Summary: Your favorite roommate is injured and being a stubborn ass. You won’t have it.
Word Count: 1.3k
Warnings: swearing, age gap, military work
A/N: I NEED HIM
Part 1 Masterlist
The morning light was grey and thin when you woke up again, pale beams streaming in from the crack in the curtains. You slept better than you had in days, wrapped up in his blankets surrounded by the familiarity of his scent. You were afraid of what that could imply for you and your future. Especially if he got called away again.
When you crept out to the main room, Mashka was draped across the couch, free of his boots but still in his army pants and undershirt, snoring away. You shook your head fondly before moving back to his room and dragging the blanket out. Carefully, you laid it over him, gently running your fingers over his hair before moving to the kitchen to make breakfast.
It was later than Mashka normally slept, and the fact that you hadn’t woken him said everything about how exhausted he was. Between his sleep deprived state and your carefully trained footsteps, you had managed to sneak around without waking him. You learned how to be quiet lest the heavy hand come down on you. Mashka didn’t know that. He didn’t need to. It was amazing he could hear you at all, but that was just his training.
The sound and smell of bacon and eggs filled the still air of the apartment. You were already more comfortable just knowing he was there. The what ifs didn’t feel quite so horrible when you weren’t just a girl alone in an apartment.
Your ears perked up as you served food, noticing Mashka’s snores quiet. You smiled as you glanced over your shoulder, Mashka slowly sitting up on the couch, the blanket falling down his torso as he moved stiffly. He looked at you, and his violet gaze drifted over your bare legs before moving to the plates of food in your hands.
“Good morning, sleepyhead,” you grinned, moving into the living room. You placed Mashka’s dish on the coffee table and took up residence in the arm chair beside the couch. With your legs curled up under you, you sat your plate on your knees and began to eat.
Mashka merely grunted his greeting and thanks all in one, picking up the plate and eating like a man starved.
“You cook better than me,” he said after awhile, nodding to his empty plate.
You arched a brow. “You literally drown everything in cayenne and call it flavor. Low bar to clear.”
That earned you the faintest smile, but it cracked when he took too deep a breath. You frowned as he looked down at his plate.
“Mashka… Are you okay?” You asked gently. You knew he wasn’t supposed to be home for a while yet.
His eyes flickered up to yours, guarded but casual. “I’m fine, doll. Just a scratch,” he said gruffly.
But you noticed the way his hand hovered near his side when he shifted on the couch. How his shoulders tensed when he reached for his coffee mug. How he pressed his lips together into a thin line every time he winced a little bit.
You slowly set your plate down. “It doesn’t look like just a scratch,” you said quietly.
“Don’t worry about me,” he tried for lazy sarcasm, but his voice held an edge of strain. “I’ve had worse. Much worse.”
You set your fork down much more forcefully than you meant to and flinched slightly. “Mashka—“
He waved you off, shifting like he meant to stand, “Leave it, doll, I’ll be fine.” He got up before you could get another word in, taking his plate to the sink and setting it down. With tense shoulders, he headed down the hall toward the bathroom.
You heard the shower cut on and muffled cursing as his belt buckle hit the floor. Your whole body flushed as you moved to the sink and focused on cleaning up after breakfast.
You weren’t sure how long it had been, but it felt like hours before Mashka came back out. You hoped you hadn’t upset him with your worry, but it was clear more than his pride was wounded. In gray sweatpants and a white t-shirt, he took up his usual spot on the couch, flipping on something familiar to watch.
You got out some ground beef to thaw for dinner and made sure you had everything to make meatloaf and mashed potatoes before heading back into the living room.
The sight that greeted you had your eyes widening.
“Mashka, you’re bleeding!”
“A-plus observation skills there, doll. It must have torn.” He sighed, wincing as he pulled the shirt away from the wound.
He moved to stand, and you snapped. “Stay put.”
He froze, eyes unreadable as he looked at you before slowly sitting back into the couch. “Bossy.”
“You’re about to see just how bossy I can be, sir, if you don’t fucking listen,” you stated with frustration as you went for the first aid kit in the kitchen. When you came back you gestured to him, “Take off your shirt.”
He eyed you carefully, hesitating before slowly pulling off his shirt. Your eyes went straight to the wound before you straddled one of his large thighs. “Doll—“ his hands hovered awkwardly over your hips as you shushed him.
You opened up the first aid kit before looking more carefully at the injury itself. You sucked in a breath. “You were shot. Is there an exit wound?”
You couldn’t read the look on his face as he watched you. “No.”
“Did they get the bullet out before sending you home?” You questioned.
“Yes.”
You breathed a sigh of relief before pulling out a cotton pad and antiseptic, dousing the pad with a generous amount of the liquid. You glanced up at Mashka and he nodded.
Carefully, you pressed the pad to his wound. He hissed through his teeth, hand coming to squeeze your hip as you gently cleaned it. “I’m sorry,” you whispered, making sure you were fast and thorough.
“You’re too gentle. Makes it worse,” he said tightly.
“Then grit your teeth. I’m not hurting you for no reason,” you said without hesitation.
That earned a small huff of laughter from his nose before you applied some antibacterial ointment over the injury and carefully taped some gauze over it.
“Your hands are shaking,” Mashka said quietly.
“You got shot,” you answered in the same tone, slowly putting away the first aid after triple checking that the tape was secure. You carefully counted his ribs without meeting his gaze. “It barely missed your heart.”
His hand, warm and callused, gripped yours enough to pull your attention back. “That’s what I do, doll.”
You looked down, avoiding his lilac eyes and the lingering warmth in them, trying to ignore the flush of your face and how right it felt that he held both of your hands in one of his. Looking down was of no help to you, however, seeing his broad chest and softer stomach covered in a thick nest of gray hair, thinner in places where there were scars. You looked to the side, knowing you were bright red.
