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evilgwrl · 2 months ago

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TF 141 x Reader (Apocalypse!AU)

Immune: Six

WARNING: This is a 18+ Poly!141 series (MDNI)

CW: Oral (f & brief male receiving), barn sex yeehaw, PIV (no protection), praise, I love gaz sm he’s so fucking sexy and hot, titty sucking, more hickies!!!!

Masterlist

Your brow cocked towards the Scotsman, his arms folded against the width of his chest as he stared at you, Arctic blue orbs swirling with mischief as he stepped closer to you, chapped lips flushed against the heat of your forehead before he was strumming upstairs.

The day was sombre. The sky was roiling, a pall of menacing clouds enveloping the forest with a darkened haze, the soft jingles of the wind chimes sounding out to you as you rushed the horses into the barn, snouts whining and hissing out breathy grunts as a roll of thunder cracked through.

Bubbling heat simmered in the pit of your stomach; your body flushed with fervour as you scurried outside, your legs turning to mush as anxious feet padded against the soil, parched digits digging into reins. Your body ached with a needing demand, a need to be satisfied, not only by Price but by them all.

It was taboo. It should feel wrong. This wasn’t you. The growing ache that seethed between your thighs, only fed into the perpetual insistence that needed to be met. You needed to be fucked. Again, and again and again.

You rolled your eyes at yourself, the flush of iris visible as you trembled into the barn, pulling on Nancy as she trotted along, heavy hoofs skating across the already dirtied floors. As you secured the horses away, your eyes trained in on the door, the sound of heavy footsteps coiling into your stomach before Gaz appeared.

You weren’t quite sure what it was about him. He gave you a sense of comfort, his eyes gentle yet zealous, speckles of gold flaking through the endless diversions of umber. His presence was homely, settling around you like a forest fire, fusillading the anguished need you held for him. His smile was soft as he gazed at you, standing bashfully at the barn doors, chiselled arms pressed against the wood.

“Thought I would find you here,” he remarked, taking a step forward as he felt the spit of rain pellet down on his warm skin.

You raised a brow, “You looking for me?” Your tone was knowing, almost teasing as he let out a shy laugh, pearly teeth on display as his tongue kissed them, the simmer of the light reflecting against them. He was pretty, almost too pretty, the arrogant broil of his eyes sending a pit into your stomach as he stepped closer.

“Just felt like we, I, haven’t thanked you properly.”

“It’s alright, Gaz. Couldn’t exactly turn you all away, could I?” You tried to make light of the situation, your eyes averting to the floor as you shifted awkwardly.

“You gonna let me thank you, sweetheart? Hm?”

Your feet were clumsy, as you stumbled back, spine flush against a bale of hay as he stalked towards you. You felt like his prey, tantalising jaws snapping down on the silk of your flesh as he sucked the sweet liquor of your blood into his taste buds. Cadaverous hands groped at your thigh, melting the softness of the fat into his hands as he practically cooed at you.

His voice was patronising, threads of disdain lacing it as his grip found your knees, pulling them apart gently. Straw scratched at your legs, sending a jolt through you as you watched him through hooded eyes. His eyes were darker now, flushed over with desire as he pushed his crotch up against you, an evident bulge covered by denim petting your clad heat almost maliciously as you gulped down the air that flooded your organs.

Nails dug into your tender skin, crescent-shaped moons tattooing along the flesh as you whined. “I asked you a question,” he tsked, kissing along your jaw.

“Y-Yeah, you can thank me.”

The strain of your voice enveloped a laugh out of him, rough hands toying with your top before you lifted your arms up, bare chest on display as the cool air puckered up your nipples, his eyes darting between the two before his hands were wrapping around your neck, pushing against you slightly to arch your back before feverish lips were tugging at the buds, teasing them between his teeth before he would pull away and suck at the sore skin, tainted by hickies.

“Old man wanted to mark you up,” he growled as his hands released from your neck, toying with your tits as your core ached. The sensation was all too much, yet not enough. Greedy hips ground against the bulge that was pressed against you, a groan sounding out from between your tits.

“Are you gonna thank me?” You quipped, pulling at his hair as he clutched a nipple between his lips before pulling away with a subtle pop.

“Greedy, aren’t you? Just need to be filled up by us all?” Gaz smirked.

Your hips responded for you, pussy clenching around nothing as you panted, your breath wanton. His digits found your buttons, plucking at them before you raised yourself, letting him slide them off down you revealing your aching sex, thin cotton smeared against it as your slick darkened them. Gaz groaned in reply, rubbing at the wet patch feverishly as your lips found his neck, licking a stripe against his defined collarbone.

You swore, your voice lost in the crackle of the wind as he peeled your panties to the side, your aching cunt throbbing as he spread your folds apart, smiling in appreciation at the sloppy strings of slick webbing between your lips.

“Pretty fucking pussy,” he nodded as he pushed you back, throwing your legs over his shoulders as a rough thumb pressed against your clit, almost unsure if he wanted to use his fingers or mouth before he settled for both, his wet muscle toying with your entrance before plunging in, enveloping your gummy walls with his spit as his digit engulfed harsh circles around the sensitive nub.

Needy moans left your throat as you palmed at the hay below you, another hand buried in his hair, fingers digging into his scalp as your pussy rode along his tongue, chasing a desperate release.

His touch was electric, spreading zaps of energy throughout you, engulfing your spine as your back arched further at the torment of his tongue, his laps gargling against your slick as he teased you.

Feverish hands wrapped around the fat of your thighs, bruising touches doubling every sensation you felt as you mewled against him, bucking your hips as you chased your high.

Teeth grazed against your throbbing clit, the sensation almost overwhelming as you gasped out, full lips sucking the bud as you convulsed, the air thick with arousal as the breathy sounds of your moans sipped through the holes of the barn walls.

Rain slashed against the roof as you threw your head back, Gaz’s torture against your pussy stimulating every nerve in your cunt as you choked out, gasping for oxygen as you found yourself holding your breath, too focused on the pleasure he was wracking through you.

His assault was continuous, his muscle lapping at your heat, slick pooling below you as fingers tightened against the straw, scratching against your palm.

“Oh - fuck,” you whined, your voice raising an octave as pleasure coiled in your stomach, spindling through every muscle and nerve as your legs convulsed, your belly tightening until it snapped, sending your eyes rolling back as you clutched onto the bale below you, Gaz’s mouth moaning against your slit as you cried out.

Your actions were clumsy as you pushed his face away at the overstimulation, your clit swollen as you took in his pussy-drunk expression, full lips glistening with your arousal, a trail of spit dribbling down his chin as he smiled at you.

“Please fuck me,” you quipped, clutching onto his shoulder before a hand gripped at the tent in his pants, palming the aching member with need as he growled against your neck, nipping the tender flesh before his hands were at his belt.

Gaz nodded as you pulled him in roughly, your tongues lashing against each other as you hummed at the taste of yourself, the tangy feeling melting between your saliva as the Sergeant tore his slacks down his muscled thighs.

You broke the kiss, looking down at his member. He was longer than John with less girth, yet still staggering in size, the mushroom tip flushed a begging purple as silk pearls of pre-cum coiled down his aching length.

Needy hips aligned with yours as he flushed the tip against your folds, smirking at the gooey sounds of your wetness. You whined in anguish. You felt like you were in heat, your body craving your womb to be filled.

The burn stretched through you, your brows furrowing in pain as you pushed against his chest before his hands were against yours, soothing you as he kissed you, setting a bruising pace between your lips, his cock working through you inch by inch as you gasped.

“That’s it baby, relax for me. Good girl.”

His tone was soft as he praised you, working through the tightness of your gummy walls with ease before he bottomed out, heavy balls slapping against the crevice of your ass as your neck buried in the crook of his neck.

“Please, I need you,” you whimpered, lips nibbling at his neck, savouring the salty taste of his sweat before he chuckled, his hips bucking against your sweet spot, his tip kissing your cervix deliciously as he began to rock inside you, setting a slow pace as he felt every ridge against his cock.

His tongue was filthy as he spat out expletives, his pace quickening with every fleeting second as you bashfully choked out whines and moans into his skin.

“Taking me so fucking well, Jesus Christ.”

His strokes were brutal, rubbing against your cervix selfishly as your mouth sounded out babbles, your eyes rolled back as you felt the trickle of sweat pooling at the back of your knees.

The pleasure was white hot, engulfing you with demand as you submitted your entirety to him, falling limp as his hips slapped against your sensitive skin, his fingers tugging at your nipples through your slouched figure as you moaned.

His pace fastened once more before he grunted, pulling out as his cock pulsated with the need to cum. Your motions were sloppy as you gripped the shaft, knees buckling as you lifted yourself to the floor, his member coated with your slick as you hummed at the taste, tracing the veins with your tongue whilst another hand cupped his heavy balls, squeezing them with a gentle motion before gargling the remainder of his cock down the pillow of your mouth.

“Holy fuck,” he bucked, hips moving rhythmically before he spluttered out, his cum gushing down the naval of your throat as you coughed, swallowing down the thick liquid with a huff as the remainder dribbled out of your lip.

Gaz’s hand found your hair, stroking the sweat along your forehead as he pulled you up, resting you along the hay again before dressing you slightly, as well as himself, before tugging you into the plushness of his chest, lazy legs wrapping around his waist before he was jogging with you through the downpour of the rain.

Holy fuck balls I feel like my writing has gotten so SLACK!!!!!

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wh0re43van · 10 months ago

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Jealousy- (Dom!Peter Maximoff X Reader)

Summary: You and Peter are having a nice day at the river when you run into an old ‘friend’.

(This was a request, but I lost it. I believe the request said something like: “Dom Peter Maximoff. That’s the request”)

Word Count: 2.7k

Warnings: smut, throat fucking, slight choking, gagging

A/N- y’all I’ve been having such bad writers block and I just started college again so please bare with me 😭🙏🏻

My body buzzes with warmth as the mid summer sun beams down on me. In the distance there’s a group of young teens giggling and splashing as they take turns jumping off the rope swing into the river, but their joys are muffled by the newest Pink Floyd cassette playing in Peters boombox.

Suddenly, I feel a cold blob of something plop onto my stomach. I gasp, quickly sitting up in confusion. My questions are answered when I see a chuckling Peter standing above me with two overfilled ice cream cones in his hands.

“Oops,” he grins as he sits down on his towel beside me, placing the cone in my hand. Peters solution to the mess on my stomach is to lean down and lick it off. I laugh, attempting to shove him away from me.

“Ew Peter,” I chuckle as he licks up the last of the ice cream.

“Tastes like tanning oil,” he smiles while licking his lips. I just shake my head, looking at my dork of a boyfriend with pure adoration.

The soft breeze blows Peters silver locks around on his head as he lap at his sweet treat. The melted desert drips from his hand onto his toned chest and blue swim trunks.

“Babe, you’re a mess,” I laugh as I try to eat mine as neatly as possible, but the frozen delicacy is no match for the summer heat.

“Hm, guess we’ll just have to clean off in the river,” he smirks as he finishes the last of his cone. With a fwip he’s in the water.

“Hey!” I holler after him with a giggle. I set the ice cream down before standing to my feet.

“Come on y/n you’re so Slow!” Peter shouts over the sound of the rushing water. I wipe my sticky hands on his towel then grab a scrunchie to pull my hair back before our swim.

“Y/n?” I hear an unfamiliar voice behind me. I turn with a puzzled look, my hands behind my head as I braid my hair back. I’m shocked by who I see.

“Oh my god! Elijah? I don’t believe it,” I say in disbelief, staring at the boy I haven’t seen since freshman year. He smiles, seemingly pleased that I take the time glance over his now muscular body.

“I look pretty good, huh?” He laughs confidently. His red swim trunks don’t leave much to the imagination as he does a spin, allowing me to see how mature he’s become. He flexes his dark umber toned arms as he holds his head up with pride. The sun shines down on his hair, each tight raven curl lays neatly beside the other as they hang down in his face.

I gulp, feeling a bit guilty for staring.

“Uh, yeah! You look great, dude,” I laugh awkwardly as I look around for Peter.

“You here by yourself? That’s awfully dang-“ Elijah begins but is quickly cut off by Peter who seems to appear out of thin air.

“Nope,” my boyfriend says with a smug grin as he flings his arm around me, much tighter than normal. If I didn’t know better, id think Peter was jealous. I’ve been dating Peter for almost six years and I’ve never seen him so much as look twice at any guy who flirts with me.

‘Let ‘em,’ he always scoffs. ‘I’m the one who gets to undress you,’ Peter knows that no other guy has a chance with me; he actually finds it quite amusing to see guys get horribly rejected by me. Peter is a very confident guy, but right now his jaw is tensed out of annoyance and he’s gripping onto me as if Elijah might tear me from his grasp at any moment.

“Peter, long time no see,” Elija smiles at an unamused Peter.

“Yeah, last time I saw you, you were trying to sabotage my relationship with Y/n,” Peter says flatly, shrugging his shoulders with his lips pulled into a sarcastic grin.

‘Awkward,’ I cringe internally as I remember the last week we spent with Elijah before he moved away.

The two boys and I were best friends since 6th grade, so when Peter decided he wanted to confess his feeling for me, he spoke about it to Elijah- the best friend who he wasn’t in love with. Elijah came to me the next day, telling me that Peter was going to ask me out as a prank, so I should say no- which made me extremely angry since I’d had a crush on Peter for years.

Long story short: Peter was not going to ask me out as a joke, he was completely serious and Elijah almost ruined his chance with me because he wanted me to himself.

“Oh come on peter, that was like four years ago,” Elijah scoffs as he crosses his arms over his chest. He’s right. That was teenage drama that I’ve long forgotten about, however this seems to still be a sore spot for Peter who is now scowling at our old friend.

“whatever man just get lost,” Peters voice drops, his tight grip on my shoulder never faltering as his eyes shoot bullets into Elijah. This is a side to peter that I rarely see, and I cant help but notice the butterflies that are starting to flutter in my stomach.

“Woah quicksilver takes an awfully long time to get over his hurt feelings,” Elijah laughs as he keeps his confident stature. Peters eyes narrow and his face becomes flushed with anger. I open my mouth in attempt so deescalate the situation, but I don’t have time. “y/n is over it,” he smirks, winking in my direction. Before I can defend myself, the wind is knocked out of me.

With a fwip, we’re in the shower cabin. The hot damp air in invades my lungs as I try to catch my breath.

“Peter!” I groan as I pull myself out of his arms. He knows I hate when he does that. “What the hell has gotten into you? I’ve never seen you so-“ my complaint is cut short as Peter smashes his lips to mine. His hand grips the back of my head, keeping me as close to him as possible. His other hand trails up my back.

“You’re mine,” Peter growls against my lips as he backs me against the wall. My stomach drops at the possessive tone coming from my boyfriend. I wrap my arms around his neck and manage to pull my lips away from him enough to catch my breath.

“Of course Peter,” I pant as he trails wet kisses up my jawline and down my neck. I sigh in content, leaning my head to give him more access. I want to pull away, but I cant bring myself to do it.

“All of you,” he says in a low tone, his dominant eyes locking with mine as he removes my bikini top in one quick flash. I gasp as his mouth instantly goes to work on my breast.

“Peter not here! What if someone comes in? Or hears us!” I resist verbally but do very little to actually push him off. Instead, I entangle my fingers into his silver hair.

“Good,” is all he mumbles against my breast as he leaves dark hickies on the soft skin. I know this is wrong. I know we shouldn’t be doing this in such a public place, but I’ve never seen this look in Peters eyes before. It’s not often that he takes charge, and the way that he has me pinned against the wall leaves my knees weak in anticipation.

Peters mouth switches to my other breast as he uses his knees to spread my legs. His skilled fingers pull my bikini bottoms to the side and he immediately dips into my heat, moaning at how wet I already am.

“That bastard wishes he could see you like this,” Peter mumbles under his breath as he watches his finger slide in and out of me. I let out a small whimper, biting my lip to stifle the sound as much as possible.

With his other hand, he grabs my face squeezing my cheeks so hard that my lips pucker, before he leans down almost touching his nose to mine.

“I want to hear every sound that comes out of this pretty little mouth,” he growls lowly as he runs his thumb over my bottom lip. “Do you understand?” He pants as he stares in my eyes with an animalistic glint, his fingers still pumping into me.

“Y-yes,” I gulp, letting out a loud moan when his thumb brushes my clit.

