She weighed next to nothing in his arms. So fragile yet strong at the same time. They were breathing each other so deeply… The heat of the fire in their room had nothing on them. It was about comfort, it was about healing and it turned into so much more so fast. They were the extension of the fire at that moment.
“Let’s go bed.”
Jamie slowly walked the distance between where they stood and the bed, like he was walking on clouds. His hands running from her backside to her thighs and just holding her up as he did, had left a trail of tingling sensation that Claire was still reeling from. She needed his big hands on her again, lighting up her every nerve. There was a time not long ago that she wasn’t sure she’d ever feel it, or wanted to feel it, or that she could. But only those hands, made for her, given to him for her, like he had once said, could heal her.
She was running her smooth delicate fingers on his nape and upper back, drawing patterns and words they could not utter, since breathing was turning into a hardship at this point. Claire needed out of her stays, she felt restrained. All she wanted was his weight on her, his burning hot skin against her. She wanted to feel his muscles and scars, to kiss them, to lick his perfect worked stomach. Tonight she was hungry for him in a way that only love filled with lust could explain. And he is mine.
How is this woman mine? Jamie asked himself that question many times and caging Claire with his toned arms atop the bed just reminded him yet again of the wonder of her love for him. That flushed beauty, her mouth semi-open for his kisses, her teasing eyes… He ran his nose along her neck and caught her lips. She tugged on his hair for dear life and her tongue came out to dance with his, to claim him. Like any person else could compare… If he could, he would be claimed like this every single day of his life.
And the flames went higher…
Jamie held himself up on his elbows, close to the precipice of losing balance altogether, as Claire started running her foot up his calf, lifting the kilt ever so slightly. Biting him gently on the lower lip, she released the auburn curls and sat on the mattress. Like on their wedding night, he helped her untie the restraining stays, and exactly like on their wedding night their gazes didn’t leave one another. Only difference was, the desire was stronger, the air was heavier.
After removing the stays, Claire unbuckled the kilt’s belt and maddeningly teasing, slowly removed the plaid in all his glorious folds aside. He was intensely ready himself. It overwhelmed all her senses like always. If it weren’t Jamie, this lack of control would have left Claire nervous, but it could never happen with Jamie… “Jamie.” She breathed.
“I’m here, Sorcha.”
He lifted her shift over her head, the sudden gush of cool air caused by the movement of it making her nipples stiffen. That and the dark blue gaze that didn’t fail to shake her to her core. She was still in her stockings, one loose and one still fastened with a flimsy pink tie. She made a move to take them off but he didn’t let her, holding her hands, he placed them around his neck again, while he ran his hands up her glorious round arse and held her tight around the waist, closer to him. Not one inch of room left to breathe anything else but the sweet scent of each other, enhanced by the flames that only went higher.
He started kissing and sucking on her neck, tasting her herbal sweetness, moving one hand to comb her curls away. The only sound in Jamie’s ears were Claire’s exquisite soft moans. Those sounds that made him go mad, also made him relinquish all his senses to her incredibly smooth skin. Moving to her lips again, the intense and slow kiss held a promise of contained words. Words that were not enough to describe the chemistry that happened between them in these moments. He wanted to watch her lose herself.
Feeling Jamie peeling his beautiful mouth away from her, Claire whimpered. He replied by putting his forehead against hers and swayed for a bit holding her in place. One hand tucked her hair behind her ear and a cheeky smirk came upon his face as he dragged his hands over her arms and laid down. She knew what he wanted. And she wanted to give it to him.
That bed and its magic blue quilt was their sanctuary, a place that held many whispers and sweet nothings, said in the dark of the night and in the fresh light of the dawn.
Jamie lay down and placed a hand on his wife, his goddess, guiding her to climb on top of him. The sensations was overwhelmingly satisfying, it was a lightning coursing through them, echoes of thunder reverberating through their limbs. Smiling at her, he put both hands on her shoulders as she started to rock. Slowly, he let his arms run along hers and up again. Their breathing was erratic.
She was supporting herself on him, the marble of his torso feeling like an anchor in a sea of blue quilt. “You feel so good, Jamie.”
“Mo nighean donn”, he said in a whisper like sob. “Don’t stop, Claire…” Moaning, their hearts and bodies rode each other. Jamie placed his hand in the center of Claire’s chest, feeling the frantic rhythm of her heart, slowly reaching for her ivory breasts, kneading and teasing her.
He loved watching her - her head dropping backwards as she started to lose herself in the moment - trying to remain “bodily sober” enough to see her face change a thousand beautifully different ways with their lovemaking, but he too was about to lose it as well.
Claire leaned forward gifting her breasts to him and Jamie thought heaven was upon him. Taking one nipple in his mouth, he sucked and softly bit and felt Claire shiver under her hands. She held his head with some force and if Jamie were to die for lack of air, he would have died one happy man.
“You’re so beautiful, Claire. Please don’t stop mo nighean donn, more.”
“Oh Jamie, my love.”
Claire was starting to lose herself entirely, holding onto Jamie’s neck and shoulders wanting to kiss him, but not wanting him to take his mouth from where it was. Jamie groaned and sat up completely. She kissed him urging for his tongue to meet hers, trying to get into him and he was getting into her. So deep, so passionate, so so so much, but never enough.
Claire caressed his face, marveling at his furrowing brow, smoothing it, kissing it. They were still riding thunder as Jamie brought one hand down to touch the place, hot enough as to make metal melt, as to turn coal into diamond. Then, he buried his face in her neck, she burying her nails in his back, and ecstasy ensued. Together, they became one. Jamie kept his face on her neck, Claire was overdone with one long sob leaving her lips as the aftershocks came through. She couldn’t let go, she couldn’t breathe and neither could he.
After the lingering effects washed over them, Jamie held his well rested wife against him. She propped herself on her elbow, kissed and caressed his pecs and whispered, smiling, “Tha gaol agam ort, mo Seaumais”.
When John opens his eyes, everything is white and silent.
His first feeling is shock. Shock over this surreal environment. The sand, the heat, the tanks and the death have disappeared. No screams and no helicopter sounds can be heard. Instead, quiet, friendly voices around him. Birds singing somewhere. Well, outside. Outside where the sun shines. Where there is a daily life. Around him is the smell of disinfectants and mild detergent.
John blinks at the bright light in the room. He realizes he’s in a bed. No narrow, hard cot. It is a large, soft bed. A thick pillow under his head. A blanket pulled up to his chin. It’s warm.
He also notes that he can hardly move. It’s like a heavy weight is pushing him down. John grunts, and wiggles tentatively with his toes under the blanket. This works very well. But as he tries to lift his head, an unpleasant, throbbing pain passes through his shoulder. At the same time, it occurres to him that he has been shot. Shot. In Afghanistan.
John lets his head sink back into the pillow and breathes in the cool air in the room. I was shot … Pictures before his eyes make him swallow. Running soldiers, screams, shots, an explosion. A hand on his arm, a whisper, a groan as eyes close forever … And then the sharp pain as the bullet pierces him. Pain, so much pain, he falls into the sand and he can hear his name. Someones shouting his name … A moment later it’s all gone.
John knows he’s been taken to a hospital. For the initial treatment. And then. Home.
Home, meaning this hospital.
He sighs, and licks his dry lips. Thirst. His gaze falls to the side of the wall, where a call button is. He presses it. A few minutes later, a young nurse comes into the room. She smiles the certain standard smile, which is so common in a hospital. “Ah, Dr. Watson, you are awake. Very good. The doctor will want to see your wound soon. Do you need something?” “Water,” John can only croak with difficulty. And he points his finger vaguely at the bed. “Could you … raise it please?” “Yes, of course.” The nurse pushes a button on the bed and it slowly lifts. “I’ll bring you water.”
Then she is gone again.
John can see the room better now. And when he looks aside, he sees that he is not alone. Next to him is another bed. And there is a man in it. The face half hidden by an oxygen mask. John can see thick, dark locks. And pale, almost white skin. He judges the man to be in his mid-thirties. He stares at the completely motionless body and swallows. Something is drawing him to this unknown man … something he can not explain. John notes that he is fascinated. Fascinated without really having a reason for it. He shakes his head slightly.
The nurse comes back with a mug and a water bottle. She pours him water into the mug and John takes it with a still unsteady hand. He drinks, relieved. Then he says softly, “Who is that?” The nurse follows his gaze and says with a sad undertone, “Oh, this is Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes. He’s been here for a long time. Almost half a year. He’s in a coma.” “Ah,” John says, swallowing. Half a year. That’s a long time. “How …?” “How it happened? He overdosed on cocain. We
… well, we can’t ask him, but we think it was a suicide attempt.” She gently shakes her head and takes the empty mug from John. “It’s really a shame. He never gets any visitors. Never. The thought that no one in the world is there for him … Who knows if he will ever wake up again. Perhaps there is simply nothing worth it for … Oye, I talk too much.” She seems a little embarrassed and clears her throat. “If you need anything, just call, ok? The doctor should be here any minute.” “Thank you. Yes.” The nurse leaves. John does not look away from the sleeping man in the other bed.
