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moondirti · 6 months ago

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𝐂𝐀𝐁𝐈𝐍 𝐅𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑, 𝐈𝐈 [18+]

familiar! ghost × witch! reader

you are a witch trapped at home by a devastating blizzard. ghost is the demon that answers your call. ( 2 of 3 /PREV )

DEAD DOVE. RATED E. HORROR EROTICA. 9K. – AO3 heed the warnings below and proceed at your own discretion.

warnings: NONCON. graphic depictions of gore. injury. cannibalism. blood licking. slaughtering + ingesting animals. violence. degradation. body horror. hypothermia. isolation. manipulation. corruption kink. religious imagery. dark!ghost. female reader. i know i said 2 parts total but now it's a 3er.

additional tags: groping. tit fondling. rough oral (male receiving). face-fucking. cum guzzling + eating. it’s all a little disgusting and not in the good way i fear.

𝐈𝐈.𝐈

The cottage is halfway buried under snow when you run out of firewood.

It should come as no surprise, though you stare down your emptied closet like the ground opened up and swallowed your remaining reserve. Out of body, you fail to confront the cold reality that has already seeped into your walls, freezing the splintered wood of your floors, instead standing stock-still as your mind sharpens its critical edge.

Only there is no one to direct your reproach to but yourself. Weeks ago, your rune casts had predicted a crippling whiteout, thus you set out to collect enough fuel to last you the season. Yet as night waxed on the third day of your efforts, and your hands started tearing bloody from splitting hardwood all on your own, that resolve debilitated rather quickly. Like sugar steeped in tea; your will to live was already in a decrepit state, and indeed, eagerly unravelled at the first sign of adversity. Suicidal, with hindsight. A passive play at death of which you were too fearful to try and seek for yourself.

It did not seem like that at the time, of course. Rather, you justified the fatuous decision to stop (after cutting down a mere three trees) by concocting an estimate of how long it would be before you could venture out for more. Based on absolutely nothing but a desperation to curl back on your couch, sore but sheltered, you gave it one month. One month until the storm would abate. Of restlessness, fermenting in a prison you call home. To your distorted sense, four-hundred pieces of firewood seemed plenty enough to get you through it, despite admittedly lacking even a basic working knowledge of wood arithmetic.

Counting the days now, you’re almost tempted to laugh. Almost. The shroud of horror that newly accompanies death since Ghost’s lesson triumphs, after all. You are more terrified than you would have been a week ago. Still, you were not wrong – the firewood had lasted a month – only the weather does not seem to be looking up, and you’re trapped inside a quickly cooling cottage with no source of heat to get you to the thaw. The possibility of fatal hypothermia looms closer, more dangerous. Eerily relevant–

(Just a year ago, you watched a man die from the warmth of your ancestral home, face down in fresh snow outside the parlour room window. Your ageing mother had invited the pastor’s son over to help repair the stairs left unattended since your father’s death, and the man had called your fascination with the corpse morbid, nail between two teeth as he hammered down a wooden plank.

No use starin’ at a dead man, lass. Not for a bonnie thin’ like you.

But you could not tear your eyes away from his mottled skin, the blue-black ends of his fingers. Even at his burial several days later, his face displayed the same, blank expression, perpetually cast by that winter’s frigid storm.)

You imagine yourself passing in a similar vein. It will take longer, you think. You’ll be dying for weeks as your blood courses slower through you, iced by the winds that howl down your chimney. Protected, but not enough, by these walls you have been banished to live within. Unable to get even a glimpse of sunlight before shutting your eyes for the last time, the snow packed up to your windows effectively burying you without ceremony. A forgotten tomb.

You wonder if Ghost would intervene, yet your speculation is brief. His words echo like he uttered them only moments ago. Fight or die. He has long established the volitional aspects of your relationship – he owes you nothing unless you ask, and if you do, then you would rather wish you were dead in lieu of what he asks for in return. No. He will merely watch as you take your last breath, satisfied that he was right, then scavenge your carcass for his next meal. Fated to wet his mouth like the picked off crow. A long-awaited feast.

Curling in on yourself, it is all you can do to bury yourself in clothes. Your vulnerability is often a fickle thing, you find, ebbing and flowing like seawater tides gradually gorging on their shore. There are periods you feel invincible; a being made of eternal magic, unmoved by the shifts in nature bid by time. Some sequoia, whose roots pierce deep into the earth and drink from freshwater wells unacquainted with human touch. A thing truly deserving of the title witch.

Other times – these times being of increasing occurrence since the arrival of your familiar – you cannot help but to shrink back into a girl again. Raw and tender and emotionally volatile. Naked, sore lungs, as you’re pulled from your mother’s womb and forced to embrace the harsh cut of air. Ghost watches from his usual corner, a spectre practically pulsing with this voyeuristic game he likes to play. You know he’s figured out the predicament you’ve put yourself in, can feel yourself quailing at the discredit his judgement affords. The layers serve a dual purpose, then – for warmth, and to grant brief reprieve from his gaze on your shivering form.

Three pairs of socks. A tunic, a fleece, a cardigan, and a coat. Skirts over your trousers. Gloves and a woollen hat.

By the end, you have a hard time moving at all. Certainly not enough to cook, or to try tunnelling a way out of the window. No point in reading if you can’t practise your magic, either; so you mutter a quiet ignition spell over the charred firewood from last night, hoping it lasts even half as long, before collapsing on the couch and willing yourself to sleep.

Only sleep does not come.

Or, it might. Yet your mind is so occupied with your condition that it does not allow you to fully lose consciousness. You’re attuned to every particle around you, overstimulated in the worst sense, still subjected to an unsettling sequence of half-dreams. Brain flickering through pale mirages of dead crows, ice floes, of capsized rafts in arctic waters, their hulls resembling slabs of marbled meat. As you drown, you shout for help and pique at the sound of it echoing in real life, tangible enough that it shakes you awake. You nearly strangle yourself trying to wind your quilt tighter around your shoulders afterward, burying your nose in a pillow and cupping your cheeks with frigid hands.

Eventually, time joins the distortion, and you have a hard time discerning whether it’s been hours or meagre minutes. The only indication is the way in which your body starts to ache with a pain so profound, it is as though you’ve been beaten. If you weren’t frustratingly cognizant of your surroundings the whole night, your first bet would have been to blame Ghost, or at least the threadbare couch you’ve been using as a bed erring too long now. Unfortunately, the true cause of your affliction is hard to misdiagnose; a violent, merciless shivering, your muscles made to tremble as if compelled to by electric shock. The teeth chattering kind – and it is exactly the rattle of ivory against ivory that serves as a makeshift timekeeper.

Click. Click. Clickclick. Click.

It must be two hours later when you bite your tongue and jolt completely awake from the pain, swathed in your quilt like the nesting doll that sat on your windowsill back home. Though the appendage bleeds, spreading metallic bitterness onto your teeth, you wonder for a brief moment whether you are alive at all. Foggy vision. Taut skin drawing lines down your cheeks from either corner of your eyes. When you squint, it tugs tighter, and you realise at one point you had started crying. It’s hard to tell without your nose hot and runny, or your lips swollen like overripe berries. Instead, you’re rendered to a shrivelled reflection of yourself, dried tear tracks setting the image in stone. The shadow looming above you seems to agree.

“Not dead yet. But only just.”

You wish you could say his voice is any softer than standard. That the stars aligned, or that this is an ideal world where the antediluvian creature occupying your home has tapped into his small pool of pity. But he nudges your knee with all the detached amusement he prescribes to most things, like he can’t understand why you’re so easily affected by the cold.

“Ghost?”

“Almost exclusively.” He mocks.

The couch dips near your feet. You do not register why until he scoops an arm into your quilt, pulling you from warm refuge and onto his lap instead. It isn’t in you to fight, merely mewling like a feverish cat as you reach a hand out to the cushion where you once lay. Wiggling your fingers, kicking your heels.

He swats your arm until it flops back to your side.

“If only y’could see yourself like this. Bloody pathetic, pet.”

“I’m c-cold.”

“Not doin’ yourself any favours, then. This,” He tugs at the coat barely hugging your shoulders, stretched taut over your bulky layers. “off.”

When you fail to listen, he takes the initiative for you, pulling it down your arms and towards some distant corner. You don’t miss it, necessarily – it hardly did anything to keep you warm – but you protest the loss as you would have done anything else; noisily, sniffing to suppress the fresh bout of tears spooling over your vision.

“Think you exhausted every option, hm? All you can do is curl over and cry?” With his hands now at your cardigan, thumbs hooked under the lapel, you search his eyes for indication of what he intends to do. Ghost is difficult to appreciate even on the best of days, but now, without the handy glow of fire or direct stream of sunlight, he’s practically impossible. Like two mountains stood tall with no valley in between them, no line of logic exists that can explain his actuality.

(And you’ve never been the logical type – there is no precise science to why goat fat and cumin work together to lure someone into love, or why you knew to stay away from the pastor who kept your mother company. Some things exist solely in magical proportions; limiting yourself to rational thought would be doing a great disservice to what they have to offer.

But confronting Ghost on a plane where he has the upper hand is a daunting task, so you stick to what rationale can place.)

“What are you–you doing?”

“Shut it.” He folds the cardigan around your hips, clasping a colossal palm onto the back of your neck. Though you’re used to being scruffed when he’s less than pleased with you, the purpose of this is far from dissatisfaction. You know it immediately. His skin, flesh, is warmer than anything you’ve felt in a long time. A quality of comfortable, penetrating heat that sinks into your nape and slowly works to defrost your marrow, your limbs, the icy film clinging to your brain. Your eyes roll shut almost instantaneously, body slumping forward to sink into his chest. Somewhere in the recesses of your mind, where the relief of warmth has not yet reached, you worry that he’ll push you off.

He does not.

Instead, his other hand slips under your fleece and tunic, smoothing over the knots of your spine to reach between your shoulder blades. There, his heat sinks to swathe your chest, and the weakly heart somehow managing to do its job, pumping blood that tickles your toes and fingertips. It drips down to your tummy too, where it weighs heavy like a tangible mass, and brings your pulse to the bud between your legs.

His touch there doesn’t last long; he pulls away only moments later, a tightness newly lifted off your sternum. One hand still kneads your nape, effectively keeping your face against his broad shoulder, but the other moves to collect your slack wrists together. It strikes you as unusual, sure, yet you’ve since surrendered your inhibitions for sake of survival. A cavewoman tradeoff. Your body purrs at the satisfaction of your baser instincts, happy to resort to this primitive state of impartiality, if only it means you’ll stay snug throughout the winter.

Yes. If anyone were to ask you right then, you would have seen it as not only plausible but entirely necessary to stay like this for the months to come. Sated and secure and just a hint impassioned, content to doze off on the lap of your tormentor. Already halfway there, lashes fluttering as you battle complete oblivion.

Only that isn’t what Ghost has in store, and he seems eager to break the illusion you hold in such high regard.

He releases your neck, guiding you to sit upright upon his tree-trunk thighs. When you object by reaching for his hands again, you find that your own are securely fixed behind your back. Completely immobilised.

Sensation slowly trickles back to you. Once numb, your skin now comes alive with frayed nerve endings, crackling, hair standing on its ends. What you find, alarmingly, is your place within a twisted example of the lesson Ghost has been attempting to teach. The lightness on your sternum not as metaphorical as you had assumed – rather, the bandages binding your breasts have been unwrapped to treacherously hitch your wrists together. The rough fabric excoriates the surface of your forearms.

Your breathing accelerates. If you’d been freezing before, you’re thoroughly iced now. Shock races through your system and persecutes everything that lulled you into this position. Stupid, stupid, stu–

“Ghost.” You hiss. “Ghost. This is-isn’t funny.”

He doesn’t respond, rolling your top to reveal the soft stretch of your navel. It involuntarily retracts when he flits over your belly button, dodging the unwelcome spread of his fingers. Your body's way of protesting, for all you lean into his touch. Too tempting not to, really. Something in him burns; perhaps a furnace in place of his heart, or a piece of hell he takes with him wherever he goes.

That primitive voice grows louder, whispering deceptively in your ear that it’s fine, let him touch you. So long as you stay warm.

You shake your head as if to jerk the instinct off your crown. Lips pursed tight now, the hand on your belly slowly climbing up. Up.

“Stop it. Stop this, I d-don’t want it.”

“I know.” He says, pressing his thumb into your waist. It digs until it hits a rib, tenderising muscle. You’re a lamb on a spit, spun slowly, roasted over an open flame. How silly of you to lean into the burn. Short-sighted to decide that it’s better than the cruel press of winter. You’ll be eaten like this.

“Then g-get the fuck off me!” You yelp, swaying on your haunches in a bid to knock yourself off his lap. Your arms are useless, but that does not mean you cannot fight. “I order you!”

That pulls a laugh from him. Or, what sounds like a laugh. As with everything, it’s his estimate of a human one, like the cicada mimics the bird; not as melodic, rather striking you with disgust so potent you feel your nausea reawakening. You might just hurl.

“And wha’ will I be granted in return? Nothin’ you have that’ll convince me to unhand you, pet.” Ghost rucks your tunic to your shoulders at last, exposing your bare breasts to bitter air. Though he gives them no time to pebble up, large paws enveloping both mounds and squeezing until your breath syphons from your lungs. “Haven’ seen a pair of tits in decades. Suppose you humans do have somethin’ going for you.”

Your words startle in your throat. Nothing about it is pleasurable, nor does he intend for it to be. His fingers take your nipples; rolling, tugging, pinching. Nails dig crescent cuts into the darkened skin there, perhaps searching for blood. He certainly treats it as though blood is the aim, and you wonder whether you’re to be hung from your bust to drain onto his waiting tongue. Just as one might press olives, no care for their pulpy bodies but only the rich oil they produce. Grease to slick their pans, to moisten their mouths.

You’ll be eaten like this.

“Stop, please.”

“Wonder what y’would look like plump with milk. Nursing my litter, rounded out with another dozen.” He sucks his teeth, contemplative. “Body wouldn’t handle it, f’you ask me. Stronger women than you ‘ave tried.”

Have. It hurts to think about. Hurts more when the insult of his words truly resonates. Stronger women. That is to say you have been exiled for nothing. That with a year of solitude and occult practice, you are just as feeble as before. Is this why he ate your crow? To prove to you that he could?

The tide pushes back out. In a great swell of loam and brine, your hatred crashes vengefully onshore. You muster all of it, dipping pails into the water and letting it weigh heavy on your shoulders. It is almost negligible, you find. You scarcely feel its burden when fuelled by a focused point to your antipathy. Your teeth stop chattering. You glare daggers.

“Let me go.”

Your final plea rolls over him like all the ones before it. “But you’re a witch, aren’t ya? Brew up a little elixir to pull yourself through the whelping. Maybe then you’ll realise how much you long to stay alive.”

Your neck snaps back. Before you can think it through, you thrust your head towards his face. There’s a crunch, a dizzying moment of choked silence, then a hot burst of moisture down your face. For a naive moment, you think you must have struck gold. You imagine drawing back to find his mask sticky with blood, or tar, or whatever demons have thrumming through their veins. A raw testament to your resolve, if he should ever underestimate it again.

But the mirage is as naive as your mother. Eventually the pain catches up to you. You realise the iron-tang at the back of your throat is not the dreg of satisfaction. The tears slipping past your lashes no longer wrought from misery. Everything, rather, an immediate response to the sore condition of your nose. Misshapen and swelling already.

Ghost hums. You hoped to see him grovelling in pain by now. The battered expectation somehow makes his condescension worse.

“Good to see y’find your spirit,” His head tilts, bullying yours into remaining still, fingers knitted firmly in your hair. “but it’s misplaced.”

Given his derision, you know not to rejoice when his other hand leaves your chest. Your shirt slumps lamely back over your figure as he lifts the edges of his mask, folding it over his mouth. In the dark, it’s difficult to map the nuances of his exposed jowls. There’s a pale curve there, a disfigured line here. Your sinuses twinge when your stare narrows, cutting through murk to place the shape of his lips.

It’s futile. You have no way to jam the gaps; no way of knowing whether he’s all man, all demon, or a foul mix of the two.

The one thing that glimmers with definition is the string of spit when he unlatches his jaw, long tongue striking like a wound-tight cobra. You would flinch if you could, eyes pruning shut, but his grip keeps you steady in place as he laves a forceful path up your chin. Tasting the metallic leak of blood, all the way up to its source.

You see it coming. Still, you can’t help but scream when he works his tongue around your nose. Loosed bones shift under your skin, steadiness fractured, cartilage support dipping inwards against the assault. He groans, and in spite of your impaired sense of smell, you get a whiff of rot-hot breath. It must all be a terrible dream, you think. The hardened muscle pressing against your inner thighs, the viscous web of saliva stretched across your face. It’s cold and you’re sweaty, and everything about the past month – the past year – seems like it has been especially curated to torment you. You would wake from this any second.

He gathers the salty drips off your eyes, the blood, every grief coating your skin. Agony blinds you – so profound it takes shape, colour. You squirm in your binds, ragged shrieks ripping from your throat.

It echoes even after he breaks away. If it weren’t for the sudden coolness of spit drying within your cupid’s bow, you would think he was still making a feast of you.

“Tha’ got you to settle, hm?”

You shake your head, exhausted. “You said–”

“I said fight, or die.” He huffs. You let silence swathe your lips, pursing them as thin as you can manage without exacerbating your injury. “Yer fighting to die, pet.”

“I just want to be left alone.”

“‘N’ what d’you think will come of that?”

“It shouldn’t m-matter.” Your conviction sound hollow when spoken aloud. If he hears it, he uses it as an incentive to strip your top back over your chest. Like a hot wire pushed through your ribcage, his warm hands toast you from the outside in. It is in your best interest not to shiver in delight; though you are still dreadfully cold, and your injury makes it difficult to pigeonhole any alleviation to your pain. “You can’t-t-t defile me on the grounds of greater good.”

Ghost laughs again. “Ain’ pretending this is for the greater good, pet. The world will thank me if one more witch freezes to ‘er death.” You’re yanked further up his lap. “I let you go, you’ve got four, five hours tops ‘till your heart fails. You wan’ to live?”

You shake your head, fervent tremors batting your pout. A nonanswer seems the only manner of resistance, now. “Not like this.”

“Clever. Tha’ still tells me you do.” He pinches the knotted peaks of your breasts, twisting until you buck wretchedly onto his pelvis. “And I wan’ to spend my evenin’ playing with your tits. A fair compromise, then.”

What sort of familiar makes the demands? You contemplate berating him out loud, lunging for the dirty insult to beat at his status like he did yours. With no room for taking the high ground, you will do anything so long as you can later say you bared your claws. So you do not wonder, for countless sleepless nights, if there was something more you should have done. You will be mean. You will go low. You will condemn him to a fate of eternal dissatisfaction, so that no matter how much he eats or kills or takes, he will always feel his stomach a gnawing pit.

Though something tells you he will not succumb to scrutiny against his honour. There is no code for creatures like him, who floss their teeth with crow meat and pluck the nipples of girls who grant them shelter. Nothing to hold them to expect the conditions of their summons.

Perhaps that’s just it.

You stir. It feels much like magic, when an incantation rolls off the tongue just right and the air shifts to accommodate it. Your heart vibrates behind your sternum, power bloating your veins, ricocheting within your skin. If Ghost feels it, he doesn’t falter.

“Be sure, demon.” You rasp, drawing your intent taut in your chest like a bowstring. He hums but does not stop, kneading your flesh to conform to the creases and calluses of his hands. “Be sure that’s what you want. I could give in without further fuss and be like a docile rabbit on your lap. That way, you will have taken two things from me tonight.”

The liquid of his eyes shifts quick. You catch its gleam in the little light, and it pleases you enough to deliver the rest of your covenant.

“By the spell that brought you here, you are bound to do what I sacrifice for.” You pause a moment. “In exchange for the blood you have ingested off my face, you will dig this house out of the snow. And for my virtue, this one evening allowance of which you have already taken upon yourself, you will collect my firewood until the season clears.”

Ghost makes an indiscernible noise from underneath. You can not tell if he is peeved or pleased, and the ambiguity shakes you. You expected some sort of acknowledgment or counter to your trick. Instead, he does not speak on it. No pitch or complaint, protest or taunt.

He just sits there, pawing at your chest like a satiated dog.

(And come morning, when your breasts are raw and tender to the touch, he tunnels the snow around your cottage and returns hours later with a hundred cedar logs for the kindling.)

𝐈𝐈.𝐈𝐈

She prefers him in the daylight

Sun floods her little home when it rises and keeps it bright until it sets. Whereas the dark plays tricks on mortal eyes, oil lamps flickering, casting shadows that always resemble something else. She likes training an eye on what he does in his usual corner; but come night, she can’t trust what she sees. Thus, her confidence strains. She flinches at every sound. Any movement will have her tucking deeper under her quilt. His empty-eyed stare glows more sinister, if anything is to be assumed by the way she will crack her grimoire open and mouth protective spells like prayers.

Perhaps she’s afraid she caused offence, that he mulls over a punishment to teach her not to make a fool of him again. Perhaps it plagues her that she cannot stop him if that is the case. He does not tell her that, already, the worst possible thing that can confront her has. Though of course she isn’t privy to it, it’s been a month since he decided against making a meal of her. Everything he does now is moderate in comparison. He’s being good.

Good, yes. In the evenings, he will venture out to do her bidding. The timing grants her a few hours rest, then, and him an opportunity to hunt for his dinner.

Good, because he waits until he’s a mile out to transform to his truer self. It is easier to strip trees of their branches and snap their spines when he stands over two metres tall. Not so easy to mend the fragile tolerance she’s gained for him, which is sure to shatter if she catches sight of his monstrosity. He eludes the possibility entirely, then.

Good, because Ghost refrains from agitating her more than he already has. And his intention in doing so does not change that decency.

That is to say, he hasn’t grown a heart. He does not care for the girl. But the passivity that necessitated his savagery has since come to pass. She’s grown claws. She fights for her say and punches through life with guile. Any more and he would be faulting her for it, like burning the meat he tumbled through mud to slaughter. It is down to him to take it off the roast, now, to revel in the succulent bite. He’s got her right where he wants her.

With some brief tampering on his part – laying out the temptation like a breadcrumb trail into the woods – she broke her invisible vow not to ask him for anything. Has it not made her life that much simpler? Her hearth burns bright and warm everyday; she does not have to worry about keeping it lit for the remnants of winter. He picks cedar for its aroma, it's even char, and she would not have access to that if it weren’t for his ability to tackle the sturdy tree. All it took was her debauchment, the vitiating of character to match his.