Mashka cleared his throat, but you felt the rumble in his chest. “I think you’re just enjoying this now,” he teased.
You narrowed your eyes and swatted his chest, “Whatever, old man.” Carefully, you got up, collecting the first aid from the coffee table and beginning to leave.
Mashka caught your wrist as you went, and you looked back at him, still bare chested and bandaged. “Thank you,” he said, so quiet you almost thought you imagined it.
Slowly, you nodded, and he let go. You moved to the kitchen and put the kit away before preparing dinner, trying to ignore the warmth you felt just from being near him.
Summary: Your shared apartment feels empty without your companion, but that couldn’t be right. He was thrice your age and busy actively serving.
Word Count: 1.6k
Warnings: Age gap, but make it cutesy. Swearing, loneliness, tension, a hot Russian man x a grandpa fucker (me. You. Yeah, I see you. Pervert /j)
A/N: I told you guys this was the man for me
Masterlist
Mashka had been gone three days when you caught yourself setting two plates at the table for dinner. It wasn’t like you were expecting him to come home, but you had forgotten he wouldn’t be. Not for a long while at least. It was odd the way that thought made something in your chest ache and your stomach sink.
It was so quiet, and there was so much empty space without him. You had never minded the space he took up. It was familiar in an oddly comforting way. The apartment felt bare without his presence. Missing his boots by the door, and the faint scent of a cigar floating in from the balcony. His quietly sarcastic remarks or light teasing he had afforded you once you got settled in.
Letting you stay here was really just a favor to your parents. You needed to get out of the house, but rent was expensive. Mashka was content to share his space if it meant helping them out, and in turn, helping you out. You hadn’t anticipated getting so used to his company. Growing to appreciate the space he took up in your life.
It was especially apparent now that he wasn’t here. He had gotten called into the military base for a couple weeks. It had only been a few days and it already felt odd not having him around. He had assured you his part of the rent was already put aside to be automatically paid so that you wouldn’t have to worry about it.
You shook your head, pulling yourself out of your thoughts as you slowly put his plate back, dishing yourself up some food. Even the space on the couch was odd, the cushions worn from years of use. Shaped to him and only recently accommodating you. You missed the way he spiced his food, preferring things with a little more heat. It had never been your style, but you came to appreciate the way he used it to enhance the flavor of the dishes he made.
You moved through your every day chores as though by clockwork. Dishes, laundry, sweeping, dusting, cooking, rest and repeat. It was this almost tedium that you had gotten used to. It was easy for you to do these things as you had always done them, and Mashka was very grateful for the help.
But in tedium, came loneliness, especially with the absence of familiar faces. Between your dead end job and common house chores, you felt stuck.
You tried to eat in silence, but every scrape of the fork against the place made the space feel emptier. Even with your hand on the remote, turning up the volume did nothing to chase away the silence. Your dinner tasted off without the kick of whatever spices Mashka drowned everything in. You hadn’t quite figured out what it is he does, and he would never tell you, thinking it’s much more fun to watch you try and master it yourself.
You ended up abandoning the last half of your plate, preferring to curl up on the couch, the remote heavy in your hand. The shows you usually liked washed over your mind without sticking. The same things you liked watching over and over again just didn’t feel the same anymore. You wondered if you would ever get that joy back.
Still, you preferred the color and noise to the empty silence everywhere else.
Your phone buzzed on the couch cushion next to where you curled up against the arm. You didn’t recognize the number at first, but the area code made your chest tighten. You picked it up before it could ring again, pausing the tv.
“Hello?”
There was a low chuckle on the other end, rough and familiar. “Relax, doll, it’s me.” Mashka’s gruff Russian accent curled around you like a warm embrace.
You sat up a little big, pressing the phone tighter to your ear. “Mashka. You scared me—I thought it was a telemarketer or something.”
“You’d hang up on me that fast?” His voice carried that lazy sarcasm you’d grown so used to. Even muffled by static, it was a comfort.
“Depends,” you hummed. “Are you trying to sell me car insurance?”
“Ha. Not unless car insurance comes with cigars and whiskey now.” He paused, and for a moment you caught the background noise on his end—distant voices, boots on concrete. “How’s the apartment?”
“Too quiet,” you admitted before you could catch your tongue slipping.
He hummed, the sound low in his chest. “I’ll take that as a compliment. Means you noticed I’m gone.”
You rolled your eyes even though he couldn’t see it. “Don’t let it go to your head. Just means I don’t have anyone else to fight me for the remote.”
“Mm, sure,” he drawled. “That’s all it is.”
There was a beat of silence. Neither of you spoke, but you didn’t want to hang up yet. You wondered if he could hear your breathing the way you heard his.
“You keeping busy?” He asked finally.
You laughed dryly. “As busy as dishes and laundry let me be. Work’s the same. Nothing exciting.” You hesitated. “And you? You sound… tired.”
“Always am, doll,” he said simply enough. Though, the smile in his voice softened at the weight of the admittance. “Don’t worry about me. Just keep the place from falling apart till I get back, huh?”
You let out a small, quiet laugh. “I think I can manage.”
“Good girl,” he murmured, almost to himself, and then cleared his throat. “Alright, I should go. Just wanted to hear your voice.”
The words curled hot around your chest. “You can call whenever,” you told him quietly, like it was a secret.
“I will.” His voice dropped lower, the way it sometimes did when he would tease you. “Sleep well, doll. You sound more tired than I am.”
The line clicked dead before you could reply.
You sat there for a long time, phone still pressed to your ear, wondering how four little letters could turn your whole body inside out and back again.
