#LITTLE PLUMP SEA FLOPS

[thelittleredwildflower]

Note: 18+, adult content

Calamine

Boone, Mississippi. 1976.

September

Ginny woke in the middle of the night to the restless song of crickets outside. She shifted lazily on Coralee’s springy old mattress and rolled onto her back, wiggling her toes beneath the soft, threadbare sheets. Her small feet throbbed with a fierce, burning itch, and she rose up in a daze, rubbing at her big eyes in the hot darkness.

The air was thick with humidity, stifling, and she sat for a moment, her body still damp and heavy with sleep. After she had roused herself a bit, Ginny swung her coltish legs out from under the striped sheets and pulled her knees up tight to her chest. In a stream of pale moonlight, she looked down, shocked to find both ankles littered with sore, red welts. The sight turned her stomach. It worsened the dull, steady ache that already lingered in her belly, and she swallowed hard, pressing a palm against her damp forehead.

Earlier that night, Coralee Cooper and Annabelle Lane had gotten Ginny drunk for the first time. The three of them had trekked out back into a thick of old trees and wild brush near the Indigo River, their worn backpacks plump with stolen beer. They had plopped down Indian-style in a patch of cool, blonde grass beside the rushing water, waiting on Cora to fish out her daddy’s old bottle opener. ‘Budweiser’ had been written in faded blue letters across the red handle, and they had pried open the smooth, cold longnecks with eager hands, giggling all the while.

The three of them had sat near the river’s edge for hours, watching the swift, dark current sweep over bedrock as they’d downed swig after swig of liquid gold. When all the beer had finally been drunk, they had flopped back on the grassy bank and smoked cigarettes, watching the late summer stars tilt and spin. It had been loads of fun, but from the looks of her swollen feet, Ginny had left the woods with more than just a good beer buzz.

She poked gingerly at one tender red bump and sucked in her breath. It stung and ached with the beat of her heart, and she knew straight off it was poison oak. She’d had it before as a little girl, and it’d been downright terrible. The stubborn, scarlet colored rash had gone on and on, no matter how many times her mama had rubbed it with salve and wrapped it in clean cloth bandages. For weeks, it had throbbed with her every step, and Ginny still remembered her mama’s warm, soothing voice, how her skin had smelled of honeysuckle as she’d dabbed thick patches of cool pink lotion over her feet and ankles. “It’s all right, sweet girl. That calamine’ll work it’s magic soon on ya soon enough.”

“Coralee?” Ginny sent out a quiet whisper to her friend, but Cora was deep in dreams, her eyelids fluttering like moth wings in the silver moonlight.

Ginny waited a minute or two, then pulled herself off Cora’s bed with a long, lazy sigh. Outside, in the hot damp of midnight, the steady, musical lull of insects droned on through the open screened windows. In the hazy shadows, Ginny finally found her glasses in a sea of glitter nail polish bottles and Seventeen magazines on Cora’s cluttered white dresser. She wiped the lenses clean with the bottom hem of her nightdress, then slipped the round, tortoise shell frames up onto her freckled little nose.

In the quiet heat of Coralee’s small, dormered bedroom, Ginny suddenly grew homesick. The Coopers had no air conditioning, and all she heard then was the eerie, drifting whir of steel blade fans running in every room of their dark house. Down the hall, restless with sweat and bad dreams, Cora’s little brother, Travis, tossed and turned in his small twin bed.

It was hot for late September, oppressively hot, and Ginny longed for autumn. She loved when the nights grew windy and brisk after the purple fall of dusk. She would often linger out in the backyard until late, her small body strewn across an old tire swing. Up and down the streets, people burned piles of leaves, and she would close her eyes and breathe in the pungent scent of their fires. Each year, she savored the sweet, somber hush of rolling foliage, the slow turn of trees in their neighborhood from deep green to crimson and gold. She hadn’t seen a wisp of color so far though, and it made her wonder if summer would ever give up the fight.

Ginny looked on at her two friends as they slumbered in the darkness. She listened to the soft sound of Annabelle’s breath moving in and out. It was tranquil and even, like the rise and fall of waves. In the far corner, Coralee sighed and shifted onto her belly. Ginny didn’t have the heart to wake them, so she stepped over Belle’s long, sleeping body and tried her best to be silent. A rush of searing pain swept through her feet and ankles then, and she stopped where she stood, wincing.

Cora’s bedroom door stood half ajar, and Ginny craned her neck, looking out into the dark, narrow hallway. It felt like trespassing, her roaming around in someone else’s house at night. The creak of a wooden floorboard, the groan of a warped stair, the shadowed corners and locked closets were all parts of a foreign land, one where natives slept, unknowing. She thought of the jumbled pile of shoes near the front door, the dirty dishes in the sink, the wooden coat tree beside the big picture window where jackets and sweaters and hooded sweatshirts hung at random. All the unfamiliar scents on blankets and sheets and pillowcases, they were the Coopers’ blood, sweat and tears.

Ginny stood for a bit, hesitant, smoothing her thin white frock over her slim, pretty legs. She tucked her wavy dark hair back behind both ears and thought of morning, how it was just a few hours off. She could wait. The last thing she wanted was to disturb the peace, but as she took another step, that deep, aching heat sprang to life again. She glanced back at Cora with hopeful eyes, but her friend still lay sleeping in a harbor of clean cotton sheets. Ginny turned toward the beckoning hall again, sighing reluctantly. She stayed put for a moment longer, then finally lifted anchor and drifted out into the hot, silent house.

~

“Mr. Cooper?” Ginny’s voice was soft and unsure as she looked down at him, at a good daddy sleeping peacefully on his brown plaid couch.

She had never known her own daddy. He had left her mama high and dry when Ginny was just three years old. At home, she never walked into their yellow tiled bathroom to find a straight razor sitting on the sink. There were no bottles of stiff, woodsy smelling aftershave tucked into the medicine cabinet, no dirty brown work boots lying idle near the front door.

Emmett Cooper had the same color hair as his daughter, Cora. It was the rich shade of burning embers, not red and not brown, but a beautiful, unique mix of both. His big, weathered hand lay across his lean belly, and it rose and fell gently as he took in a long breath, letting it out with a quiet, lazy sigh. His sleeping face was turned away from her, and the warm, dancing light from a muted TV screen cast rippling shadows all over the room.

Ginny stood a few feet from him, keeping still and silent. She had always been painfully shy, and more often than not, filled to the brim with a quiet uncertainty. Even as a small child, she had been soft-spoken and sweetly awkward. She couldn’t help but feel like pest then, saying his name again, so she waited, hoping he might stir.

She looked on at the frayed bottom hem of his gray t-shirt. It had come up an inch or two on his belly, and her cheeks burned at this small, unexpected glimpse of bare skin. A straight line of copper hair trailed down from his navel, disappearing into the waist of his blue work trousers. They were stained with grease and motor oil, and she saw how the dark cotton had worn thin at the knees.

Ginny only knew a handful of things about Coralee’s daddy. He fixed up cars down at Lipman’s Garage, he smoked a pack of Luckies a day, and he had a soft spot for horses. Cora had once said that her daddy loved to ride his old motorcycle, and on Friday nights, he would put his feet up, listen to blues, and drink Wild Turkey out of a tiny red shot glass. She had also said that her mama, Lucy, downright hated his motorcycle and the whisky drinking too. For months, Cora’s mama and daddy had been fighting like cats and dogs. Lucy had been staying out nights, spending more and more time working late shifts down at Ruby’s Diner. She was there that night, in fact, waiting tables and slinging hash to all the night owls and drunkards.

Cora had said that her mama had been acting like a selfish bitch, and that her daddy deserved his bit of fun, especially after he’d worked his hands to the bone all week. She had told Ginny that she missed her daddy’s goofy laugh and his stupid jokes. All of his silliness and playful teasing has gone absent since he and Cora’s mama had begun living separate lives. It all seemed so complicated and sad to Ginny.

“Mr. Cooper?” Ginny drew closer, intent on asking if they had any calamine lotion to soothe the itch on her tender bare feet. She jumped in her skin when he sat up quick, startled from a deep sleep.

“What? What’s wrong? Shit, I fell asleep. What time is it?”

Still bleary-eyed, he reached up and rustled his red-brown hair with both big hands. It stood up every which way, until he smoothed it back down again with a heavy sigh. He seemed disoriented and plain exhausted, and Ginny felt remorse for waking him up so suddenly.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Cooper. It’s ‘bout two o’clock, I think.”

He moved to the edge of their brown plaid couch, and almost at once, his big hands reached for a pack of Lucky Strikes that lay out on the coffee table. They had been tossed there beside an empty bottle of Budweiser, an old Zippo lighter, and a green plastic ashtray that cradled two spent butts. He smacked the half pack of smokes up against his big palm and pulled one out, taking it between his teeth.

“You one of Coralee’s friends? Lucy warned me ‘bout you girls stayin’ over tonight. Said I might not get much sleep on count of all the gigglin’ and carryin’ on.”

Emmett Cooper gave Ginny a tired, weary smile, showing just a glimpse of his straight, white teeth. He looked at her bare, freckled shoulders and tiny frame. She was a good bit smaller than his daughter, and she looked as young as a chickadee. The only thing that gave away her true age was the shadow of two tender points hidden beneath her thin cotton frock. She stood at just the right angle, where the smooth, white moonlight drifted in through the big picture window. Its soft glow made her little gown go completely sheer, and he looked away. She might as well have been standing there naked in front of him. She didn’t have a clue though, and he wasn’t about to let on. He had learned quickly, just by living with Coralee, that teenage girls were often over-sensitive, erratic creatures. He kept quiet and took a long drag off his cigarette. All the while, his eyes fought the urge to look at her taut little nipples through her pretty cotton sheath, and he cleared his throat as he exhaled.

“I’m Ginny Goodman. I work with Coralee over at the Dairy Queen…makin’ ice cream cones and such. We just met this summer. This is my first time stayin’ over.”

She had a honey-drip little voice that he could barely make out, and like a bloodhound, Emmett caught scent of her shy, hesitant nature. She had a quiet innocence about her; none of the giddy drama that was common in most girls her age. She was different, more sweet and trusting. It was in the downward tilt of her big doe eyes behind her glasses. It was in the high color of her baby soft cheeks, and he felt the tug of an erection come on him then. It took him completely off guard. It disturbed him, even, because she still looked like a little fawn.

He had never been one to desire knock-kneed, skinny young girls. He favored curves, and his wife, Lucy, had plenty of those. Since the night they’d first met, Emmett had been crazy for Lucy’s firm, rounded breasts. The way she filled out a snug white t-shirt had always driven him wild. She was near forty, but her ass still looked delicious in a tight pair of old Levi’s, and her legs had remained shapely and strong. After twenty years of marriage, he still had trouble keeping his hands off her. He even loved the little paunch of her belly because she had carried his three children there.

Emmett had always fancied solid women, women he could grab onto and drive himself deep inside of. He had never once, as a grown man, felt himself stiffen up so quick and eager for a girl so young. It just hadn’t been in his nature. In fact, he had always found it unsettling when the guys down at Lipman’s would catcall at passing teenagers.

In the summertime, a slow stream of wayward girls often trickled into the shop. Dressed in snug cut-off jeans and thin halter tops tied above the navel, they would prance around and put their flat, tanned-up bellies and firm, sun-kissed legs on display. They’d snap their bubble gum and flip their hair and give the middle-aged men like Emmett a knowing smile as they dropped their keys onto the grubby front counter. It was always a smashed-in bumper or a busted-up taillight that needed repair, the ruins of loud music, homegrown weed, and a lead foot. On the hottest days, they would wiggle their firm little asses out the front door and leave the sweet scent of coconut oil in their wakes. While most of his buddies would whistle through their teeth as the girls shimmied across the parking lot into their boyfriends’ trucks, he would only shake his head and let out a quiet belly laugh.

Emmett thought on Lucy then. It had been nearly three months since she’d let him touch her, and the last time had been rushed. It had been a quick, silent fuck in the still darkness of their messy bedroom, before the house had woken up or the sun had sneaked its way through the drawn curtains. After they had finished, she had slipped her warm body out from under his and whispered, “I need to make coffee…and I gotta pack a lunch for Travis.” It had seemed to Emmett that she hadn’t been able to get away from their bed fast enough.

By instinct, his body had grown hungry in Lucy’s absence. He knew it was possible that his wife no longer loved him. They had been growing apart for some time, years it seemed, but Emmett still had hopes that the two of them could put aside their problems and salvage the family they’d made together. As of late, Lucy didn’t seem too keen on that notion, and the whole thing broke his heart in two.

“Well, Ginny Goodman…” He took another long drag off his cigarette and slowly exhaled into the close, sultry air. “…it’s good to meet you. I’m Coralee’s daddy.”

~

“What in hell you girls doin’ out in them woods, anyhow? Drinking’ down my beer and smokin’ up my cigarettes, I reckon.” Emmett looked on at Ginny’s big chocolate eyes, waiting for her to deny it, but she just pressed her bee-stung lips together and let out a soft giggle.

“Yep. You can tell Coralee I noticed them smokes missin’ from my pack. You can tell her to cut it out too, or there’ll be hell to pay. I keep sayin’…if she’s stupid enough to take up smokin’, she best buy her own pack. I told her to stay out of them woods too. It’s ripe with poison oak.”

Ginny kept quiet and listened as he talked to her all daddy-like. She savored his playful, gentle scolding. It felt nice. She imagined what it would be like to have a daddy that loved you deep, one that teased you and made you laugh.

She was bashful as he took down a bottle of calamine lotion from the kitchen cupboard and walked over to her on quiet bare feet. He sat down beside her on the soft plaid couch and shook the pink bottle in his big hand, mixing it up lightly. He told her to shimmy her little behind around and sit with her back against the couch’s big pillowed arm, and she obliged him with dark, watchful eyes.

“Put your feet up here so I can get a look. I know that’s what you got though, and it ain’t no fun from what I remember.” He motioned for her to swing her feet up.

“It itches somethin’ terrible.” Ginny pulled her glasses off and wiggled her toes like a child.

“I bet. You’re covered in it.”

She set her small bare feet in his lap and watched his scruffy red beard, his thick fingers and creased knuckles. He had a black crescent of motor oil under each nail and a tender red cut on his left thumb. Her eyes lingered on his big hands as he took soft white cotton balls slathered in cool pink balm and gently dabbed them on her sore welts, just like she was his own baby girl.

“That hurt?”

He looked over at her eyes, and Ginny shook her head no. Though she was young, and green as a sprig of mint, a warmth suddenly blossomed up between her legs. The feelings brought on a whole mess of confusion because Mr. Cooper was a grown man over twice her age. He had sturdy arms and tiny lines at the corners of his eyes. He was no spindly teenage boy.

As the fan slowly teased across their hot skin and drew away, Ginny felt a ripple of uncertainty run through her. She wasn’t sure if Coralee’s daddy had looked at her bare legs in a way he shouldn’t have, or if he’d been wrong to let his deep hazel eyes wander to the thin strap of her nightdress when it had slipped down her freckled shoulder. She wasn’t sure of anything, only that his hands were like feathers on her sore bare feet, his touch soft and tender as he healed her ache with his smooth pink salve; the one that smelled like childhood.

~

“Wake up, pretty girl.”

Ginny came slowly from dreams with lazy, half-open eyes. She was still sleepy as he pressed his mouth against her damp forehead and kissed gently.

“You awake, sweetheart?”

His mouth was warm and searching, and he smelled faintly of cigarette smoke. The piney scent of sweat lingered on his skin, as if he needed a long, hot shower to wash away the day’s work. He smelled like those men had, the ones who’d come to fix her mama’s leaky kitchen pipes. They had been dressed in dirty old work trousers and worn leather tool belts, and they had carried the same scent of musk and tobacco. It was the way a daddy might smell, and a daddy was someone who had no business nestling his rough, scratchy face into the soft hollow of her neck.

Ginny’s first instinct was to pull away. She wanted to slip off the couch and sneak back to the quiet haven of Cora’s small, hodgepodge bedroom, with its crooked posters and pine floors and patchwork sleeping bags.

Instead, she lay there like a rag doll as Emmett Cooper placed a gentle kiss on her smooth, freckled shoulder. A moment later, he cupped a big hand around her cheek and traced his thumb lightly over her jaw, kissing up along her warm, salty neck. His mouth was hot and teasing, and Ginny closed her eyes tight at the prickle of his short beard on her soft skin.

“Don’t.” She didn’t want to hurt his feelings. He had been so nice to her as he’d tended her wounds and made her giggle in the quiet darkness. Still, she knew it couldn’t be right, him kissing on her like that.

“You don’t gotta be afraid. I ain’t gonna hurt you, baby. Not never.” He drew one finger along her hairline, watching her thick, feathered lashes, her large, silent eyes swimming in question.

Ginny remembered falling asleep on the big plaid couch, and for a spell, he had too. He had dozed off sitting up, still holding her damaged feet in his lap. She had felt nothing but safe and sound with him, but right then, she was taken aback at his closeness, almost bewildered by it.

She thought on Coralee and Annabelle, sleeping sound just upstairs. She knew that any girl in her place might be afraid, or at least unsure, but more than fear, Ginny was only shy and timid as his big hands worked down the front of her thin nightdress. One by one, he pulled loose her long row of buttons, and she closed her eyes, feeling his warm mouth against her ear.

He parted her gown gently, tracing his fingers across her smooth belly until she lay there, bare and bashful, looking up at him with wide, dark eyes. For a moment, she felt a whisper soft touch on her navel, then it was gone.

She looked down as his rough hands made their way along her slim, girlish legs. Before she knew, he had taken two thick fingers and laced them under the hips of her thin white underpants.

“Lift up.”

Ginny watched his eyes, listening to the smooth lull of his deep voice above her as she slowly lifted her small bottom off the couch.

“Yeah. That’s it, pretty girl.”

A moment later, he pulled her flimsy cotton panties clean off, and Ginny felt her cheeks go hot. It was unthinkable, that Coralee’s daddy, or any daddy for that matter, would touch her in such a forbidden way. She watched as he tossed her little white underpants on the coffee table next to his cigarettes and beer.

Ginny shifted away, uneasy as he slipped in beside her on the big plaid couch. He traced one finger down between her small breasts, then circled the warm, dark hallow of her navel again. The light, whispery feel of his touch tickled her hot skin and made her belly tense up. It made her suck in a little breath and bite down on her full bottom lip.

“That tickle?”

He walked two teasing fingers back up between her breasts, smiling down at her as he leaned in close. His mouth was hungry and eager, and it searched for hers until Ginny pulled away. She was all racing heart and vulnerable eyes then, and a deep, aching warmth had settled down between her legs. It throbbed with the beat of her heart as he traced a tender finger around each of her dainty pink nipples, first one, then the other.

‘I can’t believe this is happenin’.’ It was a silent thought inside of her as he touched the small, sparse patch of dark hair where her slim legs met. Since that sweet, curly tuft had sprouted up the summer before her thirteenth year, Ginny had been intensely shy about it.

Emmett slid his big hand down, rubbing gently at her slippery little cleft, testing the waters. She couldn’t help but look there. In the warm, milky light that spilled in through the big picture window, Ginny watched his rough fingers stroke against her most private place. It felt like too much at first, almost too good, and she nudged him away, feeling tingly and feverish. She rose up on her elbows then, looking at him with wide, over-bright eyes.

“That hurt you, pretty girl? I just… I forgot…”

Ginny didn’t know what he’d meant by that. Forgot what? That she had never been touched before? That she was a late bloomer? That at eighteen, she was still brand new, though most girls her age had already lost it to their boyfriends, or some drunken, shaggy-haired guy they’d met at a party?

“Let me kiss you, now. Don’t be shy. I just…I wanna make you feel nice.” It was a shameless confession, and he pressed his damp forehead to hers, closing his soulful eyes.

“You do?” She asked it in a way that nearly broke his heart.

Emmett knew he was doing the worst kind of wrong to his daughter’s new little friend, but in that moment, he had become someone else entirely. If he had looked in the mirror right then, he would have found a stranger’s face peering back at him, a man broken up and beaten down. He knew it was a shameful thing, to take his grief and frustration out on a sweet little bird like Ginny, but still, he leaned in close and ventured further.

“I do. Let me kiss you, sweetheart.” Emmett gave her freckled cheek one tender kiss, tucking a sliver of stray hair behind her ear.

“It’s scratchy.” She smiled but couldn’t look at him then, the flecks of evergreen in his eyes, the angry, ragged scar along his left forearm.

“My face?” He reached up and rubbed at his stubbly red beard. It made a sound like sandpaper moving across wood.

“I love these freckles.” He touched her nose with a sugary sweetness that made her trust him all over again.

“I hate ‘em.” Ginny felt herself blush. She had always cursed the mess of dusty brown flecks on her cheeks and nose. They made her look years younger.

“You’re such a beautiful little thing.” Emmett kissed her cheek again, smiling against her hot skin, and Ginny looked over at him, right into his deep hazel eyes.

She bit back a budding smile then, turning her gaze down like a shy doe, and it was all the invitation he needed. He took her chin in his big hand and pulled her smooth baby face close against his own. He kissed at her warm mouth, and she followed his lead, stroking her cotton candy tongue against his, kissing deeper when he did, her breath growing quicker all the while.

“You’re so sweet, baby girl. I love this pretty mouth.” Emmett traced a gentle thumb over her wet bottom lip, and Ginny lay there with a shy smile, taking in all of his sweet talk like a cool glass of water on a hot day.

She felt his big hand slip down and graze across her small triangle of dark curls. A moment later, he nestled his fingers against her slippery warmth again and started a slow, gentle rub there, circling around her most tender place. It sent a warm flutter of pleasure through her, and as he added more pressure, a soft, urgent ache took root deep in her belly. It made Ginny close her eyes and sigh like a baby in the dim quiet.

“That feel nice?”

Her small body went lazy against his, just like Lucy’s always did when he used a slow, gentle touch. With Ginny though, it only took a moment before she was swollen up wet and beautiful. She was young and eager, and her body told him so.

“Yeah. It feels nice.”

She smiled up at him bashfully, and he kept on, still going slow. He watched her pretty face, the way she closed her eyes tight, then opened them again, daring to watch his steady hand as it touched her in a way no one had before.

“Can I get me another kiss?”

Emmett leaned in and whispered near the hollow of her ear then, his voice honey sweet and soothing. She nodded her head yes, and this time, as he kissed deep at her full pink mouth, he felt the soft tilt of her hips, the way her pretty legs opened just a bit further in welcome.

He’d always had a way with women. He had never been the most handsome or shown the most bravado, and he had certainly never professed to be the smartest, but somehow, he had always known just what to say, and at just the right time. Like magic, the soft, deep rasp of his easy voice had made more then a few sets of legs fall wide open for him, and even at forty-two years old, it seemed that was still the case.

“Is that all right? The way I’m touchin’ you?”

“I guess so. Yeah.”

Ginny swallowed hard, and they both looked down, watching as he drew one finger up the slick line of her rosy cleft. A moment later, she felt the scratch of his beard on the firm swell of her breast. He used a slippery tongue to trace a slow, warm circle around her little pink nipple. It felt better than she imagined it would, and it looked like something you might see in a dirty movie, the kind all the boys talked about at school. She looked on with curious eyes, feeling the hot pull of his mouth as he sucked at both breasts softly. He licked at her pretty pink points, his warm tongue leaving a shiny wetness on her taut nipples. She saw it in the hazy light of the porch lamp through the big picture window, and it was a beautiful sight. The distant song of a neighbor’s wind chimes danced through the open screens as Emmett suddenly pulled his body away from hers. In the next breath, she found him gazing down at her, kneeling between her lazy open legs.

“It’s all right, sweetheart.” His voice was a quiet whisper above her, and his face was half-shadowed. He pulled his t-shirt up over his mess of thick, red-brown hair, and Ginny looked on, her big eyes full of wonder. He was lean-chested and strong-armed, his body a work of taut, natural muscle. She caught a glimpse of two reddish patches of hair under his arms, and suddenly, she felt very young.

