#implied slash

[mysticpuppywanders]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Merlin was exhausted, but he couldn't give up. He had to get the spell to work.

Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon

[zandragorin]

Outside, People Talk

Inspired by this lovely art and its accompanying piece by @yesbocchan

You can also read this on Ao3 ^^

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Outside, people are talking. Whispering. They all know that someone’s here.

Here with him. Harry Potter. The Chosen One. The Boy Who Lived. The person they know by little else but the names they had chosen to condemn him with.

Harry wishes they know who it is— who makes Harry shiver and tremble underneath questing hands, night after night, until the night bleeds light and the darkness gives way to the sigh of morning, of another day where they’d have to wait under the guise of moonlight to come together and come apart. Harry wants all of them to know how he chants Draco’s name like a prayer, a benediction of which Draco answers with prayers of his own.

Harry wants them to know. Wants them to see the kisses he sears on Draco’s skin, wants his hands to leave glowing imprints of mine-mine-mine and cleanse Draco’s body of anyone’s touch other than his. He wants to lay claim to Draco as he pushes in, Draco’s heat enveloping him, coating his being.

Welcoming.

Accepting.

Owning.

But at the same time, Harry doesn’t want them to know— how he has Draco’s body so deeply imprinted to his memory that Harry’s hands can see, and his mouth can feel, and his eyes can whisper, and even when all his senses become overloaded with Draco, confused and lost they are not. Even blind in the night, deaf in the forced hush of secrecy, incoherent with desire, Harry knows how to make his lover fall apart.

Harry wants them to know that Draco has a map of Harry’s body on his mouth, on his palms, on the tips of his fingers. That he knows all the routes to guide Harry into songs of praises and pleas and sighs and exaltation. That Draco frees Harry with his strong hands, pins him into calm surrender and release. That Draco gives Harry so much, so much, so much more than he deserves and Harry fears one day Draco would find someone else more worthy— who can give him as much as Harry takes each night, who can leave him with something more than Harry can each morning.

Draco is so much more than Harry deserves and Harry doesn’t want them to know.

Rage and anguish chase away the last peaceful slivers of sleep just as Harry thinks of someone else seeing Draco right this moment— sleep-soft and languid and open and his— seeing how Draco allows Harry to savor the remaining tendrils of night before it’s completely wiped away by the banishing rays of sunlight.

Harry kisses Draco’s chest, lets the echo of last night’s kisses warm the cold jealousy and paint contentment on his lips. He smiles. ‘Morning’.

Draco touches him like Harry’s worthy of this tenderness, cups his face and kisses him like he’s hung the stars and the moon, kisses Harry like nothing else matters.

‘Morning’, comes Draco’s voice, hushed in the sea of secrecy that they are starting to drown in. They stay close, huddled, barely managing to stay afloat.

Harry kisses Draco. Each kiss is a breath of air, each kiss is a pull to the surface, each kiss is leading them to shore, away from the tug of the dark waters they chose to hide in.

Harry’s thick bed curtains muffle the growing whispers beyond it, but there’s no darkness to hide them now. There’s no ocean of moonlight to drown in. There’s only the brightness of grey eyes lit by streams of sunlight, threatening to be dimmed by uncertainty and questions as Draco looks at Harry. Waiting. Harry thinks, hoping.

Harry wants them to know. Wants them to see the brightness and brilliance and warmth he sees in Draco’s eyes even when they’re in the cover of shadows and night. Wants them to see that Draco glows brighter than the moon, twinkles brighter than the stars, shines brighter than the sun. For Harry. Because of Harry. Because of them, together.

It’s for him and Draco. Not for anyone else. ‘We don’t owe them anything,’ he whispers, just for the two of them. And as he straddles Draco’s hips, watches the uncertainty and questions gradually fade and burst into delight and affection and love as grey eyes watch him, Harry feels warmth explode in his chest alongside the courage that makes his voice fill the room. ‘What are you waiting for, Malfoy?’

They surface, no longer drowning. They surface, no longer cloaked in heavy shadows, bathed in warm sunlight.

Outside, people are talking. Whispering. They all know that Draco's here.

And Harry couldn’t be happier. 

[rainbowredrobin]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

7th October/Halloween prompt : ghost.

JayDick. Dick gets a new apartment, Jason is the ghost inhabiting it.

[femmescripter]

Neighbor Types of the Voltron Team Headcannon

•Shiro = The flirty/crazy twenty-something. By chance Shiro moved to a housing complex where a lot of people his age lived. He moved to this area mainly because it was close to the fitness center where he worked as a self defense teacher. One particular neighbor Shiro has is very flirty twenty-something year old woman. Almost every day she would use various tactics to convince Shiro to go out on a date with her, however he would often make up excuses not to go. Finally he let her down in as nice a way as he could. But even though he was a gentleman about it the rejection still made the woman snap and she quickly went from flirty to cray-cray. She sent Shiro stalker-ish letters on a daily basis for a week until she finally went too far and broke into his house with a knife to carve her name into his chest! Luckily though Shiro’s service dog Angelique the Pomeranian chomped on the wench’s leg and bit the hell out of her. Shiro then called the police and the raving woman was carted off.

•Pidge = The young at heart elderly couple. It’s a known fact that Pidge doesn’t like hanging around those of her generation, not counting her friends. So she decided to move to an apartment complex that consisted primarily of senior aged residents. Pidge actually got a long with a lot of her older neighbors and often helped them set up their Internet modems or fix their electronics. But her favorite neighbors was a tech savvy, oldie but goodie couple. Pidge often hangs out with them and plays multiplayer games with them or attend technology conventions together. Sadly though Pidge had to move to another state in order to apply to work at a tech firm. Her young at heart neighbors understood and actually made a surprising reveal to Pidge; their daughter is an executive at the firm Pidge is going to work at. So they tell her all about Pidge’s work and the daughter gladly accepts Pidge as an employee. Pidge remained close friends with the parents of her new boss, and even attended their funerals when they died.

