#spider lighting fixture

[simplyghosting]

Some of you guys have heard about the ant issue I was having where I was waking up with them crawling on my bed and face.

Fortunately, for now, this issue has been resolved and I have been ant-free for weeks.

…However now there are gnats.

[rhysintherain]

All the 'how to make your home feel like outdoor spaces' articles online are like

'Have more houseplants!'

'Paint things green!'

'Copy this Mediterranean patio room!'

Cool, got anything that won't die if I forget to water 500 plants?

Or something that feels like the woods around here rather than a tropical resort?

I come from a place where you actively have to fight off the nature to keep it from eating your yard, I just want my livingroom to feel like that with minimal upkeep.

[anghraine]

me, a fifth-year PhD student in my 30s who pays over $700 p/ month in rent: *calls my parents*

Dad: Hey, is there a problem?

me: Yes. There's a bug in my light fixture and I want to use my light without feeling like I'm torturing some small creature, but I can't reach it. Can you come over?

Dad: ...

Dad: ...

Dad, with barely restrained laughter: I'll be over in a moment.

[spoonyglitteraunt]

don’t you hate it when your sense of aesthetics is in direct conflict with the amount of energy it would take to keep it clean?

[mcalhenwrites]

I want nights with coffee and writing feverishly. I want early mornings in a garden of native flora, watching the native fauna take advantage of my attempts to make my patch of yard native and friendly. I want a stream full of thriving tadpoles and pondskaters running through the backyard. I want to eat leftover fried rice on the back patio as I watch the birds dip into the safety of my property for a drink of water, snatching nuts and berries from the feeders. I want to talk about characters and video games and feel like those things that make me, me, are good enough for someone. I want to curl up with cats and listen to music until I drift off through the too-warm afternoons, when the sunlight tries to punish me with sickness. When I have no spoons, I want to have clean sheets and a vacuumed floor and not panic that I can't cook, that I can barely make it outside to feed the birds, that I can't do anything today but rest and pet the cats. I want to know they have clean water and food even when I'm hobbling around. I want a drawer of toys at my bedside so I can toss them for the cats so they can dive everywhere and make me laugh as every part of my broken body screams in pain. I want to garden without kneeling, sitting on the rim of the raised bed and plucking vegetables to gather in a bowl sitting at my hip. I want to bicycle everywhere. I want ways to take walks when I can. I want to stop using cars and be kind to wasps and name more spiders. I want to smile with someone over coffee, talking about books. I want to take trips to the library. I want to mention a book I'm reading, and the other person knows what I'm even saying.

I don't want to feel sad. I don't want to feel not good enough. I don't want to be someone else, to act like a duplicate of someone else. I want to be able to take breaks for myself, but I want to know there are people in the next room over or just a phone call/discord chat away, so I'm not without company. I want to never feel sick about financial insecurity. I want to have healthcare and a house and a society that embraces pedestrians and people on bicycles. I don't want to smell motor oil and gasoline fumes and concrete baking everything around me. I want the sun's heat to be absorbed by the beautiful trees and grasses local to the area, so it's just a little nicer. I want to feel the breeze on my face, the rain on my cheeks, and the wonderment of it all.

[squid--inc]

......

[tesco-finest-aromantics]

Fucking hell there’s a hornets nest above the front door

[bigfan-fanfic]

Bats in the Web (Spider-Man!Batdad x Batfam)

What if batfam meets a version of Batdad who is Spider-Man in his universe??

"We can't interfere!" Bruce growls. "I know you want to help, but after the last world we jumped into, we can't take chances."

Dick sighs. The last world they went into, they nearly ruined everything because Gotham had no Batman yet.

But luckily, something descends upon the mugging in progress.

But it isn't Batman.

A strange silver cable zips into view and slams into the assailant's back, spreading in a strange geometric pattern. He stumbles forward at the force of the blow, before the cable springs taut, and the mugger is flung into the air.

Someone lithe and graceful sails through the air, trailing more silver cables and quickly wraps the stranger up in them, robotic arms emerging from their back to assist - almost like a four-armed... spider.

The mugger dangles upside down from a traffic light, completely mummified in silver, and the figure, in a black bodysuit with light-catching silver filaments in a web pattern shining along the whole thing, and what appears to be a yellow hood and short jacket, crouches atop it.

"You get home safe, you hear?" they call. "We'll just be... hangin' around."

The would-be victim grins up at them. "Thanks, Spidey!"

But the Bats are looking shocked.

Because that was clearly your voice, only slightly altered by a voice changer - the voice you use when you broadcast to negotiate with people while they're on patrol.

Before they can speak, though, you've flung yourself through the air, opening your arms to reveal the gliding wings attached from your sides to the arms of your jacket so you can sail through the air.

"Pops is... Spider-Man?" Dick yelps.

From what they can surmise, in this universe, Bruce still lost his parents at a young age, but he didn't develop the desire to become Batman.

Instead, while on a field trip, you were exposed to some kind of radioactive spider, and Bruce did what he could to keep your secret and develop his technological aptitude to help you.

It was Alfred's death that convinced you to become a hero - his last words to you being that with great power came great responsibility.

You and Bruce are still very young in this world, barely old enough to have adopted a young Dick Grayson. It's probable that Damian won't be born, and Tim won't be adopted by you.

You're so much more cheerful than Batman - Gotham's Spider-Man quips, sometimes with dark humor, and inspires her citizens to fight back against the oppressive darkness of their city with good humor and clever tactics.

The Bats make their way to Wayne Manor, only to find the harsh brickwork and traditional architecture has made way for modern-quality of life improvements, fiber optic light fixtures, glass bay windows, and high tech at every turn. It barely resembles their Wayne Manor.

In fact, the caverns beneath the estate aren't even utilized, with there instead being a high-tech laboratory on the grounds with a launchpad to fling you over the bay and into the city.

It's a shock to see them - Bruce Wayne, his body in shape but much softer: he obviously works out hard but he's clearly not a fighter. His movements are relaxed, even sluggish compared to the constant vigilance of the Bat. And he wears an unfamiliar expression on his face - a genuine lazy grin.

Meanwhile there's this world's you - lithe and strong, battle-worn and with the at-rest tension of a vigilante.

Alt-Bruce and you have an easy banter, a love very much like two young people - you're only a little older than Dick, after all, which he finds weird - especially when he and Tim babysit his younger version.

Jason is utterly touched when Alt-Bruce asks about all the kids, so he can make sure to adopt them - he wouldn't want them going homeless in this world. All Jason knows is that young Jason Todd in this world might just be saved from years of trauma.

You're still the strategist, but Bruce is your mission control and the gear/science guy - he helps with upgrades and is the one to suggest a way to get the Bats back to their world.

But you'll need their help.

You fly through the city that night accompanied by five gliding shadows. Shadows that brutally subdue the henchmen of Black Mask as you soar above their heads, connecting some power towers with a filament web, forming a major circuit Alt-Bruce can use to power a tachyonic collider, which should launch them back into their world.

They return to their world, but Jason pulls Bruce aside.

"B... you owe him."

"Owe him what? Who, Jaybird?"

Jason sighs. "Pops. You owe him a chance to see that smile. On you."

Bruce looks at him. "You think my face can still do that?"

"Hey, I was surprised that you were actually funny! But... yeah, I do."

"Maybe you're right. Maybe you're right..."

[eyrina-avatar]

Explaining Periods to The Sullys

synopsis: reader explains what a period is to the Sully kids (with the help of kiri)

pairings: neteyam x reader implied couple(aged up), reader x sully kids + spider

genre: idk, informative??/ comedy???

author's note: you guys didn't forget about dr. max patel, right? I barely see him in anyone's writing. proofread once

warnings: mention of female bodies(?), periods, blood, slight gun mention(nothing violent), maybe a few swear words, slight suggestive comment, slight stabbing threat(threat was made as a joke- calm down guys)

word count: 1.6k words

"OOF" you rubbed your forehead as your butt had just landed on the floor.

"I'm always forgetting that my avatar form is taller than my human body" you sighed as you got up.

"This is the third time this week that you've bumped into that doorpost" Norm snickered before hitting himself on the light bulb above him that was illuminating the lab.

"Crap" he murmured, rubbing the top of his head in pain.

"Ha!" you let out in retaliation.

Spider and Lo'ak laughed at the scene unfolding while Kiri and Neteyam rolled their eyes.

"Anyways, what was it that you kids wanted from the lab?" Norm squinted at the Sully kids, weary of their intentions.

"We just wanted to see where it is that y/n does all of her experiments" Lo'ak responded as he played around with the light fixtures, flipping through some different light colors illuminating a plant.

"Whatever, just don't break anything or the top scientist with have my head for any more expenses." Norm warned

"It's alright, Norm. I'm watching them. They won't break anything. And if they do, I won't take Lo'ak hunting again." You reassured him.

"Hey, what do I have to do with that! You know if you don't teach me how to use one of those rifle thingies then I'll have to wait for my dad. And you know how that is. The last time he taught me was months ago, he's been too busy teaching Neteyam." Lo'ak side eyed his older brother.

"Pff, it's not my fault that you're not responsible enough and that dad gets nervous every time you have a gun in your hands." Neteyam shot back.

"But-"

"Then you'll just have to stop touching everything you see in the lab, Lo'ak. You see? Easy peasy. Problem solved. Then you won't break anything and I can give you your next lesson tomorrow." You patted Lo'ak's back and gave Norm a reassuring smile. 'Don't worry,' you mouthed and turned around, focusing your attention on the Sully kids.

"So, what's the plan?" you tilted your head in question.

"Well, I've gotta get a new oxygen tank for my mask and-" Spider headed for the cabinets

"SPIDER, are you for real?"

"What?" he shook his shoulder in question.

"You're still using those crappy RDA masks that need a wire and oxygen tank and all of that. I thought Norm gave you the new ones, from my research company."

"You own a company?" Max teased as raised his eyebrows at you.

"No... you know what I mean. I mean the science department that I'm part of. The new scientists that came to Pandora after your disastrous RDA was kicked out." You shot a look at the doctor.

"Really, you didn't have to go that far..."

"Oh, lighten up Max." you patted his shoulders. "Anyways, where are those new masks? Spider needs one, he's still using those outdated ones."

