#-continues to scour AO3-

[birthday-of-music]

while november 20th did cause me irreparable damage it was much less than i expected and i think there should be more. look it hurts when canon has a bunch of angst but it hurts more when canon SHOULD have a bunch of angst but DOESNT.

[endursent]

My Partner Turned Into A Cat And I Don't Know How To Fix It (2)

【 content; established relationship , fluff , humour , slight shenanigans , gn!reader 】

【 characters; alhaitham , arataki itto , baizhu , cyno , dainsleif , diluc , kaedehara kazuha , kaeya , kamisato ayato , kaveh , neuvillette , tartaglia , thoma , venti , wanderer , wriothesley , xiao , zhongli 】

【 premise; " Your partner has been struck with a curse of some sort which has turned him into a cat, you have no idea how to fix it nor how long it might take. Yet you also cannot help but be rather amused by the situation despite the uncertainty…" 】

【 note; made the genshin version... no reason for this to be like 19 pages 😭 】

【 word count; 8.723 | read on ao3 | hsr ver | hsr reader ver | gi reader ver 】

Alhaitham ;

Kaveh gaped at you when you brought a cat into the house, one that… looked eerily similar to a certain blockhead. “I can explain,” you say as you set the cat down on the floor, he doesn’t enter the house further than you do, instead sitting down by your feet and observing the interaction with… interest? Amusement…? 

  Kaveh didn’t need much to be convinced, and immediately he thanked the Archons for giving him a few days of respite. Even just a few days of Alhaitham being unable to comment on what he does or nag him is a blessing.

  For you, it’s a bit of a hassle… because he keeps disappearing! Not in an alarming way, because you find him again in the most secluded, quiet spots you would never even think of. Under your laundry, in an empty box that Kaveh hadn’t put away after getting a delivery, and even under the desk in the study—Kaveh accidentally kicked him and got a feisty scratch on his ankle. He learned his lesson. 

  He follows you around and—though he let you pick him up the first time—doesn’t let you carry him around, preferring to walk on his own… and wander off to explore nooks and crannies he has never been able to see, but he always shows up again before you reach your destination. 

  He has also claimed your pillow as his own and refuses to let you use it, loafing on top of it exactly when you thought you could get there before him. Which… in hindsight is fine, you’re not opposed to using his pillow, it smells like him after all. 

  You decided to test how much of a cat he really is, whether it’s appearance alone or instinctual as well and bought a cat toy with a whisker on the end as well as a small bell below it. You expected him to perk up and try to whack or catch it as soon as you wriggled it beside him… but his grey furred ears just lowered in annoyance and he hopped off the kitchen counter, it seems like having even more sensitive ears in this state makes his dislike for uncomfortable noises more intense. 

  He forgave you when you spent ten minutes scratching the itchy spot behind his ears after tracking him down. A small, rumbling purr left his chest as you moved your hand to scratch under his chin—he was, however, more curious about this instinctual reaction and demanded you continue after you drew your hand back.     Despite it being very much an unspoken rule between the two of you that neither of you should be disturbed ‘needlessly’ when reading or working at home, when you borrowed a few books from the Akademiya to try and figure out how to turn your partner back to normal, Alhaitham decided it would be very reasonable for him to lay down over your book… which you are very much trying to read.

  But when you ask him what he needs, he just blinks at you three times, very slowly. You’ll likely never be able to crack that brain of his, even in a form that is somehow far more expressive.

Arataki Itto ;

It’s difficult enough to keep track of him—and keep him out of trouble—on a normal day… now? You took your eyes off him for a second, and he’s gone. Shinobu split up with you to cover more ground while the rest of the gang scoured the streets of Inazuma City, at least as much as they could.

  You peek between baskets, crates and stalls, walk through tight alleys and even squint into a few windows… nothing!

  You had been very close to giving up and returning back to the meeting point by the bridge… until you heard a very distressed, very loud meowing. Following the sound, you come to a tree stretching over the gardens of a teahouse. What looks to be the owner of it stands below the tree with a basket, trying to ask Itto—stuck up on a wobbling branch—to jump into it.

  Exasperation is one way to describe what you feel as you approach the old lady, you put your hands on your hips and Itto notices you immediately. His meowing turns from frantic and panicked… to a sheepish pleading. Every movement he makes causes the branch to sway and wobble, and it looks like it could easily bend and break—and you don’t want to cause any trouble for the teahouse owner. “Itto, come on, hop down.”

  He meows and shakes his head, white fur swishing dramatically. 

  A sigh leaves you as you step closer and hold your arms open. “I’ll catch you, trust me,” you encourage him… and he finally relents, with wobbling paws, he leaps from the branch—fur shining in the sun as he practically flies in the air towards your open arms… and lands on your head. He panics and tries to adjust and not fall off, and you try to pry him away from your face as his belly nearly suffocates you—it’s a scene from a comedic play.

  Shinobu is glad for her mask, because when you return with Itto under your arm you have scratches on your face and forehead, and Itto is whining and meowing sorrowfully. 

  He spends the entire evening licking your ‘wounds’, dragging his coarse cat tongue over every spot so often that the licking starts to become more painful than the scratches themselves. But you let him, it makes him feel much better than you—and you don’t particularly need comfort, but if he doesn’t get it, he will whine all night. 

  So you let him knead your thighs and stomach even as his claws prick through your clothes and you make sure to pet him and stroke his fur when he snuggles against you… and then you wake up in the middle of the night, suffocating with his furred belly against your face when the lies on top of you.

Baizhu ;

You’re very happy that Baizhu is catching a break—something you often try to convince him to do—despite the strange way of being forced into it… however, it’s very difficult to focus on running the pharmacy in his place by yourself while also trying to make sure he doesn’t roll off the shelf he’s napping on… especially because Changsheng wriggles in her sleep and keeps nudging him closer to the edge.

  You decide it’s easier if you have them sleeping on separate surfaces and reach up to pick up your pliant partner-turned-cat. He effectively falls into your arms and blinks lazily, slightly confused by the sudden transport. “Just moving you so you don’t hit your head,” you dodge around Qiqi as she runs past you with an armful of jars and set Baizhu down on the counter, his tail sways lazily and he immediately flops on his side as a beam of sunlight sneaks through the window and directly onto his fur.

  Every time a customer comes by—with approval—they give Baizhu a small pet or scratch before leaving, as if paying tribute to the good doctor. He doesn’t seem to mind.

  Unfortunately, you’re not fit to take Baizhu’s place for consultations, and thus they all get delayed—which was a hell of a lot of work to contact everyone and change scheduling—until Baizhu is back to normal. The usual hours of consultation in the morning are therefore replaced with longer opening hours of the pharmacy and by pulling some strings, an increased stock of rarer products at a discounted price. 

  Changsheng does not let poor Baizhu catch a break, she wiggles her tail and swipes it in front of his paws, and unable to control the feline instincts harbouring his body—Baizhu chases after her tail like a kitten playing with a toy. He whacks at it and tries to capture it, but the white snake is far quicker than even you expected her to be as a sudden game of cat and mouse (snake) takes over your living room.

 The feline form, however, doesn’t come with free stamina—and Baizhu is not in good shape. He flops down on the carpet, exhausted from the play even as only seven minutes have passed. You feel a bit bad and scoop him up for some cuddling, which seems to be just the remedy he needed. 

  Baizhu is very careful around the clinic, he doesn’t knock anything over—even though he REALLY wants to sometimes, and is mindful of not getting fur or saliva on anything that could potentially be consumed by anyone with allergies. Changsheng has taken to wrapping herself around your shoulders instead, and though you’re used to her, it’s a little annoying to get a comment on every little thing you do. 

  But at the end of the day, Baizhu curls up next to you and you wake with him lying over your chest, belly to the skies and paws in the air, comfortable and content. Though you will always prefer him in his normal state, he is very cute like this.

Cyno ;

You look around the large front hall of the House of Daena, panting slightly as you try to catch your breath… that damn Cyno! Making you chase him across the entire city! 

  You spot some pawprints and squint as you look around… he’s not bringing all that dirt into the house—you were just going to rinse him a bit, but he’s run off! You finally spot dark and creamy coloured fur… perched up high on a massive decorative piece of the wall. He looks down at you with a swaying tail, completely at ease knowing that you won’t be able to catch him all the way up there.

  You almost consider inquiring about one of those massive ladders the library has to reach the high shelves, it might be long enough…

  But very well, he wins this round. 

  Once he turned into a cat, you were very excited about petting him, rubbing his ears and stroking his tail—but he’s not having any of it. Sometimes, you wonder if someone stuck a firework in his ass and lit it up, because the bouts of zoomies he gets is so frequent you wondered if there was something wrong—but you couldn’t catch him to take to a vet either! 

  After the first few days, Cyno seems to calm down… a little. He still prefers to survey the area (your living room) from above (your bookshelf) and watch you go about your day. It’s quite cute how his perked ears twitch every time you make a noise, as if he’s completely focused on what you’re doing.

  You soon find out after stepping a bit too close to the bookshelf that he might have just been waiting to strike, because he leaps onto your head as soon as you’re in range. 

  The only reason you know he’s fully conscious in that furred head is because while you were cleaning up after dinner, you spotted him sitting next to a cup of tea that was half-filled. You tense as you watch his paw raise to knock it off. “Cyno! Don’t,” you try to sound scolding.

  He looks up at you, he lowers his paw… then raises it again, making you glare at him. He lowers it again, turns away… you turn back to wiping the dishes and look over your shoulders after a few seconds—his paw is raised again!

  This back and forth continued until he finally knocked it over.

  And then he has the audacity during the next day’s dinner to sound like he has never been fed in his life while you’re trying to eat in peace. Meowing at you so loudly one would think he was terribly injured, eyes wide and mouth open. You hope your neighbours don’t think you’re trying to starve him, or treat him horribly.

Dainsleif ;

He’s not happy about it, he has things to do—places to be and investigations to make. Thankfully you’re familiar with where you were going next… but Dainsleif is very limited in what he can do. You decide to give him the task of scouting and sneaking around, something he’s used to doing anyway… but he finds that it’s much more effective to do so as a cat. His footsteps are completely silent and his senses are much sharper.

  Though, he had an instinctual need to swat at a glowing orb that you found in a strange vault half-buried in a cave in Fontaine before he could stop himself—which closed the two of you inside the vault. Thankfully he is now small enough that he could slip out between the bars and unlock it from the other side.

  It is quite cute how his ears flattened as you walked out, as if he was sorry. Though he seemed okay after you scratched behind his ears and assured him it was okay, he was here to help you out after all! His tail swayed in satisfaction to your assurance.

  You start to set down camp for the night, having just one pair of hands makes it a bit more of a lengthy process, and Dainsleif can only sit and watch as you put it together. He’s usually quite distant, even in a relationship—but as you straighten from squatting to fit something down, you feel something press against your leg and see him rubbing his furry cheek against you, then walking around your legs, tail trailing behind.

  He’s usually quite wary and alert, even during the night when you try and convince him to sleep—and it’s no different now. He sits poised and ready… for what? He’s a cat. But you appreciate the effort. 

  Surprisingly, he’s very active at grooming himself, the two of you usually have to bathe often anyway as you frequent dusty caves and muddy backwaters, but every time you make a stop, he sits down and starts licking his fur—at first you wondered if he was frustrated by something or had hurt himself, but as you picked him up to examine for any injuries or strange patches, he just blinked at you, tongue still half-hanging out.

  Dainsleif is rather laid-back when it comes to your relationship, there are times where you want to stay in a larger city for a few days or weeks in between travels, to have a soft bed and four walls around you—which Dainsleif doesn’t mind, there are places he wants to look into where he’d prefer you are safe elsewhere. He knows where you will be and will stop by to ask if you’re ready to continue days or even sometimes a few weeks later, to which you—recharged and rejuvenated—jump at the chance to follow him out of the city.

  But now, as a cat, he doesn’t leave your side for a minute—not even when you need to use nature’s bathroom. You went into a small village in Sumeru when passing through and a vendor was particularly pressing about selling you some type of perfume that you had shown brief interest in—Dainsleif had enough of you being pestered and whacked his paw at the man’s leg, hissing. He would usually be more subtle about guiding you away, but he doesn’t have the presence he usually does as he is now, so he must utilise the aggressiveness given to him in feline form. You take the chance to scoop him up and hurry away before the vendor can get upset, petting between his ears and thanking him for the help—he rubs his cheek against yours. He’s surprisingly more affectionate like this as well.

Diluc ;

Your nose itches… you try to hold back—achoo!!

  Diluc jumps, claws scuttling against the ground and he leaps from his resting spot and hops down to the floor. You sniffle and shake your head. “Sorry, it’s not your fault,” you stand from his chair and round the table to squat down next to him, reaching a hand out. “Did I startle you?”

  He makes a ‘hmph’ sound, fur red as freshly bloomed roses. Diluc bumps his snout into your palm and huffs into it, you turn your hand and pet along his back. ���Aaah… you’re so cute~ so soft,” you near coo as you scratch behind his ears—

  Diluc shakes himself and ducks under your hand to walk past you—how dare you baby-talk him?! He’s not an actual cat! The scritches felt too nice, and his ears flicked when you cooed at him—it’s embarrassing…

  He sits down by the door, tail swaying lazily as a small meow leaves him. Let me out. 

  You pout, how can you not convey how cute he is? You want to rub his cheeks. But fine, you  walk over and open the door for him to slip out of. 

  Diluc likes the lounge around the fireplace in the estate, there’s not much work he can do  while you try to figure out how to turn him back—preferably without alerting his brother or any of the knights… or just anyone in general. Unfortunately, he can’t hide it from the staff of the Winery as he is a spitting image of himself in cat form, and you’ve caught more than three people trying to feed him expensive cheeses. 

  It’s only in the recent days that you’ve convinced him to settle down and use the time to rest and nap as much as he can, but Diluc was extremely restless at first, you had to trap him inside a room and trick him into lying down with you.

  One day, Jean came by looking for him, and you had to think fast to come up with an excuse while he had just leapt under the sofa to hide. Thankfully, she didn’t seem to need him urgently, so she just left a message behind and went back to her day.

  You fell asleep in Diluc’s study, trying to keep up with his paperwork—Adeline offered to help you, she’s very familiar with his work, and it’s not like it’s been a long time since he wasn’t there to do it… but you wanted to help, and as the sun sank below the horizon, you laid down on the sofa in his study next to a tall bookcase—only closing your eyes was enough to pull you into deep sleep.