•Allura = The social climbing opportunist. Because she is from a rich family, many people try to become friends with Allura for their own personal gain. It’s not uncommon for people to try and borrow money from her or attempt to freeload in her house. But Allura always turns them down, being a great deal more streetwise than folks give her credit for. After she moved to a new town she tried to keep a low profile so that no one knows her esteemed background. But this one neighbor did, and he was the worst kind of person she could ever deal with. He was a social climbing opportunist pushing forty, which meant he was at the end of his youth and thus couldn’t charm women like he used to. Even teenage girls were now looking at him with disinterest. So when he learned he was living next to a wealthy heiress he thought he hit the jackpot. He tried many methods to squeeze himself into Allura’s inner circle. Even going as far as to blackmail her for money. But rather than give into his demands Allura decided to look into the man’s background and learned that he jumped bail for fraud, extortion and embezzlement. Needless to say Allura didn’t have to deal with that annoying opportunist anymore after an anonymous call to the police.

•Hunk = The nice diverse family. There’s just something about Hunk that just draws people towards him. Maybe it’s his warm, nurturing personality. Or maybe it’s his delicious baked goods. It could even be both of them. Either way neighbors can’t help but visit Hunk’s house. One bunch of neighbors that  he enjoyed having was this small blended family. What made them so unique was that they were all from different nationalities. The mother was American, the father was Chinese, their adopted oldest daughter was Greek and their adopted youngest son was Australian. Given that he was interested in various cultures Hunk enjoyed chatting with the family and asking about their homelands. He also liked tasting their different native foods. It was common place for the neighbors to exchange stories and recipes on a regular basis. And whenever any of them dealt with ignorant and or flat out racist idiots they always had each other’s back. Meeting his blended family neighbors has even given Hunk the opportunity to travel as they invite him to special festivals that occur in Europe, Asia, Australia and hip locations in America. Hunk can honestly say that when it comes to his neighbors he hit the jackpot.

•Coran = The childhood crush/friend. Growing up as a teenager Coran actually went through a rebellious stage. Many people would be surprised given how clean cut and well mannered he is, but in the past Coran was a cursing, buzz-cut, jagged crop top and spiked boot wearing punk. And his edgy phase didn’t end at having the look. He walked the walk and talked the talk. Coran would break store windows, key cars and blared loud music as he cruised down the road in his old man’s car. But he didn’t wreak havoc on his own. He also had an accomplice; a pretty bad girl who’s cuteness masked just how bad to the bone she was. Along with being his fellow rebel the girl was also Coran’s friend and his first, big crush. They got into all sorts of trouble together until her parents decided that she needed a change of scenery to hopefully purge the rebellion out of her. So the pretty bad girl moved away and all Coran could do was give her his favorite spiked wristband as a memento and she gave him her skull ring. But even as they bid goodbye Coran never told her how he felt. Years later, when Coran has grown up to be a polite gentleman, he moves into his new house and literally runs into one of his neighbors. And it turned out to be his old rebel friend and crush who likewise has matured into a respectable lady. Further more she was 100% single. After that fateful encounter Coran finally expressed the feelings he didn’t say years before and the pair went out on a date. And many more dates came after that.

•Lance = The retired Hollywood star. As much as Lance is a live for the moment type of person he also respects the past. Especially past movies and their actors, for he finds them to be very inspirational. One actor that was particularly inspiring to Lance was a versatile method actor who has played roles from action to dramatic to comedic. He has all of his movies in his DVD collection and also posters of the actor dressed as the various characters he played as. And when Lance learned that he disappeared and was presumed dead after a fire at the studio he worked with five years ago he was pretty sad. He really hoped that he was still alive and that he could get his autography. Then one day, after Lance moved into his college dorm, he realized that an older college student seemed odd. He was a theater major and lived in Lance’s dorm but there was more to him than that. Whenever he would work out the acting exercises their drama teacher gave he would perform like a pro. So much so that he could give the actual teacher lesson. Though it was extraordinary Lance didn’t think much more about it. That was until he watched a scene of his favorite late actor from one of his movies on his cellphone and saw the older college goer performing alone on the stage in the drama class in his peripheral vison. It was then that Lance realized that this student was his favorite actor and he was very much alive. When he confronted the man about this he confirmed Lance’s suspicions and explained that he faked his disappearance in the fire as a way to retire so he could earn his college degree, which he never got to do after his career took off. Then after he graduates he will reveal that he is alive. Lance understands his reasons and promises not to reveal his identity. In return for this the actor autographs all of Lance’s movies and posters he has of him in his collection.

•Keith = The nosy spinster. Remember the saying of “you can pick your friends, you can pick your nose, but you can’t pick your friend’s nose”? Well that saying likewise applies to neighbors. But boy does Keith wish that it didn’t. Now he isn’t the type of person who complains or bashes about his neighbors. In fact in all of the places that he’s ever lived in he never really thought much of his neighbors because he kept to himself. And the neighbors never bothered Keith much outside of asking him to attend a big barbecue party. But when he moved to the house left to him by an old aunt he met a neighbor that really tested his patience as a human being. It was an incredibly nosy spinster lady who was known to get into everyone’s business by spying on them. In addition to that she would loudly and publically criticize anyone she saw walking by. As you can expect this made the spinster lady very unpopular among the neighbors. And when Keith moved there he learned that she and his late aunt were mortal enemies. So it was no surprise that she turned that hatred onto Keith. She always had to have something to say about how the young man lived his life and how he dressed. The old bag even critiqued him on how he freaking walked! As much as Keith wanted to move he liked the house and wasn’t going to bow down to this crank. One especially annoying thing she would do was give him judgmental looks whenever Lance came by in the evening to spend some time with Keith and then leave in the late afternoon the next day. Fortunately he wouldn’t have to deal with this crap for much longer after the spinster lady moved across town. The reason? It turns out that the store near their neighborhood discontinued selling a particular brand of bread that was the only acceptable type she ate. But another store across town did carry it so she moved there to avoid making long commutes. Never in his life was Keith more grateful to bread than he was in that moment. Although he did feel sorry for the folks who will have to deal with that old bag as a neighbor.

