, an unspoken acknowledgment of what had passed between us. He approached, and without a word, we shared a kiss—a goodbye that was a seal on our secret, a promise of silence and remembrance.

The kiss was soft, a contrast to the fervor that had come before. It was a moment of connection, of mutual respect between two souls who had shared something extraordinary. His lips were warm and firm against mine, and for a brief second, the world seemed to stand still.

When we parted, there was a smile on his lips, a touch of wonder in his eyes. "Take care, boss," he said, the word 'boss' a playful jab that held a world of meaning.

"You too, big guy," I replied, my voice a low rumble that seemed to fill the office.

With one last nod, he turned and left the office, his steps sure and his head held high. I watched him go, the door closing softly behind him, and I knew that no matter where our paths led from here, we would always have the memory of this day, of power and pleasure, and the kiss that sealed it all.