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silvery-bluish · 10 months

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45 & 50 for Ars if you're still taking prompts? :3

Prompts are from here!!

Pardon me being a full TWO WEEKS late with this but here. u go. they both ran longer than i thought they would so we'll say that makes up for them being late.

Wordcount: 644 + 612

Contents: For 45-- Sidestep era, Ars has a fever the whole time. Themmy and Ricardo are there. To ground it vaguely in the timeline, this is post-Catfiend Incident (so after the start of the (not?)not dating situation) but prior to the nanosurge.

For 50-- chargeflystep with absolutely NO grounding in any specific canon spot. we just don't know. Just fluff!

45. Feeling their temperature

You can’t find him. You’re looking with your closed-eyes and your open-mind, stretched as far as you can go-and-farther, looking, turning minds over like rocks. Wrong wrong wrong none of these are right, you can’t find him, the shields are all wrong. You’re not supposed to lose him. You promised.

Everything’s— hazy-prickly uncomfortable, and you feel like you’ve— done this before, maybe, this searching. Deja vu like a too-small jacket. And you’re freezing, burrowing deeper into your hiding place. Can’t come out till you find him, or it’ll just be you versus the world—

A knock on the door. Nobody knocked except you-and-him-and-them, wide-flung focus contracting down to oh outside the door. Shake off the haze of half-sleep.

Touchstone-smooth. Cool, like the underside of a rock that’s been baking in the sun. Right. Looking won’t do you any good, probably. You struggle out of the cocoon of blankets, no orange in sight you’re cold colder now but that’s Anathema at the door and you like Anathema so you should answer.

Fumble with the locks. Click-click-clunk, clumsy-fingered now. Three tries to get the highest one unlocked.

“You look like death warmed over,” Anathema says, once you’ve cracked the door enough to see them.

“Thanks,” you croak, voice thick. Take a step back so they can get through the door, and clunk-click-click the locks back into place.

“We were worried,” Themmy says, “It’s been days. You could’ve said you weren’t feeling well,” and they were concerned, that you didn’t.

“I’ll be fine,” you say. “It’s just the flu.” You think.

They frown at you, bring a hand up to place it on your forehead. Cool and dry. Sense-echo similarity to their mind against yours. “You’re burning up, Arsenic. Sit back down. Have you taken anything yet?”

You… let them shepherd you back to your daybed, re-bury you in blankets. They get you a cup of water once they realize nope, you don’t have any medicine around. Themmy has their phone out, glancing between it and you. “I’m going to ask Ortega to pick some stuff up,” they say.

“Yeah, okay,” you say, even though he’s only been over here maybe a dozen times over the last couple years and it’s always felt more… precarious, to have Ortega in your space than it feels to have Themmy in your space.

Slipping back into a doze is— easy, with their comforting presence nearby. Putzing around your little kitchen, getting themself a drink. You maybe lose some time. That’s okay, Themmy’s keeping an eye on it.

And then more knocks to the door, nothing on the other side but quick-shifting static. Static didn’t usually knock either, but Ortega does. Sometimes. When he wants into your apartment, anyway.

Anathema undoes the locks to let him in, and when you crack your eyes to peek at him he’s staring back at you. Worry, probably, if you’re reading the little frown and the knit of his brow right. “Gonna give yourself wrinkles,” you murmur, and he makes an offended noise, putting two bags down on your counter.

“I bring you medicine and soup and you insult me?” he asks, all overblown-offended. “You sure they’re sick?”

Then he’s putting his hand to your forehead too, and wincing at the temperature he finds. He lingers a little longer than Themmy did, though, tucking a strand of your hair out of your face. “‘m fine,” you say, token protest none of you believe.

“Pull the other one,” he says, and you reach a hand out of your cocoon to yank, slightly, on the fabric of his pants, which wins a laugh.

It’s. Weird, letting them help you. You’d been resigned to just-- sleeping whatever this is off, like you’ve done before, but you’ve got your whatever-they are here, helping. Having your back.

It’s a risk. And maybe it’s the fever talking, but you’ll take it.

50. putting a hand over the other’s mouth to shut them up

Neither of them has noticed you yet, quiet footsteps your default and no point changing that here. Plus, it’s fun to surprise other people, sometimes. When the stakes are low.

“They asked me why I liked them, once,” Daniel says, “But they didn’t actually let me say anything.”

“Doesn’t surprise me,” Ricardo replies with a shrug. “They never did know what to do with complements.” Like they’re comparing notes. Or cheat codes.

…odd. Normally, you wouldn’t like people talking about you, but this is. Weirdly fine. A little annoying because it means they’re conspiring, but not. Not bad-annoyed. Weird fond-annoyed.

“It was a rhetorical question,” you say, and they both turn to look at you.

“Bet they can’t get both of us to shut up,” Ricardo says, aside to Danny not to you, and whoops this was a mistake.

You can feel your face heating and neither of them has even said anything, Ricardo’s smug grin slowly being echoed by Daniel dammit.

“Your eyes—“ and that’s enough of that, darting out to cover Daniel’s mouth mid-phrase and Ricardo’s mouth preemptively because you’ve got your fucking hands full, now, apparently. Literally and figuratively.

The curve of Daniel’s smile broadening against your palm, and— yeah that’s entirely unsurprising, Ricardo licking your other palm. Shouldn’t have expected anything different.

Green eyes struck by light bright and beautiful/the slightest wrinkle to their nose from a secret laugh he’s always trying to catch/quick-jump analysis when they’re putting something together—

“Oh, that’s not fair,” you complain at Daniel, and he bursts into muffled laughter. A brief glance between the two of you, and Ricardo’s catching the skin over the ball of your thumb between his lips, gently, but present. And soggy. Ugh.

You know when you’re losing a fight, sometimes, making a face at both of them and wiping your hand on Ricardo’s shirt. “No,” you say, “We aren’t doing this.” Your face is still burning, the weight of attention and affection landing on you like a slightly-too-heavy coat. Comfortable now, but threatening to be too much.

“One complement?” Ricardo wheedles, and you scowl at him.

“Daniel got three in because he was cheating,” you admit, like pulling teeth. “Fair’s fair.”

“Telepathy is not cheating,” Daniel says, “I’m still communicating. You’re still listening.” And you’ll-- admit that too, yeah, tip of your head to acknowledge his win. You’re not really willing to do the telepathic equivalent of slapping your hand on his mouth and you don’t want to shutter your mind, so. Not really cheating, you suppose.

Ricardo pauses, for a second, lips pursing as he thinks. And then his eyes flick back to you, little tilt to his smile that means he’s got a plan. A plan he just came up with in the last ten seconds, but it’s still a plan.

“Your roundhouse kick is still a thing of beauty,” and that sparks a memory, just the two of you in his kitchen so long ago, both unsure but both trying something anyway, and you laugh, wheeze startled out of you. “And you’re always three steps ahead in a fight. Smartest person I know.”

“Chen’ll be offended,” you say, and he makes a pffff noise of dismissal. Smile still tugging the corners of your mouth.

“There’s that smile. Gorgeous, when you let me see it.” And there’s a seriousness to his tone, a fondness, that makes your face burn. Duck your head, a little, drop your eyes, to try and keep that weight of focus from getting too heavy.

“No more of that,” you say, but they’re both still grinning at you, even as you fold your arms.

…you’re still fond-annoyed, not mad-annoyed. Weird.