You sighed as you looked down at the phone in your hand, frowning a bit. You knew you would be affected by his absence, you just didn’t know how much. Sufficiently tired, and happy to have heard from him, you made your way back to your bedroom. It was the smaller room of the two, but you had made it your own.
Posters and warm lights and photos lined the walls, and your bedside lamps matched the aesthetic to create a room that truly felt lived in. You stripped out of your day clothes and into an oversized t-shirt that was once your dad’s.
Curling up in bed, the room felt overly warm and uncomfortable. It was hard to relax even with the fan on and the door open. The silence pressed against you like a weight, growing heavier every second.
You tossed and turned, flipped your pillow, shifted again. Still restless. Your chest ached with something you didn’t want to name.
Eventually, you gave up.
You were going to just get up and go back to the couch; watch some tv and maybe fall asleep there. But your feet carried you down the short hall, slow and quiet as though someone might hear you.
The door to Mashka’s room creaked open softly when you pushed it. The smell hit you first—-smoke, leather, and something warm and distinctly him. The room was tidy. Lived in but careful, the way Mashka always was. A half finished painting leaned against the wall, a book of Poe’s poems sat open, face down on the nightstand, a deck of cards stacked neatly beside it.
You told yourself you’d only look. Just stand in the doorway, maybe peek inside.
But the bed was right there, unmade from the last morning he’d left in a hurry. The sheets still held the shape of him, the pillow still smelled like his skin and faint cigar smoke.
Like a child creeping into their parents’ bed after a nightmare, you slipped under the covers. The mattress dipped in places his weight usually pressed, and the familiar scent curled around you like arms holding you tightly. Your chest loosened, just enough to breathe.
You didn’t even realize you had drifted off.
The sound of the lock turning pulled you halfway awake. You thought you were dreaming. Heavy boots scraping across the hardwood and the low grunt of someone shifting weight.
Then came his voice.
“Christ, doll…”
You didn’t open your eyes, scared that you were just imagining that he was home. And finally, your eyes fluttered open, blearily catching the shadow in the doorway. Mashka stood there, broad frame filling the space even in the dark. His jacket hung open, his left hand pressed against his ribs.
He looked… tired, pained, and very, very real.
You didn’t move, your brows furrowing. Your tired mind couldn’t distinguish dreams from reality. He just stood there, silently watching. Something unreadable flitted across his expression but it was gone before you could think too hard and wake up all the way.
After a moment, he shook his head with a sigh. “Unbelievable.”
He didn’t try to wake you, didn’t demand an explanation or apology for intruding on his space. He looked at you, moving into the room quietly and setting his bag down before running a hand over your hair.
Quietly, he stepped back into the hall, boots heavy against the hardwood, and a few minutes later the couch creaked under his familiar weight.
His scent still wrapped around you, and you felt warm where his hand had made contact with you. Surely he wouldn’t have touched you if he had known you were awake. That made it all the more sweet.
Something was off in his gait and his scent, but you were too tired to figure out what it was.
Happy to have him home and content surrounded by his scent, you drifted back into sleep’s gentle arms.
A/N: Let me know if you want to be on the Mashka tag list!
Summary: Dinner had been so good, and he thinks he couldn’t possibly eat any more after finishing your stew. Little does Angel know what else you have in store for him. He’s soon to find out.
Word count: 1.8k
Warnings: Stuffing, feederism, praise, degradation, belly worship, belly riding, little bit of watersports at the end
A/N: If you see this, no you didn't
Masterlist
Angel had eaten four bowls of the chicken vegetable soup you had been working on all day, groaning with delight as he slurped up the rest of the broth. You smiled as you took the bowl from him, refilling it and handing it back.
He eyed you suspiciously as you worked on your first bowl still. “You trying to fatten me up?” He asked incredulously, pretending that thought didn’t send a spike of arousal right through his core.
You shrugged, chewing slowly before swallowing. “Would that be such a bad thing?”
His cheeks flushed, and he nearly choked on the broth going down his throat. Then he smelled the sweet aroma of chocolate cake, and his eyes flitted to the oven he didn’t realize had been turned on as well.
”If you’re okay with that, big boy,” you teased lightly, already seeing the way his throat bobbed and his cheeks flushed.
He can’t help the small whine that falls from his lips, his tail thumping against the couch in delight and arousal.
Which is how he wound up pants less in front of you as you slowly cut up pieces of the cake you baked, an almost gleeful and sinister glint in your eyes as you started feeding it to him.
It was smooth sailing for awhile, despite his already somewhat full stomach, but that didn’t last long with how dense the dessert was.
“God, you’re so fucking greedy aren’t you? Look at you…” You murmured, not unkindly—-more so in awe, a little breathless as you looked down on Angel. Arousal was hot in your stomach as you watched him greedily swallow another bite of the cake, his bloated stomach gurgling in protest.
He was wrecked. His cheeks were flushed a deep red, lips sticky with frosting and spit. The cake was nearly gone, and he was still opening his mouth for more, even as his stomach let out a deep, rumbling protest. His white undershirt clung to his chest, sweat collecting under each pec and the crease of his belly as it rode up, h showing the rise and fall of his heavy, labored breaths.
You brushed a crumb from the corner of his mouth and smiled, cupping his cheek. “Look at you, baby… you’re so full, aren’t you?” Your gentle thumb stroked under his eye over the permanent dark circle there. “But you’re still trying for me. That’s my good boy.”
He let out a breathy moan as you brought another forkful of cake to his mouth, and he took it without question, lips closing around it with a desperate, needy sound. His body trembled under your touch, belly twitching when you pressed your palm lightly into the tight, distended curve of it. It was so round now, skin stretched and flushed and so, so sensitive.
“Still hungry?” You whispered, voice dripping with honey. “Or just being brave for me?”
