#whole man garbage disposal

[drwolfnichols]

i came up with a list of what morris has put carol through because it’s time for (murder) divorce:

1) cheated on carol with a psychologically fragile woman who was his subordinate at work

2) lied about cheating until his wife found the messages on his phone

3) tried to guilt trip carol into not separating from him because it was “just one night” and shouldn’t ruin 20 years of marriage

4) lied about the affair being a one night stand

5) lied about not telling alison he loved her

6) used their daughter as a manipulation tactic to get carol to forgive him (i.e. look how much WE love each other and WE love you)

7) gave his affair partner enough sensitive information for her to be able to stalk carol, seek her out for psychiatric services, and entrap her

8) showed no real empathy for the suffering he caused carol after she delayed her dreams to support his career~ which he used as an excuse for cheating on her because the long hours made him “lonely”

9) didn’t immediately deny being in love with his affair partner when carol asked him directly

10) proceeds to torment carol on several occasions by essentially saying: “god carol you’re being so unreasonable, why can’t you just forgive me already and stop damaging the family? smh our daughter is suffering because you won’t get over yourself”

[rawliverandgoronspice]

re: my last post, but I kind of have a good serving of criticism in my heart about the whole "gerudos as men r*pists*" trope that I've seen bouncing around in fandom since like 2008 at least (and before that I assume), but it's. not a particularly fun topic. so.

[bittencandy]

𝔊𝔯𝔢𝔢𝔫-𝔈𝔶𝔢𝔡 𝔐𝔬𝔫𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯

Summary: You broke up with your ex more than a couple of weeks ago, and you're desperate to try and move on. Though it's more than a little difficult to do when his face and likeness seems to be everywhere. Pictured on everything from billboards to cereal to . . . Pregnancy tests?

But maybe you won't have to move on after all.

Warnings: Mammon is a warning all on his own. 18+ content. Minors DNI! AFAB, Fem pronouns. Some unhealthy relationship dynamics (this is probably the healthiest I could realistically make Mammon), some fluff. Jealous Mammon: voyeurism (sex while on a phone call); degradation kink; mirror sex; D/S dynamics; clothed m, naked f; biting; a web as a collar; cockwarming; overstimulation; multiple orgasms; PinV; cream pie; blink and you'll miss it electro play; oral (M receiving); size kink, height difference, belly bulge; honestly, these tags make this sound a lot more intense than it is.

Notes: 26.3k words. Not proofread. Warning divider @cafekitsune. Probably one of the most self-indulgent pieces I've ever written. I have no idea what possessed me to write for this absolute garbage disposal of a man - entity? - but here we are. I've long since stopped trying to make excuses for this. It just is what it is. His sh*t personality and adorable face has captivated me.

It's not explicitly stated but the Reader is heavily implied to be a Succubus.

This was absolute torture. Each day that has passed you by seemed to crawl through the hypothetical hourglass in a reluctant, slow drag, like the universe was intent on leaving you alone to drown in your thoughts; dark, isolating, hopeless thoughts that clung to you with long, cold claws. There was no reprieve. There hadn't been for weeks. And instead of healing and drawing to a close, it seems like that aching, lonely pit that's been sliced into the pulse of your chest has only grown wider, and now it feels as though it might swallow you whole with flaying, gnashing teeth.

And to make matters worse, it's your fault. You were the one who decided to break things off with him. You were the one who said that the relationship was hopeless. That it wasn't going anywhere and the both of you were just rushing towards an inevitable dead end that would just wound you both. You believed you were doing the right thing at the time. Saving you both from the heartache. You were just too different. You wanted for different things and the goals and ambitions that drive you were too polarizing for you to have a healthy, coexisting relationship. And on top of that, after Fizzarolli had ended their ten-year partnership, Mammon had been hellbent on getting you to spy on the jester. Trying to utilize your position within Ozzie's restaurant to dig up dirt on the pair. You had refused, but he just wouldn't stop asking. It was enough to put a strain on what you had. You were offended that he assumed that you would just carelessly throw your friendship with the King of Lust away. That you'd betray his trust. For a little while you had felt so confident and vindicated in your discission in leaving the King of Greed. But here and now, you can't help but to second guess yourself. And the ceaseless chatter of the that tiny voice in the back of your head keeps telling you that you've made a mistake - 

No. 

Nope. 

You were not going to let yourself go down that route. You did the right thing. You did what was best for yourself and sometimes the right thing hurts to do, but it will be all right. You'll survive. You just need time to move on that's all. And then you'll be able to get yourself together. Remind yourself of all of the experiences and people that you had missed out on since you've been in a relationship and then you'll be a brand-new person, prepared for life and all of its opportunities. 

But it was a bit difficult to move on when the person that you were trying to get over was literally plastered over every inch of Hell. Seven Rings and all, he had found a way to weasel himself into every facet of everyday life, to the point that it is actually insane. You're surprised that you had never noticed it before. But now, ever since the breakup, you've been horribly hyperaware of all of the ways that he has marketed himself across the city - even in a Ring that isn't his. Billboards, TV commercials, magazine covers, even on the plastic packaging for diapers - he hates kids! What does he know about diapers?!

You couldn't even go without seeing his face when you were paying for things. You had never wanted to set a bill of money on fire before, but the urge had become increasingly difficult to fight when you had offered to pay for dinner last week with your friends, and you been reminded of the fact that his likeness is featured on the banknote for a hundred souls. 

You couldn't even go the corner store to stock up on your depleted supply of alcohol without stumbling upon that wide, jagged grin. It was irritating. It made you feel nauseous and sick - mostly because whenever you saw that familiar sneer an array of lovesick butterflies burst inside of your stomach; always closely followed by an adoring, fuzzy warmth that sweeps across your spine and burns at your cheeks. It's disgusting. Obnoxious. And not even the sound of some other customer loudly coughing a few aisles across from you nor the repetitive buzz of the stark, pale florescent lights hanging from the ceiling above are enough to pull you out of those old feelings. They cling to you like a kind of residue. Sticky, thick and stubborn. And even worse is the fact that you find comfort in it. It's familiar. It's warm. And a part of you can't bear to part with it.   

Ugh, you're hopeless. 

You reach for the bottle you came for - Beelzejuice, which is admittedly too cloying of a drink for you. It could make you sick with its sweetness if you consumed too much, but it got you drunk fast, and as of right now that's all you wanted. You wanted to forget. Even if it was only temporary. But even with your chosen liquor in hand, your eyes keep straying over to the bottle with his face on it. Some cheap knock-off brand, it seems. A watered down and bland substitute, but it looks to be like it might be one of the most expensive beverages on the entire shelf, because why wouldn't it be? 

The portrait of his face on the label is a simple sketch, similar to the rudimentary doodle that he always adds next to his signature, but it's still enough to have your heartbeat skip wistfully. It's a familiar brand of alcohol. One that you had found in his liquor cabinet several times. A poor duplicate of one of Satan's brands of whiskey. You had never gotten around to trying it honestly, and you wouldn't be trying it tonight. Not even with his adorable face sketched out on the labe- 

You jerk away from the shelf with a colorful string of profanity huffed out underneath your breath, strained and exhausted. This entire situation has you run ragged. Tired with yourself and your feelings and your apparent inability to just. Move. On!

You outwardly groan, squeezing tight onto the neck of the bottle in your grip, swinging your head back on your shoulders. The glare of the lights above isn't even enough to stray you from your thoughts. And for a moment you just stare upward, ignoring the dull sting that the pale glint projects against your eyes while you rove them over the water damaged stains on the ceiling, pointlessly making shapes in the splotches. Trying to look for some kind of distraction, no matter how stupid it may be. But you can only quietly stand in the aisle for so long before you're kicked out for loitering. 

"Dammit," You swear, dropping your gaze back down again, vision skipping around the store, over the colorful array of saturated products and the few other people randomly scattered about the floor. It gives you pause when it lands on someone who's standing only a few feet away from you, in front of the shelving facing your back. But irritation flares when you notice that they're watching you with a somewhat animated expression. There's a smile quirking at the corners of his mouth and despite the friendly aura surrounding him, the weight of his eyes has your skin prickling uncomfortably. And even with you telling yourself to just shrug it off, to just ignore him and continue on with your night, you can't hold in your annoyance. 

"The hell are you looking at?" You snap, glaring with a snarl. 

The Imp blinks, shoulders drawing up tight like he's surprised, and the reaction just serves to irritate you even more. But before you can get another remark, another demon is breezing past you and joining his side with a sunny expression on their face. The guilt and humiliation that settles over you feels like a set of talons running down your back, and you immediately want to shrink into yourself and vanish. You can't fight off the cringe that sweeps over your body, and you struggle to give them an apologetic, strained smile, lifting the hand holding the bottle of mead up to give an awkward wave, and the alcohol inside sloshes around in a way that seems to hammer home your embarrassing predicament. 

He doesn't return the look, instead he's looping arms with his lover and leading them out of the aisle all together, but not without shooting you a wary glance over his shoulder and you hear him whisper lowly in their ear before they both disappear around the shelving: "Don't make eye contact with her. She might be a biter." 

You need to chill out. You're acting completely erratic, and towards people who don't deserve it. Complete strangers who were probably just here to pick up some junk food and a slurpy, and now they get to go home and talk about the crazy lady standing in the liquor aisle.  

It would be fine. Everything would be okay once you just get home. 

Everything was indeed not fine. In fact, it might have been worse. 

It started out normal enough. You went about your regular routine. Or the routine that you had adopted these past few weeks anyways, which usually consisted of an occasional glass of alcohol and a bowl of ice cream, eating and drinking your feelings while you watched whatever mindless trashy show is currently playing on TV. You try to do some kind of selfcare. Anything to keep you from drowning and getting pulled down into the dredges of your pathetic longing and angst. Tonight, that meant painting your nails and applying a face mask that smelt of pineapples and nectar. And for a moment it was actually nice. It felt peaceful even. 

You had slid the glass door that led to your compact outside balcony open, letting in the distant lull of the traffic down below and the scent of the balmy night breeze inside your apartment. That was always a plus to the Lust Ring, that even with the heavy population and the smog of the bustling, neon city, the air here always seems to be a little perfumed, subtly sugared and almost a little heady. 

You were humming yourself, perched up on the soft cushioning of your couch, barely registering the angry shouting coming from the speakers of your television. It's probably just two of the ladies fighting again. Tension is going to be at an all-time high considering that Luz is getting married, and she didn't invite Opal to the wedding. Things were bound to get messy. But even with your interest piqued you could hardly get yourself to glance up from your work while you apply coats of a cheerful yellow nail polish to your toes. It wasn't your first choice, but you figured that it was a happy color. And you had hoped that maybe it would make you feel better. It didn't. You had decided halfway through that it was an awful decision. Whether it was because of the particular shade, you don't know, but you found yourself observing the polish underneath the warm glow of your lamp with a mild sense of regret. 

Oh, well, it's not like you can't change it. 

You lift your focus up from your feet that you had propped up against the lip of the coffee table, scanning the counter for the bottle of acetone, but you come up empty. There's nothing but your glass of mead and the half-melted bowl of cookies n' cream that you had forgotten most of the way into painting your nails. You could have sworn that you had grabbed it and a handful of cotton pads and swabs from your bathroom before you had started, but apparently you didn't.

And then - 

You hardly even make out the words, you just hear the voice. That horribly familiar voice, raised in that accented lilt. It has you perking up subconsciously. Your head jerks like it's being tugged on an invisible string, threatening to give you whip lash with your full attention zeroing in on the screen and your body twists in its hunched position to sit ramrod straight.  And for one fleeting moment, you hope that your ears are just playing a trick on you. That the universe was kind enough to give you a break within the comfort of your own home, but that small glimmer of optimism is quickly snuffed out like a weak flame when a blur of various shades of green streaks across the screen, accompanied by the jingling of bells and coins. And then there he is. 

Ruining the most recent episode of the Housewives of Sin City. 

This absolute hell. Well, yeah it is literally. But figuratively as well. 

What is he even doing on this show? You can't recall him mentioning to have an interest in it or any of the stars a single time that you had been together. Except for maybe that one time he had found you watching it, and he had casually asked you about one of the wives who had been in the throes of an enraged outburst, while shoving a handful of chips into his mouth, speaking around the mouthful: "What's wrong with that skank? She on the rag or something?" 

But now, he's apparently a guest at Luz's wedding. How that's even possibly - why that's even possible doesn't add up. And the shock and irritation running throughout your body like an electrical current has twisted up the features of your face, causing the moisturizing mask placed over your skin to lose its grip, suddenly peeling itself from its hold to fall onto the carpet in a flat flop near your feet. 

You don't even give it any mind. Instead, you're looking for an outlet, blindly reaching for the nearest object to throw and your hand snatches up an old Loo Loo Land apple plushie next to you on the couch for you to hurtle at the screen. It makes impact with a pitiful squeak before plopping on the floor and the TV doesn't so much as rattle from the hit, which is honestly a blessing as much as you'd love to see the glass projecting the image of his grinning face to crack and split down the middle. But you can hardly find it in yourself to be thankful for that little fact. You're annoyed and angry and hurt. 

Actually seeing him in motion and not in the form of pictures or drawings is just picking at that fresh wound that's still openly bleeding. And suddenly, those three long years of being at his side have never felt so far and yet so close: looming and almost painful. You lurch for your phone, scooping it off of the table to fervently scroll through your contacts. You briefly pause on Fizz's name, and for a second you consider calling him. He would understand. He would sympathize with what it's like to struggle with learning to let go of Mammon's influence and figuring out how to move on. But that wouldn't be fair. Not to him. Not after he's just recently cut ties with the King of Greed, and officially dropped the Sin as his mentor. It would be opening up a cut that he's still beginning to heal. 

It has you scrolling your thumb down a little bit further until you find Lottie's number and you press it without much thought, other than the fleeting wish that you weren't interrupting her. She should be free from her shift at the firm by now; it's late enough. But with each trill of the phones ringback tone you get a little more unsure, and the sinking feeling that she's busy, that you've disturbed her nearly has you ending the call. The image of her caller ID posted in the background doesn't help either.

You know that she won't be angry about you contacting her. She's actually been pretty insistent that you do just that if you ever begin to feel overwhelmed or upset, but suddenly the sight of her joyful, beaming face doesn't seem so jovial anymore, and the scarlet glint of her eyes seems accusing and harsh. It's enough to have you second guessing yourself, but just as you're about to press on the red button on your screen, she answers. 

The comfort that floods over you lifts from your body like a sack full of bricks and you breathe an audible sigh of relief when you set the call to an open speaker. "I think I'm going crazy," you blurt. You almost wince at the lack of tact, but you can't help it with all of the emotions and stress rising to the surface, forcing all of your worries to spill out of you like a flooding geyser. "Everywhere I look, he's there! How am I supposed to move on when he's shoved in my face every second of the day? I went to the store a few hours ago, and he was all over the place; on cereal boxes and chip bags and fucking laxatives-" 

"Okay, okay, okay, " her voice soothes firmly, successfully grabbing you attention enough to get you to just stop talking. "Listen. I really don't think that you're giving yourself enough time to move on from this. I mean, it's been what? Maybe just a little over a month?" 

"Yeah, " you nod dejectedly, scooping up some of your liquified ice cream on to the spoon to drink. "Just about three weeks." 

She hums lowly. "So, you two were together - surprisingly - for a few years. All of those feelings aren't just going to dry up overnight, babe." 

"Ugh, I know!" You whine in an elongated groan, dropping the spoon back into the ceramic bowl with a noisy clatter. You tighten the grip that you have on your phone so that it doesn't go flying out of your hand when you let yourself fall face first into the couch cushions, not caring if it stunts your breathing and when you speak next your voice is slightly muffled. "It's just so frustrating. I don't know what's holding me back. I mean, I really don't even know what I had ever seen in him in the first place." 

You hear her scoff on the other end and there's a clipped humorless laugh tainting the sound. "His money? Well, no he's too cheap to even spend it - whatever. Either way, I'm glad you finally woke up to his bullshit. The guy's a total sleaze." 

The comment makes you bristle despite your pervious statement, but you can only manage a grunt in response, tired and low while you turn your head, moving from the press of the cushions to finally allow yourself to breathe properly without inhaling the bits of perfume and dust that have undoubtedly gotten caught within the velvet fabric. You've heard all of the confused whispers and frustrated remarks for years. From Lottie and Ozzie and many of the other performers and staff at the restaurant, none of them were shy in voicing their bewilderment over your relationship with the Sin of Greed. They weren't looking down at you per se. You could tell that the side eyed glances and chatter all came from a place of good will and genuine concern - "He just isn't a good person, darling." Asmodeus had told you once. "I know him better than just about anyone and believe me when I tell you that he'll chew you up for all your worth and spit you out when he's finished licking up the bones. You deserve better." - but they still frustrated you. 

In the past you had told yourself that they just didn't understand him like you did. That underneath all of the selfishness and confetti and snark that there was something that cared. What a complete blind, fool you had been. 

Your eyes land on the TV screen, letting you defeatedly take in the sight of him on stage, guitar in his hands while he belts out one of his songs on an exuberantly decorated stage with champagne colored streamers and the glimmer of coins (fake of course, he'd never use the real thing out of the risk of other demons scooping the change off the floor and stealing it) falling around him, and a row of golden cannons shoot off explosions of sparkling fire and pyrotechnics. He's no doubt eclipsing the wedding ceremony with the act but knowing him that was entirely the point. 

So he's there as the part of the entertainment then. He's got to be charging them out the ass for this performance. 

You let yourself admire him, sweeping over the neon green of his eyes and the round shape of his face. You could almost feel the cool sensation of his cheeks against your palms. He's always ran a little on the colder side; a little chilled to the touch no matter how heated the atmosphere around him may be. But you had never minded. And you find yourself longing to brush your thumbs along his skin, to feel the weight of his face underneath your fingertips like you've done at least a thousand times. 

"He is still a little cute," you remark, melancholic but a little loving too. 

Lottie sighs on the other end, ragged and weary but then her breath snags and a small bout of silence hangs over you both. "Is that - is that him singing? Are you watching him?" She accuses, tone saturated in disbelief. She makes you feel like you're being berated by your mother. Like you're a child being caught doing something that you shouldn't have, and it has shame stinging at your cheeks. 

"I was watching my show," you defend yourself, eyebrow furrowing as you observe him break into the songs verse. "And then he decided to show up." 

"Oh, for fucks sake," she grouses. You can tell that she's shaking her head on the other end. Probably pacing, too. "All right, we're going to do something about this." 

That both intrigues and concerns you and you perk up just a little bit. "Do 'what' exactly?" 

She doesn't immediately answer and that sets you on edge. You can still hear her shuffling around on the opposite line and it has tension setting in your muscles while your brain tries to scramble around for whatever  it is that she's trying to plan or set up, but your mind keeps coming up frustratingly empty. "Seriously, what are you doing?" 

"I . . . " she begins a little distractedly. "Am setting you up on a date." 

It feels like a bullet has fired your heart out from your chest in sharp burst and the shock is enough to have you clambering up from your flopped over position to glare down at your phone. You can taste the adrenaline on your tongue like something acrid. For a moment you can hardly get the jumbled words out from your throat, and you're left sitting frozen with your mouth hanging open dumbly. " You . . . Wh - " Your eyebrows pinch close. "You what?  With who?" 

"Do you remember that coworker that I told you about? The hot paralegal?" 

You hum to yourself, trying to jog the memory free but nothing familiar rises up to greet you. "No," you answer bluntly, picking at a loose thread from the couch cushion. 

The admittance doesn't seem to dampen her excitement in the slightest. "Well, he's nice and Sherry said that he has a massive dic - "

"Okay, I get it!" You say quickly. 

"And I think this will be good for you," she says, tone dipping into something gentle and soothing. "I mean, I know I said to take time to move past this, but maybe you could use this as a reason to get out. To take your mind off of things - it won't be anything serious! Just a . . . distraction." 

Your lips purse and you can feel a refusal rising up from your lungs, but then your eyes are drifting back over to the TV. The bitter taste of disappointment hits you like a mouthful of lime juice when you see that he's been replaced on screen with one of the wives during a confessional scene, and it serves as a harsh reminder of how pitifully stuck on him you are. Sure, you know that you only need a little bit of time to completely move on, but Lottie's right. Maybe a harmless little date wouldn't hurt. Maybe it would be enough to finally help you to pry those bits of affection and devotion from him and take back your life. "Okay, " you relent wearily. 

She exclaims in a burst of excitement, and a part of you loathes how happy she sounds while you're currently stewing in your own misery. "Great! I already texted him about it, but I'll send you his number." 

You hum to let her know that she's been heard, a little absentminded while you continue to stare at the screen with some piteous part of you waiting for him to pop back up on the TV. The phone call drifts from there, directing back over to Lottie's day. A nice reprieve from thinking about your own, but as selfish as it is, it's hard to try and pay her words any attention while you're buried under your own emotions. You can't help but be a little bit thankful when she has to end the call, having to turn in for the night in the preparation of some early meeting in the morning. 

It leaves you to just sit in silence, with your bowl of melted ice cream propped in your lap while you mindlessly watch TV, seeing the content flit across the screen but not registering it. You had made yourself change the channel about fifteen minutes ago, even when your thumb had stubbornly hovered over the controls of the remote while your subconscious waited for that familiar grin to show back up on the screen. And that fleeting little thought had been enough to get you to mash down on the channel button until you landed on an entirely random program. Some renovation show, about taking homes from demons struggling against foreclosure to remodel the seized properties into luxury houses for reselling to the wealthy and famous. 

A lot of the designs were just beyond absurd. Like the bathroom with a mini golf course built into the flooring or the laser tag arena that was merged with a sex dungeon. It was an odd union of hobby and . . . necessity?

And that's where you stayed for an indiscernible amount of time without moving apart from a small shuffle to readjust; you had long since forgotten your intention to remove the yellow polish from your nails. You were steadily nursing on your glass of Beelzejuice, fighting off the slight wince on your face whenever you took a sip. Between the saccharine, syrupy flavor and the burn of the alcohol whenever you swallowed it down, you were hitting close to your limit for the night. Fortunately, a nice, relaxed haze was already settling over you and fizzling at your limbs and fingertips. And for a few blissful moments, you didn't have any clamoring, distracting thoughts or feelings welling up and threatening to stretch you thin. It felt like peace. 

You had texted the number that Lottie had sent you a little while ago - Hugo, it seemed his name was - just to try and make an effort, even if it was a reluctant one. It was just a quick hello, nothing much more than that, and you hadn't built up the courage to check and see if he had responded to you. It was so odd. The entire situation and you hate how much you feel guilty about accepting an invitation for the date. It had some acidic, nasty sensation bubbling in the pit of your chest; sharp and cold, but luckily the potency of the alcohol was enough to distract you. 

Not for long though, because the show is switching to a commercial break and once again the familiar sight of a layered, pointed clown costume drops across the screen, encapsulated around the looming shape a figure that you know all too well. His voice is raised, meant to grab the viewers' attention easily as he breaks into a pitch meant to entice the watcher into buying his newly manufactured sex robots, modeled after a pair of twins from the Envy Ring.  

"Are you fucking kidding me?!" Your entire body seems to sag, weighed down with defeat, and you swear you can feel tears prickling at your waterline as he leans closer towards the camera, twirling his staff with one of his upmost hands. And for a while you don't even hear what he's saying. You're too busy being forced to watch him while he cavorts around a simple, plum purple background with a pair of robots obediently stationed behind him. And it isn't until he reaches for the both of them and presses them both up against his sides with a somewhat provocative grin stretched over his face that your mind seems to focus, and his indistinct salesman speech becomes fully audible.  

" - each sold separately! But if you purchase the both of them in a package deal, then you'll have double the fun for the low, low price of two thousand, six hundred and ninety dollars - not including tax! C'mon! Don't be a cheapskate - " He leans forward, eyes narrowing while his voice subtly shifts a few octaves lower in a threatening rumble - "you better get 'em both, you sick fuck! Ya know you want to!" 

Your hand seems to raise on its own, gripping onto the remote and smashing down on the power button, causing the screen to go black, saving yourself and your sanity from having to look at him for a second longer. 

It's safe to say that sleep didn't come easily that night. You had tossed and turned for hours on end, and it wasn't until the dawn was rising in the horizon in a blossom of pale lavender and peach hue that you were able to pass out from pure exhaustion. The next few days continued as they usually do with preforming down at the restaurant and going out for drinks with your coworkers afterwards. You had begun to text Hugo within that time, and you felt a bit of consolation to know that he too wasn't looking for anything particularly serious, having been out of the dating game for a few years after spending his focus on furthering himself in his field of work. The both of you had unanimously agreed that whatever was going to take place between you would be entirely casual. It was after two days of speaking that he had asked to take you out for dinner, and with Lottie's words echoing loudly inside your head, you had agreed. 

It wasn't until you were getting ready that night that your reality had officially sunk in. That you're actually going to go out on a date with a man that you hardly even knew. After three years of remaining in a relationship it felt like such a strange concept. You had never imagined yourself with any other person but Mammon. And now here you were, rummaging around in your closest for something to wear. Shoving through the mountain made of Thing plushies and all of the other miscellaneous trinkets that he had sent you once he had realized that you were indeed serious about ending the relationship, just to try and get to the clothes hanging from the closet rod. 

You had thrown most of his little 'peace offerings' away at first, but after the fourth day of having to carry the armfuls of Mammon plushies and oddly enough, Loo Loo Land novelty cups (you're fairly sure that he was just sending you stuff that he had found in inventory) down to the garbage hatch down the hallway, you had just begun to shove it all into your closet instead. The questioning stares from your neighbors had always felt too invasive whenever they'd watch you slip down the corridor with his pathetic attempts at bribing you back into a relationship clutched to your chest in the shape of stupid toys and knickknacks.