#fhr #fallen hero #chargestep #chargeflystep #my writing #bookish.txt #arsinoe #SORRY it took me so long lol #they're trying to find bb in the first one hope this helps <3 #we're also still in the Fragile Growing Trust era #the 'blue freaks' comment wasnt till post-nanosurge for ars i have decided #and the roundhouse kick complement is a reference to one of my step-days fics. they told him he could give one (1) complement

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pierregazly · 27 days

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💗 congrats on your 1.5k, lovely! can i request oscar with prompt 6? please and thank you!! 😽🩷

omg thank you so much lovely!! absolutely, here it is!! i hope you love it 🫶🏻

#thank you!!!!!!#asks #requests #pierregazly's 1.5k celebration #sorry it took me so LONG LOL

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rosewinterborn · 4 months

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"One Of Them Tag Games: A Week Late Edition"

Tagged by @synobun !

Last Song: Tomboy Tuesday! By Ham Sandwich (very fun gender vibes, very difficult to follow anime clips)

Favorite Color: pretty much any dark, rich jewel tone, but i tend towards midnight blue and, currently, forest green

Last Movie/Show: technically Sense8 because j and i are watching it with a friend, but last night i got caught up on The Apothecary Diaries and as someone who doesn't like a lot of anime I'm having a great time

Next on My Watchlist: i don't really do watchlists (or tbrs), i generally just follow the dopamine. In all honestly, probably sense8 again next Thursday

Last Game: i play a very dumb color sorting game on my phone to fall asleep. Other than that, i think i played a few hours of bg3 last week.

Last Book (completed): Crescent City House of Earth and Blood by Sarah J Maas (in preparation for House of Flame and Shadow, which came out on Tuesday. I did not make it and my book bestie has been yelling at me lol)

Sweet/Savory/Spicy: i don't really snack anymore? So this question is hard. I used to go for salt above all else but since salt disagrees with me more often than not, i just kind of. Don't. Probably sweet, at the moment. If i had to guess.

Relationship Status: Double Married, as @wasabipesto reminded me last week lol

Last Thing I Searched For Online: the artist for tomboy tuesday. Before that, the symptoms of MCAS (which I've since deemed unlikely that i have)

Current Obsession: still chipping away at the health anxiety, unfortunately. Hoping to replace it with something more pleasant soon though.

Biggest Flaw: also difficult. Every answer ive come up with is just A Disorder That I Have and it feels wrong to just say like. My anxiety (which is currently debilitating and getting expensive) or my inability to maintain any kind of self care or regulation routines (thats just adhd baybee). Plus i don't know that i have anything about myself that i think is outright Bad. Like. The anxiety makes me very good at noticing things, and there are a lot of aspects of my adhd that i actively enjoy. Something something your greatest flaw is also your greatest strength given the right context.

...Yknow what, I'm going with the anxiety actually, because it's turning me into a caged animal in my own body and i feel like I'm watching myself develop ocd in real time. Hate that for me.

Fic I'm Currently Reading: haven't actually read any fic in a while tbh. I think i was on a brief destiel kick a couple weeks ago but it didn't last very long and it was mostly rereads. (For currently reading in general I'm *supposed* to be working on House of Sky and Breath. Progress has been slow.)

Tagging: @wasabipesto , @laboradorescence , @writersblockandapotoftea , @shorter-than-her-tbr-pile , and anyone who feels like playing!

#tag games #thanks davy!#sorry it took me so long lol

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hexblooddruid · 8 months

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does bryn have any post-game/netherbrain-defeating plans? what does her life look like 10 years out from the game? 100?

Oh boy. So I loved the ending Bryn got in game. She was always very respectful of Karlach’s desire not to go back to Avernus, to live out the rest of her life in Baldur’s Gate. As a druid and a life domain cleric she gets it. But when it was actually happening and Wyll was begging Bryn to take Karlach to Avernus with them (and shout out Theo and Samantha for killing this scene), she had to float it to her as a possibility. She still had Karlach make the choice but let her know that she wouldn’t be alone, that Wyll and Bryn would be there for her. So that’s her immediate post game plan. She, Karlach, and Wyll travel down to Avernus to clear the hells of its devils

There they go. The Blade, Fury, and Light of Avernus.

The Gale break up was friendlier than expected. He saying that he really needed some time to himself before committing to travel to the hells with them.

How long does it take to clear the hells of its devils? Ten years? Let’s say ten years out they’ve completed their mission.

Uldar was fine with Wyll turning down the grand duke position but was at least expecting a huge fancy noble wedding in Baldurs Gate when these two fucked off for Avernus for ten years and ended up getting married in Avernus by Tiefling Elvis with Karlach and Astarion as the only witnesses.

So they return to Baldur’s Gate, lauded as heroes and in the middle of the Baldur’s Gate Wedding of the Century.

At 34, Wyll is still young man and at 45, Bryn is still a young dwarf. He still wants to adventure but she wants to start setting up roots for when they are ready to retire. After the wedding, they build a home in Rivington not too far from the Wilden Oak. Bryn works with Rolan to create a collection of Druidic lore at Sorcerous Sundries. They have kids eventually, I haven’t sorted how many but they have at least one dwarf tiefling daughter.

100 years? Her beloved has been gone for a couple of decades at least. She returns to Rivington to tend to the Wilden Oak in the spring and autumn (and on the anniversary of his proposal) but otherwise she travels a lot, finally taking on her Faithwarden duties. She travels back to Forgotten Forest and trains the young druids there. She goes back to the Shadowlands and spends time with Halsin there. Maybe they even start the relationship they never got to start when they first met.

#bg3 spoilers #bryn acevedo #thank you for asking this was so much fun to think about!#sorry it took me so long lol #thedragonagelesbian

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smells-like-mettaton · 2 years

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For the fic list: 1 with Character and Asriel? Or Frisk and Undyne your choice -Moon (moonknightproductions)

The Refiner's Fire

Rating: T Word Count: 569 Prompt: "Full disclosure, I am a monster" Frisk & Undyne. I went with a neutral route for this one so the usual warnings for that, though there's no character death present in the work itself. Read on AO3: here

XXX

Heat threatens to leech the last drops of fluid from Frisk’s body. Any time sweat beads on their arms, their forehead, their neck, it evaporates the next moment.

Red leaves falling right off. Dust pooling at their feet.

They feel sick, and try to tell themself it’s just from the heat.

Undyne is going to catch them, at this rate. They can’t run in this. They can’t run at all—their leg twisted during their first fall, and while their walking stick could have made a makeshift splint, they’d needed it to fight. Desperate fistfuls of Monster Candy healed most of the pain, but couldn’t completely relieve the stiffness.

They shuffle towards a bridge. They don’t spare a glance for Sans, snoozing uselessly as always. He’s not a threat, but he’s not an ally.

Frisk is on their own.

They duck under a flying spear, and the breeze it creates almost soothes them for a moment. Then the heat slams back into them. The putrid smell of sushi follows it, threatening to knock them unconscious before the scorching heat can. The air shimmers with it, blurring their vision into a boiling soup.

It’s a good thing they can’t run. If they were any less careful, they’d probably tumble off the bridge’s edge.

Heavy footsteps pound behind them. Armor clangs like death bells, heralding the heroine who never gives up.

Frisk never gives up, either. Their determination won’t melt, even if their body does. They’ll find a way out, one way or another—but they’d rather not find out what magma feels like in the process.

A ledge materializes from the haze. On it is… a water cooler? Like the kind they always sipped from at the dentist’s office. It’s so normal.

It’s a trap. A distraction.

Clang.

Clang…

Slower and slower. No spears breeze past their head.

“Armor… so… hot…”

Frisk freezes, just for a moment.

“But I can’t… give up…”

What is she doing? Trying to make them pity her?