  Diluc hops onto the sofa next to you, he carefully walks over your thighs and settles on the armrest where your head is. His fluffy tail sways and strokes your chin and nose—nearly waking you as you almost sneeze, you don’t have to work so hard for him, he knows you want to help. He wishes he could tell you, and he will, when he’s back to normal. For now, he rests alongside you, head leaning against the top of yours and tail tucked against your neck.

Kaedehara Kazuha ;

Kazuha is a very chill cat, he doesn’t get into trouble, he doesn’t cough hairballs on the floor and he doesn’t knock things over.

  (Instead of coughing hairballs on the floor he swats them off-deck with his paws, Beidou caught him doing it once).

  There’s not much trouble to get into on the ocean, and he’s rather good at keeping out of trouble overall on land, sticking by his side is a sureway to a boring day of exploration or lounging around—which is your perfect type of day.

  You help him into your bag as the Crux ‘boards’ by Liyue Harbour (it stops a bit away and tucked by a cliffside to avoid attention) and you make sure he doesn’t accidentally fall into the ocean as a few crewmates row to land. You’re stopping for a few days, so you make sure to use the time to relax and take in landside air and wander around the expansive Harbour. 

  Kazuha likes to take life at a slower pace, and thus your walk to the Harbour took longer than you expected… as you thought Kazuha was doing his normal meditation on a warm, sun-kissed rock along the road…

  But he was asleep, sitting up and enjoying the sun. It took you thirty minutes to realise—a sitting cat with its eyes closed and a sleeping cat in a sitting position is the exact same.

  He very much likes to people-watch, but in this cat form, he seems even more engaged—he can hear sounds more clearly and he seems even more perceptive than usual. Watching a tea maker brew a cup on a teahouse table you had sat by to rest and ordered some snacks. He sniffs at the tea as it’s placed in front of you—he’s perched comfortably on your lap, you’re surprised the teahouse even allows him inside—and seems to appreciate the detail he gets from this new perspective, af if it smells different in this form.

  He tries to taste it and your food, but you have to block his snout with your hand, you’re not sure if the food you were having would give him a stomach ache or not. 

On a walk on the outskirts of the city, you look back and see Kazuha carrying a stick in his mouth…?

  He’s not a dog, so you’re not entirely sure why he’s doing it, maybe cats do that too? The dogs that hang around the bridge leading to the southeast outside of Liyue Harbour try to approach him with the stick, thinking he was playing, but he hops into a tree to keep it to himself. You’re not entirely sure what’s happening, but he seems to be having fun.

  Kazuha wanders off oftentimes, just in his normal, usual body… so you’re not sure why you’re surprised when you suddenly find him missing from your side—perhaps it’s because he’s a cat and you’re unsure if he can defend himself as well in that form, but you hurry to look for him.

  You practically run in circles until you find him pressing his paw to a brown, crusty leaf… again and again, as if listening to the crunch of it in a rhythm. You sigh and scoop him up into your arms. “Don’t wander off like this,” you scold and poke his nose. Kazuha sneezes from the poke, but blinks up at you and nods his little furry head.

Kaeya ;

Unbothered, in his element. Kaeya sleeps in your windowsill and bathes in the sunlight all day while you scratch your head over how this could’ve happened. You try to leave for work and he practically screeches at the door, likely pleading you not to leave—he does that normally as well, except without the loud meowing. 

  Kaeya finds appreciation in the flexibility and grace that comes with this new body, he easily leaps up on shelves and dives under the sofa, he chases flakes of dust and seems to be having quite a good time—perhaps it’s because he has no responsibilities in this form, he can’t go to work like this and has no control over it. And the loss of control is strangely freeing. 

  You scoop him up into your arms and his tail swishes happily, he grabs his claws into your shirt and purrs as you rub his ears, happy and content with the additional affection. He loves all affection he gets from you no matter what form it takes, and being a cat has given him the opportunity to be pampered in ways he never could experience as a human. 

  He does need his free time as well and he uses it well while you’re out of the house—though you were very optimistic to think that closing the windows would keep him contained, Kaeya easily flips the handles and slips out of your home. He enjoys the attention he gets from any passersby, but is careful not to be too affectionate and get picked up by someone who thinks he’s a stray. 

  His usual guarded front lowers in this form, he feels like he could slip out of any situation—and he doesn’t have to be careful with his words or actions. No one expects a cat to have alternative intentions. 

  He jumps up in surprise as he hears footsteps rapidly approaching—he had fallen asleep on a ledge and the sun was already down. Kaeya blinks as you pick him up, breath heaving. “There you are, I’ve looked everywhere for you! I thought something happened when I couldn’t find you around the plaza,” you sigh a breath of relief and practically crush him to your chest. Kaeya wriggles a little but gives up and nuzzles into you, pushing his forehead into your cheek. 

  After a number of days, Kaeya gets bored, as fun as lounging around and being pampered it… he misses real food, and dragging you away from your work to have lunch—and holding you properly, he can only lay on top of you like this, which doesn’t exactly feel like holding.

  And Kaeya being restless… he gets whiny. 

  He would usually be more subtle, but now that he feels the rush of freedom his feline form gives him, he uses it to protest by loafing on your clothes after you fold them to put away, laying over your lap when you need to get up—even though he’s not really a cat… kind of, you still get the same feeling of not wanting to move him off no matter how much space he’s taking.

  But that’s okay, because he just has to slow blink at you and nuzzle into your hand and you forgive him, how could you not?

Kamisato Ayato ;

Ayato is an unreasonably pretty cat. His fur is soft and silky, he has this… smug kitty-smile at all times, and it makes you want to pinch his ears. He sits on your lap and peeks onto the low table inside his study as you go through paperwork. Just because he’s become a cat doesn’t mean his workload just miraculously lessens. 

  Thankfully, after a few days of trying to juggle his work—how does he do it?!—even with him by your side, albeit in a form that can’t properly communicate… Ayaka decides to lend a hand, she takes it upon herself to attend meetings and represent the clan and Commission in Ayato’s stead. Thankfully no one has questioned where he is yet.

  Or why there is a suspiciously similar cat trotting around the estate in his place. 

  You fish into a bush in the courtyard gardens, hand feeling around—until you find fur and yoink it up. Ayato blinks at you, tail swishing as he has a piece of grilled fish in his mouth that he stole from the kitchens. “You know… you can have all the fish you want—you don’t have to steal it,” you say as you lift him into your arms.

  His ears flick as you talk, but he eats the fish happily regardless. You shake your head in mild exasperation. Looks like he’s using the opportunity to engage in… more mischief than usual. Perhaps a different kind. 

  Ayato likes to use his newfound stealth and agility to his advantage… to torment you.

  You put away some laundry and turned to a shelf to fetch something—only to come face to face with Ayato’s cat-face, making you jump as he meows happily—as if happy to see you! He knows he’s just trying to startle you!

  He winds around your feet when you walk around the estate and purrs happily when you squint at him.

  Ayato knows the limits, he stops before you can lock him inside a room for the remainder of the day. His fur is so soft as you pet him and a rumbling purr leaves him, he knows it’s silly—he’s not really a cat, at least, hopefully not for long. But you keep petting and stroking him while he does. 

  He takes good care of himself on normal days, and as a cat, it’s no different—he grooms himself meticulously, though finds it rather embarrassing if you’re looking, so he tries to do it out of sight… it's very instinctual, but he also likes to feel clean and groomed. 

  You once passed the great hall and saw Thoma wriggling a toy with a bundle of feathers on it while Ayato chased it… it was pretty cute to watch, but you hurried along before either of them could notice you. 

  He hogs the futon, you don’t want to push him to the side and get pushed to the edge of the mattress yourself. Ayato doesn’t even realise he’s doing it. 

Kaveh ;

Distressed, not having fun, he wants to go home.

  A series of meows in varying states of distress and confusion follow behind you as you walk, you stop and turn around, peering down at the strange cat that’s been following you around since you left the Akademiya. You were about to ask what he wants… but as you squint at the cat… doesn’t it look familiar?

  Kaveh doesn’t stop when you do, he raises on his hind legs by your feet and sinks his claws into your pants, a shrill, distressed meow leaves him.

  You reach down and pick him up, holding under his front legs as you inspect him… hm, golden fur with tints of a darker, sandy brown… those big red eyes.

  “... Kaveh?” you must be crazy, there’s no way your partner is a cat, and followed you around without you realising, but you know those eyes very well. It’s him.

  Alhaitham just stares at you like you grew three additional heads, he looks at Kaveh in your arms and then back at you. “... it looks like him, but that’s not proof enough—have you asked him to write his name?”

  You look at Kaveh and he tilts his small head to look up at you. Write his name…? He doesn’t exactly have thumbs… but Alhaitham has a good point. What if it’s just a very persistent cat? 

  Then again… where would Kaveh be? He’s usually home by this time.

  Alhaitham fetches a pen and some parchment and you put Kaveh down on the table. He tries to use his paws at first but just spills ink all over the place—but as he grabs the pen with his mouth and clumsily scribbles his signature, Alhaitham just hums while you scoop Kaveh up again, holding him up. “It is you! What happened to you, Kaveh?”

  Of course, he can’t give a proper answer, he wriggles his paws around and meows in a long dialogue—but it’s entirely incomprehensible. 

  While you and Alhaitham try to figure out how to get him back, Kaveh tries to adjust to his… predicament. He doesn’t do it with any grace, though… his leaps and jumps across furniture are miscalculated and he falls to the ground or hits his head more often than you can count.

  But your worried petting and rubbing the aching area makes him purr and nuzzle into your arms.

  He does hate the heightened senses, he jumps at the smallest noise and scuttles across the room if anything startles him—and he gets startled very easily like this.

Neuvillette ;

You call his name, looking around his office… you scratch your head, he can’t have gone far, you just left to fetch some tea for a few minutes. It’s not like he can open the door or window and slip out—why would he anyway?

  You hear a very… pathetic meow, from next to you—but there’s nothing there, just a sofa. You hear it again—under the sofa…?

  Ducking down, you see that Neuvillette is stuck, he seems to have been trying to squeeze himself under the sofa, and rounding the furniture, you see his hind legs and tail flat on the floor… it’s a bit amusing. “There, I got you,” you say soothingly as you lift the sofa up a little so he can back out. Neuvillette stands up and shakes his body.

  You squat down and smile. “How’d you get stuck under there?” you hold out your hand and he presses his head into your palm, nuzzling against your skin for comfort as you turn your hand to scratch and pet him.

  He’s not very good at resisting the instincts and temptations that come with this form—you’re unsure why he seems to struggle so much, but you try to help him as much as you can, and not laugh.

  You saw him chase a shadow, there is an ornament on the raised blinds that hang above the large window in his office. It's attached to the strings that lower and raise them and it sways slightly—casting a shadow across the floor.

  Another time he was grooming his fur and struggling, he has a thick, long coat and had to lean far back to reach the end of his fur as his tongue dragged along the hairs… causing him to roll backwards off the arm of the couch and into the pile of pillows.

  Innocent, small things that make you smile, but you’re careful that he doesn’t see it.

  He loafs over a stack of court documents as you organise his desk—might as well use the opportunity to clean up while he won’t be making a mess. He doesn’t seem satisfied with his place on the desk and stands… and spots a box on the ground, it’s stacked halfway with old documents to be taken to storage… but it also looks like the perfect spot to rest. He hops down from the desk and circles a few times on the papers to get comfortable. He wriggles a little before sitting down.

  It takes him a minute to realise that he was kneading into the paper when he hears the sound of it tearing under his claws in an instinctual need to make the bottom of the box comfortable. 

  Safe to say, he was mortified to have destroyed the top four documents, but thankfully they weren’t shredded and you managed to salvage them with some memory of what had occurred as well as piecing them together.

Tartaglia ;

You look towards the window above the kitchen counter, cold air brushes into the house as Childe enters through it—with a mouse in his mouth.

  You leap up and push the book in your hand against his face and push him straight back outside. “No! Absolutely not! Leave it outside, not in the house!!” You close the window behind him and sigh in relief, brushing stray snow into the sink. When you look up again, He’s sitting there, big eyes and ears flat against his head… but no mouse.

  Sighing, you open the window a smidge so that he can step inside, where he shakes himself and tosses flakes of melting snow all over. 

  Childe sits down, tail swaying—as if waiting for something.

  You set your haps on your hips. “What?”

  “Mrrow…” he wriggles his head, he wants a pat. 

  … fine, just because he took the mouse outside because you ‘asked’, you raise your hand to stroke his head and he tilts it to lick your palm—but you pull back. “No, you just had a wild animal in your mouth, wash your mouth!”

  What is this?? He feels like a criminal, all he did was bring you a prize… to be fair, he realised how silly it was to bring you a dead animal when you leapt up to push him back out, but it felt completely natural up until that point!

  He whines and meows for forgiveness for the rest of the night, and you do eventually ‘forgive’ him and let Chile lounge around on your lap while you pet him and continue reading.

  He picks fights with swaying curtains, chases your broom when you’re cleaning and even whacked your cup of coffee off the dinner table—spilling it everywhere. He’s a nightmare in this form, because no matter the scolding, he just stares at you with excited, large eyes and a swaying tail.

  Nothing you say gets through his head. In one ear and out the other. 

  He does not give up either, if he wants affection, he will get it one way or the other, even if he has to whine and meow endlessly, follow you around—fake a limp! You shake him a bit after he worried you and you almost went out in the middle of the evening through the snow to take him to a vet when he just wanted scritches. 

  In all fairness… this is just typical behaviour, but now he has the kitten eyes to break your self control and composure within seconds. 

Thoma ;

He tries to do his job even in cat form, using his tail to sweep, he even takes his duster into his mouth and tries to sweep on surfaces he’d usually need ladders to reach, and now he can just leap to them.

  But he also has a problem…

  He has an instinctual need to create a mess, knock things over or sit on things—when he catches himself in an act of pushing Ayaka’s discarded tea off a table, he nearly leaps away to stop himself. 

  Thankfully, everyone around him doesn't mind—and it’s a bit relieving to see that Thoma retains a sense of himself. He finds time where he would usually go into town to instead nap—and the Kamisato estate has perfect napping spots. He lies sprawled across the engawa surrounding the eastern part of the estate near the back gardens, and lets the warm beams of the sun warm his belly—only to shoot up in surprise when he hears footsteps, embarrassed to be caught lounging around. 