You actually manage a smile when you successfully tug the hanger holding your chosen dress free from the confines of the closet, but you don't even bother trying to fight against the scattered collection of plushies by attempting to close the door to your closet. Not with the way that they've tumbled out from the confines of the snug little alcove and onto the floor. It would be a losing battle, and you don't have time for that with the clock steadily ticking. You were quick to rush off to the bathroom, taking care to spend time on styling your hair as best as you could and making yourself presentable, spraying on a few puffs of perfume across your body. 

You had been fine throughout the entire process. The nervousness settling in your gut had been noticeable but manageable. It was faint enough to keep your mind off of it, to push it down and ignore. It wasn't until you were actually at the decided upon restaurant and sitting across from Hugo at a candle lit table for two that the restlessness and hesitancy become unavoidable. And you had long since forgotten your food, far too nervous to eat. It had you trying to distract yourself from the wild thrum of your heart beating in your chest by looking around the dining room, admiring the pale, iridescent shimmer of the dramatic crystal chandeliers hanging above the array of tables and the large, carved marble statues placed along the circumference of the great the walls. 

"Are you all right?" Hugo suddenly asks, breaking from your trance. Your attention snaps over to him, making the jewelry hanging from your earlobes jingle. 

"Yeah, of course," you reassure quickly, playing with the stem of your wine glass somewhat distractedly. "I'm just getting reused to this sort of thing. It's been a while since I've been on a date with someone new." 

He smiles, nodding in understanding way while he prods at his food. "Well, we're both in the same boat in that regard." The burgundy shade of his irises shimmer underneath the gentle glow of the candles flame. "It's no pressure, remember? This is purely casual." 

It has you breathing a visible sigh of relief, and the entirety of your body relaxes while you let yourself rest your weight on the table with your elbows. It was something that he has told you before, but it was nice to hear it in the moment, face to face. Hugo moves a bit closer, and the motion looks a little awkward. A little unsure, and as bad as it may sound, it was almost pleasant to see that he too is removed from his comfort zone. That you're not the only one that's entirely out of their depth. 

"I hope that this isn't too forward, but why did you agree to even do this?" He asks. "It's just, from how Lottie described it, it was all sport of sudden." 

The question gives you pause, as straight forward as it is and for a moment you find yourself without a proper response. He did say that this entire outing was casual, no strings attached. But even then, it isn't exactly appropriate to say that you were just trying to get out of the house because you were going clinically insane; that you're out here on your night off, drinking wine that's entirely too expensive because everywhere you look, you see your ex's face and it's been wearing down on your resolve little by little like pressure on a weak, torn rope. Sure, you have the potential to be an asshole, but even that feels a little insensitive. 

You had told him that you had just recently gotten out of a relationship, but he has no clue just how fresh the separation actually is. And you have no idea what Lottie may have said to him, but as of right now you'd like to try and keep your personal business to a minimum if at all possible. Satan forbid you accidentally mention just who you ex is. That last thing you need to deal with is him getting intimidated and running off because you used to have tied with the incarnation of Greed. 

"Honestly?" You say, absentmindedly tapping your nails along the stem of your glass with a soft shrug. "As superficial as it is, Lottie said that she knew about a hot guy that was single and looking for a night out. I agreed." 

He chuckles at that, playing coy but you notice the subtle way that he preens under the casual compliment. The hint of a smile curling at the corners of his lips, and the slight spike of lust that trickles across the air. It's low, a blink and you'll miss it scent; heady and a little warm, and the faint thrum of it nudges against your body like a hesitant touch before it vanishes. But despite your instinct to chase after that minute pulse of desire and cultivate it into something more, you find yourself completely uninspired to do just that. As dejected and disappointed as it makes you in yourself, you'd honestly rather spend the remainder of your evening catching up on your TV shows than wasting it between the sheets with him. But then again, that doesn't have to be the point of tonight. Tonight, you're just here to get out. To remind yourself of what's out there. You have to try. 

"Was she right?" He speaks suddenly just as your taking a sip from of your wine, leaving you to tilt your head curiously with an intrigued hum. "Am I hot?" 

You lower your glass, drinking the swig down and you make a show of eyeing him while you debate on how you really want this night to go. This could be a simple time out on the town, or you could truly try to go down the opposite route and wind up in some trashy No-Tell-Motel a few blocks down the strip. He seems receptive enough. In fact, despite his earlier statements, you're more than sure that he wouldn't be opposed to a little harmless fling. And maybe it would help you forget Mammon, even if just for a little while. But is that really what you want though . . ?

"Hmm, ask me later tonight," is all you say, smirking softly, and there it is again. That dim heated little pulse that leaves him and threads across the atmosphere. It should be enough to interest that deep, primal part of your psyche, but there's absolutely nothing. 

"So, what did your ex do, if you don't mind my asking, " he says, and you struggle to keep the smile on your face present at the mention of Mammon. " Sorry, I'm just trying to figure out what kind of expectations I'm supposed to be meeting." 

Well, that shouldn't be all that difficult to surpass. Not with how self-absorbed and oblivious Mammon has always been. And truthfully, Hugo was attractive - or hot, as Lottie had promised. Sure, you had seen pictures of him with all of the texting that the both of you had done but seeing him in person was somehow all the better. It was easy to see that he takes care of himself. His eyes are gorgeous, sharp and expressive and the suit that he wears is no doubt expensive. And with how considerate and patient that he had been with you throughout your entire time together, he didn't have much to worry about in terms of acceding past the standard that Mammon had set. 

"He was . . . " You wrack your mind for a way to delicately leave out the hints that your ex just so happens to be the King of Greed. You really won't be able to handle the entire slew of questions that would no doubt come from that little nugget of information. " A performer . . . " You settle with a squint. "And a businessman of sorts. " 

"Oh, yeah? Is it possible that he's been in anything that I've seen before?" He questions conversationally. 

Yes. It's very, very possible. "No," you shake your head with what you hope is a neutral expression on your face. "I doubt it." 

You take a quick sip of your wine, desperate for some sort of liquid courage to dull the low turning of your stomach. He hums softly, letting you know that he's heard you and pats his mouth clean for any traces of food. 

"So, did you work together then?" He tilts his head in a curious kind of way, and the inquiry has your eyebrows furrowing incredulously, prompting him to clarify. "You said he was a performer. You work at Ozzie's, right?"

"Uh, yeah," you admit. "But no. He's business partners with my boss, so he pops in for meetings every now and again. That's how we met." You clear your throat, shifting in your seat to try and regain a sense of comfortability. The memory always leaves you feeling a bit confused. A little torn and stretched between contrast of a fond sense of love and nostalgia but reversibly the bitter sting of loathing and regret. It leaves you a jumbled mess. Stuck because you can't help but wonder just what you had ever seen in Mammon, but it's even worse because all those affections still haven't fully waned. Even before you had fully become acquainted with the Sin of Greed there'd always been that odd sort of intrigue that would pull at you whenever he had arrived at Ozzie's for a meeting; typically, a discussion over the production of Fizzbot's much to Asmodeus' chagrin. 

Your boss was never enthused over Mammon's presence in his restaurant, mostly because the Sin would always try to scout new talent to exploit in the shape of Ozzie's employees whenever he was present (not to mention that massive tab that he had racked up at the bar and the kitchen that he always manages to weasel out of paying). And you had been one of those employees yourself. You had been pulled over by the King of Greed one night after your routine, and he had shamelessly tried persuading you in becoming one of his performers directly in front of Ozzie, offering you fame and money and fans beyond your wildest fantasies. Naturally, you had declined the proposal. 

The refusal had visibly rubbed him the wrong way, with him no doubt taking it as blow to his pride and his image, but he hadn't let it stop him. Every time that he came in for that monthly meeting, he'd make sure to pop the question, and you'd gently let him down each time. But for whatever reason, his persistence never bothered you. It was almost fun in fact, like a game of cat and mouse. It was entertaining, in a strange sort of way, like the both of you were waiting each other out to see who'd crack first. You actually enjoyed his company. He was brash, garish and vulgar. The jokes that he made were always at another expense and he was insensitive to the point it was concerning, but for some reason you found yourself inexplicably drawn to him. He made you laugh; he let you be yourself, and the both of you could spend hours gossiping amongst yourselves and trashing other demons, laughing at their misfortune and mistakes. Was it rude? Absolutely. But with him, that was perfectly fine. He was a complete douche (still is) but he had never really flirted with you, he'd never given much of an indication that he was interested in you in a sexual nature, apart from admiring your talents on the stage it was a nice break from all of the constant salivating customers that would clamor up against the edge of the platform and ogle you throughout your shift. It was nice just having a conversation with someone who wasn't expecting or wishing to get some cheap blowjob backstage. Ironically enough, one of the most exploitative beings in all of the seven circles of Hell managed to make you feel the most normal. Like you were more than just your basest functions, more than lust and a performer.  

It had been Asmodeus who had recognized when your intrigue in the Sin of Greed had melted past an amused kind of fascination and into endearment and desire. He had seen the shift in your emotions long before you had, and you had vehemently shrugged off his gentle accusations for months on end. Insisting that he was reading into the weird type of kinship that you had fashioned Mammon all wrong. You had insisted that you were just friends. You just found him interesting, that's all. 

But unfortunately, Ozzie had been right. 

"Is it okay if we change topics?" You ask suddenly, desperate to get out of your head. To quit reliving old, painful memories. " It's just - talking about my ex, you know?" 

Something sheepish and a little ashamed flits across his face and he's immediately apologizing. "Oh, I'm sorry. That was a little insensitive of me." 

"It's okay," you say truthfully, shrugging with a soft smile. "So, do you have any kind of hobbies?" 

The conversation diverges for there - thankfully, carrying on while you both try to learn about each other. It leads you to discover that Hugo has a multitude of talents, such as being able to play several kinds of musical instruments and he has a proclivity for painting and a fondness for cooking that was cultivated by his grandfather. He was quick to offer to teach you how to make a dish from the Wrath Ring for your next date, after he learned that you aren't all the adept at the culinary arts, mostly due to the lack of interest. 

He's undeniably a sweet guy. He seems to be generous and easy going, but despite all of that you still can't hide from that sharp, nagging feeling that's been picking at you the entire night. The realization that there just isn't much of spark regardless of how charming and gentle he seems to be. And although conversing with him is easy, nice even, to a degree it feels like talking with a coworker or a catching up with a friend. But maybe the lack of attraction wasn't the only thing to blame. The entire night there's been this harsh, laughable sense of guilt and betrayal brewing inside of you, almost like you being on this date with Hugo is somehow cheating. But that's entirely stupid. Not to mention that it doesn't make any sense. Those bitter emotions shouldn't have any footing because you and Mammon aren't a couple anymore, but it's almost like your feelings and heart haven't accepted that yet. 

And it leaves you admittedly a little distracted, until you're just mindlessly nodding and laughing whenever it's the appropriate response. Eventually you're just sleepwalking throughout the entire dinner; your body is present, but your mind definitely isn't. Suddenly it's hard to keep yourself in place and your eyes start shifting around the dinning room like you're in search of an exit. This is too much too soon. You shouldn't have agreed to this. You shouldn't be here.

And in your internal panicking you couldn't keep yourself from covertly slipping your hand into your purse hanging from the back of your chair to retrieve your phone while Hugo isn't looking, too busy animatedly scanning his eyes around the room while he's reminiscing about some past vacation on an island resort in Envy. The sting of guilt makes you slightly shuffle in your seat like you might be able to shake the feeling free, but it doesn't keep you from hiding your phone underneath the table in the clasp of your hand while you tap the messaging app and search for Lottie's name. Maybe if you were able to explain yourself to her, she'd help to bail you out. Maybe you could get her to give you a fake call and come up with an excuse- 

You freeze, focus landing on the name posted directly underneath hers.

Moo💚

It's such a dumb nickname, and honestly aren't even sure where it had come from. You had just started using it one day, and you stuck with it because even when Mammon would grumble under his breath and roll his eyes like every utterance of the pet name costed a year of his immortal life, you would always see that monochrome blush tinting his cheeks at the sound of it. He'd get offended if you addressed him as anything else; one morning when your brain was still sluggish and dulled by the cloud of sleep, you had called him 'Mammon' and he had elected to give you the silent treatment until you were finally able to figure out just what exactly you had done wrong. And it would make your chest turn fuzzy and soft whenever you'd see the reaction that it garnered from him, full of devotion and affection. 

And now the simple nickname, something you had felt nothing but fondness for, feels like it's mocking you. Dangling something in front of your face that you'll never get to have again. You can't help yourself when you press on the contact's name, opening up your messages. It's like your heart is in your throat, heavy and trembling and threatening to suffocate you, and it takes every ounce of your frayed sense of will to keep your from reading the text thread. You could remember the last couple of messages that he had sent without looking over them. The last of them asking for you to 'come to your senses' and return back to one of his penthouses in Greed and when you refused the text had turned egotistical and indifferent, with him claiming that he didn't need you. That he'd do just fine without you. 

And just like that your will snaps. 

x/x/xx 12:43 am 

fine go ahead i dont even nrrd u 

x/x/xx 12:43 am 

duck 

x/x/xx 12:44 am 

*FUCK

x/x/xx 12:44 am 

*NEED 

x/x/xx 12:44 am 

go crawl to ozz for all i care 

Those simple set of words feel like a knife to the chest; sharp and slicing and you feel those pitiful emotions rising up again, threatening to spill over in the form of tears. You don't know what causes it. If it's the sudden call of Hugo's voice, laced with concern and curiosity as he asks if you're okay, or if it's the slight tremor in your fingers that makes your thumb twitch and press the image of the call button in the corner of the screen above your messages, but when it happens your stomach feels like it falls through your ass. You visibly lurch when his caller ID pops up with an in-progress call and you audibly gasp ragged and a horrified as you slam your finger on the end call button so harshly that it's a wonder that you didn't damage your phone. 

Your entire body is pulled taunt like you've been struck by a live wire, and you're sure that Hugo is more than confused because you must look as though someone has a gun pressed to the back of your head. 

"Are you all right?" He repeats, leaning forward over the table to make eye contact with you. 

It does enough to let you regain some control of your body, letting you pull a tight, unconvincing smile across your lips as you nod. "Yeah. I'm fine." You say, more so to yourself than to him. Honestly, you're being a little dramatic. The connection - if it could even be considered as one - couldn't have lasted for more than a split second. He probably won't even notice the missed call. More accurately, he most likely has your number blocked. You're blowing this entirely out of proportion. You're good. Everything is all right. 

"I'm fine," you reiterate and luckily, you're able to make your expression a little bit more convincing. 

It's fine. 

The air prickles. It shifts and thrums like it's being charged by an oncoming lightning strike, and you can feel your body respond to it. Your back goes straight from the sensation of something hot and buzzing shooting down the notches of your spine while your heart flutters from anticipation in some traitorous Pavlovian response before you even hear that familiar cha-ching! jingle across the electric, pulsing atmosphere. The space directly next to you erupts in a puff of rushing lime and emerald smoke, joined by a flurry of bright, neon dollar signs and confetti that whirls over the beverages and meals belonging to the neighboring tables; effectively tainting the other patron's food in its scatter. 

"Well, well, well, look who's come crawling back!" 

You're experiencing so many different emotions right now; you can't even keep track of it all of it while it roars around inside of you like a deluge bursting past the battered walls of a crumbled dam. You manage to recognize a few: concern, irritation, regret and most disturbingly, relief, joy and admiration. It's like you're entire being is suddenly overloaded with conflicting information and you aren't sure what you're supposed to say or do. 

In your disarray you notice that Hugo has gone still, just as surprised as you are. And the entire restaurant has fallen deathly silent, no longer noisy from the ceaseless chatter of varying conversations or the scrape of silverware on porcelain and the clinking of wine glasses. It's still. So hushed that you could hear a pin drop. Even worse, is that everyone's attention is now fixed on your table. Guests and employees alike, their focus is now on you. It's like you've been strapped down and flayed open on an operating table; you don't think you've ever felt so exposed, so judged in your entire life. 

Your mouth hangs open, but nothing makes its way out, not even when Hugo shoots you a questioning look before his eyes center back onto Mammon. 

"So this is who you're spending your time with now, " he remarks in that tantalizing lilt, leaning - looming over Hugo with an intrigued squint. His lower hands are folded across his stomach, but he uses the other pair to take ahold of your date by his wrists, spanning his arms open like he's inspecting a toy and his head tilts with the chime of bells. "He's a bit of a flimsy fucker, ain't he?" 

The expression on Hugo's face is understandably one of bewilderment, and he lets his arms drop back onto the table counter weightlessly when Mammon releases him. You can see all of the questions burning in his stare and you know that you have to give him some kind of explanation, even if this entire situation was a complete accident on your end. 

"Hugo, this is the . . . performer - uh, businessman that I was telling you about earlier," you clarify somewhat cryptically, giving him a tense smile. 

His jaw drops a little, shoulders going slack with what has to be the weight of shock and possibly intimidation. "Your ex is the King of Greed?" 

"Ex?" Mammon hisses, bending his body over the smaller demon while bearing his sharp teeth like he might bite and tear flesh while he jabs an accusing finger at Hugo. "What? You think just 'cause me and the missus had a little spat that you can just try and move in on my woman?" 

The fucking audacity that he has. 

Anger sears through you with a gravity that surprises yourself, and you stand up from your seat so abruptly that it has the legs scrapping across the smooth tiles with a sharp noise that could make you flinch if you weren't already so preoccupied. " 'Missus?' We aren't even marrie- we aren't even dating anymore! What the hell are you doing here?" 

The Sin blinks at you with what might be surprised before his expression melts into something composed and neutral. "You called; I came. That's what good boyfriends do," he says, and you can hear some kind of accusation in his tone, and he jabs a finger in your direction. " I showed up for you, even after you tore my heart out and practically pissed all over it! Did it get you off? Pissing all over our love?" 

The laugh that leaves you is entirely humorless, and at this point you're too upset to even consider that you're having an argument in the middle of some expensive restaurant with your ex while your date sits and watches like some kind of reluctant voyeur.  "Oh, please. Because you were always so invested in our relationship, weren't you?" you snap with your tone saturated full of sarcasm. "You poured more effort into trying to figure out ways in getting back at Fizz and Ozzie than giving me even a shred of your time. You started treating us like a chore, don't even try to pretend."  

You're able to find some satisfaction in the way that his eyes twitches, his composure slipping. In hindsight, it's pretty stupid trying anger someone who's capable of snuffing out your existence with the snap of his fingers, but as of right now, you can't find it in yourself to care. You want him to get mad. 

"And I told already fucking told you that it was only temporary," he defends, tilting towards you to get eye level. "I'm a busy man, babes and blackmailing and ruining the life or your backstabbing, shit-stain, ex-employee takes time. " He explains casually, making your irritation spike. 

"Well, that 'shit-stain, ex-employee' happens to be my friend," you hiss hotly, and your tail lashes out behind you. 

"All right, maybe we should all calm down and breathe," Hugo chimes in, advising in a hesitant pitch. 

Even with his suggestion hanging in the air it takes you and Mammon a moment to pull your venomous glares from each other, and onto him, but it's enough to have you revaluating your current position. You cast an awkward glace around the room, struggling not to shrink underneath the intrigued, gossip hungry stares of the other patrons. You sit yourself back down on the seat, outwardly cringing as it makes an obnoxious screech when you nudge it forward to tuck yourself back up against the table. 

"If I want your opinion, you little shit, then I'll ask ya for it, " Mammon snaps with a smile that's all teeth, lethal and razor sharp. 

"Then perhaps you should leave," Hugo says. Despite the firmness of his tone, you can see the way that his eyes shift nervously. Not that you could blame him. Mammon can be menacing when he's in a good mood, much less when he's genuinely displeased, and that's not even adding onto the fact the he's royalty that has an entire Ring of Hell serving as his domain. Honestly, the fact that the demon had chosen to speak up at all surprises you completely, and Mammon seems to share your astonishment if the befuddled way that his face has twisted up is any indication. 

"The fuck did you just say to me?" The Sin asks, eyebrows furrowing as his eyes glint in that venomous shade of green. You can see the tension setting into his shoulders as he arches over Hugo's space, using his height to make the smaller demon lean back into his chair. You try and send your date a wary glance, warning him to tread lightly. Mammon could be a little unpredictable at best, especially with how he reacts to criticism or just basic social boundaries, so there really wasn't any way to guess how he may respond to Hugo's request. He could either laugh it off with a few harsh insults or he could lash out and try to kill the Imp entirely. 

The latter of which, was the last thing that you wanted - for obvious reasons. 

But Hugo doesn't heed your forewarning glances at all. He looks up at Mammon, somehow managing to school his features enough to come across as unbothered. "Well, according to her, it seems that you two are no longer in a relationship; and she's made it clear that she doesn't seem to want you here anymore. " He says. "I just think it's best to respect what she wants." 

You can feel your mouth go dry and your tongue feels too thick and useless. Suddenly it's as though all of the warmth and oxygen has been syphoned out of the room, making your body tense like it's been dunked in frigid water. The grin on Mammon's face stretches just a bit too wide, and the cheerful expression almost seems a bit feral. You can feel that charged aura building up around him, not enough to create any visible static, but you can still feel it humming along your fingertips and brushing over the exposed bits of your skin. It's a decent indication to let you get a read on his mood, allowing you know that Hugo is wobbling along a very frayed tight rope right now, and any wrong miscalculation could send him spiraling down below. 

For a second you think that Mammon's composure might snap but instead that wolfish quality to his sneer melts away as though it had never been there, and he looks positively jovial. Somehow that's worse. 

"Ya know what!" he snaps one of his topmost fingers together. "You're right. We should give the little lady what she wants." 

Hugo blinks in surprise, visibly relaxing but the buttered-up tone that Mammon uses just sets you on edge. It's too performative - even for him. 

"I think that means you should be the one to leave then, mate." Mammon sighs, with a kind of artificial sympathy as he takes Hugo's glass of wine from the table and tosses the near full cup of alcohol back like it's a small sip before he leans close to the demon conspiratorially. "After all, she isn't here to move on, she's just here for a little distraction. Why she chose a limp dick like you for that, I'm still not sure. But hey! I'm not one to judge." 

That stings. Mostly because there is some actual merit to his words, as awful as they are to hear. It's a tough pill to swallow, but it isn't one that you want to take from Mammon of all people. That might have been one of the most difficult things about being in a relationship with the Sin. Is that regardless of how brash and inept that he happens to be at the best of times, he's undeniably good at reading others. He knows what makes them tick or how to use their insecurities as a tool. It made it so difficult to hide the most delicate and abrasive parts of yourself from him, and you suppose that might have been you fell for him in the first place. Because you could always be the worst side of yourself, and he had never shied away from it. Not once. 

"Well, I'd like you to leave . . . Your Highness," Hugo responds with halfhearted resolve, and you can hear the other tables whisper amongst themselves like they're occupying the front row seats to a drama. 

And it has that horrible sinking feeling in your gut. 

"Is that so? And just what the fuck are you gonna do to make me, bitch boy?" Mammon taunts, and you can hear the hint of a low growl tainting his voice. The enthusiasm and intrigue wafting from the other occupied tables in palatable, and it feels like you're all holding your breath, dreading whatever may come next but unable to look away. And you want to speak, to get Mammon's attention off of Hugo and onto you instead, but you can't manage to say a damn word. It's like your voice is stuck in your throat. 

Your date opens his mouth, to possibly defend himself or relent, but he never gets to opportunity to because one of Mammon's hands is lashing out in a quick blur, grabbing Hugo by the throat. The other sets of his eyes have appeared, glinting with a violent glare of chartreuse and the sibilant sound, similar to the hiss of a rattlesnake's quivering tail, or the disturbed hiss of a cicada puffs from his chest. He raises Hugo up to his level, making the Imps feet dangle pathetically above the floor while his tail lashes wildly. Mammon's lips curl in a nasty sneer, dripping with satisfaction and aggression. "I could break you, pipsqueak. Be careful not to piss me off more than you already have, yeah?" 

The grip around Hugo's neck way deadly, and you could see his eyes beginning to bulge from underneath the weight of the Sin's iron hold, making him look like some kind of fucked up chew toy. One good squeeze and he's as good as dead. "I can't believe this is the little fucker you tried to replace me with," he jeers, dangling the smaller Imp like a rag doll. 

Finally, all of the tension and chaos is enough to break you from your stupor, letting you reclaim control of your limbs to leap out from your chair for the second time of the night. "Mammon!" You shout, by the Sin doesn't seem to even register that you're speaking with the way that he doesn't so much as spare you a glance. His eyes are fixed onto the demon whose windpipe he has his fingers tightly secured around.

"Mammon! Put him down." You snatch ahold of one of the Sin's wrists, tugging on his arm. "Let. Him. Go, " you warn through gritted teeth, even though you're probably about as intimidating to him as gentle breeze. 

Mammon finally spares you glance, the sadistic cheer shifting from his face as his eyes cast down to yours. Hugo continues to thrash around wildly, like a fish tossed out onto a dock but the King of Greed doesn't seem to be in any rush to release him. Instead, he's sighing, exasperated and fully disappointed when he notices your enraged glare, and even without any visual pupils or irises you can still tell that he's rolling his eyes at you. "All right, all right, don't get yer thong in a twist, " he scoffs; frustrated. " Jeez, you've always been so protective over the other normies." 

He releases Hugo like he's a discarded piece of garbage, letting the demon land near his feet in a weak pile. You're quick to let go of the Sin's wrist as you slip past Mammon to drop yourself down onto your knees in front of your date, roving your vision over him helplessly as he heaves and sucks in ragged, labored breaths. Pure guilt and hatred wracks through your body at the sight of him and all the while your mind harshly chants that this is your fault. That you did this to him. 

"I'm sorry, " you whisper fervently. " I'm so sorry." 