Emmett had a strange, faded black tattoo inked onto his right upper arm. It looked like a rooster, but she didn’t dare ask to see it. She just watched him quietly, listening to the gentle, familiar hum of their refrigerator in the next room, her eyes on all the parts of him that were different from her own.

“Don’t be shy now, all right?”

Emmett slipped his body over hers then, and Ginny took in a sharp breath at the feel of his bare belly pressed tight against her most private place. It felt more than good, and she wanted to touch him, but didn’t know where to put her hands first.

“I won’t.”

Her eyes were like two dark moons below him. They roamed over his warm mouth and begged silently for another sweet kiss. He obliged her, and at the same time, they both let out a little sigh of pleasure. Emmett knew he was in the worst kind of trouble. The way he wanted inside of her then was something primal. He had never felt a desire quite like it.

“You got me all in a lather here, girl.”

He kissed at the damp hollow of her neck, and Ginny couldn’t help but worry on what came next. She didn’t want to think of his man part, but she couldn’t not think of it either. She knew enough about sex to guess what he might be easing her into, and she was more than nervous.

“Really?” Ginny was tongue-tied and self-conscious. She didn’t have a clue on how to respond to all the longing he had for her. With her glassses and her freckles and her slight, girlish frame, she just wasn’t used to being so irresistible.

“There’s just somethin’ ‘bout you, pretty girl. You’re sugar sweet.”

In the soothing darkness, Emmett traced a slick, sultry tongue around the sweet dip of her navel, and without hesitation, he gave her bare little cleft one long, slow lick. She tasted clean and salty and undeniably feminine. He hadn’t tasted another woman in twenty years. It was illicit and sinful and downright intoxicating. Ginny was different there, smaller and nothing but tender, the color of pale pink roses. Lucy, despite being an ashy blonde, was tawny skinned. She had always hated the color of her sex, though Emmett loved it, a warm brown like Tupelo honey.

“Just like I thought…sugar sweet. You taste so good.”

Emmett drew his tongue up slow, pressing it inside of her so he could get another taste, and she made a quiet sound above him. He slipped his sturdy arms under her slim legs, cradling the slight curve of her waist in his big hands, holding her small body gently until she relaxed against him.

“I do?” A note of disbelief came up in her quiet voice, and she looked down at him intently.

“You do. Sweet like sugarcane.” Emmett gave her a teasing smile, and Ginny saw all of his straight, white teeth shining up at her in the darkness.

He kissed at her belly, then slipped his hands down under her firm little behind. Emmett looked on at her sex. A hint of pink, swollen flesh peeked out at him, and Ginny’s whole body went tense as he nestled his thumbs up against her small, dainty cleft. He opened her with gentle fingers, then lapped his tongue from the bottom of her tender cut, right up to her tiny wet nub. Emmett went right to that most tender spot and took it in, sucking at it long and deep, and Ginny felt a warm, aching pleasure like nothing she had ever known. It made her legs tremble and her eyelids flutter, and she couldn’t help but let out a sound so soft and sweet, it made Emmett weak in the knees.

“That feel good, pretty girl?” He licked at her baby soft flesh, then fluttered his warm tongue up against her tender spot all light and quick.

“Oh, my goodness. Yes. It feels really good.”

Ginny answered him with the raw honesty of a green teenage girl. He heard the eager hitch in her small voice, and he had never been so completely and so desperately turned on by anything in his life.

Emmett had her for supper then. He pulled her slim, coltish legs up onto his shoulders, and she let out a surprised little gasp, rising up onto her elbows. He licked her clean, then sucked at her tender little nub, swollen up firm like the pit of a cherry. His natural instinct was to bury his fingers up inside all that sweet, slippery warmth, like he’d done to his wife a thousand times, but he held back, remembering that she was still brand new.

Ginny sighed like a baby bird. She couldn’t help it. The longer he sucked at her, the more it felt like she was chasing a butterfly just out of reach. It would hover close, then slip away, leaving her body hot with an aching frustration. It wasn’t until he began to draw a steady circle with his tongue that she dared to reach down and touch his damp, messy hair. She pulled at it softly, thinking of nothing else but the warm, deep rhythm of his hungry mouth buried up against her there.

It started with a tiny flutter of pleasure inside, then blossomed, bright and beautiful. Her first orgasm came on in swift waves, each one deep and stronger than the one before. She felt a warm shudder down where his mouth still worked against her, where his tongue still lapped greedily at all her hot, salty nectar, and Ginny let out a helpless little sigh, losing herself in the sudden rush of newfound heaven. It felt so good she almost couldn’t breathe.

Emmett had recognized the surrender in her soft sigh, had felt the tremble in her smooth legs against his lean shoulders. He had made her come for the first time, and it had taken all of five little minutes. He couldn’t help but be smitten with that notion.

“Oh, my goodness.” Ginny bit back a growing smile, covering her freckled face with both small hands.

“Oh, my goodness.” Emmett teased her in a whisper, his words playful and naughty, and he smiled back, planting a quick kiss on her smooth, flat belly.

“You like that?”

“Uh-huh. A lot.” Her breath went in and out in quick, quiet strides, and her dark hair lay damp and disheveled around her soft face.

“Didn’t I tell you I wasn’t gonna hurt you?”

He smoothed her hair back with both big hands, cupping her face, and Ginny nodded ‘yes’ like an over-eager child. Emmett looked at her cheeks. They were flushed up pink and pretty, and he knew it wasn’t right. She wasn’t ready yet.

He thought on Coralee, his own baby girl, and the shame she would feel if it ever came out, that her own daddy had made a midnight snack of her new little friend. And Lucy, if she ever came to know the truth? That he had messed with a girl so young and naive? Well, Emmett supposed she’d want to cut his stiff pecker clean off. It wouldn’t be out of jealousy, either. It would be out of disgust. The mama bear in her just wouldn’t stand for any of that business. It was a horrific thought.

Still, Emmett reached southward and loosened his thick leather belt.

“I don’t know, Mr. Cooper.” Ginny rose up again, watching his hands work the front of his worn trousers, hearing the faint sweep of his zipper part.

It struck Emmett then that she didn’t even know his first name, or if she did, she was too awkward to call him by it.

“It’s all right, pretty girl.”

“It ain’t!” For the first time that night, Ginny spoke without hesitation as Emmett’s dirty blue trousers slipped down his narrow hips. His erection spilled out in one swift, easy motion, and suddenly, the whole silky smooth length of his cock bobbed softly above her in the moonlight. It was beautiful and frightening all at the same time, and she marveled at him there. She couldn’t take her eyes away.

Emmett watched a gentle, love-struck gaze come over her pretty young face. It didn’t surprise him a bit. He had been no Don Juan before he’d met Lucy, but he’d had a fair share of lovers, and most had worn the same, almost comic expression when they’d seen his cock for the first time. It had always made him feel a little like a stallion, and Lucy had told him as much the first time they’d made love.

He remembered her as a young, careless girl, her eyes a bright azure blue in the darkness. The night had been blistering hot, and they had tucked themselves into an old motel off the highway. It had charged by the hour and asked no questions. Half the letters on its neon sign had guttered out months before, and the curtains had been ancient, wild and outdated. They’d drank cheap tequila out of plastic cups, and by the end of their tryst, the marred-up nightstand had been littered with lime rinds. Above the deep rumble of a mammoth semi that had lumbered past, Emmett had fallen in love with Lucy’s warm, lilting drawl. She had teased him coyly as her smooth, curved body laid naked and content across the faded floral bedspread. “You’re right proud of that big ol’ thing, ain’t you, Emmett Cooper?”

He had knelt above her, between her shapely legs, and she had prodded at his belly with the tips of her painted toes, tickling him until he’d grabbed her foot and kissed it gently. Lucy’s warm, teasing eyes had lingered on him there in appreciation, and she had giggled sweetly when he had answered with a wide, toothy smile. “Yes indeed, pretty lady. And now I’m gonna show you again just how proud I am.”

Emmett looked down into Ginny’s soft brown eyes then, and Lucy, with her now cold shoulder and distant gaze, seemed to drift off into the ether. He was swollen up heavy and hard as a redwood. He stood up long and thick and more eager than he had in ten years. He wanted inside of Ginny’s ripe little body. He wanted it in the worst way, but the daddy in him hesitated. ‘Don’t you dare, you old bastard. She’s still brand new, and that’s sacred territory.’

“My mama’ll go to her grave if you put a baby in me, Mr. Cooper.” Ginny looked up at him with wide, searching eyes. “I just…I don’t know ‘bout you goin’ inside. I ain’t never done that before.”

Emmett held his tongue and bit back a smile, grabbing onto his warm, throbbing cock. He kept it at bay, trying to make clear that he had no intention of impaling her.

“Just lay back. I ain’t goin’ inside. I promise.”

Ginny let out a long breath through pursed lips. Her freckled cheeks puffed out for a moment before she looked up at him with sweetly skeptical eyes.

“You promise?”

“I promise. I do. Now lay back.” He cupped her open face in his big palms again and nodded yes, reassuring her.

Ginny kept still, until finally, she obliged him.

Emmett slid in beside her again and traced a gentle thumb over her pretty red mouth. It was all swollen up from kissing, and he gave her full bottom lip a soft bite. He waited for her touch, and when he finally felt her warm, inquisitive fingers brush against his bare belly, it sent a shudder of pleasure through him. He rubbed his cock against her baby smooth thigh, savoring the skin-on-skin feel as he watched her eyes wander lower. She hesitated, then reached down where he was stiff and warm against her.

Her touch was gentle and curious. He felt her hot little palm slip all the way down his swollen shaft, and just like that, she pulled back again. It was a sweet kind of torture for him, but undeniably, the best foreplay he’d known in some time.

“Go on, now. Touch it all you want. It ain’t gonna bite.”

Ginny bit at her bottom lip, and slowly, when she was ready, her fingertips slipped down his hard belly again. Emmett watched her little palm start a soft, careful tug on his thick shaft. It was the stuff of dirty dreams, and like any red-blooded man, he couldn’t look away. His eyes were fixed on her warm, giving touch.

“Is that right?” Ginny didn’t have a clue. She did her best, until finally, she found his rhythm.

“You can handle me a little rougher if you want. You ain’t gonna hurt me. I promise you that.” Emmett leaned into her touch then.

“All right.”

Ginny bit back a quiet giggle, and Emmett sighed just hearing it. Her wide-eyed innocence was suddenly better than stiletto heels and black lingerie.

She stroked harder and faster, catching on quick, and soon, Emmett was getting a good old-fashioned hand job. For a minute or two, he felt like a young teenage buck again.

“I can’t believe I’m doin’ this.” She sounded giddy, her small voice full of wonder and mischief.

“Keep goin’. Don’t you dare stop now, pretty girl.”

Emmett kissed at her mouth, and the way she kissed back, all hot tongue and panting breath, made him want to slip inside her little body and fuck her sore. He had to reign in his desire before he hurt her in more ways than one.

“I want you to say somethin’ for me.” Emmett eased her hand away and grabbed hold of himself.

“What?” Ginny looked down at his swollen cock. He held it lightly in his big hand, tugging at it once or twice before he slipped his palm up and over its smooth, rounded tip. He lingered near the inside of her thigh as he stroked himself, and suddenly, as his bare knuckles brushed against her tender opening, she worried that he might break his promise.

“Say… ‘come on my belly.’ It’s all right, don’t be shy.” His mouth burned hot against hers, and his palm quickened, moving up and down his shaft at a firm, steady rhythm.

Ginny hesitated, but when his tongue nestled up against hers and began lapping softly, she grew more than eager. As he pulled back, she lay there with a dull, throbbing ache between her legs.

“Say it, pretty girl.”

Ginny knew what it meant, but she couldn’t picture it actually happpening. Her face went red with shame, and she felt feverish as she whispered to him in the darkness.

“Come on my belly.”

“Gimme them sweet lips.”

Emmett leaned in and kissed her deep, and Ginny let out a little hum of pleasure. When he finally pulled away, she almost couldn’t find her breath.

She lay there quiet on the big plaid couch, listening to the quick, whispery draw of Emmett’s breath as he worked his cock above her. She breathed in time with him, like they were two wild horses running side by side. He dropped his hips a bit, and that part of him nudged closer to the warm opening between her legs. Ginny felt the hot brush of his bare skin there, and a sudden longing filled her belly. She couldn’t help but wonder how he might feel inside, all of his stiff, silky heat. Her slim legs had a mind of their own then, and they grew lazy in welcome. The invitation was not lost on Emmett for a second. It was the most wicked temptation he had ever known.

“You ain’t ready for all that…are you?”

She lay flushed and open beneath him as his eyes wandered down to her soft, virgin warmth. He dared to nestle against her, rubbing the smooth head of his cock against her sweet little nub. Emmett sighed, and Ginny tensed right up, pressing her fingers into his belly then.

“Are you really gonna? I…I ain’t…” Her eyes looked frightened and excited all at the same time, and he pulled back, kissing her forehead as he fought himself.

“I ain’t takin’ the pill like some girls.” Her voice was almost a whisper.

She was torn, he could tell, both aroused and vulnerable.

“It’s all right, sweetheart. We don’t gotta do that. Just do what you done before.”

“Like before?” Ginny’s young face softened, and she slipped her warm fingers down his belly again, grazing the line of coarse copper hair she’d glimpsed earlier. She followed it down to the reddish tuft above his stiff cock.

“Yeah. You done good. Go on.”

Ginny did then. She grabbed hold and worked her restless little palm up and down his long shaft until he panted above her.

“That’s it, pretty girl.”

Her sweet, eager touch sent Emmett right to the edge, and as she rose up to kiss him, a soft, desperate look swam in his eyes. All at once, a quick rush of heat painted her belly like warm honey, and a quiet sound caught in his throat.

Ginny looked down as his swollen cock shuddered gently in the cradle of her small palm. Little spurts of hot, milky wetness fell onto her bare skin, glistening in the moonlight, and Emmett kissed her then, stroking his tongue against hers until the well ran dry.

He smiled down at her a moment later, feeling spent and satisfied. His heart went like a piston inside his chest, and he kissed her forehead gently. Her little palm still held fast to the sore head of his cock, and he eased it away with a tender hand.

“Did I do it right?” Ginny looked down at the warm, beautiful mess he had made on her soft belly. She dared to touch it with the tip of one finger, almost as if she might get burned.

“Yeah. You did, sweetheart.”

Emmett cupped a big, daddy-like hand around her cheek and bit back a quiet belly laugh. She was so young, and everything was so new to her, and in that moment, he had never felt more ashamed of himself. What in hell had he just done?

He shimmied his pants back up his narrow hips and buckled his old leather belt. Emmett leaned back against the big plaid couch and used his palm to wipe the sweat clean from his damp forehead. He needed a shower something fierce. The smell of sex seeped out of his pores, and he had to be sure every trace of it was gone before Lucy’s red Ford pulled down their narrow dirt drive.

He sat there, naked to the waist, his breath slowing, wondering what Ginny thought of him. He knew what he thought of himself in that moment. Dirty old man.

After a minute or two, she began to button up her little frock. She hadn’t thought to wipe his dried seed from her belly, and as his face went hot as he watched her.

Emmett looked down at the pink spots of dried calamine all over her small bare feet. He reached and touched one tender, throbbing welt, all swollen up with bitter poison. If not for her trek through the summer woods just hours before, Ginny would still have her innocence. He knew nothing would ever be the same for either of them again.

“You best soak these feet when you get home today.”

Emmett couldn’t bring himself to look at her big, searching eyes, so he just pinched at her little toes, feeling red-faced and awkward.

“I ain’t gonna say nothin’, Mr. Cooper. I promise.”

Ginny pulled her sore, ticklish feet away from him then, her eyes filled to the brim with a new kind of knowing, the flicker of her smile like a struck match in the dark.

~

End Note: The next story is coming soon. Same characters, but spicier. The title is ‘Cherry Tart’. I hope you all enjoyed this one!

My goal is to complete one story every month. (Not just these characters 😉). I’ll see how it goes though, sometimes my schedule is wacky and I can’t write as much.

P.S. Sometimes, Sam Rockwell is my naughty story muse. He’s been my favorite actor since forever.

P.S.S. My poetry is also on Tumblr @crowdsofclouds “Here On Earth” is the title of the blog.

.

.

#adult story #adult photography #adult writing #naughty #naughty story #sexy content #hot story #sam rockwell #ellen page #18+ content #18+ writing #smut #smutty smut smut #my writing #my fiction #short story #fiction #writers on tumblr #1970s #sexy stories #my characters #creative writing

[hlizr50]

A Very Special Drabble Day

Today my drabble is doing double duty, and what better person to honor than literally my very first Tumblr friend, @trashforazriel

She requested "competitive Gwynriel that ends with a kiss"

And I finished it just in time to celebrate Romance day with @azrielshadowsingerweek !!

Fandom: ACOTAR

Ship: Gwynriel

Word Count: 685

Read on AO3

“One day I’m going to best you, Shadowsinger. Mark my words.”

Azriel smirked as the copper-haired Valkyrie dramatically flopped onto her back, perspiration sparkling over her brow in the moonlight. Gwyn seemed to be improving by the hour and, though he’d never admit it, it was quite possible that she would manage to win a sparring match in the not-so-distant future. But he wouldn’t make it easy for her. With an arrogant snicker he loomed over her, arms crossed over his chest.

“In your dreams, Berdara.” Offering a hand, he helped her up from the dirt floor of the ring.

“In your nightmares,” she corrected, and his laugh echoed into the warm summer evening.

“Terrifying indeed,” he answered. “Ready for core?” The priestess groaned in response, but her scowl transformed before his very eyes, her bright, beautiful gaze lighting with mischief.

“How about a little competition. Dagger throwing.” She gestured to the targets on the other side of the ring. “If you win, I’ll do whatever hellish core workout that depraved mind of yours can concoct.”

The shadowsinger raised a skeptical brow. “And if you win?”

Gwyn dragged her plump, pink lower lip between her teeth. “If I win, you give me a kiss. And we get to skip core for the night.”

His heart stuttered, lungs seizing in his chest at her suggestion. The silence stretched between them as he studied her expression, shy smile and wide, innocent eyes that glimmered with a hint of uncertainty. In a blur their interactions flashed through his mind, all of the times that he’d hoped that he had seen a hint of the same interest that he held for her. Azriel had been too afraid to test those waters, unwilling to make Gwyn even the slightest bit uncomfortable. But perhaps…

“I agree to your terms, priestess,” he murmured, reveling in the way roses bloomed on her cheeks. The Illyrian made his way to the weapons rack and retrieved six daggers, offering three of them to his companion. “Ladies first.”

“How very chivalrous of you,” she quipped. Her irreverence pulled another smile out of him, as it did quite often these days.

Azriel watched as Gwyn studied the blade and turned it over in her hand, testing the grip and the weight and the balance. Then, gripping the blade, she cocked her arm back and let it fly, the metal burying itself just to the right of where the dummy’s heart would be. She shrugged, lips turned down in an accepting grimace, before nodding to him.

The spymaster’s dagger struck true in the heart of his own target. And, since he had made the better hit, he quickly threw first for the second round, his blade burying itself in the padded sphere that was the figurine’s head.

He turned to the Valkyrie, only to be met with a heated, challenging glare. Gwyn sent her second dagger whizzing to the target, striking an area that would be… rather sensitive to a male. Azriel choked on a cough, and she now raised her own eyebrow.

“Point taken, Berdara. That round is yours.” His heart fluttered at the ear-splitting grin she gave him. With a jerk of his chin he added, “Final round. It all comes down to this.”

Gwyn’s answering eye-roll made him chuckle, but she didn’t give a witty retort. She was solely focused on the target, firing her last blade. It lodged itself in what would have been the stomach, and her nose crinkled in disappointment. It wasn’t a poor shot - it would be a grave injury - but it was not a killing blow.

The priestess was gnawing on her lip when he turned to him, no doubt waiting for his victory and subsequent abdominal agony.But Azriel didn’t want to work core. Didn’t want to make her, didn’t want to watch her. His hazel eyes burned into fathomless seas, his gaze never leaving hers as he tossed his third dagger over his shoulder. It earned him a gasp and a delicious blush as he stepped up to her, cupped her cheek, and slanted his mouth over hers.

Tag List: @trashforazriel @secretlovelybeauty @meher-sumedha @imsointobooks @flora-shadowshine @positivewitch @imwritingthesewords @camreadsum @vikingmagic33 @shisingh @gwynrielsupremacist @sagureads @deedz-thrillerkilller16 @sv0430 @writing-spaces @onemorenightdreamer @feyretale @almosttenaciousmoon @mystical-blaise @the-introverted-bibliophile @live-the-fangirl-life @silverflameataraxia @chosenfamily-valkyriequeens @rarephloxes @kimstclair @mercarimari @romancebooksandshit @headcanonheadcase @booknerd87 @damedechance @ofduskanddreams @daevastanner @houseofhurricane

#azrielshadowsingerweek2022 #gwynriel hc #gwynriel #gwyneth berdara #gwynriel supremacy #acotar #gwyn x azriel #azriel shadowsinger #fanfiction #azriel x gwyn #gwynriel fanfiction #fanfic #gwyn berdara #gwynriel drabbles #drabbles for friends #drabbles #600 follower celebration #600 followers #acosf #sarah j maas #sjm #romance

[alltheusernamesaretaken24]

Uhh so speaking of selkies,,, I have been inspired to draw seals

#THEY SO FAT #THICC BOIS #THEIR LITTLE SKIN FOLDS #THE ROLLS #ARE SO CUTE #LITTLE PLUMP SEA FLOPS #LOVE THEM SO MUCH #BEANS WITH HEADS AND FLIPPERS #Also i leant how to draw them on this page lmao i had never drawn a seal in my memory before #maybe i might have?? years ago??? #can’t remember thi #so these are my first attempts don’t burn me at the stake please i was LEARNING- #my art #sketch #SEALS #SEALSSEALSSEALS #Seal art

[blouisparadise]

Upon request, here is a rec list of bottom Louis fics where Harry radiates sex appeal. We hope you enjoy this fics! If you find our rec lists useful, please support them by liking the post and reblogging it to help spread the word. Happy reading!

1) Gimme Gimme | Mature | 5957 words

He dragged himself to his bedroom and flopped down face-first onto the bed, groaning, and started thinking about that new neighbor. Maybe this was his chance. Maybe this was the time for him to actually try and find a love interest that lasted longer than 2 weeks. He rolled over and sat up on the bed, rubbing the back of his neck as he looked out the window.

And what he saw was probably the most amazing thing on the planet.

Walking into his new neighbor’s house was a man in a suit, carrying a briefcase while his Porsche sat in the driveway.

2) Under the Vanilla Sky | Explicit | 8006 words

Who the hell wears a hat like that on a yacht?  That's one of the things Louis thinks when he sees Harry from across the deck of the most expensive, ridiculous boat he's ever been on.  He also thinks he'd like to get closer.  Just to see what's under those aviators.  Just to verify that, yes, in fact, those white swim trunks might be a little see-through when wet.  Just to see if someone could really be that hot in real life.  On a yacht.  In the Caribbean sea just off the coast of St. Barts.  

Here's what really happened on that yacht.

3) Sweet Like Cherry Vodka | Not Rated | 8039 words

When he exits the building he instantly sees him. He’s leaning against his white Mercedes Benz convertible. The car makes him look more expensive. Of course, the navy blue suit that fits tightly around his broad shoulders — making Louis want to fall to his knees, mind you — also helps to get the message across. He looks up from his phone, his sleek black aviators block Louis from seeing his dark eyes.

When Louis knows Harry's watching him he smiles. A grin grows on Harry’s mouth, his strong jaw moves cockily while he chews his gum. How does someone make chewing gum so hot?

“Need a ride sweetheart?” Harry calls to him, the statement adds to his cocky demeanor.

“You know I do, silly.” Louis laughs at how ridiculous the older man can be.

