#they're around the size of a marble

[cassielsunstone]

The image in my mind whenever I hear the word "chickpea"

Their name is Baby

[castlebyersafterdark]

Vinny we haven't heard about Jim in a while how is the young lad??

Jim is great, Jim is baby, Jim is a hurricane. He's so fun. Quite the handful. That cat still has too much energy. Runs our lives, truly. I feel like there's an actual toddler living here with the amount of toys and climbing contraptions Z buys for the little orange terror (oh god that kinda describes me too as I typed it 🤣🤣) so I've taken up sewing up these little felt pouches I fill with catnip to offset the cat toy budget because honestly, man haha. Help me, my family is dying! No, more cat toys now!

Anyway, storytime because you asked and I talk too much. So, Jim hates a closed door, loathes a closed door. But he's not invited when... listen kid, your parents need alone time 🤭 Menace screams and bashes his stupid little body against the door. He knows we're in there. So that's lovely. Cat owner solidarity, you feel me? Hmm. But after the deeds are done and I'm often left dazed laying there Z feels bad and opens the door to let him come barreling in and this little weirdo always jumps right on up to the scene of the crime and walks all over me before flopping down and getting comfortable on me when I'm a sweaty disaster. Insistent upon himself.

It's very cute 😊

Not quite what my many inquiring anons were after when asking about my sex life but it's what I'm giving you for now.

Anyway, here, gaze upon the blessed idiot:

[ophelialoveshandsomemen]

Say what you will about Van Helsing 2004; hate it, love it, be indifferent, But the All-Hallow's masquerade ball went sooooo hard and it had zero right to do so! It's a fun, campy, monster mash movie with wonderfully dated ( and expensive) cgi and non-stop action meant to be a popcorn flick one takes out to watch around spooky season. And it has this* chef's kiss* GORGEOUS 6 minute sequence plopped arbitrarily in the second act, which unexpectedly surpasses nearly every other ball in the last 30+ years of film( notable exception being the Cinderella 2015 ball) for literally no reason other than to be dramatic af.

Like feast your eyes on this Gothic masterpiece!!! Who doesn't want to immediately live in this picture?!??

They used those candles with oil in them so that they would have real candles, real string orchestra( I believe), probably around 100 real life extras( something which is tragically absent in modern film), said extras are all in beautiful fully decked-out costumes( which are in luxuriously dark colours, but nearly no fully black, another thing you cannot say for much modern cinema), REAL CIRQUE DU SOLEIL PERFORMERS for all the acrobatics!!!! Hell, instead of filming in a sound stage, where they could control the reverb and the acoustics and the size of the set and the bloody lighting ( they apparently had a heck of a time emulating the firelight for this sequence) and the temperature( it's very cold in stone churches!) better, they filmed in a Baroque church in Prague! As I said, peak dramatic splendour, jfc...

Think about that a second...They filmed a vampire masquerade in a Baroque Catholic Church( St. Nicholas' in Lesser Town, if you were curious) with amazing over-the-top acoustics and marble statues and real, tiled floors and marble pillars and a choir loft which they very much utilized, covered the pipe organ and the altar with a grand brocade curtain so it wouldn't be so obviously a, you know, a church! And there's a gold gilt elevated and canopied pulpit into which they put two vampire kiddies for, again, the sake of being dramatic.

And the costumes! They remind me of the 25th anniversary Phantom of the Opera Masquerade costumes. Same quality, like they're old, well-cared-for costumes pulled out of a warehouse, instead of fast industry churn-outs. With lots of trim and colour and masks and lace and feathers and..just...ugh.. they are all perfect! Just look at all the head pieces on the ladies and the hats on all the gentleman ( save Dracula of course) and the powdered wigs on the musicians. ANNNNDD! The dresses are historically correct!!!!!! It's the 80's bustle era! Nobody does the 80's bustle era in film anymore and it's a bummer. Oh and one other thing! Anna's ( and other women's) hair, at least here in the ball, is also historically accurate because it's all pinned up! None of those fucken modern beachwaves at a ball! Everybody's got updo's!

Gah, I swear, Dracula in his gold cloak really does things to me in this scene!

By the way, the acrobatics are bonkers in here for just background stuff!! Especially the random guys on unicycles and the dude playing the violin whilst standing on a ball...Like....WHAT?

Anyways, all this to say, that this masquerade ball feels sooo real and tangible and because of that it blows every other film out of the water, and no, I will not change my mind!!!!!

Here's a few more gifs, bcuz, why the hell not, this scene is sexy as fuu*ck?

Alright I need to go to bed now.

[seiwas]

cw: pro-hero bakugo, reader has boobs, kind of explicit/nsfw? idk i describe boobs, reader is smaller and shorter than bakugo, unedited sawry

bakugo's muscle tee looks as ill-fitting as it'll ever be draped over you.

there are reasons for this, perfectly founded and logical reasons for why that is—the main one being that, it's, well, his; two, maybe even three sizes larger than what it should be to fit you properly.

but, he can't stop staring, and there are reasons for that too—the main one being that, it's his, and yet, the only way he can ever imagine it now is when it's being worn by you.

your hips sway to the song you've been humming for the past five minutes. it's the same one, the chorus on a perpetual loop. he's sure it's the only part you know; you do this often enough that it's the only part he knows now, too.

the hem of his tee hits right at the top of your thighs, concealing just enough to tease, but he’s confident that if you reach up even the slightest bit for the cupboard overhead, there'll be nothing to hide.

he feels a little bit like a creep like this, watching as he stands in the middle of your shared living room, but it's impossible too look away—you've got to be doing this on purpose, right?

heat flares inside of him when you turn your body ever so slightly, the armhole of his muscle tee large enough to give him the clearest view of skin—

he gulps.

it's smooth, sloping just right; the side view of your under boob curves into its perfect shape and he can imagine it, feel—

(is this considered perving if he's been with you for years?)

the pan in front of you sizzles as you plop in god knows what. you pour in something from the side and wait, one hand propped on the hip you pop out. then, you pick up the pan, attempting to flip what's inside (probably a pancake, now that he thinks about it).

it’s hard to focus on what you’re cooking though, especially when all he sees is plump flesh jiggling, bouncing as you further agitate the pan.

he just got the pants of this suit readjusted, and now they're fucking tight.

bakugo normally runs hot; it’s kind of part of his dna. but this warmth is different, flushing him from head to toe. it creeps up the side of his neck, painting the tips of his ears a blooming red.

you turn around then, plopping the pancake on the plate atop the counter behind you.

"oh! you're done," you greet him with a smile. so. fucking. casually.

as if your tits aren't fucking peaking against the gray fabric of his tee.

as if you think he buys the fake innocence poorly concealing that sly, conniving look in your pretty eyes.

as if you aren't standing in front of him in his muscle tee, wearing nothing underneath it like you didn’t do this on purpose. like you don’t know what it fucking does to him.

his eyes squint suspiciously, deep vermillion staring straight into yours.

you tilt your head, the tips of your lashes kissing the top of your cheekbones as you blink. you reach for a bottle of honey.

“everything okay?” you ask, voice syrupy, sickeningly sweet.

your movements play in front of him languidly, the corner of your lips curling up slightly as you smirk. honey catches on your finger as you pop open the bottle cap.

he’s supposed to be out the door in five minutes if he wants to make it in time for a meeting at the agency. technically, he should already be there if he wants to keep up his track record of consistently being fifteen minutes too early.

but you start to approach him, rounding the kitchen island. there’s a narrow space between him and the slab of marble, but you slide into it like it was made for you.

he’s certain it was, from the way the tip of your nose brushes against his as you tiptoe. your tits are right fucking there, brushing against the skintight material of his suit.

there’s too much fucking fabric if you ask him, between cotton and spandex.

your grin widens, and he feels hot, the heat from his cheeks radiating.

then you whisper, still saccharine, “breakfast is ready,” before kissing him on the lips lightly. a short peck, soft in the way that promises more before you slip away, giggling in your retreat.

he huffs, watching you leave. his feet shift as he thinks.

five minutes, huh?

like hell he’s going to eat these damn pancakes for breakfast today.

[aangelinakii]

SOME TIME FOR HIMSELF.

— of course he's grateful, but...

summary : of course damian likes that you get on well with his family, he just wishes that maybe they'd let him actually pull you away from them.

note : i always feel like my damian fics are on a whole other level 💀💀 they're so poetic

the first time damian introduced you to his family, inviting you to dinner one night, he had high hopes that you would be a crowd favourite — and he was never wrong about that.

his father had welcomed you into their abode with a tight smile, kind, of course, but rather wary as to what your intentions may be with his son; by dessert (alfred's star tiramisu) bruce was laughing at every joke and grinning at every story.

his brothers — dick, jason, tim and duke — introduced themselves with their most intimidating glares, thick arms crossed over their chests, emphasising their size, and just how much damage they could do if any came to their youngest kin; as alfred's tiramisu was settling happily in stomachs, they found themselves squabbling over who deserved to get you on their team for eight-ball pool. duke won.

that night damian found himself falling asleep quickly, a soft smile plastered to his lips, images of your smile, so comfortable, as you chatted easily with steph as you awaited your turn with the cue. you'd even managed to crack cass out of her shell a little — and it was only tonight that damian realised how big of a family he had.

even alfred had good things to say when damian purposely stayed back to help him load up the dishwasher once dessert was finished.

he couldn't help that warm pride fizzing in his chest.

but that was four months ago, and damian thinks he sees more of your avatar on wii sports than he actually sees of you.

any time you come round his, you're always whisked away by tim wanting to show you the newest issue of a comic you both gushed over a month ago, or steph dragging you up to her room to update you on some gossip she told you about that time you were here last week. sometimes even ace can't help himself wanting your attention.

he doesn't necessarily want to border you from his family, but when you live in a family so big, no one understands the definition of "personal space."

it gives damian the chances to take you out on dates, go out of his own comfort zone; the arcade, the cinema, paintballing, mini-golf. when money doesn't want to be spent, you two can go on walks, or spend your time together at the library getting studying done.

but sometimes chilling at home is nice, too.

sometimes he wants to play wii sports with you, not sit back on the couch, forced to watch you play tennis against jason; sometimes he wants to play one-on-one eight-ball against you, not stand against the wall, arms crossed, waiting for the game to finish.

so today he's going to be sneaky.

it'll be difficult, sneaking around a family of detectives and vigilantes and alfred, but damian thinks he can do it.

as he creaks open the mansion's front door, the alarm disarmed by one alfred pennyworth — the only person damian had told in advance about your being there, as he realised there was nothing you could hide from that man, even if you tried — damian scans the foyer for any bystanders. once he's sure there's no movement, he looks back at you and smiles, pushing the door wider for you to step past him.

"i say let's get some food and take it upstairs, so we have steady rations for the day," damian suggests, taking this slightly more seriously than you expected; the crease in his brow reminding you of an army general checking the bunker's inventory for the week.

with a soft chuckle, you allow damian's soft palm to take yours, his nimble fingers closing around the back of your hand, tight like he hasn't been able to hold it in a long time — and he has, he's just being dramatic.

feet careful against the marble floor when the plush carpet disappears, damian leads you into the kitchen, where a softly whistling alfred is standing with his white sleeves rolled to his elbows before the sink, drying up glass cups with a cloth.

he barely sends you a glance, though the corner of his mouth curls slightly, and his whistling ceases for a moment.

"i had to tell alfred you were coming," damian explains, his voice an undertone in efforts to not attract any adopted siblings or billionaire fathers. he heads to a cupboard and opens it, pulling out a few crackly packets of crisps and other shared-favourite snacks he claims to have gone out and bought just for today. "he knows too well when i am lying, even though i hadn't lied about anything yet — i was just scared he would find out if i had."

back from the sink, alfred's whistling stops, though the squeaking of polished glass continues. "wise decision, master damian, i'm glad i taught you early on."

now he glances back. "i would go quickly now, last i saw, master dick and master jason were on their way up from the gym. if you want to avoid them, as you say, i wouldn't dawdle."

"dawdle? we are not—"

"master damian," alfred's tone lilts pointedly.

"right." and, with that, some snacks in your grip, some in damian's, he shifts the weight of them to one arm, which seems slightly uncomfortable, and carefully takes your elbow to lead you through a passage behind the fridge.

flickering flames crackle as you ascend the winding steps to the second floor.

"i get you want to have one-on-one time, damian, but you know i really like your family," you find yourself saying halfway up. "it's not that you think i dislike them, is it?"

"no," damian's quick to respond, glancing back at you. "it is that i am beginning to dislike them. they disturb our time together. every time."

you're about to reply, saying something about how maybe time together is turning into time with them, which is okay, but a cluster of voices mutters past the suit of armour concealing you in the shadows of the passageway, and damian presses a finger to his lips.

it's certainly steph, being a girl's voice, chipper, unlike cassandra's, and a boy's voice, either dick's or tim's — but there's people there, and damian doesn't want to be found. more so, you to be found.

after a few silent beats, the voices recede, as well as footsteps atop carpet, and damian leads you out from behind the suit of armour.

just as you're coming out from thr passage, your shoulder clings against the metal elbow of the knight, having misjudged the tightness of the gap between him and the wall, and a metallic twang rings out.

in a manor filled with junior detectives, nothing of the sort goes unnoticed or unchecked, and a door opens before damian can even take your hand.

