#that man has a chip on his shoulder that can be seen from space

[flowerflamestars]

Rust snippet

“The problem with Morrigan,” Azriel admitted, knee sliding against the softness of Nesta’s dress, “Is that it did work, once.” With a primness that might have fooled, Nesta uncrossed her legs, framing Azriel’s thigh in a soft flash of bared skin. Casual. Close. But what tipped the odds was her mouth, smile developing an edge, delight. “How?” Azriel shrugged. “I was eighteen. Stupid. A girl like her had never looked twice at me.” Morrigan, a wilder, younger, less brittle version, had looked expensive. Like a person Azriel should not, under any circumstances, be allowed to touch. Four years of scholarship at private school had gotten him to college, gotten him here, and taught him too, to keep his fucking head down. Not looking had never made wanting any less. “And then,” Nesta hedged, sliding closer. “Never again? So”- “So I’m a fun challenge,” Azriel agreed, savoring that faint, phantom warmth. The ferric tang of wine, so sharp it turned right around into sweet. “It was stupid and meaningless then. Means even less now.” Nesta grinned, totality of the expression briefly breathtaking. “You must make her insane.” “Says the woman Cassian seems to think is going to have his babies.” He was sorry to see the smile turn to disgust, but not regretful. Full-body, her shoulders moving, lovely posture shifting. It was choice- it was a choice at all that Azriel had come tonight, against all better judgement, a decision that was now seeming wise to the point of psychic intuition- it was a call, and Azriel made it, skimming her bare knee as Nesta’s horror turned right around into a scathing little laugh. She watched him do it. Slow, smile stilling but not fading, as Azriel traced a curve upward. Nesta leaned forward, catching her chin again with one steady hand. “We should go to dinner.” A slow line, his thumb on her soft thigh, like Azriel could match the clear cut shape of her jaw, drawing him in. He cleared his throat. “We should.”

[cakelitter]

Mine

Leon x Puppy - Hybrid Fem! Reader

Warnings: age gap, puppy reader, spitting, thigh riding, daddy kink, oral (f recieve) , p in v, praise kink

Summary: Puppy reader gets jealous over Leon

Words: 3.7k

a/n: reader is such a hater in this one, but it fitting. If you see some typos, no you don't. anww enjoy!!

Life has never been better. You have all you could ever need and more.

A hoard of squeaky toys. Check

Piles and piles of cute clothes. Check

The best and the most handsome owner ever. Check

Leon is the best, you lucked out hard on this one. While other hybrids are on the streets, scared and hungry. Your bundled up in your own room, with a massive vanity and a walk-in closet stacked with expensive clothes. You sleep in your king-sized bed with silk sheets, only having to share it with the absurd collection of plushies you have.

You don’t even sleep on it, instead you prefer to overtake Leon’s bed. Usurping his space, and making it your own. Sure, yours is extremely comfortable, pink sheets, bouncy mattress, with plenty of pillows for your singular head. But it doesn’t smell like Leon, it doesn’t have Leon’s warmth, nor the massive biceps you can hide under when there is a thunder storm.

 While other hybrids, search day and night for something edible to eat. You get to be picky with what you put into that bratty mouth of yours. Your morning eggs need to be perfectly cooked, not too dry, but not too raw either. Your like orange juice, but not if it tastes too much like oranges. And god forbid your bread is too stale.

Leon has built that attitude of yours, brick by fucking brick. Complying to everything you say to make you happy, cause seeing you happy makes him happy. Want this skirt even though you have the same exact one back at home? You got it. Want to try a definitely over priced banana milk shake, even though you don’t like bananas? How can he to say no to you.

You are practically a show dog without even competing. All you do is sit at home and be pretty. Leon doesn’t even let you lift a finger. He does all the laundry and cleans up after the mess you make without ever complaining cause according to him, he adopted you, so he should deal with it. And you are completely fine with that mindset. The two of you have an unsaid deal, you empty Leon’s pockets, and in return you shower him with love. Not that it’s difficult for you to do that, the man goes above and beyond for you.

Some call you spoiled, bratty and picky, but how is it your fault if your owner provides you with a life that most humans can’t even afford.

Well, this peace of yours was disturbed with a knock on the door one Sunday afternoon. Leon walks over and opens it cause you’re not allowed to open to strangers. You do however hide behind his shoulder, eyes peeking over the muscles, with your tail wagging.

Did Claire come to visit?? Or is it Sherry?? Wait maybe it’s Chris!

The door opens revealing whoever is behind it. And it’s… who even is that?

“Hi!” A random woman greets, she looks about your age. Honey blonde hair, long and luscious with few highlights here and there, full face of make up, long stiletto red nails, and wearing the tightest shirt and jeans you’ve ever seen. “I’m Irene, just moved in the apartment across from you and wanted to say hi.”

Her smile is blinding, it’s bright… too bright, you hate it. Leon smiles back greeting her as well, tone polite and friendly. You don’t say anything, lurking behind the safety of his broad shoulders, nit picking the appearance of the woman in front of you. She hands over a plate of chocolate chip cookies, wrapped up and tied with a pretty pink ribbon that matches the plate. “These are freshly baked, my grandma’s recipe.”

Why is she so happy and cheerful? You have a bad feeling about her. Your owner takes the plate from her, thanking her for the gesture. People still bake cookies for their neighbors nowadays? She must have a lot of free time huh.

Well, whether you like her or not, it doesn’t mater cause she’s going to leave anyways. The two of you never interact with your other neighbors, and she shouldn’t be any different.

“Wanna come in?”

“Yeah sure.”

What the fuck. Your mouth falls open at how quickly she answered that. She didn’t even take a moment to think, it’s like she was expecting him to offer. Knowing Leon, he probably asked to be polite, and expected her to refuse like how most people tend to do. How normal people do. The shocked expression that appears on your owner’s face for less than a second backs your claim.

He steps aside for her to enter, and you remain glued behind him. She walks in, the clicking sound of her heels echoing through the apartment. The older man ushers her to the living room and they take a seat on the couch. You stand in place at the doorway, watching them from a far.

Listen, your no social expert. You’re just a puppy hybrid, that’s way too spoiled and you spend all day doing nothing at home. But stepping into a random neighbor’s apartment after just moving in sounds like it’s not the smartest thing to do. Especially since Leon clearly looks at least fifteen years older than her. Something smells fishy, and your nose is never ever wrong.

She starts making small talk, about where she’s from, what she does for a living. Things you couldn’t care less about. However, what you do care about is how she laughs too hard at Leon’s stupid jokes, throwing her head back and all. The way she flutters her lashes at him the way you do. The way she tilts her head to the side while nodding as he talks. She’s definitely hitting on him.

The sound of Leon calling your voice, shifts your attention off of her and onto him. He must’ve told her about you, he always parades you around like a trophy to everyone and anyone he has ever known. You walk over to them hesitantly and stand next to his side.

“Aww she’s adorable.” She coos. “I love puppy hybrids.”

Liar, this bitch didn’t even glance your way the whole time she’s here.

“Yeah, she’s a good girl.” Leon adds, with a smile on his face like you’re his biggest accomplishment. Your heart flutters at the way he praises. ‘Good girl’ you’ve heard those two words about a million times ever since you stepped into his home. Yet, each time it never fails to make you get all shy. “Go baby, go say hi to Irene.”

You don’t move a muscle. Usually, you are never one to disobey Leon, he’s too nice for you to treat him like that. But you really don’t want to say hi to a woman who is shamelessly hitting on him in the middle of your living room.

“She’s probably a bit shy.” And she’s clearly stupid, cause someone who’s shy wouldn’t be glaring at her like this. With her incapability to read the fucking room, she does the mistake of reaching her hand to pet you.

Naturally, you start growling, the meanest growl that’s ever come out of your mouth. Ears moving back, eyes shooting daggers at her, and a stiff tail. You honestly don’t know who you are at this point. But it does the job, and scares her enough to retract her hand and leave you alone.

Leon is shocked at your actions as well. You’ve never growled at anyone in your life. Sure, that mouth of yours could use some manners. But you wouldn’t hurt a fly.

She chuckles nervously and leaves not too long after. Once she does, Leon turns around and faces you. Shit, he’s giving you that look. The “I’m disappointed” look, the “I expected more from you” kind of look, the one he gives you when you walk into his office uninvited and mess with his documents. You can sense yourself shrinking with shame under his gaze. But with no regrets.

“We growl at people now?” he says crossing his arms. God, him and those stupid rhetorical questions. “She was nice, and even got us cookies.”

Yeah, ones you can’t even fucking have cause you’re not even allowed to have chocolate. If anything, she’s trying to kill you and he’s upset over a harmless growl? You knew she was bad news, that push up bra of hers is doing wonders at infecting his brain.

Ever since that day, Irene has been stuck on Leon, like gum on his shoe. Asking for his help to clean her “broken” sink, which was never broken by the way. It would be something minor that even you could figure out. She then would play it off as her being silly, and offer a cup of coffee to have him stay longer.

She’d try to make small talk about his motorcycle. What kind it was, when did he get it, how fast it can go. Leon being himself he would explain and ramble on and on about it, sometimes you think he loves that thing more than he loves you. He would get into the nitty gritty of it all, and she would nod her head mindlessly, eyes only focused on his face.

She’d always be touchy around him, gently caressing his arm and giving him unwanted hugs here and there. She was once over at your apartment, even though no one even invited her. They were both in the kitchen with you sitting alone in the living room eavesdropping on their conversation. When she had the audacity to ask him if she could touch his muscles. You felt sick, disgusted, and nauseated. She touches his muscles once and what next? They fall in love and get married? She’d never let you stay in the house or sit on the couch. You’d start eating out of dog bowls and do chores. You can’t let that happen, over your dead pampered body.

Thinking fast, you slam a nearby vase on the floor and quickly lay down next to the shattered pieces, faking a fall and start whinning. Leon rushes out the kitchen and over to you, asking what happened and if you were okay. Long story short, you told him that you slipped and fell breaking the vase along the way. And he bought it, why would his sweet pup lie to him anyways? Although you had to put on your best act and feign an ankle injury for a week, you managed to keep Irene’s hands off of him while successfully getting extra attention.

Today, when you and Leon came back from your daily walk she was ‘coincidentally’ about to knock on your door to give you a new batch of brownies that she baked. As if she hasn’t been coincidentally doing that for four weeks now and it’s getting exhausting.

Like always, Leon thanks her and you both head into your apartment. You can’t stand it anymore, her constantly berating the two of you with her weekly attempts to start a conversation with Leon. Her trying to mesmerize him with her tiny skirts and “fuck me” eyes, it’s honestly pathetic.

Leon is supposed to be your owner. Your supposed to have his attention, his time, his everything, because he’s yours. And so, you grab the plate from Leons hand and you dump everything into the trash. He follows you into the kitchen and stares in shock for a moment.

“Hey! just cause you can’t have those doesn’t mean I can’t sweet heart.” He jokes, tone trying to lighten up the mood.

A smile creeps up on his lips, he thinks its another one of your silly tantrums cause you can’t have any of the things she bakes. However, his expression softens when he sees the tears brimming in your eyes as you look back at him.

“Oh baby, I’m sorry. I didn’t know you wanted to have some too. I can get you one-”

“It’s not about the stupid fucking brownies Leon.” Tears are now wetting your cheeks. You can’t tell if you’re crying out of anger or out of jealousy, or both.  You’ve been bottling up all this rage for so long and now you’re finally let it all out.

“She keeps trying to flirt with you and get in your pants and you’re so oblivious to all of it.”

He connects the dots and his brows furrow with an emotion you can’t quiet read. Letting his shoulders relax, he steps closer. “Honey, its not like that. She’s just-”

“Being nice? Or is it kind?” you interrupt, your sadness turning into anger. “She literally only bakes for you, she only talks to you, she doesn’t even bother glancing at any of our other neighbors.”

He’s speechless, the lines between his brows disappearing as he tries to figure out what to say.

“I’m sorry sweetheart, didn’t know that made you feel uncomfortable.” Is all he managed to say back.

You two stand there in silence, eyes staring into each other. He doesn’t get it; he still doesn’t get why you’re acting like this. You shouldn’t do it, you really shouldn’t, but impulsivity wins and you do it anyways. Grabbing his face, you crash your lips onto his, claiming them in a possessive kiss.

‘A dog is a man’s best friend’ well, your Leon’s half best friend, but what’s the other half? His roommate? His pet? His lover? It’s a question you thought about every day since you discovered that you had a crush on him. A question you were always too scared to ask, fearing that you’re going to be disappointed with the answer.

He’s not kissing you back, he’s not even doing anything. Fuck, what did you just do. Stepping back, with your heart beating out of your chest. You look up back into his eyes with whatever courage and dignity you have left.

He looks at you for moment, eyes piercing through you. You’re so sleeping on the streets tonight, you better start waving goodbye to all of your twenty-three plushies and start searching for a card board box to sleep on for tonight. Irene didn’t even have to bother to kick you out, you single handedly did that yourse-

He’s smiling.

You’re so confused right now.

His hand grabs your chin forcing your eyes to stay locked on his, then he leans down to reach your level. “You could’ve just said that you were jealous, you know?”

The sultry tone of his voice, and his hot breath near your ear only makes your brain processing speed slow down even further. Moving away from you, he drops a delicate kiss onto your lips, and your knees almost give out.

“But you couldn’t just do that, huh. That ego of yours wouldn’t handle it.”

You nod, you can’t even muster up the courage to say anything back with the way his sky-blue eyes are staring at you.

“Fuck, I spoil you too much.” His lips connect with yours once again. They feel so soft, softer than you expected, juxtaposing the roughness of his stubble that is grazing your skin. You kiss him back nervously, all of that prior courage, nowhere to be found.

He leads you backwards till the small of your back is flush against the cold kitchen counter, one of his hands gabbing the surface next to you while the other caresses your waist. Amidst you focusing on his lip movement, you feel one of his legs separate yours, placing itself between them.

Both your lips detach with a string of saliva still connecting them. Your bottom lip is puffy and shiny, he notices and a grin appears on his face. “Such a sweet little thing I have.” He mutters, the jean clad thigh placed between yours closes the proximity with your cunt, causing your brows to furrow at the feeling.

The hand on your waist drops to your hip, ushering it to move in a rocking motion. You can feel the heat from the slick pooling on the gusset of your panties as you let out a sigh of pleasure. A hand creeps up towards your chin once again, grabbing it and gingerly coaxing your mouth to open.

Looking up at him, your greeted with lustful eyes instead of the usual tired yet affectionate ones. He leans in, spitting into your mouth. The hot saliva hits your tongue, and he opens your mouth a bit more to watch it. “Swallow for me.”

Without even thinking twice, you comply. You feel hot all over, you’re pretty sure that you leaked through your panties and onto his jeans. “Always such a good girl.”

He places a soft kiss on your forehead as you continue riding his thigh. It feels so good, yet not enough. Apparently, the feelings mutual. Removing his leg, he grabs your arm, turning your around with your back flush against his.

His hands drop down to your hips, grabbing and moving them backwards till only your ass can feel his warmth. You hear him drop down to his knees behind you, his hands move up from your thighs all the way to your ass, bunching up the skirt that you’re wearing. With your panties exposed to him, he can see the wet spot that is now formed on the fabric. Cursing under his breath, he plants a kiss on one of your thighs then the other, before his finger hooks on your panties, pulling them to the side.