It won’t work. Frisk is a good person, but they’re not about to give up their SOUL. That’s not the kind of death you can Determinate your way out of.

CLANG.

Frisk holds their stick out behind them, hoping it can soften the attack powerful enough to shake the ground.

Nothing hits. The ledge is silent, save for the hiss of lava below.

Still gripping their stick tight, they risk a glance behind them—

And see Undyne flat on her stomach. Her plume of hair trails down her skull, drips to the ground like a swath of blood.

Monsters don’t have blood. Frisk does. They’ve seen their own blood too many times today.

They clench their jaw. The hero really falls to ordinary heat? Well, the inside of a volcano isn’t exactly ordinary, but—she wasn’t supposed to give up.

She doesn’t give up.

They resist the urge to poke her with their stick. She’s just waiting for them to let down their guard, to get close. She thinks they’re stupid, just because they’re a kid.

They’ll show her. They’re strong enough to survive.

They ignore her ragged breaths. Ignore the siren call of the water cooler. Continue down the ledge, closer and closer to freedom.

“You… coward…” Undyne’s dry voice hisses on their heels.

Coward or not, they’re alive. That’s what matters.

If they’ve become a monster in order to survive monsters, then so be it.

#fic tag #tali writes #undyne #frisk #some mercy #prompt requests #this was the last one in my inbox! huzzah!#sorry it took me so long lol

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glitchedcosmos · 3 months

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Sonic and Shadow never really wanted to admit that they liked each other, especially to their crush's face, but that went flying out the window when Sonic took one of Shadow's threats during their sparring sessions as flirting, and he went for it.

Sonic got gut punched immediately after.

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ask-queen-arti · 7 months

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(the ask box is open!)

#rain world #rw artificer #scavenger king #im so sorry thsi took so long to make lol #answers for asks will definitely NOT be anywhere near this detailed #so it wont take me an entire month to answer stuff #i swear #btw i have never run an ask blog before and I have no idea what i am doing #so like #sorry in advance if i mess up something lol

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rendevok · 8 months

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Bite me <3

#im not saying he said this. but it FEELS like he said this.#guy who is soooooooo getting what he wants rn #narumitsu #wrightworth #miles edgeworth #phoenix wright #vampire nrmts owns my entire ass. there will be more /threat #its MY art and i say they’re BOTH vampires #wrightworth? more like frightworth ahahaha #or maybe even biteworth #narumitsu but naru-bit-u #ahahahahahhhahhahahahaa😳😳😳😳#anyway sorry this took me so long to post but it’s friday the 13th and it’s been the best day ever so have a treat on me #also this was not INTENDED to be the server icon but it will be until halloween lol #if i dont have people biting me in the notes whats the point #fan art #aa #rendevok

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kaiju-krew · 1 month

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finally made a weird lizard of my own......

#he's a twink so he can croc mode easier dont look at me #anyways fangojis are cool and fun this took me way too long enjoy my boy be gentle with him he's very special to me tyty #fangoji #godzilla #kaiju oc #my art #labragoji #im just calling him labra it's easier #sorry for dipping i was dealing with stressful fam stuff lol

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ohbo-ohno · 5 months

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merry christmas @luminousbeings-crudematter, here's the ghoap x reader purge au! (a week and a half after you posted about it... im so sorry)

5.7k, mind the tags <3

cw: ROUGH NONCONSENUAL SEX in all caps, pwp, under-prepared/painful anal sex, some pretty intense fear stuff, people covered in blood and referenced violence (it's a purge au lol)

Your hands tremble where they’re tucked close to your chest, blood sticky and thick between each finger. You feel coated in it, like someone has taken a brush and gone over every inch of your skin, painted you in red.

It’s in your mouth. You can feel the warmth of it on your tongue, the taste of iron sickening. You tell yourself that maybe you bit your tongue, that it’s not really your ex Phil’s blood coating your teeth.

Your thin pajamas are hardly any protection against the chill of the night air, less so with how soaked they are. The stench of piss is heavy in the air, a mixture of yours and his, but you don’t have time to go back inside and change.

You’re running on pure instinct, an animal urge deep in your mind insisting you run. You’d always thought you’d have more of a flight instinct than fight. Despite how you feel now, how your legs itch to carry you as far away as possible, the cooling corpse left behind tells you the truth.

You stumble into the wall, a wave of nausea knocking you off balance. There’s a trail of red left behind as you use one hand to balance yourself, the other held protectively over your heart.

Your security system - cheap, but usually enough to let you sleep through the Purge - is completely destroyed. There’s no chance of it protecting you, and the bust in windows will let anyone on the streets see your vulnerability. You’ll never feel safe there, and you can’t shake the need to run.

There’s no chance of any of your neighbors helping you. There’s some neighborly camaraderie between your floor-mates, but that all disappears on Purge night. It’s every man for himself, every year, without fail. You know that. You even think the same as them, pretend no one else exists when that siren goes off every year.

But now, shaking and terrified, you wish you could knock on a door and see it open. Hear the security system disengage and see a familiar face, beg for help and thank them on your knees.

It’s a nice fantasy. Reality is less kind, seeing you shake with a dawning chill as you manage to shoulder open the door to the stairwell, cringing when it slams behind you.

The cold cement is rough on your feet, and a distant part of yourself worries about slipping - your feet are slick with blood, and you can hear yourself leaving a trail of footsteps. You don’t try to slow down, holding tight to the metal railing and shuffling down the stairs.

You’re halfway down the first of four flights when the door on the next floor opens, a large figure stepping into the stairwell. Your stumble to a stop before you even register that you’re not alone anymore, and you’re backpedaling before you even fully realize.

He’s big, his face covered in a red skull mask. From your vantage point you can see his hair is shaved into a mohawk, and he’s shirtless with only a pair of gray sweatpants on.

He’s drenched in blood. Even more than you, and you feel like you’re drowning in it. If you’re painted in blood, someone took a bucket and dumped it on this man. You can hardly see any unmarked skin, and you wonder for a split-second if the skull was once white.

There’s an audible grin in his voice when he calls up to you. “Look’it you, bonnie thing. You tryin’ to run?” He steps to the side, leaving a wide open space for you to pass him to the next staircase. You’re frozen where you’re leant against the railing, hardly able to breathe. “C’mon, give it a shot.”

You listen, scrabbling further back and all but throwing yourself up the stairs on all fours. You’re only the need to get away, an innate fear that tells you to get as far from the blood-soaked man as quickly as possible. You swear you hear him laugh as you launch yourself up the next flight, panting already.

There’s no safety found in going up though, as hardly two flights later you’re tugged to a stop by your instincts alone.

Standing above you, hardly six feet away and blocking the door he must’ve just come from, is another giant. This one fully clothed and with a white skull mask, somehow bigger and more intimidating than the man you can hear coming up the stairs behind you. You can’t see even an inch of skin, black gloves on his hands and mean black combat boots reaching nearly his knees.

There’s a moment, before the chase ends, where you contemplate jumping over the railing. There’s no going up, there’s no going back, and you can’t even begin to imagine what these two men want with you. The only thing that keeps you from throwing yourself over is the fear that you wouldn’t die on impact, that you’d be left injured and even more vulnerable to these men.

You’re not sure you could’ve tried that plan had you even wanted to, because the moment it forms fully in your mind a pair of thick arms wraps around you, and a heavy weight forces you to the ground.

You cry out at the sudden shove, palms scraped raw against the cement. The man behind you covers your body completely - his knees bracket yours, his hands rest on either side of your head, and there’s no part of the back of you that isn’t cloaked in him.