  Ayato sometimes plucks him away to keep on his lap for hours while he sorts through paperwork, petting and scratching behind his ears while his other hand signs documents. Thoma gets a bit restless just loafing on his lord’s lap and meows in relief when you come along to fetch him. 

  Ayaka leapt at the opportunity to sew a few accessories for him, guised under the excuse of “practise for smaller bodies” and Thoma ends up with half a wardrobe by the end of the week. 

  But he prefers to be around you, you don’t trap him on your lap (even though Ayato gives very good scritches) or make him model for three hours (even though Ayaka gave him snacks). As you work around the estate, he gets tired—curse this cat body and it’s perpetual need for napping!—and you tuck him gently into your eri*. Thoma lays nestled against your chest warmly, his body light and still as you continue your work. 

  The gardens of the Kamisato estate is a disaster zone, and after the first few days, thoma knows to avoid it. 

  He had strolled past, early in his transformation—and been startled by his own reflection in the pond he passed by, the fish swimming away in a hurry as he ran across the gardens in surprise. A second time, he had spent twelve minutes chasing a butterfly while Ayato watched with a signature smile… he will likely not let him forget it. 

  Thankfully, he’s not needed much in the gardens, and he sits perched atop a high shelf in the kitchens, his tail sways as he leans forward… very much ready to leap and steal some food—before you pluck him up and raise an eyebrow.

  His ears flatten in realisation, but you rub his cheeks and tuck him back into your clothes—grabbing some leftover pears from the dessert the kitchens were making, letting him munch on it while you get back to work. 

Venti  ;

You didn’t think Venti could become even more of an airhead on a typical day as he does when he becomes a cat. He gets distracted by the smallest things and wanders off—leading to a wild goose chase where you have to ask around for a small darkly coloured cat with blue highlights on its ears and tail—a very distinct cat!—and being pointed in every direction possible.

  Only to discover him napping in a crate full of apples in an alley you walked past at least six times just in the last fifteen minutes. 

  He is also very vocal, Venti says anything that comes to his mind… which is unfortunately nothing but meowing nonsense to your ears, but you nod along as if you understand, having a halfway conversation with the lively cat. 

  Somehow, he very much likes to play and nap like he’s being paid to do it at the same time. In one moment, he’s swatting at your clothes and trying to get to play with your fingers—which he accidentally bites and scratches in his excitement, quickly rectifying it with some licks and nuzzles—and the next, he’s passed out cold in a box or on a shelf for five hours.

  He doesn’t seem embarrassed by these new catlike instincts, such as the need to groom himself—he even starts grooming you halfway through his coat, you’re sure your skin is very much clean by the time he finally turns back to himself. 

  Unlike normal cats, who move and settle down elsewhere when the person under them gets up… Venti is not happy about being disturbed nor that you’re trying to get up, he whines and kneads on your clothes to try and get you to stay a little bit longer, giving you the best big kitten eyes he can muster.

  And damn him, it works. He knows what he’s doing. 

  You had been looking for him one morning, thinking he just wandered off again and you’d find him napping in some corner of the city… when Diluc approaches you with a sheepish looking Venti-cat, holding him by the scruff of his neck. “This yours?”

  Diluc doesn’t even seem surprised that the bard is a cat. At least he isn’t an allergy risk when he’s human-like and trying to get into his wares. 

Wanderer ;

He is very aware of himself, he knows he looks stupid (cute) and that everything he does will be looked at through the lens of a typical cat and not someone stuck in its body.

  And thus, he does all he can to be as eerie and unnatural a cat as he can be.

  He doesn’t make a single sound, no meowing, no purring, nothing. He doesn’t walk like a cat—thankfully he doesn’t walk on two legs—nor does he exhibit any of their typical behaviours.

  At least, that was the plan. 

  Every single time Wanderer catches himself doing anything that could be considered “cat-like”, such as grooming himself, chasing a loose string, or gods forbid… kneading—he will immediately stop and compose himself again.

  As opposed to some others, he absolutely hates the loss of control that follows becoming a cat. 

  He can’t write properly, he can’t communicate—and if he tries, no one but you and perhaps Nahida takes him seriously—he’s always sleepy and aware at strange times… he hates it! 

  And once when he was just trying to have some grapes for snacks—you suddenly leapt towards him to stop him, taking the bowl off the table with a relieved huff when you noticed he hadn’t swallowed any of it… after you pried the grape out of his mouth. At his hissing, you explained that cats can’t have grapes. 

  He gave you the cold fur-shoulder for at least two days. 

  You brought him out one time to get some fresh air—since he’s fully aware of himself, he shouldn’t run off and get lost, or into a dangerous situation like an indoor cat might. But when you gave some other cats around the streets of Sumeru attention, he quickly meowed in protest and whacked the other cats away. 

  It’s a bit cute… he doesn’t normally act so forthcoming, and as he bumps his head into your knee afterwards, you rub his cheeks and pinch his ears despite further protest. How cute!

Wriothesley ;

At first, you weren’t even sure if Wriothesley was just a “cat”. He’s huge*. 

  You put a bowl in front of him, filled with foods that are okay for cats to eat but also not… gross, as Wriothesley is very much aware in that cat-head of his. “C’mon, there’s nothing wrong with this, I even tasted it—it’s a bit bland ‘cause we can’t put any seasoning, but it’s food.”

  He leans down, and for a second you think that he’s going to eat it—but as his whiskers brush against the sides of the bowl, he lifts his head abruptly and swats at the bowl, clattering it to the ground—he didn’t mean to hit it at all, but also not this hard. 

  You scratch your head, you just can’t figure out why he won’t eat—you’ve tried everything!

  It took you several hours of back and forth questions and meowing to realise that it was the shape of the bowl that was the problem and not the food itself.

  On another day, you reach down to pet his soft, thick fur—only to get a static shock, it zaps your fingers and both of you jump back. You always have to be careful with petting him, as there’s always a risk of getting zapped at any time. Worst part is, it’s not even every time! It catches you off guard!

  He likes to climb and jump on the pipes that web around the fortress, getting into places he’s never even considered before—and sometimes you look around for him for hours before giving up… only to suddenly be leapt on from above by a nine kilogram heavy cat half your size, knocking you over.

  Siegwinne noticed that he had been brooding lately, he had been stuck as a cat for five days now and it was beginning to frustrate him. So she decided to soak a small blanket in tea mixed with catnip—after it was dry and she rubbed some more on it, she laid it out in his office…

  You watched him for a good long while as he rubbed against it, meowed and rolled on the blanket. It was unbearably adorable, but you eventually pulled him away after a while—worrying it might be too much.

  He’s so large that it’s almost like sleeping with a person, just a very furry one. He lies halfway over you and as you wake in the morning—he refuses to get up. You give in and relax in bed for a while… until he starts kneading your cheeks, leaving small scratches with his big paws and claws. You don’t stop him—it doesn’t hurt, he looks so focused, like he’s trying to squeeze something out of your cheeks. 

Xiao ;

He meows and wriggles in your arms, but you try your best to hold him until you reach the top of the inn—he swats at you and you finally let him go when you enter his usual reserved room. Despite being paws up when you let go of him, Xiao lands perfectly and immediately hops up to the highest vantage point in the room he could reach. 

  You don’t get him down by yourself, he only comes down willingly after a few hours when he’s calmed down and adjusted a bit to this form. You’re not entirely sure what happened, you had just been exploring a cave that was strangely entwined with a temple of sorts, when a bright light appeared behind you, and Xiao—who had been accompanying you—was suddenly a cat. A very small cat. 

  He loafs on the windowsill in the night, his tail wrapped around his paws as he peers towards the sky—at the slightest noise, his ears flicker towards it and he squints at the roads below that pass and surround the large inn. 

  He is unbothered. Firm. Stoic.

  … after getting wet under a pouring rain that persisted all day, he pretends not to be bothered by his wet fur and the uncomfortable existence he leads under this blanket of wet fur…

  But he can only pretend for so long. You turn away and pretend to busy yourself to allow him some privacy to reluctantly lick along his fur and smooth it down, trying to clean or groom it in a way that makes it less sloppy. 

  He hates it, this weird satisfaction that comes with this very primal instinct, and yet, he does still feel the satisfaction.

  Xiao is difficult to read on an average day, he’s very used to controlling his emotions and maintaining a front that’s difficult to get past.

  But as a cat… he’s an open book, he approaches you with a curled tail, he slow blinks at you when you drag your fingers through his fur as he loafs on the windowsill. 

  But he does. Not. Meow. 

  Except for that time you hauled his ass back to the inn… and when Zhongli makes a sudden appearance, he hops from his perched position and snakes around the former Archon’s legs, purring and meowing as he’s being petted and spoken to. He doesn’t notice his own behaviour…

  Not until the following night after Zhongli leaves, and Xiao is mortified that he behaved like an affection-depraved cat in front of Morax.

  Thankfully you sliding a comb through his fur and untangling some knots from the day distracts and calms him down in the evening.

Zhongli ;

At first, you weren’t even sure if Zhongli was actually aware he was a cat, he follows you around, sits on a bench and licks his paw to clean it while you shop for groceries… he chases anything shiny that you come across and swats at it with his paws, leaps at it and tries to capture it—usually rocks or mora people drop. Maybe he likes the mineral, maybe it’s the shine. You can’t really know.

  You try to give him some nice food, cut down nicely so he won’t accidentally choke on it… but he won’t eat it, not unless you plate it properly…? At least, when you rearranged it better and separated the meats from the greens, he seemed to like it more. Maybe he thought you were treating him a bit too much like a pet rather than a partner that’s unfortunately become a cat for a (hopefully) limited time.

  After a long day of… not doing much, Zhongli realised he had left scratches on the sides of some furniture and he tries to hide or cover them up for the time being, dragging a blanket over the arm of a divan in the living room… hopefully you won’t discover them and he can fix it after he’s back to normal before you notice.

  You do notice that he very much prefers specific textures, he doesn’t like walking on the hardwood floor of your home and instead prefers to lie down or sit on blankets or the silken sheets in your shared bedroom. 

  Despite the strange predicament, Zhongli is very calm, he’s both patient and has a good sense—if this was a dangerous curse or spell that was difficult to reverse, he would likely sense it. Instead, he considers using this time to show and receive affection in a way you haven’t been able to before. 

  He often sits by your legs or thighs, he winds around them and rubs his furry cheeks along your clothes and pretty much anywhere he can reach. Your legs when he’s winding around them, your hand when you reach out to pet him, your cheek when he stands on your chest when you’re trying to read in bed before sleeping. 

  He purrs and cuddles with you, laying in your arms or over your lap—he even hid in your bag once when you went out for the day, and you discovered it too late to take him back home (you did wonder why your bag felt heavier than usual) and thus, he has the pleasure of accompanying you to your work—something he doesn’t often get the excuse or time to do. 

  Thankfully, Hu Tao didn’t question it when you came to her and said that Zhongli couldn’t come to work for a few days (hopefully just a few days). If anything, she sighed in relief and said something about him finally using his paid time off and sick days. Then thanks you for taking him out of commission??? 

  You pour over some scrolls and papers to try and figure out how to turn Zhongli back, and he hops onto the desk in the study, nuzzling against your arm before sitting down, tail swaying as he joins you in searching for ways to bring him back to you in a more familiar form. Despite how cute he is like this. 

* eri is the collar-flap on the front of a kimono/yukata that crosses over the chest, he's tucked into it and lying on his back. if you know about the nioh cat clock scene, yeah.

* wriothesley is supposed to be a maine coon type of cat, just huge and heavy. but not wild cat huge.

[godihatethiswebsite]

Tethered Bonds

✽ Poly 141 x f!reader (Omegaverse AU)

A lucky stroke of fate led you right into the arms of your alpha soulmates. But is it everything you dreamed it would be or just the continuation of a nightmare?

Main Masterlist ✽ Ao3

✽ Part Two - The aftermath

So many of you came out of the woodwork for this story and I couldn't be more grateful for all the kind words of encouragement! I'm truly flattered by the amount of love this received for being something that randomly popped in my head on a whim ❤️

I'm glad I was able to get this part out so quickly. It might be a tick before part three, but I've already got some of it worked out. I'll still try to keep chipping away at it while I work on my other series~

Trigger warnings: swearing, angst, depression

“I saw them the other day.”

“...saw who?”

“My scent matches.”

There’s a pregnant pause as your therapist of four years takes the information in, caught off guard by the abruptness of the statement but also the further implications behind the words.

Dr. Miranda has been your life raft and confidant ever since you’d first gone to your family with the appalling reality of your newfound situation. An omega like yourself; she specializes in the treatment and rehabilitation of women who've endured abuse at the hands of their packmates and the dredges of society. Highly recommended by the United Designation Resource Center for psychological trauma.

It had taken you over a week following the incident to gather the strength to confront your fathers on the thorny subject - too ashamed of admittance and too anxious of their response. And even then it was done over the phone in the most uncomfortable video call of your life, the dour atmosphere so at odds with that blessedly clear mid-afternoon sky, its temperate climate and soft summer breeze carrying along an enchanting melody of carefree innocence.

Inside, it was raining.

The wretched bond was a gravity well, sucking you down into a chasmic abyss and siphoning your once bountiful vibrancy. Responsibilities fell by the wayside, locked away in your self-imposed prison as if the globe would simply stop moving if you only ignored its rotations. Not until both your fathers made the three hour flight up north did you muster the courage to finally remove the makeshift barricade guarding your front door, talking through the deceptively difficult act with them on the other end of the phone as the two alphas supported you during the twenty five minutes it took to overcome the all-consuming panic and usher them inside.

They stayed with you for the better part of the month, taking over where depression had failed you in your efforts to function alone. Your parents allowed you space to look after yourself, clearing away the physical filth of your living quarters and, in doing so, sweeping away the cobwebs of your teetering sanity. They scrubbed at putrid greasy plates while you scoured tainted flesh under a scalding hot stream, the dead skin cells contaminated by his poisonous touch spiraling down the drain along with your tears.

The harsh truth of the matter is that there is no escape from your own body. You come screaming into this world given one to do with as you will, to mold and shape based on lived experiences with no regard for the decisions and circumstances made outside your control. There is no space to slip between the weaved threads of time, no hands to turn counter clockwise when you make a mistake. Just a grim acceptance that the life you once aspired to was forevermore out of reach.