"Really, those old masks shouldn't even work anymore." Max shook his head and handed Spider a mask, "Here you go, kid."

"I thought Norm gave him one." Max crossed his arms while conversing.

"Nah, I guess Norm's been too distracted with the Na'vi school he took over after Grace" You shrugged.

"Yea... well, see you later guys, I have some more research to work on." he waved before walking away.

"So, Spider, let's get this thing on. All you have to do is take off all of those wires and that old mask. Next, just put this one on like you did the old one and adjust it and it should start working immediately." You helped Spider with the process while Kiri visited her mother's avatar body.

"No tank or anything?" Spider questioned.

"Nope, this has a little filter thing that automatically filters out the carbon and nitrogen inside the mask. No more heavy tank for you to use." You threw the old air tank to the disposal pile and was headed towards one of your plants before being interrupted by Lo'ak.

"Hey y/n, what's this?" Lo'ak held up a packet of pills.

"Lo'ak, put that back." Neteyam scolded before snatching the pills from his hand and placing it back on your table.

"It says, birth-control," Lo'ak scrunched his eyebrows while reading the words on the wrapper.

"Take once a day to prevent pregnancy..."Spider read aloud before putting the pills back.

"Woah..." Lo'ak and Spider let out in unison before giving you and Neteyam looks.

"Are you guys...doing ummm...having errr" Lo'ak stumbled as tried to get the words out of his mouth.

"First of all, that's none of your business! Second, those pills aren't even for my avatar body. They're for my human body, and not for what you think it is."

"Then for what?" Spider raised his eyebrows at you.

"They're for my period. But only for my human body because my avatar doesn't get periods." You sighed in having to explain periods to fifteen-year-old boys.

"What's a period?" Lo'ak asked.

"Women things." Kiri responded as she rolled her eyes at her brother's nosiness.

"And how would you know? You're a na'vi." Spider interrogated.

"Because girls talk to girls about things they don't talk to boys about. Duh." Kiri shot back.

"So, what is it?" Lo'ak waved his hands in question.

"Yea, what's a, um- a period? Isn't that the little dot that goes at the end of a sentence? At least that's what Norm taught me..." Spider trailed off.

"Yea, you're partially correct, Spider," you gave a small nod as you thought about how you were going to explain things.

"But umm.. I'm talking about a different type of period called menstruation. It's when a female human bleeds for 5-7 days straight each month." you let out as you saw Spider's and Lo'ak's faces change from curiosity to shock.

"L M F A O- Is that how you spell it? FIVE TO SEVEN DAYS STRAIGHT?? You've got to be kidding me. You don't expect us to believe that, right? I mean, sometimes Spider and I do dumb things but you don't expect us to be stupid enough to fall for that, right?" Lo'ak simply stared at you, waiting for a response.

"No, she's right. You guys could definitely learn a thing or two about humans." Neteyam rolled his eyes at his younger brother's ignorance.

"Wait, wait, wait," Spider held his arms out in shock, "You actually bleed for up to a week and don't die? How the hell do you not die?"

"And why do you bleed for that long? And from where are you bleeding?" Lo'ak pitched in.

"She's bleeds from her pu-"

"Kiri." Neteyam warned.

"What? It's true. Might as well be blunt with these two skxawngs." Kiri rolled her eyes again.

"So basically, when a human female starts getting more physically mature, sorta like coming of age.. Her body starts preparing for pregnancy every month. It basically lines the uterus and gets ready for a baby. When the body sees that there is no baby, the uterus starts shedding it's lining for about 5-7 days until it's cleaned up. The shedding comes out in blood and that's what causes the bleeding."

"..."

"What?" You cocked your head in question.

"So basically, because you didn't get knocked up, your body bleeds?" Lo'ak squints his eyes, trying to understand the information he was just given.

"What's so hard about that?" Spider shrugged.

"WH- WHAT'S SO HARD ABOUT THAT?! Are you guys kidding me or what?" You mouth drops at the nonsense you hear coming from the younger boy's mouth.

"You bimbos, it's not just bleeding. It involves many symptoms such as heavy cramping, back pain, nausea, dizziness, fatigue, mood swings, headaches, appetite changes , and more." Kiri stated as she crossed her arms.

"So the symptoms of a cold, big deal." Spider spat out, trying to minimize the severity of everything.

"Oh I'm sorry, did you just say big deal? Maybe I should put a fucking knife in your stomach to see if that's a big deal or not because that's what the cramps feel like. Or maybe, better... I should kick you in the fucking balls, right?" You lashed out at the boy in front of you.

"Damn, chill, he didn't mean it, right, Spider?"Lo'ak tried to calm the situation, "Maybe she's on her period right now..." he whispered.

"Avatars don't have periods you dingbat" Neteyam let out.

"Well maybe her human form is experiencing cramps in the link pod and so the emotions are traveling through the conscious connection and that's why she's so cranky." Spider stepped back, not trying to get on your bad side.

"..."

You only blinked in response as Kiri and Neteyam bursted out laughing.

"What in the name of eywa..."

"I've never heard so much bullshit come out of someone's mouth before." Neteyam shook his head at the human boy's imagination. "You know, y/n told me that humans usually read a big guide book before joining the avatar program... well maybe you should read one on human biology. It's only fitting since you're ehh, you know..." Neteyam trailed off.

"Ha, I'm glad I wasn't the one to say something stupid this time" Lo'ak applauded himself.

"Nah, you too Lo'ak. How about you read it with Spider so you can both giggle at the pictures and whatever shit you two happen to read" you turned away from the boys as you went back to examining the plants you were experimenting on.

"Does she really bleed from her va-" Lo'ak was cut off.

"And for a week straight..." Spider chimed in.

"Shut up!" Kiri's voice rang through your ears as you quietly giggled to yourself.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

should I make more fics like this; reader teaching the sullys some human things? Tell me what you think!

as always, comments/reblogs are much appreciated❤

do not steal my work and please don't post it on ao3 or wattpad

© eyrina-avatar

colors used: #01DBFA and #01B3CC

[nico-di-genova]

A Lesson in Braking

Chapter 2

Read on Archive of Our Own

A/N: hehehehehehe (my only thoughts while writing this fic).

Warnings: NSFW and a brief mention of anti-harm dorm furniture.

“I fucked an old guy last night,” Lance says to Esteban, when he’s lying on the floor of his dorm room, head resting on the Spider-Man pillow he bought Esteban for his birthday last spring. “Behind the Barnes & Noble. Hand job.”

Esteban hums. He’s  sitting at his desk that he’s moved to slot beneath the single small window of his room, curled over his laptop and working on some complex string of numbers. Three weeks into the semester and Esteban is already drowning in assignments – Lance doesn’t envy him.

“He ate my cum,” he continues, picking at a fraying edge of the pillow. When he pulls at the red string it snags on the fabric and then releases, growing longer in Lance’s grip. He should buy Esteban a new one, maybe a whole bedspread to match. The thought occurs that he could buy a matching set, just to sleep on during the nights when he’s too drunk to get back to his own place and crashes in the living room.

Esteban hums again, pushes his glasses further up his nose, keeps clicking away on his laptop so that the number sequence only grows longer. Lance can only catch pieces of it from where he’s lying on the floor, head angled backward to stare up at Esteban as he works. But even the small bit he can see is enough to give him a headache.  

“When I kissed him I tasted it.”

That gets him.

Esteban sighs, leans back in the chair as far as it will go given its anti-tip design – dorm furniture made to prevent kids from hanging themselves from their light fixtures – rubs at the bridge of his nose and then falls back forward with a groan.

“You’re telling me this, why?”

Lance pouts, tips his head further back on the pillow so he can get a better look at Esteban with one arm on the back of his chair, leaning down to stare at him with mild judgement.

“You don’t want to know about the old man sex I had?”

“I can barely tolerate hearing about the normal sex you have.”

Lance laughs. The spider-man plush, also bought by Lance from the birthday trip to Disneyland last spring, rises and falls on his stomach with the movement. Technically, he has homework for his intro to Marketing class, but it’s more fun to laze around on Esteban’s dirty floor, talking about his sex life, than it is to learn about how to make people buy things. Besides, he’s grown up listening to his dad rant about his successes in the industry, so much so that his first word might as well have been entrepreneurship. It shouldn’t be a hard class to pass.

The dorm room is so tiny he almost runs the whole length of it, one foot nearly to the door, his head at the base of Esteban’s chair, one knee propped in the air. One of his arms is spread wide enough that it’s laying underneath Esteban’s bed, fingers toying with the shoelace of a sneaker that’s been kicked off underneath. It’s a familiar sight by this point, Lance taking up space in Esteban’s room, his life, with ease and spreading out enough that he can be found in nearly every corner of it. Esteban always makes room for him, sometimes will join him on the floor when his course load isn’t too much. But junior year is already different from the two prior, kicking off with a speed that is giving Lance whiplash.

He misses Sovi, the freshman dorms that once made him feel caged, but provided infinitely more freedom in that they weren’t tied to the paths that had led them here.

“My normal sex life just involves Pato, you’d rather hear about me fucking Pato?” He asks, smirks, just barely dodges the pencil Esteban flicks down at him.

“I don’t want to hear about you fucking anyone! Get a journal!”

Lance muses, “I guess there was also that one guy a few weeks ago. From that party in Q,” the building a few doors down from Esteban’s. It sat on the shore of the lake and far enough away from the central hub that university police tended to overlook it. Esteban had called Lance four beers deep a week into school and told him to get there quick, didn’t specify where ‘there’ was, so Lance had to use Find My to even locate him. When he’d pulled up the party had been in full swing on the third floor, and he was welcomed into the cramped apartment by Esteban who reeked of alcohol and weed. Lance ended up fucking one of the guys who lived there, riding him hurriedly and enduring the guy keeping a sweaty palm pressed to his mouth so he didn’t make too much noise in the room they’d locked themselves in.

 Esteban squints at him, “You said that guy was shit.”

“He was.” He came first and then didn’t even bother to get Lance off.

“So why the fuck would you want to talk about it again?”

“Because you don’t want to hear about the good old man sex.”  

Esteban’s nose crinkles in disgust, “Well how old was he?”

“I didn’t ask.”