“Atta Girl,” Peter smirks before he moves his hands to my thighs, picking me up so I can straddle him with my back against the wall.

After I wrap my legs around his waist, he begins to grind against my bare core. The friction sends a surge of pleasure through my body.

“What Are You waiting for?” I ask breathlessly as Peters eyes scan my body.

“Tell me what you want,” he demands lowly as his hand gently grips my throat. My heart flutters at my boyfriends unusual- and extremely hot- dominant demeaner

“I-I want you to fuck me,” I stutter as I stare down his arm into his dark eyes. The corner of his lips turn up into a smirk before he drops his swimming shorts.

Peter removes his hand from my throat to bring his fingers up to his mouth, wetting them before grazing over my heat. I tense at the contact, letting out a small whimper. My heart pounds in anticipation as he lines himself up with my entrance.

“I want him to hear,” peter growls before he buries himself inside of me in one swift thrust. I cry out at the sudden feeling of him filling me up. Peter moves hips slowly, allowing me to adjust. Soon enough, his hips are rocking against me in a steady motion as his fingers dig into the soft skin on my hips.

“fuck peter,” I whimper out as he grazes my gspot with every stroke. Everything about this situation- the risk of getting caught, peter completely dominating me, the way hes hitting right where I need him- has me more aroused than I’ve ever been.

“Louder,” Peter grunts, staring at me with stern eyes as he brings a thumb to my clit.

“Fuck Peter!” I let out a pathetic shriek as he begins to vibrate his thumb against my sensitive bud. I throw my head back, squeezing my eyes, allowing myself to get lost in the immense pleasure flooding through my body.

“Much better,” peter chuckles as he speeds up his hips. Peter looks down at me, biting his bottom lip so hard that I fear he may draw blood. Small grunts and low groans mange to slip out as he pounds into me.

“Im so close baby please don’t stop,” I whine as my fingers grip his hair so tight that my knuckles turn white.

“Say my fucking name and cum for me,” he growls into my ear before biting on my neck, sucking hickies onto the sensitive skin. I cant think well enough to form a response as I clench around him, feeling pure euphoria flood my body.

“Fuck! Yes! Peter oh my god!” I moan loudly, I don’t even know what I’m saying. At this point, Peter has literally fucked me senseless. I’m putty in his hands for him to use in any way he’d like. I lay against the wall, Peter now solely holding me up as I attempt to collect myself. I open my eyes as he slowly pulls out of me, chuckling as he sets me down onto my shaky legs.

“Peter… I-“ I just stare at my boyfriend as my release starts to drip down my thigh. Peter smirks as he pumps his still rock hard cock, placing a gentle hand on my shoulder.

“Get down and open up baby,” he says gently with a kiss to my forehead as he pushes on my shoulder. I obey, meeting his gaze as I get to my knees. I know that I’m drunk off lust because any other time I would not have my bare ass so close to the floor of a public showering cabin but with the way Peter’s looking at me, the thought of resisting doesn’t even cross my mind.

With my chest still heaving a bit, I take his length into my hand, stroking it slowly before kitten licking the tip. Peter throws his head back with a grunt as I slide him into my mouth, my tongue tracing up the bottom of him. I wrap my arms around his thighs as I begin to move my head back and forth. Peter smirks, gently pushing some loose strands of hair out of my face.

“That’s it baby. You’re doing so good,” he hums as he begins to move his hips in rhythm to my face. Peter looks angelic as the sheen of sweat across his forehead glistens in the single beam of sun cutting through dimness of the cement room. His toned chest heaves as his dark eyes watch his cock violate my mouth, slipping deeper into my throat with each thrust. Tears begin to form in eyes as he slams into my throat, continuously slipping past my gag reflex

“I’m the only one who gets to use you like this,” Peter growls as his hands grip onto the back of my head. I do my best to nod and mumble a ‘mhm’ as drool begins to escape the corners of my mouth, dripping down my chest as he fucks my throat. My core still aches for him. I’ve had my release already, but the way that he’s speaking to me and using me is something far out of the ordinary for him- I cant get enough. I manage to pull away to gasp for breath as I begin to get light headed.

“Please,” I pant out hoarsely, tears and spit streaming down my face as I desperately kiss all over peters length between breaths. “Cum on my face baby please. Im yours. Please peter,” I beg breathlessly as I massage his balls. Peter lets out a whimper, seemingly more than excited to hear my pleads. His hand grabs onto his length, stroking himself closer to his climax. I sit back on my heels, opening my mouth, holding my tits- now covered in my own saliva from his ruthless face fucking- up, wanting nothing more than for him to cover me in his cum.

“God you’re so fucking sexy,” Peter groans as his hand moves in a blur along his length. He throws his head back and lets out a stream of profanities and groans as he shoots his hot seed allover my face and tits. “Jesus Christ,”’ Peter groans when he looks down to see the mess he’s made of me. I giggle, leaning forward, licking up his cock one last time to make sure I’ve gotten every drop. Peter watches me in awe as he attempts to catch his breath, grabbing my shoulders and gently pulling me to my feet.

“Do you feel better now?” I tease as I scoop some off his cum off my breast, bringing the salty liquid to my mouth. Peter groans at the sight.

“Much better,” he laughs as he reaches for his swim trunks. “You wouldn’t mind walking past Elijah like that would you?” he laughs as he grabs a paper towel by the sink.

“What? Half naked and covered in your cum?” I raise an eyebrow at him as he picks up my bikini top.

“Well, maybe put this on first,” he smirks, handing me the thin material. I laugh as he wipes me off so I can get dressed. The mood is back to its usual easy-going vibe and my calm and collected Peter has returned- but I can assure you that we will be revisiting this side of him quite often

Tags: @pretzel-bunnie @slvt4jamesmarch

#evan peters #evan peters smut #ahs cult #ahs hotel #jimmy darling smut #kai anderson #kit walker smut #ahs asylum #ahs fandom #ahs murder house #quicksilver smut #quicksilver #peter maximoff smut #peter maximoff #tate langdon smut #tate langdon #kai anderson smut

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abibliophobiaa · 1 year ago

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Chapter Six: The Date

summary: you and eddie go to a wedding together. and decisions are made. (7.4k words)

eddie munson x pregnant!reader || strangers to friends to lovers, unplanned pregnancy, and then they were roommates, forced proximity.

masterlist | previous chapter, next chapter

——

Saturday Morning light seeped through billowing curtains. Golden rays casted shadows along the tan carpeting, illuminating the space in a heavenly glow. You could smell that morning Spring breeze — the freshness of it, the tease of a beautiful day to come. The warming March air teased along your skin, gooseflesh pimpling across heated skin.

Heated by the man curled up behind you. His fingers remained curled around your midsection, rings discarded into a tray at his bedside. The touch seeped through the tee shirt you wore, your own fingers itching to reach out and trace the forearm keeping you held in place, while your head rested on Eddie’s other toned bicep, your pillow forgotten.

Breath puffed along your ear. His face pressed into the curve of your shoulder, curls dangling along your skin. If you reached out, you’d be able to tangle your fingers in the feathery curls. Would watch them extend and retract with a bounce, falling messily into place as they always did.

“Morning.”

It was a muffled moan at your neck, his face turning into it as he hugged you tighter, limbs stretching out beneath him. Vaguely, you wondered if he’d even realized what he was doing — holding you tighter, wrapping himself further around you, locking you into an embrace. But you eased into it, a low hum spilling from you as your fingers reached down and trailed along the backs of his knuckles, his laughter making your heart soar when your fingertips tickled along his flesh.

For a moment, you allowed yourself to block out everything else around you. Allowed the simple haven you created here in his room with him over the span of several days. A safe space for you to share and for him to listen, for him to express his heart and for you to open up yours. Smiled to yourself as he relaxed further against your back, and you sank into him, your head nuzzling further into his bicep.

In the distance, his wall clock alerted you he’d have to head out to the shop in an hour, but in here time didn’t exist. At least not right now. Not as he shifted his arm from beneath his head and propped himself up on an elbow, palm pressed to his temple as he looked down over at you.

As you rolled over, you were shadowed and sheltered in the safety of his gaze, those umber eyes locked on yours and he simply stared. Beheld you, like he thought you might run away. Part of you wanted to. And the other — the other part, beaten and battered by love, still held onto hope that there were good people in this world.

Good people like the man beside you, with love in his heart, full to the brim, a best friend to you now.

“Good morning,” you murmured back, gripping his chin in hand and wiggling it lightly, earning a soft smile out of the man. He groaned and flopped back down onto his pillow, forehead smashed into the fabric, hair splayed out every which way, the man dramatic as ever. Endearingly so. “We should probably get up. You have to leave in a few. I can make coffee. I owe you after that back rub.”

He followed you begrudgingly. Like a boy much younger than his nearly thirty years, with his feet dragging behind you down the hall, fingers reached up to tie his hair back into a messy ponytail at the back of his head. Little pieces spilled out around his face, and you fought back the urge to reach up and push them behind his ears. To see if he’d lean into your embrace like he had so many months ago, and lay a kiss into the center of your palm, stealing your breath all over again.

But instead you turned around to face the coffee pot, prepping the contents of the machine as Eddie rummaged about in the fridge and took out some things needed to throw together some breakfast for the two of you. With pancakes cooking on the stovetop, you shifted and pressed your hip into the countertop.

He tipped his head your way, beaming as he reached out and tugged you closer, your front nearly bumping into his side. “What are your plans for the day?”

“Really riveting things,” you told him, mouth curling into a smirk. “As in, shopping with Chrissy for the wedding tomorrow, and grabbing lunch with Robin, her and Melody. Elena is our honorary fifth wheel.”

“Dress shopping,” he mused, flipping a pancake over, head dipped lower as he tossed some blueberries into another pancake.

“Yeah,” you began, a teasing lilt imbuing your tone, “Got asked on a date or something. Figured I should try and look nice.”

“You always look nice.” Your cheeks burned at his words. “Who is this guy? Should I be worried?”

“Mmm, he seems nice enough. Hope he doesn’t mind that I’m almost six months pregnant.” At his narrowed gaze, you laughed, shoving at him lightly. “What time do you think you’ll be back?”

“Around dinner time,” he said, sliding over the finished pancakes onto a plate.

You rushed around him before he could say a word and brought them over to the kitchen table, placing them alongside the bottle of syrup and glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. With a click, he turned the stove off and tossed the pan into the sink to let it cool down, grabbing you both cups of coffee the way he knew you liked and brought yours over to you, your hands cupped gratefully around it with a soft smile tossed his way.

“You’re wearing a green tie, right?” you asked, cutting a piece of your pancake and placing it in your mouth, humming around the blueberries that burst to life on your tongue. Eddie was practically glowing with it, dimpled cheeks and all, and your heart stuttered at the look in his eye.

“Yeah, sage green is what Chrissy and Suzie called it,” he replied, sipping some of his coffee, rubbing at his stubbed jawline.

“I’ll try and somewhat match you then,” you said. “I don’t want to step on the bride's toes.”

“I’d like that…”

He leaned back against his chair, and you leaned over the table closer to him, fingers hovering over the little bit of syrup he’d gotten on his cheek. Dark eyes watched your face as you brushed your thumb over the plushest part of it, wiping away the traces of his sugary treat.

“I think I’m going to try and make dinner tonight,” you said, feeling your cheeks warm as Eddie relished in your touch, his dark eyes softening, that mouth of his twitching into a smirk at your words. “I think I’ve learned a thing or two these weeks, Munson. I think it’s about time the student becomes the teacher.”

“Is that so?”

“Mhmm. So don't worry about anything. You just have a good day at work, and I’ll take care of things around here.”

Proud of yourself, you leaned back against your chair, satisfied and full from his delicious breakfast, a hand curled absentmindedly over your middle. Eddie rose, his chair squeaking in protest, a kiss pressed to the crown of your head in thanks as he collected your plates and tossed them into the sink.

With a harrumph, you joined him, nearly shoving him out of the way with a teasingly hissed, “Shoo — go get ready!” and a jab aimed perfectly in the middle of his stomach, making the poor guy hunch over in a laugh, his bright and joyful face twisting the vice around your heart even tighter.

——

“So…any new events since we last spoke — no, sweetie, that’s not a toy.” Chrissy plucked the remote Melody had stolen from beside Steve’s thigh from where she crawled around on the couch, alternating between crawling in her father’s lap and smacking his face with an eager palm, seeking out his affection.

“Chris, stop tormenting the girl,” Steve laughed, watching as the players on the screen glided around on the ice, one player managing to score a goal that had Steve breaking off into an excited shout. “She’s going to run out the door if you keep it up.”

“We’re good,” you admitted, toying with the frayed edge of a pillow you dragged onto your lap, thighs curled beneath you on the couch. “I mean, we’re going to the wedding tomorrow as dates so…I don’t know.”

You shrugged, and Chrissy looked like the cat who ate the canary. Nearly bounced up and down on the couch, rocking you with the flurry of her movements, her arms coming up to loop right around your shoulders just as Melody broke out into shrieking wails from where she rested in Steve’s lap.

“Oh, baby!” Chrissy cooed, scrambling back over to her little one, kissing at her chubby cheeks and brushing away those water droplets falling from pretty hazel eyes. “I’m so sorry. Momma is just really excited.”

Steve grunted as Chrissy and Melody swapped, his wife now draped over his lap, hands coming to curl around her despite it though. You thought it sweet, the way he tucked them both in close, brushing his lips over her temple as she settled her head over his sternum, rocking their baby in her lap.

It was hard to not wonder. To not dream that this might be your own reality. That there could be a world where you loved and received love in return — the kind you’d long given up on.

Steve glanced your way as you absently traced a palm over the hill of your belly, Elena a comfort despite the unease steadily growing in your chest. “I don’t like speaking for him when he’s not here, but he really cares about you. Both of you.”

“So much for stopping tormenting her,” Chrissy teased, though it was warm with affection, her hand stroking along his chest beside her head.

“I’m not the one constantly trying to play matchmaker with our best friends,” Steve retorted, snickering when Chrissy pouted up at him adorably.

Your heart raced over best friends. Truly, you didn’t know what you’d have done without the Harringtons. They’d been there when you had been alone. Had been there on nights when Robin was gone for the night and your grief got the better of you. And now — now they meant the world to you.

To you and Eddie.

In a few months, to Elena as well.

“I’m giving her encouragement. So much has changed in a short amount of time, so I can only imagine what you’re feeling.”

“Thanks, Steve,” you said, then looked at Chrissy. “Both of you, really. I don’t know what I’d have done without the both of you and Robin. Elena is definitely not short on love by any means. But I really should get back to the house. I told Eddie I’d make him dinner — okay, now both of you are looking at me like you’re meddling. We’re just…we’re…”

“Feeling things out,” Steve suggested, and you nodded.

“I’ll see you both at the wedding tomorrow,” you said, grabbing your things and walking over to hug Chrissy as best as possible from where she lay on her husband’s lap. Then leaned down and placed a loud kiss on Melody's cheek. “And you too!”

——

The first thing Eddie noticed when he kicked off his shoes and walked into the home was the sound of music playing. Something slow and sweet, a soft, lilting thing. The second thing he noticed was the unmistakable smell of what he assumed to be dinner burning. Followed up only then by the sound of your fretting in the kitchen. Whimpered little cries that had him stepping further into the home hastily, whipping around the corner to find you at the kitchen table with your head in your hands and a burnt to a crisp looking lasagna on a potholder at the stovetop.

“Sweetheart…” he called out, knowing you’d been a little easily startled as of late. And emotional. And it didn’t take a rocket scientist to see your dejected state, the way your shoulders were hunched over in defeat, tears dropping into the placemat beneath your head, sides shaking with your tears. “Hey, hey, what happened here?”

When you lifted your head, Eddie’s heart sank. The red tint to your eyes, the puffy lids, the downturn of your lips, tear tracks across your cheeks. With a whispered coo of your name, he tugged you up and off the chair and onto his knees, arms curled right around your form as you pressed your head into his shoulder, sniffling noisily.

“I didn’t mean to fall asleep. But I did, and by the time I woke up, it had burned and now dinner is ruined,” you whined, his mouth shifting downward as you clung tighter to his shirt, clutching the fabric tight in your hand. “I wanted to do something nice for you. You’ve been so good all these weeks and I appreciate everything so much and I honestly don’t feel like I deserve it all the time and I —”

“Breathe, Buttercup. Hey, let me see that pretty face, okay?” You leaned back a bit and stared up at him, his palms coming up to rest on either side of your face. “It’s fine.”