There was only so much to be done given your situation. As much aid as your family offered, they were as helpless of bystanders as the soul in your meat suit. Chores were completed, accumulated bills paid, a hearty meal piled high on your plate combating the recent gauntness of your face. You were cherished and fussed over like the wee babe found scattered amongst family photos in your childhood home, cradled in their arms when the horrid presence came calling, dragging a hot poker through your insides and causing mental anguish at all hours of the night. 

The more time they spent around you, the more apparent it was that you could no longer stay there. The closer the proximity to your bonded alpha the more power he held to disrupt your life. 

That's how you landed in Dr. Miranda’s lap. Before you'd even set foot on the tarmac arrangements had been made for a new life in a new city on the other side of the country - spiriting you away on a mission to regain your independence, the distance easing the damage he could do even as the strained bond churned.

Initially dreading having to confess the horrors you’d endured to some random unknown, she’d worked diligently to soothe your broken nerves in both demeanor and environment. A kind omega in her early forties, the subtle crows feet and laugh lines only accentuated her cheerful personality, disarming in her ability to draw out your insecurities and work with you through the trauma in a way that didn’t feel intruding. 

Dr. Miranda was a veritable well of understanding, always encouraging of whatever pace you set, careful of the fragile boundaries constructed to guard your heart from further damage. 

She operated as part of a larger business that provided therapeutic services and catered to all designations alike. You’d been thrilled to find there was a separate entrance away from the cacophony of the common room, bypassing the headache of having to wait amongst strangers and leading directly to her office in the back right corner of the building. 

The space itself was considerably cozy, low lit warmth all plush and homely. The spacious couch against the back wall invited you to stretch out comfortably, decorative pillows available in a colorful assortment of textures - catering to a discerning omega’s personal preferences. A small diffuser wafting light refreshing mists operated as both a handy descenting spray and an emotional pick me up. Every accommodation purposeful, given special care for your emotional easement and wellbeing.

You appreciated the effort she put into making her office feel more like a living room than a sterile setting. It was easier for you to converse when it felt like you were speaking with a friend.

Bit by bit, Dr. Miranda coaxed you from the sheltered recesses in which you’d burrowed; not just a guiding hand through the concrete dust and collapsed rubble, but a mentor recovering your confidence, reminding you of the path you once walked independently and peeling back the suffocating layers that kept you from standing on your own two feet.

In hindsight, you probably could’ve broken the news of your scent match a bit less abrasively - probably should’ve led with it too. 

The pair of you had been engrossed in a topic that was moreso a follow up from your last session rather than anything of actual import. Your brain had been functioning on autopilot the past twenty odd minutes, making sounds vaguely human enough to get by without requiring proper attention. Honestly, most of her words had been drowned out by the incessant buzzing in your ear that had been slowly growing in volume, throat clenching and knuckles flexing, more aware of the sweat dripping down the back of your nape than anything she had to proffer.

Eventually the dam just broke. The words slipped out like grease, lubricated in a film of oil too slick to be contained and begging to be addressed.

There’s a struggle on her face to try and maintain some level of professionalism after the sudden revelation. Knitted eyebrows spiked before smoothing back down, jaw almost dropping until she remembered herself and switched it from an ‘o’ to a relaxed flat line. She mirrored your own position on the couch from her velvet wingback chair, sitting cross legged with an air of casualness. Her only remaining tell was her hands fidgeting in her lap as if her fingers itched to shake you down like a coconut tree or pry your brain open like a valuable specimen. 

Knowing the scarcity of scent bonding, this may have very well been the first time she’s come across this scenario - whether in her personal life or from her spot opposite you in her seat.

“How are you feeling about the encounter?” A loaded question if ever there was one, giving you plenty of breathing room to start the conversation however you needed and giving her a chance to compartmentalize. 

You tried to focus on the initial emotions, remembering that first brush of sweet alpha pheromones on your olfactory senses. The rush of endorphins as your inner omega staked her claim with that first gulp of built up citrus infused drool.

“I didn’t know I could feel like that...” There was a breathy quality to your tone as you visibly brightened, gazing at the plush rug in the center of the room without actually viewing it, a glow to your smile that was soft in your reminiscence. “They don’t prepare you for that first whiff at the Academy. It’s almost like…”

How could you explain in the span of a few sentences what the most ardent poets struggled with over the course of a lifetime? 

“It’s like when someone grows up not being able to breathe properly and they don’t even realize it’s a problem. To them it’s normal to be in a constant state of dyspnea because that’s all they’ve ever known. No one else might be complaining about it, but no one’s asked them about it either. They just assume that's how your lungs are supposed to function and carry on none the wiser.”

Dr. Miranda nodded along, ever patient as you attempted to spew out your thoughts in an at least semi-coherent structure.

“But then, one day, they’re walking behind a guy who’s fumbling with his attempt to shove a small object back in his pocket and watches as it falls to the sidewalk. They pick it up off the ground like a good citizen; strike up a conversation. Ask him about the strange contraption the guy calls an inhaler - learns there's another way to breathe. And so they go home and tell their mom what’s been going on with them and she takes them to see the doctor who gets them one of their own. And when that first dose of medicated mist gets sucked into their lungs…”

The image of a wide eyed innocent gasping in a world full of untold possibilities as if reborn from the ashes of their previous life, no longer chained down by the invisible restrictions tethering them to the globe, eyes glistening full of wonderment at how something so small can be something so cosmically life altering.

With each new breath, they soar.

You’re pulled out of your musings and back to reality as your own lungs expand, something weightless shimmering in your gaze, glassy eyed and perfectly at ease. “Now I know why they call it living.”

The words are floated around the space with a sort of reverence akin to hearing a favored childhood fairy tale read aloud at their mother’s knee. Something wistful and longing and filled with effervescent hope.

“Sounds heavenly...” Her own voice was just as breathy, living vicariously through the moment she herself hasn't experienced. Curling her legs up under herself, Dr. Miranda encouraged, “tell me more.”

“There were two of them,” you went on, smile turning playful and newly invigorated. “The first one was just this big bulk of an alpha. I mean, seriously, he was properly huge!” Animated arms opened wide for emphasis, your grin reaching almost the same diameter. “Built like a fucking linebacker or something. I can only imagine what he must do for a living. Kinda gives off scary vibes, but like… in a non sketchy way? He dresses a bit like a drug dealer, but feels more like a gym teacher. Maybe that’s just me being biased ‘cause he smells like a cupcake, I dunno.”

The energy you gave off was infectious. Dr. Miranda couldn’t help but join in with amused laughter, endeared to the way you were lighting up the room. It wasn’t often she got to see you like this, glimpsing the lighthearted woman you were before the accident. It was a welcome sight after so much negativity. “And the other?”

“Fuuuuck me, Doc.” You groaned good naturedly, head falling back to rest against the spine of the couch as your limbs went limp. “Swear to god he was the prettiest guy I’ve ever seen in my goddamn life. Gorgeous smile. Like, I’ve always been a casual fan of coconut, but after that encounter…” You shuddered. “I just wanna roll around in an entire box of fucking samoas.”

“And do these tasty specimens have names?”

Just like that, you wilted.

The temperature shifted rapidly, a violent change that dragged out of your whimsy and back into a world where life didn’t discriminate between those deserving of heaven and those who broke their way in to taint the ghosts at peace. 

She picked up on it immediately, back straightening as if you weren’t the only one in the room with a chill suddenly dripping down their spine. 

Your admission came from a voice far more fragile than she’d heard in a very long time. “...I never got to ask.”

Recounting the excruciating memory was like shoving needles underneath your nailbeds, bringing up the other person in the room keeping you from wanton bliss, describing the torture you’d endured witnessing them existing with their own omega unaware of the damage she’d inadvertently done. You relayed their moment of recognition and sympathy. The confusion on the poor omega’s face.

How you turned tail and fled like a coward from the scene.

“I panicked,” came the strained confession, stumbled out in a frantic rush that spoke volumes of your frazzled mental state. “I-I didn’t know what else to do! I couldn’t just waltz up to them all willy nilly and throw a wrench in whatever the hell kinda life they’d already built. I mean, she was right there! How was I supposed to fawn over the men who should’ve been mine to keep when they were never mine to begin with?!”

You flinched away from the unwanted flashback of silvery bite marks, the pale white indents plastered on her skin displayed proudly beneath the collar of her coat like an olympic medal. So at odds with the ones mirrored on your own flesh, hidden now under a thick cotton turtleneck that you fought the urge to scratch.

Dr. Miranda listened closely, keen eyes analyzing the familiar body language and monitoring your growing levels of distress. She watched as you picked apart a loose hanging thread with jittery deftness until inevitably too much unwound and fluffy white stuffing poked out between the seams of the pillow clutched like a life jacket to your chest.

“I can only imagine the hurt you must’ve felt in that moment…”

Where once your voice had been full of life, now there was only a grave emptiness. Color had been sucked from your aura the same way it had been from the room. There was no hiding from your devastation in the tiny office, the frayed threads of the cashmere pillow a reflection revealing the true turmoil roiling beneath the skin. It rotted from the inside out, exposing the vulnerable squishy interior and keeping you reliving the same brutal lacerations again and again and again.

“...I hadn’t even considered it a possibility, you know…?” 

Hadn’t allowed yourself the concept of hope. 

“And suddenly it was right there - the answer to all my problems. For a brief moment, I was shown a glimpse of a better life. A future… one where I didn't wake up with earth shattering headaches and relentless nausea and I’d actually have energy to do more than just be a useless fucking couch potato and there could be laughter and healing and–” 

You weren’t sure at which point in your stream of consciousness you’d started crying, nor when you fitfully clawed into the padded fabric, shredding the delicate material as it twisted and stretched in your trembling hands.

“I wish I never ran into them at the store... I wish I could’ve kept living in stupid fucking ignorance. At least then they could’ve just stayed made up characters in my head. Anything would’ve been better than this–” you spat angrily, chucking the mangled remains of the pillow on the ground and gritting your teeth through the onslaught of tears. “Having them ripped away from me like some sick fucking joke! Like the universe hasn’t already crushed my hopes and dreams and laughed in my face for wanting a normal fucking life!? Well guess what, gods? You win! Okay?! You fucking win! Take my heart! I don't want it anymore!”

Consoling arms encapsulated your quivering form, the comforting florals of Dr. Miranda’s airy omega scent projecting like a protective blanket and overpowering the tart bitterness of your once sweetened pear turned ashen in your mouth. 

The floodgates opened. They couldn't be stopped.

“I’m just so fucking sick of this!” Your screams of devastation become muffled against the softness of her pink knitted sweater, harsh blubbering sobs broken up by heaving gasps as you mourn the life you’ll never have. “I hate him... I hate him! I don’t wanna do this anymore! I just want my fucking life back!”

There are no words that can fix the lesions of the heart. There’s no comfort of a better tomorrow that she can wax poetic whilst drying your tears. Sometimes grief cannot be mended - only managed. And sometimes that means accepting the bad days with the learned knowledge that not all anger is made of evil. 

Holding you close, lulling you into a guarded safety with a placating purr, she grants you reprieve from the mask that you wear.

Not much more was discussed in the aftermath. The remaining time was dedicated to helping you stabilize from the emotional trauma, bringing you down carefully to avoid dropping into a catatonic state. She’d witnessed it with you before - at the start of your visits. When the grief was still too near and your triggers splayed out like a million mouse traps all primed to go off. Avoiding them was all but impossible in those early days. Three hours of your life were forever lost to time, the only proof of its occurrence the foggy aftermath filled memory of cold dampened skin and sweat soaked weighted blankets clutched tight in a dark room, uncontrollable trembles wracking your form and a bone deep exhaustion as if you’d just ran ten miles.

Dr. Miranda never once left your side.

Trudging your way back to your vehicle, the air inside the car was only mildly warmer than its outer counterpart, sinking into the rigid cloth seats and listening to the laboured clicks of the old engine grappling to turn over in the bitter cold. Snowflakes gathered on your coat began to melt as it finally gave way, puttering to life and filling the space with dense heated air.

You huffed out a loaded sigh, absentmindedly scratching at the already abused skin as you felt his presence poking experimentally across the bond. As if you didn’t have enough on your plate without him adding his delightful input, sniffing around your emotions like a trained bloodhound attuned to your melancholic brooding.

He was a spiteful thing; had been since he first opened his eyes the next morning from his drug induced stupor and found the pretty thing he’d coveted had just up and vanished. You never knew when he’d invade the sanctity of your mind. The flicker of amusement from his end was the telltale proof this was all just a sick game. 

The bonds didn’t allow any actual communication. There were no words passed back and forth, no sudden powers of telepathy. Just intense sensations - emotions conveyed as though tangible and speaking ideas down an invisible phone line. 

The whole point of a mating bite in the first place was to bring a further cohesion to the packs. As an omega, you were the fixed point in space around which all other members orbited. A mediator of sorts; it was your job to smooth the serrated edges of an alpha’s instincts, regulating their emotional needs and nurturing them to achieve a sense of balance - and vice versa. 

An omega’s naturally empathetic nature meant you were frequently prone to becoming easily overstimulated. It was an alpha’s duty to soothe your frazzled nerves. 

He liked to abuse his privileges. 

Sometimes he went days without pestering, others his tiresome machinations seemed unending. The longest reprieve had been just shy of three weeks, lured into a false sense of optimism that just maybe he’d overdosed and freed you from his haunting clutches. His return was a hot knife stabbing into your skull, grinding and drilling like a makeshift lobotomy for the clinically insane.

You were grateful for the miles between now softening the blows. Once he’d begun to feel the strain on the flight to your current city whittling away at the strength of your bond, he’d lashed out in unbridled fury. You’d spent the first leg of the trip huddled on your knees in the airplane stall, his mental punishment sawing into your ribs and expelling the simple breakfast you’d eaten an hour prior. 

Sobs of anguish turned to tears of relief as time went on and his reach stretched thin across the continent. 

The bond withdrawals came afterwards. His presence still lurked in the tether that binds you, but no more than a casual thought in the back of your mind, the quiet voice that whispers on the edge of a canyon daring you to ‘jump’.

The bond withdrawals were now the worst of your worries. It was hard to function on a day to day basis when the same distance granting you a second chance caused you to become physically - sometimes violently - ill. Instances like that, Zofran was your best friend.

Buckling your seatbelt, you waged an internal battle over whether or not to do the responsible thing of making a second attempt at grocery shopping (despite your best efforts over the past two days, you hadn’t yet figured out how to miraculously will food to materialize in your barren pantry). Statistically speaking you were most likely safe from another encounter… unless they’d pulled a you and hadn’t left with their wares either. 