4) You And I ‘Till The Day We Die | Explicit | 10807 words

Prompt 124: A fic inspired by Groupie Love by Lana Del Rey, where Harry is a Rockstar and Louis is his cute little boyfriend who tries to hide himself in the middle of the crowd. (Preferably set in the 80s)

5) Guns N Roses | Mature | 14069 words

Harry's an assassin, Louis is a government agent. They hate each other but not really.

6) My English Love Affair | Explicit | 19198 words

Note: This fic is locked and can only be read by AO3 users.

The thing about sleeping with a member of a famous indie band is that the inevitability of having a song written about you is most likely a hundred percent. The second thing is that in the end, nobody's supposed to find out it's about you.

The one where Harry writes a song about his English love affair and Louis sleeps with someone in White Eskimo and all he gets is a stupid song written about him.

7) The Way The Storm Blows | Explicit | 21649 words

Louis doesn’t have a habit of thinking about Harry’s dick.

That would be weird, seeing as they’re best mates, and they share a flat, and they’ve spent holidays at each other’s family homes. Their friendship hasn’t ever risen to a point where Louis should want to see his mate’s dick, and he’s happy to keep it that way.

Except, all that Louis can think about is exactly that. The size of it. The shape. The amount of people it’s been in.

Maybe it’s the tequila talking, or the fact that Louis’ just recently walked in to an eyeful of Harry taking turns on some slags that he’s never seen before, but. Louis’ mind can’t stop obsessing over the idea.

8) Even The Best Laid Plans | Explicit | 25190 words

Louis wants to have sex with someone and decides Harry is the perfect alpha for the job.

9) A Trail Of Honey Through It All | Explicit | 27086 words

The boy in front of him, well really, the man in front of him, was like something out of a confusing wet dream. Built, tall, tan and muscular, his skin glistened with sweat after a long day of working outdoors with his hands. He was wearing a cut up old American football shirt, the bottom hem was torn and the sleeves were cut off to the point where the t-shirt was really just a loose tank top. The shorts he had on had clearly been full length jeans at one point, and were now just crudely cut off above the knee. His white socks were pulled up too high on his calves, and the brown work boots he had on were old as fuck, the leather peeling along the edges of the soles. Curly brown hair stuck out from the edges of his backwards snapback, and there was a smudge of grease wiped along his brow bone. The smattering of hair along his jaw proved that he hadn’t shaved in a week or two, the hair growing in thicker across his upper lip and around his chin. His sinfully bowed mouth was pink and plump, and Louis was suddenly hyper-focused on the way that he chewed at the toothpick stuck between his lips. He looked like he needed a shower. Louis wanted to lick him.

10) Carnelian | Explicit | 30631 words

Louis finds himself donating blood to the most beautiful being he's ever seen.

11) Take My Pure (And Wash It All Away ‘Til I’m Cured) | Explicit | 40629 words

They're all 19. Louis is a twink, Harry is a frat boy hunk. Harry for some reason wants his makeup done for pride, and Louis is just trying so very hard to stay clear of all alleged fuckboys this year.

12) In The Still Of The Night | Explicit | 68568 words

The Dirty Dancing AU where Louis is a feisty omega who wants to change the world, Harry is an alpha from the wrong side of the tracks, and nobody puts Louis in a corner.

13) Waiting On You | Explicit | 76576 words

“Vampires,” Louis says with disgust, glaring over at the vampire who is noisily slurping from the woman’s neck nearby.

Zayn gives the neat fang marks on Louis’ neck a meaningful look.

“Can’t live with them, can’t live without them,” Louis finishes, ignoring Zayn when he rolls his eyes.

Louis takes a long sip of his milkshake, presses his fingers against the marks on his neck, and definitely doesn’t think about the vampire who left them there.

14) Your Name is Tattooed on My Heart | Explicit | 86809 words

Note: This fic has mentions of top Louis.

Louis is ready to find the love of his life, but first he has to stop falling for the punk rocker next door.

15) Beyond The Point Of Weird | Mature | 108331 words

Louis meets Harry one night and well... Of course things lead from one thing to another. How could Louis not be interested in having a go at the ex-Rockstar who'd starred in his first wet dream?

When Harry asks him to pretend to be his boyfriend to help him clear up his image, Louis agrees because why the fuck not. Yet it kind of feels like the only 'fake' part of their relationship is the title they chose for it... And then it gets confusing.

Louis' pretty sure he walked right into a trap - one he's not quite sure he wants to escape.

Check out our other fic rec lists by category here and by title here.

#fic recs #bottom louis #top harry #sex appeal #blp fic recs #blp #larry

[muffindaddystyles]

𝐒𝐖𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐖𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑

Author's note: let's welcome the Christmas season with this cosy smut full of lovin'. This idea occured to me whilst watching one of the friends episode where Joey loves to do girly things. Yes. Your're welcome.

P.S: Requests are always open, don't forget to give feedback and reblogs.

Cashmere scent of opal stone danced inside the snuggly space, perfect warmth doomed around and Amour Plastique playing on the floyd vinyl recorder. You and him sprawled on the twin bed yet squeezed atop of eachother due to it's size, you steal glances of his soft pink hands like that of kitten paws working with the knitting needles with a determined pout and the crease of brows you're eager to massage.

The words you're reading on the tip of your tongue stuttered into void when he shook his knee in the admist of distraction as you're resting your head atop his thick thighs while reading The tell tale heart by Edgar Allan Poe.

Two cuppa of espresso you guys made together in the celebration of british showers outside cackling empty onto floor and his cinnamon breath relaxed your soul, everytime he'd poke his pink tongue out when the pattern would get quite tricky his sweater with three different hues of sky would ride up his smooth skin causing his ferns to weaver.

You flicker a gaze to him when he groans tangling his middle finger with ball of yellow yarn, "'ey baby—no rush, yeah?" You squeeze his ankles covered with your cupcake socksies. Pecking his thigh and turning on your belly to slide your palms under his sweater.

"But wanna see ye' wearin' it on the day of Christmas." He whines huffing with his puckered lips. You chuckled shaking your head at his cuteness winding your arms around his waist and climbing up his thighs with your legs wrapped around his's like a snail, like that of baby panda.

"Doesn't matter every time's christmas time when it's with ye' my baby." You cooed brushing his spindle of curls back and he groans letting his head fall on your shoulder, leaving a little kiss to your exposed clavicles.

He's been attempting to knit a sweater for you from past two months with the help of bunch of youtube tutorials and your guidance, waking you up in the wee of night with gentle sheepish taps when a certain chain went wrong.

It bursted your heart into little shrads of golden glitter. His affection could be too much sometimes that could make you sob into his neck, make love to him in the hours when world's asleep. Give him all lovin' he deserves. The way he makes you feel that of your first dance with him in the empty parking lot, shared sunsets in the meadows and watching movies at seven in the morning. He still makes you feel like that. Gooey, skittish and like a candy floss disappearing into rainbow water.

"How 'bout we take a break?" You suggest him and he pondered over it fumbling with the stray of lilac yarn at the hem of sweater he's knitting for you. "Hm. ye're right, how 'bout a quick shag?" His grin lopsided as he placed things aside sliding his arm under your bum to pull you closer to him. You snuggled into him giving him kitten whines and cries that turns him super on.

"Doesn't seem borin' t' me." You smirk kissing his temple meandering your fingers in his matte curls massaging his scalp that caused him to buck his hips with a moan of relaxation.

He tilts his face with shut eyes and thin lips exposing more of his milky flesh for you to leave love bites. You peer up at him with lust filled eyes while sucking and lapping an already purple hickey fading as of stardust.

"Mhm. puppy, c'mon do somethin'." He writhes under you grazing his digits beneath your blouse tweaking your nipple gently that caused you to jolt in his grasp. "Shh, 's okay. How d'ya want me?" You cradle his tired face in your warm calloused palms circling your thumb at the littlest of scruff on his chin while bopping his nose with your's.

"Want ye' to fuck meh." His lewd words heightens your breath and you nodded kissing his sweet deep spot beneath his earlobe making him grip the hem of your panties with lousy fingers.

"'M all yours." You whisper to him shimming his brown corduroy trousers down, his rosy lips parts away when you grind yourself over his thick bulge. When you were about to get rid of your panties he caught your wrists coming out of his sensual trance. "Don't. it feels good–when ye'r panties grazes me cock." You gasp flopping into his chest and he giggled kissing your hair sniffing your pomegranate scent.

"You're a minx, Harry Styles." You murmured against his lips with a happy sigh and he cupped your cheeks passionately as you moved your panties aside stroking the head of his cock between your pussy lips lubricating him with your arousal, flicking your clit in circles.

Your temples coming to kiss when you slided him inside your sloppy hole and he thrusted deep inside you where you could feel him in your tummy.

Giggles resonated into your tiny room when thunder erupted outside causing you to cramp around his thickness with a hard squeeze, "fuck." He grunted in between giggles shushing you with gentle kiss when you whimpered as he hit a sweet spot inside you.

You gazed him with hooded lids riding his cock with slow pace, admiring the way ecastasy gleed upon his features. Sloppy, obscene noises of skin slapping skin and moans mingling as you palpitated around his longevity.

"S' warm, could stay inside ye' fo' hours." He rasped out swiveling his hips into agonisingly deep thrust knowing you're bout to topple into the bliss making disgustingly cute noises against the apple of your cheeks as if he's taking bites out of it and you tittered looping your elbows around the nape of his neck playing with his baby curls.

"Mhpm. open ye'r pretty mouth puppy." He trailed his fingers to your lips pulling the lower plump one and when you stuck your tongue out he pressed the pads of his pointer and middle finger into it, sliding it towards your throat. Your eyeballs rolling to your head when with other hand he pinned your hips down fucking into you brutally, you gagged around his digits and in reaction he exhaled through his nostrils spanking your ass.

His stomach coiling with rapture. Your walls constantly squeezing and nursing his cock, the edge of your panties grazing his cock leaving a mild print and your whimpers with blushed face's enough to make him cum into you with long ribbons of white.

He kept fucking into you pumping his cum inside your tiny hole and your whole body shook blissfully like sea waves as pleasure drowned you inside it with a powerful force.

His sloppy thrust coming to halt gradually when you cacooned around his body whining with sensitivity and he stroked your hair affectionately reminding you of his presence. Your cheeks smashed against his chest and perked nipples flushed against him. He sighed with mellowness rubbing your calves and thighs on either side of his waist.

"Don't. Stay inside me." You mumbled hugging him warmly and he yawned pecking your ears, "fo' nap, kay? then we'll get ya cleaned up." He chuckled mid-sentence hearing your little snores.

Taking your chin he pecked you thrice before sliding under sheets with you ontop of him nestling his cock inside you like a warm wrap. The pink sweater with lilac shabby hearts and needles stuffed into it's loop sitting undone on the bedside as his token of love.

.

#harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fanfic #harry styles smut #harry styles dirty imagine #harry styles one shots #harry styles imagine #naughty harry #harry styles #cute harry #harry styles blurb #hsh #fluff #harry angst #harry smut #dom harry #sub harry #harrystyles smut #smutty #cosy fuck #warm and cosy #harry styles one direction #harry harry solo #solo harry #harry styles dirty one shot

[operation-619]

Siren’s lullaby

Geralt of Rivia x WOC/reader

Summary: (Y/N) seeks the Witcher to help her capture the woman that shed the blood of her family. She may have the voice of an angel but her intentions are far from heavenly.

Warnings: Blood, violence, murder, torture, language, nudity, discrimination, abuse/assault  your media consumption is your own responsibility, you have been warned 18+

WC- 1.6K

Masterlist 

I am hosting a little competition of sorts, I will pick five people to have their character be in my story just fill out this form- HERE. 

The ocean flourished under the caress of the afternoon sun; waves lulled softly against the side of the ship as they foamed back into itself, the voices of the men drowned out the song of the birds as they ran about fixing sails and tying ropes. A man sat on the railing of the figure-head and watched carefully as the water rippled around them. His tanned skin glistened with sweat under the sun as he sharpened his knife, his eyes and mind were elsewhere.

A whisper of lust and flesh floated in the air, dancing around his head as he looked of into the distance, his hands worked independently – sharpening the knife on the flat stone he found in the hull of the ship, the motion came naturally to his body after years of repeating the same motion. The whispers grew quietly into a song of men floating to the treasure at the bottom of the sea, where gift beyond men were to be found. If he didn’t know any better, he would’ve thought a ghoul was sat beside him, lips pressed against his ear and lulling him with unforeseen riches.

His eyes casted downwards, watching as the blues and greens mixed together creating an illusion of a fantasy that was always told in fairy tales. A lost city and civilisation of merepeople. He remembers the stories he use to hear from the elders, the upper-body that of a human, and the lower half was that of a fish with tails almost twice the size of their body, decorated in intricate scales and colours, with a fin at the end that helped them propel through the waters. Their hair a celadon-green and nipples of light-green. He remembered how many elders and others of his race were enamoured with their looks calling them nymphs of the sea, singing about their looks and the great power they hold.

But he was a child then, naïve, and simple-minded. Now he’s a man and the branding on his left forearm reminds those he crosses paths with that he is a dangerous man.

“You never think you are going to fall in sir?” his accent catches itself on the syllables, making it seem more pronounced and thicker. The man in question looked over his shoulder, throwing a hearty laugh to his crewman he put his knife back in it pocket and swung his body around before jumping back onto the deck.

“You insult me Mayarnde, all these year on this beauty and you still think I can’t balance myself right.” With a slap on the back, he moved towards the centre of the ship giving orders, joking with his men. The hour of peace brought clarity to his mind, something he needed from the past two moons. He thanked the stars for the peaceful journey, but deep down he really knew the reason, he would be foolish to deny it.

He made his way to back of the ship where the door to his quarters stood red wood splintering with age and the constant battle from the sea. It looked like it could do with a new glaze. The money he was getting paid after this trip would be enough to completely redo the entire ship and there would still be some left over.

“Maybe a visit to a brothel, the men could use the release.” He scratched his head as the thought occurred to him, he hadn’t laid with a woman for two moons. None of his men had, usually when they make a quick stop to grab some previsions, they have time to visit a whore or two. But their current guest was adamant on getting to their destination as quickly as possible. And god was he suffering.

He shut his door behind him and looked over his quarters, the desk was covered in parchments and writing utensils, the table in the middle of the room was completely covered by the map – markings plotting their course and other annotations that made little sense to him, his windows were open letting the warm breeze dance around. The parchments on the dark wooden walls fluttered as the wind gently swayed by, the sound of scribbling told him that someone had awaken.

Taking off his coat and throwing it onto the back of a chair, he wandered over to the map and observed the new markings, a thick circle marked out the city Cintra telling the man that was their final destination. It caused his eyebrows to raise, all this time and not once had he seen any city marked like this one.

“So, he is here then, the one you are looking for?” his violet eyes looked up to the woman hunched over the desk, reading new parchments that had only just arrived by raven. Her (H/C) hair was set free, coiling around her face and down to her navel, her deep-toned skin shone with a light sweat as she sat in the embrace of the sun. He watched her for a second noting the strange celadon-green highlights that would catch the sun every once in a while.

“Mhmm, Minoa told me that she heard talks of him in the area. Last, I know is that no one had seen him for weeks.” She shrugged her shoulders, not once looking up at the man in front of her. “But if Minoa said he was in the area that he is. It kind of her thing.” Her voice always brought a strange sensation over the man. He couldn’t exactly place it but, it felt relaxing almost peaceful.

“When do you want to dock because I saw land. So, we can reach there by the end of tomorrows light.” He rested his hip against the table, his sole focus on the woman. He only now notice that she was wearing his tunic with her trousers. It suited her, it suited her really well.

He really needed to visit a brothel soon.

“We can dock tomorrow, let the men rest, fuck a few whores and drink to get their shit back together. But I won’t leave the ship for a few days.” The language that came from her mouth never ceased to amaze him. When he first met her, he was taken aback by the way she dressed – tunic and trousers but the way she wore them made it seem perfectly fit for her. Her gaze was captivating and pierced his soul as she spoke to him. It trapped him in a trance. She had the air of a regal and noble lady, but the mouth of a sailor. It helped his men feel at ease.

The past two moons had been hard, the constant stopping and starting that only she knew the reason behind. But she helped his men through it, she had plenty of coin to keep their bellies happy throughout their trek across the great sea – meat and drinks that only the finest in life would eat. She was stronger than everyone thought too, she didn’t slink away into the quarter and stay there for the past two moons, she slaved away like the rest of the men. And her fighting skills were beyond anything he’d ever seen.

And he has seen some shit.

She finally looked up from the parchment and held his gaze, her plump lips spread into a soft smirk as she watched the man in front of her dumbly nod his head.

“Sorry Captain Saria, I forget you are not used to a woman using such language. I keep forgetting that, and I will most certainly need to fix my tongue once we land in Cintra.” She puffed out a laugh and bit her bottom lip. It had been some time since she’d been around people. Her life was normally quite and simple, in her term anyway.

She pressed the heel of her palms into her eyes, letting them rest for a moment. She didn’t even remember blinking in the last few hours.

“(Y/N), what exactly are you looking for?” his violet eyes bore into her figure, he waited with bated breath for her to answer. And when her eyes met his, it took everything in him to not falter. It always amazed him how magnificent her eyes were, they could be the most tantalising feature throughout her entire being. One eye a breath-taking colour of (E/C) and the other celadon-green. It did give him some comfort, knowing that there was another out there from an ancient race. Throughout most of his adventures around this world he hardly saw anyone who looked like him, his elven bredrin had become scarce on this harsh world.

He was lucky with the life he has now.

“This man, he.” She put the writing pointe down and stood up from the chair she had been in for the past hour. She came in font of the desk and swiftly pulled herself to sit on top of it. She watched as Captain Saria looked her over, his violet eyes gazed at the shoulders that became exposed when the tunic slipped down.

“We have a lot in common, we are two beings that aren’t accepted in this world, Saria, he is going to help me find the woman that killed my family, my blood.” She brought her left arm forward and used her right hand to slowly roll up the sleeve of the tunic. An angry, jagged scar set itself along the expanse of her forearm. she delicately traced it with her fingers, a light mummer of pain made itself known. She had ran from her past, detached herself from everything she knew and it had worked. She became something she never dreamed of, she doesn’t even recognise her own reflection. (Y/N) looked back up at Saria, his eyes were dull, the sympathy felt mocking to her.

“I am the only one left out of my colony, I had to flee my home and become something I hate because my own home is unsafe. She took everything from me, and I intend to make her suffer.” (Y/N) let her arm flop back down. Her eyes clouded with the memories of her past, the laughter and pain, the children, Her blood.

Her people.

“And the Witcher is going to help me find her.”

__________

Let me know what you think my darlings. if you wish to be tagged let me know in the comments. 

#geralt of rivia x reader #the witcher #woc!reader #siren #mermaid #revenge #death #yennefer of vengerberg #fuck #masterlist

[youarejesting]

Wash out.13

Banner: this banner is made by me. the rest are mde by the lovely @purpleskies1999 Pairings: Dolphintrainer!Taehyung x SharkDiver!Jin,  Mer!Jimin x Reader, Scientist!Namjoon x MerKing!Jungkook, Mer!Yoongi x Mer!Hoseok. Words: 2.2k Genre: Mystery, Romance, Comedy, Drama, Fantasy, little bit of Action, Slice of life, Enemies2Lovers, Friends2lovers, Social media au, Fake Texts, Fake Subs.

Summary: Taehyung and his best friend Y/N are Dolphin trainers at Wash Out; Marine Wildlife and Theme Park. When the nerdy marine biologist and resident veterinarian Doctor Kim Namjoon goes missing; the two friends form a ragtag team with Taehyung’s rival Seokjin and a…. Fish?

After checking in with Tae and Jin you were watching movies with the merman and trying to stay up to monitor Dolly. It was late in the night that you heard banging like someone was knocking on a door but muffled. Eventually you got up confused and annoyed at the repeated sound, until you heard a dolphin squeal. 

Sitting up quickly your eyes met with the half fish, he looked worried. He must have been banging the glass for you to wake up. Looking over into the rest tank you went over and leaned over the side. Dolly was giving birth. You followed the instructions from your research and you tried to help Dolly. 

Dazed and not thinking straight, you stepped into the water, Dolly smacked you with her tail causing you to fall. Hitting your head on the side of the tank a searing pain and haze of black before falling out of the tank. 

Your head was aching, what a rookie mistake mothers are very protective of their children and you had just entered her safe space. You tried to soothe her with music and monitored her as she had her baby. 

The little dolphin calf was swimming beside their mother and you sat back in relief as the baby began drinking from its mother. 

Your vision turned red in that eye and you panicked, turning away looking for a mirror. The merman jumped back in shock and intrigue staring at your face. He wore the same face when watching movies with you, he seemed confused about blood in the movie as well. Where did it come from and what did it do? After a few action movies he realised that loss of blood meant humans died. Maybe that’s why he looked so nervous, mustering a gentle smile you gave him an okay gesture which he returned confused. 

Pulling out a small compact mirror from your toiletry bag, you inspected the wound. Grabbing a dressing to cover the injury you carefully cleaned and used an antiseptic before using a waterproof bandage on the tiny cut. 

The male was getting good at gesture communication to some extent. He could thumbs up and down for yes and no and he understood waving when you arrived or left the room. He was trying to understand the okay gesture you had used before but he didn’t quite get the meaning which was understandable, it was a harder concept to grasp. 

You tapped your mouth meaning food and he gave you the thumbs up, you went off to get some fish for him to eat. You were glad the CEO wasn’t around, you were able to establish a connection with him and he was able to understand certain cues. 

Carrying the buckets back your head started spinning, you were feeling kind of sick. It was unpleasant, your eyes stinging as you held the rail and headed up the stairs and above the tank. 

The cat walk felt unstable, the room spinning and distorting, you dropped the bucket clutching your head and you felt your body relax into an unconscious state. 

When you came to you were laying on the catwalk entirely wet and your headache painfully. You knew you would have had to have fallen into the water. The fish bucket was floating around the tank and your hand was dipped below the surface. 

You heard a sweet humming. With a groan you grabbed your head and turned towards the sound seeing the figure grow quiet. The mermaid has been watching you while you slept and backed up a little. Sinking into the water until it reached the bridge of his nose. 

With only his eyes on show you were once again hit with how captivating he was. His stare was so strong and eyes fierce and yet you were unsure if he was trying to scare you or lure you in. You watched as he blinked a transparent eyelid travelling across his eye before his regular eye lid fell down over his eye. 

It was a subtle reminder of how he wasn’t entirely human, he watched you trying to sit up. The way your limbs must have looked so weak, your torso swayed heavily. You remembered you hadn’t had much sleep; it was now probably three in the morning. 

Remembering your duty to dolly you turned quickly the world spinning with you and yet it didn’t stop when you did and you fell forward. You were conscious this time as you plunged into the water. 

You tried to fight your way back up to the surface. The last thing you needed right now is to get more head spins and muscle weakness, the merman grabbed your waist. Pulling you against his chest making the world still as he grounded you to him and swam upwards his hips rocking against yours as his tail swayed in his swimming motion. 

Your head fell forward and when you broke the surface he cradled the back of your head tilting it so your head would rest in his palm. He seemed startled by your eyes still being open. 

“Your voice is so pretty, were you humming?” You smiled, his eyes searched your face watching you wince clutching the side of your head. “Ow!”

He eyed the bandage and watched your head flop forward again, he scooped your head off his shoulder and held it once more in his hand. Unable to resist giggling. 

“I think I have a concussion, I think I really hit my head in Dolly’s tank” you mumbled before gasping eyes shooting open, “Dolly!”

He let you go confused as to why you were struggling against him but rolled his eyes as you sank again. Scooping you from below the surface he pressed your back against the catwalk. You don’t know his reasoning behind this but it didn’t seem like he was cornering you, it was more like he was trying to support you some more. 

Being this close to him your heart fluttered in your chest and you wondered if he felt the same. Flattening your palm to his chest you heard the steady beat of his heart. 

He pressed his palm to yours and felt your heart beat hammering in your chest. Looking up into your eyes you felt his heart flutter softly. 