(And really, how debauched was it if she only endured his groping for one night?)

It isn’t too much to want, he thinks.

She thinks so too. Or otherwise decides it's worth the risk.

It is late into the evening and his dinner sits fresh in his belly, fire chewing away at the split logs he emptied into the pit earlier. The air is thick with cloying cedar and the mephitic scent of potion-brewing, his pet crouched over a bubbling pot. She has been at it for hours, the same nightly routine since she broke her nose. Tadpoles and feverfew and sage, chanterelle and wishbone and sand. Stirred, brought to a boil, thickened with spit. Then scooped out and smothered over her sore face. A modest poultice, turned cast, to help her mend correctly over weeks.

He wonders if she considered bothering him to heal her. He certainly can. But it appears as though she enjoys keeping her hands busy. Toiling through time, grinding away like water does the earth. In the aeons he’s been around, he’s seen mountains chipped away, rocks change shape, rivers bend over time – and it is always the same eternal petulance. Stubborn mediocrity built into something larger. Endurance over brute force. He doesn’t pretend to understand it, but he can recognise a reflection of it in her craft.

But she is not eternal. Every mortal has their limits.

Ghost sees the iron grow filigree in her eyes, calculations imprinting onto her resolve. When she stands and turns to him, he almost expects it. The past quarter hour has built up to this ambitious ask, whatever it may be, and he’s mapped every battle she’s held within herself over the course of it. She does not want like he does. It is only extraneous circumstance that would lead her to his service.

“I started it later than I usually do.” She mumbles, lips twisting like maggots. The hollows under her eyes are prominent, both exhaustion and hunger trimming her down to a sorry state. “I need sleep, but this can’t be heated beyond a boil.”

His cock chubs up in his trousers, aching as an array of possibilities occur to him in that second. Would he split her cunt on his fingers? Would he make her set it down atop his tongue? Her skirt leaves much to the imagination, but he imagines it bright and faithful in his head. Darker on the outside than in, glazed with pellucid slick, and shrouded in a matting of hair. The thought alone funnels salivate to the underside of his tongue.

He meets her eye, shoulders curving inward, poised to pounce.

Then, her brow spasms, and the wolfish instinct unravels as fast as it materialises.

No. He cannot push it too far, not when she asks for something so little. It took all her energy to come to him now. She will never consider it again if he exploits that beyond equal measure.

So, Ghost stands, stalking over to the cauldron and his pet. He often forgets how small she is until she cranes her neck to look up at him, all owlish blinks and delicate fingers latticed together, anxious for his response.

“I’ll wake you.” He says. The tension in her forehead ebbs immediately, eyelids sagging now that he confirmed her ingredients will not waste. Though she doesn’t move, and he makes her stand there until he determines on an appropriate return.

Moments later, he wraps an arm around her. His hand finds the jut in her skirt, where it protrudes to lap over her arse, and squeezes around the fat of one cheek. Even with the layers separating them, she is supple like softened butter. She makes a sound like a trapped mouse, jumping to the balls of her feet. The noise doesn’t deter him; he holds it there until he’s satisfied his grip will bruise.

“There we are.” When he releases her, she stumbles backwards to find her bearings against the cool press of the wall. Puts a safe distance between them. Yet her stunned silence is intoxicating, and he has to actively suppress the gluttonous urge for more. Nothing is sacred when he gets like this. “That’s us even, then.”

She nods. It is a wonder she manages to sleep at all.

(Unfortunate that the potion to heal her broken nose steals stock from her kitchen shelves. Day by day, he’s watched her sacrifice her fungi and herbs to the cauldron, prioritising recovery over sustenance. Unfortunate that she is still unable to go out for more. The winter whips cruel and merciless winds for anyone who dares step out into its storm.

Unfortunate. But not moving enough.

It is intentional silence on his part, then. For the day will come where she opens her cupboards to eat and finds them lined with dust.

And on that day, he will be there.)

𝐈𝐈.𝐈𝐈𝐈

Ghost takes his meals outside.

That is, when he comes back lugging a dead beast and a tree behind him. You’ll watch from the window as he places the latter to the side, sinking to his knees to feast on whatever he caught that day. It always varies: hares, owls, rodents. An elk if he’s lucky. Today, it is a fox.

Your heart knots with pity, mourning for the mammal who cannot grieve itself. Eyes blank and jaw swung open. Its fur, which typically strikes as a vivid red, can only look dull when set by the blood it leaves in its trail, tangled in the entrails bursting from its belly. The demon never minds the hair, nor the carnage. He balances on his haunches and pulls his mask up, sinking his teeth into the softest parts of his spoils.

Though no one holds you to the frosted glass – chanting look, you have to look – you insist on bearing witness. The gore never grows easier to behold; everytime, it is the same revulsion that stews nausea at the sight. But you sit and suffer it anyway. If anyone were to ask you why, you would be hard-pressed to find an answer.

Perhaps it is to build a tolerance for nature’s brutality. Ghost’s lesson with your crow has carved an irreplicable torment within you, revealing the jeopardy you face should you continue down your meek path. Exposure therapy is good justification, then, when your personal improvement thus far has only wrought merit. Your magic begets greater effect. You feel your self-possession flourish your spirit. Even your familiar has staved off the trouble, and you can not ask for a greater success.

But that does not capture the core of the matter. Perhaps that is to be found in him, instead.

Because when Ghost eats, his visage will fluctuate. You do not think it is something he’s mindful of. None of it looks intentional – he does not bid whetted talons or teeth, features that would aid him in gutting the fox. Rather, they appear like fish beneath a rippling brook. Swift, transient flashes of another form.

He sucks down an intestine, and his burly legs stretch so the joints are equidistant. They snap backwards, digitigrade heels extending, before you blink and they’re human once more.

He laps at a puddle of blood, and his mask parts to reveal two ivory prongs that steadily grow from his head. They curl, winding around his temples as ram horns do, only to disappear as your arid eyes burn.

He tears into cartilage, and his exposed skin flakes like charred wood. The liver; his torso extends and thins. The brain; his breath condenses to black ash, as yours would ghostly vapour in cold air. None of it permanent. All of it haunting.

The first time you saw it, you chalked it up to phantasm. Lack of sleep, insufficient nutrition. Searching for monstrosity that would better connect to the horror unfurling before you. So you set out to observe. Incessantly. Again and again and again – validating what you saw, though you received confirmation upon the second instance long ago. Sure enough, each day he reveals different parts to a whole. Excrescent spines and lofty feet. Things that have been urging for a spot in the sun, pressing under his skin.

It’s the nesting doll all over again. Little matryoshka faces, each opening to reveal a smaller version of itself within. If you are the innermost one, then Ghost is the sisyphean effort to close them over each other in descending order. Unfeasible. Too large to comfortably remain within his confines. The wood will eventually snap in your struggle, and all the painted pieces will scatter across the floor.

(You remember him just then. Craggy charm and blue eyes. Crafty hand – the same to restore your mother’s staircase – whittling the doll when you suggested he couldn’t. He wore a cross no matter the day, a habit of his father’s doing, and the silver pendant would sway with the paring motion of his hands. Lustrous against tanned skin. No doubt forged by him, too.

He used to call you macabre. Though it was footling fun at the time, you can’t help but grasp at what he meant as you track the steaming slaughter outside.)

“Do you like it?”

Water rushes into a tin basin, its metallic clang a forceful, echoing percussion. The noise is insufferable, grating on your ears, but you would rather it than have Ghost tow the pungent smell of death into your home. With his back turned to you, he washes his hands and mouth of dinner’s remnants, faucet spitting frigid reserves into the kitchen sink.

His head twists a fraction, pupils coasting to assess you in his peripheral. Small talk is not commonplace. In the weeks you have coexisted, you can count your conversations on both hands. They always seem to prefer the path of internal dissection instead, judgments flung at one another through glares and body language and not much else.

“Be more specific.” He grunts, facing his task again. From your place on the couch, you can see the way he picks his nails for stubborn shreds of fat.

“Fox.”

A sliver of pale skin, bared where his mask ends at his nape, twitches. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Ammonic. Greasy. Tough all ‘round. Slippery little fucks, too.” His voice is softer when he isn’t being caustic. Skipping over enunciations, the typical rumble in his chest quieted to a hum. “There are easier, more rewardin’ meals.”

You imagine what he may be referring to. Of every creature on this earth, only one does not have the benefit of evasion. Predators are sheltered by hierarchical canopies, demons like Ghost so powerful that they do not have to watch their backs. Birds of prey have their wings, fish their slippery scales. Even deer – slender and pregnable – are granted fleet-footed instincts rivalled only by the Pantheon’s messenger himself. It is only you, human, that is condemned to spindling, slow inelegance. Perhaps it is why so many are intellectuals, worshipers, terrors – why you yourself are a witch, sapping nature for her wares of which you do not come by naturally. That is the way things turn. Assuming the offensive to offset one’s shortcomings.

And turn back again; your effort has only imperilled you further. There is a cannibal, a monster, a man inside of your home. And you beckoned him here.

Even as the revelation occurs to you, you can’t stave your ambition. Of course you do not parley with Ghost for the sake of it. There is nothing this new knowledge grants. But since he left to do his day’s errands, your stomach has made its presence known. Opening up like an early grave, emptiness gnarled beneath a soil bed as with roots of a tombstone tree. Every moment, every word, you are reminded of its cavity. Too long, it says, you’ve ignored the pangs of hunger that seized this trench in an iron fist. Priorities, you would reply, as you surrendered food to brew your poultice. And so your nose is healed, great, but your shelves are empty and your head is faint. Hunger surplants the cold as your imminent killer.

“My mum taught me how to fix a good stew.” You begin, rolling your sticky tongue and tucking both hands beneath your bottom, cautious not to set this mousetrap off yourself. The pressure is grounding, at least; you match your breathing to the pulse you feel in your fingertips. “I trust it would be better than raw meat.”

A pause. Ghost’s spine straightens. Then, a panic. You’re thrown off your conviction when your chest flutters and you feel it in your brain. Where is that wily being? The woman who cheated her familiar into a season’s worth of labour? You feel as though you have regressed; screeching infant, lungs flaring with a rush of new air. You cannot face this, you think, but you’re already halfway out into the world. The sink squeaks off.

You just pray your stomach doesn’t make noise in the new silence.

“Is tha’ so?” He says, though does not turn to look at you just yet.

“I could try.” The words bubble like bile in your throat. It is in your best interest to stay quiet. Say no more. He’s being ambiguous so you will reveal too much in turn. The game is transparent. You can see the water-worn rocks on the river bed, so clear it’s like they’re clasped between your hands instead. Yet– “If I had the ingredients for it, ‘course.”

There. The lip of the cliff. How odd of you to see it only as you plummet towards a frothy scree. Ghost snaps, live lightning in heated air, or otherwise like the rocks that impale you on landing. In two strides, you’re cornered by a creature with scorn harrowing the space between its brows. You were stupid not to plan an escape route, stupid to arm yourself with nothing but flimsy subtlety. There was always the risk of it coming to this, you knew that.

“You think y’can rummage for loopholes, hm?” He leers, eyes searing holes into yours. “A trick is only charmin’ on the first go, pet. More than once and y’start to stink of stale piss.”

“I don’t–”

He snatches your jaw, thumb and ring fingers digging an aching grip onto either side. Your protest warbles pathetically, dies, chokes you with its rot. It’s difficult, no– impossible to decipher what he's mad at. A small, fresh part of you actually hoped he’d see your cunning as artful. But it seems your station has come back to haunt you; another mortal whose brain cannot keep up with her heart. Even if one is in the right place, you will go about chasing it in the wrong direction. Artful is too shiny of a laurel, then. Trick, too, is being charitable

“Do not play coy with me, girl. I do not take kindly to underhand deals.” Snarled right above you, spit spattering across your face. Your mandible squeaks, bone-deep pain flaring where he tightens the pressure around your face. Fox blood flavours his breath. There is a ringing in your head – shrill, like water in the tin sink. “If you need something from me, you will admit it and cope with the terms I have in turn.”

“I-I’m sorr-eeeee.” Your apology wheezes thin when he thrashes your head in place. It is either that or the relentless force on your jaw that tears a new world of pain down your neck. The tears are reactionary, then. Hot and foggy and not at all a sign of fear. “Ah- I’m sorry! I won’t– I didn’t mean to offend y-you.”

“S’too fuckin’ late for that. You’ll follow through, before I take wha’ I want anyway.” He shakes his head. “Ask nicely for what y’need then, pet. Go on.”

“Nothing! Nothing anymore, please. Jus’ let me go, Ghost.” Perhaps the universe disdains your insincerity, because in a hand dealt by its inexorable irony, your stomach buckles and purls a foul sound. Like it heard your words and protests the withdrawal, gurgling out loud to whoever will address it instead.

And he does. He does.

“You’re hungry, hm? That it?” He shoves your limp body onto the floor, dismissive of the pleas you now regulate to your feet, thrashed wildly to strike at his shin. Everything he does is callous, mean, agitated like the sulphur and magma that run thick beneath the earth’s crust. And though it is not your first encounter with a creature of that ilk – you have had your run-ins with over-excited men – the intentionality behind it has never been more flagrant. Ghost does it to hurt you. “Yeah, been neglecting you, haven’ I? Forgot pets couldn’ feed themselves.”

“I’w scrounge somefing up mysef.” You struggle, speech impeded as he crushes your cheeks inwards. Pearl dust flakes your gums.

“Should ‘ave thought of tha’ before. Even if I end up breakin’ every bone in that fine skull of yours, I won’t let up. Say it, then, you daft thing.”

The scaling of your options is instantaneous. Even as your immediate conscious lags behind, activity lights the back of your head and cracks its way out of your mouth before you can catch it. It took weeks for your nose to heal, much less your skull. You’re consuming fuel quicker than you can replenish, running on a backlog of quick-burning fat. And all of it can be taken care of if you just give in, to what will likely only be a few hours of degradation.

(Cavewoman. Primordial. Primitive impartiality, or survival of the fittest. The world has only come so far since then, and even within its concentrated civilizations, there is no aegis but for those who come up on top. You cannot expect your liberties to be met anywhere. That, you know too well.

But here, in this feral forest, at least you can use the violation to your benefit. At the very least, you will not be exiled, cast as witch for taboo of saying the greater word.

You are already macerated on rock bottom. And at the barren abyss of all leasts, Ghost will not hang a cross pendant above you as he stomps it in.)

He must see the surrender wet your eyes, for the grip on your jaw lessens.

“I am hungry.” You cry, finally, lashes fluttering shut so as to guard your tears. “I am hungry. This winter has dashed my garden and I do not know how to hunt. The cushions jab into my ribs when I sleep. I feel as though my stomach will consume me from the inside out, and I’m desperate. I am desperate, and I am so, so hungry. And I am asking for your help. Please.”

If there was any part of you that still believed he would choose pity, it is muffled and killed. You hear the scratch of fabric as he undoes his pants. Final, failing. Rustled hand behind confines, stench of musk stiffening the air. For a few seconds, you opt to remain blissfully ignorant – keep your eyes closed and imagine that the presence before your face is something different. A purifying flame, tender cut of meat, a smiling face before things fell downhill. It all sounds too good to be true, and they are. Sooner or later, you tell yourself, you have to face the misery.

So, you force yourself to behold it before he takes that upon himself.

His cock is heavy. Fat and oversized, length not having suffered for its breadth. Ruddy where the head peaks from an uncut tip, hard already, but bowed under the weight of itself. If you had anything to expel, you would’ve done so by now. A thicket of hair fledges his groyne – a shade of dark that pales his scarred skin in comparison – and it reeks of sweat and miasma.

He taps it on your cheek, prespend sticky and warm. You flinch as though you have been beaten.

“Just one thing af’er the other with you, pet. Think this’ll give y’something to fix yourself on.”

“I don’t– I’ve never–” His thumb hooks over your bottom teeth, prying your trap as wide as it can go. Drool slicks the cracked hinges of your lips. “Don’ know how.”

“Not what I’m lookin’ for.” He purrs, cruel humour gracing his tone. Somehow, it is not a reassurance as much as it is a snub. “Jus’ keep your teeth out of the way.” Humiliation washes your neck and ears, rush of blood like white river rapids behind your ears. It is the final swatch, trumpet to armageddon, before your ruin. You suck in a breath and bring your mouth to him.

Ghost meets you halfway, treating the crown of your head as an anchor to thrust forward. Immediately, you let slip his only rule, teeth snapping reflexively at the intrusion. You expect to be backhanded, have your hair ripped from your scalp in relation, or worse. It is a relief, then, when the only force you receive is a knock against your jaw. The rapping shakes your cotton-lined skull, snaps you out of your stupefaction, and you slack all muscles to accommodate his demand.

The mass feeding down your throat vibrates, an appreciative hum coursing through his body. “There you are, little jezebel. Look a’ you takin’ my cock so well.”

You make no effort to glide your tongue along his veins. To make this pleasurable for him beyond what he takes for himself. True to his word, your familiar does not punish you for it. He knots his hands around your head and fucks your face, careless, cock rearranging the anatomy of your neck as it bludgeons a straight path down. You sway, ragdoll with the motions, knees rubbing abrasively across the floor as he slides you back and forth over it.

Hypoxia spots your vision, lungs clenching furiously at the obstructed flow of oxygen. You would fasten it all shut, close yourself off from the world, but your eyes bulge a little at the edges, stagnant blood keeping them arid and open. It’s hard to dissociate. Hard to pretend that the steel-wool friction at the tip of your nose, the pendulum-consistent slaps on your chin, are not his pubic hair and balls searing unmistakable marks on your skin. And your series of gags are sloppy, lewd out in the confined air of your home. How could they be anything but damnation? There is no deluding the Maker.

(No matter how fervently he tried. Marry me, proposed down on both knees. It’ll set this whole fankle right. We’ll hold hands an’ seek penance at the kirk before th’ceremony. My pa will officiate. Yer ma will be thrilled.)

Snot bubbles from your nose, cheeks slick with tears and wayward spit. When he batters forward, it amalgamates in the soft palate beneath your spasming tongue. When he draws out, he takes it with him, viscous strings of saliva bridging the gap. It streams down to your neck, glosses your lips, webs your lashes together. You feel buried beneath its stifling coat, set down into your grave at last. Maggots worm their way into the soft matter of your brain, eat away at the tissue until there’s nothing left but suffocation. Death. Throttling void.

Your hands flail out, seeking an end to it, but all you find is Ghost.

He slows down once he nears his end.

The bruising pace he set stutters, balls tightening against your submental. It catches you off guard because, for the past ten minutes, you accustomed yourself to the patterns of his push and pull. For every plunge, there is a retreat, where you will greedily feast on fresh air before being choked back down on his cock. It is a break of tide, an opportunity to paddle your way above water to clear sea-salt from your hollows. A bay to hold onto so you do not drown.

Until now; his forearms twitch and you’re kept in place, forehead squashed onto his mons. You panic, hold on your breath breaking. The heady scent of sweat sweeps over you, laced with the tart products of your mouth – saliva and blood from where your canine pierced your cheek. Prespend, too. The undiluted stink of him. Hair tickles your lips. Your cunt flares, sudden, slickening the chafe of your thighs, but the unwelcome arousal does nothing for you.

He holds your head down and spurts his load into your gullet.

There is no room to swallow. It goes in the wrong direction, then – upward – and out your nose. You squeeze your eyes shut, disgusted scream gargling around his throbbing appendage. Distress bloats your head, temples feverish and sweating, nails digging deep impressions into your palms. It’s futile. Useless. Nothing thwarts him but the last dregs of semen spitting out onto your tonsils, pumping himself dry until finally, finally–

Ghost pulls out. You collapse onto the carpet and hack up cum until your throat bleeds.

The silence afterwards is mortifying, tension palpable enough to writhe up against. Drained, you’ve since pressed your cheek into the puddle of filth, urging pearlescent spend to seep into the fibres below. It'll be a nightmare to clean later, you process slowly. Perhaps you’ll use the bleach, and take the same sponge to your lips.

The monster above you tuts at the display, crouching to your level when you exhibit no interest in rising to his.

“C’mon, sweet. Wouldn’t want to waste your dinner now.”

But you’re too weak to lift your head. So Ghost gathers your hair, puppeteering – in a manner rather gentle for your assailant – until you can lap his essence off the floor.

It tastes like raw venison. You snivel your thanks, and imagine it is exactly that.

i do not have a taglist. to be alerted when i update, please follow @moondirti-archive and turn on post notifs.

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neos127 · 6 months ago

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SHOW A LITTLE LOVING — SJY

sim jaeyun x fem!reader; wc. 1.2k genre. fluff+ fake dating to lovers cw. none! just some kissing notes. inspired by the hot tub scene in tatbilb!!

you didn’t know what came over you. the idea was probably stupid, fueled by your best friend minji who was convinced that jake sim had fallen for you.

fake dating came with it’s difficulties, one being not knowing when to call quits. you were ready to break off your deal with jake to make his ex, minjeong, jealous, not wanting to be dragged along on your school’s ski trip and see them together again. but jake insisted, wanting to continue the charade a little longer. unfortunately you couldn’t say no— or else you’d have to explain that the reason you wanted to end things was because you had fallen in love with your fake boyfriend.

but despite your doubts, jake might’ve felt the same way, and you were ready to find out.

as you walked outside towards the back of the ski lodge, your stomach twisted uncomfortably. your mouth dried up and you fidgeted with your hands as the boy you were looking for came into view. just as your friend predicted, he was sitting in the hot tub all alone. his eyes were on the water, seeming bored as he made random small splashes with his hands.

as soon as you walked up to the hot tub, jake met your eyes.

“hi.” you said softly before taking off your slippers and climbing over the ledge. you sat on top of the hot tub, letting your legs submerge into the illuminated blue water. the lights of the tub reflected on jake’s handsome face and you felt your breath catch in your throat. it also didn’t help that he wasn’t wearing a shirt- it was the first time you had seen him without one.

“hey, y/l/n.” jake mumbled, a lazy smile appearing on his lips. a giddy smile came over yours and you looked down to avoid his gaze, feeling insanely flustered already.

“you totally ditched me this whole trip. could’ve taught me how to ski.” you spoke up after a few seconds, looking at jake’s face again.

“oh, so i’m supposed to be all friendly with you even though you didn’t even bother to sit with me on the bus ride here?” jake scoffed, causing you to wince a bit.

“you got to sit with minjeong. isn’t the whole point of us doing this fake dating thing is to make her jealous and bring you guys back together?” you shrugged, lightly kicking the water. jake lightly rolled his eyes and leaned against the wall of the hot tub.