[rainbowredrobin]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply Category: Gen Fandoms: DCU, DCU (Comics), DC Comics, Batman - All Media Types, Batman (Comics), Red Robin (Comics), Under the Red Hood, Nightwing (Comics), Batman: Battle for the Cowl, Red Robin: The Grail, Red Robin: Collision Relationships: Implied Tim Drake/Dick Grayson, Implied Tim Drake/Jason Todd Characters: Tim Drake, Jason Todd, Dick Grayson, Bruce Wayne, Damian Wayne, Alfred Pennyworth Additional Tags: Implied Relationships, Implied Slash, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Tim centric, Tim Drake is Red Robin, Damian Wayne is Robin, Bruce Wayne is Batman, Dick Grayson is Nightwing, Jason Todd is Red Hood, Alfred Pennyworth is a great butler and mother hen, sorry for the hurt coming your way for reading this, it's not exactly a happy ending but its kinda, Minor Violence, Minor Injuries, Mention of blood, nothing too drastic for a bat, typical batfam, Batfamily Feels

Summary : Tim comes face to face with the family he's walked away from.

Notes : Set after Batman: RIP, Batman: Battle For the Cowl, Red Robin: The Grail & Red Robin: Collision.

Inspired by Fracture by wintersnight.

[pigeonpaints]

Hmmmmmmm… I wonder if this is an excerpt from a Zahn novel. I’m scrubbing through his Thrawn novels and he would drop some lovely implied homo-romantic nuggets like this. Then again, I’ve read similar things in other non-SW novels so there’s that.

Also, I’ve always casually shipped Senator Bail with Obi Wan ever since I first saw the prequels. Personally, I think they’re really easy to pair. Feels more natural. Even more so after the Obi-Wan show.

[sparkinsidewrites]

I’m Good For Nothing Will You Love Me Just The Same?

Title: I’m Good For Nothing Will You Love me Just The Same?

One Shot: 1/1

Character/Pairing: Hunter Burgan/Female Reader; Implied Hunter Burgan/Smith Puget

Genre: Angst

Rating: Explicit

Summary: The trails and tribulations of a complicated friendship

Authors Notes/Warnings:  Nothing in this piece ever happened. I claim no ownership nor do I make any sort of profit from this, other than pride and a sense of amusement.

“Hey you,” his rough, sleep-leaden voice echos from underneath a mountain of covers. You turn your attention from your book. He’d been out partying with a few friends the night before and called you from the bar, too trashed to even consider driving home. After some good natured scolding, you donned a pair of sneakers, grabbed your keys and purse from the side table and headed to the bar of the night to recover your dear friend.

As much as you hated his drinking, sometimes you feared he was boarding on alcoholic, you would do anything for him. Your friendship was incredibly precious to you. In the past few months you’d grown closer to this man than you’d ever grown to anyone.

At times that fact terrified you. You hardly knew where you stood with him half the time. One minute you were best friends the next he flirted with you scandalously and then he’d retreat back into himself. There were times when you wanted to beat him for messing with your head the way he did. But you refrained, knowing he didn’t purposely do these things.

When you’d met several months before, he’d recently gotten out of a complicated relationship with the brother of his close friend and bandmate. The two hadn’t parted on the best of terms, Smith angered by Hunter’s desire to just walk away, but, as Hunter had confessed to you on the first night you’d spent talking til all hours of the night, he couldn’t stay in the relationship, not when he wasn’t in love.

Dealing with the backlash of the failed relationship certainly took its toll on Hunter. As much as he was stereotyped as the partier and the “manwhore”, you’ve come to learn for the most part he’s the exact opposite. He loves openly and fully, willing to do any and everything for the people he cares about, but that trust and devotion comes with a price. Once you’ve crossed him, that trust was dashed and earning it back was nearly impossible.

It was that along with so much more that made you fall completely for him. He’s an amazing man, that you have no doubt, and you know he cares for you. But somewhere along the line your feelings deepened. The hugs and the warm smiles took on a new meaning. These sensations were wonderful if not a bit frustrating. Yes, he cares for you, but more often than not, you did not know just how far it went and you hated it.

“Morning sleepyhead,” you answer, softly, knowing he probably had a massive hangover. Drinking like a fish tended to do that to a person. Pulling the pillow off his face, he manages a small smile, rubbing his eyes with the backs of his hands. “How do you feel?”

A groan falls from his lips, “Like I was hit by a Mack Truck.”

You shake your head, “Serves you right. You keep this up and you’ll drink yourself into a coma.” Though the words fall from your lips in a joking tone, the seriousness of them hangs in the air. His eyes slip closed, sensing your annoyance and your worry. He hates to make you worry though he knows he does so often. God, you were too good to him. He didn’t deserve this. “You just stay there. Let me get you some Tylenol and a glass of water. But after that, you are getting out of bed mister, even if I have to drag you out kicking and screaming.”

A groan is his only response as he pulls the pillow back over his head once more. You shake your head once more, pulling yourself from your chair and padding down the hall towards the kitchen. Grabbing a glass from the cabinet above the sink, you turn the faucet on allowing the glass to fill. Making a pit-stop in the bathroom, you grab your handy bottle of Tylenol, you head back towards the bedroom.

Placing the glass on the bedside table, you pop the top of the bottle, pouring two white pills into the palm of your hand. “Alright Sleeping Beauty,” you tease, “Up you go.” Grabbing the covers firmly in one hand, you yank them from his body. You swallow thickly as you note he managed to shed everything but his boxers sometime last night. Thankfully, his face is still covered with the pillow and he cannot see the blush spreading across your face.

Finally, he pulls the pillow from his face, glaring, only half aware that he’s a hare’s breath away from being completely naked before you. “You are an evil bitch, do you know that?”

You smirk, shaking your head, “But you love me anyway,” you tease right back. You refuse to acknowledge the selfish hope in your heart that he really did love you. The selfish hope that refused to die.

He grimaces at you, taking the Tylenol from your outstretched hand and grabbing the water from the bedside table. Tossing the pills in his mouth, he takes a gulp of water, his eyes slipping closed briefly.