"(name)!" a voice gasps cheerfully — three guesses who — and another one groans, who you know by now is your boyfriend's.

chest torn between wanting to go along with what damian had planned, and responding to steph as she emerges from her room, your instincts respond. "steph! hey!"

"i didn't know you were coming round today," she smiles, absently taking a pack of crisps from the bundle in your arms and opening it up for herself.

behind you, damian scowls, not taking it upon himself to hide it at all. "that was the point."

stephanie doesn't seem to notice damian's tone, or, seemingly, damian's presence at all, and she places a hand on your shoulder. "you'll never guess what happened the other day," she begins, guiding you back towards her room.

"more already?" you laugh, both intrigued, yet glancing back wistfully towards damian, who's been left alone in the hallway.

"like you wouldn't believe!"

just as she's about to close the door, damian appears, hand on the wood, holding it open, the food dropped somewhere back in the corridor, thick eyebrows knitted together like a sweater. "hey!"

"oh, hey, dames," stephanie takes a break in her gossip update as she sits down at the pink swivel chair at her cluttered desk. "just stealing your partner for a sec, i hope that's okay?"

"it's not," he replies before stephanie can turn back to you and continue.

the stone in his tone is abrasive, gritty, something usually unheard of. stephanie could ignore it, but she finds herself mouth open, blonde eyebrows upturned.

"oh, i'm sorry, i—"

"no, you're not sorry," damian cuts her off again, stomping towards you and takes some of the load off your shoulders, taking a few of the snacks from your arms. "you always do this. whenever (name) comes round, you and everybody else in this house take them away from me. they're here to see me, not you. not you, not dick, not tim, not father."

"hey, that's not fair—" stephanie shoots you a guilty look as her sentence is cut off once more by your emotional boyfriend.

"what's not fair is that the time i want to spend with them is diminished by my siblings, who are not even my real siblings, who insist on being utterly... utterly stupid!"

damian storms off in a huff, off into the hallway and into his bedroom, where the door slams, causing you and stephanie to flinch.

by now she's abandoned her open crisp packet, her appetite suddenly gone, and you don't feel too normal sitting on the edge of her bed with a strange array of snacks in your arms. you want to apologise, but now you understand why damian was so intent on having a day just the two of you.

the words are on the tip of your tongue, and you want to meet steph's gaze, but you can't really bring yourself to.

"i... sorry, i..."

"it's okay, i should be the one who's sorry," stephanie dismisses your apology with a small shake of the head, not watching you either. "i think you should go check on him."

you release the bundle of snacks onto stephanie's duvet, which you don't think she minds, and get to your feet.

when you pass through stephanie's doorway into the corridor, a few heads are peeking out of doors, including duke a few rooms down holding an airpod in hand, having plucked it out to eavesdrop. you offer a smile, and he shares it, putting his airpod back in and retreating to the safety of his room.

outside damian's room, you knock lightly and let yourself in, knowing he won't respond, but also knowing no one else would be knocking on his door after something like that.

he's lying face-first on his bed, fists clutching the sheets so tight his knuckles are turning white.

the mattress sinks slightly beside him as you lower yourself down, placing a careful hand on his shoulder blade.

"damian?" you try, voice just as soft as your touch. "i'm sorry i bumped into the armour, it was an accident. i didn't mean to get steph's attention, and i didn't realise how important it was to you that we got to spend time together."

though muffled, damian's voice comes from within his navy, star-speckled duvet. "it's not your apology to give, you did nothing wrong."

he shifts and you can see half his face, eyebrows still screwed towards each other. "it's everyone else. they can be too much. they always ruin our time together."

"i don't think they realise they're ruining it," you suggest softly. "i think they think they're doing good by you, by getting to know me and having a positive relationship with me. have you ever told them it bothers you?"

the gap between your question and damian's reply is long and lengthy, stretching longer and longer, and you already know the answer, that by the time it comes you're not surprised.

"no."

your hand smoothes circles over damian's upper back. "damian..." you sigh. "how can you expect them to know what you want if you don't tell them?"

mouth squishing out in a pout, damian's shoulders shrug up beneath your touch.

"i know it's difficult, and sometimes you feel like some people should know better, but i think you should tell them."

with a sigh, damian pushes himself up to a seated position, eyebrows less tense on his forehead. "i know, you're right."

improving from that pout, damian's lips pull into a small, minute smile, and he leans forward to engulf you in a hug. "i'm sorry for overreacting," he huffs into the crook of your neck.

at the affection, you feel your lips curl in tandem with his, and one of your arms comes around his back to reciprocate. "it's okay, damian, and besides, it's not me you should be apologising to. we can go together, okay? and then you can tell steph how you feel."

damian's body soaks up into yours, and he lets out a content breath through his nostrils. he doesn't respond verbally, but you can feel him nod his head against your shoulder, and your stomach drops in relief.

[deniisu-sims]

Felixandre PARIS part II - 4t3 conversion

Ok, this one will be long, so at first I need to thank @martasimsbookcc and @aroundthesims - I studied their meshes quite a lot to see how they made it work, so I definitely stood on the shoulder of giants in this one.

Anyway:

All items recolorable, 1~4 channels, but unfortunately counters don't allow for multiple multipliers and masks so Compromises Were Made. Also, I didn't add all the stencils on the tiled bar/barista bar because of the lack of secondary masks to add + not wanting the file size to balloon. Feel free to retexture if you want, but I really wanted to keep the marble texture right there!

All BGC EXCEPT for the Barista Bars (they look like LN Professional bars but they're not and it's like that in the original), which require UL and the tiled version of the base counter and the base island, which used Pets items as a base because of the 4 channels but appear in-game as requiring LN, so they require LN.

The true counters and islands have the texture glitch; pretty much inevitable. I added a sims3pack version of them for those who prefer to not deal with them. The parts cloned from end tables don't have this issue.

Stools can only be added on well, the counters that are truly modular: marble counter and base island, tiled counter and base island (this one has a working corner). For the others, moveobjects on + a counter OMSP of choice ;)

Cabinets are freestanding so you can use them to decorate your shops and libraries too. They also have linked textures, so keep the MASTER one in you folder at all times or you'll reach Grey Mesh Hell.

The refrigerated display is just a surface with slots. use the Transmogrifier mod to make it work with your mod of choice: Baker's Bakery, Savvy(ier) Seller, they all work.

Please use the ALT key to align the endpieces/round pieces. I tried to align the meshes the absolutely best I could, and even a 1cm adjustment using S3DT will be too much. Those meshes were NOT beginner friendly!

Counters and islands have a 1x1.5k texture. Sorry, I had to make two diffuses into one and those textures are a bit on the detailed side, so I choose to keep their detail...

The highest poly pieces are around 1.7k (the chair and the marble barista bar). Nothing to worry about!

And collection file included so you don't have to suffer :P

DOWNLOAD (package): SFS / Dropbox

[beatrixst0nehill]

Alice rubbed her belly, flaunting her pregnant form eagerly. "Soooo, this is very exciting. H-Hey guys, surprise! I'm pregnant.... My parents basically gave me an ultimatum. Either detransition or start pumping out kids. Like.... I was thinking of just detransing, like what trans girl doesn't pump her cock thinking of that??? But I chickened out and said I wanted to start breeding! Granted, I was bringing home a new guy or three.... or five.... basically every night. And my parents had to listen to me giggle and moan and get my fat, girly ass pounded for hours, all the while having to deal with the walls shaking and hearing their spoiled princess get spanked and smacked around. I think they really regret talking me into transitioning but it's too late now!

I actually received an already-pregnant womb. Allegedly I'm six months along but I've only had this womb for three months. The hospital got it out of some ditzy college girl who was testing experimental fuck machines. A student cranked it up when she was testing it on her ass and it scrambled her guts. Soooo, lucky me? Is this big for six months? I feel like it is. My doctors assured me everything is normal and it's becoming very common for trans girls to become breeders!

There is one teeny tiny problem. So, they gave me a choice when daddy brought me in to get my womb. Either they don't do anything and my belly just gets bigger and bigger with no birth canal until the hospital scoops me off the street to give me a C-section, or they give me a birth canal. I thought the first answer sounded a bit scary. Apparently it's pretty popular and really exciting for the girls to see how long they can last without getting dragged to the ER and having their kids scooped out. I asked for a birth canal. Ummm, let me just show you."

Alice removed her baggy skirt, lifting her cock with great heft, hanging down to her knees. She slapped it onto the table in front of her camera. It was even thicker than her upper arms, totally swollen, with a gorgeous head the size of her fist and the color of her lips, its urethra drooling precum. "Look at this!" Alice stroked her cock, reaching forward, slipping four fingers into it with ease. "Oh fuck, it feels so good! Look, I can fist my cock! I may or may not be encouraging guys to fuck it, too....... My balls are gigantic, too. How am I supposed to stay a girl with balls the size of grapefruits??? Ugh, I swear I must cum a gallon a day at least, it's unbearable how bad my erections get after only an hour or two without sex or masturbating. I'm told it's a similar level of horniness to most cis pregnant girls. Hurray, I guess?

I am also on very high doses of estrogen to keep my hormones in check, but still! My cock used to be like five inches, and my balls were like marbles. My doctor says they're almost finished growing but I'm not sure I believe him. Either way us trans girls with wombs are apparently kept pregnant by the state. I thought I'd have to go out and get fucked but nope! I have no choice. I'll be kept pregnant forever now, forced to push as many kids as possible out of my 'birthing shaft' as they call it. Since technically it's too big to actually fuck girls with. Doesn't stop them from trying. I get soooo many pregnant girls who excitedly approach me, feeling my belly, asking how far along I am, or to see how swollen my pussy looks, only to lift my dress or skirt and they gasp..... Then these girls take it as a challenge, trying to suck it, stroking it, bending over and begging me to 'try my hardest to ram it in their holes'. It's kinda fun getting so much attention from girls all of a sudden but it's exhausting, too. And I'm only six months? How do girls walk with such giant bellies???

Oh well, another four months or so until the big day. I'll definitely be filming it. Hopefully my cock can withstand pushing out so many kids. I can't wait to try! I feel like even at this side my poor cock might burst trying to do this but I promise to put on a good show either way! I love being pregnant, and hopefully this is the first of many more! ❤️"

[author-kweenyluv]

... Familiarity ...

[Reader reminiscing about the way Kurt smells and the familiarity it brings them. Sprinklings of my own headcannon’s about how his signature BAMFs don’t just smell like brimstone and why they're so unique to him]

The scent was familiar; ash, ozone, and brimstone. Not entirely pleasant, but not horrendous either. It was something familiar, something comforting.    Everyone said that Kurt smelled like brimstone, but you couldn’t agree, not entirely at least. Ash, ozone, and brimstone. It was the scent of the smoke left behind by his ‘BAMF’, the smell of when he donned the suit and became ‘Nightcrawler the X-Man’, but it wasn’t him.

Kurt reminded you of a lot of things; laughter and safety and half-translated jokes in a language you couldn’t understand but loved to hear. He didn’t smell like brimstone, not entirely at least, and the thought made you pause. He smelled like bread, and clean laundry, and for some reason heat. It was a combination almost as interesting as the smoke of his teleports, and one just as comforting. You never realize how... calming, the scent of the person you love could be until it’s not around anymore.    The scent of brimstone clung to his fur, sure, but he was meticulous about his hygiene and spent most of his time out of the suit. So, most of your days with each other smelled like Kurt; like bread, and laundry, and heat. It was soothing, and for all that you teased him about smelling like rotten eggs after his BAMFs, you still clung to him without hesitation, still relaxed with your chest against his as he laid back on one of the many couches in the Institute.    “Why do you always smell like bread?” You look up at him, a confused expression pinching his eyebrows together as he tilts his head at your words. The question had been itching in your brain for a while, rolling around your skull like a particularly stubborn marble. The scent of bread, and laundry, and heat filled your nose as the fur of his neck tickles your cheek. “I can’t really figure it out. I know you eat a lot of bread, but I don’t think that would make you smell like it too. I just... don’t get it.” You could feel the tip of his tail flicking in amusement against your ankles as a small smile graced his lips, a flash of fangs peaking out and catching your attention as he chuckles softly before you go looking back up at him.    “It... might be easier if I just show you.” His hands press a little firmer into you, the one at your back holding you steady while the one on your upper arm rubs the thumb thoughtlessly as he shift the both of you to sit up, his legs moving out from under you to plant his feet quietly on the floor. You follow suit, adjusting yourself and moving to grab your crutches, slipping the braces onto your biceps. Kurt stands first, smoothing out his shirt while you get your crutches on and holding out a hand to help you up, always a gentleman.