“y/n, how have you not figured it out yet?” jake asked sounding slightly frustrated. your heart began to pound in your chest, the sound drowning out the jets of the tub. was he insinuating what you were thinking?

“what are you talking about?” you raised an eyebrow, watching as jake glanced over to the snow on the hill beside the lodge. suddenly he seemed nervous.

“i wanted to sit with you, y/n. i even packed those rice balls you love so much.” jake replied, playing with the water again. you mulled over his words, realizing what he had said.

“wait- you did? but the store they’re from is all the way across town.” you said, surprised that he had thought to do something so nice for you. he seemed to care way more than you thought.

“exactly. so if i drove all the way across town to get you something that you like then that means…” jake trailed off, moving his hands around dramatically.

that’s when it finally clicked in your head. holy crap, jake sim liked you romantically.

you bit your cheek to hide a smile, mentally reminding yourself to thank minji for forcing you to meet jake outside. you had finally gotten the boy even if it had taken a few mental breakdowns and a lot of sleepless nights. you wanted jake and he wanted you back— the feeling was euphoric.

“it means…that you really like salmon onigiri?” you teased, but jake was sure that you were one hundred percent serious. he scoffed and playfully splashed water towards you.

“you’re impossible.” jake groaned, shaking his head. you giggled, slowly moving your legs under the water.

“i’m sorry i didn’t sit next to you in the bus. i promise i’ll sit with you on the ride back.” you said after a minute, causing jake to look back up at you. his eyes were filled with such intensity that it scared you, but it also gave you the courage to make the first move.

you took off the jacket that you wore, the one that covered your sleepwear consisting of your tank top and shorts.

“i didn’t bring a bathing suit.” you mumbled once you submerged your body into the water, shivering slightly at the difference of temperature. the warm water felt amazing on your skin, a contrast to the crisp winter air. you swam over to jake, stopping when you were right in front of him.

“what are you doing?” he asked, a small smirk on his face.

“just want to be close to you, that’s all.” you replied, shrugging slightly. that caused jake to smile, the smile that you loved so much because it made his whole face light up and he just looked so pretty.

the boy brought you into his arms, lifting your body up to sit on his lap. you sighed at the contact, suddenly feeling even warmer then when you had first entered the hot tub.

“there’s no one like you, princess.” jake murmured, leaning his forehead against yours. you let out a nervous giggle, the action suddenly cut off by jake who decided to initiate the long awaited kiss. it wasn’t your first together, but this time it was real.

jake groaned into your mouth, the sound going straight to your gut. as you ran your hands through his soft brown locks, you came to the conclusion that you never wanted to let jake out of your life again. you would need to be six feet under to let minjeong try to steal him with her slimy hands— she simply didn’t deserve him. she never did.

jake tilted his head to deepen the kiss, wrapping his arms around your waist to pull you impossibly closer. he ran his tongue along your bottom lip, forcing you to open your mouth up to him. due to jake being the first boy you had ever kissed, the feeling was very foreign to you but it sure did feel good.

as soon as his tongue began to trace the inside of your mouth, you let out a low whine before pulling away in shock. you covered your mouth with your hand and looking at jake with wide eyes. the joy laughed at your expression before taking your hand and placing a soft kiss on it.

“you okay?” he asked, looking at you with the most loving gaze in his eyes. minji had been right all along- jake really had looked at you as if you were his whole world. it was hard to believe that you hadn’t realized it earlier, you’d been oblivious for a while.

“yeah, im great actually. i definitely want to do that again—but not in a public place.” you replied, placing a hand over jake’s mouth when he leaned in to kiss you again before you could even finish your sentence.

“there’s no one around.” he said in a sing-song voice, nuzzling his forehead against yours. you couldn’t hold back your giggles, feeling insanely giddy and love sick at the moment.

“another time, jake. i promise.” you mumbled, looking into his pretty eyes. the boy nodded with a small smile on his face before quickly placing a kiss on your nose.

“you better keep that promise, princess.”

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merakiui · 1 year ago

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crow & goat in courtship.

yandere!rollo flamme x (female) reader cw: yandere, nsfw, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, dub-con, coercion, religious symbolism/imagery, mentions of pregnancy, implied breeding kink, obsession, alcohol/intoxication, slight codependency, non-consensual touching/groping, au in which you attend classes at nbc instead of nrc under rollo's supervision note - the crow is always on call.

i. “but each person is tempted when they are dragged away by their own evil desire and enticed. then, after desire has conceived, it gives birth to sin; and sin, when it is full-grown, gives birth to death” (james 1:14-15).

Rollo answers on the third ring.

He always does—claims it’s polite to answer after three chimes just as it’s right to knock thrice before entering a residence. He’s stubborn in his ways, a crow bound by routine, only ever doing things in threes. Habitual to a fault, strictly so. You are similar in that regard; you find solace in the familiarity of predictable patterns. The relief that stems from knowing what will come next—in being prepared for all manner of events even if you haven’t yet reached the first.

But then you also like fun, and the best sort of fun is often had with a disregard for habit. Disorder and spontaneity. Throwing all caution to the wind. Trusting in the arms of the crow who will catch you, the carefree goat, when you fall.

“Good evening,” he mutters into the phone, his voice sounding so close despite the distance between you and him. “It’s rather late. Is there a specific reason you’re calling?”

“Rollo! Hey! Hiii,” you drawl, grinning like a fool. You stagger through the door into the chilly, starless night, your heels slipping on cracked, frozen pavement. “Whoa!” You stumble against the railing with a carefree giggle. “Almost lost my footing!”

There’s a stalling silence on his end. And then, with a deep inhale, he asks evenly, “Have you gone out?”

“Mm. Yeah. Went out to celebrate with some friends.”

“Some friends?”

“Like one or two…or a whole house full of ’em.”

“(Name).”

“What?” When he doesn’t reply, you laugh. Not because it’s humorous or embarrassing, but to merely fill the silent gap. “What? Roro, you’re sho stern. Don’t lecture me!”

“So you’ve been drinking.”

“What?! No!” With an offended scoff, you shake your head even though he’s not here to witness it. “You know NBC’s no-booze rule. I’m not gonna get caught—won’t get caught.”

“You slurred your speech and called me ‘Roro’—both in the same sentence, mind you.”

“So what? Rollo, Roro. Tomato, potato.”

“It’s to-may-to, to-mah-to. And—” he exhales an exhausted breath— “Never mind. That’s besides the point. Why, pray tell, have you called me at midnight?”

“Why’re you up at midnight?”

“I could ask the same of you.”

“Not fair! I asked first!”

“Not quite.” There’s a smile in his voice when he speaks next. “If I were to visit your room right now—knock on the door and wait there—would you let me in?”

“Yeaaah,” you start to say, only to catch yourself halfway in the trap. “No!”

“No?”

“No…thank you. No visitors tonight. S’late and I gotta study for tomorrow’s exam.”

“And a party will somehow aid in that endeavor? (Name), you do realize you’ve spun one too many lies and now you’re woefully entangled.”

“Less poetry and more picking me up.”

“Ah, so that’s what this is about.”

“Rollo, please be nice,” you whine, your lips twisting into a pout. “S’cold and I didn’t bring a jacket and I’m kinda-maybe-sorta a little…”

“A little…?” he encourages, and you can just envision that self-satisfied smirk of his.

“A little-drunk-but-also-not-really-drunk-but-also-totally-drunk,” you hastily admit in a string of syllables. Snowfall swirls around you, and you grasp the bannister to prevent yourself from falling over. “Oh, it’s snowing.”

“I can see perfectly clear from my window. Beautiful, is it not?”

“So stop being an obtuse dick and come get me before I freeze!”

“Should that come to pass, you may just rival the Righteous Judge at the entrance. I’ll be sure to polish you every month.”

“I’m gonna kill you. I’m gonna poison your coffee and watch you drink it, and then we’ll see who’s stiffer than a statue. It’ll be you—in death, y’know!”

“Will you now?”

“If you don’t pick me up, yeah!”

There’s the distinct sound of shuffling. You hear crisp pages turning and then a book closing before the rustling of fabrics invades your keen ears. You picture your responsible friend pacing around his room as he dresses himself for the weather.

“Very well,” he says after a moment, ever the composed gentleman. “Send me the address.”

“You’re the best. Love you lots. Thank you! Thank you!” You press your lips together to mimic obnoxious kissing sounds, which elicits a huff of amusement from him. “It’s not a far walk. Promise.”

“Stay on the phone with me. I’ll be there shortly. And don’t go anywhere.”

“Wasn’t planning on it.”

“You do realize sneaking out is against the rules, yes?”

“Aaand here comes the lecture. Gimme a break. Can’t a girl celebrate her birthday in peace?”

You drag your hand over your mouth and wipe sticky wine residue away. In the process, you smear black lipstick. Dark like night, like a crow’s inky feathers, it leaves your once-flawless appearance in disarray.

“There are much better ways to celebrate. Did I not say I’d take you into town this weekend and we could celebrate then?”

“That’s so far from now.”

“It’s three days away, (Name).”

“Still too far.”

“Don’t expect me to provide cover if you get caught.”

“And you can just leave campus whenever you please?”

“This is different.”

“Yeah?” You giggle into the speaker, warm and fuzzy and endlessly entertained. It’s enough of a distraction to keep winter from seeping into your marrow. “How so?”

“This is official Student Council business.”

“Really?” you ask with an impressed whistle.

“Indeed. On account of my being President, it’s only natural I punish students who conduct themselves poorly. Shall we review your list of infractions and decide on a suitable penalty together?”

“I’d rather we not.”

“Oh, but I insist. Perhaps our discussion and the cold will sober you and teach you a valuable lesson about integrity.”

With an exaggerated sigh, you lower onto the step to await his arrival. The icy stone digs harshly into your rear, which is hardly covered by your too-short dress. It’s definitely not fingertip length or weather-appropriate. You shiver and stuff your hand into the pocket of your cropped sweater. You should take shelter inside, where it’s plenty cozy and inviting, but your inflated pride disagrees. Retreating to the warmth after you’ve already bid farewell would be foolish. At least, that’s what the alcohol in your system is telling you.

So the goat endures the cold, for it knows that that is all that awaits it as the crow closes in.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m an academic criminal. Get on with it, President Flamme.”

“Let’s see. You’ve disobeyed campus curfew, snuck out on a school night, attended a party when your grades could use improvement, neglected your studies, drank carelessly, called the one person who can and will punish you for this and the aforementioned…”

The sound of crunching snow pierces the air then, and you look up in time to see Rollo approaching. He’s dressed in a long woolen overcoat with a scarf twined around his throat and a hat pulled down over his ears. He smirks at you from where he stands on the pavement, cutting the call and sliding his phone into his pocket. Tilting his head at you, he pulls another coat from under his arm and offers it to you.

“And you’re dressed for your death.”

“Okay, that one’s personal.”

Rolling your eyes, you rise on unsteady legs. He meets you at the stairs, climbing two of them to help you into the coat. It’s an embrace more welcoming than that of a lover’s, so soft and comfortable that it immediately rejuvenates your weary skeleton. It smells like Rollo, too—like coffee and weathered pages in an old book. You hum your approval, snuggling into the fluffy fabric. He’s plopping his hat on your head next, tugging it so far down that you almost slip on the slick stoop. Like he always has, ever since he first met you, he catches you.

“Hello to you, too.”

You blink back at him. “Yeah, thanks. I owe you.”

“Let me see your hands.”

He takes them in his, runs his thumbs over the tops, and then procures mittens from his pockets. You watch him slide both over your hands, rubbing them together briefly to generate heat at a faster rate. Your body sways, gaze unfocused. He’s just about to unwind his scarf from his shoulders when you reach out to stop him.

“I’m good. This is enough.”

“You’ll catch your death—”

“And you won’t in just a coat and scarf? At least let me give you your hat back.”

He shakes his head, holding his hand up in objection. “You’ve been out in this weather longer. It’s only fair. But, really, did you have to wait out here? Couldn’t you have gone inside?”

“My pride’s on the line.”

Rollo’s unamused stare cuts through you. “You won’t have much pride left if you’re encased in ice.”

“Then we’d best get moving. Campus awaits!”

You wrap your arm around him, clinging out of instinct. Rollo peers at the proximity, his lips upturned in a covert half-smile, and his arm snakes slowly around your waist in return. You don’t notice this, for you’re too busy dragging your feet through the snow while he acts as a helpful crutch, stable in a way you just aren’t. Not right now, at least.

But then the goat is never stable enough to survive the inevitable—the swift, sacrificial blade that befalls and beheads, leaving gory spatters to run red and visceral in the wake of the end.

You’ve never known, and you never will. How could you when he’s been nothing but cordial? A clean slate. Admirable guidance. A helpful friend. Your only friend.

The crow descends in three knocks. He lets himself in regardless of whether you wish to have him as a guest. He is unwanted and feared, the very foundation of death and destruction, and he has set his beady eyes on you—the goat.

It’s common knowledge that you cannot pray away the crow. He persists, as always, quiet even when his wings beat against his sleek, feathered body like the loudest war drums. And the caw—the dreadful caw! It’s a most disturbing cry, one that pierces through the dark like jarring slivers of light in shadow. Or a butcher’s blade through flesh, sawing through sinew to get to brilliant bone beneath. The hoarse call of Death’s crows—they circle in a murder, swooping down to meet you as harbingers of malevolence.

Rollo has always strived to lead a virtuous existence defined by a rigidly righteous moral compass. In the gloomy pits of misery and hatred, where he festers in a bundle of tar-colored feathers, he does not hope for sunshine. He no longer knows the uplifting ebullience of life’s greatest miracles. Because there is no miracle in death or tragedy. Because there is no happiness to be found in a doomed hand, every card showcasing Death and its many forms. Not for him. Never for him.

But then, amidst the despair and despondency, each all-consuming, a goat fell into his lap.

A divine offering to the crow, who is so far from divinity himself, can only mean one thing. It is neither conciliatory nor a reward.

It is a sacrifice.

But then the City of Flowers adores its goats—reveres them for all that they are. Goats are cherished, not sacrificed. But to drag a nameless, magicless goat from the grounds of its far-off, inconceivable pasture—is that not the cruelest form of sacrifice? To drop this goat into the equitable embrace of the crow—is that not the sweetest gift? Generous yet unfair. Plucked right from the folds of another heaven.

The mortal coil can be callous, which is precisely why the crow is permitted to exist in impartiality. Death does not care for who you were in life and who you will be in the next, and the crow only ever oversees finales. Never beginnings. Much like a deity does not care for what good you can do if you do not first adore them in copious adequacy.

The crow carries with him a most fearsome knell—the chime of judgment, to be delivered right on time like an execution staged for noon.

All throughout life, you can plan for the crow and all that he shall deliver, and still you will never be fully prepared to greet him. He brings misfortune bundled in baskets woven from the bones of sacrifices past. In holy scripture, it is the goat who is punished most often—who is slaughtered at the altar, who is arranged as peace to quell the torrential fury of the deity, who is made to suffer at the hands of those hoping to avoid damnation or godly wrath, who is meant to shoulder the blame when no one else wants to. Favors have been bought with the blood of the goat, its head nestled amidst verdant grasses, pure forevermore even when it is dyed carmine. It appeases and pleases.

So it’s just—religiously so—that the crow takes the goat for himself, strips it bare, and proves to the prying eyes in heaven that the greatest sin is more than lustful temptation.

For the crow—for Rollo—the heaviest sin, a vile, cursed burden from his very first breath—it is existence itself.

And only the blood of a pure goat can wash away such filth—can cleanse what has been rotting within. The goat can make a garden out of the crow—bring life and love to its barren insides regardless of however fleeting its presence may be. It is within this garden—within the softest, fertile soil—where the crow shall sow the most special seeds.

You cross the bridge with Rollo, your laughter filling the cloudy sky as you recall all manner of amusing stories from the past few hours. Drinking games paired with drunken gossip. Delicious wines and snacks. A party with an energy so lively it could rival the city’s annual festivals. Even though he doesn’t seem outwardly pleased to hear any of it, he listens well and occasionally stops to steady you before you can topple over the railing into the water below. Your heels clack against smooth, frosted stone, and the wind whips at your face, each snowflake biting and vicious. Noble Bell’s vast campus waits just beyond the wrought iron gate, standing proud and backdropped by the night.

“You think anyone’s up?” you ask, curling your fingers into his arm as he guides you through.

Rollo eases the gate shut. “They might if they hear you. It would be best to keep quiet.”

You pantomime zipping your lips and discarding a nonexistent key. He quirks a small smile at that and then hurries you along. Nights are always peaceful at Noble Bell. The halls are desolate and quiet, devoid of all signs of student life. Your and Rollo’s shoes click in unison as you walk through the hall and past the courtyard. You gaze at the arched openings, counting each one as they become fainter with the growing distance.

Your breath materializes in front of you when you sigh. “I’m so sleepy. I wanna go to bed for a thousand years.”

“You’ll miss your exam if you do that,” he chides, tutting. “And every other exam that will follow.”

“That’s the point!” Your voice bounces off the walls, returning to you in a reverberating echo. Cringing under Rollo’s disapproving glower, you speak softer. “Oops. Sorry.”

“Just how much have you had to drink? You can hardly walk straight without leaning on me for support.” He narrows his eyes, his lecherous gaze crawling down to your bare legs. “Not that I mind…”

His words don’t reach you, for they’re swallowed in a howling gale as it sweeps across the courtyard. You spy the dormitories then, each one looking more like gingerbread covered in confectioners’ sugar instead of buildings dusted with snow. Your eyelids droop while you cross the distance to reach your designated building, your every movement feeling slower than molten molasses, and by the time you’re actually inside the dorm—Rollo’s shushed you more than once—you’re yearning for the warmth of your bed.

So it’s bewildering when, rather than your own room, you stop at Rollo’s instead.

He opens the door and steps inside with you in tow. You keep your mouth shut, too tipsy to think coherently. After he clicks the lamp on, which leaves the room awash in soft shades of amber, he shrugs his coat off, draping it over a nearby chair. You drag yourself over to his bed and flop down, squeezing your eyes shut to block out both the light and your spinning surroundings. Rollo doesn’t say anything, but you hear him shuffling about his room, crossing to close and lock the door before walking back towards you. The mattress dips under his weight, and you feel nimble fingers working to undo the buttons on your coat.

“Can I sleep here tonight?” you ask, cracking your eyes open just as he’s pulling the coat from your person.

Rollo folds it neatly and sets it aside. “You’re practically melting into my bed already. It would be quite the undertaking to make the walk back to your room at this hour.”

“So considerate,” you tease, grinning up at him. Sleep stretches your expression into something dazed, and you yawn loudly. “Then I’m gonna sleep here. Wake me up before class.”

You almost drift off, but those frigid fingers are moving to tug you out of your sweater next. They crawl across your bare shoulders like a spider on a web.

“You really are something,” he marvels, glancing at your body sprawled beneath him. “To brave the cold in such thin material…”

“Stupid choice. I know.”

“It appears we’re in agreement.”

“Shut up,” you snap back with a weak laugh. “You’re no better, showing up so cozy and then giving everything to me.”

Rollo memorizes the way the form-fitting dress hugs your figure. He inhales a shaky breath and brings his hands back to his sides. Your chest is right here. So close. So frustratingly close.

He can’t indulge. He really shouldn’t. It’s unbecoming to show such unfair favorability when he’s meant to remain impartial. Death should not lust for the beauty of life because it only knows endings—or the beginnings of ghostly eternity. The crow should not allow himself to be swept up in tumultuous temptation.

And the goat is the only friend he’s known—the only one who understands the crow, if only by a few meager slivers. But someday the goat will know.

Rollo swallows his inhibitions, beating his urges away with a stick. He’s not one for rash decisions; he’s meticulous and thoughtful. He would never take such a risk—would never nosedive into a crude confession. He’s plotted it in his diary, but it’s never come to fruition. He restrains himself because he must. Because it’s the polite and proper thing to do when caught up in courtship. Because if he opens his torso and allows you to poke around inside, you’ll find that he is not the friend you’ve known for all these months.

He is a fiend, devilishly so, wearing the hide of a goat to put the real one at ease.

Warring with rationality, he slides away from you and intends to recover at his desk. He’ll scrawl all of the things he wishes to do to you in there and that will be enough. That will help clear his head of the intoxicating fog that settles whenever he’s with you in private. But then he’s reaching to untie the canopy draped over his bed, each corner undone within seconds. The sheer curtains fall in thin layers, confining the both of you to this island in the middle of a barren sea. It’s darker in here, dimly lit by the faint glow of the lamp outside.

You blink up at him, owlish.

“You…” He stops himself, shakes his head, and turns away. Hastily, he fishes his handkerchief from his pocket. With this enclosed propinquity, he can smell your perfume. It’s spiced and flowery—alluring and adorable all at once—and it assaults both his nose and mind. “You should sleep. It’s late.”

This is for the best. The crow is only meant to look after the goat, remain unaffected even in the face of lustful, fateful sacrifice.

But you’re here. You’re splayed like a spill, perfectly imperfect, and your shoulders are a canvas coveting kisses. He clutches his handkerchief in a white-knuckled fist.

“Mm, okay. Night…”

“Yes… Yes, good night,” he mumbles, lowering his handkerchief. He swallows thickly.

This is for the best.

But even though he thinks this, his arm is stretching out. Closer. Closer. So close, until his hand is hovering just above your chest. He’s so close.

When will he ever have another chance as fortuitous as this?

His hand closes around your breast and he squeezes it experimentally. It’s soft when his fingers dig in gently, depressing with the pressure of his digits. Rollo’s green hues flick to your face. Your eyes are shut, and soft snores slip from your parted lips. He glimpses your chest again and, with the utmost care, slides your dress down to free your breasts. They’re mostly bare, save for the heart-shaped pasties covering your nipples. Rollo heaves a disbelieving sigh.

“Promiscuous,” he mutters, plucking the edge of the first adhesive and peeling it away to reveal the perky nipple beneath. You look so soft, so clean, so pure… What was he even worried about? No one’s had you before. He’s sure of it.

He’s about to remove the other heart when your voice freezes him.

“What…are you doing?”

He holds your gaze. It’s tense for a moment, unspoken accusations brewing between the both of you.

“A massage,” he blurts, but there isn’t a hint of haste in his tone. He suspected this outcome when he chose to traverse the line of right and wrong—and ultimately sided with the former. Because to him it’s right, even if it’s wrong. He knows what will soon follow: disgust and detestation.

Instead, you giggle. It’s sleepy and silly-sounding, but it’s also light and lively.

You catch his hand in yours and drag it back to your chest. “If you wanted to touch, just ask,” you murmur, your words slurring. “Nothin’ wrong with it.”