Half a year. No visit. Jesus. * The days pass at a quiet, slow pace, which both soothes and disturbs John. He is not used to it. He almost expects to be suddenly torn from the calm routine by a shrill siren. Or suddenly lie back in the hot, bloody sand of the desert. But of course it doesn’t happen. Instead, he wakes up around 9 in the morning, receives his breakfast and is examined. The doctor is friendly and passive. Nodding pleased at the sight of John’s wound, while John himself stares at the hole in his shoulder with a growing nausea. After that, he can only watch TV, or watch Sherlock being fed. It’s hard to watch. No reaction comes from the comatose man, when the nurses lift his limbs off the bed to wash him. Turn him to his side. Dress him again. The motionless body doesn’t resist. It reminds John of a doll. He does not like this thought. At noon, they bring John food again. For Sherlock, of course, nothing comes. He is fed artificially. In the evening, more food. And more TV. A lot of rest. A little too much, John thinks once, and feels strangely guilty at the thought. On the third day of this routine, he talks to Sherlock for the first time. It’s because a James Bond movie is on. John always liked James Bond. And that’s what he says. “This is a good movie. A really good movie. Lots of action. And the women are pretty, the men too,” he says aloud in the room. And laughs. There’s no answer. And he feels a little stupid.
After a while, John realizes that he will not get any visitors either. It’s not really that surprising. Harry is … well, he doesn’t even know where his sister lives. His mother is dead. And he does not want to see his father. Not that he thinks, his father would want to see him … Once, he receives a call from the leader of his unit. From Afghanistan. He says something like, “it’s a shame” and “get back on your feet soon”. John doesn’t say much. He only murmurs “Yes, sir” now and then. His hand is trembling as he holds the phone. A tremor. It hasn’t stopped since he woke up. He doesn’t get any visitors. Just like Sherlock. Only the nurses and the doctor enter the room. “Here we are, huh?” John says to Sherlock while eating his bland soup. “We’re alone together here.”
And then the nightmares start. About the war. About death and pain. About men he could not save. Distorted faces in the dark. Eyes full of despair. He wakes up in the middle of the night. Heavily breathing. Bathed in sweat. He moans and sits up with difficulty. Runs a hand over his face. He looks at Sherlock. Sherlock, who is, as always, motionless in bed. A part of his face lit from the machine that measures his heartbeat. John swallows. He must … He feels the overwhelming desire to talk to someone. It needs to stop. He can not … Oh, hell, he has no one and it’s not like Sherlock would complain, right? He clears his throat and begins.
“Well, uh, Sherlock. How do you feel? Um, I hope I didn’t wake you. Sorry, haha, bad joke … I had a nightmare, which is quite obviously, right? Well, uhm, I hope it doesn’t bother you if I just talk a little. Yes. I’ll talk. So make yourself comfortable. Haha. Sometimes I think I’ve gone the wrong way. I became a doctor because I wanted to help people. And the army … Well, it was just a whim. An idea that me and my friends had. One of them is dead, by the way. Mmh. I … it was not always bad. The training was exhausting though. Sometimes I thought I could not make it. My family was not much help either. My father is an asshole. There is no other word. My sister was thrown out. My mother died. It was all … a mess, you know? Anyway, I’ve been struggling. I wanted to do it. This one thing. And I did it. I’ve become a doctor. I went to Afghanistan and treated soldiers. I’ve seen things that would turn your stomach. Wounds that seemed like death sentences. I’ve looked into hopeless, desperate eyes. Sometimes I saved them. Sometimes I couldn’t. And the faces of those I could not save, they haunt me now, you know? In my dreams. God. I’m so sorry. I really am … Do you see that? I’m crying. That hasn’t happened for a long time. It seems to make you sentimental when you get a bullet in your shoulder … "
"Thank you for listening to me all the time, Sherlock. All this blabbering must be terrible. I thought about James today. Who that is? Well, good question. We were more than friends. But never more than … no idea. I kissed him. Well. In the desert, watching the sunset. Once. Just once. Do you think that is romantic? Shit, yes. Mabye it is. ”
* “My middle name is Hamish. I hate it. I mean, who calls their child John Hamish? My father chose my name. There we have it again. This bastard. Hamish. I always avoid telling people that name. So, I guess that makes us mates? Hey, buddy, haha. No. That just sounds wrong. Sorry.” * "I can get up today. Great, huh? I feel like an old man. My damn shoulder, my trembling hand … a pretty sad picture I make, huh? ”
“It was not so bad. I mean, I for some reason I’m limping, quite badly, but the fresh air was great. I was down in the park. And imagine, a woman spoke to me. She’s called Mary. She said she’s working here. She is nice. And you know what, I asked her if we could go for a coffee. She said yes. Can I get a ‘well done’? No? All right. ” * “Do you know, that you’re pretty? Really, you are. I maybe would have asked you out, if I met you somewhere else before. Oh God, sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me today. I … Maybe I’m just afraid. Because … well. I’ll have to leave here soon, I guess. And I don’t know what to do then …” * “Well, that’s it. I … tomorrow I can go. I don’t know exactly where, but I can go. Mmh. I think I’m really scared. Mary said I should do therapy. No idea if that would help. I guess, I can try it. Maybe. Well, I’ll pack my things. You know … you really could wake up to say good-bye to me. It would be nice …” * “Surprise! Yes, here I am again. I … I missed you, Sherlock. You’re a good listener, you know? Better than my therapist … So, what happened since I left, tell me, haha.” * “I will marry Mary. That’s … yes, that’s good, right? She is … she gives me a certain hold in life. I would not know where else to go. What else could I do? So. We are getting married.” * “Oh God. Fuck Hey, Sherlock. I … She’s pregnant. She … she’s really pregnant. Did you hear that? I’m having a baby. I’m going to be a father. I. Can you belive that? No, me neither. I … Oh my God, what am I doing?” * “This is not what I wanted, do you hear me Sherlock? That … my God, I can not do that. That’s … That’s not me. Fuck. ” * “I love her … Really, I do. I mean, I married her. But … I just do not know what I’m doing. I’m … This is not me. I don’t want a quiet family life in a terraced area. I want … I don’t even really know what I want … But, I hate all of this. I … I thought I was going the right way this time, but that … that’s not what I want. I’m not a family man, Sherlock. ” * “You know, Sherlock, you can just wake up once. So … so we could really talk. Because, well … You listen to me here as I talk every day. Aren’t you bored. Jesus. I know it would be a miracle if you woke up. I have … I’ve heard the nurses talking. They’ve given up on you. It would be a miracle. But … I don’t know, maybe you can just make the miracle happen for me? Simply … Oh God, I don’t know what I’m talking about. Good bye, Sherlock. Until tomorrow.” * 6 weeks later.
“Hello, Dr. Watson. I’m sorry to call you so late, but he … he’s asking for you.”
“Who? Who is asking for me?”
“Sherlock Holmes. The coma patient you have been visiting. He woke up and now he’s asking for you. Very urgently.”
John hurried to the hospital. He doesn’t even notice that he left his cane at home. Until Sherlock points it out. Sherlock, sitting upright in bed, an exhausted, oblique smile on his face. Sherlock,
who says quietly, “Hello, John.” Sherlock, who steals John’s heart within a second and opens the door to a whole new, completely different
story. Who shows John a new way. Which is finally
There’s an undeniable comparison to be drawn concerning Bellamy, Clarke and their individual approach to the notion of love. Bellamy blooms in the presence of affection. Clarke yearns for company and support; her lovers are her solace. Both require love to power through, and yet there is a noticeable absence of verbal clarity in their love. Why has Bellamy never told anybody that he loves them? Why does Clarke find herself blurting out her confession as her lover dies in her arms? What are they so afraid of? What does love mean for these two?
Both Bellamy and Clarke have been conditioned to perceive love as something extreme. To love somebody carries an incredible amount of weight – to cross over to that side in a relationship implies something drastic would have to happen. So first, let’s discuss what is the reasons behind their intense ideas of love.
It’s no secret that Bellamy is a lover at heart and has so many emotions he’s been conditioned to control and repress. His idea of love is one that is quite cyclical and paradoxical. I often describe Bellamy’s situation as a catch 22 of sorts: he loves people with such fervour that it burns, but he too needs love as a fuel for his own. So what comes first, the way he loves people or the way in which he is loved? And why is his love so strong? Well, his early attachment to Octavia is the source of his passion. Being that young and having a responsibility so heavy, Bellamy’s care and love and protectiveness had to be extreme. His idea of love amalgamates a fear of failure and, of course, overpowering sense of duty. Because Octavia was of paramount significance to Bellamy (all stemming from my sister, my responsibility), his idea of love was cemented as one in which this form of intrinsic protectiveness was required.
This mantra he’s lived by is very matter-of-fact: basically, you don’t want to know what would happen if something bad were to happen to Octavia because she is your responsibility. That overwhelming idea would have frightened Bellamy so much, forcing a suffocating form of love that leaves no chance for anything bad to happen to Octavia. This was the first time he was given the duty of care and so, very early on, Bellamy’s conception of love was one much more amplified than anybody else’s. Bellamy was raised raising another. He was giving more than he was probably receiving at times. So where’s the love to fuel his own?
It’s anywhere he can find it. Think about it: the look on his face when Clarke told him she needed him, the way he acted when she ran to him and pulled him into a tight embrace, his reaction when Octavia told him ‘I love you, big brother’. He flourishes when he feels love because it’s just about the one emotion he exudes and yearns for in return; it’s the emotion he knows is geared towards him as a person rather than the skills he possesses. He feels when it’s there, and he gravitates towards it because it’s something he desires so badly. He adores those who adore him, and in the circumstance that he is put first, as a priority, it shakes him to the very core. But why does he not explicitly state his love?