“But it doesn’t feel fine.”

The sleeves of your thin sweater wiped across your eyes, smudging the mascara on your bottom lashes just the slightest. He brushed at it with his thumb, and you let out a ragged breath, still choked up from your tears.

“I ruined dinner,” you whimpered, a little broken sound that had him tutting and pulling you back into his neck, where you tucked your head away into, his chin resting on the crown of your head.

“You didn’t ruin anything,” he promised, feeling his chest ache in your shared sadness. He hated seeing you cry, knew a large factor of it was the countless emotions you felt on any given day as of late, but hated it all the same. “You went out of your way to make dinner for me. And so what if it didn’t turn out as planned? I’ll just order us a pizza, we’ll hang out and just relax. That would make my day.”

“Really?”

“I’m serious. As long as I get to spend time with you, I’m happy,” he admitted softly, hand running soothingly up and down your back. Listened as your breathing evened out, your voice a little less watery now. “Here, stand up for a minute, okay?”

With little reluctance, you allowed him to help you up and off of his lap. As soon as you were up, he joined you in the middle of the kitchen, hand looped right around yours as he reached over to grab the wall phone and called in an order for pizza. Confusion arched your brows, eyes locked on him as he prattled off the usual pizza order and thanked them, hanging up with a loud slam against the receiver.

“They said fifteen minutes,” he told you, waving you over with a hand. Your brows arched higher, so he continued, adding, “I wanna hold you. I hate when you’re sad. Kills me. Come here.”

He thought it was funny. Ironic, the way you’d both worn matching costumes that night. The partner to each respective costume. And funny now, standing here in his kitchen, with you in his arms, swaying back and forth to the music filtering in from the speaker.

He’d touched every inch of you, had mapped every delicate curve and traced them with his lips, had pushed inside you and learned what his name sounded like when rounded with the peak of your pleasure. Even knowing all of that, this felt more intimate. Simply holding you and rocking you back and forth in his home, his arms around your shoulders, his daughter protected between the two of you. A slow dance, completely unhurried. Neither of you had anywhere to go, anyone to see. Simply basking in the closeness of one another, swaying as one song changed into another, and then another.

And when you looked up at him, your face inches from his, your mouth softly parted in a way that had him leaning in a bit, he relished in it. Succumbed to the allure of you, the way you pushed up a bit onto your toes, inching in closer. Just millimeters apart now, aching for the distance to be closed once and for all, only waiting for the other to take the leap.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, watching your eyes sparkle in the yellowy light up above.

A hand drifted up to cup your cheek, and his heart skipped because you leaned into it, tipping your face up to his in a silent offering. The air fizzled with intention. His stomach tumbled in anticipation, falling to the floor as your fingers slid up along his sternum, over his shoulder, toyed with the hairs at the back of his neck, lost within the frizzy curls there.

“Eddie…”

His name was breathy on your lips. He thumbed along your bottom lip and parted it gently, your breath stuttering. Watched the way your eyes zeroed in on that point of contact. He wondered briefly if you could hear his heart slamming away behind his ribcage — the drumbeat of want pounding in his system, present for weeks now.

So he drifted closer. Leaned closer. Felt the frantic whoosh of your breath on his bottom lip, felt the tremble in your form as you stepped in closer, as close as your bodies would allow, hand curling tighter around the back of his neck. Time seemed to pause, the gentle hum of the radio long forgotten, replaced by your shared breathing and the sound of his blood pumping in his veins.

The two of you. Exactly how he’d dreamed of it time and time again, simply waiting for you to dare to take a leap — and then, the wretched doorbell. A loud chime that sounded throughout the home, dissolving the moment instantly. You stepped back, a hand over your chest, and Eddie swiped a hand down his face as he marched down the hall.

Couldn’t help his disgruntled annoyance when the worker read the total for the pizza out loud, the way he swiftly grabbed the pizza in hand and made his way back to you, as though the moment would right itself one more, but as fast as it came it was gone. Replaced by the sight of you pulling out paper plates and plastic cups, your water already settled where you usually sat at the dinner table.

You both ate in silence, neither choosing to broach the topic of what almost occurred in the kitchen. If anything, you proceeded like normal. Joked over pizzas, laughter filling the room, his sides aching when you told him a story about Chrissy and your adventures to the department stores to find a dress suitable for a wedding.

Eventually, you both cleaned up together and headed to the bathroom, changed for bed, both brushing your teeth in the glowing lights of the bathroom mirror. Eddie sighed at the joyful upturn of your lips, found himself drifting closer to your side, if only to be close. Dropped a hand to run over your middle before spitting out his toothpaste and leaning down toward the bump when you said she was being a little extra mobile than usual — likely because she’d heard his voice, whispering ‘goodnight’ to Elena.

Your fingers trailed to the back of his head as he righted himself once more, dark eyes clashing with yours as you muttered, “We should probably get ready for bed. Long day tomorrow.”

“Uh…right.”

Wayne’s home had been fixed. He’d left earlier in the day to head back over, and Eddie watched you pause in the middle of the two rooms, unsure of which way you wanted to go now that you didn’t need to share with him. He wouldn’t force you to stay in his room, but he wouldn’t lie that he hadn’t slept better the past few days knowing you were beside him. Part of him wanted to ask if you felt the same, though judging by the way you slept beside him, he had an idea of what your answer might be.

“Can I��”

“Yes,” he breathed out, trying to fight the smile that crawled across his lips as you hurried on into his bedroom and made yourself comfortable on your side of the bed.

With a sigh, you rolled over onto your side and Eddie slipped in beside you. Your back hit his chest, he flicked off the lamp, and wrapped right around your form. Tried not to think about the almost kiss that happened in his kitchen, the plush of your parted lips, the hitch in your breath. Tried to not imagine what would have happened were it not for the delivery man arriving when they had.

And as you whispered goodnight, your hand running along the back of his, he closed his eyes and dreamed of a beautiful woman in a Princess Buttercup costume. Of margaritas and salty kisses. Of stumbling around in the supermarket, giddy on excitement, a shopping basket between the both of you.

Dreamed of rocking you in the kitchen, holding you close — craving to be closer still.

——

Dustin and Suzie were wedded on a breezy Sunday in March, surrounded by their best friends. The two had been together as teenagers, separated by college for a while, before finding one another again just a little under two years ago now, when they decided they wanted to be together forever.

Steve, recently ordained for the wedding, married them, while Eddie acted as best man for the evening. All in all, the ceremony was beautiful. Lush green covered every inch of the room, the floral arrangements accented with pops of pale pinks.

You sat across from where Eddie stood at the front of the room, seated on Chrissy’s right, with Robin and Vickie to your left, trying to hide the giggly smile that kept creeping onto your lips when he looked your way. He’d been doing so all evening, trying so hard to make you crack — to get you to laugh. And it worked, your sides shaking, mouth hidden behind your hand.

“You two are actually so cute I’m going to scream,” Chrissy whisper-hissed, leaning in close to your ear.

“Good thing you can’t get pregnant twice,” Robin added, snickering to Vickie when your mouth gaped open. “What with the way he’s looking at you.”

“Shh, both of you,” you muttered back, but there was no heat behind it, only giddiness, “Pay attention.”

Dustin and Suzie decided to share their own vows, wherein they may have gone into reciting some lyrics of “The Neverending Story,” though you’d ask Eddie about the importance of that to them later. As they pushed their rings onto the other’s finger, you found your eyes watering, tears clouding over your vision, air choking off in your lungs.

They were so young when they first fell in love. Had lost that love, and then found it again. To have something so lasting — so resilient…it seemed unheard of. And yet, hopeful all the same.

It was then your eyes trailed away from the happy couple, their eyes locked on one another, fingers clasped between them, and shifted to Eddie. He looked your way, curls less endearingly frizzy than you’d ever seen them before, hands laced together in front of himself, a questioning look in his eye. Timid fingers raised just above your lap to wave at him, and as he noticed the gesture, you watched his own fingers unfurl. Watched him wiggle them close to his hips. Hidden from most, and yet everything to you.

Heart soaring, the room melted into cheers as Steve announced the new Mr. and Mrs. Henderson, just as the couple kissed one last time at the altar and began walking down from where they came, the room clapping the whole time.

Eddie was next in line to leave, his arm gripped tight by his partner for the evening, a beautiful curly headed brunette with eyes that reminded you of the ocean. One of Suzie’s family friends.

But even as she practically tugged Eddie down the aisle, he called your name over the crowd. Caught your attention long enough to tell you, “I’ll find you during cocktail hour,” and disappeared from your sight.

“Okay, Melody,” Chrissy exhaled airily, “time to go find Daddy so Mommy can get herself a glass of champagne, and a mocktail for your Auntie.”

Cocktail hour proved to be…frustrating to say the least. Chrissy, Robin, Vickie, and Steve remained at your side throughout, Melody hiked high onto Steve’s hip, as you clutched your virgin drink in hand, watching as Eddie’s curly headed friend gripped his forearm and dragged him over to the bar, intent on keeping him locked in conversation.

“He wants you to go over and say hi, you know?” Steve laughed, trying to pry your fingers free from their vice grip around the glass he must have thought you were seconds from breaking into dozens of pieces. “He’s looking your way. The guy is begging for rescue. Go over there.”

“He’s got the horrified baby doe eyes,” Robin added, giving you a little playful shove.

“Yeah, but I look like this —” You gesticulated around your form, around the emerald green dress that couldn’t really hide the fact you popped the past couple of weeks. “And…and…”

“You are beautiful,” Chrissy reassured you, both hands of hers curling around your shoulders, giving you a little wiggle. “Now go, my cute jealous green monster.”

With a heavy sigh, you gripped your pocketbook tighter to your form and slipped through the crowd, bumping against bodies and apologizing every time you did, intent on finding the curly headed metalhead. As you approached, his eyes lit up, the woman beside him turning around a bit to take you in as his arm opened to allow you into his side, immediately tugging you in close.

The woman’s brow arched a bit, and as if to make things even clearer — much to your happy amusement — Eddie cupped a hand over your middle, introducing you to the woman you found to be named Hilary.

“Wow, congratulations you two. A baby,” she said, her plans for the evening quickly deflating at the realization dawning that she wouldn’t be going home with him tonight. “That’s — that’s really wonderful. I wish you both all the luck.”

And then she was gone to find another eligible bachelor, something you most definitely didn’t fault her for. The night you’d met Eddie, you’d been fresh off the end of a two year relationship that left you reluctant to get close to another person for a long time.

The universe just had its own plans, placing Eddie Munson in your pathway. Eddie Munson, who turned you in his arms in a little circle and beamed down at you, eyes roaming over your form. Heat crawled up your spine at the gesture, settling low in your belly.

“You look…” He breathed out, pushing up one of the green straps that had fallen down a bit higher on your shoulder. “You look really beautiful. Did you get a drink yet? Water? Need me to get you anything?”

“I could have water,” you said, allowing him to pull you further away from the crowd, settling near a corner of the room. “Hilary seemed nice.”

“Someone seems jealous,” he teased, hip bumping yours playfully.

The heel of your shoe dug at the ground awkwardly. “Well, I don’t know…she was really pretty and you’re…well, you’re technically single, so if you wanted to…”

“Would you want me to?” he asked, frown settling into place.

“No,” you admitted, a little too quickly. But it was the truth. You hated to think what it would be like if Eddie brought someone home. Didn’t want to dig up what those feelings were all about.

He lifted a hand to cup your cheek, voice a little sad when he asked, “You really don’t get it, do you?”

The question bubbled on your lips. The need for him to clarify what he’d meant, but just as your mouth opened to voice it, people began making their way into the reception hall, once again interrupting a needed moment between you and Eddie. Resigned to the fact a wedding for a friend may not be the best of places to delve further into the intricacies of your changing friendship, you allowed Eddie to lead you into the hall, his fingers immediately plucking both of your name plates from where they were positioned on a large table.

The two of you were fortunately seated with familiar faces. Steve and Chrissy, Robin and Vickie, Max and Lucas, Will and Mike, and El, Nancy and Jonathan were all placed around you. Nancy, who you’d spoken to briefly over the phone, had rushed over and hugged you as if she’d known you for years.

Eddie remained by your side as usual. Grabbed your water when a staff member walked by. And you kept close to him, allowing yourself this night with this man. It wasn’t long before Dustin and Suzie shared their first dance, asking the couples around the room to join them in their sweet moment.

Steve and Chrissy were off to dance together first, their daughter between them, and the sight alone had your chest aching, head looking over to Eddie. Eddie, who watched on with rounded eyes, his chest heaving with his breaths. You imagined he was thinking of Elena, of the moments he’d share with her in only a few months now. Reached over to grip his hand in yours, eyes burning as he laced your fingers with his.

“Do your feet hurt or do you —”

“I don’t dance, but I’ll dance with you, Eddie.”

Together, you settled into a steady flow on the dance floor. Your arms wrapped around his neck, his looped around the smallest point of your waist, one ringed hand pressing into your skin there. Warming you through the fabric of your dress. And you swayed, a slow back and forth, your head tucked against his chest. Over his heart, where you could hear the steady thump within. In a crowded room, you felt at peace here — alone, wrapped up in a stolen moment, with Eddie. Found that you liked it.

“I think…we slip out a little early…make ice cream sundaes and curl up on the couch,” Eddie said against the top of your head, tugging you closer when you giggled at the suggestion. “We can blame it on your feet.”

“Using me as an excuse, Munson?” you teased, his echoing laugh vibrating against your form. “I’d love that. These heels are killing me. What did you mean before? What did you start saying before we got interrupted?”

His fingers trailed a path along your spine. A slow, methodical path that had you sinking further into him. “Not the place for it right now. I’ll tell you later, I promise.”

“Okay,” you said, knowing Eddie always stuck true to his word. “How does it feel seeing one of your kids married?”

“Well, Max and Lucas were first. Was weird, because they’re adults but I’ve known them since they were freshman in high school,” he said, nodding his head to the couple dancing not too far off from where you two were. “I think it’s just like — they’re all growing up and doing things. And for a long time I was just working, going through the motions, trying to make the music thing work.”

“And now the music thing is working,” you told him, knowing he would be leaving for tour when Elena was around six months old.

“Yeah, the music thing did end up working out for me.” He spun you out in a circle, then brought you back in against his chest, smiling against your forehead at your breathy little giggle. “And now I’m going to be a dad, and I don’t want to fuck that up, so my full focus is on that. So it’s…hard to see Dustin getting married, because he’s still that kid that I met so many years ago, but we’re all moving on. It’s different now.”

“I understand that. It’s weird seeing everyone around you moving on,” you said, recalling memories of when Micah approached you a while back about moving in with Jeremiah.

It had hurt at the time, especially after years of being roommates, but they were in a good place and were anticipating marriage further down the line. You should have assumed it was the natural progression of things. Happened to also be right around the time you’d moved in with Paul, realizing soon enough that would be a mistake. But hindsight was twenty-twenty, after all.

“It’s funny how life turns out,” you said, lifting your head to look up at him. “I mean look at the two of us now.”

He huffed out a laugh, nodding. “But I think we’re doing a good job.”

“I think so too,” you told him, leaning your head back against his sternum. “We make a good team and I wouldn’t change any of it.”

Later, after hours of dancing between portions of dinner served and endless chatter with his best friends, Eddie stood beside Robin and Steve and watched as you, Vickie and the rest of the ladies present at the wedding gathered around to try their hand at catching Suzie’s bouquet.

“I hope you know,” Robin laughed, bumping Eddie’s shoulder. “Your girl over there isn’t going down without a fight.”

“Her and Chrissy scare me,” Steve added, clapping Eddie on the shoulder. “Elbows will be thrown for that bouquet.”

And maybe it was all superstition. Maybe it didn’t really mean anything, but Eddie’s chest warmed as Suzie tossed the bouquet over her back. There, in a sea of bright color, you came out victorious, beautiful in a flash of emerald green.

——

The drive home was quiet. Eddie with his hand on your thigh, warming your chilled skin when you complained about it being a little cold. Your feet hurt, but in a way that you cherished, because you spent the night dancing with him. Spent it within the circle of his arms, bonded to him now in a way you couldn’t have imagined months ago.