A wet burp bubbled out of him before he could answer, and you smiled, leaning in to kiss his sweaty temple. “That’s okay, you don’t have to talk sweet thing, just let me take care of you.”
You straddled his leg, thighs spread wide just from the thickness of it. Your free hand rested on his belly and pushed down into it until he whined, cheeks flushed and sweaty. His poor tummy rumbled beneath your hand and a belch flew from his mouth.
You mock pouted at him. “Poor thing. Sounds like you’re still hungry, hm?” You purred a bit sadistically.
Angel whined, his head tipping back as his stomach cramped from just the thought. But you had prepared such a delicious feast for him, and he didn’t want it to go to waste. Besides, he was still drooling just from the smell of the food you prepared. From dinner to dessert, the poor boy was completely stuffed and yet still eager to please you. And you were pleased watching him stuff himself silly and blow up like a balloon while making a mess of himself.
You shifted where you straddled his thigh, legs spread wide to accommodate the girth of it. He was big when you met him, but lately… he had been growing under your care and it made your heart race. Your slick soaked through your underwear as you ground down against him, just enough for him to feel it. The noise he made at the contact was soft, overwhelmed.
“You’re doing so good,” you praised, voice low and warm. “Eating every bite I give you, even when you’re stuffed to bursting. That tummy’s working so hard, isn’t it?” You ran your palm in slow, soothing circles over his engorged flesh, feeling it gurgle and churn under your touch. “Fuck, you’re amazing.” Your core pounded at the sight in front of you.
He moaned again, tipping his head back, lips parted and golden eyes glossy with effort and bliss.
“But I know you’ve got room for just a little more, right baby?” You whispered.
He nodded slowly, eyes fluttering shut, another groan falling from his lips as his hips shifted beneath you.
“You’re so easy to spoil,” you moaned, grinding your hips against his fat thigh. “I love watching you enjoy yourself like this. Love seeing how good I can make you feel just from feeding you.”
Your hand slid lower, resting gently on the base of his belly, lifting the heavy curve with both reverence and curiosity. He gasped—the weight, the pressure, the warmth—it was all so much, and yet not enough.
“There’s still dessert left,” you gently reminded him as he belched. You placed the forkful in front of his mouth. “Do you want it?” You smiled coyly.
He looked at you, eyes wide and pleading. His lips parted again—-not even a word, just pure need.
By the time you scraped up the last bite of cake, Angel looked absolutely ruined.
His mouth was slick and open, lips swollen and tacky with sugar. Icing clung to the corner of his mouth and his stubbled chin was glistening with drool. His tongue flicked lazily across his bottom lip, hunting for more—-even now, when he was clearly at his limit.
You let your eyes drift lower, taking in the full, obscene rise of his belly. It jutted up in a tight dome, skin flushed pink and stretched taut. The faintest reddish marks lined the sides from where it had ballooned too fast, and his happy trail of soft dark hair disappeared beneath the curve, just barely visible beneath the seam of his boxers. You could see it twitch slightly with every shift of breath.
Beneath your hand, his stomach groaned, the muscles spasming slightly from the relentless intake. Every few seconds it made a thick gurgling churn—-like something boiling under pressure. Each gurgle was louder than the last, greedy and exhausted all at once.
You rubbed your palm over the surface in soothing circles. “You did so good for me, baby,” you murmured, voice syrupy with affection. “Look at this tummy. You’re gonna make me cry, it’s so full.”
Angel moaned in reply, a low, dazed sound. His face was flushed and damp with sweat, curling where it stuck to his temple. His chest rose and fell in shallow pants like even breathing was too much right now.
You leaned in and kissed above his navel, right below the heaviest swell. His stomach gurgled in protest at the contact, a wet, pained noise rumbling up from deep inside. He let out a whimper.
“Shh,” you cooed. “I know, I know, baby. You’re stuffed, huh? Poor thing.”
He nodded weakly, eyes fluttering half-shut.
You straddled his thigh again, slowly this time, feeling it press up between your legs—thick and warm and perfect. Then, with agonizing care, you lifted yourself just high enough to ease your full weight down onto his bloated belly.
He choked on a moan, body jolting beneath you as a deep, thick belch burst from his lips without warning. His hands clawed at the blankets, back arching from the overstimulation.
“Oh fuck,” he gasped. “Fuck— too much—“
But you didn’t move. You just stroked his sides and hushed him, rocking your hips forward just a little. The pressure made his belly squelch and groan under you, the churn of digestion now loud and angry, but he didn’t tell you to stop. His breath hitched every time you ground against the crest of him, trembling as he took it.
“There you go,” you praised, voice rumbling with a low purr. “Take it baby. You’re doing so good. So full, so round… making me so proud,” you panted from the effort of rocking your hips.
He made a strangled noise, almost a sob, hips twitching up in spite of himself. You know he had soaked through his boxers. You could practically smell it on him.
You leaned back a little, adjusting your angle, letting your soaked underwear drag across the heat of him. The sweat on his belly made the drag sticky and perfect. The ridges of stretch, the sloshing liquid stew inside from dinner, the sharp angle of where his skin pulled—it was all so much.
He whimpered again as you bore down harder, rocking your hips with more need, one hand slipping beneath your waistband as your thighs trembled. His belly shifted with each movement, bloated and overloaded, his skin going from flushed to red where you pressed against it.
“Feels good, doesn’t it?” You whispered breathlessly. “You love being used like this, don’t you? Love being my sweet, greedy boy—so full you can’t move, just take it.”
He let out another helpless, satisfied belch, and you moaned, hand working faster. His belly gave another deep groan, something sloshing loudly under your weight, and the pressure made your climax hit like lightning.
You cried out as you came, hips stuttering against him, hands gripping his thick shoulders for dear life as your head dropped back.
