#when i first drew it i rushed out something not really expecting to make anything more than a few doodles

[sanakiras]

DISTRACTION

PAIRING — xu minghao x reader

WORD COUNT — 1.5k

SYNOPSIS — you can’t help staring at your best friends’s hands. when he pushes you to tell him why, things in your relationship take a turn.

TAGS — minghao in a suit, explicit sexual content, pure self-indulgence, porn with no plot, fem!reader

NOTE — there’s something sooo attractive about a man having long fingers. also i just have a crush on the8. no i will not elaborate. might delete this later bc i don’t like it. oh well. enjoy :o

lately, whenever being around your best friend, you’ve been... distracted.

for some reason, you’ve always liked it when men have long fingers. obviously the best known reason for that is a lewd one, but for you, it’s more than that. long fingers are hypnotizing to you.

of course it was minghao’s face that drew you in first. plump lips, eyes that could both kill and make you melt under their gaze, a strong jaw, dark hair often slicked back with a pair of sunglasses sitting on top.

then you noticed his figure. minghao is tall — long legs, long arms, long torso. what drew you in about him was the control he has over it, alongside his flexibility. his movement is always swift, sharp and coordinated. not one to stumble over his own feet.

he became a close friend to you in no-time. within the first months of meeting him, you developed an admiration towards him, and that continued to grow into a crush you feel nothing if not insecure about.

because despite knowing him well, he’s far from an open book.

he’s not once given you the idea that he likes you the same way you like him, and now that he’s become such a good friend of yours, the last thing you’d want is to lose the friendship you’ve built with him.

so you keep it to yourself.

or, well, you try.

his current outfit makes that ridiculously hard. you’ve never seen him in a suit before.

while you weren’t all that excited for the black-tie event hosted by your faculty, just the sight of him has changed your mood like a whole day’s worth of caffeine.

and when he walks over to you, all you can do is admire him. the fabric suits his body like a glove, with several silver rings adorning his fingers and his frequently worn small hoop earrings to match them. the beautifully subtle black eye pencil brings out the colors of his eyes and styled hair.

“you look like a dream,” is the first thing to come out of his mouth when he steps before you, the tone of his voice as gentle as the smile he gives you.

heat rushes to your cheeks. “so do you. never expected to see you in a suit, but you clean up nice.”

he chuckles at your sarcasm. “thank you.”

as he tells you about — whatever it is, you honestly hardly remember a thing of the conversation — you suddenly come to the deafening conclusion that you’re nowhere near as subtle with your glances as you thought you were, which certainly bursts your bubble a bit.

“you keep doing that.” he muses, tilting his head as he looks at you with curiosity.

“what?”

“staring at my hands.”

“i’m not—i don’t stare.”

“what else would you call it? constant-looking?”

“hilarious. really.”

when you don’t say anything else, he purses his lips, hoping to get a little more out of you. you’ve got to give him credits for his determination. “so, what’s so interesting about my hands?”

with a simple shrug of your shoulders, you pretend to be casual, like he didn’t catch you staring at him. “they’re not interesting, just… nice.”

“nice?”

“can’t we just drop this? and by ‘we’ i mean you.”

he chuckles, shaking his head. “we’re friends. you can tell me, i won’t judge.”

“you? not judging anyone? that’d be almost suspicious.”

the retort makes him smile to the point it hurts his jaw. “i won’t judge you.”

a sigh rolls past your lips. “it’s no big deal, i just… like it when people have nice hands.”

“and why’s that?”

“does everything you like need to have a reason?”

"no, i guess not."

a playfulness that stirs doubt in you flashes behind his eyes, and you’re forced to put a halt to the conversation when one of your fellow faculty members walks up to the two of you with a glass of champagne, which you could not be happier with.

all you can do is hope minghao won’t bring up the topic again, the redness in your cheeks betraying you.

unfortunately, he does eventually bring it up again, once he’s gotten you home.

what his exact words were is difficult to remember, but now that he’s pushed you back onto your bed, you can’t find it in you to give a damn.

your brain feels foggy and a thin layer of sweat begins to form on your neck while he uses his hands to unbutton the white dress shirt, his impatience getting the best of him for once.

even though you’re busy pulling your top off, it’s hard to divert your gaze from his hands and chest, which brings him to tilt his head at you. “you’re staring again.”

“if you don’t want me to stare, don’t give me a reason to.”

“oh, so this whole thing is really just my fault?” he taunts, getting so annoyed with the damn buttons on his shirt not working with him that he leaves the bottom half like it already was, only the upper half of his chest peeking through.

once he lays his eyes on your half-naked form, you spot a growing desperation and impatience in his features, which is rare on him.

much to your surprise, he’s eager and quick, refusing to waste a single second. his hands have already pulled you towards him by your thighs before you can even comprehend it.

the thin silver necklace touches your warm skin when he leans down to kiss you, the last thing you’d imagined you’d be doing tonight — and it’s better than you anticipated.

he pries your legs open with a nudge of his knee, and just when you want to look down to his hand on your skin, he pushes two fingers into you, curling it upwards.

your hands immediately fly to his upper arms in response to the sudden intrusion, but it only makes you crave more.

his lips latch onto your cheeks, jaw and neck, placing wet kisses everywhere he can reach while his long fingers move in and out of you.

“just two and you’re already so tight — you can take another one, though, can’t you?”

how sweet of him to pose it as a question, an offer.

you both know damn well he’s gonna keep going either way.

minghao doesn’t know what it is about you that just utterly sets him off. it might be your constant pessimism, your snarky delivery of sarcastic little comments, the way you needlessly tease him all the time — or maybe it’s that whenever he sees you, he wants nothing more for you to get the fuck on top of him, moaning his name.

who knows.

“why don’t you just try me?” you ask rhetorically, accidentally clenching around his digits when he moves them again.

minghao chuckles, baffled that you’ve still got such an attitude, even when you’re at his mercy. he’d be lying if he said he didn’t like it, though. “right. maybe i should just do that.”

a third finger prodding into your hole makes you whine the loudest you have so far. he smirks a little when noticing the way you’re fighting so hard to maintain your composure, and the noise of your squelching wetness begins to become embarrassingly loud.

but it isn’t enough for him.

usually, it’s not at all like him to be insatiable or greedy. but all he can think of right now is that he wants more — to be closer with you, deeper.

he feels his own lust in every motion, every thrust of his fingers, every twitch of his cock. it makes him wonder if he’s ever wanted something, no, someone this badly.

his next move goes unnoticed by you since you’ve got your eyes closed and head back, but then you feel it, and it’s like you snap awake, an electric jolt making you jerk forward.

when you look down, he eagerly runs his tongue up and down your pussy, fingers remaining buried inside you.

“oh my god—” you stutter out, hand clutching onto the pillow but quickly moving down to grab his hair.

lost in your own pleasure, you push his head down, the lower half of his face coated in your arousal — fuck, he wants to do this for hours.

he proceeds to curl his fingers again, and he must’ve hit a good spot, because your legs are beginning to tremble, moans shorter and higher-pitched. “fuck, hao, it’s too much, i’m too close—”

“are you?” he rhetorically asks, pushing his digits as deep as possible, sucking on your clit, hollowing his cheeks. even when you try to close your legs, he firmly keeps them open.

your hips buck into his face when you cum, knees shaking, and he presses his thumb on your pussy, which makes your eyes roll back.

propping yourself up on your elbows, you suddenly feel his fingers slowly sliding out of you, and just that feeling alone already turns you on again. he sits across from you, still between your legs, and his fingers are completely coated in the sticky wetness that’s still dripping down your cunt.

he pushes them in his mouth, licking them clean, some of your arousal remaining on his lips.

“please say you’ll let me do that again.”

® SANAKIRAS — do not repost, remake or copy my work in any way whatsoever. translations are not allowed.

[thedrotter]

i can't believe its already july what do you mean half of the year is already over... you're saying ive spent nearly 7 months constantly drawing re:kinder— it has felt like 3 months?!

genuinely stunned it seriously has felt like 3 months to me... I was just so redoing some turnarounds i did for yuu very early on and was thinking. "wao ive really gotten more of a grip at drawing him in these last 3 months!!!" only to check the date of those early drawings of him I made to see the month DECEMBER 2023. HUH???

[hazelfoureyes]

The Big Part

Alastor x Virgin FemReader smut

(part 2)

You were dead, it was time to divest yourself of your virginity. When you ask Alastor, he takes to the task immediately. Unfortunately, he seems to enjoy surprising you.

warnings/promises: Alastor x Reader smut, Alastor dislikes getting naked, virginity does not rock, possessive Alastor, head pats, reader is an adult she’s just a nervous idiot bad at words

Horny little deer cult: @frompeach , @chirimeimei , @poppingaround , @polytheatrix , @itsmskeisha , @stygianoir , @celestial-vomit , @xx-all-purpose-nerd-xx , @amurtan

minors dni, this isn’t educational in the slightest and is just straight smut

It made sense, at the time. You didn’t want a relationship and you didn’t want to meet a stranger you couldn’t trust, that left very few people to ask. Husk would say no, and probably stop serving you drinks. Angel would most likely agree, but you were a little intimidated by his experience. That left Alastor. While you hadn’t spent much time together, your interactions were always cordial. And plus, this was hell. Isn’t this kind of situation a sinners dream come true?

For most, maybe. But you didn’t know Alastor. Not yet, not really. Everything he did had some ulterior motive. Perhaps nothing he had ever done was simply selfless. If Alastor wasn’t gaining something, Alastor wasn’t interested.

You caught him in the hallway one evening after redemption-oriented activities, deciding to get the moment over with as quickly as possible.

“It’s a favor, little… odd. But you’re the only person I have to ask.” Your eyes darted around his face, down the hall, up the walls, anywhere really but his eyes.

“I’m all ears!” Alastor tapped the microphone to the ground with a satisfying ‘thud’.

Oh— you had rehearsed this but you hadn’t prepared to be staring at that large, toothy grin. It wasn’t unsettling, it was just distracting. Would he be smiling the entire time he… ya know.

“I am,” you steepled your hands, pointing them at him, “a virgin.” You paused, hoping maybe he’d just infer the rest and you could stop talking.

His face was motionless save his eyelids rising up.

“And I don’t want to be. Anymore.” Your lips pursed together. C’mon, Alastor. Figure it out.

Alastor nodded.

You dragged your fingers down your face, “Would you help me with that?”

His head cocked to the side like a golden retriever being handed a book on ancient Egypt. Very nice offer but what exactly do I do with it?

“Help how, precisely?” He finally spoke, tone unchanged from any normal topic of discussion. Alastor watched your face scrunch up, mouth moving around words you abandoned half way through. You weren’t saying anything, just making panicked sounds. “I find annunciation most helpful when wanting to be understood, dear.”

You wanted to somersault out the nearest window. “Alastor will you take my virginity?”

“Take it where?”

You groaned, he laughed, “Just kidding, my dear! All in good fun. So, to be clear, you would like your first sexual experience to be with me?” He pointed the microphone from you to him.

You nodded, “Yes, please.”

His smile seemed to strain. Staring down at you, he tried to understand what your motivation was for this. But as he looked into your big, concerningly innocent eyes, he realized there was none. You really, simply, want him to be the first.

Ooh, as he thought it, he felt his pulse quicken in his lap. The first. A spot no one else could take. For the rest of your afterlife, he would always be the one who was first in you. A delicious thought. He could work with that.

“Are you free now?” He leaned down to your level.

“Oh. I wasn’t-,”

“Expecting immediacy? Perfect, the element of surprise has never failed me before.” His hand wrapped around your waist and drew you in to his chest, there was a rush of cold air over your skin before you felt yourself falling back.

It was soft, the room was dark, save for a small floor lamp in the corner. Your room, you realized.

“I didn’t know you knew my room number.”

“It’s my job to know everything about the hotel.” He said, tossing your shoes behind him. Was this happening now? Right now?

“I can do it, it’s, it’s fine.” You sat up and began undoing your pants. Alastor just standing there, watching. Smiling. Fuck, was it going to be this awkward the entire time? Should you say something? Touch him? You were lifting the hem of your shirt when you realized he was still fully dressed. “Are you going to take off your clothes?”

“Why would I do that?” Head lolled to the side.

You stopped mid-way through unhooking your bra, “Alastor you do know I was asking you to fuck me, right?”

He nodded. Maybe this was a mistake.

After taking off your bra, and finally your panties, you crawled to the top of your bed and drew your knees to your chest. Your feet hid your sex from view. Heart racing, but it wasn’t excitement, as you had anticipated. It was nerves. Would it hurt? Would you make a stupid face? What if he didn’t like the sounds you made? What if you regretted it after?

Alastor got on the bed on his knees, undoing his belt buckle but not his pants. The way he looked at you, your heart skipped a beat. You suddenly remembered he was called the ‘cannibal deer’ as you saw something akin to hunger in his eyes.

“What experience do you have?” His voice was suddenly low, deeper than before. This wasn’t the pun loving radio man you saw prodding the staff.

“I dated. Before. Kissing, um, I don’t know the bases. Groping?” You grimaced, it sounded so formal.

“Have you ever,” he began to slink toward you on his hands and knees, red eyes glowing in the dim light of your room, “been entered?”

Your cheeks burned, your head suddenly swayed as if it was half full of water and someone tipped you over. “Just myself, my,” you lifted your hand.

“Show me.”

All the air left the room, sucked out of your lungs and into his grin.

Uncrossing your feet, you tried to open your thighs without seperating your knees. It didn’t work, but you still managed to get a hand between your legs and to your entrance. You could have cried, you were soaking wet to an embarrassing degree. Your eyes return to Alastor, his gaze never leaving you. Even as you slipped a finger, then two, into yourself. You thought for sure he would want to watch your hands playing with your wet pussy but no, his eyes stayed on your face. Somehow, that was worse.

A shaky sigh escaped, your eyes closing as you tried to focus on relaxing around your digits.

Your head smacked against the headboard when you felt a third finger enter. Not yours. Your eyes flew back open to see him now directly in front of you.

“Two won’t do, dear.” He spun his finger around, pulling slightly at the thin skin of your entrance. “Unless you’d prefer this to hurt?”

You shook your head no, still stinging from the impact you had made. “May I?” His hand took your wrist and removing your fingers. Swiping your wetness from your ass to your clit, he coated his claw-like digits and pushed three back in. They were longer than yours, sharper. You could feel he moved gently, in and out. Your head was heavy, breath short and fast.

He laughed, bringing your consciousness fully back into the room, “Already wanting to change your mind?”

You shook your head side to side, still too embarrassed to speak, and took a grounding breath to help your body accept his fingers. He took his time, sliding in and out of you. His fingers picking up the slick and letting it lubricate your lips. It was so slow, the only pleasure for you was knowing it wasn’t your hand doing it.

But then his stretching of your hole stopped, and he grabbed both of your knees from underneath and pulled you down toward him. Now on your back, legs up and in his hands, you heard his belt slide through the loopholes, his zipper drop. You wanted to look, but you also absolutely did not want to look.

Your knees came together when you felt something hot and round at your entrance. “Ah-ah,” He opened them immediately. He reached for one of your hands, and brought it down to his cock. It was so hard under your fingers, but gave a little when you squeezed. It made him hiss.

“You tell me when to stop, little doe.” He pressed into your opening, pulled back. Pressed in, just barely making it past your lips, pulled back. He kept this pressing and pulling, head making slightly more leeway every time. Your fingers were holding right behind the tip.

“How about this, dear. I’ll just get the head in for now. Manageable!”

“Just— just get the big part in first?” You asked, the pressure at your entrance building with every shallow thrust.

He laughed, nodding as he held both of your knees further apart. When he attempted to get past the curve of his cock’s head, your hands flew down to press against his thigh, pushing back with the intrusion. Alastor stilled, sighed, and pressed his head fully in with a determined thrust. Instinctively, your feet came to his chest and tried to push away from him. It felt like you were being torn down the middle, your body forced apart at your most sensitive junction. He held you still now by the ankles, legs splayed in the air.

It burned where your walls were pushed aside. Stinging where the skin tore slightly just beneath your hole, unable to stretch.

“Breath, sweetheart.” He set your ankles down. “Does it hurt?”

You nodded.

“I’ll stay here for a bit,” he settled on his legs, looking down at where he was connected to you. Your pink little pussy looking positively overwhelmed by his cock. No one has ever been here before, and he could feel it. Your walls were pressing so hard against him his shaft was slightly curved from the force pushing his head out. You still had so much to take, there was so much more of you for him to explore. You tried to calm your breathing but your heart was racking against your sternum.

Hand reaching down again, you let your fingers count little paces from his core to yours. You knew the hardest part was over, but that didn’t bring much comfort as you felt how far you still had to go.

Alastor let his eyes wander away from your not-so-virgin cunt to your face. Your expression was twisted, not pained but clearly uncomfortable.

“How does it feel?” He asked, gesturing to your lap with a nod of his head.

“Full, so full.”

His cackle disheartened you, “Darling I am no where done filling you up.”

You clenched when he said it, earning a small groan from him. You were already too tight, when you spasmed on him it was nearly painful. There was more to do yet, more of you to claim as his. Just the tip of his cock was simply not enough.

His hips started moving again, the folds of his head pulling at the skin of your entrance but not actually crossing the barrier. He was gently rocking, barely making friction between you two. Your hand clawed at his knee, breath hitching. You let an airy moan slip, his head no longer an intrusion but something hot and melty barely rubbing your walls. It started to feel almost good.

Alastor’s cock was throbbing, his shaft touch-starved and desperate for the heat of your cunt. Your face was relaxing now, eyes blinking around new sensations. He wanted to see you experience more, more firsts and frighteningly foreign pleasures. He wanted to see you scared of how good he could make you feel. Alastor wanted you to never feel whole again without him buried balls deep in you.

“Can you take more?” His voice was like gravel, a radio static crackling in.

You met his eyes, glowing still in the dim light, wide and nearly frenzied in their dilation. His smile was practically beaming down at you.

“I don’t know.” You were scared to move forward, even though you wanted more.

“I don’t like liars.” A pop of electricity arcing at the end of his words. You pulled a pillow over your face, trying to hide from the reaction you knew he’d have as his voice made you tighten around him. “Your body says otherwise,” he hissed.

You wanted to say ‘yes’, if this could feel good then how great would all of him feel? But you were scared to vocalize it. Scared to make it start. Alastor lifted the pillow, “I need to see you, dear.” He set it beside his leg, “Do you remember what I said earlier?”

Brow furrowed, you shook your head. His grin widened to his ears as his hands slid down your thighs to your hips and he sank his cock to the hilt.

The element of surprise definitely made the nerves of saying ‘yes’ dissipate, but you were now choking on your breath, hands gripping at the blankets beneath you. Was this normal? Was he too far inside you? You felt nauseous, your guts prodded by Alastor’s member.

“How does it feel now?” He watched your eyes scanning the ceiling for an answer. You felt sure there was no way his head could leave you ever again. It was so snuggly fit in you, you feared you’d be pulled inside out. “Words, dear.”

You sat up on your elbows, sweating from the nerves of it all. “Like there’s a big stick stuck in me.”

“Accurate!” He laughed, and began pulling out. You whined, head dropping back. Almost taking himself out completely, he paused before thrusting back in. The head of his cock dragged against your walls, you could feel him with such detail. Every inch of him leaving impressions behind. Alastor could feel it too, how your soft warmth moved out of his way with every push. How pliable your womb was to his intrusions.

More. You could take more, he was positive of it.

Slowly, your moans began to get louder as the pressure faded into pleasure. Every time he bottomed out, you jumped. Every time he pulled out, you wanted to chase after him with your hips.

Watching your face soften, eyes now watery, Alastor was sure you were relaxed enough. He grabbed the pillow beside him, lifting your ass and sliding it under the small of your back. You didn’t ask, just waited to see what the point was. Dissatisfied, he grabbed another and added it under you.

