❝ ʷʰᶤˢᵏᵉʸ ʷᶤᵗʰ ʷʰᶤᵗᵉ ˡᶤᵉˢˑ

@carnivoriisms-blog / carnivoriisms-blog.tumblr.com

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office work.      me,  on my quest to find someone who loves and cherishes my dumb fuck oc as much as i do. . . . . .
#█ ✖  ❛ ( ᵒᶠᶠᶦᶜᵉ ʷᵒʳᵏ⋅ ) abi things.#(  y'all.  )#(  all y'all.  )#(  i love oliver lucas with my entire soul  )#(  look at what i made  )#(  no reALLY LOOK  )#(  there's so much of him  )#(  like i haven't even scratched the surface idk if i ever will  )#(  i know shit oliver doesn't know himself  )#(  and oliver knows shit idk yet  )#(  take him into ur arms and unwrap him please  )#(  bc ngl just look aT WHAT I MADE  )#(  i just love him he's my asshole what a fuckin dream  )
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ofdearing

CLAIRE.

She used to be better with things like this, used to have an ability to keep herself detached. Funny how being nearly killed by dinosaurs can change your ability to distant yourself from people. Claire breathes gently, keeps her eyes on him and not let them drift around as if to avoid whats in front of her. God, she used to be better. 
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     ❝ I think that they might try to pull you back into the fray. Whether that means court or to give a statement. I didn’t want them to throw it at you without anyway warning. ❞

His eyes run the line of bottles across from him,  they glisten like soldiers made of poison.  The kitchen is a reflection of his brain,  thinks he.  Things are jumbled,  there’s a glass in pieces by the espresso machine,  barren spots where the quartz counter top is scratched.  The only slither of order are Ruby’s fanned magazines,  and a large dog basket in the far corner.  Thabo,  the white hulk of a Pakistani Mastiff and Oliver’s only common companion,  paces impatiently outside of the patio doors.  He hadn’t taken a liking to his master’s visitor.  Oliver deemed it safer with a partition betwixt,  though he feels vulnerable without him.  He scratches at his palms.

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          ‘  They could try.  I don’t remember. . . shit.  ’      An odd parting in the curls of his hair.  Here,  Claire.  Here is where they took off his scalp to open a door into his brain.  It’ll never clear,      ‘  One bad day,  that’s all.  Do you,  uh,  do you want a drink?  ’

#ofdearing#█ ✖  ❛ ( post incident. ) : ˢᵒᵐᵉ ᶜᵘʳᶤᵒᵘˢ ᵃᶰᵈ ʳᵃʳᵉ ˢᵉᶰˢᵉ ᵒᶠ ᶰᵒʳᵐᵃˡᶤᵗʸˑ#█ ✖  ❛ ( arc 002. ) : ᵘᵖʰᶤˡˡ ᵇᵃᵗᵗˡᵉ; ᶤ ˡᵒᵒᵏ ᵍᵒᵒᵈ ʷʰᵉᶰ ᶤ ᶜˡᶤᵐᵇˑ#(  th;  to reawaken the dead.  )#(  sdfhgj he's my babe  )#(  thank-you so so much!!!  )#(  i mean he's a weak dick rn but thank-youuuu  )
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oncebittcn-deactivated20220617

THIS IS NICE.

He’s in the hooks of her belt, the button hole at her waist. He’s not deft. Funny! She thought he would be — lazy smile, that twinkle deep in his eye. Imagined the stillness of his hands. The easy melting of her clothes from her body. The heat of him under her thighs: Zara would straddle his lap, slow, slow, make him ache with wanting.
There’s no aching here. Only the soft spit of curses through her teeth as she tangles her fingers in his trousers. Numb, hands like dry kindling, too cold to grip. She hisses under her tongue. Turns to laughter as she feels her waistband yanked. Christ, he’s not deft. He’s clumsy. They’re both… she wriggles, laughing, and — and he’s found her arse.
         ‘ Bravo. ’
Short chuff of air; it’s an effective distraction. Not enough. She tugs impatiently on the buckle. Her damn fingers—! 
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And this, from her throat… it’s a growl. She can’t— why is he still smiling! Stupid, idiotic— he’s teasing her.  
        ‘ Shut— up. ’  A bear poked a little too hard with the proverbial stick: Zara’s still a moment, then bursts like a small earthquake. Flings them around, she tackles him against the wall. Pins him there, one hand pressing his naked chest, the other at war with the belt buckle, the stupid, frozen… there it is!  And she’s grinning, she… ‘ Got it, the bastard. ’
They stumble; hands still lost in each other’s clothes, they stumble like children bewildered by Christmas wrapping. Here, he’s pressing against the zip of his trousers as she tries to — fucking — his hands tug her jeans down her thighs, their mouths are hungry and clumsy at each others’ skin, and here, she wants him here, higher. 
Too greedy. Too hungry. Here comes the inevitable.
Here’s the floor, with a crash.

Back against the wall and he is awake,  the beating of his heart afresh against her palm.  Their skin still holds onto the chill of the outdoors,  and such is a welcomed,  buzzing contrast to the heat toying beneath.  Oliver’s lips part in an evidently keen tide of anticipation,  he almost grins as he watches her brow pleat in concentration.  He can feel her fingers without needing to drop his attention from her face.  

And she wrenches him forward again in her new victory,  trousers round by her shins now.  It’s inevitable.  He feels himself falling before they even stumble,  his back meets the floor with an oof!  And he’s laughing underneath the pretty,  petite bulldozer splayed upon his bare chest.

          ‘  There,  you floored me.  ’

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Winded,  but not at all out for the count,  Oliver momentarily lies his head back that he can stare at her.  They’re fools.  And there are stars in his eyes and stardust caught on his tongue.  His hands cup her jaw,  he tugs her up the slope of his chest until,  craning his neck,  he can kiss her again.  Hands are zealous,  they card wayward strands of her hair from her cheeks,  guide it all to the nape of her neck until his fingers press on downward,  following between her shoulder blades,  he draws slow,  eddying patterns.  And hers,  one still with fingers against the opening zip of his trousers,  and the pressing just beneath. . .  oh,  he keens.

          ‘  You,  ha,  ’      Lips to her jaw,  they wander a new path,      ‘  You have this habit of injuring me,  you know?  ’      He,  eager cartographer,  maps the new canvas of her cheek.  He draws his lips beneath her ear,  presses his wry smile just here,      ‘  I hope it’s not a vice.  ’

#oncebittcn#(  th;  lifts existence on plane of snow.  )#nsfw cw//#(  lmao barely look at this fuckery  )#(  i don't know this man  )
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