You’re not just perfect and pure. You’re everything.

Yes, it’s the alcohol blurring your brain and the intimacy of being trapped in a quiet, comfortable space such as this one that allows you to desire him. Would it be the same if you were sober? He can’t quite say, but he doesn’t wish to know. This is enough. This is paradise.

He kneads slow, steady motions into your breast, and you watch from where you’re lying on the bed. His other hand slithers between your legs to search for your clothed clit. Your breath hitches just as his fingers brush it, and he presses in, rubbing with his index. Your arm falls over your face, and your chest rises with every breath.

“How does it feel?” he asks, rolling your nipple between chilly digits.

“Not enough,” you bemoan, curling your fingers into a fist. “S’not enough…”

“How fascinating. I suppose cheap wine truly does turn you into a pute.”

“No… Was definitely expensive. The fancy kind.”

“Was it now?” He circles your clit, predatory and shark-like, his eyes alight with glee. “You say that, but look at the state it’s left you in. Utterly disheveled.”

“That’s because of—” you gasp, your voice rising in pitch— “because of you…”

His heart hammers in his chest, a resounding, pounding melody.

The City of Flowers treasures its goats, and the crow loves his fiercely even though he shouldn’t.

“Did you enjoy drinking yourself foolish and indulging in debauchery?” His fingers dance along your inner thigh, hooking around the hem of your underwear. “Was it a fun celebration?”

You lower your arm to glare halfheartedly at him. “Someone sounds jealous.”

“More so disappointed, mon chou chou,” he coos, sugary, sickeningly sweet. “Someone could have taken advantage of you. Someone could have tainted you with magic.” His lip curls up into a nasty sneer. It lingers for a moment before fading into something calm. He gazes at you, oddly tender. “That didn’t happen, though, yes?”

You shake your head and flinch when he drags your panties down. Dewy strings of your slick come away with it, and you shudder at your newfound nudity. He hums approvingly and drags his finger through the wet patch staining your panties. Driven by libertine compulsion, he stretches viscous strands of your essence between two fingers.

Your eyes find his deceitful greens once more. Silence sparks between the both of you, quickly broken by your exhalation. Rollo kneels before you, taking in the sight of you as your face wavers through the stages of consideration. Upon arriving at your conclusion, you sit up slightly and shuck your dress over your head. And then you’re lying back, shaking your panties from off your ankle, and wrapping your legs around his waist to draw him in closer.

You grin, coquettish. “Why not search for yourself if you’re so worried, Mr. Student Council President?”

There’s no turning back. Not that he ever would. Not when the goat’s given him the signal. The blade doesn’t fall, but he does.

And this is better than dreams and erotica. This is real.

He surges forward to fit his lips against yours. Sloppy and inexperienced, he molds himself to your body. You tug him against you, your hands working to undress him. Clothes and shoes are cast aside between open-mouthed kisses, torn off half-buttoned and ripped away from soles. You breathe him in, gasping into his mouth. Translucent strings of saliva connect your mouths when you part, soon broken when you lean in for a chaste peck.

“You’re okay,” he says, the words practically bleeding onto your own tongue with how close he is. “Still as pure as the day I first met you.”

“That’s a good thing, right?”

“The best thing.”

His third and fourth fingers prod at the depths of your pussy, pressing inwards. Shallow at first. He watches your face unblinkingly, burning every pleasured contortion into his brain, and slides his thumb along your clit. Your breathing staggers, coming in quick huffs, and you grab at the bedsheets to steady yourself. Rollo works you open on those fingers, curling and scissoring in equal measure. The slick squelches join in the salacious symphony you’re currently producing. Every sigh and groan come together in perfect harmony. You’re a heavenly harp, and he’s plucking your strings like an expert musician.

“Tonight is unforgivable,” he adds, and you blink through blissful tears to view him. “Folly is the worst distraction.”

“Then be stupid with me,” you joke, running your hands over his shoulders. He’s so cold. “Warm yourself with me.”

And he will because he’s always wanted to. He’s desired it. Craved it. Coveted it. Thought of nothing else for days and days, each delusion so cyclical it often felt tangible.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispers, sliding his other hand up your hip and towards your rib. He traces the path of where it lies beneath layers of flesh before pressing down to feel it. “So beautiful…”

Your hand glides into his, fingers twining like silken thread around a spool. A lopsided smile lifts your lips, and you preen under him. “Yeah? Am I really?”

“I wouldn’t lie about the obvious…” Your walls hug his fingers tighter then, and a shiver electrifies your nerves. He hums again, quite pleased. “Oh, did you like that?”

“I did. Very much.”

Lashes fluttering against your cheekbones, your head thrown back in ecstasy ever-mounting, you render him ensorcelled. Like a prized Renaissance nude, a goat laid to sacrifice in the crow’s nest, you are beatific. Divinely so.

“Allow me to reiterate then.” He hastens his pace, pumping his fingers relentlessly. You tamp down a shameless moan. “You’re exquisitely beddable. A work of art. Enchanting. Une belle femme.”

You’re nearing the edge—very gradually, but not quite—and so it’s devastating when he slips his fingers out, each one thoroughly coated in you. They shimmer in the dim light, reminding you of where they had previously been.

“Put it back in,” you beg with wide, glossy eyes. “C’mon… Please don’t stop now. Was so close. So close and—”

Your complaints are curbed when you follow his hand as it moves to wrap around his half-hard cock. He strokes himself thrice, using your slick as lube, until his cock is curving up against his stomach. You stare at him; he stares right back.

And then you realize he intends to go all the way.

“Wait, Rol…lo… S’not my safe day,” you say, shifting away. Whether impatiently or anxiously, he can’t tell, but he can certainly guess. Your world spins once, a dizzying blur, before it promptly clears. In the very center of your vision, as he’s always been, Rollo remains. “S’not safe…”

He smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling with levity. “I know.”

He’s kept track, dutiful like always.

You attempt to crawl out from under him, but he stops you. Your stomach churns.

“I’ll pull out in time,” he promises, rubbing soothing circles into your plush hips.

Even with the alcohol still buzzing through your system, you aren’t convinced. “N-No, really, we should stop here…”

“You’ll feel so good. Come now, aren’t we nearly there already?”

Rollo lifts your legs onto his shoulders. You squirm with more determination this time, but his fingers dig into your thighs. With a startled squeak, you sink into the mattress, cowed into submission.

“We… We can’t.”

“Why not?” The smooth, soft head of his cock prods curiously at your pussy.

You chew your lip, admitting in a meek tone, “I… I could get p-pregnant…”

“Pregnant,” he parrots, tasting the word as if it’s a delicacy he has yet to sample. His cock twitches. “Pregnant…”

“So… So that’s why…”

“Do you not want children?”

“I… Well… Now is kinda…”

He presses onwards, sinking in slowly. Your breath hitches; your heart stumbles. The intrusion is not entirely unwanted, for your slick, snug walls cling to his shape, and you almost give in to bodily inclination. But it doesn’t feel right. You’re scared. No matter how naturally your body reacts, you don’t want this.

“Rollo, wait—”

“It would be a wonderful thing—to see you rounded with my children.” Rollo props himself on either side of you, his body pinned to yours in sinful, sweaty connection. He exhales a deep breath, restraining himself as he pushes deeper. Patience is a virtue, after all. Your expression tightens with discomfort, and so he peppers your face with placatory kisses. “To see you grow in and—mmh—out of the most flattering maternity wear. To behold every change that blesses this beautiful body of yours… To see you swell with my love, filthy as it may be. Ah, but pregnancy is just as messy… Nevertheless, it shall be a special bond for us��a sacred vow, if you will. We are connected here—” he punctuates this point by slotting the rest of his length inside, and your legs involuntarily close around him to keep him there— “and soon here when life develops within.”

One hand splays across your stomach to pat it with fondness. You choke on your helpless whimper when he rocks his hips once, experimenting with the movement. It’s awkward, but it reminds you that he’s inside. So close to your womb that in just a few more thrusts he might—

“No… No, please… Rollo, you have to—oh—have to pull out. Please pull out. Don’t wanna get pregnant…”

“Oh, but you would be so beautiful.” He breathes you in, savoring sex and floral fragrance. “If I’m allowed one miracle—just one for all the anguish I’ve endured—let it be this.”

You know not of what anguish he speaks, for he’s never verbalized it, but even so it can’t possibly be so agonizing that it would warrant such invasion.

The vise-like hold your velvety walls have on his cock is deliciously addictive. He groans while he ruts into you, his eyelids fluttering. He could be animalistic and cruel in his movements—ravish you as if the world is faced with annihilation and this is his final hour—but instead he settles for exploratory leisure. His hand fits into yours and he squeezes it gently. A feeble protest builds in your throat and so he swallows it with a hungry kiss, his mouth molding against yours.

Your nails dig into his shoulders when he draws back and slides in again, filling you deeper than before. You breathe between kisses, panting and licking into his mouth in even intervals. He does much the same, anchored to you in a way that is both temporary and yet so permanent.

The world narrows down to this single sliver of space, enclosed in a canopy. And in it, laid bare and fertile, the goat is sacrificed to the crow. Death cannot reach either one here. There is only the promise of new life, thrust upon the goat all at once.

You don’t have the willpower to object, for you’ve already found yourself entrapped, so instead you cry. Tears track down your cheeks; your mascara runs with it. Ruined. So, too, is your pitch-black lipstick, smeared along the edges of your lips and printed onto Rollo’s porcelain skin.

Rollo’s hips stutter to a halt and he holds you against him when he spills thick and hot inside. Nothing is wasted; it’s all emptied deep within. If you’re lucky, it won’t take. But if some mischievous fertility goddess has cursed you, you’ll wake nauseous in the coming weeks.

If you have anything worth praying for, it’s the former.

The both of you are panting in the aftermath, but only one is coming down from his glorious high. You remain unsatisfied, your peak not yet breached. Rollo rolls his hips once more for good measure before easing out. You crumple into the wrinkled sheets, frigid and still as a statue. Carved empty and hollow, yet stuffed with sin.

The crow has come. Though this time the gift of tragedy is something between boon and curse.

— — —

The curtains are drawn to let in sunlight. It filters in through frosted glass, each pane stamped with snow, and it blinds you the moment you try to open your eyes. You twist and turn in bed, feeling heavy with hangover. A splitting ache cracks your head in half, and you groan loudly.

“Fuckin’ hell,” you hiss, digging the heels of your palms into your eyes. “This sucks…”

You force yourself to wake after two more minutes of rolling around. Groaning once more, you sit up in bed. The canopy has been tied back in place, and when you glance sidelong at Rollo’s desk you notice something. A glass of water and a plate are waiting for you, seeming more enticing by the second. You throw the covers off, realize you’re nude seconds later, and promptly snatch them back. They’re wrapped around you like a comforting cloak. You stagger out of bed to check the contents. Two croissants, a single orange, a dollop of strawberry marmalade, and two tablets are arranged on the plate.

Hangover medicine, you realize, lifting one up to scrutinize it.

You peer around the room. It’s empty. And then you see the clock. It’s a little past noon.

“Oh,” you mumble, lowering into the chair. You clutch the blanket closer. “Rollo must be in class.”

Amidst the piercing migraine, which you quickly resolve by throwing your head back to swallow both tablets in a single gulp of water, two things occur to you. You’re in Rollo’s room. Naked. In Rollo’s room. Surely you must have spent the night after you returned from the party. Why are you naked?

But more importantly…

“Shit! My exam!” The excitement doesn’t help your current state, and you slouch in your seat, even more exhausted than before. “I completely missed it… Rollo’s gonna kill me.”

You scrub the sleep from your eyes and reach for a croissant, content with giving up. You don’t want to endure the walk of shame from Rollo’s room to yours. If anyone were to catch you, they’d certainly be left wondering.

As you nibble on the croissant, admiring the way Rollo’s arranged the contents of his room, you spot the edge of something beneath the plate. Perplexed, you push it aside to reveal a note. Penned in Rollo’s effortlessly pretty script, it reads:

I’ll forgive your transgression just this once if you’ll forgive mine. For now, get some rest. I’ve left breakfast here. Stay for however long you’d like.

You scowl at his attempt of ‘breakfast,’ and your stomach rumbles in dissatisfaction.

“Right?” you say to your stomach, clicking your tongue. “If anything, this is hardly a snack.”

But you’re grateful for his efforts. He cares. He always has. From the very first day you found yourself in this world, he cared.

While you peel the orange, pondering foggy recollections of last night, you begin to realize just how sticky you feel. As if someone’s slobbered all over you and left it to dry. The feeling persists between your thighs.

You pause momentarily, overcome with an uncanny sense of panic as you piece the puzzle together. The still-forming picture does not look good.

“Shit…” you whisper, haunted with a fragmented timeline. “What the hell did we do last night?”

You know. The deep, dark part of your brain knows, but you don’t want to confront it. Because Rollo wouldn’t, right? He couldn’t. He’s always done what’s best for you, so he wouldn’t.

Right?

#yandere twst #yandere twisted wonderland #yandere twst x reader #yandere twisted wonderland x reader #yandere rollo flamme #yandere rollo flamm #yandere rollo flamme x reader #yandere rollo flamm x reader #yandere rollo #yandere rollo x reader #n/sfw #tw: dubcon

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msbigredmachine · 11 months ago

Text

Warm (Jey Uso/OC)

An on-again, off-again couple takes the snowy ride to the next town together.

PAIRING: Jey Uso x OC

Word Count: 6.3k

Warning: The usual smut and everything in between.

A/N: First fic of the year! Enjoy!

Click here if you want to be on the tag list. If I’ve forgotten anyone please let me know so I can add you.

Credit to the owners of the pics and gifs.

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"Hey girl, got a sec?"

Looking up to see Nia standing right in front of her, Malia stood up straighter. The locker room was full of her friends and fellow wrestlers, all done for the evening and packing up to leave the arena. "What's up?"

"I totally forgot that I agreed to carpool with Maxxine after the show," she said as they exited the locker room together. "I'm really sorry, it totally slipped my mind."

"Oh, that sucks," Malia said, a little disappointed as Nia was great company. "It's no big deal. I'll figure something out."

"Are you sure? It's starting to snow out there. Will you be okay on your own?"

"Alone on the road with full control of the heating and my own playlist?" Malia laughed. "I'll be fine."

Nia nodded. "Okay. I feel bad, so I'll ask around and see if anyone needs a ride. That way you can split the bills and stuff," she offered, pausing when she looked over Malia's shoulder. "Oooh, look who's coming our way," she grinned.

Curious, Malia turned around, and her heart skipped a beat as Josh Fatu walked in their direction, his carry-on behind him and his phone in front of him. She plastered an unbothered expression on her face and turned back to Nia, but the Irresistible Force saw right through the facade.

"Girl, you're blushing already!" she cackled. "You and him still fucking?"

"No, I'm not blushing. And no, we're not fucking," Not lately anyway, Malia added to herself, fluffing her Afro as nonchalantly as possible.

"Liar. You two crack me up, you're totally in love with each other but keep acting like you're not. I did warn you about the whole friends-with-benefits thing."

She did. And Malia caught feelings and had been trying to run from those feelings since. But not with much success, given that she and Josh were both part of the Monday Night Raw roster and lived in the same goddamn city which gave him plenty of access to her. The problem was she was falling in love and he wasn't, so she tried to save face by imposing an extended 'break' from each other, under the guise of 'seeing other people'. Being alone with him on a long midnight drive wasn't going to help her cause to break away.

"It's a three-hour trip from here to Cleveland. Think you can hold off for that long if you go together?" Nia asked, a little too gleefully for Malia's taste.

"Stop with the slander. You make it sound like I'm this raging nympho," she rebuffed.

"When it comes to him? Yes! I've witnessed it! You jump each other's bones every chance you get. How you guys aren't official, I'll never understand. He's getting closerrrr," Nia sang, clearly enjoying the way Malia was trying not to squirm. "Let me go talk to him."

Malia started to panic as Nia moved towards him. "Where are you going?" she warned, "Nia, no!"

"Um, you want a ride or not? Hey, Joshyyyy!"

"Savelina!" Malia hissed, falling silent when Josh looked up from his phone, his gaze lingering on her for a long, tense beat before moving to Nia. "Sup ladies," he said, tipping his bearded chin up in greeting. His jaw moved repeatedly, and she saw he was chewing gum when he opened his mouth to speak. Juicy Fruit, she predicted. His favorite.

"I heard you're driving by yourself tonight," Nia said to him.

His eyebrows rose skeptically. "Yeah..."

"You want a passenger? Cuz my girl over here needs someone to ride with, in more ways than one..."

"Lina, shut up," Malia cut in, stepping in front of her and meeting Josh head-on. "Forgive our friend, Becky hit her in the head too many times tonight," she explained, her insides warming when Jey laughed. "I was supposed to carpool with bitch over here but she made other plans and left me stranded. So umm...if you're going alone, would you mind if I tagged along?" Why the fuck did she sound like she was asking him to Prom?

Again, the air around them simmered with an unknown element. When he took longer than usual to respond, her heart sank a little. "It's cool if you don't want to, I can find someone else-"

"Nah, it's all good, uce, you can come along," he spoke up with a smile. "But I'm 'bout to leave right now, so if you ready-"

"I am," Malia answered, a bit too quickly, and flushed with embarrassment when the corner of his mouth curled upward in a bemused smile. It was then she realized that Nia had disappeared, leaving the two standing alone in the empty hallway.

"Uhh...We should get going," Malia spoke up, scratching awkwardly at the nape of her curly Afro.

Josh nodded, pausing as his eyes scanned her up and down again. "This what you wearin'?" he inquired.

She made a quick, albeit thorough twirl to show off her outfit, a short, figure-hugging beige dress accompanied by a black pair of furry knee-high Uggs. "Yeah, why? What's wrong with it?"

"It's a lil' chilly, no? I mean, don't get me wrong, you look real good, it's just-" Catching himself, he trailed off nervously before he could say anything else inappropriate.

"My jacket is right here, I'll be fine. But if I do get too cold, I'm sure you can keep me warm." Her smile was syrupy sweet as she let the innuendo sink in. The awkwardness was melting away, leaving only the sexual synergy they were both accustomed to.

Josh chuckled to himself and stepped closer to her. "A'ight, I see what'chu tryna do," he said in a lower, huskier timbre that made her loins flutter. "Let's get outta here before I do sum'n we'll both like."

She wanted to ask what was stopping him but instead took the hand he held out to her. It was big and protective and the gentle way he rubbed his thumb over hers always made her feel safe. Together they left the building and into the indoor parking lot. He helped her put her things in the trunk of his Ford Expedition rental, and she fought the urge to stare at his ass when he bent over.

As they began their journey, her gaze landed on her on-again, off-again 'boyfriend', his own fixed on the road ahead. Wearing a fitting dual-colored Nike tracksuit, he looked yummy himself. The hand that had held hers was now on the steering wheel, and she found herself wishing it was touching her again but on a more risqué part of her body this time. They were on a 'break' but she envisioned a lot of difficulty keeping things platonic tonight.

"Since when do you listen to Bon Jovi?" She broke the ice several minutes later, talking over the eighties rock ballad that was playing on the radio and was surprised it hadn't been turned off. "You always used to tell me to change that shit," she laughed.

"They not so bad, they got some good workout songs," he defended with a shrug. "How come you didn't take a flight tonight?" he asked.

She gave a shrug of her own. "I don't know. I probably should have. But with the weather and everything, there'd probably be tons of delays at the airport. I would have ended up sitting there all night. How about you?"

"Same. I prefer the open road anyway," he replied. "Drive fast, blast some good music, you know what it is." He shot her a grin, making selections on the GPS. "Everything good? You comfortable?"

Smoothing her dress down her crossed legs, she nodded and tilted her seat back. "Yeah, I'm good," she responded.

"So how was Christmas? Whatchu do? Spend time with your man?" Josh asked.

Malia snorted and flipped her hair. "Ain't no man. He's an insecure bum so he's gone. I stayed with my brother and his family for a few days, played with my nieces, they're so big now."

He wanted to feel bad about the way his heart leapt for joy about her relationship status. "I told you he was a bum from the jump, uce," he mumbled.

"Well, you were right. Congrats," she bit sarcastically.

"I ain't wanna be right though. I just want you to be happy," said Josh, exchanging a glance with her, his stare filled with its familiar warmth that was charged with something else.

Being here is a bad idea.

"What about you? You were with your boys and their mom, I'm guessing," she kept the conversation going.

"More of the boys, less of their mom," he clarified.

"That's it? No woman to warm your bed?"

He snorted and shot her a bombastic side-eye. "If I remember clearly, you sent the last woman I was with packin', with your razor-sharp ass tongue."

Malia burst out laughing. "Ha, that bitch? She's a clout-chasing airhead. One conversation with her and my IQ got fucked up. Stop messin' with those NXT bimbos, Joshua. It's not a good look."

"Why you so pressed though?" He had an idea, but he wanted to hear it straight from the horse's mouth.

"I'm not pressed. You smarter than that. She wasn't good for you."

"And you know this, how?"

Because she ain't me. None of them are. "I just know," was all she said.

"Huh. We seem to 'know' a lot about each other," Josh noted, "So why don't you want us to stay together?" he asked.

And there it is. "You already know the answer," she responded, with a hint of attitude.

"No I don't, so how 'bout you fill me in, huh," he retorted. They had stopped at a red light so he now had all the time to look her in the eye.

Exhaling a heavy sigh, she refused to get suckered in. "Because. Your roster is deep enough as it is," she mumbled.

"What roster?"

Malia huffed and crossed her arms over her chest. "Oh, we gonna play dumb now? I'm not the only woman you're fucking, Joshua."

"The last person I had sex with was you, right before you dumped me for ol' boy," Josh replied, annoyance creeping into his tone.

"Correction. I did not dump you. Dumping implies that we were dating," Malia argued. "I distinctly remember you saying you weren't looking for nothin' serious, so it ain't dumping if there's no relationship to dump."

The silence that followed was deafening, even with the music playing. The temperature in the car plummeted several degrees. Josh simply shook his head. "Damn, that how you feel all this time? Okay then." he tsked, releasing the brakes as the light turned green. "A'ight. Note taken."

The hurt swirling in his voice surprised her. Rattled, she opened her mouth to speak, but wisely decided to close it back. Because there really was nothing to say. This was the consequence of getting involved with someone without setting clear boundaries; the result of repeatedly holding off the simple task of defining a relationship — nothing but uncertainty and heartache. It was the bed she made long ago and now she had to lie in it.