“Alright, Burgan, up you go.” His hands swat you away and you can tell he’s annoyed. But you could honestly care less. Sure he was feeling like shit, but you weren’t about to have him laying around your house all day. If he was ever going to get himself together, he had to get back out there and face life. And dammit if you aren’t determined to help him to just that.

“Please tell me you’re kidding,” he whines.

“Nope, now get your lazy ass out of that bed before I have to get in there and drag you out of it myself.”

He cocks an eyebrow, “Really now? So that’s how a guy gets you in bed with him? If that’s the case, come on in and get me, babe.”

You swallow, both angered and aroused by his bold words. “I’ll be in the livingroom,” you manage to choke out, balled fists at your sides. In your haste to leave the room, you miss the hurt spreading through his eyes.

Settling yourself on the couch, you allow your hand to run through your hair, a soft sigh playing on your lips. Dammit, you need to pull yourself together. He’s just a friend and he flirts like hell, he always has. Why the hell are you letting him get to you?

Taking a deep breath, you push yourself to your feet once more, grabbing your purse. You need to clear your head, and driving around always seemed to help. “I’ll be back later,” you call as you slip a pair of sandals on your feet and slip out the door not bothering to wait for a response.

Pulling open the driver’s side door, you toss your purse onto the passenger’s seat and start the car. Within a few moments you’re out of the apartment parking lot and on your way to God knows where. At the moment you honestly don’t care. All you want now is to drive and just clear your head. You could think about how you would explain this to Hunter later.

Your mind wanders as you find yourself traveling through the city. An hour into your spontaneous trip you realize your cell phone is still laying on the coffee table, where you left it to charge the night before. Oh well. Here’s hoping nothing serious happens, you think to yourself.

Several hours later, you find yourself back on your street, mind clearer but a deep sense of dread pooling in your stomach. The last thing you wanted to do was face Hunter, but there really wasn’t much other choice. Taking a deep breath, you pull into the parking lot of your building. “Now or never,” you whisper to yourself as you shut off the engine.

You barely get the key in the lock before your door is yanked violently open. Startled, you raise your eyes settling on Hunter’s face. His blue eyes are dark and full of concern and wisps of anger, his face drawn and slightly pale. “Jesus fucking Christ,” he breathes, pulling you into his arms. You return his embrace hesitantly, unsure of just how to respond. After a few moments he pulls back, eyes locking on yours once more. “Why the fuck did you just storm out like that? Do you have any idea how fucking worried I was?”

“I needed to clear my head. I’m fine, really,” you spit out, angered that he would jump on you like this. Though his concern touched you, you hated the way he blew hot and cold with you. You love him, but this whole situation is driving you mad.

“You really scared me,” he whispers, settling himself onto the couch, rubbing his head and taking a deep breath “I couldn’t get a hold of you. What if you were unconscious or dead somewhere?” You sigh, settling beside him on the couch. Gently you rest your head on his shoulder, as unsettled as you are, you could never stay angry at him for long.

“I’m sorry,” you breathe, guilt rushing through you. You hate this. Hate hurting him but at the same time you’re selfishly happy to have made him experience a fraction of the shit he’s done to you. Christ you hate yourself for thinking that. Taking a deep breath, you raise your eyes to his. “Why?” you question.

His eyebrows knit in confusion. “Why what?”

“Why do you do this to me?” you ask dejectedly. At the moment it doesn’t matter what he’s done, you just want to know why. Maybe if you understood it would be easier to let everything go. This hopeless crush is getting you nowhere. Why has it taken you this long to see that?

He swallows thickly, tensing against you slightly. “I don’t...You know I...I’m sorry,” he finishes weakly.

You pull away from him, running your fingers through your hair. “I wish you would just make up your mind. Either I’m your friend or there’s something more between us. I’m sick of this bullshit, Hunter. I really am.” Pushing yourself to your feet, you pad into the kitchen, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge.

His eyes slip closed for a moment, allowing your words to sink in. Taking a deep breath, he pushes himself to his feet as well, making his way slowly into the kitchen. Without a word, he wraps his arms around you, pulling your body tight against his. “You mean the world to me, you have to know that. I never wanted to hurt you. I just...I don’t want to fuck up what we have.”

You turn in his arms, eyes laced with confusion. “I don’t...”

His finger rests against your lips, silencing you. “I just...This is hard for me. I fuck things up, its like a gift, I always find someway of fucking up and hurting the people that matter most to me...And God knows you’ve put up with so much of my bullshit and I’m sorry for everything.” His free hand runs through your hair softly. You struggle to force the doubts from your mind, focusing on the feel of his hands against you. God knows, you’re only setting yourself up for pain, but at the moment you could care less. He takes a deep breath, closing the distance between your bodies. “Please don’t hate me for this,” he breathes before claiming your lips softly with his own.

You sigh into the kiss, losing yourself in the sensations running through you, your arms locking loosely around his neck. In the back of your mind, you can’t help fearing the consequences of this. As wonderful as he feels pressed against you, what if he decides that he doesn’t really want this. That he doesn’t want you. What terrifies you more is the fact that a part of you doesn’t care. What if this is all you ever get, can you simply walk away from it now, knowing just how wonderful he feels pressed against you?

He can feel you tensing against him, fearing the worst, he pulls back, eyes wandering over your face. The confusion, the desire, and the fear he sees running through your eyes gives him a moments pause. He’s hurt you enough already, can he really risk hurting you more?

“What do you want from me?” you manage to choke out. “What do you want?”

He swallows thickly, trying desperately to think of what to say, how to respond. “You. I want you,” he whispers, closing the distance between you once again. “I don’t know where this is going to end up. But I just...I don’t want to lose you. I want this. I want you. I just don’t want you to hate me for it.”

His fingers trace along your jaw, loving how smooth and warm you skin is beneath his fingers. Your eyes drift closed. God, he feels amazing. Taking a deep breath, you allow yourself to give in. Even if this is all you’ll ever receive from him, its better than never knowing. “I could never hate you,” you whisper. Your arms wrap around his neck once more, pulling him closer, hearing his sharp intake of breath.