With the cold air hitting your dripping core, you can sense his prying eyes taking in the view in front of him. A thumb grazes your weeping core, then drops down to your clit. The sensation causes your hips to twitch, earning a low chuckle from his lips. Feeling his warm breath on your pussy as he licks his lips. Before placing them on your center with an open-mouthed kiss. Which is then followed by his tongue flattening out and dragging up your folds.

He laps up the slick coming out of your cunt a few times before fully committing and beginning to eat you out. You moan, spreading your legs even further, welcoming his mouth. Groaning, his hand grabs the plush of your thighs, spreading you, and giving himself more space to work with.

Your hand moves up, cupping one of your breasts as you keep gushing on his face. He pulls away, grabbing the hem of your panties and pulling them down to your ankles. Out of curiosity, you turn your head to see what he’s up to. Your eyes lock, and so he seizes your thighs with both hands spreading you open once more, before he spits on your cunt.

Moaning at the sights and at the warmth coating your opening, you see crows’ feet forming at the corner of his eyes as he attaches his mouth on your pussy once more while maintaining eye contact. He starts sucking on your clit, then moves up fucking you with his tongue.

When your legs begin to tremble and when your hips start squirming, he picks up on the fact that your peak is near. Your hand holds on to that counter for dear life, as Leon disappears behind you, and all that could be heard are the dirty sounds coming from the apex of your thighs.

“Gonna cum on my face baby? Mark me as yours?” he whispers, before going back to pleasuring you. His words float into your brain forcing your orgasm out of you. The idea of marking Leon as yours, letting everyone know that he’s off limits brings you near tears as you cry out of pleasure, with your mind completely blissed out.

Your legs threaten to collapse, but rough hands hold them in place. Hearing Leon rise to his feet, the wet noises are now replaced with the unmistakable sound of his belt getting undone that is followed by his pants dropping on the floor.

“Turn around sweet heart, wanna see your face.”

Doing what he asked you to do, he grabs your thigh pulling you closer you him. Your hands are placed behind you, gripping the counter for balance. Dropping your eyes over to his dick, you watch as he strokes it lazily, the tip pink and precum pooling on top. You bite your lip and you go back to looking at his face once again. He watches you with hooded eyes, as his hands continue stroking. Heat rushes to your face from embarrassment of facing him now.

Feeling his cock slap against your clit a few times. He kisses you once again before fucking into your heat, coaxing a muffled moan out of both of you. He begins thrusting shallowly, and one of your hands moves over to grip his shoulder. Placing his forehead on yours, his thrusts become deeper, drawing out more breathy moans out of you.

Thanks to the position you’re in, his dick is hitting all the right spots, even making the slight pain pleasurable. It doesn’t take long for him to bottom out completely, hips making contact with your inner thighs. His hand makes its way to your bundle of nerves, rubbing firm circles as the tip of his cock kisses the opening of your cervix. The pace begins to pick up yet it still feels very intimate, your thinking skills dissipating by the second.

“Daddy… please”

“Right here sweetheart, right here and all yours.”

You pull him into another kiss by his shirt, whining at how sensitive you’re getting. Kissing you back feverishly, the hand on your clit moves quicker doubling the pleasure. A series of begs and moans leave your lips and before you know it, another release washes over you. Your cunt squeezes down on his dick causing him to suck in a breath of air.

“Squeeze my cock baby, yeah just like that.” You’re seeing stars at this point, making his voice feel so distant yet near. “Fuck, always been a daddy’s girl.”

He nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck, hips still slamming into yours as he chases his own high. And only after a few moments, his breaths get heavier as he releases his load into you. A blissful smile emerges on your face at the warm feeling, a souvenir to remind yourself who you belong to incase the collar wasn’t enough.

Pumping a few more thrusts into you, he pecks your forehead sweetly. His large hands cupping your cheeks and mouth kissing yours.

“All yours sweet thing, heart and soul.”

divider by: @/thetaey

[listentothelittlebird]

so I have been avidly following the lovely dbhc au that @shepscapades has made and I have made a little drabble fanfic of Doc and Xisuma because I feel very normal about them :)

setting: hermitcraft season 10, while Doc is in skyblock jail

word count: 1361

-

Doc is grumbling to himself, ramming his fist into the newly-sprouted tree with not an insignificant amount of prejudice, when he hears the distinct whistling of fireworks crescendoing towards him.

“Have you come to watch me punch wood like an imbecile?” Doc snarks, expecting to hear Scar’s fumbling denials, or Cleo’s cackling assent.

“That wasn’t the plan, no.” The quietly amused voice is far from his first prediction. An oversight on his part, really.

[Vocal Recognition: Xisumavoid.]

“Xisuma!” Doc’s next punch misses the trunk of the cherry blossom tree, glancing off the side and chipping off the bark instead. He blinks away the vocal recognition pop-up, glancing behind him just to check it really is him and not Tango with a goat horn. “Hey, man!”

“Hey! You’ve been busy.” Xisuma’s boots scuff against the cobblestone as he inspects the progress of his miserable sky island. A shulker box thunks onto the stone, freeing his hands up to brush against the cherry wood planks.

“Hardly anything else to do besides work.” Doc throws the words over his shoulder as he continues to gather his cherry wood, not one to leave a project half-done. 

His visitor is content to hum and haw at whatever he finds as Doc works away. It has only been a few days, but the one-sided commentary is surprisingly comforting. After all, no touching the ground means no redstone, which also means no time in the lab. The thought has Doc speaking up, slipping between Xisuma’s quips.

“It’s not been too busy, yeah?” Doc clambers onto the tree as he plucks off the highest branches. He pauses to flick open a calendar overlay, skimming the dates. “Nobody’s scheduled for maintenance checks until next month.” 

“It’s been alright.” The fuzzy wolf-shaped wool mask pops into view as Xisuma emerges from Doc’s pink abode. “Been a bit too quiet, even. It’s weird not having you around.”

Doc snorts to hide the way his thirium pump hiccups at the words. Logically, he knows the sound is far too soft for Xisuma to hear. Having emotions, Doc has found, is hardly ever logical.

“So you came over ‘cause you missed me?” The words are out before Doc can even try to edit the response. It instills in him the same kind of floundering exasperation he feels when trying to recall a comms message already seen by everyone.

“Well.” When Xisuma ducks his head, one ear of the knitted wolf flops to the side. “I mean. I suppose so.”

[Emotion Identified: Shyness.]

“But I did come with an agenda!” Xisuma reaches for the shulker behind him, pulling out a mobile scanner from the lab.

“You’re right about having no maintenance checks on the schedule,” Xisuma says, waving around the scanner. “With you out here roughing it out, though, I figured I should check on you.”

“Ah.” Doc chuckles, ignores his cooling vents spinning faster. “I see.”

“Well, don’t keep me waiting! You look about done with your tree.” 

“I am, I think.” Doc squints through the already-thinning leaves, nodding when he finds no branches left. “Alright, one moment.”

Dismantling the remains of the trunk takes only a few seconds. Doc gathers the wood and plonks them into the chest in his shabby house, with Xisuma trailing behind. 

With two people inside, it only reminds Doc how small the shelter is. Turning around after closing his chest puts him directly in Xisuma’s space.

“So, uh.” Doc shifts back, as much as he can. He ends up plopping down on the edge of his bed, which, well. “Go ahead, then.” 

A check-up does not require much space, really. Doc has done maintenance with the hermits in caves, in redstone farms, in underwater bases and nether bases. This is just the first time Doc himself has been examined outside of the yawning expanse of their labs. The change in routine leaves him uncertain, like recalibrating on angled terrain. 

The ease that Xisuma slips into the motions does well to settle Doc’s stress, however mild. The mobile scanner takes a while to gather results, so Doc answers Xisuma’s laundry list of questions. The list of questions is one curated by both Doc and Xisuma. Most of it is data, which Doc rattles off easily from the numbers that he pulls up in the corner of his vision.

The mobile scanner beeps cheerfully just as they reach the end of the lengthy questionnaire.

“Clean bill of health.” Xisuma shows Doc the display, which focuses less on internal processes and more on external damage or abnormalities. “Although, your average temperature is a bit lower than your usual.”

Doc shrugs. “It’s the altitude, man. Going from spending significant amounts of my time in the deserts and swamps to this is quite the change. Not to mention the wind chill.” 

As if to prove his point, a gust hits the shelter hard enough to make the planks rattle and creak. With no door, the icy breeze rushes in quickly. He tucks his metal arm into his lab coat with a sigh, the exposed components always prone to freezing the fastest.

“It’s not that bad,” Doc states flippantly, knowing without looking that Xisuma is taking in his every move. “I’m working most of the time, which keeps me warm. Plus I have my lava pool to sit beside when I need to warm up.”

“If you say so.” Xisuma shifts, leaning against his crafting bench. “The moment you start to experience temperature glitches, though, call this off. The rest will understand.”

“I know, I know.” This is all in good fun, when it comes down to it. He plays along for his own amusement. “I’ll be fine, Xisuma. I know how to take care of myself.”

“That you do.” Xisuma nods, then, with an “ah” of realisation, pulls his wolf mask off his helmet. 

“Here!” It only takes a step for Xisuma to be back in Doc’s space, pulling the wool over Doc’s head before he can react. 

“Uhm.” The mask is large enough that it goes over his horns easily, fitting loosely around his face. He has to lift and adjust it slightly to get his eyes back through the openings. “What?”

“To keep you warm!” Xisuma draws back again, settling against the crafting bench and tapping his heel against its side. “I mean, even over my helmet, it sure retains the heat. I know it doesn’t quite help with your metal arm, but it’ll at least warm up your horns and face.”

Doc does feel warmer, in fact. Though that is not necessarily correlated with the wool mask itself, and more the action of gifting it to him.

“But it’s your mask,” Doc replies, a flimsy rebuttal. “For your Woolves of Wool Street.”

“I have spares,” Xisuma chimes, eyes squinting happily through his helmet. “I’m sure the others won’t mind if you’re wearing it. Take it as a souvenir, of sorts.”

“Right.” Doc reaches a hand up to the wool. The material is soft, slightly worn from use. It smells a bit like Xisuma’s armour, the polish that he uses to clean it at the end of the day. “Thanks.”

“No problem, Doc.” 

Xisuma’s communicator chimes. A quick look has Xisuma turning back to Doc with an apologetic sigh. “Sorry, I’ve got to go. I’ll come back soon, though, if you don’t mind?”

“Come back anytime,” Doc replies. He tries to reel it towards comedy with a gesture to his surroundings, his meager belongings. “You won’t be interrupting anything.”

The dry quip draws out a laugh from Xisuma, even as he gathers his shulker and activates his elytra.

“See you, Doc!” Xisuma waves from the edge of the cobblestone, then nosedives away, a rocket propelling him rapidly out of sight. 

Doc takes a moment to watch the clouds, then laughs at himself. Did he not poke fun at Tango last season, when he stared longingly at the portal Jimmy left the server with? Now look at him.  

He draws a hand up to the wolf mask, rubbing the soft knitting between his fingers, and decides that Tango absolutely cannot see him wearing this.

He can keep it on for now, though.

[crookedkryptonitebeliever]

It was only supposed to be a one night stand part 2

Tw: mostly smut, yandere, self harm implications, suicidal ideation, gross underwear stealing

Part 3

Never did it occur to you to ask about his name. You thought he left you alone after that day, but he actually just had to go to work. Only after you punched your time card out for the day, you found this man waiting right at the entrance with his shitbox of a car. It's a white sedan with chipping paint, and rust spots everywhere. There is a roof box attached to it, and there are numerous scuff marks visible even though it's completely black.

You were about to bolt for it when he got out of the driver's seat. But he managed to block your way, shadow engulfing your form. You stood still and stared down (or in your case, up) at him, waiting for his next move. He seems to do the same thing to you, sharing a quiet yet intense moment for a minute.

Finally, he slowly moved his hands up until it reached your torso. The man pulled you into a hesitant hug, he's being so gentle with you as if you're going to break. You shuddered when you heard him take a deep sniff of your hair.

You protested, firmly pushing him away, he's noticeably fresher and cleaner than how you remembered him. You asked what his intentions are.

"It's late. Let me drive you home." He muttered, latching his hands onto yours. "Please." He continued, a twinge of desperation can be detected in his voice.

You took a deep breath and declined. God knows where is he taking you, and you're not keen on jumping out of a moving car. You said thanks through gritted teeth, yanked your hands back, and walked away.

As expected, he followed you. Stopping whenever you stopped to yell at him to go away. But he never budged, once you move he moves.

Finally, you reached the station. Where the both of you met mere days ago. His puddle of vomit is cleared away and the booze bottle is presumably recycled.

The man waited with you. Feeling burnt out and irritated, you kept your lips sealed and your eyes glued to the screen of your phone, ignoring the existence of the man sitting beside you on the bench. You felt a looming presence over your shoulder, so you turned your head slightly to the right to see that he was also staring at the screen of your gadget as well.

Feeling uncomfortable with him seeing what you're watching, you shift in such a way that the back of your phone is facing him. But that also means that you're pushing your shoes against the side of his thigh.

Once his source of entertainment was removed, he brought his attention elsewhere. It looks like he's just blankly staring into the void, looking at nothing in particular.

The train has arrived, you untangled yourself from your position and picked your suitcase up. He stood up and followed closely behind, leaving very little space between your back and his front.

Nothing of note happened during the ride. It's just a normal commute back home except you have an unwanted companion who tried to rest his arm around your shoulders multiple times, and you had to swat him away, multiple times. He finally got the hint when you physically moved away from him, sitting in another seat far away from the man. You are surprised that he didn't try to claim the spot next to you, though.

Reaching back home, you told him to stand on the sidewalk. He listened to you, seemingly curious as to why you made that request of him.

You entered your house and shut the door behind you.

It's time for you to unwind, you drew the curtains to a close so you don't have to see him trying to claw his way in. But his silhouette can be seen though, as he knocked on the glass multiple times before giving up. He stood there, very still.

And... you reached for your vices, good ol' alcohol. Downing multiple cans or bottles to try and relieve stress from having him in your life now.

And, seeing how he managed to worm into your life with alcohol (intoxication on his part and horniness on yours), it all feels like a sense of deja vu, where you swing the front door open, get all sexually aggressive towards him, and have him fuck you all night.

Tonight, he is showing what that mouth can do. He has a voracious appetite for both street food and the thing between your legs, lapping at your fluids and pumping his fist on his own cock, he's getting off of this too. He may not have the longest tongue, but his mouth is on the larger side, so you feel the warmth and sliminess covering the entirety of your groin.

You remembered being in bliss as he tongue fucked you in your ass while he fondles your front, your back arched back as your face is pressed against your pillow.

You would let out a tipsy moan as his hips thrust into yours, your legs hanging over his shoulders for easy access to paradise. He left numerous bite marks and hickeys all over your body, and you left him extreme scratch marks on his back in return, drawing some blood and staining the bed red.

It really isn't easy to take him in, he is big. You're so thankful that he's considerate to go slow even though you can tell that he wanted you so badly, the 'controlled' thrusts weren't really all that controlled. It was erratic as if he was trying to contain a powerful beast.

You and he would go at it for hours, cumming numerous times and not noticing the complaints from your neighbors about the embarrassing noise and headboard slamming.