He swam forward not closing the little space between you and tilting his head pressing his lips to yours. You had watched a lot of romance movies and tv shows and noticed how he really paid attention when the main couple kissed or shared an intimate moment. 

His heartbeat fluttered again loudly as you were lifted from the water and sat on the catwalk, he didn’t remove his mouth from yours but clutched your hips delicately. 

His tail was leisurely keeping him afloat and you were surprised by the strength it held. His soft plump lips pulled away his hand carding through his hair nervously. 

“We can speak now,” he whispered with a soft shy smile

“Wait, you speak english?” You said shocked and he gave a melodic laugh making you feel happy just by the sound. 

“No, I shared with you the ability to understand our language and took your language as well. It is called the gift of tongues.”

“I can see why,” you giggled

“You hit your head earlier, and you were leaking?” He asked curiously, “are you badly injured?”

“I am okay,” you gave him the okay gesture and he laughed looking as if he made a life changing discovery. 

“You can barely stand up on your own,” he scoffed. “You are definitely not okay, human.”

“My name is Y/n,” you laughed with him, a little more embarrassed by his observations than amused. He stopped laughing contemplating something before flashing you a bright grin. 

“Jimin.”

“That’s a nice name, I really like it.” You beamed it wasn’t too different from what you had expected, but the name suited him well, “Jimin.”

Jimin sank into the water until only his eyes were visible, the tops of his ears a bright red alluding you to his embarrassment. 

“Did you eat?” You asked, reaching to grab the bucket and almost teetering off the catwalk. He grabbed your hip and held you to the concrete. 

“Yes after saving you?” He swam bringing the bucket closer, you thanked him, taking the bucket out of the water. He dipped under the water and you thought perhaps he was finished talking but he popped up once more and ran his hands through his hair. 

“So why am I here in this cage?” He asked

“This is where we take sick sea animals and make them better before sending them back to the wild,” you explained. “They find a lot of hurt fish where you were found, so we go out and collect them, heal them and send them back. Namjoon is our scientist/doctor. You hit him with your tail and he disappeared. They didn’t find a body.”

“So I am in prison,” he frowned, hearing he had killed someone innocent who wasn’t trying to hurt anyone but protect them. “My friends were there. I called them and they answered back, perhaps they took him away.”

“You are here because of the CEO, he wants you to be a part of the exhibit,” you said honestly, “I want you to be happy you are a person just like me, I don’t want to keep you locked up.”

“What’s an exhibit?”

“He wants you to sing, swim and dance to entertain people who will come and see you,” you explained, running a hand through your tangled damp hair. “He told me not to feed you until you cooperated but I snuck you fish anyway, he isn’t here for the week so I am not worried but if and when he comes back he will want results and if we don’t show him what he wants I will have to leave forever and you will probably be hurt badly until you do as they say”

He paled moving away from you. “I don’t want to hurt you, I don’t want you to get hurt by anyone, I will try to protect you with everything I have.”

“Can you get me out of here?” He said, swimming forward slowly in the water looking up at you innocently. He pulled himself up out of the water, a hand on either side of your legs. Jimin lifted his face level to yours, his tail coming out of the water. His lips ghosting as he whispered “I want to go back?” Your eyes fluttered closed, his lips were so soft molded with yours.

“I can,” You sighed out of breath, unsure if it was the head injury or the kiss. He was smiling, a mischievous look in his eye made you think he was playing you exactly where he wanted, “but you will have to wait for me to make a plan.”

“I can’t just walk a fish out of the park or the guards would break my legs,” Jimin winced his hands delicately landing on your knees protectively, “If the CEO finds out I am dead and you are in an even worse position, they would hurt you Jimin, they would torture you until you do what they say.”

“I have to make a plan, to get you out of here past all of the guards and then where do I take you?” Mind reeling with thoughts, ideas and plans trying to figure out all the scenarios. “We will have to hide for a few days so they don’t cut us off before we can get you to the water. I can’t take you to my house as that would be the first place they look.”

He didn’t say a word listening to your musings, “Listen, give me a few days. I will talk to Taehyung and we will make a plan to get you out.”

He frowned, looking like he was going to swim away. Without a second thought you jumped into the water, his eyes widened as he clutched your waist. You were feeling much better and could swim on your own, but you let him hold you. “I promise Jimin.”

You held out your pinky and he looked at it confused, you took his hand from your waist and pulled it out of the water. Slipping slightly into the water he pulled you closer, his hard torso pressed to your soft one. You tried not to kick your legs so as not to kick his tail. He offered you his pinky which you twisted with yours pressing the pads of your thumbs together. 

“This is a pinky promise, it can’t be broken. It is the strongest promise anyone can make.” He looked at your hands and you grinned “I promise you, I will get you out of here.”

You let your hands go and gently swam away from him crawling onto the catwalk. “Y/n!” He called making you turn back to him. He pushed himself up quickly, capturing your lips in a fierce kiss, the concrete was biting at your knees but you were lost in the feeling. He pulled away with a bright grin. “Thank you.”

Diving under the water, leaving you on the catwalk trying to get up with weak knees.

Tags: @backinblack1967  @miriamxsworld @moccahobi @simplymemyself @a-gayish-unicorn​

How can I save this to read later?

Follow and turn on notifications so you never miss an update

Add your name to a tag list [HERE]

Reblog this post with the hashtag #Washout

Or you can like this post (but good luck trying to find it a week later, we both know how many things you like a day, perhaps we will meet again in the future.)

#bts #bangtan sonyeondan #hmsblackswan #castlebangtan #bts imagines #bts reactions #bts scenarios #bts social media au #bts sm au #bts mermaids #bts mermaid au #bts fake texts #bts fake chats #bts fake text au #bts fake chat au #washout #bts fluff #bts smut #namkook #taejin #sope #jimin x reader #jungkook x namjoon #taehyung x seokjin #suga x jhope #namjoon x jungkook #v x jin #yoongi x hoseok #park jimin x reader #kim taehyung x kim seokjin

[anonymous0writer]

Pretending

Author: @anonymous0writer

Summary: When a tourist won’t leave you alone at a party in the Boneyard, you go to John B. for help. But something’s changed. 

Warnings: Swearing, kissing? Alcohol use.

A/N: Thought this would be cute. :) Also, sorry this is kinda long. I got carried away, but I couldn’t stop. I’m in love with this.

God. This boy wouldn’t stop. He followed like a puppy begging for food. You rolled your eyes, turning back to the boy. 

“Stop. Please.” You’re voice came out weaker than you wanted. You were exhausted after surfing all day, and after three drinks, you became woozy. After four, you became wild, but this boy’s attention was keeping you from jumping off the cliff of your drunkenness.

The boy was cute, you’d give him that. But you weren’t looking for a hook up, or a quick fuck. You just wanted to get wasted with your friends, wake up the next day at an ungodly hour, and go surfing. Just to do it all over again. After all, that was your plan for the summer. To have a good time, all the time. 

Actually, the tourist was really cute. He had honey eyes the caught in the fading sunlight with tan skin one could only get through dedication and staying in the Outer Banks for a good amount of time. His tan skin was peppered with freckles. The boy had short, dark hair with lighter streaks from begin out in the sun all day. His plump lips curved into a drunk smile, and it reminded you of you best friend. John B. They were equally cute, but you’d vote for John B. Not this dude who couldn’t take a hint. 

“Oh come on,” The boy smiled. You felt a little bad. Normally, you wouldn’t pass this opportunity up to make out with a cute boy you’d never see again, but you weren’t in the mood. It wasn’t his fault you just wanted to get drunk with your friends instead of him. You sighed. “We don’t have to do anything. I just wanna talk.” He winked. 

You rubbed your face, aching for another mix of beer and some horribly strong alcohol that got you going. And maybe because you matched how cute the two boys were, you went to go find John B. 

You weaved through the crowd of kids from the Cut, Kooks and Tourons. The Kooks rolled their eyes and took a step away. They knew you were a Pogue. A dirty pogue, through and through. You’re dad left early on, and your mom could barely keep a job because she got wasted all the time, and your brother left to go to college and get a better life than the one offered to him here. You liked begin a pogue. It was better than a Kook. The Kooks knew you because you were somewhat famous. You were best friends with John B. and the rest of the crew. And John B.’s missing father was known throughout the island. And, because it seemed like you couldn’t stay out of a fight. You had beaten up some Kooks and Pogues alike in your day, but beating your own kind was when you were extremely drunk, or they threaten your friends. But you’d beat on a Kook because they were always beating on you and your friends. 

The Tourons smiled at you, but kept drinking. They didn’t know you and stuck to themselves like a pack of outsiders. The kids from the Cut were a different story. They called out your name, high fiving you and grinning. 

However, one Touron didn’t stop following you. He was at your heels the whole night. Annoyance started to rise, but you spotted John B. and Pope talking. You relaxed. John B. would help you.

“John B.!” You called out, waving. The boy was still at your heels, but slowed a little. 

Your best friend since the age of four looked up and grinned. “Hey, (Y/N). What’s up?” He ruffled your hair. 

You smiled at the affectionate gesture. You loved when he did that. He slung an arm around you and studied the tourist in front of you. 

“Who’s this?”

You shrugged. “Couldn’t tell ya.” You didn’t know his name. Truthfully. You were known to throw a couple punches, but Y/N Y/L/N was no liar. 

The boy narrowed his eyes at John. “I’m Julian. Who are you?”

Knowing this was the question you needed, you spoke up, slipping your hand into John’s limp one on your shoulder. “My boyfriend.”

Beside you, John tensed, confused, for a second before he relaxed and nodded at Julian. “That’s right.”

“Your boyfriend? You never mentioned him while we were talking.”

You rolled your eyes. “I didn’t feel the need to, but you kept talking and following me, so I guessed that telling you wouldn’t work. So I decided to show you.” You grinned triumphantly, knowing your words were a little harsh, but it was for good measure. Plus, you’d been giving hints to the boy to get lost hours ago.

Julian wasn’t convinced. “I don’t believe you.”

John B. laughed, dropping his arm to curl around your waist. You loved the feeling. And it felt right. Almost like his arm belonged there. Like it was made to hold you close. You smiled for a whole different reason, not realizing the blush coming to your cheeks. 

Pope eyed you, and you brushed it off. John B. was your best friend. Not anything more. And you certainly didn’t have a crush on him. 

“Oh really?” John B. teased, and took your chin in his hands and pulls you so close, you can feel his breath hot on your face. You don’t mind it. He smirked at you, eyes sparkling. Before you can process what’s happening, his lips are on yours, sweet, yet you notice the hint of need behind it. 

You kiss him back, eyes closed, needing more. You never needed a kiss like that. So sweet. You break apart, and you smile brightly up at him. John grins, looking back at Julian. “I can keep going, if you don’t believe me.”

Julian swallows, jaw clenched. Apparently annoyed he just wasted his night chasing after a girl with a ‘boyfriend’. He muttered something and walked away. You laughed out loud. 

“Thanks John B.” You stepped out of his hold, instantly wanting the warm of his arm back. You were confused by the kiss, but you convinced yourself it was just the alcohol running through your veins. 

“Course. You good?” he asked. 

You nodded, joining Pope on the log rooted into the sand. John B. sat next to you. “I’m fine. He wouldn’t leave me alone! I couldn’t even get another drink!” You pouted, earning a laugh from both of the boys. 

John B. stood. “I need another, you want one?” 

“Sure. Thanks.” You smiled, digging your feet into the sand. You flip flops were discarded next to you. The sand was still somewhat warm from the fading sunlight. 

“Pope?” The tall boy asked, pointing to him. 

Pope shook his head. “I’m good. Gotta keep the signal clear, yeah?”

You laughed and your friend walked away, off to get you a drink. Pope nudged your ribs. You frowned, “What?”

“What the hell was that?” Pope questioned, eyes wide.

“What do you mean? The kiss? Oh-” You shrugged. “John was saving me. Don’t worry. We’re not macking. I know the rule, it’s-” 

Pope cut you off. “No, it was more than just a kiss, (Y/N).”

You sputtered, frowning at your brilliant friend. “What are you talking about?”

Pope rolled his eyes. “You’re supposed to be the second smartest, (Y/N).” He shook his head. “You blushed when he put his arm around you, and you definitely kissed him back, longer than you needed. Plus,” The boy smirked at you and your wide eyes. “You were smiling like a fool after you kissed.”

“Pope!” You said, surprised. You decided to ignore his jive about your smarts. You were the smartest, besides Pope. “Are you suggesting I have a crush on John B.? My best friend?” You hissed. 

The boy shrugged, stretching out his legs. “Seems like it.”

You rolled your eyes. “I’m just drunk.” You tried to come up with an excuse that’d be believable. It would explain why you were feeling these crazy, new feelings. For your best friend. 

Pope laughed, staring at the sea pulling it’s waves back and pushing them forward over the sand. “No your not.” He glanced at you, and look that said, ‘you’re crazy’. He smiled, pointing a finger at you. “I know you. You only get flirty drunk like that on your sixth drink. You haven’t even had four.”

You gaped. God, nothing got past this boy. “Ugh.” You shoved his shoulder. “I hate you.”

“Why do you hate him?” John B. asked, handing you a red cup. You thanked him, sniffing it, and deciding it was strong enough to make you forget the kiss and your strange feelings, took a big sip. 

“He was attacking my intelligence.” You pouted, covering quickly. 

Your best friend laughed. “Don’t worry, he’s just jealous you’re smarter.”

You grinned at the compliment, not fully getting that it was a compliment until you turned to Pope triumphantly. Your triumph faded quickly into awkwardness as heat crawled up your cheeks. Pope’s eyebrows were raised and he was giving you a pointed look. John B. just complimented you and you blushed. Blushed like you had a crush. But John did that a lot. He was a nice person who complimented people. This was no different. Right?

You cleared your throat, licking your lips. The air suddenly turned tense, something that never happened when you were with the crew. Not even when JJ blatantly hit on you and Kie. Honestly, you loved watching JJ hit on you when he knew the rule and knew that that door was closed. You loved JJ like a brother. Plus, you always secretly shipped him and Kie. 

“Uh, I think I’m going to find Kie.” You said, standing and sliding your sandy feet into your white flip flops. 

You hurried away, quick to spot your curly haired BFF. You honestly thought Kie was your sister and you’d just been separated at birth. She knew everything about you. You were soulmates. You knew each other inside out. And understood each other. You’re bond was unbreakable. 

“(Y/N)!” Kie giggled, grinning wildly at you. 

You joined her around a fire JJ was currently nursing into a roaring flame. You laughed as he jumped back from a flame that decided to leap out at him. Kie kissed your cheek and poached you drink, taking a huge sip before blinking and sputtering a bit. She handed it back. 

“Shit, that is strong!” 

You laughed. “Yeah, sorry- there wasn’t a warning label.”

She grins, and then frowns. “What’s wrong.”

See, the girl knew you. You sighed, taking your own massive swig of the drink. JJ eyed you, brows raised. 

“Something she obviously wants to forget.” He muttered, letting the fire do it owns thing.

“Yep!” You chirped, halfway to the point of drunk haze where you kissed a random boy, and danced wildly. 

“Slow down there, cowboy.” JJ commented, taking the cup from your hands. 

“What is it, (Y/N)?” Kie asked, brows furrowed. 

You shook your head. “I don’t want to talk about it. Honestly, I don’t think I could explain it!” You moved your hips to the beat. 

You spun, taking your drink back from JJ’s hands and danced the beat of the music that was faraway. You spotted John B. and Pope talking on the log you fled. You swallowed hard and admired your best friend as his head tipped back in one of his big laughs. He was grinning from ear to ear, the look of pure happiness lighting up his face. He looked so good when he smiled. 

Maybe you did have a crush on John B.

#john b routledge #obx #john b #john b obx #outer banks #outer banks imagine #kiara outer banks #kiara carrera #pope heyward #pope obx #jj maybank #jj #jj obx #obx netflix #john b x y/n #john b x reader

[ickle-ronniekins]

duet | the fire in his veins

DUET MASTERLIST

desc: it’s the final year, and george wants to make things happen. but there are a lot of feelings hanging in the air, aren’t there? he’s stressed to the max, and it’s not helping that you are, too. your schedules don’t match up, umbridge is on his tail, and hormones are raging. he finds himself spreading himself far too thin and eventually things boil over and explode. he worries if you can both recover from it all. but when he holds you in his arms, he wonders if staying angry at one another would even be possible.

a/n: hello! it’s been a bit, sorry, i've been rubbish at writing this chapter. i had no inspiration. but then it struck! so sorry for the angst, except I'm not sorry at all -- it was needed. we’re back to the final year at hogwarts this year, loves, so we’re backtracking a bit, but we hope you enjoy. remember when y/n had visited the burrow the summer before seventh year and everything had seemed so perfect? l o l. enjoy, and please don’t hate me! ps: full masterlist is linked above if ya need a catch up!

word count: 5.3k (sry nt sry)

warning(s): angst and things

The corridors seemed weirdly empty as he strolled slowly through them. But they weren’t empty -- not in the slightest. Excited second and third years were scooting past the very nervous-looking eleven-year-olds on the steps leading up to their newest and greatest adventure. He found himself reminiscing, because how could he not? It was his seventh and final year, after all.

George found himself feeling a mixture of emotions as he entered the Great Hall -- sadness. Fear. Relief. Exhilaration.

But there was one thing he seemed to feel that was stronger than everything else. Stronger than the anxiety he was feeling that it was his final year at his favorite place. Stronger than the happiness he felt at the thought of him finally being able to pursue his dreams. Stronger than the fear he felt of the unknown that awaited him after leaving school.

He found you standing near your table with your usual smile painted on your face, the yellow ribbon tied in your hair, your hand on your hip. You threw your head back in laughter at something a fellow Hufflepuff had said, and he relished the thought of hearing it again. Not that it had been long, really. You’d only left the Burrow a week before the start of term in order to go home, grab any last minute belongings you might’ve left, and were about to take your usual spot next to him and Fred on the train, but much to George’s dismay, you were dragged away by your very dramatic housemates who had pulled you away, prattling on about it being the final year. You’d looked so painfully beautiful when you frowned at him, he couldn’t help but smile a bit. “Sorry”, you’d mouthed at him through the window of his compartment. George had just shrugged and smiled brightly as you were yanked by a very distraught looking girl with curly black hair, and he turned back to Fred who had been feverishly working on their inventions in the boxes placed at their feet. George had loads of work to do before the train arrived at Hogwarts. But he still couldn’t shake that painful twinge of jealousy that had overtaken him. Dramatic, yes. But couldn’t he just blame it on the love he felt instead?

When you looked up from your conversation and met his gaze, you dropped your arm and your eyes immediately softened. He felt the all too familiar butterflies begin to dance in his stomach -- the feeling he got whenever your lingering gaze had locked with his across large rooms. Yeah, he could absolutely blame it on love. Because that’s what this was, right? That’s all he seemed to feel for you. Love. Nothing but pure, genuine, head-over-heels, massive feelings of love. He noticed that grin he knew all too well spread itself across your face, and you began scooting your way through students to get to him. “Erm -- ‘scuse me -- sorry, love, trying to get to someone --” George’s heart had nearly constricted when you’d said the word love. He wanted you to call him that. He felt his cheeks flush cherry red at the thought, and thanked Merlin that neither you, nor Fred, nor anyone else could hear his embarrassing inner monologue.

“Okay, okay, so what did I miss on the train?” you asked, finally getting to him as you pushed your way past a group of Ravenclaws. “A hug, for one!”

You locked your arms around his shoulders, and he noticed you were standing on the tips of your toes in order to be able to hug him. It was so adorable, he could scream, but he reckoned that wouldn’t be the best thing to do in a room of crowded students. He slung his arms around your waist and breathed in the scent of your hair.

“Nothing too exciting,” he lied. He did not like the fact that Fred had sworn him to secrecy about their products and the fact that they’d be opening up a shop after graduating school -- or, perhaps, even sooner. You can’t say a word to anyone, Georgie! He’d shot Fred a quizzical look, with an eyebrow raised, and Fred had pointed a finger at him threateningly. No, not even Y/N. Not until the products are finished and we start testing them out on the first years. George had scoffed dramatically while Fred had fallen into a fit of laughter at his own joke. So keeping his word he’d made to his twin, George swallowed down all the words he wanted to say, and instead just said, “We missed you, though.”

“I’ve missed you too! Merlin, all the girls did the entire train ride is complain about it being the final year. They’re so silly! I will admit, I was sad at the end of last term,” you threw your hands up in surrender as George cocked his head to the side and smiled at you. He knew how much you’d cried thinking on it being the last and final year, “but I reckon we’ve got to make the most of it, haven’t we? Which is why --” you teasingly poked him in the ribs and echoed yourself from the conversation you’d held with Fred at the end of last term, “-- we’ve got to spend as much time together as we can!”

George felt his throat tighten a bit. Could he? Could he really spend as much time as possible with you while also focusing on the inventions, on the shop, all while keeping up his studies and staying out of trouble, and more importantly, detention? Bloody hell, he’d make himself do it, wouldn’t he?

Before he could answer, a very pompous ‘hem-hem’ came from a plump woman dressed obnoxiously in all pink as she scurried her way through students and over to the main table at the front of the hall. You and George both exchanged a look of disgust, and suddenly he didn’t feel so confident about this year anymore.

“Why,” you breathed, raising an eyebrow, “does she look like an advertisement for one of those medicines you take when you’re feeling ill?”

George could not help the very haughty laugh that involuntarily escaped his lips. A few students peered over at you both, and the sheer fact alone that you’d made him laugh just a few minutes in seemed to lighten his spirits tremendously.

The crowd of students in the middle of the Great Hall seemed to part like the red sea at the arrival of this woman. She shot incredibly fake grins at a few of the older students, who did not return her welcome, and she carried herself with such an air of arrogance that George swore he saw Dumbledore roll his eyes from next to McGonagall.

“Who is she?” you asked, crossing your arms in front of your chest and jutting out your hip. Both of you did not take your eyes off of the pink lady, and watched as she took her place at the Headmasters table. Oh, no.

And the laugh that had escaped George just a few seconds ago felt as though it was lightyears away. He shook his head and groaned audibly, thinking that there couldn’t possibly be another professor as awful as Professor Snape. Little did he know, she’d be even worse. “Think she’s our new worst nightmare.”

-- -

You were positively peeved, for lack of a better word. You were seventeen -- you were allowed to be dramatic, weren’t you? You flopped back onto your bed in a huff and placed a pillow over your face to muffle your scream -- and you screamed. Why was George being such a bloody idiot? Hadn’t you told him, multiple times, how much time you wanted to spend together this year? Your unwavering love for him aside, he was your best mate, and for Merlin’s sake, it was your final year at school! You’d both be off in a few months time, doing adult things and seeing one another significantly less, and this stupid boy could not comprehend what “hanging out” seemed to mean. Ugh.

“Heading down for lunch,” your dormmate said to you, “care to join?”

Begrudgingly you agreed, but only because you couldn’t stand the hunger that overtook you. You would’ve stayed there and yelled the entire afternoon if you could.

You felt a pang in your heart at the sight of him, surrounded by his siblings and his friends at the Gryffindor table. It was moments like these, moments of pure jealousy, that made you want to be a Gryffindor. You resented that very much. You loved being a Hufflepuff, but still. The idea of being able to see him in the early hours of the morning in the same common room, groggy from sleep with his (undoubtedly) adorable bedhead intrigued you to no end. You’d be able to see him more often than not, and you knew, with how the two of you got on, that you’d stay up until the late hours of the evening, sharing silly stories and joking until the sun rose.

But no. Instead, he was joking around with them, and you’d been yelling into the void in your dormitory.

You noticed that he and Fred were busy fiddling with something in their hands, as their fellow Gryffindors looked on in pure admiration. You rolled your eyes and made your way to the Hufflepuff table.

You sat down, willed yourself to not look and began to scoop considerable amounts of food onto your plate. You weren’t sure if it was the hunger that was overwhelming, or the jealousy. The anger. Regardless, you bit into your sandwich rather aggressively.