But oddly enough, that seemed to be the appeal of entanglements; the thrill, the warped sense of freedom to do whatever you wanted to each other with no strings. But intimacy always had its attachments, and Malia had been attached to Josh for a long, long time with no idea how to cut the strings without getting hurt.

"The snow seems to be getting worse," she changed the subject and with good reason. They seemed to be driving into a storm. The snowfall was heavier and the nearly empty highway was turning white. "Are you sure we'll make it into Cleveland like this?"

Her question was answered only a few seconds later, by the flashing lights and flares up ahead. A car wreck, and a bad one judging from the amount of fire, rescue, and police crews on the scene. As Josh slowed the car to a crawl, they were greeted by a gruesome tableau.

The many bright, flashing lights cast a grotesque glow on the crumpled remains of an SUV. A black bag, zipped and strapped to a stretcher, was being loaded into the back of an ambulance. Malia's eyes widened with horror. The mangled car was the same type as theirs, and the driver's seat was covered in blood, a lot of it splattered on the white snow. "Oh no...Babe..." she breathed.

Her voice was tiny. Scared. Josh grabbed her hand and squeezed it repeatedly to get her attention. "Ay, don't look. Look at me," he cajoled, waiting for her to do so, running his thumb over hers to quell her panic. "I'll take the next exit. Let's find somewhere to crash until morning." He cringed. "Bad choice of words. Sorry."

"You don't mind stopping?" she asked, feeling a little sick. There was no way she was going any further with what she'd just witnessed.

"Personally, I'd rather be late gettin' where I'm going than never gettin' there at all."

"I agree. I'll check if there's any available hotels nearby," she offered, reaching for her phone in the console.

"You good?" he checked on her again, his fingers flexing around hers.

"I'm okay. It's just...that was horrible," Malia shuddered. "But you calmed me down. You've always been good at that." She smiled gratefully at him.

"Mm-hmm," he mumbled, as he lifted the back of her hand to his lips in a gentle kiss. He then rested his hand on her bare leg, running it up her smooth chocolate skin. Ironically, her dress gave him perfect access to the sensitivity of her inner thigh, and he allowed his fingers to dance over it.

Malia cast her eyes down to watch his hand disappear under her dress. This was what she liked about him so much; his boldness, his sense of adventure. Only he could dare to touch on her while driving on a dark, sleety highway. "Boy, what are you doin'?" she asked as he squeezed her thigh. She tried to play it cool, tried to act like her skin had not been set ablaze by his touch.

"Keepin' you warm," he affirmed nonchalantly, as he slid his palm over her lace panties, his favorite on her, enjoying the feel of her moist warmth against the fabric. He had since learned that he couldn't stay mad at her for long. "I miss you," he whispered, breaching her underwear with one finger.

"I miss you too," she admitted, jerking as the finger slipped inside of her. "Oh, shit," she gasped, tilting her head back against the leather headrest.

"Phew, you wet as fuck," Josh whistled, eyeing up his ex with a Cheshire Cat-like grin. "Ol' boy wasn't fuckin' you like he should?"

Before she could answer, he slid another digit into her wetness, drawing another moan from her. She moved her legs further apart, causing her dress to ride higher up, and grabbed his wrist with both hands. "Fuck, yeah," she sighed, going slack in her seat.

Maybe it wasn't the brightest idea, Josh realized, as the sound of her wanton moans filled the car. As her pussy tightened around his fingers. He wasn't doing much for his own erect state by doing this, but the look on her face convinced him to keep going. He leaned over and kissed her cheek, keeping his eyes on the road. "How's that feel, hmm?" he asked.

The only response she could muster was another breathy moan while strengthening her grip on his wrist. She didn't want to come just yet, but between his fingers twisting deep inside her tightening core and the added heat rushing through her, she knew she wouldn't last long. She wanted this to last forever, just like every time she was with him; she clung desperately to every second, because each one was always better than the last. He just hit different. He always did.

The spell broke when she heard him curse and he abruptly stopped, slipping his fingers out of her. "The fuck?" she whined.

"Sorry, I had to," Josh explained, pointing. The smoky haze of passion and frustration cleared quickly enough for her to realize they had left the expressway and were now pulling into the parking lot of a hotel. Crossing her arms petulantly, she sat up straighter and pouted. "Goddamn tease. You ain't slick," she grumbled.

"Nope. But you are," he emphasized, holding up his fingers covered in her essence and bringing them to his mouth. "Mmm, sweet and spicy, like always."

His dirty snicker had her pussy clenching again. This man was going to be the death of her.

Parking the Expedition in front of the hotel door, they rushed in with their bags to the check-in desk and found the exhausted-looking receptionist behind the counter. It was clear they'd had a massive influx of people and that she was the only one handling everything.

"You're just in luck. We have one room left," the lady replied when Josh asked her if they had any vacancies. "It's probably our smallest room and only has one queen-sized bed, but it's perfect for a lovely couple like yourselves," she smiled warmly.

"We'll take it," Josh responded, handing over his credit card before Malia could reject it. Given the state of the weather outside and that horrendous crash they came across, it was likely the best, safest option.

They got the keycards and made a quick stop at the nearby Chipotle to get some food. Josh paid again, boxing Malia against the counter with his big frame and frowning menacingly at the cashier who had the nerve to flirt with her. Though there technically was no territory to mark, she didn't mind. Besides, it was cold outside and his body heat was inviting and much needed. Afterwards, they returned to the hotel and made it into the small room that was warm, toasty, and quite clean, making them feel a bit better that they wouldn't be stuck in some Bates Motel-type murder house.

"Last time we were stuck in a room together, we spent all afternoon working out how many pinning combinations we could make each other come in," Malia reminisced as she bit into her burrito.

"Yeah. I remember winning," Josh grinned proudly. "You can have the bed, by the way," he gestured to her. "Imma sleep on the couch, give you some space."

"Why?" Malia gave him a stern look. "The bed is big enough for both of us. Plus, your back will be fucked up if you sleep on that lil ass couch."

She wasn't wrong; the couch felt rather firm and it wouldn't be pleasant. Josh was trying to be a gentleman, but he ultimately agreed since driving tomorrow with a backache did not sound ideal.

After finishing their meals, they settled in, and Malia texted the Talent Relations rep to inform them of her and Josh's whereabouts. Unfortunately, the weather forecast on TV was pretty grim as they were expecting upwards of forty inches of snow. Getting to their destination in time tomorrow would be a tough ask.

Josh used the bathroom first to give Malia some privacy. When he re-emerged, she was stripped down to a short white bathrobe that did nothing to hide that body of hers, giving him a little peek of her voluptuous behind as she picked up her toilet bag.

Fuck.

"Babe, do you got a spare shirt I can sleep in?" She stood back upright, her throat drying up at the sight of his towel hanging low on his hips. She watched the rivulets of water drip down his tattooed chest and felt parched.

Josh swallowed. "Sure, I got somethin'." He crossed the room, reached inside his open luggage and pulled out a 'YEET' hoodie. "This okay?"

He gazed into her eyes, and Malia felt her knees quiver, almost like they were threatening to collapse beneath her. "Yeah, thanks," she smiled, taking the hoodie.

"You called me babe again." There was a small, teasing smile on his face.

Malia felt her face burn. "Oh, um...Yeah. Habit. Sorry..." Lost for words, she quickly departed, silently willing her limbs to not give out on her.

Waiting until the door had closed behind her, Josh sank down on the bed and tried to focus on the TV. He could hear her moving around. Brushing her teeth. Undressing. Rubbing his face, he groaned when he heard the shower start. After their argument in the car and what he did afterwards, his emotions were all over the place, and now they had to share this bed. Keeping his hands to himself was going to be a tough ask.

Keep your hands to yourself, Malia repeated to herself over and over as she finished up her skincare routine. It's just one night. Behave yourself. What happened in the car meant nothing.

Yes it did, the voice she fondly named 'Delulu', debated, He misses you, he said so himself. That's why he acted the way he did in the car. That's why he almost bit that cashier's head off in Chipotle.

She had a point. She recalled the full-blown lust in his eyes as he touched her, the eager movement of his fingers inside her as though he couldn't stop himself. Overall, it felt good to know he wasn't quite over her just as she wasn't quite over him.

Don't do it, her other voice, dubbed 'You Right' because it always was, warned. You're just his plaything, always have been. Why do you want to play house with a guy who doesn't love you like you love him? He just misses the pussy. That's it.

Good point.

But I miss the dick too! 'Delulu' pouted.

'You Right' rolled her eyes. Too bad. Take another shower, a cold one this time.

With a heavy sigh, Malia wrapped up her hair and put on her pajamas for the night. The hoodie was big on her, reaching her thighs. She decided against panties, having made up her mind about the voice she was going to listen to.

She returned to the warmth of the bedroom, instantly landing on the ruggedly handsome man stretched out on the left side of the bed. His favorite side. His gaze flickered from the TV to her, his lips twitching into a small smile.

"You make my merch look so sexy, baby," he commented.

"Why thank you Daddy," she replied, then froze, her eyes wide. Shit, did she just say that out loud? Judging from the heated look in his eyes, the answer was yes. The tension in the room could be cut with a knife as they regarded each other.

Sitting up straight in the bed, Josh clapped his hands. "A'ight, enough of this. Come here," he growled.

She thought he would never ask. She hurried to the bed and crawled towards him. He sat up straighter and reached for her, their lips crashing together before he had finished pulling her onto his lap. All the weeks of pent-up urges and desires came pouring out of them both as they kissed like the desperate, needy souls they had become. They only pulled back long enough to take off his t-shirt before they embraced again. His bronzed skin was warm underneath her palms, the touch of his hands seemingly burning through the hoodie onto her own.

Without breaking the kiss, Josh shifted so that they were lying on their sides, helping her tug his sweatpants down his hips. Once they were gone, he pulled her tightly against him as he slid his leg between hers, draping her top leg over his waist. He then pushed his hands under her hoodie, his fingers digging into her waist to grind her against his thigh. Malia smiled at his surprised gasp, his realization that she was wearing his merch and only that. She knew he could feel the moistness of her core, smearing his upper thigh as their kisses got even more heated. She let him pull off the hoodie, and Josh's eyes blazed with need as he gathered her right breast in his hand and devoured it with sucks and licks. Meanwhile her hand wrapped around his dick, stroking for a few moments before easing him inside her.

"Oh, shit," Josh froze, his expression slightly panicked, "I ain't got-"

"Calm down, I still got my IUD. You good." She kissed his lips and reared back a little, letting him push fully inside her, and he ripped his mouth from hers in a low groan and tucked his face in her neck.

"Fuck, Malia..."

She moaned with him, gripping his muscular shoulders as he moved inside her, and groaned again when his hand scraped down her back to squeeze her ass cheek tightly.

"Mmmph..."

"Yeah, I know you like that," he whispered, slapping her ass this time, his breath hot and heavy against her face. "Say my name baby, call out for me."

"Joshua...Daddy..."

"Mm-hmm, I love it. God, you're fuckin' beautiful," he said, his voice rough with need as he tongue-kissed her slowly, matching his grinding thrusts, sending chills running all over her body.

"Ohhh," she gasped, tensing in his arms, bewildered by her desire for him.

"Relax. I gotchu," he promised with another hungry, borderline sloppy kiss. He was nearing the pit of her stomach with his lengthening strokes, but he wanted more. He held up her thick thigh, automatically sliding him even deeper inside her. A big smile lit up his face as her mouth fell open; he knew she could feel all of it, the head of his dick toying with her g-spot, her breathing quickening as her slick moisture made its presence known with every push of his dick into her.

"Hear that?" Josh whispered, "Hear how wet you are?"

Malia dug her nails into his skin, staccato breaths pulling from her lungs as he rammed up into her again and again. "Shit," she whined, "Aw fuck, please don't stop," she begged, tears gathering in her eyes at the thought of him ceasing his actions.

"I ain't stoppin' baby." He couldn't seem to stop kissing her, doing it again as he increased his speed, his dick all up in her wet pussy. The sensations were dizzying, taking her to another dimension. "Uuuunh," she cried out with a shudder, the flutter of her pussy around his cock sending shockwaves of pleasure through her.

"You wanna come, babe? Wanna come for Daddy huh?" He pressed his forehead against hers, his hypnotic eyes holding her gaze as her whimpers for him grew louder. "Come, Malia," he urged with gritted teeth, his heart pounding from the emotions vibrating through him. "Come, baby girl. Nut on Daddy's dick. You look so beautiful when you come."

Malia heard what sounded like waves crashing in her ears. Immediately her body seized up, and her voice was a high-pitched cry as the pleasure ripped through her. Moaning his name repeatedly, her head fell back and she saw stars as the bliss took over.

Man, she missed being touched like this, kissed like this...fucked like this.

Still trembling, she was vaguely aware of him pulling out, letting her leg down and rolling on top of her. Stroking her face, he stared at her with a mix of wonder and tenderness and something else she couldn't quite determine in his eyes.

"What?" she pressed.

Josh licked his lips, looked away for a second and then back at her.

"I love you."

She expected to be shocked, stunned by his declaration. Instead, it felt more like a eureka moment, like she had finally cracked a passcode she had been struggling with for eons, like the world had at last righted itself after an eternity of confusion.

"What took you so long?" she asked, emotion seeping through her tone.

"I don't know," he confessed, and when her brows furrowed, he elaborated. "I just know I can't do this no more. I'm fuckin' tired. I been feelin' this way for too long. You the only one that makes me feel like this."

"Like how?" she breathed. She wanted to hear it, wanted to know if his agony has been anything similar to hers for the past couple of months.

"Like I'm empty inside when I'm not with you. Even when I'm with someone else, I feel like I'm cheating on you," he went on, suddenly feeling free, unburdened. "I can't stop thinking about you, can't function...I don't just want sex, Malia. That's all good but I wanna be your man. For real this time. I want you."

There it was again, that intensity in his eyes that never failed to steal what was left of her breath. If this was a dream, she did not want to wake up. "I love you too. I wanna be with you. Let's not break up ever again. I don't like not being around you," she admitted.

"Same here," he said, covering her mouth with his. This kiss was so passionate, so deep and all-consuming, that she struggled to hang on to her sanity. She groaned against his mouth as he found his way back inside her with a couple of swift, seamless strokes. Her wetness instantly enveloped him again, prompting his hips to roll seemingly on their own accord. Malia wound her arms around him, holding him as close to her as possible. There was no more talk after that, letting their bodies do the talking, writhing together as if they were meant to exist that way.

"Wrap your legs around me, baby," he told her.

Immediately, she wound them around his waist with her ankles locked tight behind his lower back as he rocked into her. She moved with him, matching his tempo in a sweet symphony. There was no space between their flesh; and whatever tiny space remained was closed off with delicious, decadent kisses with lots of tongue. They savored every second in each other, every gasp and moan they elicited from the other. Her wetness compromised the friction between them as his dick slipped in and out of her with ease that still kept her walls snug and taut around him.

"God, you feel so good, baby," she moaned in his ear, weaving her fingers through his soft hair, anchoring him to her as though fearful that he would slip away at any given moment.

"I can feel you dripping all over my dick. You make me wanna pound this good pussy," he mumbled against her neck, his tongue swiping over her heated skin.

"Then pound it," she murmured, spearing him with a hot, hungry look when their eyes met. "Pound my pussy, Daddy, I need it," she practically begged, her voice a pleading whine.

"Bet." Caressing her thighs for a few seconds, he then propped her legs on each of his broad shoulders. Her gaze met the ceiling, clouded over with lust as he hunched over her, working his big dick in her. All she could see within the bluish hue of the small room was his larger, muscular body looming over her, like a glowing, almost nightclub-like dreamscape. His chest tattoos were a beautiful mural that she couldn't stop herself from worshiping, and she leaned up to drag her tongue along his nipple, flicking the hard bud playfully as she caressed his triceps. She was rewarded with harder snaps of his hips, his balls mashing against her ass from how deep he was digging. Every time she tried to look at it, she would grow weak from the sensitivity and fall back against the bed.

"Fuck, Joshua..."

"Mmhmm, I know it feel good. Your tight little pussy is creaming for me," he rasped. Holding her down to the bed, he circled his hips while buried in her for good measure, making her pussy greedily grip the entirety of his girthy length and wringing moans of pleasure from both of them. Dipping her hand down between her thighs, she rubbed on her clit only for her eyes to roll back as an intense fire lit inside her like a firework. Then, clearly intending to destory her, he sat back on his knees and wrapped his arms around her thighs, holding them to his chest as he thrust faster and harder.

"Oh my god," Malia sighed, planting one hand up against the headboard to steady herself. She could feel her breasts bouncing recklessly with each stroke, felt his long fingers grab one and massage it in his hands, then the other, arousing her even more. His dick pulsed inside her as she tightened around him with increasing frequency. She willingly let him take her as he wanted, because she wanted to feel all of him, savor the sight of him breaking down and plunging headfirst into that secret place of pleasure that belonged to them and them alone.

The tricky part was Josh wanted to take her there first. He switched up again by pinning her knees into the pillow on either side of her head, opening her wide. He fucked her like a man possessed, the force of his movements knocking the bed hard and repeatedly against the wall. His hard, pounding thrusts had her pushing her face into the pillow and screaming into it. They hoped the room was soundproof. Either way, he didn't stop, not until the coil inside her body unraveled, and Malia screamed again as she came, hard and hot, her orgasm flushing through her like a tidal wave. It was the sweetest, the realest, the product of the joining of not just their bodies, but something deeper, too.

Josh must have been thinking the same thing, because when he stopped to stare her down again with those beautiful eyes of his, they glittered with warmth and affection. They gazed at each other, the stunned joy of their shared feelings morphing into something richer, something fiercer. He really did love her, she could see it right there on his face. She didn't quite know how she managed to miss it before.

The air between them thickened as they remembered they were still naked and entwined. Reverting back to their primal, passionate state, Josh moved again, thrusting all up in her dripping tightness. Malia gripped his hips to pull him deeper, her fingers digging into the flesh of his ass as he pounded into her with newfound ruthlessness. The mattress squeaked underneath them, mixing with their moans and whimpers and the wet slapping sounds of their bodies. He was close; his strokes became increasingly erratic, his grunts heavier and more vocal, his cock pulsing inside her pussy and his balls tightening.

"Fuuuck, I'm comin' baby, come catch this nut," he pulled out of her and quickly straddled her torso, stroking his dick in her face. Malia opened her mouth wide and poked out her tongue, watching his gorgeous face twist in painful pleasure as he unloaded in her mouth, thick spurts of his salty sweet cum flooding her tongue. Completely turned on, she rubbed herself with one hand and grabbed his dick with the other, stroking him harder to milk him to the last drop. His deep, throaty groan broke her all over again, plummeting her into another incredible orgasm, brought on by the sheer power of his.

Josh's chest heaved as he watched her slap his dick on her open tongue, coated white with his release. He then ordered in a husky voice, "Swallow it."

Malia obeyed heartily, slipping his cum down her throat then gently sucked him off for a couple of seconds, moaning softly from the unique taste of him mixed with her. Josh fought off the urge to nudge his dick deeper into her mouth and pulled away to lie down next to her. The realization of what had just happened must have hit both of them at the same time, because with one glance at each other, they burst out laughing.

"Damn," was all she had the energy to utter, allowing him to pull her against him as their joint laughter rumbled between them. He fucked the shit out of her. She felt like a brand new woman, even now, as he ran his hands all over her body, gifting her with a breathless kiss to her succulent lips. "I guess Lina's plan worked," she giggled, snuggling against him.

"Yeah," Josh agreed, his features suddenly serious as he carefully tucked a loose piece of her hair back underneath her scarf. "I ain't like how you be pushin' me away, Malia," he grumbled, "Don't be scared of us and what we got."

Not for the first time, she wished she'd been brave enough to express her true feelings. "It's not you I'm scared of... I'm scared of us falling apart if we become serious, and I don't wanna live without you," she confessed.

Josh chuckled and pressed his mouth to each of her palms. "You already can't," he smirked.

She rolled her eyes good-naturedly and smacked his arm. "You don't gotta agree."

"It's the truth though. But like I said, I love you and I'm not going anywhere. I mean that," he promised.

Hearing those three words from him again made her feel all giddy inside. "I love you, too," she whispered, smiling softly against his lips when he dropped a tender kiss to hers.

"How long's it been since we last fucked?" he inquired.

Two months and three weeks, but who was counting? "Couple of months," she answered, keeping it cool.

"Shame on us. I think we can make up for it, right?"

Malia raised an eyebrow when he started to crawl down her body, sprinkling butterfly kisses down her belly until his head was between her legs. Her body flushed with need. "You know we need to go to bed, right?" she questioned, her fingers sneaking into his hair despite her half-hearted protest.

"I know. But this pretty pussy is callin' my name." He winked at her and bit gently on her inner thigh, dangerously close to her throbbing treasure, soothing the skin with a wet lick. Her keening moan was all he needed to hear. "Now lay your sexy ass back and let Daddy eat."

And with that, he bent his head and spread his mouth over her, wiping every rational thought she owned with mind blowing pleasure.

THE END

-----------------

So...did you like it?

Please leave feedback/comments. I appreciate them as they help me improve my writing.

Thank you all so much for reading!

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har-rison-s · 1 year ago

Text

counting on it | coryo snow x fem!reader

a/n: hello all... this is supposed to be a part 2 for fear or endearment, but i feel like rewriting that one so idk, this could as well be a stand-alone writing / one-shot with a possible continuation? idk though. happy reading <3

this is techincally part 2 of this little drabble

next chapter coryo masterlist

main masterlist

word count: 4k

themes: fluff

warnings: mention of bombs, idrk what else??

gif credit goes to owner <3

the phone in her room never rang, which meant only one thing – it wasn’t the usual mysery business calling. each time the house phone rang, however, it was like a heart attack for her. any incoming calls to her home were only to her parents to tell them about her making trouble at the Academy again, and again. so it was never a pleasant phone call.

but she knew it could only be Coryo calling now, so she picked up the phone with a lovey-dovey smile on her lips already. “yes?” she asked into the round microphone end of the device, squeezing it between her rosy cheek and her shoulder.

“good evening,” coryo’s shaky voice said into the speaker, and it was so uptight that she giggled, “is this you or not?”

“i-it’s me, yes,” she confirmed with another giggle. he’s nervous around her still, and miserably so, and it’s coming out in the form of a very formal greeting, “but is this really you, coryo?”

“of course it’s me,” he said, now so sure of himself he was bleeding with it, “were you expecting someone else to call?”