Angel trembled under you, glassy-eyed and twitching, his stomach squelching weakly as it tried to recover from the abuse. You could hear the occasional bubble of air as his digestion tried to catch up, manifesting in the form of little hiccups that shook Angel’s chest and stomach.
He was wrecked. Teary eyed and glowing.
“Still hungry,” he slurred, barely audible as his eyes fluttered shut.
You laughed softly as you slid back to his thigh, pressing kisses to his stretch marks. “You’re out of your mind, sweetheart.” His boxers were completely soaked through from reaching his own release through your abuse. Through the smell of sex came the acidic tang of urine, and Angel’s cheeks flushed as he saw you examining his ruined state.
He looked away from you shyly. “I couldn’t hold it,” he admitted quietly.
You sucked in a breath, pretending that statement didn’t arouse you as much as it did. “Don’t worry about it, baby.”
And god, he looked so happy you could go for round two. He deserved to be fucked completely dumb, after all.
Summary: Reader is overly independent and Angel just wants to help. They fight :(
Word count: 1.6k
Warnings: Implied SH/scars, angst, hurt/no comfort, implied abuse, Angel is a sad boi
A/N: Haha my bad guys I cooked too hard
Part 1 Masterlist
You had found a better place for Angel on the nightstand beside your bed. Out of the way, but within reach, and in an open room with natural light. Of course, without the dateviators, all you saw was the plushie, but now you knew what you couldn’t see, and somehow it made you all the more eager to put them on.
When you do slide the glasses onto your nose, you don’t immediately see him, which is a bit alarming. You found him not far, just in the hall outside your bedroom examining the newer pictures hanging up.
Your steps were quiet from years of training yourself to be in your childhood. You peeked around the doorframe, watching him as he looked over each of the wall hangings. There was some kind of unreadable emotion on his face as he looked over everything. You crossed your arms under your chest, gripping your forearms as you watched him, faded scars hidden beneath your hoodie sleeves.
His eyes trailed over the decorations. Your graduation pictures in a collage, a photo strip with Sam from an arcade, a picture of you dancing with your grandfather when you were young right beside another of you with your grandma while she stitched Angel’s button nose on. Your BFA in customer service that landed you the job at Valdivian before you went into labor limbo. A painting you had finished a couple of years ago portraying a dragon from a game you’d always loved. There was an old calendar page with one of your favorite landscapes for the month of October, an x through the 18th. It was pinned to the wall beneath a crooked picture of your grandmother sitting on the porch of her old house. There’s a shadowbox with old concert tickets from the first concert you went to with Sam, and pressed flowers from corsages you’d gotten for high school dances with dates you didn’t even really like.
He hovers over a photo of you holding the keys to this house right out front when you bought it. You notice the more prominent wrinkles in your face, the bags under your eyes deeper and heavier. The years of working for customer service took its toll on you, making you wonder why you ever went after that career path and if you would redo it if given the chance.
You watched him for another heartbeat, thinking you were still unnoticed. But then, his voice, low and thoughtful, broke through the quiet.
“I used to imagine what your life might be like.” He didn’t turn toward you, angling his head to look at the photo of your grandmother stitching his nose on. “But it wasn’t like this. I didn’t know how to picture… all of it. You’ve lived so much more than I imagined. He finally turned his head to look at you, and you don’t know what you expected. Bitterness, maybe. But there was only awe, and a bit of sadness.
You didn’t know what to say, so you shuffled your feet in silence, looking at the floor. Your shame at feeling like you needed him overtook the urge to comfort him.
“You changed and grew. Lost things and gained others. And I—” His hand passed over the shadowbox without quite touching it, “I stayed the same. Waiting. Not knowing what you were doing.” He offered a small, bittersweet smile. “I’m glad I get to see it now. I just wish I could have been there.”
He side-stepped, a silent invitation for you to step out of the room.
“I knew you were there the whole time, you know. Trying to be quiet. You always did walk like a ghost when you didn’t want to be seen.” A beat passed, and his voice was gentler. “It’s okay. You can let me see you.”
You took a tentative step out into the hall, and his ear twitched toward you. You swallowed a lump in your throat. “It’s been a long time,” you said softly.
“You told me you wanted to be a cloud when you grew up.” His eyes still trail over the wall, lingering on your degree.
“I did?” There was a fair amount of being a kid that you didn’t remember, to your relief and chagrin.
“Yeah,” he nodded. “You said everything must feel lighter up there. Maybe things wouldn’t be so heavy.”
You almost laughed. “Wow. I was poetic and traumatized.”
“You were wonderful,” he told you softly. “You still are.”
You scoffed a laugh, shaking your head before moving downstairs toward the kitchen for breakfast. Moments later, Angel follows like a puppy on your heels. You grabbed the box of cereal from on top of the fridge and poured it into the bowl before opening Freddy to grab the milk. You gave him a small pat on the side as you put it back after topping up your bowl.
You sat heavily in one of the kitchen chairs, setting your phone face down on the table and starting to eat. Angel sat across from you, sighing quietly. You glanced up at him, noticing the heavy bags under his eyes that seem to match your own.
“Did you sleep at all last night?” You ask him. Somehow making conversation with him was more awkward having been with him your whole life than the objects you were mostly meeting for the first time. You had breathed so much life and love into Angel as a child that it didn’t feel the same having him be able to talk back. It was almost as though you were worried he wouldn’t like you seeing what you had become.
He huffed, “I didn’t want to just yet. I wanted to see you a little longer.”
The statement made your cheeks feel fuzzy, so you focused on your food. You had needed Angel for so long. And one day, you decided that you didn’t. After being reprimanded and told that you were childish for feeling like you needed something like him to survive, you packed everything away and never looked at it again. It had been hard to sleep for weeks after, but you eventually adjusted.
