#still…….. it’d be pretty neat………

[cowboyshit]

since I’m going to the rampage/collision show next friday the day before full gear I hope hangman has even just a run in or something to be ringside. I still have never been able to see him live and would love to have that experience finally 🥺

[akkivee]

kuukou says as he was shown reading manga a few episodes prior and so ichiro says as he literally was moved by kuukou’s phrases 15 seconds prior lmao

[quibbs126]

I hope that one day for a holiday update we get a Peppermint Bark Cookie

I feel like peppermint flavored things have a connotation with the holiday seasons, so it’d make logical sense, and also I like peppermint flavored things

[beloveds-embrace]

DukeDom Poly!141

So, in one of the things (Simon and pleasure), you mentioned boudoir paintings…

OMFG I CAN JUST IMAGINE HIM MAKING ALL OF THEM DO ONE, I bet you he hangs them in his room. OH OH OH! also, I bet Simon can draw skjsudisndh 😭😩! HED SIT DOWN WHILE ONE OF THE OTHERS IS GOING AT IT WITH THEIR DUCHESS AND JUST DRAWS IN HIS CHAIR ON THE SIDE 😩😩. Reader laying on her back or ass up in the air, all sweaty and glowing while one of the boys goes at her in bliss and Simon just drawing her from the side lines… 😫🤭😩

Also, can I be 🪭 anon?

Dukedom 141 masterlist

God, Simon painting them himself? Absolutely yes.

He’d do sooo many paintings of you, it’d be concerning if you could actually think past the pleasure that clouds your mind. He has you in so many different lingeries, things that make you turn warmer than a furnace and your men’s eyes darken with want; silks and laces that snag around your soft skin, garter belts that frame the length of your thighs, custom panties with nothing more than a neat, glowy string of pearls to line your cunt with a matching jewelry set.

Simon dresses you himself, and none of the men say anything against it; he is in his element, drawing the stockings up your legs and kissing your ankles along the way, big hands carressing your calves. He takes his time lacing up your corsets and bras, kissing up your spine, cupping your tits in his big, warm hands and kneading and groping until your nipples are stiff enough for his liking, for what he needs to do his painting, and you have that lovely, desperate and needy expression on your face.

Simon may do the painting, but to him, the scene itself is art: you, you, you. Face down and ass up, bared to his gaze and brushes while Kyle keeps your hips up with a hand under your belly and three fingers pumping in and out of you, your noises, sweet moans and cries, a background melody with Kyle whispering praises into you ear until Simon can see how well you cream around those thick fingers.

Art, that’s what you truly are. No painting will ever truly capture your beauty, but still, Simon tries-

And that means he also has you in so many different poses. Another day, another lingerie sets, teeth marks indented over your body, your ankles and calves, while Johnny keeps you pinned and spread with his body. Simon focuses on your straining muscles, your pretty painted nails raking down Johnny’s back and leaving behind angry red lines that don’t compare to the way he pistons into you, your pretty cunt stretched around him and your combined cum drenching the bed. Your legs, adorned in heels Simon specifically got for you, shake and tremble, your pleasure visible and audible to all.

And John… Simon doesn’t think he’s ever seen a better seat for you than his face. You look perfect, twitching and whining, your hair and makeup a mess of a canvas, John’s hands around your hips like unbending snakes. He’s made you cum so many times, your nub swollen and sensitive under his heavy tongue, you’ve soaked his beard, his face, his neck- and yet he doesn’t stop. A queen has no reason to leave her seat, no? And yet it’s your expression that has Simon fixated, the way you look around, look at him as if you want to beg him to save you or join you. Maybe both.

Simon paints each and every one. Moments frozen in his paintings, never comperable to the real thing, and yet adored all the same.

(And you stare at the finished paintings with awe, in spite of your blush. The way he’s drawn you… you never knew you were seen so beloved.

You turn back to Simon, bejeweled fingers wrapping around his cravat, and pull him close to kiss the corner of her lips. Your men continue to admire the paintings, but you are focused on the painter.

“I want one of you and I, Simon my love.”)

First time writing smut (if this can even be considered that 💀😭)

[bttrflybb]

serendipity ❤︎ variety.

summary: naruto men and some of their favorite little symbols of love you give them.

wc: 1.3k

feat. gaara, yamato, kakashi

a/n: honestly, this whole thing should be classed as a ramble. sorry if it's a bit funky at times ;; just some ideas i wanted to get out hehe

GAARA

gaara loves it when you push his hair up out or his forehead so you can plant a kiss on the kanji carved there. part of him was worried it’d make you uncomfortable- like you’d be put off by the fact that he put it there himself. not once did you show any adverse reaction to the marking, the story, or the meaning. you always accepted gaara. every part of him.

“missed you.” he hummed into the curve of your neck, holding you from behind. he had just gotten home from a drawn-out council meeting. poor boy, dealing with some of those personalities takes so much out of him. “i missed you too, cutiepie.” you always treat him like such a baby. he didn't hate the nickname, it was just so... lovey. sometimes a bit of a shock to hear. he'll admit it grew on him though. he loves whatever you call him- because it's you. “you hungry? ‘s almost done.” you wiggled, trying to escape his grasp so you could stir the veggie medley you had going on the stove. he relented, steps quieting as he disappeared to shed his vest on a rack and reappeared on the other side of the island counter, pulling out a stool to settle into.

you put extra care into making his plate, loading it with some extra meat and rice. not gonna let him get by without some veggies though. you set both your plates on the counter, shuffling around to sit on gaara’s left. he always waits.

you pull the plates towards the two of you and look to gaara with pride. “smells good,” he hums, snaking an arm around your side to pull you into a kiss, “thank you, lovely.” you beam, cupping his cheek to pull him into one too. one on the cheek, and one on the kanji. “thank me by eating your veggies this time.” you tease.

your focus is back on the food before you can notice the blush crawling up his face.

YAMATO

yamato can’t take it when you’ve got your fingers in his hair. he’s like a puppy, in a way. scritches, pets, brushes, all of it has got him instantly relaxing in your arms.

“morning, pretty lady.” you hear your husband rumble. ah, you’d fallen asleep. eyelashes flutter to find him, settling on his smooth, barely clothed figure above you, ruffling his hair with a towel. “mm. how long have you been home?” you murmur, the smell of eucalyptus and mint hitting your nose.

“not long. wanted to shower before i cuddled up to you,” he states, that sultry smooth voice washing over you. he tosses the towel to the side and is quick to get underneath your blanket. observant, this one is. he’s already got all the lights off, doors locked, showered and clean for you. just how you like it. you’re a sensitive sleeper- and a bit of a neat freak, always chewing him out for getting his “outside clothes” in the bed or under a blanket.

“mm. how was today?” you murmured, voice still coated in sleep. you pulled yourself up a tad and spread your legs, coaxing him to lay his head on your chest. “fine, mostly just surveillance.” his voice vibrates into your chest, “kakashi had us swap places though- he hates paperwork. always wants to make me do it.”

you can hear his pout. he hates it too. everyone does. and there is so much of it. “my poor baby,” you purr, pulling him further into an embrace. one hand caresses circles into his back, the other coming to rake through his hair. immediately, he sighs and the process of turning him to mush begins.

“mhmmm.” “yeah? you’re my poor baby?” “mm, sure.” “are you fallin’ asleep already?” “mmmmm… no.” amid your little scalp massage, your nails scratch with just the smallest bit of extra pressure, warranting a tiny cry. “what was that for?” he fusses. “lyin’ to me.” “mm-mm. not sleepin’- just comfortable. missed my wife.” the sudden intimate confession makes your heart skip a beat. “hehe- i missed you too, sweetheart.” your fingers go back to combing through each damp strand, coming down to scritch his sideburns and the nape of his neck. he’s practically purring.

enough time has passed for you to assume he’s knocked out on top of you, and before sleep makes you their next victim- you curl in slightly to leave a kiss on the top of his head, running your thumb over the patch before you lay back down. before you can- hooded inky eyes look up to you expectantly. needy man. another kiss, this time on the forehead. you think you’re cute, teasing him this way. with a huff he’s lifting himself up, hovering over you to give you a short-lived kiss on the lips before he’s setting himself down, this time nestled on your shoulder.

such a pampered man. you don’t mind it. his neediness was something you came so close to losing. with that thought you can’t help but squeeze him closer, resting your cheek on the top of his head.

KAKASHI HATAKE

kakashi loves it when you offer to shave his face for him. when you waddle into the bathroom to brush your teeth, just to be greeted by his foamy face- the way your eyes widen with aggravation is the funniest thing to him.

“why didn’t you ask me?” you pout, setting yourself up on the counter in front of him with a huff. “thought you were gettin’ ready for bed.” he hums smugly, relinquishing the single-blade razor to you as you grip the underside of his chin. “not goin’ to bed without you. ‘s quicker when i do it for you too.” your annoyance quickly fading and being replaced by concentration. so cute, he thinks, watching your brows furrow and lips slightly part while you focus on the left side of his face.

he’s in bliss, letting you tug his jaw, chin, ear, whatever it may be, to get at every angle. getting bitched at and manhandled by your pretty little self while he gets to squeeze at your hips and butt? a dream come true.

he doesn’t want it to end, heart stuttering at the feeling of you shifting beneath his grasp and the sound of the razor getting folded in on itself and set down. ‘nooooo…’ he quietly whines, reaching out for you and making the most pathetic grabby hands. grown ass man, by the way.

“quit fussing,” you giggle a bit- quit, you’re supposed to be mad at him. you grab a small washcloth from the rack of neatly folded towels, turning back to his smug little face watching your every move. so annoying, you roll your eyes. you love his attention.

you beckon him to lean over after wetting the cloth. you wipe his face with warm water so gently- like he’s gonna break underneath your touch. it’s nice. you’re gentle with him. so so gentle. “looks good.” you hum. “always looks good when you do it.” he hums back. “you’ve not even looked.” “don’t gotta. i know you always do good.” so cheeky. you use the hands you have on his face to turn him to the vanity mirror. “see? jus’ like i said. always looks good.”

it really does. kakashi’s looking at himself like he’s the hottest guy he’s ever seen. honestly, he probably is. little twerp. you won’t admit it, but the praise he mumbles while he admires your work is going right to your head.

after you pat the alcohol into his skin and give him a kiss for enduring it like a ‘big, strong man’ you’d coo in the most demeaning tone, you’re finally able to brush your teeth. kakashi is in heaven this entire time, unable to keep his hands off you and definitely unable to keep his eyes off.

the nighttime routine the two of you share is one of the best parts of kakashi’s day. he makes that fact known when he’s sleeping outside during a mission and wailing over the fact that his face feels dirty or dry. bless his teammates. though, it’s less the actual routine and more you being there with him during it all. taking care of him.

before you know it you’re being scooped up in his arms and lightly tossed into the bed. he’s just so full of feelings- feelings for you. others may not have guessed it (they probably have with how much he whines when he's away from you,) but this man is such a sap.

[clemswinecorner]

Datenight [George Clarkey]

Summary: George and Y/N go on a date, without any of their friends knowing they're dating. Or do some of them?