He can't respond to you around the strained gasps shaking through his lungs, but you feel him flinch when you place a comforting touch against one of his shoulders. The reaction, no matter how warranted, makes you jerk away from him. It hurt. It dug that remorse in deeper like a hot poker and you were desperate to direct it something. It has you spinning on your heels, rising up to round on Mammon. "What the fuck is wrong with you?" You snarl, anger burning at your fingertips and searing in your chest. The combination of surprise and annoyance on his face just pisses you off even more, making your wings flair out. You catch the way that his eyes glance around the room, surveying the reactions of the customers and servers who have long since taken out their phones to spread the gossip. There's no doubt that this is going to be all over online headlines and trending on platforms like Sinstagram and VoxTok for the next couple of days, and you know that the way that you're publicly insulting him is a setting you on a fast track to his shit list. But you don't care. Not right now. You want him to get mad. You want him to become just as upset and irritated and wounded as you are. 

"You're a psychopath! " You rant. " Arrogant, insensitive, selfish -" 

" Uh, yeah, babes, " he interrupts, flourishing his arms across his body in a presenting flourish. " King of Greed." 

"I'm so tired of hearing that excuse." You scoff around the frustrated laugh bubbling up in your chest, clenching and unclenching your hands to try and relieve some of the tension in them. 

"Let's chill out, eh? You're causing a bit of a scene," Mammon grouses. 

That genuinely stalls you. Why, you aren't sure, you should be used to this sort of behavior by now, but you're already too worked up to just ignore that comment. "I'm causing a scene?" You point your fingers into your chest, staring up at him with a pure molten resentment. "You're the one who crashed my night and assaulted my date. If anyone here's the problem, it's you!" 

A part of you waits for him to lash out, fully expecting to see those sharp, neon flashes of electricity start to fizzle and shoot out around him in a warning, but it never comes. Instead, he's rocking back on his feet, and the irritated scowl on his face shifts, molding into something soft and deceptively charming. "Baaabe, " he draws out an almost singsong whine. "Let's not do this anymore. Aren't you tired of all this fighting?" 

His mouth sets into something like a pout, and that coupled with the gentle, saccharine lit to his voice has you hesitating to berate him even more. It's such an obvious ploy to manipulate you - it has to be - but even worse is that it's working. You can feel that annoying, sugared sense of affection rising up and stupefying you. He uses your stalled response to his advantage, taking your hips and cupping your face with both pairs of his hands to tug you a little bit closer into his space until you can feel the thrum of his magnetic aura dipping across your body. His thumbs sweep over the edges of your cheeks, and some treacherous part of yourself longs to lean into his cool touch. "I miss us. I miss you, " he confesses like the moment between you both is private, and for a minute you completely forget that you're in a crowded room, airing out your relationship drama for all to see. "Don't you miss me? Even just a little?"

He almost sounds vulnerable when he asks it. The other sets of his eyes have long since vanished from sight, but the sheer amount of emotion gleaming from the main pair makes your heart ache. And even with all of your common sense raging inside of you and telling you to pull away from him, to slip out of his hold before you get caught too deep to pull out, you don't know if you can. Not when you can finally feel him again after so much time apart. And even with the smooth, press of his leather gloves keeping you from being able to feel his skin directly, the cool sensation of them is too good to let go of. "Yes," you admit, almost a little brokenly. There's the hurt of self-disappointment that runs through you when you say it, but the relief and exhilaration that rises up greatly overshadows it, frothing up and drowning it like the crash of a tsunami against the surf. 

"See?" He coos tenderly. "See how much better it is when we don't fight?" 

It's the sound of a rough intake of breath that finally rips you out of your moment of weakness and your eyes flit over to the origin of the noise out from your peripherals. It's when your focus lands on Hugo that reality comes hurtling down on you. He's pulling himself up onto his feet, still clearly a little disoriented but thankfully coherent. It has you tearing out of Mammon's hold before you can register it, approaching the Imp with a concerned furrow pinching your eyebrows close. "Are you okay?" You ask, a bit of a stupid question you admit, but you aren't sure what you could possibly say to make this situation any better.  

The stare that Hugo pins you with is a little wild and you can see noticeable traces of fear and rage, and he tries to smooth out the wrinkles that have marred his suit, combing his fingers through his unkempt hair in an attempt to try and right himself.  "Why would I be fucking okay?" 

It's a justifiable reaction, you suppose, but it doesn't make it any less painful take the brunt of that searing glare. You recoil away from it, thumping back into something solid and soft, and the scent of money carries over you; the hint of that leather musk that transfers onto the bills from being stuffed into purses and wallets; the slightly metallic notes of coins and the till from cash registers. That familiarity of it has you unconsciously sinking into the presence pressed up against your body for comfort. 

"You're still here, are ya?" Mammon's voice rumbles out, and you can feel the vibrations of it thrumming across your back, but it's hard to even hear what he's saying while you're bombarded by the searing pressure of everyone else's enthralled eyes pinned onto you; the bewildered, hurt stare that Hugo fixes you with as he steadies himself on his weakened legs. It has you feeling naked and bare. Stripped down to display all of your imperfections for all of the world to see, exposing you for judgement. But it's the cold, stinging weight of remorse that wounds you the most; driven in deep by that unforgiving voice in the back of your mind that keeps telling you that the entire trajectory of this night is your fault. That Hugo was humiliated and harmed because of you. 

You should have just stayed home. You should have just - 

"Let's say you and me ditch this shithole," Mammon purrs: the soothing chill of his hand's seeps through your skin, gripping around your shoulders and waist, threatening to make you go lax against him. "Let's go back home. We can make up for all our lost time." 

The scattered whispering around you nearly makes you miss the Sin's words. You can hear all of them, softly giggling amongst themselves and gasping in shock. But it's Hugo's shaken glare and all of the confusion and hatred that peeks through it that catches you. And there's some deep, knee jerk drive that tells you to go and try to comfort him. To try an apologize for the entire derailment of the date and explain yourself, but instead you're leaning back into Mammon's presence, savoring the musky scent of him and the distant magnetic thrum that constantly pulses across his body. 

You know whatever comes out of your mouth next is going to choose your fate. It'll completely seal the deal, so to speak, for the remainder of your life. And as dangerous as that thought is, as perilous as that truth may be, you can't find it in yourself to be scared. You find yourself leaning into it - into him - and fully accepting the troubles that may come from it. If you're going to be truly honest with yourself, these past few weeks have been complete torture because as much as you loathe to admit it, you've been lying to yourself. Pretending that you want to move and forget him, when in all honestly, that's the furthest thing from your true desires. You want him. You think that you always will, and some awful part of you basks in it. Seeks it out even. And that shameless bit of you helps you in shedding off the shame that comes with the looks from all of the patrons. Suddenly you don't mind all of the judgmental and fascinated ogling. When he's at your side, none of them matter.

"Sure," you agree, and all of that remaining doubt fizzles out into a dull, muted nudge in the back of your mind. "Let's go home." 

You can feel the pleased hum that he releases more than you hear it. A rumble that's close to a purr and he hugs you tighter against his body with all of his limbs like he's afraid that you might vanish if he doesn't. He scoops his lower arms underneath your legs, effectively clutching you to his chest and your arms grip around his neck instinctively. The look that he gives Hugo is outright gloating, with that wide, jagged grin stretched out across his face and you have to roll your eyes at the pompous display.  

"Hey, don't forget to pay the check before ya leave, mate," Mammon teases. " And make sure to leave a good tip. Wouldn't want to be a dickhead."

You can feel the electrical pulse around him begin to build. It gives you barely any time to scoop up the strap of your purse with your tail, lifting it from its place hanging on the chair before that little royalty free children's cheer breaks out with that loud cha-ching! and the room distorts and mutates into a twisting billow of green. Hugo's face is the last thing that you see as you vanish within Mammon's grip, still wearing that startled and insulted expression that twists up his features and the look in his eye's stings. It remains with you as the world shifts into something dark and distorted with shades of a deep jade and flashing neon; and everything twists and spins out until everything loses its sense of tangibility and becomes a weightless amalgamation of electricity and smoke. And for one elongated split second it feels as though you don't even have a physical body. Instead, you're just a thing conceptualized through thoughts and emotions and wills that serves as some kind of conduit for those scattered electrical currents to run rampant through you while they take you apart piece by piece and shrink you down into something small and fleeting until you're being is forcefully expanded and overblown. And then finally there's sensation in your toes and fingertips and the point of your tail. You can breathe again, and the cool press of Mammon's body and arms can be felt around you. 

You gasp, remembering to force yourself to inhale in an attempt to ward off that delicate weight of dizziness that fizzles around your skull, and with a few steady breaths the faint lull over your head fades away until you can finally focus and get a sense of your surroundings. 

At least you didn't vomit like the first time. 

It's a quick glance through the large observational window that helps to orient you, giving you a sweeping view of the dreary city down below and the glittering cast of the cerulean and lime green neon lights and signs that decorate some of the buildings. You're just glad that he teleported you both inside. The air in the Greed Ring - if it could even be categorized as air - can often times be putrid, if not outright lethal depending on what section of his domain you're in. Even though this particular penthouse happens to be in one of the more put together cities, far from the smokestacks overwhelming contaminated plumes, the factories and toxic landfills, the wind is able to carry the pollution over on its currents, and it's been known to be quite dangerous. Noxious and putrid enough to be detrimental. 

Seriously, you've seen it choke out a family of four. 

Reality hits you with all of the grace of a speeding truck, that you're actually here in Mammon's house, and you're left to try and brace for the oncoming torrent of regret and self-hatred that's going to absolutely piledrive you, but it never comes. There's no crushing weight of disappointment or exasperation. Instead, you're greeted with a delicate but fizzling sort of peace. It's like some kind of grip has been lifted from your shoulders and lungs and you're finally able to breathe again after being held underwater and suffocated. It floods through you like a soothing type of warmth, like the sunlight peeking out from the dense shield of cloud cover after days of darkness. It's pleasant and balmy despite the fact that the arms and hands holding you are somewhat tepid; a little cool, and you lean into it. 

It surprises you when that gentle feeling of relief starts to shift, and you can taste something sharp and hungry crack across the atmosphere, a little sour. Jealousy, you instinctively recognize. And it's quickly chased by a heavy, pulsing thrum that's heady and a little smoky, and your body's response is immediate, knee-jerk and intrinsic, and every part of you seems to flood with heat and buzz like you've been struck with a livewire. As rare as this particular brand of desire is, it's one that you're intimately accustomed to, and it has Mammon's magnetic signature all over it. All-consuming and wanting and possessive. 

He's never particularly been a lustful being, and all honesty, the number of times that you've had sex with the King of Greed has been far in between. In the beginning it was something that you had almost taken personally. You had nearly assumed that maybe there was something wrong with you, that perhaps he just wasn't attracted to you has an individual. But luckily, you had been quick to realize that he just didn't have much of a sex drive all together. It didn't stem from a place of disgust or even necessarily a full-on lack of interest, it was just the urge would rarely ever arise for him. It just wasn't an instinct that he had, or at the very least, it was one that would make an appearance very fleetingly. But it worked for the both of you surprisingly. Usually, after a shift at Ozzie's you were gorged on as much lust and energy as you could possibly take. Too much of a good thing could leave you feeling nauseous and uncomfortable in your own flesh, like your skin has been cinched too tight. It made being around him a breath of fresh air.

But that didn't mean that he absolutely never had a libido. But usually whenever his desire would emerge, it seemed to have a deep-rooted connection to jealousy and some inherent need to prove that you were his. 

One of the first times you had sex was during one of his Annual Clown Pageant's and some random demon had shouted up at you from your place above where you were curled up against Mammon's side, stupidly asking for you to lift up your shirt and show him your tits. And the violent crackle of electricity was about the only warning he got before he was roped by a sudden cast of glowing webbing and then promptly tossed across the long expanse of the stadium. Your pretty sure that several of his bones had been shattered. 

But as annoying as the stranger was, maybe you should give that guy some props. Even though he had landed himself a trip to the ER you had spent the remainder of your night getting your back blown out by the King of Greed. 

You have tried to tell Mammon that he doesn't have to have sex with you to convince you that you're his. That he doesn't have to buy your love and loyalty with sexual gratification. Despite the nature of your being, you don't have to have sex to feel loved or cherished. He satisfies the need you have for touch well, with his constant desire in having you stuck to his side or in his arms in some kind of fashion. You already know that you're fully his. You want to be, and you accepted him and all of his affections and at times lack thereof completely, but he'd always been insistent on touching you after someone has shamelessly flirted with you. Almost like he had to remind himself that you were still there. He wouldn't stop until every inch of you was doused in his scent and it was unmistakable you were his. 

Considering how long the two of you have been a part recently, how nasty the breakup had been and the sheer magnitude of the lust and jealousy prickling across the atmosphere and seeping into your skin and saturating your bones, you had a good impression of how the rest of this night is going to play out. It has anticipation running rampant in your veins. You tear your eyes away from the dark city outside of the window to face him, and the weight of his gaze nearly knocks you breathless. His eyes are glowing bright within the dim lighting of the room, burning a deadly shade of chartreuse. It makes you feel pinned in place, like you're being tracked by something dangerous. A weak animal dangling within the jagged, lethal maw of a starved creature. 

The energy that's descended over you dances over your skin, magnetic and searching and so vibrant that for a moment it almost feels as though it could transform into a living, breathing thing and consume you both until there's nothing but scraps left behind. You're toeing the line of something vicious, a little wild, and a part of you wonders if you'll even come out of this in one piece. You might just get torn apart. 

But you've never been one for self-preservation. 

You aren't completely sure who moves first. But suddenly his lips are on yours, tasting floral and a little spicy from the wine that he had stolen from Hugo earlier, and it feels like you've been zapped from the fervent exchange. Your body momentarily goes a little lax, making your tail drop your purse on the floor with a careless flop in favor of winding around one of his lower forearms. It's already a little sloppy and uncoordinated, fueled by desperation and want. Then again, Mammon always has been a little messy whenever he kisses, all tongue and teeth. It might have disgusted some, his outright lack of tact and finesse, but you've always found it endearing and honestly hot. It's depraved, completely filthy, and it doesn't stop you from moaning when he licks into your mouth to taste you. 

Every part of your body seems to burn like you've been dipped into melted wax. A shiver skips down the notches of your spine, quivering from the sensation of his lust clouding over you and curling up in your lungs, packing your head full of stuffing. His desire just serves to fuel your own, pilling it up on top of each other until it already has you near mindless. It's straight up embarrassing how easily he's able to affect you. To practically turn you into a pile of mush with a couple of looks and some kissing, but you can hardly find it in yourself to be ashamed. 

Both of your hands are everywhere, slipping across each other's bodies, groping and clawing. You can feel the hint of his talons pressing against the cover of his gloves, dragging over your skin like he means to leave marks. The simple thought of him scratching across you with dark, stinging streaks remaining in the wake of his sharp nails has you shifting yourself to wrap your legs around the thick of his abdomen so that you can shamelessly grind against his stomach like some kind of slut, impulsively seeking out your own pleasure. 

You can feel the vibrations of his low, mocking laugh tremble underneath you, spurring a liquid heat to build between your thighs. But the whine that leaves you is a little broken and ragged when he cruelly removes his mouth from yours to leer down at you. It makes you painfully conscious of the spit that's been smeared across your lips and the breathless way that you're already panting. 

"Look at you, grindin' up on me like a bitch in heat," he croons meanly, but it doesn't offend you, and he knows that. It's a little fact about you that he utilizes constantly for his own benefit. Your desire to take the brunt of his insults until your defenses are stripped bare and you're left to his wills and wants. You can practically feel the satisfaction rolling off of him in waves, thick and rousing and it just has you needing more. 

"Mammon," you whine brazenly, intentionally coquette. 

You can tell by the look in his eyes; glowing and craving, that it just fuels his ego, single handedly feeding into his hubris. Not that it needs to get any bigger. Regardless of that simple fact, you can't help yourself in indulging him majority of the time; watching him preen underneath your subtle praise and blatant desire; even when he doesn't realize it. Even then, it takes you by surprise when your spun around and tossed into the air as easily as a pillow. You land onto something equally firm and bouncy with a small gasp. The thick, individual threads that stick to your skin in a sultry, adherent grip, have your limbs stuck, keeping you secured to whatever surface he's stuck you to. 

His web. 

A cursory glimpse has you confirming just as much; taking in the sight of the bright neon glow of the silken twine that keeps your limbs fastened to its grip. The lack of mobility doesn't unnerve you in the slightest, instead, it has something excited smoldering inside the base of your abdomen. And the lust and ardor pouring from him, combined with the magnetic aura that constantly pulses over him does amplifies your fervor to an embarrassing degree. 

The grin on his face is sharp and smug, showing off the lethal rows of his teeth. He lowers himself onto the web slowly, his movement are all purposeful; calculated and unrushed. Intentionally dragging out his climb above you, no doubt reveling in the way that your body writhes to try and get near his own.

"You're so fucking desperate," he taunts and there's the hint of a laugh tainting his words. "Could have fooled me, with the way that you were practically eye fucking that cheap bitch." 

Your face crumples up into a light sneer, and there's a retort on the tip of your tongue. That low voice in the back of your mind is telling you to keep quiet, or else he'll drag this out more than he already is, but your sense of pride rises up to the forefront. "Well, I wouldn't have been off with another man if you hadn't acted like such a dick." 

His eyes narrow, and it could have been a trick of light, but you swear that they glow brighter underneath the shadows saturating the room. That electrical aura around him spikes, becoming palpable underneath his flaring irritation, trickling over your skin like an electrical current that makes you gasp. But he masks his indignation with a smirk that looks all too pleased, like you had blindly bumbled into a trap. 

"I really don't think that you're in position for back talk," he chides, tilting his head condescendingly as he continues his climb over you, spreading your thighs wide to fit himself between your legs with the musical chime of bells. He's settled himself over the expanse of your body, placing his topmost pair of hands on either side of your shoulders to prop himself up. Just another soft spot that he likes to take full advantage of. He knows the way that your differences in size affects you, that way that bulk of his body practically engulfs yours. It already has a thrill shooting down the nape of your neck, and your nipples harden underneath the cool silk fabric of your dress while your back involuntarily arches, seeking out the feel of him. You can't even stop yourself from attempting to grind your hips against the swell of his lower abdomen in some carnal search for friction. "It's making me feel like ya don't even want me here anymore," he says, feigning to sulk. 

You try to swallow the whine that bubbles up from your throat when he straightens himself, pulling away from you, but it escapes regardless, a little breathless and strained. He definitely heard, if the satisfaction that gleams in his eyes is any indication. He puts a studious expression on his face, eyebrows pinched close while he raises a hand to his chin like he's thinking. "Ya know, I'm pretty sure you left one of those little toys of yours after we split. "

Oh, no. 

That gives you some pause, makes your body cease the desperate roll of your hips to focus on him. It takes a moment for your brain to catch up, but once it does it's able to latch onto the fact that you did indeed leave one of your sex toys here at the apartment. One of your favorite ones in fact. A rabbit vibrator that you had bought a few years ago. You had been completely pissed when you realized that you had left it behind after you cleared what you had in his closet and bathroom, and returned back to your apartment to unpack. You had been upset about having forgotten it for the entirety of a week, but you were too prideful to text or call him about it. There was no way that would have broken your silence towards Mammon over a vibrator of all things. And it honestly throws you for a loop to know that he even kept it. 

But even worse than all of that is the smile that's stretching at the corners of his mouth. The sight of it alone has the alarm bells in your mind going off. "Considering that you don't want me anymore, I could just go get it for you. Put it in that needy little cunt of yours and let it take care of you all night." 

It wasn't an idle threat either. He'd absolutely deliver on it. It's something that he's done to you before, cruelly leaving you bound to his webbing with a toy placed on the highest setting to draw out orgasm after orgasm from your body until you were a boneless, drooling, thoughtless mess. The memory does admittedly have a thrum of heat pooling down between the apex of your legs, but the idea of not being able to touch him after so much time apart sounds like absolute torture. 

You find yourself shaking your head, chanting a series of 'no's' under your breath. He hasn't even done anything to you yet, and you've already been reduced to a pathetic pile of mush, already a little drunk from the influence of his lust and magnetic thrum. 

"Are you sure?" He presses, absolutely toying with you. His lower hands settle on your legs that have hooked around his waist to sweep up until they're rucking up the skirt of your dress and slipping underneath the fabric to pluck at the straps of your panties with the sharp edges of his gloved fingertips. The feel of his chilled touch on your heated skin leaves a buzzing trail in their path and you press your body further into their hold, savoring the pressure of them. 

"Please," you beg unabashed in your shameless behavior, but you've long since abandoned your pride if it'll just get him to actually do something. 

"Hmm," he hums lowly, squinting at you questioningly, making your anticipation rise only to snuff it out. "I don't know . . . I'm still not convinced." 

You try not to let your exasperation show. You don't want to give him the satisfaction to know that he's truly getting under your skin, though you're sure that you're failing fantastically. You could still smell his jealousy in the air, sharp and bitter on your tongue, and it gives you a pretty keen idea on how to approach this. It's obvious that he wants you to feed into his ego a bit more, wants to see you plead for him and earn his attention back to gorge those possessive urges that he has. You could definitely do that.  

"Come on, Mammon, please touch me," you whine, and your eyelids flutter when one of the golden bells hanging from the decorative layers of his costume catches on your clit from over your underwear, rolling over it in a way that makes your mouth drop open. "It's not the same if it isn't you. It needs to be you. Just you. I want you to use me, I need you to fuck me, please, plea- " 

"Yeah? You ready to make it up to me?" He asks, gripping onto your chin when you nod eagerly in response. He chuckles lowly, eyes burning in that intense shade of green while his grin stretches wide. You hardly register it when the grip he has on your hips tightens, and a quick blur has your positions switching when the silk strands of his webbing release from your skin and suddenly you're the one looking down at him, perched on his abdomen. He's practically lounged himself over his web with the top pair of his arms curled behind his head, reclining himself against the tapestry printed pillows and satin cushions. It catches you by complete surprise when he reaches with his other set of hands and manages to rip your dress and undergarments from your body with the harsh tear of fabric. 

"Well, then - " he starts, landing a cracking smack across the swell of your ass, ripping a delighted gasp from you at the sensation of the sting - "best get started. My dick ain't gonna suck itself." 

He really is so charming. 

You suppress the urge to roll your eyes at him, propping yourself up on your palms to slink yourself down from your place on his stomach and in between his legs. You meet his gaze with your own when your pull back the pointed, embroidered fabric of his motley to reveal the bulge of his cock straining against his pants. You haven't even taken him out from his breeches yet, but it never fails to surprise you how massive he is. It always takes you off guard, though it does nothing to dull the white-hot desire scorching at your body, threatening to eat you from the inside out; it only fuels it. 

He catches the lust and want in your stare judging by haughty glint saturating his expression, lips pulled back in that jagged grin. 

You really want to wipe that look off his face. 

You can't fight off the urge to lean forward, dropping your mouth open to glide your tongue over the fabric that's pulled taut over the heavy thickness of him. Trying to suck his dick through his costume like a degenerate. You moan aloud when you catch the head of his cock underneath your tongue, but you can't help but be a little disappointed when you're unable to taste him through the barrier of his pants. Though that little bit of discontent is quickly snuffed out by the subtle way that his thighs twitch on either side of your head. It has you pulling your mouth from him to take it in his expression. He's unfortunately managed to keep it unfazed for the most part, still sporting that smug smile, but you know him enough to notice the mild furrow pinched between his eyebrows that let you know he's affected. 

It gives you the motivation to reach up and unfasten the concealed buttons keeping his pants secured. You try to hide the anticipation in your movements, doing your best to stay articulate and nimble with your fingers as you pop the buttons free from their openings in the garment. Even with the confidence and desire rushing through your veins like molten sugar you have a difficult time keeping your features fixed into something unwavering when his cock springs free from his pants. He's big to say the least, almost ridiculously so. Sure, you've taken him before, but the memories never really do him justice. 

For a moment you're just left to stare dumbly. Admire, really. Roving your eyes over the length of him, appreciatively glancing at the ridges that flare and line down his shaft; shortening and tapering off the closer they get to the bulbous head. You've had a fair number of flings and lovers in the past, but he easily has to be one of the biggest you've ever taken. The first time that the two of you had sex you had almost been a little intimidated by the size of him. But with time, that intimidation quickly melted into a type of awe and desire. You can feel your body react, muscles drawing up tight and heat throbs between the apex of your thighs. 

"C'mon now, you were so fucking desperate for it earlier, " he coos, reaching down to grip himself, dragging the head of cock against the shape of your bottom lip, smearing his cum over your pout like a chilled gloss. You open your mouth to taste him, salty and musky across your pallet and you continue to lower yourself down him until you can feel him brush against the back of your throat. You can't help but hum, content from the weight of him on your tongue, the vibrations of your voice reward you with sharp hiss from his lungs. He's cool to the touch, but not unpleasantly so, and the chilled temperature of his skin is almost soothing, like a sort of balm spreading across your tongue. 

He's big enough that you can already feel the strain in the hinges of your jaw, and you try to mindful of your teeth, careful not to accidentally scrape him. There's absolutely no way that you'll be able to take all of him this way - you know from experience. It has you placing the rest of him that you can't fit in your mouth into both of your hands, using the saliva that's spread across his girth to aid the firm glide of your palms, moving them in tandem with your mouth to build a steady rhythm. It's already sloppy. Spit drips past your lips, coating his cock in a way that depraved, if not a little gross. Not that he's ever minded. Mammon always seems to prefer his head a little messy, and you've always been one to indulge him. 

You make sure to drag your tongue along the underside of his cock, stroking the point of it over one of the soft, sensitive ridges throbbing along its length when you drag your lips up to suck at the head, swallowing the precum that trickles from the slit in a generous pour. 

Tears have already begun to prickle at the corners of your lash line, blurring your vision just a bit. It's a little upsetting that it's made it difficult to see the expression on his face, the furrow of his eyebrows but the way that his mouth has dropped open for him to release a bout of ragged expletives is more than enough to dull the sting. 