Wordlessly, he leans down once more, claiming your lips with his. You sigh into the kiss, parting your lips slightly. Just a subtle invitation should he choose to accept it. Uncertainly, his tongue traces along your bottom lip, before entering your mouth. Your tongues battle as the kiss deepens. You find yourself moaning against his lips, body pressed flush against his. Growing more confident, his hands settle on your hips and he slowly backs you from the kitchen down the hall.

Your bedroom. He was taking you back to your bedroom. Having no objections, you allow yourself to be lead. Unceremoniously, he pushes the door open with the ball of his foot. From there its only a few short steps to the bed. Carefully, he lowers you onto the bed, lips never leaving yours. His hands wander slowly beneath the tank top you wear, cupping your breasts softly. You moan against his lips, arching your back against him. Your fingers wander along his bare back, nails scratching against his skin. He hisses at the sensation, breaking the kiss long enough to pull your tank top off your body. You watch as his eyes widen slightly as they wander over your naked chest.

Eager for more, you allow you hands to travel down his back to rest on his hips. Along the elastic waistband of the sweat pants he’s since donned. “Off,” you hiss. He nods, pushing the pants down his hips and kicking them from his body, pulling his boxers down with them. You allow your eyes to wander down his body briefly, taking him in. Lord, he was stunning.

A soft blush creeps over his features as your eyes wander down his body. Snapping himself from his trance, he allows his fingers to trace along your abdomen before falling on the fastening of your jeans. Making quick work of the fastenings, he slowly slides the thick denim down and over your hips and thighs, a shiver of pure lust coursing through him as his eyes fall upon your bare flesh.

A soft moan falls from his lips and he leans down to claim your lips once more. The kiss is heated, desperate. Broken only when your bare bodies touch for the first time. Hisses of pleasure fall from both of your lips. “Want you,” he breathes against your lips, lining your bodies up. You shiver as the head of his erection presses against your opening. You mewl softly as he pauses to rub the head against your clit. You toss your head back; your eyes clenched shut, mouth slack. God, he’s never seen you so look beautiful.

Gathering himself, he rests his hands on your hips. His eyes lock on yours and you feel as though you could drown in them. Leaning down, he claims your lips once more, sheathing himself within your body. You whimper into the kiss, arching your hips into him. Slowly, steadily, he builds a rhythm, captivated by the breathy whimpers and sighs falling from your lips. Each stroke is maddening and all too soon you feel your body tensing, slowly giving itself over to the pleasure coursing through you.

His name falls from your lips as your body tenses and clamps around his. Your eyes slam shut and your can hear the blood rushing in your ears. Faintly, you hear him call your name as he pulses his seed within you. You slowly feel yourself falling back to earth, the warm, heavy weight of his spent body resting against you. You sigh, contentedly, the pleasurable ache still coursing through you. “I love you,” he breathes against your neck. His words warm you, and you gently rub your hands along his back. Lord only knows where this leaves you both, but you wouldn’t trade this moment for the world.

[jasperisafanboy]

back at it again w the monster body horror, my dudes :D this ones more disgusting than the other one, but largely on par w it. 

read on ao3!

warnings: hard transformative body horror, auto-cannibalism (sort of), amputation o non-functional limbs

Oh, not again.

Rasher stops and leans against the side of the A/V trailer, one arm curled over his torso. Behind the protective and restrictive shell of the corset, the maw is acting up, grumbling and groaning, the tentacles within twisting and roiling and straining. It feels the way a bad stomach felt before, like his vanished guts are rebelling. He’s only felt like this twice before, once in Heart’s bowels and once during the fourth season, and he knows it doesn’t mean anything good. He wishes he knew what causes this, why proximity to the Scar seems to make the maw panic; if he knew, maybe he could stop it, or at least try to mitigate the effect. He dreads the next few days. He turns to the east, where the Scar rips the land in half, and the maw actually shakes, a shiver like a twitching muscle, before spitting tentacles against the corset. The leather creaks faintly against the strain. An overwhelming urge to run comes from the maw, but whether it’s towards or away from the Scar, Rasher can’t tell.

Once the sick sensation eases, Rasher pushes off the trailer and goes to find Julian. He won’t be happy about this; he’s only just gotten back from Heart, he’s barely started to put the Gentleman’s cock-ups to rights. Rasher being… unavailable so soon will not make that any easier. Rasher does not look forward to Julian being a miserable pouting bastard about it. As he moves through the convoy, a familiar pain ripples along the blackened edges of his skin, right along the hollow of the maw. He groans quietly. It’s faster this time, last time he had a few days of feeling poorly before… The pain flares again, rolling harder through his entire body, radiating from the maw right to his fingertips. A little gasp escapes him as his body sags. He leans against another trailer, breathing hard through his nose. He forces himself upright, decides to skip finding Julian. If he encounters a roadie on his way to his trailer, he’ll send them. He heads straight for his trailer.

When he arrives he sees Rend by the door, his hand raised as if to knock. Rasher can’t fathom what Rend wants, but he’s glad to see him; he’s the first roadie he’s passed. (In fact, he’s the first one Rasher’s seen since the giant showed up. Probably they all took off and hid; they’ve got too much sense to go tangling with an angry bastard that outweighs massive fucking Bjorn.)

“Rend,” Rasher calls. Rend turns. His perpetual pissed-off expression turns to something approaching concerned.

“You okay?” he asks. “You look…”

Rasher knows he looks bad. He’s probably pale, knows he’s clammy-looking since he absolutely feels it, like he’s about to puke. “Get Slink,” he says. Pain washes through him again, and he closes his eyes hard against it. “Get… get him over here. Tell him it’s an emergency.”

Rend frowns. “An emergency? Shouldn’t--”

“Fucking now, Rend!” There’s a sudden spike of pain, right where his stomach should have been and worse than the others, and Rasher almost goes to his knees with it. He groans, face twisting, and has to lean against a light pole to keep upright. He swallows hard. “Go right fucking now, or I swear to god I’ll fucking eat you.”