Wordcount: 1k

Warnings: sexual innuendos and alcohol, other than that it's fine

Based on this request, as a response to neat :)

Main Masterlist

It wasn’t the first time they were out in public for a date, and they were close enough friends for it to not be seen as one. It was, however, the first time they were out in Central London, where any of their friends could decide to go to the exact restaurant they were sitting in the corner of. 

“I’m glad we’re doing this. That we’re able to just have some time together, going out, that we can have dinner together,” she says, looking at the man in front of her. “Well, I’d hope so, it’d be unfortunate if we went to dinner and we couldn’t eat,” he jokes, making her roll her eyes with a fond smile. “You know what I mean. I’m really happy to be with you,” she just says, making him smile. He reaches over, their hands on top of each other on the table. His thumb softly grazes her hand. “I’m really happy to be with you, too.”

They spend their first and second courses simply talking, joking around, looking at each other. Of course, it wasn’t a date night without some shameless flirting. George looked extremely handsome in his black button-up, and god, the short sleeves made his arms look extremely good. She had to keep herself from looking at them, the same way George had to remind himself not to stare too long. She was wearing a tight-fitting, white, off-shoulder top, and god, he wants her to never wear anything else ever again. 

As they were waiting for their dessert, their cheeks were a bit flushed from the wine as they giggled together. George lets out a content sigh, leaning back to look at her. “You know, I know I don’t say it a lot, but you’re an incredible person. A good shag too, if I may say so myself,” he jokes, making her giggle again as his expression softens. “Seriously, though. I’m really glad this is working out for us, you’re one of the best things to happen to me,” he quietly admits. She smiles at him, taking his hand that’s resting on the table. “I’m really glad, too, George. I wouldn’t want to be here with anyone else,” she says, making a small smile appear on his face as he shyly looks down. A comfortable silence falls over them, the couple simply enjoying each other’s company and the shared feelings between them. “I’m staying at yours, right?” She breaks the silence right as dessert is served. They both thank the waiter before continuing their conversation, “Yeah, the boys went out and would stay at Arthur’s, they said, telling me I’ll have the house to myself after ten,” George answers, grabbing his phone as she nods. “This looks so good. So you’re telling me we could've had a cosy night in without the boys?” She teases opening the camera app. She looks up to find George’s pointed at her. “What?!” George laughs at her reaction, “Just capturing your love for food. You look good, you look pretty. Happy.” She blushes at his comment, reluctantly taking a picture of her plate. “Which one did you get again?” She asks, looking over. “Uh, the crème brûlée,” he says, as she takes another picture of both plates together, commenting how good it looks. He smiles, looking at her adoringly, before briefly glancing out the window to the busy streets. She furrows her eyebrows as he sits up straighter, “Is that Arthur?!” She turns around, not immediately spotting the singer but recognizing the head of curls next to him. “Oh my god, yeah, they’re here. Should I go to the bathroom and you text me when they’re gone? I have to go anyway,” she says, already standing up. George nods, still with a confused look on his face. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll text.”

It takes less than five minutes before she gets back. “Any of them realise we were here?” She asks, pushing back her chair to sit down again. He shakes his head, taking his glass of water in his hand. “Maybe Arthur, he was looking in, but I don’t think Chris or TV saw me,” he twirls his drink before taking a sip. She looks at him thoughtfully. “Hey, if you want to tell them, that’s fine with me, you know that right?” He immediately nods. “Yeah, yeah, I know. I want to, eventually, but I’m keeping you to myself for just a while longer,” she smiles at him, as he looks around again. “Oh god, I just realised… They already think I’m on a fucking date,” George suddenly says. “Well you are, with me.” He chuckles at her comment, “Yeah, but they don’t know that! I won’t hear the end of it,” he groans, making her laugh along with him. “You’ll be fine. Are we finally going to eat this? I want a bite of yours.”

It’s nearly midnight by the time they walk back to George’s. They’d spend a little while more drinking the last of their wine, conversation flowing effortlessly. With the alcohol, the giggling, flirting and touching all increase, and they’re walking back leaning against each other, fingers laced together. “I’m glad we have the flat to ourselves, it’d be a long night if I had to go spend the night by myself,” George whispers, kissing her cheek. She giggles, turning to look him in the eye. “Hmm. Luckily we don’t have to think about that, because I’ll be yours tonight and every other moment of the day for the foreseeable future,” George giggles along, pulling them to stop. They giggle as he kisses her, their bodies completely together, almost forgetting where they are. She innocently smiles at him, “C’mon, let’s get to yours,” she whispers. When they arrive, they quickly make their way to George’s bedroom, too indulged by each other to think about anything else. Their phones are completely disregarded on his bedside table, neither of them looking at it until later that morning. George checks his texts for the first time as Y/N is doing her morning routine after their shower, to see one from his roommate. 

From: Arthur Hill

saw you and y/n having dinner last night, looking cosy ;) swayed arthur and chris the other way, they don’t have a clue. happy for you two, george. x 

[spacedace]

Still thinking about the Social Worker Jazz concept that @gilbirda posted about and it's slowly turning into a full Anger Management fic send help

-

Jason at length - much longer than it really should have taken really - set the resume down.

The new Social Worker’s resume. Because she was there, in his office, trying to convince him to hire her as a member of his criminal organization.

Crime Alley’s new social worker. A bright eyed Midwestern transplant from some tiny speck of a place that only qualified as a city because there was nothing bigger in a hundred miles in any direction to claim otherwise. The new social worker who had a Psy D. and three masters degrees and who had graduated Valedictorian. The one that had high paying private gigs lined up all over the country with the offering companies fighting over her.

The one who had, apparently, decided to take a shit job in Gotham’s shoddy social services department instead. The one that got kicked to Crime Alley - which was its own division despite technically being a small neighborhood in the grand scheme of things - within her first month. Supposedly for the sole purpose of scaring her off or getting her killed for all the questions she was asking and secret dealings she was sticking her nose into.

That social worker.

“I’m gonna need you to run this by me again.” Jason said, never so grateful for the voice modulator in his helmet as he was in that moment. It stripped out the bewilderment that had bled through into his words and made him sound stoic instead.

“I’d like to work for you.” The social worker - one Dr. Jasmine Nightingale - repeated primly. Back straight, clothes neat - if skewing more on the librarian side of professional - expression confident and hopeful. Completely and utterly oblivious of how fucking insane she sounded. “I was told that you’re the person in charge of Crime Alley.”

He resisted the urge to scrub at his face. It’d just look weird with his helmet on and not do anything to actually settle him in that moment anyway. “I understood that part.”

“Look, Doc,” She earned a doctorate and she was crazy enough to waltz into the office of one of Gotham’s most powerful Crime Lords, he’d be respectful about using her proper title at least, even if he suspected she was ten pounds of crazy in a five pound bag. “You’re going to have to tell me why. I was under the impression the only reason you ended up dumped on our end of the city ws because you wouldn’t play ball. But now you want to sign up for my crew?”

Nightingale frowned a little at that.

“Is that what people are saying?”

“What else are they gonna say?” Jason answered, leaning back in his seat, “Head of the department only dumps Crime Alley on folks he don’t like. And everyone knows he doesn’t like anyone that can’t or won’t play his game by his rules.”

“Alright, well. I’ll give you that.” Nightingale conceded, “Payne doesn’t like me. The feeling’s mutual. But for the record,” She added giving him a wry smile, as if sharing wry smiles with Red Hood was just something people did, “I asked to be assigned to the Park Row and Bowery neighborhoods.”

“You wanted to work here.”

“Yes.”

“Bullshit.”

Nightingale laughed. It was a bright sound. Not especially clear or pretty, but warm and welcoming in a way that carefully calculated giggles or overdone guffaws couldn’t be. Something with real and honest amusement in it, that encouraged those nearby to laugh along. Not the kind of involuntary, nervous chuckling people tended to slip into when they thought they had pissed someone that scared them off.

She just wasn’t intimidated by him at all, was she?

Behind his helmet, Jason found himself smiling. Just a bit.

“I’m serious.” She assured, blue-green eyes meeting the dark stare of his helmet without a moment of hesitation. He watched as she brushed a lock of her bright red hair behind her ear and out of the way. She’d woven it all into a practical, neat braid but a few sly pieces had snuck out to bounce around her. Gilding her quiet professionalism with a playful charm that worked well with her academia but make it cottagecore kindergarten teacher aesthetic.

“I’ll admit, Gotham wasn’t part of my plan when I first graduated. Time and choices take you funny places sometimes.” She plucked an invisible bit of lint off her soft blue cardigan, not nervous but absent as her gaze went distant for a moment. Thinking back on the events that had led her to his fine city. In a blink, those sharp eyes were back to focusing entirely on him. “But Gotham is where I am now, and I want to help.”

She looked at him, a serious, determined expression settling easily on her face. “The city as a whole has so much chaos and crime breaking out all the time.” No censure or horror in her voice, just a neutral fact to be observed. “But where the rest of the city has millions of dollars poured into it by various foundations or charities run by the Waynes, Park Row is largely ignored.”

Jason watched as steeliness sharpened her gaze, the blue-green shifting from the shine of a bird’s wing to the warning hue of something poisonous and deadly. “No one deserves that. No one.” Her chin tilted up, proud but not imperious. “So yes, I want to work here. There are people in Park Row and the Bowery who need help and I refuse to let any of them feel like they are going to be ignored.”

Jason considered her.

Really looked at her. Pealing back his initial off handed impression of her as some clueless transplant in over her head with no idea of what she was doing or what she was poking her nose into to find the real woman beneath. Her confident poise, her clear unshakable belief, her unflinching willingness to look danger in the eye and not blink. The tense curve of her frown, the lines of pain at the corners of her eyes, the simmering anger beneath it all. There was an edge to her, too. Something sharp and dangerously well hidden by the cardigan and folksy charm of her accent.

It was personal for the woman before him, Jason realized. Maybe not Crime Alley specifically, but something about the whole situation. The treatment the neighborhood and its residents received from the city at large, from those even beyond it.

Crime Alley wasn’t a place that received much in the way of charitable thought. The average joe with their house in Somerset and job at some corporate shithole hating every second of their life but thinking at least I don’t live in Crime Alley. Those asshole hoity-toites in city hall throwing money around equally between shit that’d get them re-elected and their off-shore slush funds in the Caymens doing their damn level best to pretend the black mark on the other end of the city just didn’t exist. Bruce, flooding the entire city with charitable programs and carefully constructed infrastructures shying away from the manifested grief and trauma that was the place he watched his parents get murdered.

For the most part no one from outside of the Alley gave a shit about the Alley other than as a place to avoid at all costs. And most of the time those natives that manages to claw their way out into better and brighter lives didn’t ever turn to glance back. Orpheus could have learned a thing or to from an ex-Alley Kid who managed to eek out a steady 9-to-5 and move to Burnley.

And something about that seemed to piss Dr. Jasmine Nightingale Psy. D right the fuck off.

He could see why Bill said he liked her enough to let her in.

“Alright.” He said, tilting his head, watching the woman seated across from him carefully, “Still doesn’t explain what you’re doing here. Why you’re trying to get on my payroll.”

“I’m not trying to get on your payroll.” She said, some of the glinting edge softening, but the steel remaining. Strong and unyielding. “I’m trying to get into your community outreach program.”