You let yourself be weak, just once, and turned to peer over at him again, hoping he’d meet your gaze, just like he always did. But this time, he didn’t. He was busy chatting animatedly with a few other seventh years -- you recognized a few of them from the Quidditch team, but most of them you didn’t know. The jealousy inside you spread through your bones like a rapid fire. You gulped down the rest of your pumpkin juice in a rage, swung your bag across your shoulder, and sauntered out of the Great Hall without making any eye-contact. It’s not like he’s looking anyway, you thought dramatically.

Little did you know, George watched you storm out of the Great Hall, and his heart and mind followed you all the way to your Transfiguration lesson, aching terribly along the way.

You hoped you wouldn’t run into him on your walk from Transfiguration to Potions, but luck didn’t seem to be on your side today.

“Hey!” he called out to you. A bright grin was painted across his face. He seemed far too happy for someone who’d just come from a lesson with Umbridge. You ignored his calls and made your way swiftly toward the dungeons, but he was quicker. He was panting when he finally caught up to you. Familiar hands grabbed your shoulders and you sucked in a breath. You turned to face him and scowled. He peered at you questioningly. “You alright? Why so glum?”

“Why d’you think?” you asked coolly. You pointed flatly toward the staircase. “Heading to Snape’s lesson.”

George furrowed his brows at you, seemingly taken aback by the irritated tone to your voice. You tried to soften, but you were still pretty angry. “Is everything alright? Haven’t seen much of you..”

“Well whose fault is that?” you snapped. You didn’t mean too, but the resentment was bubbling up inside you like that of a volcano -- you couldn’t help if you exploded. For years, you’d always felt tiny next to him, especially because his 6’3 frame could easily swallow you whole. But now, as he looked down at you with concern and guilt whilst you seemingly boiled over, you felt bigger and better. “I’ve tried spending time with you, George, but all you seem to want to do is be with other Gryffindors. I’ve tried to make plans, tried to sit with you at lunch, but Umbridge doesn’t let us..” your voice trailed off and you huffed a bit, “that’s besides the point. It doesn’t help that we’re both on completely different schedules and the DA meetings are the only time I get to see you, and even that is barely anything because we’re so bloody busy trying to learn!” Most of his lessons were different than yours, since you were now en route to becoming a Healer. “I told you at the beginning of term that I wanted to try and spend as much time as we possibly could together, but apparently to you, that just means insignificant chats in the corridors between lessons and smiles across classrooms and not much more than that.”

You were actually pretty impressed with yourself that you’d been able to say that all in one breath; you breathed in deeply and looked up at him, a very childlike pout on your face, and watched as he uncomfortably adjusted the strap of his bag on his shoulder and shifted his eyes toward the floor. You knew you’d hit home. Guilt. That was always his look for guilt.

“I’ve been a right awful friend. I know.”

And just like that, all feelings of aggravation seemed to subside and your temper seemingly calmed down a bit, just by the sheer fact that his voice sounded so small. So innocent. So pained.

You shook your head and scoffed at yourself. A few passerby stared at the two of you. “Look. I’m sorry. Shouldn’t have blown up at you. That was wrong of me. Think I’m just dreading this Potions lesson.” You let out a sigh and the two of you laughed softly at one another. “I just -- I just miss you, is all.”

“You don’t have to apologize -- you’re right. I miss you, too. We haven’t spent nearly as much time together as I would have liked. I’m the one who’s sorry. The fault is completely my own.” You hated how adult he sounded, but you couldn’t help but grin at him -- not when you were nearly swimming in the innocence of his chocolate brown eyes. In a quieter voice, he continued, “I’ll explain it all tonight. You free?”

“Erm --” you looked around you to make sure nobody was listening. You gave him an answer that sounded more like a question. “Yes?”

“Meet me near the Architect of Hogwarts statue after the feast.. I’ll sneak you up to my common room. I’ve got something to tell you. To show you.”

Your heart soared at the thought. Maybe luck was on your side. You tried to push all hopes and wishes of him confessing his love to you aside. It was probably something else. And yet, you couldn’t help the very bright smile you gave him. To think, just seconds ago, you’d been so angry. It was difficult to stay mad at George Weasley.

“Yeah?” you asked, trying to hide the eagerness in your voice.

He placed a kiss onto your cheek when the bell signaled the start of the next lesson in exactly two minutes. Merlin, you needed to get down to the dungeons, but how could you now that your feet were cemented into the ground? Your breath hitched at the feeling of his lips softly grazing your skin. The upturned corners of his mouth made the butterflies in your stomach swirl. To think that Gilderoy Lockhart had won Witch Weekly’s Most Charming Smile Award, when George’s was far more charming, more intriguing. So much easier to melt in. “See you later?”

“Yeah,” you replied breathlessly. He then squeezed your shoulder and headed off in the opposite direction toward his next lesson. Maybe you could tell him, perhaps, if the theatrics of the night were exciting enough. You relished the thought of sneaking him up to your dormitory and cuddling up next to him in your bed, instead of another night yelling straight into your pillow, crying over the boy you loved so very deeply.

He turned around at the other end of the corridor and winked at you before vanishing completely down the next hallway.

Somehow, the prospect of spending the next hour and a half in Potions didn’t seem so awful after all.

-- -

The Quidditch grounds were really cold. So much so that you were certain you couldn’t feel your fingers. You pulled your hat tighter over your head and breathed into your hands. And yet, you were there, because you needed to be, didn’t you? You needed to be a supportive Hufflepuff for Gryffindor in this match versus Slytherin. For Fred. For Harry. For George.

It had been a few weeks since George had told you all about the inventions he and Fred had been working on, and how they were going to open up a shop after graduating. It was thrilling, the entire idea of it, and you noticed a change in him when he’d animatedly told you everything there was to know that night in the bustling Gryffindor common room. His eyes were wide with electrification. The fire in his veins set him aflame.

“This is wicked! Which one is your favorite?”

“Love potions, I think.”

“You guys are bloody brilliant! I’m so proud of you!”

That sheepish, childlike grin crept onto his face as a feeling of warmth flooded him at your compliment. “Thanks, Y/N.”

And it really was brilliant -- it was unfair, you thought, that people only saw George and Fred as pranksters. As the two blokes who always make people laugh. As the ones who always end up in detention. They were so much more than that, weren’t they? They were so incredibly brilliant -- not to mention the type of magic they needed to understand and manage to do in order to create some of these inventions was beyond some of your other fellow seventh years. It was incredibly advanced, especially for two seventeen-year-olds. Why didn’t more people understand this?

You were so proud. How could you not be? You relished the thought of one day being able to visit them and their booming business. It was such an exciting endeavor that you simply felt nothing more than pure adoration toward them both.

And here, now, watching them impress you yet again with their incredible Quidditch skills, you wanted to yell. Look! Look at them both! Look at Fred and his fantastic flying skills as he zooms between other players, leaving dust in their wake! Look at George and how he’s able to pummel a bludger across the length of a field and barely break a sweat whilst doing it!

You grinned at the thought; they really were both more than just the surface of their personalities. They were so much more than just twin brothers. You wished people would notice their differences the way you did.

Things had still been tense, though. You now understood why George had been so occupied and not able to spend as much time with you as you’d both wanted. You kept on apologizing -- you felt so bloody awful about snapping at him that one day in the corridor -- and he kept placing his hand to your knee and telling you to not think on it anymore.

But he’d made an effort, and so did you. Lunches near the Black Lake even in the cooler autumn air, late night strolls throughout the castle, choosing seats closer to one another in lessons to share those smiles you secretly thought about nearly every moment of every day. You loved them far much more than you’d let on.

You were pulled from your thoughts when Ginny gently elbowed you in the ribs. You felt your face flush and thanked Merlin that she couldn’t hear your thoughts. When you turned to look at her, though, her face was flooded with worry. You followed her gaze and noticed a very angry Harry, Fred, and George making a beeline right toward Draco. They looked so incredibly different. So angry. So animalistic.

Before you could register what was happening, Ginny grabbed your arm and tugged you down toward the field.

-- -

George found himself yelling swears he knew his mother would most certainly not approve of, and if she’d heard him, he’d be on the receiving end of a very angry Howler at any moment.

He couldn’t help himself though. A new, dangerous type of fury took him over. How dare someone as misguided as Draco Malfoy insult his family? He’d taken the insults before. He’d heard them and let them roll off his back. He’d ignored the snickers. He’d ignored the gentle pokes and prods people had tried to make to piss him off. He hadn’t wanted to be a bad influence on Ron and Ginny, especially when they were younger and first starting out. He’d warned Fred not to let it bother him, either. But now, with his stress levels through the roof about his studies, and the shop, the inventions, his over-the-top emotions when it came to you -- he felt like he was about to explode. And unlucky for him, Malfoy was in his line of fire.

He felt his blood boiling. He didn’t know where Fred was and quite honestly he didn’t care -- he grabbed Malfoy by the collar of his shirt and lifted him right off of the ground. “How dare you?” he yelled -- his voice sounded foreign and ferocious in his own ears as it echoed across the pitch. Next to him, Harry was red faced and vibrating with rage. For the first time in his entire life, George felt nothing but pure, genuine hatred toward this despicable excuse of a human. The very terrifying and unnatural feeling of wanting to inflict pain and hurt coursed through his body. He wanted to punch Malfoy straight in the jaw, he wanted to kick him in the ribs enough times to break them, he wanted to watch the blood trickle from his mouth.

He felt nothing but loathing.

It was before George could fully register his own actions that you were there -- in front of him -- your eyes flooded with concern and worry as you ripped his hands off of Malfoy’s chest.

“George, calm down,” you said. Next to him, Ginny and Hermione were attempting to tame Harry, as Ron watched, wide eyed and scared. Fred was just barely being held back by Katie, Alicia and Angelina, the veins in his arms were pulsating with rage. You grabbed the collar of George’s uniform and he seemed to come out of his trance. “It’s alright -- you’ve got to stop, this isn’t you --”

He felt as if his angered self had stepped completely out of his physical body when you brought your hands to his cheeks. Your eyes were bloodshot and he felt a pang in his heart to know that you might’ve been crying at this whole exchange. He immediately began scolding himself, especially when he felt a firm yank on his sleeve.

He was dragged immediately toward the castle, with Harry on the other side of him, leaving you standing shrunken on the field amongst a shocked group of students. He turned around once and locked in eye contact. There was a look of disappointment in your eyes and he felt his heart sink quite quickly into his stomach.

Your eyes were the last thing he could focus on before preparing himself for a severe punishment that no doubt awaited him and his ridiculous actions.

-- -

You were sitting on Ginny’s bed, twiddling your thumbs and tapping your feet melodically against the hardwood floor beneath you, waiting for her to return with any sort of news.

It had been a strange, terrifying ordeal, watching the boys nearly throw themselves at Draco like that. They’d looked like they were about to commit some type of murder. You felt your heart begin to pound at the sheer thought of it all. The animalistic look in his eye, the subhuman way he’d grabbed Malfoy by the collar of his uniform, like he wasn’t really here. He wasn’t really present. It made your skin tingle in the worst of ways.

Just then, Ginny popped her head in. “They’re here.”

By the time you got downstairs to the very desolate looking Gryffindor common room, Fred had already huffed his way up to the boys dormitory. George, though, was slumped in an armchair, rubbing his temples generously and ripping away parts of his uniform. He was incredibly disheveled looking.

“Georgie?”

You wanted to yell at him. You wanted to scream at him so bloody terribly. How could you have been so stupid! You could’ve been expelled, you silly boy! You could’ve been hurt! But when he looked up, his eyes distant and exhausted and painted, all you saw flooding through his expression was pure guilt. He’d probably gotten enough tongue lashings for one evening. You sighed and slid yourself next to him on the couch.

He let his head fall into his hands. “I’m a bloody idiot. I know.”

“Not what I was going to say.”

“No?”

You sighed again and placed your hand gently to his knee. You could’ve sworn he’d sucked in a breath at the exact moment of contact, but you ignored it. “What.. what happened out there?”

“Draco and his bloody comments,” George snapped angrily. You jumped a bit at the harshness in his voice and he immediately retreated, placing his hand gently on top of yours and apologizing. He took in a deep breath. “Just -- couldn’t handle it anymore. ‘m sorry if I scared you.”

“You really did, you know.”

He fell backwards onto the couch and shut his eyes tight.

You continued when he didn’t, “I’m just glad you’re alright.”

“Wouldn’t it have been better if I’d come out of it with a black eye, or something?”

You both laughed a bit and you traced your fingers across his cheekbones slowly. He swallowed thickly. “No. It wouldn’t have been better. Don’t like seeing you hurt.”

“I know.”

You were both silent.

“Got banned from Quidditch.”

You shot up straighter, shocked. “What?”

“Remember when I said the first night that Umbridge was going to be our worst nightmare?” he sighed, shaking his head. “Never knew I was going to be so bloody right.”

“George, I’m -- I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It’s my own fault.”

You both sat uncomfortably in the very thick silence that hung in the air between you. George sat up and straightened himself out. He ran his hands very quickly through his messy hair and took a few deep breaths as if he was still trying to calm himself down from the events that had just transpired. You reckoned he should be more upset about being banned from Quidditch. It was his favorite thing. Why was he not bursting at the seams with anger? Deep in your soul, you knew this was different. This wasn’t about Quidditch, or the fight with Draco, or the tenseness of it being your last and final year. This was more.

“George,” you breathed, preparing yourself for whatever was to come, “just tell me.”

It felt strange when he took your hands in his. You weren’t a couple. Not even close, no matter how many nights you dreamt of it, no matter how much of your days were spent imagining it, no matter how much you tried to will it into existence -- he wasn’t yours and you weren’t his. So this, him holding your hands and peering at you on the couch in the desolate common room, felt fraudulent. Selfishly, though, you wanted it to last forever.

“You know,” he started, and his voice sounded hoarse, “the plans that Fred and I have.”

“Of course I do.”

“About the inventions. And the shop.”

“Yes, yes, I know all of this.”

You tried not to let your anxious mind meander whilst he took his sweet time telling you what he needed too.

“We’ve been talking a lot lately. Fred and I. Which I suppose is why I’ve been so bloody stressed and just… lashed out at Quidditch today. We’ve had a change of plans.”

You narrowed your eyes at him and swallowed over that all too familiar lump in your throat that appeared each time you got nervous. Your hands felt like ice. “What kind of change?”

He squeezed your hands. He took a deep breath. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days. “We’re leaving sooner than we thought. End of April. Right after the Easter holidays.”

You couldn’t believe what you were hearing -- not really, anyway. Which is why you felt so embarrassed when his facial expression didn’t change as you laughed. You shook your head and smiled at him, because this had to be a joke, right? You’d been talking with him about graduation since the day you met one another. He wasn’t really planning on giving that all up?

“You’re.. you’re serious?”

He just nodded and bit his lip nervously.

“Um..” you hated the fact that you were brought to tears so quickly. If you hadn’t been so emotional you would’ve been able to notice just how wobbly your voice sounded and you would’ve been able to scold yourself. “I’m.. so happy for you guys.”

George reached out to try and pull you into an embrace. “Y/N--”

“No, really, I am,” you bit down hard on your lip to try and push back any tears rising to the surface of your eyes. You didn’t want him to see you cry. You couldn’t. But you could only do so much before the tears were escaping you without any effort, and you were letting George pull you into his chest as he traced gentle circles into your back.

Through a few choked sobs, you tried to tell him how you felt, truthfully -- that you’d never been more proud of him than in this moment, that this endeavor was just the beginning for them, that you would support him and Fred with every ounce of your entire being, that you were so thrilled to watch as their business would no doubt boom and their inventions would take the Wizarding World by storm. That he doesn’t know how bloody brilliant he is. That he doesn’t know just how much you love him and believe in him. But you couldn’t seem to find the right words. You couldn’t seem to speak coherently. All that seemed to trickle from you were tears. Somehow, though, you had a strong feeling that he already knew all of those things. “I’m really going to miss you,” you cried.

You felt him tense up in your arms and you just held him tighter. You rolled your eyes at your own dramatic self. He sniffled a bit when he breathed, “I’m really going to miss you, too.” But when his voice sounded just as wobbly as yours, you reckoned it was okay to cry if he was going to cry, too.

The two of you stayed there like that for a while. Gryffindors seemed to flood in and out, not questioning the tiny Hufflepuff girl in the middle of their common room. And for the rest of the evening, as the two of you had both calmed down a bit, you reminisced. You both shared stories about your first thoughts on Hogwarts when you’d arrived as a first year. You both talked about the last seven years. You both told one another what had been your favorite parts of your years at school, and what you’d disliked about the castle and curriculum. What you wouldn’t miss at all. What you’d miss the most.

One another.

That night, when you went to bed, it was restless. Disturbed. Nothing, if not very, very awful. But when you did finally catch some sleep, you dreamt very vividly of the thirteen-year-old boy who caught your attention in Charms class with that silly paper swan, and how you’d continued to fall in love with him every single day since that chance encounter.

tag list: @georgeweasleyx @seppys-return-to-madness @fopdoodledane @fredd-weasley @iprobablyshipit91 @darling-details @laneygthememequeen @lupinsx @keoghans @helloallthethingsilove @waschbiber @dreamer821 @feffffffy @the-hufflepuff-of-221b @62442-am @wtfweasleyy @obsessedwithrandomthings @sleep-i-ness @shadowsinger11 @harrysweasleys @shadychaoticcollection @haphazardhufflepuff @afriendlyneighborhoodhufflepuff @hood-and-horan @geeksareunique @insearchofnewdreams @notstandingstill-imlyinginwait @lumos-barnes @thatfuckingliardavidtennant @slytherinqween @xinyourdreamsx @skiving-snackboxess @wildfire-whizbangs @dwarfwizard-from-panem @diary-of-an-onliner @answer-the-sirens @woakiees @black-widow-fangirl @theheirofnightandday @summerstardust @whysoseriouspadfoot @chocok22 @myhopesareanchoredinyou @siriusblackisme @illusivedaydreamer @zeeneee @writingwitchly @wolfpotter12 @obsessedwithrandomthings @carolinesbookworld @shadowsinger11 @pit-and-the-pen @summer-writes @peachesandpinks @gweaslvy @alpinewinchester @letsfightsomeorcs @theweasleysredhair @purpleskiesstorm @hxfflxpxffs @wand3ringr0s3 @finecole @angelinathebook @highly-acidic @90shermione @zreads @susceptible-but-siriusexual @parker-potters

#george weasley #fred weasley #fred and george weasley #weasley twins #george weasley x reader #george weasley reader insert #george weasley imagine #george weasley fanfic #george weasley fanfiction #weasley twins imagine #weasley twins fanfic #weasley twins fanfiction #hp fanfic #hp fanfiction #hp imagine #this takes place in appleton wisconsin shoutout 2 ma discord gurls

[owillofthewisps]

rosemary & thyme

notes: fun fact this was actually what started unspoken and as such this takes place in the same verse. i’d initially planned it to be in unspoken but sometimes things just don’t work like that. this is also self indulgent fluff for myself today bc my cramps are bad enough that i can’t stand for more than five minutes without starting to shake from the exertion lol

the third gif in this was what kicked this off the ground in the first place

title is from scarbourough fair, mostly thinking of the simon & garfunkel version.

also this is my 900th post on here lol

rating: teen. no real warnings, just fluff. maybe small hints of self-esteem issues and small hints of mostly dulled grief. 

pairing: eskel/fem reader

word count: 2.5k

on a spring day, you re-paint the trim of your cottage. it is an old, old pattern, but you are determined to make something new.

“Must you?” you ask Lil’ Bleater.

You’re ensconced in a soft bed of clover that lines your cottage. The sweet, grassy scent of the clovers lingers in the air like perfume, a herald of spring. Hyacinths are dotted through the bed, swaying in the gentle breeze, their buds plump on their stalks, a promise of blooms in the soft indigo peeking through the edges of them, the last breath of a winter sunset.

Lil’ Bleater is intent on eating them.

She noses at a small clump of stalks, each tenderly green, still newly given life. The stalks break under the clamp of her teeth, and you sigh.

“Must you?” you repeat.

She glances up at the sound of your voice and considers you. Then she bleats, loud and indignant, and leans down for another mouthful.

You snort a laugh and turn back to your cottage. You trace your fingertips over the window’s trim, the wood worn riverstone smooth by the years and the rain alike. The paint has chipped, washed out to the soft blue kiss of a robin’s egg. Even the vines, each a delicate scroll of leaves unfurling, have faded into something autumnal, their color muted by nature’s touch. You follow one of them with your fingernail. They wind like the small trails in the woods, meandering yet purposeful.

Your father had steady hands. Even with you and your brother clambering over him, children gone woods-wild, his delicate brush strokes brought the forest to life in the walls of your home.

Sometimes, when the sun shines just right, you think you can see the past peeking back at you, imprints of images long painted over glimmering just beneath the coats of paint.

Lil Bleater butts against your back. “Ow,” you tell her, even though it’s only a short bite of sensation.

The goat prances around your seated form and flops into your lap, all hoof and horns. She squirms until she’s comfortable.

She’s still munching on a hyacinth stalk.

“You owe me new flowers.”

She ignores you.

You sigh and readjust. She’s a warm weight in your lap, the heat of her softened by the thick fabric of your skirts. The goat makes a miffed noise at your movement. You stroke a hand over her horns, the smooth bone cool against your skin, like a spring river just beginning to warm. She nestles down into the cradle of your skirts with a soft noise. Your attention returns to your cottage.

You touch the window trim again, lay your fingers against the faded paint once more. The small flowers - delicate little things, unfurling prettily in soft layers of petals - were your mother’s favorites. They go back to the oldest layer, you know. You trace the one colored for you, and then walk your fingers over to the one for your brother.The ache settles between your ribs, fills the hollow space there.

“It’s still here,” you whisper to Lil’ Bleater. “It’s just built upon, right?”

The goat snuffles, mouthing at the hem of your bodice.

“Yes,” you say. “It’s still here.”

You pick up your bowl, paint the color of the soft blue of the midmorning sky splashed up the edges of it, and sweep a broad stripe of it over the faded flowers.

                                                      *******

“Stop,” you tell Lil’ Bleater, pulling your paintbrush from her ever-hungry mouth. “You’re going to get paint on you, and then Eskel and I will have to give you a bath, and none of us will find that enjoyable.”

She’s relentless, butting lightly at your arm and nibbling at your sleeve. You nudge at her with a grumble.

“Trouble finds trouble, I see,” Eskel says from behind you, his deep voice lined with laughter.

“You’d best be talking about the goat on both counts, dear Witcher.”

“Of course, sweetling.”

He wrestles Lil’ Bleater off of you, gentle despite the goat’s squirming. The goat announces her displeasure loudly and butts against his knees. She darts away before he can stop her, pausing just out of reach and bleating at him before she prances off in a familiar direction.

“I really should fence in my garden,” you muse, turning back to the trim. The fresh coat of paint gleams in the afternoon light, shifting to something sea-bright, the sky melting into water.

Eskel sighs. “I don’t think it would help.”

“Me neither.”

He settles behind you, one arm looping around your waist, his thick thighs framing yours. The smithy has left its touch on him since this morning, a hint of soot scent sweeping over you. Eskel’s rough fingers flirt with the hem of your bodice, his thumb sweeping over the ridge of the embroidery. It is hard to keep apart from each other, the first few days after he comes back to you. You gravitate towards each other like small suns, anchor yourselves in each other’s space with unthinking touches. A quiet assurance that you are both here, together.

You lean into the warmth of him. He’s broad against your back, a pillar of strength, and then he softens. It’s just a hint, but you can feel the way he uncoils for a breath. He winds his other arm around you.

“Missed you,” you say.

He laughs, low and sweet, and the rumble of it resonates through you. “I wasn’t gone that long.”

“I always miss you,” you tell him matter-of-factly.

Pressed against him, you can feel it when Eskel’s breath hitches, catches in his throat.

You turn just enough to press your lips against the curve of his jawline. It is carefully placed, your soft kiss, just beyond the edges of his angry scar. He swallows, the muscles of his thick throat rippling. You hum softly, turn back to your cottage, and lean over to pick up the small stick of charcoal that’s half-buried in the clovers.