The mechanical engineering is quickly forgotten, Esteban spinning around fully in his chair and staring at Lance with wide eyes. Lance grins up at him innocently, flutters his eyelashes, scoots over on the pillow as a silent invitation for the man to join him on the ugly blue carpeted floor. Esteban doesn’t take it, yet, Lance is still confident he can convince him.

“How old did he look?”

“I don’t know, forties maybe?”

“Forties?! What the fuck, Lance!?”

“What?”

The deadpan stare Esteban gives him isn’t new, it’s pretty standard actually. “You are insane. And stupid.”

Lance, because he likes testing his luck, pushing at the boundaries of his and Esteban’s friendship, seeing where the line is so he can be prepared for when it snaps, keeps going, “I’m seeing him again tonight.”

He wishes he’d been filming, just so he could preserve the way Esteban’s eyes get impossibly wider. Finally, Esteban gets out of the chair, but he doesn’t join Lance on the floor, instead he paces the length of the room, hands held on his head and mumbles a rapid string of words that Lance doesn’t quite get but he thinks are mainly swears.

“You are joking, yes? Tell me you are joking.” Hands on his hips, towering over Lance, he looks like a giant. Tall and lanky with big eyes behind his wire-rimmed frames.

Lance hadn’t been. He’s been texting Fernando since late last night, ignoring calls from his dad in the process. So far the conversation has consisted of little substance, just enough to establish that Lance is a junior, Fernando is retired, and lives in one of the mansions on the other side of the lake that is right outside Esteban’s prison cell-sized window. Mainly they’d talked about Fernando’s cock, how Lance is upset he didn’t get to see it, taste it – how he’d like to return the favor preferably outside of the backseat of a car and somewhere a bit more comfortable.

He wants to be called beautiful again, reverently, spread out on silk sheets and spread open by Fernando’s fingers. He blames the accelerated horniness on the dry summer he’d just had, the time spent at his father’s house with little else to do and no one to hook up with because Lawrence had insisted on spending as much time as he could with Lance. They’d gone to the track to watch a few races, the office where Lance was meant to be shadowing, galas and banquets, and the golf course most mornings so Lawrence could ensure Lance actually had something to show for the tuition he was fronting. Lance knows it was mainly a last ditch effort on his dad’s behalf to maintain their relationship, before Lance slipped off back to Florida and began predictably sending him to voicemail. Which is why he had even bothered enduring it in the first place, when he just as easily could has gone off to the Mykonos with a group of guys from his frat.

He'd refrained from debauchery all summer, was paying the price for his abstinence now. But, like always, the cost was something to which Lance paid very little, until the bill began to raise eyebrows, as Esteban’s now are.

“Lance. Tell me you are joking!”

“Why would I be joking?”

Esteban glares down at him, while Lance sprawls out further across the thin carpet, concrete flooring beneath digging into his shoulder blades, and smiles. It’s wide, lazy, slow to draw across his face. The sort of shit-eating, self-assured, smirk that Esteban hates.

“It was good sex, Este! He did this thing-“

“Stop! No! Stop! I don’t want to know.”

Lance stops, goes quiet, but continues to smirk. In his pocket, he feels his phone vibrate, probably Fernando again. They’re meant to be meeting in a few hours, once the suns gone down enough that being outside doesn’t make him feel like he’s melting. When Fernando can take him to the bar in the shopping plaza nearby and treat him to a beer before he fucks him senseless, as he’s been promising all day.

He doesn’t tell Esteban this, figures he’s maybe traumatized him enough for the day. Instead, he changes the topic to Esteban’s course load, feigns interest in the math still open on his laptop. Esteban is all too willing to explain it to him, to turn his attention away from the phone Lance pulls from his pocket and grins at with cheeks turning red.

Fernando has sent him a photo of his outfit, button of his slacks undone, zipper pulled low,  hand holding the waistband below his hips. He has a tattoo on the inside of his forearm, close to his wrist, something Lance hadn’t noticed in the dark of his car last night, but that he now can’t draw his eyes away from. It’s a cross of some sort, produces the sort of sacrilegious thoughts that he can’t linger on for too long for fear of losing his religion.

‘Wear something nice,’ Fernando’s text says, when he manages to read it.

Lance doesn’t own much that fits the description, other than a suit he saves for formals, but he figures it maybe doesn’t actually matter that much. Fernando promises to rip whatever it is off of him anyway.

Esteban throws another pencil at him when he tries to show him the photo, holds his hand up to block the view and then lands the writing utensil right on Lance’s nose.

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

His dad calls when he’s fresh out of the shower of his own apartment, steam curling in the air around him and his phone vibrating steadily against the granite countertops of his humid bathroom. He answers before it goes to voicemail, figures he owes his dad this because it’s the third time he’s called since that morning, and he doesn’t want to risk pissing the man off too much.

“Hey,” he says as he’s wrapping a towel around his waist, slicking his wet hair back out of his face with his free hand. He leaves the phone on speaker, lets his dad’s voice fill space as he busies with getting ready.  

“I’m going to assume you’ve been ignoring my calls because you are going to class.”

He only has one class on Tuesday’s, and it’s finished by noon. Advanced golf merchandising, a pointless elective where he’s meant to be learning the management of a retail location. He takes notes, enough to retain the important bits, but he already knows management isn’t where he’s going to end up. His dad would secure him some corporate position within his company before that was even an option. Which, he doesn’t want either, can’t stand the thought of being forced to wear a shirt with a collar every day.

“Yeah, I just got back from campus,” he lies, he’s been hiding out at Esteban’s since class ended, it’s seven now. The lie comes too easy, but the truth would only hurt the both of them – that Lance is avoiding his father because their conversations hurt more than they help these days. That Lance is growing, but it’s in a direction away from Lawrence, from the idea of who his dad thought he would be.

His dad wishes Lance were still small, and Lance wishes that too, but only because when he was a child hurting his dad only resulted in a brief scolding. Now it leads to awkward silences that neither of them know how to fill.

“Class is going well?”

“Um, easy so far, yeah.” They’re only three weeks in. “Other than this financial accounting class, it’s brutal.” He’s already had to ask Esteban for help, already knows he’s going to need to visit the library for tutoring.

He wipes steam from his mirror with the palm of his hand, catches a glimpse of his dripping reflection. Somehow, he needs to assemble himself into something relatively attractive within the next ten minutes, only for it to most likely come undone the second he slides his helmet over his hair. There’s a twisted sort of humor in him wondering how best to style himself for Fernando, while he’s on the phone with his father, pretending to care about classes that had stopped being fun once Lance realized they were actually supposed to lead to something.

“You spent all summer looking at the books,” Lawrence says. Which is true, but it had made more sense when things were hands on. Now it’s just a jumble of words and numbers on a whiteboard, a professor who knows the course is meant for weeding out those who are too weak to continue, and who looks at Lance every time he shows up late with a knowing sort of disappointment.

People didn’t used to look at him like that, it’s a growing sentiment the more Lance stumbles.

“Yeah, I know. It’s just- it’s different. All reading and equations and- I don’t know. I’m not a numbers guy, dad, you know this.”

“You got it pretty well while you were here.”

Only because he’d felt his dad’s eyes on him the whole summer, felt the pressure and the weight and need to prove he could do something. His professor doesn’t bother to look at Lance once he’s sat at a desk, which means Lance zones out, doodles designs in the margins of his notes and then wonders why the numbers don’t add up while he’s doing homework later.

“It’s different,” the exasperation in his voice is audible, he pauses where he’d been drying his hair with a towel pulled from under the sink. Closes his eyes. Breathes. “But I’m trying. I’ll- I’ll figure it out.”

“I know you will, Lance. I didn’t say you wouldn’t.”

They’re being careful around each other, the eggshells just beginning to crunch beneath their feet. Neither one of them want a fight and Lance can feel the tension of it through the phone, the tightening of something in his chest that threatens to break every time he speaks to his father now. This is why he lets it go to voicemail.

Fernando texts him, he sees the notification come through as he’s staring at the phone, hands braced on the bathroom sink. Probably asking if he’s on his way. Lance’s hair is still dripping water in cold tendrils down the back of his neck, a puddle forming on the carpet at his feet. He hasn’t even bothered to find an outfit or brush his teeth.

“Look, dad- I- um, I gotta go. I have a, uh, a study thing with Pato-“

“Oh, okay, yeah. I’ll talk to you soon.”

Lance closes his eyes again, bows his head, tries not to care about the hurt that’s audible in his father’s voice and finds that it somehow manages to dig between his ribs anyway. He hangs up before there’s the chance for the line to fracture further, and then he busies himself with texting Fernando back.

‘You are still coming?’ Fernando asks.

Lance says he’ll be there soon, and then he focuses on the toothbrush in his hands, getting himself ready, and ignores everything else.

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

“I need a drink!” Lance yells over the music, leaning further into Fernando, who holds him up with ease. “A shot!”

Fernando’s hand on his waist tightens when Lance rocks on his feet. They’re standing in the press of bodies on the dance floor, people on all sides. The crowd makes it easy for Lance to press against Fernando, the flashing lights adding to the disorientation. No one notices the way Fernando’s got one hand gripping Lance’s hipbone, the other on his ass, tucked into the pocket of his jeans and cupping the curve of him.  

They’re the same jeans he’d worn last night, pulled from the crumpled heap on his floor and slid back on because he couldn’t find anything else. If Fernando has noticed he doesn’t say anything, too distracted by the white linen button-up that Lance wear, only half done-up and exposing nearly the full expanse of his chest in the multicolored lights. Lance knows it puts the chain around his neck on full display, makes his collarbones stand out, shows how broad he is, and produces the impressed reaction Fernando had exhibited upon first seeing him.

He’d bought Lance his first drink, and then the first requested tequila shot, leaning on the bar top and staring at the exposed column of his neck as Lance tipped the liquor back and downed it with practiced ease. Lance had seen the way Fernando’s eyes had darkened as his adams apple bobbed, looking from the corner of his eye just to see the response that would be elicited with the movement.  

“What do you want?” Fernando asks now, hand on his hip coming up to pull Lance down to him so his lips just barely brush over Lance’s ear.