Clarke surrounds herself with love constantly, as it is the source of her liberation. Her will to survive pervades her identity at times and it’s so overwhelming for her. So she reaches out for support, for somebody who bleeds the same, or somebody who being around can free her of her worries. Being constantly singled out for the decisions she has made in the past to ensure the 100′s survival wears her down, it seems, and so the company she seeks is often through romantically and/or sexually-bound relationships. Because love is so paramount to her; because it elevates her in every way possible and gives her the strength to power through hardship…it carries a lot of weight. To love someone, that is.
With Finn, it was almost as if he symbolised an escape for her. He was somebody she could be herself around, somebody who kindled within her a sense of passion and security, and he offered a companionship that she could not seek elsewhere, as the co-leader of her people. The fact that their most intimate scenes took place away from the dropship i.e. away from her duties only further shows this. With Lexa, Clarke found a kindred spirit and somebody she truly connected with. She saw they bled the same, they carried the same burdens, the same guilt, the same sorrows – Finn and Costia and their leadership roles being prime examples. Lexa was her guide, her lover, her oasis, her eye in the storm. She found inner peace when she was with Lexa.
But we have observed the recurring pattern with Clarke and her love dying before her very eyes – to love someone is to kill them, she must think. Her idea of love, much like Bellamy, is heightened because of this. And so an important question to raise is: Why does she only confess at the very last moment?
What do love confessions mean to Bellamy and Clarke?
Conceptually, to both Bellamy and Clarke, love is a line they cannot uncross. The state they both remain in, regarding relationships, is one that does not verbally express affection. They show and don’t tell.
Bellamy and Clarke are absolutely terrified of the idea of mortality. With Bellamy, we know fear manifests wherever his love does. With Clarke, she directly associates her love with death. So to tell their loved ones ‘I love you’ psychologically reinforces the inevitability of death. Because of that inherent fear of failure in Bellamy’s love, and the automatic associating of love with mortality in Clarke…it would be in both Bellamy and Clarke’s nature to firmly hold this idea that love confessions are a time limit, love confessions are a reminder. To confess, to make it known to the world automatically endangers their loved one. It’s a psychological belief: it’s almost as if Bellamy and Clarke feel that if they keep their love for someone a secret from fate itself, it keeps these people immortal, and untouched by death.
Their mentality towards love is something along the lines of ‘I can’t let the world know. I can’t let fate know. Love kills, so if I never say it, I am not putting them in danger.’ To Bellamy and Clarke, confessions have a ring of finality to it that implies that Earth can take them away at any given moment, and they are so fearful of that, they push it to the back of their minds. They show their love through their actions, but never explicitly through their words because not only would that reinstate to the world and destiny itself that this person is irreplaceable so please don’t take them away from me, but it personally reminds both Bellamy and Clarke that one day, their loved one will depart from this world, and they will have no one. People who are special to them, time and time again on Earth, have been harshly taken away from them so they’re now incredibly protective over the last few they have left.
When Clarke confesses, it sounds like a farewell. The last thing she ever told her father, Finn and Lexa was ‘I love you’. And she blurts it out, too, because there’s nothing left to do: fate got to them before her love could. Since Jake’s death, she’s grown to reaffirm her affection for her loved ones before they die, in hopes to lull them into their passing. To give them the comfort of knowing she always felt the same. With Jake and Finn it was gentle yet distressed, but with Lexa, something more interesting happens. She says it, breathlessly, but the desperate look on her face as Lexa departs gives it away: Clarke’s idea of love can sometimes be reversed, and she confesses in hopes that maybe she was wrong all this time, maybe her love was actually the key to their safety. Maybe if she confesses they won’t leave her, after all. But it’s a hopeless kind of belief, and even Clarke knows this.
And with Bellamy? Someone who has always had a fear of death, a fear of the unknown, the inevitable? Love is a force he cannot reckon with, and he’s battling between choosing to perceive mortality as a reason to confess or as a reason to avoid confessing. It’s a fight between hopelessness and relentlessness. (It also comes from his emotional repression, which I talk about here.) He knows deep down that time will run out, but at the same time, he struggles to unlearn the idea that announcing his love puts a death sentence on the person.
And together: To one another, Bellamy and Clarke will not accept the other’s mortality. While everyone else has left them, they are each other’s constants, and they have remained and survived through it all. They have this delusional mentality, particularly Clarke, that the other’s death is simply not a narrative existing in their universe. Likely crafted from the trauma of loss, they simply will not accept that their death is inevitable. Clarke is adamant that Bellamy will always come back to her (re 4x06: No, you will) because heaven knows what will happen if someone as dear to her as Bellamy were to die. The same occurs within Bellamy, to a certain extent. We saw it in 3x02 especially: when Clarke is in danger he will not stop until she is out of harm’s way because the idea of her death absolutely frightens him.
Conclusively: resulting from their past experiences, both Bellamy and Clarke find immense difficulty in stating their love, in fear that it will rouse harsh fate itself – that if they were to confess they would be periling their loved one. Their fear of the end is what stops them from confessing, and they both, in the face of the apocalypse, have begun to try and unlearn this deeply-rooted mentality; that love does not equal death, but rather strength.
A/N: if you like the story, PLEASE REBLOG! My goal is to become an author and exposure does a lot!! Anyway, enjoy!!
My Dearest, John Laurens,
‘Tis been awhile, for you have been in the cold, unforgiving ground for an approaching decade. I still find myself in times of trouble, especially in this season of relentless heat. It is hot and humid, much like my days as a child, but you know plenty of it.
I shall spare you the details of my life, as not much has changed since writing you last. My dear James has grown, as with Philip and Angelica. They are becoming outstanding citizens of society and are still very young! Philip is mature for his age, but does find pleasure in jesting. I would assume he acquires his playful attributes from my façade. I cannot deny that I abhor not being my true self whilst around my family, but John, my true being perished with the acknowledgment of your death.
We were to be the emperors of Congress, my dear John. We were to be comrades through all of our trials and tribulations. I firmly believe that life would be much less despairing if we worked side by side, but that is a question left unanswered by the cruel grips of fate.
Forgive me for rambling, my mind cannot cease when thinking about you.
Finally, it was done. 8 years of research, months of preparation, and a menagerie of deceased mice, but at last he held in his hand the formula that he had sought for most of his adult life. Dr. Walker felt an incredible excitement building within him as he inspected the tiny vial. He was so close to realizing his dream that he could almost taste it, taking all his willpower to stop himself from downing the vial’s contents right then and there. No, mad scientist he may be, however he was not so mad as to administer a still as of yet unproven cocktail to himself without any kind of human testing.
Unfortunately for him, this formula was being done off the books, without any knowledge of the university, so he couldn’t just announce his findings to the world and start human trials. Jon also knew he couldn’t simply spike someone’s drink with the formula to observe the results. If it proved toxic he’d have to hide a body, a subject he had skipped in his mad scientist studies and had no idea how to handle. If it proved effective, the unwitting dupe would likely be largely upset at the outcome, and he wasn’t so sure he would be able to remove all evidence that would lead back to him anyway. He would have to find a guinea pig that was as enthused about his results as he was, but also willing to sacrifice some safety to achieve his goal.
Fortunately, the internet was a vast place, and home to many, many diverse interests.
Mikey was sauntering home after morning classes. The fall leaves were just beginning to turn red and brown, and he was already feeling slightly overwhelmed as assignments piled up at the beginning of his sophomore year. Things like cooking and eating healthy had long since gone out the window, as the freshly punched notches on his belt could attest. However, Mikey wasn’t exactly distressed at these developments, and he made his way back to his dorm already salivating at the thought of a frozen pizza lunch. Maybe even two pizzas, he thought, giving his small belly a pat.
Finally reaching his dorm, he kicked off his shoes, gave a courteous hello to his dorm-mates, dropped off his pack in his room, then made his way to the shared kitchen to pop the tops on two frozen pizzas. Safely set to bake for 20 minutes, he made his way back to his room to sit down, check his email, and surf the usual sites. Homework could wait until after lunch.
He’d always loved food. He’d always loved eating, but more than that, Mikey wanted to grow, to become huge, the biggest he could ever be. Growing up in a very health-conscious household had meant there’d never really been the opportunity to truly pig out. Now that Mikey had left the nest, he was going to make the most of his new-found freedom and eat whenever and whatever he wanted, and finally realize his dream of becoming bigger. He’d already gained the freshman 15 and then some, and was well on his way to packing away the sophomore thirty. A few more weeks and he’d have to buy bigger pants.
Still, progress was too slow for his liking; he wanted to get big, now. Luckily the internet was a big place, filled with many diverse interest. After checking his email, Mikey logged into Gnosher to check his messages there. Mikey had stumbled across the gainer community some years ago, and was surprised to find out there were a lot of people that actually shared his desires. Gnosher was just one such site where people could congregate, share tips, and just generally encourage one another to grow as big as they wanted. Mikey was in touch with several inspiring individuals, and he scrolled through a few messages congratulating him on nearly outgrowing his belt.