Eskel moves with you as you draw closer to the cottage. The charcoal stick scrapes against the paint as you sketch, soft clusters of yarrow flowers blooming slowly beneath your careful hands.

“This is a different pattern than the previous,” Eskel murmurs. His voice is rich against you, flows like warm, honeyed mead.

“Mhm.” You rub a thumb against a wobbly line, wipe it out of existence. “The previous one was my father’s.”

His arms tighten around you, scaffolding to keep you steady. “How many years?” he asks.

“Long before I was born,” you say, rubbing out another poor line. “He added to it throughout his life.”

“There was one for you, wasn’t there? One of the little flowers had your color in it.”

You glance back at him, at the sunrise of his golden eyes. Eskel has a gaze that strips you, sometimes, that peels away the world until it is just you and him. “Aye,” you say softly. “There was.”

He brings you trinkets, sometimes, in that same color. Little things from his journey on the Path. Nothing grand, but carefully chosen, often fitting into the niches of your cottage perfectly. Tiny curios to replace those you’d left behind in your first cottage, as if they can capture the first night he spent there with you soft in bed with him, tucked close around his broad frame.

Eskel slips a hand to your free one and slowly twines his fingers with yours. It’s almost shy, and you turn your palm skyward to better hold him. Your interlaced hands rest on the plush of your thigh, his thick knuckles pressing soft divots into the flesh.

You start to sketch again, adding a sweep of sorrel leaves to frame the yarrow, the soft curve of the leaves wrapping carefully around the buds.

Eskel is quiet behind you. His chest rises and falls against your back, steady like the tide, a cadence that feels as if it belongs solely to you.

Eventually, you pull away from your sketching. You tilt your head and examine it. It’s by no means fine work. You do not have your father’s steady hands, cannot bring life to charcoal drawings in the same way. But your months of practice have paid off. The yarrow buds match the ones speckled along the roadside, and the sweep of sorrel leaves could be the fields that surround your cottage.

“What do you think?” you ask.

Eskel shifts. He leans forward, just a hint, and touches just beside one of the veins of a sorrel leaf. Each inch of his chest is solid against your back. “You’ve practiced.”

“Yes.”

He squeezes your hand. “It’s nice.”

You laugh. “I’ll take nice,” you say. “I suppose.”

“Next time I’ll be more complimentary, then.”

“Good,” you say, and you let go of his hand so that you can wipe the charcoal dust off on the very hem of your skirt, already dirt streaked at the edges. Then you press the charcoal stick into Eskel’s hand. The small stick is dwarfed in his massive hand, and want pulses through you for the briefest breath. “Your turn,” you say. Your bold words have never sounded so shy.

Eskel stills.

That ache that fills the gaps of your ribs pulses, goes sharp at the edges, thorns against your bones.

You feel him draw in a breath.

“If you want,” you say, the words stumbling off your tongue. You keep your gaze ahead, focus on the sheen of the paint. It’s the same pigment your father used. When you crush the ingredients beneath the pestle, the scrape of it against the mortar sounds like your father’s voice. There has never been a blue that evokes such tenderness in you.

Eskel’s fingers close around the charcoal stick.

You suck in a sharp breath. It’s quiet, but not to him, you know.

Eskel always hears you.

“You’re sure?” he asks, and though the words are steady and his voice is the same mellow, deep tone, there’s something wavering in him, an uncertainty that cloaks him.

“Yes,” you say. “I told you - I rarely change my mind.”

“Rarely is not never.”

You ache to glance back at him, to find the honey gold of his gaze, to see the map of his scars against his handsome features. You know you cannot. Something ancient in you knows that if you break this moment, it will never return.

“Eskel,” you say quietly. “Not about this.”

He swallows.

He shifts forward. The motion takes you with him, carries you forward like a wave to the shores. He hesitates just as the charcoal rests against the pristine paint above your sketches.

You let your eyes flutter closed, your lashes whispering against your skin, the barest breath of sound, and feel some of the tension melt from Eskel’s broad frame. You curl yourself into the cradle of his chest. The charcoal scrapes against the wood, a brisk sound softened by the murmur of the spring breeze. The fingers of the breeze stroke through the trees, rustling against the leaves until it’s something of a melody. You listen quietly, let the song of it wash over you, feel Eskel warm and steady around you, and find yourself drifting hazily through time.

The sound of the charcoal fades. There is only the wind now, only the breeze catching in the meadows red-veined sorrel before it slips between the trees. You wait, rubbing a thumb idly over the thick muscle of Eskel’s thigh.The sun is filtering through your eyelids, lighting even the shadows of your closed eyes.

Eskel fidgets. It’s the slightest of movements, but from someone so disciplined, it rings across your senses like a skipping stone leaving ripples across a pond’s surface.

You lay your head back against his broad shoulder and open your eyes. “Well met,” you say to him as he glances down at you, and his eyes burn bright, amber wreathed by sunlight.

“Well met,” he says back, laughter tucked just under his tongue, but then his eyes flicker away.

You nudge at his jawline for the span of a breath, and then you turn your attention to the window trim.

The ache filling the gaps of your ribs fades away.

Eskel has woven sprigs of rosemary through the sorrel stalks, the sharp-tipped herb softened by the dainty ovals of thyme leaves. You can tell where he began to draw. The charcoal is lighter there, not pressed firmly down, but the lines grow darker as the herbs grow more plentiful. The black of the charcoal is stark against the blue. They’re both oddly delicate, the sky blue softened to a pale robin’s egg, and the spider web of charcoal lines lies over it like fragile lace.

His arm tightens around your waist. You reach down and lace your fingers through Eskel’s, a woven pattern strong enough to carry both of your weights. His shoulders loosen. You can feel his slow, steady heartbeat.

“Come,” you say after a moment, “you can help me with the rest of the paint.”

“Dare I ask?”

“I hate grinding for the colors,” you say, rising to your feet and clapping your hands against your skirts. “It takes too long. But your Witcher muscles must be up to the task, yes?”

Eskel pushes himself up in a graceful movement, that sleek dexterity of a Witcher. “If I’d known it was only my muscles you keep me around for-”

“You’d have stayed anyway for the sex.”

He coughs at that, but his smile is broad. “You’re confident.”

You shrug. “It’s good sex.”

He laughs, a low growl of a sound. “That it is.”

You glance his way and find yourself struck by the sight of him. The afternoon sun is kind to him, makes his dark hair glisten and his eyes practically glow. You reach out to him with a small smile, wind your fingers through his once more. He lets you tug him along.

You pause just before the threshold of your cottage, glancing back as Eskel ducks inside. The clover still carries the mark of your bodies, the plush of them pressed down where you had been. There’s a bit of paint splashed across them. You idle for a moment, let the breeze tease at your skirts.

Things will be different once you cross the threshold.

With Eskel’s softly sketched herbs spun in a delicate web around your yarrow and sorrel, your cottage is no longer just yours.

You inhale softly, let the scent of the clovers wash over you. It’s grassy and sweet, with a hint of earthy dirt just beneath. It smells like home.

You turn around and go inside.

taglist: @tutuwho @witchernonsense @whitewolfandthefox @riviawitch3r @hina-chans-stuff @restingnurseface @raspberrydreamclouds @ambivertomnivore

#eskel x reader #eskel x you #eskel imagine #the witcher x reader #the witcher imagine

[shortkingzuko]

title: helpful hands and tender words

relationship: bato/hakoda

warnings: mentions of canon injuries/death

summary: 5 times bato and hakoda spoke their own love languages and the 1 time they spoke each other's

for the @bakodafleetweek prompt love languages (a day late lol)

read under the cut or on AO3 for full list of tags/notes

 -5

Bato had always been praised for being a helpful child; always helping his mother chew on leather so that it could be sewn, always carrying rope to and fro his father’s ship when asked, would always offer to help his older sister braid her hair. Once everyone, including himself, realized he was a boy, his helpfulness was taken out to the sea and out to hunt, and he proved that he could assist in knot tying, in packing supplies and their spoils, and in flaying the different animals that they caught. And at the end of the day, he and his brother and father would return home, tired, slick and shivering with sweat and sea spray, and as his father and brother collapsed by the fire, he would go up to his mother and ask if she wanted him to help stir the boiling pot of stew so that she could rest before dinner. Bato would never be accused of being an overly expressive person, and many of his loved ones described him as guarded and private. But every time he offered to help his mother, she would smile, place her wind-chapped hand on his face, before leaning down and whispering, “I know when you offer that you’re saying you love me.”

Bato had always blushed and swatted his mother’s hand away, before grabbing the spoon and dutifully stirring. But sometimes, when he rolled out of bed, hours earlier than necessary, pulling on his boots and coat before sneaking out to meet Hakoda, Bato wondered if his mother was right. Maybe he was trying to say something when he stayed up late repairing fishing nets, before going out on a canoe with both of them trying to tamper down their excitement as they hunted an octopus in the light of the early morning. Perhaps when he stood behind an igloo, trying to make his voice as scary as possible, he was trying to say something besides vague, spirity threats, in the hopes of frightening Kanna.

Maybe he was trying to say something every time he helped Hakoda play a prank on his family, every time he agreed to go out fishing with Hakoda instead of focusing on his own chores, every time that he stayed up late to help Hakoda study the ‘Chief Lessons’ that his dad had given him.

Bato heard his mother and father saying that they loved each other all his life, he heard his sister and her girlfriend whisper it to one another with pink cheeks, and his brother say it to more than a few girls and boys than their village really allowed. Bato could probably count on one hand how many times he had said those words himself, the words getting stuck in his throat in embarrassing ways. It seemed that Hakoda had no expressing it to others, always throwing affection around so casually, always so flippant with the words that seemed to choke Bato.

Never towards him, of course, but what else did he expect? Bato could never say the words that he was certain he felt, but he could still show Hakoda, he thought. He could get up early to go fishing, and he could help him on hunts, and he could lie to their parents so that Hakoda wouldn’t get in as much trouble as he really ought to have. Bato would lighten the load that pressed down on Hakoda’s shoulders. And maybe one day, Hakoda would understand what it meant.

 -4

Hakoda could never keep his hands to himself. He was forever reaching out to touch weapons, jewelry, animals and furs that everyone had to swat his hands away from. Every week he would come home, hands red and chapped, because he took off his mittens outside to handle something and got too distracted to put them back on. His mother would tut, before smoothing balm onto his tender, dry skin, berating him for being so childish  when he was almost a man!  and for never learning to keep his gloves on and his hands to himself.

It never seemed to stop him though. Every time Hakoda saw something pretty or saw something that made his heart quicken, he yearned to hold it, to pet it, to gently cradle it in his hands. It was such second nature to him, that he barely realized when he was slipping his mittens off to brush a loose strand of hair out of Bato’s face, as they were leaning over an ice fishing hole.

Bato startled at the sudden touch but his expression returned to one of pleasant neutrality when Hakoda tucked the loose hair behind his ear, making sure not to jostle the newly implanted bone piercing that poked through the skin.

“Thanks, Koda,” Bato said, before looking back at their unmoving fishing poles. Hakoda nodded and though he looked back at their poles as well, his eyes kept flickering back to Bato’s face, the sharp lines of his cheekbones, the curve of his nose, and the plumpness of his lips. Hakoda left his hand out of his glove, and though the cold bit at his skin, he just held it in his lap, as he waited for the strands to fall out of their tucked hiding place again.

As they sat there for the next few hours, catching just enough fish to consider the trip successful, Bato’s hair fell out of place a few more times, just infrequent enough that he couldn't be bothered to retie it. Each time Hakoda waited a few minutes, before casually reaching up to smooth it back. Bato’s hair was thick with just a slight wave to it. Hakoda couldn't tell whether the roughness he felt was from his own hand or from his friend’s salt-dry hair, but it felt comforting, grounding, and had a familiar coarseness that Hakoda found ever so pleasing - so similar, and yet so different than Kya’s smooth curls.

It’s only when he gets home and his mom is berating him for removing his gloves again - without even a thank you for the fish! - that Hakoda realized that he was perfectly capable of touching Bato's hair back without removing his mittens, and questions why he didn’t just leave his gloves on.

He thinks he knows the answer, but he doesn’t much feel like dwelling on it.

 -3

Sokka and Katara were a handful; a joyous, beautiful, and well-loved handful, but a handful none-the-less. Sokka’s was at the age where it seemed like he’s always awake, always trying to put things in his mouth, and is always full of energy (until he was tired, at which point he would simply flop to the ground, taking naps in the most inconvenient of places). Katara, on the other hand, had only just started her feeble attempts at crawling, to the absolute excitement of Sokka, and to the pride and fear of Kya and Hakoda. Often, though, after a few minutes of scrabbling around on the floor, unable to make any headway to her desired destination, she would pout and cry, pointing at where she wanted to be until someone helped her there. Kya and Hakoda often left their igloo with bags under their eyes and smiles on their faces, with Kya holding one of their children in the back of her amauti, and Hakoda hiding the other in the front of his parka, their tiny face barely visible through the neck hole.

Bato had never felt so much happiness as he did when he saw his friends lovingly hold their children, and when Hakoda and Kya first passed their swaddled up babies to him to hold, whispering in their children’s ears, “This is Bato, sweetheart, this is Bato, he’s going to take care of you.” Bato wasn't afraid to admit he did shed a tear.

Surprisingly, the time he was able to spend with Hakoda barely decreased, as Bato started to offer his assistance in taking care of the kids and helping Kya and Kanna around the house. Some of the other men in the village looked at him with strange yet knowing glances, eyebrows raised, as Bato threw himself into helping another couple’s children instead of focusing on getting a husband and having children of his own. Bato knew that if he made himself available, if he stopped deflecting any conversation that led to the question of ‘ Would you allow someone to court you’, if he stopped spending all the time that he didn’t have at Hakoda’s, then he probably would be able to find someone that wanted to date him, love him, who would want to try and have kids with him, biological or not.

Bato knew this and still choose to tell Hakoda and Kya that he was able to watch Sokka and Katara for the night, so that they could get some rest, instead of going and drinking around a bonfire with men who looked at him with desperate eyes.

He bathed and fed and rocked Katara - and then Sokka because he felt left out, even though he was getting a little too old for it - to sleep, tucking them underneath his warmest furs, before making sure that their clothes were clean for tomorrows wear. Both of them woke up multiple times in the night, and each time demanded Bato’s full attention until they drifted off to sleep. (Bato allowed himself to have a moment of selfishness, as he imagined a future where his own children could be sleeping next to Sokka and Katara, a child with his nose and height, with hair slightly lighter than his own and a sense of humour that-

Bato cut the thought off before it could go too far. It wasn't worth it to dwell on impossibilities like that, and while many men in the village could relate to Bato's angst of being the last of his family line - now that his older brother had passed in one of the recent raids - he knew that that wasn't the drive of these fantasies.)

    The next day Bato emerged from his igloo with tired eyes and a soft smile as he passed Katara and Sokka back to a well-rested Hakoda and Kya. They laughed as Bato told him about his evening, and Kya gave him a side-hug in thanks. Hakoda reached up to place a mitten covered hand on Bato’s arm, gave it a squeeze, as he proceeded to tell Bato about their plans and duties for the day. Bato nodded along, waved vaguely at Kya as she led her children away, listening intently to Hakoda, until he finished speaking, at which point he removed his hand. Bato didn’t care if his feelings for Hakoda were never returned, or even noticed by the man. Seeing Hakoda smile without it turning into a yawn for the first time in weeks was reason enough to push past any feelings of sadness and help him, seeing Kya’s delighted reunion with her children - even if they were only separated for a few hours - was enough to solidify his feelings of friendship and respect for her.

Bato knew that his reasons for his servitude for Hakoda were selfish; they were driven by his own hopes that by helping him cook just one more meal, helping him tie one more knot, helping him catch just one more fish would commune what he felt for him, with no illusions of reciprocity. It never did, but at some point, Bato stopped being disappointed and just started looking for the next opportunity, without any expectations.

 -2

Hakoda always found a reason to touch Bato, now that they were off at war. Whether it was on the ship, with him placing an unnecessary hand on his back to steady him, or at a campfire, where he would squeeze next to Bato on a log that was much too short and bump knees with him, or when they shared a tent and Hakoda would pile all their belongings up to one side so that when he moved in the night, his hand would eventually find Bato’s chest, feel it rise and fall in steady motions. Sometimes when Hakoda would wake up before Bato, he would leave his hand there for a few more minutes, basking in the warmth of his friend’s body on the palm of his hand, the muscle underneath strong but relaxed, as he watched the slightly rounded outline of Bato’s chest move, shallower and faster until he was almost awake, before removing his hand. Hakoda knew it was irrational to be scared of Bato dying in the night, something much less likely than Bato dying in battle, or falling overboard or any other number of horrible ends that could befall on him. But seeing his companion sleeping, seeing the worry lines of his face smooth out, his hair flopping over his eyes, and body in such an open and calm position, made Hakoda smile, but also stressed him out. Sleep was when they were their most vulnerable, even with the multiple warriors keeping watch at all times, he couldn’t shake the worry. He knew that if the Fire Nation attacked during the night, if they managed to take out the guards, and if they managed to set the camp ablaze, there was little he could do, just waking up from sleep. But if something were to happen to Bato in the night - whether it was an ailment or nightmare - Hakoda would be able to feel it, would feel the shutter in his chest, or the rapid beating of his heart and he could do  something to ease Bato back into a pleasant slumber.

Hakoda knew that Bato must have been aware of his tendency to reach for him during the night, as Bato often arose before Hakoda, but he never brought it up. Hakoda didn’t know whether to be relieved that he was saved from the embarrassment or disappointed at being robbed of the chance to speak about his reasoning.

Hakoda was almost sure of what his reasoning was, after so many years of pondering. But Bato never asked, never pushed, never reached over to join hands with Hakoda, and though he always smiled and was pleasant in the face of Hakoda’s affection, he never initiated or returned it with such gusto.

Hakoda allowed himself to have the few minutes of the morning, with his hand on Bato’s chest, his evenings pressed against his sides, and his days with steadying hands on his back.

 -1

The scars on Bato’s arm and torso limited his mobility. Though he could get the joints and skin to loosen up with the help of copious amounts of salve and massaging, they would soon tighten, leaving him slightly off-balanced as he tried to learn his new limits, and how to push them.

It left him with objects being continuously being taken out of his hands, with people always trying to ferry him away from the hard manual labour needed to rebuild their village, and with people much shorter than him constantly stretching up to reach things for him that  he placed on the tallest shelf for a reason. It left him angry and huffy, annoyed at how his fellow tribe members saw him after his return from prison and war. It reminded him of being a child, before his growth spurt, before the village, outside of his family and Hakoda, took him seriously as a man, always smiling in a condensing way before plucking weapons out of his hand.

“I want to help,” Bato said to Hakoda, frustration clear in his voice. “There’s plenty I can do, even if my arm seizes up.”

“I know, Bato-”

“If you know, then you’ll let me do something.”

Hakoda met his glare with a raised eyebrow. After a few seconds, Bato huffed and rolled his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest, ignoring the slight pulling sensation it caused. Hakoda grinned as if he won something.

“I know you want to help, Bato, and I’m not trying to stop you from helping, but it’s clear that you’re trying to bite off more than you can chew.”

“How?”

“You tried to go seal-bass fishing yesterday, by yourself.”

“So?”

“Supposing you caught a fish, would you have been able to carry a hundred-pound fish, plus your gear, back?” Hakoda levelled his gaze. Bato huffed again, letting his arms drop from their crossed position.

“I just hate not being able to do anything.” Bato looked at his friend. “I hate not being able to help you.”

And that was as close to an outright confession as Bato could bring himself, with him and Hakoda growing, not necessarily closer, but more intimate. Despite Bato’s igloo being rebuilt, he still spent many nights at Hakoda’s, ate dinner around his table, and still found himself close to his side any chance he got. The freedom of being home had resulted in Bato growing more attached to Hakoda, instead of relishing in the distance that ships and tents and camps did not allow.

Hakoda looked at him, and his smug look dropped slightly and was replaced with one of affectionate worry.

“There are ways to help me besides hurting yourself,” Hakoda chided, playfully. “You are not the only hunter in the village, Bato, others can catch fish for both of us. You can help me by taking care of yourself.”

“You know that’s not what I meant,” Bato replied. Hakoda sighed and beckoned Bato to come closer. He complied, lowering himself to where Hakoda sat at his kotatsu. Hakoda pulled him so that his face was pressed against Hakoda’s strong shoulders. Bato sighed into the warm skin of Hakoda's neck.

“Fine, if you want to do something besides take some time off - which some people would kill for, by the way - you can help me read over all these trade proposals.”

Bato pulled himself away from Hakoda, looked at him for a moment, searching for any condensation or pity, before nodding and situating himself at the table, adjacent to Hakoda. He felt Hakoda bump his knee with his own.

“Get a load of this proposal,” Hakoda said after a few minutes of silence, shoving a scroll under Bato’s nose. “Aren’t all these taxes  tariff- ful!” Hakoda barked at a laugh at his own joke. Bato groaned. “You know it would help me if you laughed at my jokes.”

“Maybe I don’t want to help you that much after all.”

 +1

In the months since Bato and Hakoda began their official 'courtship', more tentative and slow than anyone expected of them, considering their long friendship and history, they found that while they were often on the same page about nearly everything, they had a more difficult time in expressing their newly actualized romantic feelings for each other.

While Hakoda was prepared to hold Bato in public, wrap his arms around Bato’s slim waist, to pull him down for kisses and caresses, Bato was more reserved in public, happy and most comfortable when they limited their affection to simple handholding and the occasional cheek kisses. Even bunny kisses reduced the taller man to a blushing mess, often shoving Hakoda away forcefully in his flustering.

They never seemed to need long conversations about most aspects of their lives - be it work, dinner, whose house they were going to move into (Bato had pretty much already moved in with Hakoda and his children) - yet they both still found themselves stuttering over the words that they both knew they felt for each other. Privately, Hakoda felt that he had a decent excuse - he hadn’t had a relationship or had said those words in a romantic setting since Kya.

Privately, Bato thought his excuse was better since he hadn’t said the words in a romantic sense at all, since he was always saving them for Hakoda.

So, they fumbled their way out of conversations were those words would crop up, though they tried desperately to make the other understand anyways.

It was a summer morning, the sun had already been out for days, when Hakoda found Bato sitting cross-legged, fumbling in front of a mirror on the floor, his right hand tangled in his hair and making noises of frustration.

“What’s up?” He asked, watching at Bato turned slightly, his hair not yet tied up and slightly knotted from his fight with it. Bato held up a thin leather cord.

“I can’t tie my hair up,” He said simply, not bothering to mention why. Hakoda already knew that his arm had been stiff lately, the slight increase in sun exposure making the skin tender and making him avoid massaging his joints.

“Want some help?”

“It’s fine, Koda, I’ll figure it-”

“Let me help.” Hakoda interrupted, already walking towards him. Bato fell silent as he looked up at his partner, turning to face the mirror and watch him through that when Hakoda sank to his knees behind him. “I want to help you.”

“Okay.” Bato’s voice came out soft and gentle, as he held up the hair tie. Hakoda took it and placed it on the floor, reaching over to grab a comb instead.

Hakoda raked it through Bato’s thick hair, revelling in the feeling of the strands passing under his fingers as he smoothed over them after each stroke. He worked carefully, undoing the knots that Bato’s previous attempts caused, and admiring the streaks of grey that were scattered throughout the otherwise dark mass.

He looked in the mirror and saw that Bato had closed his eyes and that his cheeks had taken on a slight flush. As he ceased his movements to admire his partner, Bato opened his eyes again and made contact with Hakoda’s through the glass. They stared at each other for a few moments, and slowly Bato reached towards Hakoda’s free hand and held it. He gave it a tentative squeeze and Hakoda smiled.

Bato smiled back, letting go and closing his eyes again. Hakoda resumed combing until Bato’s hair was a silky curtain. Instead of just tying it back, as Bato often did as of late, he began to braid a few strands together, holding the finished pieces between his pinky and ring finger, before gathering the rest of the hair needed to complete Bato’s wolf tail. When he was done, he ran his hands over his work, making sure everything laid flat and that it wasn’t too tight, and to relish in the feeling of intimacy that the two had garnered.