It has you doubling your efforts, desperate to hear more of those breathless swears. You drop your mouth down on him until you can feel him in your throat, and the wet heat of it has him gripping the back of your head with a strained grip, claws threatening to burst through the leather of his gloves and scratch, guiding you to swallow a little bit more of him. 

You aren't even the one getting head right now, but you're just as worked up. Your entire body feels like it's being overloaded with something electrical and blazing. Your cunt is soaked, cum smeared down your thighs in a way that you couldn't bother being ashamed of. You're drunk on the scent of sex and the pulsing sensation of lust that's seemed to replace all of the air in the room, making it difficult to see past your desire and your need to taste him. You moan around his length, twisting your fists around him fervently as you suck at him with the goal to make him spill down your throat. 

"You're such a slut, ain't ya," but it's more of a statement rather than a question. "Trying to fuck yourself up against nothing like some kind of whore." 

For a moment your brain scrambles along dumbly, trying to make sense of his words when you finally realize that your hips have been rolling up against the air in some mindless instinct, and your thighs are tightly pressed together in an effort to find even the smallest bit of friction. It makes shame prickle across your tear-soaked cheeks and you're quick to halt the movement of your waist while you try to refocus on the task at hand, stroking your tongue over his throbbing girth. 

"Aw, none of that now," he chides, a little patronizing. Suddenly one of his legs is prying between your own, forcing a frayed mewl from the depths of your chest when he presses it against your slick cunt. It has your hips jerking over him, mindlessly undulating them to seek out that delicious rise of ecstasy. The laugh that bubbles up from him is demeaning. It should probably humiliate you. Make you upset.  Or at the very least motivate you to grab onto the remaining tatters of your pride and try to gain some sense of control. To make some half-assed quip or insult at him to at least to assume the illusion of authority. But you like it. You like being at his whims. It makes you feel like you're his. "Damn, you're such a greedy fucking thing. If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were trying to come for my spot." 

You can only manage to moan around his girth, trying to focus around the thick syrupy warmth that's begun to drizzle inside your skull, making your thoughts drown and sink somewhere a little fuzzy and distant. You can feel that familiar surge of heat and euphoria rising up and swelling at a rate that should be embarrassing. All you can focus on in the pressure of two of his hands holding onto the back of your head and one of your horns, using the leverage to work your mouth up and down his cock, using the wet heat to build up his own pleasure until you're practically some glorified sex toy. The very idea of it has your eyes rolling back in your skull and your hips jolt against the curve of his knee, rolling it against the slick swollen bundle of your clit. You keen at the contact, nearly gagging on the rhythmic press of his cock hitting the back of your throat.  

You can feel him pulse in your mouth, and his hips twitch with each thrust, losing the control of the even, pronounced pace that he had before until it's all but choppy and selfish. It has you doubling down on your efforts, rolling your tongue over him, swallowing even more of him down despite the how it makes even more tears trickle down your face; squeezing and twisting both of your fists around his length in a frenzied need to taste him. You want him to spill down your throat. You're immediately rewarded by his sweet, guttural groans, basking in the way that they ring out all ragged and low across the room. 

He's close. So, so close, and you are too. You feel your shared ardor and lust prickling up around you; in your fingertips and toes, burning white-hot and heavy in the cradle of your hips. Your body coils up tight, waiting to have it crest over you and sweep you under its unforgiving pull. 

And then his body is pulling up taut, back bowing until he's nearly curling over you. It takes you a bit by surprise when the grasp that he has on your head tightens in a grip that toes the line of near painful, and he jerks your mouth down onto his cock until it's snug in the back of your throat. He spills inside of you with a gutted groan of your name and a menagerie of frayed swears. "Fucking take it you fucking - shit - filthy bitch - fuck." You do your best to swallow him down, drinking down the cool burst of his cum eagerly. It's difficult with the abundance of it, and the sheer amount of it still shocks you little. But you do your best not to waste a single drop, slipping him from out of your mouth to lick up what's leaked down his length. 

You look up at him through your lashes, damp and clumped together, to admire the lazy smirk on his face. His eyes have gone heavy and a little lidded from the aftershocks and satisfaction weighing down his body. You lean into his touch when he cradles the side of your face, wiping the tears from your eye as he guides your lips away from his cock, still hard and throbbing to place all of your attention on him. He doesn't even have to ask for you to obediently open your mouth, dropping your jaw open and sticking out your tongue to show him that you've made sure to swallow all of his cum. 

"Look at that," he marvels, bells chiming. "You just might still be my good girl after all." 

You whine at that little shred of praise, rocking your cunt against his leg with even more fervor. The texture of the fabric dragging over your clit has your eyes nearly going cross, and you can't even find it in yourself to mad at the mocking way that he chuckles at your desperation. Probably delighting in the breathless moans and mewls that are pouring out of your in an unabashed surge. 

"Yeah? You want to make me happy?" He coos, all patronizing and falsely sweet. It should tip you off, and to a degree it does reach that coherent, long buried part of you. But you're already too cock drunk and caught up in all of the lust in the air to focus clearly. "Then quit fucking my leg and sit up." 

The sound that leaves you is mournful and little agonized. The very idea of that sounds like complete torture. You're so close to that precipice of ecstasy that you could taste it as much as you could feel it. Winding up your body tight and promising to drag you underneath a torrent of pleasure, all smoked honey, electrical and dulcet. 

"Mammon," you gasp with a plead saturating your tone. 

His face shifts into a fake pout, eyebrows furrowed like you've wounded him, and as obviously fake as the expression is, you can't help but be disturbed by the mere notion that you might have disappointed him. He places a hand to his chest dramatically. "But I thought you wanted to be my good girl again? And here I thought we'd made some progress."  

"I do," you insist vehemently. "I am, I swear I am."  And regardless of the pathetic nature of your tone, it's also firm in your conviction. You grip onto some of the thick threads of the webbing beneath you and you think you could honestly snap them if you grabbed them any tighter, sucking in your breath while you reluctantly will your hips to stop. You could honestly sob when you feel the heat in your cunt die out into a hungry, unsatisfied throb, but the need for Mammon's approval triumphs that want. He hums appreciatively when you get yourself to shift from off his leg and move yourself into a sitting position between his legs. You struggle not to clench your thighs together to rekindle that delicious high again.  He must be able to see the near pained look in your eyes because the satisfaction rolling off of him is thick and heavy. 

He cradles your chin in between his fingers, directing you to look up at him and center your attention onto him, leaning towards you with the rustle of fabric and the jingle of bells. But it's difficult not to track his movement when he sweeps one of his hands down to his cock, using the slick of your saliva and more of the precum that's begun to trickle from his head to aid him in jerking himself off. But you force your gaze to remain glued to his even with the nasty, languid shlick sound of his hand moving over his length begging you to peek. 

"Now you're gonna come up here and sit nice and pretty on my cock, " he orders. You can't even hide the excitement that runs over you, flaring deep inside of your abdomen and no doubt lighting up your eyes. But you should have known that there'd be a catch. That it would never be so straight forward with someone like Mammon. "And you're going to stay still and quiet. I've got a very important call to make - ya know, business and all. I won't bore you with the details, but if you try and get yourself off - if I pick up so much a twitch from those hips of yours or single whimper from those pretty lips and you can go ahead and forget cumming tonight."

All the hope that you had previously felt seems to leave your body like a deflated balloon. Despite your need to please him you can't keep your frustration from bleeding into your features and you can feel what must be the hint of a scowl twisting on your lips. But of course, Mammon being Mammon looks nothing short of entertained by the response. "Aw, don't be like that," he soothes with sarcasm coating his words while he pinches your cheeks between his fingertips. "It'll just take a second. 

Liar. An absolute liar. He's going to drag this out for as long as he possibly can, and always a masochist, you feel excitement unfurling in your gut at the prospect of it. 

"Understand?" He asks, with a wide, expectant grin. 

"I understand," you agree without a shred of hesitation. 

"Get up here then," he says, sitting himself up from his place lounged against the pillows. But then he's impatiently grabbing onto your waist before you even have time to move, flipping you around to press your back against his plush stomach, sitting you astride him with your legs on either side of his body. You can feel the head of his cock brush against your sensitive clit, making you twitch, a little tender from your ruined orgasm, but you swear that the light touch could have made you cum had it just been a little bit heavier. You have to draw in a deep breath, pulling your focus onto the chill of his body temperature seeping out onto your back as some kind of center. Serving as a kind of buoy to guide you through the deluge of thoughts, and sensations of both of your lust and that electrical aura that constantly pulses around him. It helps you to reach down and take ahold of his cock, lining it up until it's pressed against the slick entrance of your cunt, and you savor the pleased throaty rumble that it drags from him. 

He doesn't release the grasp that he has on your waist, even has you begin to lower yourself onto him. Your jaw drops when you start to sink down on his length, and your walls flutter as they stretch to accommodate the swollen head of his cock. It's something you've done plenty, but no matter how many times you do it, it never fails to make it feels as though the air has been snatched from your lungs. You gasp raggedly, grabbing onto one his free hands, lacing your fingers together with a squeeze as you continue to sink yourself down. The stretch comes with a slight burn. Lighting up a deep ache in between your hips but it's one that feels so good. It never fails to make your brain go blank. You just hardly manage to hear Mammon saying something to you. But it seems too far away and vague to make out with the delicious fog taking over your brain even though you are able to recognize the tone that he's using as encouraging and uncharacteristically soft. 

You hardly have time to register one of his fingers winding over your clit with tight, practiced movements that have liquid fire shooting up your spine. It makes your hips roll involuntarily and the head of his cock fully slips inside of your cunt with a filthy wet sound. You're finally able to make out some of his words now that the thickest part of him has finally worked past the tight ring of your entrance. "Remember when you couldn't even take me?" He asks, almost conversationally, like he isn't still teasing your clit and practically splitting you open with his cock. "But you were so eager to try. Now look at you, with your cunt taking it like a fuckin' pro." 

You drag in another quivering breath, continuing to sink down on him and for a moment you brain distantly worries, despite all logic that he isn't going to end. For a second it seems like he isn't. The brush of the ridges lining down his girth is an exquisite kind of torture, sliding against your walls in a way that has you whimpering and keening aloud. You feel so full already but whenever you think you're nearly done; glancing down to check, there always seems to be a few more inches left. It isn't until you finally feel the solid press of his thighs underneath your ass, physically keeping you from going any lower, that lets you know that you've managed to take all of him. You peer down, almost like some subconscious part of you needs to verify that you've actually fit the entirety of his length inside and when you do the sight of the subtle impression of his cock in your stomach nearly makes you keel over. It's something that you've seen before with Mammon, but it never fails to shoot pure euphoria into your veins, and the glides around your clit from his fingertips does little help you already frayed sense of self. 

You gasp unsteadily, panting like you've run a marathon and you let yourself sag against Mammon's abdomen completely, allowing him to keep you upright while you try to keep yourself tethered to reality. But Mammon, the complete bastard that he is moves the hand that had been on your waist and slips it around onto your abdomen until the soothing chill of his palm is pressed against the gentle outline of his cock. It tears a whine out from your throat and your cunt clenches around his girth so violently that for a moment you think you might cum. You tetter on the edge of euphoria for one glorious second before the sensation settles into an unsatisfied throb. 

"Look at you," he marvels with pure satisfaction. "Get a little bit of cock in you and you might as well as be fucked dumb." 

You definitely wouldn't qualify it as a "little bit." But you aren't going to tell him that. Not that he necessarily needs you to, your reaction to the girth and length of him is obviously more than enough of an indication of the affect he has on you. 

"You remember the rules?" He asks. It takes a minute to comprehend his words. His bells ring out delicately, signaling his movement before you even feel the weight of his chin resting on your shoulder while he waits for your response, sweeping his thumb over the bulge in your stomach in teasing motions. But the sensation also serves to ground you and pull your thoughts to the forefront. You turn your head as best as you can, meeting the searing green of his gaze from your peripheral vision with a clipped, sluggish nod. 

"Yeah, I remember," you confirm, a little breathlessly. His eyebrows raise expectantly, grin widening with his own anticipation, prompting you to reaffirm the list. "Keep still, keep quiet. . . And I can't cum unless you let me."  You add that last bit a little reluctantly. Mournfully. All you can do is wish that he won't drag this out for too long, even though you know you're just setting yourself up for failure. The entirety of Hell would freeze over sooner. Hopefully, he's not in the mood for breaking any records. You really don't feel like being edged for five hours straight . . . not tonight, at least. 

"Atta girl," he praises in a sonorous purr. 

And then his hands are everywhere. The finger on your clit is joined by another giving you no reprieve, and the palm that you had been gripping with you own slips free from your hold, joining its opposite to sweep up and take both of your nipples into their fingertips, plucking and rolling. It's wonderfully overwhelming and you have to fight off the unthinking urge to writhe and jerk underneath his ministrations. He might actually kill you tonight. Overload you with pleasure until you're burning and set alight with. Maybe by the end of this, there will just be your bones left. But what a way to go. 

It has you so distracted, caught underneath a blissful haze, that you hardly notice the phone that he's pulled out from of his costumes concealed pockets. You think nothing of it at first, but even in your glazed over mindset you're still able to vaguely muse how familiar the casing is. The color and pattern on the back of the device looks oddly similar to your own. But that couldn't be right. 

His thumb glides across the lock-in screen, tapping in the pin number to login and it shifts into the screensaver. The picture is familiar. Oddly so. It was one that you had taken a few years back of you and Mammon. He was towering over you with his face smooshed against the crown of your head from when you had abruptly tugged him down by one of his arms to fit into the frame. You were beaming in the photograph, riding an adrenaline high from just having gotten off one of the amusement parks more tame roller coasters, lips pulled into a joyful smile while you glanced up at the Sin who was looking a little disgruntled (because you had forced him to take you to Lu Lu World for your date and not his awful, cheap knockoff Loo Loo Land). But even through his displeased, and somewhat surprised expression you could see just the hint of a smile showing. It was one of your favorite pictures, one that came from an even fonder memory. It's your screen saver. That's your phone. A 'business call' he had said. The damned liar. 

"Oh-ho, I figured you would have changed this by now," he comments, amused and no doubt pleased. You feel something akin to embarrassment prickle at you. You were planning on changing it. Honestly, you were. You had just never . . . gotten around to it. You were initially also planning on purging your picture app and deleting the entire folder dedicated to him as well. You just hadn't done that yet either. But more important right now, is how he managed to get his hands on your phone in the first place. Or just what he's planning on doing with it. 

"Mammon, what are you-"

"Ah, ah, ah," he tuts disapprovingly. "What're the rules?"

Despite your curiosity, you close your mouth without further prompting. But even with his hands steadily building up a steady, consuming fire across your body, kneading and stroking your breasts while he continues to circle your clit with his fingertips, you can't tear your eyes away from the phone. Watching with intrigue and a dull sense of dread as he opens up your messaging app and starts searching through the names with the glide of his thumb. He's humming in your ear, low and concerningly cheery. You aren't sure what he's planning and that's what worries you. He pauses the screen with a small, "oop" and then scrolls back up like something caught his eye. It's when the screen pauses on a certain contact that your stomach sinks. 

Hugo - Lottie's coworker 

Your stomach sinks at the sight. And for a moment your brain hopes that you're wrong. There's no way he's actually going to that. He won't. 

"Let's see what kind of sick shit we've got in here." He clicks the name with a fascinated hum. But even then, you can hear the venomous edge to the sound. You don't let yourself watch when starts to read through the text thread. You can't really put attention on anything else really, other than liquid heat and electricity pouring over you, dissipating the concern and focus that briefly had. But there's nothing to be ashamed of regardless. You had hardly done anything with Hugo that could warrant any jealousy. At least not on your end. Yes, you had been cordial with him and maybe even a little intrigued, but that had hardly been anything that qualifies as outright flirting. Even Hugo, apart from some compliments had been pretty PG in the grand scheme of things. 

Your body goes lax against his abdomen when your cunt clenches around his girth, and you try not to twitch from the unanimous, harsh grind and tug from each of his fingers. His body tenses suddenly, coiled up tight like he's physically restraining himself from acting out on something. You're able to pull yourself together enough to glance back down, instinctively searching for the cause behind his apparent distress. Your eyes land on a text, one you vaguely recognize from the beginning, when you had just started talking to Hugo.  

Thursday - 7:43 PM

your ex kind sounds like a asshole. seems like he didnt deserve you, you're better off without him 

Yep. That'll do it.

You can feel the electrical current around Mammon pick up again, hot and sharp, just toeing the line of nearly becoming painful, but instead it has you gasping out in pleasure. Relishing the sensation of the magnetic aura thrumming across your bare skin, humming over your nipples and the wet heat of your cunt. You can feel it prickling over your clit, and it has your toes curling. Your head lolls back on his shoulder letting you catch sight of your reflection in the large mirror built into the wall across the room. You look absolutely debauched. Your skin was visibly peppered with perspiration; if you paid enough attention, you could see sweat glinting on your body like flecks of glitter, gleaming in in silver and gold underneath cast of the exuberant, vintage style chandelier. Your eyes have a clouded over quality to them, almost like you're intoxicated, and you suppose that you are. But the most lecherous and outright sinful is the way that you can see the impression of him appearing from within your stomach with each gulping, ragged breath you take; and the sight of his hands roaming and stroking over your body, strumming you like an instrument that he's so intimately acquainted with is the image of hedonism. So beautifully wicked, but so, so good. 

You easily could have lost yourself to it completely. All of the sensations, the scent of sex and lust in the air. But then it's back. The taste of jealousy, bitter and citrus on your pallet. It's able to rouse you from your sluggish, inebriated state long enough to recognize the muted trill of the ringback tone coming from your phone. But it's difficult to worry over that when the persistent fingers on your clit and plucking at your nipples are steadily tipping you towards that precipice of heat and rapture. Your cunt has started to flutter around his length and your abdomen clenches tight with the build of something heavy and vast rising up over you, ready to consume you from the inside out. 

You can hear the muted click of someone on the other side of the call answering - Hugo, your slow-moving brain supplies.

"Oh wow, he hasn't blocked you yet," Mammon muses aloud. "Now keep quiet. Unless you want 'im to hear."

You should make an effort to get Mammon to hang up the phone. You know that you easily could. The Sin is self-serving and obstinate at the best of times - all the time - but this is something that you could get him to stop doing with a single word. You could tell him to figure out a better way to 'get back' at Hugo and cure his jealousy in another way, and he would. But you don't find yourself even trying to get Mammon to end the call. Something about him being this insistent on proving that you're his has electricity licking up your spine. 

"Hey! This is the useless cunt that I met at the restaurant, right?" He greets, voice deceptively kind despite his words being just the opposite. There's a long pause on the other side of the line before you pick up a reluctant response, which sounds like it might have been a confused, "eer . . . yes? This Mammon, I take it?"

"The one an' only!" He replies jovially, like he doesn't have you a few good strokes off from cumming while he has a person on the line. But then again, that's his entire play. He wants Hugo to hear. Even so, you try to cling onto the rules he had set, biting into your bottom lip in the effort to keep your mouth shut and the whimpers that want to spill out tightly trapped in your chest. "Listen, I feel like we may have gotten off on the wrong foot earlier, so I just wanted to call and set some things straight to make sure we fully understand each other." 

You try to stay privy to their conversation, but it's getting progressively harder to. You have to squeeze your thighs to keep yourself grounded and sat still, but it backfires and only works to tip your closer to ecstasy. You try to pin your attention on anything and everything to keep you grounded. You tear your vision from the mirror instead to look out onto the city, focusing on the thin veil of some kind of smog or cloud that's begun to roll in, the flicker of neon lining the streets, and it appears that a building in the distance has been set aflame; lit up with green fire. That explains the fog - or more accurately, the smoke. 

It's no use though. You can still feel the pleasure fizzling over you skin and welling up inside of you. It's getting more and more difficult to hold off. Even while you try and think about a million different things. Taxes, the missionary position, Extermination Day, clowns.

Oh, wait. Scratch that last one. 

And then, horribly, a strained moan sneaks out from your throat. For a moment you're too caught up in the haze clouding over your head to even register the sound. And you probably wouldn't have if you didn't catch sight of Mammon's delighted, almost maniacal expression grinning back at you from the mirror in your peripheral vision, all sharp edges and a little feral. He looks all too pleased by your slip up. When he speaks next his voice has taken up that low, resonant tone that melds around his accent. "I just wanted to soothe any concern you may have had for my favorite girl. I can promise you she's in good hands. " And then, like the twisted bastard he is, he's lifting the phone from his ear to hold it closer to you like he's tring to capture all of the filthy sounds coming from your body. "I mean, if you could see the way she's soakin' me - " he whistles high and astonished -" it's a fuckin' sight, I tell ya." 

You try to keep your mouth shut so that Hugo doesn't hear and figure out what's going on. But it's difficult to swallow down the noises that Mammon keeps trying to pull from you with his nimble fingers, and then he's gliding his fingertips over your clit in heavy, mean circles that has your back bowing taut, and the seam of his glove catches on the sensitive nerves in a way that has your jaw dropping open. His fingers twists and glide over your nipples to add to the fire, and with just a couple more strokes you're practically blindsided by the molten electricity and bliss that rushes over you in an unforgiving stream. You cum with a loud pornographic cry as you twist and writhe underneath his attention, cunt clenching around his length in a wild spasm while your body tries to wring itself of all of its pleasure. For one moment your mind goes completely blank, leaving you just feel. The world drowns out underneath the onslaught of euphoria that wracks through your entire being, and the only thing that keeps you even remotely present is the cool press of his chest and stomach supporting your back. The chill of him soothes your heated skin, influencing your body to go slack over him. 

You have to remind yourself to breathe, drawing in labored gasps while the pleasant haze of endorphins hums through your veins and thrums within your skull like syrup and static. 

"Like I said!" Mammon says suddenly, reminding you of your current predicament. There was no mistaking what you and Mammon were doing. Hugo absolutely had to know the King of Greed had just made you orgasm while on a phone call. You feel a little flash of embarrassment, but it's so muted and distant. Buried deep and virtually nonexistent. "She's in good hands. So, if I see you anywhere near her, I'll gut you open like a fucking pig and scatter what's left of you all over Hell." 

You hear Hugo's muffled response, a little frantic, skipping over his words but before he can get out the rest of his plea or reassurances, Mammon hands up the call, and carelessly tosses your phone to the side. You don't manage to pick up the sound of a harsh clatter, so you can only hope that the artisan rug saved it from fall damage. You're still too sluggish and dopey to fully register the eager and starved quality that's melded into his lust. But the energy serves to rekindle your own fervor on a kind of subconscious level, even while your body still twitches with subtle aftershocks. He only gives you a small sort of reprieve, slipping his fingertips from your nipples to greedily knead at your breasts. But the touch on your clit doesn't waver it, it only lightens by a few degrees, still swirling and sweeping unforgivingly. You catch his faux pout in the mirror's reflection; pretending to be displeased and disappointed, but you can see the excitement bleeding into his features; lighting up the fiery chartreuse of his stare. "I didn't give you permission to be so noisy," he complains, and his eyebrows pinch close. "It's almost like you wanted him to hear you." 

"I was just giving you what you wanted, " you reply, dipping your tone into something soft and alluring. Sure, maybe it was a little stupid prodding at the Sin of Greed, and you know that you're playing right into his little ploy, but you can't stop yourself. If you tend to his ego some, he might be a little lenient on whatever 'punishment' he has in store for you. You reach a hand up to cradle his cheek, guiding his face to tilt down enough to press against the crown of your head. Affection blooms in your chest when you catch the way that he tries to subtly lean into your palm, trying to soak up its warmth. "That was the point, wasn't it? To prove to him that I'm yours?" 

You can feel his hips twitching underneath you, and the small shift works his cock in you just a little deeper. You gasp at the sensation, still hypersensitive and tender from your pervious orgasm, but even then, it doesn't fail to send a trickle of desire pooling down your back and in the center of your abdomen. Honestly, you're beyond shocked that Mammon has managed to hold himself off for this long. He's never been the one for self-restraint, and the amount that it must have taken to keep him for thrusting up into you must be monumental. That deserves to be rewarded a little bit, right?

Of course, you can't be too heavy handed with your praise, as much as he loves it when people sing him compliments and applaud his endeavors. It can't lean anywhere that makes him feel as though as he's not the one in control. It has to be delicate and subtle. At least while he's still coherent. Once he's a drooling mess, that's a different story. But you'll get to that. 

"Come on, Mammon," you beg, squeezing yourself around his cock while you work your hips against him in faint, gentle swirling motions. His eyelids lower, and you can see his grin waver just a bit, and it might as well as be a visual fracture in his resolve. "I want you to use me. Make me forget him, please." 

The grip he has on your breasts fall and take ahold of your hips, and that's the only warning you get before he's picking you up and lifting you up and down on his cock like a toy. It punches the air from your lungs in a way that's almost violent, and it leaves you scrambling, mindlessly clawing and gripping onto his arms in an effort to orient yourself. You can't even hear yourself anymore, but you're sure that you sound absolutely mindless right about now. You can feel every moan and cry that he forces from your lungs with each thrust. It feels like you're being burned alive, raw and merciless, and it has a fresh round of tears prickling at your waterline. You're still too sensitive, but it hurts so good that if he stopped, you're pretty sure that you might actually die.  

"Damn - fuckin' hell, you're already squeezing me, and I just started," he laughs with a kind of awe and pride. It shocks you completely, because he's right. You can already feel your cunt fluttering around the delicious drag of his girth, the ridges running along his length and the finger gliding over your clit building up the fiery pleasure, making all of your muscles winding up tight in the preparation of another orgasm. But maybe it really isn't all the surprising with the way that he's passionately fucking you onto his cock, like he's determined to have you both finishing as soon as possible. "You're mine. All mine, " he says, reaching up to grip your throat. Not to restrict your breathing, but enough to feel the pressure of his grip. 

"Yes," you agree brokenly, nodding dumbly because that's all you can really manage. "Yours. I'm yours." 