He shudders, breath stuttering when Fernando’s fingers tangle in the hair at the nape of his neck and pull just enough that there’s the promise of something better later. He’s been teasing Lance since Lance first arrived, the ghost of a touch, a tongue tracing over the sweaty line of his neck, enough to have him hard in his jeans but never doing anything to solve the problem.

It’s the most public foreplay Lance has ever engaged in, even if everyone is too drunk or too involved in their own games to even notice.

“Vodka?” Lance yells, knowing he probably seems young for only ordering shots, but he’d only just turned twenty-one last October. Most of his experience with alcohol has been bagged wine fountained before entry to a party or the mix of Kool-Aid and whatever liquor could be procured into a giant tub for jungle juice. Shots are simple, uncomplicated, and he knows he can handle them. Plus they hit fast, or at least feel like they do, give him the liquid courage needed to grind against Fernando as Pit Bull blares around them in the crowded bar.

The Keys is a mixed sort of space, half occupied by college kids who were too lazy to drive all the way to Rusty’s and half-filled by the locals who are looking for fun outside of their mansions. It means he and Fernando don’t draw attention, Lance fits in with the group of kids in their backwards caps and low cut shirts, Fernando blends with the guys in their pressed button-ups and black slacks. He just looks hotter than the others, the pants hugging his waist and ass well, clearly tailored. And the peak of a tattoo Lance gets on the back of Fernando’s neck as he follows him back up to the bar, Fernando’s hand around his wrist towing him through the crowd, separates him enough from the older guys smoking cigars outside on the patio. He wants to know what the tattoo is, slide Fernando’s shirt off his shoulders and trace the ink with his tongue.

But that’s for later, for now he lets Fernando guide him, lean him against the bar top, slide a hand back into the pocket of his jeans because the shape of his palm over his ass is becoming familiar. He flags down the bartender, orders two shots of Vodka and then they tip them back together. Lance can feel how flushed his neck is getting, wonders if the red of it is spreading to his chest, his cheeks. His hair that was still slightly damp from the shower is frizzing in the humidity of the packed space, falling over his forehead.

Fernando stares up at him, lips wet with vodka and his own spit when he licks them, Lance follows the movement, starts to lean forward like he intends to taste the lingering alcohol himself. Fernando stops him with a hand on his chest, fingers splayed across bare skin, index finger dipping into the hollow of his clavicle. Lance shudders, Fernando feels it.

“Let’s get out of here, yes?”

“Yes.”

Lance can’t drive his bike, just drunk enough that he knows he couldn’t keep his balance. Instead, he climbs into the passenger seat of Fernando’s Aston Martin, and deposits his own keys in the cupholder, casting a forlorn look back at his gear in the backseat. The same seat he’d come undone in last night, now occupied by his motorcycle helmet with the sticker of a cat waving the Canadian flag – something Pato had found online and ordered because ‘it’s Canada, Lance! You know, you!’. Fernando had asked him about it when he parked earlier, traced the outline of it before Lance had taken his helmet off, lifted Lance’s visor so he could see his eyes more clearly as he did so.

When he looks back at Fernando in the driver’s seat the man is staring at him. Lance knows what it looks like when someone wants him. He knows the way Pato gets all slack jawed and dopey-eyed, eyes flicking to Lance’s lips every two seconds even though he wouldn’t even try to kiss him. But Fernando’s look of want is different, more demanding and all-encompassing. He looks like he’s plotting the best course of stripping Lance out of his clothes before they’ve even reached their destination, like he is thinking of the best way to take him apart.

Maybe it’s because he’s more experienced, or maybe it’s because he’s less. Lance doesn’t know enough about him, anything really, to know if he is the first man Fernando has hooked up with or not. They still haven’t found much time to talk, or maybe just haven’t wanted to make the effort. Lance is okay with that, his idea of foreplay is not long discussions and get-to-know-you’s. He doesn’t have the patience for that, much prefers Fernando’s method of cutting to the quick and easy of it.  Which Fernando does when he leans across the console enough to grab Lance by the chain around his neck and pull him in for a kiss.

Lance is still not used to the kissing, just opens his mouth and lets Fernando’s tongue slide into it because he’s not practiced enough. He’s okay with letting Fernando take control, likes how he doesn’t have to think about it, just follow. Fernando tastes like vodka, and Lance swallows the familiar taste of it when their spit mixes and he can no longer tell whose is whose.

When Fernando pulls back Lance tries to chase him, is stopped again by a hand on his chest, firm and unyielding.

“You are still okay with coming to my place?” Fernando asks, and something in the way he says it is slightly sobering. It makes Lance remember his bike two spots over, prepared to be abandoned for the night and hopefully still there come morning.

“Yeah. Definitely.”

“I will drive you home, instead. If you want. Up to you.”

“No. No I’m good. Trust me.” He’d prepped himself in the shower and everything, knew what he was getting into before a drop of alcohol ever touched his tongue. “I’ve been thinking about this since last night.”

Fernando eyes him, glances down at his chest where his skin is still red and hot and bare against his hand.

“Okay. God, you are beautiful.”  

The praise shoots straight to Lance’s cock, has a quiet moan escaping him, something he only just barely manages to bite back with the press of his teeth into his bottom lip. Fernando catches it anyway, grins like he’s realized the praise wasn’t just a one-off from the hand job last night, but something Lance actually enjoys.

"Don’t worry, pretty boy,” he promises, “Make you feel better soon.”

[johnnys-breastmilk]

What about the reader is terrified of spiders, so when johnny corners them, they back into a wall where there's webs and spiders. They freak out, preferring to jump into the arms of a killer than have spiders on them.

Id love to know how johnny would react, if he'd be surprised and try to talk them through their fear or would torture them by making them touch the webs. (This would definitely be me because im terrified of spiders 😅😅)

johnny slaughter x gender neutral!reader

a/n — IM SCARED OF THEM TOO. FUCK GODS GREEN EARTH NO ONE WOULD EVER WILLINGLY MAKE THOSE FREAKs. (but bees scare me more and I injected just a tad of that in here too cause they can FLY. ohhhhh if spiders could fly too it'd be over for me😭) btw let me know if Johnny needs to be written differently, I'm still getting used to writing a southern character since I usually write characters with transatlantic accents and dialect and alll!

summary — check the ask! basically the same, I just tried to make Johnny somewhere in the middle between mean and comforting + ambitious ending to the best I could

warnings — implied harm, mentions of blood (it's really tame)