Jason thanked god and all the saints once again for the gift of his helmet. That baby had saved his ass more times than he could count both by keeping his head in one piece and keeping his stupefied expressions wrapped up and hidden from view. Dr. Nightingale was one hell of a woman to make him have to rely on that fact twice in one conversation.

“Wasn’t aware that was something I had.”

Nightingale, not fortunate enough to have a full face covering helmet of her own, had nothing to hide her stupefied expression behind. Jason had a feeling she might have removed it to make sure he saw even if she did though. She looked like she had caught him eating glue like it was a cheese stick.

“Yes you do.” She said, sounding deeply confused but unshakable confident in what she was saying. “I’ve seen it. The soup kitchens, the shelters, the collection boxes for donating old clothes, the after school day care.” Nightingale ticked off on her fingers, “I’ve lived here for less than two weeks and I’ve lost count of all the things I’ve seen setup to help people struggling in the area that I’ve been very reliably informed you and your organization are behind.”

Oh.

Those.

“Those aren’t part of some community outreach program.” He said, “We are simply locals offering services for our neighbors.”

He watched as her caught-him-eating-glue expression shifted into one that said she’d stumbled upon him licking electrical sockets for a mid-day pick-me-up instead. He had to give it to her, the woman was not afraid to let one of the most dangerous men in the city know she thought he was a fucking idiot.

“Let me see if I understand this right.” She said, and he appreciated that there wasn’t any kind of condescension in her voice, even though she very clearly thought he’d been dropped on his head as a baby. Possibly from the top of a three story building. “You have a large group of people working together to plan, organize and execute multiple services in your area - your community, if you will - that provide aid and support to those that otherwise would not receive it. Reaching out with your available time and resources to offer these services, that you provide. For free.”

Alright, Jason got it. He had stumbled ass backwards into creating a community outreach program. But he wasn’t just going to let her think she won this one. He was Red Hood, he had a reputation to uphold here.

“What makes you think any of that is free?” He tilted his head at just the right angle, the one that cast shadows across the planes of his helmet and made him look hell-touched and terrifying. “Just because we don’t charge money, doesn’t mean there isn’t a price to pay.”

Dr. Nightingale, dressed like a damn kindergarten teacher, laughed at him.

[gutsby]

Cabin Fever

Pairing: Dark!Joel x Dark!Reader

Summary: Joel saves your life, but help comes at a price.

Warnings: 18+. DEAD DOVE: DNE. NONCONSENSUAL. I’m never ever beating the insane bitch allegations, I fear. Protector-turned-pervert-turned-unwilling-captor-kinda. Corruption kink. Daddy kink. Somnophilia. Misogyny. “It’s too big; it won’t fit” + Joel “I’ll make it fit” Miller. Captivity on both ends. Oral (f!receiving). Gunplay. Oversimplified first-time anal. Uno Reverse Drugging. Evil, inexperienced reader meets evil, feral, slutty Joel. Attempted murder x3. Russian Roulette…as foreplay?

Notes: Both characters SUCK. I condone nothing they do. Please do not take any of their behavior or language to reflect my own moral predilections. That is all 🚬😵‍💫

You were hardly shaking at all when he’d found you chained, maimed, and frozen half to death on the plains.

He didn’t see that every day, that was for-fucking-sure.

Joel Miller barely got to see his share of happy, grinning girls on the cold and bitter frontier he inhabited. Ones that were tied to posts and clinging to life were even less common, so the sight of you there had almost frightened him at first. He’d approached you like one might advance upon a sleeping bear: with the utmost caution and a Winchester Model 70 levelled directly at your head.

He’d learned you were unarmed and defenseless in less than a second. He’d come to realize you were largely unconscious—and unclothed—even sooner than that.

He had been industrious in freeing your hands and feet from their restraints but never uttered a word as he did.

Even on the two-and-a-half mile trek back home, he hadn’t spoken once. You’d hung off his left shoulder like a pretty, frosted slab of meat, covered only with the sherpa blanket he’d secured around your neck, and dangled precariously down his back for the entire fifty minutes.

Your toes were two shades shy of onyx with frostbite.

Your limbs were hanging like lead over his chest.

A whisper of, ‘You’ll be fine, darlin’, I promise’ had just seemed ill-suited for the circumstances and his nature. In truth, Joel didn’t know if you’d be fine. You might die. The blood wouldn’t be on his hands one way or the other, but he never had liked burying bodies this time of year. He’d have to wait until April to break ground, at least.

Presently, he dropped your limp form to the floor of his cabin and hoped he wouldn’t be needing to bury anyone.

You sort of looked charming in the firelight.

He stomped off to the kitchen and began rifling for pans, preparing to defrost the icy stranger as best he could.

You didn’t die.

You didn’t wake for forty full hours, but you didn’t die.

When you stirred on the floor with warm sherpa around your shoulders and a rough calfskin rug under your ass, you thought you had died—maybe taken a pit stop in cowpoke purgatory while you were at it—but then you blinked. Breathed. Realized you were still very much inside your body and most likely still in Wyoming.

You sat up where you were and looked around.

“Da-a-d?”

You knew it was useless, calling for your father.

He had been dead almost eight months; you just wanted to double-check to make sure you were still on earth.

When dead dad didn’t answer, you tried someone else.

“Momma?”

Still no answer.

Figured, since she was among the ones that had left you chained outside in the first place. It’d been worth a shot.

You started to rise from your place, when a sharp pain in your side made you plop back down on the rug. You winced and lifted the blanket, then your old nightie.

A neat little taped-down bandage had your ribs encased in antiseptics and gauze. You frowned down at a stain in the centre, which looked to you an awful lot like blood. That circle of old fluids must’ve been twice the size of your fist and currently oozing tiny, fresh beads of blood from the strain you’d just exerted. You pursed your lips.

Least they could’ve done is kill me, not leave me here.

You’d take it up with your old would-be assassins another day, you were sure. Right now, you were parched, starving, in dire need of a piss, and reeling on the floor to grab hold of something sturdy to lift yourself. But you were as much a child then as you had ever been, swaying in place and clawing at air like someone who’d never kept their balance before. Or might’ve been drunk.

You rolled onto your good side and cast a sweeping look around the cabin. You smelled slow-cooked barbecue.

Thank fuck, you thought.

Now, if I were a juicy rack of ribs, where would I be?

The kitchen was dark and empty; the smell was coming from elsewhere. You craned your neck, tilted your chin, spotted a loft overhead but figured it wasn’t too likely to find someone grilling up there, so where the hell was it?

And who the hell was it, smoking meats and mending up strangers in the cold and lonely dead of winter like this?

You put a pin in that thought as you searched for a place to pee.

By the time you’d hobbled out of the bathroom, the smoky smell had grown even stronger. It was so pungent it bordered on vertiginous, invading every inch of the cabin with a force. Then it was leading you, teasing you by turns to venture outside. All you had on your feet were some oversized socks and two strips of medical tape.

Against your better judgment, you continued to hobble.

Out the door, down the steps, slowly, then following your nose and the first whiff of smoke you smelled to make it to the place you were almost certain you needed to be.

You trudged around a corner of the cabin’s exterior and stopped. Turned around. Cursed your own senses for being so stupid to miss the huge fucking shed spewing smoke out front—or was it the back?—and plodded on.

Your feet might have carried you a third of the way there before your powers of sight and sound eventually failed you again, and you missed another big something.

Big and beige and coated in snow—baring its teeth and snarling at the unfamiliar presence as soon as it saw you.

The next thing you knew, sixty-two pounds of Belgian Malinois had had you knocked to the ground in less than a second. You hardly understood what had hit you until it was barking and chomping away an inch from your face.

You fought hard and frantic to shove the ugly fucker off, but your bandaged hands were no match for its paws. The dog continued to tear at your blanket, nip at your ears, claw at your neck, and all around snuff out any sense of peace you might have acquired in the dozen-odd minutes since you’d first woken up. You screamed.

You yelled as loud as you could and felt yourself cower and sink lower into the snow as you fought.

Just when you tried to raise a knee—to kick the animal in the ribs or else protect your own—a sound broke out above the buzz.

A voice, clear as day:

“CUJO!”

The dog stalled on top of you a moment, just to be yanked off the next, and the closest thing afterward was a face—kinder than Cujo’s but not by very much.

It was a broad, bearded, pock-marked head with more soot to recommend itself than skin. Lips smeared with ash and grime and curved down in the single most decisive frown you’d seen in your life, the man looked to be beside himself seeing you tits up in the snow.

He gripped one arm of yours, then dropped it.

Picked a leg up, paused, then hauled you into a cradle carry as graceless as you’d ever felt it done before.

“Come!” he snapped, and it took you too long to realize that he was talking to the dog. You’d already wrapped your arms around his neck in abrupt complaisance.

He carried you back into the cabin and kicked the door open in front of you. He held you firm for a second, then, just as he had outside, changed course before you knew what to do and was shortly depositing you on the sofa.

You winced when your ass hit the cushion.

You started to sit, grab a pillow for your back or just bring your knees to your chest, when suddenly a palm was pressing flat on your front. Forcing you to lie down.

“Hey, hey!” you cried when the man started lifting the hem of your nightgown.

If he’d heard you at all, he didn’t show it. He just worked his thick, dirty fingers under the fabric and raised the white satin like he might the hood of a car. He frowned.

It was then that you noticed a blooming red splotch on your side, slowly overtaking the terra-cotta color of dried blood on the bandage and spreading out. Then a pain.

Instead of pushing the man’s hands away, you were holding them tight, wrestling that same touch which was trying to keep you from poking around the area now.

“Quit,” the man said, sedate as could be.

“Hurts,” was all you could think to tell him—and you guessed he’d already had that part down by the outpouring of blood. He shoved your hands off.

The brand new crimson hue had already soaked through the bandage. He pulled it off. You caught a glimpse of a wound that seemed to be weeping through its stitches—oozing pus and blood and a gore you could’ve gone your whole life without seeing. You would’ve liked to run a couple gentle, awed fingers over it, but as it was, your coarse and tight-lipped medic wouldn’t let you.

“Hold still,” he commanded.

“Heystopstopstop!” you implored him, feeling a streak of pain up your side as his calloused hands delved deeper.

At your latest flinch and plea, the man seemed to have had enough. Or just needed to angle your body in a different direction for easier access to the site. He gathered you back up in his arms and walked over to the kitchen, where he set you down again on the counter. Hands moved to your hips, briefly, to push you back on the surface and allow him to stand between your legs. Again, the man frowned as he peeled off your pyjamas.

Two warring fears of pain and overexposure fought like wild beasts in your brain for a second—you yelping and trying to cover your breasts in a hurry, then realizing how much it hurt to lift your arms that way when your ribs were dripping blood, then the man making the decision for you both as he pushed your hands behind your back and said a simple ‘Fuck’s sake’ to keep you pinned.

You didn’t like it.

You didn’t like it, and you let him continue, because you knew that you didn’t know shit about doing this yourself.

Joel must’ve fixed your dressings fourteen times before turning you loose. He’d had you perched atop his counter like goddamned Prisoner-of-War Barbie, all riddled with bumps, bruises, and lesions galore, looked your body up and down just once, and nearly grew sick at the sight.

He’d disgusted himself by feeling as aroused as he was.

Shortly thereafter, he’d toted you off—before the blood could rush down to his dick and start to swell—shrugged your gown over your torso, and stepped away. Simple.