 You take his hand to pull yourself up before you steady yourself with your crutches, your grip on the handles loose and easy and familiar, the material comfortable under your palms. His hand moves to rest on your shoulder as he guides you, walking towards the kitchen. You stare at him curiously, but don’t question him, although his amused grin is quite nice to look at. The walk is quiet, save for the soft hums that reverberate from Kurt’s throat, following along to some silent melody only he can hear.

He leads you into the kitchen, and then towards one of the stand-alone freezers, opening it up and assaulting your nose with the scent of bread. You blink the cool air from your eyes and stare. What... what were you looking at? You glance at Kurt only to see him holding the door open with one hand while the other sheepishly rubs the back of his neck, his tail coiling nervously around his leg.    Wrapped up in cling-wrap and lining the shelves of the small upright freezer, were rows upon rows of bread. There were different shapes, and sizes, and colors, all neatly ordered and wrapped up tight. There was even a small pile of what looked like pretzels. You were very, very confused. A quick glance at Kurt made him chuckle and avert his gaze sheepishly, a feat for someone without visible pupils.    “I... miss the bread back home sometimes. I took to baking it myself sometime after I first arrived at the manor to help with the homesickness.” He pulls out one of the pretzels and fiddles with it in his hands, slowly closing the freezer door. “The professor aided me in finding the recipes, I usually bake a few different types at once and then store them for later. Sonnenblumenbrot is my favorite, which is why there’s so much.” This was not what you were expecting.    “I-, huh...” You blink a few times, just to get your brain back in order. A small huff of amusement escapes you at the absurdity of what you’re seeing before a small chuckle breaks out. You lean a bit more firmly on your crutches as you let go of one of the grips, lifting a hand to muffle your giggles. You look up at warm yellow eyes and give a baffled grin. “I’ll be honest, I didn’t take you for the baking type.” Kurt let’s out a small chuckle of his own as the tension melts from his shoulders.    “Well, I don’t like to bring attention to it. Besides, baking is Kitty’s thing. I really only make bread Spatzl.” You point to the pretzel still in his hand with an amused grin and another chuckle.    “And pretzels apparently.” Kurt’s ears flush indigo, although it was a bit hard to see under the fur. Your own grin ticks up at the corner in amusement. “Can I try?”    And with the scent of bread and laundry and heat in your lungs, a new note of familiarity threaded itself into your heart as Kurt grinned wide, threw the pretzel in the oven, and you fell a little bit more in love.

[odetodatura]

[watcher, watching] gargoyle - qin sylus (L&DS)

[The Dragon watches his Sorcerer, the Conqueror watches his Hunter. A series of moments where Sylus watches the object of his intrigue and affections.]

-> Content: Set in the 'Beyond Cloudfall' Myth, Dragon Sylus taking his time to observe humanity, Cohabitating a cave, pre-relationship, developing friendship/relationship, slight scrape wound- no further injuries, Sylus' tail can you tell I love how active his tail is in the myth? (General Audience)

(5.5k) [AO3 link] Interaction and comments always appreciated <3

The Dragon, as the Sorcerer has learnt in their time in his lair, enjoys watching them. Not unlike how the Ivory city cats watched the wild birds from a window ledge; part predaceous fun, part affectionate intrigue.

They first begin to notice it when endeavouring to carve a path up his cave’s rocky walls, a puny knife in hand that he barely remembered the name of. They hold it as steady as they can, chipping slowly towards the open top of his mountain. The stone is unforgiving, and it takes multiple stabs into it to dislodge pebble-sized chunks to the floor. After a few days of this, they take to turning some old ornate rug into a makeshift broom, swiping the scraps of their effort out of the cave and tumbling down to oblivion off the edge. The dragon made no complaints of them utilising his old dusty hoard, only a glance at the scuffle of fabric being wafted open before turning on his little pedestal to observe them rip it into lines, and tie it to a lance- the tip of his tail brushing along the ribbons before following their retreating form in bored intrigue.

The sun is still high as they crouch next to their battered wall, light heating their gleaming skin that flexes with the rhythmic stabs to the lowest hole meant for their foot. Labour and summer heat causes a thin sheen of sweat to settle on their exposed arms and back, with soft gales travelling through the cave mouth behind them mercifully cooling them down. The Dragon avoids the sun in its entirety, leaning against a shaded wall by the mouth, tail flicking lazily over the floor and dipping down off the cliff edge. His endless obsidian scales probably aren’t enjoyable in sunlight, the Sorcerer assumes, recalling how the orphans in the City were only permitted to wear black during detention labour in the courtyards. The endless white marble and rock walkways made it miserable in the hotter months, reflecting and enhancing the heat back to any soul around. His scales in particular seem thick, strong, and are best for short sunbaths well before midday before they absorb too much heat.

With the mortal back into their endless carving after a quick swipe of their arm to brush at their face, he adjusts his broad shoulders ever so slight during his continued staring. Eyes follow flexing biceps and rippling muscle under skin, moving towards the knife that pistons into aged rock. A speck of sweat flies off towards him, and he licks his lips to taste it in the air like a snake. Saltier than yesterday. They must not be drinking much water still, he makes a note to himself to bring some full skins up by their work station overnight. It would be a shame for them to slow down from exhaustion now that they're quickly learning how best to hold the blade, how best to utilise their striking force.

Chip, chip, chip; they continue on, fuelled by a desire to prove themselves capable. The knife takes clean arches like a scythe in a wheat field, and the metal stays strong against constant battering. They find their mind wandering, the gaze of their cave companion is hardly insignificant. It's as if his eyes leave physical imprints on where they land, dragging across their form with the same weight of his tail. Every time they navigate his little labyrinth after that little bite of his, he trails after, one of his senses always honed in on them.

He joins them soon after they pop down to the pile of fruits within his main treasure room in the mornings; blood red pomegranates and cherries blend with scattered Rubies, royal purple grapes mingle with Sugilite nuggets. They sit opposite each other, his massive tail curling all the way around them across the breakfast blankets and sometimes gently flicking a stray fruit near their crossed legs when the wind causes it to tumble like a weed. He does not partake in eating, sometimes pinching a grape from them just before their own fingers grab it, a little smirk tossed at them at their instinctual ‘tsk’ before tossing it to them to catch. He watches them as they wash their sugary hands in a small bowl of water. He watches as they dry their hands in the midst of standing with some tiny scrap of fabric they found from a treasure box. He watches as they return his gaze for a moment, before they turn with the grace of a waterfowl to the room they whittle away in now, and he rises to follow.

With his endless ego and entertainment at their efforts like a cat who's got a mouse’s tail under their claw, they expected some taunting noise from him- perhaps a pitiful huff and a shake of shoulders at the sight. His shadow ripples with a little laugh as they land a weak strike against the rock and the knife almost leaves their grip. But whenever they took a break and cast their eyes to meet his, they found only intrigue. Face even and wholly enraptured at every move of theirs. It was… Odd? Inspiring? Pleasant? The fact that he sits with the intent to see them make progress is one that fuels them to reach the moonlight mountain with vigour renewed. He must be playing a game with himself, they conclude on his behalf, a bet on when they'll finally drag themselves up to the flat mountain ridge. A couple of weeks, they again decide for him, is what he thinks they need to complete their quest. Their mind’s version of him is wrong though, they huff, they'll show him how he underestimates them. Another swipe at the brow as they stand to stretch their screaming back, with the most coincidental glance back they can muster. His eyes quickly snap to theirs, and they see him slowly blink his eyes out of sync- first the left, then the right, like a rolling wave between them.

The sorcerer decides they don't want to think of the implications of such a relaxed stare, how a predator like him takes this in leisurely. A swift flick of their right hand is made as the thick dagger is repositioned to deepen the first foot-hole as they break eye contact first. It digs in nicely, hollowing out the space for their foot to raise up after finding purchase, and in the strong light that adorns the cave from behind them- they see a somewhat approving flick of a strong tail-tip shadow next to them when they finish their hacking at the wall. A foot is inserted to test their modifications to the foot hold, and the Sorcerer finds it no longer scrapes at the roof when they go one more step up. It makes the next foot hold seem worse than before, but not tauntingly so. One sturdy result means the others can be made the same. They take a brief look down to check the pile of scraps on the floor won't jeopardise their drop back down before making the small fall. A tiny ‘oof’ emerges as they place their feet on the ground, pushing the smallest pebbles away with stray gusts and nudging a few others as they steady themselves. A hand purchase sits level with their face now, one that's been annoyingly difficult to work with since they first started.

The scorpion-esque tip’s shadow sits angled to the by of the Sorcerer’s ire, deadly still at the edge of the hollow. It draws their attention, and their head shifts to centre gaze on the dark projection. It starts waving ever so slightly when it knows it’s being watched. Slow and mesmerising like a snake heading the call of a charmer, it swishes along the bottom edge of the dent. He's tracing a guideline for the base of the hollow, they figure out. A few moments pass like that, the wind blowing gently. It carries his scent to her, heavy with the boysenberries he had been bringing to his fruit piles. They delight in it for a moment before they move leftward to avoid their body blocking out the tail’s silhouette, marking the path that the tail takes with light scraps. It retreats as she makes the final swipe it guided her to, curling low before settling on the shaded ground. One short nod is offered in thanks before they turn away from him fully. Meticulous in their efforts the knife gently digs further, wanting to not waste the help given. The rest of the day passes in relative monotony, the shadowy tail at most weaves up and down from the ground with no task at hand, and the Sorcerer makes good progress along their vertical path. They end up securing six good quality purchases into the wall by the time the light from beyond the dusky clouds filters ambers through the cave. A gentle toss of their trusty dagger flings onto a pillow they dragged here, gemstones tinted red in the sunset.

A first, second, and then a third flex of their hands unravels the tension from hours of gripping the knife’s hilt, sweet relief at the stretch of knuckles and joints before they thrust a hand into a hollow. It’s significantly easier this time round, multiple steps made with no scrapes and easy pushes upwards. Even when they pass the refined hollows to the further ones that scarce provide any hold. A few more upward paces are made towards a natural platform halfway up the wall.. It’s nothing terribly large, probably enough to fit half of that lounging Dragon’s reclining form with the tail entirely off, but it’s more than enough for them.

The last few feet however have no carved indents, and they have to rely on natural jags in the wall to try and forge on further. The moving sunset and its angled light make it difficult to ascertain where hands can be slotted, and with waning strength from calculating where to next go, the Sorcerer lunges upwards for a small indent in the wall. It’s a sharp and pointed movement, like a grasshopper fleeing danger into a frog’s maw. But the lunge lands, and they dangle from a clawing hand whilst desperately digging their feet. Slowly, and carefully, they let a wavering sigh leave their mouth as they move their other arm over with great effort. The double-handed grip alleviates some strain, evening it ever so slightly, and they shuffle awkwardly with tiny movements of the fingers. A breath in, out, in, out; they steady themselves, arms locked straight and jaw set with equal intensity.

Just as their hand shuffles an inch to the right a small, hoping to widen their purchase, a ‘crrk’ noise snaps through the air. Everything stops, as does their previously steadied breath, and they jostle in their precarious suspension. There's no visible hairline crack from their low point of view, but just past a trembling finger, a tiny stone dislodges itself and tumbles along her knuckles before-

Snap.

The feeling of gravity is immediate, it lurches through their stomach and it feels like their organs no longer sit snug against one another. Flailing fingers do nothing as the protruding spike has already fractured from its craggy spot, and a yelp comes out from their falling form. There's no grace in the descent, grabbing at the wall like a kitten shoved off a tile roof, with some rapid brushes against unforgiving rocks scraping harsh against desperate hands. Skin breaks easy and specks of blood and pink skin sting in the air. Scarlet droplets form in time with the thundering heartbeat enveloping their senses, and hands quickly draw inwards in defence. The tiniest flickers of neat hollows race past their line of sight and they know there's not long before the floor gives their tailbone a bruise for days. Eyes squeeze shut to brace for impact, before a coiling mass curls meets them before the ground could.

The Sorcerer doesn’t turn, doesn’t move as their chest begins to heave from the adrenaline that permeates their muscle and bone. In and out, in and out. They chant like a mantra to themselves when they recognise no pain from an impact, and they slowly recoil their arms to above their chest to rest against their raging heart. A slow press to the chest, and one final breath in before they start to shift. The newly familiar tail sits around their like a boa constrictor under their back and knees, with its unbelievable length allowing the tip to weave back upwards and dangle in front of them. One hand grasping a dangerous spine on the outside, and the other wrapping around the softer under-scales, they blink slowly until interrupted by a rumbling noise. It erupts from the Dragon’s chest, even and earthy, a call to attention. It successfully snaps the Sorcerer out of their daze as they turn around and look vaguely upwards and behind. They meet that same even gaze, sturdy and curious, with his head slightly tilted towards them. They note his body is suspended at the end of a lunge, semi-sideways with one leg bent in front of the other. It’s clear he reacted in good time, but the distance between his lounging spot and the wall to the open air was a tight distance to cross against her fall. He makes it, regardless. He catches them, regardless.