The message that caught his eye today was something he’d never received before. There was the usual congratulations for his steady gains, but after that was the question, “How would you like to get much much bigger, much much faster?” It sounded like he was going to be given a pitch for some sort of new weight gain protein mix, something that Mikey had so far avoided on a university budget, but he was intrigued enough to at least reply back asking for the details. Already putting it out of his mind and finishing up his online perusal, he made his way back to the kitchen to begin scarfing his now cooked pizzas.
Upon re-entering his room, Mikey was surprised to see on his still open Gnosher page that he’d already gotten a reply. Curiosity won out over hunger, and he clicked the message open to read it. It turned out the writer was a local, working at the university, and he’d been working on a weight gain formula that was now ready for human testing. After reading Mikey’s profile, he thought he’d be eager to take part in trials, and was wondering if he’d like to sign up. It all seemed too good to be true, and Mikey felt a healthy dose of skepticism, but once again curiosity won out and Mikey replied with positive enthusiasm. Again, a few short minutes later, he was provided instructions to come to professor Jon Walker’s lab this afternoon and he’d be given further instructions.
Bewildered, but excited, Mikey quickly ate his pizzas, stowed his homework for later this evening, and made his way to the Biotechnology building where professor Walker’s lab was.
Now he wondered if he truly was mad. Test the formula here? Now? And with a student here at the university? What if something went wrong? What if the boy screamed and went to the authorities? Or worse, what if it killed him? How would he drag a body out of this office, in the middle of the afternoon? The more the professor fraught and fretted the more insane he thought his plan to be. How could he let his own ego get the better of him to do something so reckless?
Professor Walker sighed, and slumped back behind his desk, the image of a young sophomore still displayed on his screen. Brown hair, blue eyes, boyish looks, and a budding belly; who was he kidding? It wasn’t just his ego that made him message this boy. A life devoted to science had left the professor desperately lonely, and he had jumped at the chance of not only fulfilling his life’s work, but also actually meeting someone with the same desires as his own. He sighed again at his own folly, but at the same time there was the building fire of anticipation. What if it all worked?
The voice was quiet, coming from the other end of the lab adjoining his office. Steeling himself, he put on his best professor face, and walked out the door to greet his subject.
“Professor?” Mikey called out, wondering if the professor may still be on lunch, but after a few moments he heard a bustling from the small office next to the lab, and then a small, bespectacled, middle-aged man walked out to greet him.
“Ah, Michael, so good you could make it,” he said warmly, extending his hand in greeting.
Mikey took the hand and shook. “Thank you for contacting me. I was surprised that this was something the university even studied.”
“Indeed, the biotechnology laboratory has many concurrent studies being done.”
“I’m in computer sciences, so I had no idea. I’d have certainly signed up if this was a posted study! So, do I have to sign anything?”
The professor paused and them seemed to stammer nervously. “Ah, yes, well, this is something of a personal passion of mine. Off the school’s records, so to speak.”
Mikey raised a skeptical eyebrow. “So… what is it? Some sort of new protein powder?”
“No no no, nothing of the sort. What I have created is a chemical formula able to completely alter the subjects fundamental genetics in such a way that it’s almost like they’re a new person.”
“That sounds… a little dangerous? Look, I’d like to fill out, not become a totally different person.” Mikey said, taking a caution half-step back.
“Oh dear, I’m terribly sorry, I misspoke. The formula doesn’t change everything, like your hair or eye colour, but actually targets and edits some very specific genes. You’ve heard of course of certain ethnicities being more prone to weight gain and obesity?”
“You mean like, Samoans?” Mikey offered, still skeptical.
“Yes, precisely, very good! Polynesian men simply have higher percentage of adipose tissue than the general population. What my formula does is take those specific genome sequences and edits them into the host, essentially changing their heritage slightly, but without changing anything else like skin or hair colour.” Mikey was about to reply, but the professor exuberantly continued, “But that’s just one example of what the formula does; obesity is a much more complex syndrome than any one gene. There is also the hereditary genetics passed from parents and especially the mother, there is epigenetics when a child is overweight and carries that weight into puberty and then adulthood - all these things are contained and subtly changed in this formula. It’s truly a marvel, if I do say so myself!” Concluded the professor, clearly proud of himself.
“But you haven’t tested it on people yet.” Mikey added flatly.
The professor seemed to shrink bank in on himself. “Well, no, not as of yet, that’s why you’re here of course. However, studies on laboratory animals have been very promising.”
“Like, how promising?”
“98% of subjects have doubled their initial mass after ingestion.”
“And the other 2%?”
“Um, well most of the rest were simply ineffective, and a statistically insignificant percentage suffered mild cardiac events.”
Mikey’s eyes narrowed. “How insignificant?”
“It was one. Out of hundreds of subjects,” the professor grumped. “I have a defibrillator in my office. I promise you this will be perfectly safe.”
Mikey crossed his arms, but a coy smile crept into his face. “Doubled their mass, huh?”
The professor nodded. “Yes, that’s what my studies showed.”
“Alright then, how do we do this?”
The professor visibly relaxed, and then beamed enthusiasm once more. “Splendid! Well, first, we’ll take a measurement so we have a baseline comparison of course. Take off your shoes and jacket and follow me.” Professor Walker then made his way back to his office, and Mikey quickly kicked off his shoes and jacket and followed him in. “Please close the door behind you, would you?” Mikey did, and then lay his shoes and jacket on the floor near the door.
Once inside the professor moved to a physician’s scale and motioned for Mikey to get on. “Now please remove your effects and we’ll weigh you in.” This brought Mikey up short, but he brought his shirt over his head, undid his belt and slid out of his jeans, and lay the pile of clothes near the door with his shoes and jacket. The professor coughed slightly and waved a hand at Mikey’s groin, “and your boxers I’m afraid.”
Wringing his hands, professor Walker replied, “well, you could keep them on, but it will likely become very uncomfortable quite soon.”
This made Mikey’s eyes widen, but he obeyed and woodenly removed his boxers, standing there naked, hands over his groin. The display of modesty made professor Walker chuckle. “Now now, don’t feel embarrassed. I am a doctor, after all.”
“Oh yeah? What’s your doctorate in?” Mikey shot back.
The professor shrugged. “Molecular biology, but I’d like to think I’d bring the same level of professionalism and courtesy as an MD.”
Mikey snarked, but removed his hands and made his way to get on the scale. The professor wasn’t sure what the young man had to be ashamed of; the boy was more than adequately hung. Impressively hung, even.
Moving behind Mikey, Dr. Walker moved the scale’s weights back and forth, slowly zeroing in on the young man’s weight, while surreptitiously sneaking glances at his subject’s form. An average frame, but possessing a certain softness and a rounded middle suggesting the boy had been skipping the gym and snacking a little too much during late-night study sessions. This, along with his shyness, made him absolutely adorable. It almost made the professor regret the circumstances by which he’d found the boy naked in his office. Almost.
“About 220 pounds, or thereabouts,” the professor announced, and then marked it down on a paper on his desk. Then, he reached into a drawer in his desk, retrieved a small vial of blue liquid and grandly announced, “Now for the fun part, as they say!”
Mikey gulped. He was really doing this. If this worked, he’d put every other gainer on Gnosher to shame. If it didn’t, well, it probably wouldn’t kill him. Hopefully. “Do I just drink it?”
“Indeed, my boy, indeed,” he said handing the vial over to the young man.
Mikey sighed, “Well, here goes,” and drank the vial in one gulp. He stood there for a few moments, not sure what he was expecting to feel, before finally asking, “so how long does this stuff take?”
“Well, in mice it was metabolized in approximately 5 minutes or so. There’s no rushing science,” the professor added, waggling his finger for scholarly emphasis.
Mikey was beginning to wonder if the professor put on this much of a show during his classes, when he started to feel a wave of warmth build up inside, before gently crashing over him, only to do it again moments later. “Uh, professor? I feel something.”
“Yes? How do you feel? Describe the sensation.”
“Uh, warm? Like I have a fever, only it’s in my stomach. And something- urgh!” Mikey doubled over, clutching his stomach in pain, but while he did he found there was more stomach to clutch, and after a moment there was more still. His belly was rounding out more and more, the flesh expanding beneath his fingers like an inflating ball.
“Michael, are you alright?” Dr. Walker sounded genuinely alarmed and took a step forward, however Mikey waved him off and slowly righted himself. As he did he took a slight stumbling step backwards, causing the newly formed flesh of his belly to jiggle slightly. The completely alien sensation of a part of him moving well after he had stopped made his eyes widen in astonishment.
“Oh man, this is happening! I’m getting bigger!” Mikey exclaimed, ecstatic, all pain forgotten as he grabbed his belly to bounce and jiggle it in his hands. In moments it was large enough to have a fold over his waist, and he could lift and drop it with a faint slap of flesh meeting flesh. Then, another wave of heat, this time diffuse and all-encompassing, but without any pain at all. Mikey let it wash over him in rapt anticipation.
For his part, Dr. Walker was even more ecstatic than Mikey was. It was working! This boy was blimping up before his very eyes! First in the gut, but he could see the rest of him was slowly catching up. His previously flat chest was budding into a pair of perky man tits, tiny areolas stretching wider as his new mammaries inflated with soft flesh. His entire chest now began to rise outwards like inflating dough, the skin softening with adipose as it accumulated beneath it. The softness then spread to his shoulders, down his arms, then up his neck and face, all of it becoming noticeably thicker with growth. In moments the boy had a double chin, round moon cheeks, and a fold of flesh at the back of his neck just where his short brown hair tapered off.
