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cognitosclowns · 1 year

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I wanna fall asleep with these freaks 💓🥺

I am the eepiest sleepiest little guy of all time and this activated a Worm in my Brain so this is gonna get SO LONG AMSDNAMSND

sfw!! just snuggles and soft things

Reagan

Not extremely cuddly? She likes her personal space!

That doesn't mean she never wants cuddles, she's just gotta be in a particular Mood for it!

Most nights, she wants to be kinda,, gently curled into your arm?? just a loose grip around it w/ her own, cheek resting on your bicep.

She talks in her sleep, but it's very quiet. Usually it's just her going through her schedule for tmrw (does she?? dream of work in her sleep???), but occasionally, you'll hear her mumbling about how much she loves you <333

Yes, it's just as cute as it sounds. She has no memory of it in the morning, but if you bring it up, she'll get this flustered little Half-Smile alllll morning <3

She falls asleep so fast. if you wanna be cute w/ her while cozied in bed I'm so sorry, the second she feels Safe and Warm and Cozy in your vicinity she's passing out for 4-12 hours ✨✌🏻

It's alright, you know she needs her rest <3 besides, that just opens up options for you two to be soft and shmoopy in the morning

Brett

Unsurprisingly, the cuddliest guy of all time. He would be inside your ribcage if the opportunity was provided KJASDKASJD

He really likes?? laying on your chest and stomach?? he likes to be significantly further down. occasionally you'll just,, barely see his hair and the top of his forehead peaking out from the covers from how low he gets

it's just so comfy! he likes The Noises and Warmth and Vague Suffocation that comes w/ sleeping w/ his head under the covers, resting against your torso <3

He smiles so much in his sleep. you didn't think ppl did that outside of movies, but he totally does <3 usually only when he's having a particularly good dream.

OH ALSO HIS BED IS SO FUCKING COZY

I REFUSE TO BELIEVE THIS MAN DOESN'T QUILT. HE HAS SO MANY BEAUTIFUL HAND-MADE QUILTS AND BLANKETS AND KNITTED SHIT IN HIS BED. I hope you like being cozy bc you're gonna be The Coziest Of All Time.

He also sleeps with stuffed animals! He always did as a child bc his treehouse was always cold as hell, and the habit just stayed with him!

they're so well-kept and soft all these years later <3 usually he just keeps them at the foot of the bed, bc it makes him feel safe to, but occasionally he'll bring a couple up for you two to snuggle <3 You Are Never Too Old To Snuggle A Stuffed Bear Don't Like To Yourself.

Andre

A Nightmare (affectionate)

not only is his sleep schedule Entirely Batshit, but he has so much trouble falling asleep. expect lots of tossing and turning

he does settle a lot thought when you hold him!! Don't hold too close, he still needs to squirm a lot to actually fall asleep

You're also the only person that he gets a full nights sleep with <3 he usually ends up waking up in the night, his mind starts working on smth, and he doesn't go back to sleep <3 but with you, it's almost instantaneous.

A little Jump, a bit of squirming to get into a comfortable position, and then off to seeb again <3 it's nice to see just how safe he feels around you <3

Expect plenty of early morning/late night convos <3 hell even middle of the night convos, where he hasn't realised that he fell asleep and instantly hops back into Whatever He Was

He also has such a habit of. Continuing Conversations From His Dream. like he'll just grab your arm and start talking about Yes I'm Sure If We Distilled It Enough We Could Make Whiskey Out Of Lighter Fluid Myc before passing out cold MASNFASMFJ

TLDR. squirmy silly man, but also enjoyable to seeb with.

Gigi

OUGHEEEEEEEEAWBABWBAGOURGHR <- experiencing wife fevers

SO COZY HOLY SHIT

I refuse to believe she doesn't have a Big Comfy Bed. Silk covers, big thick duvet, more pillows that she knows what to do with. The bed is 3 times the size of her so when you catch her snuggled up in bed she truly just looks like those photos of Very Small Puppies in Very Large Beds MNASDMASND

So cuddly <3 you wouldn't expect it, since she makes a point of being seen as very Untouchable and Independent, but she loves to be held.

Her ideal state is nuzzled under your chin, feeling your pulse through your neck <333 a leg hooked around yours to make sure you're nice and close.

She takes a while to fall asleep, so she likes to go to bed early! Feel free to join her at any time, she'll just be dozing <3

If you do join her when she goes to bed, expect some,, very soft, lovey-dovey moments. she looks utterly adorable, all bundled up in her cozy little slightly-too-poofy nightgown and eye mask.

She Deserves 1000000 Cheek Smooches Or Else You Shall Die Of Love Disease <- her favourite part of the night. she will start giggling the moment she feels your lips on her cheeks and neck.

kisses her 1000. she's the most

Myc

HE OWNS A WATERBED I KNOW THIS FUCKING MAN OWNS A WATERBED

A FREEFLOW WATERBED TOO. NO SUPPORT IT FEELS LIKE YOU'RE FLOATING.

It's actually pretty comfortable after you get used to it. you see the appeal, it's kinda got that Sensory Deprivation Tank feeling of weightless floating <3

Expect to be utterly Mummified in tentacles AKSDJASKJ

He insists that it's so that you don't go tossing and turning in your sleep and knock his ass off the bed but. You See Through His Lies You Understand. You See The Jackassery At Play Here.

OUGHEEE he has such a habit of like. swirling his tentacles gently around your skin. Not necessarily stroking back and forth, moreso massaging? if you have any knots in your back, thighs, or arms, they're gonna be gone by morning.

Fairly quiet? That doesn't mean silent though, he absolutely talks while you two drift off to sleep, but it's all in very quiet tones. A Little Shit, But Lovingly. (you may. gently have to bop him on the head and tell him to Shut The Hell Up Its 3 Am Goddamn Not Everyone's Job Is Just Sitting Around Getting Jacked Off MANSDMASNDMANSDMN)

Glenn

He snores like a foghorn I'm so sorry. the old man of all time

If you can look past that though, he's so fucking delightful to sleep with <33 most especially bc he loves when you lay on him

he says smth about how it Helps Unfuck His Back, but you're at least 45% sure that that isn't the main reason

(and you're right, it isn't <3 he just loves feeling your weight on him)

He loves just,, leaving a hand against your back, running up and down as you settle in to sleep <33 before leaving it to rest on the small of your back <33 love is so real and true.

his tail wags in his sleep

HIS TAIL WAGS IN HIS SLEEP

You'll see this most when he's sleeping on his stomach, bc when he's on his back his tail can't move, and on his side Everything Hurts At All Times KAJDKASJ

You'll see it squirm around the most when you're touching him <3 if you run your hands through his hair, or trace patterns on his back that things gonna be WHIPPING like a wheatstalk in a hurricane.

^ this also applies to. early morning and late night cuddles. in the morning its more of a,, slow waggle? like you'll just see it gently twitching under the bed, while you place kisses on his cheek BAWBBABWBABW <- if I talk about his tail any more we'll never be done

just the guy of all time <3 go sleep with that old man go do it go do it now go go go go g

Let Him Sleep On The Booba

Truly he sleeps best with his face buried in your chest. what can he say, it's cozy as hell.

his ideal state is being Unconscious. A Coma. Laying horizontally being fed nutrients through a tube. He will nap on you at any possible moment

It's one of the time's he feels Truly Safe? Like he's constantly having to run around doing what the Shadow Board wants, doing what Rand wants, etc. Sometimes You Just Need A Little Nap With Your Partner To Be Okay Again

He IS freezing cold I refuse to believe otherwise. he runs Ice Cold and it takes him 15 minutes to warm up. feels a bit like cuddling a corpse until your body heat brings him back to Human Levels Of Warmth.

The things we do for love smh MNSFGKFAJSFGKSDJ

stupid rich expensive bed. imported silk sheets. mathematically optimised mattress designed in a lab to give him The Best Sleep Possible. he's rich enough to buy several countries, he might as well put it to use.

Alpha-Beta

OUGHEEEEEEEEAWBABWBAGOURGHR <- experiencing wife fevers part 2

He's such a heavy sleeper MY GOD. If you couldn't hear his internal systems whirring and clicking you'd think he was dead KJDSAKFJASDKFJDSA

It isn't really his fault - his 'sleep cycle' likes to be done in one solid stretch, to avoid file corruption, which means. His body just,, won't wake him up unless it senses Active Danger to himself or you.

It's fine! He'll wake up if the house is on fire. Probably.

'aww you're such an old man <3' <- he's going to push you into a woodchipper AKSGJSAKDJFKSDFGJ

He's so warm and cozy <3

Upside, personal heater during the winter. Downside, summer is hell for both of you (Upside, he sleeps mostly naked in summer to avoid Dying of Death Disease)

Hold him <3 hold him he won't ask but he loves being held, even more than he loves holding you (which is. Saying Something). The second he feels your arms wrap around him, maybe one of your hands gently fussing with his hair? Out like a light <3 its sweet, all those unspoken ways that shows how much he loves you <3

ABWBABWBAB I swear I did an ask like this before but. I don't care this was so cute. If you have any additions, go nuts!

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alphynix · 1 year

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Strange Symmetries #01

Most animals are bilaterally symmetric, having body plans with mirrored left and right sides – which also allows them to have a defined head end, rear end, top side, and underside.

It's not entirely clear what evolutionary advantage this type of symmetry gave to the first bilaterians, which would have been been small "simple" worm-like animals living sometime during the Ediacaran Period between 600 and 560 million years ago. The current generally accepted explanation is that it probably allowed for better active locomotion – clustering sense organs at the head end and directing body movement more efficiently towards food sources and away from threats.

However, this sort of symmetry is never completely perfect. Internal structures like organs are often arranged nonsymmetrically, and the realities of genetics, physical development, and environmental influences always result in external small deviations.

Zebra From The Back by Lynn Greyling | CC0 Public Domain

…But not every bilaterian has stayed roughly symmetrical.

Over the last half-billion years or so some bilaterians have abandoned their roughly-mirror-image body plans in favor of something distinctly wonkier. Asymmetry has evolved multiple times in various different lineages, and so every weekday this month we'll be looking at some examples.

And we might as well start way back near the beginning:

———

Strange Symmetries #01: Almost Bilateral

Living in the Ediacaran between about 567 and 550 million years ago, the proarticulatans were flattened rounded organisms with two rows of soft "quilted" rib-like segments (known as isomers) and sometimes a larger fused "head" section at the front. The left and right isomers weren't perfectly mirrored, instead being offset from each other in a glide reflection pattern – but the presence of a clear central body axis suggests these animals may have had some sort of relation to the earliest bilaterians, possibly even being a very early stem group that was experimenting with a not-quite-totally-bilateral body plan.

Discovered in what is now northwest Russia, and dating to around 555 million years ago, Vendia sokolovi was a small proarticulatan measuring about 1.1cm long (0.4"). It had a rather small number of isomers compared to some of its relatives, only 7 per side, and seems to have had a simple digestive tract that branched into each isomer.

(The superficial resemblance to trilobites was coincidental – while we might not be entirely sure what these things were, we do at least know they weren't closely related to early arthropods.)

Very little overall is known about these animals' lifestyles. Trace fossils suggest they were able to move around, feeding on microbial mats on the seafloor, and they may also have been able to firmly stick themselves onto the spots they were currently grazing.

———

NixIllustration.com | Tumblr | Twitter | Patreon

#science illustration #strange symmetries #paleontology #paleoart #palaeoblr #vendia #proarticulata #ediacaran #bilateria #maybe #art #asymmetry #glide reflection

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chaosfae-writes · 1 year

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𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐲 𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫, 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐟𝐞

summary: sometimes love can only be felt from afar.

warnings: angst, one-sided pining, minor invasion of privacy, voyeurism, smut, possessive Michael.

pairing: Michael Corleone x poc!reader

a/n: For @melis-writes for inspiring me to write for the Godfather, this is for you babes! <3 the reader is half-poc, half Silcian, this is a little ooc from canon because I’m a woman of color, please let me just live my Michael Corleone dreams in peace. The word g*psy is mentioned, I don’t condone the slur, it’s used from an actual quote from The Godfather.

do not repost my works.

The pitter patters of little feet dash.

Small giggles echo throughout the Tahoe home, accompanied by heavier steps following behind.

Playful monster growls, fingers curled into makeshift claws, hunching over — Fredo runs after his three-year-old nephew, Sebastian.

Not too far from the boy, in case he needs to catch the child who is still learning how to walk.

The waddling toddler bounces on his little feet, arms in mid-air, instinctively running to the shared master bedroom of his parents. Cautious feet turn the corner of the hallway, akin to a penguin, Sebastian wobbles through the bedroom door.

“Sebastian, I’m going to get ya’!” Faux menacing growls causing the little one to squeal, as he crawls under the bed, not stifling his laughs all too well.

Chubby little fingers covering his mouth, his little gummy smile.

Fredo tries to tame his voice as his other little nephew, Vincenzo, is napping in his crib. An atomic bomb can fall from the sky and the infant would still be in his deep sleep.

Fredo follows the path his little nephew ran, slipping through the ajar open bedroom door, humming to himself mischievously, tapping his chin as if he’s deep in thought.

“Now where can little Sebastian be?” Childish giggles can be heard from underneath the bed.

“Oh where, oh where can Sebastian be?” Fredo dramatically announces, his arms extend wide as a theatrical jester.

Fredo walks to the closet, pretending to finally catch the little Coreleone, with an ‘ah ha!’, opening the closet doors wide open. Fredo’s hums with an impressed flair.

“Hmm, not in the closet.” Fredo twirls around at his feet, and stops mid-way, making sure his feet are seen at the hem of the quilt, by Sebastian, in the dead center of the bed.