But if you didn’t have the luxury before to keep putting it off then you certainly hadn’t acquired it now.

Math was on your side as you emerged with a full cart of goods and a lack of new therapy material. You’d still been the most skittish paranoid thing ever, scurrying quickly through the aisles like the CIA was out to get you, scanning your periphery and emerging quickly from the self checkout lanes to hurry towards your car. But just because you’d been successful in your venture doesn’t mean you weren’t followed along by fuzzy raised brows and curious - if not judgemental - looks. 

It was an odd notion - being terrified of the one thing that should’ve made you feel secure. It was all you could do to distract yourself from the frustrating realization that this was a game you’d be playing for the foreseeable future unless you shelled out the extra cash to bypass doing the chore yourself.

That would have to be a worry for another time. Right now, all you desired was to curl up in your tiny studio apartment with a home cooked microwaved meal and lose yourself in the diversion that was the food network channel.

But first: caffeine.

You ignored the nagging ghost of responsibility tugging at your ear as you pulled into a parking spot alongside the main road, stepping out of the warm confines of your car and hurrying inside the nestled hole in the wall you frequented a few times a week for a caffeinated boost. 

Large crowds still bothered you even with the reassurance he wasn't there, as if he could somehow physically slink out of the bond formed between you and hide amongst the chittering rabble waiting for an opportune moment of weakness to strike. Thankfully you’d arrived after the mid afternoon rush - although there were still a few stragglers with the same mindset as you eager to escape the frosty air with something warm on an otherwise picturesque snowy winter’s day.

The chiming bell above the door hailed your arrival, festive drink flavors assaulting your nose and instantly watering your mouth. Smoky chestnut praline, rich peppermint mocha, enticing caramel brulee. Cranberry laden pastries, chewy gingerbread cookies; all folded together in a Christmasy mix laced with the pleasant aroma of freshly ground coffee beans. 

Your mind zeroed in on exactly what it wanted, pinpointing the most succulent fragrance amongst the bountiful bouquet, cutting through the sea of heavy pheromones belonging to the other patrons and hitting something raw inside your weary soul. 

The veritable nectar of the gods. 

A rich shot of bold espresso. Sweetly caramelized with smooth, creamy, chocolatey undertones. It zapped your spine with a jolt of adrenaline, awakening your senses while simultaneously soothing them. The first relaxing sip of a perfectly hot beverage. The golden liquid flowed down the back of your throat and alleviated the tangled knots still keeping you on edge, settling like a sturdy hand on your shoulder and allowing you the chance to breathe easy.

Something about the blend had your inner omega preening, ears perked up and startling a small purr from your chest that had you blinking down at your torso in surprised confusion. You’d barely stepped foot inside the cafe and suddenly the craving had expanded tenfold, something ravenous and feral urging your steps towards the counter that you had to fight to withstand.

Shrugging off the intense hunger as a simple lack of shoving something slightly more substantial in your mouth before leaving this morning, you adjusted the strap of your purse more securely on your shoulder and raised your eyes level to the awaiting interior.

Right into the most alluring shade of brilliant azure - sparkling like sapphires and already fixated on you.

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[chiaraanatra]

Thief pt 2

∘₊✧────✧₊∘ ! 18+ MINORS DNI ! ∘₊✧───✧₊∘

Summary: Sam has been stealing your panties for a while and you finally decide to confront him. A continuation of this 𝑏𝑙𝑢𝑟𝑏.

Warnings: SMUT! Characters are 18+, oral (f receiving), fingering (f receiving), teasing, dry humping, scent kink (kinda?), cumming untouched (m), panty stealing, mentions of male masturbation, dom!reader & sub!sam vibes, Sam and reader are both pervs, pet names (good boy), no y/n. Let me know if i missed something.

Word Count: 2.3k

AN: I'm back! sorry for being MIA. But we are coming back strong with Sam the panty sniffer! Inspo hit me then left then came back with a vengeance! Hope you like!

《 m.list || ao3 》

"I'll be right back, why don't you find us a movie?" You watched as Sam made his way to the bathroom.

You were up in a second, digging through his drawers in hopes of finding what you were looking for. You scoured his dresser with no luck before turning to his bedside table.

A smile spread across your face when you opened the drawer and were met with the site of Sam's stash of your panties, 5 to be exact. You giggled to yourself, grabbing a pair and closing the drawer.

You quickly walked over to Sam's collection of VHSs, pretending to choose a movie for you two to watch. One movie caught your eye, Thief (1981). You wanted to burst into laughter but stopped when you heard approaching footsteps.

"What did you decide on?" Sam took a seat on the edge of the bed looking in your direction.

"How about this one?" you tossed the box over to him.

He caught it, looking at the cover then back at you, "Thief? In a James Caan mood?" He chuckled to himself.

You smiled at him, "I just think it's appropriate."

Confusion spread across his face, and he let out a breathy laugh, "What do you mean?"

"Oh, I think you know." You brought your hand in front of you revealing the panties you took from his drawer, the lacy cloth dangled between your fingers.

"Uhh- what are you- I mean why are you-"

"Sam, have you been stealing my panties?" You tried your best to hide the smirk threatening your lips.

"I- umm... I don't know what you're talking about..." He thought about his words and quickly backtracked, "I-I mean wh-why do you think they're yours? I have... girls over all the time..." Sam's eyes drifted to the ceiling, cringing at his words.

"Sam, I know for a fact these are mine, just like the others in your drawer are also mine." You nodded in the direction of the nightstand.

"Fuck... I- I uhh... Fuck..." He shook his head. You were on to him; you had seen the others and there was no use in trying to cover his tracks. He was spiraling. What would you think of him? Would you hate him? Of course you would!

You looked at the purple lace in your hand, "What do you do with them?"

Your words broke him out of his spiral, "Wha-What?" Were you seriously asking him that?

"You heard me," you toss a pair at him before walking over to stand right in front of him, your eyes staring down into worried pools of blue.

He swallowed thickly. "I-I... Look, I'm sorry! I won't do it again! We can just forget this ever happened..."

"Sam," you bent at the waist, leaning in closer to his ear, "Answer my question."

At this point, he was fighting for his life. Half the blood in his body was flushing his cheeks while the other half went straight to his cock. "Please don't make me admit to this shit..."

"I won't ask again." your voice sounded so different, much more stern, demanding, and God was it hot!

"Fuck... fine! I jerk off with them... I'll wrap them around my dick, or... shove them in my mouth." He covered his face with his hands falling back on his bed. "I'm a sick pervert and I understand if you never want to speak to me again..."

"So would you steal just any girl's panties?" Sam swore he could hear a touch of disappointment in your voice. "Wha-What?" He looked up at you in confusion. "Well, no I..." You fought the smile that threatened to grace your lips, "What makes mine so special?"

"I- umm, well I..." he refused to meet your gaze.

You took his stuttering as an opportunity and climbed onto the bed before maneuvering yourself so your legs were on either side of his hips. Your skirt began to ride up, exposing more of your thighs and you could feel his cock straining against his jeans.

His eyes shot open, "Fuck..." he had never seen anything so perfect; he had imagined you in this position a million times, but his imagination could never live up to the real things.

Your voice once again brought him out of his thoughts, "Do you like me, Sammy?"

He spoke before he had a chance to think his words though. "Of course I do! I've liked you since you moved in next door..."

Did he seriously just confess to his best friend that he liked her?

Sam wanted to cry out of embarrassment and fear. Embarrassment that he just confessed to being an absolute pervert and liking his best friend, and fear that this would cause him to lose you.

When his gaze found yours again, he was greeted with the sight of you biting your lip and smiling. He stared at you in confusion and disbelief. He figured you would be running for the hills, not straddling him and giggling. "Why are you laughing and not freaking out? Also, why are you on my lap? It's really not helping this situation..."

You leaned forward, maintaining your gaze as you rested your head on his chest, "Sammy, I've known for a while that you've been taking them."

"Yo-you've known?!" He tried not to focus on your body being pressed up against his, or the softness of your breast, or the smell of your perfume, of how he wanted nothing more than to kiss you…

"Mhm. At first, I thought I was crazy, so I started leaving them out on purpose. A little experiment. A pair on the floor of my bathroom, another meticulously placed just outside the hamper. Lo and behold, each time you came over they were gone."

"If you knew then why didn't you say anything?!" It had been well over a month since he started this perverted escapade, and not only did you know but you were practically encouraging it.

"I was waiting for the right time," you paused trying to hide a smile, "and I also needed proof."

His gaze met yours, his mouth felt dry, “And now that you have your proof..?”

A smirk came to your lips. You leaned down, your chest pressing into him even more while your lips brushed against the shell of his ear. “I find you guilty of theft Sam Monroe.” You felt Sam waver under you, on edge as he anticipated your next words. “And I think you deserve punishment. And I think I deserve retribution.”

“P-punishment…?” Sam didn't know how to feel. Turned on? Yes, beyond turned on. He had never seen you like this so in control and demanding.

Rather than respond to his question you chose to lick the shell of his ear before moving to his neck, biting and sucking at the sensitive skin.

Sam didn't recognize the needy sounds that were coming from him. Whimpers escaped his lips as you continued your torturous pursuits.

His hands appeared to tease their way under your skirt. However, the moment he was able to feel your soft flesh under his fingertips, your assault on his neck stopped.

"When did I say you were allowed to touch me, Sammy?"

"Fuck, you can't be serious...?"

You lifted your body slightly so your eyes could meet his. "Dead serious." You leaned in, lips so close to his own but not quite touching. "Punishment and retribution." Your breath ghosted over his skin. "If you don't want it, I'll stop. But if you do, and I have a feeling you do, you'll have to beg for it."

A small part of you was anxious, worried that Sam would take the out you had given him. But those fears were quelled by desperate words.

"God, please let me touch you... I'll do anything! I'll be good, I promise... I jus- I just want to make you feel good... Please!"

You had wanted to hold out longer, really make him beg for it. But the need in his voice propelled you forward, connecting your lips to his. His were softer than you expected and he tasted like cigarettes and mint gum.

Sam wasted no time placing his warm hands back under your skirt, reviling at your softness and grabbing at the exposed skin of your thighs, causing your skirt to hike up even more.

You couldn't help but grind your hips against his. He let out a soft groan and your tongue took that as an invitation, dipping into his mouth. The muscles swirled together, feeding off the need you felt for one another.

You could feel Sam's hand tug at your shirt slightly. When you pulled back from him, a sting of saliva connected your lips. You took the opportunity to remove the unnecessary clothing item, revealing the purple lacy bra underneath.

Sam couldn't help but look up at you in awe. You looked like a goddess atop her thrown and he begged whatever deity that might exist that he could forever be that thrown. "God, your so fucking hot..."

You smiled biting your lip at the comment, “What do you want, Sammy.”

His hips bucked slightly upwards as his fingers played with the hem of your skirt, skimming the soft skin of your thighs. His eyes met yours, hoping this would suffice as an answer to your question.

“Use your words, baby.”

“Fuck..." he bit out, "You, I want you…”

You didn't respond. Instead deciding to look down on him and wait for a proper response.

He looked away out of embarrassment. "C-can I taste you?"

"Good boy." You removed yourself from his lap, removing your skirt to reveal matching lace panties.

Before you could make your way back to the bed, Sam was on his knees in front of you, looking up with dark, pleading eyes.

"Look at you... so desperate to please me?"

All Sam could do was nod his head before looking at your clothed core. "Yes, please..."

"Go ahead, baby. Make me feel good."

Without hesitation, Sam pushes himself between your legs, inhaling your sweet scent before kissing the lacy fabric that leaves little to the imagination.

He kissed the fabric a few more times before pulling it slowly down your legs. A low 'fuck' leaves his lips before he is attacking your core. Kissing, licking, and sucking on the sensitive bundle of nerves.

Your fingers rake through his dark hair, pulling him in closer and grinding yourself against his face.

During his assault, Sam's hand found its way to your already-soaked hole. The tip of his index finger traces your entrance. He wasn't doing it to tease you, but rather waiting for you to tell him he could.

"Mmmm-fuck, Sam...!" Your grip on his hair tightened and he took this as permission.

His long digits took no time at all, curling inside you and finding the soft spot inside you that made your legs shake and your body feel like is crumbling beneath you. "Yes! Right there," you gasp.

Sam was in a trance. Your taste, your scent, the noises you were making, all had him on edge and he had yet to touch himself.

You could feel his hips buck against one of your legs as he reviled in the taste of you on his tongue and a bit of friction on his cock.

He could tell you were close. Your silken walls contract around his finger and he supports more and more of your weight as your legs start to give out. The pace of his hips increased as he tried to chase his high with you.

Your moans went silent as your body curled into him, the band in your stomach seconds away from snapping. "Oh God!"

Sam looked up just in time to watch you cum and he was met with a heavenly image that would play over and over in his head for the rest of his life. He felt a flood of your juices coat his face just as he came undone in his boxers.

You fell forward, trying and failing to support yourself.

Sams's fingers made their exit before his hands firmly held your hips and led you to sit on the bed.

You expected him to undo his own pants, wanting you to return the favor. When he didn’t you could only look at him with curiosity and a little confusion, "Do you want me to help you out...?"

"Umm... actually I'm already taken care of..." He stood, looking at the floor, far too embarrassed to witness your reaction.

You couldn't help the tired giggle that escaped your lips, "Like me that much, huh?"

"More than you know..." He mumbled as he shifted uncomfortably in his now damp boxers.

Your head fell back against his pillows, "Well then, I guess you'll have to explain it to me."

You watched as a not so subtle nervousness took over his features, "In due time, of course."

You reached over to his nightstand, grabbing a clean pair of stolen panties to replace the damp ones currently residing on Sam’s bedroom floor. "Why don't you clean yourself up and we can get back to our movie night?"

Sam bit his lip and stared at his white ceiling. "Yeah okay..." Was all he said before bolting out of his room.

While in the bathroom his mind was spiraling, hoping that this wasn't a dream or even worse a mistake. Sam liked you a lot. Hell, he loved you but he was not ready to admit it to himself. But when he found you with open arms, clad only in his t-shirt, and still on his bed, his anxiety seemed to melt away.

He crawls on top of you, head resting between your breasts. You couldn't help but kiss the top of his head and whisper into his hair, "I like you too, Sammy."

As always, feedback, likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated!