His head slowly returns to an upright position, gliding backwards with the fluidity of an owl, and his back straightens, the Sorcerer moving along with his relaxing form. They’re given a second acknowledging noise, lighter in tone than the previous one- a slight trill with the lower notes missing. It reminds them of bird song, echoing with itself along his thick neck. The Dragon sweeps his carmine eyes over them, and the Sorcerer recognises it as self-satisfaction of the state they're in. They’re slowly lowered down by him, clothed rear softly setting down on the cave floor as the comforting coil of the tail untangles itself from them. Though it remains around them even as they settle their weight, a comforting hold. One hand gently lets go once a spinal spike begins to glide from their fingertips, and the other offers no resistance against the soft under-scales. The sensation is nice, smooth and uniform under their still hand, and they note he doesn’t flick away from their hands at all. The tail tip drags slightly against their back as he stands at full height and withdraws the limb entirely, sending a pleasant shiver up their spine. Just a smidge calmer, and the seated mortal would’ve noticed the tiny flash of a pleased smile at their reaction. The Dragon breaks their eye contact first, gaze fluttering to the other’s scraped hands before speaking.

“There are some old little bottles somewhere in one of my piles,” He drawls whilst adjusting to lean on a leg and scrutinise his claws in faux-nonchalance, “Carried by some foolish thieves who thought they’d live to lick the wounds gained from me.” A jerk of his head signals he’s talking of their slightly bloody fingers. “Just do me a favour and use them outside, they’re terribly pungent things.”

He doesn’t get the immediate response he wants, and looks up from his nail picking to see them in the middle of blowing gently on their own hands. He watches with vigilance, and notes the slight wobbling of their lips as the wind hits a patch of raw skin between the base of their fingers on the palm. One flex of the hands, then another, and they shift to a kneeling position before standing and turning to face him. Watery eyes rapidly blink away a small sheen of tears as they adjust to face him, as he stands against the amber sun outside of their cave. It glows and burgeons on the sharp edges of his scales, catches on his molten veins. A few weeks back, this sight would've been the pinnacle of what was taught to be danger. But the hulking Fiend in front of them embodies none of that. His body, a tower of flesh and sharp hematite, stands poised to protect. Whilst it is a fools monologue to discredit or wave off his abilities of destruction and chaos, his actions speak of an equal capability to protect and foster. It is that dichotomy that allows his offer of a salve to land so smoothly, the Sorcerer squints to get a better look at his shadowed face and twists their head like a curious dog. “And just how am I to open some old glass bottle like this?” They wave their hands forward in his direction, shaking them slightly, and his eyes rapidly dart in sync with their movements. “Unless you want these to get worse before they get better. Or get blood all over the place.” The words come out half-petulant, half-teasing, and they point a finger towards his impassive expression. Still focused on their hands, he lets out another huff, before playfully swatting their arm down with his tail. The pesky appendage continues to wag and sway between them wafting air upwards in waves.

“Well,” The Dragon drawls out with a slight purr. “Not all of your delicate little fingers are useless, are they?” His clawed feet tap with each step, slowly circling around them with his chin raised. “Hardly some insurmountable task when I’ve already saved you from that untimely demise. Or do you want me to kiss it better once your humble chamberlain licks your wounds for you, your Highness?” A deep chuckle resounds in the cave, acoustics seemingly warped to echo his voice perfectly, and it sends a pleasant sensation through the Sorcerer's head. He rounds behind them cleanly, swift movements blowing their hair forwards as a strand tickles their lips. He lets out another laugh at how they tense at the proximity a smidge, clearing their throat before twirling to face him and place a pace between their bodies. Only part of his form is shaded now, the crown of their head leaving a dark silhouette just below his lips, and they are made all too aware of how the warm light enhances his roguish looks.

Soft blanched hair sways like a willow, edges tinted coral and citrine. It tickles his forehead, landing just by his sharp brows, hiding the tails like a juvenile fox scurrying in the underbrush, emboldening the sharp red of his eyes. Hawk-like, they think, alert and confident to even the slightest of movement in front of him- crinkling in mirth as he permits the ogling. A preener as well, angling himself to encompass more of their line of sight, privy to some sort of bodily reaction the human mind is not attuned to in from them. A loud and theatrical clearing of the throat snaps the Sorcerer to attention, and they shake themselves whilst recalling whatever smooth words just came out of the handsome man’s mouth moments ago.

“A…. Charming offer, terribly so.” They start with a stumble with a slight blush, “ But most healers require qualifications to tend to others.” A pause to give a sassy up-and-down of the Dragon, “Do you have one?” They probe, emphasis on the second word. A roll of the eyes and a ‘tsk’ makes it clear he finds the rebuttal unsatisfactory.

“And why would I care for some silly little mortal’s opinions on my healing capabilities. Last time I heard what your kind were working on, those faith healers were prattling on about cracking open the skull to fix a headache. But I’m more than happy to apply that theory to your hands.” He says with a slightly sinister smile, crossing the gap in half a step. “Pass me whichever hand pleases you, and I can poke a little hole to see if they were right.” His teeth are visible from between his lips and they glimmer wet in the sun, elongated canines catching a dangerously sharp ray.

It doesn't unnerve them though, they know well enough by now his habit of play-intimidation when a conversation needs spicing, and they jut their head forward to meet him.

“Alright then.” Their hand raises palm forward to his eye level, and his gaze easily flits back to them once more, smile calmly retreating. His form follows, straightening back up from his lean to bare his teeth close and gently grabs their wrist. Two strong claws pinch them, and rotate it back and forth to his contentment, before he removes his hand with even more care and turns back into the dim caverns. Heavy and calm footsteps resound his entire walk, and the Sorcerer hears some jumble of grumbles and clanking before the steps begin their return journey. His tail swooshes low, a fabric bag held within a curved spine at the end, clinking noises at the end of each swing. Instead of stopping in front of them he continues past them to the craggy cave entrance, and sets the bag down where the wind travels away from the lair. His arched nose crinkles as he moves away from them, and sends a quirked eyebrow to the Sorcerer before walking past them yet again to sit down against the hole-punched wall.

His gargantuan tail spikes end up effortlessly carving into the wall like a hot blade through butter, and they feel an eyebrow twitch at the ease this giant of a man has at making clean incisions that took them hours. A small huff of hair moves a strand of hair that landed on their face after the tumble and they see him watch them turn away to approach the beige leather pouch sitting alone on the cliff's edge. Mindful of his confirmed sensitivity to the smell, they sit with their back to him and legs dangling like reeds over the rocks, before fiddling with the loose string tie. Strained fingers still slightly taught from the dried blood plasma tremble slightly in getting the opening wide, and in favour of being kind to their sore hands they shake the bottles onto their trousers. There’s only three in there, simple glass things with cork seals. The liquids slosh thinly like soapy water, and they each have different levels of opacity. They leave the least-transparent two to remain on their lap as the leather satchel is placed behind them to not get blown away like a leaf in the wind.

Using one hand to gingerly hold the bottle and the other to grip onto the dry seal, the pesky thing wiggles after a fair bit of effort, and the Sorcerer’s face scrunches up like a babe being fed a lemon for the first time. It causes them to recoil, sinuses on fire and eyes watering, even after extending their arms as far out as possible into the wind the urge to cough overwhelms them. Thick and strong enough to feel like their bones rattle in getting that smell out of their lungs, they push their head into their shoulder and breathe in through the filtration of linen fabric. The stinging in the eyes dulls eventually and with a final exhale and shake of the head, a snorting chuckle is finally noticed. A quizzical brow is rapidly whirled at the Dragon swinging a metal chain around his tail tip, and he has the gall to keep going under their scrutiny.

“Anything you'd like to share with the class?” Is pointedly said to him, eyes thinned and lips pouted. It does nothing but rouse another infuriatingly handsome smirk to his lips, shrugging his broad shoulders and crossing his arms across his exposed chest pushing the ruby gem in his chest into the light.

A teasing hum leaves his lips, “Not really, nothing that wouldn’t get you to throw that thing at my head anyways.” The sentence dissolves into a chuckle, clearly amused at the prospect of them batting at him like a hissy kitten, and the Sorcerer turns back when they learn any reaction will be a success to him.

“You could have graced me with the knowledge that this old-” a pause as they scramble for the right word with a twitching nose, “sack of curdled milk was pungent enough to send a cavalryman off of his steed.” A cough interrupts them again, before the ramble continues. “I mean honestly. What on Philos have you given me, some Dung ointment?”

“You can’t tell the difference between Dung and Medicinal Herbs?” The Dragon says in good jest, his laughs having died down, leaving a sweet aftertaste in the dusk glow.

“Quite frankly, I don't think I’ll be able to tell the difference between my left arse cheek and a freshly baked pie after this.”

He likes this, a rumble in his chest signals, and he rips a rectangle of the Sorcerer’s make-shift mop and tosses it to them. It falls right by them, with their hands still outstretched into the wind to avoid inhaling any more concentrated formula. They follow its flight path, and gingerly set down the cork and bottle as far away as possible on the cliff’s edge before picking it up and wrapping it around their nose and mouth. It does enough of a job, no longer feeling their lungs cringe at the slightest inhale of this supposed salve. He watches them unhappily pick up the open bottle, and pour its thin contents into their palm. His nose crinkles again, the smell reaching him this time, and lets out a large huff to clear his lungs.

It pools in their palm, and they move their hands out over their legs to the open air before using it to coat their entire hands, gently washing it into their skin. Thankfully, the relief is almost immediate, and a gentle moan comes from them. A tail they cannot see swishes in response. Acclimated to the salve’s smell, they pick up the other two bottles to place them into the bag they discarded (the heavier contents must be more concentrated versions) and begin a second coating with the thin liquid. Willow bark, they piece together, the last time they had the misfortune of being around this was when some of the faith’s monks came back from some ambush. Nasty wounds, but it quelled the pain like nothing else.

“Thank you.”

A hum is heard in the cave, and they sigh in semi-faux annoyance at his insistence to be detailed on the extent of their thankfulness. They cap the bottle with their hands feeling far better, and swivel to face him criss-cross on the floor, elbows on their knees. He’s still staring, as they resume eye contact. Comfortable against the rock with his impossibly long legs stretched out, tail laid flat.

“Thank you for catching me.” The Sorcerer repeats with fabric still obscuring half their face. “Thank you for the willow bark salve as well. You don’t have the qualifications, but whatever fool of a man in your home did. Or, well, he knew someone who did.” The sentence loses its structure the further they go, and they decide to leave it there before they give the Dragon something to tease them about some other time.

He waves his claw in the air in dismissal, as if he wasn’t the one preening for more. But there's a look in his eyes they recognise from their first day here after they were healed by that innate black-red energy of his before crossing the threshold. The dragon seems to dislike anything of value in his hoard being damaged, either a slight to his collection or himself. It's useful at least, something the Sorcerer can utilise in their cat and mouse game to ensure safety. It’s touching, considerate, they realise. Not enough to sink them into reverie about the Fiend’s intent or nature, but a bittersweet development on how Ivory city treated those ‘useful’. They take the makeshift mask off when the sunset winds have taken the lingering traces of willow bark away, and collect the leather satchel’s closed tie in the hook of their pinkie finger as they rise to walk towards him. Bending down to place it down so as to not shatter any glass, it sits in front of his tail that waves with their approach. They make moves to verbally return it, now that the scrapes are treated enough to heal for when they next take up that dagger to the wall. But his tail-tip picks it up and places it by their stack of tools, dropping it off without even looking.

“No need,” He states, tapping a claw against his leathered knee. “Not like I have any want or need for it.”

“Confident that’s something exclusive to me, are we.”

“I’m not the one taking tumbles from rock climbing now, am I.” His claw points at himself, and jabs extra when he refers to himself.

“I suppose.” The Sorcerer gives in response, face flat.

“You know.” The Dragon finishes in tease, smug air returning. He hauls himself up with ease, his tail just swiping against their shoes as it arches around for counterbalance. The sun is nearly engulfed by the horizon at this point, both bathed in cool light from the setting world. The cold is a tad too much on their still-drying hands and with a scoff they move further into the cave in aim of the piles of furs and quilts they claimed from his hoard. He stands unmoving for a short while, staring at their repeating back before trailing with a distance. He sees them navigate their home with developing ease, dodging the little raises in the rock with ease despite their human eyes preferring a bit more light. He can’t deny the urge to see how easy it would be to try and trip them up with a tail swipe, just a small one.

The Sorcerer doesn't attempt to make conversation, shot out from their digging and falling and complaining for the day being fulfilled, and the Dragon slows his gait to linger in the fork in the road toward the small ‘room’ they’ve taken for themselves. It's an ungraceful tumble into the pile of buffalo skins and bear pelts, and observes the way they sit in such a way to try and catch anything before it catches them out first. A small huff escapes him at the thought that they assume he guards his home so poorly that something else would be able to nab anything from his hoard. There's a single swipe of his tail to signify his passing, a courtesy, before he takes the lone walk back to his hall of glittering gold.