Fredo hums again thoughtfully, tapping the toe of his shoe against the flooring — Fredo kneels down hastily, lifting the hem of the bed sheet.

“There you are!”

Sebastian squeals loudly, trying to worm away, but Fredo catches him with ease, playfully dragging him out from under the bed by his chubby little legs; but under Fredo’s nose, a clamor of an object is tousled.

It doesn’t register with his mind — he’s too enamored with Sebastian’s babbling.

As Fredo tickles his nephew, his mind wanders off into a train of thought. His finger ceases with the ticklish assault, a weight of self-deprecation settles upon his crown.

Fredo pauses for a moment, staring at his happily gurgling nephew —- a spitting image of his father, Michael’s twin in the flesh, jet black hair that curls at his ears, those wide rich brown eyes, and olive skin.

The mannerisms, and the precious furrowed brow, whenever Sebastian is deep in thought.

In his arms, Fredo holds his future successor, his reign was casted further below the familial tree, among the awaiting heirs when the boys were conceived.

Now another heir is to be born in six months, a third child you carry. The family hopes for another boy — the three sons, three little Michaels.

Sebastian grabs Fredo’s nose, bringing him back to reality. Fredo chuckles, kissing Sebastian’s forehead. Just as he fully brings his nephew up to his chest, something scatters by Fredo’s feet.

A black leather bound journal scattered across the flooring, finally catching Fredo’s eye. Cradling his nephew against his chest, he debates if he should even dare.

Curiously, he leans the balls of his feet, cautiously his hand hovers over it — debating if he should pry it open.

But the intrusiveness that weighs on his shoulders is becoming heavier and heavier until it cracks his spine. Snatching the journal from the floor, Fredo tucks it under his armpit, as he guides little Sebastian by the hand to his room for a nap.

August, 1957

Michael is returning home, and my soul can rest once more. The idea of letting Michael travel unsettles me, the hunger of our enemies is always ready in the shadows.

I’m terrified of losing him, that somehow an enemy manages to kill Michael. What would I do without him? A life without him would be nothing but grief —- the black veiled widow crouching in the farthest church’s pew, weeping for her lost love.

I refuse to become that; I will fight alongside my husband, even if he’s foaming at the mouth, raving that I shouldn’t put myself in harm’s way. To just be his lover, and the mother of his children —- his heirs to his throne.

No —- when I spoke my vows, it’s for better or worse. I grew up in this lifestyle — the family must stick together, and regardless of the misconception of the don being a lone wolf, he is not.

My Michael isn’t alone —- he has me.

But some nights, dark thoughts clutter my mind, moments of confusion, and despair —- what if Michael doesn’t need me as much as I need him? Michael isn’t invincible, he’s only human — what will become of my children and I?

Go back to Italy? My sons are far too young, barely walking —- would we even live in Tahoe still?

To lose Michael, is like losing a piece of me —- I wouldn’t know who I am.

Who am I?

How would I protect my children? Flee back to Italy? Hide away in my father’s villa home?

Fredo pauses, crouching over in his seat, alone in his guest room, neck deep in your personal entries. His fingertip tracing the loops of your elegant cursive, kissing the pages; kissing the dried tear droplets, and the smeared lipstick stains.

Inhaling the scent of your soft sun kissed perfume and woven stitched leather.

He can feel the ache of your lonely childhood, from the early entries of your proposed marriage that was once crafted by his father and yours, to loving Michael and how God arranged the fate in a peculiar fashion.

Fredo can recall the wedding — a spectacular Roman Catholic wedding, your bridal dress silky and long. How the lace veil fell upon your cherub face.

He nearly threw up, if he could he would’ve snatched you off the altar and drove off — never looking back.

To the worries of your marriage through each entry, Michael’s possessive nature, or maybe he won’t survive the next day; your poems entrance him.

It only makes his heart yearn for you more.

I would protect you.

The kids are down for a nap, little Vincenzo arose earlier, Fredo fed him a prepared bottle of milk you put away before leaving, played with the infant for a few hours, and then the little one slept again.

As Fredo sits alone, your journal is still in his grasp, reading, savoring every written word — faint gravel can be heard from outside.

Fredo’s head turns, through the transparent curtain, he can see the slick black vehicle coming towards the home.

In a sprint, Fredo closes your journal, putting it back in its original resting spot underneath the bed, and dashing down the stairs in a haste.

Fredo halt’s at a mirror in the hallway, his open palms slicking back his silky hair, and shuffling his shirt back in place — to look his best.

The car parks in the driveway. Fredo watches through the kitchen window, hiding behind the curtain. Peering shyly as if he dares to unveil himself more behind the curtain, he would be caught.

Caught admiring from afar, the way a man shouldn’t for a married woman.

One of Michael’s guards quickly opens the back door, holding your hand securely as your other palm is protectively around your bump.

As you try to gather more than one bag, the guard helps hold brown bags of groceries into the home; away from your grasp.

Fredo quickly dashes to the kitchen, opening the back door, hands frantic. His chest becomes excited to see your bubbly smile, as the driver trails behind you with both arms occupied.

The door swings open, Fredo boldly stands there, trying to compose his composure; a titter of a surprised giggle escapes your lips.

“Hi, Fredo.” Such a warm greeting.

Fredo quickly takes the brown bag from you, guiding you into the kitchen — even helping you take off your trench coat. The guard is not too far behind — ever so observant, ever so quiet.

“Thank you for watching the boys.”

Apologies for taking so long at the market slips from your lips, but Fredo doesn’t mind at all — just idly staring at your mouth. Fredo mumbles that it’s okay, he enjoyed his time with the boys. Shiny dark brown hair, brushed smoothly as the end of your hair is coiled into bouncy curls, soft pink painted lips, and your maternity dress hugging your body snug.

You always said in moments of frustration on some days, often calling yourself a parade float, hormones to blame, but to Fredo, you were perfect.

A motherly glow.

“No worries, we were playing all afternoon.”

Fredo joins you in putting away the groceries, a pleasant silence falls that doesn’t need to be filled with chatter. It’s comfortable. Your own personal bodyguard takes his place in the foyer, after you shush him off, telling him it’s okay to relax, and take a break.

Washing and putting away vegetables, along with cartons of milk, wrapped up meats and fish, canned juice, and fruits in the fridge; boxes of pasta are put away in the cabinets.

It’s comfortable — domestic, even.

Dusting your hands against each other, idly watching Fredo stack up the last of the boxed goods, a tender smile curls at your mouth.

“Would you like to join me for lunch?” You spoke sweetly, Fredo turned his face over his shoulder, with a toothy grin.

“I would love to.”

The sun has settled beyond the horizon, and the night has come to full bloom. Dinner has been served, the kids played around with Fredo, and yourself — as much as you could, with a swollen bump.

Played house games, and watched television with popcorn. The boys were bathed, swathed and loved till it was bedtime.

You sit in the master bedroom, cradling your bump, as you prepare to dress down to more comfortable sleep gown for the night.

Humming to yourself, digging inside your drawer for your silk nightie.

Faintly the front door opens and closes, it echoes dully against the stretched lavish home; you pause with baited breath. Hands frozen, as you await. Hushed chatter downstairs, you can make out the guard’s voice and his.

Dull footfalls crawl up the stairs, as you slowly turn your body away from the dresser. Out of an anxious habit, your hands caress your swelled bump, a shaky smile forms at your mouth. The sounds of feet come closer from the hallway — to a stop to the bedroom door.

A breath hitches at your throat, as the door knob slowly turns. A subtle creek of the opening door, as if time slowed down to a stand-still. Your ears heat up in anticipation.

He’s home.

Michael stands at the door, his hands in his pockets; under his watchful eyes, a tender smile curls. His cold eyes now soften, his shoulders relax.

Every fiber of your body yearns for him, and it makes your heart warm that Michael only shows his true self — in quiet moments, when the world disappears, Michael expresses his affections, comfort and vulnerability.

Only to you and his babies.

Michael walks to you, quietly, his eyes roaming your body, the changes of motherhood has bestowed you a glow, and more plumpness to the flesh of your curves. Your breasts swelled with milk for his children, your hips wider, thighs are more detectable.

Shyly you take small footsteps to him, both of you relishing the sacred shared space — finally, he’s back home.

His hands gently touch your cheeks, as if you were a precious jewel, his eyes are kinder, as he stares at you.

A soft kiss on your forehead, feathery to the touch, earning a hitched gasp in your throat; another to your cheek, his intoxicating breath fanning your touch starved skin.

And finally his plump pink lips hover just hairs over your mouth, his tongue daring to peek through the cages of his teeth — you’re desperate, a pant as you flick his parted mouth with yours.

Tantalizing, teasing one another, eyes never wavering from each other — relishing in radiating body heat.

Your fingers softly trace the bridge of his Roman nose, trailing to his cupid bow, to his pink full lips, Michael’s lips kiss gently. His eyes never waver from yours, his hands fondle your thighs, gliding upward the terrain of your waist, caressing the stretched skin of your ample bump.

The unspoken silence falls softly, now just inches apart from each other; as Michael’s fingertips graze your cheek, the warmth pacifies you, as he engulfs your jaw with his open palm.

His fingers glide the slope of your neck, caressing the nape of your neck, by his tender grip pulls you into a kiss. It’s passionate — desperate even, your arms wrap around his neck.

Michael’s arm wraps around your waist gently, not too firm to crush your growing belly — open mouth kisses, his warm wet tongue licks against yours, moaning into each other’s mouths. Your fingers roving messily in his inky black hair, soft tufts, and pulls.

Michael can feel your pulse under his thumb, thumping with a rush. The pang of lust hits your clit, as Michael suckles your bottom lip.

“I need you,” you whisper between kisses, “I need to feel you.” Whining, as your nails scratch his scalp — a deep low growl emits from Michael, “My sweet wife, I’ve neglected you for too long.” He spoke upon your wanting mouth.

His lips graze gently against your lips, hovering as his warm breath engulfs, sending tingles through the atoms of your flesh. The kisses are becoming erratic, more sloppy, as Michael’s teeth trail with open wet kisses, to the juncture of your jaw.

Nibbling and suckling, the curve of your neck, as your mound ignites hotly. Two bodies melting into each other, becoming one once more.

It’s late.

Fredo sits in isolated silence, with a glass of whiskey held by the tips of his fingers. Staring into the window view, memorized by the rippling night waters of Lake Tahoe.

Fredo often goes to bed with you on his mind, the only comfort that eases him amidst the chaos of his. When he needs to remind himself of the silver lining of living, he doesn’t get on his knees like his mother with a rosary woven between her fingers, head bowing in prayer — he thinks of your face.

But he should get on his knees, for God blessing a pathetic man as himself, that God let him know you, to have you in his family — even though you were married to Michael.

Instead of marrying a good woman like you, Fredo surrounded himself with easy women, bad partners who left bad taste in the mouths of his family.

American women with big breasts and big mouths to match, and thirsty livers. From getting two waitresses at a time to being married to a washed up broad who cheated on him, to then seeking hollow affections from showgirls, blur of alcohol bottles, bare breasts, and emptying himself inside their wombs with his seed — strings of raw fun nights to only end with the cold shoulder, and doctor Jules Segal’s speciality.

Often looked down upon for his reckless appetites, but making up for the slack of strength with charm, and burdened with insignificant family business deals, a tactic his father did to keep his middle child preoccupied for years.

Ridiculed for being the weakest link of three sons, the runt of the litter; for the lack of his father’s approval the more he weaned on his mother’s tit.

But it always begins at the mothers, this cycle of self-abuse, letting women inflict him; it always starts with the mothers.

His mother had this running joke, ‘You don’t belong to me. You were left on the doorstep by gypsies.’

A caricature of a man.

So easily dominated by women he places on a pedestal, only moments of tiresome rage does he assert himself — but it wasn’t enough to heal that fractured ego, and masculinity.

Starving people will eat the love they think they deserve — Fredo is starved, yet ill at the core.

Coddled by his own baby brother, from the outsider’s eye, it would seem that Michael was the older sibling, and Fredo being the youngest — a pang of spite strikes Fredo everytime. For years, when he’s alone, Fredo would stare at the ceiling, and ask God what is his purpose?

Was his existence just a spite towards his father? To be the stepping stool for his brothers?

Tears sheen his eyes, blinking back as droplets kiss his lashes, sniffling as he sits in his desolated state — you never pitied him. Always a shoulder for him to cry on, moments of conversations, your light humor on life is always refreshing.

You never spoke to him in a condescending manner, only spoke warmly to him. Your melodic voice trances him, fantasizing in his mind as he touches himself late at night.

Instinctive motherly doting, you’ve helped Fredo even in his most disgusting moments. Helped him sober up when he was a drunken mess, conversed with him on anything, never running out of interests.

Imagining you riding on top of him, legs split apart his torso, your warm cunt wound tight, clenching him for dear life — your delicate hands resting upon his chest, as his fingers dig into your bare cheeks, guiding your hips. Your sepia skin glistening with a sheen of dew.

Fredo scoffs, covering his hot face in shame, breathing heavily. He slams the glass on the table side desk, his chest heaving, as his length grows hard and wanton in his unbuckled pants. Wringing his chin by the fingers, he mentally berates himself for thinking such filthy thoughts of his sister-in-law.

These past few days have been a dream for him, while Michael was away in New York conducting business, Fredo and yourself were here with Sebastian, and Vincenzo.

Just the four of you, eating dinner together, boat riding round the lake, playing games around the house, late night conversations — being a family.

Playing house with a woman wedded to his brother, but he couldn’t help but delve into a fantasy of himself being your husband. That the wedding ring resting on your marital finger was the one he picked out for you, that this is your shared cabin home together, and Sebastain was his son.