He doesn’t say anything as he ruts against you, the blood from his chest soaking through your tank top and making you cringe further away. You can’t stop the quiet stream of whimpers as you try to shrink into the stairs, try to get away from the beast behind you. He doesn’t care, only drops more of his weight onto you and pantomines fucking you.

You can feel the outline of his cock through his pants, as thin as the clothes both of you are wearing are. If you weren’t wearing your shorts, if he tugged the waistband of his pants down, he’d be inside of you.

The thought makes you tear up, makes you want to slam your head back and try to knee him in the balls, makes you want to fight.

But all your fight is gone. It died with Phil and your security system, and you’re left only with a weight in your bones that makes you wish you could sink through the floor.

The hard plastic of the skull mask presses to the sensitive skin of your cheek, biting into the fat there. You can see the gleam of bright blue eyes in the sockets, the creases at the edges that tell you he’s smiling.

“You gonna fuck her here for the first time?” The white skull asks, voice deep enough that you hardly register the words. Your eyes are jerked to his form and it makes you shiver to see him sitting on the top of the staircase you’re pinned to, legs spread wide as he stares down at you with a cigarette between lips exposed by the tilted mask. You feel like a sacrifice, thrown to the stairs of a temple for a god.

“Can I?” The man over your shoulder pants, accent roughened from his own movements. You can’t tell if the wetness between your thighs is piss, blood, or an even worse option. You bite your tongue to hold back a whine, wince at the burst of iron in your mouth.

The man above you tilts his head, smoking blown into the air. “You fuck her here, you won’t get to go again on the roof. Don’t need you gettin’ spoiled.”

Your nails dig into the concrete, folding beneath the pressure as you shake beneath the red skulled man. He whines over you, like a petulant kid being told no for the first time, but goes still against you. That alone has you blinking open damp eyelashes, watching him from the corner of your eyes.

“Alright, I’ll wait,” he pants, chin resting on your soldier. “Give ye some time to get ready, huh lass? It’ll be easier for ye then. Just think about what we’ll do to ye, how good it’ll feel to get properly fucked, yeah?”

You sob when he grinds one final time against you, your hips pushed into the harsh edge of the stairs.

He’s dragging you up after that, hardly letting either of you stand fully before shoving you up the stairs. You can’t catch your balance and let out a small cry as you fall back to your knees, mouth twisting in pain at the unforgiving surface against your naked knees.

You flinch when a gloved hand grasps your chin, tugging up until you’re forced to look towards the white skull above you.

You’ve landed between his feet, a boot on either side of your body, and if you’d moved forward even another half foot, you’d have face planted into his lap.

Your heart skips a beat when you realize you’re making eye contact with him. The dark brown of his pupils blends almost seamlessly with what must be black paint smeared around his eye sockets, and the only reason you even realize you’re locked in a staring contest is the way the light reflects off the whites of his eyes.

You don’t have time to try and move away from him on your own (or, more accurately, to throw yourself backwards and pray you didn’t break something falling down the stairs) before a pair of bare hands are shoving you up from beneath the armpits, making you almost squeal as you jerk in the direction you’re forced.

“Up, c’mon,” red skull grunts, hands flitting from one part of your exposed skin to the next as he herds you upstairs. “Need to get inside ye, kitty, fuckin’ walk.”

You sob as you stumble up the stairs, the top of your foot scraping painfully against the concrete. You glance over your shoulder just in time to see White stand to follow you two, but you’re nearly sent sprawling again when Red only shoves you all the more harshly.

“Pl-please,” you manage to gasp, shoulder roughly bouncing off the wall. A glance up tells you you’re two full flights away from the rooftop. “Please, I don’t know what you want, b-but…” You can hardly talk around the sobs floating in your throat, choking you. “Please, please don’t hurt me.”

Red groans as he tugs you nearly off balance, the sound echoing off the walls and full of what you can only describe as hunger.

“Fuck, haven’t even gotten ye naked yet ‘n yer already beggin. Knew ye’d be perfect for us.”

You can hardly see through the tears in your eyes, the rest of the trip up to the roof all gray with streaks of red and black. You can’t focus enough to try and get away again, can’t get enough of your panic under control to fucking think.

The red skull catches you when you almost go careening over the rails, one broad hand catching you by the chest and gripping.

He groans, you flinch. “Fuck, cannae wait to get my mouth on these.” He pinches with his whole hand, your breast going sharp with pain on every fingertip. You whine, flinching further against his chest and trying to shrink away.

“Keep movin’, Soap.”

“Aye,” Red - Soap - pants, and you can practically hear the saliva gathered in his mouth when he swallows. “C’mon, kitty, only a little further.”

The blood on your hands has dried by the time White is shouldering open the door to the roof, your hands itching and the red flaking away every time your fingers twitch. The night air is a cold shock, just jarring enough to tug some reason back into your brain.

Soap doesn’t stop his herding until you’re far enough from the door for his partner to block it with an old metal chair, the back tucked under the door handle. You tuck your hands beneath your arms, shoulders curled in in an attempt to preserve warmth.

You wouldn’t have expected the night to be so cold. Half of the street is burning - flames painting the sky, giving you the exact opposite impression of the biting chill you feel. There are dozens of people in the streets, carrying guns and axes and chainsaws and all sorts of other weapons you can’t see. You feel bile rise in your throat when you realize the dark pools reflecting flames in the street are blood, not water.

“Fuckin’ finally,” Soap grumbles, and you don’t have any time to think before his mouth is pressed forcefully against yours, tongue shoving at your lips.

Your eyes are wide open, unlike his, and you make a shocked sound high in your throat at the sight of his maskless face. You can’t really see what he looks like with the way he’s pressed against you, but it’s a shock nonetheless.

You keep your lips pressed tightly together, no matter how much his tongue prods and tries to force its way into your mouth. You feel more than hear him laugh against you after a few long seconds, and one of his massive paws comes up to cradle your jaw pointer finger against your temple and thumb under your chin.

He stops trying to force himself between your lips after almost a minute, instead shifting to just… licking your lips. His tongue paints wide across your mouth, soaking you in his saliva. He’s almost scarily determined in the way he accosts you, his grip tight on your face as his other hand shifts to bruise your hip, covering what feels like the entire bottom-half of your face in his spit. You can’t help but grimace, trying to pull away from him, but he’s pressed too close.

“Can’t fuckin’ wait to be in ye,” he pants, breath warm and wet against your cheeks. “I know yer gonna squeeze me just right, bonnie, can tell already.”

“Please,” you say, voice weak. “Please, don’t, I don’t want you to-”

His groan is guttural. “Ye wanna know a secret, bonnie?” His voice is quiet between the two of you, bright blue eyes boring deep into yours when he pulls back. To your endless frustration, he’s handsome.

He leans close, whispering so low that you almost have to strain to hear hum. “That’s what makes you fun. Wouldnae be draggin’ you up here if ye wanted it, could get you any other night of the year for that. But it’s Purge night, lass… so you go ahead and fight as much as ye want, yeah? Just makes it more fun for me.”

You can’t help but sob at that, fat tears streaming down your face as he maneuvers you. You feel disconnected from your body as he forces you down to the ground, your soft belly left exposed when he pushes up your tank-top to cup one of your breasts, a whimper crawling out of your throat at the way the gravel presses into you.

You feel his breathing grow heavier as his hands move down to your shorts, shoving them off your hips and leaving them loose around your calves, completely disregarding your pitiful attempts at crawling away.

“Poor thing, been stuck in these the whole time? They fuckin’ reek, bonnie, no offense. That his piss or yours?”