The space echoes his every sound, pinging off the walls and metal plains, scrapes of spines like nails on steel and the jingles of his many belts as his muscular form stalks onward. Attention goes to the large rocky surface he calls a bed, and runs a scaled hand on it before relinquishing himself to rest. The thing isn't terribly comfortable, large at least, but Stayrus finds himself unable to settle. Tail swinging in agitation as moonlight replaces that of the sun’s, he tries a range of actions to quell this fickle discomfort. Laying on his softer side, his stomach, on the floor and leaning against some side of his pedestal.

None of it does any good, and a deep growl leaves his chest when he stares up at a stream of pearlescent moonlight filtering in. It reminds him of that small pale fur the little Sorcerer was quick to compliment, semi-transparent in it’s wispy and insulating hairs. He rolls himself off his resting spot, twisting his spine like a snake, and prowls over to the remaining furs to send a scrutinising glance at them. He quickly finds more of that pale fur, and flings it up over his shoulder with his tail, and starts grabbing items akin to the ones already picked from the lot. He carries a hefty sum of three thick beast skins and two furs, and swiftly gets to piling them on his rock slab. Two rest flat to cushion his large form, and the one left to dangle on the floor where he knows his tail might end up in the morning. The furs lay on him easily and they do their job of providing soft encapsulation well, securing him in a cocoon of fur.

One final shuffle is all that's needed to settle into place facing the entrance of his home’s inner sanctum, as he sets his arm to a ninety degree angle where his soft cheek meets his hand. The faint breeze cools his face just right above his pocket of warmth, and his tail stretches straight before relaxing and weaving through his legs. Eyes slowly drift shut and a small smile tugs at his lips with the question of if he’ll get to enjoy the expression of his cave-mate when the moon reaches its peak. Shuffling in with a quilt around them as they try to sneak the remaining fruits from their breakfast spot for a late night snack, eyes wide like a raccoon in the torchlight when a chuckle breaks the silence.

[c-e-d-dreamer]

Spare Me Your Happier Ending (I Want To Feel Everything)

A/N: happy happy @rhystaappreciationweekend everyone! You know they're my favorite rare-pair/crack-ship, and I can't wait to see what everyone creates. I'm kicking off the weekend with the Rivals prompt, particularly historical rivals. What is the historical period? Vague. What is the plot? Also vague. But onwards to what really matters: smutfest 😉

Read on AO3

Nesta walks down the long, stretching hallway, the sound of her heels clipping against the marble floor echoing in her ears. If she focuses, she can just make out the sounds of the string quartet playing a waltz in the ballroom, the soft sounds of swishing silk, of chatter and clinking glasses.

The sounds of joy.

Everyone is so happy to smile and raises their glasses in a toast. So happy to talk and dance with the other side. So happy to pretend that the last five years haven't happened. So happy to hang the purple and black flags right alongside the blue and silver banners. So happy to forget the bloodshed and the pain, all in the name of peace.

Peace.

It takes everything within Nesta to rein in her snort and eye roll at the notion. To swallow down her annoyance at this whole ball. To hold in her rage toward her father for agreeing to this whole treaty in the first place. Was it all for nothing? All those years of war?

"Nesta Archeron."

Nesta's steps freeze at the sound of that voice. She takes a moment to breathe deeply, sighing through her nose, before she turns around to face the Prince of Velaris himself. Rhysand. He stands at the other end of the hallway, dressed in an all black suit, silver threads sewn into the three mountain pattern of his kingdom along the lapels. His hands are shoved into his pockets, his stance easy and relax, but even with the distance between them, Nesta can see the slight upturn of his lips, the flare sparking in his violet eyes when they meet her own.

"Did you need something?" Nesta drawls, crossing her arms.

"Hiding from the party?" Rhysand fires back, walking toward her in slow, measured steps.

She refuses to be intimidated by the display, by the closing distance between them. She doesn't care who he is, doesn't care that he'll one day be a king. She'll be a queen, and she will not be cowed by all his cool bravado and swagger, by a man born with a silver spoon in his mouth who's never heard the word no before.

"Perhaps, I'm simply hiding from a pretentious ass of a prince," Nesta offers, raising her chin and looking down her nose despite the slight height he has on her.

"Is that so? And here I was hoping we might share a dance."

"Gladly. A perfect opportunity to put you in your place."

Rhysand chuckles at the remark, the sound low and taunting. He takes another step forward, but with their closeness, it forces Nesta to take a step back. Again and again he forces her to retreat until her back hits the cool stone of the wall, Rhysand crowding into the space in front of her. His smirk is wide and cocksure, his head tilting as his gaze sweeps over her.

As he sizes her up.

"Well, this is certainly quite the act," Rhysand begins, his hand reaching up for her face.

"Act?" Nesta scoffs, trying to jerk her head away, but his fingers merely curl tightly around her chin, holding her face firmly in his grasp, keeping her attention firmly on him.

"All that coldness, all that bitchiness, it's just a facade, isn't it? We both know what you really want." He leans in closer still, until Nesta can feel his warm breath fan across her cheeks, her lips. "You want to be used. Want to be stuffed full. Want come so deep in your cunt that you'll feel it and be dripping for days."

"Fuck you," Nesta snarls, raising her knee and aiming right for his balls.

But Rhysand is faster, his hand snapping down and catching her knee before it can make contact. She expects him to shove her leg away, perhaps expects him to fire a cruel retort right back at her. But his smirk only seems to grow, something dark flickering in his violet eyes.

A predator recognizing a worthy opponent. Recognizing the same claws and teeth, the same darkness that clearly twines like thorns around both their hearts after all these years of fighting.

"You can't lie to me," Rhysand tells her, his fingers moving in a way that they gather up the skirts of her dress, the fabric rising up over her ankle, her calf. "I bet if I reach under your dress, I'd find you already wet for me."

Nesta makes a big show of rolling her eyes, but she knows he's not wrong. Already, she can feel her body responding, can feel her chest beginning to heave, her heart beginning to pound. Already, she can feel heat licking through her veins and pooling low in her gut.

And she wants to hate it.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, she knows that she should put a stop to this. She knows that she should push Rhysand away and simply return to her family and the ball still happening. But she can't stop thinking about his earlier words. His promise. She can't help but wonder what it might be like if they both truly dropped their masks, truly unleashed their claws and sunk them into one another.

"Find out," Nesta breathes, the challenge clear in her tone.

There's no describing the emotion that flickers through Rhysand's eyes other than pure hunger. The low candlelight glints off his too sharp teeth as a feral grin stretches across his face. His hand teases higher still, fingertips sliding against the inside of her thigh. Nesta's breath hitches in anticipation the closer he gets to where she wants him, goosebumps cascading down her leg and up her spine.

His hand finally finds her underclothes, two fingers dragging along her cunt through the fabric, and Nesta has to swallow down a whimper at that first touch. He must be able to feel what a mess she's already made because he groans softly, his fingers pressing with more purpose on the second drag.

"What do you know," Rhysand drawls, tracing a teasing circle over her clit. "Such a needy little princess after all."

He pushes her underclothes to the side, and Nesta gets her first taste of skin on skin contact. His fingers gather the wetness that pooled between her thighs, coating his digits with each teasing pass, but Nesta bites her lip hard. She refuses to beg, especially with this man.

Instead, she merely raises her chin higher, willing her voice to stay steady and cold despite the moan trapped in her throat. "Is this it, then? As disappointing as the Velaris armies."

Rhysand snarls from between his teeth, shifting his hand and pressing two fingers into Nesta's cunt. She gasps as the sudden intrusion, the stretch from just his fingers. They're thicker than her own ever were, reach deeper than hers ever could, and when he pulls his fingers back just to shove them deep again, Nesta's toes curl in her shoes.

"What was that?" Rhysand taunts.

Nesta opens her mouth to respond, but Rhysand chooses that exact moment to curl his fingers, any words dying in the back of Nesta's throat and replaced with a soft moan. From that damned smirk of his making a reappearance, it was clearly purposeful. He begins to move his fingers in earnest, thrusting his in and out of her cunt in a rough and brutal pace and stoking the fire brewing in Nesta's veins into a full blown blaze.

She can feel every drag of his fingers against the walls of her cunt, can feel herself getting even wetter beneath his skillful ministrations. She can hear the sound his fingers make each time they press into that wetness, mixing with the gasps and moans that tumble past her lips.

"Careful," Rhysand warns, leaning in and dragging his teeth over her throat. "You don't want people to hear you, do you?"

Nesta bites her lip hard, tries desperately to swallow down the whimper trapped in her throat, but it's hard to focus on anything other than the pleasure he's drawing out of her. It has her tossing her head back against the wall. Has her hips rocking down against his hand. Has her cunt clenching hard as though desperate to keep his fingers deep, to keep them right where they belong.

"Imagine what they'd think if they walked by and found you riding my hand."

Rhysand squeezes in a third finger, and Nesta gasps at the stretch. Her own hand snaps down to curl around his wrist, nails biting against his skin, but she doesn't stop him. She merely holds on.

"What they'd think if they knew how absolutely drenched you were, what a mess you're making of my hand."

"Fuck," Nesta whines high in the back of her throat.

"If they knew the way your sweet cunt keeps squeezing my fingers. So desperate and greedy."

Rhysand shifts his hand enough that he can press his thumb against her clit, working it in time with the fingers still driving into her again and again. Nesta can feel that familiar tightening low in her gut, can feel the pleasure carrying her higher and higher. She can feel herself right on that precipice, but before she can go tumbling head first over the edge, Rhysand pulls his hand away completely, everything coming to a screeching halt.

"What the fuck?" Nesta seethes, her breaths still heaving with those simmering flames.

She shoves hard at Rhysand's chest, but he catches her wrists, pulling her roughly into his body and leaning down to speak directly in her ear. "Did you really think I'd let you come on anything other than my cock, princess?"

Rhysand steps back, but he doesn't let go of her wrists. Instead, he uses the hold to drag Nesta away from the wall, to drag her down the stretching hallways. Everything passes by Nesta in a blur until she's being guided through a set of large, oak doors and into what she presumes must be Rhysand's guest chambers. But she barely gets a look at that either before Rhysand all but shoves her onto the large, sprawling bed in the center of the space.

His hands fist into her skirts, the sound of tearing fabric especially loud in the quiet of the room. Her underclothes are next, and then Rhysand's fingers are curling tightly around her thighs, prying them apart. He spreads her wide open, exposing her cunt fully to him, and Nesta's hips jump in anticipation, her cunt fluttering around nothing, around the emptiness.

"Where's that cold, bitchy facade now?" Rhysand asks.

He reaches for the laces of his pants, deft fingers working quickly to free his cock. He shoves his pants down his hips, and Nesta has to swallow hard at the sight presented before her. His cock is long and curved slightly where it hangs hard and already leaking against his thigh. He fists his cock lazily, Nesta tracking every drag up and down of his hand, every slide of his palm along the veins there.

"Beg for it," Rhysand requests, stepping closer into the cradle of Nesta's thighs.

"Fuck you."

Rhysand drags the head of his cock over her cunt, teasing at her clit. "Put that smart mouth of yours to good use and beg for it."

Nesta presses her lips together against the moan bubbling up her throat, swallows down the shiver threatening to ricochet up her spine, at every slide, every tantalizing circle he traces. But she refuses to be ordered around in her own home, refuses to let go of her pride, no matter what her body so desperately craves.

Instead, she hooks her heels on the bed, spreading her thighs wider still. She reaches a hand down between them, knocking Rhysand's own away and gripping his cock. She slides her hand down and back up, dragging her thumb across the head, across the combination of precum and the mess of her own arousal there.

"Perhaps, I should find someone else at the party? Someone who can actually give me pleasure?"

With a growl, Rhysand's hand snaps to around Nesta's throat, squeezing once in warning. He kneels up properly onto the bed, violet eyes ablaze as he leans down until he's right in Nesta's face.

"Be a good girl and do as you're told. Scream my name."

The words are Nesta's only warning before Rhysand lines up his cock, pressing his hips forward and sinking into her cunt. The stretch is indescribable, even more so than his fingers, and while she doesn't follow the order to scream, there's no stopping the moan that's pulled straight from her throat. She can feel every vein of his cock pressing against the walls of her cunt, can feel him buried so deep and filling her so completely.

"Fuck, look at how you take me," Rhysand praises, rocking his hips forward still until he bottoms out. "Just desperate for cock, aren't you? Desperate for a good fucking."

"So show me a good fucking," Nesta grits out around a moan.

Rhysand smirks again, hooking Nesta's thighs around his waist. "Careful what you wish for."

He pulls his hips back just to snap them back forward again, his groan once he's buried again matching Nesta's own moan. He quickly sets a brutal pace, fucking into her hard and fast. Nesta reaches a hand up and over her head, fisting her fingers into the fabric of the blankets beneath her, trying to merely hold on.