A fantasy detached from reality to pacify him.

It made him think of his own son, wondering what has become of him, who’s taking care of him —- what would life have been if he had taken in his only child. Fredo knows he wouldn’t be able to take care of a kid, he’s only ever the uncle, never father material.

He can’t even take care of himself.

The swirling eels of envy crawl in his guts, hissing at Michael —- Michael is the don of the family, Michael got the beautiful perfect wife, the perfect children, the perfect home with a lake to match; and what does Fredo have?

A washed-up ex-wife, a string of meaningless affairs, self-depreciation, and a tainted reputation all under his belt.

A forgotten son — just as his lost heir, lost to the world.

Fredo shuts his eyes, his nose scrunches, as his eyes are wound tight, wrinkling in despair. Stinging droplets of tears cascade down his cheeks.

Skin against skin, limbs woven as one, sheets ruffle under thrusting hips; Michael’s huskily moans in your ear, making your thigh quiver.

His cheek against yours, his tongue finds its home once again in the crock of neck, as your hand is sloped around his waist, holding onto his tailbone, fingertips digging into his waist — guiding him harder inside you.

Your wet cunt sloshes, your ass jiggling against his pelvis, his cock deep to the hilt, as you’re split in half for him. Your leg is looped over his thigh, Michael ravishing you, as his arm is protectively over your belly.

Michael’s teeth nibble at the shell of your ear, whispering praises hotly, as your eyes roll to the back of your skull. Nearly squeaking when Michael’s thrust his wet cock at your g-spot — splitting your velvety mound, his balls softly hitting your swollen clit.

Soft growls emit from Michael’s throat, he needed this — needed your body for so long. Michael’s husky and warm breath hisses in your ear. Michael’s warm tongue licks the slope of your throat, suckling a wet open kiss, as his hips thrust without mercy — as if he was trying to impregnate you once more.

“You’re so beautiful like this, wet, and moaning just for me.” Michael’s whispers, “My little wife,” his fingers caress and stroke against your soaked cunt, his fingers scratching at the sensitive skin. “Mewling like a kitten, she’s purring just for me.”

“I’m going to cum–” You nearly shrill, as your gasps for air blow softly against the wisps of messy hair, scattered and tousled from Michael pulling on it earlier.

It’s painful yet so good, to feel his cock pistoning inside you; Michael snarling as he nears emptying his balls inside of you.

“Cum on my cock, let me feel you soak me.”

Airy moans, and gasps echo within the lavish bedroom, silk sheets wrinkled, and mangled as two bodies melt together — as a lone eye peeks through the cracked bedroom door.

Hiding away, peeking through the crack of the bedroom door, a lone teary eye watches one — Fredo nearly vomits, swallowing the bile down harshly.

It’s wrong to stare, but he can’t help but yearn to be in Michael’s position. Hearing your mewling is a symphony to his ears, his skin shivers.

His fingers itching to hold you — he looks away, silently stepping away, how disgusted he is of himself. Waves of shame fall upon him.

It’s been three days since Michael has returned home — and Fredo can’t stand it. As if his teeth gnawed on the thick tension of jealousy.

An itch of hurt swells in him, feeling abandoned by you, as you tend to Michael. Fredo knows deep down he can’t feel this resentment toward his brother, Michael is your husband, you haven’t seen him in so long.

As a loving wife, it’s within your right to be dutiful.

It drives him mad.

Fredo’s in the kitchen, pouring himself a drink, accompanying his glass is a pastry you bought from the market the other day.

Busy buzzing in his mind — too deep his thoughts — his brow etched in a frown, he didn’t hear a creak in the flooring, or timid steps nearing the kitchen. Slender fingers slither against his torso, tickling him in surprise, Fredo nearly yelps; a melodic giggle brings his heart back down.

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t help myself.” You chuckle, you awh at Fredo’s frizzled state, he resembles a spooked cat with spiky fur that aligns its arched spine. Fredo smiles, shaking his head, trying to restrain himself from your intoxicating touch.

“It’s okay.” Fredo hums, his cheeks a bit warm now. “Just getting a snack,” a glass of whiskey and a pastry —- the ideal late night snack.

“What are you doing up?” Fredo’s palms hold onto your forearms, “You should be in bed.” Fredo towers over you, as you lean against him comfortably, you breathe a chuckle.

“You and Michael are such mother hens,” you extend your chin at Fredo, playfully pouting at him, slightly stepping on your toes. “I’m alright, the baby hasn’t slowed me down just yet.”

Fredo admires the dim glow of the kitchen light gleaming on your brown skin — it shines with no blemishes, as his eyes lower to trace your heart-shaped lips.

Is this what a sin feels like? Deliciously, intoxicating, how Fredo wants to taste you right on the kitchen counter — shower your baby bump with kisses, suckle your heavy breasts into the cave of his mouth.

He’s burning up inside. You gingerly lay your head on his chest, hugging him, Fredo softly kisses your forehead, “Well, someone has to take care of you. Watch you like a hawk.” You hug Fredo in a bear embrace, you haven’t been able to spend time with him, or have a simple conversation.

For the past few days, your mind has been preoccupied with taking care of the children, and tending to Michael; or when you do see Fredo, he’s in Michael’s office — the both of them locked away discussing business that you weren’t privy to.

You adore Fredo, the sweetest brother you’ve had, you never had a brother — you always wished to have one as protective and caring as he is.

You mutter under your breath, as you hug Fredo “Well I’ve missed my hawk.” Fredo’s arms swallows you in his embrace, his cheek now resting on your dome.

You notice there's scattered playing cards on the dining room table, “What are you playing?” You point to the cards, and Fredo’s head moves from your head.

“I was just playing some solitaire, just to pass the time.”

“I love solitaire!”

“Would you like to play a game?” Fredo has a toothy smile, ready to snatch any chance to spend some time with you.

Your hands mindlessly rub your belly, humming, “I think I might be a boring player.” You chuckle, tucking your chin to your chest, scrunching your lips in embarrassment.

“Rummy is the only card game I know.” You say, shyly rubbing your belly, worried that your limited knowledge is boring for Fredo, knowing that he must have had more fun over the years at Vegas, but it doesn’t dim Fredo’s excitement.

“No, no, I love rummy!” He stammers, a toothy smile stretches on his face, holding the box of cards against his chest.

You tuck your chin, shyly nodding, “Okay, but I will warn you, I have a pretty good hand.” You tease, easing yourself into the seat, your hands protectively cupping your bump.

Four rounds in, and it’s finally a stand-still.

In your palm, you hold four variations of sevens, one jack of diamonds, a queen of diamonds and a ten of hearts. Just one more card, and you can win.

But so can he.

Playful eyes squint over your hand, as Fredo tries to play off a stoic poker face — purposely letting the stoic mask slip, with a dramatic pursed pout that successfully earns giggles from you.

He has a consistent string of club cards: 1234, along with a queen of hearts, a jack of hearts, a lone eight of spades.

Fredo suspects you have the card he needs, he’s trying to brainstorm a plan to get you to drop it to the pile of discarded cards.

Fredo hums, making the choice to pick up a card and drop the eight. With a swift pluck of the card, Fredo discards his spades, and picks up a nine of diamonds.

Your competitive side is itching, the tip of your polished nail taps against the back of your assorted cards. You have no choice but to pick up as well.

You pick up from the pile, and see a random 2 of spades. You huff, and put it down on the pile. Fredo’s brows furrowed in concentration, he doesn’t need the damn diamonds — what else can he do? Put the diamonds down, and pick up another.

Victory melts on your tongue with delight, chest alit — as Fredo’s diamonds finally touched the discarded pile, it was game over. With a swift pick up of the diamonds, replacing the ten of hearts. “I win!” You squeal, showcasing your full hand of cards.

Fredo guffaws playfully, “Rookie’s luck.”

The living room is quiet, and warm.

Sliver of moonlight gleamed through the ceiling high window, a flourish illuminated the lavish home decor.

The scattered playing cards are resting on the dining table, as Fredo and yourself are just resting on the couch. Just small talk, shoulder to shoulder, both comfortably on the cushions.

Fredo can feel your inviting body heat, it hugs him with that reassuring comfort that makes his body tingle. Adjusting himself so he can sink into you.

“Did you think of any names for the baby yet?”

You hum low, as your manicured fingers fiddle, “If it’s a boy, his name will be Anthony,” your head falls on the crock of Fredo’s shoulder, a shiver crawls up his spine at the contact, without any thought, lays his head on yours.

Your breath hitches excitedly, “But if it’s a girl, her name will be Rosalia.” Without any thought, your head caresses sweetly against Fredo’s shoulder, enjoying the shared warmth.

“Like the saint.”

You whisper a dreamy ‘yeah’ under your breath, you love your boys more than life itself, but you would be so happy to have a little girl too. The boys are their father’s twins, will the baby be your twin this time?

The boys are already spoiled and have their father wrapped around their little fingers, now imagine a daughter — poor Michael won’t survive it.

You take Fredo’s hand and cradle it against you, “Another baby to love, another baby for Michael to spoil.” Fredo’s fingers curl around the slopes of your fingers, not daring to let go.

A pregnant pause of comfort falls.

A heat surges through him, he can’t stop himself — an urge that feels so good, but so wrong.

Slowly, Fredo pulls your hand closer to himself — it’s a blur, a compulsive need that overrides his mind.

Wispy kisses on your knuckles, Fredo doesn’t think, just let his heart overcome any logical thinking —- a stunned silence falls.

He can feel you becoming stiff, not from disgust, just surprised, Fredo can hear your breathing picking up.

“Fredo?”

You don’t pull away your hand, worried that it would hurt his feelings. You stare into the darkness, as your skin flushes with an overwhelming heat at the cheeks.

“I love you.” It spills from his lips in a flurry, a hurried whisper.

“I love you,” He repeats. Fredo’s warm palms cradle your face, as you sniffle back tears, murmuring his name under your breath.

Fredo’s lips kiss your palm feverishly, murmuring against the knuckles. Closing your eyes, as your lashes become wet with droplets. Pleading with him to stop now, before it’s too late.

Fredo moves his body, his warm clammy hands grasp at the nape of your neck.

“I wish that you were my wife.” He kisses the tip of your nose, as fat tears cascade down his cheeks. Breathing in harsh breaths, caressing your face with his.

His beard tickles your skin, delicately your fingers grasp his hands, the pad of your thumbs stroking. “Fredo, please—” you don’t know what you’re pleading for; for him to stop, for him to say it’s just a joke.

Opening your eyes, gazing at his wet sheen eyes, and you see it’s no joke. “I hated my father for so long, for arranging Michael to marry you.” Fredo’s fingers thread further to the nape of your neck, pulling you into him.

“No, don’t say that,” your fingertips softly pat his mouth, “Don’t hate your father.” Fredo shakes his head, kissing nimbly on your fingers, more hurried, as if he couldn’t give enough kisses, as if you’ll slip away.

“Fredo, no —- I can’t, I’m sorry.” You choke back a sob, weakly trying to escape his hold. Trying to wiggle your face away, throat burning from restrained tears.

“I suffered for so long, seeing you and Michael together.” Fredo’s hush voice fans against your face, not daring to let you go. He won’t stop now, he’s in too deep.

“Why couldn’t I have you?”

He wants you to love him, to see the mess he is and still love him, that he’s worthy of love. For once, he can be the first choice.

Yearning — no, what he feels is much more destructive.

“Fredo, I love you — I do.” You suck in your lips, wet breathing, “But, I love you like a brother.” Fredo crumbles, forehead to forehead, your arms wrap around him in a hug, he holds onto you as if he never wants to let go.

“Please love me.” He mumbles, all you can do is speak his name in a loving manner, as he cries in the crook of your shoulder. Caressing his scalp, but what startles you is Fredo’s small wet kisses on your skin.

The most logical thing for a wedded woman is to push him off, but you can’t bring yourself to do so. He’s fragile, and too kind for any aggressive response — you know he means well, he’s a good man.

His thoughts are murky, desperate — to create any plan for you to see that you belong with him. He’s not thinking straight, he’s a broken man.

“He still thinks of Apollonia, he never stopped loving her.” Fredo spoke in a rushed tone, his skin cringing at the mention of Michael’s late wife, knowing it will sting you.

A pin can drop in the dead silence.

He can feel your body prickle, your breathing gets heavier, crumble underneath him, breaking apart like a duck egg, now just clinging onto Fredo as a life-line.

Shivering in his arms, he pulls you closer, as you practically sit in his lap now. In his arms, encasing you lovingly, as you nearly wept in his shoulder. Fredo’s fingers stroke the swollen stretched skin of your belly.

A call for your name beckons in the dark.

Michael’s voice breaks through the silence, his disembodied voice looming at the top of the stairs, calling out your name. The upstairs light turns on, giving a shadowed honey-dew.

Quickly, you wipe away your tears by trembling fingers, composing yourself, subtly clearing your tight throat, “I’m down here, Michael. Just talking with Fredo.”

Michael stayed quiet for a moment.

“Okay, it’s getting late — come to bed soon.” All you can say is ‘okay, darling’, you fix yourself, as well as fixing Fredo’s disheveled clothes, wiping away his tears.

Without any word, you stand up, even in the darkness you can see the gleam of Fredo’s tears. Stroking his bearded cheek, you lean down, kissing Fredo’s forehead, “Get some sleep.”

Leaving Fredo to himself, as you slowly trek upstairs, he can tell you’re beyond frazzled — what can he expect when he confessed his love to you so suddenly.

Fredo goes to bed alone that night but sleep never comes to him.