You shake your head against the ground, face twisted up in acute humiliation. For some stupid reason you don’t want to even begin exploring, you find it necessary to whisper, “H-his.”

Soap hums, and you curse yourself inwardly when the humiliation is slightly alleviated.

“Get ‘em off her,” the white mask says, and you can’t help but jump at the sound of his voice. He’s sat on a large box only a few feet away, leaning back and relaxing, looking for all the world like he’s settled in for his favorite show. “Don’t want anythin’ of his touching her now.”

The sound Soap makes at that is animalistic, a snarl coming from deep in his chest that makes you flinch as he all but tears the shorts from your body. You wince at the wet splat of them landing several feet away.

You force your forehead into the gravel when your knees are forced wide, a rough hand and another pair of knees spreading you.

“No, no, no, no, no, no, no…” you can’t help but beg, voice trembling. “Please- god, please don’t-”

“Fuck,” he moans over your shoulder. “Yeah, keep goin’, lass.”

You sob at the feeling of warm skin against your bared behind, his thick length slotting itself smoothly between the slightly spread lips of your pussy. Your eyes squeeze shut and it takes all your willpower not to keep begging.

He slides himself back and forth against you for a few long breaths, using online the slight slickness from a mixture of piss and blood to get some friction. But to your immense horror, it only takes a few moments for the sensual movement against your clit to have your body preparing itself.

The slight wetness at your hole might be a betrayal, but it’s not nearly enough to ease the way when he pushes inside of you with no warning.

You nearly scream, a high sound of pure panic and pain when it feels like you’re being split in two. Somewhere off in the distance, you hear someone laugh. Right above you, Soap groans.

He’s buried himself to the hilt inside you before the pain has had any time at all to fade, and he’s fucking into you hardly a second after that.

Every thrust forces a grunt from your throat, the entire weight of him slammed into your back each time his balls smack against your clit. Your face is twisted up in a grimace, your whole body racked with pain that your assaulter couldn’t care less about.

“Fuck, kitty. Yer squeezin’ me so good, such a good girl, shit-! Knew you’d be ti-tight as a vice, fuck, but didn’t know you’d be squeezin’ me so tight I can hardly move.”

Your whine is plaintive, his moan is filled with pleasure.

“Yer gettin’ so wet for me, bonnie. Ye like this, huh? Bet you like it just as much as I do, gettin’ thrown around and takin’ advantage of. That it, kitty? Ye like being forced?”

You sob and shake your head against the ground, crying all the more when sharp pebbles dig into your cheeks.

“Naw, I think ye do. Why else’d you be- fuck, squeezin’ me like that?”

“Cause- because-” you try, but you can’t get the breath in to get more than a single word out.

“Huh? Cause- cause-?” Soap mocks, his voice pitching up to mimic you as he plants himself deep inside you, grinding his hips against the meat of your ass. “C’mon, kitty, tell me why. Go on.”

“Cause I want you to stop!” You cry, balled up fist slamming into the gravel. You can’t help but whine ow when the sharp rocks poke into your skin, and Soap’s laugh shakes your entire body.

“Good,” he whispers, breath hot against your ear. “Squirm all ye want, lass. I love it when you fight.”

You can do nothing but go limp beneath him as he begins fucking you again, his pace somehow faster and even more relentless. It’s a small mercy that there’s no fight left in you, that you can’t give him any more pleasure.

It certainly doesn’t stop him, though. Despite the fact that you’re doing your best impression of a dead fish, Soap pants and moans against your shoulder like you’re the single best thing he’s ever slept with. His cock is painfully hard inside of you, and his pace never once slows.

He’s loud when he finally comes, the sound of his orgasm clear enough that you know he’s thrown his head back to the sky. You can only whimper as he rolls his hips against you, working the last spurts of cum out of his cock and into your unwilling body.

“Fuck,” he sighs in your ear, sounding far more satisfied than he has any right to. “Good girl, kitty. You were perfect.”

You sniffle beneath him when he slowly pulls out, both of you groaning at the sensation. He gives you an almost perfunctory pat on the ass, and stands to walk away. You manage to open your eyes and focus just in time to see him slide to the ground in front of his partner, leaning against the wall.

“Yer turn,” he sighs. “Warmed her up good for you, Lt.”

Despite the hatred boiling in your gut, you can do nothing but lay limp on the ground and watch as his partner stands, cracking his neck and moving towards your prone form.

You want to run, you want to fight, but you can only watch the executioner come closer and wait for the metaphorical axe to fall.

He crouches by your head first, grasping your chin and pulling up until your torso tries to follow to alleviate the tension. He stares deep into your eyes for a long moment, and you find that it’s impossible to even tell where his pupils are with no real lighting. You feel like you’re truly looking into the empty eye sockets of a skull, no man and no mercy to be found.

“You’ll call me Ghost when I fuck you,” he rumbles, thumb stroking over the scrapes on your cheek. He doesn’t wait for a response, simply hauls you up by the shoulder and turns you onto your back.

He’s rough with your limbs as he shoves your legs together and up, his forearm banding across the backs of both of your knees and holding them to your chest. You whimper and wiggles as best you can, but the bruising blow against your thigh is enough to have you gasping and stilling.

“Don’t fight,” he warns, and you feel his gloved fingers running up the crack of you. “You’re hurtin’ enough as it is, and I’m not gonna help. You wanna make it worse too?”

You shake your head, unsure if he can even see you through your legs. He doesn’t respond, and hums when he swipes two fingers through the liquid gathered between your lips.

You whine when those fingers move further down, a fresh panic creeping in when he presses around your back hole.

“You should be glad Soap fucked you so good,” Ghost drawls. “He gave you all the lube you’re gonna get.”

You feel like an animal when you whine again, unsure of how to even begin trying to speak. You yelp when a thick finger slides into your hole, completely disregarding any resistance and forcing its way in until it’s buried to the knuckle. Your cries go ignored.

“Quit squirmin’,” Ghost scolds, pulling his finger out to smack your ass before shoving two back in. “You’re fine.”

You’re not, you’re terrified and hurting and upset, but none of those things matter when Ghost only coaxes more of your slick and Soap’s spend to your unused whole so there’s less resistance.

The only blessing you have is the fact that you can’t see more than the outline of Ghost’s figure with the way he’s got you positioned. You try your best to close your eyes and float into disassociation, and while you can’t fully manage it, the fact that you can’t see his face - his mask - helps you distance yourself from what’s happening.

The moment you realize this is of course the moment it stops being true.

He seems to decide you’re ready after scissoring three fingers inside of you, hefting himself up so that he looms more fully over you. You can only whine as you feel the movements of him unbuckling his belt, feel the weight of him slap against your slightly spread cheeks.

Fresh tears fall past your lashes as you stare up into the fathomless darkness that are Ghost’s eyes. There’s nothing there, just a cold empty skull prepared to ruin you.

You don’t even have the energy to beg.

The stretch of him inside your ass is five times worse than Soap was. There’s no natural lubrication, and nowhere near enough synthetic lube either. Your hole feels like it’s on fire, the stretch white hot as he gives you no mercy.

You’re not even fully sure what you’re babbling as he slowly sinks to the root, only aware of the pain and fear and panic sitting heavy in your heart. You fear you’ll choke on your tears, head jerking back and forth.

He sighs when he bottoms out, heavy barrel chest forcing your knees past your shoulders. Your hips strain, just another pain from the endless abuse.

“There,” he grunts, patting your thigh when you go limp from it all. “Stay nice and still now, just need a place to dump my cum.”