You can feel your grip on reality slipping away and fraying with each sharp grind, until your consciousness and sense of self is as good as a pile of mush. You're completely gone, lost with the confines of your own body and the euphoria soaking in bone deep. Your second orgasm sneaks up on you just as easily as the first, leaving you useless and practically immobile, leaving you to just take it. It isn't long until he reaches his climax, only a couple of thrust later and his release is filling you with a cool rush, and a ragged groan. 

But he's not stopping. He keeps thrusting into you, unrelenting and hungry like he's been caught in some kind of frenzy, and you're all too eager to take the brunt of it. His hands are everywhere, the sharp points of his claws are lethal enough to peek through the tips of his gloves and leave, exquisite, stinging marks in their wake, marking your skin. You can distantly feel his cum trickling out of you, being forced out with every slide in and out of your cunt. It's so nasty. You can hear the wet slap of your hips meeting each other, the breathless sound of your shared moans and swears. You aren't sure how many more orgasms he pulls from you. The both of you. Mind seems to blur together in one useless spill, and you're hardly able to even count the waves of pleasure that crest over you and rolls down and through your body in frothing, hot waves. 

You're coming off of a sort of high when you regain a shred of coherence. Pulled out of the fog when you feel the wet drag of Mammon's tongue sliding up your neck, tasting the salt and lust on your skin. You instinctively tilt your head back, giving him more access to your bared throat. He rumbles, guttural and soft at the display, inspiring a dopey smile to quirk at your lips, and it doesn't fade, not even when the deadly points of his fangs bite down enough to leave superficial bites behind. Neither of you have stopped moving, ceaselessly grinding your hips against each other's, not enough to create space for any decent thrusts, but just enough to create a small spark of stimulation, like you can't bear to stop despite the number of orgasms you've both had. 

"Think you've got one more in you?" He asks, lapping at the blood that has welled up from the bite marks, gently nibbling at the junction of your neck; teeth dragging to leave the stinging impression of them behind. 

"Hell yes," you answer quickly. 

"C'mon then, gorgeous, ride my cock. Show me how much ya missed me." 

He lifts you up again, just enough to reposition you, flipping you around without removing you off of his girth to face him. He lets himself fall back against the cushions and pillows in a relaxed lounge, making it easier for you to place your palms just beneath his chest for support as you perch yourself to bear most of your weight onto the balls of your feet and hands. He's already impatiently jolting his hips against yours while you try and find a comfortable position astride him. You can't find it in yourself to get upset by his restlessness, not when you can feel him physically holding himself back from moving too harshly. Something that requires a large sum of control and delicacy considering how much larger he is compared to you. Despite the size difference, his strength never fails to surprise you, how easily he lifts you around like you weigh nothing. Everything about it makes you embarrassingly turned on. Like how far your thighs have to stretch around his hips until there's a burn in the hinges of your joints just so you can place your legs on either side of him. 

It's enough to have that irresistible hum of pleasure pouring down and over your body, prompting you to lift yourself up his length, moaning and gasping as the ridges placed along his girth brush along your walls. You pull yourself high with your thighs until he's in at just the tip before you impale yourself on the rest of him, taking him in deep in a single thrust, swiveling your hips in your downstroke. The pace that you set is a little unforgiving on your legs, but it's already worth it with that way that his head rolls back into the sprawling pile of cushions. He's definitely just as tender as you are, but Mammon's never been one to shy away from a little overstimulation - something to do with being the Embodiment of Greed maybe, something to do with excess. And with all of the orgasms he's had tonight, you can already tell that he's tipping towards that mindless, drunken headspace that he occasionally achieves. 

"Oh, yeah, that's the stuff," he groans out in that accented lilt, deep and already a little gutted. Even without any pupils, you can tell that his eyes are rolling back in his skull. There's a little bit of drool smeared around his lips, glinting underneath the glow of the lights and it just inspires you to try and drag him in deeper to that blissed out headspace. He's already so close, precariously dangling over that wonderful edge. He just needs a little push. 

"You're feel so good, Mammon," you praise. You catch the way that his hips skip a little in their rhythm at your words. "You're the only one who can make me feel this way. There's no one else like you." 

His eyes lids flutter, but an arrogant grin makes an appearance on his face before quickly melting into a silent, open-mouthed gasp. "O-of course there isn't," he manages to say, even while you can see the rare tint of a monochrome blush staining his cheeks. It fuels your own carnal want, dousing it like gasoline on an inferno, driving you to ride him with even more ardor. He grips onto your waist like he needs the feel of you underneath his palms to stabilize himself underneath the barrage of ecstasy. 

The scent of your shared desire hangs heavy in the air like a special cocktail, a particular type of aphrodisiac that left you a thrall to pure debauchery and instinct. You can practically taste it, melting across your tongue all heavy and musky, saccharine and spice; a flavor that you couldn't find anywhere else if you tried. It's enough to have your body gravitating towards that debilitating pleasure and based on the blissed-out expression on Mammon's face, he isn't far off either. 

"So good, Mammon. It's just you, always you, " you moan, and the place between his brow's crinkles close. Your eyes are barely able to track it when he's propping himself up on a single hand, giving himself the leverage to reach up and loop something thin and smooth around the stretch of your neck. It's strong despite how fine it feels, like a silk thread - webbing. It's webbing. He grins when he tugs you forward with the makeshift collar, curling his body around you like he can't stand any sort of unnecessary space between either of you. His lips meet yours with a relieved groan, asking you to open your mouth with the split point of his togue, nipping with his teeth. You whine and moan into him, thrusting down onto his cock from how his thread tightens around your neck, more of a suggestion than an attempt to restrict your breathing, but it spurs you on even more. The pair of hands on your waist start to wander, one drifting up to cup your ass in a tight squeeze and the other dips low to roll the back of his knuckles over your clit. For a second it makes you lose the steady, deep drag of your pace, and your lungs snag on their breath, making break your kiss with a whine. 

"Don't you dare fucking stop," Mammon demands in a tone that's frayed and little slurred. "Keep going. I wan' it, I want it - fuck." His tucks his head into your neck, tracing the shape of his web with the dexterous glide of his tongue. You can feel his lips moving against your skin in some kind of repetitive chant and it takes a little while for your ruined brain to make sense of it. You can hear him whispering in a hushed, frayed voice: "Mine," over and over again as he licks and sucks at your skin, intent to leave marks behind. 

He pushes his hips up against yours in a punishing pace, plunging his cock up into you, hitting that devastating spot inside of your cunt that has you sobbing. Your hands claw at him, searching and gripping onto the layered fabric of his motley, twisting the material into the clutch of your fists while you try to hold onto the rest of your sanity, but you don't think that you'll be able to. It's all too much too soon. You can't hold on as much as you try to. Not while he grinds a knuckle against your clit, shoving his cock into you relentlessly, making any semblance of a coherent thought evaporate from your head as though they had never been there. You can feel it sweeping over you like you're a pathetic piece of debris caught with the current of a swelling wave. You can feel that magnetic vibration building around his body, catching you in its field and dancing across your skin, letting you know that he's just as close as you are. 

You gasp his name like it might save you, even while you're begging to be eaten alive. It's all so overwhelming, so consuming that you don't know what to do with yourself. How to cope with the scope of the emotions and sensations; the scent of you both and all the sounds bombarding your senses. It isn't a conscious decision when you pull Mammon down a little further and sink your fangs his neck, piercing the fabric that keeps it concealed. But it's hard enough for you to taste something like spiced iron flood across your tongue. 

The reaction it gets from you both is immediate. His body draws up tight while he gasps out a harsh, "fucking hell - shit - " and you can feel him pulse inside of you before you're flooded with another gush of his cum. The feel of it, the chill of it and the sheer amount is enough to trigger your own orgasm. Your vision goes dark, a vignette marring your sight while a white-hot tide takes control of your body, leaving you a passenger in your own mind. And for one blissful moment you don't even exist. You don't have a job, or an apartment with judgmental neighbors. You don't have a favorite food or a particular song that you listen to on repeat. For a moment it's just you and him. 

It takes everything in you to cling onto him. Your wings flare out involuntarily, body twisting while your cunt clings around his girth like it's trying to work him for all he's worth. You can feel that searing bliss in every part of you. From your toes to the pit of your abdomen, making your eyes roll in the back of your skull while you ride out the tail end of your pleasure and everything fizzles into a gentle darkness. For a minute everything is still. Peaceful and gentle while feeling comes back to your limbs and you remember how to breathe. But it's ultimately a familiar scent that guides you back to reality, light with the twinge of leather, earthy, warm and smoky. It sort of smells like money. It smells like Mammon. You lean into it, nuzzling your face into something soft and expanding with breath. 

It's enough to make you open your eyes that you hadn't even realized had closed, to look up. The small motion takes a great amount of strength with how sapped your muscles feel, even with the last bits of lust still thrumming in the air and energizing you, but you manage. Mammon has collapsed back against the cushions with you clutched against his stomach with each of his hands gripping some part of you. Even from this angle you can see the pleased, almost dopey smile on his face as he sightlessly stares up at the ceiling. It's such an uncommon expression to see on him, untainted by his usual snark or hubris, but the rarity of it always makes you cherish them even more. 

But then you see a furrow pinch between his brows and his mouth purses in clear annoyance. It has worry prickling at your skin, nestling in your gut like a block of ice, but before you can ask him what's wrong he's speaking. "I can't believe you were gonna leave me for that shitty little bloke," he grumbles. He tries to sound harsh and unbothered, but you swear you can hear something fragile peeking through the rasp of his voice. 

"I wasn't actually interest in him," you assure, answering honestly, propping your arms on his stomach enough to hold yourself up. "A friend had set me up. I just - I don't know. I was . . . I needed a distraction." 

"Which friend?" He asks suddenly, sounding a little too intrigued.

You squint at him suspiciously, letting a short bout of silence fall over you both. "No. You aren't allowed to kill them." He visibly pouts at that, and this one is actually genuine. You entertain the thought of making a joke. Of steering the conversation somewhere humorous to save the both of you from something that might be too real, too bare. But you know you can't. If you're going to try and do this with Mammon again then these kinds of talks need to happen.  "That wasn't just sex talk, I really didn't want him, Mammon. Not for a single second." 

His gaze sweeps down to you, and you're sure that you catch something vulnerable flit across his expression; eyes minutely widening with what may have been relief, but it was so quick that you barely get any time to register it. He schools his features into something indifferent and nonchalant before you can truly take it in. "Psssh, of course you weren't interested in him. How could you be when you've got me." 

"Exactly," you agree, watching him preen under the comment, inspiring you to lean into his ego a bit to draw him out of whatever dark thoughts may be running around in his head. "It would be stupid if I did."

"Dumb as shit," he agrees eloquently, with his brash charm. 

It has a laugh puffing from your chest, and it's quickly followed by a heavy drowning warmth in your chest, like a sun was caught within your bones. It's purely fond. Full of endearment and love. You love him. Fuck you love him, even if it tears you apart. It might be stupid, a road that leads to a dead end or a perilous cliff, but you couldn't be bothered to stop on your path to possible self-destruction. You don't know if the true scope of your emotions is returned. If Mammon is even capable of feeling something like raw, selfless love. Probably not. Compassion and consideration don't exactly align with his function as the Embodiment of Greed. Of being avarice incapsulated inside a body to fulfil a particular purpose within Hell. But you always held out hope that there was something in there. You've seen the pure affection displayed by Asmodeus for Fizz; living proof that a Sin could be more than its role, its basest instinct. If the personification of Lust could find and express love, then just maybe Mammon could to. 

Wow, look at you, being hopeful in Hell. 

You're broken out of your internal struggle when Mammon shifts, tightening his grip around you to keep you secured to his body as he tilts on his side. He curls himself around you even more until his chin is resting on the crown of your head, engulfing you in the breadth of him and his scent. It's enough to settle the torrent inside of your mind, replacing those insecurities and replacing them with comfort and contentment. You can feel the gentle fuzz of sleep beginning to lap at you, seeping into your limbs and weighing them down. You want nothing more than to sleep. To let yourself fall into the dredges of unconsciousness with the soothing chill of Mammon's temperature wafting over your body like a balm. But it's a little difficult to do that when every inch of you is still damp with sweat and his cum is still steadily pouring down your thighs from around the weight of his length that he's yet to pull out, flowing with each small shift or movement. 

"Mammon?" You ask, listening to the steady draw of his breath, hoping that he hasn't fallen asleep, but even then, the pattern is still too quick for him to be unconscious. You purse your lips, sighing audibly. "Moo?" You try again, and sure enough at the sound of the corny nickname a simple, but questioning grunt rising up in response. 

"We're going to need a bath." 

"Eughhh," he groans, low and already thick with the desire to sleep. "Fuck." 

[stealingyourbones]

I don't really get the people who think reading the comics is such a radical idea. Don't they want to learn more about them? aren't they curious what makes them tick? what insane adventures they went on? what fears they have? what makes them laugh and smile? I'm from europe so I haven't seen any of the DC shows I see mentioned every once in a while (which means I really don't get the whole Clark hates clones thing... but that's a different thing) and it's only been this year that I have enough disposable income to splurge on comics, aka I haven't read that many just yet.

But I do think the ones I have read enhance the stories I'm trying to tell, which to me is a good reason to read them ;p but besides that, they are fun! they are just really fun to read

I’m glad you’re having fun reading comics man! It’s a shame that folks don’t read them as much but you know, I can understand it. I both asked some folks in the Haunting Heroes discord server and have some of my own points to make about this.

First of all I do still believe that you should consume some form of DC media if you’re in the fandom. It’s fun and there are comics, books, movies, tv shows, and every other form of medium known to man that you can take a peek at! Idk I’m just a bit DC enjoyer and think that looking at canon media to expand on your knowledge and help create ideas you wouldn’t have had if you hadn’t looked at said piece of media.

Now onto why reading comic books is hard:

Some folks simply prefer the fandom and not the official DC content. Whether they prefer fanon, find fics more accessible, or like the people in the fandom, they’d rather just stick to the fandom.

They simply don’t know where to start. Getting into comics can be INCREDIBLY overwhelming ( DC has done their best to fix this and has messed up more than once. My go to is to reccomend folks just start reading New 52 comic runs as it’s really good for new readers to jump into the comics with any hero that might intrigue them). Big comic events span multiple comic story runs and not a cohesive line of comics, some omnibuses for stories are out of print, the 80+ years of comics are daunting as hell, and everyone has their own opinion on the best versions of a character/where to start/what to read.

Money. Comics are an expensive hobby to have. They may cost $1-$5 each on average but that price adds up over time. I have a comic collection of roughly 1,300 comics. I’d estimate its value very roughly around the $7,800 range. It’s probably far more than that though and I know damn well reselling it I won’t get half of that value back. I’m very fortunate to be a college student with disposable income and for this hobby to be the only thing I ever really spend money on besides rent and food. Some people either can’t afford them or don’t want to buy a comic they don’t know if it’s good or not.

Varying quality. Comics are a very mixed bag thing where they can be incredibly written or some of the worst pieces of media you’ve ever read. With this being the case, it can be really hard to find a comic character or writer you like if that’s your first experience. It takes a while to learn about different writers and find out who your favorite writers are. What’s harder is some writers can make absolute masterpieces with one character and the next comic run they cover it can be absolute garbage. Not only that, everyone has opinions on what is a good comic run or not. It’s impossible to find a repeatedly stated and easily accessible list on the good comics to read.

Pretentious “Canon is God” fans. Experiencing “um actually this isn’t good because this isn’t how the canon character would act” responses from people can really fucking suck and diminish their want to experience anything that’s official DC writing. I’ve seen more than one person go into this primarily fanon focused space and insult people saying their writing isn’t canonical and therefore it isn’t valid. It’s Uber Pretentious, demeaning, and actively harms peoples interests in checking out canon content.

Timelines. I already kind of said it but DC’s timelines are a mess. hell, even New 52 has some fucked up timelines making all of Batman’s previous timelines canon but happen only within a seven year period. That’s WAY too short for how much history is packed in there. The amount of crisises that happen and fully change the lore and timelines of characters is bonkers, the comic runs that bounce between different comic runs are really confusing, and the fact that there isn’t a True Starting Point for reading makes it so hard to grasp anything that’s happening. It’s one of comics biggest issues and no matter what DC has done they have yet to find a convenient solution.

Sensitive Content. Comics from DC are littered with either intentional, badly aged, or ignorantly written plot points and writing choices that will turn away readers. DC has its fair share of sexism, misogyny, abelism, racism, abuse, sexual harassment, sexual assaults, or topics casually addressed that can be very triggering for some people. Especially since a large amount of that sort of content is handled incredibly poorly. One particular writer, Alan Moore, writes sexual assault scenes with absolutely zero tact or the delicateness that a topic such as that should be held in. It’s almost solely used as a “let’s make the bad guy do the most fucked up thing they could do” throwaway plot point. Comics of the sort dissuade a lot of readers because of both the heavy content within comics and how that content can be incredibly poorly handled. This is partially why some folks would prefer to read fics. Comics are a unknown mixed grab bag when it comes to content like this and things exactly like this is known to make PTSD symptoms worse while fics have tags and can warn you before you consume the content within.

Time. A lot of folks have busy lives and just don’t have the time to read them.

The ways they intake media. Some folks might have a better time watching a long commentary video that explains a comic or their brain can’t process the comic medium very well. I can read and retain comic knowledge but even I am unique in this aspect, my memory is frightening levels of bad and is proven by science to be absolute shit. I have to reread comics at least once a month to retain the basic bare bones plot. Just because one person can easily digest what’s going on in a comic doesn’t mean everyone can.

Comics are such a big part of my life. I love them so much and they’ve gotten me through so many things. My own experience with comics isn’t the same for others and my thoughts on reading comics differs with other people. A lot of people have equally as many reasons for why they don’t read comics as you and I have for reading them.

[kiss4noo]

my seatmate is the best man? – p.sh

꒰ 💒 ꒱ A PARK SUNGHOON [성훈] ONESHOT!

genre. fluffy fluffy fluff! .˚⊹ pairing. non-idol,,best man sunghoon x maid of honor fem reader. ໒꒱ warning(s). prepare to feel some embarrassment and see some sickeningly cute content. word ct. 1310

synopsis .ᐟ you just so happen to sit beside a handsome man on the plane when traveling to your best friend’s wedding destination– only to embarrass yourself by spilling some of your drink on him. however, what happens when you find out he’s the best man at said wedding– can you avoid him through the whole weekend? or does fate hold a different outcome?

꒰ 💬 ꒱ mi note. this idea came to me so suddenly, i had to get crafting. this is actually one of my favorites– and it of course includes a musical element. (play we are stars by the pierces for the full effect!) to my regulars, you probably think this’ll have more singing– but it’s just a dance scene.

if you enjoyed this fic, please like and reblog! it's always appreciated :)

enjoy, my lovely readers. xoxo, mi. ‹𝟹

also! this one is dedicated to the sweet @pshbites who is so dear to my heart. please check out her smau as well, love on air!

this tale begins with a flight– a journey packed with clumsiness, brooding, and discovery. while this love story falls beneath the cliche archetype, within no means does it reflect the traditional style of romance.

and it all started with marriage, funny enough.

you see, your best friend, mariella, scheduled her wedding over the expanse of a three-day weekend. your flight was expected to land in verona, italy– her destination of choice– by 2pm on friday.

when you arrived at the airport, everything was running rather smoothly; despite the grumpy staff who glared as if you prevented them from enjoying their morning coffee. you’d succeeded in checking your luggage and proceeding through the extensive security, settled at your boarding gate before your flight.

and it seemed anxiety free, because once you’d boarded the plane, you’d found your assigned seat which happened to be an empty row– where you'd be sat beside the window.

it truly couldn’t have gotten any better… right?

oh, how wrong you were. any trip was bound to have a bump in the road– at least that’s what your gut screamed.

an incredibly handsome boy– that you would assume is your age– sat beside you, lost in his own world of headphones and music. through the hours of being in his presence, you’d sneak glances from your romance novel to admire his features.

and even if he did notice, he made no comment, content as the flight continued. however, when the flight approached its landing and everyone was discarding their garbage– your clumsiness appeared at the forefront.

the flight attendant approached your row, holding out a garbage bag with gentle hands, to which you attempted to reach over and dispose of your half-empty water cup. except, you’d lost your grip, the liquid splattering all over your cute seatmate’s hoodie, causing you to release a gasp.

“oh my gosh, i am so incredibly sorry–” you frantically apologize, glancing up at the boy, eyes wide with horror.

the male simply stared at you with crinkled eyes, a playful smile on his face. “it’s alright, no harm done here. it’s only water, it’ll dry.”

from that moment onward, throughout the twenty minutes it took for the plane to land and to exit the aircraft– you’d avoided glancing in his direction, even scooting to the far left of your seat.

and when you’d exited your flight? you immediately rushed to find your best friend who’d agreed to meet you at baggage claim, leaving the embarrassing experience behind you.

but, miraculously, you found yourself at mariella’s wedding rehearsal that same night, meeting the groomsmen for the first time. and to your surprise, the best man just happened to be him.

the same boy from the plane, your seatmate, and the one you’d spilled water all over.

he’d literally be your partner walking down the aisle, the one you lock arms with.

“well, shit.” you muttered under your breath at the sight of his pearly smile, proceeding to shake hands in greeting– to which you’d learned that his name is sunghoon.

even as rehearsal continued, you’d avoided him at all costs, outside of practicing the ceremony. it was dreadful to put simply, that your embarrassment would continue to follow you with every glance in his direction.

thankfully, nobody noticed– not mariella, not the groom, jake– and anybody else in the bride and groom’s respective parties.

it was now saturday, the day of the wedding. you’d completed the process of getting ready, assisting the other girls with their makeup and hair– each of you dolled up in mariella’s chosen color. pictures were taken for each party, the bride and groom, and any others that the couple requested.

the ceremony began early into the day, the process running as expected, effortless after the continual practice from the night before. despite the unease of being beside sunghoon, he kept you grounded, ensuring that no mistakes were made as he guided you down the aisle.

and as the ceremony concluded and led into the festivities of the reception, you chose to be alone. with no plus one, or much connection with the other guests.

despite the few words you’d shared with your best friend, it was her day, and you didn’t want to distract her from the joy of her union with your sulking.

you’d watched with a smile as the newly wedded couple shared their first dance, overjoyed to see mariella have her happy ending.

even throughout your speech, dinner, and the disperse of their cake– you’d lingered at your assigned seat, fiddling with your fingers.

with music playing in the background, guests began to crowd the dance floor, freely congratulating and celebrating with the bride and groom, smiles and laughter throughout the hall.

and as a slow song played, a figure kneeled in front of you– your eyes trailing to meet his.

“hey, pretty girl.” sunghoon greets with the softest voice, extending his hand. “come dance with me.” he invites, waiting for you to place your palm in his.

with a soft sigh, you stare up at him with unease, biting the inside of your cheek.

“okay.” you agree, placing your palm in his– allowing him anchorage to tug you gently from your seat.

“we are stars,” the music hums in the background as he guides you onto the dancefloor, hands finding a secure place on your waist.

“relax, sweetheart.” he mutters, only loud enough for you to hear, urging you to stand beneath the shadow of his towering frame.

“fashioned in the flesh and bone, we are islands,” the music envelopes you and sunghoon, granting a bubble of privacy.

“you’re beautiful.” he praises, a gentle smile tugging at the corner of his lip.

“thank you.” you whisper, staring up into his dark orbs, captured in a dance of longing and discovery.

“excuses to remain alone, we are moons,” swaying with one another, you avert your gaze for a moment before returning it to him.

“y/n.” he calls, raising a hand to capture your chin between the pad of his thumb and knuckle of his forefinger.

“yes?” you question slowly, entranced by his sharp features and moles littered across his skin. 

“throw ourselves around each other, we are oceans,” he admires you for a brief pause, his expression softening.

“you spilling water on me was an accident.” sunghoon firmly mutters, as if trying to convince you.

“i..” you try to speak, only to be cut off by his next words– in which you release a sigh.

“it doesn’t need to be carried with us.” he finishes, dipping his head to lean closer to you.

“being controlled by the pull of another,”

“and i, just wanna be loved by you,”

“your clumsiness doesn’t harm me, in fact, it only made me want to be closer to you.” sunghoon admits, his lips brushing against your forehead in a quick kiss.

“give me a chance, pretty girl.” he retracts from your skin, causing you to stare up at him.

“yeah i, just wanna be loved by you,”

“okay.” you agree, nodding your head in a visual display of your consent. “i’d like that.” you admit in a gentle voice, hands moving from his chest to wrap around his neck.

“i see nothing worse than to sail this universe without you,” the music fades, your movements not once faltering as sunghoon leans in to press his lips to yours.

“we’ll change our seats for the next flight. i can’t have you sit beside another man and spill water on him.” he teases, his lips brushing against yours in a playful dance.

“oh, definitely. there’s nobody else i’d rather spill water on anyway.” you respond in taunt, your laughter meshing into one as you share a sweet kiss, comfortable in each other’s arms.

and with that, your embarrassment was left behind– your clumsiness leading your boyfriend straight to your heart.

꒰ 📎 ꒱ taglist. @greentulip @nshmuras @wonsdoll @pshbites

how to be added to my taglist : click here!

[smashorpassgilf]

This seems like the perfect place to send this story. Once I rented a huge construction/garbage disposal bin to clear out my basement and some neighbors asked if they could throw in this huuuge long log/tree which was of course fine with me. But apparently this elderly (70's?) man in a truck saw it and knocked and asked if he could take it which again was fine with me. I figured he'd need to call a friend or two to get it out and into his truck. No. No. I watched this man jump in there and haul it out himself and strap it to his truck. I saw the whole thing from the window. He was clearly in shape and compactly muscled but I had no idea. I still think about that guy 2 years later lmao. I can only hope his wife appreciates what she's got because ummm 👀

Holy shit 👀

[fuctacles]

Steve has barely started college, and he’s running late again. But this time he passes the ridiculously long line by the café and runs straight to the lecture ball. He can do it without a coffee. Or rather, he can charm his way into someone else’s cup.