Rend stares at him a moment longer, then finally, finally turns and leaves. Rasher waits until he’s gone, then half-stumbles into his trailer. He closes the door. With trembling fingers he undoes the corset strings and tosses it to the bed. The black skin of the maw is rippling and bubbling, as if the tentacles are seeking some means of egress from his body and are pushing against his skin. It’s beyond unsettling, and Rasher is uncomfortably aware of what it portends.

“Oh, shit,” he moans. “Fuck. Fuck.”

He manages to get his boots off, then shucks his jeans. As he’s bent over, pain suddenly flares hot and bright like an electric charge in his spine, and he cries out and arches his back as he goes to his hands and knees. He can feel his spine shifting, each vertebra grinding against its neighbors. His breathing has gone ragged. He hears a knock (more of a pounding) on his door and Julian calling his name.

Rasher picks himself up with difficulty and opens the door, lets Julian barrel in.

“What is it, Rend said it’s an emergency but didn’t--” Julian turns and gets a look at Rasher. Whatever he sees in Rasher’s face shuts him up good for a moment. Then understanding breaks clear in his eyes. “The Scar.”

Rasher nods. The movement makes his head ache, as if the bones of his skull have come apart and are clacking together.

“I thought this wouldn’t happen again,” Julian says, as if he’s personally offended by Rasher’s unruly body.

“Can’t say something won’t happen when I don’t know why the fuck it happens at all,” Rasher says through gritted teeth. The pain is constant now, everything from his bones to his teeth to his eyes aching. Even his fingernails ache. “Never said it wouldn’t happen again.”

Julian huffs a sigh and crosses his arms over his chest. “Do you think it’ll last long?”

“I don’t know.” Rasher falls back against the trailer door. He feels like he’s going to faint if he stays standing, so he lets himself slide to the floor. He feels overheated, waves of sick fever-heat hard on the heels of each throb of pain. His vision is going grey around the edges. He sags and falls onto his side. The floor of the trailer is blessedly cool: after last time, he had the carpet replaced with linoleum, partly for exactly this reason and partly because the carpet was beyond saving anyway. He thinks he’ll probably be glad he did, especially if this makes as much of a mess now as it did then.

He hears another sigh from Julian.

“Anything I can do?”

Rasher barely hears him; the pain is spiking again. God, it hurts just to breathe, each breath feels like glass in his throat and chest. “No,” he half-whispers. “Just. Just stay.”

He hates this. He hates this so much. Dread is curdling his blood in his veins, each moment spent wondering in terror if this is it, if each fresh ache is the excruciating agony of his body tearing itself apart. He’s trembling. He tries to drag himself away from the door, but it hurts to move, all he wants to do is lay on the cold floor. After a few abortive movements, he feels Julian’s hands sliding under his knees and shoulders, feels him lift him up. He hopes Julian doesn’t try putting him in bed, Rasher doesn’t want to replace his bedding and frankly he’d enjoyed the cold linoleum. Thankfully, Julian shows some modicum of sense and just lays Rasher on the floor again, away from the door.

“I’ll make sure everyone knows what to do in the morning so they can get underway without us,” he hears Julian say. “Who should I put in charge?”

“Indigo, Skorpion, Rend, Bjorn,” Rasher gasps. “Just. Find the roadies and yell for them.”

He hears Julian open the door and leave. He groans and curls in on himself, as if trying to protect the maw. He has no sense of time, so he doesn’t know if minutes or seconds pass while nothing happens but the pain. He starts to wonder if maybe it won’t be so bad, maybe he’ll just hurt. He presses a hand to the maw’s lips, and a tentacle curls out and wraps around his wrist, as if it’s seeking comfort from him. He can feel the others pressing against his skin. Then--

A faint plucking sensation from his shoulder muscles, as if someone’s playing the fibers like violin strings. Liquid, stinging heat floods through his muscle. He whimpers. Here it comes.

The skin of his back splits along his spine with an almost inaudible tearing sound and a gush of blood. Rasher bites back a scream, manages to turn it instead into an agonized whine. The pain is incredible, worse than any tattoo, his entire back ablaze with it. He feels bone stretching, sliding past the rent edges, before cracking and breaking off and falling to the floor with a clatter. The tentacle around his wrist tenses and constricts before shooting back into the maw. His side pulses, throbs, and just as the door opens to admit Julian his skin swells and bursts open to release a gelatinous, mutated arm with too many fingers and not enough hand.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” Julian cries. He slams the door shut. “You sure there’s nothing I can do?”

“Nothing,” Rasher gasps. The flesh of the extra arm loses integrity, and it sloughs off before melting into the unfortunately familiar stinking ooze. His left leg kicks out straight involuntarily, just as his hip aches and sprouts a spur of bone that pierces through his skin like a knife. He lets out a pained gasp, groans in agony as his ribcage actually ripples, each individual bone pushing against his skin, one after another. He hears a disgusted noise from Julian, wants to ask “How do you think I feel?” but can’t, can only whimper.

He tries to tell himself that he’ll survive this, he’s been through it before and it hadn’t killed him, even if the pain had been so immense he’d have welcomed death. But when his back splits open again, sending him into an arch so bad he thinks he’d break his spine, and spills out a wriggling mess of tentacles, all he can think is how bad it hurts. Every single nerve is screaming. He’s had broken bones, he’s into knifeplay, he’s gotten most of his face tattooed, he even has piercings in his dick, and nothing, nothing, compares to this. The tentacles fall off with wet tearing noises before melting. Dimly he hears footsteps coming towards him, just before a hand strokes his hair, and Rasher doesn’t even try to prevent the pathetic whimper he lets out. Julian’s a self-centered asshole, but he cares in his own way. He can’t do shit for Rasher but be there, and that’s enough. He’d been there for Rasher before, the first time this happened. Rasher reaches up and clutches his hand, even as his own hand sprouts a few extra fingers at unnatural angles. To his credit, Julian doesn’t recoil.