Taglist: @bimbo-baggins86 @daisydark @lillyxlillian @ineedtosusoutmyreadinglist

𝑊𝑎𝑛𝑛𝑎 𝑏𝑒 𝑡𝑎𝑔𝑔𝑒𝑑? 𝐿𝑒𝑡 𝑚𝑒 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤 ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 💜

[saveyourblood]

Roll the Dice (Buddie x Reader)

Summary: Buck makes a humming noise, rubbing his lips in thought. “I could do it.” You and Eddie share a look. Eddie is the first to test the waters. “Do what?” “Give someone a lap dance.” The one where you're best friends with Buck and Eddie, the three of you are drunk, and the topic of lap dances comes up.

Word Count: 2.4k Prompt (from @happyhauntt): buddie and reader are hanging out and drinking maybe and maybe they're watching magic mike as a joke or they had a call to a strip club earlier that day and buck asks reader who they think would give a better lapdance, buck or eddie, reader bluescreens and they both give a demonstration. A/N: This was such a fun write! Thanks for letting me steal your idea, Ollie! You can find their work on AO3 too. :^) Merry Christmas/Happy Holidays everyone! Warnings: Spice (not smut), drinking, mentions of vomiting

It started with beer. 

Well, it started with the boys drinking beer. 

You’ve never been a big fan of beer. You’ll occasionally indulge in something on tap at a fancy bar, but other than that, it isn’t your drink. And that cheap shit that Buck buys at the corner store? Absolutely not. 

So, it started with the boys drinking beer and you drinking a canned cocktail. 

See, Buck may have bad taste, but he has a good heart. He always has a 6-pack of cheap beer in his fridge, but since you started coming over, you notice he always has a 12-pack of ready-to-drink canned cocktails. You know he doesn’t drink them; he buys them for you. 

You really don’t drink that much, in terms of both frequency and amount. It takes a singular drink for you to feel a nice buzz, and really, that’s all you need. You’ve never had the desire to get blackout drunk, and more than three drinks gives you a raging headache in the morning. 

You were only going to have one, maybe two drinks, just like you usually do. 

But then Eddie found the fucking tequila. 

“Where’d you even get that?” you giggle. You'd be embarrassed by the sound if you were even a little bit sober. Thankfully, you’re halfway through your second can, and any sense of embarrassment is filled by the warm pool of alcohol in your stomach. 

“Maddie made margaritas the night I moved in,” Buck says, raising his beer bottle to his lips. 

The boys are both on their third beers, but between the lower alcohol content and their stronger tolerances, they aren’t as drunk as you are. Hopefully, the tequila will even the score. 

“Where did she buy it?” Eddie laughs as he inspects the bottle. 

It’s cheap: you can tell that much by looking at it. It’s a 1.75 liter plastic bottle — not exactly top shelf. You expected nothing less from Maddie, since she doesn’t strike you as a girl who sips high-end tequila. No, she’s more like the girl who makes way too strong margaritas and bullies her brother into taking shots in the kitchen. 

Buck shrugs. “Grocery store, probably.”

Eddie starts looking through the cabinets. “You got a blender?”

Buck snorts. “I have shot glasses.”

“I’m not doing shots,” you laugh. “Tequila shots and I have… a bad relationship.” 

Eddie gives you a look. “What type of relationship?” 

“Whatever type ends in me throwing up in someone’s sink.”

Buck tips his head back and cackles. “You did that?! You?!”

“I just graduated from the Academy and went out with some classmates to celebrate,” you explain, cheeks flushing as you smile. “It started with bar hopping and ended with tequila shots at someone’s house.”

“Sounds like it actually ended with you throwing up in someone’s sink,” Eddie points out. 

“And you’re trying to make it happen again!” You accuse as Eddie continues scouring the kitchen. “Shame on you, Diaz!”

“Hey, it would be nice to see the most professional member of the 118 get a little crazy,” Buck says. 

You snort again. “I’m the most professional member of the 118?”

“Professional isn’t the right word,” Eddie says, finally finding a cocktail shaker. 

“Formal?” Buck proposes, looking to the other man. 

Eddie hums in consideration as he fills the shaker with ice, leaving the tequila on the island. “Classy?”

Buck shakes his head. “No, that’s not it either.”

Eddie sets the shaker, now filled with ice, on the island. He then opens the fridge door and comes back with lime juice. “Proper?”

“Proper,” Buck agrees, leaning his hip on the island. His body is turned towards Eddie, watching him as he pours the ingredients into the shaker. 

“Proper,” you echo, your lips wrapping around the word as you say it. “How exactly am I proper?” 

“I don’t know,” Buck says after taking another sip. “Just… the way you carry yourself, I guess.”

“How specific.”

Buck flicks a beer cap, previously sitting on the island, at you. You try to catch it, but it slides off the table before you can catch it. You flip him off. 

“Not so proper anymore,” Eddie remarks. 

The tequila takes you by the hand and leads the three of you into Buck’s living room. You’re on your second margarita on the rocks, courtesy of Edmundo Diaz. The boys decide to take two shots each, back to back, and simply watching them kind of made you sick. 

“You are so full of shit!” you yell. 

You don’t know much at this moment, other than the fact that you’re completely and entirely drunk. Not wasted, not blackout. You’re in that sweet spot where you’re sober enough to know that you’re being obnoxious but too intoxicated to care. As someone who normally presents as ‘proper’ (apparently),  it’s a combination akin to fire and kerosene — absolutely ruthless. 

“I am not!” Buck laughs.

Buck claims he’s never had a lap dance, and you don’t believe him for a second. 

You’re not entirely sure how you got on this topic. It definitely didn’t start like this, that you’re almost entirely most likely probably sure of. It had something to do with the ‘old partners’ discussion. Or maybe the ‘craziest night out’ swapping of stories. It’s hard to tell — you’ve cycled through several topics tonight, and you’ll be lucky to remember half of them. 

“Eddie, do you believe him?”

Eddie chuckles as he raises his hands. “I’m staying out of this one.”

Like you or Buck would let that happen.

“What about you, hotshot?” Buck asks, cocking an eyebrow. “You ever had a lap dance?” 

Eddie’s eyes narrow slightly, almost like he’s sizing up Buck. It makes the alcohol in your belly burn a little warmer. 

“Once,” Eddie eventually answers. 

You turn your head to the side like a curious dog. “Oh?”

“Do tell,” Buck says, leaning forward. 

“It was at my shitty excuse of a bachelor party,” Eddie explains, taking a sip of his fourth beer. “One of my friends in Texas insisted. We went out to a strip club, he paid for it, and… that’s it.” 

“He paid for it,” you echo. “What a gentleman.” 

Sitting in the armchair, Eddie gently kicks your leg on the coffee table. You giggle, pulling both your legs back onto the couch. Buck, at the other end of the couch, puts his feet in your lap. 

“You’re being awfully quiet,” he observes. “Have you?”

You snort. “Have I ever had a lap dance?”

“Or given one.”

You press into the nailbed on one of Buck’s toes using your thumb. He yelps and pulls his legs back. 

“Half an hour ago, you were calling me ‘proper.’ Now, you’re asking if I’ve given someone a lap dance,” you recall. You turn to Eddie. “Can you believe him?”

“Absolutely not,” Eddie says as he shakes his head. “...Have you, though?”

Buck cackles as you kick Eddie’s leg. 

“I’ve never given anyone a lap dance,” you answer loudly. “I almost got one, though.” 

Both the boys raise their eyebrows.

“Do you remember that call we went on a few months back? To a male strip club?”

“Yeahhh,” Buck says. At some point, he replaced his beer bottle with the tequila bottle, which he’s now cradling like a baby. “What was that place called? Thirsty?”

“Just Thirst, I think,” Eddie remarks. “The one where a dancer rolled his ankle, right?”

You nod. “One of his buddies offered me a dance for being such a great first responder.”

Buck smiles and takes a swig of the tequila, wincing as it goes down. You nudge his knee, then pull your fingers towards yourself, gesturing for the bottle. Buck’s smile looks a little more cocky, but he hands the bottle over anyways. 

“You didn’t accept, huh?”

You sip a  little more of the tequila than you should. You can’t help it — it goes down so easily, leaving nothing but fuzzy warmth in its wake. You’ll regret it tomorrow, but for now, you’re basking in it. “Not really my thing.”

“Not even for the story?” Eddie asks. 

“You don’t get to be the ‘proper’ one by doing something ‘for the story,’” you counter. 

Eddie makes a face of contemplation as he reaches for the bottle. “Fair.” 

“You are really hung up on that word,” Buck notes. 

“It was… surprising, that’s all,” you chuckle. 

Buck makes a humming noise, rubbing his lips in thought. “I could do it.”

You and Eddie share a look. Eddie is the first to test the waters. “Do what?” 

“Give someone a lap dance.” 

You can feel your face get hot. You swallow the lump that suddenly took residence in your throat. 

Meanwhile, Eddie laughs. “You’ve never gotten a lap dance, but you think you can give one?” 

Buck shrugs, leaning one elbow on his knee. “Why not? I’ve seen Magic Mike.” 

“You’ve seen Magic Mike but never gotten a lap dance,” Eddie continues after taking a swig of liquor. “That makes sense.” 

You reach for the bottle, which Eddie grants you. You take a long drink, gulping a few times. Pulling the bottle back, you use your thumb to wipe your bottom lip. “Do your worst, Buckley.”

He turns his head to stare at you. He huffs out a laugh, looking at you the whole time. “What?” 

“Let’s see what you’ve got,” you continue, leaning back in the couch. You prop one arm on the back and the other on the armrest, the tequila bottle hitting the end table in the process. “You’ve never given a lap dance, I’ve never gotten one. We’ll pop each other’s cherries.” 

You’d never say any of this sober. Shit, you’d never say any of this two drinks in. You’re in so much deeper than that now; between the margs and the sips, you’ve had at least 6 shots. You can practically feel the alcohol in your blood. It’s hot, thick, and wanting. 

You're 100% throwing up in Buck's sink tomorrow.

You blink, and Buck is on top of you. His hands press into the back of the couch, holding his weight so he can be face-to-face with you. If the booze in your veins is hot, then his breath on your lips is fucking scalding. 

He lifts his hips and brings them back down in a rippling motion: he’s grinding on you. You giggle, high-pitched and shameless. You move your hands to cover your mouth. You can’t wrap your head around the idea that this is actually happening. 

Buck sits up straighter in your lap. He’s careful to keep his weight on his knees, which are on either side of your legs. He puffs his chest before rolling his shoulders forward and his ass backwards on your thighs in a fluid motion. You can feel the friction of his pants on your bare legs. You thank your past self for choosing to wear shorts. 

He gently takes your wrists, moving your hands from your mouth to his chest. He’s fully clothed, so you’re dragging your hands down his sweater. Still, you can feel the rippling of his muscles under his shirt. You throw your head back in laughter at the sheer ridiculousness of it, but you know the burning in your stomach is no longer entirely thanks to the liquor. 

“Not bad,” Eddie critiques from his seat. 

You laugh harder. 

“What, you can do better?” Buck challenges. 

Eddie narrows his eyes again before smirking. He pushes himself out of the chair, shooing Buck away with his hand. 

Buck raises his hands in surrender, turning on one knee before flopping on the couch beside you. 

“This isn’t happening,” you laugh, shaking your head like you’re trying to wake yourself up from a dream. 

You’ve had a crush on both of them since the first time you saw them. How could you not? They are completely and utterly gorgeous men. When you realized how funny and caring they both are, it just sealed the deal. You never, in your wildest imagination, pictured yourself in a situation like this with either of them, let alone both of them. 

Not that you’re complaining, of course.

Eddie takes Buck’s place, only he’s towering over you since he’s standing instead of sitting. He puts his hands on your sides, trailing down to your thighs. You shudder under his touch, hoping it isn’t noticeable. The way the corner of his mouth turns up tells you that it’s definitely noticeable. 

Eddie’s hands reach your knees, which he loops his fingers under. In a swift motion, he pulls your legs up and presses his body against yours. You yelp in surprise and wrap your legs around his back, somehow pulling him closer. 

His hands move to your back, and he picks you up. You yelp again, astonished by the ease he can lift you. You shouldn’t be so shocked, considering his career. When his grasp moves from your back to your ass, though, he’s no longer Firefighter Diaz; he’s Eddie, the man you have a crush on. And the man who’s currently holding your ass. 

Eddie turns on his heel and carefully lays you on Buck’s coffee table, which makes you cackle again. Your laughter dies in your throat when Eddie places himself over you again. Your chests are touching, as are your noses. 

You look into Eddie’s eyes, and it’s as if you can suddenly read his mind. “Dancers aren’t supposed to kiss the clientele.”

Eddie smiles again. It’s the kind where only one corner of his mouth curls up, and his lips shift to the side. “Good thing I’m not a dancer.”

His lips meet yours, and it’s nothing but heat. He tastes like a mix of cheap beer and tequila, and if you weren’t already, you could get drunk off of it. Your tongues meet and separate like lovers on a dance floor. When you’re out of breath, you wonder if you could suck the air out of his lungs, just to keep you connected to him for a little longer. 

Eddie pulls away first, his chest heaving desperately for air. 

“You lose,” Buck remarks. 

“How did I lose?”

“It was a competition?” you interject. 

“It’s called a lap dance,” Buck points out. “That wasn’t in her lap.” 

Eddie rolls his eyes fondly. They eventually settle on your mouth. “Eh, I think I won.” 

[my-my-my]

KINKTOBER DAY 6 - Somnophilia: Sosuke Aizen (Hueco Mundo) x Female Reader

Requested by anonymous

Summary: Observing people, shinigami and hollows alike, are just one of the many hobbies Aizen likes to partake in. In one of his visits to Naruki City, he decides to leave a book from his personal collection, in a used bookstore. You, a human who doesn't know any better, become fascinated by the book - never hearing or seeing anything about it before. No one knows of this book, except a stranger, Aizen, who feeds your curiosity.

TW: this is kinda angsty. Implied past somnophiliac acts (reader thinks its a dream), dubious consent, hypnotism, voyeurism, stalking.

Word count: 2491

Read on AO3 here.

In preparation of his descent into Hueco Mundo, Aizen scoured Karakura Town and the nearby Naruki City for test subjects, spiritual readings and hollow experimentation. Sometimes, it’s easier to disguise himself amongst the humans, wearing a gigai.