Your hips were up, ass hanging over the ledge the pillows made, back bent upward. When he began to thrust again, you whinced feeling a new part of you widen for him. “Can you see me?” You looked at him when he said it, but he grabbed your hand and placed it beneath your belly button. When he pushed back in, you could feel his cock beneath your hand. Moving it, you watched your stomach bulge slightly when he was completely sheathed in you.

“Oh fuck-,” your head fell back into the bed, it was too much to feel let alone to watch, “Too deep.”

He hummed an acknowledgement, picking up his pace. “Let me see how you cum.”

Your face was hot, reluctantly bringing your hand to your clit and rubbing.

No, this wasn’t a mistake at all. If anything you regretted not asking sooner.

His thrusts now brought lightning to your core, your finger quickening in speed with the realization of just how good he could feel.

Studying your face still, he adjusted his angle until he saw the muscles in your neck tighten. He knew he found your g-spot, your moans dipping into cries.

“I can’t—,” You couldn’t get over the hump, knowing he was watching you, waiting for you.

“You can”, the lights flickered, his eyes now black with small red pupils illuminating your naked body, “and you will, my dear.” One of his hands stopped pressing finger sized bruises into your hips to instead push your own finger aside. The wide pad of his thumb took over and began thrumming you fast and hard.

That familiar build up of pleasure was stronger than you’d ever felt it, and when it finally snapped your muscles from your thighs to your toes cramped. How long had you been tensing?

You practically sobbed into the crook of your arm, Alastor’s hips slowing but still carrying you through your orgasm. They moved slower and slower, until stopping entirely. His head popped out of you, leaving you feeling hollow. Cold.

Eyes wet and blurry, you looked up at him, “Aren’t you going to finish?”

“If we do everything now, what ‘first’ will we have for tomorrow night? And the night after that?” He smiled, member already hidden away and pants buttoned. Your thighs twitched. “Same time tomorrow, little doe?”

You covered your face with both hands, and nodded.

His big hand came to your head and patted you gently, “Good girl.”

I hope you liked it 🥺 I don’t feel as confident about this one. Fun fact, my first time involved bondage. Very on brand, huh? 💖

༻Masterlist༺

Gonna start calling his dick ‘the element of surprise’. You look tired today! What happened? Oh the element of surprise kept me up all night.

[qingxin-dream]

Scara relaxing on the couch with you<3 if u do NSFW having him cockwarm you so he can relax

“𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐈𝐭 𝐑𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬, 𝐈𝐭 𝐏𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬”

summary | today was one of those days where nothing could go right. well, maybe, it’s been like that for awhile. and you know damn well that your loving husband was not about to watch you fall into despair. (art credits: unknown)

warnings | not proofread, reader has a mental breakdown, comfort, profanity, smut [18+, MDNI], female-bodied reader, cockwarming, edging/teasing, orgasm denial, slightly possessive/dominant, marking, breeding kink, creampie

genre | modern au, comfort, smut

word count | 3k

pairing | husband! scaramouche x reader

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

The sky had been overcast all day, only putting a damper on your mood. Work has somehow become extra stressful lately with more and more responsibilities piling up. You felt the crushing weight on your shoulders with each passing hour and you couldn’t wait for the clock to hit 5pm.

The last place you wanted to be was at work, away from home, and without your husband, Scaramouche. Even then, your relationship was getting to a point where it was nothing more than bitter roommates. He had missions to complete while you were obligated to work every day. Someone had to be the breadwinner, after all.

Sweet freedom washes over your exhausted body when it’s finally time to go home. You rush outside only to find that the clouds had turned a nasty gray color and wet droplets of rain dotted your suit jacket.

Great, you forgot an umbrella.

The rain was really picking up now, your clothes soaked and your hair flattening into drenched clumps. Running through the downpour, you had to make it another block to your car until you got stopped at an intersection—narrowly avoiding the wave of water a speeding car almost splashed onto you.

Once you practically leaped into your car for safety, the sense of stillness that suddenly permeated the air brought you back down to earth. You were more than overworked. You were burned out, with hot tears freely streaming down your face in a choked sob. Gripping the steering wheel, you slumped your forehead onto your knuckles, shoulders shaking as you cried out all the pressure you had bottled up inside. The rain beat against the windshield, drowning out your agony.

Once you managed to compose yourself with a few sad sniffles here and there, you turned the key in the ignition. Tonight you decided to forget about everything. No stress. No work. Not even a single load of laundry. You couldn’t muster the strength for anything other than some sort of self-care or self-indulgence.

When you walked through the door with an expression bordering on despair, Scaramouche knew you had a rough day. He frowned to himself. Frankly, the distance between you two was a sore spot for him as of late and he was expecting you to lock yourself in the bedroom.

At first, he had been stubborn about the tangible separation pushing you further and further away from him. Foolishly, Scaramouche had tried to drown himself in his busy work and missions, simply trying to ignore it. But after a while, he realized that this damned feeling of alienation and being constantly on edge like some old married couple was ridiculous.

That’s not who he married or the life he signed up for, and Scaramouche found himself determined to finally act like you both loved each other for once.

“Hey, babe,” he greeted you from the couch. Looking down at his casual sweatpants and shirt, you wished you could’ve stripped down and lazed around on the couch this afternoon. Sleep was something you desperately needed. He offers a small olive branch with his softened tone of voice. “Why don’t you get changed and come sit with me? I missed you.”

You drew in a hesitant breath. Perhaps it was your way of attempting to decompress before answering your husband or you were unsure of his intentions. The couch was definitely calling to you, and the prospect of your lover’s comforting arms enveloping you was even more tempting. In a haste, you kicked off your shoes and dropped your bag, nodding with a bit of a pitiful pout on your lips as you went into the bedroom.

Scaramouche perked up slightly upon hearing your return, making room for you on the couch so that he could spoon you just right. As you sat down, his hand immediately went to your hip and he found himself gravitating toward the comforting crevice of your neck. Your skin was colder than he expected from the rain but he was more than willing to share his warmth with you, his fingers venturing up the contour of your waist under your baggy shirt.

“There’s goosebumps on your skin,” he noted with an obvious smile in his voice. “Why don’t you take this off and let me warm you up, hm?”

You gaze at him over your shoulder, catching the subtle seductive intonation of his offer. Despite his pads of his fingers gently caressing and massaging your hip in encouragement, you weren’t entirely sure if you had it in you for too much physical affection. Most of all, you just felt tired.

Yet, Scaramouche always got his way. Maybe it was how the words rolled off his tongue that sparked your imagination in the back of your mind, or that mischievous gleam of excitement in his violet eyes. He had no problem catering to your needs, helping you slowly lift that baggy shirt over your shoulders and tossing it aside. He quickly did the same.

Suddenly, he ensnared you in his arms, burying his nose in your neck and sighing. The feeling of your back pressed against his bare, muscular chest was like a balm soothing his soul. You couldn’t help but chuckle lightly, surprised by his enthusiasm, and pull a heavy blanket over you both.

“Better get rid of these too,” Scaramouche suggested softly into the shell of your ear, tugging at the elastic waistband of your shorts. He generously nuzzled your neck, peppering a few kisses across your sensitive skin to distract you as he easily slipped you out of your bottoms.

Your whimpers were buried in your throat. You purposely tried to stifle it, but the little shiver of your neck and body against his ministrations couldn’t hide your true feelings forever. The slow drag of his hand up your plush thighs, over the round of your hip, and dangerously close to your breasts was merely a confirmation of your suspicions.

“Scara… please,” you murmur, sounding more like a faint plea for peace and relaxation. “My feet hurt so much. I don’t think I can move anymore, let alone do—”

“Shhh, love, you really think I’m going to make you do anything?” he asks rhetorically, the timbre of his sweet words deepening to a level bordering on husky. His hand travels back down the curves of your body with silent reverence, hoping to ease your worries. “I don’t think you realize how hard you’ve been working until it breaks you.”

With a click of his tongue, your husband continues to let his hand journey over every inch of your lovely form. Your breasts, your stomach, your pelvis, hips, thighs… If he was being honest, Scaramouche would never have thought he’d discover someone as perfectly imperfect as you. To not remind you of how much he secretly worships your whole being would be a grave sin in his eyes.

“I feel like I never see you anymore. We never talk anymore,” he mumbles into your shoulder blade, taking his time to kiss and nibble as much of your upper back as he could. You involuntarily arched your back, the sensation of his mouth along your spine sending pulses of electric desire through you. His voice shifts into a possessive growl. “And I miss my wife.”

“I know, I’m sorry,” you weep dryly, rolling your head back to relax on him fully. Your thoughts instantly short-circuited at the revelation of his thick bulge pressing into the plush of your ass, tactically held in place by his fingertips digging into your love handle. You were so ready to just melt into him completely, to give in and let him take care of you.

“Don’t ask for my forgiveness,” he quickly interjected to correct you. You could feel the smirk spreading on his face as he leans into you as much as possible. The back of his hand ghosts your inner thigh, nudging it to the side. “Show me how much you want my mercy.”

You were hanging on every syllable that left his lips in a hushed whisper. A featherlight touch grazed near your outer labia, enough to capture your attention like a moth to a flame. That was all it took for him to push your mind over the edge. It was pathetic, really, how you were desperately trying to mentally fill in the blanks and imagine the pleasure of his slender fingers massaging your needy clit.

Scaramouche knew exactly what he was doing. He loved getting a rise out of you. Admiring the subtle contortion of your features in pleasure may be his favorite pastime. Tickling the insides of your thighs and skirting skillfully around the one place you wanted him most, he scoffed in amusement every time you sighed softly in frustration.

“I thought you were going to be nice,” you groaned impatiently, beginning to lazily roll your hips in rhythm with the intermittent brush of his fingers just shy of your cunt.

“I am,” he snickered into your collarbone, his hot breath pouring down your chest and thrilling your skin. “You can’t lie to me. I know you like when I tease you until you’re begging for me to stuff you to the brim.”

Taking your lower lip between your teeth, you managed to defiantly buck your hips forward and finally feel the tantalizing glide of his index and middle fingers between your slick folds. The sweet victory ripped a lewd moan of your lover’s name from your pretty throat. To say you were utterly addicted to the sound of him parting the lips of your glistening pussy might be an understatement.

“Tsk, tsk, good things come to those who wait. Isn’t that what you humans say?” Scaramouche mocks you lightheartedly, though his fingers don’t leave your clit. Rather, he circles the sensitive nub at a tantalizingly slow pace to earn another cock-twitching moan from your angelic mouth. “I could touch you like this all night… unless you’d rather serve your punishment on my cock instead?”

You were too preoccupied with the intoxicating pleasure concentrated on your aching clit, eyelashes resting on your cheeks and jaw slightly agape. Scaramouche chuckled deeply into your ear with satisfaction, returning his lips to your neck but this time with a little more force. His teeth sunk into you, intent on leaving a good bruise.

It would be a clear reminder in the morning of who you belong to.

He sucked a little harder, causing you to yelp in a mixture of both pain and pleasure. His words were muffled against your skin with a gentle scolding. “I asked you a question.”

“C-cock, please,” you nearly choke, starting to grind sloppily onto his hand for some sense of relief. His other arm underneath you tightened, essentially pinning you to the heat radiating from his body from behind.

“Whose cock?” Scaramouche grumbled jealously at your vague plea. He needed to know that you didn’t just want anyone’s cock to fill up your drenched, gummy hole. The intensity of his violet irises demanded an answer, glued to your blissed out and desperate expression. His fingers were hastily stimulating your clit as he intently watched you parse love and lust on the brink of an orgasm.

“Y-your cock! Please! I need it so bad,” you cried out loudly, the threat of tears lingering behind your eyes. He abruptly slapped a hand over your mouth to quiet your moans, and then shoved his hot, veiny cock pulsating with desire across your soaking wet entrance.

Scaramouche couldn’t stop the salacious groans under his breath, wanting you to hear all the ways you make him unravel. He was eager to drag the mushroomed, pink tip of his cock over your clit over and over, occasionally teasing your hole with the pressure of his length trying to nestle itself within you. But he never pushed it all in. Instead, he continued to gather your essence on his cock—the mere thought of cumming in your rosy folds like this and fucking it messily drove him wild.

“Don’t tell me… hnnnghh… that this is all you want, (Y/N),” he grunted with honeyed pleasure, grinding at a little faster rhythm. You were already nearing your climax again, whispering prayers and praises under your breath for Scaramouche to plunge into you and fuck you senseless.

His hand was still tightly covering your mouth, so you simply shake your head and moan breathily to ask for more.

“Mm, good girl,” he mumbles intimately, kissing your ear and nuzzling you affectionately again. “I know my baby is tired and needy, so I’ll let you be my little cocksleeve tonight, okay?”

You nod and hum against his hand enthusiastically.

He takes the opportunity to shower you with a few more kisses, lining the tip of his cock with your entrance once more. Your walls were already squeezing eagerly on the small inch of his tip inside you and he didn’t dare delay any longer. Scaramouche grabs you by the hip and buries the entirety of his thick cock in your slick tightness, his eyebrows crinkling at the feeling of your pussy clenching around him like a vice.

“F-fuck!” Scaramouche curses sharply, bottoming out completely in your aroused cunt. “So good. S-so fucking good, yeah…”

“A-ah, yes! Mm…” you sighed raggedly with ecstasy, pure pleasure and relief washing over you. His huge cock was stretching you perfectly, the lips of your pussy sucking him in at every possible chance. Despite your exhaustion, your husband had wound you up so much that you begged for tiniest semblance of a thrust into your sopping hole. “Oh my god, p-please, fuck me.”

Without warning, you decided to selfishly fuck yourself on his throbbing cock, but Scaramouche instantly snatched your throat. He held you tightly against his pecs and craned your neck with a forceful grip so that you were facing the ceiling, your oxygen partially cut off. The submissive position had your spongy walls dilating in excitement.

“No, no, wait,” he chastised you, his voice cracking slightly at the end as he struggled to adjust to your greedy cunt. “N-Need I remind you, love? Good things come to those who wait; and if you’re lucky, I’ll cum in you.”

He couldn’t believe your pussy was still quaking around his girth, releasing your neck as you nodded obediently. Once he pulled you into him tightly with his strong arms around your stomach, Scaramouche nudged your legs closed so that you could completely envelope his cock. It was incredibly hot every time he shifted to get more comfortable and your walls only swallowed him further. His breathing calmed slightly, wanting to relax with you for the rest of the night deep within your cunt.

“I-It feels too good, Scara,” you whined, cuddling into the pillow on the couch and clutching the warm blanket to your chest.

For the love of Celestia, your body was so exhausted from work but at the same time you wished you had the strength to fuck him like crazy. You made a mental note to wake him up tomorrow morning with the feeling of your folds lubricating his hardened cock, sinking completely onto his impressive length when his pretty indigo eyes sleepily opened for the first time. You’d make sure to hush him and keep his sleeping mask on snugly, fucking him to your heart’s content.

But for now, your husband returned to worshipping the expanse of your soft curves, coaxing you to relax despite the occasional twitch of his cock inside you. Scaramouche’s voice was smooth as silk when he whispered into the crook of your neck, “See? That wasn’t so bad now. Why don’t you turn on your show and I’ll keep this pretty pussy of yours company for as long as you need, hm?”

You both melted into each other’s embrace, connected in every way imaginable for the first time in a long time. The sensation of your lover’s cock nestling into your folds slowly nudged your sweet spot, drawing breathy moans out of you. He thrusted slowly but deeply, marveling at the lust clouding your eyes pushing you just a little bit closer to the edge.

Though Scaramouche was enraptured by the heavenly sound of your pussy slurping his cock, the need burning in his core was beginning to overtake him. “Mm, turn around for me, babe.”

He was gentle and attentive to you as he helped you face him, holding you firmly against his chest and quickly ensuring his cock didn’t leave your cunt for too long. As he stuffed you full, his mouth captured yours in a passionate kiss. His fingers dug into your hair, keeping your lips planted on his as you lazily swirled your tongue on his own and moaned his name.

“Nnghh, can’t take it anymore,” Scaramouche growled hungrily into your mouth, lifting your leg slightly to support you so he could delve his cock deeper. His tone trailed off in a quiet beg, “Lemme breed you, (Y/N). Please…”

“Mhmm,” you agreed without hesitation, cupping your lover’s cheek and kissing him with growing reckless abandon.

He was unequivocally smitten by your ardent claim to his lips, groaning lewdly into the kiss as he began to fuck your desperately pulsating pussy. His grip on you tightened, focusing solely on ravaging your walls until you were on the verge of screaming his praise.

“Hah, that’s it. Goddamn it, I’m gonna fucking ruin you,” he takes your lower lip between his teeth roughly, plunging ruthlessly and chasing his impending orgasm. “You can take it, you can take it, yeah… you better fucking cum all over me or else, I swear…”

You reeled him in with a firm tug of his dark purple locks, nearly crying in pleasure onto his tongue intermingling with yours. Moaning and whimpering like a whore, you clutched onto your lover like your life depended on it. “O-Oh my god, Scara, shit, I’m cumming! I’m… mmph, f-fucking c-cumming…!”

Scaramouche pounded his cock into your sopping release, a guttural groan escaping him as he generously coated your spasming walls with loads of his hot seed. He kept himself buried in your cum-laden folds, your erotic juices mixing around the base of his cock while he kissed you softly.

“God… you have no idea how much I missed you.”

thanks for reading! reblogs are appreciated. my masterlist.

[frickingnerd]

love at first fight

pairing: urbosa x gn!reader

summary: you propose a duel to the queen of gerudo – and if you win, you get to marry her!

a/n: the title of the oneshot was just a typo at first, but i figured this really fits and went with it haha

“you have no chance with urbosa! she's the queen of the gerudo and completely out of your league! you better forget about her!”

you've been told countless times that you had no chance with urbosa. everyone you knew had advised you to find someone else. but you knew what you wanted! and you wanted urbosa.

“you're saying you have a proposal for me?”

you had managed to make it all the way into gerudo town and be allowed an audience with her. perhaps that was due to the two of you having crossed paths in hyrule castle before and being acquainted with each other already. or perhaps urbosa had simply taken pity of you, after hearing the rumors.

“a proposal, a bet, a duel… call it what you may!”

you smiled confidently, as urbosa's subordinates whispered something. they didn't seem too impressed by you, but that didn't bother you.

“tell me more about it then! i can hardly agree to anything i know nothing about”

“it's simple, really” you grinned. “we duel! if you win, i'll never enter gerudo town again”

“and if i lose?”

“you'll become my bride!”

the whispers got louder. urbosa sat quietly on her throne, as the people around her lost it. they looked at you, disgusted at the mere suggestion. to even assume that urbosa would lose against you! and to even suggest that she'd become your bride!

“i accept.”

urbosa rose from her throne. the room went quiet. nobody dared to speak, when the queen did.

“but don't expect me to go easy on you”

“i wouldn't dream of it, your highness~!”

urbosa reached out her hand, one of her subordinates quickly bringing her her blade. as soon as she had her hands on it, the fight had begun and urbosa rushed forward.

you drew your blade, dodging her first attack. she had a lot of distance to close at first, so it was too obvious what her first move would be. but the next few wouldn't be as easy.

your blades crossed, again and again. the two of you seemed to be in perfect sync. it looked almost like a dance, with how swiftly you moved. the scenery around you seemed to fade away, as all you could focus on was each other.

and then finally, after what felt like an eternity of passionately dancing with one another, one of you was cornered.

“you're a good fighter…”

urbosa was out of breath, but clearly enjoying herself. she hasn't fought like this in ages!

“but you're still no match for me”

urbosa's blade had been resting against your neck, but now she pulled away and took a step back. you were out of breath too and despite losing, you were still smiling.

“this was fun…”

you slid your blade back in its sheath, watching as urbosa sat back down on her throne. you remained in your position for a moment, watching her in awe, before straightening your clothes and stepping in front of the throne again.