Upsettingly enough, that hurts. The idea that you could mean nothing to this man is somehow worse than the thought of him having some other twisted feelings for you, your hormone-addled mind deeply insulted.

His thrusts are long and slow, each one pulling nearly completely out before slamming back in. The sound of your skin slapping together is embarrassingly sexual, and a distant part of you is aware enough to pray that no one nearby had heard your screams and cries.

Ghost is near silent as he fucks you, the opposite of Soap. You can only hear the occasional grunt when you squeeze him because he’s inches away from your face - you can even feel the occasional gusts of breath when his hips start working a little faster.

There’s nothing you can do but lay limply beneath him and take it, just a vehicle for his pleasure. You almost manage to float away, to pretend none of this is happening or has ever happened, when his free hand moves from your thigh to the top of your cunt.

You nearly squeal when he rubs your clit, the smooth leath gliding over your slick bud. Your eyes fly wide open, back arching as much as you can with three hundred pounds of man holding you down. The loud laugh from several feet away only makes you writhe more.

“Make her squirt, Lt!” Soap shouts, his voice carefree.

“Shut it, Johnny,” Ghost grunts, voice roughened with pleasure. You don’t even have time to focus on the fact that he’s just told you Johnny’s name, far too preoccupied with the tidal wave of pleasure rushing towards you.

You have no idea why it happens. You’re never quick to come - almost every single partner of yours has complained about you taking so long to get off, it’s been an Issue in several relationships.

So it makes absolutely no sense that after hardly a minute of rough circles against your clit, you’re clenching down on the cock in your ass and moaning loudly as your orgasm overtakes you.

The natural clench of your body only makes the pain worse, a sharp spike of it running up your cunt and making your moan shift into more pained sounds. Ghost only moans in tandem above you, his thrusts becoming slightly less even as he lets your orgasm coax out his own.

You sob when you feel his cum paint your insides.

Unlike Johnny, Ghost doesn’t pull out after he comes. He lets your legs fall limp on either side of him, just barely managing to catch them for you before you slam your ankles to the ground. He leans his torso over yours, elbows resting on either side of your shoulders while you do nothing but wait beneath him.

He’s sweat off some of the makeup. This close, you can see hints of pale skin in the sockets of the mask. There’s nothing to read in his eyes, but that flash of skin tells you he’s still a man.

You swallow, trying to work moisture back into your dry mouth, and whisper, “Will… will you let me go now?”

You know it’s more likely he’ll kill you. It’s what you can only imagine happened to all those bodies in the streets, what you know happens to tens of thousands of women every year.

So it’s not a surprise when he doesn’t answer you verbally, instead covering your mouth with his palm and pinching your nose shut with his fingers.

Your eyes flutter shut after a moment, lungs tightening already, and all you can hope is that suffocation is a quick death.

———————————————————————

You wake, gasping, in a dark room.

You’re lurching forward before you’re even fully aware that you’re awake, coughing loudly and gasping when it feels like your throat is bleeding.

“Oh, poor thing,” you hear a familiar accented voice coo, and a moment later there’s a warm hand patting your back. “Yer alright, deep breaths.”

You jerk back from Soap - Johnny - as soon as your coughing is under control, scrambling back on your palms and staring at him with wide eyes. He only grins at you, looking for all the world like any other normal man in his sweater and sweatpants.

He got changed at some point - these pants are clean. He’s not wearing his mask either, and you’re struck dumb by how non threatening he manages to look.

He also changed your clothes - or Ghost did, maybe. You try to cover your chest with one hand, but there’s no hiding the fact that you’re completely naked.

Johnny only laughs at your attempted modesty. “Been starin’ at them for hours, lass. Ye’ve got nothin’ to hide.”

That’s… horrifying, and does absolutely nothing to calm you down.

It’s then that Ghost rises from a chair, stepping forward and making you aware of his presence. “Calm down, Johnny. We don’t want her panickin’ this early.”

Soap fully pouts, tilting his head at you before glancing up at his partner. “I haven’t even done anythin’, Ghost. Was just sayin’ hi, tha’s all.”

Ghost snorts, gripping Johnny’s mohawk and tugging back until the other man sprawls back on his ass. “You know how you are, pup. Give your kitty some space.”

Johnny listens, crossing one leg beneath him and bending the other close to his chest, looking casual as can be. Meanwhile your heartbeat only gets faster, and you wince when you happen to lean too far one direction and feel a throbbing reminder of what these men did to you.

Ghost steps forward again, crouching just out of arm's reach. You realize he’s not wearing the same skull mask as before, but a balaclava with a printed skull pattern instead. His eye sockets are unpainted, and you’re shocked by how such little things make him look so much more human.

“You can calm down. Long as you behave, nothin’ much worse’ll happen to you.”

You find yourself almost comically not-comforted by that, and can do nothing more than stare at him with wide eyes.

“Where…” Your voice cracks, so you swallow and start again. “Where am I?”

It’s Johnny who speaks up. “Our place. We finally brought ye home with us, kitty.”

The world feels like it’s slowed around you, and your eyes drag from one kidnapper to the other. You have to swallow again to work any moisture into your bone-dry mouth.

“Is the Purge over?”

The creases at the corner of Ghost’s eyes are painfully obvious with how pale his skin is, and you shudder at the thought of him smiling.

“Been over for… what, five hours now? Somethin’ like that.”

You can’t fight the tremble in your voice now. “Then… then you have to let me go.”

Ghost’s head tilts, the creases get deeper. “Do I?”

You nod with as much conviction as you can - which is almost none. “You can’t keep me here. You’re breaking the law.”

Ghost leans closer on the balls of feet and you lean further back, your spine pressing into the wall behind you. “Are we now? And who do you think will stop us, pet?”

“The- the police. Someone will report me missing, they’ll come looking.”

“Oh? And you think they’ll come here?”

You nod as best you can, and jump when Ghost laughs. It’s low and quiet, only a few beats, but it’s like gasoline thrown on the small fire of panic in your mind.

“You have no idea where you even are, and you think they’ll find you? I hate to break it to you doll, but you’ll be lucky if they look for you for a week. You have any idea how many people go missin’ after the Purge?”

Your breath is quickening. “So that’s it? You’re just going to… going to keep me here, forever? What are you even going to do?”

His laugh is sharper, meaner this time. “We’re gonna do a whole lot more of what we did last night, pet. Keep you as a little cocksleeve, a pretty thing tucked in the basement just for our entertainment. Ain’t that right, Johnny?”

You manage to tear your eyes away to look at Soap and see that he’s nearly salivating, having inched closer and closer and shifted so he’s knelt behind Ghost. There’s a feral spark in his eyes that has every hair on your body standing straight up.

“Yeah, tha’s right. Don’t worry, lass, we’ll make sure yer never lonely. Might even stay the night with you, cuddle up in the winter. Bet ye could keep our cocks nice and toasty in the cold, huh? Gonna let us use ye as a little heater?”

“A heater, a mattress, a fleshlight… your future’s lookin’ bright, sweetheart,” Ghost drawls, mockery dripping heavily from the cruel words.

Your eyes dart back and forth between the two men and their predatory stares, your heart racing against your ribcage.

It’s not a conscious choice for you to launch yourself towards them, reaching out and clawing your sharp nails down Soap’s face with a feral scream that tears your throat to shreds.

Even as Ghost throws you off and forces you to the ground, you vow to fight these men to the end. You’ll kill them both if you have to, leave them dead and wander however many miles it is back to your apartment.

Ghost only laughs when you shout this in his face, and you scream as you lunge forward, just managing to catch his masked chin between your teeth and bite.

With your fight instinct back in full force, you’re ready to make their lives hell.