The sound of skin on skin is overly loud in her ears, roaring right alongside her thundering heartbeat, her gasping moans and pleas, Rhysand's own grunts and groans. She can feel what a mess they're making between her thighs, can feel herself growing wetter still with each snap of Rhysand's hips, each time his cock slams home into her cunt. But it's hard to care when all she can focus on is the heat flooding through her veins, on the stretch of his cock and the way it strokes the walls of her cunt.

On the pleasure of being so full.

"What a shame our nations reached a peace treaty," Rhysand tells her, his hips never pausing even as his hand reaches roughly for her jaw, thumb dragging across her bottom lip. "I would have much rather taken you as my war prize."

Nesta huffs, trying to bite at his fingers in retaliation, but Rhysand merely chuckles mockingly. He moves his hand out of the way, settling it instead at her hip. It feels like a brand, that touch, the way his fingers dig into her flesh.

"I could have kept you right here, in this bed, stuffed full of me."

Nesta can't help but moan at his words, her cunt clenching down hard around his cock. Her heels scramble for purchase against his back, hips tilting up to meet his thrusts and draw his cock deeper still.

"Like that, do you? Like being stuffed full of my cock. Of my seed. Could breed the next heir of Velaris right here."

Nesta tightens her thighs around Rhysand's waist, using the grip and momentum to flip them over, Rhysand's back against the blankets and her astride his lap. "The next heir of Gwyll, you mean."

She settles her hands on Rhysand's abdomen, where his shirt has ridden up and bunches around his waist. She digs her nails into his skin, using it as leverage as she begins to move her hips, fucking herself on his cock. Rhysand hisses from between his teeth, but whether it's from the bite of her nails or the squeeze of her cunt, Nesta isn't sure. Nor does she care.

His own hands reach for the bosom of her dress, tugging it down until her breasts spill free over the top. His palms grope and knead at her breasts, thumbs dragging over her nipples, and Nesta keens loudly, her back arching. It all feels too good, the way his hands work her breasts, the way his cock fills her cunt, the way her clit catches and drags against his pelvis with every circle of her hips.

Rhysand sits up enough that he can close his mouth over one of her breasts. His teeth drag and tease across the sensitive skin there, his tongue laving over her nipple. His teeth sink in completely, just the right side of pleasure and pain, and Nesta explodes. Her release tears through her, practically shouting Rhysand's name as she clamps down around his cock.

She continues to move her hips shallowly, to chase the final tendrils of that high, but then Rhysand is flipping them back over. He hoists one of Nesta's legs up over his shoulder, redoubling his efforts from before. Nesta cries out as his hips slam against hers, as his cock spears into her cunt still fluttering with aftershocks over and over again.

"Mother save me, who knew having you come all over my cock could feel so good," Rhysand gets out between his groans. "Maybe I really will keep this sweet cunt just for me. Just for me to use. Just for me to fill and keep dripping."

It's almost too much, that over-stimulation, but already, Nesta can feel herself barreling toward that precipice again. Can feel that heat brewing too quickly. Dangerously.

"Please," Nesta whines, little more than a moaning, writhing mess. "Please…"

"Look at that. You can beg."

A few more thrusts, and Rhysand buries his cock with a groan. Nesta can feel the way his cock twitches deep within her, can feel the way he floods her cunt with the warmth of his own release. He continues to thrust his hips shallowly, one of his hands reaching down between their bodies until his fingers find her clit. It only takes a few presses before Nesta's whole body is convulsing, another orgasm leaving spots dancing behind her eyelids.

"That's it, really milk my cock."

Nesta slumps back against the blankets, tossing an arm over her eyes as she tries to catch her breath. She whimpers when Rhysand pulls his softening cock free, but it quickly turns into a gasp when he presses two fingers right back into her cunt.

"Make sure you don't lose a drop," Rhysand leans down to say right against Nesta's ear.

Nesta has to bite her lip, has to swallow down the whine trapped in her throat, but there's no stopping the way her cunt still flutters at the request, and from Rhysand's deep chuckle, the reaction has clearly given her away. He pulls away completely, and Nesta lowers her arm enough that she can watch him tuck his cock back into his pants, watch him retie the laces and fix his shirt.

He tugs at the sleeves, picking at something on the fabric and heading toward the doors, but he pauses with his hand outstretched toward the handle. He turns his attention over his shoulder, his gaze slowly sweeping over Nesta's frame where she's still sprawled across the blankets, still a mess of torn fabric, of sweat and his seed dripping from her cunt. The smirk he gives her is nothing short of male arrogance and pride.

"I still expect that dance by the way."

[plutoswritingplanet]

Vicarious (Homelander x Female!Reader) pt.4

a/n: a short conclusion for the last chapter, before i finish a more story-heavy one, deeply inspired by "Two Against One" by Jack White

Warnings: Masturbation (again, wow), Explicit Language, Alcohol Use, Very Creepy Behavior, Plus Sized Reader, Inappropriate Relations With A Marble Wall, Suggestive Themes

Summary: Both you and Homelander get increasingly confused about what you truly are. None come out unscathed.

Vicarious Masterlist

The vulnerability of drunkenness looks good on you. 

At first, you're none the wiser. As your limbs uncurl from around Homelander, your feet hitting the polished floor of his penthouse. Stomach flipping around, you fight with all your strength not to fall to your knees, as the shock of being shot out through the air slowly subsides. Homelander starts pacing around the living area, an excitable spring in his steps, as he makes his way towards the rather well-stocked liquor cabinet. Were you more vigilant, perhaps you would've read this action for what it truly was, but as it stands, the realization is postponed for a few seconds more. 

Glasses clink somewhere behind you, but you're too focused on steadying your breathing to notice. Your vision is swimming, the blurred outline of a gigantic American flag, hanged on the wall in front of you, makes you want to jump out that stupid window. The repetitive pattern twists your brain around.

- Ugh... Jesus - you throw the offending piece of cloth a withering look.

- If you're going to be sick, do it in the bathroom - Homelander barks, keeping himself out of your field of vision. 

- I'll be fine, don't wo... - okay, you cut yourself off because maybe you're not fine after all. 

A second passes, as you try to identify, if the feeling inside your chest is an omen of oncoming vomit. 

No, it's good, you're okay. 

Your eyelids are so incredibly heavy, it almost feels like your lashes are tangling together every time you blink, trying to force your eyes to stay closed. There's this strange taste in your mouth, a ghost of drinks past, mixed with some other, much more worrying substances you've enthusiastically consumed, and you smack your tongue against your pallet, running it over your teeth, as if to test if they're all set in place. Adrenaline gathers at the tips of your fingertips, and you shake your hands with a frown, fighting to rid yourself of this energy. Instead of helping, it only serves to make your stomach churn harder.

Traumatic experiences, such as being flown through the air at ungodly speed, should technically sober you up, but right now you feel like you've been funneling alcohol through a tube the entire night. Not entirely untrue, but you've never been a lightweight, so this sudden change of pace surprises and worries you. And there's one more thing. As your hands flail at your sides, checking your bearings, a sudden wave of realization hits you like a truck. 

Your bag. You forgot your bag at the party, and as such, your phone is lost too. Which wouldn't be so bad, if you didn't have the combination for the door of your room in the Tower saved in the notes. Your head starts to hurt, eyes closing shut, as you try to will the numbers into your brain. They were funny, you made them into a joke, you just don't remember which one. 

- Fuck... - you sigh, scratching at the back of your neck, where your sweat is rapidly cooling in the conditioned air of the penthouse. 

Which was it? Four numbers, significant ones. You chuckled to yourself when you first typed them into the lock, but it's so hard to focus on anything other than staying upright.

- You okay there? - Homelander asks, and suddenly you're reminded that he's still here, with you.

Alone. 

It's not dread that climbs up your spine at the realization, not excitement either. What you feel, clawing its way through your insides like a feral beast, is a profound sense of acceptance. Blue and red invade your vision, as he moves to stand in front of you, pushing a chilled glass filled with amber liquid into your hand. On instinct, your fingers curl around it, but you can't seem to raise it to your lips, wondering, if this move will signal your defeat. His chest rises and falls evenly, as he stands so close to you, you can practically feel the heat coming off of him, along with that rich cologne, that surrounds you from every angle. 

There's a geometric pattern all over the blue parts of his costume, and your eyes fight against its movements in front of you. The padding on his chest and stomach is truly ridiculous, even in your sorry state you can realize the unnatural movements of his fake muscles over his skin. Really, you can't be the only person that's noticed this. 

- I forgot my phone from the party - your voice is so quiet, weak, and you can't seem to pinpoint, if it's Smirnoff's or Fireball's - I don't...

- I know - he interrupts you, inclining his head as if he's trying to entice you to look at him - You left it on a chair in the kitchen. 

You don't give yourself the luxury of confusion, because you should've known. You should've figured it out, the moment he fell from the sky, catching the vulnerability of the moment, and crushing it in his teeth. Of course, he was looking, listening in as well, most likely. Wouldn't be the first time, would it? Who else would've known to leak the contract information, mere hours after you've complained to your friend over the phone, by an open window no less? There's no allowance of betrayal for you, you knew from the start, and yet you've allowed yourself to be put in this situation. You placed your own hand into the maw of the lion, and now you're supposed to expect him not to snap his teeth?

 His hand comes up into your field of vision, those red, leather gloves creaking, as they wrap around your fingers holding the glass. You don't resist, when he guides your hand up, towards your lips, tips the glass against them, until the bitter liquid pours into your mouth, past your teeth. 

- Very good - he murmurs with a patronizing tone, watching your throat work, as you swallow around the burning sensation - Take it all in, champ.

And you do. You down the drink, until there's nothing left. His hand retreats, and your fingers relax, letting the glass fall onto the plush carpet. You need to lock Smirnoff, stuff her back into that box, hidden from sight, before anything progresses. But she just won't let go. She claws her way into your brain, screaming at you to do something, anything, before it's too late. 

This isn't you. You're not here. 

The familiar mantra falls short, as Homelander slowly starts to take off his gloves, one finger at a time. His hands are strong, pale, with slender fingers, that curl and uncurl around air, as if testing the tendons working under his skin. Your eyes glide over the movements, heart stopping for just a moment, when he holds out his right hand in front of your chest, just shy of touching. Wetting your lips with your tongue, you watch, as his fingers tremble with tension. He wants you to feel it, the anticipation of the inevitable. He wants you to break, he's only ever wanted a reaction out of you.

- Please, I don't... - your voice cracks like a window. 

You don't what? Want it? You're convinced there are no words in the world, that would stop him right now, and the muscles in your face twitch. The American flag behind his shoulder stares at you, the stripes suddenly becoming a flurry of motion, as he pushes his hand against your chest. You don't fight it, letting him guide you all the way across the room, until your back reaches the wall, slamming into it with a dull thud. Despite that, the unrelenting force behind his movements makes you acutely aware of his true strength, the sheer lack of humanity inside this man in front of you. 

As soon as you're pressed against the wall, Homelander lurches forwards, his arms encircling your form completely, his face diving into the juncture between your neck and shoulder. Your entire body sways in place, as he takes a long, shuddering breath, his palms mapping the softness of your flesh under the flimsy t-shirt. Cotton tears under his ministrations, and cold air hits your back, your sides. A deep, low hum reverberated through his chest, as he exhales, immediately sucking in another breath through gritted teeth. 

- You... - he huffs, his exposed hands fitting themselves under the tears in your shirt - I've never known something so cheap could smell so good.  

There's a jolt of something, running through his body, as his hips press into you with barely restrained force. He'd fit nicely between your pliable thighs, but not now, not ever. The hardness digging into your stomach finally solidifies, what you dreaded would come.

- We can't - you don't recognize your voice. 

This isn't you. You're not here. 

But Fireball is not here either, so what is this third, strange person, who raises their hands and pushes against his chest, against the metal eagles on his shoulders? The flag still watches you struggle, those impassive stars mocking you at every turn. Truly, the American Dream come true, being humped like a dog by the strongest, most Yankee Doodle Dandy superhero to ever exist. This is exactly, what your parents were chasing, when they moved to the States, searching for a better future for their soon-to-be-born little girl. Will he stick a flag pole in your cunt, and sing the fucking National Anthem, after he's done using you? The thought almost makes you laugh, makes you remember the combination to your room, but all dark amusement flies out the still open window, because suddenly, his arms straighten out. 

He pins you to the wall, pulling back all the way, so he can stare at you with those cold, dead eyes, full of freedom for his own, heinous actions, and none left for you. There's tension in his face, as his lips press together into a condescending, tight smile, and his fingers flex on your shoulders, testing the durability of the stitches of your t-shirt once again. 

- Can't? - there's a tilt to his voice, a barely contained sliver of anger seeping through his teeth - I'm the fucking Homelander. I can do whatever I want. 

Ah, so that's what you're dealing with.