#chaosfae-writes #michael corleone x reader #fredo corleone #godfather fanfic

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that-foul-legacy-lover · 2 months

Note

I wish FL could transform into a smaller version of himself like Zhongli.

Just imagine him, foul legacy looking up and making eye contact with you with his little face and bright eye while he purrs. and now his purrs are not that deep low but high-pitched. small high-pitched purrs. And since we all agree he has cat behaviors (he's a cat) he definitely loves napping inside of cardboard boxes and high places like in the top of a fridge. One of my kitties loves to climb and rest on my shoulders just to see with curiosity what I'm doing, it's so cute. I can see Foul Legacy sleeping under the covers and tangled in your legs or sleeping on your chest like he used to do when he's in his big size.

I just like to imagine this dangerous creature from the deep abyss as the tiny cute man we know he is, because I love him:)

yes yes YES we're bringing back cat-sized Foul Legacy AAAAAA :D

okay okay, i've said it before and i'll say it again- cat-sized Legacy can and will sneak into your work bag so you accidentally take him with you. he waits until you're putting on your coat to hop inside, wedging himself comfortably in between the countless papers and files as you hastily pick the bag up and leave your house, the door locking with a sharp click. it's actually a little impressive how silent Foul Legacy is when he wants to be, you don't even know he's in there until you're already at work and open your bag to fetch a pen, only to find a sleepy Abyss monster blinking up at you, having taken a little nap while he waited for you to find him. you have to bite your tongue to keep from shouting in surprise, but Foul Legacy merely purrs and crawls onto your lap, curling up and going straight back to sleep- thank Archons you have your own office so you can easily hide him underneath the desk if needed. you give him a light scolding that night- "If you want to come to work, at least ask me first!"- and the next day you're greeted by an expectant Legacy sitting by your bag, waiting patiently

cat-sized Legacy also hides under your blanket, no questions asked, especially on chilly winter days. it much warmer and cozier under the covers, so he snuggles himself underneath and curls into a ball, a faint lump visible from outside. it's so lovely and toasty that he misses your return, only waking up with a tired chitter when you raise the blanket up, his crystalline eye gleaming in the dim light. Legacy yawns with all his teeth, worming his way onto your chest as you sit down on the bed- no getting up for at least two hours! quilts and covers are nice, but nothing beats the warmth you exude. be careful though, there's about an 80% chance you'll fall asleep and wake up being crushed under a normal-sized Foul Legacy's weight!

#genshin impact #childe #tartaglia #foul legacy #foul legacy childe #genshin tartagalia #genshin childe #genshin tartaglia #hi hello yes i am cordially requesting people send me cat photos hehehe #i have my own cat if anyone would like to see #i made cinnamon rolls today was very fun #i did accidentally drop something on my foot though and now it's BRUISED #short scenario #other's stuff #chit chat #anon #good evening #FAVE

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pouralaura · 11 days

Text

hold your applause

hb @potatocrisp! a little zarraphael snack today for everybody yum yum

tags: semi-public teasing, dirty talk, stockings

-----------

There are stageplays, sure; and then there's this, thinks Zarra with great distaste.

Baldur's Gate, as one of the largest and most famed cities on the Sword Coast, really ought to have a better avenue for community theatre -- because this lackluster rendition of Seven Swords Snarlclash certainly isn't cutting it. This bard is no stage actress, but she absolutely knows a poorly executed performance when she sees one. So far, at least two of the seven titular adventurers have forgotten lines, the costumes are terribly ill-fitting, and the musical numbers have been entirely off-key.

Raphael is reclined slightly in his seat next to her, an arm casually draped over the back of her chair. Zarra had said please more nicely than usual and batted her eyelashes at him this morning when they'd run into one another at the Elfsong for the third time that week; please let's get pastries and then there's a matinee performance of something-or-other happening in the park; fine, but you owe me, little mouse; how's about the best dick-sucking of your life, old man; why yes that will do nicely hells hells godsdamned hells just like that ahhh is this a broom closet?? ahh ffffuck, etc.

Despite the overwhelming success of the initial plea, it's not turned into a great date (if one could even call it a date, and neither of them will, so Zarra supposes the point is moot), but the little bard is far too proud to admit that this was a suggestion which she now regrets.

Which means...she'll have to suffer through it. But there are other things she can entertain herself with.

She presses her thigh more firmly against Raphael's. Nudges him. Surely he's not enjoying this any more than she is --

"What?" he hisses, but there's no real malice in it. "Pay attention."

"To this?"

"Are you not the one who insisted we support local art? And are you not the one who continues to do so incessantly, as a vocation?"

"Yeah, if it's good art."

"And precisely what about this charming production," Raphael whispers dryly, "does not meet that standard?"

She knows he's being sarcastic, but still she rolls her eyes and slouches in her seat, idly tracing a pattern on the devil's knee with her fingertips as she returns her attention to the stage.

But it's fleeting. She's bored, and they're in a fairly secluded spot near the back of the audience...and Raphael is warm, as always. Hot, even. It's distracting enough. What's the harm, thinks Zarra, and slides that fidgeting hand up her lover's thigh with a burgeoning grin --

-- only to find him fully and staggeringly erect beneath the quilted fabric of his trousers.

To his credit, he doesn't even flinch.

"Are you seriously hard right now?"

(It's not like it's too much of a surprise; when he's in the mood, the devil will unabashedly pop a boner if he catches a whiff of her hair, or if she sneezes a little weird. But, gods, it's funny each and every time. And arousing -- she'll never turn down a chance to be reminded of his dick. It's very nice.)

Zarra can't tell if his expression is a smirk or a sneer without turning to face him and drawing attention to them back here.

"If I'm to be honest, little mouse," Raphael murmurs in a hushed whisper, "this has been the state of things for some time."

Again -- predictable, but certainly not unwelcome. Most definitely more interesting than the theatrical debacle in front of them.

"How long, exactly?" Sugary-sweet, she's making fun of him. She knows he doesn't mind.

In fact, Zarra can almost hear him smile. Shivers when hot fingers worm themselves underneath the heavy fur collar of her coat to stroke her bare shoulder. Tit for tat, she supposes, leaving her hand exactly where it is in his lap as he shifts, tilting his face toward her temple so that she can feel his hot breath on her ear. Wily man, turning this situation into something he can use. Typical.

Not that she's complaining. The hot thrum of his voice always makes her feel pleasantly unsteady; it's a good thing she's sitting down.

"I find it difficult to concentrate on such a spectacle when I can feel the warm press of your thigh against mine." He leans into her further and she feels the maddening tickle of the tip of his elegant, crooked nose on her neck beneath her ear. "Impossible not to imagine lying betwixt them, spent and satisfied and smelling of sweet sex." His s's are elongated hisses now that he's deigned to play with her, punctuated prettily in his smooth low baritone.

"Oh?" Zarra breathes, fixing her eyes on the sorry twat currently delivering an overzealous monologue in the center of the stage as she brushes her thumb lightly over Raphael's clothed cock. "Do go on, darling."

"Watching your pretty little breasts heave as I drag my wicked tongue up the soft skin right here --" he rests two fingers on her inner thigh, just above the band of her stockings, and traces them upward a short distance. "Bite down, bruise you in dark blue, make you gasp for me, sweet mouse."

That's more like it.

"Mmmmm." She turns her head just enough that his stubbled jaw brushes against her cheek. Easy enough to imagine that same feeling in place of his fingers, considering how often he's in that position dining like a man starved. "Take your time, sly Mister Fox. I'll keep you in place until I'm finished with you."

She tightens her grip around the bulge of his erection. His breath hitches.

"Besides, you said this was after sex, yeah? So you've put plenty between my legs to keep that greedy mouth of yours busy, haven't you --"

The small pit orchestra seated below the stage begins playing (badly) as the next musical number starts, and it's a good fucking thing too because the little whine that spills from Raphael's lips against Zarra's neck is louder than appropriate.

Dangerous to tease him much further than this -- he'll be utterly wrecked in every way if she finishes him here -- but it's hard to resist. He drags his mouth along her cheek and turns forward, eyes on her stockings, toying with the band for a moment.

She grins.

"Before you ask: yes, I'll keep these on for you as long as you like."

She feels and hears the responding rumble of his purring groan, and he snaps the stocking band against her thigh lightly before creeping back up further and further towards the split hem of her skirt. Seeking fingertips dip underneath in pursuit of dampening lace, and this is the moment when Zarra decides to look up again --

"Shit," she hisses, elbowing Raphael in the ribcage. There's an usher coming up the aisle toward them, flushed in what's likely both embarrassment and anger. "Gotta go. We gotta go!"

There's a low, breathy chuckle in her ear, and a shadow passes over the two of them just so --

"Sir; ma'am -- we're going to have to ask you to --"

The darkness passes, and the usher blinks, confused. He could've sworn a man and a woman were in the middle of a shameless heavy petting session back here...

But the two bards are already back in Zarra's suite, and -- yes, now it's turning into a much more satisfying date.

(Again, not that they'd use that term.)

#laura's writing #raphael bg3 #bg3 raphael #raphael x tav #this too is zarraphael #hbd Mel!!!

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rosewaterandivy · 5 months

Text

iv. hunger hurts, but starving works

summary: it’s all fun and games until the fall festival.

pairing: s.h. x witch!reader

w.c.: 4.7k

warnings: my blog is 18+ MDNI; vague allusions to magic and the like (tarot specifically), serial kisser steve, we get by with a little no help from our friends

a/n: sorry for the ouchies last week, hopefully, some meddling from everyone's favorite metalhead and space cadet will help.

series m.list | playlist | currently spinning:

The weeks pass all too slowly. Leaves turning fiery shades of orange, amber, red, and gold before falling gallantly to the ground; littering the streets and sidewalks only to be soaked with rain and snow. Tracy manned the shop, convincing you to take some time off and promising to oversee the rescheduled H & M appointment. But sulking around the aunt’s house did little to alleviate the hollow feeling in your chest.

Women, like clockwork, still came down the bluestone path at twilight seeking absolution and eternal devotion from their paramours through the aunt’s skill. They paid in cash and hardly ever heard a word of advice: “He’s no good for you, honey,” said to a woman sporting a bracelet of bruises around her wrists, “Darling, there are more people involved than you realize,” whispered to another who insisted on bagging the married principal of the high school, his expecting wife be damned.

“I don’t care, I have to have him,” was the perfunctory response.

Kelly’s eyes easily found yours, cutting through the dark staircase where you sat huddled under a worn quilt. You don’t need to see this, her soothing alto sounds out in your mind. She jerks her head toward the door, Take a walk, we’ll call you for dinner.

It was no use arguing with her. With a heavy sigh, you stood from the stair and slunk off to change. There was a secluded stretch of beach just off the backyard of the property, one you were familiar with frequenting when things all became a bit too much. But, as of late, you’d preferred the quiet comfort of your bed.

In fact, you couldn’t recall the last time you’d even left the house. Content to laze away your days in languid drips, sleeping through the waking hours only to haunt the witching ones. The family grimoire remained tightly shoved in your bookshelf, slowly worming its way out from between biographies and murder mystery paperbacks. You’d given it a good push back into the shelf a few days ago, but here it was, halfway from tumbling out again.

Throwing on an old college sweatshirt and fleece-lined leggings, you lace up your boots, and toss on a beanie and your father’s old work jacket. The scent has long since faded from it, but if you close your eyes and wish hard enough, the warm, pleasant scent of pipe tobacco and the spice from his cologne comes through. Taking a deep breath in, you revel in the closest thing you have to a hug from your dearly departed father.

Swiftly, you take the stairs two at a time and round the bannister just as Moira pricks the woman’s finger in the kitchen. Your aunt gives you a short smile as you close the backdoor with a soft click.

It would be one thing, if this time away from the shop was doing you any good. As it stands, you’re barely able to get any peace waking or dreaming because every thing hurtles you headlong back to him. And it hurts— alcohol is only capable of so much, after all, and you’re having more difficulty making yourself go cold than you’d anticipated.

As if you’re injured just by knowing him— his touch, his taste, the sounds he makes, how he looks sleep rumpled and barely awake. Numbing yourself with drink doesn’t chase away the dreams, it only makes them worse; though you’ve only kissed the carpenter, you could swear you’d been waking with lovebites on your neck and a soreness between your thighs.

It was infuriating and driving you batshit crazy.

Only in the sense that it made the waking all the more difficult. If you were a weaker woman, you wouldn’t be hitting snooze so much that your alarm clock had eventually given up the ghost and turned itself off. If you were a weaker woman, you would luxuriate in your dreams where his touch was warm and welcome. If you were a weaker woman, you wouldn’t be the walking wounded with a gaping cavern cleaving your heart in two.

But you weren’t that kind of woman; instead, you were stubborn as a mule, as everyone in your life liked to frequently remind you. Things would be better off this way; sure, people were hurt but at least they were alive; the Callahan curse stopped with you.

It had to.

The beach was deserted, as to be expected. The waves ebbing in and out, their white frothy peaks illuminated in the fading twilight. A chilly wind blew through as it pleased, making you wish for a scarf to bundle up with. Burrowing further into the collar of the coat, you shoved your hands into the large pockets to stave off the nip in the air.

Leaning on a nearby boulder, you let out a deep breath. The sea air tickled at your nostrils, briny and damp, as a light mist began to fall. It was coming on dusk now, the scant autumn light dipping below the horizon. Losing yourself to melancholy, you don’t even notice the jingling of a collar as a dog bounded toward you.

Thinking its found a new playmate, the dog breaks into a run, a streak of black in the coming night. Eyes adjusting to the scene, you quickly scramble up the boulder pressed against your back. The dog, undeterred, places its big paws on either side of your frame thinking you’re playing hard to get.