Soon It seemed as though his body was reaching capacity as folds and creases were appearing beneath his chest, arms and arm-pits, the billowing fat unable to be contained beneath the skin. It was then that the growth changed tack, now causing his frame to visibly broaden. Dr. Walker could almost hear the creak of bones as his hips, shoulders and torso enlarged and expanded, making him wide, heavy-set, and barrel chested. The folds of flesh disappeared momentarily as the fat spread out to cover the enlarging canvas, but soon reappeared as the expansion of his skeleton slowed, only now much further apart. With wider hips, Mikey was forced to shuffle his feet and widen his stance, thicker feet now splayed diagonally in order to balance the heavier load.
Mikey could not have been happier feeling each new curve and roll, each new bounce and jiggle as his frame packed on more and more and more. He rubbed his hands over his torso over and over, each time the sensation bringing something new, and becoming intensely erotic. He could tell between his much wider set thighs and beneath his protruding middle he was becoming aroused in front of an audience, but he was too turned on to care. He was getting everything he’d ever wanted all at once, and he was more than happy to ignore a spectator and simply enjoy each new sensation as he grew.
As incredibly erotic as the whole scene was for Mikey, it was even more so for Dr. Walker. The adorable young man was becoming the hunk of his dreams right in front of him, and it was becoming increasingly obvious as the well hung cock began to stiffen and rise to it’s full length, almost slapping the belly hanging above it. It really was impressive, and the sight of this hulking tank blissfully rubbing his chest and belly while his huge cock bounced beneath was more than enough to get the good professor hard as steel in his slacks.
“Oh god, this feels sooo goood,” Mikey moaned, hands never leaving his torso, and the professor could see a drop of pre began to form at the tip of his now turgid member. Doctor Walker was working up the nerve to reach out and touch the leaking organ, when he noticed Mikey’s growth was now redirecting south, his legs, ass and feet puffing up and filling out. Within moments each of his thunder thighs were the size of a normal man’s waist, but unlike the billowy flab of his torso each lower limb was a near solid ham as Mikey’s musculature became better able to handle the heavy burden he’d be carrying from now on. The only exception to this seemed to be his glutes, which not only blew up to this size of two basketballs but also retained a certain wobbliness, the massive globes fighting for space on Mikey’s backside.
Another moan brought the professor’s attention back to the young man’s groin. As each thigh grew thicker they began to press together, leaving less and less space for Mikey’s nuts. Each ball was now stretching the scrotum so thin the veins were clearly visible, and the professor was concerned if he didn’t do something the skin might tear. However, his concerns were expunged as just like the rest of his skin it stretched and grew, letting each teste rest lower and lower until they dangled halfway to his knees. It was then the professor noticed each teste not only sagged lower in a far more loose and dangly scrotum, but seemed larger than before, having gone from quail eggs to those of large chickens. This was certainly not something he had programmed into the formula, however he wasn’t complaining.
Fat began to accumulate in the boy’s groin, swallowing up more and more of the leaking spire, making it appear inches shorter than when he had walked into the office earlier. Yet as the professor leaned in to better observe the changes, he noticed he’d been wrong. Not only had the fat of the man’s pubis swallowed much of his length, his cock had indeed lost a fair bit of circumference, seeming much less massive than before. In moments the young man’s member was much more modest in size, and with the rest of him having grown so large it seemed seemed almost small. Mikey’s burgeoning middle prevented him from seeing this new development, and judging by the blissed out expression still painted all over his face he didn’t seem to notice, or care, about his loss in manhood. The professor hoped the expansion of the boy’s testicles would make up for it.
The complete alteration in frame, shape and the arrangement of fat on the body was all expected and shown in previous testing on laboratory mice, but the changes in his genitalia were never something the professor investigated in his previous trials. With these unexpected developments, the professor began to look out for other unintended side effects of the formula. Stepping back, he took stock of the much larger man Mikey was becoming. He was easily over 350 pounds, and while the growth of his skeletal structure and musculature seemed to have stopped, he could see the accumulation of adipose was still going strong. The boy’s face was nearly circular, chubby cheeks rounding out into a prominent double chin, that seemed to flow into the inflating chest, the young man’s neck having been swallowed up by the expanding tides of flesh. His chest had expanded from perky breasts to much larger man-mammaries, now sagging under their own weight, each eraser-head capped peak propped up by the tremendous tank below it. And what a tank it was, having gone from mere cask to barrel in the intervening period. Framed by love handles as thick as bread loafs and beginning to surge over the boy’s waist, it was a sight to behold. Mikey was more than enamoured with it as he jiggled and grabbed his wobbling middle, oblivious to the world and all that was happening around him.
“Eyes up here, professor.”
Or so Dr. Walker thought, but now Mikey was staring right at him, hands cupping each breast so they would squish into a provocative bosom. Above them the round, boyish face was just as provocative, a sly smile painted on his lips. “I see you’re enjoying the show,” he remarked, eyes pointedly looking at the obvious tent in the professor’s slacks.
For the first time that afternoon it was the professor who felt embarrassed, like a child with his hand in the cookie jar. He floundered, mouth moving but no words coming out, only stopping once Mikey swayed much larger hips. He gulped, frozen, his entire being overcome by lust. Finally Mikey walked towards him, his gait now an odd swagger as each titanic thigh was forced to move circularly around the other with every step. His entire body shook with each lumbering foot fall, an earthquake of flesh growing larger with each passing moment.
Mikey reached him and just stood there, belly mere inches from bumping the professor backward, seductive eyes still staring into his. Then the professor felt something soft and warm pressing into his torso and groin; it was Mikey’s belly. It had surged forward in the few seconds he’d been standing in front of him, and now his belly sagged enough that the lowest portions were rubbing against the professor’s hardon. Mikey tittered and then swayed his hips again, the soft flesh seeming to caress his aching cock.
“Why don’t you touch it?” He asked, grasping the professor’s arm to bring it to the warm flesh of his side. It was so soft, so smooth, his hand sinking in as he pressed further, encouraged by the now colossal college student. After sinking in an inch the two moaned simultaneously, the professor unable to hold himself back any longer. He brought his mouth down to smash into the young man’s chest, lips and tongue seeking the enormous nipple atop the pendulous moobs, slathering saliva all over the pale expanse before finally latching on to suckle with abandon. The professor’s free hands grasped and fondled the yielding fat of Mikey’s belly while he stood there, an unmoving edifice, moaning appreciatively as the older man worshipped his voluminous form.
Had the professor been paying attention he may have noticed the change in tone that had come over Mikey. His manner towards Dr. Walker was mostly ambivalent earlier, but now he was gratefully accepting his unbridled lust with eager enthusiasm. However the professor was beyond thinking rationally at this point. He licked and nibbled and bit the meat of Mikey’s chest, groping at his belly and love-handles as far as he could reach, noticing how hard it was to reach the entire circumference of his waist. He licked lower and lower on the mountainous middle, mashing his face as far into the yielding fat as it would go, eventually descending to his knees, a worshipper having reached mecca. Finally, he reached up to lift the tremendous belly to view the prize now hidden beneath the cascading tide of flesh.
Mikey was already hard as a rock from the professor’s attention, however even at full mast, and even considering the exorbitant flesh that surrounded it, he could tell that Mikey had lost much of his impressive length and girth. Even with his hand pressing against his now impressive fat pad, Mikey extended perhaps 4 inches at best. Resting the behemoth belly on his forehead, the professor leaned into the hot, humid groin to swallow Mikey whole.
He wasn’t sure how the professor was able to deep-throat him, but Mikey couldn’t deny it felt amazing. While the professor eagerly took his entire length over and over, Mikey stood with legs splayed, playing with each doughy breast and the huge nipples at their ends. He knew he was enormous now, larger than he’d ever thought he could gain naturally, and it felt so good to push and fondle and mold his own body, the feeling of size and weight and power. He began to thrust into the professor’s mouth, each movement causing his entire body to quake while sending his pendulous balls to slap into the professor’s chin.
For Mikey each thrust was the barest jerk forward, but for Dr. Walker it had the momentum of over 450 pounds of man bearing down on his face. The first thrust nearly knocked him over, causing him to lose his grip on the colossal belly, smothering him in a tidal wave of fat. He recovered though, and redoubled his efforts, both hands now holding up the prodigious paunch while meeting the next thrust with his open and accepting mouth.
The slap of Mikey’s balls on the professor’s chin filled the office, and while Mikey found he was able to thrust as easily as he could when he was thin, he was working up a substantial sweat after only a few minutes. Liquid dripped on his nose and forehead to gather into rivulets formed on the vast expanse of chest and belly, and he could only imagine how the pressor felt beneath the horizon of his middle.
The professor was more concerned with simply holding on, and only noticed the taste of precum on his lips as Mikey’s thrusting picked up pace. Each battering of balls and groin meat left him covered in the fat man’s sweat. However, the enormous, dangling orbs (that would surely leave bruises once this was over) were beginning to pull upward, and he knew Mikey’s climax was imminent.