It was funny to think of your conversations that night. The shopping trip. The time shared together. You’d felt so close then, like two people who just happened to get one another, though it paled in comparison to how you felt now. Eddie, who’s head bobbed beside yours to the Metallica song playing through the radio, uncaring of how you perceived him — because he knew you already appreciated every part of him. Even his oddities and intricacies. Had long ago accepted Eddie Munson as Eddie Munson.

And he did the same. Had seen every part of you — from the lowest of lows, to the highest of highs, and loved them all. The range of your emotions, the thoughts swirling in your mind, your hopes, desires, and interests. He never once judged, only tended to the parts of you that you once thought you had to hide from the light.

Maybe that was how these things were intended to be? This burgeoning interest that had been bubbling for weeks now, lingering in the back of your mind, making you wonder if it would be so bad to take a leap. To wholly entrust Eddie with the part of you you’d kept locked away.

The questioning died with your train of thought as the car pulled up in his driveway and he rushed around to open your door for you. With a flourish, he’d helped you down, your heels dangling in his fingertips as the two of you made your way inside, toeing off his own shoes at the door.

Slipping on your slippers you left in the doorway, you meandered down the hall, making your way into the kitchen where you immediately climbed up onto the counter and grinned as Eddie pulled out chocolate syrup, some sprinkles, and the half eaten tub of ice cream you’d both been snacking on throughout the week.

“You shouldn’t be doing that,” Eddie warned, thumb rubbing over your kneecap, where your dress had ridden up just in the slightest. He looked so handsome, button up shirt a little messy now from all the dancing, his tie hanging limply around his neck, suit discarded. “I’d prefer if you use a chair if you’re going to do that.”

“Fine,” you grumbled as he handed you a spoon, pouring the chocolate syrup into the opened tub, along with the rainbow sprinkles. Your spoon clanged with his, ready to simply eat out of the carton until it was finished. “I am so glad we both took off of work tomorrow.”

Granted, it was because of the wedding, but your feet were screaming and the thought of waking up early to head to work after getting home so late had your head reeling.

“Hey, remember when we went food shopping on Halloween?” you asked, brain freezing a bit from your sugary treat, making you wince.

“Can I tell you a secret?” He winced this time.

“Always.” His words he was always saying to you, his form of ‘as you wish’ when you thought about it, and they brought a smile to his face.

“I was so nervous that night, I really just needed to stall. So…food shopping it was.” His cheeks burned bright, your sides shaking with laughter as he swiped a hand down his face in embarrassment. “You’d be surprised to know, but I’m a bit of a nerd. People have never really been lined up to spend time with the town proclaimed ‘Freak.’”

“You’re perfect,” you told him, reaching over to tug on the sleeve of his shirt, dragging him into the space between your thighs. “In case you couldn’t tell, I was very much attracted to you that night. And every night, really. Don’t sell yourself short, Munson. Although, I thought it was really sweet. But you’ve…well, you’ve been that way since that night. And then when we saw each other again at the supermarket...letting me live here, accepting this baby, taking care of me all these weeks…you’ve done so much. Too much, probably.”

“You really don’t get it do you?”

There it was again. That statement. “What do you mean?”

“I wish I could…I don’t know, kick the shit out of Paul and anyone else who made you think that you’re, I don’t know, unlovable or something. Because I like you, Buttercup — I really, really like you.”

“Oh.”

And there it was. The truth. The answer to the questions that had been whirling around in your head for a bit now, validated in his rushed speech, in the way his eyes bore into yours with a need and laced with want that had head swimming low in your belly.

“I care about you.” He glanced down at your belly. “And you. All the things you say that I’m doing that are ‘too much?’ Those are quite literally the bare minimum. Fuck everyone who ever gave less than that.”

“Eddie…”

“But you said you wanted friendship. For Elena. So I’ve respected that,” he said, the redness in his cheeks dissipating, breath slowing from its heated rise and fall. Your fingers pressed along his sternum, felt the warmth of his skin there, the heavy thump of his heart against your skin. “But you deserve good things. It just…you break my heart when you say that shit. Like when you get all surprised if I make dinner or hold the door open for you or something. Because if you could only see from where I’m standing what I think of you — what anyone would think of you, if they’d gotten to know you like I have these past six weeks —”

“Eddie.” He lifted his head, dark eyes staring up into yours, your ice cream starting to melt, his palms on your thighs. “I like you too. But I’m scared. I’m really scared.”

His palms gripped your thighs tighter, rubbed up and down along flesh, warming your skin. “Do you trust me?”

There was no doubt about that. This man, who had taken you shopping before heading back to the hotel to make you both comfortable. This man, the one who had accepted his child as his own within moments of finding out they existed. This man, who had opened his home and heart to you these months.

“Always,” you told him, swallowing the thick knot forming in the back of your throat.

“I want to respect your boundaries. We can pretend this conversation never happened, or…we can figure out what this is. Whatever we want it to be.” He leaned in closer, the curls along his forehead brushing your own forehead. “I want whatever you want. So you can tell me right now to stop, and I’ll stop.”

“And if I don’t want you to stop?”

Your nose ran along his, breathing staccato against his bottom lip, his mouth parted as dark eyes trailed along your face.

His palm came up to cup one side of your face, angling you for him, mouth millimeters from yours. Inside, your stomach was swirling. Twisting and twining around as your heart kicked up behind your ribcage, loud enough you were surprised Eddie couldn’t hear. Your fingers moved to the front of his shirt, tugging him closer to you, your chest brushing along his, his other hand curled around your thigh gripping it tighter.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked.

And in a rushed breath. “Please.”

It was funny, you thought, comparing this kiss to the last ones you shared. Hurried, back in the hotel room — on a planned mission. You had moments, him leaving for a few days, and you with no intention of ever seeing him again. So it had been a frantic thing. Sliding lips, and bodies, clashing teeth, rapid flurry of hands to try and remove clothing.

This time — this time Eddie moved slowly. Pressed the barest of brushes against your lips, just over the seam of your mouth. Thumbed at your cheek when you sighed into him, parting your lips with the smallest of teasing flicks at your bottom lip. And you opened, a hum rounding your mouth as you felt him there, tasting sweet like the bubbly champagne he’d consumed during the toast, the cake he’d had with dessert.

“Eddie…”

You sighed into him, tugged closer to the edge of the countertop, his hand sliding up your thigh and looping around your back to tether you to him. His lips met yours again and your eyes fluttered shut, the slowest of exhales spilling out between the two of you as you melted for him. Pretty in emerald green, and making those sounds he remembered for so long because they’d plagued him in his dreams for months now.

At your moan, he shifted closer. Dragged his lips from your mouth and trailed them gently along the curve of your jaw. The delicate slope of your neck. Memorized every little whimper and cry from your lips all over again as his fingers brushed along the curve beneath your collarbone, followed them with the path of his lips.

“More, Eddie,” you whimpered, feeling your pulse jump where his tongue laved over it, his nose ghosting along the shell of your ear. “Please.”

“What do you want?” The voice was no more than a whisper against your skin. Fingers reached out to clutch at his shirt, trying to tether yourself to reality. “Need you to tell me what you want, Buttercup. Need your words.”

The ball was in your court. He’d told you so for months now in his own way. Waited for you when he could have walked away like so many others had or would. On one side, remain in the comfortability of friendship. In the dark as to what this could be. On the other hand, take a leap. A risk, a dare. An attempt at shedding light on something buried deep between the two of you, hidden from light, given the chance to flourish and grow into something more.

The answer, you found, was simple.

“You, Eddie. I want you.”

——

thank you for all the love on this series. please please please let me know if you enjoyed. you don’t even know how much it means to your writers. can’t wait to chat with you all. 🩷🩷

#lunaloveseddie #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x f!reader #eddie munson x pregnant!reader

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jackoshadows · 11 months ago

Text

In the books:

White Harbor

“Was ever snow so black?” asked Lord Wyman. “Ramsay took Lord Hornwood’s lands by forcibly wedding his widow, then locked her in a tower and forgot her. It is said she ate her own fingers in her extremity…and the Lannister notion of king’s justice is to reward her killer with Ned Stark’s little girl.” - Davos, ADwD

Winterfell:

"The bride weeps," Lady Dustin said, as they made their way down, step by careful step. "Our little Lady Arya." ... What do you think passes through their heads when they hear the new bride weeping? Valiant Ned's precious little girl." ... "Lady Arya's sobs do us more harm than all of Lord Stannis's swords and spears. - The Turncloak, ADwD

The Boltons about the Northmen marching with Stannis:

“Even ruined and broken, Winterfell remains Lady Arya’s home. What better place to wed her, bed her, and stake your claim? Let Stannis march on us. He is too cautious to come to Barrowton…but he must come to Winterfell. His clansmen will not abandon the daughter of their precious Ned to such as you. - - Reek, ADwD

The northmen marching with Stannis:

"Winter is almost upon us, boy. And winter is death. I would sooner my men die fighting for the Ned’s little girl than alone and hungry in the snow, weeping tears that freeze upon their cheeks. No one sings songs of men who die like that. As for me, I am old. This will be my last winter. Let me bathe in Bolton blood before I die. I want to feel it spatter across my face when my axe bites deep into a Bolton skull. I want to lick it off my lips and die with the taste of it on my tongue." - The King's Prize, ADwD

Stannis to Lord Commander Jon Snow:

… more northmen coming in as word spreads of our victory. Fisherfolk, freeriders, hillmen, crofters from the deep of the wolfswood and villagers who fled their homes along the stony shore to escape the ironmen, survivors from the battle outside the gates of Winterfell, men once sworn to the Hornwoods, the Cerwyns, and the Tallharts. We are five thousand strong as I write, our numbers swelling every day. And word has come to us that Roose Bolton moves toward Winterfell with all his power, there to wed his bastard to your half sister. He must not be allowed to restore the castle to its former strength. We march against him. Arnolf Karstark and Mors Umber will join us. I will save your sister if I can, and find a better match for her than Ramsay Snow. You and your brothers must hold the Wall until I can return. - Jon, ADwD

Lord Commander Jon Snow on the Wall:

"He's to marry Arya Stark. My little sister." Jon could almost see her in that moment, long-faced and gawky, all knobby knees and sharp elbows, with her dirty face and tangled hair. They would wash the one and comb the other, he did not doubt, but he could not imagine Arya in a wedding gown, nor Ramsay Bolton's bed. No matter how afraid she is, she will not show it. If he tries to lay a hand on her, she'll fight him. "Your sister," Iron Emmett said, "how old is …" By now she'd be eleven, Jon thought. Still a child. "I have no sister. Only brothers. Only you." Lady Catelyn would have rejoiced to hear those words, he knew. That did not make them easier to say. His fingers closed around the parchment. Would that they could crush Ramsay Bolton's throat as easily. - Jon, ADwD

You know nothing, Jon Snow. He thought of Arya, her hair as tangled as a bird's nest. I made him a warm cloak from the skins of the six whores who came with him to Winterfell … I want my bride back … I want my bride back … I want my bride back … "I think we had best change the plan," Jon Snow said.

The roar was all he could have hoped for, the tumult so loud that the two old shields tumbled from the walls. Soren Shieldbreaker was on his feet, the Wanderer as well. Toregg the Tall, Brogg, Harle the Huntsman and Harle the Handsome both, Ygon Oldfather, Blind Doss, even the Great Walrus. I have my swords, thought Jon Snow, and we are coming for you, Bastard. - Jon, ADwD

Stannis sending Arya to Jon Snow for a debt owed

"Oh, and take the Stark girl with you. Deliver her to Lord Commander Snow on your way to Eastwatch." Stannis tapped the parchment that lay before him. "A true king pays his debts." Pay it, aye, thought Theon. Pay it with false coin. Jon Snow would see through the imposter at once. Lord Stark's sullen bastard had known Jeyne Poole, and he had always been fond of his little half-sister Arya. - Theon, TWoW

Even the traitors Karstark pretending like the others:

Lord Arnolf shoved himself up, a vulture rising from its prey. One spotted hand clutched at his son’s shoulder for support. “We’ll take (Winterfell) for the Ned and for his daughter.” - The Sacrifice, ADwD

Us reading A Dance for Dragons: The North is marching for Lady Arya Stark of Winterfell, daughter of Ned Stark. Arya Stark is a pivotal character, a Key to the North around whom the North plot revolves. Various Northern factions are uniting behind her, the Lord Commander broke several oaths of neutrality and died trying to save her, two kings tried to save her.

Sansa stans/Jonsa shippers:

They hate it so much that the North plot revolves around Arya that the only thing they can do again and again is gaslight the fandom with this false equivalence that talking about Arya's importance to the North is making light of Jeyne's rape and abuse.

Also, Ramsay marries Arya Stark to give legitimacy to his stake over the North as Lord of Winterfell. Which is why Manderly wants Rickon because his claim supersedes Arya's. These morons pretending that discussing this plot is an insult to Arya while they hand over all of Arya's book themes, characterization and relationships to their fave is hilarious.

Like every other day there is a post of how Sansa is the MOST IMPORTANT because EVERYONE WANTS TO MARRY HER and she is the ONLY KEY TO THE NORTH - because the Lannisters, Tyrells and LF are all plotting to marry her off etc. The whole Jonsa shite is about Sansa deigning to make the poor bastard Jon legitimate by marrying him etc. Their world revolves around Sansa's marriage. But apparently discussing how Arya's marriage to Ramsay to hold the North is driving the Northern plot is insulting to Arya's character 🤣

When even the author has given all these interviews pointing out that replacing Jeyne with Sansa on the TV show changed the entire story because 'Fake Arya' is essential to what is happening in the North, these stans can only regurgitate this tired old nonsense and attack book readers for discussing what is actually in the books instead of making up headcanons on how their unqualified fave is the only candidate to be QITN

#anti Sansa stans #Why even tag this on the Arya Stark tag?

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gravehags · 1 year ago

Text

feel you from the inside

Pairing: Dewdrop x f!Reader

Rating: Explicit, 18+ ONLY MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

Tags: ghoul in rut, knotting, primal play, rough P in V sex

Words: 2,636

Summary: He warned you about his rut. Tonight you get to find out why.

a/n: this is all @gehrmansbignaturals fault and i'm not responsible for the way my period/covid booster/awake since 2 am brain took over.

divider by @ghuleh-recs

It starts with a text.

Edge of the woods, 8 PM. Wear sneakers.

Terse and to the point, no room for endearments or pleasantries. You’re almost hurt until it hits you like a freight train and you check your calendar.

November 2 - Dew starts rut

Suddenly a warmth begins in your stomach and grows outwards, spreading through your limbs and creating a hot, throbbing sensation between your legs. You have no idea what he has planned, like, the woods? Sneakers? You had never been with him during his rut before but you imagined something a little more…romantic. Maybe involving some wine. He didn’t tell you much about it other than to mark it on your calendar because he would be…different. And that’s all he said on the matter so you didn’t press him, but your mind ran wild. Dewdrop was already a needy, desperate lover - your lovemaking with him often ending in scratch marks and hand-shaped bruises on your thighs - so you were baffled at how he could possibly get even more untamed. Would it be a blessing or a nightmare? You aren’t sure yet and to be honest you are far too eager to find out, so you send him an affirmative text with a couple x’s and o’s attached just to remind him how you feel.

You continue going about your day at the Ministry and attending to your chores, but don’t feel a tell-tale buzz in your pocket again - responding to you or otherwise. Back in your quarters, you grab a loose pair of black joggers and an oversized flannel from your closet and begin to slip them on before a wicked thought runs through your mind. With a grin, you slide your underwear down your legs and kick them aside before reaching behind you to undo your bra. Now you’re ready to get dressed, and slip the comfortable pants and button down on your nude form. Your hands are shaking - out of fear or anticipation, you’re not sure - as you tie the laces of your sneakers and take a deep breath, readying yourself for what’s to come. You slip your phone into the pocket of your pants and head out to meet your ghoul lover to see what his ominous request - and his rut - entails. The walk out to the forest is nice, there is a definite bite in the air but the first snow hasn’t fallen yet so the umber colored leaves are still clinging to the trees. You shiver and pull your sleeves down over your hands, regretting not wearing a jacket or something. But, you thought excitedly, it would just be one more layer for Dewdrop to go through. If that is something he has in mind at all. You don’t see him right away in the dim light until you spot two glowing eyes behind a tree, watching you intently.