You would wake up, realizing that you used him as a body pillow, throw his clothes at him, reject any further advances, or affection, act all cold and mean, rush to work, come back from work, drink your booze, open the door to let him in, and repeat. Only breaking the cycle when you momentarily ran out of beer or wine.

It really is impressive that you kept it up for months without even knowing his initials. You're more impressed that your liver can handle all those toxins you're chugging every day. In the end, you trusted him enough to drive you back home, so you could get drunk faster and enjoy orgasming.

As the days pass by, he would be a lot bolder with his presence. Spending his break buying a meal for two, having the employees pack it to go, and rushing to your workplace. Requesting to see you at the receptionist in a high-vis vest, often covered in either paint, sawdust, dirt, or splotches of cement. He had the decency to wipe his shoes on the carpet outside and take off his hard hat. He learned your name somehow, hearing what your coworkers call you and using that knowledge to his advantage; summoning you for lunch.

He didn't know what you liked. So he experimented, a lot. He would come each day with a takeout box containing a different dish, it was hard to gather data on you because most of the time you would go out to eat with your peers. He had to eat both meals himself, even those he didn't like.

Rare, but it is possible, that you would accept his meal offerings. Usually, it's because none of your friends are available for lunch and you don't feel like eating at a restaurant alone. You just ate his takeaway out of convenience, it doesn't necessarily mean you like them. But that was what he had to go on, he assumed the ones you took were the ones you liked.

So, I'd invite you to imagine the confusion and upset when you rejected it the next time he brought the same one. He would offer his own order instead, which is always chicken fried rice that's greasier than that you were used to. You had no idea where he gets his food, but you deduced that his usual spot is primarily a Chinese takeout place.

If you somehow managed to reject every dish he presented to you, he would move on to different food categories. Donuts, pizzas, hamburgers, tacos, sushi, curries, lobsters, seafood boils, fresh oysters... one time he handed you a wedge of aged cheese and a packet of expensive 'organic' crackers to see what you would do with it. Maybe you find it fun, you enjoyed the randomness of it all because you refused to tell him the foods that you liked. Even if you did, when he brought that exact meal that you claimed you liked, you would baffle him by pushing it away in disgust.

He's a simple man. He likes his rice fried with chunks of seasoned chicken and hotdogs with relish, he doesn't really like deviating away from his usual choices. So he disliked eating most of the foods that you rejected, but he had to because he wouldn't want it to go to waste.

He resorted to asking your coworkers what you liked. They told him what they saw, what you usually eat. But maybe out of sadistic pleasure or suspicion, you wouldn't accept the things he brings. Leaving him saddened and uncomfortable, and a bit more tired and poorer than yesterday.

His method of figuring out what you like is costly and inefficient most of the time. On days when you don't go to work or fuck him, he would still visit you in hopes of bringing you out on proper dates. The man is romantic, always bringing a bouquet of red roses and a small gift whenever he visits. The small gift could be a box of chocolates, a stuffed bear holding a plush heart with "I LOVE YOU" embroidered onto it, another takeout meal, some jewelry, a drink that is popular with the masses now (i.e., bubble tea, soda, energy drinks) or booze.

It's mostly booze. Because he knows that is the ticket to heaven in your bed. And it seems like it's something you rejected the least.

It's 50/50 whether you let him in and take advantage of him, or you slam the door in his face. But it's a 100% probability rate that he will come back with flowers and gifts. Or he would leave packages containing what he thinks you would like in front of your door during days when he has to work.

He hands his gifts to the receptionist, asking to take them to your cubicle on days when he knows he cannot see you due to approaching renovation deadlines. Your coworkers and friends would swoon at first, saying how lucky you are to have him. But soon after, they were unsure, you didn't even know his name? You met him, how?

Some tried to talk sense into you, he could be dangerous and one day he's going to do something you will have to live with for the rest of your life. He is obviously not all there in the head, you should call it quits while you still can. But you don't, it's fun. Something to give you a break from your monotonous salary person lifestyle.

Some tried to talk some sense into him, telling him that he deserved better, and pointing out the imbalance in affection. They would also offer resources that can help him better his mental health. He would just pretend that he's deaf and walk away without saying a word, clearly too deep into his own delusions. He knows to avoid them though, and none of your coworkers know his name either.

You know that he's stealing your underwear, its numbers are dwindling down and there is only a decrease when he comes in. You confronted him about it multiple times, even hitting him with your fist as you screamed in his face. All he did was stay silent, shielding himself with his arms as he took your blows. To be fair, it's probably too weak to do any damage.

The next package that came to your doorstep contained a brand-new set of underwear, to replace the ones he stole.

You one time saw your favorite underwear on his back seat, poorly hidden by his pillow and blanket. It was covered in crusts of off-white and translucent goop that looked freshly produced, and it also smelled atrocious. You had to keep the windows open while you berated him for being disgusting, he looked ashamed, and uneasy as you stuck your head out of the window.

He installed an air freshener in his air conditioning vents and you never saw any of your old underwear ever again. Well, at least he handles criticism decently.

You thought he earned your phone number. So one day, you blurted out all the digits once. Not bothering to repeat it while he desperately tried to get you to say it again.

He only managed to contact you a few days after that, you were surprised that he remembered. But actually he only remembered parts of it. He went on a texting and calling marathon, contacting close to hundreds of numbers trying to find you.

Since he has a car, you thought you would extend his use to other parts of your life.

You ran out of milk? Just text him, and he will arrive with a brand new jug. You can simply take it off his hands and close the door, or you can choose to accept his other gifts. Need something to be picked up? He is your personal delivery man. Need to go somewhere? He can call in sick and be your chauffeur.

He saved your contact as "My baby" whereas you didn't care enough to save his number.

The downside to this is that he calls you whenever he's free and he can't see you. At first, you would answer and ask what he wanted. You stopped answering his calls when most of the time all he wanted was to hear your voice.

All is well and normal, as normal as this could be. Until one day, you caught a nasty cold.

You were having high fevers and you couldn't even get out of bed. It was rare for you to call in sick, because work was a distraction to you from the horrors of reality. So for you to not come in, it means whatever you're being infected with was serious.

You didn't answer calls from him, nor did you get up to open the door. You heard him knock and call for your name for two evenings now.

And two evenings was the limit, you deduced. Because he went ahead and broke into your house. He didn't do it peacefully either, he hurled a brick through your window and hopped in. The sound of glass shattering jolted you awake, followed by frantic shouts from him. He was desperately and hysterically calling your name, thudding from his combat boots resonated throughout the house.

You were too exhausted to even defend yourself when he comes barrelling in with his hair even messier, bags under his eyes and stubble darkening. Or maybe deep down, you know that he cares and wouldn't hurt you ever.

You coughed and weakly told him to get the fuck out of your house, he ignored that and went on to straddle your hips. His large, calloused hands cupping your cheeks as fat droplets of tears and snot drip onto your face. The man sobbed noisily, begging you to please tell him that you're okay. He was worried that you weren't showing up at your usual places, your coworkers gave him a vague response about you being unavailable.

He held you in his arms for a long while as he cried and cried. Rambling on about how he cannot afford to lose you, the light of his life, albeit incoherently.

You tried to push him off, but to no avail. So you waited until he calmed down, his head is still buried in the crook of your neck. Periodically kissing the sensitive skin.

Finally, he's composed enough to get him off you. He still sniffles as he lies next to you, holding you securely in his strong arms which seem to have more scars than usual.

Eventually though, you heard snoring. Whipping your head to see the source, he actually got knocked out cold and fell asleep in your bed again.

You pity him a bit. He must have been sleep deprived in the past 48 hours, dreading the worst that might have happened to you while you go no contact. Moreover, he reeks of alcohol. He must have not drunk that much or else you would have been covered in his vomit by now.

But you're no angel. You shook him awake, he let out an exclamation as he registered that you're in front of him, real and physical. He could touch you, smell you and see you again.

You gently slapped his cheek, trying to get him to sober up.

The man grabbed your hand and brought it to his lips, kissing your palm feverishly and soon resorted to licking your fingers.

You whacked him on the head and wiped his saliva off on his face. This seem to bring him back to reality as he stared at you with his mouth slightly open.

You spoke too soon, because a split second later, he lunged at you and connected his lips with yours. Exploring your mouth with his tongue and roaming his hands all over your body, he seem to take note that it is warmer than usual. But he went ahead and fondled you anyways.

Maybe it's the vapors in his breath that's making you drunk each time his tongue caresses yours, maybe you're as touch deprived as he is. Because you're welcoming his fingers to play with your south, eventually having them in and out of your hole.

Even when you're sick, his dick is as amazing as ever. You are a mess when he enters you after preparing you for it, he bit and sucked your neck, you can't move because he is just too damn heavy and his hands are holding your wrists down. The wet slapping, smooching, smacking and moaning can be heard even more since the window near the front door is broken.

He nibbled the shell of your ear and whispered that he misses you. He doesn't know what he would do if he went on another day without you in his embrace. He doesn't want to know either, he just wants to be here with you.

"I love you." He whispered before planting a kiss on your temple. "I love you." He kissed your jaw. "I love you." He kissed your forehead, his lips are noticeably colder than your skin. "I love you." He pressed a passionate kiss on your lips, silencing himself by continuing his french kisses.

The bedframe creaks as he rocks his hips against yours, your legs jerk back and forth as he thrusts into you.

He released your mouth to let you breathe and for him to gasp for air too. But he returns to your ears.

"I owe you my life." He licked the shell of your ear. "I belong to you, only you." He lets go one of your wrists to cradle your face. "You're the reason why I'm still here." He panted. "You're my only will to live." He continued.

"So, promise me, baby." You struggled to breathe as he shoved his tongue back down to your throat momentarily. He pulled back with one of many strings of saliva connecting your lips. "Promise that you'll never leave me." He went on to stroke your hair, giving you tingles of pleasure on top of the stimulation you're receiving from his cock.

"Because if you do," Another deep kiss. "I will die."

"And I will take the world down with me."

He gave one last powerful ram into the right spot, making you scream in unbelievable pleasure as a flash of white blinds all thoughts in your head. He moaned as well as he reached his climax too.

He dropped himself beside you, but he didn't remove his cock out of your orifice. He panted along with you.

You're so fucked out of your mind that you couldn't open your eyes properly. He smiled and pecked your cheek.

"I will follow you wherever you go. I will do anything for you." He shifted around your limp body to make it more comfortable, warming his dick inside of you and enjoying the pulsating flesh around it. "Just... please pick up my calls." He brushed stray hairs away from your sweaty face.

"I was worried." He tucked your head under his chin. The man sighed as he ran his fingers through your hair.

"I'm glad you're alright. I love you, baby." He cooed at your now unconscious form.

[shibaraki]

MAYBE IT’S A SIGN ┊ YAMADA HIZASHI

tags: GN reader, no quirk au, meet-cute, strangers to lovers, people watching, mic is fluent in JSL, pining, mutual attraction, flirting, fluff as promised !!!

wc: 1.7K

You aren’t afraid to admit that your life is a little mundane.

Rather than resent it you get by with the little wonders. The path is much the same but never the people, and your favourite part of the day is the train journey home. A precious twenty minutes when you can sit and watch the lives unfold around you. It’s during this time that you notice him.

You’re familiar with the regular passengers—not personally, rather, they’ve taken up space in your memory, each dedicated an intricate and fabricated backstory to pass the time. This new regular is definitely somebody you’d remember. Because he’s, well.

He’s the most gorgeous man you’ve ever laid eyes on.

Tall and lean, decently thick arms and a trim waist often hidden beneath a signature leather jacket. Bulky headphones around his neck. A trimmed moustache and vivid green eyes peering over red rimmed glasses. Waist length blond hair, like spun gold in the train cars cheap fluorescence, never worn in the same style. You’ve seen it draped around his shoulders, a sleek updo, half down, and pulled back into a braided ponytail that mimics a mohawk.

Today it has been haphazardly shoved into a messy bun, wisps falling to frame his face as he smiles at his phone. Your heart beats a little faster at the soft sight. He’s sitting closer than usual, driven deeper into the carriage by the lack of seating; close enough to catch a glimpse at the music note sticker on his phone case and the chipped red paint on his nails. Before he can look up and catch your inquisitive stare you turn it toward the window, watching the rivulets of rainwater race in the wind as the cityscape passes by.

Thoughts wander, veering toward the faint shadows under his eyes. You’ve theorised plenty and settled on him being a musician of sorts. Piano or a guitar judging by his fingers. Guitarist would suit his aesthetic, but you find the image of him as a pianist strangely romantic.

As the train rushes through a dark tunnel you’re faced with your reflection, and his own in the background. For a split second you’re certain that your eyes meet. Then the darkness vanishes, and you squint against the pale eventide light.

Your close friends have heard a lot about Train Guy. They’ve teased you to no end, finding amusement in your lack of action. Writing a plotline for a beautiful stranger might be slightly piteous but it’s all you’re going to get. It’s not like you were ever going to do anything about your attraction.

You slump against the back of your chair and fiddle with the zip on your jacket, soaking up the heated murmurings between a couple from across the carriage. Train Guy seemed the chatty type, though he always hung up whoever he was on call to as he boarded you’d caught an english word or two. They sounded natural in his mouth—a fluent accent that inferred plenty of practice. You wanted to hear him speak more, but after the doors are closed silence is sternly expected.

As your thoughts drift, so does your attention. Your heart leaps to your throat. Train Guy is reclined comfortably, baring the pale column of his throat as he keeps an ear tucked against his left headphone speaker, bouncing his leg to a tune you’re not privy to. What grips you is the suggestion of a smile hanging on his lips as he looks back at you. It’s more hesitant than it is coy. Almost as though he might be just as unsure about his footing as you.

Pointedly, he nods in the direction of the bickering couple. His mouth downturns into an exaggerated grimace, tugging at the collar of his shirt. You laugh and quickly smother the sound with your hand, heat crawling up your neck as a nearby elderly man peers up.

Train Guy’s eyes are softer now. There’s a shallow dimple by the right corner of his mouth that deepens with his grin. He sits up straighter when you smile back and butterflies hatch in your stomach. You feel their paper thin wings beat behind your ribs. Holding his hands out to draw your attention you watch his pointer fingers stop a few inches apart and bend toward one another.

At your confused frown he down it again, this time mouthing the word ‘hello’. Then he points at his chest. He silently sounds out the name ‘Ya-ma-da’ in time with his movements. His name. Your lips part in soft surprise. Mirroring the initial position of his hands, you cautiously repeat the motion, fingers bending inward. It’s JSL—and the sign quite literally mimics the image of two people bowed in greeting.

The train creaks as it slows in preparation to approach the next stop. Disappointment hangs in the air. He shuffles in his seat, getting ready to stand. He flashes you an encouraging thumbs up, eyes smiling over those yellow tinted glasses. Then his forefinger uncurls once more, forming an upside down ‘L’ shape. He draws his hand in an arc across his face and lies the opposite palm flat, swiping flat across it.

You pout after him as he gets to his feet, this time without clarifying what he’d said. He simply shucks his leather jacket closer to his chest, pulls his headphones over his head—concealing the pink blush staining his ears—and waves as the doors open.

A gust of wind plumes into the enclosed space, petrichor briefly filling your senses. Your neck turns at an awkward angle just to catch a final glimpse in the crowd as the train pulls away.