Hands braced at your side against the boulder, you dig a heel into the sand beneath your feet and attempt to get some distance between the dog and yourself. In an unfortunate display of an utter lack of coordination, you end up cutting your hand on a particularly jagged section of rock just as the dog lands a long lick to the side of your face.

“Woah there!” You call out, bewildered.

The dog continues, unabated, as you fall with a plop to the cold sand, head knocking against the boulder in the comedown. Delighted that its new playmate is at a more accessible level, the dog yips and barks, jumping a bit here and there in its excitement.

“Lucy?” Another voice shouts out into the night, a masculine baritone. A figure comes into view not long after, bundled up much like yourself, with leash in hand. “Luce!” The dog, Lucy, turns quickly to regard her owner, ears at attention and head cocked. He whistles sharply followed by a snap of this fingers, and she trots away, but not before a final lick to your face.

Making to stand on your own two feet, you momentarily forget the cut on your palm, letting out a low hiss of pain as the sand makes contact with your skin. You wince at your own stupidity, it’s going to be even more of a bitch to clean now. Shifting your weight to the opposite side, you brace yourself against the rock to stand.

But before you can fully rise, the sweet scent of freshly chopped wood and spice invades your senses. A warm puff of air, “Shit, I’m so sorry— she’s normally fine off-leash and I didn’t see you through the mist—”

“It’s fine,” You grouse, hating the skittering of heat beneath your skin at the sound of his voice.

Steve steps back, eyes concerned. “You’re hurt.”

You want to laugh, cackle, at the absurdity that is your life; a regular comedy of errors. Instead, a bark of laughter slips from your throat as your eyes flutter shut. It would be very helpful if the ground could stop moving now. His hands come out to steady you as your vision tunnels and you sway to one side.

“I’m fine,” You insist, though it is obvious you are anything but.

And he’s warm, as always; you idly wonder what it’s like to be a living furnace, to have that much heat running through your veins. Must get annoying in the summer, that’s for sure. Like magma just surging over and over, cooking you from the inside out.

“Uh, it’s not that bad, actually.” Steve chuckles, trying to steady you on your feet.

Oh.

Had you been babbling this entire time? How embarrassing.

“No!” He’s quick to respond, “Not at all. You’re just uh—” Steve wraps his wrist with the slack from the leash with one hand, the other coming to wrap around your hip. “Did you hit your head, or something?”

You give him a slow blink in response.

“Right. Okay,” He sighs shortly and glances back up the hill at the aunt’s house. “Let’s get you back home and cleaned up, hmm?”

The last thing you recall before succumbing to the beckoning darkness behind your eyes lids is the brush of his cheek, rough and dusted a smattering of stubble, against your temple and the whistled tune of your favorite song.

The muted buzz of a conversation rouses you from slumber. Fuzzy at first, like static between stations on the radio, becoming clearer and clearer until—

“Are you sure she’s alright?”

One of the aunts tuts in reply, “Positive.” Ah, must be Kelly then, her low voice ebbs and flows throughout the room, “The cut looks worse than it is and she’s always been a quick healer.”

“We’re lucky you were there though!” Moira from farther off, the pantry maybe. “God knows how long she’d have been down there on her own.”

“I don’t know about that,” the man hedges uncomfortably. “It’s my fault that it happened. If Lucy hadn’t—“

“Now, now,” Kelly sounds closer now, “Don’t go blaming yourself for what amounted to a happy accident.”

Happy? You passed out from a knock to the head and sliced your hand on a rock, but no harm no foul— this was a lucky turn of events, apparently.

“Ugh.” Your tongue feels sluggish in your mouth, slow to maneuver at your whims. “What the—“

Your hand, the one not wrapped in gauze and medical tape, flops against the wood grain of the kitchen table. Fingers scoring along years of wear, knives thrown carelessly against its surface.

Blinking is a struggle too, your lashes feel positively glued together. “Why am I on the table?”

“Better the table than the cold sandy beach.” Moira says with a wink to Steve. “Our neighbor was kind enough to escort you home.”

Kelly snorts, “Escort is a generous term.”

Sitting up on your elbows, your head looks to the right, only to find Kelly nursing a margarita.

“Poor thing had to haul you up the hill and wrangle Lucy at the same time.”

“It’s not a big deal,” He demures, sounding far too close for comfort. “You kinda passed out and I just sorta—“ His cheeks are tinging pink under your slow owlish blinks. He brings his hands up in a mimicry or carrying something and icy realization washes over you.

“You had to carry me?!”

Kelly laughs from her perch against the hutch, “It’s not the end of the word peach.”

Moira picks up her cue with a wink, “Oh, woe is me! A big strong man had to carry me like a damsel and return me to my maiden aunts.”

Pushing yourself up fully, you swing your legs over the edge of the table, keeping your eyes straight ahead. Your feet find the ground easily enough and before a word can be spoken, you’ve left the kitchen to bound upstairs and shut yourself away.

In your absence, a hush falls in the kitchen, all save for Lucy snoring by the fire in the living room. Steve taps his fingers against the wooden table, walnut if he had to guess. The warm amber tone of the lumber popping against the darker grain— a beautiful and well-loved piece. He lets a nail trace a divot or two as the aunts prattle around the kitchen preparing dinner.

A hand grasps his shoulder, “Steve,” Kelly stands behind him, her empty margarita glass discarded on the countertop. “Would you like to stay for dinner? It’s the least we can do considering…” She nods her head, eyes looking upwards to where he can only assume your bedroom is.

“Oh, I don’t know if that’s the best idea,” He awkwardly fumbles for an excuse, something believable enough but not the outright truth of ‘I made out with and rescued your niece who wants nothing to do with me. Oh, and I’m also, maybe, in love with her.’

Moira closes the oven, having just checked on the roast. “Nonsense, we insist.”

He swallows, adam’s apple bobbing nervously. “I should really get going—”

“Now, I know you’re not going to spur two old biddies who have invited you to dinner.” Kelly’s voice is warning enough, her eyes light with mischief. An unspoken, you’ll stay if you know what’s good for you.

“So, what can I get you to drink?” Moria asks from across the kitchen.

“I’ll take a beer, if you have it.” Steve says from his spot leaning against the counter, his eyes glance up at the sound of footfalls upstairs. Your socked feet treading this way and that above him.

“Well, aren’t you in luck!” She crows, tugging the fridge open, “I just bought some today. Hope it’s to your liking,” She tosses him a can, that he catches with ease.

Eyeing the label, he gives her a small smile in thanks. “It’s my favorite, actually.”

“How do you like that?” Moira chimes in, setting the table for dinner. “Steve, would you be a dear and grab the pot behind you to place on the table?”

And Steve, for all his good intentions and attempts at a polite exit, finds himself settling own for dinner with your aunts. You stay upstairs throughout dinner and dessert, with only the occasional tread on the wood floor to signal your presence. And each time a creak or groan sounds from the floorboards, his eyes cast upwards wondering what you could possibly be doing up there, and how much you must hate him.

Lucy, however, has the time of her life at the Callahan house that evening. In lieu of her usual kibble, she is treated to a panoply of treats, hand served pot roast from the table, and luxuriating in affection from the aunts. Steve keeps an eye on her, and tries to prevent the aunts and their spoiling of her— “She’s a good girl, she deserves it,” “It’s just a treat Steven, no need to coddle.”

And if she’s aware of her role in the events that transpired this evening, she doesn’t show it. In her hard-won experience, sometimes people just needed a little push. And if that push came from her or through other means, well then, so be it.

Opting to skip out on dinner, you retreated to your bedroom and changed into some comfier clothes— a well-loved sweater and flannel pajama pants, a pair of cashmere socks from Moira several Christmases ago— and snuggled down in bed.

What a no good, very bad day you’d had.

Trying to avoid the very man who haunted your thoughts, only to get a rather enthusiastic greeting from his dog and injure yourself in the process. Just fucking great.

A soft knock sounds from your bedroom door, jarring you away from your thoughts. With a grumble that you were on your way, you reluctantly leave the warm cocoon of the bed and shuffle toward the door.

Turning the knob in your hand, you open the door only to come mouth to mouth with none other than Steve Harrington. It’s an unfortunate turn of events, he’d leaned forward to knock again and collided with you while trying to balance a plate from dinner.

It’s brief, but no less enticing than the kiss at the shop. It’s messy, teeth clacking awkwardly together, lips mismatched, mouths open to sprout apologies. It hurts like a kindness— he’s so warm and inviting, it would be easy to get lost in someone like Steve.

A breath of your name as he pulls away, flushed in embarrassment. “Fuck, I didn’t mean—”

And it’s like he broke you with gentle hands, without even trying. You can feel your heart plummet to your stomach, quickly replaced by a roar of fury. How dare he? First the shop, and now this?

“You can’t just go around kissing people Harrington!” You hiss, taking the plate from his grasp. “What is wrong with you?! Did you just get out of prison or something?”

He rocks back on his feet, fiddling with his glasses for lack of something better to do. “I know, I know,” His voice is a low murmur, “And I didn’t mean to, I swear to god, your aunts just asked me to bring up a plate for you.”

The longer you look at him, the worse it gets; all bashful and pink in the cheeks, wire frames bringing the green of his hazel eyes into sharp relief. All compounded by the humiliating fact that you would kiss him again in a heartbeat.

At the mention of your aunts, you cast your gaze down to the base of the stairs, catching Kelly’s eye. Her smile immediately raises your suspicions, the last time you saw that smile, Moira won the election to become president of the PTA by unanimous vote. She gives you a languid wave and wink before turning away and into the parlor.

“I, uh, I should go.” Steve says backing toward the stairs, “I am really sorry about that, it won’t happen again.”

A roll of your eyes, “Yeah, I’ll believe it when I see it Romeo.”

Steve quickly thanks your aunts for their hospitality and readies Lucy for the walk home, you can hear his voice as it trails up from the parlor, pitched higher and softer for the snoozing pup downstairs. A smile lights on your face despite your best intentions. Setting the plate on your desk, you step toward the windows overlooking Willow Street.

Porch lights illuminate the sidewalk and front garden of the house, and soon enough, a man and his dog appear too. Something being said about repairing the garden gates and a friendly wave to your aunts. He glances up to find your silhouette in the second storey windows, arms crossed and guarded. Steve ducks his head and turns toward home before he loses himself again; a full moon lighting his way back home.

You’d returned to the shop not long after, just long enough to let your hand heal up and recover your pride. Tracy was her usual self, for which you were grateful— she’d checked up on you a few times since the storm, not wanting to smother you.

As a result of her running the business solo, you found yourself manning a booth at the fall festival. It was a town tradition and one you had managed to studiously avoid in your years of being a local business owner. Unfortunately, it was time to pay the piper.

And, as luck (or lack thereof) would have it, your booth just so happened to be right next to the H & M Construciton one. You hadn’t seen any sight of Harrington yet, but it was only a matter of time, you were sure of it. Tracy had signed the pair of you up offering tarot readings, nothing fancy, just a three card spread.

“I can’t believe you,” You’d huffed when she shared the news, “You know I don’t like offering readings.”

“Well geez princess,” She said with a smirk, “If you’re gonna get your panties in a twist, I’ll do the readings.”

As it was, the booth was pulling in a fair amount of business already. Shop regulars stopping by to say hi and sign up for a reading, Tracy shuffling her worn tarot deck and dealing like she was at a blackjack table.

Of course, once receiving their readings (scarily accurate), they were immediately besotted by the fortune-telling dog next door. To be fair, she was pretty damn cute in her little turban and lolling pink tongue.

A cheery woman was seated alongside Lucy, bright blue eyes and blonde hair, while a dark and lanky man stood toward the back of the booth. Steve was nowhere to be found.

“You should go an introduce yourself,” Tracy suggested as a teenage girl left the booth, a spring in her step from what the cards foretold. “They’re your neighbors after all.”

Considering you’d kissed their roommate twice now, you figured it would be impolite to dodge a formal introduction. Shoving your hands into your coat pockets, you ambled over to their booth, Lucy announcing your arrival with a soft woof and wagging tail.

“Hey Lucy,” You greeted with a pat to her head, and she nuzzled her head into the palm of your hand. A laugh slips up your throat at her antics, but she’s far too precious to be refused.

Two pairs of eyes are on you and you can feel their stares. “Hi,” You offer with a weak wave, “We’re neighbors, the uh, Callahan house down the street?”

The blonde’s mouth falls into an ‘o’ while the man behind her reveals a wicked grin. They look at each other for a split second, some shorthand ESP you can’t translate, before turning back to you.

“I’m Robin,” Says the blonde offering her hand, she jerks the other behind her to point at the man. “And that’s Eddie.”

“Oh, nice to meet you,” Her hand is warm against yours, comforting. “We’re Steve’s roomates.”

“Right, of course.” You wave at Eddie and shove your hand back into your pocket. “Welcome to the neighborhood.” You rock back on your heels, “And, uh, thanks for the work on the built-ins, they look great.”

He steps forward wearing that same grin, “Not at all, happy to do it.” Eddie crosses his arms, ringed fingers grasping at his elbows. He inclines his head toward you, brows raised like he knows something you don’t. “Harrington was mum about why he couldn’t finish the job,” He says casually, “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, now would you?”

You attempt to school your features into a semblance of calm detachment. “Nope, no clue.” You give Lucy one last scratch behind the ears, “Anyway, thanks for taking care of it and I’ll see you around.”

“Sure, sure,” Eddie nods, “See you real soon.”

Turning back toward your booth, you’re startled to find Tracy shuffling the cards for none other than Steve Harrington himself.