“it's a shame we won't get to duel like this again… now that i'm banished from gerudo town”

urbosa huffed amused.

“as the victor, shouldn't i get to choose what my reward is? i fear this one won't do…”

“oh? then do tell, your highness… what do you wish for?”

you, as well as everyone else in the room, seemed eager to hear what it would be.

“you'll never get good enough to win a fight against me, if you don't practice. i'll make you my personal guard, so you'll have plenty more chances to spar with me and improve”

“and what about our little bet, your highness?”

urbosa leaned back on her throne and smiled.

“if you manage to win a battle against me, i'll allow you to take me as your bride.”

[neetily]

Ch.2 So, Reddit... AITA? — (SDV) Kent

— ✧ chapter warnings: depictions of trauma, family trauma, misogyny, sexism, slowburn, dumb reader — ✧ word count: 2,751 — ✧ genre: smut 18+ — ✧ synopsis: AITA (47M) FOR FINALLY FOLLOWING MY DOCTORS ADVICE?

— ✧ A/N: enjoy my old man ramblings.

previous

“How is it?” You ask innocently enough, though he doesn’t miss the hint of desperation in your voice. Soft quivering lips, as if he’s somehow caught you doing something bad, but that couldn’t be the case, right?

Truthfully, he’s impressed already with your skills. Any more pandering and he’s liable to act out, which would only cause more issues for himself. Remember, Kent, he thinks to himself. You’re here to relax. And, mid chew, he supposes that your sheepishness is to be expected. You are dating his son, after all. It’s understandable that you’d want to make a good first impression, and yet still his lips press into a thin and telling line anyway. This is nothing more than formalities, a useless way to spend his time.

He’s only three spoonfuls in before your question too, rushing him to quickly swallow his fourth just to answer you. Couldn’t you have waited for a pause to speak? “It’s all right.” He deadpans, only briefly looking up at you through his brow before digging back into the lovingly prepared meal, another greedy spoonful already lifting to his lips.

See, lying comes naturally to him. Embedded in his very existence, buried deep in his bones as a means of survival, even when lying to himself. A skill not formally taught, but rather something akin to natural talent, and he’s aced every class. It only takes him a few seconds before he checks for your reaction, satisfied at the small pout his critique causes. Truthfully, the meal is perfect; no faults. And this, too, annoys him.

He’d sooner die than play his hand so soon. A hidden battle contained solely within himself; and yet still, he refuses to lose.

“I’m glad.” You smile pitifully, and he feels a spark of something in his chest. A jolt of understanding, perhaps. A kindred spirit, absolutely. You too, he thinks, are a filthy liar.

Thankfully, silence befalls the table besides the clattering of metal on ceramic due to his unfair response, and he finds himself ruminating to the shared rhythmic taps!

It’s been difficult since returning home; far more than he’d ever expected, or even liked to admit. Between dealing with his wife’s expectations of the man who left all those years ago, to trying to make amends with his two sons—Vincent far too young to truly hold any real grievances, but Sam on the other hand…—he’s scarcely had the time to just think. How does one return back to normalcy after, well, you know. Even the word war rests thickly at the back of his throat, burning bile against his teeth, leaving his lips dry. Forces him to grasp at the glass of water you had thoughtfully placed on the table for him to take a selfish gulp to try and easy the upset. As if doing so would bring him some sort of clarity on how to become a person again, mimicking your easy actions to somehow remember what being human is really like. It helps that your cooking is good at least, just like the old saying. Every greedy mouthful of the perfectly executed risotto—one of his favourite meals, mind you—worms its way down to his heart and rests there instead of his stomach. Maybe that’s what drew Sam to you too.

“I do hope you enjoy your time here,” you interrupt his thoughts with that sickly sweet tone of yours, his brows furrowing in an attempt to focus on anything other than how your voice goes right through him, and how his skin crawls at the feeling of being seen. “And don’t worry about helping out around the farm! I know Sam mentioned something about that, but really, I’ll be fine by myself!”

The more boyish side of him wants to grunt and groan about how Sam should be helping you himself instead, but therein lies the crux of the broken relationship they share. Instead, he opts only to nodding back at you, resting his spoon in the mostly eaten bowl of risotto and pushing it more towards the centre of the table before offering you some half truths.

“Doc said it’d be good for me t’get back workin’.” It’s part of the reason he even agreed to come stay with you for the week anyway. Surely you know that, so he’s irked that you’d pretend otherwise.

“No, I know…” You laugh awkwardly, matching his actions by setting aside your own spoon before collecting both bowls and placing them in the sink. Routine, likely. It’s somehow familiar to him. And he watches you carefully as you do so, not missing the way you gently lower the ceramic into metal to make as little noise as possible; just like how you ate. It’s annoying having people walk on eggshells around him like this, to treat him like a ticking time bomb, even if deep down he knows it to be true. Fuck, he just wants to be normal again. If he ever finds out who told you to treat him with such care and consideration he’ll be sure correct their stance thoroughly. Probably Sam, right? He’s over here fucking you every night, whispering sweet nothings down your ear. It makes the most sense for his own son to divulge such needless information late at night, the day before his dad arrives on the farm. Now, be careful around my old man, he’s got a bit of a temper; Kent can practically envision the scene perfectly, his fists balling in assumed anger. “But rest is important too. I just don’t want you to feel pressured.” You finish up your sentence, giving him a soft look.

He takes it as pity.

And he fucking knows how wrong it is to feel sickened by how kind you are, to want for more than anything to bite the hand that feeds. But what is a sheep to a lion, really? Having you lay your belly bare for his viscous teeth to sink right into is all too tempting, regardless of what the doctor orders. It’d be so easy to prove how capable he is, too! Which is perhaps the worst part of it all. The fucking restraint it takes not to bark back at you, the innate want to be the enforcer rather than the coward.

He takes a breather, deep and hungry. Fucking awkward, through no fault of your own; he has to remind himself.

“Right,” He clears his throat, digging through his high alert mind to find the right words to express the magnitude of his emotions. And yet, “Thanks, but I wanna help.” Is all he can come up with, answering you tersely, afraid of opening his jaw too wide and showing his sharp teeth.

Rushing water fills his ears and his vision switches to the sink, focusing on the stream rather than the annoyance he harbours for himself. Your back is turned to him, and when you merely hum in response to his obvious upset, he abruptly forces himself to look away. “All right.” You meekly offer him, busying yourself with cleaning up. Shit, he forgot to ask if you wanted help with that—

“Six A.M. start.”

And just like that, on the very first night he spends at your farm, you manage to crack a genuine smile out of him. Because orders are comfortable, he’s well-acquainted to them, and despite the humiliating role reversal, a light laugh escapes him. This, too, should have been a sign of the times

“Understood.” He replies, matching your cut and dried tone of voice with utter resignation himself.

The screech of his chair against the wooden floorboard gives him goosebumps, and he grits his teeth as he stands. It’s habit, really. Survival, right? Blocking out his surroundings in favour of merely enduring, following orders exactly like he was taught to. “G’night, then.” He waves you off, unable to meet your gaze as you send him a much chirpier sleep well, Kent! It’s not your fault that you don’t know he can’t, or that the times he can aren’t really worth the trouble thanks to the repeated nightmares. He only hopes that tonight has tired him out enough to just pass out as he remembers to close the guest bedroom door gently like Jodi had begged him to, to leave a good impression or some other bullshit. The patronising tone she embarrassed him with in front of their kids still rings in his ears even now, and his fists tighten by his side as he leans against the closed door. Fuck, he’s tensing too much again, trying to force his trained muscles to relax just like how Harvey advised, but it’s not working. It’s not working and he’s fucking angry at the way Jodi spoke to him earlier, upset at how he wasn’t able to bite back in fear of scaring Vincent off, and worsening his already dog relationship with Sam.

It’s times like these that he misses having something, literally anything, to hit.

Instead, he keeps his fists balled as he creeps closer towards the old dresser you provided him. Tiptoeing around even himself, mind racing and unsure of what he’s even afraid of. And the thought of being afraid only angers him even more, as if he has anything to be afraid of in the first place given his time spent as a soldier.

“Easy…” he whispers to himself slowly, carefully opening the drawer to access the meagre amount of clothing he brought with him on his little ‘vacation’. Home is literally just down the road, so he figured if he needed more it’s not like it’d be a hassle to obtain despite Jodi’s fretting.

But undressing in your house immediately feels weird, knowing that this space—though unlikely the one he’s currently residing in—is where you and Sam have made a home together. Not yet married, and yet still his son is ever present at your farm. How annoying. How utterly dissatisfying, souring to his mood as he gets dressed for bed and promptly tugs the awkwardly tucked in sheets out for more comfort as he climbs inside the sheets.

Laying there in the dark empty, disappointment strangles his throat. Wishing silently that he knew why it upset him the amount that it did to feel Sam’s presence surrounding him, because it makes him feel stupid for even allowing his emotions to run this far. But then, a balm washes over him, realising that he at least has a break from performing for his family; even if they’re unaware of his performance to begin with. There’s very little that he’d willingly admit to them, Jodi especially, and his faux doting attitude falls under that category. It’s nice to finally just be himself for once in the quiet of your farm that you’ve graciously provided him, even if he feels like some sort of intruder peeping in on your private life.

And, as far as first nights goes, he can hardly complain overall. And by that he means that he didn’t shout once, even if it’s been difficult to keep himself composed. Still, he doesn’t trust sleep to come quietly, let alone at all. But maybe despite it all; Jodi was right about this. Maybe Sam’s begrudging acceptance was helpful too, in some odd way. It’s clear to him that his existence within your home isn’t so much appreciated as it is tolerated, and even then it’s only because the doc recommended busy hands; not because anyone else genuinely cares for his well-being. Except for maybe you, evident from the hearty meal you’ve provided tonight that he’s been missing since being home.

And possibly, this little week long trip wont be for nothing.

Chapter 2

Chapter Summary

In which I cement Kent's character some more. And that's about it. (I promise the series gets smutty!)

Chapter Notes

im so worried that this chapter is so boring lmao but i think thats because i’ve never written a slowburn before? im trying to make it somewhat realistic, but still engaging, so i hope this chapter is fun even if it might not be what you’re expecting! i think at the very least, it solidifies kents characterisation some more, and i personally had a lot of fun exploring this little scene. anyway anyway ENJOY thank you for your patience!

“Careful.” He warns you on the first actual day of his stay. Honestly. Women, right? It’s now that he can see the full effect, or lack thereof, of impact his sons stay at your farm has had on you, and he can’t help but grind his teeth in annoyance at the utter vulnerability you show him. The absence of a good father figure must have turned Sam soft, unable to help guide you on how to do things better, or when to simply shut up and let a man take care of you. Jodi’s influence, no doubt. Women, right? The likely cause behind the current unfortunate situation you’ve found yourself in— again. A knowing sigh soon escapes him following his tense reprimand, trailing his gaze up at you with the tutting tone your actions force out of him. Not out of worry, but out of mere convenience. A selfish want to have the day go as smoothly as possible for himself, rather than because he thinks you ought to get down from there for your own safety. He’s already got two kids of his own, he doesn’t need to look after another one.

Regardless of his inner scoldings, he squints at you from his position on the barn floor with interest, heavy work boots idly kicking at some stray hay strewn around the place while he rests his weight on an admittedly much shorter than him rake. Sure, he should be working away like the doc had kindly ordered him to, but it’s much more amusing to watch you struggle to install a new light fixture instead, all the way up at the top of the barn like an idiot. A relatively simple task, don’t you think? And yet still, he doesn’t miss the way the wood creaks under your uncertain steps, dummy. As far as first impressions go, he’s gotta say… You could be doing so much better. Oh, but don’t worry! He’s watching the precariously wobbling ladder you’re climbing with hawk eyes, much to his utter curiosity. The lightbulb is propped in your mouth and disallows you from countering his stern word of advice, which gives him enough satisfaction to smile at least. Yeah… At the very least, you’re entertaining him. Not so much impressing, if you cared.

Besides, you are safe with him keeping watch. A learned behaviour from his time away from the valley, where he had no choice but to pick up the skill of people watching. Had to always be aware, constantly eyeing the horizon line for any signs of danger, just in case. And right now, you’re being pretty dangerous. “Yeah, yeah…” You mutter past the lightbulb, finally at the top of the ladder with one hand gripping the splitting wood so tightly that he thinks that half the reason why it’s creaking so much is from the strength of your grip, and the other starting to shakily unscrew the broken light before you chicken out. You wear misplaced confidence well, he finds himself thinking. And then, promptly sulking about.

What’s worse is that from his point of view, all he can really see is your backside. Just like the first night in the farmhouse, back turned to him as you washed the dish he just ate from. Only, right now, your ass sticks out even more for him as your knees wobble from under you. Like a newborn deer, begging for some guidance. Anyone would undoubtedly enjoy the view, but he feels a certain twinge of guilt in his heart when taking a longer than usual look at it, unwillingly appreciating the swell of your ass as you surely struggle to replace the bulbs efficiently. Serves you right, he muses to himself to soothe the ache in his chest. He did offer to do it for you, but something about your determination to prove your usefulness as you declined him was attractive. Shut him up in favour of watching you struggle. Attractive in a… Future father in law sense, yeah. Just looking out for his son, making sure his future is secured with a good wife. That’s all. Nothing… Ah, nothing else.

Though now that he’s stuck thinking about it, you do have a nice figure. Knowing himself, it’s likely a big factor as to why Sam is so into you, too. Like father like son, yeah? It’s not like he’s exempt from appreciating the view, he reasons with himself. Especially considering he’s not even looking at you in a perverted sense anyway, he’s just admiring the nice ass right in front of him. There’s nothing wrong with appreciating! Just like how he struggled to tear his eyes off of you on the first night with your apron. Staring, swallowing, slowly, hunter stalking prey. He’s just looking for your weak spots, he tells himself. And then right at the back of that is his more rational side of his brain with: liar.

“Ugh, it’s stuck.” You draw him out of his absentminded gawking, and he huffs in prepared annoyance. This should have been an easy job, if only you hadn’t let your pride get in the way of his help. And then again a bolt of understanding hits him, lightning forcing his back straight to fully focus on you. He’d have done the same, kindred.

“Did ya try turnin’ it the other way?” He yells back at you, rolling his eyes at the way you let out a stupid little gasp. Promptly mentally chastising himself when his first thought is cute. Jus’ a reflex, s’all. There’s no weight or worry to the intrusive thoughts, surely.

“Thanks, Kent!”

“Yup.” He grumbles to himself, taking a gander out of the barn and into the open pasture that moves before him, without him, as you busy yourself with your stupid task. Shoulda been done a while ago by now. Irritation present in how tightly he holds the useless rake by his side— not that you’d be able to notice from all the way up there. And even then, he’s not even sure what he’s more irritated by.

Your helpless display of incompetence, or the fact that he’s not really annoyed by that at all.

Exhaling heavily, he leans harder against the too small rake lazily. But, y’know, despite it all, he finds himself suppressing a smile. It’s nice here, he settles. In spite of currently experiencing his first full exhausting day with you, where you quickly clued him in on what a complete clutz you are by way of attempting to show him how the sprinklers worked, instead facing their relentless torrent which, unfortunately for you,left your shirt all soaked for him to witness with peeking glances. Like the start of some cheap porn plot, except he knows better than to continue the story line. Idiot, maybe if he was younger he’d have acted upon his rash thoughts, but you’re lucky that he’s stronger than his urges. He thinks you caught him staring at least once or twice anyway, given how red your cheeks were all morning when giving him tasks, catching his gaze landing on you every now and then, but it could have been caused by the embarrassment after changing too. Don’t matter to him, he still got the eyeful he wanted. Then, to make matters worse, you panicked with the misfortune of leaving the gate to the barn open during feeding time, and it’s a good thing he was there the help too! The training the army provided earning him better than average stamina for any man, let alone one of his age, allowing him to easily round up your strays while you frantically held onto the ones that stayed behind. And to top it all off, you ended up dropping and breaking your fancy new metal ladder when he wasn’t looking, leading to today’s pathetic display.

He should be more annoyed than he currently is, but he can’t quite put a name to the emotion he’s feeling. A deep burn in his chest, something akin to spotting a helpless animal by the wayside.

It’s easier if he doesn’t think about giving it a name.

And despite all that, he seems to be smiling more than usual. And that must be a good sign, right? It’s real nice to be around a pretty girl again, at least. Even if you irk him sometimes, and he can’t believe just how dumb you really are, or how you can manage to confidently call yourself a farmer at this rate. Despite it all, he’s smiling. All it’s taken is one day on your farm for him to wonder just how any work gets done around your place under normal circumstances, and he can do nothing but smile about it. Isn’t that just so bemusing? So completely and utterly incredulous to think about. So much for that good work ethic you impressed him with on night one.

Although, he must admit, that it’s inspiring to see just how unstoppable you are in the face of so many challenges— made courtesy of yourself, of course. You don’t stop. And there’s something familiar about that.

A cow dead eye stares at him as he’s left alone with his thoughts and he hums back at it. Daisy you called it, right? Or was that another? He briefly wonders if this was one he helped coral back home for you today, but no matter how often you point out their differences, they’re still all the same to him. Cattle. Livestock. Prey? You know, cows are said to be good luck omens in certain parts of the world, offering abundance. Whether that be in wealth, resources, or even love.

He thinks they’re pretty ugly up close, though. Must be because you’ve used up all their good luck.

He only manages to stop staring at the animal because the wood next to him sways a bit too much for his liking, and his attention is immediately drawn to where you teeter at the very top, clutching the ladder for dear life as his rake drops far faster than his brain can even prompt him to do so. Instincts kick in and he stretches his arms out as if on command, ingrained within him to help. “K-Kent?” your voice wavers, and his heart drops as the scene plays out in his mind a second before it happens. It’s funny how much he can predict about you; your hesitation will be your downfall.

It all happens so fast that it appears as a blur to him. A mix of genuine fear and anxious resolve moving his body for him, automatically, like a flashback. Even the sweat that drips down his already tacky forehead is the same as back then.

You fall, obviously. There was no other way to end your little showcase of courage. Right into his pre stretched out arms, his knees bending to soften your fall as much as possible; because despite his rough exterior, he’s not heartless. He would hate to see harm befall his sons soon to be wife, under his care no less! And so down you tumble, right into his arms, as if this were some sort of romcom he was actively living out. All the way down to the way you let out a cute little squeak upon landing, huffing with fear as he holds his own breath in anticipation. His hand automatically grabs at your ass when he knows that you’re safe and sound, and not just a small feel either. A proper squeeze that could be dismissed as worry over your safety, but he’d be a liar if he said it wasn’t anything else after all that teasing you had him endure. Repayment, he thinks. For keeping you grounded when you’re too silly to ask for his help. You ought to rely on him a little more, for God’s sake.

And he has to resist the urge to tell you told ya so when you peer up at him, biting his tongue to hold back some sincere laughter instead. Because after all is said and done, he fucking knew thatyou’d need his help in some way, some how. And it’s funny, now that he’s secured your safety.

At the very least, life on your farm has proved engaging. Far more than home, where the most action he gets is having to yell at Vincent to stop searching for bugs, or long walks to shake off the bad vibes of the house itself.

You let out a soft little gasp, finally calming down. But it registers far differently in his brain, prompting him to distract himself by letting out a disapproving sigh. Like a father would do. A father in law. Because that’s what he is, technically. He has to remind himself, especially when you wiggle in his hold. So small compared to him, he could reach down so easily and just take a little nibble out of you— he knows you wouldn’t complain. Couldn’t, really. Could you?

“Hate to tell ya…” He trails off, catching the way your cheeks flush under the assumed embarrassment from having him hold you like this, bridal style. It’s cute. Real cute. You really should stop that though, because it only makes him want to tease you some more.