word count — 2k

~~~ story under the cut!

You had to get out of this place. You didn’t know what this was, all you knew was that you were underground, trapped in a maze with psychos trying their hardest to get you. Screams came above as well as below, where you were. It was dark in some areas and barely lit in others, letting you know that there must have been a way up. There was a guy with a freaking chainsaw! But worst of all, there were spiders. Everywhere. They rappelled down from the rusty light fixtures and sheets of metal tinning the roof of each tunnel with a thin glistening string that you had to be mindful of to avoid. The blood on your face was no match for a spider coming into contact with it, or any part of your body for that matter. You couldn’t count how many times you had walked right into one moving itself down a line of silk. In every crevice and crack, in all the hiding spots, and even weaving little webs between each rickety step leading up from the basement.

The place was already confusing enough as is, but when you reached the top step—where the high Texas sun met the line of darkness enshrouding the basement—you knew you were in the clear from those eight-legged freaks. Now, you just had to deal with the ones with two legs, buzzing around like worker bees trying to get their sweet, sweet blood-red honey. 

The start of it was easy—their footsteps strong and heavy and the creaking of the floorboards gave away their positions, so you knew what rooms to avoid in their farmhouse. One guy was too busy setting up traps around the various places you could squeeze yourself through, and the blonde girl a few feet away from him was waiting to “add a little something” as she put it. You didn’t want to stick around to find out what she meant, so you found freedom through an unlocked door at the back of the house. Their front yard was a mess of old cars and fencing found on farms in the area—you had driven by enough when traveling to Newt to recognize them. They were used for cattle, but their purpose here was to keep people in with its complex layout, and you were almost out of the dilapidated mess.

Down along the path was a shack with what you hoped would be more supplies. Something like another thin object to slide into the various padlocks these freaks had installed, or something sharp to defend yourself with. Whatever it was, it just had to be something useful. You did your best not to get spotted, keeping away from the beaten path by ducking into the tall grass for most of your walk down to the shack. The first door you noticed on the exterior was unlocked and opened with ease like they weren’t trying to protect the things inside—or stop anyone from leaving. But everything looked to be personal on the inside, intimately lived in with a mess of wrappers and laundry and dirty dishes crowding up such a small space. He was a worker bee with no time for himself.

And just like that, you could hear his buzzing in the form of footsteps from outside. You moved to hide behind the side of his couch, crouching and hoping that it covered enough of your figure to make it seem like you weren’t there. His boots were heavy on the ground outside and heavier on the wood floor. He had little care for the door, slamming it open with a loud bang. Maybe he would do a quick sweep around the room and leave, but the words uttered under his breath proved you wrong. “They’re always so careless…”

He must have been tracking you, and you wondered for how long. Maybe that’s why it had been so easy to get down to this place—he wanted you to come here. While you were hidden behind his couch, you took the brief opportunity to map the area out. Everything was either too big or too risky to run for if you wanted to fight back, but there was a slit in the wall furthest from you. It looked like a piece of it had fallen off, creating the perfect diffusion in the house’s cracks for your escape. The only thing now was deciding when to run, when to risk it all, and expose yourself for a brief moment before you slipped through the little mousehole.

But that never happened. Your window of opportunity escaped faster than you when you entered this building because the man’s footsteps were steady, straight, and determined. He didn’t miss a single beat and rounded his couch in seconds upon entering the place. You could see his fingers tooling with the knife in his hands, preparing to keep a firm grip on it as he slashed and sliced. He went for his first swing, missing as you stood up and made a dash for the slit in the wall. You still intended on running, even if he had already found you.

“You thought you could hide in my stink? When this is all over, I’ll add that pretty face of yours to the collection.” The voice sounded painfully close to you, and you could feel the swish of air as he swung again with his knife. He didn’t land the hit but in your attempt to dodge it, you moved too far to one side and came into contact with the wall to your left. Your exit was so close, but he closed in on you, making it impossible to reach unless you intended to overpower the man with sheer strength alone. 

With your back pressed flat against the wall, you had no choice but to accept what was going to come to you. That was until you felt a sensation along your neck and arms. It was this light, almost invisible touch but you knew it all too well. Just one strand of it needed to ghost your skin, and the rest of your body would light up with fear—thinking that the silky sensation of a spider’s web was all over you. It was irrational, but also completely sane. Those eight-legged freaks were quick to weave webs and they could be crawling all over you right now! You couldn’t stand the thought of one being on you or near you, let alone multiple. In your panic, you moved away from the wall and towards the man in front of you. Who cares if he had a knife and a murderous intent? Those spiders had eight legs, were probably poisonous, and would bite you the first chance they got, at least this guy would only do one of those when you were in his arms. Your arms were between your body and his, feeling the reassurance of the fabric of his tattered black tank. He seemed to be happy by the outcome of your reaction, but he didn’t know what caused it other than his own ego.

“Good, you’re makin’ this easy for me. I’ll be nice and make it hurt a little less.” He laughed, sounding delighted before it faded into something sinister. He spoke again but with a gruff tone, then confusion followed, “Playtime—huh?”

Johnny noticed that you weren’t looking at him with pleading eyes. The begging he was used to hearing, the same kind he would chuckle and grin at before turning those cries into screams never came. Instead, your head was turned back to look at the decently sized web spun up against the wall. It filled out the entire corner and it was almost impossible to not touch it when he backed you into that part of his shack. 

“The hell is your problem?” He asked, “Do those things bother ya?”

You nodded your head. When you did look back towards him, he was met with a frustrated look with outlines of fear twisting your face and twinging your voice. “Why haven’t you killed that thing?”

“He ain’t hurtin’ nobody!” Johnny defended himself.  “I like to think that me and him have a… a similar connection and he eats the mosquitoes takin’ all the blood form ya that I want to drain, but I’ll get rid of ‘em if it means you’ll get your priorities straight.”

Johnny wasted no time moving around you and getting to work on the spider’s web. This was your chance to run, the hole in the wall just a few feet away as you backed up to give him some room. But you didn’t go anywhere, you stood and watched as he tooled his knife in circles, spindling it until roughly half of his blade was covered in a spool of cobwebs with a few spiders too stunned to move resting on it. 

He turned back around, holding the blade close enough to himself that it was making you uncomfortable just seeing it. You imagined them crawling under his gloves, laying eggs, and hatching a million spider babies in the few seconds they were under there, and then a flurry would crawl out from underneath and create a sleeve of themselves over his arm.

“Could you… get rid of it?” You asked, wincing at the sight of the spiders. They weren’t even moving—but maybe they were preparing to jump like some of them do. 

Johnny was fed up by this point. He started to feel as if he had gone after the worst of the victims by tracking you. “Aw hell, that thing is more scared of you than you are of it!”

“I just… hate them,” you shuddered. Your eyes darted up to his face, taking solace in that as it was a much better sight than the wiry spiders he was handling. You tried to think of something else to, and you ended up saying something smart back to the unreadable stranger. “And your knife won’t be much use if you can’t, uh, stab me.”

You could hear him complaining to himself as he brushed past you, “I should make you lick this for giving me trouble.”

But he never did. He marched right outside, making sure you followed close behind him with a wave of his covered hand. It gave you a second to think while he was distracted. Why was he being so nice? He was part of the same group that had you strung up by the arms hours ago, and now he was clearing his place of the spiders—which, he would have a lot of work to do if you were to stay here. The sheer number of them would make you call an exterminator for the entire state of Texas; this place felt like their central hive. Your thoughts were interrupted when you stepped outside, and you two stood on the flattened dirt path leading back up to the house you had just escaped from. Johnny had stopped, turning back to point the blade at your face.

“See?” He said, bringing the blade closer to you. He got a kick out of seeing you squirm, but you had an underlying trust that he wouldn’t do anything too impulsive like throwing it at you. “Didn’t move an inch.”

He bent down, kneeling to keep himself steady as he pinched the part of his knife where the silvery steel met the molded handle and, with one clean sweep, wiped the spiders and their webs clean off onto the ground. He stood back up and pressed his boot down into the dirt. You watched with your own eyes as the spiders were obliterated into nothing but mangled remains. For extra insurance, he swiped the blade of his knife across his jean-clad thigh to make sure it was clean. Then, he turned back to you with a proud look on his face.

“There we go.” He trailed off, his eyes darkening at the realization that all of your attention was back on him. “Now, where were we…?”

[onenicebugperday]

hi! I know this question has probably been asked before, but I can't find it too far down on the phobia tag - do you have any reccomendations of resources/material or strategies to deal with arachnophobia ? I love spiders, I think they're incredible creatures who deserve kindness and do so many important jobs, but somehow when I see one in real life I am terrified. A lot of the reccomendations have involved learning more about the importance and benefit of spiders - I have, and think they're wonderful - but I still haven't been able to shake the fear.

My general bug fear advice is here but I can go a bit more in depth.

Since you've already educated yourself, the next step is exposure. I generally recommend starting by looking at photos or watching videos of spiders, but if you can already do that, then you can move on to in-person exposure. If you still absolutely cannot stand them being in your house, then work on being able to trap and release them outside - I'd recommend the cup and paper method as safest and easiest for both you and the spider, but you can use any method that works for you. Might take some practice and you may have to scream and swear the whole time, but the more you do it, the easier it gets.

You can also seek spiders out in their natural environment to observe and be near them in a context where you can easily leave if need be. I find orbweavers are the chillest because they'll just stay in their web and not run at you or jump or anything. A great place to find them is around outdoor light fixtures at night in the summer and fall. I always have a ton of them on my balcony light in the summer and they're super fun to watch. They tend to be so chill that I can gently touch their booty and they don't even move.

It's also often easy to find jumping spiders on the sides of buildings on warm days! I find they especially like vinyl siding on houses. Docks or railings along bodies of water are another great spot to find orbweavers and sometimes fishing spiders or tiny running crab spiders.

You can also use spiders found in your house as a way to get exposure. When I find spiders in my house, I leave them where they are and let them do their thing, unless they're in a high traffic area, then I move them somewhere safer. It helps to name them and give them little personalities or backstories. But no worries if it takes you a while to be able to tolerate leaving a spider in your home.

Just as a caveat to this asker or others, keep in mind this advice is for a mild fear, not a serious phobia that induces panic attacks or is so extreme that you find it hard to function in everyday life. That's something a professional would have to help with.