“well, there’s the routine call from the Academy about me misbehaving that comes once or twice a week,” she answered, “no one other than that. why are you calling? i usually call you.”

she could hear him make a smile into his microphone, and she blushed at the thought of it, and his quiet chuckle that she heard, too. “i was thinking of you,” he admitted, and she raised her eyebrows. coryo being nervous one minute but then blunt the next really does a number on her. she wouldn’t believe he was such a nervous wreck around her by his looks, or by her own. he must be really... “if you’re free and not sleeping, i wanted to show you around grandma’am’s—well, our family’s—garden upstairs. o-only if you want to, of course, and if you’re free.”

she smiled again and shook her head. this cold boy was warming his way into her heart quicker than he was before. before they’d crossed that sacred line with the kiss in his empty kitchen. “yes, i’m free and not sleeping, and i would love to,” she said, “didn’t know you had an upstairs garden. i’ll be over in less than twenty minutes. do you need anything from my cooks?”

she always looks out for him, doesn’t she? he hadn’t even thought of that aspect of their relationship. he’s only in total emotional turmoil and was missing her terribly. the bombing at the arena and then being in hospital, out for who knows how many days, robbed him of seeing her every day, like he usually would, which he’d grown used to. she would have visited him in the hospital, but apparently she was not permitted to – she guesses because of her trouble-making at school. her presence and the frequentness of it brought him comfort. he couldn’t think of anyone else at this time, not even Tigris could console or comfort him. not like y/n could.

she got barely a good enough answer from Coryo, but packed a bag of sandwiches and pie nonetheless before departing in her driver’s car for Coryo’s apartment in the Corso. she knew he didn’t like charity, and wouldn’t be asking for food from her if it wasn’t absolutely the end of days. he also didn’t let anyone else from school but her see where he lived – and even about her, taking her upbringing and current wealth, he had doubts. with her unpredictable nature, he could never predict her reaction to seeing his home. and not knowing whether she’d run and belittle him at school or stay and still like him regardless was frustrating. because he could never have any control over her reactions, and that scared him.

but she didn’t run away, nor belittle him, nor think less of him. a home is a home, and she knew how hard anything was to come by for the Snows. because her and Coryo had become friends over all their time spent together at school, even despite the vast difference in their personalities, they had this undoubtable connection, she had grown to care about him. therefore it was her idea, of course, to bring him any food she could from her mansion of a home where food was always excess. truth be told, Coryo had thought of the possibility of asking her, but he would never have let down his pride or let her see his vulnerable side. perhaps, until now.

she was panting and heaving when she finally reached the floor of the Snows’ penthouse in the apartment building, which isn’t the ideal state to meet the boy of your fancies in, but seeing his welcoming smile made her feel at ease. she hardly came off to people as anything but frazzled, but Coryo has proved that it doesn’t matter to him, so she dares not worry. she smiled back wide, too, and doubles over for a few moments to catch her breath.

Coryo paced over to her and put a hand on her arm, which made her look at him. “hey,” she said in a heavy breath and with a smile still on her lips, “i’m fine, really,” she said with a shake of her head. Coryo nodded and then shrugged.

“how improper of me, i should have gone down to walk you up,” he said, then, and they both chuckled.

“don’t worry your pretty head over it,” she said in response with a carefree throw of a hand, “just a shame the elevator doesn’t work.” Coryo nodded again at her statement, and y/n breathed one last sigh of heavy breath before really looking up at him. there was something different about him. most of all, his piercing blue eyes looked glassy, unlike their usual look- cold, convicted, confident, calm. all the characteristics she could match to Coryo himself. her eyebrows twitched slightly as she reached a hand out to his cheek, and upon touching it found him trembling. now that she looked at him closer, and he let her do that, she noticed his curls messy, out of their usual arrange, and his cheeks not as rosy as always, blueish rings under his eyes. something was troubling him, and she didn’t have to guess twice what.

she kissed his lips quickly, feeling as though he might fall apart or spill his worried words out like a river if she didn’t. Coryo immediately sunk into her through the kiss, arms wrapping around her coat-covered waist so close he nearly started to lift her up and, really, with the mood he’s in, he might as well have. he was so desperate for her, so desperate to feel her close that it made himself nauseaus. he’d sworn off any romantic relations until he and his family had a better place to live, and the breaking of his own promise made him an enemy to himself. what was she doing to him?

but this felt so good with her, so good that he never wanted to let go of her, never wanted there to be a day in which he doesn’t get to see her if only for a few seconds. she was making him feel things he’d never felt before, things he couldn’t understand now. pulling away from her after giving her a searing hot kiss was torture, but he had to give them both air to breathe. “i missed you,” he admitted to her what he’d never admitted to anyone else before. y/n smiled and nodded, their foreheads touching, “i wanted to see you. i had to.”

“i know,” she nodded again, “i’m sorry i didn’t come to the hospital – i couldn’t.” she admitted with a gentle shake of her head, and suddenly she felt strongly overcome by emotion. “they wouldn’t let me in.” her hands rested on his neck, on his chest, she nearly made desparate gestures, as if he wasn’t in her hold or would be taken away any second. she’d missed him, too. Coryo furrowed his brow. they wouldn’t let her in? he looked into her eyes, and she nodded, her eyes sad, too, but not nearly as sad as his own. “my reputation as sort of a rebel and all.”

that word. poison to him. poison to the whole nation. her using it as a joke didn’t come off too strongly with comedy, and he wished she wouldn’t use it at all. “they were fools not to,” Coryo said amidst his inner disagreement, “you should have come with Tigris and Sejanus, they would have let you in then.”

“pretty hard to get hold of them when they don’t really know about us,” y/n pointed out the fact with half a smile on her face, hoping it wouldn’t stir the wrong nerve in the boy. but it didn’t. Coryo always knew the truth, just didn’t always act on it or deem it worth anything. what good was the truth if you could tell lies instead? he nodded at her and closed his eyes, “i only found out you’ve been hospitalised from the news. and the bombing – god, Coryo, that’s just...”

he made a firm shake of his head at her words and pressed a kiss to her cheek before taking her hand and leading her away from the stairwell. she just watched him as he pulled her through his door, knowing Coryo doesn’t like remembering the war days. they both experienced it, both had run-ins with bombs and many other traumatic war characteristics that they’d rather forget. Tigris and grandma’am were both asleep, so there were no worries about accidental run-ins with either of them, while y/n was still unintroduced to both. Coryo wanted to avoid an awkward situation right now as best he could.

Coryo led her to a door by their kitchen, which opened up to a stairwell, rather than a simple cupboard (what would they keep in there, anyway? the Snows had so little belongings to them and so little food to eat that there was hardly any excess anything in the apartment), and, himself going first and y/n following suit with her hand still in his, led them both up those stairs that looked older than his grandmother with no doubt. the breeze of the night welcomed them with sweeping arms as a cloud of red and white surrounded y/n’s vision.

a rooftop garden. the Snows were giving y/n’s family a run for their money with the beauty of this scooped-away little paradise. she gasped as she tried to take it all in, looking all around herself at all the roses – white and red – engulfing her and Coryo. there was scarcely anything else on the rooftop besides the roses, just a pair of old chairs, gardening tools and a watering can in one of the far corners. this was just unbelievable.

her hand covered her mouth as she looked at Coryo in shock and fascination. there was quite nothing like the beauty of so many roses, and the view this rooftop gave of the city. truth be told, the Capitol could look better – torn, burnt buildings, trash littered in the streets, hardly any plants growing anywhere, and it looked especially worse now in the night, scary even – but still, a panoramic view was a panoramic view. she clung to Coryo, arms around his waist as she all but blushed and gushed at the sight around them. “it’s breath-taking, Coryo,” she said finally, and he put an arm around her, smiling softly at her joy. he didn’t know another person’s smile could mean so much to him, and even warm him and make him feel better.

“grandma’am’s pride and joy,” he said to her, overlooking the garden, too, and he walked them both further into it, away from the door – god forbid either of his sleeping family members woke up from their voices in the night.

“i’ve been wondering where you got those roses you like to give me,” and the one for lucy gray, y/n said as she ran her hands over the beautiful, seemingly perfect white petals. no flaws on them, none visible, anyway. just like Coryo himself. she looked back to him, his hair seeming to glow in the dark of the night, and Coryo smiled at her with tightly closed lips, “god, it’s great here. i love this view,” she said and leaned on the edge of the stone balcony, her hands splayed on either side of her, stretching further away from her. Coryo took slow steps to approach her, and finally he dared to come up just behind her, arms wrapping around her waist again. she immediately leaned into him, locking her hands on his on her stomach.

“it’s great for when i want to be alone, catch a break,” he said and sighed softly. her thumb gently grazed across the pearly white skin of his hands and her eyes slowed down in wonder. they usually jump around, never rest, but it’s different when she’s with him. he seems to ground her a little.

“was tonight one of those nights?” she asked quietly and felt him nodding as he made a hum of confirmation. she turned around in his arms and looked up at him, hands on his chest. “i figured as much. you never call me yourself.” she said and made an airy chuckle, though Coryo’s lips barely lifted to make any kind of expression at all. “what is it?” he shook his head and made to kiss her again, dipping his head down, but she moved away. “you have to talk to me.” she said, with a firm hand on his cheek now, in case he attempted for her lips again. “you have no reason to hide from me, come on. and i wouldn’t tell anyone, you know that.” it’s her unavailing ability to always somehow make a half-hearted joke that Coryo likes about her, even though he wouldn’t let himself like that.

but he found himself unable to say no to her. so he turned them around, him being the one who leans against the edge now, both of them holding onto each other still. he looked at her thin coat and the dress she’s wearing underneath, and he traced his hand up her arm just to ease himself. “the bombs were horrible,” he finally said in a quiet voice, “i was scared for Lucy Gray, too. but see, she saved my life.” Coryo said, and y/n could see he hated to admit it. that a district girl could do good. all this propaganda about district people being animals and monsters worked well on them as children, but now, as they’re growing up, they’re seeing some truth for themselves. even if the propaganda is hard to erase from their minds. “i’m in her debt for that. and i’m not sure i could ever repay her.”

“you could help and make her win the games,” y/n suggested, but with nods from Coryo she knows he already thought of that, of course.

“i don’t know if i can do that,” he said in a frail voice, “she said to help her i should start believing she actually could win, but... i don’t think she’s gonna make it,” Coryo admitted, “other tributes are better at fighting and stronger than her, she barely has a chance. which means she’ll probably be one of the first ones to get killed, and then i’ll lose the Plinth prize and the Snow name will go into ruin.” he jumped to conclusions quickly, as she has found that he usually does, and it made her sigh. she pulled him in for an embrace, her arms around his neck, forehead to forehead, her curls tickling her cheek.

“i still can’t believe they let the games go on after the bombing,” she admitted quietly, “but that would be Capitol showing weakness, so of course they wouldn’t stop the games. but look,” she held his trembling face in her hands, trying to make him look at her, “you and Lucy Gray both have charm. as much as i’ve noticed, no one else does. and no one is as bonded to their tribute as you are. her song brought her a lot of donations, and you can work with that. she just has to hide out long enough and...”

“that’s where i stopped, too,” Coryo said and shook his head with a sigh again, “it was doomed from the start. Highbottom has something against me, i know he does. i got the last district, and i couldn’t help her – just as he wanted.”

“i still believe you can prove him wrong,” she argued back, convicted, “but as mentors, you are pretty helpless when the games start. it’s all up to the tributes themselves.”

Coryo looks up at her again, “i bet you would have made a great mentor,” he told her with that charming half-grin on his delicious lips that made her tilt her head at him in disbelief.

“me?” she echoed and Coryo nodded. “please, you’re just saying that to get into my pants. i can’t even make people like me at school, much less make the whole nation like someone from the districts enough to support them in the arena.” she shook her head. “i would be a terrible mentor.”

Coryo shook his head and pulled her closer to him again by her waist, her having taken a step back while talking. he had her attention now, she looked down at him again, with seemingly a question mark in her eyes. “i like you, and i’m from school,” he said as his hands slid up her back, his fingers so long and his palms so big he could cover just half her back with his hands.

“yeah, but i didn’t make you like me. i didn’t even try and here we are,” she said dismissively and meant to pull away again before Coryo kissed her lips again. ah, so that’s what he was trying to say – she didn’t even need to try to get him to like her. there was no effort, there was just her usual self and he liked her for that. it still seemed hard to believe, though. “i like you, too, by the way,” she butted in again before returning a kiss and smiled at Coryo chuckling at her little joke. he spread his legs for her to get even closer, now standing between them and kissing his pink lips with one of her hands splayed on his cheek and the other carefully ghosting over his snow-white curls, not wanting to ruin them.

but Coryo didn’t care, they were all dishevelled before they met up, anyway, and in this moment between them his own visual look didn’t matter that much to him. she was already kissing him, anyway, he’d won her over, so to say. and he was pulling her closer and closer to him with his hands roaming all about her back and her hips as their kisses grew more frequent, more hot, more messy. Coryo felt like his head was spinning, and he knew he was disobeying the doctor’s orders to rest and take everything easy with this. but he couldn’t help it. it was her.

he hoisted a leg of hers over his, surprising her and earning a gasp from her. which gave him the advantage to deepen the kiss with his tongue now poking at her own between their heated kisses, and he actually made her moan. it hummed so deliciously into his mouth and Coryo felt himself shudder because of it, his trousers tightening exponentially around his crotch. she was no longer afraid of ruining his perfect hair, she ran her hand through the soft curls and reached into his half-unbuttoned shirt with her other hand, skimming his perfectly-shaded naked skin with her careful hands. their kisses lost count and air ran out, but they just needed each other so much that they didn’t even notice. Coryo ran his hand across her up-hoisted thigh, even reaching under her dress, which made her hum against his lips again. “ungh, Coryo,” she mumbled into his burning mouth and grabbed onto his neck for support as he edged his hand higher and higher up her dress.

he might have reached near the spot where she had the most heat ignited for him, but her accidentally pressing her hand into a sensitive, wounded area on his back made him yelp out and jerk like he’d just been hit by live electricity. she immediately jumped off him and saw the hurt expression on his wincing face and felt guilty. a hand covered her mouth as the other one carefully reached out to him. Coryo took his shirt off and looked over his shoulder—though he could barely see that way—if any stitches had broken loose, and then exhaled sharply, suddenly sounding exhausted.

“Coryo, i’m so sorry,” she said in a hushed voice, still wary to touch him without his permission. he looked at her for a moment and then shook his head. she could see the pain was fading away by the expression on his face – the wince and cringe were slowly letting go of his facial muscles – but she still felt bad.

“don’t be,” he told her in a hoarse voice, “i didn’t tell you about my injuries. you couldn’t have known,”

“but i still feel bad,” she said and came closer to him again, “i—i could take a look for you. maybe stitch you up, uh...” Coryo shook his head just as she took his hands in hers, and his head hang low again. “i’m sorry, let me fix it.”

he gave her a firm head shake again. “you don’t need to, i’ll go to a medic tomorrow,” he assured her and looked up into her bambi eyes again. she looked so pretty to him suddenly. well, of course, she always looks pretty and beautiful to him, it’s just her emotions right now that made her eyes look bigger and... he couldn’t put it into words.

“i could... stay over, if you don’t want to be alone. we could just talk or sleep, whatever,” she suggested with a naïve smile on her over-kissed lips, though already knowing that it’s probably going to be a “no” from him, knowing that the two of them were a pretty private item. if they were an item at all, of course. and, of course, Coryo shook his head.

“it’s late, you should be home,” he told her and gave a kiss to one of her hands, “besides,” he added, getting close to her again, nose to nose, “i’ll just get carried away with you again and then i’ll bleed all over you,” he said with a slight smile, and she appreciated the notion of a joke from him this time, instead of her. she giggled and her head dipped lower, his words – both dangerous, comedic and enticing – making her blush as if she was as young as twelve or thirteen and a boy had just flirted with her for the first time. Coryo kissed her temple and squeezed her hands. “you’re irresistible to me.”

she looked into his eyes and saw nothing but sincerity and lust as he said those words, so she believed him. she took a deep breath and made a small smile, that blush ever present in her cheeks. “as you are to me,” she said, “you could stay over sometime, though, at my place. i’d love for you to stay over,” she admitted quietly before she got ready to leave.

Coryo made a sheepish grin at her words and walked her back down the stairs and to the door of his penthouse. he took her close in his arms again for one more time before she had to leave and whispered in her ear, “i can’t promise i’ll be on my best behaviour with no one but you around.” he told her words that made her shiver and she just smiled wide as she stepped away from him.

before slipping out and through his door in the hour of creeping dawn, she said something very characteristic of herself, “i’ll be counting on it.” and with a kiss blown to Coryo, she was out and on her way home.

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wheredidhiseyebrowsgo · 5 months ago

Note

Do you have any fics where either Derek or Stiles live in a cabin in the woods? Bonus points if they build it themselves.

Thanks!!

Definitely.

Magically Yours: The Sun, The Moon, The Truth by Akinasky

(1/1 I 925 I Teen)

Stiles and Derek go away to a cabin to celebrate their one year anniversary and Stiles uses his abilities to mark himself as Derek's partner, forever.

Snowed In by rororowyourboat

(1/1 I 4,258 I Teen)

Stiles and Derek get caught in a blizzard while hunting a monster in the Preserve. Their options are trekking a few miles back through the snowy woods in inclement weather while exhausted and injured... or spend the night in a random cabin.

They choose the cabin.

Baby, you should stick around by ElisAttack

(3/3 I 9,543 I Teen)

Derek's driving along a stretch of highway when an unusual sight makes him slow down, the engine of his old pickup rattling in protest.

There's a kid standing by the side of the road.

It's the middle of nowhere, the goddamn apocalypse, and this kid is standing by the side of the road with his thumb pointed skyward. Like he's playing at being a hitchhiker.

Or the one where Stiles thinks he's all alone in a post-apocalyptic world, until he meets Derek.

(Welcome To) Far Far Away, or The Tale of Wolfskin and the Fox Prince by scarlettletterr

(4/4 I 14,716 I General)

There's a wolf sleeping in the cabin on the outskirt of Beacon Hills, and a fox in the Prince's chambers. This is a tale of magic, of lemon cakes, and oblivious idiots falling in love in the country of Far Far Away.

Abominable by Revenant

(2/2 I 20,272 I Teen)

Where Derek buys a secluded cabin halfway up a mountain, meets a yeti and falls in love with Stiles, but not necessarily in that order.

A sacrilege to keep it a secret by babisays

(1/1 I 21,275 I General)

Stiles has a secret he's been keeping from everyone his entire life. But Derek is starting to notice the fact that he'll never go near a body of water when other people are around and he keeps saying that he's really bad at swimming. Derek knows that's a lie because he was able to hold him up in a pool for three hours straight. Stiles knows his secret is a ticking time bomb and at some point, everyone will know it. But he quite likes being the human of the pack. Even though Derek and he know that he isn't. Derek just wants to figure out exactly what he is.

Retreat by words_in_starless_skies (orphan_account)

(12/12 I 43,889 I Teen)

Stiles is not okay. He struggles with the aftermath of being possessed by the Nogitsune. Alone. A worried Derek invites him to his cabin in the mountains, which he shares with Cora and Peter. Stiles is totally on board with getting as far away from Beacon Hills as possible, especially when it means he gets his own comfort wolf.

Move Inside Of Your Light by sterekhale

(17/17 I 73,510 I Mature)

After fleeing from hunters Derek found refuge in a small Wyoming town. For almost ten years, he lived alone in a cabin among acres of land, until one night he stumbles upon a car accident near his place. When the driver comes to with his friendly smile and beautiful brown eyes, there’s no way Derek could’ve predicted the next three weeks.

Stiles is a hunter who can’t go home and the alpha of the fallen Hale pack is his Hail Mary. What he didn’t expect to find was a gentle and broken man in place of the so-called mighty alpha. Despite the pressures from back home, Stiles keeps putting off what he has to do, while falling for the one person he’s not supposed to.

Mating Moons by skinsharpenedteeth (Skinsharpenedteeth)

(15/15 I 85,268 I Explicit)

Stiles just wanted to get Derek's attention. Derek had seemed so distracted as the full moon approached and Stiles was feeling pretty neglected as a friend. Next thing he knows, he's magically bound to a cabin in the mountains with Derek all winter long and they have to figure out whether they want to be life mates?

#teen wolf #sterek #stiles stilinski #derek hale #apocalypse #creature!stiles #anon

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inlovewithl3vi · 4 months ago

Note

Wait till the boys learn my joints can predict the weather. 😆

(Feel free to ignore this! I just thought of this after reading what you wrote for my last message)

-bad joint anon

ok totally off topic I think that the name "bad joint anon" is hilarious!

also please never expect me to ignore an ask I literally love getting asks!!!!!!!!!!!

I thought about this too tbh lmao. mostly since growing up my grandparents and parents could smell when it was gonna rain and I fear that I have actually developed the ability to do so too.

My mom also can somewhat predict the weather too so I kinda get this (she has arthritis so yk) so I'm just gonna use the fact that her bones start to hurt when its gonna rain or when its getting colder. sorry if that's not how it works for you! anyway I'll shut up and write-

"you can what?!" Asmo looked at you, clearly surprised. "My joints predict the weather." you responded, not looking up from your DDD. you had mentioned only a few minutes before that its probably gonna rain tomorrow, when asked you had to explain that you could quite literally feel it in your bones. "how does that even work? do humans have magic I didn't know about? Solomon never mentioned this to me..."

you set your phone down to explain a little more. "remember how my joints sometimes pop or crack? yeah well sometimes my bones kinda just start to hurt when its gonna rain. I don't know how it works, it just does." Asmo nods as Satan walks in. "Oh! Satan! did you know the humans body predicts the weather?" Satan looks up from the book he was holding and glances over at you. he raises an eyebrow before speaking. "really? how so?"

of course then you have to answer all his questions (and point out every inaccuracy in human anatomy books from the devildom)

The next day, before you head out to RAD you glance out the window and see a nice light rain. you sigh and grab your umbrella from your bag, already prepared. "MC! you were right!" you glance behind you as you start walking to see Asmodeus dragging Solomon with him as he runs up to you. "It is raining!" he laughs slightly as him and Solomon fall into pace with you, continuing to walk to RAD.

Bonus: Diavolo gets really concerned about this when you tell him, more so than the brothers (mostly since the brothers have had some human interaction but Dia was mostly kept only in the castle). He genuinely freaks out when your joints crack or when you tell him its gonna rain or snow and it actually does. He'll get used to it (eventually) but till then he's gonna have a small heart attack anytime your bones make any sort of noise. (even if its normal)

#obey me nightbringer #obey me shall we date #obey me mc #obey me x mc #obey me #obey me imagines #obey me x reader #obey me asmodeus #obey me asmo x reader #bad joints anon

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lacyscabinet · 2 months ago

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Okay but now imagine reader didn't die through sickness, imagine they committed suicide. That they gave up hope completely and left a message for the other girls to use you and to make sure Natalie did too? That they hated life but loved her and even if they didn't make it, they wanted to help her survive. I'm not well about this.

