#elijah carpenter

[breakrooms]

Hansel, does your ipad baby boyfriend keep you up at night? You might be entitled to financial compensation! (head)

A little doodle from a cursed conversation with @daemondaes' Hansel!

[breakrooms]

@daemondaes sent: [39.] receiver, fully clothed, fucks a naked sender. (reversed it for cherry and—!)

He's confident it's a dream when he realizes he's naked. Stark naked, in fact, all pasty and pink with nowhere to hide. Elijah blinks. A lazy, slow drag of his head has him finding a familiar tuft of pink hair at his side. Pink hair. Pink. Who the fuck does he know that has pink--

In all his naked glory, Elijah scrambles. His dream has him met with an empty abyss. Darkness on all sides for miles, yet there's nowhere for him to go. Before his very eyes stands Cherry fucking Martini, standing with her hands pridefully on her hips and a dark look in her eye. Feels a little rude that she's dressed in a short suit. The cut of the dress shorts sit just above her thigh, leaving a gorgeous smooth leg fully exposed. Then the jacket. A dazzling thing that plummets down the neckline. Why is that making him feel something?

Oh my god do I like chicks? No. This is a dream. This is fine. I can be straight in the occasional dream.

There's little room for rationalization when a heeled foot makes contact with his scrawny chest. Elijah's brows raise, lost in pure shock as he's kicked onto his back with a huff. His reaction is immediate, a breathless gasp has his hands clambering to his crotch, desperate to conceal the last crumb of his dreaming dignity. The action comes fruitless as Cherry grips at his wrists. With immense strength (not that she needs it), his arms are hauled taut above his head.

Just like that, Elijah is defenseless. Naked, hard, and completely pinned by Cherry. She's grinning now, the bitch. Lips curled into a smug smile as the toe of her heel drags down his torso. His stomach flexes, a burning twist of anticipation surges through his veins. Lower and lower it drags. Such hard pressure leaves a trail of blanched skin in it's wake, white disrupting the pink from neck to navel. His whole back arches into it. A desperate curve into degradation that only sends her kicking him back down. He whimpers.

"Holy shit, please." He squints his eyes, face twisting as the heel scrapes through the mess of hairs. "Oh, fuck, yeah, come on."

His cock is pulsing now. Standing as tall as it can with it's pink head exposed, dribbling all over himself. She's not touching it. Why isn't she touching it? Please fucking touch it. Elijah rocks his hips upward, forcing the shaft to smack on the back of her exposed heel. That earns something, at least. Cherry looks at him with a raised brow. At first, he thinks it's flirty. That she recognizes his desperation and is preparing to tease him more. It isn't. Elijah's face contorts in horror as she brings her leg back entirely.

"Cherry."

Elijah can't move. He's stuck. Trapped watching as she fucking reels back for a kick. He jerks and jolts, watching as horror as she prepares to slam down right on his sugar cubes. Fuck. He knew he wasn't straight. This is terrible.

"Cherry! Don't! Stop!"

He wakes with a start, naked and sweaty, with a peculiar ache in his balls.

[breakrooms]

@daemondaes sent: [32.] sender makes receiver watch themselves in the mirror while being fucked. (hansel to eli 🫶).

Elijah is the first out of the shower. Nothing but a fluffy green towel around his hips, he stands in the mirror. He pokes and prods at his gaunt face, scratching at the odd unshaved hairs on his chin as he waits. Hansel needs more time–he often does in Elijah’s shower. A useless, tiny thing that dribbles water like a twenty year old dog taking a piss. There’s no space for him to get clean, apparently. Of course, Hansel put it far more politely, but Elijah understood his point. The guy is huge, he probably considers scrubbing his pits a sport. There’s a lingering thought in Elijah’s mind about that. Maybe he’ll bring it up later.

Nah, he probably won’t. But the thought is enough for his mind to wander. The evidence of that is clear on his chest. Splotches of far too interested pink kiss their way down his torso. Elijah sucks back a breath. They’ve already done that. That’s why they showered. Stop it.