#lumi im SORRY hand on the bible i could not tell you why this took me so long #it's pwp. it's pure smut. there is no justifiable reason for this taking a week #i literally have FOUR fucking docs of purge au's rn lmao like when i tell you i tried to write this SO MANY TIMES it was just not happening #ghoap x reader #bo writes #purge au #how do i tag this to get people to see it but not to get people complaining about dark fic to me #...i don't #oh well. special treat for you guys lol

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tyquu · 1 month

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Updated Juice Gonk page for @engagemythrusters !! Featuring even more flavours of Juice gonk! (which you can get as stickers here if you want)

#star wars #star wars fanart #gonk droid #sorry it took me so long to get these out #i had to fix sticker quality first lol #if there are other drawings you want as a print or a sticker lmk and i'll pop it up at some point

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triona-tribblescore · 7 months

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I saw you wanted fluffy suggestions so here ya go:

Baby Mikey blabbering and Donnie responding like it’s a philosophical discussion.

Big! Sweaters! Big fluffy sweaters!

Disaster twins in the get along shirt

Raph and Leo in the get along shirt

Raph napping while Donnie happily rants to him

All boys walking together down an overgrown subway tunnel and relishing in sunlight and plants!(if ya need some background practice)

sooo uhhh, this ask may be four months old BUT! I was saving it for a rainy day and, would you look at that, its raining outside :D

some close-ups :)

#the get along shirt was raphs originally so theres no room for leo #but they are chillin regardless uvu #I still wanna do that last one too #its such a beautiful idea #but saving it for when I have time to make a proper drawing lol #thank you sm for the prompts!!!!! sorry it took me so long to get to them but im glad I saved them till now :') <3 #sending love!!#rottmnt #rottmnt leo #rottmnt donnie #disaster twins #rottmnt mikey #rottmnt raph #rottmnt fanart #turtle tots #asks #tribbleart #<3

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kate-bot · 1 year

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Pepstavo requests... peppino going to ask Gustavo out and the bosses are hyping him up for it. You can decide if they're good wingmen or not

i kinda took this as "peppino asks the gang for advice" but i had a very clear vision for it .

#my art #pizza tower #peppino spaghetti #gustavo pizza tower #fake peppino #pepperman #the noise #the vigilante #pepperman pizza tower #the noise pizza tower #vigilante pizza tower #pepstavo #so sorry this took me so long i was literally on my deathbed making this #yea i kinda took this ask as like peppino needs advice asking gus out and they are all so very unhelpful (aside from vigilante maybe)#ignore how peppino looks different in every drawing lol

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ghouljams · 9 months

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A Fair Trade (A First Date) Word Count: 2.7k Tags: Price x oc/reader, minor descriptions of reader but only if you really squint, fluff, first date awkwardness Summary: The Witch promised Price dinner and by God he's going to be fed. Price promised her a date, and that makes this whole thing a little harder.

You are trying and failing not to think of tonight as a date.

You've been on dates. Not good ones, and they never came to your house, but you've been on dates. You were never this nervous before. You smooth your hands over your apron, trace the embroidery with your fingers before you pat your thighs to stop your fidgeting. You're going to change while the meat is still cooking, your usual work clothes feel too plain.

It’s painfully clear you don’t dress up often as you look through your closet. Actually it might be more accurate to say you have no concept of dressy vs too dressy. Your usual uniform is casual to you, but you often have clients tell you, you look nice. Whatever that means. You shake your head and grab whatever is clean, staring at the coven clothes in the back of your closet. Too fancy. You twist the little pearl buttons on your blouse into their holes, and make a face in the mirror. It’s all too obvious you’re trying to look nice for someone.

It’s the silhouette, you think, the nipped waist and tight skirt. You huff and don’t bother to do the last few buttons, searching around your drawers for something more casual. You think you have a pair of jeans somewhere. You know your sister has tried to force denim on you enough times. God, this skirt makes everything so much harder, you’re not used to clothing sitting so close to your body.

Fuck everything you’re changing, you’ll wear one of your dresses it’ll be fine.

There’s a solid knock on your front door, your wards light up excitedly. You squeeze your eyes shut and beg for it to not be Price. You know it is. You’ll just have to tell him to wait while you finish getting ready, slipping on a pair of heels as you make your way to the curved oak door.

You tug the door open, feeling more than a little frazzled. Everything is already going wrong and now you don’t have any time to fix it. Price smiles down at you, he looks the same as always. Fantastic, once again you’re overdressed. You step to the side, bid him a quiet “please come in” and hold the door for him. He slips his hat --your hat-- from his head as he steps inside. His eyes drag over your body in a way that makes you feel far too exposed.

"Did you dress up for me?" He asks, you feel a little silly the way he says it.

"You said this was a date," which makes you feel even sillier to say.

“I did say that,” Price hums, reaches towards you, gentle fingers finish buttoning your shirt. You tip your head back instinctively for him as he twists the satin ribbon tie at the collar into a neat bow. Your breath sticks in your throat, the gesture far too intimate for a first date. “Are you nervous, sweetheart?” His fingers caress your throat and you snap your chin down, take a step back before your heart can jump out of your chest. You suppose changing is out of the question now.

“No,” Liar, “should I be?”

“Probably not,” You hate how he smiles at you, with just barely contained amusement, it’s far too charming.

“You know to behave yourself,” You turn away from him to go check on your roast, “otherwise the wards will throw you out just like last time.”

“Last time,” He mumbles, and you feel yourself wince, the ache in your chest at his tone. You shouldn’t have brought it up. Price is quiet, you’re not exactly used to him being quiet. You can feel him, his magic like a still lake, deep dark waters hardly stirring the secrets at the bottom. You still glance over your shoulder to make sure he’s actually in the house when he’s gone too long in silence.

He’s looking around your living room, picking up framed pictures and smiling down at the happy faces. His eyes dart to the wood beams of your ceiling, to the overstuffed couch, the knitted afghans, nothing you find terribly interesting. All of your materials are kept closer to the kitchen. If he wanted to snoop he should’ve chosen one of your glass cabinets, not your bookshelf. You shrug and pull your ceramic pot from the oven, you don’t have anything that needs to be hidden.

You settle your main on the counter and go to grab plates. You figure you can get dinner plated while he’s busy putting his scent all over everything. You can feel his magic clinging to whatever he’s touched. It’ll take you weeks to get it fully out of your house. You try not to think about the magical cleaning you’ll have to do when he leaves, focusing instead on slicing thick cuts off the bread you’d baked earlier.

Your grandmother would be quite proud of you for all the cooking you’ve done. Everything is fresh and cooked to perfection. It’s quite a nice plate if you do say so yourself: warm bread, tender meat with a rich thick sauce, and roasted vegetables with just a hint of char. Everything smells of warm herbs and careful preparation. Cooking is a magic in and of itself, one you’re thankful you had a good teacher for.

You grab both plates to set at their respective places on your table. Not exactly formal dining, but then again your family has never been a formal dining sort of people. Still, you have the prerequisite candles, wine, cloth napkins and butterflies in your stomach. You look for Price, finally having made his way to your curio cabinet. He turns a pair of dragonfly wings over in his hand.

“Dinner’s ready,” You raise your voice enough to be sure he’ll hear you over whatever he’s thinking. He settles the wings back in their place as he looks at you. His eyes drift down to the table.

“You served me,” Price sounds, almost confused, but- hm, indulgent, maybe. His voice is thick with something you haven’t heard before, deeper in his chest than it usually is. Something about it makes you want to touch him, conjures the feeling of sitting on his lap as you take your own seat.