For as long as he can remember, Steve has had this recurring dream; not a nightly occurrence by any means, but it would crop up at least a couple of times a year. A seaside town, the turning of the season, the sound of trailing laughter and creaky floorboards in an old Victorian house.

Hadn’t been able to make heads or tails of it for years. That was, until he moved to a particular small town; yours, as it so happened.

And now his nightmares are replaced with dreams and visions of you— dancing with your aunts through the kitchen, a margarita glass in hand, sleep-rumpled and bed-headed blinking owlishly from your bed, running along the sandy coastline Lucy hot on your tail, and, blessedly, the furrow of your sweat drenched brow, mouth falling open in a breathy pant while you tremble and shake above him.

Hadn’t been able to crack it until he stumbled into your shop that day. All it took was the sound of your voice and one look at you for Steve to know, deep in his bones, that he’d found the home he never quite had.

The love he felt for you coursing through him like a drug, was all-consuming. You called his name, and it whispered and roared like an orchestra. And all he can think is how you’d been wasted in the arms of everyone before him; and likewise, how he’d only been wasting time with every other girl back in Hawkins.

But life, like love, is rarely ever fair.

So your rejection, though not wholly expected, had been heard loud and clear. So much so that Steve’s not expecting you to give him a short smile and wave from where you stand at the cider stand. But it’s clear by your body language that you won’t return to the booth until he’s cleared off.

He shyly waves back.

“... this can’t be right.” With one hand Tracy scoops the cards up and shuffles them back into the deck. “We’ll just try again.” She says to Steve before calling out toward you, “Hey, babe?”

Three cups of cider in hand, you poke your head into the booth reluctantly, “Need somethin’?” Setting two cups on the table, you nudge one toward Steve, listening as Tracy mumbles something about making heads or tails of the three card spread.

She smiles, a small pull of her lips as you walk closer, ducking your head to hear her whispering. Tracy clears her throat and says, louder for his benefit, “Can you just hang out for a minute? I wanna make sure the last spread wasn’t a fluke.”

Steve leans back in his chair, arms crossing over his chest, reticent. Sure, Eddie’s ex had read his palm before, but tarot cards were beyond him entirely. He wasn’t sure what your presence had to do with the reading, but he wasn’t about to question it. Tracy instructed him to cut the deck again, his fingers approximating roughly half of the cards and set them to the right.

She shuffles them again, “So the first card is your past, the middle is your present, and the third is your future. Obviously,” she sets the first card down, “Tarot is an ancient storytelling system and a way of making sense of things.”

Tracy places the remaining two cards face side down next to the first and takes a breath. “Let’s see, shall we?”

The first card reveals a tower, the second a pair of cups reversed, and the final card—

A gust of wind blew a fourth card from the deck, landing next to the third card in the spread. Tracy drew in a steady breath, eyes cutting to you. “You do it. The energy’s off, I can’t—”

You back away raising both hands, “I don’t read for people, you know that.”

“But this—”

“Tracy, enough. It’s not gonna happen.”

Steve inspects the cards in question while the pair of you exchange furtive whispers. A tower, two of cups reversed, a wheel of some kind, and the lovers reversed. If the spread itself was anything to go by, it seemed that his future could go one of two ways as evidenced by the third and fourth cards.

“Well, if you’re not going to do anything helpful, you could at least talk to the aunts.”

You roll your eyes at that, “As if. Can you imagine? They’d have a field day with this.”

Tracys scoops up the cards once and for all, slotting them back into their silk pouch and drawing the strings. “Babe, I love you, but I’m beggin’ you to get your head out of your ass.” She nods toward Steve, “Talk to them. For him if not for yourself.”

“Fine,” You hiss turning tow to leave, “But I’m going to complain the entire time.”

“Love you, mean it!” Tracys calls out as you walk away before winking at Steve.

Shoving some cash in the charity donations jar, he grabs the cup of cider and his jacket from the back of the chair before jogging to catch up with you. Impressively, you’d made some headway back toward the aunt’s house, muttering to yourself all the while. He falls into step beside you, taking quiet sips from the warm drink, the scent of cinnamon and apples wafting through the air.

Too lost in your own world, you hardly notice his proximity— infuriating Tracy with her wily ways, stupid Steve with his soft smile and cozy-looking self, and your aunts who were no doubt cackling at this very moment watching you and “the nice carpenter” walk down Willow Street. It’s only when his hand accidentally brushes yours that your thoughts still. Taking a deep breath, you shake the thoughts loose and will yourself to shove your hand in your pocket. His brief touch searing you in its wake.

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington fanfiction #stranger things fanfiction #steve harrington fanfic #carpenter!steve #Spotify

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pinkiepiebones · 1 month

Note

Passing this question back to you, how do you think Renfield felt after he was freed from Dracula and how did he cope (or not) ?

Terrified.

The day after Dracula's demise hordes of three-letter agencies descended on the apartment complex and the Lobo's estate to try to ascertain what the fuck had happened. Rebecca had sensed something like that happening and, after she and Robert revived his codependents group, she had driven Robert to his place so he could pack some things. "You're gonna crash with me a while," she said. It wasn't a question.

He picked up his Welcome mat and threw it down to the pile of Lobo and police bodies three stories down. His packing was rushed, but practiced. He had to learn how to flee places in a hurry over the decades. He had to learn how to move with blood sticking to his skin and wounds oozing. He had to learn to watch his hands move as a terrible voice roared in his head and claws wormed into his sinew. He turned to leave and startled at the sight of Rebecca sitting on his sofa.

"Dude, you took like three seconds." She frowned. "Did you just shove some shit in a grocery bag?" She stood, shaking her head. "C'mon big guy, let's try to not panic, okay?"

Robert nodded, obedient.

Rebecca found his backpack- not in use, sitting empty on the shelf in his closet, purchased because it made him smile (it was made to look as though it had been fashioned from sunny quilt blocks). Rebecca spoke gently, now, guiding him to pack three of most of his articles of clothing for the time being. There was no way to tell how long the investigations would take. "And we can always buy you more stuff," she added. She recounted a time when Kate had been packing for some trip in high school and their father had joked about the overpacking. "He said, 'funny how stores cease to exist when you travel, huh?' because she was gonna be gone for a week but she had like six suitcases..."

Robert nodded, attentive.

The ride back to Rebecca's house was quiet. Robert watched her most of the drive. He clambered out of the passenger seat and grabbed his backpack and followed her inside.

Rebecca guided him while telling him about her small house. He looked at the pictures on the wall in the hallway. He studied the lives inside the frames. Then he followed Rebecca into the guest room.

"You," she said as he neared, "need a shower. So do I, probably, but, y'know, age before beauty or whatever. I gotta go check the heater, so, uh." She spread her hands. "Make yourself at home, roomie."

Robert set his bag on the guest bed and stood in the middle of the room, the muffled sounds of suburbia beyond the heavy curtains overwhelming his senses. How often he had hunted in just such a world, how often those sounds- lawnmowers and dogs and children- had simply meant 'Master's meals.' He pressed a hand to his mouth to suppress a scream and the wave of nausea that hit him.

Your sole purpose in life is to serve me.

Robert swallowed his guilt and his self hatred and ventured back out into Rebecca's house.

Rebecca jumped when she turned to find Robert standing behind her.

"Fuck!"

"Is there anything I can do?"

She looked at him, scrutinizing. "I dunno, this thing's just getting on in years."

"I meant, uh, in general?" He smiled. "How can I be of service?"

"No."

"No?"

Rebecca stormed past him. "You are not replacing him with me, don't even start down that path."

Robert chuckled nervously. "Oh, I didn't mean-"

Rebecca turned back and took Robert's hands in hers. "I know you didn't mean it. But you gotta know that this codependency stuff is going to keep messing with you, right? So, just-" She squeezed his hands. "You keep yourself from trying to be servanty, okay? I'm a big girl, I've been takin' care of myself a long time. You only have to serve you, got it?"

Robert felt tears sting his eyes.

"I don't know how to do this. God knows I'm trying, but now that he's gone, his voice isn't in my head, I can finally hear my own thoughts, and..." Robert gently pulled away from Rebecca.

"All I can think about is him."

His friend nodded. "I mean, we did just chop him up and mix him in cement and dump him into the sewer. I'm thinking about him too." She smiled and patted his arm. "C'mon, let's get the last of his blood offa you, maybe that'll help."

Rebecca had an idea; instead of Robert taking a shower, she offered to help him wash his hair as he took a bath, and he was glad for it. He felt a bit silly sitting in her tub, his long legs bent and a towel shoved around his waist for his sense of modesty, but that silly feeling ebbed as the warmth of the water around him seeped into his tired bones and Rebecca carefully leaned over to scrub at his hair with something that smelled like chamomile and lavender. He damn near purred at the sensation of her blunt nails gently scraping his scalp and her calloused fingers winding through his hair. He leaned his head back so she could pour a cup of water on his head to rinse, careful to guide the shampoo suds away from his face.

Rebecca pulled a few towels from a cabinet and plopped them on the counter by the sink. "Okay, I think you can handle it from here. I'm gonna grab a shower and then we'll figure out dinner. Sound good?"

Robert nodded, content.

#renfield #renfield 2023 #I never actually fill prompts do I I just glance at them as I am running headlong into a different story

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aelinschild · 2 months

Text

Paradigm; side by side

˙✧˖ March 5th: Surprise

Main Masterlist | Paradigm; side by side Masterlist |

SYNOPSIS: But shame appeared like a monster at his feet; he did not stop at noticing. WORDCOUNT: 742 WARNINGS: Cursing, horny Rowan again (This is a reoccurring theme)

Huge thank you to @throneofglassmicrofics for organizing! Make sure to check out other works over on their account!

He was sick.

It dripped from the cracked open well of his mind. This carnal infatuation. Two fucking days at sea only chafed his hands further. Drove him to the brink of insanity with nothing but luminosity in its reach. Futile, his attempt.

A near decade of solitude had changed him. Or maybe it was the woman across the hall.

Somehow his humanity had been stripped from being, flayed off bone like parchment. More animal than man, abruptly changing his being in the presence of another. Huffing, he drove the shovel into sun-warmed earth again. Splitting callouses on the wooden handle and welcoming the burn of slivers. It was a welcomed reprieve – the physical pain – to the dwelling in between cerebral tissues.

In the swirl of his coffee, the drip of shaving cream as it swirled down the drain, even the goddamn seafoam teased him. Staring into them, eyes tracing over the natural patterns, before shifting and curling. Volume and peaks. He would catch a line – trace it as it flowed, morphed, connecting at an apex, rising into a cinch. He saw her everywhere.

A part of him knew this compulsion was natural. That isolation crafts a certain brand of savagery. Hardly any shame in noticing.

But shame appeared like a monster at his feet; he did not stop at noticing.

Thud, thud, thud.

It had been like holding a blessing, warming him through all atrophy. Skin, bloody and bruised, had all but screamed at him to touch. Bandage, or press into. Delicately trace serrated hide, peel back coverings. He still felt her weight in his hands. Hadn't fallen asleep until the weight of quilted blankets held a candle to her.

Dirt fell from the edges of the hole, tumbling back in. Progress slipping away. Less so than if he had chosen to dig through sand. Its richness packed it together, congealing the salt water with decay as it sopped through the distance. He would need to dig deeper for any progress to be made today.

It was an escape, an out. This craft he had taken up for the day. I need to build… head heavy and tongue laden. She had only nodded, eyes skirting his own, before tucking back into the sunroom. The gossamer skirt flowed along the worn floorboards. He hoped it would catch, shred the entire thing from her body. He would not be at fault for the natural world's intentions. But he felt sick for wanting them.

He was wearing the shirt today.

But it had been removed not too long ago, tossed into tall grass and nestled into Gaia’s clutches. The weight of it along sun-warmed flesh had been oppressive. Settling on him like tar, sticky and irremovable. It hadn't mattered anyway.

The night had been so quiet. He had woken up thrice; checked her room once to make sure she hadn't run off in the night. The feeling had wormed around his mind, you scared her. Brutish and nasty in all lonesome glory when he towered over her. Pulse racing with fear, expelled into a rage. But she had been there. Nestled between blankets he had chosen. Cooled from windows cast open that he had built. Sheltered in the small canopy bed – a family heirloom. There was a strange sense of pride when he truly took in the sight of it all.

That, and some darker yearning for permanence.

Lingering on the thoughts would have led nowhere good, and so Rowan has risen before the sun to set off on foot towards the forest nearby. Acres of land penned in eternal ink in his mind's eye had led him to the collection of deadfall. Most rotted with sickness meant that the early cerebration had stalled in its rampage. A beast calmed, eye shutting with content and thumping back to its cavern.

Eventually, enough solid elm was collected, and the walk back to Aelin- the house, was in part.

To this moment, torrid heat lashing down on him as he stood unmovable. A sculpted portrayal of the lover scorned. Waiting for the moment when disdain, apathy, fuck, even curiosity morphed into something more. Until then, he would burn. Sun rays or gold-lined irises. It made no difference.

Rowan watched Aelin rouse from bed, his spot in the tall grass a mighty vantage point to the moment between vulnerability and its nemesis. Like a predator stalking his prey, he did not move until she disappeared from sight.

Taglist: @mariaofdoranelle , @leiawritesstories , @renxzs

#throne of glass microfics #rowaelin #throne of glass #rowan whitethorn #rowaelin fanfiction #aelin x rowan #aelin galythinius #rowan x aelin #rowaelin au #throne of glass au #throne of glass fanfic #throne of glass fanart #sarah j maas #sjmaas #sjm #sjm books #aelinschild

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emiliaoleary · 6 months

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Hooking rugs that look like dogs

Here's how I do it:

The process I use is called rug hooking (not latch hook or punch needle or tufting, though it is the forerunner of the latter two techniques). Rugs are hooked by pulling loops of fabric strips or yarn through the holes of a base fabric with a coarse open weave, like burlap, or linen, or rug warp. The loops are pulled through the fabric with a squat-handled hook whose business end is shaped like a crochet hook. There are no knots and the loops aren't sewed down in any way. The whole thing stays put just by the tension of all those loops packed together in the weave of the foundation fabric.