You were tense as Angel’s gaze floated around the room. He took in the pile of dirty dishes in the sink, the overflowing trash can, the pile of unopened mail beside the microwave, and the baskets of both dirty and clean clothes in the laundry room beside you.
He didn’t say anything, only sitting there with his hands clasped in front of him, watching you crunch on your cereal like he was memorizing the way you moved.
You stood, rinsing your bowl in the sink. If your jaw clenched any harder your teeth might crack. You could feel his eyes on you—soft and nonjudgmental, but somehow that was worse. You needed him to yell, to berate you for not doing enough, to do something other than just… sit there.
“I could help,” he said finally, his voice light. “With the dishes, or– anything you need, really.”
Something in your gut turns sour at the offer. You froze, bowl still in hand. It took too long to answer. “I’ve got it,” you muttered, scrubbing the dish in your hands a little too hard. “Don’t worry about it,” you tried to brush him off.
Something in your chest was tight, and guilt was a ball in your stomach, quickly tangling itself up in your intestines. “It’s no problem, really–”
You set the dish to the side heavier than you meant to. “No, it’s fine.” Your wrists were sore, and your back hurt, but you continued to soldier through the dishes. As though trying to prove a point, even though they had been piling up for weeks and you had resorted to old paper plates.
Angel was silent for a long time as you fought yourself through the dishes. Eventually, he spoke up, his voice soft.
“You don’t have to do everything alone.”
You froze, the water still running as you whipped your head around to glare at him.
“I said I’ve got it! I’m not some fucking kid anymore, I don’t need you.”
The words hit the tile like shattered glass, and for a moment, neither of you moved. You looked down at your hands hovering above the sink, red from the hot water.
You hadn’t meant to yell.
Or maybe you had.
Behind you, Angel sighed. Not angry, not surprised, just… sad. “I know you’re not,” he said carefully. “A kid, I mean.”
You stared harder at the sink, wondering if the heat of the water would melt you.
“I know you don’t need me.” A soft creak as the chair shifts under him. “I’ll go if you want me to.”
Your lungs stopped functioning, and you hated how quickly your stomach dropped at the thought.
But you didn’t say anything.
Angel stood anyway. You heard his footsteps as he headed toward you. Your head hung, not looking at him as he turned off the sink, not touching you.
“You’re allowed to be tired,” he said.
Then he added, gently, “Even strong people need help sometimes.”
Your cheeks burned with shame, and your stomach knotted as he left the room, and eventually, you couldn’t hear him at all. You would have to use another charge to bring him back, but… You had been warned against doing it twice.
And this time… maybe he wouldn’t come at all.
So you stood at the kitchen sink, silent, hot tears rolling down your cheeks as you turned the water back on and tried to finish your task.
A/N: Reposted from my main, those are taken down now!
Masterlist
He thought he might combust the minute your hands wrapped around his plush form, just sifting through old boxes in your attic. The way your eyes lit up when you found him again filled him with warmth and want. The way you practically giggled like a little kid again before squeezing his stuffie against your chest.
Then you looked up, the glasses on your face knocked slightly askew, and you followed the form up up up until you found the round, tired face with fluffy hair and ears, grinning at you bashfully as he rubbed the back of his neck.
Still holding the plush tightly, you looked up at your object given form. His tail wagged slowly from side to side looking down at you as you slowly stood from your kneeling position. You looked over him, from his fluffy hair, to the light scruff on his chin, to his soft body, he definitely looked like a stuffed animal given human form.
Though you knew that there was a chance for this, you didn’t realize he would be his own object. Most of the things stashed in the attic were all part of Lady Memoria, but he was special. Something that had been hand fed your love since you got him as a kid.
However, the logical part of your brain and the emotional part of your brain were currently at war with each other. One in which you just stared at him with wide eyes, blinking as you tried and failed to process what was going on.
You opened and closed your mouth once before finally mustering something up. “Angel?” The name you had chosen as a child due to his golden fur and fluffy softness. It was still fitting with the man standing in front of you.
His smile widens and his eyes crinkle, but at the edge of his lips you see sharp canines contrasting with his softness. “God I’ve missed you so much,” he said, sounding both in awe and relieved at the same time. “Did you come up here for me, or…?” He scratched his neck, cheeks turning a pretty pink. You heard what he didn’t say. Was I remembered? Was I wanted?
You couldn’t help the way your eyes teared up from seeing him, and you really couldn’t help the way you just wanted to break down and fall into him like you did as a small child after falling off your bike. Holding him with bandaged knees while you cried because it still hurt. Now, it felt like it took much less to bring you down. A simple inconvenience was enough to send you spiralling. It was so much easier to get up and keep going when you were a kid.
But looking at Angel… you felt like that again. Like it might be okay if you just had a snuggle and a cry before getting back up and trying again.
“Um, this might sound strange, but can I give you a hug?” You managed to stutter out through the tears rapidly building behind your eyes.
“Oh, please,” he answered quickly, his tail wagging faster as he opened his arms to you.
Without hesitation, you burrowed into his softness, just letting his arms wrap around you as you tucked your face into his neck. Your body shook with quiet sobs as he squeezed you comfortingly, rubbing your back and petting your hair gently.
The stuffie itself had felt so big when you were small, and as you got older, that scale tipped and tipped and tipped until you were all grown up and packing for college, putting him away in a box to not be seen for years. And now that he was in front of you, it felt much the same as back then, your size ratios returned to the way they were always meant to be.
“Oh God, I can’t believe I left you in here for so long, I’m so sorry,” You managed as you cried into him. You couldn’t even imagine what it must have felt like being crammed in that box in the attic away from the light of day for so long. How maddening that would’ve been to anyone.
He hushed you gently, “It’s alright, you’re back now, right?”