“Hey babe,” you call out with a little wave, “got the sneakers. You gonna tell me what’s up?”

When he steps out of the darkness and into the low light of the setting sun, you can’t help but gasp. He’s hunched in on himself, fists balled at his sides and he looks almost apprehensive to come anywhere near you. In the end he stops himself about six feet away from where you stand and takes a deep, shuddering breath before addressing you.

“Hey,” he rasps out, as if he’s been screaming all day. “Uh…thanks for coming. I–ugh.”

His back tenses and spine shifts as if he’s holding himself back and his face contorts in what you can only assume is pain. Concerned, you take a step towards him but upon seeing you move, he rapidly stumbles backwards.

“I know it’s your rut,” you say quietly, stuffing your hands in your pockets, “I put it on my calendar like you asked me to.”

He nods and runs a hand through his long, loose hair, claws sharp and extended.

“Tell me what you need,” you say calmly, despite the riot of physical sensations reeling through you. Fear. Disquiet. Anticipation. Arousal.

You jump when he tips his head back and lets out a laugh, shutting his eyes and showing his fangs.

“What I need…” he says, flexing his hands and cracking his neck, “is for you to run.”

A beat passes.

“I’m…sorry?”

“I need you to take off running, as far into those woods as you can. And when I catch you - and I will catch you - I am going to fuck you. Hard. Fast. And I won’t stop until you’re stuffed full of my cum and can barely walk let alone run anymore. I will give you a five minute head start. Now, run.”

Your mind is a riot as you back away from him, watching something shift in his eyes as he grins. Heart pounding you see his breathing getting deeper, rougher and something animalistic opens within him.

So you run.

You don’t look back and begin to sprint through the trees, dodging low hanging branches and leaping over fallen trunks. It’s much darker here with the cover of foliage and you’ve already lost your bearings. Still, you don’t stop, even as you feel your arousal dripping down the side of your leg and your heart thundering behind your ribs. Your sides burn but you continue to heed his request and go deeper, deeper into the woods. The pine needles crunch under your feet and finally you have to force yourself to take a break. You ache, in more ways than one. Never before had you considered how…thrilling something like this could be. You hear a branch crack and your eyes dart around you, looking for glowing eyes in the darkness. You’re not sure how much further you can get without bringing your cell phone out for light and you don’t want to make it that easy on him. Fear rockets through your veins, twitching and gasping at every rustle in the trees, every shift of what remains of the light. The sound of your heart pounding and your heaving breaths are loud - too loud - in your ears and it's distracting you from your surroundings. Having caught your breath, you begin to jog again, eyes struggling to find a path in the dark. Eventually you do give in and pull out your phone to switch on the flashlight. A mistake.

You’re so focused on where your next step is you don’t see the slight form of your lover, striking at you from the darkness. Your scream echoes through the woods, sends birds from the tall trees, when he tackles you to the ground. The breath is completely knocked from your lungs as he maneuvers you onto your back, the light from your upturned phone on the ground beside you shining up at him. His hair is wild, half in his face and his lips are turned into a vicious snarl, fangs shining. Roughly he pins your wrists above your head with a punishing grip before leaning down and sniffing deeply at the juncture of your neck and shoulder.

“Fuck,” he growls, situating himself in between your legs. “Fuck, baby you’re so fucking hot.”

When he grinds his - impressively hard - cock against your core you gasp and arch into his touch. He laughs a little hysterically when you buck into him again and tightens his grip around your wrists. His claws cut into your skin but you can’t bring yourself to care.

“You have no fucking idea what I’m gonna do to you,” he says, leaning down once more to lick a hot, wet stripe up the side of your face to taste you. “Gonna really make you mine.”

“Dew,” you breathe as he steadily presses himself into your cunt over and over, “Dew, please. I want it. I want it so bad.”

He relinquishes his grip on your wrists with a growl and you know you’ll be bruised tomorrow but he’s backing away from you. You whimper, looking up at him as he sits back on his haunches and reaches down to either side of your shirt. With one swift motion he tears the shirt in two, sending buttons flying and ripping a gasp from you. When he sees that you’re braless, a filthy little smile curls his lips.

“You were already ready for me, huh? My good little whore.”

He wastes no time in latching himself onto your nipple, roughly tonguing it. When he nips at it with his teeth - harder than he’s ever done before - you cry out and slip your hand into his hair to pull at his scalp. When he does it again on your other nipple you slide another hand between the two of you to cup at his cock. Your fingers slide against the length of him and he bites - fangs digging into the plushness of your breast. You think he might have broken skin from the way his tongue slides over the spot but you don’t care.

“Do it again,” you breathe, fingers gripping at his roots, “please Dew, fuck.”

He bucks against your hand and chuckles, obliging you by marking your other breast. Tears form in your eyes but the arousal is greater than the pain, and he takes care of you so very well.

“Filthy,” he purrs into your ear, “I didn’t know my girl liked it that rough.”

“Thought you were gonna fuck me,” you say with a lazy grin, “‘Hard. Fast. Not stopping ‘til you’re filled with my cum.’ So do it Dewdrop. Make me yours.”

You’ve challenged him - always a dangerous thing to do but especially in this moment - and with a low growl he’s pulling back and ripping your pants down to your knees. He doesn’t comment on your lack of underwear, doesn’t need to when his face is contorted in pleasure as he drinks in your scent. He’s breathing heavily through his nose as he unbuttons and unzips his pants, taking his cock out into the chill air. You gasp when you see him - fuck you’ve never seen him that hard before - he’s red and it looks painful, precum slobbering down the side of him.

“Fuck, Dew,” you say softly, reaching out to him, “I–”

He silences you by slamming his lips into yours in a bruising kiss, tongue forcing its way past your lips to plunder your mouth. His grip on your hair is a little too hard, teeth a little too sharp against you and you can tell he’s reached the end of his patience. His cock wetly rests between the two of you, Dew’s hips shifting minutely as he nips along your jaw.

“Said I was gonna fill you up,” Dew grunts into your ear, fingers fisting your locks, “and if that’s what you want it’s what you’re going to fucking get.”

In an instant, he pulls back and takes his cock in hand, positioning himself at your entrance. He’s still holding back, you can tell, so you speak.

“Dewdrop.”

He looks down at you, cheeks flushed looking on the verge of tears.

“Do it.”

The words are barely out of your mouth and he’s already slid inside you, bottoming out in a heartbeat. He hunches himself over you, like some kind of beast, and begins to aggressively fuck into you. His thrusts are not gentle, not tender and you don’t want it any other way. When you wrap your legs around his waist he practically howls, cock pumping in and out of you. The sounds coming from where the two of you are joined are obscene, and you buck your hips into him again and again. His hands have shifted to wrap around your thighs, claws once again biting into your pliant flesh. You can feel the scratch of the forest floor behind your head as he pounds into you, completely lost in the feeling of his rut. When you clench around him he practically folds you in half in his desire to get himself deeper, harder inside you.

“Mine,” he growls, “mine, mine, fucking mine.”

“Yours,” you choke out, breath continuously knocked from your lungs from the force of his thrusts, “only yours.”

Your response causes him to make a noise halfway between a sob and a hysterical laugh. He’s so deep inside you, hitting that beautiful spot every single time as you begin to see stars in your eyes. You can feel your climax roiling within you, clenching around him rhythmically, causing him to throw his head back and moan.

“I’m close, Dew,” you pant, reaching your hands out towards his face.

“I’m not done with you yet,” he spits, grabbing your hands and slamming them back above your head. Suddenly you feel a swelling within you and realize he’s…is he knotting you? Like an animal? The moan that rips from you as his cock is locked inside of you is loud enough to wake the dead. You’re so wonderfully, deliciously full and his hips rocket against yours, the swollen base of him brushing your clit with every movement.

“That’s it,” he breathes, reaching to stroke your face, “take it. Such a good girl.”

When he slides his thumb into your mouth you dutifully wrap your lips around it and suck, tongue running along the ridges of the digit. Both of your moans are becoming more frequent, louder, higher and you can tell the two of you are close.

“Fuck, baby,” he cries out, reaching down to rub at your clit. His calloused fingers know exactly how to work you and all of a sudden the light from your phone is creating a halo around his blonde head and your jaw hangs slack as your orgasm washes over you and you witness this divine creature. You’re still riding the wave of your own climax when all of a sudden he’s pulsing inside you, cum painting your inner walls - more than he’s ever released before. You’re so full of him you’re leaking, dripping down onto the dirt but he doesn’t pull out. With a heavy sigh, he collapses on top of you and you stroke at his messy hair, idly pulling the twigs out of it with a dazed smile. A moment passes before you can bring yourself to speak.

“Dew, I can’t breathe,” you murmur, always struck by how surprisingly heavy he is.

“Gimme a minute,” he breathes into the juncture of your neck and shoulder. “Don’t want to leave yet.”

“Leave the forest or my cunt?”

He chuckles so hard you can feel him shake above you.

“Fuck the forest. I wanna stay inside you forever.”

“How sweet. But I think there’s a rock that’s been digging into my back this whole time and I’m covered in pine needles. You’re covered in pine needles. C’mon babe. Up.”

When he finally does slip out of you with a low whine you’re staggered by the sudden loss you feel. You want him to stay inside you forever. But for now, you let him pull you to your feet and pull up your pants. Sheepishly, he attempts to adjust the torn remains of your shirt as you roll your eyes. Snagging your phone from the ground, you let him guide you out of the woods. The two of you walk in silence up to the well-lit abbey when you turn to him.

“Next time you have your rut–”

“What do you mean next time? Babe I’m still in it. You think I’m done with you?”

His hand reaches down to squeeze at the globe of your ass and he gives you a bright, vicious grin. Typical Dew. So you lean into it.

“Promise?” you purr, leaning in to hover your lips above his.

“You have no idea,” he breathes against you before kissing you soundly.

You’re still finding pine needles in his hair two days later.

And he keeps his promise.

#dewdrop ghoul #dewdrop x reader #dewdrop x f!reader #nameless ghouls #the band ghost #the band ghost fic #rachel writes

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zzoomacroom · 5 months ago

Text

Fic: Golden Hour

Dreamling, One-Shot, Retired Dream, Mpreg, Fluff & Smut, 2300 words

Happy Dreamling Week! Here’s my fic for the Tuesday, June 4th prompts “painting” and “massage,” as well as the Saturday 8th prompt “sunrise/sunset.” Big thanks to the mods @mr-sadman for putting this event together! 💗💗💗

This is part of my Retired Dream Mpreg AU, Love Ain’t for Keeping. As of posting this fic, I’ve only posted the first chapter of “Rain Is Coming Down, but the Clouds Will Surely Pass”, but this one takes place in between chapters 4 and 5, so consider this a sneak preview.

If you haven’t read the other fics in this series, here’s what you need to know: Morpheus is about three years into his retirement, he and Hob are married, and they’re having a baby. Morpheus is six and a half months pregnant at this point, Hob has gained some weight, and they’re both insanely horny about each other. That’s pretty much it tbh.

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Summary: Morpheus paints Hob in the nude, then Hob fingers him and rubs his feet. That’s it, that’s the whole fic.

Rating: Explicit

Chapters: 1/1

Fandom: The Sandman (TV 2022), The Sandman (Comics)

Relationships: Dream of the Endless | Morpheus/Hob Gadling

Additional tags and fic below the cut:

Additional tags: Fluff, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Domestic Fluff, Domestic Bliss, Fluff and Smut, Painting, Massage, Foot Massage, Retired Dream, Human Dream, Trans Dream, Mpreg, Pregnancy, Weight Gain, Chubby Hob, Bear Hob Appreciation, Body Image Issues, Married Dreamling, They love each other, they are unhinged for each other, smut, vaginal fingering, Dream has a vulva, praise kink

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“Stay still,” Morpheus murmurs, his brow furrowing as he glances back and forth between the canvas in front of him and his subject, who is sprawled nude on the sofa.

“Sorry,” Hob replies with a penitent smile. He ceases tapping his fingers on his thigh and relaxes back into the cushions, which have been draped with a velvety burgundy throw that complements the healthy tan of his skin.

Morpheus pauses his task of blending the perfect shade of dusky rose to match his husband’s nipples, setting down his palette and resting his hand on the protruding dome of his belly. There is a flurry of movement beneath his palm, accompanied by a now-familiar fluttering and tumbling sensation. The baby has been particularly lively today, and between that and standing in front of his easel for the last hour, Morpheus is growing weary. His neck is sore from hunching over the canvas, and his feet are swollen and achy, but the painting is almost finished.

It is the golden hour, just before sunset, and Morpheus is determined to finish this piece now, while the light is perfect. Bold rays of sunshine stream through the window of their sitting room above the New Inn, and Hob looks utterly resplendent swathed in the dazzling beams of gold and bronze. The light ignites sparks of copper in his beard and in the forest of dark hair on his chest and thighs. The sunlight adores Hob, kisses him reverently and renders him into something holy.

He is too exquisite to depict accurately, at least not with such insufficient means as oil on canvas. Were Morpheus still the King of Dreams, he would craft a dream of eternal love and beauty based on the vision before him, one that would inspire passion in dreamers and reduce even Desire to tears. Alas, Morpheus is only a man now, and this imperfect likeness will have to suffice.

He layers strokes of sienna and umber over planes of rosy flesh tones, accentuating the shadow of Hob’s belly where it swells above his heavy prick, which rests elegantly against his thick, furred thigh. Hob’s body has changed almost as much as Morpheus’ in the last few months; “sympathy weight,” as Matthew had said. While Morpheus is not altogether pleased with his own appearance at present, he was surprised to find himself feeling very enthusiastic about his husband’s new physique. His appreciation for Hob’s body is something base and carnal, something foreign and yet innate to this new human form—it seems he is hard-wired to crave warmth and softness, safety and shelter, and Hob offers all of those things, freely and in abundance.

Hob has always been a handsome man; Morpheus acknowledges that he has been attracted to him since 1789, at least. The first time they made love, Morpheus had delighted in his strong, solid build and the lush hair that blankets most of his body. He had been mildly surprised, however, to see that Hob was so spare—not as slight as Morpheus, but lean and wiry, with an alluringly trim waist. Now, though...Hob has filled out considerably, and Morpheus...likes it. Very much. He does, of course, love and desire his husband regardless of any trivial physical changes, but he can admit that he has. A preference. For this “dad bod,” as Hob so aptly calls it.

Morpheus continues to paint, hastily peppering in dots of vermilion and amber in an attempt to capture the brilliant blaze of the dying sun as it bedecks his lover in its radiance. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, stretches his neck and shoulders, and he sees that Hob is watching him intently while he works, tracking each subtle motion with a flick of his eyes.

“Time for a break, do you think? Starting to get a bit restless here, love,” Hob says with a soft chuckle.

Morpheus is grateful that Hob did not insinuate that he is the one who needs a break, even though he undoubtedly sees how tired Morpheus is. He knows that this is...something he must work on. But it does not come easily to him, admitting that he has. Vulnerabilities. Weaknesses. Human needs. It is difficult for Morpheus to...allow himself to be taken care of. To be loved. But Hob wants only to love and care for him, and he is exceptionally skilled at both. Morpheus is. Learning. To accept this. To accept his own humanity, for all the struggles and joys that it holds.

“I am almost finished,” Morpheus replies, frowning at the canvas. “Five more minutes.”

“Alright, but I’m holding you to it,” Hob smiles. “Can’t believe you still want to paint me, now that I’ve let myself go.”

Morpheus rolls his eyes and sighs heavily. This conversation again. “Beloved, how many times must I tell you that you are more beautiful than ever? I wish you would not speak ill of yourself.”

“You know,” Hob says loftily, with a raise of his eyebrow, “I could point out that we could go tit for tat on that matter. But I’ll be the bigger man—literally and figuratively, in this case—and say that you’re right, darling. And I’m sorry. I’ll stop.”

Morpheus smiles and huffs fondly, shaking his head as he returns to his work. It is nearly complete—he only needs to fix this swirl of chest hair, that charming streak of silver that runs from his sideburn to his beard and gleams in the rapidly fading sunlight. If Hob will not take his words to heart, then Morpheus must show him, through the painting, how magnificent he is. How splendid, how adored.

“It is done,” Morpheus announces almost precisely five minutes later.

Hob’s face instantly lights up as he leaps from the sofa and strides over to Morpheus. Hob is always so fascinated by Morpheus’ art, so enthusiastic and supportive of all of his endeavors. Even when he does not see the beauty of the work’s subject.