Mikey knew he couldn’t last. The professor’s magic mouth took him to the root with each thrust, and the feeling of his entire body jiggling in tune with his lovemaking was simply beyond words. With a bellowing moan, Mikey squeezed each of his love-handles as hard as he could and came.
Even though he could feel the twitching of the dick in his mouth and the ascent of the gigantic balls, the professor was completely unprepared for the torrent of cum that gushed forth from Mikey’s diminished manhood. The first gush filled his mouth completely, while the second overfilled it, and the third made jizz come sputtering out comically from his nose and mouth. The sound of Mikey’s seed splattering on the linoleum floor of the professor’s office was more akin to a dropped cup of coffee than the missed remnants of an impromptu blowjob, and the professor wondered if this was yet another side effect of the formula or if the young man had possessed this ability all along.
After what seemed an eternity, the gushing of Mikey’s geyser slowed to a trickle, giving the professor time to swallow and, more importantly, breathe. He fell backward on his ass, the propped-up belly falling forward and jiggling Mikey’s front while the last drops of his orgasm fell to join the small puddle that had formed beneath him. He calmed down and took stock of his enormity once more, and sighed a deep, satisfied sound.
“Looks like your formula worked, professor.”
Still catching his breath, the good doctor could only manage, “Evidently.”
Mikey wobbled back to the professor’s desk, his lumbering gait somewhat more awkward than a man of his size already would be as he was getting used to his vastness. Noticing something, he bent sideways and picked up a distinct blue vial. “You know professor, there seems to be enough formula left for one more.”
The professor thought about it for a moment, acknowledging mentally that neither he nor his young charge had any clothes that would fit and would have to trundle home, jiggling and naked. He’d have to provide some sort of explanation to his friends and colleagues, and he could even be subjecting himself to the same sort of bizarre mental changes and even possible alterations of his genitalia as the deity of excess that was beckoning him onward.
He downed the vial without a second thought, and as he grew and burst from his clothes, Mikey fondling and groping each new roll as it appeared on his body, he knew without doubt that this was the climax of his professional career.
Warning: Graphic hybrid smut. Please don’t read this if you’re not into it because I don’t want to scar you.
Summary: Dogboy Tae gets extremely possessive when “that time of the month” rolls around and find’s it hard to control his natural instincts and his dominating nature during the monthly occurrence.
Note: Ah, okay, so this is my first time ever writing about Hybrids and stuff like that, so please bear with me. The idea came to mind while I was surfing the interwebz, so I just thought I’d write it up. What a thing to be my first post lol, but oh well.. Idgaf. I’m pretty much uneducated on “Dogboys” but I’m giving it my best shot.. HUZZAH!!~
You were driving him insane. The intoxicating scent of you calling out to him, begging for him to mount you and claim you as his own before any other male could get to you. It was hard to fight his natural instincts, but he knew better than to force you into anything and you had told him you didn’t feel well, stating you had ‘cramps’ or something along those lines. But your body was crying out for him to dominate you, your body needed him, he could sense it, and it was taking every ounce of his willpower to refrain from mounting you whenever he was in your presence. And that was quite a lot.
It was already hard enough not to mount you, so he really couldn’t help his need to follow you around everywhere, his possessive nature having to make sure no other male could get near you, his precious bitch. Just the thought of it made the hair on the back of his neck raise, his hands clench into fists and a snarl appear on his lips, slightly revealing his canines hid beneath.
He was in no mood to be tested today in particular. He could sense you were at your peak of ovulation, which was when it was most hard for him to suppress his feral desires. It was so strange to him how humans were so unaware to what their bodies needed. Couldn’t you sense even a little bit how badly your body was yearning for him? He could only shake his head, perplexed by your utter oblivion.
night halfway through Sixth at Ilvermorny, Percival wakes up suddenly. Phantom
pain prickles down his spine, a terrible hunger echoes through his bones, and
an awful dizzy confusion blankets everything. It isn’t before the sun has risen
and his room is dusted in gold that it all recedes, and he’s left with a
whisper of contentment, a hot curl of happiness in his belly, and exhaustion
that blankets him heavily. His soulmate has been born.
rest of Sixth is hell, because he keeps falling asleep at the most inopportune
moments and his mood swings between cranky and exhausted all the time. His dormmates find it hilarious, and someone gifts
him a baby bottle and pacifier for Yule.
the knowledge that his soulmate is just a baby lights a fire beneath him. He will look after them, he will take care of them. It drives him, this
innocent child who feels soft emotions; he receives echoes of warmth, of quiet
simple happiness, of the peaceful calm of an infant’s sleep. He wants to protect
and cherish his soulmate’s gentle innocence, and it’s this drive to protect
that turns him to Auror training.
first time he grew angry, truly angry, after that was when he was nineteen and
a brand-new Trainee Auror. Junior Auror Frye, to whom he’s assigned, refuses to
listen to him when everything inside him is screaming
that the warehouse they’re about to raid isn’t as empty as it seems. “What would
you know?” Frye says with a sneer. He’s resentful, because Percival showed him
up in front of Director Harkaway earlier that week. Despite Percival’s
misgivings, they burst into the warehouse anyway. Trainee Auror Hardewicke is
killed, and Junior Auror Frye loses his left eye.
the overwhelming fury subsides, he presses his hands into his stomach. “I’m
sorry, I’m sorry,” he whispers, as if his soulmate could hear him.
soulmate’s emotions are indistinct still, childish half-formed things.
Percival’s anger and impotent rage has frightened them; he can feel the
trembling fear, like a shivering animal trying to hide.
this time, unlike the handful of times when his soulmate has felt afraid
before, the fear doesn’t reside. It grows stronger. Fear, and confusion, and
the very real feeling of loss that builds in his chest until he can’t breathe.
He has to take two days leave before he can even get out of bed, and still the
awful grief trails him. Something awful has happened to his soulmate, and the
impotent rage threatens to consume him again, because he can’t do anything to
help the little life he promised to protect.
soulmate’s childhood passes in this way. The fear slowly gives way to dull
acceptance, heavy melancholy, and above all, roiling self-hatred. It grows
worse in the evenings, and every Sunday Percival is confined to his bed, hardly
daring to breathe in case it nudges the awful knot of pain, terror, and
loathing that has settled beneath his breastbone.
around this time that his soulmate disappears for hours on end. The first time
it happens Percival nearly faints, thinking his soulmate is dead. He is alone
in his emotions for the first time in six years. Some hours later, his soulmate
returns, exhausted and angry. Percival weeps then, full of fear. Don’t go, don’t go, he tries to beg his
soulmate. There is no answer but the habitual sorrow that blankets his soulmate’s
every action. The episodes of blankness happen again, and again, and again. He
has no idea what they could be.
tries to compensate for his little love’s overwhelming misery. He works himself
to the bone, solving case after case, chasing the sensation of righteous
justice that flares inside him when the criminals he arrested are declared
guilty. He graduates from Auror training with flying colours and fierce pride
in his chest.
soulmate’s tenth birthday arrives and he waits with baited breath for their joy
when they receive their Ilvermorny letter. But there is nothing; the usual
sadness, shame, and grief echo in the marrow of his bones. For the first time,
Percival wonders if he soulmate is a Squib, but resolves that he doesn’t care.
He will find his soulmate when they are old enough, and he will give them
enough joy to drown out the echoes of this miserable childhood.
promoted from Junior Auror to Senior in a handful of years, and savage joy leaps
in his chest every time he sits at his own desk to himself in a corner of the
bullpen. He hopes his soulmate feels
his positive emotions just as keenly as Percival can feel their misery, and so
every morning he lingers over the sight of his badge that reads Senior Auror Graves, trying to conjure
up the sensation of pride, of joy, of determination.
I am proud of you, he tries to tell his soulmate
through his emotions. I will find you. I
will make you happy.
years pass. He doesn’t find his soulmate. The echoed emotions he feels become
muted and dull. His soulmate turns seventeen but feels no joy. Percival wishes
keenly that he could find them, pepper them with the love they’ve been so
starved of their entire life save those blissful early years.
his soulmate is now of age, Percival can’t bring himself to partake in the
amorous dalliances that are common in unmatched witches and wizards. Even
though he no longer has any moral compunctions, he can’t bear to hurt them. He
wakes up some nights flushed with a lust that isn’t his own, toes curling and
belly clenching for a touch on his cock. The first time he tried to take
himself in hand through that dizzying haze, his desire echoing his soulmate’s
echoing his, there’s a sudden snap of emotion and clarity before he’s drowning
in a sea of horror and disgust, the ever-present shame and loathing growing
sorry, I’m sorry,” he whispers, winding his arms around his ribs and thinking
of love, of forgiveness, of safety. Slowly, his soulmate’s emotions recede, and
they fall back to sleep.
gains a reputation among the rest of the Aurors of being utterly unflappable.