The first thing you do upon arriving home is search up basic signs. It pulls up a website with dedicated categories; signs for greetings, for navigating daily life, for family and friends. Then, as you scroll further, your mouse hovers over the embedded images for flirtatious signs. Your living room takes on a hazy, mauve rose glow, perhaps from all the blood rushing to your brain.

Unless you are misremembering, Train Guy—Yamada, had called you beautiful.

The knowledge sits restlessly with you. An amalgam of giddiness and impatience bursts through your body like a babbling brook. This sort of thing never happens to you.

You wanted to see him again. To somehow reciprocate his efforts to connect with you in the pervading silence of that train car. Clicking back on the screen, you open up the menu bar and find fingerspelling. You repeat the motions, signing out your name until fatigue from the work day wears on your bones.

The next morning starts with vigor. Your excitement only seems to make the hours drag longer, each slower than the last. Coworkers remark on your eagerness to leave—making playful comments about a new secret lover, only to be spurred on by the sheepish expression on your face.

There is no lover to speak of, not yet. Just a pretty stranger who may or may not be a musician with which you share part of your journey home.

Yamada is there when you board, already perked up and waiting. His hair is braided today, draped effortlessly over his shoulder. You immediately duck your chin to hide a smile, teeth gnawing your inner cheek as you take the spot across from him.

A hush falls over the passengers when you hear the doors click shut. You glimpse up through your lashes. Yamada leaned forward, elbows on his knees, cheek resting in his palm. Anticipation swoops through your belly. You can’t help a nervous glance at the people around you as you sign hello to him.

Before he can respond, your finger points to your chest. Something flashes in Yamada’s eyes, now raptly watching while you sign out your name. Brighter still the instant you point at him, arc your forefinger and thumb across your face, and wipe across the opposite palm.

Beautiful.

Pink looks good on him, you think. Oscillating between flustered and frustrated, Yamada’s hands clench and unclench in his lap, seemingly agitated that he can’t use his words. You exhale a long held breath as he pats down his jacket pockets, tongue peeking out the corner of his mouth while he types.

Once he finishes he leans across the gap to offer you the phone. You grip the seat handle and stretch to take it, static zipping down your spine when your fingers brush. Written up on the open notes app is:

Do you want to get off at my stop so I can take you out for coffee? YEAH! or no :-(

You huff a laugh through your nose, bringing the screen close to your front and typing your reply with a furtive glance as if it were a big secret just between the two of you.

YEAH! ✔️ I’d love to.

Yamada peeks at the response and dramatically holds the phone to his heart. This time when the train slows at the familiar stop you stand with him. Close enough to smell his warm scented cologne and leather. Shoulder to shoulder as you wait for the doors to open you feel those lithe fingers extend to brush your own. He doesn’t take your hand but it’s a close thing.

The arm resting a hair's breadth from your lower back guides you onto the platform and through the oncoming influx of passengers to a quieter spot. Alone together you drink each other in. Nervously tugging your sleeve to your wrist, you wet your lips and say, “…Hi”.

Yamada’s eyes squinted under the magnitude of his grin, nose wrinkled enough that his glasses slipped just a fraction. “Hey,” he returns. The low baritone of his voice settles over you like silk and you get the inkling that your life is about to become a little less mundane.

Even then, you’re certain that your favourite part of the day would always be the train journey home.

[god-has-entered-my-body]

Girls Just Wanna Have Fun // Teaser

Stripper! Matty x Corporate! Girlie

content warnings: allusions to smut, just mdni I beg, lingerie, fem matty, vague descriptions of a lap dance

It's like you can see the flashing neon lights vibrating along with the bass, pulsing music making the whiskey in your glass ripple slightly. The crowd is thin, people leaving slowly as the night nears its end. Yet you see the DJ still playing, mixing and grinning wildly as the music makes its way through the room. You watch him for a few minutes, his long blonde hair falling right above his shoulders in loose waves, white shirt clinging to his sweaty chest. 

Your eyes scan the room lazily, taking a sip of your drink, the alcohol burning deliciously on the way down, numbing the constant feeling of stress, even if for only a little while. Purple and pink blurs your vision as you down the rest of the whiskey, running a hand through your let-down hair, unbuttoning one of the buttons of your shirt. 

Preoccupied with looking for a waitress to refill your drink, you don’t even notice the lingering glances from the figure to your right. The clicks of a pair of heels is the first thing you hear, impossibly loud even in the midst of the music, it's all you can focus on. Your eyes wander up his body as he nears you, skin glistening with sweat and glitter, his eyes glinting in the colorful lights of the strip club. 

Raking over his frame, you watch him sway his hips, one hand pushing his hair up, messy curls falling well past his ears, ends dipped in pink dye, mixing wonderfully with the chocolate brown framing his face. You can see a ring in his lip from where you’re sitting, but that isn't what captures your interest. Trailing down, you see a glittery belly button piercing, standing out beautifully against his pale skin. It makes your breath hitch, your knuckles white around your glass. 

Twenty, fifty, hundred dollar bills are held in place by the waistband of his skimpy lace panties, so sheer they leave most nothing to the imagination. Your lips part at the garter belt hugging his body, holding up fishnet stockings you swear you’ve only seen in your dreams, the thin straps of his heels tightly clasped around his ankles. That man was now standing in front of you, lips pouted and a hand on his hip, nails chipped black. 

You can see him more clearly now, bracelets and necklaces covering him, audible whenever he moves, entrancing you fully. Dark blue eyeshadow frames his eyes, now looking down at you from his position between your parted legs, smiling coyly. With your shirt half unbuttoned and untucked, your hair down and refilled whiskey in hand, you eye him up and down for what felt like the fourth time that night, biting your lip when you land on the lace barely covering him.

“Fancy a dance, love?” he speaks, words coated in thick honey, his glossed lips moving in slow-motion as you raise your eyebrows at him, a sly grin tugging at the corners of your mouth. You see him suck in a deep breath as you pretend to ponder, your tongue swiping along your bottom lip for good measure. Nodding slowly, you move your hand away from your lap, freeing up space for him to straddle you, thighs on either side of yours. 

“What’s a pretty thing like you doing alone in a club?” Ha asks, lips pressed so close to your ear you can feel his breath against your skin. He smells like posh cologne, a stark contrast to his otherwise feminine, almost soft appearance. “Work stress, you know how it is.” you mutter, eyes focussed on his chest, transfixed. 

“I don’t, actually.” he giggles, resting his slender fingers on your shoulders. He uses his new position to start grinding down on you, rolling his hips against your body. His movements are fluid, practiced, sure. “Tell me your name, doll.” you half ask, half demand, the lustful look in your eye unmistakable. The curly haired man wraps an arm around the back of your neck, bringing your faces impossibly close, your lips almost touching. 

“Matty. The name’s Matty.”

[manygeese]

chapter 7 ‼️‼️‼️

The park. That was where Leo was going. The park would fix everything. The park was nice. The park would give him some space.

Leo slumped down against a tree, letting his bike rest against the opposite side of the trunk. Ugh, why did he have to yell at Piper like that? She probably thinks he’s mad at her now. Or worse- she might be mad at him. He just made things a hundred times worse for himself.

Leo took out his phone and opened his calls app for the third (or thirtieth) time that day. He clicked on the voicemail tab. The first one at the top was from Piper’s number, which was from only five minutes ago. The second was from a number Leo hadn’t seen in ages.

Leo clicked on the second one, failing to resist temptation.

“Um, hi, Leo. This is Calypso, from high school,” came the familiar voice over the phone. She sounded small.

“It’s been a while, I know, but, um, I just wanted to tell you-” there was a pause, filled by short puffs of breath and accompanied by the thump of her steps- “I’ve finished my studies here in Greece. And I’m coming back home.”

The first time Leo had listened to the voicemail that day, he had dropped his phone when she spoke those words. He had had to play it over, putting himself through torture just by hearing her speak.

“I’ll be back by the holidays. Just thought you should know, yeah?” Calypso continued. She sighed heavily. “We left things off on a bad note.” Understatement. “I understand if you don’t want to talk to me, but I’d like if, maybe, we could be friends. Like back when we were kids. Um, hope you’re doing well, and, uh, have a good day.”

Have a good day. Have a good day. Three years, and that’s what she had to say?

Hey! I’m coming back to our hometown after three years and a traumatic breakup! Anyways, have a good day!

~*~

It was the day before spring break of 7th grade, and Leo was at his best friend (besides Piper, but she didn’t count, she was his sister now) Calypso’s house. Mario Kart songs played in the background as he went to get them both snacks.

“Leo, hurry up, I’m gonna start it if you don’t get back in five…”

Leo snorted. “You’re being silly.”

“Four…”

“Cal, it takes more than five seconds to get you your fix of fruit loops.”

“Three…”

“Cal!”

A large hand rested on his shoulder before Leo could rush back into the living room. “Calypso, you can wait a minute, right?” Mr. Atlas, Calypso’s dad, called from behind him.

A dramatic sigh came from the girl in question. “Fine.”

Mr. Atlas turned Leo to face him, crouching to make eye contact with a fatherly smile plastered on his face. “Listen son, I wanted to talk to you about something.”

Leo nodded, feeling like he couldn’t do anything else.

“I know you have a crush on my girl,” Mr. Atlas said, raising one eyebrow.

Leo blushed. Did he have a crush on Cal? Gosh, that would be embarrassing.

Mr. Atlas chuckled. “Don’t be worried. You’re a good kid, and I think you should go for it.” The man winked, making Leo giggle nervously.

Leo scrambled to explain himself. “That’s nice, Mr. Atlas, but-”

“Are you nervous?” Mr. Atlas laughed and shook his head fondly. “It’s alright, kiddo. I have it on good authority that the feeling’s more than mutual.”

He all but shoved Leo into the living room with one bowl full of wavy chips and another of fruit loops. Mr. Atlas gave him a reassuring pat on the back, sending him stumbling forward. He awkwardly set the bowls down on the table and plopped himself down on the couch.

Calypso didn’t wait a moment before she got a spoonful of fruit loops and shoved it in her mouth. She held it here and pressed the button to start the race, making Leo scramble to pick up his controller again. She laughed and called him a loser, but it came out muffled around the spoon.

“Shut up, Cal. Has anyone ever told you that you suck before?”

There was the crunch of cereal before she responded, “no.”

“You suck.”

“I had a feeling you were going to say that.”

Leo’s character (Daisy, of course) fell off the race track, making him groan in frustration. Calypso laughed at him again in victory as her character (Rosalina, how could she be anyone else) sped towards the finish of the first lap.

“You know, the school dance is next Friday,” Calypso informed after beating him thoroughly at Mario Kart.

“It’s next next Friday, actually,” Leo, ever the contrarian, corrected as he reached for his untouched bowl of wavy chips. Calypso snatched a couple before he could have one. He squawked in mock outrage.

After she had finished cackling, Calypso elaborated. “We should go together.”

Leo normally would have squealed and suggested they bring along Percy, Annabeth, Hazel and Piper, too, but the conversation with Mr. Atlas was fresh in his mind. He stayed quiet, or as quiet as he could while chomping on chips.

“Are you stupid, dude? This is me asking you out,” she chuckled, playfully shoving him, but there was an underlying uncertainty in her tone.

Just to make the vibes less awkward, he stammered “sure.”

~*~

If you were to ask 7th grade Leo what his favorite class was, he’d say lunch. Back in 5th, he would have said recess, just to make whoever was asking laugh.

Lately, lunch meant holding hands with his new girlfriend Calypso. It was a little hard to eat his pizza with one hand, but it was worth it to see the jealous look on Hazel’s face.

“What’s the matter, Haze, you want a girlfriend too?” Leo crooned, making a face at her.

Hazel flushed and crossed her arms. “Leo, shush.”

He answered with obnoxious kissing noises.

“Stop it!”

“Oh come on,” Leo groaned, “just ask Frank out already.”

Hazel turned impossibly more red. “That would be so embarrassing,” she whined.

“Cal asked me out. Not that embarrassing. Probably a solid two out of ten on the shame scale.” Calypso snorted and knocked into him with her shoulder. “Point is, Frank would be jumping for joy in his goofy little clown shoes if you asked him out.”

“Frank does not have goofy little clown shoes.”

“Is that seriously your only takeaway?”

“Oh, hush, lover boy, I’ll handle Frank my own way,” Hazel pouted, getting up from the lunch table and marching over to where Frank was sitting.

“Hell yeah, Haze! That’s my girl! Go get your man!” He hollered. It earned him an angry glare from Hazel and a confused look from Frank. Calypso squeezed his hand, and there weren’t any butterflies in his stomach or anything, but he could pretend.

~*~

It was the midterm season of 11th grade, and Calypso was hanging out at Leo’s house. They were in Leo’s attic bedroom with the door open, Calypso working on homework at his desk and Leo lounging on his bed. He was working on his favorite Rubik’s cube, trying to finish it for what must have been the thirtieth time.

Click clack, click clack, said the Rubik’s cube.

Scribble, scribble, said Calypso’s pencil.

Clatter, clatter, the Rubik’s cube continued.

Snap.

“Could you stop playing with that godforsaken thing for one minute?” Calypso barked, holding a broken pencil. “You know how much I hate that thing! Do you see this? I broke my only pencil because you wouldn’t stop playing with that cube.”

Leo stopped fidgeting with the cube, sitting in stunned silence for a second, which Calypso filled with a tense sigh.

“Thank you,” Calypso snarked, but it felt more like a complaint than a show of gratitude.

Calypso went back to her homework, reading her textbook and making notecards for geography, but she didn’t notice Leo staring at the back of her head.

They hadn’t had a real fight before. Sure, they messed around with each other, but they didn’t fight. Actually, they could go weeks without seeing each other outside of school. They had no classes together, so they just met up in the mornings with their friends and ate lunch together. If they had enough pocket money, they went to football games together on Fridays, and on occasion, they got pizza after school at Town Center. Those outings were far and few between, though. But that was normal for couples, right? They didn’t have to be with each other every second of every day, right?

But they also weren’t supposed to be snapping at each other. Leo knew that for a fact.

“Are you doing okay, Cal?” Leo asked, curious yet cautious, like a baby deer approaching a stranger.

“I’m fine. Just shut up and let me do my work,” Calypso scolded, whipping around in her chair and fixing him with a glare.

Leo recoiled in disgust. Okay, well, two could play that game. “If you’re gonna talk like that, you can get the hell out of my house.”

Calypso snapped her textbook closed with her index cards stuck inside. “Fine. Maybe I will,” she huffed.

“Good!” Leo crossed his arms.

“Good!” Calypso shouted as she stomped down the stairs. “Maybe tomorrow you’ll have stopped being such a stubborn idiot!”

“Maybe tomorrow you’ll have stopped being such a crabby asshole!”

“Language!” Mr. McLean yelled from downstairs. The door slammed and the sound of Calypso’s footfalls ceased.

“Leo, what the fuck was that all about?” Piper demanded, poking her head out of her bedroom door frame.

“Language!” Mr. McLean hollered again. “But yes, son, Piper raises a good point: what on God’s green earth was that?”

~*~

“The most environmentally friendly fossil fuel is natural gas, seeing as it emits much less carbon than sources like coal or oil,” Leo declared, shuffling through his presentation notecards for his college final, “but nuclear energy is the cleanest nonrenewable energy overall. I suggest that we, as a society, invest more in nuclear energy infrastructure instead of fossil fuels…” he trailed off when he looked up.