This isn't a true detailed tutorial but a walk-through of my particular process. The same information is on my web page, emilyoleary.com .

I hook with yarn, rather than with cut strips of wool fabric, which is what many rug hookers use. I can get a looser, more organic distribution of loops with yarn than I could with wool strips, which are hooked in neat lines.

Mostly I use wool yarn. In terms of yarn weight, I can use DK, worsted, or Aran. If I'm using thicker yarn, I leave more holes un-hooked; if I'm using finer yarn, I hook more densely or double up lengths of it. I particularly like using single ply yarns (like Brown Sheep Lamb's Pride or Malabrigo Worsted). I don't keep count, but I think I usually use around two dozen types and colors of yarn per dog.

This is my yarn wall in my apartment. Mostly brown and gray yarn!

I start from a small drawing in my sketchbook, then I head to FedEx office to use a copy machine, blowing up the drawing repeatedly and experimenting with how big the dog rug should be.

After transferring the image onto my linen, I immediately go over it with Sharpie, because the Saral is really difficult to see and really easy to rub off.

The rug is held taut by a PVC quilting frame that I set on my lap.

I push my hook down through the fabric with my right hand and my left hand stays below the fabric and guides the yarn while I pull it up and through with the hook. Not every hole in the fabric is hooked. Hooking every hole would make the rug too dense. I do hook pretty densely, though-- If you pick up one of my rugs you’ll see they have a slight curl to them, which is because they’re hooked pretty tight. I'm using all different weights and types of yarn, so it's a challenge to keep the overall tension even.

I hook my loops at varying heights to create a very low relief. Sometimes I trim the loops to make them fluffier or wispier or to shape a particular part. I look at a reference photo while I work and pull out and redo sections a lot.

My q-snap frame can accommodate the growing dog rug. I have extenders to make it bigger and I can clamp around my hooking.

The back of a rug looks like lines of little stitches. The lines are little worm trails snaking around because lines of hooking are not supposed to cross over each other. It's important to start a new length of yarn rather than cross over a stitch you already made! I read this when I first started and took it to heart. It makes it much easier to undo and redo hooking if you have to (and I redo sections A Lot). It also keeps the back from getting too bulky and resulting in uneven wear on the back of a functional rug that gets floor use.

When I’m done hooking everything I turn the rug over and brush watered-down Sobo glue on the edges of the dog, making sure to get one or two of the outermost lines of hooking. I do a couple coats of this thinned out glue. I'm careful not to use so much that it seeps to the front of the rug. When the glue is dry I cut the rug out, but I don't cut so close that the loops don't have any linen to keep them in.

It generally takes me at least several months to finish one dog rug. My hooking frame and yarn bag are very portable (though bulky) so I can hook out and about at coffee shops or the library or a brewery if there's enough space and light.

Hooking in the wild makes me an ambassador for making things in general and rug hooking in particular. I answer people's questions and always emphasize how relatively easy it is to get started hooking. Sometimes I get anxious that other people will hook rugs that look like mine but better, but I think that working in a traditional medium means you should share your knowledge for the good of the craft.

#tutorial #rug hooking #rug tufting #rug art #dog #dog art #yarn

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kissesfromcaptors · 2 years

Text

Alan Orion/Reader

Summary: After spending the night at Alan’s, you wake up wrapped in his arms. Fluffy morning sex ensues.

🔞 MINORS DNI 🔞

Everything was soft and heavy. Your body ached dully as you fastened your eyes more tightly shut, pushing your face deeper into the soft down pillow you were rested on. A weight pressed firmly across your torso, fixing your body closely against a lengthy, breathing expanse, radiating heat, vital to the touch. You listened for a moment, lulled by the regular rhythm, the slight flex of a chest into your spine, the quiet whistle on the exhale. Birdsong faint in the distance, a melody on the exuberance of being alive. Mornings were peaceful out here. No shrieking alarm clocks to wake you, no cars sputtering loudly down the street in their pursuit to fall into the clamor of the working world- no nightmares, even, wrapped in a secure, familiar embrace that seemed to leech away even the worst of worry as you slept. Just Alan, tangled around you and smelling of woodsmoke and promise, and the thick quilted comforter that enveloped the two of you in your own private world. Unwilling to face the day yet, and committed to enjoying the unbroken spell of rest and comfort for just a little while longer, you stretched, your joints snapping loudly back into place, then wormed your way closer to Alan. Pressed flush against him, everything felt whole, right in a way you had not yet dared to name. Love, certainly. But you hesitated, tipping on the precipice of forever. He sighed, his head rolling forward to come to rest at the crook of your neck, arm tightening reflexively around you. You smiled to yourself, warmth flooding your face at the simple intimacy of the gesture. You had slept with Alan for some time now, but this was still one of the few times you had actually slept with him, and the domesticity of spending the night at his place was not lost on you.

Aglow with sentiment, you failed to predict that his mouth, parting wetly against your skin, was baring his teeth to bite, and you squeaked as his teeth dug into the meat of your shoulder. He was biting in his sleep now? Your eyes flew open, squinting in the watery sunlight that poured through his open curtains, and squirmed a little in his grasp. Unfazed and definitely still asleep, he gripped you tighter still, until half exasperated and half fond, you reached back to grip his hair, tugging him away by force. Marking you up while he fucked you was one thing, hell, even the fond nibbles he imparted as easily as a kiss were acceptable, but you had to draw the line somewhere, and that may as well be for being used as a chew toy before you’d even had your morning coffee. Alan grunted behind you, his breath starting in his throat, before one of his calloused hands crept slowly up to meet yours in his hair. He yawned thickly, leaning in to your touch.

“There a reason you’re pulling at me, Doe-eyes?” He mumbled, voice low and cracked through with sleep. You bit your lip, still not used to the sound of him as he woke up, and released his thick locks bashfully. He rewarded you with a snicker, nuzzling against the crown of your head and planting a kiss where his lips came to rest.

“You were biting me!” You answered, petulant. Your tone didn’t seem to ruffle him, and he laughed fully, warm and affectionate, the sound splintering the stillness of the morning.

“That hasn’t bothered ya before!” He chuckled, hands trailing smoothly down your back to rest at the small of your waist, circling it as he drew you to his chest.

“I was trying to sleep!” You weren’t unaffected by his good humor, and fought the grin that threatened to split your face in two. Damn him for being so charming while you were trying to pout. Alan hummed, breath ghosting down the nape of your neck.

“Well, we’re both up now. You made sure a’ that,” he spoke into the hollow beneath your ear, and you shivered a little as the hot gust of air sent tingles careening down your spine. He palmed your hips more firmly, squeezing a little before flipping you onto your back, sliding over you in one smooth motion until he was perched over you, knees splayed, hands planted firmly on either side of your head. You blinked up at him, dazed and struck dumb by the sight of him, heavy eyed and smiling, face painted gold by liquid sunlight. Any remaining stubborn irritability melted in his wake, and you wound your arms around his neck by way of an apology. No, you most certainly were not used to this yet, the way his tank top clung to him, riding up to expose his stomach, the way he looked hanging over you and plastered with a sleepy grin, his bed head wild and lit in a gossamer cloud around him, the way his striking eyes shone. Alan any day was gorgeous. Alan above you, drenched in sunlight and bed rumpled was breathtaking. You toed again at the concept. Forever.

“Whatever,” you stuck your bottom lip out playfully, mocking pique. “Kiss me about it.” He huffed spiritedly, leaning down and catching your mouth with his without complaint. He was tender, curled his fingers around your jaw so delicately you'd think that it may break, molded his lips to yours, traded the rhythm of the kiss with you in a patient push and pull. It's really too bad he was hot when he was waking up, because a part of you could be very deeply touched by the pure, inherent love for you that spread across his every action in this moment. The other part of you, however, was reaching for the waistband of his sweats. He giggled against your mouth, nipping your bottom lip before disentangling to raise his eyebrow at you, watching as you snapped the elastic against his hip.

"Thought you said you just wanted a kiss," he grinned, eyes darkening just a fraction while you toyed with him, brushing against his front with your knuckles in measured, teasing strokes.

"Are you complaining?" You shot back, dipping just below the fabric to scratch at the flesh between his stomach and his groin, relishing the feeling of his coarse happy trail under your fingertips.

"Nope," he enunciated with a pop, looking giddy, all warm cheeks and toothy smile. "Just wasn't expecting such a good morning 's all. Especially after you tried to scalp me." You snorted, reaching down to take his length in your hand, giving a teasing stroke as you felt him twitch to life under your touch.

"Maybe if you didn't dress like such a snack I wouldn't have to jump your bones first thing! Grey sweats, Alan? It's like you want me to lose it."

"Guilty as charged," he says, fondness practically dripping from his tone. "Only the finest for you, Doe-eyes." You returned the comment with a giggle of your own, letting out a breathy sigh as one of his hands tangled into your hair. "Should give you a taste a' your own medicine though," he mused, rocking back into your hand as it worked him to his full hardness.

"You don't even feel pain that way! No fair!” He fisted the strands coming from the nape of your neck, gave them a playful tug, barely enough to sting, and despite your protests, you groaned quietly, pulling against his hand to provide counterpressure, reveling in the feeling.

“Certainly sounds like you don’t mind.”

You whined, wiggling under him and rutting into the pressure of your own hand as it stroked Alan, a thumb swiping up to collect the precum beading at the head of his shaft. He growled as you teased the small slit, low and deep in his chest, and heat flooded your face, bleeding through you to collect at the base of your spine.

“God, Alan…” you breathed, removing your hand from his dick and hastily pulling his sweats around his thighs, mouth watering when his cock sprang free, bobbing against your stomach. He reached down to tear at your pajama bottoms, crawling backward to pull them to your ankles and shucking his own the rest of the way off, dipping down to kiss your stomach just below the navel as your clothes were discarded, balled up on his bedroom floor.

“You’ve got such a pretty voice, Doe-eyes,” he cooed, grazing his teeth along your hip bone and chuckling as it prompted a cut off yelp. “I wanna hear more. Don’tcha wanna be good for me? Come on, let me hear ya.” You heaved out a shaky breath, pushing your pelvis up pointedly.

“Fuck me already,” you urged, reaching down to grip at his shoulders. He laughed, trailing his tongue down the seam where your thigh met your hips, stopping short of your sex to breathe against it heavily.

“Tease!” you accused, trying to push your hips into his face and groaning as he held them firmly to the bed.

“Ah ah, Doe-eyes, no need to be hasty. Let me enjoy you.” You buried your nails into the exposed skin of his shoulders, earning a teasing kitten lick against your sex.

“I swear to god, Alan,” you huffed, bucking uselessly under his touch. He relented, nuzzling his face between your thighs and opening his mouth wide, taking you in to the wet heat of his mouth as he proceeded to devour you whole. You moaned, awash with heat as he serviced you, one of his hands scratching down your hip and over your thigh to snake a finger into your opening, crooking the digit as it entered you. Heaving, you clenched around him, pulling him deeper inside you. He grunted, the sound reverberating appealingly around you, sucking you down, and pulled off with a slick sounding pop.

“You always taste so good,” he sighed, sounding half dreamy as he added another finger to his prodding exploration inside you. “Think I wanna get you off just like this. Would ya like that? Wanna cum inside my mouth?” You keened, tossing your head back against your pillow and rocking into his fingers.

“Please,” you moaned, desperate for the searing heat of his mouth.

“As you wish,” he grinned, delving back into his ministrations, setting a brutal pace between his fingers and his tongue. You let every wanton noise pass freely through your lips, trembling beneath him, the rough pad of his thumb tracing affectionate circles against your hip somehow only stoking the fire in your blood further. Your hands traced over his broad shoulders and up his neck, scratching along his jaw and burying your fingers in the soft hair at his temples. Pulling him closer, tight against your sex, panting as he messily devoured you.

“That’s so, so good, Alan, fuck,” you whined. “You’re so good for me, my good boy, I love you so so much, keep going please.” His pace increased, spurned on by your praise and the way you stroked his hair, dizzy as you lost yourself to him. He growled, swallowing roughly around you, and your hips bucked up uncontrollably, pushing into the hollow of his mouth and seeing white as his teeth scraped against your tender flesh.

“F-fuck,” you panted. “Close, close, please- I need… I love you so much, fuck-” your words stopped short on your lips as he drove a third finger into you, eyes rolling back in your head as he pumped into you with reckless abandon, thighs clenching tightly around his head. You came with his name on your tongue and your love for him gripped tightly at your heart, thrumming erratically beneath your ribs.

He slowed as your thrashing came to a quivering halt, lapping at the fluid that escaped you as though starved. You sighed, long and languid, and pulled him off of you when the contact toed the edge of painful overstimulation, drawing yourself up into a rough sitting position as you cupped his jaw. He beamed up at you, face a mess of saliva and the vestiges of your release, practically glowing. He looked impossibly besotted, flushed and lovesick under your gaze. You couldn’t help the urge to kiss him, catching his lips and gasping against his mouth, quaking with the force of raw emotion that possessed you. Forever sat heavy in your throat, itching for release. He met your kiss with uncontested passion, crawling up to your lap, the taste of you still lingering on his tongue as he swiped it against your bottom lip. You let that be for a while, just kissing him and allowing the world to be at rest, forgotten in the shadow of life in his arms. He pulled back to take a breath, and you attempted to resituate yourself, lean down to return the gesture, only to have him stop you short, his hands clamped tightly around your wrists.