Hob stands beside Morpheus and gazes at the painting with the same look of wonder and reverence that he always has when seeing one of his works for the first time. He looks even more affected by this one, and his voice wobbles when he speaks. “It’s gorgeous, dove. I...I can’t believe this is really how you see me.”

“It is. Not quite what I see when I look at you,” Morpheus replies, rubbing his sore neck and stifling a wince. “Your beauty is too great to be expressed through such a mundane medium. But. I suppose...this does come close.”

“Y’know, it never stops being weird, hearing that from the most gorgeous being in the universe. But as always, I’ll take your word for it, darling.” Hob moves to stand behind him and begins massaging his neck and shoulders, kneading out the tension and leaving behind gentle kisses in its place. It’s so good that Morpheus could cry—the way Hob touches him, like he infuses every caress with all of his love and devotion, is...divine. Morpheus has met gods, has known ecstasy that would shatter mortal minds, and yet nothing compares to the simple bliss of his husband’s touch.

Hob comes closer, pressing himself to Morpheus’ back and hooking his chin over his shoulder. He wraps his arms around Morpheus’ middle, cradling his belly and stroking gently. Morpheus leans his head back against Hob’s shoulder and lets his eyes fall closed. He is nude as well (clothing has become a nuisance at this stage of his pregnancy), and he revels in the warmth of Hob’s skin against his own, the soft cushion of his belly and the pleasant scratch of chest hair against his bare back.

Hob’s hands begin to explore lower, probing between Morpheus’ legs and running a teasing finger down his slit, eliciting a sharp inhale from Morpheus. He spreads open the folds of his cunt and circles his thumb around his clit, humming approvingly all the while.

“Oh, sweetheart. You’re so wet,” Hob whispers into Morpheus’ neck. “Is this just from staring at me for the last hour?”

Morpheus has a snappy comeback to that, but it vanishes from his mind and dies on his lips as Hob dips two fingers inside his slick entrance and presses his thumb to his clit. Morpheus moans and grinds backwards against him, wanting his lover as close as possible. He feels a twitch of interest where Hob’s cock rubs against the cleft of his arse, but he is still soft; they had just finished making love for the second time today when Morpheus had dragged Hob to the sitting room to finish his painting. No matter. Morpheus can be patient, especially when Hob is working a third finger inside him, kissing his jaw and whispering sweet praise and debauched filth in his ear.

Hob’s fingers move faster, stroking his g-spot and clit simultaneously, and the wet, squelching noise it makes is absolutely obscene. “You look so beautiful like this. Can you come for me, love?” Morpheus’ head falls back against Hob’s shoulder as he reaches his peak with a shuddering whine. “That’s it, darling. Oh, you’re doing so well. So perfect,” Hob croons. Morpheus sobs and comes again at the praise, and Hob coaxes him through it, soothing and petting his belly with his free hand. He slowly pulls his fingers free from the clenching grasp of Morpheus’ hot, tight cunt and brings them to his lover’s mouth. Morpheus opens eagerly at the gentle press of Hob’s thumb against his lips, and he sucks his fingers into his mouth with a contented hum, diligently licking away every trace of his own spend.

“Mm, just like that, love. So beautiful,” Hob murmurs, turning Morpheus around in his arms and licking into his mouth, kissing him deeply and chasing the salty-sweet taste on his tongue. Morpheus leans into his husband’s embrace, feeling rather dizzy and weak in the knees after all that. Hob takes his weight easily, wrapping an arm around his waist and guiding him to the sofa. “I’ve got you, my love. I’ve got you. Shh, it’s alright. You just lie down and I’ll be back in a tick.” Hob maneuvers him into a supine position on the sofa, and Morpheus’ mind is currently too fuzzy to do anything but admire the view of Hob’s shapely backside as he heads towards their bedroom.

Hob returns moments later, smelling of the jasmine-scented hand soap from the bathroom and carrying the lavender lotion that Morpheus likes. He has also put on joggers, which Morpheus is less pleased about. Hob sits at the opposite end of the sofa and pulls Morpheus’ feet into his lap. Morpheus cannot hold back the decadent groan that escapes from his mouth when Hob starts to rub the lotion into his aching soles, soothing away the pain and pressing tender kisses to each toe.

Before Hob, no one had ever touched Morpheus’ feet. It had never occurred to him, and he never would have allowed it. But he wishes now that he had experienced this when he still had the power to craft dreams; the sensuality and intimacy of this simple pleasure would have made a lovely fantasy. In many ways, it is as enjoyable as sex. Well. Almost as enjoyable.

Morpheus loses himself to the sensation, indulging in the worshipful touch that Hob so lovingly bestows on him. He is just beginning to doze when he hears a snort of laughter from Hob. He cracks one eye open and gives a questioning hum.

“I was just thinking,” Hob says with a grin. “We’re going to have to hide all of these when your sister comes to visit.” He jerks his head towards the corner of their sitting room that has more or less become a shrine to Hob; there are paintings, sketches, and sculptures in various styles and media. Most are nude, and some are merely depictions of his genitals. Though Morpheus was once married to Calliope, it is safe to say that he has another muse these days.

“It is nothing she has not seen before,” Morpheus replies with a lazy shrug. “My sister’s sensibilities are not so delicate; you should see the parties that Desire throws.”

“Thanks, but I’d rather not,” Hob laughs. “And I’d also rather not let my sister-in-law see these incredibly accurate and lifelike sculptures of my cock, if you don’t mind.”

“The sculptures do not do the subject justice. And you have never objected to Matthew seeing them.”

“Sure, but that’s different. I don’t give a toss what Matthew thinks. Besides, he’s objected plenty. He avoids that side of the room like the plague, and haven’t you noticed he’s been coming in through the kitchen window lately?”

“Very well,” Morpheus relents with an exaggerated sigh, “I suppose that is fair, my husband.”

“Thank you, darling,” Hob says, leaning over to place a kiss to his husband’s rounded belly.

“But you will have to find a place to store them. Perhaps you can clean out the closet, as you have been promising to do for months,” Morpheus adds, raising his eyebrows pointedly.

Hob groans and slumps over into Morpheus’ lap, like a puppet with its strings cut. “Alright, fine, you win. Damn, foiled by my own modesty.”

Morpheus scoffs and fixes Hob with a deadpan glare. “Hob. You have no modesty.”

Hob bursts out laughing at that and, without warning, grabs Morpheus by the ankles and hauls him into his lap. He growls playfully, and Morpheus’ surprised shriek quickly turns into hoarse, croaking laughter as Hob tickles his sides and nips at his throat. He collapses on top of his husband, capturing his mouth in an ardent kiss. They remain there, locked in a passionate embrace and oblivious to everything but each other as the last embers of the sun are extinguished and replaced with the dreamy glow of street lamps.

---

Thanks for reading! Reblogs, as well as kudos and comments on ao3 are always appreciated! 💗💗💗

#dreamling week 2024 #dreamling week #dreamling #dreamling fic #dreamling fanfic #the sandman #sandman #dream of the endless #hob gadling #retired dream #retired dream au #cw mpreg #nsft #zoom writes

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connorsnothereeither · 15 days ago

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The most twistedly satisfying thing about running a horror oneshot for cantripped and getting to edit it is hearing the players audibly react and recoil when something unsettling happens-

It very much boosts my confidence aksgksgsk

#cantripped #cantripped podcast #six feet umber #horror one shot

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bbraefairy · 11 months ago

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SIX FEET UNDER

chapter 8 — girls need love

( SYNOPSIS ) due to unfortunate circumstances, rachel has to make ends meet as an erotic dancer. throughout rachel's unwanted career and cases being cracked, rachel becomes crosses paths with, and becomes entangled with garfield logan.

⛥.

“You put on a show tonight, hot stuff.” Garfield smiled handsomely, gently releasing his hold on her.

“You—” Rachel never wanted to melt into the ground more.

Fuck, she thought, How did he even know I was on tonight?

“You saw— you didn’t see—”

“I did.” One side of Garfield’s mouth bent into a smirk.

Rachel said nothing. She just stood there, heart racing, mind jumbled, and mouth numb.

“Love the way you dance,” Garfield’s tongue slid through his umber lips as he looked Rachel firmly in the eyes.

#bbraefairy #bbrae #teen titans #raven teen titans #beast boy and raven #beast boy #fanfiction #teen titans 2003 #smut #ao3fic #beastboyandraven smut #beastboy and raven fanfiction

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theghostofdiscordance · 5 days ago

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So next time there’s a Halloween episode of something I really should just wait til the next day rather than after work

I work overnights

I didn’t need six feet umber’s door scene at 3:30am

#cantripped #it’s 3:30 am #why do I do this to my self #six feet umber

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rjalker · 7 months ago

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[ID: A simple digital drawing of an original character labeled "Public Domain, Tuhnellej, it/its/itself". Tuhnellej is a dragon with six legs, an upright torso with two points arms, and a long tail that ends in a thick club-shape covered in round knobs. It has a ridge of rounded plates running down its spine in brick red, and has a large compound eye visible on its simplified round face, with feathery antenne pointing backward from its head. The frontmost part of its body is mostly pale brick colored, with darker burnt umber on its spike and under its arms. Its tail and each leg has a section in the middle of orange with loose spots on the outer edges, and then paler yellow for the feet and the large club shape on the tail, with the knobs burnt orange. End ID.]

Another public domain character who uses it/its. Named after Jellenhut from Venusian Lullaby by spelling her name backwards.

Lives in or near volcanos or deserts, I haven't decided. Or could be a cyberfurry once they really get good at the alterations.

Public domain = anyone can use this character and species design for anything you want! Anything! Literally anything!

#eye contact #described images #Rjalker does art #aliens #public domain characters #public domain #Alterhuman Advancements #Cyberfurries #Cyberfurry #ititspronouns #furry #open characters #CC0 #it/its #nonbinary characters #canon nonbinary characters #fantasy species #fantasy creatures #alien species

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monstraduplicia · 1 year ago

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absolution

i never post my writing on here but i was compelled to make a little thing based on the lead character's from my partner @emiliosandozsequence 's book Sparrow (more info here)

Father Cesare Sparrow hears his twin sister Loa's confession, but absolving her proves more difficult than planned ...

warnings: nsfw, incest, parental abuse, and mention of past SA

Cesare Sparrow was expected to sit in confession every first and third week of the month. If one was to do statistical analysis on the Sparrow family’s parishioners and their confessional habits, one would note that Cesare listened to four times as many confessions as that of his father, Father Douglas. Children, especially, seemed to trust the younger priest, opening up to him what they would never say to the elder.

It was difficult to hear the ills that befell the younger generation day in and day out, but Cesare never complained. He had never followed in his father’s place for God, but to help others. If lending his ear and occasionally giving advice to confused, hurt, or those wrongfully ashamed was the only aid he could give them, then it was his duty to do so.

More frequently than anyone else, the confessional booth was occupied by Loa,

Whereas Cesare tried to ease the weight of burdens, his twin sister compulsively carried them. The need to blame herself for any error and any wrongness had become pathological. If it rained, she punished herself. If she forgot a word during her prayers, she punished herself. If she felt anything that wasn’t explicitly good and virtuous, she punished herself.

Cesare did not have to look through the heavily latticed partition between them to know it was her that had slipped into his booth. Though the confessional was purposefully dark, he had caught a flash of pale, flush cheeks through the dark river of her hair and knew instantly who the stranger was. He would know her blind, able to recognize her from the sound of breath alone. Cesare had no sooner identified her than he was turning away, forcing himself to look straight ahead at the ancient oak booth wall. Sister or not, this was a holy place, and he had to try not to show her favor within God’s House.

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” Loa whispered as she crossed herself, her voice so quiet and wavering that Cesare had to strain to hear it. He could hear her nervously fiddling with her crucifix and on instinct his own hand went to his chest to feel the rosary that laid beneath his clothes. It had been a gift from Loa, and never once had he wrapped the beaded cord around his fingers without imagining it was a handful of her deep umber hair instead. “It has been … four- five days since my last confession.”

Loa began to stammer then, half-formed words nervously spilling from her lips as she continued to fiddle with her crucifix. Cesare didn’t have to peek through the partition to know how she looked. Her knees would be close together, but her feet would be splayed out. Her shoulders would be drooped, as if she was trying to disappear into herself. She had never quite evolved from the posture of childhood, and even at twenty-six she seemed suspended in pre-maturity.

“Loa,” Cesare said, and immediately cursed himself for breaking. His nerves were acting up, already anticipating what Loa had to confess. Since they had been young children, her sins had always been ones she wrongfully attributed to herself. She could never understand the sins were their father’s, not hers. That he should feel the guilt and shame that lived within her like cancer. Mouth drier than bone, Cesare swallowed thickly. He didn’t like this. He didn’t like that Loa felt compelled to call him Father. He didn’t like having to listen to her tales of torture.

But he was her witness. It was his birthright.

“My child,” He said, speaking to her as he would any other. “You are safe here. There is no ear but mine and God’s. Judgment is not my purpose, and our Lord is forever merciful.” His hands grasped at the fabric of his pants, clutching tight as if to find the strength to go on. More than anything Cesare wanted to look over at his sister, see her wide eyes staring back at him. But he couldn’t, too afraid of losing his resolve.

In his periphery he saw Loa nod, heard her own gulping swallow. “I have been neglectful with my chores. A few days ago I wore a dress that needs rehemming, knowing my father would be angry with me. I wanted him to be angry with me, and when he slapped me for it I was glad. That’s- That’s terrible, isn’t it? To seek punishment?”

Cesare inhaled sharply, wincing as memories of their shared childhood flashed in his mind. He knew how Loa felt. He had broken the rules more often than he could count, always aware in the back of his mind that Father would find out and he would be swiftly punished. Douglas Sparrow only paid his eldest children mind when they acted out, and so the twins growled for attention however they could. Raised in pain, they found the same comfort from a beating as any other child would find in a loving embrace. “I don’t think that’s a sin,” Cesare managed to say, but his voice was strained, forced.

Loa sighed then, and for several moments did not speak. The air in the confessional booth was thick and hot thanks to the Louisiana summer and Cesare felt suffocated by that and the oppressive silence. Still, the quiet went on until Loa finally seemed to snap, her following words a quiet gasp.

“I feel lust.”

Cesare’s heart stopped. His mind raced. HIs skin broke out in sweat. Though ordained, he was far from celibate, and lust was something he knew better than the devil, but Loa was different. Intimacy, romance, sex, none of it existed to her. She had never experienced awkward first date kissing or clumsy back-seat fumblings or honest love making. She only knew what her father did to her. She only knew what her father made Cesare and other men do to her. He had always expected that such violence would have made her incapable of wanting, just as it had made Cesare incapable of loving. To hear differently shocked him, but before he could speak Loa was interjecting.

“I know I shouldn’t. I know it's wrong and that what- what Father does is meant to cleanse me, but I can’t make it stop. When I’m alone, its like this weight pressing down on me, a need I can’t escape no matter how many times I try to distract myself. I don’t know what to do, Cesare. How do I make it go away?”

It was the soft, whimpering Cesare that turned his insides into warm honey. Loa sounded so lost and so afraid, and Cesare needed to help her. He needed to do whatever he could to lessen that heavy burden.

“Do you ever touch yourself?” He asked, though he was surprised he managed to say the words at all. His hand returned to his chest, feeling once more for the rosary. He knew he should shut up, knew he should leave the confessional and go anywhere but where he was. He knew he should know his place, like Douglas always said, but he couldn’t stop himself now that he had began.

Loa was quiet again, and Cesare could sense her nervousness through the partition. “No. Not since we were kids and you would touch me,” She whispered.

Ceasare remembered that. They had been young and confused and trying to cope with the things their father did to Loa and made Cesare watch. She would crawl into his bed, crying and hot and begging to help. She said it hurt between her legs, that she couldn’t sleep because of the ache.

Cesare had only tried to help. He had only put his hand between her legs and felt the wet, warm flesh waiting for him beneath her nightgown. He had only gripped her there until Loa had stopped moving and fallen into deep sleep at his side.

They stopped this habit when they realized what it was, what it meant. Never had they spoken about it since. Until now.