It doesn’t stop. In fact, it worsens. The first twitch of his reemerging interest tents underneath the terrycloth. Elijah groans. He has shit to do. They both do. Hansel is getting breakfast with Cyrille later, and Elijah has patients starting at ten. Their important itinerary can’t be shattered by Elijah’s insatiability. As much as he wants to deal with it before Hansel gets out of the shower, the stream abruptly cuts off. Hansel’s large hand pulls back the slimy curtain with a swift tug, exposing the broad expanse of his naked chest to Elijah’s wandering eyes. The twitch is no longer a twitch, it’s a throb. One Hansel is evidently aware of as he moves to join him.

First, it’s soft. It always is. Hansel’s gentle smile culminates in a sweet kiss to Elijah’s temple—something he reciprocates by pecking his chest. Only, when Elijah stops, Hansel keeps going. Studious kisses trail from temple, to his nose, to his lips. Elijah makes a quick note of the probing nudge at his hip. A knowing laugh dares to bubble out of his throat before he reels himself back in. Things. To do. Cyrille. Work.

“I haven’t done my teeth yet.” He notes through a mumble, turning his cheek before Hansel can catch a whiff of the same breath he was swallowing an hour earlier. Elijah knows he’s being ignored when the large hand plays at where he’s tucked his towel. Hansel’s lips find his cheek, travelling from the flushed freckles to the nub of his ear. Goosebumps dance along his skin. Tiny prickles of delight despite any attempts at vocal discouragement. This is what he gets for suggesting Hansel be more spontaneous, God forbid he asks for a little more than the best military of his life. Before he can lay down any more complaints, Elijah is spun around over the sink.

Hansel reaches past him; far too comfortable in nudging open his medicine cabinet, finding the familiar line-up with ease. With half of Hansel’s body weight on top of him, Elijah finds himself breathlessly bent over the sink. Strong thighs completely pin him. Elijah just knows he’s red. As a fucking tomato, probably, given the steam coming out of his ears. He jolts when the cabinet closes. Partially from the distinct slam of its door, but mostly from the sight he’s left with. His own reflection paints a perverse sight. Elijah stares, slack jawed, as his slight frame is consumed by Hansel’s from behind, and in the bastard’s hand is a half empty tub of vaseline. 

The first push is met with little resistance. He’s still surprisingly open from their first round. Elijah’s eyes go wide as he stares at Hansel’s face. Furrowed brows. Parted lips. Such devoted focus for a man invading his asshole. The snark sees itself out when Hansel thrusts. Short and sharp, fully seating himself inside the tight heat. Elijah writhes, hands now desperately clinging to the sink basin as he gets his bearings. Hansel’s thighs press tight against his own, lifting only at the first tantalizing drag back out of him. The emptiness is both agony and relief. At first, Elijah’s eyes roll back into his head, enduring the rocking waves of the next few experimental thrusts. 

Time isn’t on their side, forcing any languid teasing to be forgotten. Hansel moves. Slow rolls turn into quick ruts. Each one laden with the shared desperation to just fucking come. Elijah’s eyes snap back open in shock when Hansel reaches around to grab his cock. He’s utterly transfixed on it. The vision of his flexing bicep sends his head swimming—or maybe it’s the fact that he’s now pumping his cock at the same pace he’s fucking his ass. A repetitive ‘snap, snap, snap,’ of skin meeting skin fills the space. Its only melodic counterpart is the shared grunts between them. Hansel pushes more of his body weight onto him, forcing the air even further out of his lungs as the angle changes. He can see all of it. The frantic pace of Hansel’s hips and hand. The cataclysmic focus on his face. The broken want of his own. It’s too much.

Elijah goes first—forced to watch his lips part in that forbidden ‘o’, contorting around the sink as he spills across Hansel’s hand. He’s accompanied shortly after, still shaking with his own aftershocks, Elijah whines at the sudden slam of Hansel’s hips. He’s filled instantly. Both with the hard, pulsing length of Hansel, as well as the thick rush of come unloading into him. The tiny, instinctual jerks come to an end, leaving them both as sweaty and panting as they were before the shower. “Fucking… just turn the water back on.”

[breakrooms]

@unmichka sent: 🍻:^) (Send "🍻" for the receiver to take care of an intoxicated sender!)

It's not a sight he expected. Well, actually he did, just not here. The blonde has let it slip here and there that she enjoys her drink, and Elijah has always guessed that 'enjoys' might be putting it lightly. Hey, he can't judge. He himself had hobbled to the door with a gait tainted with a shot of gin. So now, he stands-- Moreso follows, awkwardly guiding Yelena through his decrepit apartment in the hopes she finds his couch. Both palms rest upward, constantly alert at any slight stumble she takes.