Aizen is fascinated by the mostly mundane tasks of human beings. They’re so incredibly fragile in his presence yet make the most out of their inadequacies. While their technology is not as advanced as Soul Society, his or Urahara Kisuke’s inventions, he’s amused by what they have made for themselves already.

Sometimes Aizen wanders through the various bookstores and libraries in the World of the Living. He observes mortals and what they decide to read. For whatever reason, today he decided to bring a book from his own collection and places it on the shelf of a used bookstore.

He watches you, with curious eyes, skimming the book. Your eyes widen from what he can see. What will you make of it? He wonders. The store owner doesn’t recognize the book at all but sells it to you for a low price.

He watches you read it in your home, on your commute and your days off. You’re in awe.

You decide to finish the book in a quiet part of the park, under a gazebo with some of your favourite flowers surrounding it. Page after page, you’re engrossed with what the book shares with you, things you haven’t heard of, concepts you had never dreamed of. You had never heard of this book before, no existence of it in the library or online copies anywhere. Yet it captivated you.

“Are you enjoying that book? It’s quite fascinating, isn’t it?” Aizen asks, as he walks into the gazebo to see you.

Today, Aizen would find you enjoying an iced coffee on the patio of a café in Naruki City. In the back of his mind, he had already begun his machinations to move you further away from Naruki City to Kyoto or somewhere else, where you wouldn’t be affected by his plans for Karakura Town and the nearby areas.

You sipped your coffee, thoroughly engrossed in a book that he had lent you. His lips twitched at seeing you enjoying something he also enjoyed, his heart quickened in your presence.

But he ignored it.

Today, Aizen donned a gigai, as he always does when he visits you. A simple white dress shirt tucked in to black slacks, the sleeves rolled up, his hair pushed back as normal. He ordered a white jasmine tea for himself, and a small pastry for you.

“Are you enjoying the book?” Aizen’s voice startled you, but you smiled at him, waving him over.

“Yes, I am, thank you so much Aizen-san! Your recommendations have been wonderful.” You beamed at him, placing a bookmark on the page as you closed the book. It wasn’t often that you bumped into your mysterious crush.

He gave you a small smile and sat across from you, taking a sip from his cup. This café is terrible he thought to himself, tasting the bitterness of the tea leaves. But you were here, and that was more than enough to finish drinking the offensive liquid.

“What brings you here today? I haven’t seen you in a while.” You asked, feeling nervous suddenly.

“No reason in particular, I was in the area and wanted some tea. I just happen to see you here today. It’s nice to see a familiar face.” Aizen said, continuing to drink his tea. He noticed your coffee was also still unfinished. “Are you not enjoying your drink?”

You laughed, then lowered your voice, “I found this place on a whim… but it’s kind of terrible don’t you agree?” To which you gave him a sheepish smile.

Aizen chuckled, nodding his head, “but I got this for you. Hopefully that’s better than our drinks.” Your eyes widened at the pastry, and you immediately thanked him for it.

You ripped a small portion off the plate and placed it immediately in your mouth. Your eyes lit up, it was surprisingly delicious. “You need to try this Aizen-san!” You immediately ripped another piece off and handed it to him.

A blush crept up your face as he ate from your hand. “It is delicious. Maybe they should open a bakery instead.” Aizen surmised, his tone calm and collected, as if your fingers weren’t near his mouth at all.

You gave a nervous laugh and immediately pulled away, “I think that’s a great idea for them.” “Ignoring them, tell me what you think of what you’ve read so far.” Aizen asked, watching your eyes glimmer in excitement.

It had been a few months now, of meeting with Aizen, whose first name you learned was Sosuke. He revealed very little of himself, but you had exchanged numbers with him. As of late, many of your meetings were more like “dates,” that ended with some kisses and heavy petting.

Yet you still didn’t know much of the man. He was a complete enigma to you. You had shared with one of your closest friends what you knew about him, but even their sleuthing skills couldn’t find anything. Was he giving you a fake name?

You doubted that, but you never really saw him around town save for when you two were hanging out. He wasn’t purposefully evasive towards you, he told you as much that he was in the area a lot (but didn’t specify where), as he had work there (but didn’t disclose what he did).

Yet even then, when you two were together, it felt like the rest of the world was gone. The two of you were in a bubble. It was strange in some cases, you thought. On days when you were having an especially hard time, something at work or something upsetting, you would find him, almost as if on accident.

And the time with him felt comforting. Your problems felt like they disappeared when you were with him, or he offered you advice and listening ear if it was too much to bear.

But still, nothing about him, nothing of existence of him. Maybe… you were hallucinating him?

That would make sense, right? Your friends never met him, and any instances of trying to have him meet them were thwarted at some point. Even when you tried to take photos, your phone’s camera would (surprisingly) malfunction.

Now you felt crazy, but the books were real, weren’t they?

You picked up the latest book he lent you. It was heavy, hard and sturdy. It felt real.

You took a photo of it and sent it to your closest friend, who responded with a question mark.

“Why are you sending me a pic of a book?” Your friend responded.

You replied with an “oh it was an accident, meant for someone at work!”

Ok, so the books were real.

Then your phone rang. Speak of the devil and he shall appear your mind thought, as Aizen’s name flashed on your screen. You hurriedly picked it up and heard his baritone voice immediately. “Are you free tonight?”

Aizen had treated you to dinner, at a remarkable restaurant you were saving up for. You savored every part of your meal, from the food, the décor and Aizen himself.

“I think…” you hesitated, wanting to choose your words carefully, “this is the first time you’ve called me for dinner, Aizen-san.”

He gave you a small smile, “it is, and unfortunately there’s a reason behind this.”

You felt your heart dropped at the shift of his tone.

“I’ll be going overseas indefinitely.” He said, “I’m not sure when I’ll be back here again.”

“Oh…” you trailed off, disappointment clear in your voice. “For how long?”

“I’m not sure yet, but it may be the last time I see you.” Aizen said, his face expressionless. He watched your face drop with sadness, while his heart felt a bit strange. But he ignored it, again. He enjoyed your company and nothing more of it would come from it. His plans were too far along now to pull you into them. It was better this way.

Although Aizen shared it was his last night, he wanted to spend the night together. It was a surreal blur to you. The two of you spent time watching the stars, discovering late night gems in Naruki City, with kisses in between, but once a yawn escaped your mouth, he escorted you home. You remember being tucked in to bed, and then waking up to find a new book on your bedside table. Aizen’s last gift to you. You thumbed the pages carefully before hugging the book to your chest.

The following morning, you sent him a text, to have it being bounced back. Calling him left you with an automated tone saying the number did not exist.

The man, Aizen Sosuke, never appeared in your life again. To your friends who knew of him, never brought him up.

At places where you two were seen together, no one batted an eye as to where your partner was. No one asked. As months went by, if it weren’t for the books lining your bookshelf, you would have wondered if he even really existed.

Lord Aizen remained unphased watching Ulquiorra share his update on Karakura Town to him and the rest of the Espada. Everything was going according to plan, plans that he thought well and hard for, plans that had contingencies running if they were (shockingly) to fail.

Ulquiorra’s voice droned out of Lord Aizen’s mind as he saw the briefest glimpse of you. Of course Ulquiorra was not privy to you. Watching you, hearing you, talking to you was only a privilege to Lord Aizen.

To which he thought, he was due for a visit to you.

Some nights you dreamt of Aizen.

Some dreams, the two of you were a seemingly normal couple, traveling the world and sight-seeing.

Other dreams he was a military captain, commanding his troops with his sword and his voice alone.

Some dreams felt real – his touch hot against your skin, his kisses deep and passionate. Your bed, his bed, some other bed – you would wake with the distant memories of moans and pleasure, as your thighs were left sticky, and your body covered in a light sheen of sweat.

Other dreams involved him in a palace far beyond, of stark white in an area devoid of light. Where sand dunes filled the landscape, with strange creatures roaming around. He commanded them, wearing robes of white, with a presence that commanding fear and utmost respect.

You never knew what to make of these dreams. Some days you loved them, to see him again, to “feel” him again. Other days you hated it, you wished you had never met him.

The dreams now, were becoming fewer and far between, and again, you weren’t sure if you were happy with that. To be haunted by him, or to forget him almost completely.

Tonight though, you were exhausted, and your bed called to you more than anything.

Once you were sound asleep, Aizen approaches. He knows you and your bed now. He knows which parts to put weight on – and which not to – to avoid waking you. It amused him some days, to hear you cry for him in your sleep, other days it made his brows furrow, his heart quickening like it did before.

Tonight he wanted you for himself. Seeing you in Ulquiorra’s surveillance update tugged at him. You called to him, both mind and body, and it bothered him. But tonight he would indulge. His reiatsu lightly fills this room, weighing on you more heavily, forcing you into a deeper slumber.

“Sosuke” you whimpered, your eyes still closed, while your brows were knitted. He kisses your forehead and watches you relax, wondering what you were dreaming of tonight.

Aizen cups your face and turns you on to your back. Your breathing is deep – your chest rises and falls to every breath you take, your breasts barely containing your nightshirt.

Aizen muses if you were made for him, as your legs spread apart. He whispers an incantation under his breath that leaves you naked and bare for him alone.

He runs his hands over your body, parts he's familiar with, places he hungers for. Deep kisses are left along your neck as he travels down your breasts, taking delicate care for each nipple.

Your eyes are still closed, but moans are freely spilling from your mouth. Aizen pushes your legs further apart, your glistening cunt in full display for him. He draws slow circles around your clit, earning a gasp and mewl from you. It amuses him how needy your pussy is for him, you’re completely drenched, and he hasn’t even put a finger in.

Aizen pushes a finger into your wet hole and relishes at how tight you are around him. Your mouth opens into a whine, “please, more Sosuke.” Although your eyes remain firmly closed.

Who was Aizen to deny you like this? Undoing a part of his robe, Aizen pumped his cock in his hand, watching you panting, and moaning for him. As if on reflex, he watches in amusement as you pinch and play with your own breasts, before your hand circles your clit, but he stops you before you can go further.

Your body was meant for him, and he would remind you of that fact.

Aizen slowly pushes his cock inside you, relishing at how your face tightens at the sudden intrusion, but slowly relaxes as you moan to the full stretch of him. Aizen brings your face to him, giving you a deep kiss as he slams his hips into you.

A part of him wants to see your eyes open for him, to watch your eyes sparkle at him, trickle with tears as he pounds you mercilessly. But not tonight. He grinds into you, forcing your legs on his shoulders as his cock is covered in your slick juices.

You chant his name, over and over again, cries for more pleasure, more of him. And of course, he would never deny you tonight. Aizen slams into your wet pussy repeatedly, as you tighten around him, before a low groan escapes Aizen, his cum filling you up as he remained inside you. He watches you in fascination as your eyes relax again, your breathing less laborious than before, slowly pulling his softening cock out of you. You let out a soft whine from the feeling, to which Aizen kisses you, as if to say he was sorry.

He undoes the incantation in your room, your shirt appearing back on your body, before fading into the darkness of Hueco Mundo once again. When morning comes, you’re left with another moment of wonder and frustration. Of sticky thighs, sore nipples and kiss swollen lips. A vision of Aizen runs through your mind, haunting you once again.

I've been in a wistful mood for Aizen as of late... and yes, more Ghost sex hahaha. Thank you for reading! This fic was set to VIQ's "Ghost".

[slytherizz]

Fight or Flight - Sebastian Sallow/F!MC

Summary: Sometimes sleeping dogs don't lie.

Two years after his uncles death and with Anne missing the last remaining Auror who scents deception requests a testimony from the only person witness to what really happened between Sebastian and Solomon in the catacombs that day. In a bid to protect those memories and keep him out of Azkaban their marriage is arranged - A marriage Sebastian is hell bent on putting a stop to.

Word count: 15,000 (remember when I said I’d keep it under 10k)

Tags/Warnings: Arranged Marriage, 18+, Explicit Sexual Content, Smut, Angst, Masturbation, First Time

Link: You can find the complete fic on Ao3.

A/N: Sebastian ‘my wife’ Sallow. To the anon who requested this, I’m sorry it’s so late but it was so much fun to write.

Sebastian is almost certain he’d been on the receiving end of a lethal confundus charm. Either that or he was at present suffering a massive life altering haemorrhage somewhere amongst the sun deceptively warming his cheeks and the familiar groan of the dragon bones anchored above them, as it tilted its great head in greeting when they'd arrived in Hecate's office. Full of mysterious tombs and the lingering scent of smoke. Ash trampled so tightly into the grooves in the floorboards he doubted even the house elves could scour out the smell. 

He’d gotten too comfortable. No. Down right complacent as of late and now his psyche in a riotous act of self-preservation was giving him a blistering slap back into reality. 

Pull yourself together. 

Sebastian dug his nails into the soft flesh of his palm. He hissed at the sharp pain as he broke the skin. Felt the blood prickle hot against his sweat slicked palms as it beaded along the thin superficial wound. Uncomfortable. Stinging. And far, far too real. 

“What-?” he managed to croak around a lump in his throat. Praying to Merlin that if this wasn’t a dream it was some elaborate and albeit cruel practical joke. 

“Spousal Privileges,” Hecat repeated. Matter of fact. Her features were drawn and to his dismay betraying no hint of amusement. 

Sebastian choked violently on his own saliva. A hacked cough, raw against his throat. As if the wind had been knocked out of him by a patient and vindictive phantom.

“What this means is you couldn’t be forced to give a testimony or surrender any memories pertaining to anything to do with Mr Sallow. With his sister still missing, the only people who know what really happened in that catacomb are the two of you. If you can’t be forced to corroborate this theory that has been gaining traction at the Ministry that’s the way it stays,” his professor continued to address the witch beside him, unmoved by the blood draining rapidly from his face. 

Her eyes were fixed intently on Hecat, chin raised as she refused to meet Sebastian’s increasingly panicked eye. He shifted in his seat towards her. Turning rapidly back and forth between her and their professor. 

Waiting. A heartbeat and then more passed. Mounting up until it became a deafening drum in his ears. 

He wanted her to laugh. Let it loose. Burst the dangerous tension mounting with every second this insanity stretched on for. Most pathetically of all - he wanted her to save him. Wanted to watch her face crease with laughter at the absurdity of what Hecat was saying. Cling to some sense of normalcy, her stability by his side whilst the rest of him was spiralling out of control.

She was uncharacteristically still in her chair. As frozen as the statue of the mourning lover in the courtyard. Her fist clenched so tightly in the pleats of her skirt her knuckles blanched. A half finished braid she’d been fiddling with behind her ear hung abandoned. Not a shadow of humour remaining. 