Then you’d had to go and throw a wrench in his plans.

“What if I need to pee?” you’d said as soon as Joel started up the stairs with you in his arms again.

He had meant to drop you off on the bed in the loft, out of sight, but it seemed you were more concerned about the prospect of traversing the steps up and down for potty breaks. Joel had audibly huffed above you.

“I can leave a bucket.”

“Yu-uck.” The latter word had been given two syllables to show the full extent of your disgust, like a child might do.

And that was how you’d ended up here: snug in his bed on the ground floor, curled up in more layers of flannel and wool than you could count and staring blankly up at the man who was standing cold and aloof off to the side.

Your eyelids were growing heavy with sleep.

He figured they would be.

Joel picked up the glass that sat beside your empty one on the nightstand and drank, watching you all the while.

“D’you know my momma?” you asked, voice sounding extra small coming from the depths of your cocoon.

Joel finished his drink in four big gulps.

“Sure hope not,” he said once he’d set it back down.

By the sight of the scars he’d found littering your hands and back alone, Joel was able to surmise you’d come from a pretty rough, ragtag group. Maybe even Raiders. Knowing folks like that simply never struck one’s fancy, so he’d been honest. You might’ve argued, or laughed, if you hadn’t been nabbed so tightly in the grips of those first stages preceding sleep, so instead, you nodded.

“Figured,” you mumbled.

7:11, Joel read on the clock. You’d finished your drink at seven, or somewhere thereabouts. Judging by your size, it wouldn’t take long at all for the medicine to take effect.

‘Medicine,’ Joel thought, sounded a whole hell of a lot better than ‘drugs.’ One was meant to rehabilitate, rejuvenate, bring new life to your worn and weary bones. The other would just knock you cold and keep you there.

On second thought, those were definitely drugs Joel had just slipped in your water before giving it to you to drink.

As your eyes blinked from closed, to open, to closed, then open but slightly less open than the time before, and closed again, he felt a sick sense of accomplishment twist in his gut. If only his former-nurse friend could have seen what he was doing with those morphine sulfate tablets he’d traded for—he likely would’ve slapped Joel across the face. And Joel would’ve smiled all the same.

Yeah, okay, drugging the unsuspecting and defenseless female he’d just saved from death’s doorstep two days ago didn’t look great on paper, he would fully concede.

But this was all in good fun.

Great fun, even.

For him.

“Sick fuck,” Joel muttered as he started to undo his belt. The button and zip were taken apart just as fast, and with two steps, he was standing at your bedside—his bedside—and tugging his trousers down his legs. He took his cock in his hand and glanced over at the clock.

7:15.

He nudged your shoulder.

7:16.

Peeling layers of blanket away from your body.

7:17.

“Hey…honey?”

A lot more nothing from the girl sleeping in front of him. He shrugged his jeans to the floor, kicked them off at his feet, and moved onto the bed. You just looked so sweet.

Joel tried working around the fabric of his boxers but got impatient pretty quick. He hauled those off, too.

Soon, his beefy, bare, and surprisingly tan legs were bracketing your hips as he stroked himself above you. His eyes roamed the lax and tranquil features undeniably characteristic of sleep, and he pumped himself faster. Really, there was no need for theatrics or enhancements now—he was already hard as three tonnes of steel—but Joel would be lying if he said he didn’t like the build-up.

You were no longer in danger of dying, thanks to him. You were slowly but surely on the mend, no thanks to Cujo at all, but many thanks to him, Joel Miller, the man who had pried you off of that post, pulled you out of your chains, ushered warmth back into your limbs, and stitched up your side out of the goodness of his heart.

Any objective onlooker could see that you’d availed yourself of his medical attention and aid without ever asking, so why should he request access to you now? This was the way of the world these days, anyway. Sex was no longer so much a question as it was an answer in most scenarios—a mere transaction, wherein the physically weaker of two parties was forced to capitulate. Not within the four unsullied walls of Jackson and a few other pockets of homestead communities here and there, but on the whole, absolutely. Jackson was down the road a ways away and sufficiently far enough from Joel’s cabin for him to be disentangled from their rules. What mattered now was obtaining what he was owed.

Still, the man hesitated a half-second longer above you. He jerked his cock even faster and felt his stomach start to clench. Was that? No—nerves were fucking juvenile. Getting close to cumming from just the sight of you alone was for chumps. Joel Miller was no chump.

He lifted your nightie and lowered the head of his cock to rest between your folds. Then he shifted his knees so that he could rub himself gently against your warmth.

Joel Miller was a monster, but he was no brute. He also understood female anatomy well enough to know that, well…wetter was better. He started moving his hips.

You exhaled through your nose. Nothing major; you probably hadn’t even felt him long enough to whine.

Joel planted a hand beside your head—a preemptive warning.

“There…” He liked to talk as though you could hear him. Like you might be semi-conscious and dimly aware of what he was doing to you then, “Right there…ah, baby.”

He never did catch your name.

That was no matter. So long as you stayed put and made a nice, wet, pretty little hole for him to fuck, you would be fine. By the feel of your folds alone, he could tell you’d be a fun thing to use. Soft and snug and plied with drugs, you could do, and be, anything he damn well needed.

Or maybe nothing at all, he thought without humor.

Joel brushed your cheek with the knuckles of his free hand and watched you turn away, making a face. He snagged your chin and tilted it back to him, sharply, before gliding those fingers down your chest, then your tummy, then your hips, then dipping between your legs. He found your clit and pressed it with a deliberate touch.

“Hey,” Joel whispered, again, as though you might hear, “You’re gonna stay still and let me do this.”

Your nose scrunched in response, thighs clamping together. Joel pried them apart with one push and continued sliding his cock back and forth. He grunted.

“Gonna let me take what’s mine, hear?”

You didn’t hear much of anything, he suspected, but he asked the question all the same. At least now your legs were staying open and he could rut himself gently into that space without having to keep them spread. A first, gentle ‘mmph’ sounded from your lips, and he was glad. He kept thumbing that spot he knew you would like and rubbing along the seam of your cunt with his erection.

Then Joel felt a weight on his shoulders. Remorse? No. Anxiety? Perhaps. This felt more like a fog, though, seizing his muscles and seeping gently between the grooves of his brain. He gave his head a fierce shake.

“Hold still,” he said, more to himself; you hadn’t moved.

Joel fisted the base of his cock and angled the tip toward your entrance, caring much less whether you were ready or not now that his desires had grown stronger.

He was met with resistance on trying to push in. He dug his fingers in the pillow beneath your head and scowled.

“Quit…clenchin’…like that. Ain’t…fair to me,” he huffed.

He was one to talk.

Now, he’d been with a staggering number of women, experiences ranging all across the spectrum, but even the tightest, most untouched pieces of ass he’d ever tapped had given way more than this. Your walls were unyielding, refusing to give him entry. Joel cursed and rutted his hips in a rough, entirely unsuccessful, thrust.

You hummed in response, eyes still closed, one hand fumbling mindlessly for something to hold. Joel seized it.

“Not lettin’ you off that easy, darlin’, I—”

“Fuck,” you breathed, followed by a low whimper.

Joel froze. Had you heard him? Felt him just now?

Something about the uncertainty laden in those questions sent his mind into overdrive, heart beating a wild cadence in his chest. He realized then that his mouth had gone dry, his vision was skewed just slightly on the outskirts. And his cock was throbbing.

“Ya like that?” Joel seethed, not thinking, still rubbing, “Like givin’ daddy a hard time before lettin’ him in?”

“Uh-huh.” Softly.

You little slut. He knew it all along.

Whatever it was that kept your body from being coupled with his was almost immaterial to him now. Joel’s mind was swimming with desire, cock dragging in desperate, fitful bursts between your legs, never penetrating but still wringing massive jolts of pleasure from that place.

With the way he was feeling now, Joel could cum from just fucking your thighs. And that was alright.

You were moaning underneath him. Even…smiling?

“Fuck, baby, you look so pretty.”

Joel had never called a girl pretty before and meant it. But he hardly knew how else to describe you now with how good and sweet and fine you were making him feel. A strange warmth sank into his chest, making it harder to breathe, and then he was panting above you, as if he were really inside that dripping wet spot. He was close.

“Such a pretty…sweet…fuckin’ thing for me.”

That red, raging, leaky cock of his was almost a blur between your legs, he was thrusting against you so fast. Joel thought for one frightening second that it might be his skull that would explode instead, so high was that pressure between his ears, but his fears were promptly put to rest as the first rope of cum came stuttering out. Then another. Then another. Then another.

By the time he finished, he could’ve sworn he’d left a hundred spurts on your tummy. When Joel glanced down and saw a sea of opaque, sticky white, he groaned.

Then he fell. Fully collapsed at your side with his brain in a tizzy of wild, heady feelings and sank into himself.

He hadn’t even fucked you, and he felt like he had.

He lifted a hand to wipe away his spend, but he couldn’t.

He would get to it in the morning, before you stirred, he thought. He thought. He didn’t have the chance to think much longer at all, as darkness started hedging him in.

He slept.

It was 7:57 when he woke.

The man had no real way of knowing that, though, seeing as he was greeted with a nickel-plated revolver between his teeth the second he opened his eyes.

You were straddling his torso, gun pinched between two calm, bandaged hands. You frowned when he jumped.

“WH—” he started.

“Shut up.”

“ST—”

“I said shut,” you cocked the gun, holding it tighter, then shoving it even further inside his mouth, “the fuck. up.”

The man obeyed.

‘Joel M.’—you’d read the name etched on the butt of his pistol before picking it up some twenty minutes ago.

“Pretty fuckin’ thing,” you mocked the man’s Texan drawl as you wiggled the barrel even deeper along his tongue, “Like givin’ daddy a hard time before lettin’ him in?”

The man’s eyes widened.

How dumb did he think you were?

Offering a semi-clear liquid that should’ve been water; he hadn’t even waited for the morphine tablet to fully dissolve before handing it over to you. Fucking idiot.

You were more disturbed by the fact he’d thought you stupid enough not to notice than him actually trying to drug you. The latter was almost to be expected from predatory, execrable men like him, but the insult to your intelligence? Unacceptable. You’d remedied that affront fairly quickly, though, swapping his glass with yours the second he hadn’t been looking, then nestling into his bed and playing pretend for what had felt like an eternity.

You’d been awake the whole time the man touched you, not knowing what the hell was going on but feeling like you had to stay still. Let him finish. Out of fear, at first, then curiosity, then some strange and unfamiliar sensation that you couldn’t quite describe as anything but a pleasurable itch between your legs. You let the man continue, hearing him grunt and groan and swear up a storm before he shot something hot all over your tummy. By the end of it all, you knew it was wrong, and you knew it was dirty—though you weren’t sure exactly what it was that he had done—but you wanted to learn more.

Which was probably why you hadn’t just shot the old pervert right between his eyes the second he’d stirred.

You shifted atop this ‘Joel M.’ and frowned once more.

“Why’d you stop?”

Gun still wedged in his mouth, Joel’s voice sounded garbled as he spoke, “Wha-agh-at?”

You retracted the metal just long enough to pose the question again. When you had, he still looked stunned.