"I'm not gonna ask how you found my address." He mutters, recoiling with a wince as she kicks at one of his takeout containers. Empty. Thank god. There's one around here with mold in it. "Please, make yourself at home, Jesus, H."

The bitterness in his tone hardly matches the sobering concern on his face. One moment he's resentfully slamming the container in the bin, the next, he's hesitantly cupping her shoulders to ease her onto the couch. His lip curls at the action--watching her with squinting eyes as she seems to just fall into place. Ratty corduroy gives instantly, succumbing to the invasion of her weight. Elijah stands. He stares. There's a silence between them that forces his chest to lurch. She's curled into the fucking thing. All hunched shoulders and pressed-kneed. Fuck.

Before he can think better of it, Elijah brings up a hand. First he wipes it across his robe--he'd splashed water on himself when he heard the hard knock--a haphazard swipe that wipes the remnants of his own shame away. Then, crouching down with a distinct pop of his knee, he pats at her head.

"You're, uh, you're good. Here. With me." His lips press into a tight line. He quickly tries to correct it with an attempt at a smile. Isaiah would know what to say. A reluctant sigh has him pulling away. Already tensing his fingers as he retreats to his kitchenette. "Let's get you some water, okay? Stay put. You just... hang out. Right there. Don't...move."

[breakrooms]

a moody starter for @unmichka

"So, I'm really grateful you decided to actually step into my office, but this is not at all what I pictured."

Elijah sighs; pressing the heels of his dry palms into the hollows of his eye sockets, wincing tight as the crack of the reception space permeates his dark office. His weary body is now half illuminated. His sweater is thrown across the back of his chair, and his glasses are somewhere in the unsorted mess of his desk. A thing of spectacle as he lays across his own floor.

Eventually, his arms fall to the shaggy rug, fingers embedding in the fluff as he attempts to breathe. A tight, strained breath in. A worse, ragged exhale out. Not once does he bother to look at her. A surprise like this would be welcome any other day. Today it's just another fucking bump in the road.

"What are you even here for? Didn't Russell say I was... occupied?"

[breakrooms]

I really like character lore. Like more than I do writing. To encourage myself to write it down more I present some good, bad, and ugly facts about my blorbs. Elijah, Eddie, and Grant facts under the cut.

Between the completion of his thesis and his work at Oxentrate, Elijah briefly volunteered at a troubled youths facility. His work saw him overseeing a few group projects for teenagers in and out of home, transient in their own way for reasons he could understand.

During one art session he brought one of his old scrapbooks from his high-school days, nervously sharing the story of his dreams of being a famous photographer. He thought--much like back in high-school--they'd tease him for it. Kids being kids and all that.

They complimented the work--telling him it was 'alright' and 'pretty cool'. At the time, he had to work back the lump in his throat and tell them to get their cameras ready.

He has a picture of that group in his home office, tucked aaaall the way at the back of his bookshelf.

When Eddie first learned angels could change their human appearance, they were enraged. Decades trapped in a body they couldn't see themself in, forced to be an image of beauty and not love, exposed as a fruitless, avoidable experience. Devastation is too small a word to describe it.

The hoarse screams of betrayal to their father seemed to go on for an eternity. His calm presence an even worse gash to the wound. People understand a womanly form better. He'd guided Humans are fickle, simple thinkers. No rationale soothed the pain, and Eddie once more, at the end of their wits, flung themself to Earth. This time, they didn't care where or how they landed.

It did not help, at all, when they ended up landing in 1960s Soho, suddenly forced to come to terms with all the ways a human body could look.

Grant tells himself his divorce came out of nowhere. Loraine couldn't handle the travel. She didn't support his drive. Time changed them both. It's the same rehashes of the same excuses every time; never once truly looking inward. Though sometimes, over a stiff drink in his office, he does contemplate.

Maybe he could have been nicer when the IVF didn't work. Maybe he should have spent less time with his assistant. Maybe he should have flown back for her mother's funeral.

But then, like every night those quiet moments come around, Grant can only shake his head. She could have let go of the idea of children. She could have trusted him with the younger woman. She was grown enough to face those things without him. It's not his fault.

It's not.

[asyouknowrpg-blog]

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