Bato reached to grab Hakoda’s wrist, pulling him down so that Hakoda was giving the man a loose back hug. Hakoda buried his face in the crook of Bato’s neck, feeling him lace his fingers with Hakoda's, lifting one hand up to place a soft kiss on the rough knuckles.

He looked up into the mirror again, smiling when he caught Bato’s eye, and both of them knew what the other was trying to say.

#m #bakoda #bakoda fic #hakoda #bato #once again trans bato as a treat #bakoda fleet week #my fic

[daemoninwhiteround2]

Damian is a jealous little shit when it comes to Jason and his milk. He doesnt like to share him in ANY way when he is nursing. That means that besides from hogging the milk from the rest of the pack, he also wants his undivided attention and affection. He has bitten Jason before to draw his attention back to him whenver any other member of the pack "distracts" him while nursing. At this point Jason has given up. Theres no fixing that kid

Could you please do more mama Jason breast feeding Damian? Maybe before and after they left the League?

Dami is a possesive and jealous little shit over Jasons milk. He doesnt give a shit that he is no longer a little pup and the milk changed its composition, no longer meant for his nutrition but to strengthen pack bonds. He gives no fucks. It was his first and he will be damned if he has to share it. Also thats his Umm'i. The omega that raised him. He doesnt give a shit that he is pack Omega (and the ONLY omega on the pack) Jason was his first. Dami literally has growled at Bruce over his milk

Things...

drift.

Everything happens but none of it catches his attention.

Life flows past him and he is like a stone, unmoved, removed, only ever an observer.

And then

Her.

The one static image in a sea of colour and sound.

Bright green eyes and dark hair.

There’s...

something.

He should ... something.

It flows out of reach and he remains.

And then

Him.

Small, soft.

Warm and heavy in his arms.

Smells like everything good and right in the world.

She does something, shifts him close, and

Wet

Pull

Hurts?

No. 

Is ... right.

Only thing that has been right for...

He cuddles him close and allows the world to drift past them both.

--

Jason only comes to movie night because he twisted one ankle, broke the other and was taken to the Manor against his will and now, since they’ve dumped him in the rumpus room on the second floor, he literally can’t leave. 

“You’re a shit,” he tells Dick, who is not even vaguely attempting to hide his delight as he sticks throw pillows in and around Jason.

It isn’t pulling at his nesting instincts. It isn’t.

“I know you are but what am I?” Dick sing-songs back as he slides another pillow beneath Jason’s ankle. He’s managed to wedge them between a five pillow structure taking up the entirety of the footstool Jason has his feet propped up on; his ankles are definitely raised and also he definitely can’t move his legs without toppling everything.

Even if Jason wanted to get up, he doubts he could struggle out of pillow hell before it all comes falling down and he suffocates to death for a second time.

“Christ, how old are you again?”

“Old enough to know better than to go running around on the street after Freeze has iced it over.”

Hmm. Dick’s got him there.

“Besides,” Dick continues, “it’s been forever since we’ve all hung out.”

Jason pointedly looks around the otherwise empty room. “Yeah, just you, me, and all your friends.”

“Ha ha, Jason, you’re hilarious.” Dick actually has the audacity to roll his eyes. “I mean, Bruce sent Damian back a couple of hours ago, since it’s a school night, and Tim didn’t go out at all, he’s got a big presentation at W.E. tomorrow! So we can all hang out together.” He plumps another pillow, stares at it like it holds the secrets to ... well, a happy family. “It’s been a while since so much of the pack’s been together.”

Jason wants to scoff, but Dick’s tone brings him up short. He’s not even sure Dick meant for him to hear it. He sounds ... wistful.

Dick’s really the only one of them who knows what a happy, well-adjusted pack should be. Jason's family was ... the less said the better, Tim’s were distant and then dead, and Damian...

Dick’s the only one of them who knows what pack could be like. Should be like. The rest of them just have ... hopes, dreams, more formed by TV than anything else. Jason gave, gives Dick a lot of shit for being so desperate to play happy families, but he also ... when Dick’s like this, bringing him down, making him face the reality of their heavily-fractured pack seems ... unnecessarily cruel.

“Whatever,” he finally settles on, performatively rolling his eyes as he reaches for the remote. “I get to pick what we watch though.”

Dick grins, bright and blinding, and Jason remembers why people call him the heart of the hero community.

Fuck, he’d be so good at fulfilling an omega’s traditional role for a pack.

 He basically does already because Jason can’t get his fucking shit together and--

Not. Now.

He flips through the channels, ignores Dick darting in and out, bringing more and more blankets and pillows as he does. By the time Jason’s given up and settled on some random movie, Dick’s herded Tim and Damian into the room. 

Dick settles down on a loveseat close to Jason, not close enough that he feels crowded but not far enough that it’s a snub. Jason ... doesn’t know how to deal with that display of thoughtfulness, so he shoves it under the rug in his mind and glances at his other packmates brothers fellow vigilantes. 

Tim, typically, flops face down into a pile of blankets and pillows and doesn’t move. It’s fairly even odds if he’s already asleep or if he’s going over expense reports in his head.

Damian, on the other hand, shifts his weight from foot to foot, glancing at Dick, at Jason, and at the open expanse of floor. Jason can’t stop himself from tensing up--Damian’s far too disciplined to display such an obvious tell, even after a couple of years of Dick chipping away at the mountain of bullshit Damian was taught by the League.

Dick, of course, notices. “Come sit with me, little D!” he calls and pats the cushion next to him.

Damian tuts and ... sits next to Jason?

Jason shoots him a glance, Damian scowls up at him, looks away and crosses his arms.

Jason chalks it up to Damian not wanting to deal with Dick (which, mood) and focuses on the TV.

--

A warm weight nestles against his side, and Jason blinks back to reality.

“What’s up?” he keeps his voice just loud enough to be heard, hopes to not disturb the others--Dick’s head definitely tilts in their direction, for all he doesn’t actually seem to look over.

“Hungry,” Damian grunts.

Jason pointedly tilts his head at pillow hell. “Can’t exactly help you with that, kid.”

Damian tuts. “Yes you can. You did before.”

Jason freezes. He’s never been really certain that Talia had him interacting with Damian before he took a tip in the worst-reviewed jacuzzi in the world--knows for sure they didn’t after, but when he’d been allowed in the excuse of a nest he’d managed to construct, he’d smelt something like...

That would explain ... a lot.

“I don’t know what you-”

Damian cuts him off. “You’re an omega, aren’t you?”

Dick’s definitely looking at him. The skin on the back of Jason’s neck crawls. “Yes, but-”

“You’re still an omega.”

And with that, Damian shoves Jason’s shirt up to his armpits and latches onto his closest nipple.

Jason nearly shrieks, nearly shoves Damian away, but then he sucks, and

and

he

remembers.

Warm and heavy.

Smelt like everything good in the world.

“Damian,” he murmurs. He feels like he’s just got a 2x4 to the face without the helmet in the way. He feels like he’s been punched in the gut by Bane. He feels like

He feels like...

He...

He lowers his hand until he cups the back of Damian’s neck. Damian crawls forward, doesn’t lift his mouth, and awkwardly curls up into Jason’s lap.

Ever since Jason actually realised he had tits, he’s always found them annoyingly large. He typically wears compression tops and sports bras, the only reason why he’s not is that he’d been planning to go to sleep and he hates wearing one to bed. 

“Guess that explains why,” he says inanely.

Damian’s not actually getting any milk--Jay doesn’t have a pup, for all he babysits Lian, and the pack would have to actively be nursing for him to make milk for them. And yet ... just the action is...

“Little wing,” Dick murmurs from too-close.

Jason turns to look at him, and Dick’s outstretched fingertips brush against his cheek. He freezes, arm still holding Damian close, and stares at his pack’s second.

Dick’s eyes are impossibly blue in the flickering light of the tv.

“Jason,” he says.

Jason ... leans forward, leans into it, but Damian sinks his sharp little baby teeth into his mouthful of tit and snarls all ‘fuck off this omega’s mine’.

Jason reflexively slaps the back of his head, a move he’s seen more than one omega pull on their misbehaving alpha pups.

Dick snorts and backs off, raising his hands like that’ll placate Damian, like they can’t all see the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth (like they all can’t see tears pooling in his eyelashes). “Alright, alright, Damian, he’s all yours.”

Dick settles back in his loveseat and Damian settles down. Not even five minutes later and please-content-happy-happy-happy alpha scent floats over from Dick’s direction.

“Really?” Jason arches an eyebrow at Dick. He ignores the fact that he can’t seem to stop himself from combing his fingers through Damian’s hair.

“Really.”

Dick has no right to sound as happy as he does.

This has no right to ... Jason never expected this. Never deserved this. And yet...

And yet.

#dae talks #dae writes #omegaverse #breastfeeding #omega Jason Todd #anonymous #dc #batman #Dick Grayson #Jason Todd #Damian Wayne #jaydick #implied #Anonymous

[joshslater]

Russian Dolt

Another Hank collab. Similar stories and bonus material on my Patreon.

I was just about ready to give up and head back to the hotel. I’ve spent 16 years being a sales representative across Southeast Asia, and I know all the regional variations on the prostitutes fairly well. Here in Manila, a Russian girl would go for at least twice the price of a local. A Malay girl would go for a discount. But too much of the same old thing grows boring, and that’s why I was out in the bars tonight instead of just calling an escort to the hotel for a “massage”.

I wasn’t sure what I was after, to be honest, which was part of the problem. Maybe a threesome? A gymnastics girl doing tricks for me – and on me? I’ve heard that in some countries the Olympic teams even earn some side money in brothels. I’ve never found it myself, but that would be something different at least. So far nothing I had found had really turned my crank. I was polishing off a mediocre whiskey when I was approached at the bar by the man.

The guy was younger than me, maybe 25, and looked very Russian. Buzzed hair, tank top, tight jeans, flip flops, cheap tats and the don’t give a fuck attitude that their entire nation has adopted since they lost the Cold War. He smelled of smoke and cheap cologne. He looked to be in great shape. I didn’t want anything to do with him.

“I overheard you speaking of freak sex, yes?”

The accent was heavily Russian as well. This could be exactly what I was after, but it could also end up with me robbed and dead in a ditch.

“What’s it to you?”

“We have proposal. Have you had sex as not you?”

Despite the hot and wet climate, I could feel a wall of heat radiating on my other side as one real furnace of a man stepped closer to me. I turned my head and looked right into a black tank top. It was filled with a huge pile of meat. I looked up at his face and he made a silent nod. Perhaps not as stereotypically Russian, but still very much old Soviet stock, and presumably lots of old Soviet hormones, not all his. His muscles seemed to have muscles.

“I don’t understand,” I said. “Sex as not me?”

“We have a thing that lets you do sex as if someone else. Understand? You could be me?”

“I could be you? Who would you be?”

“I would be you, for short time. Very short. Then you as me do any things, dangerous things. Nasty things. But safe for you. When finished, you are you and I am I.”

I was thinking really hard on how this scam worked. Was this just going to trick me out of 5000 pesos, or was the end goal to take me for all I was worth? The setup was intriguing. Performing sex as someone else… I’d certainly never tried that before. I didn’t want to let fear hold me back, in part because I knew, loathe as I’d be to admit it, that it often did.

“What kind of nasty things?” I finally answered.

“Many different things. You chose. How about fucked by wrestler?”

He gestured towards the pillar of meat on my other side. That surprised me. Back home where I grew up there was a lot of "God hates fags" and crude gay jokes, but I always thought it was a bit obsessive. It's a free country so they can do whatever they want, as long as they keep me out of it. I’d never had sex with a man before, obviously. Never even considered it. I was about to protest how I wasn’t a fag, when a small little voice at the back of my head pointedly said “Damn straight, but apparently he is one.” Well, if I was going to be someone else, then why not go for something truly wild and different? Something I would never put my own body through.

“How does it work? How do we do it?”

“We put your body somewhere safe. To keep your mind off it. Then we swap. When you are done, we swap again. 3000 pesos per hour.”

Twenty minutes later, if even that, the three of us were standing in my hotel room. The lobby was deserted, save for the night manager who gave us a disapproving look on our way to the elevator. On the way up, I made a quick estimate of what everything I brought was worth. I only had my carry on, some clothes, my laptop, cell phone and travel wallet. If I was completely cleared out by these guys, I could stay an extra day, have the cards blocked and reissued, use insurance to buy replacements, and be on my way. Not much to lose, really.

The big hunk of meat was Boris, because of course he’d be a Boris. He didn’t speak any English. The sleazy guy in the wifebeater was Mikhail, and he was now explaining the details of how he proposed we do this. He had a handcuff with a really long chain, so I could be cuffed to the bathroom water pipe and still make it to the bed. This would allow Mikhail, in my body, to stay securely in the room, watch TV, use the bathroom and such and such while I was out in his body. I was full of doubt. Step one really can’t be that I chain myself with handcuffs to the bathroom pipes? Mikhail saw my hesitation without me saying anything.

“You want to see first, yes?”

“Please.”

From his pocket he pulled out two thumb rings. They were plain iron rings with no inlays, but with engraved symbols running around them, which gave them a brutish look. He gave me one.

“Sit down. Put it on, right hand.”

I did as I was told, and nothing happened. He sat down next to me on the bed and unceremoniously slipped on his ring. Instantly, everything shifted a few feet to the side, and I suddenly looked out of his eyes instead of mine. It worked. It felt amazing.

His body was in such great shape. I ran my hand over the buzz cut stubble on my head, feeling the prickliness of it against my palm. Then, swiftly, just as quickly as I had jumped into his body, I was back in mine, looking at my hand. Mikhail had just removed the ring.

“You can see it works. You want to continue, yes?”

I sure did. I could scarcely believe this technology was legit. Perhaps it was magic. I know, magic isn't real, but then neither are body swaps. I put the ring back on, and wow, the rush. I was back in Mikhail’s body.

Mikhail patted me and got up. It was so trippy to see my body moving next to me. He quickly locked the handcuff to to his left wrist and then stepped into the bathroom to attach the other end of the cuff. He then stepped out again and gave me the key.

“Here, keep this safe. My suggestion would be to put it in the room safe, so you don’t lose it in the excitement.”

To my shock, he was talking fluent English now, without any accent.

“I will do,” I answered, immediately laughing a dumb Russian laugh. Wow, how stupid my own voice sounded. I sounded just like Mikhail in voice, accent and whacked English.

I immediately realized that whatever these rings did wasn't simply placing my brain inside Mikhail's body. That would just change the voice. But to also changed my accent and even words and grammar, which hinted at something more complex. It somehow both frightened and excited me, and I felt a stir in my pants. I wondered what else would be different, what else this body I now inhabited might be made of.

I put the key and my wallet in the safe, and locked it with 7478. Same code as my old phone, based on the Boeing 747-8 plane. As an international businessman I've had many trips on those. Boris started moving and ushered me out of the room, almost impatiently. As the room door clicked shut, I realized that I’m standing outside of my room with no key, no ID, a different body, and next to this oversized hunk of meat. I reminded myself that I can, at any moment, just remove the ring and appear back in the room. I could then open the safe, grab the key, unlock the shackles on my own body, and pretend like nothing had happened. As long as I have my hand free to remove the ring, there is no need for a safe word tonight. I chuckled with Mikhail’s voice at my own internal pun.

The feeling was amazing, getting accustomed to the body. I could tell my first thought was spot on: this bod was in great shape. It was lithe, almost sprightly compared to where I was at normally. Toned and packed with just enough firm muscle to have a bit of a swagger, it seemed. As we strode out of the hotel and into one of the waiting taxis, I ran a hand through my buzzed hair once more, feeling the spike of the flat cut against my palm. I tugged a little and played with the studs in my ear lobes.

Is this how fags felt, I wondered? Are these sort of bodies part of where their pride and sex drive comes from? I hadn’t given any thought before to the idea that men who are attracted to men might find their own bodies hot, too. I looked down at my forearms, noticing the fit power in them, the veins lightly popping. It did look good to me. I could feel queer thoughts, but I wasn’t ashamed or repulsed by them. This wasn’t me, but I could tell it could be very hot to play the gay. And looking at my arms, I felt an erotic buzz. I was starting plump up a little. I was legitimately turned on.

“In Soviet Russia, you not find faggot. Faggot find you!” I said out loud, laughing, thinking that I sounded even dumber than Mikhail did in this voice. One of my favorite jokes finally had a body worthy of it. Both Boris and the driver ignored me.

I suppose Russians didn’t usually make such a classic Russian joke, did they? Or did they? This really was the most out-of-body experience I’ve ever had, quite literally. Talk about risk versus reward payoff. I had to do it again.

“In Soviet Russia, big dick find you!” I found myself slurring, stupidly, and just hearing the ridiculous accent come out of Mikhail’s mouth, a mouth that was mine for the time being, made me snort with laughter again. I didn’t expect that the first few things I’d be doing in this body would be laughing my ass off. It was truly surreal. But it was hilarious, I mean, wow. Maybe it was my way of trying to find my sea legs after such radical change.

We arrived at a different hotel only 15 minutes away from mine, but looking at it they couldn't be further apart. If Mikhail and Boris looked seedy in the lobby of my hotel, they would appear posh in this neighborhood. I was still not used to this body, and wobbled a bit getting out of the taxi. Boris stopped and waited by the hotel entrance while I made a few jumps to test that everything is fine.

“Boris,” I say, my voice reminding me of some squirrel and moose thing – Natasha – Rocky and Bullwinkle – I can’t get over this accent –

“Boris, where is room?”

I find that I almost have a feel for the way the Russkies talk, I think, and that if I just roll with it, I’ll be able to work with it almost effortlessly. Boris started leading me into the hotel and down a hall. He stopped by a door and opened it, with a real key. Not one of those card reader doors. He entered the room and I followed.

First thing I did was to swagger on over to the mirror. I didn't get a good look while in my room before Boris ushered me out. Yeah, I pretty much looked amazing. This body, or whatever sense of sexual desire was in this bod, recognizes male beauty in a way that wasn’t apparent to me at all as a straight guy. This body is fit, it is toned, it is more tanned than I would have expected from a Russian guy. He must have been in The Philippines for a while now, I figured. The tats, which I thought looked like cheap pieces of shit from a budget tattoo parlor before, looked masculine, tough, and sleazy.

I looked like the mirror image of a guy who lived to fuck, drink, smoke and party, I thought- And I could feel that I was craving a smoke, too. But man, that mirror… I was boned, totally erect over a man for the first time in my life, even if it just was myself, in a way.

Mikhail had been wearing that rich brand of underwear to try to act like he was worth something, I suppose. What’s the name of it? I can’t even remember, not being an underwear type myself. To me, despite whatever he must have spent, the briefs and tats all just made him look cheap and trashy. But I liked it. It’d be perfect for tonight. I fully intended to take advantage of it all, go out for a while, have fun and bring someone back tonight. If things stayed chill, I was ready to fuck. Boris looked bored, and wasn’t even really watching me, so I was guessing things were cool.

I recalled Mikhail had blurted something out earlier about “Fuck Wrestler,” which I presumed meant Boris. And I had been thinking maybe I’d do that, initially, not really being sure what I’d do. But now that I was attracted to men, apparently, I really just didn’t think Boris was my type. Or this body’s type. Or whatever. He didn’t seem to be into me, either. I like the look of Mikhail’s body for sure, and it’s almost mesmerizing to me. Breaking away from the mirror is a bit of a challenge, I notice, as I put my tank top back on. Maybe the old line about Narcissus isn’t so far from the truth after all.

“Boris, I want to go to bar,” I said. “Gay bar. You know where?” “да,” the oaf answered.

I understood it as "Yes", of course, but I understood it in a fluid way. Could I speak it, too?

“Вы можете общаться со мной на русском языке?” I blurted to see if he could understand me. My own words sound like something an insect would come up with. They buzzed. They sounded slushy, and they sounded like shit. I really don’t know how folks can speak such an ugly language, how anything could evolve in such a strange way.

“да.” he said again, without any emotion.

There’s some male jewelry on the counter, I noticed as I started to turn out the lights. Dog tags, a pendant. I picked them up and put em on. Looks good- Wonder if Mikhail walked around with that, normally. The whole walk to the bar, I couldn’t help but to act cocky, shifting my posture, feeling playful with this body. Boris, as I found out by trying to chat him up, despite him being a man of few words, did have a pack of cigarettes to help me out with. Soon I’m bumming a couple off of him, and as soon as I could get away with it outside of the lobby, I light up.

The guys walking around Manila that we passed – some are kind of, I don’t know how to put it…not ugly, but not really attractive. I wasn’t really drawn to the girls, I noticed, but not the guys either, all that much. Some of them caught my eye a little more than others. I hoped when we got to the bar that I would find one of the Russians I was expecting to be there. Was that what my genes were hunting for, or was that what I just was expecting to find? A Russian? Would I be attracted to a German, a Frenchman or an American if I ran into any? Good luck picking one up with this voice, I thought to myself. But this is a sexy body. I bet I could pick up a lot of different kinds of guys. Gays aren’t really known for being particular, I thought. At least they’re known to do a lot of depraved shit with anyone. They aren’t like women. They have it easy, so I should too.

The thought of trying to hit on a guy, though I had no clue how to do it, seemed amusing. I felt a tinge of nervousness, but then I remembered this isn’t my real body. I could say anything. There’s a wallet in these jeans and I flipped through it. Was that arranged? There’s enough cash in there, 400 pesos, to drink for a while depending on the prices. I wonder if Boris would loan me more, but how smashed would I really gonna get? It should be more than enough.

Soon we were in the bar. I eyed the field. I spotted my prey almost instantly. Dark beard, full, thick. Bomber sunglasses tank top, twists of tribal tattoo down one arm. I wondered what sort of guy wears glasses in a bar, and I was thinking, fag guys do. And that’s you too, fag boy, so hop to it. And it was alluring, even as I knew it was done for affect. I didn’t care. He was hot.

I didn’t sit down by him right away, though. Boris and I took a spot at the corner, by the entrance. Soon enough, though, I wink at him on his way to take a piss. Why not? Nothing to lose, man.

Once he was out of sight Boris stood up, and surprised I asked him if he was going to leave. I kind of expected he would stick around to make sure I didn't do anything too stupid with Mikhail's body. He smiled for the first time, patted me too hard in the back, responded "Ты справишься" and left. And with that I was on my own.

Well, that’s all fine with me, because I was worried these guys might think I already scored Boris or something. Didn’t want that crimping my game. I was totally comfortable on my own, too. Fuck, it’s not my body. Still can’t get over how liberating it was to just know it.

The night got rolling, more folks were trickling into the club, and Bomber Glasses and I were talking, finally. He is German, but does speak some English. This body did the work for me, I thought. He was into me. I couldn’t help but be fixated at his beard, man, and the chest hair that foofed out of the top of his tank. He has a dog tag of his own around his neck. It’s all so sleazy and fucked up. It’s weird, knowing that what once would have repulsed now allured.

Soon he was buying me a drink. I wondered if I was attracted to powerful guys, as this was the first one who caught my eye out of the bunch, not that there were many to choose from. He was at least a good three inches taller than me. Darker complexion. Thicker hair, and of course that beard. That chest. Mine’s got just a little fuzz. I started to wonder if Russians were a hairy people compared to Germans. I didn’t think they really were, but some definitely are. The train of thoughts caught me by surprise. I’ve never before considered how hairy guys are. Must be the fag in me for sure. Wondered what mixing with this body for the night is gonna do to my mind, long-term. You know, like what if it’s like the long-term effects of a powerful dose of shrooms? That might not be good, depending. It felt OK in the trial swap we did earlier, so clearly it reverts without any seeming issues, but then that was just after a few seconds.

No time to be nervous, though. I wanted to get my money’s worth.