“Answer me,” you barked, and feeling your patience lapse, got straight to pistol-whipping the motherfucker upside his half-grey head, “You DUMB, or somethin’?”

The man sputtered again.

“No, no— I don’t— dunno what you mean.”

He sounded dumb. You would need to spell this out.

“Why did you stop rubbing me like that?”

If anything, the clarification only seemed to baffle him further. He opened his taut, bearded mouth, then closed it, then eyed you up and down with a look that said he was considering something. Then he stared at one spot.

You glanced down at it too.

“And what is this, anyway?” you asked, swiping one finger at the mostly dried moisture on your stomach, “Why’d you spit this stuff up all over me, huh?!”

“I ain’t—”

You raised the gun as if to hit him again. He jolted back.

“I didn’t mean— shit. Shit, I just…came on you, ‘s’all.”

“Came?”

The word hung in the air like a grenade, waiting. Mr. M was already bracing himself for the impact, it seemed.

“Came?!”

That bracing served him well, because in the next second you were lifting the weapon even higher and eyeing him with the most pointed, putrid look of disdain. You’d never been one for letting grenades go untouched.

“Ejaculated!” Joel hissed, lifting a hand to shield himself, “Felt— felt so good I just couldn’t stop and I-I-I came.”

You paused.

Came. Felt good. Couldn’t stop.

You had felt good when he’d rubbed you. You had not wanted him to stop. But then he had. And you were mad. You’d never been touched that way in your life, and now you were feeling fifteen hundred emotions at once.

Were you supposed to ‘come,’ too? Why did he stop?

“Why didn’t you let me…ejaculate, too?” The words felt foreign and strange on your tongue.

For the first time, you saw one side of Joel’s lips twitch. Evidently fighting the urge to turn them into a smile.

“Girls don’t really…do that,” he said. Then, after a beat, “Why? Ain’t ever had your pussy rubbed on by a man?”

You shortly landed the blow you’d been holding over his head, splitting the skin along his brow with one hit from the butt of his gun. Joel jumped again, then moaned.

“Crazy bitch!”

“Creepy fuck.”

Your eyes narrowed with loathing, unable to comprehend how a man so vile had just made you feel so good. Your stomach was twisting in knots while Joel rubbed his forehead, pawing helplessly at the gash you’d just left.

“I saved your life,” he grumbled, low, “You owed me.”

“Did I?”

Abruptly, and without really thinking, you were sinking the muzzle of the gun into the spot you’d just cut, mouth kicking up in a smile at the sounds of pain it elicited.

“Did I, Joel?” you cooed.

“How the— the fuck do you know my name?”

Momentarily, you yanked the revolver from his face and tilted it to show him his name carved into the bottom.

“What’s the ‘M’ stand for? ‘Molester’?”

“Means ‘mind’ your fucking business,” he spat.

You probably would’ve hit him again had it not seemed as though he were trying to sit up just then. You slid swiftly from his frame—just to take a step off the bed, gun still pointed at his head. Then you backed away.

One by one, rapidly, you unloaded the bullets from the cylinder, maintaining a safe distance from the man all the while. You watched him blink and try to get some thing from his eyes, but he didn’t seem keen to move.

You left just one live round inside. You made a point to spin the cylinder and, again, aim it straight at his head.

The man was blinking even harder. Rubbing now, too.

“I feel…” Joel murmured.

“Drugged?” you returned, “Yeah, that must suck.”

A set of wide, irate, and horrified eyes met yours. His mouth hung open in a stupid look of shock. Trying to piece the last bits of this fucked up jigsaw puzzle together and growing angrier by the second.

“You fuckin’—”

Joel’s words were cut short by the weight of your body barreling back over his. Graceless, you imagined, but still nothing close to something you cared about now. You planted your knees on either side of his ribs and grazed the tip of the six-shooter down the length of his nose.

“Tell me,” you said, “How’d you make it feel so good?”

Your hips twisted for effect, jostling the man’s own parts beneath yours and clearly causing some effect in him. The muscles in his jaw jumped up as he gritted his teeth.

“You know damn well, slut,” Joel griped.

Without another thought, you squeezed the trigger.

Click.

The man’s whole body lurched underneath you. Trembling with the realization that you’d left just one lone bullet for him—and he didn’t know which chamber.

As far as foreplay went, Russian Roulette was probably a first, even for a man as wanton and depraved as Joel. You smiled sweetly and made another gyration with your lower half, which prompted him to grip you. Tight.

“What? Ya want me to fuck you, is that it?” he growled.

“I thought it wouldn’t fit.”

“I’ll make it fit.”

“How?”

Try as you might to conceal it, your gaze likely betrayed a hint of sincerity as you made that last inquiry. Joel’s eyes flickered between yours, searching for something there, and just when those glossy brown irises had found it, they stopped. Blinked. He shook his head, incredulous.

“My mind ain’t…right,” he said, slowly, “But I— I know you know what I mean by that, sweet pea.”

Something in your tummy fluttered at the sound. You gripped the pistol tighter to get rid of the feeling.

“I don’t,” you answered.

Again, Joel was stumped. For the first time, though, there appeared to be some sympathy behind his eyes. Or stupidity. Or just a shit ton of morphine coursing through his veins as he tried to make sense of this situation.

As if to confirm an idea in his drug-addled brain, he lowered a hand between your legs and hovered there a second. He watched you; you watched back but didn’t move.

Then slowly, almost clinically, Joel slipped two fingers underneath you and found a soft, pulsing warmth—far wetter than the last time he’d touched down there. When he pulled his hand away, both fingers and half of his palm were glistening with a fluid. You let out a startled cry at the sight of it and nearly dropped your gun.

“What is that?!”

Joel looked to you, equally awed—for different reasons.

“What do you mean?”

“Why’s it all…sticky?”

You couldn’t even try to hide your horror at the thought of that weird, syrupy stuff leaking out of you. It was strange enough feeling it come out of a freak like Joel, but from your own body? He had to be fucking joking.

“It’s normal.”

“Like hell it is— you— STOP!” The last fragment of your sentence was swallowed by a scream, leaping back when Joel moved his fingers toward your face.

“What? You’ve never seen this?” He sounded like he was teasing. You could shoot him for how smug he sounded.

In very small amounts, you’d seen stuff. Blood every month. Bits and pieces of bodily secretions that, to you, had always seemed gross. But never this. Never big, sticky globs of…whatever the fuck this was. You continued to back away on the bed, gun still tipped toward Joel but now trying to put some distance between your bodies. You didn’t know how else to act.

You did know you wanted to scream when Joel stuck his fingers in his mouth. Bile might’ve jumped in your throat.

He sucked the dew clean off the digits, then wriggled them to show what he’d done. You felt the urge to vomit.

“That came from— from— why are you eating it?!”

Joel grinned. Big.

You weren’t sure why, but he looked psyched to be alive in that moment, and not just because of the narcotics.

Before you knew what was happening, he’d pushed you flat on your back, hips pinned underneath his hands as he moved over your body. He didn’t even try for the gun.

“And here I was thinkin’ you were just fuckin’ with me,” he chuckled, palms sliding under your nightdress. When you felt the residuum of wetness from his spit and your slick stuck together on his fingers, you wanted to squeal.

But you didn’t. You tried propping yourself up on elbows until Joel was sliding your one and only article of clothing over your head, then beckoning you down on the bed in front of him. You watched his gaze flit down to your side.

“Still hurt?” he murmured, tracing over the bandage.

You shook your head no, though it did, a little. At the moment, it seemed the pain was the furthest thing from your mind as you saw Joel slide down your body and try to take up residence between your thighs—with his face planted right there. You kicked his shoulder in protest.

“Quit!” you cried, pulling your legs up to your chest.

“You quit,” Joel returned, yanking them back.

Then you felt you had no choice but to brandish the gun, taking the thing between two palms while you pointed it again—as if he needed the reminder.

“Fine. Why don’t you keep that thing aimed at my head while I give you some?” he muttered. The subsequent ‘See if I give a shit’ was silent.

“Give me some what?”

“Head.”

Head. You’d never heard something phrased that way. Joel’s head was down there, sure, practically grinning from ear to ear as he hooked your legs over his shoulders, but certainly he didn’t mean to do a thing as drastic and dirty as—

“JOEL!”

“Hm?” His voice was muffled by your thighs.

You tried to shy away, but he held you down.

“Joel, I— I pee out of there,” you hissed, “Why the fuck would you wanna put your mouth on that?”

As if your groans of disgust and vehement attempts to get away weren’t enough to deter him, you watched Joel’s tongue dart between his lips and down to yours. The sick fuck was actually licking your folds, tracing the tip across that warm, sticky place and moaning into your skin. Holding you tighter when you pleaded for him to stop. Then, with the hand that wasn’t prying your legs apart, he reached down and started stroking his cock.

Again, it felt dirty and wrong. Beyond the fact that this man was a perfect stranger and easily decades your senior, you were repulsed by the sight of his lips and his tongue and his spit mixing up in that messy, wet place you still didn’t quite understand yourself. You didn’t know much about your body, but it had never once occurred to you to be kissed down there. Joel was roaming every contour and crevice with his tongue like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like he liked it.

“I hate it,” you whined, feebly.

You knew you could’ve easily blown the man’s brains out, but some small part of you was still plagued by curiosity. ‘Hate’ was just the first word that came to mind when you were faced with something that made you scared.

“It’s weird,” you tried again. This time pressing the gun to the top of his bobbing head while you grit your teeth, “And wrong.”

At that, Joel stopped.

His eyes flickered to yours, all glass-like and hooded.

“Why? Practically lickin’ ya clean here,” he said, starting to grin to himself as his words came slightly slurred, “There’s nothin’ wrong about this, sweet pea.”

You felt something flutter between you. He felt it, too.

“Like when I call ya that? ‘Sweet pea’?” he said, pausing to flick his tongue over the spot that had just stirred at his words. He watched you fight back a whimper.

“No,” you choked. You pinched your eyes shut, unsure whether it was pleasure or pure revulsion overtaking you—or both.

Suddenly, you felt Joel’s hand smooth over your thigh, still warm from when he’d been stroking himself below. He placed an affectionate kiss to your belly and grinned.

“Is that what this is? Feel guilty about feelin’ this good?” he murmured, “Think it’s…dirty, what we’re doin’?”

At length, and just barely visible to him, you nodded.

“It is dirty,” you corrected him quietly.

Then you saw that stupid pseudo-sympathetic smirk tug at the corners of his lips, and just when you thought he might nudge his way back up your body—to do what, you weren’t sure—he sank between your legs. This time, he made sure to hold your gaze as he re-assumed the position. His palm continued to rub at your thigh, as if to distract you from the rough brush of his stubble or the fact that his mouth was hovering so dangerously close.

“Sweet pea,” he rasped, “Ain’t nothin’ dirty about this.”

As if to punctuate his words, Joel dragged his lips down your slit to press a kiss to your centre, eyes never leaving yours.

“Not here…”

He pointed with his tongue, moving it deftly between your folds. You gripped the sheets, trying to ignore the pleasure that the simple act wrought through your body.

“Not here.”

He kissed your clit. You squeezed even tighter.

“Not on my tongue, on my fingers, anywhere, y’hear?”