It’s slower to really get going this time. Last time the mutations had started hard on the heels of the pain, had had him looking (as Julian had put it) like the monster from The Thing almost right away. This time they’re starting small, an extra limb here and a cluster of eyes like buboes there. (That had been bizarre more than anything, seeing a fractured view of the world from his armpit.) But once they get going in earnest, they’re relentless. Each new limb grows a new set of nerves, bringing fresh agony as those brand-new nerves suddenly function, and each time they drop off Rasher gets a few nightmarish seconds of the feel of his flesh rotting before the tissue breaks and mercifully cuts the nerves off. He welcomes unconsciousness each time the pain gets to be too much and he passes out, because at least he won’t see a fucking intestinal tract ooze out of his leg, or hear the sounds of his bones splintering and cracking as they reshape themselves to his altered anatomy, or smell the liquified tissue that increasingly covers the floor and his skin. (The stuff makes him think of the true crime books he sometimes reads, the ones that talk about how when a body decays in an enclosed space like a trash bag the soft tissue like skin and organs and fat eventually liquifies. The smell is reputedly horrible and never comes out of clothing. If it’s anything like what his excess parts are melting into, he would completely believe it. He’s never smelled it personally, he’s never kept a body that long.)

At one point he passes out not from pain, but because he looks at himself and sees such a twisted shape that his mind simply can’t fathom that that’s his body and shuts down in shock.

Julian never once leaves. More than once Rasher thinks he hears him choking back vomit, but he never leaves. At one point Rasher comes to and realizes his head’s in Julian’s lap, and wishes he could find either the energy or the functioning vocal chords to thank him. He only whines at him like a dog as the skin of his throat bubbles like tar, and Julian strokes his hair.

It’s not like when the maw transforms his body because he’s feeding it. Then he feels powerful, dangerous, an apex predator that could devour the world and laugh. It lengthens his spine and sharpens his nails and gives him the strength to bring down anything in his path. Sometimes he aches afterwards, but it’s a good ache, a clean ache, and any damage is repaired by the maw thanks to the caloric energy and biomass of whatever he’s fed it. But now he’s vulnerable. He can’t move, because he can’t control his wayward limbs. His innards aren’t merely on display, they’re splitting his skin and falling out of his body. He’s in absolute agony. He can feel his skin stretching, his bones shifting, his organs being pushed aside by body parts appearing where they don’t belong and never were. It’s a violation of the trust he has in his body, that here are his limbs and here is his face and here are his bones. His flesh has turned traitor. He no longer feels he owns his body, though he’s occupied it for thirty years and decorated it as he pleased and thought he knew every quirk of it. He suddenly empathizes with werewolves.

But no agony lasts forever. Rasher can tell the mutations are easing when the sick waves of pain start to slow. Each new limb has increasingly unsophisticated nerves, until a hand grows from his knee and he doesn’t feel a thing. There’s fresh pain each time some extra organ forces itself out of his skin, but it’s a far cry from the agony of his skeleton shifting. By the time he seems to have finished, he’s absolutely exhausted. He still hurts, but now it’s just the ache of overused and stiff muscles, some pain in his long bones like when he was a perpetually-undernourished teenager shooting towards a height of just over six feet. He has no idea how long it’s been. As before, Julian goes to pick him up. He stops.

“Rasher,” he says slowly.

Rasher just makes a noise at him.

“There’s a… look.”

Rasher forces his eyes open (even moving his eyelids is tiring), and follows Julian’s pointing finger. He can’t even groan at what he’s seeing. A stubby, misshapen arm is sticking out of his shoulder, not unlike the arm of a thalidomide baby. He has awareness of it, but no more than he does from the maw. It’s a part of him, but separate. It’s curled up, as if it doesn’t have the ability to function like a normal arm, which it probably doesn’t. Rasher just closes his eyes and turns his head away. The bones of his neck crack and grind, but he can’t find it in himself to be disgusted. All he can think about is a shower and bed. All he wants is sleep.

“Cut it off,” he croaks. His throat hurts, but just because it’s dry; he’s so badly dehydrated. “Just. Cut it off.”

“You sure?”

Rasher nods, eyes still closed.

“It’ll hurt.”

Rasher opens his eyes and looks at Julian. “So did my skin splitting because a leg wanted to grow out of my ribs,” he growls. The maw’s too tired to do much, but a tentacle lolls out in ineffectual warning. He couldn’t eat anyone right now if he wanted to. (He probably will once he recovers, last time he came within inches of devouring the race. Again. At least the giant’s rampage left plenty of corpses.)

Julian looks distinctly unimpressed and sighs. “Fine, but not here.”

“What-the-fuck-ever, Julian.” He shivers suddenly. He’s freezing, and curls in on himself involuntarily.

Julian picks him up, covers him with a blanket. It’s not a rough material by any means, but nearly all of his skin is new. The blanket chafes like sandpaper. At least it keeps him warm, and Julian gives off a decent amount of body heat. Rasher buries his face in the crook of Julian’s neck. He’s scarred up this time. Last time, he’d escaped any more-or-less permanent reminders of the mutations, but this time he’s got a scar here and there. One reaches all the way up from his right hip bone almost to his spine, where his side had split open to disgorge a pair of legs. From the tightness of his skin, there’s a scar following the length of his spine. Which, he reflects, might actually look good. Small mercies.

It’s dark outside, but Rasher doesn’t know if it’s been one day or three. The convoy is gone, he sees, just like before. He hopes the roadies haven’t killed each other, or anyone else. Bjorn hopefully kept them all on an even keel; he’s so placid surely he kept the peace. Or maybe Rend just scared everyone into submission. Either is a likely, viable option, which is why he told Julian to find them. Julian’s trailer door is ajar slightly, enough that Julian just has to nudge it open with his hip. Julian sets him down in the shower, and Rasher lets his head fall back against the shower wall. The hot water goes a very long way to soothing his aching muscles, almost puts him to sleep. Out of curiosity, he tries to move the third arm, tries to uncurl it. But it just twitches feebly. It doesn’t have any sensation, he thinks, he can’t feel the heat of the water against its skin, or the swipe of the cloth Julian’s using to clean him. He hopes that means it won’t hurt when Julian cuts it off. He’s tired of pain for the moment.

Eventually Julian shuts the water off. He considers Rasher with his head tilted and his expression thoughtful.

“Think you can sit up?” he asks. “Might be easier if you’re sitting in a chair instead of in bed.”