He makes it just in time and runs down the rows of seats looking for a target. Skips the white girl lattes and gym bros protein shakes. If only he could find a half-alive artist type or…

Bingo!

He slides smoothly into the empty space next to a guy dressed all in black. He has long hair, multitude of rings and tattoos. The whole package. Even the mug in his hand was black with a skull.

Steve turns on his charm as he leans in.

“Hey, man. Hate to be so forward, but may I have a sip? Couldn’t make it to the café today.” He gives the man his best puppy dog eyes. Sometimes it even works on Robin so he knows it’s good.

The man studies him for a second and seems to be an even tougher opponent than his bestie, but then he just shrugs.

“Have at it,” he says and pushes the mug in Steve’s direction.

“Thanks, you’re a saviour.” Steve smiles brightly at him and revels in the warmth of the metallic travel mug. The warmth in his mouth and seeping into his bones.

And the completely wrong taste.

He bristles, gulps down what has already hit his tongue, and starts coughing.

The guy just watches him without much of a reaction. The professor eyes them and turns out to be more sympathetic.

“Everything alright there?”

“Yeah,” he calls back, eyes on Steve. “Went down the wrong pipe.”

Steve feels like strangling him. He looks up with watery eyes.

“Are you drinking hot chocolate? At 9 in the morning?!” He barely manages to keep it a whisper. At least now he’s feeling fully awake.

“What? Read one too many "I like my coffee black like my soul” text posts?“ The guy raises an eyebrow and Steve is not going to blush at being called out like that. He did totally judge him based on his looks alone. "Besides, it has espresso in it. I’m not a complete freak,” he adds, sipping his caffeinated chocolate abomination.

Steve sees it as a spark of hope.

“Sorry,” he whispers, straightening in his seat to start paying attention to the lecture. “I’m Steve, by the way.”

Should have probably started with his name, but first impressions are already ruined, thrown in the garbage disposal and on their way to the sewers. Might as well try and not make his first enemy in a new city.

It takes long enough for the guy to respond, but the quirk of his mouth makes not-enemy turn into possible-ally.

“Eddie.”

masterpost

[rocknrollsalad]

rating: G cw: creepy christmas ornaments, pranking each other tags: steddie, platonic stobin, Buckingham, everyone lives together in this apartment, sometime in the future, a cursed version of elf on the shelf word count: 999

written for @steddieholidaydrabbles prompt "ornament"

ornament inspiration here

“What the hell is that!?!”

“Santa,” Eddie responded, annoyed Steve would dare to ask.

“No, Santa is a jolly, fat man. That is…I don’t know, stuff of nightmares.”

Eddie turned the face of his pipe cleaner St. Nick to face him as he reassured the ornament it wasn’t a nightmare. The painted-on face and sad eyes made it look like the ornament disagreed.

“Do you often dream about old men?” Eddie asked and shared a silent laugh with the ornament.

The thing looked terrifying enough but Eddie interacting with it like it was real made it worse. Steve would take a demogorgon over this thing any day. At least he knew how to get rid of a demogorgon.

Ignoring the question meant to bait him, Steve addressed the real problem. “That’s not going there. Not in our tree.”

“He’s the centerpiece, Steven. This is his holiday,” Eddie scoffed.

“Fine,” he said, stomping off to take a shower. Eddie could enjoy the few hours he had with it because the instant his back was turned, Steve was going to bury that thing in the woods. Perhaps learn a few things about vampires or demons to prevent it from coming back to life.

No one talks about this when they make a big fuss over moving in together. It’s always “get used to snoring” or “you’ll never have any private time” like they weren’t piling four people into this cramped apartment. No person, magazine, or advice column said anything about dealing with someone’s terrifying holiday decor.

They also don’t talk about what to do when that same bit of decor is on your pillow, tucked in and cozy.

“Eddie!” Steve bellowed.

Robin popped into the doorway, “He went out to get some candy canes to hang on the tree, said it was real important to the holiday look. Chris went with him.”

“Great. You up for planning a murder,” Steve motioned to the creepy Santa “sleeping” on his pillow.

“Murder wouldn’t be enough, we need to burn the bed,” Robin shuddered and walked back out of the room.

Steve followed, thankful someone was on his side here. “Wanna go to the library and look up what to do with it?”

“Please. Chrissy wants to make him reindeer friends and a wife.”

“Oh god, not her too.”

“If anyone was on Eddie's side here, it’d be her.”

It didn’t take them long to hatch the groundbreaking plan of hiding the Santa. They’d lie and say they put it back. Steve would make vague threats about it going in the garbage disposal if it was in his bed again and everyone would move on. Eddie didn’t believe the lie and dismantled the whole tree.

When Steve went to bed that night he felt a bit guilty but if Eddie wouldn’t listen to reason, this was the only course of action. Steve could not have that thing haunting him from the Christmas tree for a whole month. This was what had to be done.

The next morning, feeling a bit too safe, Steve trudged to the bathroom to get ready for work. Going through the motions, he opened the cabinet to get his toothbrush only to find it in the arms of the stupid, awful Santa. Forcing Steve to touch it and the decades of dust caked into it's bristles. He hated every part of it. Time to do something bigger.

So Steve took it to work with him, left it there on purpose, and refused to answer questions about it. The next day it was buckled into the driver’s seat of his car with broken candy cane bits all around. The hook of a candy cane had been sucked into a point and left in Santa’s hand. Steve wasn't the only one raising the bar.

For their next move, Robin went to three different stores to find red pipe cleaners. They chopped them to bits and left them on the dinner table. A few cotton balls were also sacrificed for Santa's beard and it looked like they'd ended things once and for all. Something Steve wished he could have done for real but Eddie came with so few things. Ruining one, regardless of how terrifying it was, seemed like a step too far. Just hide it until Eddie forgot it existed, that was better, right?

Two nights later dinner was the little bits Robin had staged and the actual Santa. Steve was sure the delay in reveal was so Eddie could try and find one of those silver domes to put over this “meal”.

Steve walked the plate into the “office” they’d created in the dining room to give nerds space for their hobbies. Eddie sat smug at the head of the table, the “I’ve been expecting you” was loud but not spoken.

“I’ve come to call a truce,” Steve said, putting the plate down on the table, suddenly wishing Eddie had found the dome so he could hide the awful face.

“You forgot the white flag,” he said with an arched eyebrow.

“Don’t push it.”

“What’s the deal, then? Santa gets prime spot in the tree? Right at eye level? Oh! No, he's the star on top!”

“Counter offer; I let Robin chop the real thing up.”

“Okay. What if, like the real Santa, we put him up Christmas Eve before bed and he stays until the new year?”

Steve thought the offer over, he didn’t like it but if they were coming to a mutually beneficial agreement then he’d have to give a little. For all his people-pleasing ways, Steve was in a safe space so he dragged out the internal debate.

“Fine but he has to go on the side, I don’t want that to be the first thing I see when I come home.”

Eddie didn’t debate, he showed his cards immediately and lit up like the very tree they were talking about. He jumped out of this chair and grabbed Santa, cradling it like a precious animal. “Deal!”

[sundew199]

Random Reiner HCs (sfw)

A/n: a mix of relationship and non-relationship, some are modern day. Again these are just my headcanons, and just for fun :)

Will sing girly pop songs with you in the car, does not care.

Cannot sit on the couch for longer than 5 minutes or he’ll fall asleep and stay asleep for the rest of the day, you better hope and pray y’all don’t have plans

Has a HORRENDOUS farmers tan 💀, looks like he’s still wearing a shirt when he takes his off

Will only play videos games if Gabi and Falco ask him too, other than that he doesn’t play that often, but does like to watch you play your games. It’s like having your own narrator/commentator :)

Sets at least 10 alarms to get up for work in the morning but doesn’t wake up to any of them, you have to wake him up after the nth alarm by practically shoving him off the bed

Garbage disposal, will eat anything you cook without hesitation and don’t even think about buying snacks because they’ll barely last a day

Physical touch is one of his love languages 100%. If you don’t feel like cuddling in bed he’ll still find a way, like making sure his foot is touching yours 😭

He’s Bob the builders long lost brother, you’ll mention wanting a piece of furniture vaguely and he’s already putting together a mental list of the materials he needs to build it for you

Naturally fit, doesn’t need to go to the gym often to maintain his physique

Bisexual. (And I will not be elaborating)

Doesn’t mind doing skincare with you or letting you use him as a makeup canvas you just gotta convince him first,

Ironically isn’t that great with money, not extremely irresponsible but you have to hold onto his wallet or he’ll buy the entire store if he feels like it

Played sports in school, but never got that into them. He was naturally good and coaches loved him but couldn’t find the passion

Old man trapped in a younger body, swears he feels 50 when he’s only in his early twenties

He snores but SWEARS he doesn’t

Lowkey really bad at texting people back, prefers to call. And if he does call, clear your schedule cause it’s not going to be a quick one (you don’t mind hehehe)

He can be sooooooo dramatic if he wants to be. Over little inconveniences mostly he just wants to be babied, baby him >:(

Drives a truck and I mean like a 90s model Chevy pickup that he’s had since high school that he’s fully restored and is insanely proud of. Has not even considered getting a newer truck because he just can’t let go his older one (first big purchase he made, so it’s sentimental, leave him alone)

Very rarely has a filter, and not in that kinda way, he just sometimes says what he thinks out loud and you have to pretend you didn’t hear him and move on 😭

Is so blind to flirting, like total blindness. You had to finally spell it out to him that you LIKED him and not as a friend for him to realize what you were doing. It’s gotten worse since you and him have been together because he still doesn’t realize when other people flirt or throw themselves at him (he can be such a himbo, I love him)

Cat person

Very in tune with his emotions. Wasn’t always like that since he had a rough childhood but after going to therapy after high school he doesn’t conceal his emotions anymore and can be upfront at times

Does NOT play about you. Reiner is a very sweet caring person but the second he notices you’re uncomfortable around a guy/girl a flip switches and he turns into the intimidating beefy dude that no one wants to fuck with. (It’s lowkey so hot)

Worships you, (obviously) by buying flowers at least every week or two so that way they never die. Date nights, weekend trips, the whole nine yards. He loves spending time with you and showing you how much you mean to him

Grew up catholic, doesn’t practice anymore due to the conformity pushed onto him. Isn’t really religious in general but does believe in a high power.

Wants a big family. At least two kids, maybe more if you’re willing. Doesn’t like the idea of his child not having siblings like him and also just loves family orientation in general. Definitely a big family guy. 

Good with kids 😈

If you use any lingo around him like say: girl, girly, pookie, bae, dawg, homie, bro, etc. he will eventually start to use it unironically until he can’t stop. (I may be projecting but it’s funny so idc.)

[gravedwe11er]

Here's the second part of my Mecha AU coswave! First part is here, third and final chapter coming soon. Inspired by @cosmique-oddity and the Mecha AU by @keferon

On Earth, a bitter war against the quintesson invaders rages on. Alone on a slap-dash little shoebox of a space station, Cosmos keeps watch from above. As it turns out, he's not the only one.

“You haven’t actually told me why you’re here yet,” Cosmos asks the next morning between quick bites of his breakfast, excitement thrumming in his veins. Chicken sandwich today- one of the nicer options available here. He generally tries to save them for special occasions, but he’d say he deserves to treat himself, considering the hectic events of the day prior.

After he’d shaken off the worst of his shock, he’d only had time to ask a few things- what the mech/satellite was (a sapient, living machine), whether he was an alien (yes) and what his affiliation to the quints was (their kinds were enemies, at war, just like humanity was) before his alert systems started screeching again, this time not stopping for hours.

As it turned out, a whole quintesson force had managed to hide itself on the Moon somehow, choosing that moment to reveal itself and heading straight for Earth. Which- yeah, that was kind of a disaster, seeing as it gave them basically no advance warning. Cosmos spent the next eight hours hurriedly relaying enemy positions and watching with bated breath as the combat began down on the surface. Eventually, their mecha had managed to kill most of the invaders, but the casualty counts had been higher than usual.

Needless to say, Cosmos hadn’t had much energy to keep questioning his new acquaintance after that. The last thing he did before falling asleep was look up the ‘satellite’ Soundwave was, ah, impersonating? He’d quickly found out that yes, Soundwave was indeed a perfect replica of a Galileo satellite, even logged in the systems as a functional member of the constellation, which- that was incredible, actually. Definitely explained why nobody noticed him.

Cosmos had wanted to ask how he’d managed that, and, for that matter, what happened to the real satellite which used to be there, but sleep had taken him before he could unstrap himself from his bed and ask.

And if his curiosity led him to postpone his morning exercise regime and go interrogate an alien robot instead? Well, it’s not like anyone’s here to tell on him.

[Primary purpose: information gathering. Secondary purpose: curiosity.] Appears in the corner of one screen, shaking Cosmos out of his thoughts.

“Gathering information? On what, humans? Earth?”

[Affirmative.]

Cosmos huffs, amused, crumpling up the wrapper from his breakfast and floating over to the garbage disposal with it. “Could you please elaborate on that?” he asks, tossing the packaging in before turning back. When he returns to his workstation, and answer is already waiting for him there.

[Motives: multiple. Soundwave: became aware of quintesson attacks led on another planet, tracked communications to approximate location. Cybertronian ship Lost Light: recovered organic-piloted mech, claiming Earth origin. Soundwave: noted-]

Wait. “Wait a moment,” Cosmos says hurriedly, thoughts racing. “Organic piloted mech from Earth? Do you know their name?” Because if it’s who he thinks it is, then-

[Human designation: Jazz]

-it would be answering some very big questions.

Anybody who keeps up with the news around the pilot program knows that name. People on Earth have been bashing their collective heads against the wall, trying to figure out how a whole mech could just disappear like that, only for Cosmos to find out that, what? The poor man just- ended up in deep space somehow? It’s wonderful to hear he’s alive, but- wow.

[Cosmos: knows Jazz?]

“Know of him, more like. I’ve only spoken to him once, when he was leaving low orbit on his test flight. Most people know of him, though,” Cosmos answers, running a hand through his red curls. “The whole thing’s been a big mystery, ended up in the news and all. Actually, I should probably inform mission control about this. I’m sure they’d want to-”

A new message flashes on the screen immediately, in bigger letters than usual. [Request: refrain from sharing information with other humans.]

Cosmos freezes, his hands halfway to the keyboard, a frisson of unease sneaking up his spine. “Why not?”

[Soundwave: wishes humans to remain unaware of Soundwave’s presence.]

Which, alright, he supposes that makes sense. Soundwave was quite obviously planning to remain undetected, seeing as he spent an entire month pretending to be an ordinary satellite. Still, though- “Again, why? I don’t want to pry, but what’s the main issue here? A lot of people have been worrying about Jazz, and I think they’d appreciate knowing he’s alive.”

There’s a significant pause, just enough for Cosmos to start getting anxious, before the next message appears. [Humans: fearful, unpredictable, dangerous. Soundwave: alone, vulnerable. Request: refrain from sharing information with other humans temporarily.]

Right. That’s- fair, actually. Cosmos supposes Soundwave is probably not wrong, in this regard. Humans already do some… morally dubious things to their own people, so it’s not too far-fetched to worry that they’d try to, what?  Dissect the alien mech, perhaps? Or something equally as cruel. And even though Soundwave is a very capable fighter, most likely strong enough to keep himself out of their hands, they’d definitely be able to make his stay here difficult. Maybe even enough to leave.

And- Cosmos is surprised to realize how much he doesn’t want that. He’s only just met the mech, and there’s so much more he’d like to ask. For god’s sake, he’s an actual, real alien! How amazing is that? Not to mention, Soundwave is inherently fascinating, not only as an otherworldly being but as a person too, and Cosmos feels like he’d regret it for the rest of his life if he drove him away.

However, he does have a duty to his superiors, and humanity itself. He’s obligated to report on any anomalies, which this most certainly falls under, but- would it really be so bad if, just this once, he didn’t? If he kept this one thing to himself, at least for a little bit longer?

“…You said temporarily?” Cosmos asks eventually, the slight change in the mech’s wording finally catching up to him and bringing him out of his warring thoughts.

The screen remains blank for almost half a minute, and the silence feels weighty. Important, somehow.

Cosmos waits. Then, a new row of text finally begins unfurling in front of his eyes.

[Additional information: Lost Light en-route to Earth, intending peaceful alliance with humans. Jazz: on board. Soundwave: transmitted location of Earth three earth weeks prior.]

[Strong request: refrain from sharing information with other humans until arrival.]

Cosmos exhales, trying to process it all. It’s obvious from his hesitation that Soundwave hasn’t really planned on telling him any of this, and he recognizes the gesture for what it is- a show of trust. And all he’s asking in return is that Cosmos do the same.

If Soundwave isn’t lying, then this ship of theirs is coming to Earth, bringing Jazz back home. Along with an unknown number of very combat-capable alien robots.  And sure, Soundwave hasn’t seemed hostile so far, towards him or humans as a whole, but- Cosmos has known him for a day. He could be wrong about the mech, and soon enough, an alien attack force would be coming along to finish off what the quints started.

Or, Soundwave might be telling the truth. Jazz really could be alive and well on the- Lost Light, was it? The incoming aliens might turn out to be much-needed allies, a crucial step to humanity finally gaining the upper hand over the quints.

Either way, he has no way to know. Which leads him back to the matter of trust.

Is this a gamble he’s willing to make?

“…Alright. I- I’ll keep it to myself, for now. But please tell me once they’re almost here, alright?”

There.

He’s not sure why, but he does trust Soundwave. Or, at least trusts him enough to believe he means no harm. Stupid? Maybe. But his decision is made, and his intuition is telling him to go with it.

The screen in front of his face lights up with another message. [Terms: accepted.]

Well, and that’s that.

-

Despite having just met an entirely new species of alien, the following two weeks are surprisingly uneventful for Cosmos.

Aside from periodically questioning Soundwave about anything and everything he could think of, his usual routine remans pretty much the same. Exercise, stare at his screens, force down a few tasteless meals, repeat. The mecha teams on earth mopped up the last of the quints’ latest attack within two days, leaving him with not much to do aside from stewing in his own thoughts.

His thoughts haven’t been very kind to him lately.

In the absence of work, his mind never fails to remind him of just how alone he is. His fingers prickle with a chill no sweaters or blankets can chase away and a persistent, aching itch makes itself at home beneath his skin. No amount of calls with his ma or texts from his colleagues can banish it entirely, only lessening the feeling for a few scant moments before it’s back with a vengeance.

Not even his conversations with Soundwave help as much as he hoped- the cybertronian is so fascinating, not to mention an absolute delight to talk to once you get past his odd speech pattern, but the topics they discuss usually aren’t anything close to intimate. Cosmos would very much like to change that, learn more about the mech as a person but, well. He’s never quite sure how to broach the subject.

So he stays silent, keeping their talks to professional curiosity, while the chill in his soul grows day by day.

Sighing for the fifth time in as many minutes, Cosmos finally gives up on the book he was trying (and failing) to read, putting the tablet aside. He’d picked some highly reviewed romance novel, hoping it would help him feel- if not better, then feel something, at least. But to no avail. It’s not that the story is bad, or the characters boring, but watching the main leads hold each other close and whisper sweet nothings into their lover’s ear only succeeds in making him more miserable.

Today marks his third complete month on this mission, with three more still to go. Three months since he’s felt the warmth of another living being, since he’s seen another person face to face. It’s making his mind stray to some unfortunate places.

More and more, he finds himself reminiscing on his mum’s hugs, his old college roommate who’d huddle next to him on their tiny couch while they studied, and even the one crappy ex he’d had years ago. Horrible; yes, he knows, but sue him, he’s lonely. The man might have turned out pretty awful in the end, but he had been the perfect size for cuddles. Cosmos catches himself imagining the weight of him in his arms, dad’s arm around his shoulder or giant metal hands, holding him ever so gently in their palms- wait.

No, wait, what?

Cosmos blinks, rapidly shaking his head with a grimace because seriously, what even? That is- well, preposterous, really. Soundwave is a perfectly nice…alien, sure, but still, come on! Although, now that he thinks about it, he does imagine the mech would be quite warm, despite the metal of his plating, and- gah.

He really must be going mad up here.

Rubbing his hands over his face, he tries to force the beginnings of a flush away from his cheeks, only to flinch when the chime of an incoming message startles him from his embarrassing thoughts. And speak of the devil, here Soundwave is, and Cosmos wishes he was on Earth just so the ground could swallow him whole.

[Query: Cosmos status report?]

“Are you- asking about my data, or how I’m doing?” he says into the headset, puzzled. This is the first time Soundwave has contacted him unprompted, and he’s pretty sure he’d have no reason to be asking after Cosmos’ information. As far as he’s aware from their conversations, the mech is something of a master spy amongst their people, so why-

[Clarification: requesting report on Cosmos’ wellbeing.]

“Me? Oh, uh, I’m alright?” he says, still somewhat confused but also…a little pleased, perhaps. “Why do you ask?”

[Cosmos: displaying unusual behavior, showing signs of unease. Query: status report]

“Showing signs of- wait, you can see me?”

[Affirmative. Statement: camera present in monitor room accessible to Soundwave.]

…Today really isn’t his day, huh.

On one hand, it makes sense. Soundwave seems to have his eyes and ears everywhere, so why not on him as well? And it’s not a bad feeling, to know he cared enough to ask after his wellbeing.

On the other, if death from sheer mortification is at all possible, then Cosmos is a goner.

He knows the camera’s there, of course. Usually, he doesn’t even mind it; the knowledge that either some random worker, or more likely just an automated monitoring system, is keeping an eye on him doesn’t bother him at all. But knowing that Soundwave is watching? That Soundwave saw him, what? Moping for days on end, getting misty-eyed about cat videos and sci-fi novels, and blushing over the thought of getting the giant robot version of a hug?

God, somebody come put him out of his misery.

The console pings again, somehow louder than before, and Cosmos pulls his hands off of his tomato-red face to look. Another request for a status report stares back at him.

Shaking his embarrassment off to the best of his ability, Cosmos takes some time to consider his answer. He’s not sure just how much of his inner turmoil he wants to share with the mech. Then again, isn’t this what he’s been waiting for? A chance to get closer? And here Soundwave is, reaching out of his own volition, serving him this opportunity up on a silver platter.

“I- When you’re away from your people like this, is there someone you miss? Someone who’s waiting for you back home?”

 A momentary pause. Then, [Query: reason for question?]

Cosmos sighs. “It’s just- right, so. Humans, we’re a very social species, yes? We form very close relationships, both platonic and romantic.”

[Soundwave: aware.]

“Alright, good. The thing is, we don’t do very well when we’re alone,” which, understatement of the century, especially in his case. “Back in the day, an astronaut being sent to space alone would have been unimaginable. It would be against all sorts of protocol. However, we don’t really have any resources to spare nowadays, so here I am. And I’ve been… struggling a bit.”

No response is forthcoming, and the silence only drives Cosmos to ramble even faster. “it’s just- and it’s not even just me being alone up here. I can still interact with other people, but who can I really talk to? I mean. I haven’t kept in contact with old friends much, god forbid I ever speak to my ex again and the other watchmen… they’re alright, I guess? But we haven’t really clicked,” he says miserably, running both hands through his hair.

“Which just leaves my parents, really. And they’re wonderful, don’t get me wrong, they’ve always been supportive of me, but-“ he chuckles a little, “they have a corn farm, in Iowa. They love me, and I love them, but they don’t really get it. So…yeah. I guess you could say I’m feeling a little lonely.”

Still no response. Just when Cosmos is starting to regret ever opening his stupid mouth, an odd, metallic voice crackles through his headset.

“Their designations: Rumble and Frenzy, Ravage, Laserbeak - Symbionts. Megatron - oldest friend.”

Cosmos stares, eyes wide. Soundwave talks? Because- well, he honestly thought that maybe their kind, the Cybertronians, just, didn’t.  Or couldn’t. Guess he was wrong there. But, also-

“Symbionts?” he asks. He knows what the word means, of course, at least in an Earth context, but has no idea what to imagine when it comes to giant shapeshifting mecha.

“True meaning; difficult to describe in English. Closest approximation: dependents. Family.”

Family. Alien robots have family.

“And are they- alright?”

“Affirmative. Megatron- powerful, capable. Symbionts: on assignment, alive, in relative safety. However, they are-“ here, his headphones crackle slightly. It makes Cosmos think of a sigh. “-missed.”

And Cosmos’ heart melts. Because even in that somewhat flat, mechanical voice, he can hear the longing. The same longing which haunts him on lonely nights, turning his skin to ice. Soundwave understands.

Soundwave is alone out here too. Just like Cosmos.

“That’s,” he stumbles on his words, swallowing, “it’s good they’re alright. But… it still aches being away from them, doesn’t it?” he chuckles awkwardly. “At least, it does for me.”

Another crackly sigh. “Cosmos: correct. Cybertronians; Highly social species. Isolation…unpleasant.”

Cosmos sighs too, because- what else is there to add? For a few moments, they sit there in silence, some sort of solidarity stretching between them. Two lone souls, connected only by a mutual understanding and a microns-thin radio frequency. Then, Soundwave speaks.

“Cosmos: good conversation partner.” He says, before his voice suddenly changes. “Your company is appreciated.”

And oh, that sounded different. With most of the stiffness now gone out of the sound entirely, Soundwave’s voice is a smooth, deep baritone, only a faint metallic echo still audible when he speaks. That means something, right? It leaves Cosmos a little choked up, even as a small smile grows on his face.

“I’m glad,” he says softly, looking up at where he knows the camera is. “And, for what it’s worth- I enjoy our talks as well. I- well, it helps me too. A lot. So, thanks.”