Now the guy’s looking at me, intensely, right in the eyes over drinks, and I was feeling like maybe the gays have a point about wanting their public display of affection. I was feeling like if this guy wanted to fuck out in the streets of Manila with me, I’d do it, despite the filth and chaos. By the time he was kissing me, right in the bar, and I was feeling his thick beard press into my jaw, and we’re speaking our stupid, malformed English to each other, all I could think about was the hard cock that might end up in my ass tonight if this kept going well. I wantws this guy to come back to the hotel with me.

“You and I,” I said, between kisses. “Go wild, with sex, you make sex with me. Hot as sex,” I went, fascinated by the chest hair he was got spilling out of the neckline, rubbing it with my fingers, playing with it, all as best as I could. He was trying to slobber on my earlobe stud and probe my tongue with his ear. We’re making a scene in the bar. I couldn’t care less. He stripped my shirt off right then and there in the bar so he could see my chest. He was playing with my pecs, rubbing the muscle, slapping my firm belly, my firm biceps. “Flex for me,” he commands. I've never done that in my life before, and don't really know how, but somehow I manage to make some tight abs for him. He is lost in admiration, I could see.

We walked out the backdoor of the club, his fingers in the back pocket of one of my jeans, not just kinda steering me, as I’m rather sloshed, but claiming me. Showing who is the top. He squeezed an ass cheek through the denim, and I loved it. He leaned in for another kiss. It’s a steamy night. I needed a smoke, so I lit one up, buzzed up, feeling dreamy as hell, wondering what "nasty things” would actually going to be like. A cock up my ass? I could take one, fuck if I care. Sounded glorious right then. I wondered if I could feel that desire in my ass that they supposedly get? Not yet, I thought, searching my thoughts to see if I felt anything, and decided that maybe it’s because I haven’t tried it, yet. I wanted to try it. This German guy, a man, had me feeling like a creature of beauty. I felt beautiful in a way no woman had ever made me feel before.

I can scarcely remember the walk back to the hotel, for all the alcohol, hormones and groping. I remember wanting to be rather cautious the whole while. Manila is just loaded with chaos, deep pits and potholes you can step into, nothing in the way of sidewalks, not to mention motobikes and jeepneys. The hotel was much too close to bother with a cab.

I remember thinking that the longer I stayed in this body, the more risk I was taking, but I’d come this far tonight and intended to finish it. We didn’t set a time limit. “When you are done” was the deal. That made sense, as they got paid by the hour. They’d want to give me time to fuck until I’m sick of it, presumably by dawn at the latest, and I would obviously want my body back. This set of jeans didn’t even come with ID, and most of my few bucks had already been spent at the bar.

As for the sex, this guy was experienced. I figured as much, but found it out fast once we were in the bedroom together. I mean, I had barely latched the door behind me when he really flaunted his power, flipping me right around, pressing my back up against the door, passionately taking my jaw in his big hands and kissing me, licking me, tenderly and firmly, all at the same time. It’s hard to describe. He was even licking up my neck in broad strokes like I’m a fruit that’s ripe on the vine. It was hot. I suppose I must be a fruit, at least for tonight, haha. I could smell the alcohol on his breath, on my breath. I wanted to hear my dumb, hot, sexy Russian voice again. I was fumbling to get him out of his tank, which should have been an easy move, but I was too drunk.

“Chest, man,” I said. “You hairy, man. You are hairy. It’s hot.” I sounded like an idiot, I know, but it’s hot to hear my voice, too, my slurring, Russian voice.

”Yeah, boy,” he went, feeling up my pecs. I liked being called boy by this guy. Made me feel young, sexy, which I am. And I knew it.

He was practically ripping me out of my briefs and threw me on the bed. He got me naked, and he has got coke. It’s not my body, I think. I knew what to do, believe it or not. I've been to the bars around Wall street and seen what happens in the men's room. So I snorted up a line off the glass counter, walked over, naked, lit up a cigarette right in the room. Didn’t see any non-smoking signs, at least. This isn't the kind of hotel that bothers with smoke detectors. He slapped me on the ass and I couldn’t believe this was me, just hanging out casually, naked with a guy who’s occasionally slobbering all over my lower jaw.

I snorted another line. I felt amped, like coffee, only crazier. I took more at once. With a cross-fade like this, I know it’s more dangerous. Not my body, not my problem.

He was wrestling me down. I loved the feel of my muscles pushing back against his, and I loved trying to toss him, to pin him down, but he was stronger. We wrestled a lot that night, playful. I was so drunk it didn’t really hurt even when he threw me to the floor and body slammed me. It’s just fucking fun, don’t know how to put it, that state when you’ve got adrenaline and passion and lust and a few drugs pumping through your veins.

Man, his cock was a thick one. At one point I remember him shoving his hand in my ass, licking and slobbering all up in my crack, and I’m just on hands and knees, drooling, playing with my own dick as it flopped around and dangled down, making slimy fish line circles of pre-cum in the carpet. Although most dicks in the world are uncut, it somehow felt wrong  that my dick now was one of them. Like peeing with boxers on. I was on my haunches, and he was fucking the living shit out of me. It hurt and I yelped out, but guy knew what he was doing, I told myself.

At one point, I half cum, forcing myself to hold it back, not wanting the experience to end so soon. “Try,” I said to him, stopping, getting up off my knees. “Try not to cum,” I said. I had pulled back, hard, using my groin muscles to stop it so I could save my load. A minute later I was good to go again. He put a cock ring on me, telling me that will shut the dick up. I don't know if he brought it or if he found it in the room. Everything was a blur. “You are my pet now”, he told me. He was pushing me down, going for my armpits, slobbering and licking all over them. I had no idea men did that. I was shocked, but it felt great.

There were other surprises. I didn’t expect to be gagging on his thick cock, or expect that he’d seemed to want to pleasure in making me choke on it. But I sure as hell did choke on it. “Spit on it,” he ordered, so I did. “Lick,” he said, so I did, licking my own spit on his cock. I was slobbering up his cock as much as I could with my tongue, thinking that must be what he wanted. It felt good to do. I mean, what an iron rod, what a maypole. This was better than eating pussy, I thought, for sure. I wondered if I’d feel that way tomorrow, realizing I wouldn’t, so I’d better make the most of it now. This would have just seemed sick to me yesterday.

“Fuck me, fuck hard, fuck my ass,” I said to him. My ass had almost started to throb after getting fucked for a while, and it was starting to feel almost empty when it wasn’t getting fucked. Crazy but true, like I wanted him in there. I wondered if this was the prostrate being activated. I could feel it, almost like a heartbeat or something, inside my ass. “Put it in,” I said, wanting him to fuck me more, wanting to understand these sensations better. My ass was sore and yet it just felt so good. Fuck the pain away, and why not?

We took a breather and it was hard to even keep my hands off him for a little while. I wanted to at least massage his shoulders, wrap my arms around him, stroke his legs. If I didn’t have a life of my own, a successful, straight life, I could almost love this guy. The feelings were just so intense, drunk as I was. Probably the alcohol was causing the feelings, but did it matter? He was so beautiful to me. He made me feel sexy. We knew what to do with each other, even as new and awkward as I surely was. The dumb Russian voice Mikhail had was awkward, so fuck if it would matter if my technique was, too. This was all for my excitement, not for the sake of the performance, I remembered.

How long did we fuck? It must have been hours. Time passes at such strange rates when you’ve been partying. I remember my cock being sore, the skin rubbed raw, the thing just aching from the weight of the cock ring, swollen up, but not wanting to stop. I wasn’t sure if I could even get the ring off at this point, drunk as I was. Fuck the pain. “Harder,” I grunted at one part. “Fuck me harder. Deutschland!” I shouted, playful, in lust, this German sex king… my own command sounded like a woof. I really was his pet. But he was also mine.

I didn’t just pass out, I blacked out. I blacked out hard.

I was utterly confused when I woke up in a hotel bed, but then memories started trickle in. The body swap. I clearly was still in Mikhail’s body, I knew, because I could feel it. I felt sore. Wait, why was I still in Mikhail’s body? Looking around I could see I was in the bed in his shitty hotel room, no German to be found. I got up while the whole body was screaming in agony. The bed sheets were pretty much ruined with semen and other fluids. What a mess. My head throbbed with a hangover worse than I have ever experienced before. I stumbled over to the mirror.

Young, muscled, and well-hung were the bright side of what I saw. Everything else I saw in the mirror disgusted me, even more now than when I swapped into it yesterday. I was naked except for the thumb ring and a cock ring. The dick and balls looked bruised, a dangerously purple color. I tentatively touched the dick and pleasure tinged pain shot through my body. It was swollen and had a dull ache, but a small part of me even wanted to play with this dick some more, as I was still horny as fuck. I didn't remember cumming. I didn't even dare to think about the agony it would be to remove that cock ring. I needed to recoup.

I knew Boris and Mikhail were basically showboating a lot of this from the get-go, but after all that, I was really tired of this immersive experience shit. I didn’t know where the German went. I didn’t know if he even kissed me goodbye, and I tell myself it doesn’t matter. This was the wildest trip I’ve ever been on, and definitely worth it. But I didn’t want to deal with this body. I didn’t want to be a fag any longer. I reached to remove the thumb ring when a sudden fear came over me, like I needed to think this through. I paused.

When I remove the ring, where would I end up? Strapped to a cross in a BDSM dungeon? In a Filipino jail? Who knew what sort of Willy Wonka arrangement these guys had in store for me? Hopefully this is just part of the game, or it’s something else that I’m not thinking of. I was trying not to panic. I was not feeling amused anymore. I just wanted out.

I was hungry, thirsty, sore, emotionally drained, horny, and I had a godawful craving for a smoke. Whatever they’ve done to my real body, it couldn’t be any worse than this.

I removed the ring.

Nothing happened.

I screamed. I punched the wall. I screamed ‘fuuuuuuck!’ until I was sobbing on the filthy bed. I was reduced to a crying mess, not surprisingly.

This is my body now. A trashy fag’s body, with an unrelenting sex drive, a smoking habit, a drinking habit, and I no doubt more addictions waiting to be discovered. No surprise he was eager to ditch it. I'm sure my hotel room was cleared out by now, the credit cards emptied to the limit. What would I do with the stuff there anyway? Clothes that doesn't fit and a passport I can't use. This is who I am now, and there is no way to even begin to explain it to anyone, without seeming like a madman.

I really needed a smoke.

[fascinationuniformed]

Festival Tipi

by Mr. Scade https://www.patreon.com/fascinationuniformed http://iancooketapia.com/  Story originally inspired by the photo above.

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

Marco unzipped his tent and the light was agony. Immediately, the leftover alcohol beat at his skull like smiths to iron, as if the very understanding of daylight had injected them with energy.

He scrambled inside his tent and found his sunglasses. With a contended sigh, he sat his ass on the plastic of the tent and rested his bare feet on the wet grass outside.

“How’s that headache?” Jen appeared. Before he knew what was going on, a water bottle was in his hands. He drank greedily.

He made a non-committal sound, and then flopped back onto his sleeping bag. He groaned, forgetting that he was lying on a patch of semi-dry farm field and not his feather down bed.

Jen chuckled. “Drink that whole bottle. Go for a piss. Come back, and we’ll start getting you feeling better. Trust me, it feels worse if you stay there.”

And with that, Marco heard her feet mulch on the wet ground towards the sound of sizzling bacon.

Marco’s first festival had so far been a loud, wet, rambunctious and drunk affair. Everything he had heard and more. Constant drizzling rain and mud splatters up to your chest? Check. Popular crap music as well as fascinatingly good unknown bands? He had already bought some CDs he doubted would be available on Amazon. Drunk and a little rude? Well… not just a little rude but in a near-constant state of passive-aggressive confrontational entitlement. It is alcohol, after all! That was expected. Required, even. The drugs had surprised Marco, though, but the more he walked around the festival grounds the more sense their presence – if not outright requirement – made.

Without those drugs, then some of the attractions in the festival would either be empty or burnt to the ground. Especially the tents. Oh, there were tents dedicated to forest spirits, tents designed to put you in a sensorial overload or a deprived state that really made you see things. There was an entire little tipi hut made of furry, soft things that people went in just to, kid you not, roll on the floor laughing. It was called the ROFL Tipi. Going into one of the tents sober was a trip on its own – they were just that good – but seeing the reaction from those whose perception of reality was, should we say, enhanced was a riot. Being on acid must make some of them a truly mind-bending experience.

No. Of all the things that stood out about his first festival experience, it was the bare skin that surprised Marco the most. The grand majority of those showing extra skin were women, with the occasional dude or older gentleman bare chested or wearing naught but a banana hammock. It was on the second day when it suddenly became a pattern, when Marco finally realised it. Perhaps his own heterosexuality affected his perception, but he hadn’t really seen that many guys dressed up like peacocks during mating season. A relatively fit man in naught but a speedo and wellington boots? Yeah, okay. Some heavy set obese man, glowing pale white, in a vest and assless cowboy chaps? Well, someone might be into that. Perhaps the sample size was too small. But the girls? Yes. Not all the women were dressed like rave culture had an illegitimate child with hair metal and then had it raised by Eddie Izzard. But those that were? Neon bikinis with fishnets, plastic-tassels wigs and gaudy, giant sunglasses. Leotards with cut-off breast holes, tear drop-shaped pasties covering the nipples, and that getup wasn’t half as eye-catching as their holographic wellington boots. One girl had high-waisted shorts, a black PVC harness on top, a sheer bra, and pink hair in messy pigtails. Marco noticed the earphones leading to a secret pocket inside her shorts, as she danced by herself next to a bin overflowing with beer cans.

Two days, and Marco had trouble not staring. After all, those outfits were meant not so much to be looked at but gawked at; eye-catching, proudly proclaiming “here’s my woman’s body” and making a statement. If it was political, sexual or just going with the flow of the festival, Marco didn’t know. And the longer he was there, the less he cared to even think about that. Booze, dance and the few hot girls amongst the sea of impractical outfits made it hard to have such lofty conversations with his friends and even with himself.

It was a festival, after all. Rules and normalcy were outside this muddy field. In here, anything went. Possibilities could be bent. People could even look attractive wearing high-waisted jeans!

 By the third evening, Marco’s initial anxiety had been drowned and everything felt pretty mellow and right. His gut didn’t feel like exiting in an emergency, and the meal they had made from what was left of their store of tins had been edible. And he managed to keep it in, unlike the bacon-heavy breakfast. That very morning, however, he had learned the dangers of mixing alcohol and weed. But after drinking a little cocktail from one of the health stations – little kiosks manned by some NGO dedicated to safe consumption – he felt more human than usual. He even went for a second one. Whatever that thing was, it felt like all the lies healthy supplements try to sell but, you know, real.

The day had been pretty chill after that. Some shows, some games, a lot of standing around in what had at some point been a green field but could now double as a “junta de embarre”. Come the evening, though, he and his friends were feeling a little bored.

Down the hill, a show of lights and loud synth guitars shook the ground. A mass of people holding glow sticks moved like one wave. With one mind, one body. It was beautiful to witness from far away. And sitting down. Not for the last time that night, Marco rubbed his feet. He should’ve brought hiking socks to this place. Or hiking boots. Something comfortable, at least.

Jen passed a joint to Brando, who tilted his head back as he inhaled. An old habit of his. After a moment, he passed it on. Marco took a drag, and then drew hoops with the smoke and then passed it on to… whoever had made their way into their little campsite. In any other situation, Marco would’ve worried. But the tangy, mellow flavours in his mouth made it easy to not care. It was a festival, after all. Make friends and make love. Rules were abandoned outside these muddy fields.

“D’ya see that?” Jen said suddenly, pointing up to the sky.

They had agreed to no lights at night. Some stars could be seen overhead, but mostly it was the lights reflecting on the clouds. An ethereal, otherworldly show, half-imagined, half-there.

After a while, Jen pulled the hood of her frayed hoodie down and pointedly pointed at something in the dark, past their tents. “We should do the Experience Tipis.”

“Which one, though,” Marco said, a little unsure.

“Take your pick. I would so,” Elongation. The syllable hanging in the air for too long. “Love to go into the expansion tent.”

“The what?”

“Expansion tent,” Jen repeated.

Brando coughed some smoke, rubbing his nose on his shirt sleeve. “She means the spandex tent – tipi, I mean,” He coughed some more. “It is covered in soft spandex and the floor is a big shaggy carpet. Soft. And dry.”

There was general assents at the word dry. The floor mulched under the plastic tarp they all sat on.

“And with the show down there,” Marco pointed down the hill. “It should be emptier.”

“Sounds like a plan,” The person next to Marco turned out to be a woman with a thick accent. It was a pretty accent, though.

They zipped down their tents, and then trudged through trenches of brown-grey mud and slush. Past piles of plastic cups, tin cans and the occasional guy passed out on a wet puddle that could’ve been anything.

A no-nonsense woman guarded the entrance to the Tipi Village. She eyed them, shone a light on their eyes, and sniffed around.

“Strong stuff?” She asked, as she made a note of their festival bracelets.

“Mellow. Could run a mile, but might get distracted by a tree,” Jen said. Whatever that meant satisfied the guardswoman and she let the four of them through.

The Tipi Village was arranged in a horseshoe shape, with the heavily decorated gate at one end. In the middle of the space, there was a big bonfire that turned the people there into eerie shadows. Most were unmoving, some were eating. They were all quiet.

“This one!” Jen cried, opening the flap to the tent with the sign that read Relaxation and Rebirth Tipi.

One girl sitting near the fire glared at them, shushing loudly.

Marco looked at her, in her star-shaped bikini, a row of tiny, strawberry-sized hair buns giving her hair something like a ridged spine. Discreetly, he adjusted his erection. The whole gathering was made up of these festival girls in their gaudy and trashy and, frankly, pretty hot outfits.

“Hey, you coming?” Brando said, waiting just inside the tipi. Some of the light landed on Brando’s face, illuminating the scar on his lip.

Marco was glad for the darkness. It hid just how close that phrase had come to reality.

“Yeah,” Marco said before stepping into a world made of soft pastels inside. Warm lights gave the whole place a colourful glow, not too intense, and very homey.

His friends had found a little step of soft plush green carpet, pink beanbags, and other soft items. Jen was already stepping into what looked like a cocoon hammock made from whatever soft spandex-y fabric Marco felt under his socks. Brando flopped onto a bean bag. While their new friend simply lied down on the plush carpet. She was tall and plump.

With a shrug, Marco went towards them.

The tipi had other people. Some on their own, others in small groups. They must’ve been here for a long while, because they looked asleep or, rather, a little out of it. Every single one of them was just lying down, on the floor, or on the steps, cradling themselves on the soft fabric. One or two seemed to be sinking into their chairs, blissful expressions on their faces. What he did notice was that every single person in the tipi was looking up at some sort of projection of a psychedelic dream. Just looking at it made Marco feel a little dizzy.

“Hey,” The stranger girl said. “Come. Sit down. It is so nice.”

As Marco sat down on a soft plushy chair and—

“Holy shite, this is so soft!” He cried.

“Told you,” Jen said, mumbling like a happy cat.

“It is life, bro,” Brando sighed, already halfway swallowed by the too-soft beanbag.

And Marco couldn’t help but sigh as he let his weight be taken by the plush… object. It wasn’t like any beanbag he had ever sat on – it was like stroking a soft cat and being wrapped in silk all at once.

It was then that Marco looked up and saw the shapes. Not just the psychedelic colours straight out of a Pink Floyd-induced nightmare, but the shapes hiding between the colours, inside the patterns.

“Guys, do you… d-do you see that?”

The patterns were shifting, circling, psychedelic dreams, perfect truths, new realities unheard of. Like every trippy piece of media, ever song composed while high as a kite, like every epiphany about the size of the universe all neatly put together in an impossible pattern of impossible colours.

Marco heard someone shush him. He turned, and from the corner of his eyes saw Brandon’s happy, blank face slowly sinking into the plush chair as if he were on quicksand. With a pop, his friends’ visage disappeared and all that remained was a round, plump fuzzy chair.

“G-guys?” He tried again, his attention snapping to the patterns.

The world felt so soft. So snug and warm and comfortable and, damn, those lights even felt warm on his skin.

Marco moved his neck just in time to see the floor swallow their new friend. It was like she was a leave floating on water, dipping the surface tension but not breaking when, suddenly, the woman disappeared with a pop.

“What the fuck!” Marco tried to get up, but something snapped him back into the plush cahir.

“Shhh… Marco,” Jen moaned hard and long. “It feels so much better when you let it take over.” She moaned again like someone getting their brains fucked empty.

Marco blinked, glancing to the side. Jen’s shape was visible, writhing and twisting, inside the tight green spandex cocoon. Her hands were groping at her boobs, between her legs, as the hammock closed down as if someone was reverse-peeling a banana. With a sigh, Jen’s face disappeared under the fabric before it tightened around her features as if she were being vacuum packaged.

“W-what the—” Marco’s voice was swallowed by the soft, green furry plushness of his chair. He could move his arms and legs, but just barely. The heavy plushness weighted on him, making it hard to kick or punch. Besides, just moving felt so nice that Marco would forget to even fight and just idly start stroking the fabric, letting it swallow him.

As the plushness came over his face, darkness didn’t appear. Instead Marco saw a world of technicolour spark through his eyelids and into his mind.

  Eventually, the four of them left the tipi and sat around the fire, staring at it for a long while. Silent, enjoying the orange glow on their bare skin.

Jen sat with legs spread wide, letting the warmth of the fire lick her skin. The sheen of perspiration shinning on her bare midriff, her exposed breasts and naked legs reflected some of the light. If the sweat was from external or internal heat, that was hard to tell. The girl simply sat, eyes staring into a place far away inside the fire. Her star-shaped facepaint impervious to perspiration. Her hair, shiny green, cast a shadow over one half of her face.

Next to Jen, the plump girl coughed a little before she was shushed quiet by all the other festival girls basking before the flames. She looked abashed for a moment, before she leaned closer to the fire. Her neon-green bikini top disappeared under a rain of pink tassels from her plastic poncho enveloped her. Her enormous pink sombrero made her look like a giant, plastic Mexican statue.

A small girl kept playing with her boobs muttering something. Every squeeze sent her body shivering, letting a moan escape lips coloured a deep red. The colour, however, was carefully applied to avoid the scar that decorated her pretty face. The rest of her was wrapped in tight, shiny red spandex, a unitard of some sort, with a plunging neckline. Her arms and legs, however, were wrapped in fuzzy, furry, shaggy, pink hair.

A fourth girl, sat by her friends, looking around nervously. Something was odd about her friends, but she couldn’t put her finger on it. A sound broke her rumination. She turned, seeing a group of guys going into the same tipi she had walked into just a couple of – hours? days? – ago. As she moved, she felt something graze her legs. She looked down, seeing grass tickling her fishnet-covered legs. She giggled, and it made her bouncy tits bounce. They looked nice in their neon-green bikini top. Comfortable, like they had always been there.

“Oh, of course I’ve always had them,” Marco said. “I’ve always been a festival slut.”

Another sound. Someone shushing the boys.

She turned, seeing one of the tipi caretakers approach her. The woman was dressed in stars and tassels, in bright neon spandex and with colourful face paint. She looked hot as.

“Oh, Marcella, darling, you have to look into the fire,” She placed a hand on Marcella’s face and she felt her pussy tingle.

Softly, the caretaker tilted Marcella’s face towards the controlled, multi-coloured bonfire. “Look into the Fire. Let it warm up your heart. Your pussy. Let it fill you with feminine power. Let it burn away what was. Learn to burn bright and blinding. Learn to look like no one could ever look away.”

Marcella shuddered, feeling the warmth of the fire lick her skin. The caretaker’s skin caressing the inside of her thigh.

“Learn to be a festival slut, dear.”

 FIN ‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘

If you’d like to help me make more of this type of content, and explore new ideas or styles, consider pitching to my PATREON where not only can you see my newest work early, but can even affect the nature of this work!For more of my writing and illustrations, do visit My website. My Twitter| My DeviantArtAll work on this blog should be understood in context. Any portrayals of non-consent are, themselves, consensual between author and reader.

#short story #fiction #transformation story #my story #mcstories #male to female transformation #festival girls