“Go ahead. Present your project to me,” Calypso had said just half an hour before. “I’ll listen to you and give you feedback.”

But there she was, tapping away on her computer. She wasn’t even looking at him. She had her eyes fixed on the google doc she had open, if the reflection in her blue light glasses was anything to go off of.

“So yeah. Anyways, I think the world should run off of rainbows and unicorns running around in one of those hamster wheels,” Leo snarked, waiting for a reaction.

There wasn’t one.

“What the hell, Cal?” He demanded, throwing his notecards up into the air. It would take forever to clean up, but the disgruntled look on Calypso’s face when one of the cards ended up in her hair made it worth it.

“What the hell yourself. You’re the one throwing a tantrum, genius,” Calypso scoffed.

“You said you would listen,” Leo accused, “but here you are, not paying attention to a single word I say. Literally. Tell me the last thing I said, Cal. Tell me.”

Calypso gritted her teeth, jaw screwed shut so that the probably incorrect answer couldn’t even get through to the open air.

Leo gestured angrily at her, as if her silence proved his point.

“You look stupid, Leo. Maybe if you took this more seriously, I would listen.”

Leo made a series of angry noises before he spat, “do you know how hard I worked to get into this place? I spent my entire senior year working my ass off and slaving away over a textbook just to get into this mediocre college and I have been doing my fucking best. I am taking this shit seriously, man, and if you think I’m not, then you really haven’t been listening.”

“Well, I’m sorry, but if you haven’t noticed, I am also a student. Which means I also have work to do. If I don’t get this rough draft done by Friday, I won’t get my scholarship for my master’s degree-”

“It’s Wednesday.”

“What?”

“It’s Wednesday. Your rough draft is due Friday. Surely you have enough time to listen to a twenty minute presentation, your highness?”

Calypso sighed and rubbed her temples. “Leo, you know how much this means to me. I need this scholarship.”

“You know how much this means to me,” Leo begged, voice breaking embarrassingly around a sob on the last word. “Please, Calypso, just listen to me.”

Calypso shut her computer with a resounding slam. Maybe Leo had left his heart between the screen and the keyboard, judging by the way it was breaking now. She got up without another word and left the dorm, leaving behind a million abandoned notecards and one abandoned boy.

The worst thing was, Leo knew deep down that he’d find his girlfriend at the cafeteria the next morning, pretending like nothing happened and exchanging pleasantries. This had been their fourth fight that week.

~*~

Back in second grade, Leo had been a small boy with a secluded group of friends, also known as a prime target for bullies. Usually, Piper would fight the older kids off for him (she could be an unnerving mixture of convincing and threatening, which she insisted were synonyms), but she was sick that day.

All the bullies would do was shove his face into the wood chips, so he really didn’t need any assistance. He could take it. He was always hungry after lunch, anyway, so even if splinters weren’t very tasty, he appreciated it.

Bryce was in the process of yanking him off of the swings and dragging him over to the playground where his lackeys were waiting when a girl stomped up to them and put her hands on her hips. She cut an intimidating figure for an eight year old.

“Hi,” Bryce muttered, slightly confused, with both hands still tugging on Leo’s ankle. “Um, what do you want?”

“Leave him alone,” the girl ordered. Was she in his class or not? Leo couldn’t seem to remember.

Bryce seemed stunned into silence, which was a nice change of pace, but he quickly found himself again. “Listen, kid, I don’t know who you think you are, but your little stunt isn’t gonna stop me from shoving this nerd’s face in the dirt.”

The girl crossed her arms all sassy-like. “I’ll call the teacher.”

“Oh, shoot.” Bryce looked away and loosened his grip on Leo's leg. “Which teacher?”

“Miss Athena.”

“Oh, shoot.” Bryce dropped Leo’s foot entirely and bolted in the other direction.

The girl smiled, but Leo didn’t quite catch it because his body had gone limp with relief. He let out a loud sigh before sitting back up to thank his savior.

“Thanks for the assist,” he mumbled, rubbing his sore ankle. “Do I know you?”

“No.” The girl tossed her cinnamon colored hair over her shoulder. “You just looked like you could use the help.” She offered a hand to him. “My name’s Calypso.”

“Like the music?” He asked, taking it.

Calypso got a confused look on her face. “What music?”

“Nevermind.” Leo grinned. “I’m Leo. Do you wanna play tag or something?”

Calypso scoffed. She answered by dashing off in the other direction. Laughing, Leo ran after her.

She seemed pretty nice.

~*~

Leo leaned back against the tree, sick and tired of being trapped in his own brain. He had been stuck overanalyzing every interaction he had had with Calypso over the years for… God, had it really been three and a half hours? He must have fallen asleep or something. The sun had set, the tree canopy pitch black besides the beacon of light from the street lamp. Piper must have been really worried, Leo thought, but he couldn’t get his limp legs to stand.

With a sigh, he realized what he had to do.

He had to talk to Calypso.

Calypso was his best friend and simultaneously his worst enemy. He had done so much wrong by her, and she had done so much wrong by him, and they had never apologized for any of it.

And if Calypso, of all people, could give him a second chance- why couldn’t he return the favor?

Opening his dying phone back up, he spent several minutes trying to decide on a message to send her.

“Hi, Calypso. Nice to hear from you again.”

Lie.

“Hi, Calypso. I’d love to meet up with you again.”

Another lie.

“Sounds good.”

Kind of a lie. Should he add “to me” at the end?

“Sure.”

That worked. Yeah, that worked, right? It saved the words for when they actually saw each other again.

God, Piper was right. She was going to make so much fun of him when he got home.

@katiefromcabin7 @iwannascreameurekaa @froglyberrys @justlikearat @existential-life-crisis @jasonisntboring @poppitron360 @erosjournal @ihatenotreading @reggie-the-dyke

[envydean]

For the prompt thing: being caught kissing (destiel :3c)

Destiel | 726 | fluffy coming out to friends 🥰 thanks for the ask!! Kinda inspired by heartstopper but Dean and co are about 18-19 years old.