 The box rattles, the lock you've so carefully placed upon it bursting open like a cracked egg. And as Smirnoff takes her rightful place, scraping both Fireball and that elusive third thing from the surface of your brain, you look up at Homelander with utter understanding. What stands in front of you, is not a symbol of hope and peace. You're looking at a spoiled, invincible brat, who's never had to work for anything in his life. 

This is you. You're here. And you're so fucking disappointed.

Once again, you shape-shift right in front of his eyes, and with a shuddered breath Homelander realizes, that finally, he's looking at the real you. Not the bored, wreck of a human being he's met weeks ago, not the corporate product Stillwell has carved out of you, but a secret, third thing. An intoxicating cocktail of your true, hidden feelings floats to the surface, from underneath layers upon layers of masks, and he wishes to tear every single one, if it means you'll keep looking at him like that. Like you know him, like you can see behind the curtain of his performance, just as he sees behind yours. It's been such a long time, since someone made this discovery, and remained impassive.

When he thinks about it, this is the first time, he's met with such levelled response. And, fuck, the thought is better than drugs. The ghost of your scent tickles his nostrils, and he wonders what would stick to his tongue, should he taste you right now. Not fear, not desire, definitely not admiration. The expression you're wearing is eerily familiar, but so strange at the same time. Stitches at your shoulders tear under his fingertips, when he squeezes harder, hoping to extract the answer from your skin, from the softness of your flesh, the caverns of your bones. 

You don't even give him the luxury of a flinch.

- Just because you can, doesn't mean you should.

Who said those words, you're both unsure, but they shoot through him like thousands of spikes, drilling themselves under his impenetrable skin with ease. He blinks, and finally realizes the familiarity of your gaze. He's seen it, back in that lab, back home. Disappointment. And with that realization comes a myriad of familiar feelings, of patterns he's been continuing over, and over again, like a compulsion he's unable to rid himself of. The need to be feared, respected, loved, it all mixes with one more, treacherous thing. Make it right, make it better. 

Slowly, his fingers uncurl from around your shoulders, the t-shirt hanging onto your frame on a couple of strings alone. Surely, he'll regret this sooner, rather than later, but for now, he lets you go. Homelander takes a step back, his eyes unfocused behind a dazed cloud, as he regards you with scrunched eyebrows. It's evident, by the way his breathing quickens, the way his movements are tense, still ready to pounce. The desire to tear, to get what he wants is strong as ever, and the darkness in his eyes should be terrifying. Would be terrifying, if you were anyone, but yourself. 

And still, there's nothing. Your hearbeat is steady, your breathing even, your blood lacks any familiar chemicals, which would indicate your dishevelled state. It's as if you're looking at his through the windows of a passing bus, like he's a fucking traffic sign stuck into concrete. Insignificant, a piece of the landscape no one thinks twice about. But then, before he has the chance to get offended, you shift again, knocking him off his rythm once more. 

When did your eyes start to sparkle like that, he's none the wiser, but he drinks up the sight like a man parched, his mouth opening just a little, tasting the air of you on his tongue. The ghost of a smile on your lips might as well be a trick of the light, but he wants to believe otherwise, and as you take a step closer to him, pushing yourself off the wall, his heart stops for a millisecond. 

- Thank you - you whisper, your breath hanging in the space between the two of you - For saving me.

He blinks. And then, you're gone, leaving his penthouse like nothing has happened, like this is exactly how the night was supposed to end. The click of the door behind you sounds so distant to his ears, as if he's being held under water, and he's left standing rigid, staring at the empty space on the wall, where your body pressed into just seconds ago. A myriad of emotions swirls within him, one darker than the other, and as if pushed by some invisible force, he approaches the wall, closing his eyes with a shudder. Images of you, your body, the softness underneath his fingertips, flood his mind, and one question still fights for an answer in his mind. He needs to know, needs to feel something, lest he follows right behind you and forces the solution right out of your lips. 

Your scent lingers long after you've left, and with the concentration of a mad scientist, he places his cheek against the cold marble, where your shoulder was mounted. Curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back, and with a groan of unresolved tension, Homelander lets his tongue slip from between his teeth, laying flat on the polished surface. He licks a long stripe across, from one imaginary shoulder to the other, and can almost feel the ghost of you under each taste bud. 

Why did he let you go? What sort of a spell did you put on him, that he let you slip past his fingers, while he's still here, burning up with need? 

His hand tugs at the belt buckle, until it snaps off completely, clattering to the floor. Saliva smears down the surface of the wall, as he yanks down the lower part of his suit, immediately starting to hump his hand like a wild animal, mind clouded with what he wants, but can't seem to take. The marble wall steals the boiling heat right out of his body, and he presses harder against the unrelenting surface, fucking into his hand with reckless abandon. Words leave his lips in a messy jumble, nonsensical and broken. His eyes sting under his eyelids, and as he feels his peak come closer and closer, the heat inside his head becomes unbearable. 

With a frustrated, wanton growl, he comes hard all over the wall, his eyes snapping open, letting the deadly light out in full force. It collides with the marble, burning into it with ease for just a second, before he blinks it away, his body shaking from the intensity of his release. Pieces of rubble fall to the ground at his feet, dust covering the red leather of his boots. He's outgrown shame a long time ago, and with lips pursed in deep thought, he examines the demage he's done while lost in the moment. Placing his forehead right at the edge of the hole in the wall, he gathers his release on the tips of his fingers, pressing it further into the cracks in the marble.

This might be a bit harder to explain in the morning, he thinks to himslef with a huff of laughter. But, out of all the things he could've done, he guesses Stillwell would be happier to call for a renovation team, than have to explain to the higher-ups, and later the world, what happened to that bright-eyed Sidekick of his. 

A small mercy. A present, if you will, for both you and her. He shakes his head, finally stepping away from the destroyed wall. After all, it wasn't any spell, any sort of influence that made him let you flee back to the supposed safety of your room. It was his benevolence.

 Of course. He's the hero after all.  

[hometoursandotherstuff]

Elegant 1860 brownstone mansion in Jersey City, NJ has 6bds, 4ba, 4,000 sq ft, $1.5m.

Beautiful original wood . The side hall has a large newel post, and a double arch that opens to the sitting room. The inlaid floor looks either original or very old. This home has been around a long time.

There are lovely arched double doors and it appears that the realtor worked his magic and decorated the empty room with modern furnishings.

This is quite a large room with a pretty ceiling and a huge gold mirror above the marble fireplace.

This beautiful room has a wonderful large niche, what I think were in and out doors to the kitchen, wonderful wainscoting and very nice striped wallpaper. The niche is perfect for a serving sideboard.

I think that it's a dining room, but it's decorated as a home office.

Nice vintage look guest half bath.

This room is set up as a dining room.

Modern/vintage kitchen has a good look- no ultra modern cabinetry. The brick wall looks old, so I wonder if the original stove was there.

The remodel is tasteful and it's nice that there's a fireplace in here, even though it's been redone.

Nice large bedroom with a marble fireplace.

This bedroom looks much larger b/c it has a sleeping alcove.

I love that the baths are still vintage. The sink is a beautiful example of an antique reproduction.

This one also has a sleep alcove and is very pretty. The bedrooms are all light. Right now, they're very plain, but they could be stunning with the right decor.

You don't normally see a huge cedar closet in an older home.

The hallway on the 3rd floor has a stained glass skylight and note the raised decorative accents.

The bedroom on the 3rd fl. is light, even though it has smaller windows.

Smallest room is cute. Looks like it has a closet, too.

The underside of the stairs is detailed.

This looks like the basement.

There's a subway tile shower and sauna down here.

Many homeowners make basement apts. , but that's not the case here.

I'm amazed at the size of the garden and yard. What a wonderful bonus to have in a city.

https://www.trulia.com/home/538-bergen-ave-jersey-city-nj-07304-38916196

[bat-mom-writer]

Alfred's Advice

Reader(Bruce's wife) X Alfred Pennyworth (PLATONIC)

Summery: You can't sleep one night, feeling worried about your husband, Bruce, and your sons. Alfred gives you warm milk and advice.

Note: This is platonic! You are married to Bruce.

Rating: Fluff, Comfort.

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

You lay alone in bed, the moon casting a silver glow through the windows of the manor. It's a quiet night in Gotham, a rare occurrence that you savor. The coolness of the Egyptian cotton sheets is a stark contrast to the warmth that Bruce's body usually brings. But tonight, he's out fighting the city's shadows again. You roll over, feeling the emptiness next to you, and think about the boys. They're growing up so fast, each with their own secrets and burdens.

As you get up, the floorboards of the master suite creak gently beneath your bare feet. You tiptoe through the dark hallway, the portraits of ancestral Waynes watching you with painted eyes. The soft patter of your footsteps echoes in the stillness, a stark reminder of the mansion's size. You make your way to the stairs, the chandelier above casting a dim, flickering light that dances on the walls like the ghosts of past parties.

You follow the sound of running water and clinking dishes downstairs to the kitchen, where you find Alfred, the ever-faithful butler, cleaning up from dinner.

"Can't sleep either, Madam?" he asks, noticing your reflection in the spotless kitchen window. His kind eyes are filled with understanding.

"You could say that," you reply with a sigh, rubbing the sleep from your eyes.

Alfred turns off the tap and dries his hands on a spotless tea towel. "Would you care for some warm milk, perhaps? It's an old fashioned remedy, but it often helps."

You nod, appreciative of his care. "That would be lovely, Alfred." You take a seat at the long, polished kitchen table, the chill of the marble countertops seeping into your bones. While Alfred prepares the milk, you gaze out the window into the night. The mansion's vast grounds stretch out into the darkness, a sea of tranquility amidst the chaotic city.

He places the steaming mug in front of you, the aroma of vanilla and cinnamon filling the air. "Is it something particularly troubling you, Madam?" he asks gently, his voice as soothing as the warm liquid you're about to sip.

"I don't know, Alfred," you say, wrapping your hands around the mug. "It's just… each night that Bruce goes out, and the boys follow in his footsteps, I can't help but worry." The words hang in the air, thick with the weight of your concern. "They're all so… intense. They carry the world on their shoulders. I'm afraid of the world crashing down on them."

Alfred nods solemnly. "It is a heavy burden they've chosen, Madam. But they are strong, resilient young men. They have the love and guidance of both you and Mr. Wayne."

You take a sip of the warm milk, letting it soothe your throat as you ponder his words. "But what about Bruce?" you ask, your voice barely above a whisper. "Yes, the boys have me and him but he's been doing this for so long… alone. It's taken a toll on him."

Alfred pours himself a cup of tea, his movements precise and measured. "Mr. Wayne is indeed a man of great fortitude, Madam," he says, his eyes reflecting a mix of admiration and concern. "But he's not truly alone. He has you, and the the other young masters, we all support him in our own ways."

You nod thoughtfully. "I know, Alfred, but sometimes I feel like I can't do enough." The warmth of the milk spreads through your chest, offering a small comfort.

"Madam, you underestimate yourself," Alfred says, his expression earnest. "Your presence here is more vital than you realize."

You look up at him, your gaze searching. "How so?"

Alfred smiles fondly. "Remember the time you tried to teach the young masters to tango?"

Your eyes widen at the memory. "Oh, my goodness, yes!" You laugh, the sound a welcome relief in the quiet of the night. "But it more turned into a wrestling match than a dance lesson."

Alfred chuckles, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Indeed it did, but it was a sight to behold. They had smiles on their faces, genuine smiles that didn't involve a mask or a mission. I believe that is your greatest strength, Madam. You bring joy and balance to this place, to their lives."

You smile back at him, feeling a warmth spread through your chest. "I'll have to try teaching them again," you say, already planning the next attempt in your mind.

Alfred nods, his smile lingering. "It would do them good, Madam."

You take another sip of the warm milk, feeling the comfort of Alfred's words. "Thank you, Alfred," you say, reaching out to place your hand over his forearm. "Thank you for everything you've done for Bruce, the boys… and me."

"It's my pleasure, Madam," he says, his tone genuine. "Now, why don't you go sit in the library? It's quieter there, and you might find something to read that could help you relax."

You nod, feeling a little better with Alfred's words of encouragement. "Thank you," you murmur, pushing back from the table. You carry your mug with you, the warmth of it a comforting weight in your hands.

As you leave the kitchen, you pause at the threshold, looking back at Alfred. His eyes are on you, filled with a warmth that makes you feel seen, understood. "Goodnight, Alfred," you whisper, feeling the weight of the night's worries begin to lift.

He nods, the corners of his eyes crinkling with his smile. "Rest well, Madam."

As you make your way to the library, the house feels like it's holding its breath, the only sounds the ticking of the grandfather clock and the occasional squeak of a floorboard. The library is a sanctuary of knowledge, the shelves filled with leather-bound books that whisper of adventures and wisdom. You sink into the soft embrace of the armchair by the fireplace, the warmth from the dying embers casting a cozy glow around you. The smell of old pages fills the air as you select a random book, letting the words carry you away from your troubles for a while.