And he’s about to follow through with the expected taunt, but your humiliation gets the better of you as you meekly avoid his gaze, wriggling around in his arms some more to get out of his fatherly grip. Shame, your ass feels nice in his big hands. “Yeah, yeah. I know…” you pout, and the disappointment lacing your words perks his mood up just a little more.

Fuck, he hates to admit that Jodi was right. That he should have listened to her words of wisdom much sooner, instead of milling about like a stubborn bull. So he doesn’t, carefully dropping you back down to your feet and folding his arms against his chest as you dust yourself off instead. But the way his cheeks hurt to smile at your bashful attitude is evidence enough that farm life might have been the cure to what ails him all along, or maybe all he needed was time with you? Immediately, the thought alone causes goosebumps to run along his body, an uncomfortable chill sent down his spine. He coughs to hide his revelation, opting instead to stare at the fallen ladder, and then up at the more broken light. Anything other than you, because he doesn’t think he can handle the sight of you for much longer before snapping his jaws shut around you.

Your irresponsibility is contagious, in the worst ways possible.

His arms flex under the strain of his thoughts, nails digging into his rough skin to deflect his impulses. What did the doctor say again? Busy hands.

“Finally gonna let me help ya, right?” He questions, clearly directed at you, but he refuses to even look your way. Survival instincts kicking in.

It takes a few seconds for you to answer, but the little huff and sigh you let out before responding dries up his throat. He’d rather you remained silent in all honesty, as compared to your scandalous resignation. Then he wouldn’t have to hide his heating cheeks from your view too. Stupid, like two fucking teens caught in the barn the morning after, the sun warming his skin is enough to hide his obvious approval, surely. The threat you offer him is overwhelming, and he can feel a certain twitch in his knuckles that beg for a wall.

“Yeah, that’d be nice.”

You should have let him help you out from the beginning. If you did, then neither of you would be in the position you’ve regrettably placed upon him now. He’d get to continue carrying himself with distance, and you’d remain in your place— that is, not cradled in his tense arms. And yet, he still collects the ladder for you. He still bends down to grab a new lightbulb from the box, eyeing you up as he straightens again, offering you a barely noticeable smile of idiot before fixing the fucking light himself.

The situation isn’t lost on him. Screwing in the light as he reaches a lightbulb conclusion himself. And when he returns back to the ground and feels how heavy your little hand is on his taut arm when you pat his worked muscles, he recognises the look on your face as one of understanding too.

The shared emotion makes him scowl.

[cosmic-spider]

Off the planet

Hi and welcome this was based off on a story I found on AO3 that I really liked. But it was discontinued so the first chapter is based a bit of the story I read.

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Everyone, please remember-" your professor, Mr Altalune, kept talking about this assignment about bringing something from your families history, something inspiring they worked on.

But of course, you didn't really care. You just wanted to leave this damn class already.

Which luckily for you, you we're going to pretty soon due to the fact that it was almost time to leave. But, even when you supposedly didn't care, your mind wandered off thinking about the subject.

"(..What could I even bring?)" you looked down at your notebook which had nothing on it besides a few doodles that you subconsciously drew, little stars, spirals, really anything random.

You zoned out a bit, just staring at your notebook and it's doodles, everything else around you seemed twice as loud. You could hear the sound of light air coming from the ventilation system, the clicking of mechanical pencils and pens, and the soft whispering of people talking.

"Hey, do you know about that rumor? About..what was their name.." The two girls behind you were talking about you as the girl speaking just said your name, another rumour about you that people were whispering about already. You guys were in college, why we're people still gossiping like they were in high school?

"No- I didn't! I need to send that to the group chat." you probably would've turned around to the two girls and tell them that you could hear them but, you didn't wanna talk.

So, you just let them continue with their conversation as they giggled to each other while gossiping like high schoolers.

RING,RING,RING

Finally, the day was finally almost over. You'd have tomorrow off from college but, would have work as well.

But, at least you would get to sleep in. You started packing up your stuff into your bag, still thinking about what to bring for this assignment.

As you heard the girls go over to their friends and whisper to each other, probably telling them all about the rumor they heard about you.

Even if you wanted to yell at them, you couldn't and just, focused on leaving the class while you finally finished packing up everything and putting it into your bag before you left the place.

You made it off college perimeters and made your way to the sidewalk to go straight home to your apartment. As you stopped yourself in the middle of the sidewalk as you finally thought of what to bring for that assignment. You grinned a bit to yourself while rushing off, not a moment to waste.

Okay, maybe walking was a bad idea, maybe you should've brought your car that day. But hey, I guess that's your fault for not bringing your car to school in the first place.

Since it wasn't too long of a walk to make it to campus and back to your dorm and, the weather was supposed to be perfect today. Turns out, it wasn't. It had started raining pretty heavy but, it was worth it. Looking up with the side of your hand pressing against it, you finally saw it.

Your family mansion

You quickly glanced around for a moment to make sure nobody was looking before walking towards the front door of the mansion.

Just in case since you didn't feel like talking to someone nor explaining why you were going into this abandoned, old mansion in the first place.

You gently put your hand onto the door handle, twisting it which made you surprised that the door wasn't locked but you weren't complaining.

You hesitated for a moment before you walked into the mansion, unsure of what to expect but looking inside, it just seemed like any normal house that was abandoned for years.

Cracks, indents, mold, and vines everywhere, the whole 'horror movie house' kinda look. You started walking around as the floorboards creaked under every step you took which, made you slightly nervous everytime.

As you finally started looking around a bit more you found a folded piece of paper on the ground which was...ripped. You stared at it for a good moment before hesitantly picking it up.

Finally getting a good look at it, you finally noticed that it was actually a flyer. Looking at it, it seemed like a advertisement for some sort of museum? The biggest line read:

'Copper 9' wasn't that a planet and, wasn't it destroyed?? Nonetheless, you continued to look through it and noticed at the bottom it said 'supported by the founder of Jcjenson'

..the founder of Jcjenson..you swore that you've heard that before. Your uncle mentioned something about that before, didn't he?? Maybe he worked there..

And that's when you got the best idea

"(If I go to that museum, I'll surely be able to find some stuff my uncle made!)" you smirked to yourself a bit, and well, yes you could've found something in that house but.

It was really starting to creep you out at the moment so, as you finally decided to leave you kept the flyer in your pocket for later, still remembering the rain.

Maybe you should've at least brought an umbrella instead of your car, or maybe you should've chosen somebody else in your family for this damn assignment but now, it's too late. Finally noticing this...big white building

'Yes!!! Yesyesyes!' you smiled, rushing yourself towards the building but stopped for a moment

'..its run down...?' you took out the flyer from your pocket and looked everywhere and when you finally turned the flyer around, you noticed the date.

"GODDAMNIT!" you yelled out in agitation, who else wouldn't be pissed? You got yourself drenched for nothing practically...or, did you?

Huffing, you looked up at the building again, noticing the front door. As you looked a bit closer, you noticed the door war slightly open. You smirked to yourself

'Maybe this wasn't for nothing after all..' you put the flyer away which was now also soaking wet as you ran towards the door.

You quickly checked your surroundings and after making sure nobody was around you entered the building, only leaving the door open a crack as you finally started slowly walking around the run down museum.

Despite the fact that the museum was run down, it still had everything in it, blueprints, weapons, everything. But, there was only one thing that was very disturbing about this place, the powered off robots.

Yes, they were powered off but there was just something...wrong with it, as you looked around you found...a spaceship? You looked down at the small stand that had practically a whole essay about what this spaceship was

"(..I'm not reading all of that.)" you looked at the near end part which read:

'it will not be able to start without keys says the creator,’

you didn't read the rest of that and just thought.

"(Keys, I gotta find the keys)" you started looking around for the keys for that damn spaceship, while also looking at everything else that was pretty interesting to you and while looking, you paused at the front of a door with a sign at the top that read;

'bosses office' your lips curled into a smirk subconsciously, thinking of a great idea

"(One peek wouldn't hurt..)"you creaked open the door only your head popping out of the side, you finally opened the door all of the way before entering and started look around before you found a bunch of papers on a desk in the room. You picked one up

"(..eh, they won't know)" and started to read it

'Copper 9 has finally been inhabited by the Dissasembly drones J, V and N. They will make sure all of the faulty worker drones will be parished I'm sure of it, you have nothing to worry about at the moment besides...what was their name again? [Name], yes, [Name]. I'm sure my brother will be happy for you to be there when they are born, you have nothing else to worry about."

why were they talking about you? Who's serial designation J, V and N? What are worker drones? You shook your head

"(I'm...taking this with me)" you put the paper into your other pocket before deciding to look around again for the keys for that spaceship.

Looking at the rest of those papers probably would've took too much time anyways...as you were about to leave the room you nearly tripped on something in the middle of the room, causing you to yelp as you looked down, it was a small wooden box with indents of flowers such as roses and lilies.

You slowed picked it up and looked at it a bit closer, it didn't have a lock on it neither was it really, protected. It was pretty damaged but, that didn't matter at the moment as you shook the box you heard something inside which you thought were the keys for the spaceship it was just, a dagger

"(Well, at least I can protect myself now)" you thought, smiling a bit as you left the room with your new dagger in hand.

You were exhausted, but you continued looking everywhere for those damn keys and couldn't find them but, perhaps it would be your lucky day because as you finally made your way back to the spaceship.

You decided to at least check the inside of it to see if it had anything for this stupid project of yours and as you entering you immediately felt slightly...uneasy but, that didn't stop you.

You started looking around in the small space that actually wasn't too bad for a spaceship. Considering this has been in a run down museum for who knows how long, you finally noticed that the keys were already in the ignition which honestly.

Made you a little bit pissed at yourself but also a little bit more nervous. As you went near it you noticed a small note on the chair near the spaceship controls, and as you picked up you didn't notice that you had flipped a switch which caused the spaceship door to close

"Wha?.." you immediately looked up at the screens of the spaceship and it all showed

PREPARING FOR TAKEOFF IN:

50 SECONDS

"Wait- NO!" you immediately started panicking you started looking over all of the controls and the room. Immediately grabbed your phone out of your pocket with the dagger and immediately tried to contact anyone you could.

PREPARING FOR TAKEOFF IN:

45 SECONDS

You dropped your phone onto the floor of the spaceship because of how shaky your hands were at the moment.

"Dammit!" you exclaimed subconsciously before you bent down and grabbed your phone. Once again and started trying to call the person again as you watched the timer.

"I'm sorry, but-" you hanged up as it went straight to voicemail. You immediately tried again and again and again but even then it went straight to voicemail. You then tried to start texting them in hopes they would answer as you felt panic overtake you

PREPARING FOR TAKEOFF IN:

26 SECONDS

you tried calling every number you knew, even the police but, they all went to voicemail even after trying what seemed like million of tries afterwards.

"How does the police station phone go to voicemail?!" You yelled, you felt so powerless as you looked back up at the screens.

PREPARING FOR TAKEOFF IN:

13 SECONDS

You felt your knees go weak as you fell backwards as your back slid against the wall of the spaceship still looking at the screens.

Your knees were wobbling as you thought of all of the horrible things that could possibly happen. You could be stuck in space, or maybe even worse than that. You felt warm tear stream down your face as a voice started to say the final countdown

5

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4

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3

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2

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1

Off the spaceship went with you, you screamed as your head hit the wall, incredibly hard, making you drop your phone and fall into the ground and the last thing you saw before passing out were the screens showing only one thing

Destination : Copper 9

[hazyshadeofwintyr]

Dreamling Week Day I: Meowpheus

I am so normal about Dreamling, I can't even begin to explain just how normal I am! Truly! So normal!! The thought of them doesn't send me into a fluffy fluff spiral or anything!!! I promise I'm normal about them!!! Why are you walking away??? Wait—

Anyway, happy Dreamling Week one and all! :3 I don't think I'll write something for every day of it, but here's my first contribution. Expect it up on AO3 at... some point? Enjoy some tooth-rottingly fluffy gay shenanigans. Fuck segues, you don't need segues when you have the Dreaming.

WC: 1,479

----

He was just on the edge of sleep, thoughts drifting off somewhere far away from him. They swayed as a sea, cycling like the tide, the steady in- and out-rush of water and sand. Hob could nearly hear it, if he just listened a little closer— 

A weight leapt onto Hob's bed, waking him from his half-doze. He blinked blearily through the darkness, registering a shape that looked an awful lot like a housecat, only fuck-off huge. A pair of onyx eyes that sparkled through the dim room met his, glowing with distant starlight—the sort that had become nigh-invisible in modern London, so not a reflection or trick of the light—which tickled something at the back of his mind. "Dream?" he mumbled. 

The cat settled beside him, just within his reach. It tilted its head at him. Good evening, Hob Gadling. 

"What're you doing here?" 

Do I need a particular reason to visit a friend? Dream teased, cocking his head. 

"No, it's just—" Hob yawned, cutting himself off. "I'm not used to seeing you without a reason, is all." 

Dream stretched, a low purr rumbling through the bed. Am I bothering you? 

"Not at all." Hob extended a hand, fingers brushing against night-dark fur so soft and feather-fine he could barely feel it. Dream didn't move, so he dug a little deeper, scratching the top of Dream's head. The same bone-deep purr rattled up his arm as Dream leaned into Hob's touch. He was significantly more accepting of touch as a cat than as a... whatever he called that almost-human shape that had graced most of their visits. "I'm not going to make for very good conversation tonight, I'm afraid." 

Then it is fortuitous I did not come for conversation, hm? Dream flicked an ear in a half-joking gesture. Sleep, Hob Gadling. Rest well in my presence.

Hob was, belatedly, glad that Dream had appeared to him in this form—the thought of his hands bruising that marble flesh made his head do all sorts of things he couldn't process. The cat was different—there was no temptation to lose himself in stormy eyes or to kiss the delicate skin in the hollow of Dream's throat. He had spent centuries without even the least sign of reciprocation, but the more frequent visits of the previous six months left him starving in an entirely different way than usual. No, he decided, brushing a knuckle against the warm skin at the base of Dream's ear, the cat was a distraction most welcome. 

He fell asleep with surprising ease for sharing a bed with a large, unfamiliar cat who just-so-happened to be his oldest friend (were he more awake as the words passed his thoughts, he'd chuckle with only the slightest bit of mirth). The deep, soothing purring of cat-Dream didn't hurt, either. It invited sleep, drew it in as though putting him on a sea with his blankets as a wave. Hob wasn't really sure if it was part-and-parcel of Dream's whole thing or not, but the question died like a candle as he faded into unconsciousness. 

They were strolling through an indistinct blur of a park, the sun bright but not burning, each of them holding a cone of soft-serve ice cream. "You must truly wish to see me, Hob Gadling," Dream commented in a voice that had a quality not unlike gravity. His appearance also seemed much more—vibrant or saturated would be the wrong word for how little colour there was about him, but the whites seemed truer, the blacks more absolute. Yet he still blended beautifully with the gentle greens and blues of their surroundings. 

Hob was more awake then he had any right to be, but his mind remained a little sluggish still. At least he could tell he was dreaming. "Is— is this because you were with me?" 

Dream shook his head, the slightest hint of what might be a smile teasing his lips. "No. And I am still with you, in the Waking world. You are the one who called me here." 

"I'm... sorry?" Hob tried, unsure of what one should say in such a circumstance. He wondered if anyone else had ever been in his place before—then dismissed the thought as quickly as it came, a painful pang of jealousy in his heart. His relationship with Dream was still too fragile, still too brittle to test its boundaries. Hob could wait, if he truly had to, for Dream to show some sign of reciprocation; he could also survive millennia on the hope alone. God only knew he'd survived the last few hundred years with little more than hope, at least partially for his strange—and, until recently, nameless—friend. 

Either Hob was showing more than he intended of his feelings, or Dream is just in his head, because those starry eyes softened. "You have no reason to apologise. It is a pleasure to spend time with you." 

"Well, at least the weather is lovely today."  

Dream glanced up at the sky. "Yes, it is," he agreed. 

Hob noticed that his ice cream had yet to melt and tasted it. Tension he hadn't realised he'd been holding disappeared. It tasted like vanilla ice cream, yes, and good vanilla ice cream at that—but beyond that, it tasted of all the times he'd shared dessert with a lover, every hot summer day spent holding hands with somebody he'd loved, every stroll in the park talking about everything and nothing. He closed his eyes and let the flavour wash over him. When he opened them, he found himself sitting opposite Dream at a terraced café, no longer holding ice cream. Instead, his hand rested on the table. 

And Dream's hand rested on his. 

Dream himself remained as impassive as ever. "I find that the weather is fair when I visit you," he mused, lashes beating in slow motion. They were a butterfly's wings, snowflakes falling, a rainbow materialising through scattered droplets of water. 

True romantic that he was, Hob couldn't shake the jolt of joy in his stomach when Dream continued to allow their skin to touch. He wondered how long it'd been since any mortal had been allowed to touch his (his? since when had Dream ever been his?) Dream Lord. "It's been good to see you more frequently, too. And to finally know your name, after all this time." 

"I have come to realise that you deserve a great many things you may never receive," Dream said, "and I feel it is my responsibility to give you whichever of those are in my power." He fell silent for a moment before moving his hand to entwine his fingers with Hob's. Another small smile graced his lips. 

"Is this one of them?" Hob asked, swallowing. 

"Yes and no. You have been an invaluable companion for many years, despite my distance and reluctance to admit it. In this sense, I am merely returning the favour." Dream tilted his head, much as he had as a cat, an unfamiliar sparkle in his eyes. "While I have never paid particular attention to your dreams, I have always been aware of them." 

"Oh," said Hob, the statement sinking in, "oh." His face flushed and, if this were a conversation with anyone else, he would've pulled his hand away to cover his face. Dream's touch simply felt too rare to forego, too precious to lose. "I'm, um. I don't— don't know what to say. Please forgive me for seeing you in that light?" In his defence, Hob hadn't known who or what Dream even was for the first six hundred years, had no idea that his Stranger would be privy to those fantasies. 

Dream—laughed. He actually laughed, the bastard. His laugh was, at most, a dry chuckle, but it was worlds more expressive than Hob ever expected to hear from him. "Hob Gadling," he said, half-smiling, eyes full of care and mirth and secrets and stars, "I am the King of Dreams. Were I displeased, or uncomfortable, with your fantasies of me, they would be well within my ability to stop." 

"You don't mind dreams where I—?" Shag you silly, Hob finished in his thoughts, far too embarrassed to speak those words out loud. 

"You were right, one hundred and thirty-three years ago. I was lonely, and I was too proud to admit it—which, I have come to realise, is exactly why I was so lonely. Only recently have I become aware of my own such... personal flaws." 

"So you'd forgive my being so forward as to..." There was no longer a table between them, only a step that Hob closed with relish. They were so close their chests nearly touched, a breath—though, Hob noticed, Dream didn't breathe—between them. He remained hesitant as he put a hand to Dream's waist. With a smooth, too-fluid motion, Dream did the rest and gardens bloomed glorious behind Hob's eyes.

[authoralexharvey]

INTERVIEW WITH A WRITEBLR — @e-klair

Who You Are:

E.K. || They/them

I'm from Germany and I study English and French translation - I plan on being able to make a living of translating books one day. I've been writing since I was 10 years old, and even though I love all other kinds of creative work too (I sometimes draw and am the singer of a rock band) it's the one thing in life I just NEED in order to be happy.

What You Write:

What genres do you write in? What age ranges do you write for?

Adventure, comedy, fanfic, fantasy, mystery, paranormal, romance, and sci-fi. Young and new adult.

What genre would you write in for the rest of your life, if you could? What about that genre appeals to you?

Fantasy! Exploring new worlds and concepts, and at the same time being able to transfer the lessons learned there to real life is just… Idk, it really makes me emotional :')

What genre/s will you not write unless you HAVE to? What about that genre turns you off?

Crime fiction. It's just a really specific genre following really specific rules, and I don't think I'd be able to follow all of them and have fun at the same time.