(AO3)

~~~

It's not a Halloween party, even though Charlie kept saying it was. There are maybe seven of them there, eight when Cas finally rings the doorbell and shows up, settling between Charlie and Jo as the film starts. Dean tries not to feel disheartened that the space he's kept free just for his friend isn't taken up. Instead, Ash shuffles in until they're squashed between the couch and scattered on the floor cushions. A coffee table between them all and the TV is filled to the edges with popcorn, cupcakes and drinks.

Dean had a generous helping of vodka in his first drink while he anxiously hoped and waited for Cas to turn up, but since then has only stuck to soft drinks.

Halfway through their second horror movie, Ash's choice — some awful gorefest that's not scary — Dean hears Cas asking Charlie where the bathroom is.

"I'll show you," Dean chips in, possibly a little too eager but the vodka has left him buzzed.

"Thanks, Dean."

Dean is steady on his feet as he leads Cas out of the living room and up the stairs.

The bathroom door is at the end of the hallway but Dean catches Cas' hand before he reaches it, turning him against the wall.

"Hey," Dean whispers.

"Can I pee first?" Cas asks with a smirk.

Dean lets him go.

They've been dating for a couple of months, stealing kisses where they can and just enjoying spending time together. None of their friends know yet but they all assume Dean's straight anyway, he's going to tell Charlie tonight, then there's no way it'll be a secret.

Cas comes out the bathroom with a gentle smile on his face and he slides back into position against the wall, facing Dean.

"Did you wash your hands?" Dean asks.

Rolling his eyes, Cas answers that he did.

With that Dean laces his hands with Cas' and presses him up against the wall.

It's risky maybe, but they've not seen each other all week and Cas wasn't even sure if his older brother would let him come. So having him here, now, like this is perfect.

Dean captures Cas' lips with his own, biting a little at Cas' bottom lip. Cas grunt's quietly in response and deepens their kiss.

Dean untangles one hand, sliding it up Cas' arm, to his shoulder and then his neck where he tries to pull him in impossibly closer. The slow and sensual has given way to pure desperation and it's so easy to get lost in one another.

"Holy shit!"

They break apart suddenly, chests heaving from both the panic of someone finding them and the amount of effort they were putting in.

Charlie is facing them with her mouth agog in some kind of comic surprise.

"Charlie... I—"

"I knew it!"

Dean glances at Cas and then back to Charlie when he doesn't find any reaction from him. "You knew?"

"How dumb do you think I am?"

Dean's speechless but Cas takes over almost seamlessly.

"We don't think you're dumb. Dean wanted to tell you tonight."

"You've been messing around for months and you're cutesy little hesrt-eyes for each other haven't gone unnoticed."

"You're not mad?" Dean asks finally, squeezing Cas' hand.

"Why would I be mad?"

Dean thinks for a moment, but then shrugs.

"Clearly you are the dumb one, and I say that affectionately," she says. "Anyway, we're ordering pizza in time for the next movie and you were taking too long. Ash wanted to get you a shared Hawaiian."

"He what!?" Dean rages.

He still hasn't let go of Cas' hand when he drags him back down the stairs and demands the meatfeast instead.

"Alrighty, meat-man," Ash teases.

Cas chuckles.

As they all settle back down again, this time with Cas sharing one of the floor cushions with Dean, thet start the last part of the current movie.

"Me and Cas are dating, by the way." Dean makes the announcement at the next quiet part as the characters on the film sneak their way into the woods.

The rest of the group smile and congratulate them on their dating status, it's all genuine and Dean's not sure why he was so worried about it. He's glad it's out now and he and Cas can chill in each others pockets for the rest of the night.

[nightofmiracles]

i almost reblogged the anon confession blog but no i'll just write this on my own space

in theory i agree (re: people not actually caring about Clover as its own character and only in relation to Qrow) but i'm also not really sure people like Qrow either. he's generally seen as a prop in his nieces' lives or as the only S/TRQ member in the main cast they can drag info out of re: Summer (and now that Raven seems to be part of the crew for Vacuo, he's even losing that spot) & when Clover was around him, the interest was in them as a couple but when half of it died then it went back to ignoring him again. yeah he fought against his alcoholism and (seems to be) in a better shape mentally but that's enough reason for most to park him out of sight & out of mind

i always felt/feel great disappointment over how Clover gets completely ignored when talking about James' descent in v8 (like man, if only the general was grieving a friend on top of everything else and didn't have anybody to share that with, so he'd just press on and make everything even worse. not like we saw that specifically with Ren and the AOs' emotions. not like Ir/onwood would be having that whole ordeal by himself as well, mirrored by Qrow in his jail cell. wouldn't that be nuts. anyway) or taking Harriet's words, a grieving colleague, as 100% accurate and not biased over how Clover would have handled the order to bomb a whole town

imo there's a lot of shit one could think through when it comes to Clover, but, like Summer, we mostly know him through what others saw in him (a loyal soldier, a lucky Huntsman) and very little is told about what he truly believes in, except in a few flashes he let slip out in some moments

like the last time the AOs saw him alive, it was when he was giving a speech to the main teams that the main focus of their mission was the evacuation of the civillians over the killing of Grimm. he took the time to make that crystal clear. & when talking privately to Qrow in the truck scene a few chapters earlier, he brings up how he believes it's their duty to leave a better world to the next generations. so how do you associate him with being fine over the threat of killing tons of people as a bargaining chip to guilt trip Penny into opening the vault to get the Staff, except by completely ignoring the clues the show gave where, in fact, this would sound like the absolute nonsense it actually is?

so people just don't even bother giving him any grace, which then just goes back to either ignoring him for shipping reasons (like if he is "in the way" of Qrow with someone else) or propping him up also for shipping reasons, thus cutting him off from the rest of the cast

in v9 he was there as a "ghost" that haunted Ruby. in AF he was a firm and kind guide for the main team as a whole. he's a good man that let himself be a cog in the machine that was Atlas and turned his back to his own feelings, for loyalty, not being able to escape the chains that tethered him until it was too late. main problem is seeing his death as the ultimate end of his arc. because that's really, really, really not the case

a character like him has a lot that he can do, a lot that he can learn, a lot that he can teach. connections he can establish again, and new people he can confront and interact with to make the world a better place. because to think that the betterment of Remnant rests only on the shoulders of four (eight, if you count the second team) teens is madness & unattainable. the old guard has to change too. and he's a very good example of how a small drop can cause ripples, that grow into bigger waves, and so on

[theuntoldoriginsoftheportmafia]

Part Ⅰ The War - Chapter 4.1

⚐ The End of The Great War ⚐

2,316 Words

~ Three weeks later ~ 

Fukuzawa and Mori sit at a tall, chipped wooden table looking over a map of the battlegrounds. The improvised base they're in is, in actuality, nothing more than a glorified tent. But it hardly matters as they prepare the ambush.

"Wouldn't it be amazing if there was some way we could take the guilt off the soldier's shoulder, to make them fight harder?" Fukuzawa muses that he feels less guilt than he should and scolds himself for trying to find ways to eradicate it.

"Money and bribes have done little in the way of removing guilt. Soldiers will be human. There is no way around it other than to make ourselves as inhuman as possible."

"Yes, but what if there was? If there was something, say giving them amnesia, or even controlling them, taking away the choice and thus the guilt. If someone is controlling them they will cease to blame themselves and blame the person above, as they should. It is politicians and officials that make the war go round after all."

Mori chuckles at his partner's far-out ideas. He agrees with him but knows there's no hope of achieving such a thing. "Mind control? It's an excellent idea, creating one order where everyone is following the same orders and knows what to do would remove the chaos of war. But how would you propose to do that, unless, of course, we find an ability user capable of mind control."

Fukuzawa is about to answer when the strike happens.

An enemy bomb hurtles into the improvised base.

Fukuzawa is thrown across the space, flung away from Mori. If nature had its way his course would have led him to land directly on the spike securing the tent to the earth. But something changes, he feels he's almost being lifted as he's brought, albeit a little roughly to the ground.

The cement blocks around the base of the tent have been tossed up into the air by the bomb's force. Fukuzawa can see the grey cube coming closer.

But strangely enough, it doesn't hit him. It's not a miracle, there isn't a divine thing about it. A young blond girl stands in front of Fukuzawa, blocking large debris from further wounding him, with her own hands, and yet she seems unharmed. Her silver butterfly clip gleams. Elise . . . the small girl who was supposed to be back at the barracks.

At the sight of her one thought fills him: 'Where is her father? Where is her father? Where is Mori? And Where is Akiko?'

Sore and aching, he lies there while the dust settles, and through the clearing dust a man walks over to him, ruby eyes still shining. 

Elise returns, dutifully, to Mori's side as he kneels beside Fukuzawa, helping to his feet. The older man staggers, dazed and dizzy, a myriad of slices, deep and shallow alike, all over his body from his path through the air. He stumbles, Mori, supporting most of his weight.

'If I had been a second slower . . .' Mori shivers at the thought.

"I'm tired." Fukuzawa slurs, "End this war, Ougai. Let's just go home."

Mori's step falters at the sound of his given name.

'It means nothing, he'll forget all this before we're back to the barracks.'

But it means everything to Mori, his stomach twists uncomfortably at seeing Fukuzawa in pain. However, it's better than the thought of losing his only friend.

-

Back at the barracks Fukuzawa is kept barely conscious by Mori in the medical bay. the young doctor is shaken, it's the first time Akiko has seen him look like this. No longer confident of things going to plan. Worried, scared, and not for himself but for someone else. She wonders about the two older men but does not let herself think too much. She has bigger things to worry about

"Can't I just heal him?"

Mori looks at his wounded partner and shakes his head, Fukuzawa's words about the officials echoing in his mind. The sight of Fukuzawa, still and bloodied in the hospital bed stirs something in Mori. How had he allowed someone so close, so important to him, to the war effort, to be hurt? 

No one is winning here.

This war has gone on long enough. Mori knows what needs to be done to end it.

"No! What do you mean no? Do you want him to die or something? If you do, I'll heal him myself and he'll cut you to itty bitty pieces."

"Be calm. His injuries are minor, he will be fine with standard treatment, and there's no need for him to be cut apart further. Now fetch me my surgical supplies and I will stitch him myself."

Akiko stays for a moment, surprised, then dashes off, quick to return with the few remaining supplies. After she'd arrived the officials, knowing they were no longer needed, let the surgical supplies run out and didn't refill them.

"Thank you, Akiko. Go and rest."

She takes the hint.

Meanwhile, Fukuzawa's eyes are fluttering closed. "Stay awake, you may have a concussion."

"Your daughter!" Fukuzawa bolts upright, then hisses in pain, blood seeping out of his wounds.

"She is fine, now stay still or you'll worsen your injuries." In his fear, Mori has returned to his cold demeanour. Fukuzawa notices, and notices the tension in his shoulders.

He stills himself, "Akiko is not going to heal me?" he's relieved, but confused.

"No, I'm having you returned to the mainland. We've implemented all the strategies we can. There is no other course or ideas to be had, no reason for you to stay here. You can go home." 

Fukuzawa's hands search for his sword, unsatisfied when he doesn't find it.

Mori nods to the broken Katana, pieces laid out on a folding chair. Both men sigh.

Defeat. The worst kind of defeat, when you've been beaten but still are forced to carry on.

"There are cuts and slashes all over your body. I'll start with your arm, you can roll up your sleeve, but it would be easier if you would simply remove your shirt." The statement is factual but for some reason, it makes Fukuzawa more alert, he nods.

"Ah, right." Slowly he tries removing the torn, blood-stained shirt, but the pain is too much.

Wordlessly, Mori helps him, cringing when he sees the cuts covering the older man's chest.

'Even all cut up like this, he' maintains his good looks. I'm sure he'll find a wonderful wife when this is all over. . . . I will most likely never see him again, and I shall be glad for him, yes. I will.' Mori shakes the thought away.

"There are more cuts than I thought. Most can be cleaned and bandaged, but I'll need to stitch a few."

Fukuzawa nods, gritting his teeth as Mori begins applying disinfectant. "What about Elise, she's really alright?"

Mori knows he must tell him. "Yes, Elise is fine."

"How? How did she even get there?"

"Because . . . I summoned her."

"Summoned?"

"Yes. Elise is . . . not my daughter. She is the manifestation of my ability, an offensive and defensive one. She saved you because I made her incorporeal and summoned her."

'So I was saved because of his reflexes. I owe him my morality and now my life. The one thing I could give back to him he'd hardly want. What am I going to do?' Fukuzawa sighs, not displeased with his situation.

"Why . . . is she a little girl, if I may ask?"

Mori closes his eyes, he doesn't need them open to do the work he's so familiar with. Behind his eyelids are memories of simpler times. " . . . She takes the form of my younger sister. She died when we were young."

"How?" Fukuzawa regrets the question as soon as it leaves his mouth but he would like a distraction. 

"She was playing catch with some of her friends. I was on the balcony watching over them. The ball rolled into a dark alley. She was always braver than I was. She was so young she did not yet know to fear the dark. She chased after her ball, not knowing there was a gang deal going on. The criminals must've turned on each other, and then they started shooting. She was caught in the crossfire. I miss her dearly. Her carefree, emotional spirit was something I've always admired. I want it for myself, but instead, I've doomed myself to a life of logic. So I keep her with me to remind me of what it is to be human and why I myself must remain logical so I can direct and lead others."

Fukuzawa is completely still at this, barely feeling the needle as Mori works.

'That explains it then, why she's so mature and aloof. He made her an adult in a child's body, a version of his sister he knows won't be hurt.'

"I'm so sorry."

"Everyone is. My mother always wanted a girl, you see. She was devastated after Elise's death. I just felt . . . numb, and it was easier to keep feeling that way."

'But when I'm with you, everything feels so real, so beautiful, all this war and destruction. I can see beauty in the blackness, so real, and it's like a drug to me.' Mori says none of this to Fukuzawa, instead continuing to stitch in silence.

When every wound has been cleaned and stitched Fukuzawa looks like a child's old doll. Stitches on every limb. Mori bandages the cuts until he looks more mummy than a man.

Bandages are at the centre of this story.

Two government agents dress cuts from their latest mission. They will go on leave soon so the wife can have her first child. 

A 13-year-old bandages his wrist with a splint, sore and strained from honing his assassination skills.

A 12-year-old gets his scuffed knee bandaged by his father, a famous detective who does so while telling him all about blood spatters at crime scenes.

An 11-year-old girl with red hair contracts her ability to help wrap her right foot in bandages to play the part of an injured girl in a play.

A 9-year-old bandages his shin where another child in his school kicked him to the ground. He regrets going out and is afraid to leave his house again, but he has not yet given up completely.

Somewhere back on the mainland, a 4-year-old boy wraps himself almost completely in bandages to hide his already too numerous scars. 

Another 4-year-old is bound by bandages holding electrodes on his body as scientists poke and prod him. Who am I? Where am I? Why? He wonders, and an ancient voice whispers answers back to him. He is too young to understand it. He won't remember this later.

Yet another 4-year-old has his hands bandaged by his mother because he wouldn't stop scratching them, frustrated that he can't write like the other children.

A black and white-haired 2-year-old is rocked to sleep beside his infant sister, by his uncle who carries a shotgun in case ability traffickers or the police try to come for the two young children. The boy dreams of his mother dancing in sunflower fields.

Another 2-year-old sits in a rickety moth eaten crib and cries over his parents whose faces he can't clearly picture. Unbeknownst to him, there is a beast inside, a beast made of not one ability, but two. The last gifts his parents could give him.

For these children, the war must end.

Neither Mori nor Fukuzawa know any of these children yet, but they know the war has carried on for far too long.

When it's determined he has no concussion Fukuzawa is allowed to sleep. 

"Good luck, Yukichi" and Mori allows himself the shortest of kisses on the man's forehead.

-

Fukuzawa is sent to a hospital on the mainland where he spends the rest of the month recovering. When he is well enough to move comfortably he visits the children's ward and helps the nurses read them stories.

"Orphans of the war." a kind nurse tells him, "We work with the church to try to keep as many as we can but some end up in other seedier facilities."

Fukuzawa's most constant companion though, is a calico cat. A male calico, which makes him even more rare. The cat, Fukuzawa notes, seems oddly intelligent. But he's glad to have the furry companion.

-

Back on Tokoyami Island, Mori has had enough. Enough nights of Akiko's tears and soldiers trying to die so they don't have to return to the battle. He forms a plan for surrender. It's a good plan, an elegant plan. The officials are hearing none of it. 

"The immortal regimen is working, why quit now?"

"Can't you see?" he asks, "We are getting nowhere."

They reject his proposal. 

-

As the month ends Fukuzawa grows restless. There is only one way to end this war. He knows what must be done.

On the first morning of the new month, he discharges himself, giving a last head pat to his furry friend, and heading out.

With his back to the rising sun, he heads to the government building.

-

In two weeks he knows every one of their schedules by heart.

And one by one he slays them, disappearing in the fall fog before anyone knows they're dead. And he remembers the thrill of the blade, once again. 

When the news breaks from official after official falling dead no one suspects the kindly gentleman in the blue haori. Why should they?

-

Well, to say no one would be incorrect, there is one man, a simple army surgeon, who knows the truth.

When the news reaches Tokoyami a week after the killings begin, Mori knows exactly who is responsible. But he says nothing. And he thinks that Akiko knows as well, but she makes no mention of it. This is how she gets to go home.

When the last key official and their backer fall, the superiors, with no one to take orders from, are forced to surrender, recalling what few troops are left.

The war is over.

They can all go home, Mori, Akiko, . . . and Fukuchi. But Fukuchi will never truly leave the battlefield.

[hxdonist]

.::. WHAT WAS CONSUMED OF ME? .::. cyberware.txt

Playing too free and loose with the net has its pitfalls, and Ikarus is well aware of them. Given his first neural uplink in a shady operation at little more than fifteen years old, his still-growing body regularly experienced damage from the electrical impulses often deployed against those picking around where they don't belong- and mental strain endured while netrunning, a close call frying the connections between his mind and his own right hand in his late teens- it was on his mother's recommendation that he replaced it, instead of seeking therapy or perhaps retiring for a short time from his dives into the depths of code for a time to let those connections slowly filter back in.