Cesare glanced down at the bulge in his pants and crossed himself, his stomach twisted in knots to the point of pain. “I don’t mean that,” He said, and used all his will to keep his voice quiet. He was trembling, he realized as he ran a hand through his dark hair. He was falling apart. But his voice never once cracked. He couldn’t have Loa know what she did to him, his own weakness too shameful. “I mean … by yourself. Do you ever touch yourself?”

“No,” Loa said again, and a soft, embarrassed laugh that reminded Cesare of windchimes burst from her lips. “I don’t know how. It seems … Oh, it seems so silly. What if someone found out?”

It was a good enough reason not to. Their home was sizable, but their father’s eyes seemed to be everywhere, as if the walls and doors and windows were simply extensions of the Sparrow patriarch. Any sin committed under his roof would become known, undoubtedly.

But not here. This was God’s house.

“There’s no one here but myself and the Lord,” Cesare said, and finally turned to look at his twin. Shockingly, two brilliant brown eyes were already staring at him. Their gazes met through the partition, leaving Cesare breathless. “I can tell you what to do,” He whispered, feeling terrified. They were crossing a line that Cesare could not define, but knew innately. He felt as if any moment the doors of the confessional booth would fling open and their father would appear, ready to strike.

Loa only stared for several seconds before finally nodding, her expression unsure, but trusting. “Please, Cesare. It hurts.”

Cesare’s eyes fell shut, suddenly a child again in bed with his twin. When he opened his eyes, however, all he saw was the beautiful woman that frightened little girl had grown into. “Spread your legs and take off your panties,” Cesare instructed, knowing his sister would be wearing a dress. She wore nothing else, even in the dead of winter. His eyes widened as he watched Loa do as she was told by pulling up her skirt just enough to slip the white cotton panties down her legs. Her skirt was bunched around her waist, covering just enough that Cesare couldn’t look between her legs. He thanked God for that mercy.

“Think about who you want to be with. Think about them beside you, touching you. Are they warm? Are their hands soft? Do they kiss you?” Cesare found it harder to speak the more he went on, but it wasn’t from arousal. It was jealousy. Only now did he realize that for Loa to feel lust, that meant she must want to bed down with someone, and that someone could never be him. Jaw set tight, Cesare tried not to think of another beside Loa, his hands caressing her skin and his lips on hers. It set a fire within Cesare unlike any other. She was his twin. They had been born together. They had laid together at their father’s behest. One day, they would die together. How dare any man attempt to sever the invisible tether between them?

“Oh,” Loa gasped, and Cesare’s thoughts vanished into thin air. She had leaned back against the booth’s wall, her legs spread wide and her eyes shut tight. One hand was in her lap, but the other was on her chest, cupping her breast through her shirt. Cesare had thought he had known lust from what he had seen his father do to Loa or what he, himself had done to her, but now he realized he knew nothing. Because he had never seen anyone look as blissful as Loa looked now.

“When you’re ready,” Cesare said, though he was amazed he was even capable of speech with how heavy his heart was pounding and how violently his hands were trembling. “Put your hand between your legs.”

Loa nodded obediently and eagerly slipped her hand beneath her thighs. She bit her lip, her brows knotting together as if frustrated. “Its- Its wet,” She panted, making Cesare nearly weep.

“Its supposed to be,” He said, and winced at the sudden pain. He was achingly hard, but he couldn’t touch himself, he couldn’t give himself relief. Spilling his seed would be a step too far. “Now, take your finger inside yourself. Then out, then back again. Pretend its him, feel him fill you over and over again.”

Loa’s free hand clamped over her mouth as she did as instructed, but a muffled moan could still be heard. Her hips had begun moving back and forth, fucking herself with her hand as her entire body squirmed for relief. She was panting, her chest bobbing every time she arched her back to reach deeper inside herself. She was falling apart, and Cesare was her witness through it all. “My God,” Loa moaned, beginning the act of Contrition as her hips bucked back and forth. “I am sorry for my sins with all my heart. In- In choosing to do wrong and failing to do good, I have sinned against You whom I … whom I should love above all things. I firmly … intend, with Y-Your help, to do penance, to sin? To sin no more, and to avoid whatever leads me to sin. Our Savior Jesus Christ suffered and died for me. For us. In his name, my God- my God, have mercy!”

Soft, mewling whimpers were escaping Loa and Cesare feared being overheard. If not by someone outside the booth, then by God. “You have to be quiet, Lo,” He gasped, an edge of fear in his voice. “He’ll hear.”

As if it was his words that did the trick, Loa let out a sharp gasp before her entire body went rigid and then melted as she shuddered against her fingers. Her hand fell from her lips as she struggled to catch her breath, swaying in her seat as her hand continued to work herself as her orgasm undoubtedly rocked through her body.

When it was finally over, when she pulled her hand away to reveal three fingers slicked pearlescent and dripping, Cesare noticed the smile on her face. She looked satisfied and happy, as if that unbearable weight had finally lifted. Cesare had helped Loa, and in doing so had absolved her. In absolving her, he had atoned for the countless nights of pain he had put her through. “God, the Father of mercies,” Cesare began, reciting the words by heart. “Through the death and the resurrection of His Son has reconciled the world to Himself and sent the Holy Spirit among us for the forgiveness of sins; through the ministry of the Church may God give you pardon and peace, and I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Make the sign of the cross and close with Amen.”

Loa pulled down her skirt and cleaned her hand on the fabric. She straightened her shoulders and looked at Cesare through the partition, though her gaze did not meet his. “Thank you, Father,” She said, and crossed herself before slipping out of the booth as gracefully as she had entered.

His heart still beating heavy enough to ache, Cesare's mind began to wander. He recalled times he had walked into Loa's bedroom without knocking and found her flush-faced and smiling that same smile he had just seen. He recalled nights he had been suspended in that twilight between sleep and wakefulness, when he had heard curious moaning through the wall and passed it off as the plumbing before drifting back into sleep. Only now did he see those memories in hindsight and a pit began to form in his stomach.

Loa had known perfectly well how to give herself pleasure.

She hadn't needed him to teach her anything at all.

After, when Cesare had calmed enough to stand without fearing that his legs would give out, he left his side of the booth and went to the other. There waiting for him like a holy relic was Loa’s panties. Now up close, Cesare could see they were badly damp.

She had been wet long before he instructed her to remove them.

#cringe is dead and i am free #sparrow #mine #writing

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laelianas · 10 months ago

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A conversation with Death

A/N: Deals with the idea of loss of a loved one and grief! Please be aware of that before reading! -------- He stared at the hole in the ground. His body felt numb and the bile in his throat burned uncomfortably as he watched soil start to cover the black box sitting snugly in the pit. A shaky breath escaped his lips, one he did not realise he was holding in, as tears welled up in his eyes for what felt like the hundredth time that day. It didn’t feel real. His mind couldn’t wrap around the idea of it. One minute she was fine, the next she was six feet under. He clenched and unclenched his hands, his skin stinging where his nails had broken through. His tongue clung to his dry mouth like cotton, withholding words left unsaid. Blood drummed in his ears and his eyes stung painfully no matter how many times he aggressively blinked. It was all too much; he couldn’t do this. He couldn’t do this alone. There was no one else. No one who could hold him and tell him it was okay. No one who could-

“It always seems to rain on days like these.”

A voice broke through his thoughts, unfamiliar yet calming.

“What?” Jeremy replied, keeping his eyes trained on the shovels pouring umber dirt onto his reason for being.

“Funerals. It always seems to rain when there’s a funeral. God’s way of saying they’re sorry, I guess. Then again, if they were really sorry, they would not do this in the first place.”

This time Jeremy looked up at the source of the voice, a woman, clad in an all-black dress that clung to her sides and a trench coat. Her lips were painted with a red that Jeremy could only associate with the crimson of blood and her eyes were hidden behind dark sunglasses, seemingly blocking out more than just the sun. She held an umbrella in a gloved hand as she smiled at him – a gleeful smile rather than an apologetic one.

“Sorry, I forget that people worship them. Bad joke on my part.” The smile never dropped from her lips.

“Who are you?” He muttered, clearing his throat.

“Oh, I knew your wife. I must admit we met late in her life, but she was fascinating to talk to. Shame she had to go.” The final sentence stung; his jaw clenched.

“Do you need to be so cruel? She’s barely in the fucking ground for God’s sake.” He said through gritted teeth; it only earned him a laugh in response.

“Always so quick to anger when it comes to death, I’ll truly never understand it.” She replied, watching him closely from behind tinted glass.

In that moment, Jeremy wanted nothing more than to hit the woman square in the face. He wanted to make her feel even the slightest inkling of what he felt – how it felt to suffer as he did. The sound of shovels patting down on dirt pulled him from that thought, causing his anger to dissipate back into grief once again. She was locked in; the death was finalised in the eyes of the world.

He found himself staring down as a deep sigh made its way out of him. The rain poured down on him, trickling drops of water off his face and absorbing into his soaking wet suit. He couldn’t tell if it was his tears or the rain running down his face anymore, he couldn’t find it in him to care which. The raindrops drumming on his skull acted like phantom fingers combing through his hair, soothing him one last time before the end.

The feeling did not last much longer. An umbrella was inserted between him and his comfort as a hand found his arm, tugging him closer to the woman. There was an unnatural aura about her up close, he watched her speak as no breath sought to escape her lungs. Whatever she said to him fell upon deaf ears even as she got closer to him, the cold of her lips pinching uncomfortably at his ear. The hand around his arm snaked upwards and towards his chin, turning him to face her, as she provided yet another smile. It felt different this time, almost comforting. As if she had realised that her words lingered restlessly in his mind. Her thumb circled Jeremy's cheek in a slow, soothing, rhythm. He found himself starting to relax - his body easing tensions he did not even realise he was experiencing as his head leaned into her palm. His body felt grounded to the floor for the first time in months. It was all pity, he knew that, but he needed it. The loneliness that awaited him after the grass begins to grow could wait a little longer for him - he needed a moment of peace even if it were from one who had been so nonchalant with his feelings.

She pulled back from him, dragging him from his thoughts once again as she gave him another deceptively sweet smile.

“And here I thought I would be rubbing my jaw in pain. Quite the change in emotions there.”

He scoffed at her remark.

“You really know how to make the mood worse; you know that?” He said, pulling a chuckle from her.

“I have often been referred to as a mood killer among other things. But you don’t really have anyone else here to cry to, so I suppose you’ll just have to let me dull the mood.”

A question reached the tip of his tongue, falling out.

“Why are you here?”

Another laugh.

“I wanted to see the consequences of circumstance. The reaction to action. The confusion and frustration that always seems to come from these events.”

He was confused, it didn’t make any sense. What was she even implying? Her words jarred him, leaving him with more questions than answers. Unless she was saying what he feared most. He looked back at the newly planted grave, a conclusion forming on his lips. He turned to her again only to find no one there.

The rain pattered down on his head gently, it almost felt apologetic this time, as he was left alone once more. A/N: Honestly not a piece I can say I particularly like but if I write it I upload it! Any feedback would be awesome!

#creative writing #original character #original story #short story #my oc stuff #my ocs #writing practice #oc #tw death #loss #feelings #emotions #grief/mourning #tw grief

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sciencesux · 13 days ago

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On Silver Shores

4.5k male siren x male demon | cw: depression, chronic pain

Carver was one hundred sixty-four years old—much too young to die. But then again, that had never stopped him from trying to throw himself into death’s embrace. This time seemed promising enough, as he bled onto damp concrete. A dark sky hung overhead. Thunder rumbled distantly. Raindrops fell on him and diluted the crimson streams flowing from the hole in his chest.

One of his lungs had collapsed. The other was full of blood. He could normally hold his breath for forty-five minutes—maybe fifteen with blood loss—so breathing wasn’t as big an issue as the poison metal in his chest. It burned like someone had lit a fire between his ribs, and it prevented him from healing. Maybe he really would die here.

No, he’d never be that lucky.

He glanced to his side where his attacker lay unmoving. The giant wolf looked out of place, lying dead on a green lawn in the suburbs. Her gray fur was soaked. Blood still seeped from where Carver’s knife was lodged in her neck. Her gun lay in the grass by her hind legs. She’d shot him while still in humanoid form, and then transitioned into a wolf after he’d knocked the weapon from her hands. Her claws had taken a decent chunk out of his leg.

All the houses around them were dark and quiet. The low, distant rumble of thunder sounded overhead, followed by a flash of light and another boom.

“The storm should have concealed the gunshot.”

Thomas’ deep voice floated through the air before he crouched down. The rain didn’t touch him. His white button-down was dry, and the dark trousers held up by black suspenders didn’t have a drop of water on them. Silvery lines cut through his umber skin along his forearms. Soft streaks of gray twisted through his beard and in the short, black curls atop his head. Gentle, brown eyes peered down at Carver.

“I did tell you not to go alone, love,” Thomas said softly. “You get shot far too much.”

Carver pointedly stared up at the sky, away from his husband.

“Oh, are you going to pout now about this entirely predictable and preventable state of affairs?”

Carver’s indignant grunt made blood well from his mouth.

Thomas’ eyes flicked up before he disappeared from view at the next flash of lightning. As thunder boomed and then faded, the click of high heels over wet pavement joined the patter of the rain.

“Oh, dear. What have we here?”

The smoky voice wrapped in an Imperial accent reminded Carver of whiskey and fire and sin—all things the Professor often indulged in. He peered up at her. A black trench coat hung from her shoulders. Red stilettos covered her dainty feet. A matching red dress hugged every curve of her figure. She didn’t look older than twenty-five, like most preternaturals. In truth, she was forty-one times Carver’s age. The rain had soaked her short, black hair, so it fell over her right eye. Her irises were almost gold—a light amber that wasn’t natural. Carver could never stare at them too long. There was something incredibly ancient about her eyes, as if they had witnessed the rise and downfall of empires. They probably had.

His boss always knew how to make an entrance. They’d only been working together for six months now, but she had already made an impression so profound that just looking at her filled him with equal parts exasperation and relief. It was unexpected really. He hadn’t felt much of anything for the better part of a century, yet this enigmatic woman had inspired a sort of aggravated, begrudging fondness in him. Perhaps he should have been more respectful. She was one of the oldest creatures walking the earth. He must have seemed an infant to her, and yet she went through life with an almost childlike delight. She was probably amused by this whole situation.

“Would you like a hand, dear boy?” she asked with her usual cheer.

“Grgh,” Carver gurgled, which roughly meant ‘What the fuck do you think?’

“So sassy,” the Professor muttered and bent over him.

He mentally braced himself when she pressed her hand against the hole in his chest. Two fingers slid into the wound, and an involuntary convulsion compressed his throat. He wanted to scream, but the only thing that escaped him was blood. It dribbled out of his mouth as fresh pain spread through his chest.

“Easy,” the Professor said gently.

She dug deeper and deeper until she grasped the twisted metal lodged in his lung.

The burn of the bullet, paired with the pressure of her fingers, made Carver’s vision blacken. She was careful in easing the metal from him. The moment it left his body, iciness filled his chest, easing the pressure in it. Rain soaked into the wound. His collapsed lung healed in an instant. The shredded flesh of his chest mended together with the water’s aid. Carver found the strength to turn onto his side and cough out the blood from his lungs.

“Feel better?” the Professor asked, even though she knew the answer. “You’re lucky it’s raining. I hate having to break open fire hydrants for you.”

“I appreciate your help,” he grumbled unappreciatively.

“Yes, well, I was having a lovely evening with my partners at a soiree when you called.” She glanced at the dead lycanthrope. “It seems you didn’t really need me anyway.”

Carver arched a brow. “I was shot.”

“Oh, did you not want to die?”

He paused a moment, considering the question, and then shrugged. She had him there.

“Sometimes I don’t know when you’re joking,” she muttered with a sigh.

That made two of them.

She pulled him to his feet when he finished coughing up blood. He shuffled toward the wolf and crouched to inspect her body. In this form, she rivaled him in length at over six feet, and she was probably twice his weight in muscle alone. He pulled his knife from her neck and wiped the blade on his pants before sliding it into the holster at his hip. The blood that welled in the open wound dyed her fur bright red.

“This is the one that escaped the prison transport, isn’t it?” the Professor said as she stepped around the wolf.

Carver nodded. “She was incorrectly tagged as a vampire. Sonic restraints did nothing, and she got out.”

He coughed. Blood welled up his throat and burned through his nose. His hands shook as he wiped at his face and stood on unsteady feet.