Who is your target audience? Do you think anyone outside of that would get anything out of your works?

Honestly, at the moment it's just me, and sometimes my friends. I feel like my stories are very close to my experiences in life, so I wouldn't expect anyone to get or like them.

What kind of themes do you tend to focus on? What kinds of tropes? What about them appeals to you?

One specific thing I always come back to is a conflict between two groups that need to overcome their prejudice. In one of my stories it's a straight up war, in the other one it's a family feud. In general, acceptance of the other (in whichever form) is a really strong theme in all of my works.

What themes or tropes can you not stand? What about them turn you off?

Are toxic relationships a trope? I don't think they're a healthy thing to romantisize, especially in YA fiction. They can be written well if not romantisized, though, and that's cool!

What are you currently working on? How long have you been working on it?

I'm currently working on a fantasy duology called "Dawn". I've been working on it for 10 years now, but with a major break in between taking 8 years (!).

Why do you write? What keeps you writing?

Mostly a mix of A) internal and external struggles and the need to put them on paper in as many metaphors as possible B) the sheer joy of having written something that wasn't there before. Creating something out of thin air is just wild!!

How long have you been writing? What do you think first drew you to it?

14 years now. I first started writing down my dreams as a kid, and over time those dreams developed into really long stories until I one day decided to finally write a "proper book".

Where do you get your inspiration from? Is that how you got your inspiration for your current project? If not, where did the inspiration come from?

Music! Everything I write is in some way inspired by the music I listen to, especially my current project - some characters or scenes only developed the way they did because of a certain song or album. (It also goes both ways cause my stories sometimes find their way into my own songs, help)

What work of yours are you most proud of? Why?

My current project, Dawn! It's just amazing to be able to return to writing something I loved so much as a teenager, and on top of that add everything I learned about writing in the meantime. I never would have thought that I could find so much potential in something I wrote when I was 13 and use it to make something even better.

Have you published anything? Do you want to?

Not yet. I would love to publish a book one day, but I don't want to rush it.

What part of the publishing process most appeals to you? What part least appeals to you?

The best thing is to just be able to have a copy of it on your shelf and give it to your friends. I think I would be a bit scared of offering it to a publisher and having other people make decisions about it that differ greatly from my own ideas.

What part of the writing process most appeals to you? What part is least appealing?

HAVING WRITTEN and being happy about it is so good! Not having written? Or worse: Having written and being unhappy about it? Hell.

Do you have a writing process? Do you have an ideal setup? Do you write in pure chaos? Talk about your process a bit.

I usually do some soft plotting beforehand, but once I dive into writing I tend to follow my instincts. I work with Scrivener, which really helps me to keep an eye on the bigger picture. Otherwise I would easily lose track of where I'm headed or where I left off. I am also very motivated by word counts - keeping a goal is essential if I want to finish a project. Also: I really love writing on the train. It's amazing.

Your Thoughts on Writeblr:

How long have you been a writeblr? What inspired you to join the community?

All of my active years combined: About 2. I think the writerblr community is a very positive, interesting one and I just love keeping in touch with other people and their amazing ideas. Every one has their own style and flavour, it's like a candystore full of stories and nice people.

Shout out some of your favorite writeblrs. How did you find them and what made you want to follow them?

@concerningwolves is an amazing author and their work is full of rich worldbuilding and fascinating characters. When Dealing With Wolves is definitely worth a read. @siarven is not only an amazingly nice and energetic person but also a fantastic artist! I love their drawings so much.

What is your favorite part about writeblr?

The positivity! There's also a lot of information available with so many people sharing their experiences. It's great.

What do you think writeblr could improve on? How do you think we can go about doing so?

Ummm. I actually don't know. It's sometimes hard getting in touch with people or finding blogs to follow. It's also really hard to talk about and share work that's written in another language than English, but that's how it is on most platforms.

How do you contribute to the writeblr community? Do you think you could be doing more?

Insert "idk i just got here" meme :D Honestly, I think a lot has changed since I first joined in 2018. I'm just trying to get back into the groove and then we'll see.

What kinds of posts do you most like to interact with?

Same answer as above. :)

What kind of posts do you most like to make?

God I love tag games. They're so much fun!

Finally, anywhere else online we may be able to find you?

On instagram

Questions For Fun:

If your main character(s) was a flower, which flower would they be? Why?

Funnily, the full name of the MC of Dawn is Khorin'do, which means 'glowing leaf'. Glowing leaf is a tree of which the leaves turn almost see-through before autumn, which makes them look a bit like bug wings. Hence, this tree is not only how Khorin got her name, but in fact all of her kind - they are fairy-like creatures called Khorwes. So as you can imagine, her name is pretty much as common there as Steve or Mary are here.

If your writing were a color, what color would it be and why?

A friend of mine once described my writing as rainbow-coloured because it can get very intense, chaotic, and naive. Honestly, I think that's pretty accurate.

Is there a song that has had the most impact on your work? An album? A music artist? Why do you think they had such an influence on you?

For Dawn specifically, there have been many, many musical influences. In its early stages (around 2012), the themes of war and injustice were inspired by bands like Rise Against or Thirty Seconds to Mars (especially their album This is War, which umm… turns out to glorify war a lot? This is actually the opposite of what I wanted). Nowadays I tend to draw inspiration from instrumental vibes more than the lyrics. If it sounds epic, melancholic and slightly futuristic, it works. This is the case with Arcane Roots' album Melancholia Hymns. It helped me come up with a lot of internal conflicts for the characters and even inspired the new main antagonist as a whole. I think music has a big influence on me because it stimulates the visual part of my brain that loves daydreaming and indulging in fantastic scenarios, which is mostly what writing really is for me.

[edosianorchids901]

It's a Set-Up

@flashfictionfridayofficial prompt - "set the stage"

The first few late night “oh no, I require assistance” calls had seemed normal enough. Crowley dutifully hopped in the Bentley, drove to the shop, and sorted out Aziraphale’s problems. A missing book. Running out of sugar mid-baking. A mishap involving an exploding tea kettle.

The last one had made Crowley suspicious. But the calls just kept coming after that.

An unprecedented desire to organize the shop. A desperate need to clear out some wine and make room for new drinks. Someone to help with a translation, Aziraphale knew the language well enough but would Crowley mind double checking?

No call had come in tonight, though, and Crowley gratefully settled in for a solid night’s sleep. Between lunches, drives in the countryside, and Aziraphale’s mysterious need for midnight aid, Crowley hadn’t gotten much time to himself lately.

He laid down and closed his eyes, savoring the quiet. And then his mobile rang.

Snarling, he rolled over and snatched it. “Wot?”

“Ah, hello! So sorry to trouble you, dear boy.”

Crowley sighed and rubbed his brow, already getting out of bed. “No trouble, angel. What’s up?”

“Oh, it’s so silly, but I think there’s rats in the shop. They usually behave, you know I give them a snack or two out back, but I’m hearing some odd sounds. And, well, you have such a way with the little souls…”

“Yeah, okay. I’m on my way.” Crowley hung up, grinding his teeth. This was ridiculous. What was going on?

The Bentley careened from Mayfair to Soho in a handful of minutes and screeched to a halt outside the bookshop. Crowley hopped out, still tense, and stormed inside.

“Angel?” he called.

“Oh!” Aziraphale rushed out of the kitchenette, hands flailing wildly. “Lord, you arrived rather faster than I expected. I’m not quite ready…”

“Enough. Will you just tell me what’s going on?” Crowley crossed his arms, frowning. “Ready for what?”

“Well…” Aziraphale swallowed hard. “I wanted to ask you something.”

Seriously? “Is this why you’ve been dragging me over here every night? So you could ask me something?”

“No!” And then Aziraphale winced, twisting his hands together. “Well, sort of. I-I-I was setting the stage.”

Crowley crossed the shop, took Aziraphale’s arm, and led him to the sofa. “Setting the stage for what? You know you could just ask me anything, yeah?”

“Oh, I know, but…” Aziraphale gave a nervous laugh. “Well, I was afraid you’d say no. And you’ve always been so eager to rush to my rescue, always so kind to me…”

“Demons aren’t kind,” Crowley grumbled.

“Ah, yes. Which is why you’ve come over each time I called you.” The hazel eyes sparkled with amusement, and Aziraphale smiled. He inched closer on the sofa. “Anyway, I thought I’d start tonight with…”

He snapped his fingers. Wine—really good wine—materialized on the coffee table, along with Crowley’s favorite shortbread. “You’re softening me up, Aziraphale?”

“Setting the stage! It’s only proper to have such things.” Aziraphale wiggled his fingers, then inexpertly produced a rose from behind Crowley’s ear. “Oooohwoosh! Will you move in with me?”

“Will… Will I…” Crowley gaped at him. This was definitely not how he’d expected tonight to go. “You thought that calling me over to deal with rats was a good way to ‘set the stage’? Really?”

“Well, yes! You like rats, and shortbread, and wine. And…” Aziraphale hesitated, lip trembling as he searched Crowley’s face. “And you like me? I hope?”

Any irritation vanished in a heartbeat. Crowley cupped his angel’s cheek, smiling. “You’re absolutely ridiculous, and yes. I like you. I love you.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened, his whole face brightening. He lunged to kiss Crowley, the motion clumsy and unpracticed.

Crowley kissed him back, equally unpracticed. When they drew apart, Aziraphale wiggled with delight. “Oh, I love you too. But you didn’t answer my question.”

Amused, Crowley pulled off his sunglasses so Aziraphale could see that he was rolling his eyes. “Yep. I’d better. Since you need me to rescue you every night, only makes sense that I just stay here.”

And then he was being kissed again. Still clumsily, but sweetly, and he pulled Aziraphale closer. Alone time might be overrated, and he could get plenty of quiet by keeping Aziraphale’s mouth occupied in this new, fantastic way.

[squeeneyart]

Breathe in the Salt - Chapter 30

AO3

What does a bedroom say about a person?

Jon makes a phone call.

“So, what do we know?”

Jon sat upright in bed and typed into the old laptop. It didn’t have a built-in microphone, or not a working one, so he’d been making do with a word processor. Still, old habits left him chewing on the inside of his cheek and muttering to himself.

“The lighthouse seems to be a central structure to whatever power, or powers, exist in the vicinity. Several groups are invested in this power including Peter Lukas and his family, possibly Simon Fairchild as well?”

“Separately, this area has also been inhabited by at least one selkie, which I’m certain Elias knew about and sent me here to investigate. His sending me here could have been a ploy to root through my belongings, but it’s not likely to be the only reason. In the middle is Martin Blackwood, both the target of this power and the son of a selkie. No abilities, human in all respects. And these things are… related. Somehow.”

He rubbed his eyes. Not his most confident assertion. He wasn’t sure if he really wanted those two ideas to be connected.

He coughed. “The lighthouse causes vertigo in some individuals with no clear reason as to who. Martin is a long-term employee, no surprise he feels it, but why was Tim affected while Sasha and I were fine?” Jon tapped the empty space below the keyboard. “And now I’ve been targeted without stepping foot in the lighthouse for weeks. Residual effects from Martin’s time in the building? Or the radius is much larger than I’d feared and has the ability to… focus on someone.”

The house didn’t offer an explanation. It creaked in the cold and allowed his voice to travel but otherwise remained empty of answers. Martin’s room especially was…

It wasn’t much. It was the bedroom of an adult that once belonged to a child: a small space, some leftover posters of movies he’d never seen, a bed that technically did its job but hadn’t been intended for a man of Martin’s size or age. It certainly wasn’t meant for two full grown adults. The bedside table lamp was decent and warm-toned but clearly as old as the wood furniture.

Maybe he’d expected more than two small shelves of books. More knick-knacks, or something.  

And the dust itched at his nose a little. The whole house had a layer of it on just about everything. Not something he would normally notice, but the days had been long and his eyes needed to look at something that wasn’t a dim laptop screen. 

He cleared his throat and drew his eyes back to the word processor. “But why did Peter allow us inside? He was never pleased about us being there, so it had to be a favor or some joint scheme. And Simon, why does he involve himself in this? If it was about the sketchbook his part would be finished, but clearly he knows something. To drag Martin to his home-”

He sighed. If he’d learnt anything from the past week it was to stop prattling on about questions he couldn’t answer with the information at his disposal. He placed the laptop to his left and swung his legs over the side of the bed, the cold wood sending a small shock through his feet. 

Across the room the squat bookshelves called to his curiosity. Out of the whole house it was the only shelf he’d seen that wasn’t for banal home decor or unused cutlery, and clearly it was to Martin’s taste only. What did the man like to read in his spare time? For all the intense rush of feeling and time spent together, reading hadn’t come up all that much. Jon had had enough silence in the last few weeks. To sit alone with a book when he finally had another person around to talk to seemed a waste.

Not that they couldn’t read together. Jon liked to read aloud. It certainly made his job less mind-numbing to fill the silence with his voice.

He let himself drift over to the bookshelf and squat down onto the balls of his feet, scanning the lowermost shelf first. Mostly thin, worn paperbacks, some notebooks that had been shoved unceremoniously onto one side and stuck out well past the published material, and required reading from school that Martin never tossed. Expected but not particularly exciting. It could be the sign of someone who didn’t read much, but libraries were a possibility. Audiobooks? E-books? How much did a bookshelf really-

Oh. Hm.

On the second shelf up, taking up a decent amount of space, was more than one collection of poetry. Keats, a bit of Coleridge, and presumably more modern writers he’d never heard of, these worn and well-loved volumes stood in stark contrast to the pristine and dusty copy of Hamlet nearby. 

Jon rolled his eyes. He hadn’t pegged Martin as a poetry-type, certainly not a capital-R Romantic. Obviously it wasn’t a deal-breaker, but he hoped Martin wasn’t the type to try and convince him of poetry as a medium. He’d had enough of trying to understand it at university, being dragged along to one subpar slam poetry night that left him with such terrible secondhand embarrassment that Georgie forced him back outside where the poets couldn’t hear his complaints. Not his most shining moment, but if poets could express themselves out loud for all to hear then so could he. 

His gaze flicked back over the notebooks, spiral bindings bent and squashed from being stuffed into bags over the years. Best not to ask. He’d ruined too many conversations with his strong opinions on the subject and he had no interest in making that much of an ass of himself about Martin’s hobbies while staying in his home, his bed, for free. Sure, he hadn’t given Georgie and her girlfriend that courtesy, but they knew him too well for him to bother.

He also wouldn’t be able to lie about looking. 

The rest of the house, well, he’d already done a bit of snooping around in his paranoia-fueled first days. Based on what he knew, the empty feeling wasn’t unusual. Perhaps he’d hoped for Martin’s room to be different, illuminating even, but it was more of the same.

The room wasn’t entirely bereft of personality outside of the bookshelf. No figurines or such like, though Jon didn’t know why he’d expected them, but on the nightstand there were scattered unsent postcards of cozy outdoor scenes pinned down by a mostly picked clean subscription box of forest-themed stationary. A cardboard coaster printed with a cartoonish shop logo sat with indentation lines across its surface indicating a good amount of use.

Not a lot to leave behind. Even Jon had some photos in his flat, the kind his friends with a fixation on physical media would sometimes give him back in his university days. One of his grandmother. None from the last few years.

Jon stood next to the nightstand for a minute, eyes resting unfocused on the coaster.

The mattress accepted his return with a thump. There was actual research to complete that didn’t involve meditating on personal decor. He couldn’t get distracted like this, no matter how tired he was of talking in circles. It would certainly be easier if it wasn’t him alone doing the talking, but Martin was gone for so much of the day and by the time he returned at night neither was particularly enthused about discussing the dire nature of their circumstances. And as self-sufficient as he tried to be, his own voice wasn’t enough.

Throwing his phone into the ocean hadn’t been his smartest move.

He didn’t have Sasha or Tim’s numbers memorized. Not a huge problem since Martin had Tim in his contacts, but he would’ve expected more from himself for the sake of practicality. He’d been on enough solo trips to know that his mobile phone couldn’t always be relied upon. Still he’d never put their numbers to memory. In an emergency he would’ve called the Institute and had Rosie at the front desk transfer him to the Archives. Professional and just distant enough for comfort.

Not very comforting from a secluded room on the coast with nothing but a landline and Martin’s number written on a scrap of paper. For emergencies. Tedium and cabin fever didn’t count. 

There was so much to explain, more than he’d ever intended to tell them. His assistants were damned good at their jobs, but what did that mean for secrecy? Weren’t they all at the Institute in the interest of uncovering the strange?

But something in his gut had trusted them enough to have Georgie deliver a message to them. They already knew he was somewhere else. And they weren’t- it wasn’t- hadn’t they done enough together to earn the benefit of the doubt? They weren’t some unapproachable, unknowable entity that would crash him against the rocks. 

He gagged on the bile pushing up his throat. No, they were just Tim and Sasha, reliable and ultimately… he couldn’t say they were his friends, but they’d signed up for weirdness and he needed help. Too much rode on their success for him to be overcautious.

He wouldn’t let that spotlight in the sky chase him into a hole. 

--

“For what it’s worth, I think it’s a good idea,” Martin said. 

Jon stared down at the mobile in his hands, open text message blank and waiting. Something like panic tugged at the back of his mind.

“Do you need me to-”

“No- no, I can do this.” Jon’s face twitched and he looked up at Martin. “I won’t tell them everything.”

Martin nodded encouragingly.

“They need to know I’m here, that we need to combine what we’ve learned and expedite the investigation as much as we can. As for why I’m here, I’m not sure how much they’ll need? I could pin it on Elias being involved with whatever is going on but it wouldn’t explain why I left so suddenly-”

With some visible hesitation Martin reached out and squeezed Jon’s shoulder. Without much hesitation at all Jon collapsed against his side. For a split second he felt Martin tense at the contact, but an arm looped comfortingly around his shoulder to dismiss any worry about overstepping. To say things between them had ‘worked out’ wasn’t the right phrasing. Still, he wasn’t unhappy with the physical space he occupied in that moment. Perhaps there was more benefit to impulsive decision making that people gave it credit for.

He stared at the phone for a moment and then pressed the call button in the corner, holding the mobile out between them. From beside him Martin raised his eyebrows in question but said nothing.

After two rings Jon heard Tim on the other side, talking as if carrying something unwieldy. “Hey, was gonna text you but things have gotten really backed up-”

“Hello, Tim. It’s Jon. I hope things aren’t too disordered with my being gone,” Jon said, wincing.

“J-” A large thump came from the speaker, followed by cursing. “Where the hell have you been?”

“I-”

“I guess I know the answer to that, Martin,” Tim hissed, papers rustling in the background. “Unless you broke into his house and stole his phone, which I’m not above assuming.” 

Martin grimaced and leaned in close to the mobile. “No, no, I’m here. Sorry, Tim.”

“Unbelievable. How long has he been there?” He seemed to be walking at a brisk pace.

Jon sighed. “About a week. Before then- listen, we need to talk to you and Sasha while you’re not in the Institute. Things have… escalated.”

“So no word for weeks, we’re buried in paperwork by Elias who is acting weirder by the day, and you just-”

“Tim, please,” Martin interjected, his plea failing to break through the exhausted expression on his face. “We want to give you and Sasha an explanation. If now’s not a good time-”

“Oh, now is a perfect time-” The sound of a door opening. 

From some distance away, he heard Sasha begin, “Hey, did you find-”

Sasha grunted in surprise, and Jon and Martin sat there as Tim made various comments about workplace boundaries and the importance of breaks in a strained tone. Eventually they both stopped talking altogether.

Martin put his hand between himself and the mobile and whispered, “I thought we were going to text first?”

“I was going to lose my nerve,” Jon replied weakly. “And no amount of pre-planning would stop them from being angry if that’s how they feel.”

“Correct,” Tim muttered, then went silent again.

This time Jon set the mobile to mute, wondering if Tim would do the same. “They should be able to find a safe place to talk nearby.”