Rasher closes his eyes. “Just do it here,” he says. “Easier clean-up. And I don’t think I can move right now.”

“Fair enough.”

Julian walks away, and Rasher lets himself drift. He doesn’t doze off, not exactly, but he’s not entirely awake either. He’s reminded of the bone-deep exhaustion of the first season, when they’d had the whole shitshow running on a wing and a prayer at a manic, frenetic pace that had more than a few of the roadies mainlining speed, crack, adderall, and occasionally Red just to keep up. The day after filming wrapped and everyone could finally stop to take a breath, Rasher had found the nearest dark corner and passed out. He’d never had to run so hard on so little for so long before. The brief outbreak of fucking bubonic plague near the start of filming hadn’t helped, and Julian getting killed a few days later had only added to the stress, even if he’d gotten better. It had been a few hours of absolute, solid panic.

He opens his eyes at the sound of Julian’s footsteps coming closer and looks around at him. He’s got the alcohol swabs Rasher uses for piercing Julian’s ear, a bottle of isopropyl, two of Rasher’s own knives (the thin boning knife and the bigger skinning knife), and a needle and thread. He’s not sure where the thread came from or what kind it is and just hopes it’s not sewing thread.

Julian presses his fingers to the base of the third arm, where it joins Rasher’s shoulder. He presses all around it, exploring where it joins Rasher’s arm in an attempt to find the bone, assuming there is one. It’s sort of slack-looking, and not the slackness of untoned muscle, more that it lacks any real internal support. Julian takes the hand and pulls gently, and the arm uncurls like it’s made of stiff rubber; it seems to have bones after all, but evidently they’re somewhat soft since the arm doesn’t have much rigidity. Maybe it didn’t have a chance to fully develop before the growths stopped. Might be why it’s still there.

“Are you gonna fucking play with it all night or cut it off?” Rasher asks. Julian gives him a look.

“I’m trying to figure out if it has bones or not,” he says. “If it does, that might make this harder. You don’t have a bone saw.”

“Excuse the fuck out of me, I’ll be sure to remedy that at the earliest opportunity. Do whatever you have to.”

Julian uncurls the arm all the way, lets go of it, and watches as it slowly curls back up. He gets up and disappears, comes back with two belts. He loops one around the wrist and pulls the arm out straight, tucks the end of the belt under his knee. He holds up the other belt but pauses.

“How the hell am I going to tourniquet this?” he asks. Rasher assumes he’s asking rhetorically and doesn’t reply, just tries to stay awake. After a moment Julian settles for looping the belt around Rasher’s shoulder joint, then around his arm just below where the third arm seems to join his deltoid. It’ll probably fail as a tourniquet, but it’s close enough.

“It’s not actually connected to your shoulder,” Julian says, picking up the boning knife and dousing it with isopropyl. He does the same with the skinning knife, then the extra arm and Rasher’s skin. “It has the bones, but they’re not part of the joint. I think they’re anchored in the muscle, but I won’t be able to tell until I start cutting.”

He glances at Rasher, who just nods. He positions the knife, then cuts into the third arm. He leaves a section of it still attached to Rasher. It bleeds, but sluggishly. It doesn’t hurt much. Julian very carefully keeps cutting around the bone. Rasher watches with a kind of sick fascination as he holds the knife in his teeth by the hilt and pushes the flesh away from the bone. The bone itself looks more like cartilage, which might explain its flexibility. Julian considers this for a second, then gives it an experimental tug. Rasher feels the pull, but it doesn’t hurt. Julian then tries to cut through the bone with the boning knife, then the skinning knife; the former barely scores it, the latter works somewhat better just because it’s the sturdier blade. Finally he gets through the bone, after a great deal of sawing back and forth that probably ruined the edge of the knife. The arm comes free.

They both stare blankly at it for a moment. Julian sets it aside rather delicately, then takes up the boning knife. He cuts longitudinally through the remaining flesh and pulls it apart to try to find the end of the bone. Sure enough, it’s sitting with the head snug against Rasher’s deltoid, not attached to anything though the muscle is deformed to accommodate the bone. Julian makes a considering noise.

“What?” Rasher asks.

“The flesh looks different,” Julian says. “See, where I left part of the extra arm, it looks less developed.” He picks up the arm to demonstrate. Rasher doesn’t really see what he’s looking at, it looks about the same to him. A little less bright in color, maybe. “Say something if it hurts.”

Julian starts cutting the extra flesh off in chunks, exposing more and more of the extra bone. Rasher knows he has to remove the flesh, god only knows what would happen if he left it (what if it turned gangrenous or something), but he still wishes Julian could have left it; he’s starting to wonder how Julian’s going to stitch an actual dent in his arm shut. Once the bone’s practically uncovered, Julian tugs it free with a squelch, then finishes trimming off the extra flesh. Once or twice he nicks Rasher’s real flesh, and Rasher only makes faint sounds of pain. By the time he’s finished, there’s a sizable crater in Rasher’s arm, both skin and muscle gone, and it’s bleeding slowly but freely. It shows no sign of closing.

“Why won’t it close?” Julian asks. He actually looks concerned.

“How the fuck should I know?” Rasher asks. “Maybe it--”

He stops when the maw opens and a tentacle oozes out. The tentacle wraps around the amputated arm and slowly retreats. Rasher and Julian both stare, completely disgusted, as the tentacle curls back into the maw, taking the arm with it. The maw closes. They both turn to look in unison to the dent in Rasher’s arm; while they watch, the muscle re-knits itself back to normal just before the skin closes back up. All that’s left is a long, angry-looking scar.

For a very long moment, neither speaks. Then--

“I just spent three days watching your body grow new and unnecessary body parts and then spit them out through your skin. I run a cross-country rally race where the cars run on human blood. I’ve been to the labs at Heart,” Julian says very deliberately, “and that was probably the most disgusting and ridiculous thing I’ve ever seen.”

Rasher just closes his eyes and lets his head thump back against the shower wall. “Good night,” is all he says. The last thing he’s aware of before merciful, blissful unconsciousness is Julian laughing.