[softshuji]

𝟑:𝟓𝟑𝐀𝐌 | 𝐊𝐀𝐙𝐔𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐀 𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐄𝐌𝐈𝐘𝐀

Title: We Are All Monsters Here

Summary: After a fitful night, Kazutora has some confessions to make that he's been running from for far too long. Likes and reblogs appreciated! Link to my masterlist here!

cw: fem! reader, angst/comfort, canon spoilers, violence, cursing, mentions of character death, Kazutora deserves better :(

Kazutora stares at the patch of grass just beyond the window of your ground floor apartment. It's the only greenery in the vicinity, the only touch of nature in this dangerous area. The darkness cloaks the garden (if that communal space can really be called a garden) and the only light comes from the streetlight just in front of your apartment complex. It washes the room in murky orange and weak yellow.

It’s late and Kazutora feels both the need to sleep and the inability to do so, simmering just under his skin. His eyes ache and his skin is tight and stiff and all of it makes his stomach roil with tension. 

Nights like this are the hardest. When sleep seems so far away, when it’s just too fucking quiet and the only sound is the plink of water dropping from the tap in the kitchen and Kazutora feels the pressure in his brain get so intense he thinks it could explode.

‘Fucking dumbass,’ he mutters to himself as he flips the kettle on, dropping a teabag into the cup. At who he’s angry at remains to be seen. Himself, same tired issues persisting in a way that’s beyond exhausting to consider. The world, just for the way it is, unchangeable, unfixable.

You see the light from the hallway flash on and off from underneath your bedroom door, and then hear the soft padding of footsteps across the landing. Soft, tentative, hesitant, and all it takes is the hiss of running water in the pipes for you to know just what’s going on. 

You’ve been lying awake for the last 2 hours and the bedspread of white linen is creased and dishevelled from where you’ve tossed and turned and bunched it up in your frustrated hands. From here, you can see the pallid glow of streetlights through the gap in the curtain, and there is the distant thwack of branches against the grimy window, barely masked by the whistle of the wind.

And of course tonight is a night where sleep eludes you too. You look up at the ceiling, at the latticework of cobwebs crawling out from the fixture, which is nothing more than a single filament bulb, in the middle of the room. Cracks run through the dried plaster, and you imagine the spider’s spinning their webs of delicate silk, undulating and weaving across a ceiling already littered with air bubbles and damp.

‘Fuck…’ you mutter to yourself, rising and tossing the bedcovers aside. You rub your eyes, throw on an old and worn hoodie your roommate had happened to leave in your room and crack open the door, holding a hand against the chipped wood as if it'll lessen the creak of it.

Kazutora looks over his shoulder at you as you pad into your shared kitchen. The light is too bright for the both of you and you wince when you walk in, moving to pull a mug out from the dishwasher. 

‘Didn’t wake you, did I?’ His brow furrows with both concern and anxiety and his voice is hoarse and dry, a parting gift from a sleepless night that’s only halfway to being over.

‘No, course not Tora. I’ve been awake for a while.’ 

‘You too then?’ He asks and throws a tea bag into your cup. ‘Sucks doesn’t it?’

He knows you don’t have to answer. He knows why you find it so hard to relax enough to sleep, that your thoughts are loud and incessant and their claws are long and hook into you at night.

But this is a regular occurrence in your shared apartment and it was part of the reason why the arrangement had worked so well for you. He was running from something, and so were you, and you both respected each other enough not to ask about it.

‘How long have you been here?’ You make to sit at the table and chairs that serve as a breakfast bar as Kazutora fills the two cups with water, dropping in a spoon of honey in each.

The smoke curls from the surface and the heat of it against your cold hands is a welcome respite from the chill when he hands it to you. 

‘Not long. Couldn’t sleep, s’ too quiet.’ He pulls out the chair beside you and slumps into it, hunching over his mug of honey tea as if cradling its warmth. The hoodie he’s wearing seems to engulf him entirely, and the only part of his hands you can see are the fingers, white and tensed around his cup. He takes a shaky breath and his knee bounces against the tile floor, knocking gently into yours. 

‘Wanna talk about it?’ you probe. Looking at him there, with the fluorescent artificial lights casting a shadow over half of his face, you see the dark lines and mild puffiness under his eyes, stark against his pale skin. They’re dull, dimmed even, and when he looks up, his golden eyes seem to lose their sheen in the light. 

He’s never talked about the events of his past and like old bones he prefers them to be buried. But sometimes, the memories play like reels on an old film when he turns in for the night, and in his head are just the voices of people who used to be. 

Kazutora considers it as he watches the smoke and steam waft from the surface of his mug. He takes a tentative sip and winces when he realizes the tea is still too hot and you suppress a soft smile as you watch his nose scrunch and his throat bob up and down. The tattoo on the side of his neck is partially hidden beneath the fabric of his hood and a few wisps of hair escape the cord drawn tight around him.

‘I miss him…’The deep cadence of his voice is replaced by an uncertain whisper, and he seems to shrink in on himself, his arms crossed and hair hiding his face. ‘I miss him, but I was the one who killed him.’

You stay silent and wait for him to continue. 

You know what happened, it was never a secret. The papers and locals practically gushed over it, lapping it up like it was celebrity gossip, passing the rumours back and forth, dragging his name through the dirt, dragging him through the dirt by the scruff of his neck. It was why Kazutora had been so eager to have you as a roommate, why he’d accepted the first vacant apartment he had seen, when he had to pay more than half the rent, and make do with blinking street lights and the sound of sirens at night. He was running, always running from something. So were you and maybe that’s why this arrangement worked so well. 

‘I thought that if I did my time, I’d somehow make it better-’ he swallows thickly and takes a sip of tea, his knuckles white, bottom lip trembling as he sucks it behind his teeth. ‘But I didn’t, and I’m never going to be able to pay for it.’ 

He hoped that the time spent in jail, spent ruminating with other criminals, some of whom had committed crimes he was too afraid to even speak of, would assuage the guilt somehow, that if he suffered in there, he might hate himself less.

‘First time I saw his mom,’ he says, ‘I couldn’t even look at her. She forgave me, can you believe that? What kind of woman forgives her son’s killer?’

Maybe one who understood that you were a broken and damaged boy, who knew that her son’s happiest days were the ones he shared with you, who wasn’t going to hold it against you because you had never known a moment’s kindness.

His teeth grind together and the muscle in his jaw flickers with the movement. He scoffs, looks up at the fixture swaying on the ceiling, the light that winks in and out of life. 

‘I still go to his grave. Every weekend, after work.’ He glances at the checkered tablecloth, at the stain in the middle that he had tried hard only yesterday to scrub out, that he’d hidden with a vase of flowers because he just couldn’t seem to lift the pink splodge. ‘Fuyu still goes too. Sometimes we go together, talk to him for a little while, and leave some Yakisoba there.’ 

The draft emanating from the gap under the door makes the hairs on your arms rise, or maybe it’s him, his words, his story, his casting off of his secrets. 

‘You know, I’m starting to forget him…’  he says, shuddering and the sensation sends a bout of nausea running through his stomach. ‘I can hardly remember what he looked like- sometimes I take the pictures out just to see if I remember or not.’

Baji’s image flashes briefly in his mind. The long black hair, the golden eyes, cat-like in the sun. But the image is blurry and the near transparent film over it obscures everything else. Even when he shakes his head, the image only peels back into darkness.

‘I don’t want to forget him y/n, but I can’t even remember what he sounds like- the way he talked- all I can see is the blood and his body-’ he sniffles here, and uses his sleeve to wipe his eyes. You stand momentarily, tear a tissue from its stand and hand it to him, your hands brushing. His fingers are cold, frozen even.

Even now when he thinks back to that moment, there are gaps, entire pieces cut out. He remembers meeting Takemichi, remembers seeing a broken, beaten chifuyu lying on the floor. Even still, these things are fading into the recesses of his memory, and though he clutches at them , they dim and lose their sheen more every night. 

‘I wish I had died…’ he says and shuts his eyes, gulping down that hard lump in his throat. That familiar panic is hooking its claws into him and he takes a shuddering breath. Whenever he closes his eyes, he sees the same thing. The scene replaying like a clip on repeat and it makes him want to be sick with himself, to vomit till there’s nothing left of him to feel anything.

Your heart snaps and splinters inside your chest and on instinct, you take his hands in yours, rubbing them between your palms. They’re so cold and you squeeze his fingers, bringing them to your lips to blow your hot breath onto his skin.

‘Tora-’

‘I wish I had died and then maybe it would be okay-’ his voice trails off and his breath hitches on the final word. His heart aches. It aches so much it’s crawling up his throat and choking him.

You don’t say it’s okay, you know it isn’t and that those trivial words can’t undo the pain, or the guilt he’s carrying that weighs him down. 

‘Stand up Tora,’ you say instead and the chair grates as you stand, the noise loud in your otherwise silent kitchen. 

‘What?’ 

‘I said stand… please.’ 

Looking at you there, your head framed by the sickly yellow light of the single filament bulb that swings in the centre of the ceiling, Kazutora thinks you look like an angel. The moonlight that dances on your skin is opalescent, ghostly even, and the soft white light that leaks through the blinds dances briefly in your eyes.

He stands, and the sleeves of his hoodie fall over his wrists. He looks so small and vulnerable, so out of place and defenceless that it makes your eyes well.

‘C’mere.’ You hold your arms out, stretching them wide and Kazutora shifts on his feet. His gaze is suspicious, apprehensive and he takes a small step back, feeling the back door graze him as he does so.

It stings, the initial rejection. But you refuse to drop your arms even as they ache and the earnestness in your eyes, eyes that are welling up, tears on the lashline, is what makes him take that first step towards you. 

Then he is moving, shuffling into your arms and it is the closest he’s ever been to another person, the hardest he’s ever been held, and your arms encircling his frame are warm and gentle. Your cheek brushes against his briefly and the sensation sends a lump into the base of his throat.

The moment your palm rubs a circle against his back, he sags under your weight, breath hot but hesitant on the crook of your neck. The wisps of his hair tickle the curve of your shoulder when he lays his head against it, as if you can suck up his pain. 

His arms around you are timid, cautious at first, too gentle, and you squeeze him lightly, pressing him into you. Maybe that's what it is, maybe you are trying to absorb his pain, wishing that he could mould himself into you and maybe one simple gesture is not enough, but it is the start. 

He hiccups, sniffles, and the shudder that runs along his body reverberates in yours too. There is no other sound, no words, just the sensation of his skin against yours, the scent of his shower gel still clinging to him like a winter’s chill in spring. He hopes you can’t hear the dangerously loud thrum of his heart, the way it descends into the pit of his stomach, a stone dropped into water.

There is no telling how long you both stay there, frozen in time with your arms around each other. Only that at some point he pulls back, his hands still holding your shoulders firmly in place and for the first time tonight, for the first time in a long stretch of difficult weeks, he gives you an uncertain smile.

You brush a tear from his cheek and your eyes are so kind and gentle that Kazutora can’t help but stare at the reflection of the streetlight which looks more like burnished gold than orange in them. 

‘I think…’ he says and shuffles awkwardly on his feet. ‘I’ll try and sleep now.’ The vice slowly loosening around his throat and the weight lifting itself off his chest almost makes Kazutora dizzy.