“Tim seems really angry.”

“As expected. I’m sure Sasha is as well, for different reasons.” Jon stared at the mobile, his leg shaking. “They’ll listen, though. I’m sure they’re as curious as they are livid.”

“Prerequisite for the job?” Martin asked, hugging Jon a little more tightly.

“If you’re looking for a new position I wouldn’t recommend it, even if you have great potential in the field of sticking your nose in other people’s business.”

Martin grimaced. “I’ll make sure to put that on my resume for when I’m back to working the till.” 

“No doubt I’ll be somewhere similar,” Jon muttered, slouching further into Martin’s side. It was good, though, to hear Martin speak of the future, if with very little excitement.

There was a clicking sound from the mobile and a rush of wind. Above the din, Tim said, “We’re headed to a nearby park.”

Sasha added, “This had better be interesting for all we’ve been waiting. What’s going on?”

“Can you even hear-”

“We have headphones. Start talking, bossman,” Tim said. 

“Fine, as long as you’re not in the Institute,” Jon grumbled. “I’ll explain more about my absence later-”

Sasha scoffed. “I’d rather we not skip over that part-”

“-but last night Martin and I both experienced malicious, supernatural incidents. A dense fog that messes with your perceptions, keeping you in place or maybe keeping you away from something? I was hoping to get your insight on this along with an update on your own investigations. Frankly I have no resources beyond searching the internet which nowadays is as useful as yelling at people on the street.” 

There was a brief pause. Then Sasha spoke. “Martin, what you experienced, was it like when Simon grabbed you?” 

Jon glanced at Martin, who shook his head and said, “No, no, it was nothing like it. It sort of… I lost track of time? It felt like I was lost in thought, but Jon had to shake me out of it. Before that I sat outside for hours.”

“During a cold rain, mind you,” Jon said. “Mine was closer to the experience with Simon, I think. I was fully aware of myself, but I’d become completely lost with no direction. I think it was trying to keep me from the town as a whole, since I’d been investigating something on the outskirts.”

Sasha continued. “If we’re working on the assumption that these two events are connected, then it sounds like you both were caught in a barrier of some kind. Like anything inside stays in and anything outside stays out? Unless you think it’s more targeted.”

Jon paused, the creeping gaze of the lighthouse filling his mind. “I… I don’t know. It’s difficult to tell when you’re inside it, but I think it was specific to us. We haven’t exactly asked around town about it. I was hoping one of you could check the archives-”

“It does sound a little familiar, actually, what Martin described,” Sasha said. “I went digging after the Simon incident, but what I found didn’t seem worth mentioning at the time since it wasn’t all that similar to what Simon trapped him in. A few people along the coast reported an unexpected urge to sit outside in a fog by the sea no matter how bad the weather, way beyond some fancy for nature. Apparently, one woman got a nasty thump on the head during a hailstorm.”

Next to him Martin went rigid, eyes darting to the pitch black window across the room. 

Jon replied quickly, “Was there any other follow-up? What allowed people to leave that state?”

“Seems like you stumbled on the solution already. Every time, another person had to pull them out of it. Not always someone they knew, but they were always outside the effect but could see the fog around them. That woman I mentioned was found by her daughter after she’d gone missing for two whole days,” Sasha said. “Besides that, one person died of pneumonia, and the only other living one I tracked down moved further inland and hasn’t seen anything since.” 

Tim added, “And from what you said that last one is considering moving back which- Look, I know some people have a thing about the ocean but if it were me-”

Jon’s heart thumped in his throat. “And this wasn’t centered anywhere? No specific sources or locations?”

Sasha paused. “Not really. The coast is the only real connection I could find besides the fog.”

“The whole ocean can’t be haunted, can it?” Tim asked.

“It doesn’t necessarily come from the ocean-”

“Then why not stalk the streets of-”

“With our sample size we don’t know that it doesn’t-”

With some frustration Jon interjected, “-and right now we don’t have time to figure out if it does. What we need are connections. The Lukases, the Fairchilds, Elias-”

“Speaking of which, you haven’t told us anything about him, either,” Tim said. “He said you were taking some ‘unplanned time off’. Been a lot more around ever since.”

“All things considered I can’t believe he hasn’t fired me and done away with the whole thing,” Jon said with a dull laugh. 

“Jon.”

“Right… Right. Without going into all of the details, I returned early from my last work trip and  caught Elias breaking into my flat.”

A comically synchronized “What?” came from both of his assistants. 

Jon tried to push on. “After that I came here to lie low-”

“Oh no, you do not get to say Elias robbed you and then move on like it’s nothing!” Tim exclaimed. Sasha shushed him, and Tim continued with gritted teeth, “How am I supposed to not shout about that? We should be calling the police-”

“What exactly was he looking for that you wouldn’t just call the police?” Sasha asked. 

Jon’s stomach dropped. “It’s-”

In a conspiratorial whisper, Sasha asked, “Did you take something from artifact storage?”

“What? No! What-” 

Tim scoffed. “Don’t act like that’s out of the question. Look what we roped Martin into!”

Beside him Martin didn’t quite relax, but he lifted his eyebrows slightly and mumbled, “Not wrong-”

Sasha butted in again. “What was he trying to get at, then? You can’t expect us to believe he’s randomly picked up robbery on the side-”

Jon’s eyes flitted about as if the living room held the words that would bring this conversation to heel. All he received was an unhelpful and decidedly unsympathetic shrug from Martin whose gaze remained firmly on the window. Jon saw nothing but mist gathering across the glass.

“-so if you want us to help-”

With a grunt, Jon leaned forward and out from Martin’s hold. He spat out, “Let your own bloody curiosity motivate you, then! I’m not discussing this further until we’re all several hours from the Institute, especially if Elias is keeping his eye on both of you. If you have something useful, get here as soon as you can so we can finish this. Then you get your answers.”

Tim started, “Oh, fuck off, you can’t-”

“Fine,” Sasha said, cutting him off. “We’ll scrape together what we can and get there by this weekend.”

“Really?” Jon asked, glancing at an equally shocked Martin. “That’s- yes, if you think that’s enough time-”

“But we get a full explanation the moment we get there. And Jon?”

“...Yes?”

“This is why he gave you the job, isn’t it?”

Jon deflated, mouth curling into a scowl. “I don’t see how that’s relevant-”

“You wouldn’t,” she said flatly. “Anyway, try not to get spirited away before we have a chance to interrogate you.”

“Yeah, lie low and, I dunno… stay indoors?” Tim paused. “Probably already doing that. What Sasha said. Don’t get kidnapped.”

Jon sighed. “We’ll put in our best effort. And if-”

“And if we think of anything for you to use immediately, we’ll let Martin know since you can’t be bothered to use your own mobile,” Tim said accusingly.

“I threw mine into the ocean weeks ago.” It wasn’t what he’d meant to say, but he wasn’t sure what was supposed to have come out of his mouth in its stead. “Hope that helps.”

There was a long pause, to the point where Jon wondered at being muted again. Tim finally answered, “Right. It does, I think? We’re… we’re gonna go now. Apparently we’ve just promised to do double the work we expected this week, didn’t we, Sash?”

“We did. Good luck out there, boys. We’ll be in touch.”

And the call ended. Jon held the mobile in his hand, staring at the thing as if more information would come out of it. Instead it silently switched back to Martin’s home screen and he was met with the gaze of a small beagle puppy. 

The weekend. Depending on what that meant, he could have anywhere from three to five days before-

“They didn’t seem too angry, all things considered,” Martin mumbled. When Jon held out the phone he took it and returned it to his pocket. “You think they’ll have something?”

Looking ahead at the blank television screen, Jon said, “I don’t know. They wouldn’t rush to get here without the beginnings of a plan?” He fell back onto the couch. By then Martin had retracted his arm and now worried at the back of his hands, cracked and dry from the cold air.

“What’ll you tell them? When they get here?”

“I don’t know... Whatever feels right. The only thing that matters is that they’re coming.”

Help was on the way. They had only a few days to wait instead of a week and a half. They would do what they could for Evan, and for Martin. The larger issue with Elias was… It couldn’t be dealt with until he spoke to his assistants in-person, gauged their loyalties and however much surveillance might be on them after his departure. He could say all of this aloud. Despite the day being as uneventful as either of them could have hoped, Jon was very, very tired.

So tired that when he next opened his eyes it was to the sound of the front door closing down the hall. He rubbed his face and rolled his aching neck. Blinking in the light of the living room lamp, he saw the blurry outline of Martin standing between him and the kitchen.

“Looks like the call took a lot out of you,” Martin said, resting a hand on the door frame. “Wanted to make sure the front door was locked before heading to bed.”

Was Martin’s hair wet? Jon blinked a few more times, pushing the sleep from his eyes with his fingertips. No, the lamplight was playing tricks on him.

Jon reached out a hand and asked, “Still willing to share?” 

In a few slow strides Martin was pulling him onto his feet, a hesitant smile on his face. “Do you still want to?” he asked in turn.

Was his hand colder than usual? What did he know about what was usual when they’d only touched hands a few times, mostly under dire circumstances? How cold were his own hands? 

“Mm.” Jon looked at Martin’s fingers loosely curled around his own. “Martin?”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t do much more than what we’ve already been doing. Physically, I mean.” In spite of himself, he yawned. He yawned in the middle of this. “I usually bring it up before crawling into someone’s bed the first time around.”

“Oh. Okay,” Martin said and gave his hand a small squeeze. Even in the dim lamplight he knew Martin’s ears were darker than before. Warmer. “So…last night was fine?”

“As was this morning, though that should be obvious,” Jon replied, gently tugging Martin towards the stairs.

“...Cool.”

If the man was a poet, he kept to the written word.

[grapecaseschoices]

I loved the ori facts. I was wondering if we could get some val and hiyam facts as well pls. 🥰

Val Montemer

1) Their middle name is Ariel.

2) I think I've said before that they are really into cars and tinker in a garage. Nothing official, a hobby and they let them have their own spot.

3) Val's closet is filled with leather jackets. Which is fine because the rest of their clothing is rather cheap, mostly just white shirts and jeans. Though they have a few polos, like those weirdly colored and patterned one teenage boys wear. Like some weird puce green and maroon stripped thing. It hurts Nate's eyes and soul.

4) Despite dressing like a greaser and a 19 year old college skater as well just styling their hair the same, Val went to cosmetology school. Did well in it. Their focus is in hair. Tina and Felix are the only ones who make use of their skills these days.

5) Their favorite films are the Rush Hour ones [to Adam's exasperation and fondness. Val is one step away from saying "Do you understand the words coming outta my mouth?" To the wrong person. It really is a miracle they haven't yet.] And they love anything Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew related -- well they haven't seen the CW show yet.

6) Val is allergic to latex. They found out yhe first time they tried a kiwi in middle school.

7) Val has phasmophobia. It isn't severe but yeah they have a fear of ghosts. Which is funny because they would sometimes follow conspiracy theorists on YouTube and stuff.

8) Surprisjng to most: Val is a big tea drinker. They don't hate coffee but it isn't something they seek. They have 0 tattoos. And only two piercings; they did to prefer black studs.

9) Nate and Val don't like each other. But they're doing better. They're so different. Nate TRIES, of course, but Nate is Nate. However, for Val -- has pushed too many buttons. Still they make an effort for the team.

10) ooc fact: Val is my shortest (5'1") and youngest (24 at start of book 1) detective. Val might be one of my shortest IF characters, period.

Hiyam Vinke

1) In another life, I could maybe see Hiyam doing something corporate. She gave a go at pre-law and they took business classes. (Her parents definitely would have preferred it) But music was always her heart. And she always wanted to see her name in lights. Maybe she could have been an entertainment lawyer but I don't think she would have been happy.

2) Hiyam has this ... lowkey obsession for anything with wings and a stronger one for anything that can fly. I don't even fully know why zjhshshe. I mean I do but -- It sounds weird because she is just so brash but I think sometimes she does feel a bit caged. Maybe it is expectations, maybe it is preconceptions. I will figure it out yhe more I ponder her, I'm sure. I'm not sure how much of it is actual people caging her or how she just sees things. [I kind of feel like it is a mix]

But when she and Seven broke up, she replaced Seven"s initials with a butterfly.

3) Hiyam is an acts of service kind of love/friend. Less in the 'makes breakfast for you' [though she might] and more in the you're stranded, half drunk, and don't want Orion to know. You know you can call Hiyam at 2am and she will show up. Some complaints but she will show up with water and a blanket. She is not yhe little things friend but she is there when needed.

4) Recently learned that Hiyam has a soft spot for Rowan. And she is more fond of her fans [as a whole] than expected.

5) She is 6'0".

6) She did ballet from kindergarten [maybe earlier) well into HS. It was one of the few things her parents consistently showed up for. But music needed her focus, so she gave up performing but she still occasionally practices [no one knows]

7) She used to play chess with Devyn before Orion showed. And of course read up on it because she was so bad. She couldn't stand losing and I think that was around yhe time she had to let ballet go, so in her mind she refused to "quit" on something else. But she never got into it into it until the crush peaked.

8) Hiyam has two dogs. A French Bulldog and a Rottweiler.

9) She has her tongue and belly button pierced, on top of her ears.

10) ooc fact: She is my one of two glasses wearer [Val being the other] and my only other smoker outside of Andy. [Gonna get more glasses folks]

Ty for the ask!!

[i-love-you-all]

Whumptober Day 1: A Little Out of the Ordinary

If you weren’t w me last year, this is my first story for Whumptober 2022! Everyday I’ll be positing a short fanfic relating to the prompts of this event. Most stories will stay as they are, but I’ll also be posting them on AO3 as well, and some of the days that I like might get turned into longer fics (like Memory Lost and Found). Please keep in mind that any potential triggers/warnings will be found right before the story or in the tags!

This is a Viper/Omen story pre VP era when they were both just brilliant scientists.

~2k words Viper/Omen, medical experimentation

There was a silence in the room. Then, a single hand raised up.

Sabine had a million nightmares before today, and this was just one more. When they were dismissed from the meeting, she rushed to Fredrick’s side as they walked down the hall to have a chance to talk to him before the team would rush him at his lab. This would be her one time to talk to him before he had to do whatever it was that this project was attempting. She still didn’t quite understand what they were asking for. Volunteers for what? Radianite as far as they knew it was a trace substance with the potential for high volumes of energy. She heard snippets from Fred that they may have traced its existence on ancient pieces of human history, even if it went undiscovered until just recently. But what was this about integration into the human genome?

“You can’t be serious,” she whispered when she finally got a hold of him by his sleeve and dragged him into her lab. No one had even entered the same room as this substance without all the protective gear they could feasibly put on one person. When the effects were this unknown, Fred just signed up for a death wish.

But this was Fred. He was kind, intelligent, and sometimes too charismatic for his own good. So, of course, he didn’t see the issue.

“Why can’t I be? I’ve worked with this stuff longer than anyone else. I know the most about it. No one else is better trained on radianite than I am.”

She shook her head. “And what if something goes wrong? This is dangerous, you could get hurt, you could—”

“Then it’s good that I have the best doctor looking after me, yes?” He brushed some of her bangs to the side so he could stroke her cheek. “And she just happens to be so stunning and takes my breath away, and—”

“Fred, if I really took your breath away, you wouldn’t be saying all these useless things.”

He laughed despite Sabine’s frown.

“Sabine, I understand the dosages and the risks. I know what we expect to happen, and I know what the margins are. I believe in the project. Will you believe in me?”

There was that charisma that she both loved and hated. It was what drew her to him in the first place. The brilliant scientist trying to tempt the equally brilliant doctor with sweet words was not a trope she was expecting, but it was what she eventually fell for. She looked up at him and his puppy dog eyes and sighed. He held her hands in his and leaned in to press his lips to her cheek.

“Darling, what’s the worst that can happen? I end up in a hospital bed? Having you as my personal nurse for a few weeks? I’ll do my best to be careful. I just need your support.”

Sabine really had no choice but to sigh and nod her head.

“Ok. You can go do this. Just promise me – promise me, that you’ll be safe. You’ll make it out alive.”

“Of course. I know I have to live. As long as I do that, you can fix anything else.”

They shared one last kiss, then he snuck out the back to regroup with the new team on the project.

What’s the worst that can happen? A lot of things. Fred didn’t go back home with her, and even as she tried to sleep on her side of the bed, just in case he came home late, the image of the empty side of her bed prevented her eyes from closing. What was he doing right now? Did they already start the trials? Who authorized something like this? Were they maybe just doing more complicated calculations that he would review with her tomorrow to give her brain something to look through? No, that last one was wishful thinking. Sabine curled up a little tighter around her bedsheets and, eventually, a restless sleep came over her. She was relieved to wake up.

She used to dismiss superstitions. They were often associated with wild theories or personal beliefs, nothing that she had any use for. But today, the very air around his lab was hazy. It was all in her head. She kept repeating that to herself, even if she didn’t believe it. The steps up to his lab felt arduous and she almost turned around a few times. Fred was… Ok. He looked tired, but when she walked through the door, he smiled wide and held his arms out for a hug. Sabine made sure to lock the door before she walked in. His hold around her was comforting as she sat on his lap.

“Long night?”

His voice was muffled from how his head was buried in the crook of her neck. “Not a single minute of sleep.”

She let her fingers run through his soft, fluffy hair. “Should I get you coffee?”

“If you have time this morning.”

She herself had hundreds of tasks to get through today. However, one look at him and she decided she could add one more.

“I’ll be right back.”

The fact that he was up all the time was just the beginning. Even when they went to bed together, she could feel him shifting around all night. During the day, it was like a shadow clung onto him. His smiles were smaller, his words a little quieter. He was still himself, just muted. And she hated it. She watched the man she loved change from the person she recognized, to some ghost that did all the things she remembered Fred doing, but with none of the gusto of a man who loved his life. But she wasn’t about to tell him otherwise because Fred would let her know when he’s had enough of this project. So, until he said so, she kept quiet.

One night, as he crawled into bed with him, he wrapped himself around her, tighter than he ever had before.

“Everything ok?” She managed to whisper.

“I can start to feel the side effects.” The whisper was strained, almost like it was said through gritted teeth. “It’s starting to hurt. Like it’s pulling me apart.”

“Do… Do you think you should request to stop?”

“No, no... I’m so close to the end, Sabine.” He was speaking through his teeth, afraid of what horrible sound of pain would escape his lips if he relaxed even a little. “Just a little longer, I promise. Then everything will slowly go back to normal.”

It’s funny how things slowly get back to normal but quickly fall apart.

It happened when she was pouring over the latest medical papers in her lab. A new experimental super antibiotic with promise going through mouse trials. Genetic modification that augmented DNA in primate trials. A new effect observed in workers at Radianite factories. That one caught her eye. An observational study that concluded that there was a higher percentage of mania amongst workers at a Radianite factory than the general population. They felt like they were being ripped apart, despite no physiological abnormalities. These people spent years working at the factory before the symptoms began. Fred went from normal to the exact same symptoms listed here in two weeks. The consequences of such a drastic change did not settle easily in her mind.

Just as she reached for her phone, the lights flickered and went out. As she turned on the flashlight she saw shadows, not of her desk or herself, but long, claw-like shadows that dispersed to reveal a face. A face she hoped to be a stranger. And yet in that look, she saw love.

It was just moments later when she burst through the double doors into the Radianite lab in a panic. Her hair was a mess, and she was out of breath, doubled over trying to recompose herself.

There were a dozen guards in there, all with their guns raised at something in the middle. She had to blink her eyes hard because her eyes couldn’t see clearly in the dim thrumming of the emergency lights. They made it hard to make out the shape of whatever was just standing at the end of all those guns. A living shadow she eventually figured out. It looked like a man, but there was no visible shape. Formless, but just for a moment because she saw it form one. It looked around at everyone and seemed to try and copy them. That was when they noticed her as well.