Death cap

A/N: I'm not well about this either anon you are so seen. Hello my dear anon ik that you probably thought I wouldn't write your request at this point but here I am 😭 life absolutely SUCKS lately so what do I do? Go to therapy? Adopt a carnivorous plant? NO! A WRITING COMEBACK! It's pretty short but enjoy and stay safe 🤍🤍

!!!for those who don't know the anon is referring to my fic "the wilderness dance", here it is. You can totally read this without reading the other one as well:)

Absolutely not proofread! :) BUT beta read by my brotha @pinkmoonzzz 🤍🤍 and the ex gf reminder™ @littlelqtte

NAVIGATION

TW: suicide via mushrooms (tlou stans rise), CANNIBALISM!!!!! It's only implied but still, reader is DEAD!!!!!!, pain and suffering. Please please please do not read if any of these topics disturb you in any way!!!

Autumn had slowly died right before your eyes. You could tell. In the mornings, the cold, stinging air blew onto your face, while in the evenings, it was almost impossible to stay outside the cabin without a crackling fire warming you up. Hence why, when Jackie stepped outside the door that fateful night, you knew you weren't going to see your team's captain ever again.

Predictably, the situation aggravated even more after that day. And there's only so much a teenager can take. Surviving was a privilege at this point, and if being privileged meant eating your dead friends, you weren't sure if you wanted to be there at all.

Natalie was away most of the time, and it's not like there was much to do inside the cabin. The days went by, and slowly your brain started to fog: memories of life before the crash appearing blurry and messy. All your hopes of watching flowers bloom again soon vanished in the dark attic where you spent most of your sorrowed days. Soon enough only death and hunger were left in you.

So one particularly cold night, after slipping out of Nat's arms and placing a small peck on her forehead, you went up the unstable ladder leading to the attic. In the dim light of an old candle, you rummaged through a small, hidden box where you kept all your things, or at least the things you didn't want the others to know about.

You took your diary, scribbled down what you needed to say, and then rummaged in the box a little more. And right there before your eyes, you saw it.

Amanita phalloides.

Or more commonly known as Dead cap. You had found it weeks ago, picked it up, dried it, and then stored it in a jar, always making sure that no one could find it. It was deadly poisonous after all. But you still kept it. Just in case.

"Natalie?"

Nat heard a quiet voice coming from the cabin's porch. Snow crunched under her boots as she kneeled in the snow, hand holding onto something colder than the hauntingly freezing weather.

"Go away, Misty," she didn't hesitate to say, not moving an inch. Still facing away from the blonde-haired girl, hiding her tears from anyone who wasn't the lifeless frame of the girl she loved.

"Nat" Misty called out for her again "We found something that you might want to see," she then suddenly announced, finally catching Natalie's attention. Wiping her damp and cold cheeks with the back of her old jacket, she finally turned around, meeting Misty's eyes.

"I told you not to touch her things," she instantly spat in Misty's face, noticing her holding your beat-up diary in her hands.

"We were trying to find something to light up the fire. We ran out of wood. We wanted to use some empty pages, but as I said, I think there's something you might want to see..." she looked down at the object, holding it out for Natalie "....Something you might want to read."

Confused, Nat took one last look at your now blue, pale, and stiff body before getting up, immediately snatching the diary from Misty's claws, holding it to her chest while walking back inside.

When she entered the living room, everyone looked up at her from their spots on the floor. They had all gathered around the fire, all snuggled in raggedy blankets. She could recognize the blanket she wrapped you up in just days before you passed: it was now keeping Mari warm as she stirred something in a big pot, probably some sort of watery soup. It was all they had left after all.

She didn't sit down with them though. She needed to be alone, because no one around her was you, and that killed her every day since you had left.

So she walked straight to the kitchen, sitting down on a chair at the table, feeling the leather on the cover of your diary under the pads of her freezing fingers.

Her hands trembled as she opened the diary, the weight of your final words pressing down on her. She skimmed through the pages, each line made her feel uneasy, gut-wrenching revelations of your despair and resignation were the only things that could be found on the paper. The pain you felt, your ultimate choice, and, one last plea for Natalie to survive, even if it meant feeding off of you, literally. It was all laid bare right before her eyes.

Natalie’s eyes welled with ,tears as she read your desperate farewell. The stark realization that you had been so hopeless and alone was almost too much to bear. She tried to swallow the lump in her throat, suppressing it just like she had grown used to suppress the almost constant rumbling in her stomach.

But the sobs came uncontrollably and the hunger couldn't be disguised.

The diary fell from her hands. She clutched her chest, trying to keep her cries silent, but the anguish was too great.

Then suddenly, a noise from outside pierced through her grief: the sharp, rhythmic sound of someone sharpening a knife. Her breath hitched as her eyes widened in horror.

The cabin was awfully quiet.

Your body was still out in the snow.

Natalie’s mind raced. She stumbled out of the kitchen, her feet slipping on the icy floor as she rushed to the door. The cold air hit her like a slap as she forced herself outside, the snow crunching under her weight once again. She followed the sound, her heart pounding in her chest, each step a struggle against the biting cold and her own rising panic.

As she neared the edge of the clearing where your body lay, she stopped in her tracks after noticing everyone already huddled up around you, flashbacks of Jackie appearing before her.

And maybe, Natalie would've tried to stop them from reducing you to a bunch of bones she would have to throw away in the site of the plane crash when the morning came.

But, they had already started.

A/n: skibidi, skibidi toilet. I love you pls don't die.

my ask button is now active again so go crazy:) send some happy requests please 😭😭

shiver me timbers

#I'M BAAAAAACKKKKKK #yellowjackets #natalie scatorccio #nat scatorccio #natalie scatorccio x reader #yellowjackets x reader #nat scatorccio x reader #yellowjackets x you #natalie scatorccio x y/n #lottienat

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justporo · 11 months ago

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Tokens of Appreciation

Astarion likes to bring you little gifts and presenting them to you in his overly dramatic way and little bit of playful banter (that he totally didn't make all up on his way home to you).

MASTERLIST | AO3

Author's Note: Written for the "Gifts" prompt of the BG3 Winter Holiday challenge. I like the idea of just showering a loved one with random gifts and being like "this made me think of you" - and also I imagine Astarion could be pretty cute and loving in a genuine relationship with doing stuff like this (albeit insufferably sassy, lol)

Pairing: Astarion/GN!Tav (You) Warnings: none Wordcount: 1,1k ~~~

Throughout winter time Astarion brought you presents. Little trinkets or a sweet treats (accompanied by him saying “a treat for my sweet” and a wink while you act like you’re going to have to throw up from his cheesiness), a single blossom of a flower besting the ice and the snow or maybe a bottle of wine the two of you could share together. It almost had the musings of a cat bringing its owner “gifts” - but you were happy that yours were much more delightful than what a feline predator would have brought in. He didn’t tell you where he would get these small tokens of appreciation - and you didn’t ask. That was part of the magic of this little game. Though, you had the distinct feeling that many of these weren’t acquired under explicitly lawfully good circumstances. But to the hells with that, you were a former thief and he a rogue, what else was new?

It had become a habit for him that whenever he went into the city to run some errands that he would grab a little something for you as well. You had dared to become accustomed to the sweet little gestures and were excited anytime you knew he’d return with a little surprise for you.

The vampire meanwhile had found he enjoyed this way of showing you a bit of admiration: a sign of thinking of you, making the time to grab something and show you some love - all without him having to give anything of himself up. Rather, it even gave him something as well: whenever he saw how your face started to beam with love and admiration, your eyes lighting up, he felt how his own chest felt lighter, warmer and a telltale smile stole onto his lips.

A naive fool might’ve called that love. Astarion counted himself among such fools when it came to you - if exclusively so.

And then he made a show of it each time too. Like when he brought you a flower that was magically frozen in a sphere of ice.

Astarion came into the kitchen where you had been preparing some dinner for yourself still fully clothed from going out. The way he’d sauntered into the room had already told you that he had a little something planned and was infinitely proud of himself - he was terribly predictable sometimes.

When he cleared his throat to get your attention you had obediently put down the vegetables you’d been currently cutting and turned around to him, leaning casually against the counter. The vampire had been waiting with a smug grin, his arms still by his sides so the cloak was fully covering his form.

“My sweet darling, I have something for you,” he said and leaned a little closer in a playful sort of way.

You immediately joined his little back and forth that you already were well accustomed to. Placing your hand on your chest as if asking ‘for me?’ you made a delighted “Oh?” and smiled at him.

With a swift movement the vampire sent one side of his cloak flying, revealing his hand under it which held a shiny sphere. Dexterously, he let the perfect, transparent sphere roll over his wrist and down his arm. And just before the ball fell to the ground he let it smoothly wander onto his other arm. With a quick shrug of his shoulder he made the shiny thing roll up and with a flick of his wrist he elegantly caught it and then offered it to you with a little bow.

“May I present to you, my love, a magically frozen blossom. The height of its existence forever caught in magically eternal ice. Beautiful if ice cold - almost like you, my dear,” he presented the gift to you, still in his little bow before you. You could see the twitch of his eyebrows and the corners of his mouth. Must’ve taken him the whole way home to come up with all of this.

You took the shiny sphere from him - immediately intrigued by its beauty and shininess. It was almost as if your history as a thief had permanently altered your brain to be drawn to shiny, glittery things; as if you had become a little magpie.

The sphere was merely cool in your hands, the ice encasing a wonderfully bright red blossom that immediately made you think of summertime. You turned the beautiful trinket in your hands admiring its beauty when, finally, Astarion’s words registered with you.

You pursed your lips and crossed your arms over your chest, still holding onto the icy sphere. The vampire grinned smugly at you - he’d been waiting for this moment.

“Astarion, dear, I did not just hear you call me frigid, did I?,” you had asked indignantly. The vampire grinned broader in response, putting even his fangs on display.

“Maybe I just called you cool, love,” he replied, sauntering over to where you were still leaning against the kitchen counter.

“Or - maybe,” you countered as Astarion leaned to you, placing one of his arms on the counter, “you just called me chilly.”

The vampire clicked his tongue and pouted: “My heart, you think so negatively of me. I would never dare to call you cold to your face.” He tried to stay serious but a smug grin crept onto his lips, making one corner of his mouth twitch. Meanwhile he leaned in a little closer. Seemingly he was convinced he’d soon be the winner of your little banter and would receive a kiss for all his efforts.

You though weren’t done playing.

“I’d hope so, Astarion. I really hope so. Because that would be so rich coming from a walking and talking corpse whose body heat can’t rise above room temperature”, you replied tongue in cheek as you stayed unimpressed by Astarion craning his neck to reach for you for a kiss.

When the vampire took in your words, he was taken aback. He stopped moving in, his eyes widened while his mouth had fallen open. Then his expression immediately changed into an amused and proud grin.

“My gods, dear,” Astarion said with a little chuckle, still grinning proudly at you.

“Alright,” he then said after staring at you for a bit longer, “I guess this burn has just proven that you’re anything but cold.”

You lifted your chin up and grinned triumphantly at him and Astarion quickly stole a little peck on your lips before he went back to the hallway to take off his cloak.

“Good! But if you’re still not convinced I can show you some heat later on”, you shouted after your vampire and were gifted with a genuine laugh.

Tag list: @spacebarbarianweird @sunfire-ancunin @tragedybunny @dependsonthedream @tallymonster @magazzne @micropoe10 @aoirohi @my-bunny-prince @lumienyx @fayeriess @darlingxdragon

#astarion #baldur's gate 3 #astarion ancunin #fanfiction #astarion x tav #bg3 spoilers #baldur's gate iii #baldurs gate #astarion x mc #astarion x oc #bg3holidayfluffle23 #astarion x you #astarion x reader #bg3

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blogbridgekethy · 3 months ago

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Snow Showdown between Florham Park NJ and Owings Mills MD

Snow. For many, it's a winter wonderland; for others, it's a seasonal challenge. Whether you're a weather enthusiast or a local resident, understanding how snow totals differ between snow total Florham Park NJ, and Owings Mills, MD, can be both fascinating and useful. In this blog post, we will explore the unique weather patterns of these two locations, dissect historical snowfall data, and unveil the factors contributing to their distinct snow totals.

Nestled in the northeastern United States, Florham Park, NJ, and Owings Mills, MD, is two charming locales with their own unique weather patterns. While both regions experience all four seasons, their snowfall totals can differ significantly. This post dives deep into why these differences occur, providing insights for weather enthusiasts and residents alike.

Understanding Local Climate Factors

Geographical Influences- The geographical landscape is a significant factor in determining snowfall. Florham Park, NJ, is located in the northern part of New Jersey, which is influenced by its proximity to the Atlantic Ocean. This proximity results in more moisture-laden air masses, which can lead to heavier snowfall. On the other hand, Owings Mills, MD, situated farther south, experiences a more temperate climate due to its closer proximity to the Chesapeake Bay.

Meteorological Conditions- The meteorological conditions that impact snow totals in both locations vary widely. Florham Park often experiences nor'easters—powerful storm systems that can dump significant amounts of snow in a short period. These storms are less frequent in Owings Mills, where winter weather is more often characterized by lighter, more sporadic snowfalls.

Wind Patterns- Wind patterns also play a crucial role. In Florham Park, the predominant wind direction during winter is from the northwest, bringing cold air masses from Canada. In contrast, Owings Mills is more likely to experience winds coming from the southwest, which are warmer and less conducive to snowfall.

Historical Data Comparison

Snowfall over the Last Decade- examining the snow total Florham Park, NJ, and snow total Owings Mills, MD, over the last decade reveals stark contrasts. Florham Park frequently records higher annual snowfall totals, averaging around 30-40 inches per year. Owings Mills, on the other hand, averages closer to 20-25 inches annually.

Significant Snow Events- Florham Park has experienced several significant snow events in recent years, including the blizzard of 2016, which brought nearly 30 inches of snow in one storm. Owings Mills also felt the impact of this storm but saw considerably less accumulation, highlighting the disparity even during the same weather event.

Yearly Variability- Yearly variability in snowfall is another interesting aspect. While Florham Park has consistent snow totals, Owings Mills can see more fluctuation. This variability can be attributed to the differing weather systems that affect each area, making Florham Park generally more predictable when it comes to snow.

The Impact of Elevation

Elevation Differences- Elevation plays a pivotal role in snow accumulation. Florham Park sits at an elevation of approximately 200 feet above sea level, while Owings Mills is slightly lower at around 150 feet. This difference in elevation may seem minor but can affect local weather patterns.

Temperature and Snowfall- Higher elevations tend to have lower temperatures, which can lead to more snowfall as the air can hold less moisture. Florham Park’s slightly higher elevation makes it more susceptible to snow than Owings Mills. Additionally, temperature inversions, where warmer air traps cooler air near the surface, can be more pronounced in lower elevations, leading to less snow in Owings Mills.

Microclimates- Microclimates within these regions also contribute to snow totals. Florham Park's varied topography can create pockets of colder air, enhancing snowfall in certain areas. Owings Mills, with its more uniform landscape, experiences fewer microclimate variations, resulting in more consistent, albeit lower, snowfall totals.

Understanding Snow Total

Understanding the differences in snow total Florham Park, NJ, and snow total Owings Mills MD, reveals fascinating insights into local climate and geography. From geographical influences to community perspectives, the factors contributing to snow totals are varied and complex. For residents and weather enthusiasts alike, appreciating these differences can enhance our understanding and enjoyment of winter weather.

Whether you're a local resident or a weather enthusiast, we encourage you to share your own experiences and engage with our community. Understanding local climate patterns not only helps us prepare for winter but also fosters a deeper appreciation for the natural world around us.

#snow total #snow total prediction #snow total analysis #snow total florham park nj #snow total owings mills md

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readnburied · 1 year ago

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13 Moons Reading Challenge 2024 — Announcement

So it’s finally time for the announcement of the 13 Moons reading challenge for 2024. Another year, another list of prompts that will make your reading journey exciting. This reading challenge is created by me for the entire reading community. So if you love reading or are looking for a reading challenge to try for the upcoming year, then here is one for you.

Rules & Levels

The rules for this reading challenge are simple. First of all, this is just for fun so no need to feel pressured into doing anything or reading anything you don’t want to. You can also be flexible with the prompts if you choose to do so. The challenge will run from January 1st, 2024 and till December 31st, 2024.

There are a total of 104 reading prompts divided into 13 categories. There is a list of levels given and you can choose which level you wish to participate in based on your preference. The levels you can participate in are as follows:

Penumbral Lunar Eclipse: 13 books — fulfill one prompt from each category

Partial Lunar Eclipse: 26 books — fulfill at least one prompt from each category

Central Lunar Eclipse: 52 books — fulfill at least one prompt from each category

Total Lunar Eclipse: 104 books — fulfill all the prompts

The reading challenge is given below. I am trying to create a graphic for it, and if I succeed I’ll edit this post and attach the graphic later, but for now I will write it all down here in case you wish to participate and plan your TBR. So without further ado, here is the 13 Moons reading challenge 2024.

13 Moons Reading Challenge 2024

Wolf Moon

A Stand Alone novel

A furry creature on the cover

Hair on the cover

The words Straight, Waves or Curly in the title

Hair color in the title

A book about found family

A book about adoption

A book with a hierarchy

Snow Moon

The word White in the title

Blanket on the cover

Read a book while drinking a hot beverage

Read a book while burning a candle

Hat/Cap on the cover

A book about mountains

A book about a fresh start or a new beginning

A book with necromancy themes

Worm Moon

Read a book in a series with more than 5 books

A book about rebirth or reincarnation

A cozy book

Book about insects

Continue a series

A book that gives you the creeps

A book you’re not sure about

A book you’re thinking of unhauling

Pink Moon

A book with a princess

Book about women empowerment

A pink object on the cover

Book recommended by a celebrity

Book that tickles you pink

A coming of age book

A celebrity memoir

Start a book on a new moon

Flower Moon

Book by a BIPOC author

Book about friendship

A book club pick

Book with an animated cover

Book with a character named after a flower

A speculative fiction

A book set in spring

Read a book at any time of the day

Strawberry Moon

Read a book from your backlist

Read a book with Bubbles on the cover

A book with less than 400 pages

Book you see trending on social media

Read a book from an author which is new to you

A debut novel

Book with the word Leaf in the title

Book about swimming

Buck Moon

A book that has multiple editions

A Paperback

A book recommended by a friend

A biography

A book you’re seeing everywhere

A 2024 release

A 5 star prediction

Book with a Man on the cover

Sturgeon Moon

Book with a map

Book that people have been forcing you to read

Book with a title that starts with the first letter of your name

Book you hauled recently

Book with a Tree on the cover

Book with the word Can’t in the title

Book with a dark cover

A novella

Harvest Moon

An anthology

A book you had to read for an assignment

A book with a movie adaptation

Book you’d recommend to somebody else

A book chosen by somebody else

Book with a Fish on the cover

A fruit in the title

Book about a celebration

Hunter’s Moon

Book about food

Book set in Europe

Book with an Umbrella on the cover

Book about a topic you’re curious about

An award winning book

Read the 7th book on your shelf

Book with Buildings on the cover

book divided into parts

Beaver Moon

Book about a psychological phenomenon

Book with the word Five in the title

Book with a Street on the cover

Start a book in the evening

A book about a specific country

A book from your monthly TBR

Book with a cover you don’t like

Book about a single parent

Cold Moon

Book set in the medieval times

Book with a Spider on the cover

Read a book while wearing a pair of socks

A memoir

Book about a historical event

Book with a character’s name in the title

Book you think you will love

Book from a Goodreads shelf

Blue Moon

Book with a unique format

Read a classic

Book with 3 or more people on the cover

Book recommended by your favorite social media influencer

Book with a dramatic title

Book with a Dagger in the story

Book set in high school

Book about a spy

And there you have it. This is the 13 Moons reading challenge 2024 for you all. Let me know if you like it. If you wish to participate I’d love it if you can comment below to tell me you’re participating in the challenge. If you don’t want to comment, that’s fine as well. As long as you enjoy doing the challenge, I’m happy.

Happy Reading!!

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blueteller · 26 days ago

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Hello dear cool person! As of the recent chapters in the novel raws, do we know whether the Thames household and the Archduke's House of Snow are related? Do we have more info on the House of Snow?

Predictably enough, nope! 😂 Cale's way too busy totally-not-dying and saving the world in the name of his non-existent Slacker Life to worry about stuff like that just yet 🤣

#tcf #trash of the count's family #lcf #lout of count's family #listen i WISH i could be mad but like...#cale is so freaking busy #so many important conversations have been delayed because THINGS KEEP HAPPENING #i want more lore and more character moments so bad #but i swear this guy doesn't even get a coffee break as it is #you have no idea what kind of nonsense cale has to put up with #q&a #replies

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cozy-mp3 · 2 years ago

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over and out

ellie x female!reader

being assigned night patrol sucks, ellie agrees

word count: 1.2k(ish)

warnings: sfw, probably an inaccurate depiction of how walkie talkies work, ellie calls reader honey because i'm predictable, men dni please and ty :)

a/n: tysm for 200 followers!!! i'm gonna open my requests up again soon as a thank you! this is my 'trying to grasp how to write ellie again' fic in between writing other stuff which is why it's short. also, i honestly do not know if this scenario is logistically possible but it is what it is.

you hate night watch at the best of times. it’s almost mind numbingly boring and since there’s so little to report you often find yourself alone until whoever is taking over your post for the first day shift arrives in the morning. it’s particularly bad in the winter due to the cold, the past few days had brought snow and you can feel it chilling your toes even though you’d tugged several pairs of socks on before you’d left home.

the sound of the radio crackling to life makes you jump after such a long stretch of silence, not even the sound of people stumbling out of the tipsy bison had interrupted the quiet this late at night, it’d been balanced in your lap beside your rifle which you decide to set on the ground beside you before you startle again and accidentally blow your foot off.

“this is williams to honey,” ellie says, her voice distorted over the radio but still warm and familiar, “this better be you, i’ve been hopping frequencies for the past fifteen minutes, maria’s gonna kill me when she finds out,” she adds and you can practically see her rolling her eyes, though you’re sure she won’t have the same bravado once maria’s done with her.

“how did you get hold of a radio?,” you ask in response, you should probably be frustrated with her, the radios are strictly for patrolling the walls and communicating potential danger and she’s absolutely going to get in trouble, but you can’t help but let a smile stretch across your lips at the sound of her voice.