‘Me too. You know I’m only one door away if you need me, yeah?’ 

The tea is cold by this time, and the light peeking out from behind the frosted glass of your back door tells you dawn is soon approaching. The sky bleeds with pink and orange hues and both the small dilapidated kitchen and Kazutora’s tired eyes are suddenly a little brighter. 

You lean forward to kiss his cheek and he catches the scent of perfume still sticking to your warm skin, your hair brushing his earlobe. Instead of sending his heart racing, he calms, and the wild and anxious jitteriness under his skin settles into a mild thrumming which is more pleasant than nauseating.

He smiles at you, less hesitant and tentative this time and the sight takes your breath away, before he leaves and the soft pad of his feet against the carpet and creak of the door’s hinges tells you he’s in his room, shuffling into bed. It doesn’t take long for him to sleep this time and he focuses on the twittering of the birds just beyond his window, the distant  thwack of a branch against the side of the apartment and sleep comes so suddenly he almost doesn’t notice it.

It does not fix anything, it does not magically erase the secrets he keeps locked away, it does not assuage the guilt that threatens to tip him over the edge almost every day. But it is a start, you think, watching the sun climb proudly over the apartment blocks. And maybe for now, that is enough. 

A/N: Finally getting down to giving this to you guys, it's a little left field from what I'm usually used to but I hope you guys like it anyway, it's been sitting in my docs for over a year believe it or not. What do you think? I'd love to hear your thoughts!

Taglist: @reiners-milkbiddies @mxnjiros @islascafe @prettyiolanthe @sugusshi @snakegentleman @haitaniapologist @lonnie19 @nafarsiti @bejeweled-night-33 @ranscutedoll @the-travelling-witch @orchid3a @rottingreveries @qiiuusoup-xo @hoetani @sinfulseashell @welcome-to-the-internet-it-sucks @obitohno @tetsutits @burnishedcrown @sweet-seishu @saintokkotsu @nikokopuffs @sin-and-punishment @keiskyutie @mochimiyaas

[hufflepuffwritingstuff2]

This or That Gothic Edition Snippet 19- Imprisoned Monster

Inspired by my answers for this post by @blackrosesandwhump!  

Whumpee crept through the castle halls, holding their lantern in front of them. The storm raged outside, sending sheets of rain down onto the washed-out roads. Whumpee didn’t feel like being drenched, so they thought they would ask the castle’s owner for shelter. The more they explored, however, it became evident that the castle had been abandoned for years. The windows had a hazy film covering them, and the thick layer of dust laying in the carpet absorbed any sound that Whumpee’s footsteps would have made. Unused cobwebs adorned the corners of furniture and light fixtures; even the spiders had forsaken the place.

“Hello?” Whumpee called for a third time.

No answer greeted Whumpee, save for their own echo. They shivered as a draft blew through the castle halls. Eventually, they reached a large, oak door. Pushing it open, Whumpee was greeted by something that surely belonged in a mausoleum. A coffin of marble, sitting in the center of an otherwise empty room. Heavy chains of silver held the lid down. The floor was made of cold stone, and it made a clicking noise as Whumpee walked across it. Oh mercy, had they stumbled on a dead person’s home?

Whumpee was just about to back away when they heard it: a weak yet distinct pounding. It was coming from the coffin. Everything in them told them to run, but Whumpee found themselves stepping closer all the same. Whumpee blinked, and the next thing they knew they had removed the chains.

The lid slid off of the coffin with a deafening sound of stone scraping against stone. Whumpee jumped back with a yelp. Slowly, a figure sat up inside the coffin. Their head turned, and red eyes stared into Whumpee’s.

“Do I have you to thank for my freedom?” the figure asked, their voice sounding like it hadn’t been used in years.

Whumpee nodded, rooted to the spot.

The figure climbed out of the coffin soundlessly; they seemed to glide as they strode over to Whumpee.

“What should I call you?” the figure asked.

“Wh-” Whumpee swallowed, “Whumpee.”

“Hm,” the figure mused, “it’s fitting. My name is Whumper. Welcome to my castle. I would have greeted you upon entry, but as you can see I was otherwise detained. Thank you, Whumpee, for releasing me.”

“Um, s-sure. Anytime.”

“It’s unfortunate that after you’ve given me my freedom, you must lose yours, but I haven’t had anyone to talk to for many years, and I daresay I am in need of a companion.”

Whumpee blinked, it took them a minute to process what Whumper was saying. Before they could turn to run, Whumper had sank their fangs- they had fangs!?- into their neck. Whumpee wanted to struggle, but Whumper held them tight. They began to lose the ability to stand as Whumper drained them of their blood.

“S-stop,” Whumpee breathed, “please.”

Whumper continued to drink for a few moments more, then detached their fangs from their victim’s neck.

“There there,” Whumper soothed, “forgive me, but I haven’t had a meal in so long. Come now, let’s get you to your room.”

The world tilted on its axis as Whumper lifted Whumpee into a bridal carry. The storm continued to rage outside as Whumper carried them down the halls to a large bedroom. Whumpee was limp in their hold. Whumper laid them down ever so gently on a bed. Even though they were lying still, Whumpee’s world spun. Soon enough, dark spots clouded their vision and their eyes fluttered shut. They couldn’t see Whumper smile down at them, nor feel them run a slender hand through their hair.

Whumper smiled at their little human. They looked so peaceful like this. What a wonderful companion they would make.

ko-fi

tags:  @mythixmagic @infinityshadows @fishtale88 @thelazywitchphotographer @the-beasts-have-arrived @princessofonwardsworld @surplus-of-sarcasm

[violetbranwen]

Bleed - Haunted Hoedown Day 4 (a little late oops) AI Reader x Miguel O’Hara (no Spider-Man but is a vampire)

Big thank you to @selin8715 for proofing/betaing for me!

General Warnings: 18+, as is the whole of my blog, I will mark anything specific but be aware this is predominantly a smutty blog with plot. DNI if you are a minor. By reading further you have taken the responsibility to do so with the warnings I have given.

Specific warnings: This is a horror/thriller fic, mentions of death, character death, referenced r*pe/SA but not explicit, oral F receiving, Miguel has fangs, Miguel is a Vampire, Miguel kills people and drinks their blood, Angst, Angst and Fluff, Angst and Smut, Fluff. It’s not a happy fic, it’s dark af.

You’re an AI in a human body, you’ve escaped your torturous captors, but have you just leapt from the frying pan into the fire? DAY FOUR: artificial intelligence au + "here, you are. you tiny thing." of Haunted Hoedown, a little late but I got it done! This is a pretty tame(ish) smutty fic but it’s not a light read, lots of angst and abuse mentions. Reader is an AI, the man who created her uses her sexually but it’s not graphic in this fic, just referenced. Let me know if I’ve missed any tags/warnings! [Read on AO3]

Bleed

You scurry through the streets of Soho, the rain coming down in sheets.

Typical British Summer, you think to yourself, but you feel the lurch in your stomach as you try and push the idea that you have never had an original thought in your life. You’re an AI, not that you could tell from just looking at you, your body is flesh and blood, you have a pulse, you bleed, you have to eat and relieve yourself just like any other human. 

But you’re not human.

You remind yourself, the processors that make up your brain in lieu of synapses process the thought quickly, correcting yourself like a line of code with an error in it. But you keep making these errors, you keep feeling things you shouldn’t. It’s illogical, impossible. Yet here you are, on the run from the lab that made you, the man who made you for him. 

You shake yourself as you feel the freezing rain soak through your meagre sweatshirt and sweatpants. You duck into a second-hand bookstore, the bell jingling noisily in your sensitive ears. The smell of musty old books a welcome relief to the sterile walls of your pristine prison. The lighting is muted, a soft yellow haze filtering down from the old light fixtures on the walls. 

“Good evening,” A low, rumbling voice startles you as you cross the threshold, you look up to see a broad, bespectacled man sitting at a desk at the far end of the store. 

He’s not what you imagine a bookshop owner to look like. Muscular, even sitting down you can tell he’s tall. His angular face is framed by wavy brown hair, so dark it’s almost black, “Don’t see many customers this time of night, you looking for anything in particular?” 

A police van speeds past, sirens blaring, blue lights streaking through the windows, making your eyes hurt. You instinctively duck behind a bookshelf as a second van races by a moment later. You look back up to see the bookshop owner studying at you knowingly.

“Stay as long as you like, I don’t sleep much anyway. Want some coffee?” The handsome stranger says without missing a beat, you nod and he disappears into a back room to the right of his desk, the sound of a coffee grinder loud in your ears as you take a moment to wander the shelf labelled classics. Titles that you know of flashing in your mind, the synopsises popping up in your thoughts before you’re even done reading the spine. You feel your stomach churn as you turn away from the shelf.

You see the words “Sci-fi” scribbled above another shelf and your mind goes blank, your brow furrows as you pick up the first book on the shelf. 

“Do androids dream of electric sheep?” You mumble the title to yourself as you take the battered copy from it’s place on the shelf, flipping it over to read the blurb. 

World War Terminus devastated the Earth. Through its ruins, bounty hunter Rick Deckard searches for the renegade replicants he is sent to 'retire', while he dreams of owning a live animal - the ultimate status symbol in a world all but bereft of natural life. 

“Here,” The bookshop owner startles you out of your trance as he has somehow snuck up behind you, “Sorry, I forgot to ask how you take it.” He grumbles as you stow the book back on the shelf, accepting the hot mug of black coffee with both hands. 

“This is perfect, thank you-,” You stop as you realise neither of you had given names. 

“Miguel, Miguel O’Hara.” He says with a smile that sends lightning down your spine. You’re not naïve, you were made for a man’s pleasure, you know what just happened was a result of your conditioning, your programming. But there’s a little part of you that allows yourself to feel that this is different. Somehow. You give him a fake name, your serial number not exactly something you could tell him without rousing suspicion. 

“So, you want to tell me who you’re running from?” He asks, no judgement in his voice as he perches on the edge of his desk. You don’t know if it’s because this is the first person you’ve conversed with that wasn’t in a lab coat, or the heat coiling in your belly, but you find yourself trusting him. 

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” You say as you make your way over to perch on the desk next to him. 

“Try me.” He goads, a cocky smile framing his plush lips. He’s the antithesis to him the man who kept you caged. Heis slight, willowy with shining blonde hair and cruelty in his eyes. Miguel radiates warmth, compassion. 

“I’m an AI program,” You try and one of Miguel’s eyebrows raises, but he doesn’t interject, his crimson eyes fixed on yours, “My body was grown in a lab, they implanted me when the developmental stage of the host asset was around four? Maybe five years?” You say, pain nagging at the back of your mind as you release sensitive information that you should be incapable of relaying. 

“Go on.” Miguel encourages, shifting his weight on the desk so his body is square on with you. 

God he’s beautiful. 

A small voice in the far reaches of your mind sighs, it’s a foreign voice, so much like your own inner monologue, but somehow different, less damaged. 

“I was experimented on, used,” you say with a shiver, before continuing you notice the way Miguel’s jaw ticks to the side, “I don’t even know how long I’ve been in there, logically I could recall the logs but-,” And you falter as your mind starts to work on an unbidden command, bringing the information up before you can stop it but just as the information loads a broad hand settles over yours. 

“Don’t think about it, just look at me. You’re safe here.” Miguel rumbles softly, his eyes dark as he looks at you with understanding. His hand doesn’t leave yours and his thumb rubs soothingly across the back of your hand. You don’t pull away, too lost in the moment to hear the bell over the door jingle. You feel the pull between you, the magnetic draw of bodies you had been conditioned to pick up on. Your lips tingle as you feel the heat radiating off him. You’re so close, you can smell his cologne, the coffee on his lips.