The truth is that he doesn’t want to make his poor soulmate feel any worse than
they already do every day. His insatiable drive to protect, as well as his
reputation of having nerves of steel aids him professionally, and at the age of
thirty-four, he’s promoted to Director of Magical Security when Director
Harkaway retires. He lingers on the feeling of joy for days. His soulmate’s
life is devoid of it, otherwise.
beginning to lose hope he will ever find his soulmate. He’s not even sure if
they’re in the same time zone as he is. Senior Auror Sunbowe’s soulmate was on
the other side of the planet before they found one another, and she’s mentioned
how she’d feel tired and ready to sleep halfway through the day, and wake up
halfway through the night. Percival’s soulmate is weary at all hours.
only good thing that comes of his imprisonment under Grindelwald is that there
is something in his soulmate’s life causing them to feel hope for the first
time since those handful of years when he was a teenager. It flutters weakly at
his breast like a wounded bird, and Percival hopes fervently that, wherever
they are, his soulmate’s awful life is about to get better.
stupid hope. Their entire life has been nothing but agony and misery. Why
should this be any different?
periods of blankness become longer and more frequent. One night, he is woken
from sleep by all-consuming rage and terror so incandescently bright that he
manages to break through the seven layers of wards Grindelwald’s wrapped him
in, and apparate straight to the office of Seraphine Picquery, where he
blessedly loses consciousness.
wakes up three days later in hospital, Junior Auror Porpentina Goldstein
wringing her hands nervously at the foot of his bed. He listens to her
explanation with half an ear.
once again alone. There is no familiar echo of emotion in his bones, no whisper
of sadness inside his skull. His soulmate doesn’t come back to him. Recovery is
made longer by the crushing loneliness that dogs his steps and consumes him
when the Healers turn the lights off each evening.
months before Percival wakes up in the middle of the night, back at his
apartment. A steady thrum of quiet emotion trembles at his fingertips. Hope,
uncertainty, weariness. He lurches out of bed and opens his front door.
A boy –
young man – stands on his doorstep, thin and in need of a haircut, his face all
sharp angles and liquid feline eyes. Hope blooms inside Percival’s chest,
answered by a hushed thrill and a tremulous smile on the young man’s face.
It's been raining the past few days & I've been itching for anything about Isak & Even in the rain. It could literally be anything- they get stuck in the rain, what they do when it's raining, even a cliche kiss in the rain-idc just anything with rain
Hi!!! Okay so I know this prompt has been in my inbox for a hot minute- but I hope you don’t mind me taking a crack at it now? :) especially because I’m snowed in at the moment and school is cancelled and I’m not feeling hw. and after this one, I’m going to start another full length fic
One of Even’s favorite feelings in the world is the feeling of absolute stillness in the hours just before the sun breaks out over the sky and the birds tweet and alarms go off and all the jazz that reminds Even of how fast the world moves.
He much prefers it like this; quiet and relaxed and unhurried.
It also helps that he has an armful of sleepy Isak who’s gentle breaths escape his nose and brush against Even’s neck in rhythmic puffs.Even tightens his arms around Isak, just little bit, because he’s been feeling a little off lately and he never wants to lose this minute right here.
It’s enough though, because Isak’s eyes blearily crack open, wincing at the edge-of-dawn light.
He sniffles blearily and god Isak is beautiful. “Halla baby.”
Isak blinks slowly again and sits up, just a bit, not quite enough to dislodge Even’s arms. “Its raining.”
Even perks up, just now noticing the gentle pitter patter of rain drops against the window panes.
“You know what?” Isak finally shifts out from under Even’s arms and stretches, shivering a bit as the cool air hits his bare skin. He pulls on a pair of Even’s boxers and makes for the window, “I think school is cancelled today.”
Even rolls his eyes, “No it’s not.”
Isak throws a bland looks backwards, “Yep. Because I’m not going out in this rain. Which means, you’re not going out in this rain.”
Even snorts because if that was the rule- that when one misses school, they both miss school- they’d both be so far above the 10% rule that they’d be doomed to repeat their current respective years for all of eternity. And fuck, Even’s already had to repeat once, no way in hell it’s going to happen again.
But then Isak turns to face him at the window and-
this would make a beautiful sketch. Isak, bare chested and sleep-rumpled, backlit by the morning light and drops of rain splattered just so against the window behind him? Even’s fingers start itching in a way they haven’t in a good two weeks.
Even stares at him hard, committing the image to memory.
“Besides,” Isak says, giving him a slow grin, “Once the other’s leave for school and work and whatever else they do in their lives…. we would have the apartment to ourselves.”
Sometimes there are offers too good to refuse.
Even opens the covers and gestures for Isak to climb back in. “Maybe one day wouldn’t be so bad. A rain-day.”
Isak is smug and silly and climbs right back into bed to lie across Even’s chest without another word. So Even brushes his hand up and down his back and listens to the sound of the rain, magnifying it in his brain to drown out the sound of his mind.
He thinks back to Isak standing in front of the window. The desire to sketch out the image is almost overwhelming. He thinks that maybe he’d give it Isak a present- a visual representation of how Even sees Isak, how he has always seen Isak.
Bold, beautiful, soft.
But then he also thinks that maybe he’s keep it for himself too. In his wallet or bedside table. Maybe under his pillow to pull out at his leisure and remind himself of everything good and beautiful in his world.
The temptation proves too strong to resist.
He swats at Isak’s side, who groans in protest. “What the fuck do you want?”
“Up. I want to draw you.”
The groan grows louder and more dramatic, “Nooo. Babyyyyy.”
“The lightening is perfect, the rain is perfect, my mood is perfect, your body is perfect. This is it. Get up, put on some NAS and stand by the window.”
One last pathetic groan before Isak is grumbling and rolling off Even’s chest, and Even is up as well, grabbing his pencils and sketch pad that has made it’s new home under Isak’s bed and settling cross legged at the foot of the mattress.
The music comes on, Isak stops pouting, and the image is beautiful again, so beautiful and light and lovely that Even gets to work. He sketched out lines and shadings and his approximation of rain drops splattered against a window and like-
Isak just watches him; dramatic narrowing of his eyes gone soft and sweet, lips tilting up just a bit, noticeable only because he knows Isak so well. And he knows what Isak looks like when he’s content, even if he was being a brat about it.
He loses himself in the sketch, letting the sound of rain lull him more than the sound of Nas; letting the image of Isak standing in front of him and the feeling of Isak in his chest come alive and intermingle.
And finally when he’s done; when the outside has brightened just a bit, but the rain hasn’t slowed, Even decides that this just might be one of his favorite pictures he’s ever done.
Summary: With this title do I even need a summary… Luke teases you with a pair of vibrating panties and then fucks you realllll good ;)
Warnings: This is ridiculously smutty + involves the use of vibrating panties
Word Count: 2.6k
A/N: If you don’t know what vibrating panties are, they’re basically a pair of underwear with a vibrator over where your clit goes. The pair used in this uses a remote to control the speed of the vibe!
“L-Luke,” You stammer, tugging on the sleeve of your boyfriend’s shirt.
When you receive no answer, you tilt your head and look back to see him talking to Michael, his face lined with concentration.
The conversation between the two friends seems calm, both of them chatting about guitars. You want to laugh.
Michael wouldn’t have that smile stretched across his face if he knew what was going on between your legs.
His name escaped your lips like a song, singing his praises as he fingers moved inside you like magic. His mouth found your sensitive buds, nibbling gently while his tongue flicked over each one with care. He was torturous, speeding up to make your body weak only to slow back down, always watching how you rode the waves his motions made.
“More,” you whimpered, feeling light headed from the pleasure his lips and fingers were administering.
Plot: Windy Days: an interactive game for the one’s who are brave enough to challenge it.tackle the 300 levels, select your difficulties, beat the game. Will you survive?
Warnings: Suggestive sexual content, threesomes, could have ended up as a full on gang-bang but I decided to against it, sexual language and character death.
Notes: Take a shot every time I include a meme in a sentence. Any mistakes will be fixed later!
“You’re seriously going to play this game?”
Jungkook leant over the back of Jimin’s chair, staring with curiosity at the neatly packaged video game sitting on Jimin’s desk. Opposed to Jungkook’s crazed stare and the panic in his eyes, Jimin couldn’t help but let out an excited yelp as his eager hands peeled away the packaging, his eyes soaking up the colours of the front of the box.
“You know people have died from this game, right? Already.” Jungkook reminded, trudging away to sit on the elder boy’s bed, letting his back lean against the plain wall. “And you want to willingly go inside of it?”
“Come on, Kook,” Jimin sighed, holding up the package. He couldn’t quite believe that it was in his hands, at last. “I’ve been saving up for this game since it was rumoured. And now, only a day after the release, I am ready to play. Isn’t that cool?”
“No! Did you ignore the part about people dying?” Jungkook hissed. “What does your Mom think about this?”
Jimin shrugged, “She didn’t buy it. So, she can’t do anything about it.”
“What did our school say about this?” Jungkook inquired, and Jimin laughed loudly.
“Do you not know how many kids have brought this game, and are living the life inside of it right now?” Jimin reasoned, and Jungkook could only sigh with agreement. “I’d be surprised if more than half of the school returns next week.”
“Make sure you’re one of them,” Jungkook begged finally, playing with the threads in the blanket placed over the foot of the bed, which he had suddenly occupied his time with. “Mark keeps trying to call me, he’s so weird.”
Jimin wasn’t really listening, but nodded anyway and continued to stare excitedly down at the game.
why do you think that furuta isnt in love with Rize? it is clearly shown in some panels that he still cares for her
Thanks for your question.
What I am going to write is a rather unpopular opinion that many have called me out for, but I do stand with it. Doesn’t mean what I am going to write is necessarily true, it’s just my personal intake of what we got here.