“No thanks necessary,” comes from his headphones, still in that new voice. Soundwave’s real voice, he thinks. And- though he still misses his family, misses touch and people like an amputated limb, his heart feels warm for the first time in days.

[temis-de-leon]

Day 24 - Mistletoe kiss

Characters: Diavolo x gn!MC

25 kisses challenge Masterlist

Main Masterlist

CW: based on my Christmas experience with my christian family, Diavolo is kind of drunk, cultural misunderstanding, pre-established relationship

.

Celebrating Christmas brought a stabbing sense of betrayal to their heart. It felt wrong, spending this specific holiday surrounded by the most powerful demons in Hell, and although Simeon and Luke saw no problem with it, MC still found trouble sleeping at night from the guilt and uncertainty.

Their human family had ceramic miniatures for the nativity scene and they dutifully recreated it with care and caution every year, shooting star and everything. Once, when they were a child and their family spent more time than usual to prepare it, they gave the farmers baskets with eggs, as well as hay stacks for the horses and fishes for the fisherman; moss and rocks, trees made of branches from the garden and wrapping paper simulating a starry night.

It was a tradition where they used their creativity for bonding and MC cherished the memories very much.

Now, however, Lucifer wanted them to help him hide presents for his brothers, one of them being Satan and another one being the Lord of Flies.

The whole situation made them feel a little nauseous, so they tried to ignore it to an extent.

Fortunately, the demons seemed to prefer celebrating Santa Claus over the Three Wise Men, and MC was deeply thankful for that, even when they were so unfamiliar with the fat bearded man dressed in red.

In the end, spending time with loved ones was the core of Christmas, right? MC was happy with that conclusion. Plus, wearing costumes and pretty clothes was fun and Diavolo's parties always ended up being a great time.

And there they were, at the late hours of Christmas Eve, half of them already passed out and the others drinking their way to sleep. Lucifer and Mammon resting against each other, mumbling nonsense that only they could understand; Belphie completely unconscious over Beel's lap, who was perfectly content being the garbage disposal at the table; and Levi and Satan playing some crime solving game on one of the sofas. Asmo was the only one who left for a party downtown and Luke was sent to bed hours ago. Barbatos and Simeon were stopping Solomon from doing something in the kitchen.

And Diavolo? Diavolo was staring right at MC. 

He'd been discreet for who knows how long, but the Demonus made him careless and obvious and MC managed to catch him more than a couple of times over the last half hour.

“Is everything okay?” they finally asked in a hushed voice, not wanting the others to pay them any attention.

Being completely alone with the prince wasn't the easiest of tasks and their growing feelings for each other begged them to put more effort in it.

Clearly tipsy, the redhead slowly blinked and looked at them in surprise, not expecting the question. He cleared his throat and passed a hand through his hair before laboriously getting up and offering a hand.

“I have something to show you” he said with slurred speech, eyes halfway closed and cheeks tainted in deep red.

MC tried to ignore the knot in their stomach with no avail, accepting the gesture and walking beside him to a nearby corridor,. They observed as he closed the door and trapped them both in dense silence.

There were multicolored tinsel in the walls and an overly decorated wreath in the wooden door, but, for some reason, Diavolo was timidly looking at the ceiling. 

They followed his gaze, staring at the berries wrapped in ribbon. Although it felt familiar, MC couldn't identify it. When they looked at Diavolo again, he was blushing even more.

“So…, do we…?”

“Do we…?”

“Kiss”

His voice was soft and deep, like caramel, and it made MC's heart flutter, but it was his words what made them gasp.

“Only if you want to” he quickly clarified with worry. Doubt crossed his features and MC forced their words out of their mouth.

“I do want to kiss you” they basked in his relief, even when they were stammering “But I didn't expect for you to just… say it!”

“You didn't? But I brought you to the mistletoe! Doesn't it work like that?”

Diavolo's face twisted in embarrassment, like a child who got their homework wrong.

“Oh Dia…” they sighed in pity, grabbing his hands with care “We don't do that in my country”

He stayed silent for just a second before letting out a chuckle and placing their hands on his chest. He was smiling, not bothering to hide his interest in their lips anymore.

“Let's try again, then. Would you allow me to kiss you, MC?”

They immediately stood on their tiptoes, earning a loving smile. He bent down to close the distance, stopping only to lift them before kissing them again at the right angle.

Christmas in the Devildom wasn't so bad, after all.

.

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Taglist: @ourfinalisation  @owlisbuffering  @chizukimp4  @ravenredwine @darkflowerav  @craftysclown @mehkers

[comradekarin]

as promised hotties I listened to a downloaded version of the song on twitter and let’s just say… megan’s law still clears. yapped a whole bunch of nothing as if her man can’t be around kids. megan probably won’t (and honestly doesn’t need to) but if she were to bring up you being on the powder on live, your pedo brother, your father, or meek mill, ion wanna hear none of that crying shit-

EDIT: here’s the twitter link if you want to listen to a garbage disposal for yourself

[justagalwhowrites]

New in Town - Ch. 3: First Family Dinner

Sarah comes to visit and has questions for Joel. A continuation of New in Town chapters 1-2 found on Tumblr here.

Pairing: Best Friend's Dad!Joel Miller x Female Reader

CW: Smut :D Yeah, they're horny, OK? Just expect a lot of smut in this fic. No use of Y/N. Age gap (reader is 35 Joel is 47, not a focus of the fic). Minors DNI, 18+ only

Length: 5.1k

AO3 | First Chapter | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Joel actually felt pretty damn smart when he got to his house. He stopped at the trash bin that sat outside the garage and dropped his now empty coffee cup into it, just in case Sarah asked why he’d gone to the place with the name stamped on the side of the cup. 

He didn’t have a good fucking reason to be at a coffee shop by your apartment besides being at your apartment. And he knew he wasn’t ready to tell his daughter about the fact that you two were… whatever the fuck you were. 

What were you doing with him? What did you want with him? Why was it so hard to know and why was he so fucking afraid to ask? 

Didn’t matter now. The morning Sarah showed up to surprise him with a visit was not the morning to be having this discussion. 

“Baby Girl?” Joel called as he closed the door behind him, dropping his keys on the table in his entry way. 

“Dad!” Sarah flew around the corner and launched herself at him, just like she’d done when she was a kid. He caught her, the air knocked out of him, laughing as he caught his breath. “I missed you, old man!” 

“Missed you too, Baby Girl,” he said, setting her down and stretching out his back. “But you’re gonna have to cut me a break, think my back is gettin’ too old to be catchin’ you like that.” 

“How am I supposed to properly shower you in affection if I can’t just throw my whole body at you?” She smirked. “But fine, I guess if it’s for the sake of your health…” 

He rolled his eyes and tugged her against his side, kissing her temple. 

“Just gotta have you move back closer to home,” he gave her a squeeze. “Wouldn’t need to tackle me if I just saw you more.” 

“Yeah, I’m working on that,” she smiled. “Trying to get promoted from junior copywriter to intermediate so I can come to the Austin office sooner rather than later…” 

“That’s amazing Baby Girl!” Joel gave her another squeeze before leading her to the living room and settling on the couch. “I’m sure you’re close, they know how good you are.”

“Speaking of my grand plan,” she said. “I see you’ve been hanging out with my work wife.” 

Joel coughed to try to hide his surprise. 

“What?” He asked after a moment. 

“Well I know you didn’t do the Seattle Zombie 5K last Halloween,” she nodded at his shirt. Joel felt his stomach drop. “But I know we did.” 

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. 

“Not doing a walk of shame are you?” She asked, her eyebrows raised. 

“You ever known me to be the walk of shame type?” He asked, scrambling for a reason that he’d have your shirt. “I just fixed her garbage disposal for her a few weeks ago, got soaked. She was nice enough to give me a clean shirt so I wasn’t drippin’ wet on the drive home. Didn’t realize it’d made it into my dresser is all. I’ll have to wash it again, give it back…” 

“But you are hanging out with her then?” She asked. “I mean, you said give it back like you were going to see her again so…”

“We went out once since I helped with the sink and shit,” he said, telling himself that it wasn’t a lie, not really. You’d only successfully made it out of the house together once. Sarah scrunched her nose. “What, Baby Girl?” 

“Nothing,” she sighed. “I was just hoping you guys would be friends is all. You’re both kind of alone down here, you know? I worry. I don’t want you doing nothing but sitting in the house doing… whatever weird old man stuff you do.” 

“I don’t do weird old man stuff…” 

“And leave her alone too long and the next thing you know she’s on the dating apps and she ends up going out with some total idiots,” she said, ignoring Joel’s protest entirely. “Really, Dad, her taste in men is shit and I’m not here to keep her busy, I was kind of counting on you here.” 

Joel frowned. 

“Not on you to protect her,” he said. Though, from what little he knew, Sarah was right. Your taste in men was shit. “And I’m sure she’s got better things to do than hang out with someone who does ‘old man things…’” 

That was something that Joel had been thinking about a lot over the past two weeks. Yes, you seemed to be about as insatiable for him as he was for you and he didn’t have any damn clue as to why. But he could think of plenty of reasons why you shouldn’t be. How long was it going to be before you realized that he didn’t offer you much? He couldn’t take you to fancy restaurants every week or on nice trips. He wasn’t interested in another child and you were still young enough that you might want to be a mother. His body was often sore and worn after decades of damn near breaking himself to make a living. How much longer would you be wanting to pull him into restaurant bathrooms and make yourself come on his leg because you just couldn’t bear to wait anymore? How much longer could he text you to bitch about work while on a break at a job site and have you respond with a gif from Sharknado because you knew it would make him laugh? How much longer could he look at the selfies you sent him and think to himself “that’s my girl,” even though you weren’t even his girl now let alone in the future?

He was already in too deep with you, way too damn deep. Someone was going to have to pry you out of him, you’d already settled inside his skin and he liked it that way. Liked thinking of you first thing in the morning and just before he fell asleep, liked that you were the first thing on his mind when he got lunch at a food truck and he stumbled on something really good, liked that you showed up with his favorite beer and some obscure snack food when you came over to his place because you said you saw it and thought of him.

“Her taste in men isn’t dangerously bad,” Sarah waved him off. “Just… she tends to go for guys who definitely don’t deserve her, you know?” 

“Yeah,” Joel sighed. “I know.” 

Fuck, did he know.

“Anyway,” she said with a dramatic eye roll that reminded him of when she was a teenager. He smiled a little. “I’m in town until Wednesday! I know you’ll have to work…” 

“I can take a few days off,” he said quickly. “Get Uncle Tommy to make sure shit doesn’t go sideways…” 

“Awesome!” She perked up at that. “Because I think there are at least two Curtis and Vipers I haven’t gotten around to seeing yet and I’m going to require a handcrafted Dad burger - preferably grilled - while I’m in town. My apartment doesn’t let me have a grill on my balcony, it’s so dumb.” 

“Probably a fire code thing, Baby Girl,” he smiled. “But I think we can swing some movies and a cookout while you’re here. Tommy’d love to see ya, Maria too.” 

“Can we start by jumping in the pool?” She asked. “Because I haven’t gotten to swim in months.” 

“Might be a bit cold…” 

“Please,” she scoffed. “This is mid-summer weather in Seattle, plenty warm enough for a swim.” 

Joel smiled. 

“Whatever you want, Baby Girl.” 

The water was definitely colder than Joel would normally jump into but, for Sarah, he’d do just about anything. 

He was still getting used to drinking with his daughter, the two of them floating around the water with beers most of the day. Joel got out for a bit to make sandwiches - he put potato chips on Sarah’s just like he had when she was a kid - and he just listened to what she’d been up to, hanging on her every word. 

Joel had always felt incredibly lucky to have Sarah as his daughter. There were the obvious reasons, of course. She was kind and thoughtful, she was smart as a whip and loved to do well in school to the point that he almost never had to tell her to do her homework, she actually liked spending time with him. But she never had a problem being open with him about damn near anything. 

It wasn’t always the most pleasant experience - hearing about boy problems when he couldn’t actually intervene was harder than Joel had expected it to be - but he was grateful for it. He never had to wonder what his daughter was up to, she just told him. 

Part of it, he was sure, was because he’d asked her to grow up too fast. He hadn’t meant to, of course, but it seemed to come with the territory of single parenthood. There was no one there to back him up when he had to work late, no one there to take over the child rearing when he was sick or just so exhausted from work that he slept through his damn alarm. Sarah fell into the role of second parent, sometimes raising herself as much as Joel had. 

He was just happy she didn’t resent him for it. She seemed to recognize how hard he’d tried to give her everything, do everything he possibly could to make her happy and give her a good life. Even if it hadn’t always worked, he’d always tried. The fact that she’d made it to college on scholarship, that she’d finished towards the top of her class, that she’d gotten a good paying job doing something she liked to do, the fact that she was happy and doing something with her mind instead of breaking her body down like Joel was every damn day of his life was the proudest he’d ever been of anything. 

Could he really risk his relationship with her for you? Yes, you made him happy. So fucking happy. You were the first thing in years that he felt like he really, truly wanted. And it had hit him hard, so fucking hard. It was like he’d saved up all his longing just for you, like it had been waiting for something powerful enough to show up and unleash it all and it had knocked him off his damn feet. 

But you were Sarah’s best friend. 

“So one thing that’s seriously lacking in the Pacific Northwest is good TexMex,” Sarah said, lounging on a pool float, her face tilted toward the sun, eyes closed. “Think we can go out for dinner tonight? I need enchiladas and tamales and I need them sooner rather than later.” 

“Only if you don’t get mad that I ask for the real spicy salsa,” Joel said. 

“How did I end up so cursed that my two favorite people love to melt their tongues off as a hobby?” Sarah sighed. “But fine, order the miserable stuff. I’ll just get the regular salsa like a normal person.” 

Joel scoffed. 

“The normal ship has sailed with you, Baby Girl. Me and Tommy around you so much? Never stood a chance.” 

Just an hour later, he and Sarah were headed into her favorite Austin restaurant. Joel added it to his mental list of places to take you. It was Sarah’s favorite for a reason, after all. 

“Table for two,” Joel held up two fingers to the hostess but Sarah cut him off. 

“It’s three, actually,” she smiled, not looking at him. 

“Three?” He frowned. She ignored him and just held up three fingers to the hostess. It took him until they were at the table to really put it together. “Sarah…” 

“I’m here to see you but I really want to see her, too,” she said as she slid into the booth. “And I do think you guys will really get along if you actually give it a shot. Please, Dad? Give her a chance?” 

A chance wasn’t the only thing he’d given you. 

“Baby Girl, I’m sure she’d rather do something besides…” 

“Besides what?” Your voice appeared over his shoulder, Joel turning toward the sound so fast it made his head spin. You smiled a little sheepishly. 

“Hi.” 

***

Well Joel clearly hadn’t been expecting you. 

That boded just so well. 

“Hey Bestie!” Sarah squealed and got out of the booth to throw her arms around your neck. You laughed and hugged her back. “Ugh, I miss you! The office sucks without you there. So does the rest of Seattle, honestly.” 

You laughed. 

“I miss you too,” you gave her a squeeze before the two of you separated. “I keep trying to convince the VP at this branch that I absolutely unequivocally need a junior copywriter on my team. He hasn’t bought it yet but I think if I just keep asking him I’ll wear him down and he’ll cave to my annoying tendencies and just give me whatever I want.”

“Oh so you’re playing hardball,” Sarah teased as she got back in the booth and you slid in beside her. 

“Clearly yes,” you nodded sagely. “I read ‘The Art of War’ and just bothering people until they give up is the best battle tactic in the world…” 

You turned to look at Joel who was watching you intently. 

You hadn’t expected Joel to show up tonight anymore than he’d expected you. Sarah was playing you both like a goddamn fiddle. You’d worn a strappy, silky slip dress with a denim jacket over it thinking you were going out with your best friend, not going to be stuck trying to keep from staring at your who-the-fuck-knows-what sitting across from you. 

Who also happened to be your best friend’s dad. 

You tried not to think about that part. 

“Figured I’d force you two to get to know each other better over margaritas,” Sarah said brightly. “I can’t let you both just sit and stare at a wall all by yourselves until I can move back to town…” 

“I don’t stare at walls!” You protested. Sarah ignored you. 

“So you can at least keep each other company,” she finished. 

“Good to see you again, Joel,” you said, trying as hard as you could to not picture him naked across the table. 

Which was really fucking hard. 

His dark button down was rolled up to his elbows and fit his damn broad shoulders so perfectly all you could think about was the way he looked as he fucked into you, the way his muscles rippled through his chest and you had to fight to not bite down on them. His hair was tamed without being sculpted or overly styled and you wanted to run your fingers through it and sink your grip into his scalp as he ate you. 

“You too,” he said. 

You’d never had this visceral of a reaction to a man you’d fucked before, never, not even when you were a stupid teenager. Of course, you’d never tried to hide your relationship before, either. 

But you had the feeling that wouldn’t matter with Joel. You’d feel this intensity toward him whether Sarah was beside you or not, whether you could be open about your affection for him or not. 

And now you were going to have to sit across from him when he looked that damn good all through dinner. 

The second the server came to the table you ordered a margarita. You had a feeling you were going to need the tequila. 

It took conscious effort to pay attention to what Sarah was saying as she tried to bring up things she thought you and Joel had in common. Almost like she was trying to launch an ad campaign for each of you. 

It felt like forever but you were sure you’d only been seated a few minutes when you gave up on not touching Joel. You carefully slid your foot out of your pump and started sliding it up his inner leg, starting near his ankle. Joel jumped a little in his chair at the contact, his eyes darting to you. You just raised your eyebrows at him as you took a drink from your margarita and slid your foot up his leg to his knee. He shifted in his seat, his eyes steadily on Sarah but you could tell he had to focus on her now, actively work to give her attention. You smirked a bit at that. 

You kept the pattern up as the three of you waited for your food, Joel’s eyes always going a little wide when your toes made it to his inner thigh. 

“Ugh, I’m starving,” Sarah groaned as a tray of sizzling fajitas passed your table. “Here, scootch out, I’m going to the bathroom. That’ll make the food come.” 

“It always does,” you agreed, quickly shoving your foot back into your shoe and getting out of the booth. 

You both watched as Sarah made her way across the restaurant, turning to Joel the second you knew she was out of earshot. 

“Did you say anything?” You were whispering anyway. 

“No,” he replied. “We hadn’t talked about it, didn’t seem like the time… Did you say somethin’?” 

“Not a word,” you said. 

“I really need you to cool it over there, Beautiful,” Joel said. Any other time, you’d think he was teasing you but his eyes looked open and earnest now. “We can’t just go into a bathroom right now and it’s already a fucking miracle I haven’t tried to rip that goddamn dress off you, Jesus Christ, you can’t just show up places lookin’ that damn good…” “You’re one to talk!” You replied, incredulous, as you looked down at his exposed, tan, muscled forearms and back up at his face. “Fucking hell, Joel!” 

He smirked a little. 

“That’s all it takes with you, huh?” He teased, leaning across the table toward you. “Just a little bit of skin and you’re outta control?”

“Oh fuck off,” you rolled your eyes but grinned a little all the same. “I know you know what the rolled up sleeves thing does to women.” 

“I promise I do not,” he said, watching over your shoulder now. “But you’ll have to enlighten me later…” 

Sarah came back to the table and her face fell. 

“Shit, that usually works,” she sighed. “Alright, scoot in, we can just trade spots.” 

You obeyed and slid over, purposely leaning over the table as you did, giving Joel full view of your bra below your dress as you did. He was all but glaring at you as you sat back in the booth. 

Consciously, you knew you shouldn’t be pushing him like this. For starters, this was not how you wanted Sarah to find out. Assuming she was ever going to find out. 

But you shouldn’t be trying to frustrate Joel. Not like this, not so early on in your… whatever the fuck this was. 

You had a tendency to do this, to bend things until they broke the second something was looking like it could get serious, the second that it looked like it’d be worth the time and the effort. You were starting to think it was something your subconscious did on purpose. If you sabotaged the relationship early, there wasn’t the same kind of risk. Push the guy too far and he’d break things off with you and you could return to the relative emotional safety of dating apps and bars. Only ever go out with someone for a few weeks and it wouldn’t hurt that bad if they left. 

And they would leave. They always left. You might be worth the time for a bit but you weren’t worth the trouble for anything real, that much had been made clear to you in the years you’d spent dating around. It had gotten you hurt when you were young and stupid, back when you were Sarah’s age. Now, you fucking knew better. 

You knew better than to get anywhere close to what you were starting to feel with Joel. 

And here you were, doing it anyway, with your best friend’s dad. 

So of course your first reaction was to push him. Push, push, push. It’s what you did. 

You stirred your melting margarita. 

You’d never been more relieved to have food brought to your table. 

“Thanks so much for coming out tonight!” Sarah hugged you goodbye in the parking lot, the awkward, hesitant conversation at the table through dinner still tense over you. 

“It was so great to see you!” You hugged her back and kissed her cheek. “Seriously, I’m wearing the bosses down, start packing now because I miss you too much.” 

She laughed. 

“I’ll be on the first plane out once I get a job offer,” she said. “Either way, I’ll be back for the holidays, we have to hang out then. Just us girls at least once, promise.” 

You smiled a little, hoping Sarah would still want to talk to you at the holidays. 

“Sounds perfect.” 

Joel gave you a tight smile and a nod. 

“Talk to you soon?” He said, his voice too open and honest to fit the shared awkwardness of your position feet apart in the parking lot. 

“Yeah,” you smiled. “Text me?” 

“Sure,” he smiled back. 

You poured yourself a glass of wine the second you were in the door, only pausing to take your shoes off as you made your way to the kitchen. You settled in on the couch without bothering to change, carrying the bottle of wine with you, and you put on some shitty Netflix reality show you could zone out and barely pay attention to. 

You were four episodes deep when your phone lit up. 

“Fuck that was hard,” Joel texted. 

You smiled a little. 

“Was that hard or were you hard?” You texted back. 

“Both,” he replied almost immediately. Your smile grew and you downed the last of the wine. 

You hadn’t had enough to drink to be drunk but you’d had enough that it made you feel… bold. Like you wanted to try something new. 

You took off your jacket and slid the straps of your dress down so your cleavage was spilling over the top of it, your breasts barely contained by it. You took a selfie, a needy look on your face, and sent him the picture. 

“Need help with that?” You asked. 

“Jesus Christ,” he texted back almost immediately. “Good thing Sarah just went to call some boy she started seeing back in Washington, can’t just send a guy shit like that and expect him to sit still.” 

You bit your lip for a second, getting an idea. You headed for your room and shimmied out of the dress before you put on the sexiest bra you owned and switched to the matching panties. You posed in the full length mirror in the corner of your room, one leg out, a hand on your hip. 

“What about shit like this?” You asked as you sent the picture along. 

“Really fucking mean for you to send that when you know I can’t come take it off you,” he texted back. 

You flopped down on your stomach on your bed, reminded of how you felt texting guys when you were younger and you had to make sure you didn’t go over your texting limit for the month. 

“You can always fight back you know,” you said. “I can’t come rip your clothes off either.” 

“You trying to get me to sext with you?” He asked. 

“Maybe.” 

It took a few minutes before he sent you a picture. He was in his room, stripped down to his boxer briefs. He fisted his cock through the fabric of them, the veins on his hand prominent. 

“Something like this?” He asked. 

You groaned, your hand sliding to your clit before you even thought about it. You rolled onto your back and took a picture of your hand slipping into your panties before sending it on. 

“Just like that,” you replied. 

“Fuck.” 

The one word was all he sent for a minute before he followed it up with a picture of his cock in his hand. You moaned at the sight of him, a pearl of pre-come leaking from his swollen head. You wanted to swallow it up, lick up and down his thick shaft, take all of him in your mouth until you were choking on him and he spilled down your throat. 

“Tried to make this last but you’re too fucking much for me,” he texted. “Couldn’t wait.” 

You took off your bra and tossed it to the floor before taking a handful of your breast in your hand, holding the phone high over your head, high enough that it could capture your needy expression and the way you were touching yourself. 

“Neither could I.” 

Usually, when you fucked yourself, you used toys. You had a few that you’d become partial to over the years of cycling through men and relationships, the fake dicks in your life lasting a whole hell of a lot longer than the real ones. 

Tonight, you didn’t need one. Didn’t think you could pull yourself away from touching your own body long enough to pull one out, not with Joel’s face and body and cock on the brain. You slid your hand down your chest, your stomach, back to your pussy. You rubbed your clit in little circles with your index finger as you stretched your middle finger down, down, down toward your dripping hole. 

When his next message came through, you dropped your phone in your rush to open it and you scrambled to pick it up with one hand, your other one too occupied to want to do anything else. 

This time, it was a video. His large hand was working his thick length, his cock still looking big even in his grasp that dwarfed your own. He worked his cock slowly, his thumb sweeping over the head and collecting the pre-come before he slid it firmly down with quiet moan. 

“Fuck, I need you,” his voice was soft, a whisper. “Need to feel that perfect fuckin’ pussy…” 

You were about to rewatch the video, your mouth watering, when he texted again. 

“Can I call you?” 

You didn’t respond. Instead, you just called him, putting the phone to speaker and setting it on your chest between your breasts. 

He answered on the first ring. 

“Hey beautiful,” he said, voice low and dark and needy. “Fuck, I gotta be quiet…” 

“I know,” you said, whispering back even though you didn’t have a reason to. “Don’t care, as long as I can hear you.” 

“Tell me what you’re doin’ to yourself,” he was almost panting. “What you’re thinkin’ about…” 

“I’m rubbing my clit,” you moaned. “Got one finger inside of myself, thinking about you eating me out last night…” 

“Fuck you tasted so good,” his voice became a little more strained. “Wanna taste you right now.” 

You moaned and fucked yourself a little harder, a little faster, your eyes closed in pleasure. 

“Add another finger,” he said. “Want you to work up to this cock, want you thinking about me deep in you when you come.” 

“Fuck Joel,” you were panting now, too, as you added another finger. 

“Tell me what you’re thinking now,” he whispered. 