You were about to answer—maybe tell him he was supremely full of shit, then flash the gun in his face—when Joel shifted onto his knees on the bed. He moved slowly and as calm as he ever had, motions languid while his mind was likely steeped in the morphine by now. He snagged one of your ankles. He slid his hand up the back of your calf and tugged you down to the edge of the bed. Then he stood up, right between your legs. The warmth radiating from his bare lower half was immediate, almost suffocating from where you lay. You didn’t like it at all.

You refused to meet his gaze, grip tightening on the gun.

“Joel…”

When that warmth at your front shifted inward, though, you hardly had a say in what your reflexes did or didn’t do. You jumped when you felt the head of his dick slip past your pulsing core, closer to the other hole below it.

“Not here, either,” Joel continued, grin still evident from his tone.

Before you could even think to ask what he meant to do ‘here,’ Joel moved one of your legs up, tilting your hips, and pushed ahead with just the tip of his cock. Not breaching it fully, but nudging—prodding at that hole.

For the first time, you let out a moan.

You hastily clamped a hand over your mouth to stifle it.

“Aw, honey,” Joel murmured, “Did that feel good?”

His words reeked of condescension. You scowled at the ceiling.

“No.”

You felt him push a little further—this time making the head of his dick notch into that tight ring of muscles.

No, the word rang through your skull once more. Your curiosity was shortly supplanted by disgust—how the fuck could you let this creepy old man, this stranger, press into you like that? Talk to you like you were dumb? You seized hold of Joel’s pistol with both hands and aimed directly for his chest.

“Stop doing that,” you growled. When the man’s grip on your leg only tightened and you couldn’t writhe away, you lifted the other and tried kicking him in the gut. Of course, Joel caught your foot midair, and it never landed.

“Just givin’ ya options, darlin’,” he said, easy-going. Not seeming to care about the firearm pointed his way.

Fuck it.

You squeezed the trigger again.

Empty chamber.

If Joel flinched, you didn’t see it. He did, however, knock the gun right out of your hand the next second, sending it tumbling with an unceremonious thump on the bed behind you. You tried to leap back for it, but your arm was quickly pinned. Joel cocked one silver-flecked brow.

“You done?” he asked, almost bored.

Your last—and only—leverage taken away from you, you couldn’t help but feel a pang of anger. And desperation.

“I don’t wanna do this,” you cried, trying to squirm away.

Joel didn’t move his cock, but he did hold you still. Blinking with indifference and a fair bit of drug-induced dissociation, it seemed, from the far-away look in his eyes. He pushed both of your legs so they were folded up to your chest, and ignored your whimpers when he did. At length, he pulled out just enough to smear some of your wetness down to the hole he was trying to fuck.

“You want this,” he countered gently.

“I DON’T!”

Joel continued as though he hadn’t heard you, and moments later, you sensed another slick something pooling against you. From your position beneath him, you could see a bead of spit slip from Joel’s mouth and stretch into a thin, glistening string all the way down to the space between your thighs. You watched him rub the saliva in with his fingers, almost meticulous as he did it.

Then he eased his hips forward an inch, wedging himself back in your ass. He groaned when he felt resistance—and a sharp clench of your muscles.

“I can teach ya…show ya everything…there is to know.”

His words somehow made it out through ragged breaths. That broad, tan chest was heaving with every labored pull of his lungs, and you could tell he was feeling good.

You might’ve been able to say the same for yourself, were your mind not singly occupied by the desire to escape. Still at war with yourself, wondering how it would feel or what you might see that first time, all the while despising the man who seemed hell-bent on forcing it.

He might’ve saved your life, but there was no fucking way he’d get to use you like that and stay breathing.

You were raised better than that.

You could do better than anything this man had to offer.

You resolved to kill him as soon as the drugs knocked him out—just like you’d had planned from the second you woke up on the floor of his cabin that afternoon.

Of course being chained, maimed, and frozen half to death on the plains for some well-meaning stranger to find you had always been part of your mother’s—and the rest of the Raiders’—grand plan. Having this stupid, horny sap take you into his home with the hope of claiming you as his own was just the icing on top.

Now you had a reason to kill Joel and steal all his shit.

At present, he fed another inch of himself inside you and grinned when you let out a startled cry.

“Atta girl,” he said, smirking, “Feelin’ okay?”

“Fuck you.”

“Will do.”

Then, as if to prove a point, he bottomed out, sheathing his cock to the hilt in spite of your cries. Your hands fisted the sheets, and you tried to pull off. It didn’t work.

In fact, all it accomplished was giving Joel more room to thrust back into you. And pull out. And shove back in. The snap of his hips was like cruel and excruciating clockwork, completely unhindered by your words or your gestures or your pleas to stop fucking doing that Joel, it fucking hurts! If anything, the sounds of your censure only got him harder, and with it, made it that much easier to fuck you rougher. His eyes shone with pride.

“What’s’at, sweet pea?” he hummed, strokes coming into a steady pace.

“It’s too…big…doesn’t fit,” you whimpered.

In response, Joel glanced down to see the spot where your bodies were joined. He pushed even deeper.

“Yeah?” he said when you yelped, “I think it fits just fine.”

Motherfucker, you wanted to wail, but then your neck craned sideways—your mouth trying to find purchase in anything you might grit between your teeth—and the only thing that escaped your throat was a sob. You tried burying your face in the comforter, only for Joel to yank it back.

Cupping your chin and pinching both your cheeks in a single, punishing squeeze as he continued to fuck you, “What’s the matter, darlin’? Too much?”

You groaned and clenched your jaw, head jerking away.

Per usual, Joel was undeterred. Even smiled.

“My pretty girl need somethin’a bite, huh?” he hummed.

He probably knew you wouldn’t nod, so he went ahead and decided to oblige that one need he saw anyway. Snagging your nightie, Joel raised a hand to your face and proceeded to push the fabric inside your mouth.

Just as he started to lift his hips to deliver another thrust, he had to stop. A sudden, sharp ‘FUCK!’ left his mouth, then a groan, and his hand retreated fast.

You’d bitten him.

You were grinning just a little, and you’d bitten him.

Joel promptly slapped you across the face. If you weren’t so fucking amused by the sight of his bright red fingers, you just might’ve winced. Instead, the smile stayed on your lips, the slap barely registered, and, to your utmost disbelief, something else had just then started to form.

Pleasure, in the pit of your stomach.

“Fuckin’—” Joel snarled.

“Shit,” you finished, eyes rolling back.

You couldn’t help it. Joel was rutting into you relentlessly. That brief hand bite detour had only stoked the flames of his hatred—and arousal—and now he was practically splitting you in half with the force of his thrusts. He slapped you once more for good measure.

“Oh, that you fuckin’ like?” he seethed, cheeks flushed, “Can’t get off with my…tongue on your cunt, but a slap— and my cock buried deep in your ass gets the job done?”

“Uh-huh,” you answered softly. Mindlessly.

Really, there were no two people more fucked up than you in this moment, you thought. Joel growing harder with each desperate objection of yours, you going all soft and hot and bothered the second he slapped your face and fucked you rougher, and together, the two of you letting out grunts and moans of pleasure while the bed shook like an earthquake just shy of a 9.5 on the Richter scale. Were you not already planning to slit the man’s throat after all of this was over, you just might’ve wanted to marry this Joel M for how wonderfully he fucked you.

You let him know as much when you seized his forearms.

Bouncing into his thrusts, you bit your lip and finally met his gaze. Joel’s eyes were trained in somewhat of a daze, pupils all but swallowing his irises as he fucked you.

“Like being daddy’s little cocksleeve, huh?”

Only the sentence was slurred so bad you could scarcely make out half the words. You nodded just the same.

“Like it when he fucks you in the ass?” Joel panted.

You nodded again.

That pleasure in your belly had worked its way up to a full swell—and whatever it was, you couldn’t bear the thought of losing it now. You gripped Joel’s arms even harder as his chest swayed into you, then sank further and further until your fronts were pressed flush to each other and your ankles were hooked tight around his back.

It almost felt intimate. That coarse, weathered, sweat-coated face spattered with patches of grey seemed to you nearly handsome as his lips hung limply in an ‘o.’

Joel’s cock dragged back and forth between your walls at this new, snug angle, and moans fell out of you both.

“Baby.” His voice was hoarse. Strained.

You couldn’t quite make sense of the expression above you, but there was an unmistakable, muted desperation lurking somewhere beneath it. Joel rutted into you quicker, balls leaving rapid smacks against your ass with every thrust. His hair was disheveled, and his hands were making fists in the sheets on either side of your head.

“Joel—”

“Jus’ lemme use you.”

Words so low they were barely audible as he panted.

“But—”

“Daddy’s…almost done, sweet pea. Just take it.”

You were surprised he’d had it within himself to be so soft. A peculiar sort of haze hung over his face, the pace of his hips picked up even more, and suddenly those plush pink lips were hovering a mere hair’s breadth away from yours. Mumbling. Rambling on and on about how wet you were, how perfect you fit him, how nice and sweet and tight your body felt as he fucked you stupid.

That sensation in your own stomach grew even stronger.

Unsure of what to do, you pressed a palm to his chest.

“Joel, I…I feel funny,” you whispered.

Joel hummed. Didn’t slow.

“I know.”

He knew?

“What’s it—ah, fuck.” Your words broke off in a whimper.

Instead of proffering a verbal response, Joel just slipped a touch between your bodies—thumbing sloppily between your folds to earn a couple more high-pitched moans. Your legs tightened around his middle.

“Joel, s-stop!”

It felt so good it almost hurt. He didn’t stop.

“S’just an orgasm, baby,” Joel panted, “You’re okay.”

And, in spite of his own impending climax and the effect of the drugs likely reaching a fever pitch inside him, Joel managed to slide his other hand beneath the back of your head. Cradled you to him while he fucked you into the bed and made you come unraveled with his touch. You tried to writhe away, but he was used to the drill by now—he just fucked you harder and rubbed you faster.

Whatever he wanted would come soon. You doubted there was anything you could do to stop it, but you tried.

Without thinking, you grabbed hold of the damp locks of hair at the nape of his neck and yanked on them hard.

“Joel, I can’t— I can’t,” you keened.

The hand at the back of your head held you firm.

“You can,” Joel returned, tough but surprisingly calm, “Give it to daddy, ‘s’all ya gotta do.”

What exactly ‘it’ was was still unclear. You just knew you felt good and warm and full—about ready to burst. When you felt tempted to give his hair another tug, Joel’s eyes met yours, and they were soft. Insistent, still, but soft.

Dilated as all hell and probably swimming in clouds of a delirious, bleary haze, but always soft. Almost tender.

“Be a good girl and give it to daddy,” Joel slurred, slow, “C’mon, sweet pea…cum for daddy, please.”

For the first time in that short, rough, utterly deranged time you had known this man, he was begging you. Pleading with you, now, as his body grew overwrought with pleasure and just needed release. You needed it, too, not even knowing how you would get it, but the force of his thrusts, the warmth of his body, the look in those warm, bare, powerless eyes—you fucking loved whatever it was that could make a man like that so weak.

You had to strike while the iron was hot. You slid back.

Joel didn’t notice, too focused on your face and the feel of your body to see when you’d reached for the gun.