“Yes,” you said. “Yes, I promise I’m not leaving you in here anymore.” He would be going back to your room where he belonged. “I just have to finish going through this stuff for Lady Memoria first,” you told him. “She said she’s tired of the clutter,” you pulled away from him slowly, wiping your eyes on your hoodie sleeves with a wet laugh.
“Oh, sure, yeah, no problem. Can I stay?” He asked, and all you could do was smile.
“Of course, Angel.”
You knelt back down in front of the box of old junk, mostly holding things you no longer cared about. Things that only gave you that ache of nostalgia and lingering pain from that time in your life. The only thing that didn’t was Angel, but even looking at him for too long would make you tear up.
He was the one solid in your world of chaos as a kid. Reliable… safe, when nothing else was. He had been a gift from your grandmother when you were small. And as you grew up, he was never far from you, quickly becoming your number one.
You sat with the stuffie itself in your lap as you sifted through the things. Old CDs, dolls you collected, a hacky sack… Nothing of note.
Not until you got to the bottom of the box when you picked up the old cloth collar that used to be attached by string to Angel’s neck. It had long since broken and fallen off, but you reached for it anyway. The cloth was soft and worn between your fingers, and it smelled like the old wood of your grandma’s house. The house that had been sold when she passed several years ago.
The ache still weighed heavily in your chest when you thought about her. Your home away from home. The woman who made your life magical. All of that had disappeared when they found cancer in her lungs. Your beautiful world shattered by reality, and all the bright colors fading to a muted black and gray. The color hadn’t returned since.
You took a heavy breath, trying to shake the weight of grief from your shoulders as you rubbed the collar between forefinger and thumb, flipping it over. Words embroidered in golden thread, hand-stitched by her still made your heart ache.
To hold you when I can’t, sweet pea.
Your eyes betrayed you, watering of their own accord as you glanced up to where Angel had sat down and made himself comfortable across from you against the wall. He saw the tears about to fall and just smiled sadly.
“She always knew,” he said quietly, “exactly what you needed.”
And all you could do was nod. Gently, you wrapped the collar around the stuffie’s neck, fastening it with the metal and brushing a thumb over it gently. You held stuffed Angel up next to the real Angel and compared the two.
The only major difference—besides the obvious—was that real Angel’s collar had a button sewn into it, whereas stuffed Angel had a button for a nose. An accident with your Aunt’s dog had the stuffie’s nose bitten off. You cried about it to your grandma, and she delicately sewed a button in its place. The same button that was now worn around his neck.
He watched you quietly, giving you the time and space you needed to process your emotions despite you not wanting to process them at all.
“She was always gentle,” you said quietly.
“She was,” he quietly parroted. “I still remember that song she used to sing to you in bed.” He quietly started humming as you packed everything unimportant back away and set the box by the door to be donated later. The familiar melody pulled at your heart in a way you hadn’t been prepared for.
You hadn’t even remembered that song. Not until he sang it.
It hushed the crying child in you one last time as you closed the door to the attic and Angel disappeared, his plush still cradled in your arms.
No, you wouldn’t be leaving him there anymore.
A/N: Pookie wanted to read this and I took it down on main, so I had to post it here <3 good to start up my masterlist >:)
I look in the mirror at myself, body, mind, me, just me. I am a broken man; many a year tearing my body to bits and pieces that I leave scattered on the floor for the maggots to collect. Bit by bit my body is torn apart and thrown away. One day I’ll rot for good, be gone forever; leaving this home to collect dust in the cold, barren, forest city I inhabit. Left to rot just like me.
I rot to condemn my soul and body for the life I possess, the life I live although if I had a choice I’d choose to give it away. Maybe then I’d find some peace in their world, maybe then I’d lay to rest. Dying just as I’d hoped, but alas I’ve sinned so I don’t get to die peacefully. My body, my gender, my soul, a sin decided by the fools who rewrote history. The same fools who rule over the land.
So by the word of the false gods I am condemned to a life of misery, reliving the nine layers of hell for eternity on the crucifix built by the damned. Rotting away for good just as those who nailed Jesus to the cross have cursed upon me.
My home will perish with me, we will rot together as one body and soul; for we have loved. The sins of intertwining our souls, sewing ourselves together and melting into one, a horrid yet grotesque beauty I have become. They will nail me bloody and broken to the crucifix that Christ was forced on, I will bleed for the sins of the false gods that walk among humanity. As the human race, we will be condemned for the sins of our lords and lordeses, forever living through the 4 horsemen's creation, a disturbing apocalypse where we are forced to live and die at the hands of our false saviors.
Ch2 part 2
I am a man made by god's filthy rotten hands. The same hands that caressed and molded my body into the mutilated shape of a woman, he cursed me with a plump vagina that only a body born man could enjoy, he forced upon me the breasts full and round that fill out my awful shape, only there to be stared at and ogled by the strangers I pass on the street. He cursed me with the body of a woman; he tortured my male soul with the body of a woman. My body, the body I couldn’t love, the body I hated, the body that left me aching wishing to tear myself apart and leave nothing except a bloodied, rotting corpse.
Still, I can’t bring myself to take those parts away. If I hate them so much why do I make the choice to leave them be, to find love in a body I condemn, a body filled with fiery hatred and spite, A body I once wished would perish with my very soul. Why now can I look at myself in the mirror without raising my hand and shattering the reflection of my grotesque form to pieces. Why can I now see myself for who I truly am in the body I was born with, not upset or torn anymore, just at peace.
I see myself now, plump, round, weight unevenly distributed, hairy, fat, and now all I can feel is love. How can one’s perception of themselves change so drastically, how did I, a man who once thought of himself as a malformed, misshapen monster, find love in himself?