An Ichibangase/Eisher produced implant Ikarus' right arm is top of the line- installed in his teens and upgraded as Ikarus himself grew into a man, it's been largely the same since his youth, with exception of additional, improved weapon suites and stealth modifications made after-market to ensure that he is never left unarmed so to speak. Bearing pointed, razor-sharp claws cleverly hidden in the paneling of his more 'human' hand, the points remain precise and capable, able to manipulate even the smallest computer chips even with them exposed- though given their lack of sensation- Ikarus tends to prefer to use the touch-feedback sensitive fingers of the 'standard' hand. The flowing arcs of red light and electricity that shift like muscles beneath a hard outer shell are the single indication that the implant contains a railgun- grounded through the additional metal implanted within Ikarus' body after years of net diving, it can muster exactly five high powered, nigh-unstoppable by anything short of electromagnetic shielding shots before requiring a relatively lengthy recharge period of 30 minutes for an additional round, unless overclocked to strip power from elsewhere in his body.

His interfaces are more difficult to place, and are only at their most obvious when under the guise of 1NF1N1T3FUN, a helmet aping the image of a fox's head and face with projectors to display eight eyes over its scrawny, seemingly rotting visage, this headware is intended to mitigate and lighten the load he takes on while in the chair, and hide his identity in holos put out with NANO ZILLA's demands, or ransoms over information. lit in a harsh red and machined to match perfectly with his already installed port and the pre-existing damage to his body, it is comfortable enough to remain hidden beneath as long as he might require it- as only those who have earned his trust in his crew have seen him without it.

all internal interfaces, however, are starting to show their age. the operation to install his neural port was botched- 'overclocking' his connections if he's not careful- or mitigating with his helmet when wired in, he risks the loss of more than just his neck-to-right-shoulder connection- that expanse of his upper body- and some of his back and spine- mapped in sprawling carbon, chrome, and dancing red electricity. This too, is a secret, regularly wearing turtlenecks and long-sleeves to hide the bulk of his damage, in an effort to avoid looking weak, or perhaps, worrying his people. His on-board chipset, used for on-the fly hacking, scanning, and day-to-day business a phone might have previously filled the space of is a decidedly early model, jailbroken and regularly updated with the required work-arounds for modern technology- it works slowly, but effectively- many chromed-up cowboys unable to give chase as Ikarus makes a slow, lazy retreat unfettered by smart weapons or speed-enhanced limbs, quieted by anesthesia in code. . .

[sam-glade]

Find the Words Tag

Tagged by the incredible @iced-ginger-tea here @charlesjosephwrites here. Thank you💜

I'll pass it gently onto: @void-botanist @sarahlizziewrites @sunset-a-story. Your words are: lonely, silent, happy, sad.

From @iced-ginger-tea daylight, cheer, sunset, dress

DAYLIGHT ❌ I'll look for: SUNLIGHT

The woods were dense. There was something growing in every available bit of space. The largest trees - oaks and ashes - were so large that five men would have trouble joining hands when standing around them. Moss covered every last bit of their bark. Between them younger trees and bushes formed the understory, birches, silver firs, hornbeams, aspens… Below them, ferns created a dense layer, mixed with various berry bushes. Clumps of hazels stuck out in places. Closer to the fallen tree Lissan could see patches of the forest floor, with snake grass, blooming violets, and colourful mushrooms. Everything was growing, fighting for space and sunlight.

CHEER

Katya the Catnip crept up on him like a cat. He turned to face her, forcing a smile. He felt drained.

She looked like he remembered her - short and a little chubby, with a mop of very curly auburn hair surrounding a round bronze face. She grinned at him. One of her upper front teeth was chipped; that was new.

“A little birdie told me that you need someone to cheer you up,” she said as a greeting.

“I’m pretty sure it was a squirrel,” Lissan retorted, shaking her wrist.

SUNSET

Nikols wielded a Djerid, a short javelin-like weapon, more popular across the Sunset Strait, kept in a quiver at his hip. Ianim supposed that at a distance it could be mistaken for a fanciful sheath for a short sword, but he knew the truth.

DRESS

Reinforcements came in the form of Artio and his Bear. The Colonel of the Heavy Infantry was in dress uniform and clean shaven, having come straight from the parade. The Bear's fur was brushed, although it was now covered in black ash. That was still the neatest the Lissan had seen them.

~*~

From @charlesjosephwrites thought, find, paper, light, and reach

THOUGHT (a little longer, but so worth it)

“Master Lissander, this was not Leshy. This was a creature known to charm people and lead them to their death,” Claren pointed out with exasperation. "Surely you know that nymphs take on the most alluring forms…"

"Master Claren. If she really wanted to charm me, she would take on a man's form.”

"…Oh."

Lissan frowned at him, going over the encounter in his head. Master Claren chased the nymph away only once Lissan started asking for details, but he looked wary from the beginning. Not charmed.

"It didn't look like it worked on you either, Master Claren," Lissan observed carefully.  

"I do not believe that there is a form a nymph can take that would charm me," the teacher informed him, now calm and focused.

Oh, Lissan's thoughts echoed Claren's reaction.

FIND (talking about Lissan, of course)

“You mean to tell me that there is a thing he can find intimidating about a person?” Ianim said with a hint of amusement.

Claren laughed and quipped lightly:

“I merely suggested that he has more tact than you give him credit for, Princekin.”

PAPER

“Lissan?” A hand on his shoulder stopped him. “What are you doing here?”

He blinked a few times before turning to face Gullin. Gullin looked tired and in a rush. He was holding a thin paper folder in his other hand, clearly on the way to the upstairs offices. Lissan bit his lip, reminding himself that the Lieutenant General was on duty and very busy. Anthea’s voice echoed in his head. A mature person does not allow emotions to interfere with their duty.

He should tell Gullin that he was on his way out and that Gullin didn’t need to worry about him, but no words could squeeze through his clenched throat.

LIGHT (FYI, 100 occurrences in Gifts of Fate, 154 in The Prince's Shadow, 155 in Prodigal Children, excluding 'lightly' or 'lighter')

Not a minute later Anthea climbed the stairs to the gallery, Mikkel following a few steps behind her. He took the bay nearest the stairs, sitting with his back towards Erya and sipping red wine in silence. Anthea stopped in front of the spymaster.

Erya stared. Without the crowd and all other sorts of distractions, she could finally appreciate how breathtaking Anthea looked that evening, in the wine-red dress with silver embroidery, with a sabre and her Sword in matching scabbards at her side, with her braids coiled at the back of her head in complex patterns. In the dim light, she seemed more like a nymph or an apparition, too beautiful.

REACH

With an angry sigh, he returned to his chore. He did his best to concentrate on chopping wood. The axe felt primitive and soulless. Dead. It wasn’t a weapon, just a tool. He swung it again and watched two pieces of wood fall off a stump. Lifeless.

His Sword lay safe near his bunk, in the room he shared with Marta. He tended to leave it there when he was working around the household. He reached out to it with his thoughts, and the spirit of the blade stirred. The large She-Wolf appeared to be napping. She did it a lot recently, while he couldn’t sit still.

[mlobsters]

supernatural s14e15 peace of mind (story: meghan fitzmartin, steve yockey; teleplay: meghan fitzmartin)

what in the riverdale is going on in this opening

JACK You want to know how much of my soul I had to burn off to kill Michael. CASTIEL Yes. JACK I don't know. I try not to think about it.

well cas has this fun and painful method just jamming his hand up in your chest cavity and we can find out

guess we're picking the rando au people we didn't know except kinda maggie for sam to be traumatized over (my long held irritation over no mystery spot trauma rears its ugly head :p but it's only just gotten way worse over the years) way back when they used to follow those things through pretty regularly

so sam's running off to the riverdale hunt because he can't stand to not be busy

CASTIEL You were right. Jack is struggling. And I've tried, but -- DEAN Why do you think he'll talk to me? CASTIEL Well, because he looks up to you. And his soul -- I mean, you've seen this before. DEAN No, no. No. See, I was -- I was not great with Sam, you know, when he was uh... CASTIEL But Jack's soul isn't completely gone. At least I don't think so. W-We just don't know how much is left. DEAN Well, how am I supposed to figure that out? CASTIEL I don't know! Just talk to him. Get him to open up. And then sleep until the cows come home.

the stuffed face eyeroll :p i know it's part of his schtick but i hate the massive bites thing.

literally the most impractical cars they could pick for traveling cross country for hunts. old fucking american cars. sure to break down constantly and consume staggering amounts of fuel

SAM I'm good. I'm good, honestly. CASTIEL Yeah, I know. Everybody's good. But after this, maybe Dean's right. You need to rest. SAM Can't.Just because I'm tired doesn't mean the monsters are gonna stop, you know? Doesn't mean anything. Plus we don't have as many Hunters as we used to.

a) love to see the snark from cas b) that is the LAMEST excuse because they had this surplus of hunters for what.. a handful of months at most? i don't even know. NOT VERY LONG.

CASTIEL Yeah. It's like we're stepping into a Saturday Evening Post. I look at them sometimes after you fall asleep at night. They're very soothing.

do they have a stockpile in the bunker of them? is he reading them on the internet? so many questions. and reminder of the weirdness of him never sleeping

is the free milkshake gonna put the 50s whammy on sam?

CASTIEL Oh, no. His head exploded. CHIP I'm sorry! CASTIEL Like a ripe melon on the sun.

occasionally the way they do his social obliviousness does hit for me

SAM Passionate how? CASTIEL She spends, uh, quite a bit of time talking about the -- the shape and the heft of his --

LOL ok

guess we're going with clueless!dean dealing with the maybe-soulless!jack. hokay. the stilted attempt at bonding over the snake, the ... test of angel food or devil's food snack cakes...

MS DOWLING Oh. The very nice, the very tall fella? CASTIEL Yes.

LOL cas in a huff over the lady being charmed by sam. and the milkshake lady too. yes, looking for the very tall man 🙄

good "does not compute" face from cas

JACK I don't know. I know I don't feel nothing, but I don't feel the same, either. And maybe I just don't know what nothing feels like. Mostly, I just don't want Sam and Dean and Cass to worry. DONATELLO They're your family. Families worry. JACK But I just -- I need time and space to figure things out on my own, but everywhere I go, there's someone looking over my shoulder. DONATELLO Ah. When I need to, uh, "blend," I ask myself, "What would Mr. Rogers do?" JACK Who's Mr…. DONATELLO Rogers? The best man I know. Sam and Dean are the best men I know.So, ergo, whenever you don't want them to worry, just think "WWWD" -- "What Would the Winchesters Do?" JACK I can do that.

reminds me a bit of amos in the expanse, knows he doesn't have a good moral compass so naomi is often is his. ps you should watch this show. it's so, so good.

the expanse s1e2 AMOS Ask me whether or not I should rip your helmet off and kick you off this bucket, and I couldn't give you a reason why I should or shouldn't. Except Naomi wouldn't like it.

--

DEAN So he's not like you? DONATELLO Oh, no. I'm a Prophet of the Lord, but he -- Jack's probably the most powerful being in the universe. I mean, really, who knows what's going on inside his head?

like okay so we're regressing to dean being freaked out over jack's powers now i guess, with the questionable morality. but also, surely jack can't be more powerful than the most juiced up god? why didn't archangels go around making little stronger-than-god creatures before

CHIP What, did you think it was the milkshakes?

well, they got me too. still unclear what this dude's deal is even after that long speech

CASTIEL Sam, I know you want to be happy. And I know what it's like to lose your army. I know what it's like to fail as a leader, Sam. But you can't lose yourself. You have to keep fighting. You can't lose yourself, because if you do, you fail us. You fail all of those that we've lost. You fail Jack. Sam, you fail Dean.

said the magic word to wake him up. can't let dean down

DEAN Heard you wore a cardigan. CASTIEL Yeah, I told him about the cardigan. SAM Great. Thanks. DEAN And the wife. He said you were, uh, really happy. SAM Thanks.

i would like to imagine this taking place as texting with pictures

DEAN Really happy, huh? SAM I mean, I guess I was happy, but… It wasn't real, you know? Just… DEAN Well, not a lot of happy goin' on around here. SAM I hate this place right now. I hate it. Everywhere I look, I see them. I see Maggie. I guess that's why, uh -- why I was so desperate to get out of here, why I kept running us ragged. But I got to stop that. I-I can't keep running. I -- This is my home. This is our home. Dean, I think I just need some time. DEAN Okay.

just give him a hug, dean. bah. shoulder pat and walking away, lame. anyway, good on you, sam! telling him straight up why you're struggling. kinda would like to see a little more support other than the immediately complying with the need for time/space from dean, but ok.

JACK Cas says you miss your friend. You need help. Sam and Dean would help you, so -- so I'll help you. I'll help you see your friend again. In Heaven.

lol great great. and cas got to see it.

[sinknighteye]

I mean it's a funny joke, but I think you've got to look past the mere designs and at at the character Jak became and how he contrasts to Ratchet.

Ratchet in the first game is a scruffy little teen stuck in his shitty small town with a chip on his shoulder, but in space so the town is a planet and he's a furry critter. He's got good vibes but can hold a grudge and has some ideas he hasn't really challenged, but push him to choose right or wrong and ultimately he chooses right, becomes a better man, and steps into a role of being an uplifting and bright-eyed hero.

Jak has basically zero characterization in his first game, his literal first words are in the sequel. Those first words are, to be clear, "I'm gonna kill [Baron] Praxis!", after Jak goes from his chill island home of the first game to a ruined dieselpunk urban hellscape and gets experimented on for an extended period of time. He comes out of that with a ton of anger that he has to work his way through, in part by accomplishing his revenge and still having to live on the other side of it. The time where Jak is an actual character and not a funny little guy consist of Jak growing from kind of an edgelord into a stern heroic figure, a man who's seen what darkness can do to you and knows the hard, long walk to get back from that brink.

They're two very different vibes, and just letting yourself focus on them both being vaguely furry mascots from the PS2 era (sometimes with guns) is missing the trees for the presence of leaves.

People who weren't gaming in the early 2000s sometimes have difficulty telling the Ratchet & Clank and Jak and Daxter franchises apart, but it's actually very simple: Ratchet is the creature you end up with when a furry can't decide what species they want their fursona to be, and Jak is what you get if you take this creature and shave it.

[mymarblesaregone]

Click.

This is a short story I wrote when I was still in high school. I'd love to hear some feedback on it. TW: violence, implied suicide, drug use, alcohol,

Tim,

I just heard about your new job. I really hope it works out, you deserve a win after all that bullshit with she-who-will-not-be-named. I still can’t believe what I heard but I agree, moving out to Cali is definitely the best choice. Well, I’m leaving for open water later this month so let me know if you’re not busy. Maybe we can set something up before I go. And Tim, try not to dwell on the past too much. I know what he did was terrible but you gotta move on.

Rooting for you bro,

Anders

I want to start off by saying that it wasn’t my fault. No matter what the cops say. I know you’ve seen the news. I want it to be clear that I have no idea what anyone is talking about. I’ve made mistakes but who hasn’t? I was tired. I’m always tired. But that doesn’t matter now. All that matters is what’s happening now. I’m in a new state, and I can finally get my fresh start. All my problems can finally just go away, while I-

“Hey, you okay?” 

I snap back to reality as the checkout clerk taps me on the shoulder. He’s a small kid, not much of a presence, probably a few years out of high school. I was that young once, wasn’t I? It feels like a million years since then.

Yeah, I just spaced out. I reply, trying to keep an air of confidence. For whatever reason, this kid unnerves me. Maybe it’s something to do with his face. He has such a tired face for a kid, like he had already been through sixty years of heartache and exhaustion. It’s all wrong, he must have stolen that look, that face. I wouldn’t be surprised if I walked outside to find a seventy year old investment banker with a blank skull lying on the curb. I hate it. I can feel those tired eyes judging me, judging the variety of sleeping pills and chips I drop on the counter. It brings back some memories I’d rather not think about again.  I pay for my crap and leave.

Walking through the streets of suburbia in the middle of the night used to calm me down, back when I came here as a kid. It was an escape from the busy streets and problems of the city. Well, I guess it still is. That’s probably why I’m here now. Maybe I should revisit some memories. I call a cab. It’s not ideal but it’s the only way to get around out here without my own car. If I remember right, I have about twenty minutes. Waiting around outside isn’t too bad on an autumn night I guess. Who am I kidding, yes it is. I claw open a bottle of pills. I don’t care which ones, I just need something to take the edge off. 

Click.

Swallow. 

Sigh.

That’s better. I think I need a drink. I have time, all the cab drivers are either drunk or asleep at this time of night.  I stumble over to a nearby club, the pills kicking in. The bouncer is busy dealing with some junkie on the street so I sneak in. I hear blows land behind me as I walk through the door. Ugh. I have such a headache. I sit down and rest my head on the bar.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” The bartender looms above me, a towering example of someone who peaked in junior year of high school. I’m guessing football team. Not a quarterback, his arms were too evenly toned. No, the broad shoulders, beady little eyes, and an unearned sense of pride give him away. Second string linebacker. Just close enough to glory to hang out with the popular guys on the team but not enough to get the cheerleaders. His cut-up tee stretched around his ostentatious biceps. I don’t need this. 

“I said, what the hell do you think you’re doing?” he growls at me. Not wanting a fight, I get up and walk away, ignoring his yells as I leave. Waiting outside, I hear the sounds of a fight inside. Smashed glass, banging on wood, a chair breaking over someone’s back, a skull busting through a jukebox. What kind of bar still has a jukebox? After about twenty minutes, a man taps my shoulder.

“Lookin’ for a ride?” His gruff voice seems familiar but I just can’t place it. Maybe it reminds me of my dad. Or at least someone’s dad.

“What’s your name?”

I tell him my name is Martin. It’s not, but he doesn’t need to know that.

“Well, I’m Rever. Want to do something fun?”

When you’re in a bad place, you make bad decisions, and there are few worse places than some random guy’s apartment at three in the morning. Nothing good happens when you’re sleep-deprived. I wake up in his bedroom, inside a dilapidated old apartment. Vague memories of climbing a gate and breaking a lock come back to me. Flashes of the gas station and that kid. Why did Rever need to break into his own apartment? Is it his apartment? It’s been a day, no, three? Who knows? Time has felt fake since I left Pennsylvania. My head is still pounding. 

“Let’s get some breakfast, eh?” That same gruff voice from last night pulls me back from inside my head. “I know a place.”

The place turned out to be a piece-of-crap diner on the west side of town. It seemed familiar, maybe I came here as a kid. We grab a booth in a corner, overlooking the river running through the city. I ask for eggs and a coffee, the waitress ignores Rever, as if she knows who he is already. Knows what he is.

“So what’s a loner like you doing in a place like this?”

I didn’t answer. How could I answer when I didn’t know?