“Just yer hands, Doe-eyes,” he pleaded. “I wanna keep kissing you.” Sweet, you thought, far sweeter than he had the right to be.

“Alright,” you told him, “Lay back.” He shifted, laying across the pillows, arms spread wide, and smiled goofily up at you as you settled over him, taking his flushed and leaking cock into your soft palm. He was red, heavy, hot and twitching in your hand, and you admired the way he sucked in a breath between his teeth, chest flexing outward as it filled. You leaned down, pushing your plush mouth against his, teasing the corner of his lips with your tongue as you pumped him, swallowing his whines readily.

He met your movements with rocking hips, pressing against your mouth with urgency. He tasted like familiarity, electric with desire that coursed through you so strongly you felt as though you were floating, hardly pausing to breathe as he pulled you closer, closer still. Your weight was heavy on his chest, barely any room between the two of you for your hand to move along his length, though he evidently didn’t mind, fucking into your hand with such desperation you hardly had to move it anyhow. You pulled away from his mouth, dragging your face down to his neck, and his hips stuttered and picked up a ferocious pace as you dug your teeth into him. Feral and writhing beneath you, he let out a bone-shaking growl, gripping your waist with crushing force as he came in molten heavy bursts, his cum spilling over your hand and smearing between your bodies, painting your stomachs glistening white as he bucked wildly through his climax. You held him as he came down, stroked his hair and whispered praise so cloying sweet you wouldn’t dare repeat it outside of his arms, enamored sentiment outweighing pride as his gasping grew long and heavy in your ears. He grumbled, wrapping his arms around your body protectively, and tipped you over so you lay on your side beside him. His cum grew tacky between you, and you shifted in an attempt to leave his gasp and wipe down, but his wiry arms tightened vicelike around you, trapping you in place.

“Alan, come on, we’ve gotta clean up,” you complained. He yawned, nuzzling into the hollow of your throat, stubbornly refusing to let you go.

“We can clean up later,” he murmured, drowsy. “Let’s lay here a bit.” You pursed your lips, sighing heavily. You’d be in desperate need of a shower, and he was going to have to wash the sheets, but you couldn’t complain when they weren’t yours to clean- couldn’t help the thought that followed, ‘yet’. You melted into his embrace, letting your eyes slide shut. The day would wait. You’d entertain forever for a while, and let the world glide by untethered from the one you shared.

#mdhm #my dear hatchet man #mdhm game #mdhm alan #alan orion #my writing

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pinksomovember · 6 months

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Day 2 - While Intoxicated [ao3]

Mya always had to pee when she got stoned. It just tended to sneak up on her, or maybe her awareness of her body just dialed up to 11 and she couldn’t help but notice it even when it was only a little bit full. Whatever it was, she got used to it.

She didn’t get high a lot. Maybe four or five times a month, on the occasional open evening that led into a day off or on the even rarer occasion that someone was offering at a party.

She liked to get high alone, in her studio apartment, using edibles. It was her favorite kind of high, syrupy and long lasting, and suited her purposes just fine. She’d map out her evening by streaming a handful of movies or shows she particularly liked, usually kid cartoons or the odd sitcom, something she could absolutely zone out and pay little attention to. She’d eat her way through half a bag of chips, a bar of chocolate, and a bag of something sugary sweet while sipping on cherry coke. She’d make a nest on her bed out of every pillow and blanket she owned and luxuriate in bacchanalian hedonism.

It was the height of laziness and decompression and exactly what Mya needed after the six-day-week her barista job had her pulling the past week. It was a Tuesday, sure, but Wednesday was her guaranteed day off and she was going to take advantage of it for the tail ends of her high.

She was all set up: She-Ra on the TV; blanket nest with the fluffiest blanket burritoed around her and three pillows propping her up; classic potato chips, a Dove chocolate bar, a bag of sour gummy worms, and three bottles of soda on standby. She’d taken the edible just over half an hour ago, and the effects were just beginning to kick in.

It only took another few minutes for Mya to feel the familiar ping of her bladder’s contents registering mentally. And not long after that time didn’t seem to matter all that much anymore.

She was sprawled across the bed, the most comfortable she’s ever felt in her entire life while one leg hung off the bed and the other was trapped under the weight of several blankets and maybe a pillow or two, when another far more insistent ping caught her notice.

Rather than the tingly type of feeling, almost like a small amount of pressure against her urethra, it was a whole lot heavier. Like she might actually be filling up her bladder. Not impossible, of course. She’d already drunk a full bottle of coke, the soothing coldness and sweet syrup and fizzy carbonation still leaving phantom ripples of sensation through her jaw and throat and mouth.

She was way too comfy to move, though. And even if she could it would be wobbly and strange and not nearly as wonderful and staying put in her bed. Besides, there weren’t any sour gummy worms to suck on in the bathroom, nor fuzzy blankets to become infatuated with (suddenly so soft as to feel like real fur instead of just the cheap ten-dollar throws with novelty prints sold at the end caps of Target).

Mya was rolling her hips lazily into whatever folded, twisted up mess her blankets had become—not really trying to get herself off (yet) but enjoying the way the pleasure radiated in slow, echoing ways through her pelvis and up her spine and down to her toes—when her bladder gave much more of a jolt than a ping.

With sudden clarity, Mya realized that she was completely and totally bursting.

Her bladder fucking hurt, cramping in the same light way that Mya always got in the week leading up to her period. Not incredibly painful, but noticeable and annoying and not particularly pleasant. She wasn’t the most slender of girls, but it wasn’t difficult to notice how firm her bladder had become. Physically hard, beneath the layer of pudge, that sent a spiky ache directly to her teeth when she prodded at it.

She groaned. She didn’t want to get up. It would ruin her whole…flow. Like a hammock swaddling her, or a raft drifting gently in the river. She rubbed her cheek against the quilt under her head. It was a little bit cool and the tiniest bit rough.

If she really were on a river, she’d be able to let go. Just a little bubble of warmth around her pelvis before that too washed away, drifting further and deeper out into the center of a gentle ocean. She wouldn’t have to move for anything, just stay exactly as she was. Maybe her ocean would be made out of cherry coke and she’d only have to roll her head to the side to get a sip, and perfectly crisp and salty potato chips would float around like fish and would jump into her mouth if she left it open for them.

Ow, Christ, that was right she had to pee.

It was actually starting to hurt, consistently. And not only that but the annoying desperation was ringing like a fire alarm in her brain. Surge after surge like ding, ding, ding. Or maybe more like clang, clang, clang. Dinging was too gentle of a word. This was a lot more aggressive than that.

Mya sighed, and decided to roll her hips just one or two more times before she’d get up to stumble to her bathroom, just across the room. It wouldn’t be impossible but it would take a bit of trial and error before she could get her bedding arranged so it would press up against her pussy just right. But since she really had to pee it was a loss she’d have to cope with…after a few more minutes.

Time flowed around Mya inconsequentially. To be fair to her, she really did think only a few more minutes had passed—and maybe that had. Either way she was quite abruptly reminded of how urgent her current situation actually was when she started to feel wetness between her legs.

“Shit,” she said, slurred a bit through the cottony feeling of her tongue. She immediately stuck her fingers into her pajama pants, probing up against her pussy through her cotton panties. Contradictory, she was completely dry.

The (mostly) direct stimulation was too much for her to handle. Her cunt was puffy and swollen, the way it only got when she was incredibly aroused, but not something her mind was able to keep mental tabs on at this point. A wave of arousal in the form of heightened blood flow must’ve been processed as warmth, that for whatever reason also processed as wetness.

She laughed a little bit. Fuck, she was way to high for this. She felt like how rubbing a hand across a fuzzy blanket did, or- no, not quite that insubstantial. More like suede rubbed the right way.

The blankets were all tangled around her. It made getting up nearly impossible, like they were all working together to pull her back down.

Mya stopped for a moment, standing up on her hands and knees on top of her bed.

Her room wasn’t making sense around her. Her body wasn’t really making sense, either. She really was too high for this. Getting to the bathroom was going to be a production, not to mention how difficult it would be to be when she actually got there. Only a handful of times before had she been in this state when having to walk around and most times ended with her sitting—on the toilet, in one experience, and on the floor for most of the others—desperately trying to process anything for at least half an hour.

She didn’t have a choice, though. She had to get up and she had to walk across her apartment and she had to get to the toilet. And she had to do it even though she was as high as shit.

Her bladder was heavy between her hips, weight perilously hanging with her new position. It took up almost all of her mental capacity, screaming at her that she had to pee desperately. She was so full, she was bursting, she was barely in control.

Mya made a strangled whimpering noise, hands flying to clumsily press against herself. She fell back to sit on her calves, but at least she was upright. Her head was spinning and her cunt was pulsing in time with her heartbeat, and she was pretty positive that her fingers could feel the spasms through her panties and pajama pants.

“Fuck me,” she whined to the empty room. She couldn’t cope with this situation, it was just too much.

She squeezed her thighs together tight around her hands. She could feel the bones in her fingers where they were bumping against each other and her knees feeling like they were sinking further and further into the bed even though she was definitely stationary. And, more than everything, she felt the solid roundness of her bladder pressing down against her poor, fluttering urethra.

She arched the small of her back, shoving her pussy further into her hands, trying to make it easier to hold it. She felt a creeping sort of panic start to come over her. The situation was really starting to set in.

Mya…didn’t know if she was going to be able to make it to the bathroom.

“Okay, okay…this is okay,” she mumbled to herself. “Just- just gotta…”

With considerable effort to coordinate all her limbs she rolled off of the bed and into a crouch on the floor. It became imminently worse for her poor bladder as it absolutely rioted for her to pee right where she was.

“Mmmmhmhm!”

Mya needed a few more minutes to orient herself with her new position before she even thought of standing up, but she didn’t have time for it. Her fingers were weak and clumsy in the way of someone newly awake or very intoxicated, and she couldn’t hold onto herself quite as tight as she needed to. In addition, she felt another strange burst of warmth that wasn’t actually a leak but felt a whole lot like one—enough to feel almost like the start of relief.

So, despite the spinning of the room, she tried to get on her feet. Only to stumble and need to catch herself against her bed.

“Fuck,” she whimpered. She couldn’t even tell which way was up or which way was down, except that her feet were both on the floor and only one hand was helping her hold her pee hole shut. But she knew she had to get to the bathroom now. “Oh god, I have to pee so bad. Fuck, fuck.”

Still, she waited until she could at least tell up from down before risking venturing off across her apartment.

She took a step, and then another. It was really more of an awkward hobble, thighs squeezed tight and both hands pressed up against herself. Incredibly slow going. It felt like she was moving through molasses, like she was in molasses. The same way running in a dream felt, when you were on the precipice of awareness but still asleep enough to not be aware of the waking world, unable to move the way you knew you should.

“C’mon,” Mya told herself. “C’mon, c’mon.”

Her bladder was so heavy it might as well have taken up her entire abdomen. She felt pregnant with it, like she was carrying gallons and gallons of piss.

“Just gotta…to the bathroom. C’mon. C’mon.”

At first, Mya didn’t even realize it was happening. It wasn’t until she felt wetness on her calves that she noticed that oh, actually, her thighs and her hands and very rapidly her feet were also getting wet.

Even then she still took several steps before processing what was happening.

“I’m wetting myself?” she blurted to the empty apartment, incredulous. She hadn’t, at any point in the process, thought that she might actually lose control. It wasn’t something that she could ever remember doing, even as a small child. She hadn’t had an accident since she was a toddler and yet…yet here she was wetting herself like a baby in her own home.

Now that she was realizing, though, it started to feel really, really good.

The pee was pouring out of her, soaking up in the thin fabric of her pajama pants and streaming in rivulets down her legs. Not having much space between the pushed-together-thighs, her butt and the backs of her legs was ending up receiving the brunt of it. It was forming a puddle on the ground at her bare feet.

It was warm and nice in the way a hot shower or bath was, pleasant and not in the slightest bit icky despite the nature of what it was and the fact that she was still fully dressed. Mya haltingly took her uncurled herself, letting her legs spread apart a little and taking her hands away from her pussy.

And just like that, the relief hit her.

She couldn’t help but moan, high and breathy. Her eyes were rolling up into her head and her knees started to wobble.

“Oh god,” she whimpered.

It was pleasure like no other she’d felt before. Not quite orgasmic, but somewhere adjacent. It was all consuming and coursing through her veins while pee was still coursing from her ruined pee hole. She could barely even remember to breathe.

It went on for what might as well have been forever. Logically, Mya knew it was probably a couple of minutes—a long time for a piss, but not really too long in the scale of things. When it was over, it was all Mya could do to tremble and stand still. Every few moments her pussy would pulse and shivers would wrack their way up her spine.

Mya only started to stir from her stupor when the pee started to cool to an unpleasant degree, and she realized she was shivering more from the chill than the remnants of pleasure.

She looked dumbly down at the mess on the floor—mostly just the laminate flooring of the hallway, which she had at least managed to reach, but also spreading out far enough to soak into the edges of her bedroom carpet.

“Fuck me,” she said, this time for an entirely different reason then before. She had no idea where to start to clean this up, much less the mental capabilities of managing to follow through with it.

Laboriously, she peeled her pajama pants off herself and let them fall with a distinct plop into the puddle. After followed her cotton panties, stained nearly entirely a darker shade of blue.

Unable to do anything else, she climbed back up into her bed with her legs still shining with wetness. Everything else would be a problem for herself tomorrow.

#omorashi #omovember #fem omo #piss kink #day 2 #fic

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