“You’re my guest,” You tell him, “I’m a good host.”

“So you are,” He pulls his designated chair out to sit, and pauses again, leaning to pick up the fork you’d laid out for him. “This is fairy made,” He twists the intricate wooden utensil between his fingers, you nod.

“You’re not the only fae I deal with,” You pick up your own fork, the wood curves comfortably in your hand.

“Apparently,” Price smiles, finally sitting, “anyone I should be jealous of?” You snort.

“I should hope not. If I had to deal with anyone half as stubborn as you-” You shake your head, clear the sentence from your thoughts, “Besides I rarely cook for others. Too much-” you wave your hand, “idle magic to keep track of.”

Price hums. What you want to tell him is that cooking is such a labor of love, that it’s almost impossible to serve anything to anyone who isn’t going to stick around. That clearing your intent and keeping it clear the whole time you cook is far more than what a normal person has to go through, even if they’re just making toast. That every recipe seems to call for the same herbs that love and health spells call for, and you’ve never been able to shut your brain off from the association. That even sharing a meal with your friends makes you worry you’ll accidentally put a spell on them, and they’ll never trust what you give them again. That even though you love cooking you never stop being a witch, putting magic into everything that touches you.

Price watches you, your faux casual air. You know he has a better nose than your mundane friends, you dread to hear if your food smells like a spell. His eyes are so warm as you meet his gaze. It always surprises you that such an icy blue could be anything but cold, and yet.

“You’ve gone to a lot of trouble for me,” He says, picking up his knife and beginning to slice through the meat on his plate. You open your mouth to refute it, and grab your wine to sip instead. There’s no point in lying when it’s so painfully clear.

Wood, ceramic, copper, your kitchen seems almost made for fae comfort in its current state. Not a lick of iron anywhere it could’ve infected the food.

Instead you flick your wrist, your little record player excitedly switching itself on and carefully setting its needle on your pre-approved vinyl. You let the machine deal with the fiddly bits as your magic works to try and even itself out around the traces Price has left.

“I promised you a meal, you should be able to eat it,” You finally manage, doing your best to focus on your own food when your stomach is twisting itself into knots.

“Thank God for that,” Price tells you, “if I can’t eat you, at least I can eat your food.” You both watch the candles burst in crackling flames, bright enthusiastic licks of fire that you do your best to calm down. Magic reacting to your emotions. The record player skips a beat with your fluttering heart. “Cute,” He says it so casually, like your flames don’t crackle with his every word.

“Shut up,” You grumble.

If you’d thought dinner would be the hardest part of the evening you were horribly wrong. Dinner is easy. You’ve taken tea with Price enough times, had enough conversations with him, that you find it easy to fall into your familiar groove. Though you can feel time passing, can hear the soft click and chime of your clocks, you get lost talking. Before you know it hours have passed. Your candles burned down, your plates clean, the previously full bottle of wine neatly polished off. You think your record has reset itself at least once.

It’s nice, comfortable. Price always gives you his full attention, listens without simply waiting for his turn to speak, and you return the favor. Although with how intelligent he is, it would be hard not to give him your full attention. This date thing is easy. You don’t know why you were so worried.

All of your awkward anxiety rushes at you as you stand at the door. You’ve never been good at ending dates, and you’ve never had a date go well with someone you’re- Well you suppose you can admit that you like Price more than you should. Like him enough to hesitate the ending. You stare at him, trying to get a read on his mood, trying to silently ask him to do something. Please tell me how this is supposed to end, you think at him.

“You have to tell me if you want something little witch,” He smiles down at you.

"Would you kiss me?" You don't know what else to say, how else this could possibly go. You want him to kiss you more than anything. You had it once, and you haven't stopped thinking about it since. Price smiles, and pulls you into his arms.

He kisses you and it's nothing like it was last time. The blind panic is gone for one. It's slow and soft, it's not perfect, you don't know what to do with your hands or really what to do with your mouth, but it doesn't matter. Price kisses you like he never wants to do anything else, like the world can wait for him to finish. You're warm from the dinner and you can feel it bleed into the kiss. His beard tickles a little but the way he holds you and the soft slide of his lips make everything else melt away.

When he pulls away you can still feel the phantom press of his lips against yours, and it makes giddy bubbles pop in your ribs and across your cheeks. You want to kiss him again. Price smiles and brushes your hair back, his rough calloused fingers gentle as they skate across your skin. You really must be greedy to want so much more of him. You try to coach yourself, too much of a good thing blah blah blah.

He cups the back of your head and kisses you again. Soft, soft, soft. You didn't know kissing someone would feel like this. You've seen movies, read books, but you'd thought those must be exaggerations. When you'd kissed him before it had been so insistent, all teeth and tongue as he tried to devour you. If you'd thought he was trying to steal you away then you can't even imagine what he's trying to do now. Your chest clenches tight, pulls taught, bursts with gnawing desire, you think you might be trying to steal him, or at least convince him you're worth staying for.

Not that he needs convincing, you are more than worth staying for. You're so sweet and warm from the wine. Your lips are plush against his and your pretty little fingers hold onto him so tightly, he wouldn't leave you if the whole court called him. There's a slight tang of alcohol on your lips that makes your kiss all the sweeter.

Your hands slide to his shoulders as you press up on your toes, press closer against him. He wraps his arm around your waist, keeping you flush against his chest. As if he could keep you any closer, feel any more of your warmth. Oh you sweet thing, if he could sink into you he would, each honeyed kiss, each gentle breath, plucking at the last string of his resolve. Precious darling, do you even know how well loved you are?

You pull back, turn your head so his next kiss just catches the edge of your mouth. Price is ravenous for you, sliding his lips to your jaw, he can smell your pulse, the soft powdery rose of your perfume. How could he still be so hungry after eating? He can feel the syrup drip of your magic down his spine, languid and entirely too enticing. Actually, everything in the house seems to tremble just on the edge of your breaths, seems to weigh heavy against his shoulders, anticipatory.

It’s not just his hunger, is it?

His lips still against your neck. No, it’s yours as well. He can smell it, taste it on your skin, your want. You’re a spell, as much as you try not to be, just begging to be adored. You’re nervous. He pulls back, takes in the pout of your lips, the draw of your brows, wanting but unsure. He can’t. You deserve better than just hungry wanting. You should rest safe in the knowledge that he won’t leave in the morning.

Unfortunately that morning won’t come tomorrow.

Price strokes your cheek, kisses your forehead. It’s the end of an exchange, a decision made for both of you. you thought he’d be pushier. He was getting what he wanted, right? Maybe that was your own inexperience shining through, but you’d thought- Well you’d thought this was why he wanted you.

“What now?” You ask, trying to hide the confusion in your voice.

“Now?” He sighs it like it pains him, “Now, I leave, and you see me tomorrow.” You can’t say you aren’t relieved. Grateful that he isn’t pushing you for more so quickly. Still, you can’t help feeling a small sting of rejection.

"Even if I ask you to stay?" You push up onto your toes to try and meet his lips again, but he leans back to keep you a breath away.

"Especially if you ask." He tilts his head, and you feel like you’ve edged too close to a dangerous line. "When I fuck you," Price breathes, brushes his lips against yours, "and I will fuck you, Sweetheart," he assures you, "I want it to mean something.” He brushes your hair from your cheek, his fingers cupping your face like you’re something precious to him.

“Then, I’ll see you tomorrow?” You hope. Price smiles, and kisses you a final time. The feeling of him lingers when he pulls away. Gentle magic sticking to your lips as he pulls his hat on.

“And every day after that,” He promises.

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