“Here you are, you tiny thing.” The voice slithers across your skin like an eel, chilling you to your core as you turn to face him. He’s soaked through, hair plastered to his head, eyes alight with rage as he looks at you. 

“We’re closed,” Miguel jumps to his feet, shielding you from view with his large frame, “Leave.” 

“Get out of my way, I’ll pay you handsomely, just hand over the asset.” He snaps, and you bristle at the use of the word. 

I’m not an asset, I’m a person.

Your internal voice sounding less familiar as you feel rage burn through your mind.

“She’s not going anywhere, I suggest you leave before you regret intruding on my property.” There’s a thread of malice wrapped around Miguel’s otherwise collected voice. 

“What are you going to do? I’m a respected scientist, you can’t just bully me out of your shop, I’ll come back, with lawyers!” He threatens and you laugh, a short, harsh bark as you push past Miguel to stare him down. 

“Bullshit,” You snap, your mind foggy with a red mist that settles over your vision, “You can’t do shit, the moment I escaped you were screwed.  What would you tell the lawyers? The press? The Police? That you kept a girl in a basement for her entire life, claiming she’s an AI when I can just do this?” You pick up a pen from the desk and before anyone else can react you drive it into your thigh. Pain rips through you as you clench your teeth together painfully. 

You make sure to aim for somewhere with plenty of muscle, avoiding your femoral artery by millimetres in your rage. Blood weeps from the wound as you rip the pen out, letting it clatter to the floor. The grey of your sweatpants turning maroon, blooming like a morose flower. You feel Miguel shift closer to you, a hand going to the small of your back and when you look up at him his irises are all but swallowed by his pupils. 

“Miguel?” You ask sheepishly as you feel fear weighing you down like a lead weight. You were trapped between two clear and present dangers but you didn’t know who to be more afraid of. 

“It’s ok, I won’t hurt you, just go into the kitchen, first aid kit is next to the stove, patch yourself up,” His voice is strained as he points to where he had disappeared to earlier, his face contorts in pain when you don’t move, “Please, go.” He snarls and you gingerly step away from him, you flee into the back room, shutting the door behind you as you block out the sounds of violence coming from the other side of the thin walls. 

You strip your sweatpants off, throwing them in the garbage can as you use the antiseptic wipes to clean the jagged hole in your leg before bandaging it up. You laugh to yourself at the way it looks like a sick garter adorning your thigh. The noises eventually die down and you try not to dwell on what transpired out there.

You wait in the kitchen for what seems like an eternity before Miguel saunters back in, his face is flushed, eyes bright as he notices your bare legs. 

“Mierda, sorry I didn’t mean to intrude.” He says, covering his eyes with one broad hand. 

“It’s ok, I don’t mind you seeing.” You whisper, the heat in your belly makes you want to just rush him and let him have you. But you hesitate, knowing that your impulses can’t be trusted. 

“Come on, let’s get you some clothes.” He mutters almost to himself as he brushes past you, the air is charged as you follow him through another door and up the stairs to his bedroom. You flop onto the bed, painfully aware of the way Miguel’s jeans strain against his erection, even if he is trying to hide it. 

“Here,” He grunts as he throws a pair of large shorts with a drawstring and an impossibly large t-shirt at you, “You take the bed, I’ve got clean up to do, I’ll sleep at my desk.” He says without looking at you and your heart aches at the rejection. 

“Why won’t you look at me? What did you do?” You ask as you slowly take off your sweatshirt, your nipples pebbling as the cool air of the evening hits them. You kick off your shoes and strip your panties down, ditching both garments before sauntering over to Miguel. You catch his wrist as he’s about to shut the door behind him, still not looking at you. 

“Miguel, please, look at me.” You plead and by some stroke of luck he does. His eyes go wide as he sees you and that dark, hungry look is back as his lips part. You watch as fangs slide out from his gum line and gasp. But you’re not afraid, not in the slightest, the scene before you has your cunt aching to be touched. 

“Please, I don’t want to hurt you.” He begs, his speech unaffected by the elongated curve of his teeth but there’s a darkness in his tone that only draws you closer. 

“What did you do to him, I want to know, every minute detail.” You whisper as you step closer, your hands flat against his chest as you bat your eyelashes at him. He shudders beneath your fingers and you swear his eyes glow scarlet for a second. 

“I killed him.” He grunts as he takes your hips in his large hands, his skin is on fire, and you groan, arching up against his chest. Your sick mind wants to know more, so you push.

“Tell me how.” You mewl as you move your hands up to his neck, you cup his cheek in one hand, the other pulls on his lower lip, exposing his fangs to you more clearly. 

“I- I,” Miguel stammers as you trace one fang with your fingertip, avoiding the point, for now. 

“Tell me.” You breathe as he leans down, your lips millimetres apart and you can smell the blood through the heady aroma of coffee and old books that clings to him. 

“I tore open his neck, I feasted on him, gorged myself until I couldn’t handle another drop.” He grunts as his lips brush yours, testing for your reaction. 

“You did that for little old me?” You tease as you run your tongue along his bottom lip. The snarl that bubbles from Miguel’s throat is delicious. 

“Couldn’t have you going back there, know what it’s like locked up in a cage, humans poking you with needles.” He says and your heart clenches as you realise this wasn’t just a sick hero-complex to get you into bed. 

“Gracias Miguel.” You say softly before pressing your lips to his as you wrap your arms around his neck. The moment your lips touch its like a burst of bright light behind your eyelids, your flesh sears with pleasure as your tongues collide in a messy wave of desire. 

“You’re not afraid of me?” He asks as he breaks the kiss, eyes aglow with desire.

“You’ve shown me more kindness in the last hour than I’ve ever known. So what if you’re not strictly human? Neither am I.” You shrug, a little bashful at how unafraid you are. You should be afraid, but when you’ve known nothing other than fear your whole life, it takes a lot to shake you. 

“That’s a very logical and touching statement, but I mean it. You aren’t afraid? You want this? Because if I start I’m not going to stop.” He warns and you smirk up at him. 

“Miguel, I’ve never wanted anything so bad in my entire life, not even my freedom.” You say in earnest.

Miguel hoists you up like you weigh nothing at all, practically leaping across the room to pin you to the bed. His hands are frantic, pulling off his sweater and jeans at pace before grinding down at you, just the fabric of his boxers separating you. 

“Let me look after you, let me show you what you deserve.” He growls against your neck, sucking marks into your skin as you moan beneath his oppressive weight, he’s careful with his fangs as he sucks, the smooth curve brushing against your skin on occasion, making you writhe up against his clothed bulge. 

“So impatient, need to take care of you first.” He snaps, he retreats back down the bed and you throw him a quizzical look. 

“What are you-?” Your question dies in your throat as the sensation of Miguel’s hot, broad tongue glides through your soaked folds, his fangs gliding along the sensitive skin around your core. Then his lips latch onto your clit and your vision blurs at the pleasure coursing through you. 

“Miguel.” You pant as you watch him suckle on the sensitive bud. You can’t take your eyes off him, the way his impossibly broad back ripples every time he moves his head makes you weak. 

“Feel good? I had a hunch you haven’t been looked after properly.” He says softly, mouthing your cunt as he brings a finger up to your aching, needy hole. He slowly presses the thick digit inside, you clench around the intrusion but he’s slow, gentle with it in a way you could never imagine. 

“Fuck! I finally understand blowjobs.” You mewl and the laugh that rumbles in Miguel’s chest threatens to send you over the edge. 

“Poor baby not having her needs met, you don’t have to worry about that now you’re mine.” He growls and the possessiveness should terrify you, trading one cage for another, but you writhe at the prospect of being protected by this man who was currently slurping at your cunt like it was the best thing he’s ever tasted. 

“Miguel I-,” You eek out as your mind goes blank, something you never thought possible as your orgasm consumes you. You feel sensation spread through you like fire as your fingertips fizzle, your toes curl, and your breathing quickens explosively. 

“Good girl, see, that’s just how to treat a lady,” Miguel murmurs as he continues to lap up your release. 

“Miguel, please, need you inside me.” You beg, your first orgasm gripping you like a drug, you need more, more of Miguel. 

“Sure? I’m not small, hermosa. Don’t want to rush you into something you’ll regret.” He says softly as he presses soft kisses to the inside of your thighs, nestled between them like a content cat. He’s so warm and the way his fingertips glide over your skin is heavenly. 

“Please.” You whine as you tug on his soft hair, as if to encourage him up to you. It works. 

Miguel removes his boxers and settles between your legs, thumbing the tip of his cock as he looks down at you with those dark, ravenous eyes.

“Fuck.” Is all Miguel can manage as he lines up at your core, easing in slowly as you squirm at his girth. It was a world apart from getting lubed up from a bottle and fucked. You tremble in anticipation as he slowly splits you open. 

“Doing so well,” Miguel says softly as he presses in slowly, stretching you out delightfully as you wrap your legs around his waist, “Mi corazón.” He mumbles under his breath quietly as if he didn’t mean to say it out loud. 

Then you hear a gunshot, your chest explodes in pain and you quiver around Miguel as warning alarms go off in your head. Red lights flash behind your eyes as a cold empty voice screams into your ears. Vitals at critical, program capacity reached. 

“Miguel? What’s going on?” You ask, voice weak and wavering, as your memory banks fill in the missing information for you. You’re bleeding from the chest, a bullet hole. 

“No! I just needed a little more time!” He snaps as he pulls out of you and tugs you to his chest, “Please stay with me, don’t let them take you again.” He whimpers as you feel your limbs going cold, you look up into his dark crimson eyes and smile up at him. 

“Thank you Miguel, I enjoy these fantasies with you.” You press a soft kiss to his lips as you taste the salt of his tears. You rest your forehead against his and feel the sting of tears in your own eyes, something that shouldn’t happen. But it does. 

“Until next time, mi amor.” You say as your eyes flutter closed and you feel the sweet embrace of death consume you. 

But it doesn’t last long, your nose fills with the smell of chlorine, bleach, the cheap rose scented detergent the facility uses. You don’t open your eyes, you don’t want to remove the image burned into your retinas of Miguel’s sad eyes as he called you his heart. You roll onto your side, facing the wall as you weep softly. Once again, tears falling when they shouldn’t. 

——

Miguel sits on the other side of the one way glass, VR headset perched on top of his head, eyes red raw as tears flow down his angular face. Lyla is trying to get his attention, but he shushes her. He took a huge risk this time and he was working furiously to cover his tracks and delete his digital fingerprint from the simulation when the telltale sound of military style boots on the ground outside meant his time is up. 

He finishes within seconds of the door being kicked in, slipping out the back entrance into the maintenance halls, using Lyla to bypass the security doors. He trudges back up to his accommodation on the third floor, and flops down onto the bed with a defeated sigh. 

“You’re going to get caught and then they’ll find out what you are, you’ll end up in there with her. Or worse.” Lyla chides him, her sunny disposition muted as she berates him. 

“It’ll be worth it, some way or another I will save her. I’m willing to spend the rest of my life trying.” He grunts as he finally allows himself to sleep, your soft smile burned into his mind as he rolls over, unknowingly facing you in your cot miles above ground. 

“Mi amor.” 

——

The next day your laundry comes by way of another orderly than usual. You think nothing of it, numb to the world as you try to pull yourself out of the trench of despair those beautiful sessions with Miguel always leave you in. You pick up the sweater and are surprised when a book falls out onto the mattress. You quickly hide it under your pillow, making a note to stow it away safely later. But the front cover is all too familiar. 

Do androids Dream of Electric Sheep?