“You pushing into me,” you groaned it. “Opening me up for you…” 

“Fuck, Beautiful, you’re gonna fuckin’ kill me.” 

You heard the pace of his hand increase on the other end of the phone and you worked your pussy a little harder and faster, too, whimpering as you did. 

“Can you fit a third finger?” He panted. 

“Yes,” you managed, getting desperate, your body starting to feel tight, all the heat of you drawing deep into yourself. 

“Add it,” he groaned. “Fuck yourself deep, hard. Fuck yourself like I fucked you last night, how I’d fuck you right now if I were there.” 

You obeyed, thrusting your fingers in as deep as you could reach, whimpering at the stretch that you knew had nothing on his thick cock. 

“You were so fucking deep,” your legs were restless, the tightness extending so far down that you knew your orgasm was going to make your whole body quake. “Fuck, you’re so goddamn big, Joel…” 

“And you take me so fucking well,” he panted. “Take me like you were made to take this cock, fuck!” 

“I was made to take you,” you whimpered, desperate and aching. “Made to make you come, need you to fucking come, please Joel, please come for me…” 

“Fuck, fuck, I’m coming!” It was a choking, strangled whisper and you heard him muffle his moaning in a pillow, the sound of his pleasure sending you over the edge. 

It was the hardest you’d ever come from your own hand, harder than you’d ever come with a vibrator, almost as hard as you came with Joel deep inside you the night before. Your body throbbed with it, so much that it felt like your fingers might break as they stuffed your overwrought pussy full. You all but sobbed as you kept working your clit, even as it was too much, fucking yourself through your own orgasm the way you knew Joel would if he were buried inside you instead of in his own fist. Once it was over, you slowly, gently, pulled your hand away from your dripping slit. 

“Fucking hell, Beautiful,” he said after a minute, still trying to catch his breath. You smiled and laughed a little. “Christ, I hope Sarah didn’t hear that.” 

“You stayed a lot quieter than me,” you were whispering again. It was fun to whisper into the phone with him, like you were going behind your parents’ backs with it. 

“Still,” he said before he sighed. “I gotta go clean up, you made me make a hell of a mess.” 

“You’re one to talk,” you smirked a little, looking at the slick gathered on your fingers. 

“Can I text you tomorrow while you’re at work?” He asked quietly. “Something tells me I’m gonna miss you like crazy.” 

“Course,” you smiled, settling down into your mattress. “Text me whenever you want, I always want to hear from you.” 

Maybe it was the post-orgasm haze but you didn’t care that it sounded desperate. 

“Good,” he said. “Because hearin’ from you always makes my damn day.” 

You smiled at that. 

“Miss you, Beautiful.” 

You smiled bigger. 

“Miss you, too.” 

Next Chapter

A/N: Awww doubt is creeping in and they're still fucking each other's brains out from afar.

We love to see it!

Thank you so much for following along with this story! These two are so fun to write and I hope you're enjoying their journey. Love you all!

[palesweetscherryblossom]

The Snake Pit AU info

Warning: Mentions of child neglect and abuse, starvation, murder. -The League were a bunch of naga who were outcasted by the main empire ruled by the 10 council members (Basically the 10 ranked heroes) -Shigaraki had tried to stage a coup, fighting for his friends for a place where they could exist and get their well deserved vengeance on a society that wronged them. -Unfortunately, they had lost thanks to a prophesied hero (Izuku) but the hero was merciful and had decided that they would live underground, far from view yet allowed to live. -It was a cruel punishment, where food was scarce and the sun only ever shined through cracks ahead. A truly miserable existence for them. -Till one day, they heard a thud and a pained screech. There was a thin man lying there, obviously tortured. This was confusing, no one dared to come near their hole, let alone fall. -“Feast!” They all snapped their attention to a guard clad in armor unknown to them. “Feast you bloody beasts, feast!” In their undeniable hunger, they did. -The nearby city who was placed the infamous prison soon found a place of entertainment and essentially a garbage disposal -Every day there would be a crowd of people, hungry for entertainment as some criminal was dumped into their hole. -It sickened Tomura to hear their joyful cries as he sank his teeth into flesh. Like he and his group were nothing more than entertainment tools. -They began to drop other things in there too. Fruit, vegetables, random fabrics. “It appears we’ve become nothing more than a garbage disposal for them.” Compress would remark, grimacing as Twice feasted upon the fruit. Shigaraki picked up some fabric, turning to his group. “This can be of use, we’ve been resourceful once, we can be resourceful again” -The pit became more of a home rather than a prison with due time. The town seemed genuinely impressed with it, now ogling them like zoo animals. -The league didn’t like it but they’d take it over near famine and constant illness. -Things only got more pleasant surprisingly. The townspeople would drop off cooking supplies, pretty jewelry, fur pelts, even a whole hunted game. -All for the simple price of them eating the prisoners they dumped. They would give more stuff if the league provided a good show, a grand display of their snake like abilities. -From their resilient and mighty tails to their frighteningly potent venom -The league had been asleep when the town’s latest subject of punishment had been dumped into the pit. A child, no older than 8 or 10 years old. -They were greeted with the horrifying sight of bone decor and shedded snake skin. -It endlessly horrified you to see them, the famed beasts that nobody could shut up about in such a raw, close distance. -Weirdly enough, they didn’t look so frightening like this. Toga draped over Twice, Kurogiri’s tail intertwined with Tomura’s. Compress snoring obnoxiously loud, etc. -It honestly was comparable to a bunch of puppies snuggling rather than a bunch of dangerous beasts. -It almost made you wanna join, your own family never looked upon you so kindly, for you were a bastard, an accident. Always the last to eat, always the last to be loved. -Stepping back, you didn’t realize that you had made the unfortunate mistake of stepping on one of their long tails.

You felt like the smallest person in the room when what seemed like thousands of tired, slit eyes gazed upon you

@messedupcookiejar

[lulu2992]

Uncovering the unreleased Far Cry 5 in-game Encyclopedia

The almost complete but unused in-game encyclopedia, reconstructed thanks to the oasisstrings file.

Please note that it’s still cut content, so some information might not be relevant anymore.

You can read the oasisstrings file here. Pictures from this encyclopedia were also extracted and posted by @xbaebsae here.

Part 2: Locations - Holland Valley

Gardenview Packing Facility

The last facility added to the Hadlers' apple empire. They shipped their apples throughout Hope County and beyond. When the cult went red state, the Hadlers stopped their legal threats and resorted to violence.

Silver Lake Trailer Park

A community of people just trying to do their best.

Gardenview Orchards

A part of Doug and Debbie Hadler’s apple empire. After their ciderworks facility, they expanded to a second, larger orchard: Gardenview Orchards. Then they opened the Gardenview Packing Facility.

Rae-Rae's Pumpkin Farm

Fiery matriarch Rae-Rae Bouthillier cares about two things: Prize-winning pumpkins and her dog Boomer.

Gardenview Ciderworks

The first major facility owned by Doug and Debbie Hadler. Ten years ago, they had a dream: an empire made of apples. They nearly achieved it too, until the cult forcibly took over everything they had worked for.

Bridge of Tears

It was called the Mišihrew Bridge when the railroad was still active. It’s now a rickety old train bridge and John Seed's ideal location to send a warning message to all sinners.

Frobisher's Cave

In 1970, a cougar, named "Frobisher" by the locals, killed the star pitcher of a rival baseball team. The Hope County Silver Foxes won that year and changed their name to the Cougars in Frobisher's honor.

Howard Cabin

Home of Niesha Howard, an extreme rock climber from Canada who moved to Montana to be a prepper.

Copperhead Rail Yard

Copperhead Rail was created in the late 1800s by Emmet Reaves. It was shut down in the early 70s and a lot got left behind. It became a place for kids to get drunk or bums to find shelter, then the cult bought it.

Lincoln Lookout Tower

It’s the last working fire tower in the county. A man who worked here promised to help the Strickland family fight off the cult if ever their farm was under attack.

Sergey’s Place

A hobo historian calls this place home. Nobody's seen him in a while though.

Boyd Residence

Will Boyd lives here, or at least he did. No one in the valley talks about him. And for good reason.

Strickland Farm

Property owned by the Strickland family of farmers. No friends to Eden’s Gate.

U.S. Auto

A scrap yard containing trashed cars, broken farm equipment, and even a few busted planes. Eden's Gate uses the garage to build and maintain their convoys.

Doverspike Compound

Les Doverspike was a militia nut and he built himself a bunker. Nobody in the prepper community liked him. Despite that, he was anti-cult and pro-Resistance.

Harris Residence

Mike and Deb Harris were preppers with a cunning plan to keep themselves fed after the end of the world.

Reservoir Construction Yard

Deep North Water wanted to build a new reservoir for the Holland Valley. The company ran out of funding and was chased away by Eden’s Gate.

Dodd’s Dumps

Colin Dodd used to run garbage disposal for the whole Holland Valley, and his business lot shows it. The cult intimidated him into leaving but has yet to sort through all he left behind.

Davenport Farm

The remains of a run-down farm. Local farmers let their cows graze here. Can't let good land go to waste.

Hilgard Electric Power Station

The Holland Valley's power supply is reliant on this transformer station which is controlled by Eden's Gate.

Golden Valley Gas

Once the kind of gas station that gave out free bubble gum to kids, Golden Valley is now a strategic point of gasoline and auto maintenance for the Project at Eden's Gate.

Green-Busch Fertilizer Co.

Facing a decline in business, the Green-Busch family said “yes” and sold the place to John Seed on the condition that locals could keep their jobs and work alongside Eden's Gate.

St. Isidore School

Once a religious boarding school, it was forced to close its doors by Eden's Gate.

Dodd Residence

Home of Colin Dodd, hoarder and DIY enthusiast. He never throws anything out. His granddaughter Nadine's been known to lurk here.

Roberts Cabin

Home of Joe Roberts, a hunter. He's gone missing. He loved hunting deer above all else.

Hope County Clinic

Dr. Kim Patterson provides medical services to Hope County's farmers and low-income residents, many of whom would never receive care in such a remote area.

Holland Valley Station

In the days that it was up and running, Copperhead Rail used to stop here. Eden’s Gate uses this station to catch people who try to escape the region.

Grain Elevator

As the farmlands started to collapse, the grain elevator was the first casualty. Too expensive to maintain.

Henbane River Rail Bridge

Copperhead Rail was created in the 1880s during a mining boom, and shut down in the early 70s after the industry collapsed.

Flatiron Stockyards

Bobby Budell established the stock yards in 1946, and has proudly provided farm and ranch auction services since. The economic and community base employed over 25 people at its height.

Fillmore Residence

Home of Doug Fillmore. Not much is known about him.

Dupree Residence

Home of Tommy Dupree, an idiot who used to work at Green-Busch Fertilizer Co. He got fired by Eden's Gate because he was as dumb as the crap he bagged.

Catamount Mines

Fall’s End owes its existence to the gold Orville Fall discovered here in 1865. The mine brought a generation of prosperity to the region until a suspicious accident entombed 100 men within it, forcing its closure in 1912.

Sunrise Farm

Sunrise Farm was going under, so owners Mike and Chandra Dunagan reluctantly sold it to Eden's Gate. Big mistake.

Deep North Irrigation Reservoir

Originally designed to irrigate farms, the reservoir became a liability when the cult began putting Bliss in the water supply. The Resistance sealed it up to buy themselves time.

Red’s Farm Supply

The Redler family has run this place for 4 generations, and earned a reputation for honest business. Wendell did his best to keep it out of cult hands.

Purpletop Telecom Tower

In the 1950s, Purpletop Telecom built this tower, blessing people with the wonders of AM radio. As time and technology marched forward, they were also given the American splendor of a local TV station.

Woodson Pig Farm

This place has been in the Woodson family since 1943. Current owners Andrew and Frances Woodson used their wealth to try to stand up to John Seed and fight him in court. They lost, and joined the Resistance.

Sawyer Residence

Don Sawyer came from out of town to join the Project at Eden's Gate. He restores canoes, but isn't very good at it. Visitors have sworn they've heard him swearing in Russian over those boats.

Hyde Barn

Kenny Hyde's a poor man in Holland Valley, but that doesn't stop him from loving deep fried balls. He's the proud keeper of Fall’s End Testy Festy decorations, stashing them at his barn until they're needed.

Kupka Ranch

Zip Kupka's the only one who really knows what's going on in the Holland Valley.

John’s Gate

A missile silo long decommissioned and abandoned. The locals used to call it "Area 68." Eden's Gate bought it in secret and turned it into a bunker that is in John Seed's safekeeping until the Collapse.

Security Gate

Formerly the entrance to the missile silo, it's now the gateway to John Seed's bunker. Everything taken in the Reaping passes through this checkpoint.

Steele Farm

The Steele family managed to get their kids out of Hope County, but stayed behind to try and defend their home from Eden's Gate.

Lamb of God Church

A Lutheran church. Its elderly priest was overshadowed by Pastor Jerome’s charismatic sermons. John once asked the priest to say “yes.” Not a chance. Then, the priest was gone. He had taken a “long vacation.”

Lamb of God Sacristy

The Project at Eden's Gate has turned the Lamb of God Church's sacristy into a holding place for everything they need to baptize people at the water's edge.

Armstrong Residence

The Project at Eden's Gate targeted the Armstrong family early, burning their home to the ground when Grace Armstrong refused to devote her sharpshooting skills to the Father's cause.

Bradbury Tractor Shed

A shed for tractors.

Hope County Jail Bus

Prisoners hijacked this bus but were run off the road. The wreck was left to rot in the woods. When Eden's Gate brought prohibition to Hope County, some enterprising moonshiners set up shop behind the cult’s back.

Parker Laboratories

Home and workshop of Dr. Laurence Parker, and the origin of many mysterious noise complaints.

Seed Ranch

The power of yes gave John Seed this dream ranch overlooking the Holland Valley. it has commanding views, a private air strip, and secluded soundproofed rooms for his most invigorating religious pursuits.

Bradbury Farm

The home of the Bradbury family, hay farmers for generations. The strange pattern of dead hay in the field does not impact the quality of the final product. That's the Bradbury guarantee.

Bradbury Hay Field

Bradbury Farm's hay is baled and stored here before being sold to clients looking to feed their livestock with quality hay.

Laurel Residence

Laurel family honey was a local market favorite until their bee colony collapsed and jeopardized the business. It also spooked the Laurels who sunk money into a bunker and became preppers overnight.

Eden’s Gate Greenhouse

Bliss plants are found throughout the Henbane River, but they're also found here. John Seed takes the flowers he receives by boat from the east and plants them in his greenhouse.

Seed Boat Launch

Once a favorite spot for summer frolickers, this boat launch is used by John Seed for receiving shipments of Bliss and other supplies from elsewhere in Hope County.

Rye & Sons Aviation

This plot of land was first settled in 1920 by Willard Rye. He started a crop dusting business. His sons inherited both and it now belongs to the current generation of Ryes: Nick & Kim.

Kellett Cattle Co.

The Kellett family supplied beef for 3 generations. These proud Republicans thought they recognized the American spirit in Eden’s Gate, but when John Seed asked them to serve the Project, they said “no.”

Fall’s End

After prospector Orville Fall struck gold, his small mining camp quickly grew. Decades later, his rival, rail baron Emmett Reaves, shot him dead in the streets, giving the town its official name.

Old Silo

Welcome to the middle of it.

Kay-Nine Kennels

The owner, Kay Wheeler, loved her dogs more than life itself. She bred and trained hunting and guard dogs. When Eden’s Gate showed up, the local demand for guard dogs tripled. John Seed noticed and took action.

Sunrise Threshing

A silo and shed complex attached to Sunrise Farm. Rumor has it that Mike Dunagan's stashed a lot of cool shit around here somewhere.

Redler Residence

Home of Wendell Redler, local businessman and Vietnam veteran.

Adams Ranch

Jules Adams lost her husband in an "accident" after saying no to John Seed. Her family's struggled to keep the cattle ranch out of cult hands ever since.

Miller Residence

Despite financial hardship, the Miller family refused the cult’s invitations, prepping for doomsday all on their own. When the reaping came, Jerry Miller was out working.

Wellington Residence

The Wellington family mine is an urban legend, supposedly stuffed with gold, explosives, or both depending who you ask. Generations of Wellingtons (possibly inbred) have tried and failed to strike it rich here.

[floating-mid-air]

A Loving Punch

Hiiiii. I was wondering if I could get a Goku or Goku Black x reader (female) imagine. The reader is human.

I would like for the reader to be a normal human who is already with Goku/Black. She watches them train and once they’re finished. She just jokingly asks them to show her how to throw a punch or teach them any fighting move. But they take her seriously and show her anyway. The rest is up to you, but I would like a fluffy ending please. I’m a sucker for Goku as you can tell 😭♥️

Also if you don’t mind. You don’t have to, but I also kinda want a headcannon of what would Vegeta teaching his significant other consist of? 😁

-

𝙽𝚘𝚝 𝚖𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝. 𝙸 𝚊𝚕𝚜𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝙸 𝚖𝚊𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚕𝚖𝚊𝚘. 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚍. 𝙾𝚑, 𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕. 𝙷𝚘𝚙𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚒𝚝!

-

Masterlist

-

You sigh, your feet planted firmly in front of the sink. A stack of plates, a mile high, sitting there, mocking you. At least they’re clean now. Living with Goku, at times, is like living with a human garbage disposal. You swear, feeding one Goku is the equivalent of keeping a medium-sized army fed. You don’t even know why you still bother plating his meals, it only creates more work for you.

You grab a maroon rag from under the sink, deciding to chip away at the large stack. You take one of the plates, gliding the disheveled rag across it. Your body goes into autopilot, mindlessly completing the task at hand. Every once in a while, you glance out the window, taking a peek at your goofball boyfriend.

He’s out there training without a care in the world. Now, there are around a dozen plates on the drying rack, yet there’s not even a dent in the pile. You groan, persevering through, drying more and more plates.

You set the rag on the counter, wiping sweat off your forehead. You never thought chores would be this much of a workout. At least you can skip arm day at the gym… for the rest of your life.  

You look up, peering outside the window. Goku’s still at it. Only now, he’s shirtless. Your lips part as he switches stances. His movements are so fluid. There’s something incredibly sexy about Goku when he trains. He’s so focused, so determined. It’s like he becomes a whole other person. 

You stand there gawking at him the same way he looks at a good meal. Your gaze tracks his every move as your thoughts run wild. You could just stand here and watch him all day. Suddenly, your eyes lock. Crap, you’ve been caught. Goku waves at you, your face flushing. He chuckles at your reaction, grinning wide at you. His smile is blinding, like sunshine. 

After being caught red-handed, you rush away from the window. You’ve been together for years. He’s your boyfriend. And yet, you can’t help but feel like a teenage girl who was caught staring at her crush. You huff, leaning against the fridge. Your forehead pressed against the cool surface. Why do you always make things so awkward? 

Once you recover from your embarrassment, you grab a bottle of water from the fridge and take it outside. That man never remembers to hydrate. For a world-champion fighter, he sure doesn’t take care of himself. It’s a miracle he’s made it this long. 

You stand on the front lawn, taking a mental note that it’s far too tall for your liking. A breathy sigh escapes your lips. Goku promised to cut the grass days ago. Your free hand moves to your hip while waiting for him to notice you.  

Goku punches the air a few times before spinning around. Finally, noticing your intrusion. His eyes light 

up like a Christmas tree. “Oh, hey.” He chuckles sheepishly. “How long have you been out here?”

“Not long at all. Here, take this.” You extend the bottle out to him, which he gratefully accepts. “You know. When you’re out in the blazing sun, training like a madman. You need to hydrate.”

“Thanks.” He grins, taking a large sip. Goku’s grown quite fond of what Vegeta refers to as your nagging. Goku, however, finds it endearing. It’s your special way of saying that you love him. “You’re always looking out for me.“  

You giggle softly, shaking your head. "It’s my job after all." 

"So, are you enjoying the view?” His lips curve upwards into a knowing smirk. 

You tisk. “I can’t complain." 

"Really?” His head tilts to the side. “Cause you seemed pretty skittish before." 

"Shut up!” Your eyes narrow, though there’s still a hint of amusement masked by your annoyance. 

“I’m only teasing. You’re allowed to stare, you know. Besides, I like it when you look at me. A lot.” Goku trails.

“You’re the most important person in my life. My biggest support system. Even if you don’t support everything I do." 

You gasp in false shock. "I don’t support you now?” You snicker. “I guess all the household chores can stop then. You can start cooking your own meals as well." 

"Hey, hey. Let’s not get hasty.” He raises his hands as if he were waving a white flag high in the air, signaling a truce. The thought alone of you no longer cooking for him is enough to make him do anything. “You know that’s not what I meant. Like when I enter tournaments… or when I fight bad guys."  

"Oh, You’re so right. How selfish of me!” Your voice drips with sarcasm. “I’m so sorry that I don’t want my boyfriend to die!”

“Come on. You gotta have more faith in me than that…”

“Well, you’ve clearly never met you.” You’ve spent numerous sleepless nights worrying sick about him. No wonder why your doctor always warns you about your blood pressure. “You’re a maniac when it comes to a challenge.”

That’s a point he can’t really argue about. There’s nothing that gets his blood pumping like a challenge. Well, besides you, of course. “You don’t seem to mind much when I’m training.” He flashes you a teasing smile. “I always gotta be in fighting shape.”

“Oh, ya tough guy? How about you show me a few moves then?”

“Alright.” He nods. “How about now?”

Your eyes remain on him, dumbfounded. “Goku…” You squeak. “I was kidding." 

"Don’t be like that. This will be fun.” He runs a hand through his spikey hair. “Plus, you always say we need to spend more time together." 

"I meant dates! Not this.” You gesture with your hands.

“Well… you can always think of this as a date.”

You shake your head. “Absolutely not.”

“Please, for me.” His lips contort into a pout.

You pinch the bridge of your nose, huffing dramatically. “It’s not happening. So get the idea out of your head." 

He steps closer to you, grabbing your hands. His hands engulf yours as your eyes meet. "This is really important to me. I know that I don’t exactly make your life easy. And being with me constantly puts your life in danger. I just… want the woman I love to be able to protect herself. It’ll give me some peace of mind. I’m begging you.”

Your heart melts. The light touch of his calloused palms against your own mixed with the warmth in his eyes. And just like that, you’re about to yield. You sigh. “Fine.” You always give in to him far too easily. 

“Thank you.” His typical big, dopey grin spreads across his face. “So let’s get started.” His large hands find your waist, repositioning you into a fighting stance. He moves one of his legs between yours, gently kicking your legs apart to widen your stance. He can so easily adjust your smaller frame as if you were a doll. 

It always amazes you how delicate Goku is with you. He’s one of the strongest beings in the universe, yet he’s so gentle. “Okay, stay just like that. Now, I need you to ball your hands up into fists. Like this.” He demonstrates the action for you. You copy, making fists with your hands. Clasping your thumbs into your grip. It feels so unnatural. 

All it takes is one look for Goku to start laughing. “No. Not like that.” He shakes his head, grabbing your right hand. He untucks your thumb, then does the same with your left. “Your thumb’s go on the outside. You’re gonna break your hand like that.” He traces a finger along your thumb, sending a shiver down your spine. “And we don’t want that to happen.”

“Wow.” You giggle. “Who knew you’d be such a strict teacher. Now what?” You look up at him with big eyes. You’re quite surprised. You never knew something like this could feel so intimate. Though, it does make sense. You have heard that taking an interest in things your partner loves can be good for a relationship. 

Goku takes a few steps back, appreciating your form. And maybe he uses this time to take a brief peek at your assets. He takes a deep breath before his arms fall loosely at his sides. “Now. Hit me." 

"Excuse me?" 

"You heard me.” He grins. “Hit me.”

Your brows raise. “Have you lost your mind? I’m not going to hit you!”

“Come on.” His voice trails. “You know you want to.”

“I do not! You’re insane." 

"Don’t be so dramatic. I doubt I’d even feel it. And you know what? I bet you wouldn’t even be able to hit me. You’re probably just scared. A little scaredy cat.” He knows much like himself, you won’t back down from a challenge. You have a competitive streak. Board games are terrifying territory in your home. 

Your fists clench. Your nostrils flare. Your eyes narrow at the man in front of you. “Oh. It’s so on.” You send a barrage of sloppy punches his way, which he easily manages to evade. He’s so quick. Inhumanly fast. It’s not fair. 

“Oh, come on, I know you can do better than that. I’m not even breaking a sweat here.” Your knuckles turn white as you send one last punch his way. Your fist connects with his jaw, sending him flying back. Looks like all that dishwashing has paid off after all.

Goku falls to the ground with a thud. Your eyes bug out, and you rush over to his side. “Goku! Are you okay?” You kneel down, hovering over him. 

He groans, lifting his head up. “You know… I’m starting to think you don’t need my protection at all.” His head falls back to the ground, a breathy chuckle escaping his lips. “Cause with your right hook… I think you’ll be able to enter tournaments yourself.”

You glare down at him. “Definitely not." 

"Oh, come on. We can enter like couples competitions.”

You place a hand on your hip, giving Goku the look. “It’s not happening. You have a better shot at convincing Vegeta." 

"It would be fun. And you know it." 

You roll your eyes, leaning down to caress his face. "That’s gonna leave a bruise.” Your lips contort into a frown. 

Goku grins at your concern. He can’t help it. “I’m gonna be fine. I’ve been hit way harder than that.” He grabs you, pulling your body flush against his own. 

“Hey! What are you—” He silences you. Pressing his soft lips against your own. 

He grabs your chin, tilting it so you’re looking him in the eyes. “I love you.”

Your face flushes. “I- I love you too, stupid.” You stand up. “Now, let’s go.” You grab his hand, pulling him up. “We’re getting you ice. Now." 

"But I wanna keep—” You cut him off.

“This is not up for discussion, mister.” You pull him along with you, dragging him into the house. Checkmate, you win.