“Alright, keep your secrets.” I chuckle a bit at the outdated reference, just so she drops the subject. We finish our food, chatting about how awful it is the whole time. I guess Rever is capable of small talk. Why do people do things they know will be terrible? We force ourselves to go to the same terrible diners, the same terrible jobs, the same terrible people, all to die one day. What’s the point? To consume media and products until we die? What kind of life is that?

The next week is a blur of people, drugs, and Rever. How many days have passed? I wake up. I eat. I go out. I black out. Rinse. Repeat. Only two things stay constant. Rever, and my splitting headache. I do anything I can to dull the pain but it’s all temporary. I’m falling deeper and deeper and there’s no one to catch me.

I’m alone.

I miss Tim.

But I’m not alone. Rever is there. Pulling me deeper. Pulling me off the edge. He doesn’t care. He stays cold. But he keeps the pain away, even if it’s only temporary, like a band-aid and a lollipop for a bullet wound. 

A good distraction.

He invites me out. A party, kind of. A bar, drinks, blacking out again.

I wake up in Rever’s apartment. Something is wrong. He’s nowhere to be found. In his place is a strange man lying in the bed beside me. He looks familiar.

It’s the boy from the gas station.

Rever appears through the broken door. He motions for me to keep quiet and points at the man. I finally notice the slight red tinge spreading through the sheets. I would’ve screamed a month ago. Now, I barely blink. Rever is no stranger to inviting strangers home only for them to have an “accident.” This is definitely the most brutal though. And he looks so much like Tim, more than the rest. I stand up, mildly phased but really just thinking.

Great. I have to run again.

Next thing I know, Rever and I are flying down I-84 in a stolen pickup truck. The truck picks up more and more speed and Rever’s face cracks into a disturbing grin. His eyes close and his hands drop off the wheel. It’s not the first time someone has done something like this to me. I know what to do.

Tuck and roll.

Aim for grass.

Protect your neck.

Luckily, Rever drifts to the right when he’s high, just like I do. Peeling myself off the grass, I stumble off into the distance. I hear the truck slam into a lamppost or a tree. Something tall. I might as well just turn myself in now. Hell, Rever is the one who killed the guy, I’ll be fine. A state trooper department appears in front of me, like some boot-licker made a wish on a shooting star. Walking in, I get a few stares. I am covered in blood and bruises after all. I give my name to a receptionist. After typing my name into her computer, her face goes pale. She makes a call and about twenty officers burst into the room pointing weapons at my face.

I don’t even blink.

Why should I?

I’m dragged into an interrogation room. A million questions are asked. I don’t know the answers. I wouldn’t tell them if I did. They tell me if I cooperate they’ll reduce my sentence. Otherwise they can’t help me. They found my fingerprints. They had CCTV footage. It all blends together. They call me a junkie, a drunk. That’s fair. They call me reckless. Also fair. They called me a murderer. A serial killer. That caught me off guard. I didn’t kill anyone. I’ve never even hurt a fly. Charges are hurled like stones at my face. There are pictures, security tapes.

An injured bouncer, lying on the ground. 

I place my hand on the black eye I’ve had for a week.

A man is thrown into a jukebox while another swings a chair.

The deep cuts in my back flare to life.

Breaking and entering. Climbing in through the window. Alone. 

Bruises on my legs and arms start throbbing.

Murder. 

My head is screaming.

Murder.

No.

Murder.

I refuse, I can’t accept this.

It hurts.

 The trial is quick. I don’t even ask for a lawyer. The jury looks disgusted while the charges are read. I don’t care. Why should I care what they think when I’m disgusted with myself. I’m guilty, we all know it. I don’t contest anything. Surprisingly, they stop short of giving me the chair. Just three quick life sentences and I’d be free to go. Prison isn’t so bad. Hell, they even gave me my own room with a desk and a bed all to myself. I meet a guy, Charlie, who says he can get anything into or out of the prison. I make friends with him quickly.

It’s not hard to give up. Really, it’s the easiest thing in the world. You give up when you quit a job, quit a game, quit a relationship. But it’s another thing to give up control. It’s something that can’t be explained easily. All at once, it’s the easiest and the hardest thing a person can do, to just relinquish everything. Prison was a godsend and hell all at once. I never have to make another decision. Well, after this next one. 

Damn, I should’ve thanked Charlie when I had the chance. Are those my last thoughts? I guess it could be worse, even if the main question on my mind is how clean the cold steel in my mouth is. It tastes like sweat and fear. Something tells me I don’t want to know how he got it into the prison. I know what comes next. The acrid smell, the blinding light, and a deafening crack.

Shoot. I guess Rever wins. 

Or… I guess I do.

I’m sorry Tim.

It was all my fault.

Click.

[bebefilms]

───────── 𝐒𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐓 𝐑𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐄𝐅. ( 18+ )

PAIRING: jooheon x fem!reader WORD COUNT: 2.9k !!!! spanking, unprotected sex, kitchen sex, orgasm denial, creampie SYNOPSIS: when he’s craving baked goods, it’s best for him to come over.

When Jooheon is craving desserts, his best bet is to show up at her apartment unannounced, equipped with a cheeky grin and an overnight bag. He overwelcomes his stay when it comes to his cakes and cookies because his fatal flaw is his disastrous baking skills–or lack thereof–which will often yield burnt goods or a nearly burnt residence, even when following a recipe to a T.

Or so he claims.

“What do you want now?,” she questions with mock disdain, a stone-cold expression too transparent to mask the pep in her voice when her beloved stands outside her door on a gloomy Friday evening.

“Chocolate chip cookies.”

His eyes gloss over her figure, as if to burn the image into the back of his mind like he hasn’t done so countless times, and he cocks a brow. “And you, of course.”

Despite her grimace, heat flows up to her face, her heart hammering madly in her chest. She swore up and down that any cheesy phrases given to her, any cheesy phrase that can only derive from romance novels, would evoke a visceral reaction: disgust. It’s partially true but coming from her own boyfriend, her body goes into overdrive between shudders and shyness. “You are repulsive.”

“Only for you.”

She steps aside for him to overstay yet another welcome, one that may be what she needs after a long day at work. He heads for the guest room while she strays into the kitchen where she pulls out her baking utensils and ingredients, piling them onto one corner of the kitchen island. She knows the recipe by heart but pulls it up on her phone anyway as a safety cushion, then sets the device down to be forgotten later.

Jooheon is not an incompetent man, but there’s genuinely no hope for him to bake something without potentially setting something ablaze or yielding a culinary monstrosity of epic proportions. She has seen his sugar cookies before, which resembled the end pieces of overbaked, lopsided bread more than actual cookies. Even though he insists on shouldering some of the labor, she strictly assigns him the duty of dishwashing instead where it would be impossible to spark a fire.

He stands on the opposite side of the kitchen island, watching her every move like a curious child observing his diligent mother. He has learned the lesson of keeping his distance while she’s running around in the kitchen because literally butting heads will wear her patience thin, and she can see it in his pouty expression that he wants to be close to her, have his arms around her and forget the definition of ‘personal space’. It’s endearing to see sometimes.

The dough comes together in less than fifteen minutes, and the preheated oven goes off a minute later. Jooheon is already standing at the sink washing the dirty dishes before the tray of cookies even goes in, and the flour-dusted, dough-streaked counter becomes her duty to clean with a soapy rag.

He’s chatting about his day, relaying a funny story about his coworker and filling her residence with laughter while she stands beside him with her back pressed to the counter, nodding as most of his words go in one ear and out the other. She’s typically a good listener, but her mind has entered another realm trying to conjure up ways she can startle him while he’s doing the dishes. He gets easily spooked, which entertains her when she’s in the mood to be a little brat.

Her gaze travels down his back to his behind, which is emphasized a little too well in his gray sweats. There’s still a fair amount of dishes to wash. With soapy hands, there’s no way he can retaliate, right?

He is rudely disrupted with a hand to his ass. With a slow turn to face her, her grinning face meets his seemingly peeved one: narrowed eyes and a tight jaw. Two seconds pass, and she finds herself running laps around the counter with her boyfriend hot on her trail. He ends up cornering her and her quick thinking leads her to her doom of being caught by a singular arm hooking around her waist, reeling her back against him to avenge his peace.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!,” she wails in between giggles as he smacks her ass back–several times.

“No, you’re not,” he refutes with a chuckle while vehemently carrying out his vengeance.

Her ass is not spared from his assault, not even once. It’s almost unfair really, as she only got him once while she has lost count of how many times he got her. What she thought was going to be a playful charade shifts to something else when the moment he stops, he presses up behind her and tucks his head between her neck and shoulder.

“Honey..?,” she mutters, knowing well enough what the tension and his curious hands roaming her body will lead to.

Her eyelids flutter as she leans over the kitchen island, succumbing to the warmth surging from the pit of her stomach to her limbs, to the tips of her fingers and toes, and to her head from his lips traveling over her skin. The collar of her tee is tugged back at his discretion, granting him more surface area for his mouth to cover, and the initial fits of laughter simmer down to labored breaths and open-mouthed kisses.

“Not so mischievous now, are you?” He hums.

His hand clamors for her throat, thick fingers wrapping around the base of her neck to tilt her head back and draw a gasp from her lungs. While his mouth brands her neck, his grip tightens just enough to force a breath out of her, to shock her and assert control of the reins. She swears that this wasn’t her goal of doing what she did, but the outcome makes her proud of her mischief.

“Thought you could get away with it, huh?”

She shakes her head, though her movement is rigid from his grip. After swallowing, he squeezes, catching her off-guard, and he soothes her with gentle kisses on her exposed skin. As cold as the autumn has been, there’s no better source of heat than what is set ablaze within him. Whatever fuels him into carrying out his sinful endeavors on her sparks a flame inside her, one that grows into wildfire when his hand snakes up her shirt and squeezes her naked chest.

Blinking through a blur, the timer on the oven ticks down to eight minutes.

Eight minutes of allowing him to do whatever he wishes, carry out the consequences of her own actions however he likes.

The pad of his thumb circles her nipple, which hardens from the contrast of the cold breeze and the heat of his touch, a whirlwind of fiery desire growing as filthy words are uttered in between kisses. His fixed grip on her neck has brought her head back over his shoulder at this point, fully exposing the canvas for his mouth to finish his artistry on. Her shirt has ridden up from him groping her breast so when her abdomen presses against the cold edge of the counter, chills run down her spine. The reaction seems to bring his hips closer where his erection digs against her ass, and who is she to not tease him in return?

He never lets her get away with anything, therefore drawing back and grabbing her hips to spin her around and face him. He hoists her onto the counter, perching her on the edge where he guides her legs around him, keeping the distance to a minimum. He drags her shirt up, fully exposing her bare chest, and his mouth latches onto one.

Her judgment is skewed by the pleasure, but not entirely to where she neglects checking the timer. Even if the cookies burn to a crisp, she shouldn’t let her apartment burn to one either.

While his mouth tends to her chest, a curious hand dips down the waistband of her pajama pants, burrowing between her thighs to feel her. The cotton barrier of her panties is thin, allowing him to perceive just how wet she’s getting. Suddenly, it’s not so cold anymore as he digs his thumb between her folds, wedging the damp patch of fabric in as he thumbs her clit.

Draping her arms around his neck, she whimpers from a touch she desperately needs that is a measly barrier away. If he could just scoot her panties aside, it would be enough to extinguish the fire within. But Jooheon sometimes likes to watch the world burn, and she continues to burn with lust, frustration, and borderline outrage.

“Babe,” she whines. “Please. I want to feel you.”

“Hm. I know.”

“Asshole.”

The ‘slip-up’ earns a tight grip on her chin that forces her to stay still as he straightens up. Leaning so close to her, the weight of his piercing glare racks a tremor through her, particularly when his lips ghost over hers.

“Watch your mouth,” he cautions.

Words are lodged in her throat as he continues thumbing her clit through her panties, and she can only muster a mere nod to acknowledge his warning. She could push him a little more but the friction of his touch, the friction of the fabric rubbing at her soft flesh, wanes her urge to continue acting up. She ruts against his hand, pleading and whining so pathetically from the calculated strokes. Her suffering etches a smirk on his lips, luring her to a strong desire of kissing it off, but her wishes are granted by a tug of her panties and two fingers filling her needy hole.

There’s only so much room in her pants for his hand, but he makes it work. His pace is surprisingly quick, considering the tumultuous teasing he was doing beforehand. Thick digits drive between her clenched walls, drawing out an eclectic mix of incoherence and breathy cries, and she naturally secures a grip on his wrist for security.

He observes intently, an unwavering gaze making it impossible for her to meet it as she’s falling apart in his palm. She’s used to his cheeky grins and over-the-top humor so when he has her cornered and vulnerable for him, the polar contrast arouses her more. His roughness and sharp expression calls for her to be on her knees for him, and it never fails to.

“Fuck,” she pants, her fingers wrapping tighter around his wrist.

“Yeah? You like that? Feels good, hm?”

She begs, though she’s not sure for what. A flurry of ‘please’s part from her lips like a bad habit and perhaps, might be why he seems to be pumping quicker. His thumb is fixed on her clit, thankfully without a barrier in the way, and her head reels from the onslaught of pleasure washing over her, the high tides threatening to drag her deeper. While a mess is spurring in her pants, his mouth finds her neck, soothing the newly branded flesh with kisses fragmented by filthy words and smug laughter.

Her walls are seizing around him. She’s throbbing, aching to chase her release, and she’s rushing to a brink, seconds away from rapture when the obnoxious beeps of the oven disrupts them, forcing him to remove his hand when she needs him most. Her eyes grow wide as she’s left high and dry.

“Lemme get that for you first.” He laughs.

But it’s not funny. It’s almost hurtful as she sits on the counter, her poor pussy throbbing around emptiness, damp panties practically adhering to her skin by the wetness that has seeped out of her. Her thoughts tune out the running water, the clank of the baking trays as it hits the stovetop, and a singular beep that turns the oven off. By then, the smell of freshly baked cookies grows tenfold, filling the kitchen, and she almost forgets about her sticky ordeal.

Almost.

“Now..” Jooheon finds his way back between her legs, fingers tucking into her waistband again. “Where were we?”

A harsh tug sends her pants down her legs, followed by her panties, both garments flung to the side with a flick of her feet. He bends down and perches her legs over his shoulders, naturally bringing her down on her back, but she doesn’t want to miss the lewd view of him committing sins between her thighs.

Propping herself up on her elbow, she runs her fingers through his hair, moaning and panting with less of a care for her neighbors hearing. Steam is still pent up, searching for exit routes as she was abandoned just before her peak, and picking up right after lures her even closer to the edge.

“So good,” she whimpers, throwing her head back as her clit falls victim to the fervent strokes of his tongue. “Want to feel your fingers inside.”

Soon, thick digits plunge back in, giving her what she wants. The rapid pace, coupled with his mouth working on her clit and every inch of her pussy that has yet to be touched, sends chills up her spine. The deadly combination renders her taut, tension wracking her limbs and forcing her thighs to close in on his head, but he only groans in response. His noises serve a subtle vibration to her sensitive clit and his persistence quickly brings her over the edge.

“Oh, god!,” she wails, tugging at his strands as she spatters on his hand.

He continues fucking her through her high, forcing her to squirt in smaller successions while she is now flat on her back, writhing and twitching from the aftermath. Just as it becomes too much for her, he removes his fingers and draws back, carefully dismounting her legs from his shoulders to straighten up.

A breather.

That’s what she thought she was going to get. It feels like a split second before a bigger intrusion sinks inside her, stretching her open and filling her in the way she needs him to. When she peers down at him, he is pressing kisses on her thigh, up her pelvis and to her navel while he’s bottomed out and sheathed by her aching walls. He pushes her shirt up to kiss higher, as high as he can reach, and he is appeased enough to perch her leg back over his shoulder. He splays a hand on her inner thigh, pinning her other leg down on the counter, opening her up further for his taking, and she chokes out a moan when his cock pistons in her.

He is driven mad, his thrusts carnal as he fucks her on the island countertop. The mix of the cold surface beneath her back and the heat of feral hunger culminates in a tight knot in the pit of her stomach, goosebumps pricking her skin, and chills surging through her body. When she meets eyes with him, it’s like looking into the gaze of a wild predator behind bushes: primal.

“Feels so good around me,” he grunts, fingertips digging into her skin with a tighter grip. “Your pretty pussy is made just for me.”

She could implode just by that remark.

“For you,” she mumbles in between breaths.

The kitchen reverberates with the clashing of hips and lewd squelches of her dripping cunt being pounded. It’s not ideal to be railed on a surface with no bounce, but they have already passed the point of no return. Jooheon has proven to be ravenous for more than just a sweet treat.

The sheer force of his hips already has her seeing stars, but the pad of his thumb sweeping over her swollen clit is the nail to her coffin. Her back arches off the counter, a gasp heaving from her throat with the additional touch, and she squirms as her brink comes much closer—much quicker.

“Fuck. Jooheon!”

“Gonna come, huh?”

She nods, a hand clasped over her mouth to suppress a cry.

“Go ahead,” he encourages. “Come for me. Come all over my cock.”

Her eyes roll back as the tension reaches an all-time high. Her slick soaks his shaft, dripping down the line of her ass to puddle beneath her. His grunts mingle with her whimpers, threatening to override her noises as he hovers closer and pounds her. Her walls seize tighter, clenching and resisting but giving him the friction he needs to nail his cock inside her and unload in her greedy hole.

Ecstasy flushes her body with warmth as she becomes a vessel for his climax, shallow thrusts forcing his seed deeper inside her. Her breaths are fragmented by whiny pleas, and he eventually comes to a halt. After pulling out, mixed arousal seeps out of her, spurring a bigger mess on the counter. It’s less pleasant to feel now that she’s not driven wild with desire.

Jooheon grabs her hands and pulls her up into a sitting position too soon. She thinks he’s about to do something again when he wraps her legs around his waist, and hoists her off the counter.

“Let’s go wash up so we can eat some cookies.”

She erupts into laughter from the immediate change in his demeanor. “You have too much energy, honey.”

“Because you charge me back to full percentage.”

In contrast to the heat creeping up her face, she grimaces. “My god, no more. Please.”