“Doctor, you shouldn’t be here.” It was the captain of the guard here. They talked on occasion. He liked to listen to her explain the newest medical news and she liked an audience. It helped her straighten out her thoughts. Fred was jealous on occasion, and he always made sure to dote on her with what little time he had to make up for it, even if he knew that she would have eyes for no one else. He didn’t like the fact that he wasn’t there enough, despite all the pressures of their jobs.

He cleared a patch for her, but she could only stand there and stare at the one in the middle. The more she looked, the worse she felt. Because where was Fred in all of this? Even amongst all the scientists she passed, there was no lovely face lighting up as she passed. There were no golden-brown eyes that reminded her of afternoon sunlight dappled across his face. And she was smart enough to deduce her worst fear.

“This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

She heard the crackling words from a speaker somewhere above her. Grief, horror, whatever it was welling up in her unleashed itself in an inhuman sound screaming a single name. Fred.

“What did you do to him?” Her voice was quiet, a contrast to the inhuman noise she had just made. No one had seen Dr. Callas like this before. But no one, not even the captain moved close to her again. Her words dripped with too much venom. Her green eyes darted around, looking for someone to blame, someone to accuse. It burned at any who dared look at her directly.

There was no answer. And she knew that when this was all… cleaned up, this would be written off as an unforeseen consequence. An accident. An adverse effect. She saw it in the medical reports of other experiments. It would be the same here. A single tear rolled down her cheek. The guards around her backed off. Was the one tear that powerful? Did it properly convey her despair? Then she looked up and saw what other people were backing up from.

The creature – no… this was Fred. He walked up to her, and she reached up for him. He flinched at first, then let her fingers pass through him. There was nothing to hold, nothing to squeeze. No way to make him understand how much she needed him now. In turn, as she watched her fingers pass through his biceps, his chest, he tried to hold her cheek and use his thumb to wipe the tear away. She could feel the slightest stirring of the air against her face. If she squeezed her eyes shut and tried to imagine the man, not the shadow, she could almost smell his cologne.

“Who are you?”

Her eyes flew open again. Her hand reached for his and once again passed straight though. But she had no answer. Still, he waited.

“Fred. Is that my name?”

She was frozen, just staring into the wisps of blue fire. Where did his eyes go? His smile? That charisma?

The silence was getting heavier.

Eventually, she gave a shaky laugh. “No… Fred was someone else. I don’t know you.”

[twilightangel83]

A Change in Perspective: Chapter 1

Aaah shoot. Meant to start posting this last week. I have 18 chapters of this already posted and I wanna put them all on here before I start updating next Friday. Welp. Get ready to start getting 2+ of these chapters a day I guess XD

Zuko wasn't sure what woke him. A slight noise on a ship that should be empty. He got up quickly and began making his way out of his room. It could be his uncle, returning early from his walk, but somehow he didn't think so.

"Uncle?" he called "Uncle is that you?" No response, but he wasn't really expecting one. His uncle generally took fairly long walks and he only left a very short while ago. He quickly jumped out of his room, ready for an attack. He didn't see anything so he started making his way through the ship, alert for any signs of an attack, but he finds nothing out of the ordinary.

By the time he reaches the control room of the ship he's starting to think he imagined things or that it had simply been the ship shifting on the water. Groaning quietly he rubbed the back of his head and gave one last look around, planning to head back to his room. But at the last moment, something caught his eye. Just outside one of his windows was a strangely familiar reptile-bird. He frowned as he tried to remember where he'd seen it from and just as it flew away it hit him. The pirates!

He didn't have time to think beyond that before an explosion rocked the boat and caused him to spin around towards the noise. From farther in the ship, flames rushed towards him and his eyes widened in fear. He barely had time to draw flames around himself as a pathetic attempt to protect him from the explosion before it hit and he was knocked flying through the window and out of his ship. A cry of pain and fear escaped him moments before he hit the icy water and everything went black.

Iroh hummed to himself as he made his way along. He knew Zuko was upset about his crew leaving with Zhao and couldn't blame him, but he also couldn't blame the crew. There hadn't been much of a choice unless they wanted to be branded traitors or deserters. Hopefully, Zuko would calm down soon and accept that. He put those thoughts aside for now and simply focused on taking in the sounds of nature around him.

His relaxing thoughts were suddenly interrupted when an explosion went off from behind him, hitting him with a blast of hot air. Alarmed, he spun around and his eyes widened in shocked horror. As the red glow lot up the sky, he knew with icy certainty what had blown up.

"ZUKO!" He barely realized he was yelling as he set off back towards the ship as fast as his old legs could carry him.

His hopes for finding his nephew alive quickly died as he drew closer and got a better view of the ship. The entire thing was burning with heavy flames. Zuko had been resting in his room. There was no way he could have survived this. His breath caught in his chest as he slowly sank to the ground.

"Zuko..." it was closer to a moan than anything else as he bowed his head. Why. Hadn't he lost enough? Was this his punishment for his actions as a general? But why punish his boys in his place? First Lu Ten and now Zuko. Both his boys were gone. Taken from him in their prime. Tears began leaking from his eyes as he bent over, halfway collapsing to the ground as sobs shook through him. Why hadn't he insisted Zuko come with him? Or at least stayed on the boat himself? He may not have been able to save his boy, but at least he would have died with him. Part of him told him he needed to get up and get away from the flames that were starting to catch on the dock, but the majority of him didn't care. Let the flames take him like they'd taken his son.

The first thing Zuko noticed as he came to was that he hurt all over. The second thing he noticed was that he was cold. 

Keep reading Here

[daidoruyume]

Chapter 7 Backstage

I was particularly excited for tonight’s concert. Important announcements! I needed to deliver it well for the fans. The girls were in the finishing touches with their make-ups, hairs and clothes, while I was ready. Kind of rushed it, but I was too excited. The last few days have been a little… tough. My sentimentality taking over my reasoning. All of those past adventures were too risky, I felt. It was like I was pushing it too hard… or, maybe, that I wasn’t pushing it enough. I still didn’t know. What a dilemma. 

 It was soon time to appear on stage, and although I was pretty confident, I still wondered… would she be there? Would I be able to concentrate? My mind felt blank for a few seconds, but it eased soon. I couldn’t do it just for her, there were many people who wanted me to perform well tonight. Myself included. I needed to do it for Miyuu, too.

 The first three songs went well, I was calmer than expected. Then, it was the MC. Something drew me to her, who I had spotted as soon as I entered the stage. I couldn’t help it, I wanted to know more about her. I kept looking at her, as if there was nowhere else to look at. I even forgot for a minute who I was. I felt like I wasn’t anything but hers. 

 My sister came next to me and gave me a hug, which took me out of that seemingly hopeless state. I was able to continue my work, but every once in a while, I’d look at her. I’d think of her every second. No matter how I tried to fool myself, she was the reason I was doing that. I needed to do it for her. I needed her to notice me. Why was I still so hesitant.. Why couldn’t I come clean and tell her I wanted to talk? Why couldn’t I go after her? I was afraid of so many things… I wanted her to love the real me… I wanted her to remember me. Being an idol was what brought us close, and yet… I didn’t want her to see me as only that.

 The concert ended sooner than I expected, and I felt my blood boiling from within. I was excited to hold her hands, and talk to her… my own secret wishes kept bothering me. I wished I could take her, run away with her… would she follow me? Maybe her idol, but… but what about this silly, small part of me? Would she do anything for that, too? I waited for her, though, but she never came. 

 The meet and greet ended, and I felt really sad. Did she forget to buy the tickets? Did she not want to see me? Was she struggling with money? I didn’t know what it was, and it saddened me so much. No one knew about this, so I tried to remain calm and just told them I was tired. The girls were going to celebrate the success of our concert, but I just felt like crying until my worries eased.

 I had changed and was about to leave, when I accidentally hit my hand and I saw a little blood. I searched for band-aids in my purse, but I had none, so I went after the staff to help me. They told me to enter a specific room, and so I did. 

[jackrrabbit]

Adversary /// Overhaul x f!Reader (18+)

Summary: You make a deal with the devil to save your life, but it turns out Overhaul’s not interested in your soul.

A/N: Remember when I said I was going to do a fantasy collab and then dipped for like 9 months? Hahaha…anyway…

@pleasantanathema @ present-mel @shadowworks—if it’s not too late, here’s my part for the Pleasant & Strider Fantasy AU Writing Collab from a million years ago. Go check out the masterlist and gorge yourself on these amazing pieces!!

Tags/Warnings: dubcon, demon fuckery & occult things, big heresy/sacrilege/perversion of religion, sex in a church ft. Catholic sex guilt, other than that it’s not that bad lol, inexperienced reader, mild degradation, shameless camp and demon-fucking clichés, Overhaul calls you “little girl” 👉👈

He doesn’t look like a demon.

Not that you really know what demons are supposed to look like. But…red skin, right? Fangs and claws and swirling masses of bad energy. Maybe cloven hooves for feet. Yes, that’s the Disney version—but even if you didn’t expect a cartoon personification of evil, you didn’t expect this.

He looks like a doctor, you think. Lab coat hanging open, surgery mask pushed down under his jaw, stethoscope draped over his shoulders. No, he’s a little young to really look like a doctor…an intern, you amend, shifting back in your hospital bed. He looks like he fits right in here, not a hair out of place. Except for, you know, the polished black horns curling out of the sides of his skull.

Overhaul. It was written in the book. That’s the only thing you have to call him in your head.

He’s standing in the center of the sigil you drew at the foot of your bed before midnight, surveying the room critically without meeting your gaze. He looks annoyed—that’s not a good sign, is it?—but then again, of course he’s annoyed. You’d be annoyed too if you got summoned out of your cozy hell dimension in the middle of the night. According to the book, you’re lucky he even showed up…although ‘lucky’ isn’t really how you’d describe yourself most days.

“So,” Overhaul says after a long moment of silence in which you question every choice you’ve made in your relatively short life. “You’re dying.”

You nod.

“And you don’t want to be.”

You nod again, wondering if you’re supposed to be contributing more to this conversation. It’s a bit difficult when your mouth is so dry it feels like you’ve been eating dirt, but you suppose being in the presence of an unholy servant of Satan will do that to a person.

“Fine.” He sighs, frowns, and then finally lowers his gaze onto yours—and you shiver.

Those eyes. No human has eyes like that.

“Make me an offer,” Overhaul tells you, and through his open mouth you catch a flash of sharp white teeth.

Okay. Okay. The chirping of the heart monitor speeds up (as if it weren’t obvious enough that you’re terrified) and you fold your knees up to your chest and fidget with your ring and think. He’s giving you a chance to establish parameters. You’re supposed to start with his end of the deal, the thing you want from him. That’s what it said to do in the grimoire, aka the 19th century demonology volume your creepy cousin brought back from her pagan anthropology research trip in rural France. The one you keep hidden under your bed because your mother would burn it if she knew you were reading about summoning demons.

Offer nothing to a hell creature without first telling him your price. You know the words by heart, both the winding calligraphy of the original French from the grimoire and the rushed scrawl of the English translation your cousin left for you in sheets of lined paper layered between the pages of the book for you to read. Really, this is her fault. She was the one who slipped you the book, who told you that it worked, who snuck you the ingredients for the summoning. She was the one who left a bookmark at the chapter on this particular demon, one that specializes in ‘Contrat pour Remédier au Déséquilibre des Quatre Humeurs’, which she said meant a contract to cure any illness. Even his ‘name’ is translated in her hand, practically an afterthought in the margins of the page.

‘Le Malin qui Ravage et Rebâtit’— Overhaul?

You looked up the literal meaning of this phrase on your own. It did not reassure you.

“Girl.” His voice is cold, irate. Your eyes snap back up to his and it feels like that burning gaze is laser-beaming into your skull. “Do not test me. My time is limited…as is yours.”

You swallow. “How long do I have left?”

“Less than a single human year,” he tells you without a trace of sympathy. “Seven months, twelve days, three hours. Or so. You’ll be too exhausted to leave this bed in four months, and the pain will become intolerable in six… By the end, you’ll wish—“

“Stop,” you breathe out. The heart monitor is beeping wildly and you squeeze your knees into your chest, trying to calm down your breathing. “Stop, I—I want to live.”

“Of course you do.” Overhaul’s lip curls. “How very predictable.”

Be specific, you remind yourself, doing your best to ignore the stifling disapproval from the man—the demon—in front of you. Something about him (maybe how clean-cut he looks, maybe the indisputable authority in his demeanor) makes you want to impress him. But you didn’t turn your back on your religion—you didn’t draw pagan symbols on the floor in chalk, fill silver cups with various questionable substances (including your own virgin blood), and turn the crucifix your mother hung over your bed upside-down so you could let a demon make you feel guilty for wanting to survive. “I want to be cured. I’m okay with whatever natural death I have instead when I’m older, I just don’t want to die of this illness. I want you to make me healthy.”

“Simple enough. What else?”

‘Simple’? Your heart surges with something you’ve felt very little of since your initial diagnosis—hope. “T-That’s it. Just the cure.”

Overhaul glares at you. “Humans… Every vice in the world available to you, and you limit yourselves to the basest priority of survival.”

“But you can do it? You can cure me?” you persist.

Overhaul steps forward (quiet, so quiet you wonder if he really moved) and holds a hand out to you past the foot of your bed—you hesitate, and a second later you can see the muscles in his hand flex, stretching the latex of his plastic gloves tight over his knuckles.

Just do it. You give him your hand. Carefully. Like you’re scared the contact will burn you. It doesn’t (although his skin feels warmer than yours), but after a moment his grip tightens, sliding down past your hand to circle the fragile bones of your wrist and squeeze.

“Ow?” You wince.

The demon’s eyes flicker closed for a second, lips moving silently like he’s talking to himself—and then he drops your hand unceremoniously back onto your lap. “You could be cured before the sun rises this morning. I doubt your stay in the hospital will extend past the end of the week.”

He sounds bored, voice as flat and passionless as it was earlier, but your heart is soaring. Cured. You’ve lived with this illness for so many years, you can’t remember the last time someone told you you could be cured. And getting out of the hospital that soon? You can just imagine taking down all the decorations from the walls of your room here and setting them up in your old bedroom at home. You could see friends on the weekend and not take an oxygen bag, you could get a job or—or apply to college, you could have a life—

“That is…assuming you have something to offer me in exchange for the cure.”

Your stomach drops. You’d almost forgotten about the other half of the deal.

“Don’t tell me I came all this way for nothing.” Overhaul steps back, and the orange light of the candles you set sends strange shadows over his arrogant face. The fires look brighter now, and you find yourself tracing the lines of those shining black horns. In an odd way, they look natural—so organically framing his temples that you can’t imagine him without them.

“N-No, of course not. I have some money—I mean, my mom has some, and I can get it for you…” Which is half the truth. If you know anything, it’s that your mother’s spent most of her savings on your treatment and care. You probably have more debt than you have money in the bank right now—you’d try to get rid of that, too, if you hadn’t read in the book how important it is to keep your request as simple and straightforward as possible.

…Although it’s apparently not enough. Overhaul’s eyes narrow, molten gold irises carved into slits. “Even if I had a use for human money, do you really believe your life is worth so little?”

“No—no,” you say quickly. “I just thought—in case you were interested—”

The air crackles with energy, the candle flames spark bright blood-red, and the hair on your arms stands straight up. “I am not.”

“Okay! I get it.” You wave your hands back and forth, pulling your IV line from side to side with the motion. The book was very clear about staying calm and rational while you work out the terms of the deal, but that’s easier said than done when you have a real live (live?) hell creature in front of you. You always knew this was going to be the hard part—all the stories say there’s only one thing that a demon would be interested in, and no matter how inviting the prospect of living past this illness is, you know you’d rather die than sell your immortal soul to the devil. “I’ll give you anything except my soul! And—and don’t hurt anyone I care about, or— just don’t hurt anyone, okay? Other than that, if there’s anything I can give you, I will.”

Overhaul’s lip curls, baring a thin strip of those unnaturally sharp canines. “And is your soul really so valuable?”

This throws you for a loop. Isn’t that the standard deal? A soul for a wish? That’s how it’s supposed to work—at least in this twisted version of reality where you can summon a demon to perform unholy miracles for you. But if you think about it, it doesn’t really make sense, does it? Why would your soul be valuable to him? You can’t form an argument, especially since you’re not willing to barter it away in the first place.

Your mouth is pursed open as you search for a response, but Overhaul doesn’t seem willing to wait. A gloved hand wraps its way around the railing at the side of your bed, and he leans in closer. “Little girl…what makes you think you possess anything I desire?”

Little girl. You’re not a little girl, you’re a grown woman—and yet there’s no untruth in the statement. In front of him you feel insignificant, immature, weak. You have nothing real to offer, and something tells you that you’re not going to get rid of the demon you summoned without a sacrifice you’re not willing to make.

You twist your ring around your finger—the nervous habit you haven’t bothered to break because you’ve always had more important things to worry about—and the glint of silver in the candlelight must catch Overhaul’s eye because before you even notice him moving, your delicate hand is trapped in his larger one to give him a better view of the tiny piece of jewelry. “What is this?”

“It’s—um, a ring. A purity ring.” Has he never seen one before? Well…actually, that makes sense.

Overhaul turns your hand over in his without touching the band of silver. He’s looking at it closely, inspecting the lovingly engraved cross in the design and the inscription on the other side. “Matthew 5:8,” he reads out.

“…Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God,” you recite cautiously. It feels wrong to speak the words in front of him, but somehow you can’t help yourself.

Overhaul’s hand doesn’t leave yours. “This ring is important to you.”

“It’s a symbol of a—a promise I made to God. To save myself for my future husband.”

“To ‘save yourself’? To save what?”

You can’t believe you’re explaining this to a literal demon. You close your eyes and inhale slowly and taste smoke. “My…virginity. It’s a promise that I won’t have sex until I enter into a biblical marriage.”

At this, Overhaul is quiet. You give him a moment to answer, half expecting him to question why you think God cares about your sexual status (honestly, you’d be lying if you said you haven’t wondered this yourself), but he stays quiet until you peek up at him to try and gauge the look on his coldly handsome face.

He’s still staring at the ring. He hasn’t touched it—maybe he can’t, because of the cross?—and through the latex, his skin feels hotter than a human’s is supposed to be.

“Is there…” you start, but you trail off when you realize you have nothing to ask. You give a little tug to try and take your hand away and you’re surprised when your wrist actually slides out of his grip to fall back on the nest of sheets in your lap. You didn’t think he’d let you go so easily.

Overhaul turns his head to the side, eyes drilling into you so you feel like you should lower your gaze. The candlelight flickers in strange shadows over his horns. “This will do,” he says quietly.

“What?”

“In exchange for your cure.” The demon taps his own left ring finger, the place where the purity ring sits on your hand, and your heart soars. He actually wants that? It’s just a simple silver band, not worth much, but you’re not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. Maybe it has some special significance because of the religious connotation. Your mother will be angry you’ve lost it, but you’re happy to cope with that if it means living to actually get married!

“Yes!” you blurt out before he has a chance to rethink his offer. Sure, you’ll miss the purity ring—you’ve had it since you were a kid, after all—but there’s no question you’re getting the better end of this deal. At least in your opinion.

Something flashes through his yellow eyes, something you don’t even want to try and identify. “The contract, then.”

You barely have time to notice that his voice has gentled, that it’s practically silken in comparison to before, when the candlelight flickers again and suddenly the contract is everywhere. Everywhere. Writing appears on every surface in the room, covering the walls, stretching over the ceiling, coiling around the sides of the hospital equipment and decorating your bedsheets until you and Overhaul are the only untouched surfaces in sight. The characters are inscribed in red, dark red like—don’t think about that, you tell yourself squeamishly. You can make out some of the letters, even a word here or there—French, you recognize, mixed with what looks like Latin and interspersed with what you can only guess are runes.

“I can’t read this,” you tell him, fidgeting with your ring for what you now realize will be the last time.