Just as you took hold of it, a jolt of pleasure tore through you. Your heels dug into his back, and you nearly lost control of the pistol. Joel groaned in your mouth, begged you once again to cum all over this cock, make a fuckin’ mess of it, baby, please, and you could only whine, grip the metal tighter, and raise it slowly to the side of his head while he buried his face in the crook of your neck.

The peak of your pleasure had come into view. You felt it.

You nudged the muzzle through those soft, slick, salt-and-pepper shaded tufts of hair near the edge of his temple right when the first throes of euphoria seized you.

“FUCK!”

You squeezed the trigger.

[snowluvvie]

₊˚⊹ ♡ . rafe cameron x apple pie!reader

Rafe didn’t understand what everybody was always running their mouth about when they said shit like “you’ll meet a nice girl” “you’ll wanna settle down” because, in his experience, nice girls were atrociously boring and no one he ever wanted to be around. He was sure he’d shack up with some bitch and get married and pump out a couple kids because he had to, because that’s what he was supposed to do, but not because he loved someone so much he wanted to

That was, until he met you.

You, with your gentle beauty and the way your hair was always so close to perfect but never quite. The pleated skirts and the way you always smelled of cinnamon and, faintly, soil. Warm as a kitchen at dawn, quiet except for your laugh, which was loud enough to scare the birds out of the forest.

The thing about girls with rickety front porches and warm hands, though, is that you have to be on their best behavior around them—that’s what Barry said, at last: “Man, she’s not gonna want your coked-up ass. That typa chick wants a dude who builds a fuckin’ fence and shit. They don’t like rich dudes. Give it up.”

And unfortunately, Rafe was pretty sure he was right. You mostly kept your head down when you walked, and no matter how many things he leaned against, or how many times he casually smoked a cigarette near you, he just couldn’t get you to look his direction—and if you did, you didn’t grant a second glance to his crisp white shirts or his backwards hat.

His crowning last-stitch move was when he made a big show of helping his dear sister carry her bag when she was walking down the dock—it looked heavy, he wouldn’t want her hurting herself! She’s family, after all! Sarah had tried to wrestle the bag back and she flipped him off after he put it onto the boat for her, but it’d already had the desired effect… your eyes lingered on him for a moment. Family was important, after all. You were the kinda girl who cared about those things.

When the two of you started going out, he felt like his life was spinning out of control and simultaneously clicking into place. You had expectations for him, real ones. And a lot of the time when you said shit like “I’m making dinner tonight, don’t be late” or “wash your hands” Rafe wanted to tell you to go fuck yourself, because you weren’t his damn mother—except when he looked over at you and saw your face, that wide-eyed, imploring look you always gave him, the words died in his throat. What the hell was wrong with him?

He’d do something nice for you and you’d nudge his arm. “What, you sweet on me or somethin’?” He’d wonder who even talks like that, it’s weird. Then he’d find himself grabbing your pretty face and kissing you so hard you think he might break your nose.

Rafe was so, so well behaved with you. He kept it together so nice, all his unstable shit wrapped up into a neat little package tied with ribbon. He acted as a guy who smiled semi-often, and said thank you sometimes, and maintained eye contact with you when he was fucking you—all things that were new and unfamiliar to him. When you told him what time dinner was, he came over in time. He kissed your forehead and he meant it. For you, he did it all. Barry had been right. You wanted a well-behaved guy, and Rafe wanted to watch the way your smile took over your face when you were happy and the ecstatic look on your face when you came, so he was well-behaved.

That was, until he wasn’t.

He was supposed to come over at nine. You would’ve just gotten out of the shower (or maybe you’d still be in, if he got lucky) and you’d put your cute little plaid PJs on, and you’d climb on top of him and put your weight on his chest while the two of you watched some 90’s movie. The movie would get boring in act three and he’d watch you ride him, and then he’d cum on your stomach like a gentleman, and the two of you would fall asleep wrapped up in eachother.

Instead of that carefully constructed, lovely, dreamy evening—Rafe showed up at nearly three in the morning, covered in blood.

He knew you’d be asleep, he’d have time to wash his face and toss his shirt in the trash can out back before climbing into your bed with you. He didn’t wanna go home. He wanted to press kisses to your throat and apologize for being late, swear that it would never happen again and then make it up to you in the morning by making you cum over and over in your crisp red plaid bedsheets.

Instead, he found you sitting on a stool in your living room, head leaned against the wall, eyes heavy with sleep. Waiting for him. Rafe froze like a deer in headlights and waited for the inevitable, for you to call him a psychopath and beat him off the property with a broom.

You didn’t. You didn’t speak, just led him to the bathroom and wiped the blood from his face, carded your fingers through his hair. Threw his clothes into the rattling washing machine with a tablespoon of hydrogen peroxide, and then let him crawl into bed with you anyway. The two of you were silent, and he slung an arm over you. You settled into the crook of his armpit and fell asleep with your face smushed against his bicep, and he felt something horrible and unfamiliar blooming in his chest.

You could never leave him, he decided. He wouldn’t allow it. He couldn’t survive that.

[suzukiblu]

WIP excerpt for Cheshire behind the cut; “Billy adopts Conner and it actually goes pretty good!” (( chrono || non-chrono ))

Billy closes the cupboard and looks back into the living room. Lynn’s still watching the static intently, and Tawky’s still settled all neat and comfy in his lap, though Lynn’s eyes look a little–heavy, kinda? Like . . . maybe, anyway. 

Billy sneaks a peek at the clock and thinks–it is getting kinda late, probably. Like, not really for a teenager and not for him either, ‘cuz it’s not really safe to sleep on the street for too long–honestly it’s better to just take a couple naps during the day if he can, especially when the weather’s shitty–but definitely for a little kid who’s just gotten driven halfway across the Midwest to their brand-new foster home and met their new dad and uncle for the first time and also gotten their own room and been to a diner and a library and cooked dinner and all that stuff for the first time. 

Actually, yeah, probably that’d be a lot even for a teenager, Billy thinks. Not that he really knows, ‘cuz he doesn’t really know any teenagers all that well and hasn’t been one himself yet, but it seems like it would? 

He’d sleep for a week after all that if he could, he thinks. 

He definitely would. 

Billy doesn’t really know how to handle the idea of, um–bedtime, exactly? Like, with Lynn, he means. Billy has not actually had an actual “bedtime” since . . . uh . . . 

“Lights out” doesn’t really count, he can’t help feeling, so . . . yeah, it’s been . . . a while, definitely. 

. . . maybe he should’ve taken a minute to check those parenting books for bedtime tips earlier, he thinks. Like–newborn tips and teenager tips, and then just split the difference, maybe? 

That seems like it’d probably be a pain in the ass to figure out how to split, though. 

He guesses what he should do is just whatever works, which, like–yeah, obviously and all, but like . . . doing “whatever works” is kinda, like . . . well, kinda a trial and error thing? And Billy really doesn’t wanna accidentally wreck Lynn’s first night of sleep in the apartment, that just seems like a bad foot to start off on and all, but he doesn’t know if Lynn knows anything about how he sleeps yet–like, he’s four days old and Billy’s pretty sure the first night he was alive he just spent fighting his way out of Cadmus and everything, so how many times has he even slept at all yet? And did he even go to sleep on purpose anywhere or just, like, pass out ‘cuz he was exhausted? 

Billy probably should’ve asked Lynn about all that stuff before the other started getting sleepy. 

Shit. 

Lynn blinks a little heavier, his head nodding once. Stiffens his spine like a reflex, and then looks a little–confused, maybe, and blinks rapidly a couple of times. Tawky peers up at him in concern, then seems to realize it’s the sleepy thing and glances over to Billy, who isn’t sure what to do and bites his lip. Tawky tips his own head, and Billy thinks . . . well . . . okay, that’s probably a lot of questions for Lynn right now, when he’s already pretty sleepy, but– 

Lynn blinks again–twice–and then wobbles in his seat, kinda, and– 

A weird jolt of alarm and the speed of Mercury both happen at the exact same time, and half a second later Billy’s in the living room with Lynn all scooped up in his arms and Lynn’s breath hitching sharply, one of his arms pinning Tawky against his chest and the other pressed tight against Billy’s chest in, like–a really obvious startle reflex. 

. . . maybe that was a panic reaction, Billy thinks, wincing at himself. 

“Sorry,” he says, trying to repress a worse wince. “Um–reflex. Sorry.” 

“Uh,” Lynn says, his breath catching again and the hand he has against Billy’s chest tightening into a fist around the neckline of the nerdy try-hard button-down Mr. Rogers sweater the magic made for him. He’s staring kind of blankly at where his fist’s clutching the sweater. “. . . ‘reflex’?” 

“Oh,” Billy says, then reddens a little in embarrassment. Yeah. Definitely that was a panic reaction. “Um–you looked like you were gonna fall, maybe, so–um, I know you’re invulnerable so maybe that sounds dumb, just I thought, like–I didn’t want you to fall?” 

“. . . uh,” Lynn says, and blinks real slow again. 

“Sorry,” Billy apologizes, trying to figure out if it’s more awkward to keep holding Lynn or to put him down without making sure it was just that he was nodding off and not, like, anything actually serious or anything. He got punched a lot of times by a guy with berserker super-strength just a few days ago, and that’s probably long enough that Lynn’s fine, but also Lynn’s only been alive a few days, so maybe like–what if he’s not actually fine, or–“Um–were you falling asleep?” 

“. . . I don’t know,” Lynn says, still staring blankly at his fist, or maybe at Billy’s sweater, or . . . who knows, really. “I don’t know what it feels like.” 

“. . . have you slept yet?” Billy asks with a worried frown. 

“I slept for four months,” Lynn says stiffly. He doesn’t lift his head at all. . 

Billy can maybe understand Lynn not wanting to sleep after spending so much time kept asleep and getting lied to all the time and not feeling anything real–like, that might be really scary, trying to sleep after that kind of thing, because maybe you’d wake up and it wouldn’t have been real either and– 

Yeah, Billy can definitely understand not wanting to sleep after that.

[kots-kots]

monster high au ~ vento aureo/golden wind

BUCCIARATI’S TEAM!!!

I imagine the Bucci squad holds a place somewhere around the middle in the popularity ranking but they’re quite admired, holding a decent reputation and at most being a bit intimidating to others but ummm yah :3

Bucciarati - He’s a frankenmonster with zippers instead of stitches!!! He can dismember himself partially or entirely like how he does in canon and use his limbs for long ranged attacks LOL

I was thinking he could be a class representative or the captain of the soccer team, being a year or two older than the rest of his group but being the same age as Abbacchio

Abbacchio - he’s a mix of a wraith and an algea, spirits of sorrow and misery—his kind particularly being born from regret and survivor’s guilt. He has the power of of psychometry so he can replay memories off the things around him. He can also share these ‘visions’ to those around him.

Abba is like. Super emo/gothic even for monsters LOL

He has a naturally pale complexion and just amps up the gauntness by a tenfold LOL

Bruno is his closest friend and they have matching tops >_< he also plays soccer me thinks….