“jesse owed me a favor,” she explains, only sounding a little sheepish about it, “i can’t sleep without you, this is totally necessary if they want me on patrol tomorrow,” she insists and really, it’s impossible to be mad when you feel the same way, even if it’s the kind of argument that maria will complain is making her go gray. you can imagine her tucked into bed, the duvet pulled beneath her chin and her cheek pressed into her pillow, the soft light of the lamp on the bedside table casting a warm yellow glow over her skin.

“i miss sleeping with you, too,” you sigh, it must come out crackly because ellie makes a frustrated sound and the radio beeps meaning the settings are being fiddled with, “don’t bother messing with it, el,” you hum and you’re pretty sure that comes out distorted by static too, but ellie seems resigned to it and doesn’t attempt to fix it again, instead producing shuffling sounds like she’s repositioning in bed.

“how much longer are you assigned nights?,” she asks and it’s a testament to how well you know her that you can imagine her face, her brows tugged together in a frown that wrinkles her forehead and her lips tugged downwards, you wish you were there to smooth the creases from her face and kiss away her pout, but you’re stuck in what you’re beginning to believe is the most uncomfortable lawn chair left in the world watching for infected that stumble too close to the walls, so none of that is possible.

“three more days, then i’ve got mornings for a month,” you tell her with an unhappy exhale that she mirrors, you could probably get your shifts changed if you kicked up enough of a fuss but it doesn’t feel right when you know everyone else hates the job as much as you, no one is particularly willing to switch to nights in summer, let alone now when it’s sub zero.

“this is, like, top five worst things that have ever happened to me,” ellie grumbles, her voice is even more muffled and you can imagine how she’s turned her face into her pillow to hide her frustrated face, “and don’t correct me on that, honey, i’m being serious,” she sighs and you wish you were there to tug her into your chest and stroke your hands through her hair because she sounds tired, exhausted even, and it’s almost torture to know there isn’t anything you can do to soothe her to sleep.

“you wanna talk until you fall asleep?,” you ask as gently as you can, hoping that your change in tone is noticeable over the radio, your toes are so cold you’re beginning to think they’re going to fall off before you’re able to get home and practice your current ritual of sticking them between ellie’s calves to steal her warmth for the hour or so you’re in bed together before she has to get up for patrol.

“please,” she responds, her tone matching yours all syrupy sweet and rough with sleep in a way that makes your stomach warm, “i’m hugging your pillow,” she admits quietly, “smells like you,” she adds and you don’t know if you want to beam or cry because there’s almost nothing you wouldn’t do to be there with her where it’s warm and safe and your girl is there to hold you instead.

“i’ll be back soon,” you say before you can say something embarrassing, like that you’ve been missing her every second you’ve been apart or that just tonight you’ve caught yourself daydreaming about her so many times you’d stopped counting, “only a couple more hours,” you murmur, glancing down at your watch to check again. ellie had gotten you new batteries for it the last time she’d been on a supply run and having it functional again was useful despite it giving you the ability to agonize over how slowly each minute of your watch seems to pass.

“i’ll stay up,” ellie replies with a firm edge to her voice that you know better than to argue with, though she yawns soon afterwards and you’re almost certain that she’ll be asleep when you arrive home. it’s not a problem though, it’s just as nice to curl up behind her when she’s sleeping as it is for her to tug you against her chest and rub your back until you fall asleep together.

“i love you,” you tell her, having to stifle your responding yawn against your palm.

“i love you too, honey,” she says and you can hear the smile in her voice, “make sure you’re safe walking home, ok? it’ll still be dark when they switch over,” she hums, her voice sounding a little closer, like she’s tucked the radio beside her in bed.

“i’ll be safe, els,” you reassure her and you will, because you know she worries and you don’t want to give her cause to worry more, “now, what do you want to talk about?,” you ask, tucking your chin into the warmth of your coat and pulling your rifle back into your lap as you settle in for the last stretch of your watch.

ellie’s already started talking about the deer she saw on patrol and the fancy charcoal pencils joel had gotten her from a trader. you wiggle your toes just to make sure they’re still there just as she begins to complain about how they’ve served broccoli for dinner for almost a week straight, which is bullshit because she’s seen carrots in the pantry with her own eyes and you hope selfishly that she doesn’t fall asleep too soon because the time passes so much faster when she’s there.

#ellie x reader #ellie williams x reader #tlou2 x reader

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ironstrange1991 · 1 year ago

Text

The Touch Of Your Hands

+18 Smut

Pairing: Stephen!Strange x Fem!Reader

Synopsis: It's cold and Stephen's hands are hurting and you decide to take care of them (and other things too)

Word Count: 4,4k

Warnings: Mentions of physical pain, SMUT: Strong hand kink, fingering, oral sex (with female receiving), masturbation (with female receiving), unprotected p in v sex, creampie.

A/N: I've always had a fascination with men's hands and since Stephen's hands are such an important part of his story (and the fact that Benedict's hands are huge) it's kind of obvious that I would be obsessed with them. This story pretty much wrote itself and I intended it to be a fluffy fic, but as you'll see it took a totally different turn. Enjoy your reading ;)

You were reading your favorite book, sitting lazily on your bed, back propped up by a pile of pillows. It was cold, very cold. You were dressed in flannel pajamas, wearing fluffy socks and covered in a heavy blanket.

The fireplace was lit, outside you could hear the sound of the wind hitting the window. Weather forecasters had predicted a blizzard for that night and the next morning. Flights had been cancelled, schools had sent notes to parents that they would be closed the following day, local businesses would probably do the same.

You liked the winter, but the idea of Stephen being out in the snow doing god knows what was absurd to you and made you feel guilty for being comfortable when you knew your man was out there in the cold.

You were distracted by your book until you started to feel sleep taking over you, your eyes closing by themselves, so you placed your book on the bedside table, turned off the lamp and surrendered to the tireness of the day.

You must have dozed off for only a few minutes because the sound of boots in the hallway was enough to wake you up. The door opened slowly and Stephen entered and closed it carefully so as not to make any noise. You were so comfortable that you didn't even move, you just expected him to go to you and give you a kiss, like he always did, but instead you heard him walking to the bathroom and the closet door creaking open.

You continued to listen carefully until the sound of something falling and crashing on the floor startled you. Stephen swore under his breath, but you could hear the irritation in his voice.

By then you had completely lost sleep, so you got up, wrapped yourself in your fluffy robe and walked over to him.

Stephen was still dressed in his robes, standing in front of the mirror, trying to clean some bruises from his face. Trying because his hands were shaking a lot more than usual.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart, I didn't mean to wake you." He said with a heavy sigh.

You walked over and wrapped your arms around his waist. "It's okay. Christ, you're freezing in these wet robes, Stephen."

He turned to look at you, his face was red from the cold, there were a few cuts on his cheekbones and forehead, no big deal. "I hate to ask, Y/n, but..."

"Yes I can help you undress. I already told you that you can call me when you need help, Stephen."

He nodded "I know, but you looked so comfortable that I didn't have the heart."

You smiled and gave him a quick peck on the lips. Then you set about unbuckling all his belts. You freed him of the top of his robes and knelt down to remove his boots and finally free him of his pants as well.

"Thanks, sweetheart. My hands are terrible today. Probably from the cold. It's freezing outside."

"From what I've seen on TV, it's not going to get better anytime soon. At least we can stay in bed late." You gave him your best smile and then stepped away and turned on the shower, adjusting the temperature until the water was piping hot. "Take a hot shower, then I'll take care of your hands. They are hurting, right?"

He nodded shyly, quickly got rid of his boxers and stepped into the shower.

You got him a change of clean clothes and left them on the counter, then went about preparing a basin of hot water and lavender essence. You grabbed some clean towels and the bottle of lavender oil and took it to bed with you.

Stephen did not take long to return to the room. He looked gorgeous in his sweatshirt and pants, hair messed up, a few strands falling over his forehead.

"Come on, let me take care of you." You said patting the mattress.

He smirked and crawled under the blankets with you and you adjusted the pillows behind him "Lean on the pillows"

He did as you asked and you spread one of the towels on his lap over the blankets. "Put your hands here, palms facing up. Good."

You wet another towel in the hot water and wrung out the excess water and wrapped it around Stephen's hands as he let out a heavy sigh.

"Let's wait a minute for them to get really warm." You said touching his face. The cuts had been cleaned up, but you knew they must be hurting. "It always breaks my heart when you come home hurt."

He tried to smile reassuringly, but he couldn't even do that. You could see the weariness written on his face, his eyes heavy from all those sleepless nights.

"You're not going to work tomorrow, okay?"

"Sweetheart, I need..."

You put two fingers on his lips "Shh you don't need anything. Nobody's going to work tomorrow because of the bad weather. I want you to enjoy the day to rest and get some sleep."

"I can't, Y/n..."

"I'm not asking, Stephen. Unless you want to pick a fight with me, you're going to do what I say."

He sighed heavily "I'll call Wong tomorrow morning."

You smile "Very well."

You kissed him gently and then took the towel from his hands and returned it to the basin. You took the bottle of lavender oil and dripped a few drops into his palm and then smoothed it very gently all over his hand. "Let me know if it hurts, okay?"

He nodded.

You turned his left hand over palm down and started massaging his fingers. Starting with the pinky, you pinched the tip of the finger firmly for a moment, then used firm, short strokes with your thumb, massaging up the finger towards the knuckle. Finally, squeezing it all over. You repeated the process on the other fingers and he let out a heavy exhale. "This feels amazing, sweetheart."

You smiled "Yeah?"

"Uh hm" He hummed leaning his head back and closing his eyes.

You used your thumb to massage the back of his hand, placing the pad of your thumb between the pinky and ring finger, using medium pressure, sliding your thumb along the finger bone, up towards the wrist. You repeated the process working your way up along each finger bone taking some extra time in the place between his thumb and index finger, using circular motions.

"I love it when you take care of my hands like this. There's no one in the world I would let do that to me but you."

You smiled, feeling your heart fluttering in your chest at those words, but you continued with your work. You turned his hand over, and cradled it in both hands. Then began to massage the palm in small, circular movements using your thumbs, beginning in the middle of the palm, and working your way towards the sides, and then up towards his wrist. He let out a sweet noise. Something between a groan and a moan. His eyes were still closed, his breathing calm and relaxed.

"I love doing this for you. It's very intimate and it makes me feel good too."

You held Stephen's hand palm down, and interlaced your fingers with his to stretch the fingers apart. Grasping the whole hand in yours, and gently pushed back to stretch the wrist a bit. Slowly and carefully turned the wrist from right to left, and then left to right.

You finished the massage with a few more drops of lavender oil and proceeded to give several long strokes with your palm and fingers, beginning at the back of the wrist, and smoothing your hand down towards the fingers.

"One is finished." You kissed the back of his hand. "Now, give me the other hand."

He did as you asked and you restarted the whole process. Very slowly, taking your time, you worked on his fingers, his wrist, his palm, the back of his hand. You finished it off again with a kiss and when you dared look at him, he was looking intently at you, his blue eyes filled with love and affection.

You felt your face blushing at that look. "What is it?"

He smirked "I love you, Y/n. I love you so much, more than I ever thought I could love anyone. You are the most important thing to me in this world."

You grinned and threw yourself on top of him kissing him passionately. His arms wrapped around your waist, keeping you impossibly close to him.

You only broke the kiss to breathe and still you stayed glued to him, your forehead resting on his "I love you too, Stephen Strange. I love you more than anything."

He kissed you again, this time sweetly, his lips brushing against yours gently. You smiled and then moved away removing the towel from his lap.

"So, on a scale of 0 to 10, how much better is the pain in your hands now?"

"10. I'm not feeling any pain right now."

You smiled smugly "See? I know how to take care of my man."

You threatened to get up to take the basin and towels, but he moved his fingers making them disappear and grabbed you by the wrist pulling you on top of him. He arranged the blankets over your bodies. No matter how cold it was outside, it was so warm there under the covers with him. So comfortable.

"There's another way you can take care of me, now." He said with his most cocky smile.

You bit your bottom lip "And what way would that be?"

He moved both hands down to your ass moving them purposefully against his hard on. "Like this. Feel how hard I already am just from you taking care of my hands. I can't help it. It feels so good."

"Hum, I know. I feel the same way, I just didn't say it because I thought you might find it a bit weird."

He chuckled "What? That you have a hand kink? Not weird at all. And you don't need to say it, sweetheart, your eyes say everything for you."

You kissed him, biting his bottom lip to tease him. "And what do my eyes say, doctor?"

He kept one hand on your ass, but brought the other up to your face, cupping your cheek. His thumb forcing your lips open. "That you get horny looking at my hands, you like to admire them, touch them, but especially feel them on you."

"Hmm" You hummed opening your mouth for him and letting his thumb rest on your tongue. Spit gathering around it.

"You don't even try to deny it, do you sweetheart?"

You wrapped your lips around his finger and swallowed thickly, sucking his finger shamelessly as you began to move your hips on top of him, grinding back and forth on his bulge.

Stephen moaned and you felt his cock twitching beneath you. He took his hand from your ass and moved it in one quick gesture and instantly you were both naked. You lifted your hips enough for him to position his cock at your entrance and then lowered letting him penetrate you. You were wet from the moment you started massaging his hands, so he easily slid inside making you both moan loudly.

You started to move, riding him slowly, sensually. You weren't in a hurry, you wanted to enjoy your time with him, feel him inside you, stretching you. You were sure there was no better feeling in the world.

You took his hand that was on your face, taking his thumb out of your mouth with a pop, but proceeded to run your lips all over his palm, giving open mouth kisses and little bites to it, reveling in the feel of his hand on your face, in your mouth and on your tongue. Licking each of his fingers and then sucking on them and moaning shamelessly as you moved up and down, back and forth on his cock.

He moaned loud "That's right, sweetheart, use me. I'm all yours tonight."

You gave his palm one last kiss and then slid his hand to your breast, he grabbed it immediately, circling his thumb over your nipple, squeezing it. The other hand firmly on your hip.

"Feels so good, Stephen. You feel so good inside of me, stretching me just right. I love riding you, having you like this, underneath me. It’s so rare."

He moaned again and you felt his cock pulsing hard inside you "You know I need to be in control, sweetheart. It's how I like it. But tonight I'm too tired and I want you to keep taking care of me. You do it so well. So good to me. I'm so lucky."

You took his hand that was on your hip and brought it to your breast and held both of his hands there and started to move faster, letting yourself be carried away by the moment and feeling the pleasure building deep in your womb.

"If I could I would stay here with you forever. Just me and you, you inside me, your hands in me. God, Stephen, I love your hands."

He gave you a cocky smirk "I know. Tell me why you love them so much. What makes them so special?"

You bit your bottom lip to contain a loud moan and Stephen tsked. "Don't hold back, sweetheart. Let me hear you."

You moaned loudly feeling your pussy fluttering and you knew you couldn't take much more, you were so close and Stephen could feel it too.

"They're big. L-Long fingers." You replied closing your eyes and letting yourself be carried away by all the sensations.

"Yeah? What else? Tell me all about it. I want to hear it."

"R-Rough. They are rough. Feels good against my skin... Oh my god" You leaned against his chest increasing your pace. "Stephen I wanna cum."

He cupped your face and his hand was so warm against your skin, the light tremors were so peculiarly pleasing. You loved even that, even though you didn't have the courage to tell him.

"Open your eyes, sweetheart, look at me. I want to look you in the eye when you cum."

You nodded obediently and looked directly into his eyes. "Tell me I can cum."

"You can cum, sweetheart. You were so good to me, you deserve it. Use me and cum all over my cock. I'm right after you."

You brushed your hair away from your face to one side and leaned forward just enough to cage Stephen's head between your arms, the new variation of the position providing delicious friction of your clit on his pubic bone and eliciting a loud moan from your lips.

Stephen bent his head up to kiss you, his tongue thrusting into your mouth insistently to sate a desire that never really went away, just grew stronger and stronger.

You kept moving your hips back and forth, Stephen's two hands found the flesh of your ass again and stayed there helping you move, allowing his cock to move in and out of you providing just the right amount of pleasure that you needed and the sound of it was so good. Wet, you were so impossibly wet and the squelching sound was obscenely erotic.

Your fingers threaded through his hair and your breath and moan merged into one as you felt your orgasm creeping up on you like a fire rushing through a forest, burning, consuming, ravaging.

"Don't hold back, sweetheart, give it to me."

You had your eyes locked on his and no words were needed, he could see it happening and he could definitely feel the way your pussy tightened around his cock and then enveloped him in warm fluid, proof of your pleasure. Your entire body convulsed on top of his, your mouth went agape, eyes full of tears of joy and contentment.

"That's it, sweetheart, you did so good to me. Cuming so hard on my cock, being such a good girl." Stephen cooed cupping your face and kissing your lips softly. He wiped a tear that ran down your face with his thumb and you gave him the most beautiful smile in the world. "I love you, Stephen. So much."

He held you tight and flipped you under him in one swift motion. Your head on the pillows, back on the mattress, his cock never left you and he was throbbing, demanding him to sate his desire for you, but Stephen wasn't in a hurry, neither of you were, not that night.

He leaned on one arm so as not to drop his body weight on you, the other hand he took to your thigh, positioning it firmly on his hip as you took the hint and intertwined both legs on his back allowing him to go even deeper and then he began to move, slowly, sensually, making love instead of fucking, although in Stephen's head it was hard to find the line that separated these two things.

For you, however, they were clear as day and you loved getting fucked by your man, but you loved it even more when he took his time with you, making love to you like you were the most fragile thing in the world under his rough hands.

He grabbed your chin and kissed you roughly dissociating from the loving way he fucked you, his tongue thrusting inside your mouth much more vigorously and you knew there was a part of Stephen that would never relinquish control and being quite honest, you didn’t mind.

"S-Stephen, it feels so good..."

He bit your lower lip and took his lips to your chin, letting out an almost painful groan. "Fuck sweetheart, I want this to last, but I can't hold it, it feels too good and I'm so close..."

You smiled reassuringly holding his hand that was cupping your face. "It's okay, I already had mine. Cum for me, Stephen. Cum inside me, show me how much you love me."

The way Stephen's body obeyed your words would be pathetic if you two weren't fully aware of how much you loved each other. It was almost instantaneous. He let out a loud moan and buried his face in your neck as his entire body shook and ropes of warm cum painted your walls white.

God, you loved that feeling. Feeling the warmth of his seed buried deep inside you, hearing the sweet noises he made when he gave himself completely to his pleasure, the feel of his hands squeezing your flesh as if that was the only way he could stay on the earthly plane and knowing that you were responsible for having him that way. You could have that every night of your life and it still wouldn't be enough.

You could feel his cum oozing out of you and soiling the sheets and your pussy fluttered around his softened cock just by the thought of it. It was undeniable that you wanted more, but you knew Stephen was tired, otherwise he wouldn't have softened so quickly after cum, the man could take several rounds in one night.

He kissed you softly and then sighed heavily "I hate to leave you wanting more..."

You shushed him and went back to kissing him, your tongue entering his mouth, exploring, sucking on his tongue. He let out a satisfied hum and you took his hand that was on your face and directed it between you and he quickly took the hint and brought it to your clit and started playing with the swollen bud to which you let out a satisfied moan.

"Like this?" He asked with a smirk and you just nodded, leaning your head back and giving in to the feeling.

He pulled out, his lips trailing down your chin, lingering on your breasts. He took one nipple into his mouth, sucking slowly, then moving on to the other.

You arched your back letting yourself be carried away by the pleasure as his lips moved down your abdomen and finally reached its destination. He sucked on your clit gently and used two fingers to penetrate you, using his own cum as lube and making a lewd squelching noise while finger fucking you.

He fluttered his tongue on your clit, giving little cat licks on it and blowing gently on your sensitive bud making you see stars. Stephen knew exactly what to do and how to do it.

"Oh my god, Stephen. You do it so well."

He replaced his tongue with his thumb, circling it around your clit as his fingers moved in and out of you. He reached to kiss you softly and then replaced his mouth with his middle and index finger.

"Suck" He demanded and you gladly obeyed, nursing on his fingers like your life depended on it. "Good girl." He cooed.

Stephen curled his fingers to reach your g spot and found it with frightening ease. You moaned around his fingers and he began to mimic the movements of his fingers on your pussy in your mouth, fucking your mouth with them and watching intently as you fell apart with the act. "Give it to me. Show me how much you love these long fingers working on you, sweetheart."

You closed your eyes feeling another orgasm approaching as he tsked.

"Look at me, keep your eyes open for me."

You complied, your moans suppressed by Stephen's big fingers fucking your mouth, he increased the pace of his thumb on your clit and you started to move your hips against his hand, getting as much friction as possible.

Stephen grinned "Good girl, make yourself cum on my hand and suck nice and hard on my fingers, show me how much you love my hands."

And just as he instructed, you came hard in his hand. Your entire body convulsing with the force of your orgasm. Stephen hummed satisfied, but only stopped working his fingers on you when he was sure you had finished. "Such a good girl. I'm so lucky to be able to come home after a day like I've had knowing that I have such a good girl waiting for me."

He took his fingers out of your mouth and kissed you sweetly "Isn't that right, sweetheart?"

You just nodded, the words seemed to have vanished from your mind, your body felt like jelly.

He smiled watching you for a second and then he knelt between your legs and moved his fingers and the basin and towels you used earlier reappeared on top of the bed. He moved his fingers again and one of the towels seemed to come to life, dipping into the basin and wringing itself out of excess water. He took it then and began to clean you gently, the feel of the warm towel was very welcome on your sensitive pussy.

"I'm the lucky one, Stephen." You said when he finished his work and got rid of the basin with another wave of his hand. He snapped his fingers and you both got dressed again in your comfortable clothes.

He threw himself onto the pillows and pulled you into his arms pulling the blankets back over your bodies. You laid your head comfortably on his shoulder, your hand automatically reaching for his, lacing your fingers through his.

"How's the pain?" You asked and he sighed turning his face to place a kiss on your forehead.

"It’s hurting a bit now, but only because I forced them a little too hard."

You brought his hand to your lips and placed a small kiss on his palm to which he sighed contentedly.

You got distracted for a few minutes in silence, playing with his hand and when you dared to look at Stephen he was asleep. His face calm and relaxed, his breathing regular and steady. You smiled touching his face gently and feeling your chest fill with a love so big you didn't know how you could contain it inside.

Outside, the wind howled against the windows, but inside your shared bedroom the fire crackled keeping you warm and safe.

Reblog please! Leave a comment if you liked it. Interact! I will love to read all of your comments and opinions. It inspires me to keep writing!

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