[newkatzkafe2023]

Howdy! How would the monkey king get along with a gender neutral y/n who's a transformer that's been stranded in his universe? They're about the size of a shipping container standing up, but they transform into a motorcycle.

I hope this ask finds you well!

ohhhhhhhhhh that is awesome but I do love Transformers🤩🤩🤩

(Lmk Wukong) Oh boi, you are the coolest thing he has ever seen. He heard a loud explosion outside his home, which woke him out of his sleep, and he flew outside to see well what he remembered is a car. Wukong was perplexed along with the other monkeys until you as the car transformed into a large Half Vehicle being that sorta looked like a monkey? Wukong has been around for a long time and has met many people, but he can definitely admit that he's never seen anything like you before. He absolutely thought he was still asleep 😂 but unfortunately you were stranded and couldn't leave, Wukong felt sympathy and said you can stay with him until

(NR Wukong) He is losing his mind, more than he ever did, and that is saying a lot!!!! He met a lady who could transform into a hot pink motorcycle, and he was floored. He met you one night when he saw a motorcycle and he saw you in your motorcycle form driving by yourself, and he genuinely that he was tripping balls that night but his curiosity got the better of him. With that, he met your big metal female monkey self, granted it's might be weird to date a vehicle, but hey, he probably did weirder stuff🙄.

(HIB Wukong) Ok he may not know exactly on what you are but you are definitely caring and helpful to have around especially when youcan take them around places way faster. The children are a little bit Intimidated by you, but your actions quickly show that you were anything but a threat to them. Luier was less scared but way more curious about you and your kind and culture, and Silly girl found you something fun to climb on. Wukong had grew close to you as he knows what it's like to be away from home and promise to help you find a way home. Too bad he was lying about that final part 🤞☺️

(MKR Wukong) His curiosity got the better of him, which led to him meeting you for the first time. He saw some strange cart??? That can move by itself at the Matter then saw it turn into a big giant shiny monkey. Wukong was like yup I lost my mind That has to be it, I got zapped one to many times and now I'm seeing weird crap out in the open😑. Wukong quickly learned that you were real and just stranded in the 3 realms, Wukong felt sympathy to he decided to keep you around until he can find a way to get you home. We promised with his fingers crossed 🤞 behind his back.

(Netflix Wukong) he is losing his marbles!!! But like in a good way, he definitely never seen anything like you before. Although he's showed no fear but more excitement, he had a million and one questions about you, where you came from? what are you exactly? how did you get here? He was off the hook and all over you, which made you flattered but also a bit overweight. When he finally calmed down, he found that you couldn't leave the planet, Wukong decided to hang out with you until you could get back on your wheels😉😉😉🤞🤞🤞.

(BMW Wukong) You are definitely a subject of interest especially since your supposedly since your an alien from outer space. You were stuck on the mortal realm for a few months up until you finally met Wukong, and he was unsure on how to respond to you. Though it didn't stop him from getting to know you and understanding your Species and home. Wukong totally let you stay with him on flower fruit mountain and made sure that you had a wonderful experience, why would you want to go anywhere else especially to your old home.

(Destined one) Staring contest in silence, because he doesn't know what to do other then stare. The Destined one was fascinated by your Species, your kind, your culture, your powers everything. The Destined one was very sympathetic of your situation as he hates to be away from home for way to long, and he Decided to help you with your situation. The best part if it doesn't go as plan you can always stay with him forever, he'll never mind you😊😊😊.

Feel Free to Reblog🚗🚘🚔🏎🚓🚕🚃🚎🚋

[fashionteahouse]

If you don't mind, may I request Alec or Demetri from the Volturi on their wedding day? Their mate is a bookwormish type of girl, (plus size if you don't mind but no pressure if you'd rather not!), and of course since it's the Volturi they're going to show off!

Please and thank you so much!!

ofc :> i don’t mind at all!💜 hope you enjoy :)

space and time - alec x reader

Morning couldn’t come any sooner. Sleep was barely familiar due to the tossing and turning all night. Excitement was just running through your veins. Staring at the plastic covering of the dress that promised, space and time with your mate, you thought about how this has to be the best day of your life besides meeting him.

Slipping it on and running your fingers over the floral designs, you looked back at the reflection that had feel like a million bucks. The dress fit extremely well on your body, making you confident and excited to see Alec’s reaction to seeing you. With everything in place, you are led to where you would walk down the aisle.

Alec put everything into this wedding. You were special to him, so he wanted you to make sure you felt special. He wanted the entire wedding to be special. You looked around, taking in the scenery, feeling like the luckiest girl in the world.

You thought back to when you two first met. He loved how your interests were books, recommending stories to you as you both would read a lot together. A quality of yours that loved because there were so many books in the world. There wasn’t enough words in all of the books in the world that could profound his love for you.

The Volturi coven stood beside their coven brother, supporting him. This was a big moment. With their frozen time, they still felt alive that they could put together a grand event. They chose to have it in daylight. They wanted their marble skin to glow and light up like diamonds. They picked the best spot in Italy, making sure to not have any type of interruptions. Jane, was actually happy for her twin brother. Happy that he found his mate and that he would be happy forever.

You let your dress follow you as you walked down the aisle, gripping a piece from each side as you found your mate. You were dazzled by his beauty as he looked at you. His amber eyes showing the love that he has for you and the love that he promises to fulfill forever. After all, he had space in his heart and all of time in the world to do it all.

The Volturi allowed the public to see the reception when it was nighttime of course. Envious girls looked at the grand celebration and took notes for their own special day. Envious boys looked at what the Volturi could offer and wonder if they could offer their partners the same.

[meowhara]

࿐.ೃ࿔*:･ 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑨𝒃𝒚𝒔𝒔 𝑾𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑴𝒐𝒏𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝑨𝒃𝒐𝒅𝒆

⊹ ࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖ miguel o’hara x fem siren!reader

cw : blood and gore (not much but still)

synopsys : miguel's residence was a unique one, though nobody knew the existence of a deadly being inhabiting beneath it

It was always the same question whenever anyone visited his house. They’re always wondering why it was built like that. Some parts of his house where the tiles should be, were replaced by thick glasses. Clear enough to see the deep blue water underneath. His house was practically built over a gigantic man made body of water. It wasn’t an empty body of water either, there was life thriving underneath. The variety of fishes no matter what sizes or kind live there with coral reefs and underwater plants for the aquatic creatures to live in. Making a whole complete living underwater ecosystem.

“I don’t understand.”

“Don’t understand what?” Miguel huffed, his back facing the man that considered him a friend just because they met back in college.

“You. Look at this place.”

“Was that supposed to be an insult?” He popped open a bottle of fine alcohol and poured a glass for himself, then leaned on the kitchen’s counter before taking a sip.

“No… Not really.” The man reverts his gaze to the wide window behind Miguel. The marine life beyond that window was just stunning. For somebody like Miguel, having this kind of lifestyle wouldn’t be anyone’s first guess.

Miguel rolled his eyes from his reply, walking off from the counter with his drink before walking upstairs. “Would you mind leaving? I’m busy.” He scowled.

“Why? Are you hiding something?”

Miguel’s eyes twitched, isn’t he just polite?

He set himself down on a couch in the middle of the room. The living room was a unique one. There’s a spot where the tiles are supposed to be, left absent and empty. Leaving a literal two rectangular pool connected to each other’s ends, with a wide angle where an “L” shaped marine blue sofa that stretches for at least three meters long on both of its sides. A coffee table made out of thin marble with an oval shape in the center which was also in blue, decorated with gold lining.

The pool, oddly, is a wide one. It was made so that a whole human could slip through it, rather than for decorational purposes. Nobody really pointed it out in the past though, it seems to be a normal thing for anyone to have in their home if they had the money for it. Most people would drown from how deep the pool is if they're not careful. The bottom of the pool was out of the question from how deep it was intentionally made.

The ceiling was high above with water flowing down, forming a thin wall made out of water. Flowing down onto the same pool in the middle of the room. Tall windows on one end of the house, showcasing the breathtaking beauty of Nueva York, especially at night.

His eyes focused on the ill-mannered man he barely knows. Watching each one of his moves carefully.

“Don’t you have a Girlfriend?”

“Broke up.” He answered quickly as the man stood before him after he finished strolling around uninvitedly.

“How did you get your hands on these types of creatures anyway? I’ve never even seen some of the fishes you have swimming around underneath these tiles.” He tapped his feet onto the transparent material underneath his feet. The fishes swam away from the loud thumping noises of his feet.

“I have my own way.” He spoke before taking another sip.

“Illegal?”

“No.” After a long pause, he continues, “Would you mind doing me a favor?” Miguel added.

“What favor?”

“Taking a few steps away?”

“What? Why?”

He shrugged, “Personal space.”

“Geez.” Unsuspectingly, he took a few steps back until his feet were almost touching the edge of the floating platform.

A low whistle escapes Miguel’s mouth seconds before a creature with high speed emerges from underneath the water. Slamming the unsuspecting man into the ground, knocking air out of his lungs. He felt its sharp fangs digging into his flesh with the creature’s weight pushing him forcefully onto the ground. A creature with a human-like body and a massive fin instead of legs hisses their sharp fangs at him, their hair long with water dripping down. Its eyes are as dangerous as the dark mysterious sea, ready to devour him at any second. The man’s eyes widened in sheer panic as he tried to push whatever it was away.

A smile plastered across the host’s face. Calmly sipping all the remaining wine into his system with his back relaxing against his seat. The man screamed, fighting for his life. He even begged for Miguel to save him. But he was too busy watching your beautiful form ripping flesh out of your prey’s body with your mouth. Watching his pet feasting on her favorite meal of the day. His screams died down eventually. The scene was a complete mess, chunks of meat everywhere with a mixture of blood and water splattered across the floor.

Miguel set the empty glass in his hand down before standing up and closing the distance between the both of you slowly. When you saw him approaching you and your meal, you hissed at him.

“Easy there, cupcake.” He scoffed, “I’m not going to steal him away.”

He stood there as you possessively dragged the remaining of your meal back into the pool. Drowning it with you. “That brat.” The word came out from his mouth followed by a chuckle and a shake of his head.

“Lyla, clean this shit up for me.” He commanded the programmed woman.

“You're spoiling her Miguel.” She complained, her hollow body flickering in the dim lit room.

“I'm not. My baby got what she deserves.”

This has been going on for a pretty long time. People disappeared after entering his home, especially the uninvited ones. Although, there are some exceptions. There is someone that loves crashing into his place.

“How many times did I tell you to stop coming here?” His arms crossed over his chest as he scolded the only person that would leave his abode unharmed.

“It's not my fault you made this place very interesting.”

“That was not a reason for you to keep coming here every time I went to work.”

“Aww, don't brothers share?” Gabriel teased.

“I hate you.” Miguel pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation.

“I won't be coming here ever again.”

Miguel raised his eyebrow, unamused by his little brother's promise.

“I won't be coming here ever again, if you let me have a party here.”

“No.” He didn't even think before the answer left his mouth.

“Then I'll pester you until the end of my life.”

“Go on then. I would rather you bother me rather than inviting people here.”

“Come on, my friends would love this place.”

Miguel's eyes were not focused on him after he saw a glimpse of your eyes inside the pool from where he's standing. He saw the hunger in your eyes upon looking at his brother, a tasty meal for your kind. He knew this would happen that's why he never invited anyone over except for your feeding time every once in a while.

But there's no way he would let you feast on his own family, he shook his head with a serious look on his face. He knew that you would listen to him either way, so he sighed as he watched you disappeared before his eyes.

“If you still want to live, leave.” Miguel spoke with a firm tone in his voice.

“But—”

“I said no to your stupid party and that's final. Leave before I told Lyla to never let you in here ever again.”

“You would ban me from coming here just because of this?”

“Gabriel.” He warned, insisted on letting him stay and telling him the reason why was never the best move to pull no matter what the situation is. Miguel watches as he leaves, listening to his brother swearing under his breath before the door shut by itself. The sound of small waves of water followed by ripples of water made Miguel turn his body to look at your head peeking out of the pool with a frown evident on your face. Breaking his heart from how sad you look after not getting what you wanted, he hates disappointing you.

Your eyes were fixed on the door, hoping your walking food would come back. “I know baby, I know. I'm sorry, okay? But you can't eat him.” He lowers himself to touch your face, gently caressing your cheek. You keep your head fixed on the door without hissing at Miguel. Human language is a foreign one to your ears, you can't understand anything, just a few basic words. Miguel was fully aware of this so he repeated himself. The certain word will always taste bitter to his mouth when it comes to pleasing you. “No baby, you can't eat him.”

Your frown worsens from the word ‘no’. You're not sure what it means, all you understand is that every time the word escapes his mouth, he won't let you get what you desire. “I'll make it up to you tomorrow, I promise.”

After that, he fed you even more men to satisfy your hunger. Their bodies sunk into the abyss of water where the monster he fell in love with abode.