I wouldn't be able to love myself if it hadn't been for them. The men I long for, the men I spent nights yearning for, lying in bed dreaming of any situation where I'd be happy. Maybe one day I would think to myself. Yet they brought those thoughts I once thought of as foolish fantasies, dreams even, to reality. Eddie, Volt, the people who fuel the fire of my heart, those keep the broken machine from failing for good.
A/N: this is written from the perspective of William Howard Jones my date everything oc ^^
“He cursed me with a plump vagina that only a body born man could enjoy, he forced upon me the breasts full and round that fill out my awful shape, only there to be stared at and ogled by the strangers I pass on the street.”
That paragraph in of itself describes womanhood and what it feels like to live in these bodies whether you feel at home in it or not.
I think you just inspired me to start writing a journal for my favorite OC. I already have an rp account for her I can post it there but oh my god
It’s so raw and I know what you mean by saying this OC is so close to home for you because you poured your heart and soul and experiences into him.
Dove Williams, 61yr, trans male, afab, he/him, ex-militairy
Likes: reading, dogs, cats, Electrical engineering, his lovers
Dislikes: nosey people, fireworks, horses
Gender:
Dove identifies as a man he's on testosterone and has top surgery but doesn't have nor want bottom surgery.
Sexuality:
Dove is aroace queer with no preference, he's never felt romantic or sexual attraction until Eddie, Volt, and the player
Kinks and fetishes:
Dove is a virgin and has never dated anyone until the player, Eddie, and Volt due to being aroace. On top of that he's never really felt the need to masturbate so his body is incredibly sensitive.
Dove gets off on being called puppy or good boy
Kinks: piss/watersports, stuffing, body worship, praise
Diagnosis: Autism, OCD, bipolar, schizophrenia, cptsd, tics when overstimulated or having a panic attack
Likes: reading, lambs, baking, painting, plants, gardening, music, cranberry juice, Psychopomp (steam game), Alice madness returns, Fran bow, uncanny valley effect, surrealism, exploring forests, slasher films, film in general,
Dislikes: socialization, small talk, fireworks, loud noises, crowds, being overstimulated, the general public
Gender and sexuality
He's nonbinary and views his gender as incredibly complex but enjoys having facial hair and a masculine voice so he takes testosterone.
He describes his gender as queer but relates to the feeling of rotting, bones, deer, flowers, fungus and the forest in general, he feels like his gender is the cycle of life and art itself.
He enjoys being referred to as male but doesn't identify as such, like using he/him, boyfriend, husband, handsome, etc
He's queer, his attraction to men is like a gay man and his attraction to women is like a lesbians, his attraction to nonbinairy people is t4t, he has no preference for gender
He's aroace, he's never felt romantic or sexual attraction in his entire life that wasn't for a fictional character, he's specified that it the character has to be drawn or painted it can't be live action. He hasn't felt attraction to a real person/people until the player, Eddie, and Volt.
Ellie doesn't desire top or bottom surgery because the only problems he had were with his voice and lack of facial and body hair, which was fixed after taking testosterone and getting those things.
Backstory and love life TW disturbing content
Ellie is the players housemate
Ellie grew up in a neglectful home, his mother was a drug addict, and his father wasn't present in his life. His mom passed away from overdose when he was 18. His mother only paid attention to him when she wanted something from him. When drunk she would hurt him or beg him to get her more money for her substances.
He has a history of self-harm and suicide attempts; he spent most of his childhood from 5-19 in and out of mental hospitals. He was bullied from a young age for his identity by most people including other trans and queer people, he lived his life never being thought of as human or understood by his peers.
Ellie has only ever been asked out as a cruel joke. He's never dated or had sex until Eddie, Volt, and the Player.
Behaviors
Ellie doesn't speak much and when he does, he's very quiet, this comes from nobody paying attention to him in his childhood or being punished for talking when he did.
When he gets overwhelmed, he taps his left inner arm with his right hand repeatedly as a soothing gesture.
During Ellie's panic attacks he gets stuck in OCD induced tic loops where he can't stop repeating certain words or phrases and making expressions in a certain order, this is very distressing for him
Ellie dislikes being around people when he's having a panic attack or meltdown, he doesn't like when people try to help him during his meltdowns or panic attacks; it makes him angry.
Ellie is very sensitive to jokes; he takes things very literally and tends to not understand sarcasm or jokes like most people do.
Ellie spends most of his time reading, playing games, or listening to music.
Sexual:
Ellie enjoys being held during sex,
Ellie prefers soft sex and can't handle anything relating to pain or being tied up because it triggers him.
Ellie dislikes being degraded and it makes him feel self-conscious or worthless.
He enjoys being called good boy and handsome
Kinks/fetishes: body worship, piss/watersports, musk/scent/sweat, praise
Ellie's love:
Ellie is devoted to the player, Eddie, and Volt. He loves them with his body, heart, and soul. Ellie only looks at them full of love, he's honest and blunt and would tell them if he didn't like something immediately.
Mashka Lipovsky, 67yr, Russian, Ex-Colonel in the American military , Trans male
Likes: ethnic food, drinking, baking, sewing, the ocean and sealife, Edgar Allan Poe and his work, spicy food, card, dogs, painting
Dislikes: caviar, non-spiced food, small talk, the smell of birch, mowed lawns, commercial areas
Aus:
Sage- Mashka is the players ancestors past war equipment that was passed down as a family heirloom
Amber- Mashka is the players roommate that helps them with rent there’s a lot of sexual and romantic tension between them but neither has made a move towards the other
TBA
Sexual preferences:
He’s a bottom but leans more dominant, he has no preference for gender or genitalia
Kinks:
Daddy kink
Feederism
Stuffing
Creampie
Cumflation
Piss/watersports
BDSM
Pet play
Spanking
Body type: Mashka is muscular and really hairy with a bit of fat