Giorno - he’s a vampire/fairy!!! He’s a pretty boy basically LOL, the youngest in the group and also the most glittery

He has matching eyeshadow with Fugo

The dust from his wings can kinda accelerate life around you??? If that makes sense??? Like how Bruno perceived life at an extremely fast rate but his body didn’t??? His wings have that effect if u inhale it

Sameish powers from canon me thinks

Fugo - He’s a bunny cuz he’s canonically said to look soft and sweet but his temper…. Oooo mama people are getting RUSTIC out here 😭

He has part plant monster in him which can make him release poisonous spores through seed buds—they’re incredibly dangerous and much like Purple Haze in canon >_<

Narancia - he’s a spectre!! Cuz he’s.. a spectator ahahaha.. hahah… get it

His eye can pop out at will and float around to locations farther than his body for reconnaissance and scouting. He is still very much the ‘eye’ of the team. He’s apart of the dance club and is a pole vaulter for the track team 😭😭😭😭

BECAUSE OF HIS EYE ABILITY HE KNOWS TOO MUCH. This makes him and Mista the biggest gossips in school 😭 SPEAKING OF MISTAM

Mista is a harpy!!! He can use his feathers like bullets (kinda like Hawks from MHA in the sense he can control them individually)

I was thinking the Sex Pistols could be pixies or some small creatures Mista befriended LOL

I don’t have a species for Trish yet but she’s there 😿😿

I was also thinking they could high key be a band like. Torture dance… and Abba literally looks like he can play the keytar LOL + Trish is a singer!!! It’d be neat me thinks

also a doodle comic >_< kinda just Terence and vanilla’s dynamic explained

[chuunai]

Can we get Dazai, Chuya and Fyodor with scenario 19 and prompt 13? (drabbles)

hey did you know I LOVE Chuuya Nakahara?

✧˚ · . drunken confessions - dazai osamu, nakahara chuuya, fyodor dostoevsky

summary ⋆ ★ comfort, fluff, SFW. also clingy insecure chuuya. fyodor also kinda takes advantage of you mentally/emotionally while drunk

Dazai Osamu

He somewhat planned it all out. The invitation sent to you to watch movies with him at his dorm, right next to yours. The drinks, too. Cheap cans of beer and sake that are lazily passed to you. The futon too that you two are situated on is more neat and tidy than usual with no forgotten crab legs or alcohol stains in sight. It’d be easier to confess if he had liquid courage, right? Dazai didn’t want to fuck it all up.

When he confesses this way, it’s because he can’t think of anything better. Dinner at a restaurant is nice and dandy, sure, but it’s not quite intimate enough. A letter doesn’t express the tone of how serious he is with his love for you. You’ve been with him since his days in the Mafia. You saw him at his worst, and so he wishes to give you the best.

So when you’re both slightly tipsy and giggly at the sights on the TV, he tugged at your clothes and brought you in closer, pretending to shiver and whine about the cold. Unsurprisingly, you had snuggled into him back—such an affectionate drunkard. What Dazai did next was probably purely driven by intoxication and the need to confess. Jokingly (not really), he asked if you could be with him every night to warm him up just like you did already with his heart.

Dazai nearly had a heart attack when you took so long to ultimately respond with a yes. He doesn’t waste time, already carefully maneuvering you on top of him as a pretty body pillow while he sleepily mumbled that he loved his pillow. Loves you. Sure, it was all planned out, but it worked. He’d keep you forever by his side.

Nakahara Chuuya

It’s such a total fucking accident. The whole thing was never intended to happen when Chuuya took you out for a drink after a successful mission. You were his subordinate—albeit a close one of his—and it’d be wrong to act on his feelings for you. Death is a common and accepted daily occurrence of the Port Mafia, and he doesn’t want to accidentally get you hurt or even killed because you were his partner. Even if it hurts, he doesn’t want to confess. For your safety.

Although two glasses of wine later and a guy hitting on you stirs jealousy in his mind, and the fact that you seem uncomfortable increases it by tenfold. He didn’t hesitate to walk over with a thin smile on his face, wrapping an arm around your waist and cooing in your ear that he missed his baby and if you could please dance with him—your fake boyfriend. That’s how he ended up dancing with you to the beat of the music. His eyes were glued to your lips, admiring the shape as he wished they’d cover his body in rouge lipstick.

But Chuuya Nakahara lost everyone he ever cared about. Kouyou was still here, but he doubted the world would let her stay by his side for long. The drunken urge to kiss you was pushed back by the logical side of his mind, screaming out the fact that he’d be a creep if he did that. And he didn’t want you to think he was a sleazy guy. You were his muse from afar, and he wouldn’t dare do anything to hurt you.

So instead the wine in his veins opts to merely drop his head onto your shoulder and hesitantly intertwine his fingers with you. Next? He mumbles in your neck that he loves you. Loves you to the point where he’d kill everyone in the world if they dared to cross you—his heart. All he wanted was your heart, your undying love. But at the end of the day, you’re too good for him. He’s not even human, after all.

Fyodor Dostoevsky

He wasn’t drunk whatsoever and capitalized on your inebriation. Fyodor was a smart man, able to read moves of his opponents and acquaintances alike. This included you, of course. He knew absolutely everything about his little mouse, from your family to your darkest secrets. It was no surprise that he discovered your deep admiration of him as well.

What was supposed to be a meeting between the two of you discussing the DoA’s plans, instead ended up into him gently coaxing you to sip at the wine he had given you. He didn’t drink himself—a man as great as himself would not taint his mind with such a poison—but merely watched as your cheeks flushed with the telltale sign of tipsiness. The scenario would’ve been baffling for any outsider. Two terrorists in a room that both have a crush on each other. How utterly perplexing and unsettling!

Once he was certain you were to be easily manipulated to whatever he wanted, he began asking more personal questions and other matters. Coyly asking if you needed to visit a doctor with how red your face was whenever you two spoke. Or when he began to poke fun at your habit of stammering when he’d appear behind you and give your head that small condescending tap. Poor, poor you who didn’t stand a chance. You were so easy to crack. The seed at the middle of it all was your confession and the way he invited you onto his lap and began stroking your hair like one might do with a beloved pet.

While he’s not entirely sure what love truly is other than the definition, Fyodor felt a deep sense of affection and responsibility for you. Nearly every ruler in history had a beloved at their side to witness the fruits of their goals, so naturally he should as well. It wasn’t like you’d leave either. He’d make sure of it and keep you with him forever until he decided to end it.

Tags: @twst-om-lover, @sinfulthoughtsposts, @xxcandlelightxx

[naffeclipse]

Hey it’s been a hot minute! Still haven’t gotten around to ur fanfic, But! When I was looking at past art I found the harpy!yn I did for u and got hit hard with the “I could do Better” inspo so I got this :)!

Slightly more masc this round, pretty happy with it ngl :) (figuring out a color pattern for the torso was surprisingly more difficult than I thought it’d be) also lines r less crunchy! Found a good work around :)!

Also here’s it without the black coloration as it’s easier to see the sketchwork

Okkk byeee :3!!

THESE OUR GORGEOUS!! OHHH I LOVE THE NEW DESIGN! I do have a soft spot for your old one because it's just so lovely but I love how this adds more creature to their figure and makes them so cool! The one without the black colors looks like a really cool albino Harpy!Y/N and I just think that's a neat thought hehe

Thank you so much for sharing, babe! <3

[rebouks]

Previous // Next

Courtney: I was thinking-.. maybe you don’t need to get the snip after all. [Oscar paused for a moment; brow raised] Courtney: Don’t get your hopes up! Oscar: Getting mixed messages here, Cookie. Courtney: I went to the doctor a few we-.. months ago. Oscar: Uh-huh? Courtney: She thinks I’m going through the change, or at least the beginning of it. Oscar: Oh. Courtney: It makes sense, I started early and I’m almost forty-five. Oscar: Why didn’t you tell me sooner? Courtney: ‘Cause I knew it’d make you sad, and with everything else… [Oscar grumbled reluctantly, supposing he understood why she’d kept it to herself] Courtney: Awh I’m sorry, Oscy.. I know you wanted more. Oscar: No, it’s fine-.. I just love ‘em when they’re new n’ tiny, and you look extra cute when you’re pregnant. Courtney: I never felt cute. Oscar: Well, you were-.. I don’t blame you for not wanting to go through it all again though. Courtney: [snorts] Yeah, ugh-.. but I’ve been thinking about something else as well. Oscar: Careful how much you use that smooth brain of yours. Courtney: [laughs] Shut up-.. maybe when the kids are older and we get empty nest syndrome, we could foster? Oscar: That’d be pretty neat, actually. Courtney: We’ve been through it and we’ve still got a lot to give, right?

[stars-obsession-pit]

I think it’d be neat to see a DC crossover fic use the “bio kid of Bruce Wayne” thing not for like close family connection but more at a level of like… extended family. Or, well, specifically my experience with my that stuff; idk what other families are like.

By which I mean that they’re connected, but it’s a pretty loose thing.

Just like, oh yeah this is my bio father and his kids. It’s really not that important. I still live with my adoptive family and only really see them on holidays or if we randomly decide to visit. I guess I occasionally text his kids but we’re not close close.

Maybe it could show up in a plot from something like “ugh this is getting to be a problem, let me call Uncle Bruce and see if he can help,” thus demonstrating that it’s an established connection but not one that’s that important to their daily life.

[weirdocat83]

Imagining a timebomb Hanahaki au

100% this would have to be an au where the hanahaki would have to be there for years on end before it becomes lethal because otherwise that good Timebomb slowburn wouldn’t be quite as good. Also I think it’d contribute well to Jinx being canonically suicidal. A little “I’m going to die anyways from these damn flowers. It doesn’t really matter if I die now because I’ll die later anyways”

I think they both know who it’s for even if nobody else does. Ekko has been infatuated with Jinx since she was Powder and despite being how she is as Jinx, he still loves her (unfortunately) even though it’d probably never pan out. Jinx had a more difficult time on actually figuring it out but probably had some suspicions as to who it was. Especially considering there are very few she actually holds close to her heart.

I think it’d be neat if eventually they both get to a point where flower petals are pretty much known to follow them wherever they go and they can’t really talk because, well, flowers. Jinx already has a reputation of being really creepily silent when sneaking around and Ekko is similar just less creepy. I’d imagine there’s two reactions to “I saw flower petals” and it’s either abject horror and panic or hope and joy depending on the type of flower/color.

I think the funniest thing about this is everyone around them wondering A) who each of them are in love with and B) why they haven’t stopped loving them after so long. Like, the firelights realizing that the reason their leader doesn’t talk is because he basically Can’t and wanting him to be happy, they try to find out who he loves only to come up empty because they overlooked any enemies because who in their right mind would fall for the ENEMY?! Or Silco realizing maybe a month or two after the flowers started showing up that Jinx is in love with someone and Panicking because that is His Daughter and he is Worried. He does try to get her to give up on him but eventually realizes that it’s not gonna happen. So instead he opts for a manhunt throughout the undercity to either get the person she’s in love with on his side or just… idk protect them? Sevika is sighing next to him. If you want to make it bittersweet, Silco figures it out shortly before he dies (like, he figures out both of them) and gives his approval as he’s dying.

I think it’d be sweet for when Jinx inevitably meets Isha because neither can talk so they both sign instead. And then you add Ekko to the mix (who ALSO signs) and you get wholesome family hours.

Also postcanon timebomb where both of them are either completely silent out of choice (talking feels weird after so long) or just readjusting to being able to talk because after roughly 7 years of Not Speaking it has to be at least kinda weird.