“I only need your name,” he purrs, and then you feel a fragile weight in your hand: a feather, pearl-black and glossy and too large to belong to any bird you can think of, its angled tip glistening with wet ink. There’s an empty space in the writing before you, and Overhaul’s gloved hand comes to yours again to guide you into place.

This feels wrong…then again, of course it does. Even if you’re getting off relatively easy and just losing your ring rather than your soul, you’re still making a deal with a demon. You sign your name, forcing yourself to think about the future you have ahead of you rather than a disapproving white-bearded caricature of The Man Upstairs wagging his finger at you for haggling with a literal servant of Satan. People have done worse things to survive, haven’t they? It’s just a ring.

You set the feather down and Overhaul sighs, thick black eyelashes obscuring his intense gaze for a moment—and then the contract is gone, leaving your hospital room as blank and sterile as it’s supposed to be (well, aside from the candles and all the other ritual stuff you threw together to summon a demon in the first place).

“Are you going to cure—heal me now?” you ask.

“…Patience, little girl.” He’s pulling his glove off, peeling it down his fingers to bare the pale skin of his hand. You catch your breath and wonder what this is going to feel like, and then the tips of his fingers meet your cheek and—

you stop breathing.

It doesn’t hurt.

Or if it does, you don’t remember the pain a second later when breath floods back into your lungs. What you do feel is energy. Strength in your muscles, blood pumping through your veins, every inhale and exhale as light as a bird and freer. You feel healthy. You’re surprised you even remember what health feels like but you do: it’s like you’ve only been half alive, and now life is surging into you and through you and around you, bubbling up in your core like a spring overflowing. You blink rapidly, thinking you might cry from the sheer pleasure of it, but when you open your mouth it’s laughter that comes out. You’re healthy. You’re alive. You barely notice the IV line literally falling off of your skin because the hole where it entered your vein is sealed shut and healed perfectly.

No more needles. No more hospitals. Even without all the monitors beeping out your heart rate and measuring your vitals, there’s not a shred of doubt in your mind that you’re cured.

“Thank you!” you laugh, looking up at Overhaul and for the first time, not caring that he’s evil incarnate. “I feel—I’m okay! It worked!”

“Of course it did.” His expression is inscrutable, but he lets you have a few moments to enjoy your newfound health.

You roll your shoulders back, flex each muscle you can isolate one by one to test, make fists with your fingers and then run them over your hair, which is already thicker and shinier than it was a moment ago. Your body thrums with energy—you want to run, to feel the ground against your bare feet and the cold night air on your face, and you think you could do it! Your legs are already swinging over the side of your cot, ready to run barefoot out of the hospital if that’s what it takes, but before you can stand up Overhaul’s pushing you back down onto the bed.

“Have you forgotten your end of the bargain already?”

Honestly you did forget, but only for a second, only because you were so excited to just be outside again. “Oh, yeah. Of course.” Your hand goes to your left ring finger, ready to slip the ring off and hand it over, but Overhaul shakes his head.

“Not here.”

“What—?”

You’re falling. Your hospital room is disappearing, the image of your walls and your window and your bed disintegrating into yawning black, and you’re falling through it into nothing, into emptiness, and Overhaul’s still-bare hand in yours is the only anchor you have so you clutch onto it and squeeze your eyes shut. You want to scream—that’s the sane thing to do when you’re falling through miles and miles of empty space, right?—but when you open your throat the sound is swallowed up just like the light was…

Overhaul’s hand burns into yours, an improbable lifeline that you pull closer more out of terror than conscious thought. The slick, empty air rushes around you and you think I am going to die like this and then, incredibly, as soon as you’ve accepted your imminent demise, you feel your back mold onto a chilled, flat surface, vertebra by vertebra up to the back of your head, as if you’ve been lain down onto it.

Your heart thuds in your ears and you brace for an impact because your body hasn’t quite accepted yet that it’s not falling anymore—but at the same time, you know you’re lying down on something. You pry your fingers away from their vice-grip on Overhaul’s arm and feel around blindly for what’s underneath you, and when it seems reasonably tangible you let yourself open your eyes.

Way above, vaulted dozens of feet over your head, is a ceiling studded with gilt-edged frescoes and stained glass. It’s raining (even though it wasn’t in the hospital, you think) but through the massive panes of colored glass there’s enough oily blue light to make out that you’re in a church.

You’re in a church, with a demon. Isn’t that against the rules?

You sit up stiffly and look over at Overhaul, who’s standing at your side and looking down at you…which is how you realize the soft, cold surface you’ve been deposited onto is the blanket on top of the altar in the sanctuary. “Where...did you take me?”

“You should know this place.”

And you do, when you look around. It’s empty now and you’ve never been here at night, but this is a church your mother would bring you to when you were little, back before the disease got so bad you couldn’t risk traveling to it anymore. This is where you took your purity vow…the ring feels heavy on your hand. “Why—why—“

“I can’t stand human hospitals. Filthy places… How that reek of illness and death doesn’t bother your kind, I’ll never understand.” Overhaul pulls his latex glove back on. He’s dressed differently now, no longer impersonating a doctor—black shirt, black pants, and a…bird mask in red leather and gold. So are you, as a matter of fact. Instead of your hospital gown, you’re in a gauzy white dress that’s already been pushed up to pool around the tops of your thighs.

The slip is too thin for the cold, and you can feel your nipples standing up under the cloth so you fold your arms over your chest and hug yourself. “Why did you take me here?” The sound of your voice echoes off the walls eerily and you wish you hadn’t spoken so loudly. The reflection of your words sounds girlish, nervous.

“I told you. Your side of our contract.” Even in this dark, the angular features of his face are clearly concentrating—on you. “Are you already having second thoughts? Such a fickle little thing…”

“You mean the ring?” You reach for it again, ready to tear it off and throw it at him if that’s what it takes to see your deal through, but Overhaul snatches your hand away, pinning it above you.

“Not the ring,” he says. “The promise.”

The…promise?

A chill makes its way down your spine despite the heat radiating off the demon’s body and onto yours. “I don’t understand.”

“The promise,” Overhaul repeats—and you hear a sound almost like wings flapping and then he’s on the altar with you, knees straddling your hips as a single hand holds both your wrists above your head. “To remain a virgin until marriage. Your promise to God.”

A streak of lightning cracks down on the other side of the stained glass window behind the altar, illuminating the room briefly in spectacular pits of red and orange and yellow…and then it’s dark again, and the only color you can make out is the gold in Overhaul’s eyes.

“I’m going to break it,” he murmurs, lowering his head toward your ear right as the answering thunder rolls through the sanctuary, up through the altar, up into you.

///

Méfiez-vous de son piège, the grimoire said. Beware of the catch.

Of course it wasn’t just a ring.

Overhaul’s fingers are in—inside you, his middle and ring finger pumping through the length of your cunt like they belong there, like you were made to be touched this way. A mixture of your juices and your own spit cling to the latex because he made you suck his fingers before he put them in you and he hasn’t bothered to take his gloves off—not that you asked. You’ve been too busy biting your lip to try and muffle the moans that he keeps forcing out of you. He’s bracing himself on top of you with one hand and fingering you with the other, so your own hands are free to push into your eyes and hide your face…until he yanks your arm back and stops.

“Look at me.”

Your eyes are screwed shut and you shake your head back and forth, the movement shuddering your whole body right down to your pussy wrapped around Overhaul’s fingers. He slows the movement and kneels back, pushing one of your thighs up into your chest as he does it.

“Look at me.”

And you’re not sure whether it’s some unearthly power he has over you or the plain old deterioration of your willpower, but you can’t refuse him. You crack your eyes open and he’s glaring down at you, skin pale as ice in the blue light. Once he’s satisfied that you’re watching, the demon leans back in to fuck your cunt with his fingers, slowly at first and then quicker when he hits something inside of you—a spot, a place on the inner wall of your pussy that makes you feel like you’ve been shocked— heat blooms through you like blood in water and you gasp and he curls his fingers up to pet over that spot again.

“Wait—wait, that’s—it feels—weird!” You’ve never felt like this before. You’re not supposed to feel like this, it’s wrong.

“I understand you’ve never touched yourself, but don’t pretend you don’t like it.” Overhaul says, voice as indifferent and calm as ever even though your cunt is dripping clear sticky liquid over the plastic of his glove.

He pushes back in and grinds his palm over the little button on the top of your pussy—your clit?—and you want to scream. “No, I—I don’t—nnhh...”

Do you like it? The demon’s body is so hot next to yours, like he’s running a fever except you’re the one going out of your mind… You’ve heard metaphors for sexual pleasure before (that it’s like having something to drink when you’re dying of thirst; or that it’s the ultimate act of intimacy, love in physical form) but all of that’s a fucking lie. There’s nothing to compare it to, no reference that makes sense, because it doesn’t make sense—you don’t even want him to keep going, do you? You’re only doing this because you signed your name on a devil’s contract, because you don’t want to die and there’s no alternative…but that doesn’t explain why you feel so warm from the inside out, why you’re squirming and your hips are rocking involuntarily no matter how much you try to keep still. This isn’t right. You feel like you’ve been lied to.

A good girl wouldn’t like this.

Overhaul isn’t going to let you close your eyes, so you don’t—but the sounds coming out of your mouth are so…indecent (and how can you think these things about yourself? the word feels like someone else is saying it when you hear it in your head) that your hand is drifting up to your mouth before you can stop yourself, trying to stifle all of it…

“Let your voice out. I want you to hear yourself moan.”

Long fingers slide their way out of your pussy and then move up to rub quick little circles around your clit and you moan, like a whore, like a girl getting her cunt rubbed by a demon— “Oh, uhhhn—something, it’s—coming—“ There’s something building up in your core—a peak, a climax, something that makes you fist your hands in the nightgown he put you in (so tight you’re surprised the thin fabric hasn’t torn) and tilt your hips up into him, begging without words because you don’t have any to express what your body is asking for…

But he doesn’t give it to you. Overhaul takes his hand away from your pussy and the shock of the cool air after his too-hot touch is almost enough to send you over that edge—almost. Not quite. And without it, you’re left shivering and quaking, thighs twitching as your baser instincts beg you to just put your hand between your legs for once and hump your fingers to completion if the demon won’t do it.

You’re not going to risk that, though. Not when Overhaul’s dragging your body closer, bunching up the blanket on the altar under your spine, so your pelvis is angled to his… He’s already shirtless and you hear him unzipping his pants but you can’t bring yourself to actually look at him, even when you feel something hard and hot nudging up against your inner thigh and then aligning to your sticky wet slit.

“This will hurt a bit, but I want you to look,” he says, and you don’t even understand at first until you make yourself feel it—his cock, pushing up against your tight cunt to finish this, this perversion of what your first time was supposed to be…

And what was it supposed to be? Roses and candles and soft kisses? A nameless, faceless husband unzipping your wedding dress and making love to you with the lights off? The way the demon touches you should be cruel in comparison but it isn’t, it’s lighting fires under your skin and turning your brains to mush, so how is your body supposed to tell the difference?

It’ll hurt, you know that, you’ve heard enough about sex to know that it always hurts the first time for girls…women. It was already a stretch to fit his fingers in your virgin pussy, so of course his cock is going to hurt. You turn your head toward the window at your side and try on look out at the rain drawing rivulets like veins over the glass, something to focus on instead of him.

“I said look,” the demon hisses, and his hips push forward a bit and you bite off a whimper of pain. “Watch me take your virginity…look at your tight little cunt swallowing me up just like it was made to.”

“N-No—“ you whine, even though it’s not like you can ignore it. “Don’t make me, don’t make me look, I can’t—“

“Then look at me.”

It’s what he wants, some kind of wicked satisfaction he gets off on, but you’re lucky enough to even get an option so you choose that one, shifting your gaze up into his face instead of the place where his cock is pressing deeper and deeper inside you. Overhaul’s eyes are half-lidded and it’s hard to tell from behind the mask but the look on his face is…pleasure? No, that would be too human. Restraint, at least. He could just thrust up into your body in one stroke, but he wants you to feel it for some reason.

Maybe because it’s a worse betrayal of your chastity if you want to get fucked.

Lucky for you, though, you can barely feel anything aside from the pain. The heat you felt building earlier is draining out of you even as Overhaul tilts deeper, layering his chest over yours. You’re almost grateful for the modest barrier the dress provides between your torso and the solid muscle of his abdomen. His cock in your pussy feels like it’s too big too deep too much and it’s the first time you’ve felt like your body wasn’t created specifically for this purpose so you hold it tight.

“Does it hurt?”

A second of clarity makes you want to snarl (of course it fucking hurts, I’m losing my virginity to a demon I summoned from hell) and you dig your fingernails into your palms to stop yourself from saying it out loud. Overhaul pulls out a fraction of an inch and then pushes back in and you feel like the breath’s being pushed out of your lungs. “Yes! Yes, it—it hurts—“

“I can make you enjoy it…for a price,” he sighs, settling into a slow rocking motion of his hips pushing into yours.

And you want to, every sore muscle in your cunt is telling you to give in and give up, give him what he wants so you can enjoy it like he says—but you’d rather hate every second of this than make another deal. You shake your head quickly and because you’re still too afraid to look away from him, you don’t miss the look of surprise that flits across his face before he tamps it down. “I don’t—I don’t want to—like it,” you gasp out between thrusts. “It’s better if—if it h-hurts…”

This time it’s obvious—his eyes really do widen, and you feel some petty triumph at having caught him off guard like this. Who’s predictable now? you think—and then he’s lifting one hand off the altar at the side of your head and tugging his glove off with his teeth, and you don’t even have time to be afraid of what he’s going to do to you because it’s too late, his bare fingers are already stroking over your mound and onto your core, massaging into the flesh of your stomach so he can feel his own cock sliding in and out of you—

and it doesn’t hurt anymore?

You only have a second to try and understand—he cured you, he healed the pain from your first time just like he healed your illness?—before he hooks his grip under your thigh and folds your legs into your chest so he can fuck into you harder than before. His cock slaps into your pussy and you can hear it, hear how wet your filthy little cunt is, smeared through with your juices. It’s sick—the sound of skin against skin, and the moaning you can’t hold back, you sound like a woman in a porno and you wish the pain would come back just so you could keep hating what he’s doing to you. “What—what did you do—“

The demon ignores you. “It feels good, doesn’t it.”

“Nn—“ It’s deeper like this…deeper and rougher and you can feel it. Now that the pain’s been reduced to the dull ache of a stretched muscle, you can feel everything—his cock sliding against that same spot in your cunt that makes you want to squeal, the friction of his body moving against your clit, all of it, everything you wanted to block out— he pumps into you and you hear your breath sobbing out a moan a second out of rhythm, the sounds of you bouncing on demon cock echoing over the walls. “Please—ah, ahhh…”

“‘Please?’ Are you begging—me, little girl?” Overhaul pushes your thigh up and drags his cock through you, excruciatingly slow, forcing you to feel the thick head slide over every gummy wall in your slick pussy.

You shake your head, mewl, try to force your hips to stop rocking back into his and grinding your clit against him. But you can’t. You’re a—you were a virgin, for fuck’s sake! Overhaul’s immortal. Probably thousands of years of experience on how to make you feel like you want this, like you’re only alive in the places he touches you… You’re at his mercy, if he has any. You never stood a chance.

“Then are you begging your god?” His body lowers directly onto yours and like you’re being controlled by puppet strings your arms fold around him and rake your fingernails uselessly into the smooth skin of his back. You can feel the vibration of his mirthless laughter through his chest. “It must hurt terribly…to know he isn’t listening.”

“Don’t—stop, please,” you sob. “Don’t say—don’t stop—please!”

“Listen to yourself, girl—“ Overhaul’s breath is faster now, but you don’t have time to question it because you feel your peak coming again, the tension rising up through your cunt and your abdomen, harsher and crueler than when his fingers were in you but you want it just as much. More. “Has he ever answered your prayers? Has he...ahh, fuck—who’s the one giving you what you need?”

“No— please, please just let me let me, please—“ You’re talking nonsense now, begging for the release—at least then it’ll be over, and you need it, you need it so badly you feel your muscles locking up, cramping, your ankles crossing each other behind Overhaul’s back.

“Good girl,” the demon breathes, and then he lifts off you so he’s kneeling upright with the two of you still connected, his thick, heavy cock still speared in your pussy, and his fingers come down again to rub at your clit. Everything’s so wet you can hear the motion of his fingers slicking themselves through your juices, sliding up and down the little button over and over and it feels so good that a tiny part of you almost wants to drag it out, to savor it, but the rest of your body is going to die, is going to go crazy if the demon doesn’t let you cum right now, right now, right now!

And he does. Praise the Lord. The pads of Overhaul’s fingers pass over your clit one last time and your head rolls back, your throat moves but you can’t even make a sound, your legs shake and you cum.

You didn’t know it was like this.

Your cunt squeezes down on his cock, throbbing and pulsing and your toes literally curl (you didn’t think that was a real thing!) and your vision goes black for a moment and—oh fuck oh fuck i want this i want more how is it possible that i’ve never felt like this—you understand, more intimately than ever, why sex is wrong:

because nothing that makes you feel this good could possibly come without a cost, could it?

///

It must take longer than you thought for you to come back to your senses, because when you regain awareness of your body you’re in your hospital bed. You’re clean, too, and you wonder for a second if Overhaul bothered to clean you up? Or no…he probably just snapped his fingers and transported you back to your room. You’re not really sure how it works.

What you are sure of, however, is that you just got fucked by a demon. You’re sore in places that you didn’t know it was possible to be sore, and there are already bruises forming on the flesh of your thighs from how tight he was holding you. You don’t really have time to inspect these, though, because apparently your…ordeal (if you can call it that) isn’t over.

Overhaul’s still here.

He’s facing the hints of sunrise through the east window, dressed again in the immaculate lab coat and surgeon’s mask. “You’re awake,” he says without looking at you.

You nod hesitantly. You’re not really sure what the protocol is in this situation, but at least you’ve finally held up your side of the contract, right? And so has he. Despite having been up all night doing sinful things, you’re still itching to get out of this bed and test the limits of your healthy body. “You’re…going to leave, right?”

“Yes—”

At that, you sigh in relief and settle back into your starched bedsheets.

“But there’s one more thing you owe me.”

“Goddamnit,” you swear for the very first time in your life. After what you just did, taking the Lord’s name in vain seems like a relatively minor sin.

Overhaul’s mildly irritated expression doesn’t change, but he holds his hand out to you, palm up, the way you imagine someone would if they were helping you out of a car or requesting a dance at an old-fashioned ball. And really, you want all of this to be over—you want to get out of this hospital, you want to taste what the air outside is like, you want to distract yourself from what you just gave up in exchange for a future. At this point you’re just going to have to hope God isn’t as picky about the whole premarital sex thing as you grew up believing.

So you put your hand in Overhaul’s.

Slowly, carefully, like he’s afraid it’ll burn him, he slides your purity ring down your finger and balances it in the palm of his bare hand. It sizzles when he touches it, glowing orange until it eventually burns down into a ash-black circle in the center of his palm. Once he’s satisfied that your pretty little ring has been reduced to nothing more than a scorch mark, he closes his hand around yours and you feel something sharp, painfully hot, etching onto your finger.

It’s over in a second, but you still yelp and yank your hand away from him as soon as he lets you. “Ah—ow, what was that?”

He burned you, he literally burned you! He’s already healed it, but there’s still a thin, pale scar, an intentional one left wrapping around the skin at the base of your left ring finger. Like a wedding ring.

When you look close, you can make out a symbol on the back of your finger where the cross used to sit—and even though your conscious mind doesn’t recognize it, the sight of it rings out something inside your ribcage, deeper and truer than flesh and blood. It’s the devil’s mark, you think. It’s his.

“…A promise,” Overhaul says softly, and even though it’s a chilly morning, you can feel the heat of his hands on yours a long time after he vanishes back into the dark.