“I need to get back to the Court,” he muttered, thinking of all the paperwork he’d have to fill out for this incident. “I didn’t get anything out of the wolf before we fought.”

The Professor looked him over. “My dear, please know I mean this with the utmost respect, but you look like a drowned rat. You’re going to go home and rest. I will go to the Court and complete your paperwork.”

He grimaced, annoyed at being dismissed so readily. “I’m fine now. The rain—”

“Is insufficient. I know how hungry you are, dear. You are not your best, and you will not be until you feed.” She waved a hand dismissively at him. “Go rest. That is an order.”

Once again, Carver coughed up blood, his traitorous body struggling to heal completely.

“Fine,” he bit out.

“And do clean yourself up,” the Professor said and peeled the bloody lapel of his duster from his shirt. “I think this outfit might be done for.”

He glanced down at himself. Dirt and blood covered his rain-soaked clothes. He lifted his hands. The blue and gold webbing between his fingers had extended up to the top knuckles from prolonged contact with water. A waxy sheen coated his umber skin. The lightened line around his ring finger made his stomach drop. His wedding band must have fallen off in the fight, but he couldn’t say when. If it was anywhere nearby, the cleaning crew would find it. And if they didn’t… Well, maybe that was for the best.

When he looked up at the Professor, Thomas stood a few paces behind her, staring at Carver’s hand.

“That’s going to sting,” Thomas commented with a tilt of his head. “Impressive line on that finger, too.”

The Professor followed Carver’s gaze to look back over her shoulder. Her eyes narrowed before she returned her attention to him.

“What are you looking at?” she asked.

Carver shook his head and ran a hand over his eyes. Thomas was gone when he could see again.

“Nothing, just tired,” he mumbled.

He turned without another word and headed down the sidewalk. His chest throbbed a bit, but his skin was still sucking in water. A bath would do some good.

His automobile was where he’d left it in front of a beige ranch-style house. The nondescript black hatchback had a blocky body with a spare tire on the back. It was just two years old and already had 50,000 miles on it from his biannual visits up north. His sister kept telling him to fly out, but she also hated air travel.

He climbed into his automobile and started it up. The headlights flicked on—though he didn’t need them. His eyes were designed to see into the dark depths of the ocean. Unfortunately, human cops would be wary of an auto driving through a rainy night without its headlights on, and looking as he did now, Carver would end the night with another bullet in him if he were pulled over.

“You ever going to tell her about me?” Thomas asked from the passenger seat.

Carver jumped at his husband’s sudden appearance and then let out a breath through his teeth.

“It’s none of her business,” he muttered. “Can I just drive in peace?”

Thomas waved a hand dismissively, but didn’t say anything else. He just stared out the rain-spattered window. Carver pulled away from the curb.

The streets of Vespera Bay were a maze of winding roads through uneven hills. Most of the houses were reminiscent of the colonial era, all smooth columns and boxy shapes. Honestly, they reminded him of his old home in Havitzford back in the 1700s. He’d built it with his own hands for his husband and sister. Maybe it was still standing.

His apartment complex was a rectangular mass of brick and bronze fixings. A rusted walkway led up to the second level apartments. Each door was maroon. An overhang shielded them from the rain, but puddles still amassed on uneven sections of the walkway. The first floor looked much the same. Venetian blinds hid everything beyond them in the little windows beside the doors. Across from the building was an autoport, with numbers over the spaces corresponding to the apartments.

Carver parked in space 103 and got out. His hands were shaking while he pulled his keys from his pants pocket. There was always a slight tremor in his limbs, but it got worse whenever he was starving. How long had it been since he’d last fed? Two months? The recommended frequency of feeding for sirens was at least once a week. But he didn’t feel the drive anymore. The primal lust, that delicious urge to gorge on pleasure, had been absent since 1811. The irony of it wasn’t lost on him. He was a siren, yet had spent more of his years than not disinterested in sex.

His apartment was on the first floor. He struggled to get his key into the lock from the shaking in his hands. The hunger was reaching a point where it wouldn’t be ignored. If he didn’t feed soon, his instincts would take over, and he’d ravage the nearest man in sight. That was unacceptable, even if the person likely wouldn’t have protested. A siren’s allure was near impossible to resist. Even so, rape wasn’t on Carver’s list of sins. He preferred to keep it that way.

Hardwood floors and sepia walls formed his apartment’s interior. It was wide and open, with a kitchen in one corner and a dining area beside it. A chocolate leather couch sat on the opposite side of the room. The door near the dining area led to the bedroom. It wasn’t much, but it was home.

“Mrao.”

He looked down at a black cat. She wound between his ankles while he stepped in and closed the door after himself.

“Hi, Mouna,” he murmured. “Sorry for being late. Are you hungry?”

Mouna was a tiny thing, barely eight pounds, with bright green eyes. She mewled at him and rubbed her head into his ankle. He smiled and headed to the fridge. A half-empty can of cat food sat on the top shelf. Mouna paced at his feet while he took out a plate and emptied the can onto it. She sniffed it for a while when he set it on the floor, but eventually took a bite.

He headed for the bathroom next to the living area. It was impeccably clean, as he liked to keep it. There wasn’t even a toothpaste glob in the sink. The floor tiles were a pristine white. Unblemished, olive green paint colored the walls. A phone hung above the toilet.

The mirror hanging over the sink showed the mess of tight curls atop his head. Just a century ago, he’d had to hide his natural blue hair, highlighted with bright splashes of blond. The world had changed significantly in that time, for the better in some ways. It wasn’t so long ago that his dark skin would have been regarded with outright hostility, rather than the insidious hostility of the modern age. The Republic’s racial notions were so odd—had been for several centuries. At least no one called him a mulatto anymore.

Pain abruptly shot from his ring finger to his shoulder. He rubbed the pale line around the digit with a curse. The pulses would be worse tomorrow. With any luck, they wouldn’t distract him from work, but eventually, in a few weeks maybe, he’d have to cut off the finger. If he didn’t, his nervous system would keep increasing the pain until he wouldn’t be able to function.

Thomas appeared in the bathroom entryway. He leaned on the doorframe with his arms crossed.

“The ring got pulled off in the fight with the wolf,” he said. “You could go back to look for it, unless you’re set on cutting off that finger.”

Carver ignored the comment and peeled his clothes off, leaving them in a heap on the floor. The waxy film on his skin shimmered. It was an automatic reaction to water, meant to decrease drag in the ocean. The film withered in the air, but never fully went away.

He stepped into the tub before turning on the showerhead. The spray was cold, as he preferred. Hot water for his kind was usually dangerous. Sirens preferred temperatures sub 70 degrees, which was why Vespera Bay was a convenient place to live. It rarely got above 80.

His shower was brief, intended only to scrub the dirt and blood off him, and then he switched over to the bath faucet and clicked the drain stopper in. A mason jar with sea salt sat on a corner of the tub. He poured a fair amount in the water before sitting down. Saltwater baths never felt like enough compared to the ocean’s embrace, but they were better than nothing.

Thunder shook through the floor and walls. The rainy season was starting up again. There were always a handful of thunderstorms every year, none quite so powerful or long as the ones on the southern coast, but the west in general had fairer weather. Earthquakes were far more dangerous here.

Carver ran his webbed hands through the water. The edges of his long fingers had taken a soft blue color that matched the thin membranes between them. Gold flecks spotted the webbing. His toes, long by human standards, also had webbing between them. Submerged long enough, they’d elongate into proper fins.

His banding pattern was the same blue and gold as his mother. The colors streaked across his limbs and the sides of his torso where scales lay just beneath the skin. Spines a deep blue, almost black, decorated the backs of his arms and lined the center of his back. They had barbs at the ends of them with paralytic venom, meant to stall prey long enough to consume it. The fangs retracted into his gums were designed for tearing flesh from bone. He kept his nails trimmed, but left alone, they grew into claws.

A siren’s strength didn’t lie solely in their predatorial attributes, however. No, they were feared for their allure. Everything about them, from their lean physiques to their perfectly symmetrical faces to the music of their voices, was designed to attract. Pleasure of the flesh was their real sustenance, not the meat itself.

Thomas sat beside the tub with a heavy sigh. The gold band around his left ring finger shimmered in the dim overhead lights. The muscle of many years of labor corded along his forearms and strained against the fabric of his shirt. Calluses from swinging hammers to hot metal covered his palms.

“You need to feed soon,” he remarked. “I’m sorry it can’t be me.”

Carver took a deep breath. The Court provided consorts for their siren employees. He had been resisting going, but with the gunshot wound, he would probably have to soon, lest he risk losing his control. The first couple times he’d fed after his mate died had felt like a betrayal. He’d vomited afterward. Time had lessened the revulsion, but had done little in returning Carver’s appetite. It would have been easier if he’d died with his mate like most sirens.

Pain shot up his arm from his ring finger again, and he held his breath until the ache subsided. He hadn’t taken off his ring for longer than a few seconds in the hundred twenty-five years he’d had it. But maybe this was for the best. He couldn’t carry Thomas with him forever, as much as his body wanted it.

“Don’t apologize,” he whispered against his better judgement.

Engaging with the hallucination of his dead mate was cautioned against by every psychiatrist he’d had. If he were honest with himself, he felt lonelier when Thomas wasn’t here—well, as here as here could be for a figment of his decaying imagination.

Thomas glanced askance at him. “I never wanted you to suffer for me like this. If I’d known it would have ended this way—”

“I would have married you anyway,” Carver whispered. “I would have married you a million times over and died as many deaths.”

Thomas didn’t respond.

A moment later, a tinny chime rang through the apartment. He leaned over the edge of the tub and reached up to the phone above the toilet. The cord was exceptionally long, so he didn’t need to leave the tub to hold the receiver to his ear.

“Carver,” he answered with a sigh.

“Good evening.” The deep, Imperial-accented voice of the Professor’s husband sounded no less smooth through the phone as it did in person.

“Hello, Damian,” Carver greeted with forced politeness. He was tired and feeling antisocial, but his manners wouldn’t let him show it.

“My wife informed me that you were shot earlier,” Damian explained, even though Carver knew exactly why he’d gotten a call.

Damian was the best doctor in the Republic—maybe in the world. At several thousand years old, he’d certainly had time to perfect his craft.

Carver glanced down at the pale, starburst scar over his pectoral where the bullet had torn through him. It had healed over already. The bath was only for comfort at this point. As a siren, Carver’s vitality was tied intimately with water—perhaps even more than sex.

“I think I’m all right,” he said. “I’m soaking in water right now.”

“Good. Did you add salt to your bath?” Damian’s clinical tone was oddly soothing.

“Yes.” Carver ran his hand over the water absently. It rose to meet him gently like an old friend.

“Do you have any shortness of breath or dizziness?”

“No.”

“Chest pain?”

“No.”

“Irregular heartbeats?”

“No.”

Carver kept answering all of Damian’s questions until the Professor said something indistinct through the phone.

“I’d feel more comfortable if I could examine him in person,” Damian muttered, and then after a pause: “What do you mean he’s fine? He was shot.”

“I am fine, Damian,” Carver said, trying to sound reassuring and not irritated. “I’ll let you know if anything is wrong.”

Damian sighed. “Call me if you experience any unusual symptoms.”

“Wilco.” Carver hung up and set the phone back in its cradle on the wall.

A minute had barely passed before it rang again. He sighed and pulled the phone to his ear.

“Is Damian coming over anyway?” he asked, confused as to why he was being pestered.

The Professor’s chuckle crackled through the receiver.

“No, much to his dismay,” she said, which prompted grumbling from Damian in the background. “I’m actually calling for business reasons.”

Carver ran a hand over his face, wanting nothing more than to fall asleep in his tub and forget about the world for a while.

“Yeah, sure,” he mumbled. “What’s up?”

“The Superiors were impressed that you found the wolf tonight.” The Professor drew out some of her words, as if she were contemplating something. “They’re less thrilled that she’s dead, and you got nothing out of her about the Garsuk.”

Carver sighed, anticipating this. The Garsuk were a group of extremist lycanthropes who believed in the eradication of all interracial unions. Being half-human himself, Carver was on their kill list, but it wasn’t just human unions they hated. They opposed any mixing of the races—vampires, sirens, fae, wolves, demons, shifters, or otherwise. A faction in the West had been hunting interracial preterns for a couple years, but they were too splintered to be much of a threat. Recent evidence suggested an organized unit had sprung up in a nearby city. The wolf Carver had killed was allegedly part of that unit, and now he’d never be able to confirm it one way or the other.

“I’m calling in an analyst,” the Professor continued. “Hopefully, he can help us get another lead with what we have.”

Carver frowned, disliking the idea of working with someone new. He got along with the Professor well enough, but he still preferred solitude.

“What analyst?” he asked.

“Jian used to be a senior member of the Court,” the Professor explained, “but don’t be fooled by the ‘senior’ part. He’s a decade or so younger than you.”

Carver probably should have held his tongue, but the Professor had always encouraged him to speak his mind. So he said, “I don’t know if it’s a good idea to bring an analyst in. We already have a lot to work with, and he may just slow us down by trying to find out things we already know.”

“Not this analyst.” The Professor sounded confident, which was more reassuring than Carver cared to admit. “He was a commander in the Red Army. He understands practicality.”

The Red Army was known for being as skillful as they were ruthless on the battlefield. Analysts worked at a desk. What a dramatic change in career.

“Why did he go from commander to analyst?” Carver asked, expecting anything from crippling injuries to PTSD.

“It’s not my story to tell.” The Professor paused a long moment, as if in thought. “Jian acts open and friendly, but he’s harder to read than an oral language. So, naturally, I’m sure you two will get along swimmingly.”

Carver elected to ignore that comment. “How can he help us?”

“His specialty is hunting people. If anyone can locate the Garsuk, it’s him.”

Thunder rumbled over the receiver.

“He hates this time of year,” the Professor added softly.

Carver glanced at the rain-spattered window beside the showerhead. “Is he averse to water?”

“Well, he is a demon. Prolonged inundation in water would kill him, but that’s not the only reason he hates the rainy season.” The Professor sighed. “Never mind. You’ll meet him yourself tomorrow.”

“All right, then. I’ll—” The pulse that seized Carver’s arm was the strongest yet. He clutched his ring finger, tempted to rip the offending appendage off right then.

“Fuck!” he hissed.

“Well, that’s not a nice word.” The Professor spoke lightly, but there was a note of real concern in her tone. “What’s wrong?”

He breathed through the pain until it ebbed. “I lost my wedding band in the fight earlier. My nervous system is upset by the absence.”

“Will you have to lose your finger?”

The softness of her voice irked him. People always looked on him with pity when they discovered his condition, like he really was as fractured as he felt—one splintered half of a whole, doomed to incompletion.

“Probably,” he muttered and glared down at his finger.

“I’ll ask the clean-up crew to look for the ring at the scene, but if they don’t find it—”

“I’ll be fine with one less finger.”

His work was necessary as the only thing keeping him sane. If the Professor refused him now, he’d just move on to the next job, but he would have preferred not to. This one was the best he’d had in years.

The Professor let out a long breath, sending a puff of static through the receiver. “We will discuss continuing your work with me tomorrow.”

That sounded like a threat, but before Carver could say as much, she added, “It’s not a punishment, Carver, and when I say ‘discussion,’ I mean just that. I am honestly wondering if you are fit to continue working with the Court. You are always starving. You are always in pain. You are never going to recover.”

Carver stared at the pale line on his finger, a deep ache as familiar as his shadow settling in his chest. Most sirens who survived their mate’s death killed themselves within a couple days if they weren’t cognitively crippled by the experience. He was arguably one of the lucky ones. His nervous system had endured the violent ripping of its other half to death’s hand, and he’d come out the other side with only a tremor, chronic nerve pain, and an appetite that was somehow both insatiable and absent. That was the price of survival—to be a ‘lucky one.’

He wasn’t lucky at all.

“Do what’s right for yourself, Carver,” the Professor murmured.

He didn’t respond—didn’t know how when an old grief constricted around his neck and stole his breath.

The line clicked out of connection.

He leaned back, compressing his spines against the tub. He was supposed to be dead now. From the moment he’d said his vows to a human with a tenth of his lifespan, he’d been prepared to die an early death. But then it hadn’t happened. And a century later, his choice had cursed him as an incurable illness.

The Professor was right. There was no recovery for him, just coping.

“Don’t lose this job, love,” Thomas said, but when Carver turned to look at him, there was only the empty bathroom.

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