Firstly, I don’t think he loves Rize, the person. I think he is in love with Rize, the idea.
I can’t precisely assess how much of a time gap there is between Sunlit Garden and the Steal Beam Incident and if this image is actually depiciting an encounter of Rize and Furuta a few years prior said incident
they could have met each other even sooner, but my point is that they didn’t saw each other for years. Both of them, at least until they met in the sixth ward or when Furuta imprisoned Rize, have gone through different experiences, hardships and possibly differenet life stages as well. I can hardly imagine that Rize was the same girl she was in Sunlit Garden, that is nigh impossible. With Furuta, I am not quite sure because I suspect he lacks in essential emotional growth and development due to his experiences there (Arima and Hairu seem to have hardly changed since their younger years either), but even he is not the same person as he was in Sunlit Garden either way.
You, on the one hand, could infer that yeah, they led a different life but this doesn’t mean that Furuta’s love for her and connection with her couldn’t have “inflamed” once he saw Rize in person again.
I disagree. The only time, at least shown or implied in the manga, where they could have got to know each other was back in Kanou’s lab. And maybe in that short encounter with Rize in that panel above, if that is him, which I suspect is the case. Anyway, in what conditions could they possibly interact? Her being in that small confined room with no privacy whatsoever, completely naked and all and Furuta and Kanou watching over her kakuhou being extracted. Her being stripped off all dignity and pride and put her in a tube like some broodmother or a cattle in a factory isn’t just “twisted” love. There is no love in what he does with her and arguably, possibly, maybe not so much hate either (well, there might have been deep-seated negative feelings but I don’t think he hates her, a person he barely knows. He hates that he can’t restore what was lost, that Rize doesn’t fit that memory he cherished long ago and therefore lashes out against Rize in that sense). This is either payback, some kind revenge, mixed with sadism, a twisted, very twisted coping mechanism and Schadenfreude. I personally think it’s the last three types now. Rize, the person, is still alive and reachable, which is why the idea of Rize is ever so strongly in his mind. So for now they are not totally mutally exlcusive. But there is a line between those two aspects. The concept and person.He can do all of those things to the person Rize because she simply isn’t that concept anymore. That’s why he can put her in all kind of cruel situations without any reserverations at this point.
In my opinion, he uses his obsession with Rize because he himself tries to hide and deny one essential issue that has been haunting him for years.
He is lonely, unimportant and unloved and he is very much aware of that.
Furuta is only a person in the end that does long, no matter how he tries to hide it, for connection with people, just like Ui. He does abandon that desire, at least tries to, but that doesn’t mean that this lack of connection with people doesn’t affect him. It does and it shows. And it wouldn’t surprise me if Furuta is going to have a good old breakdown at the end of the manga because of that.
But him trying to be remembered by all is him trying to establish some kind of importance, some kind of relevance to other people’s hearts, this time the CCG, if he can’t have genuine connection with anyone, that is. He could try to make Rize hate him in all kind of ways but while I do think that he knows that Rize holds some grudge over him for things he has done already, he will never matter to her in a meaningful way. Rize, in that sense, is a lost cause. She can “forget” (not in the literal sense, of course) him in the end, possibly is going to do so anyway in the future and trying to establish something that is inheritely broken is a waste of time Furuta pretty much realises which is why he takes a whole new approach.
“So if you were planning on giving me something.
In this year, I want four times more of that love or hate.
I don’t need anything else.”
Of course Rize can’t interact with him in her state now and I think he doesn’t intend to enable any interaction, either. Rize would discard his sorry ass as soon as she would see his face, how could she not? And he knows that. I mean, Furuta is often hypocritical to rub salt in somoeone’s wound and often because he simply doesn’t care, but he is also aware of his own actions and fully realises their consequences and Rize trying to get away from him is pretty much logical and understandable. He means nothing to her and quite frankly, I think he knows that, too, somehow.
I do think he cared for the person Rize back when he was a child, no doubt about that. He loved her and she was a precious person to him, I agree on that, too. But all he is able to see now is her back, a frightened shadow of himself. When he envisions Rize in full detail, it’s some kind of violent destructive image with all kind of contradictionary elements. Rize as his sexual object of desire, Rize and her wave of destruction, Rize and the persona she embodied to trap human men. But where is Rize? Rize, the person? In his memories, there is almost no panel of her I would argue. Oh well, there is one, possibly.
But I will come to that in a minute.
It’s quite sad actually because Rize has been his only proper connection (as far as we know) and clinging to Rize is not taking a risk to bond with new people and being yet again vulnerable to their influence over him. Furuta is afraid of connection no matter how much he longs for it in the end. His connection to Rize, as severed as it is, is the most familiar one and with his instable mind, it’s better to stick with things you know and are familiar with so you can’t experience any overwhelming hardships because of it. His instablitiy and fear of vulnerability is so great in the end that everytime Rize ends up in his care, she is either comatose or apathetic, both instances where she can’t really respond or act out, just remain in stasis and… simply exist. Only so he can’t confront himself, remain in the last string of illusion that there is someone who knows Furuta as a person (which I doubt Rize did, but whatever) and thus not wanting to admit that in the end, he is alone. And that he didn’t matter to anyone alive (I hardly doubt that Kanou feels something for Furuta truth to be told).
As for this panel here:
You know, Furuta says that even then Rize was dear to him. But he also mentions that he was “rather cute back then.” At first glance he could have meant that his dreams of marriage with her was rather foolish because they lived in such an environment and I agree, that’s certainly one interpretation for it. But I also slowly but surely assume that even back then Rize wasn’t really herself to put it that way. Her expression seems rather a bit manipulative and calculative than what Furuta displays here. It’s just a theory in the end but I think Rize was emotionally distant to him and Furuta probably suspected it, too. People can feel it, even if they can’t prove it. Maybe even then Rize was more of a concept than a person, or maybe it was still a blurry mix. Whatever the case was back then, for now there is probably a line between those two aspects I would argue.
And I know, I know, he mentioned that he was worried for her because she could have been raped back then, could have been caught by V, been used for inhumane motives and could have been impregnated. All valid reasons for Furuta to be worried back then and probably reflect Sunlit Garden’s disturbing nature quite well. So this means he still holds some feelings for the person Rize, right? Hm, I don’t know about that. I think it’s genuinely a mix of his memory of Rize and his own issues with Sunlit Garden and what he had personally to witness.
Projecting these fears nowadays on Rize despite putting her himself in almost all of said conditions he tried to protect her from could indicate that he didn’t cope with these horrendous experiences there himself. Rize might have been possibly in danger from V due to her rampant murders, that’s true, but let’s not kid ourselves that he what he did to Rize was no less traumatic for her, no less dehumanising and inhumane, just like V’s actions with these women and men there. I mean, he even brought her back to V for god’s sake and just because he is the Bureau Chief doesn’t mean he is safe from V’s clutches himself. He worked for V his entire life, I think he knows how they work by now. It’s definitely some incredibly fucked up coping mechanism and Rize served not only as a memory of it, but due to her being more of an idea probably triggered Furuta in one way or another to act the way he did. And don’t get me wrong, Rize is not responsible for Furuta’s actions. It also sounds like Furuta had no choice in his actions which is nonsense. But yeah, “Rize” is used as a pretense for Furuta to deal with all kind of traumatic incidents he had to endure, possibly with little Rize herself.
That’s why I can’t bring myself to reduce him to this yandere love when I think he isn’t really in love with her anymore. It’s a much more complicated issue and quite frankly, if Furuta could receive the psychatric help he desperately needs he would realise that his obsession has no love in it, only fear.
And that’s why I assume that there are people who are capable to establish a connection with him, make him feel new, but also deeper bonds. Furuta doesn’t allow it, so it won’t happen in the next chapters but the more Furuta discards the idea, the concept and opens himself up to others, the more his obsession would break and others might gain importance. But that won’t happen because Furuta is a stubborn mule.
This is an attempt to find my Muse. I’m going to take a nap now. Wake me if you find the little stinker, will you?
Basically, writing is hard and I’m giving up on this weekend as a lost attempt at it.
Rated - M undertones
He remembers the feeling of his last “I love you,” the soft, broken way he’d said it, the surge of emotion behind the words. He remembers that last kiss, the regret and remorse that had flavored it as his dreams for a life with her came to an end. He remembers feeling the fine strands of gossamer hope that had bound them together stretching taut, finally snapping when he had pulled himself away and urged her to “go on” without him.
Summary: On a night out with your friends, you accidentally text the wrong number for advice. The guy on the other end of the phone is abrupt, harsh and kind of an ass - but he also happens to be right. Which explains why you keep texting him. Right?
And you can’t help the smile that raises on your lips, his high pitched laughter absolutely infectious. “Hold still, Jimin!”
“I can’t! It tickles too much!” He whines out, still giggling and thrashing beneath your hands.
“Almost…” You huff out tiredly, fingers weaving through the strands of his hair. “…done.”
With one more sweep of your fingers through his hair and the liquid all soaked up, you swivel his chair around while taking a step back so his azure wings don’t hit you. His honey eyes grow in size as he peers into the luminescent mirror, hand reaching upwards but retracting carefully as to not ruin your hard work.
“You did it!”
“Of course I did.” You snicker playfully. “I’ll miss your orange hair but I think lilac suits you nicely too.”