“Why now? It’s been years since…”  she asked, with a more measured tone Sebastian felt the situation did not warrant.

She spared him a glance which did little to put him at ease. If anything the serious crease to her brow set him on a razor's edge. 

Sebastian was unravelling. The thread he’d used to stitch back together a semblance of a life was pulling apart at an alarming rate. And the only two people who had any hope of holding him back together were entertaining this insanity. 

“Some of Miss Sallow’s effects were uncovered at the former Feldcroft residence. It seems no one had tended to the home since your Uncle passed…unexpectedly. My contact at the Ministry informs me that there's only one Auror pushing for those memories. Sergeant Tuttle. Old guard. Worked closely with your uncle when they were both juniors in the department. The rest are happy to let Solomon’s memory remain as it has been for the past two years - the heroic final act protecting his young charges from a horde of uncontrollable inferi,” she paused and Sebastian felt the weight of every word. “Personally I am inclined to agree.”

Hecate’s already thin lips pulled so tight they almost entirely disappeared. Her inscrutable brown eyes peeling back the curtain seeing far beyond the truth to the crux of him. Weighing his mettle. And he wasn’t sure she’d be impressed at what she found. 

Because what he was - was careless. Sebastian supposed he could argue that his distress over losing his sister had made it too painful to return. Knowing Anne was not there, Feldcroft seemed rather pointless. 

But really all he’d been was too eager to turn his back on that hovel that had never been his home. Ivy grew thick over its stones and he hoped one day it would pull it down entirely. No one had touched the wards in over a year. Perhaps when he’d boxed up his feelings and shoved them away in his desperation to move past what he had done, he didn’t consider the possibility that there were others out there who, unlike him, may not want to move on so hastily from Solomon's death. 

Anne certainly hadn’t. 

“With you two being so close, this is the cleanest option-” Hecate continued. 

“I don’t bloody care about clean!” Sebastian broke from his stupor. Fist slamming on the table rattling the spoon from where it rested against his saucer. “Tell me the other options. I don’t care how messy they are. I’ll do them.”

“Perhaps I should rephrase,” Hecat said sharply. “This is your only option. And you’d do well not to leap to such dramatics if you want this to work, Mr Sallow. In particular I’d advise against taking such a tone with me.” 

Sebastian didn’t care. He’d already geared up to argue back against this preposterous idea when the statue of the witch beside him suddenly came to life. As if Pygmalion himself had loved her into life just to spite Sebastian. 

“We’ll do it,” she said firmly. 

Sebastian choked again, head snapping to look at her. “You can’t be serious!” 

She simply glared back at him, as if he wasn’t the only reasonable person left in the room. “I’ve kept you out of Azkaban this long-“

Their professor cleared her throat, having little patience for the squabblings of teenagers that was beginning to unfold in her office. It set Sebastian even more on edge. She’d thrown a bomb into their lives and was now regarding him as some petulant child causing a scene. As if instead while he was scrambling to hold it together she expected him to thank her for it. 

“I’d choose your words more carefully in front of an audience but I admire the passion. If you want this to succeed you’ll have to make them believe this. Believe you. You can’t cast any doubt on the reason for any of it. A young couple, so in love they simply cannot wait to be married.”

***

It was like taking a match to a forest doused in kerosine. How quickly word could spread overnight when students kept such close quarters and they were eager for anything to save them from revision. Whispers billowed up from steeped mugs. Steam laced with secrets curled around their lips. Huddled so tightly together they looked like hydras. Each set of eyes alight with amusement. Teeth bared ready to feast on their speculation. 

From the moment Sebastian had stepped into the Great Hall he’d felt it. The oppressive shift to the atmosphere that usually welcomed him each morning. Clouds dark, heavy with the foreboding rain swirled on the enchanted sky. At least it was fitting.

Instinctively he sought her out. Looked for hers amongst the hundreds of eyes turned towards him. Which he pointedly ignored instead following the remaining half who stole glances towards her. 

Blue. Green. Brown. Shifted between them assessing to see what they might do. 

She was boxed into the middle of the table by Onai and Sweeting with Reyes taking up the spot across from them. A vicious hound guarding her flock ensured even the most brazen little wretch who considered interrupting would think twice - give her wrath a wide berth. 

Reyes to her credit - snarling banshee that she was - looked as deeply horrified by the pathetic silver band on her friend's finger as Sebastian felt it deserved. 

They’d transfigured it hastily from a pair of silver spectacles once they’d stumbled out of Hecat’s office the previous evening. One she kept in an odd tangle of items in her satchel and the rushed magic had already begun to tarnish its appearance. It was a wonder anyone actually believed them with how dull and thoughtless it looked sitting on her hand. 

If her smile wasn’t so tight, or her laugh a little too airy she would be executing Hecat’s ludicrous scheme to perfection. 

Sebastian swallowed around the lump in his throat and sheepishly changed course. Rerouted himself away from the group of witches throwing his bag down on the bench and slumping into a seat at the Slytherin table. Which seemed to delight some of the onlookers. Clearly humiliation was a good seasoning for eggs, he thought as he poured himself a cup of tea from the pot and took out his potions essay in an attempt to look busy enough no one would suspect exactly why he was sitting alone. Or worse, try and talk to him. Not that they would dare when his face looked as thunderous as the sky overhead. It didn't, however, stop him from overhearing their animated gossiping. 

‘Do you think she’s…you know?’ 

‘Obviously! Who in their right mind gets married a month before they leave school? Clearly they’re in a rush before she starts to y’know...’ one girl smirked with an exaggerated flourish over her stomach.

Sebastian shot a glare across to the gaggle of Ravenclaw’s in the year below. Who giggled even more loudly when they caught his eye, one turning pink from the tips of her ears to well past the neckline of her jumper. Sebastian on the other hand felt like someone had doused him in a bucket of water from the lake. 

If Reyes didn’t skin him for the insulting piece of jewellery she certainly would if she suspected he’d gotten her favourite flying partner up the kyte. 

Sebastian tried to focus on his potions essay. List even a single ingredient of ‘Felix Felicis’ which was proving to be impossible when behind him a brazen fourth year proclaimed and loudly he’d caught them sequestered away between the stacks of the restricted section - her body bent over a desk. Sebastian’s grip on the quill tensed as he strained himself to write the differing effects between wyrm and dragon scale on a potion - and not a very vivid description of what he apparently looked like on his knees buried between her thighs. Ink blotted on the parchment. 

Sod Hecat on ‘selling it’. Why did they need to go to such lengths when apparently every gossiping vulture was content to click their beak and do all the work for them? 

Surely Azkaban couldn’t be worse than this? 

Well, that was delusional - but if he overheard one more person comment on if her robes looked bigger he was more than likely going to do something that would get him thrown in Azkaban regardless. 

Sebastian had anticipated suspicion but he still wasn’t prepared for how much it would chafe. 

He knew if they were not at the centre of this farce, the two main players on the stage they would have jovially picked apart their performance too. She would have speculated over their sanity as she picked idly at her cauldron cake. Made some snide comment about being too eager to get his leg over. He’d bet her a galleon they’d see the proof in nine months and she would have snorted, undignified unladylike into her pumpkin juice. 

Being the subject of this speculation however was mortifying. 

Would that be next? Bringing a child into the fucking mess he’d made just to cover his own back? If the thought of dragging her into a marriage him feel ill it paled in comparison to the feeling of crippling dread that conjured. 

But would she want that one day? In a young witch's sacrifice to keep him had she truly considered all the things she was giving up in his stead. Things she may not know she even wanted until the opportunity had already been bartered and sold off for the price of his freedom. What kind of man was he to take the hope of any kind of family from someone who already had none to show for it? Take away the chance for someone to love her. 

Or maybe she never intended to give up on that particular dream. And Sebastian would be expected to play his part - the cuckolded husband. 

Work late until the candles burned down to the wick to give her lover time to retreat. Share her with one; or with many. 

Vow now to never let her go without. 

Even go as far as to raise her children as his own. Glamour their cheeks with foreign freckles he’d wish were inherited. Brand them with the Sallow name with ink on thin parchment but not their blood; their ties to him just as flimsy and performative as hers.

Her easy smile as she lathered honey onto her toast set his teeth on edge. Sebastian felt in that moment like he never really knew her at all. Head pounding Sebastian stuffed his ink pot and notes back into his bag. Abandoned his breakfast in a rush to get out of the stifling hall. Away from the whispers that he knew would also be deafening in her ears. Perhaps even more so.

‘I didn’t even know they were courting. It’s a shame he’s off the market.’

‘Here’s the thing - I don’t think they were. Clearly, he’s marrying her to do the right thing. Now that she’s trapped him with a baby.’

She caught his eye, her eyebrows stitched together in concern but it did not offset the rigid lock of her furious ticking jaw. Teeth set, clamped together as if Hecat had clamped a muzzle on a fucking dragon and then handed her chains to Sebastian. 

Shamefully, he couldn’t bring himself to hold her gaze. Couldn’t even bear to face her in that moment despite knowing he was the reason she had to listen to these lies spread. He should tell her he was sorry. But instead he fled. 

Complete fic can be found on Ao3.

[apollo-likes-writing]

LAPIS LAZULI - 3. Expense.

Character(s): Kakavasha Tags: Long fic, discussions of blood and medical practices (not explicit), medical equipment, needles (not explicitly used), implied blood loss Word count: 2,771 words

Summary: More details about the day-to-day life of Dr. Kakavasha and his- er- experiments.

Author's Note: I know, I know. I'm super fuckin late. I apologise. Recently moved house and have been looking for a paid job. Finally got one, so I'm now able to work more consistently on this fic.

Also, there's a lot of medical jargon in here, so I'll put the definitions of what means what at the end. This is also on my Ao3!

As always, this was inspired by the incredible @havanillas!

Account Masterlist | Fic Masterlist | Prologue

4:56pm - Wednesday

The salary of a scholar is a feeble one. 

The salary of a doctor is a little better, though only when medical, not educational. It’s all well and good having five pHds under your belt until you have to find a stable income afterwards without being crippled by student debt. With rent near Veritas Prime on the rise after every new intake of students, high taxes and course budget cuts, and the executives of the university refusing to give the faculty a raise, Kakavasha struggles greatly with his finances.

On a slightly different but relevant note: why are tuxedos so damn expensive? They are even more so if they, like in his case, need to be ordered for next-day delivery. He’s been searching ever since the work day ended, scouring the web for a suit suitable for a party as extravagant as the one he’s attending. Kakavasha is beginning to regret his prior willingness to go to such an event, but Cassandra already sent the RSVP hours ago and it would be in poor taste to cancel now. He’s looking at a minimum of 500 credits going towards this stupid thing, and the thought alone makes him sick to his stomach. He can’t help but think this is going to end up a waste of both his time and his money; there wasn’t even a guarantee that Lapis Lazuli was going to be there in the first place.

Kakavasha scoffs at himself as he scrolls mindlessly on website after website. He’s acting like a twelve-year-old fanboy about to see a famous celebrity (even though Veritas Ratio is a famous celebrity - by a technicality). Excited is too strong an adjective. Interest is better. Yes, that’s the one. He is filled with scholarly curiosity about the potential of meeting the man he's so closely compared to.

He continues his ministrations on his computer, though his eyes are completely unfocused. Blurs of colours in the vague shape of suits fly past his eyes as he looks but doesn’t see

Suddenly a flash of dark green meets him and his vision falls back into focus. It's a nice suit, Kakavasha thinks; a three-piece tuxedo with the trousers and jacket a deep forest-like colour that certainly matches his style: the waistcoat a slightly darker colour with white pinstripes. How lucky of him to find it. He swipes through the different model pictures and sizing charts and finds his size for all three pieces. Scrolling further down, he looks at the price and winces. 630 credits. Within his budget, yes, but only barely. Kakavasha sighs to himself. He doubts he'd find another suit any nicer for a lower price, so he holds back a grimace and pays for the item.

There. It’s done now, thank Gaiathra Triclops. He leans back in his chair with his hands linked behind his head, a large and drawn-out groan escaping him. A buzzing is heard and Kakavasha watches with vague dread as his phone vibrates across the table slightly. Perhaps it’s Cassandra ensuring the doctor has something to eat on his way home, or maybe it’s one of his students with a question about what they learned in the seminar today. Wishful thinking - how unscholarly of him. He picks up his phone and sees the first title of “Professor” and his habit of sighing gets worse once again.

Tapping the notification, he sees it’s an email from a colleague. His brain doesn’t exactly calculate what he’s reading straight away, though he notices words like “meeting” and “Friday” and “9am” and he gets the picture. It’s probably some stupid meeting with the black-ties of Veritas Prime to discuss funding. Why Kakavasha of all people is always asked to attend is beyond him, but that is sort of a part of his job role as the Golden Boy of the Intelligentsia Guild (well, the second Golden Boy. His predecessor abdicated). After sending a quick bog-standard reply, the blonde chucks his phone back on the table, leaning forward with his head in his hands. An exaggerated, anguished groan leaves his throat.

Well, there’s no point staying here and doing nothing. The Sigonian stands and begins to gather his things together. A few piles of independent work from his students are tapped neatly on the table before they go in a folder and into his bag. His phone, laptop, and a few other personal belongings soon follow. At the door, he scans the room to see if he missed anything before clicking the door shut.

On the way to his laboratory, Kakavasha's mind wanders. It doesn't wander anywhere particularly interesting or worthy of note; it simply gyrates from topic to topic in his mind like a plate of food in a microwave. Such is the life of a doctor-scholar-professor or whatever his title is these days. 

The air is bitingly chilly when the doctor steps outside. It's the kind of cold that makes your shoulders tense up and various strings of curses to escape your lips as you murmur “fucking hell it's cold” to yourself. A cloudless evening takes Kakavasha's attention for a moment as he grumbles at the realisation that it won't get any warmer until morning.

In the distance, the charcoal silhouette of the Intelligentsia Guild's headquarters breaks away from the rest of the dark cityscape, the peculiar pyramidal shape sticking out like a sore thumb next to the run-of-the-mill rectangles that make up the rest of the city. Inwardly, the Avgin debates whether or not he should walk the distance to HQ or spend a few (in truth, a lot more than a few) credits on a taxi. The mere thought of spending any more money after already blowing so much on a suit of all things makes Kakavasha feel ill, so he plucks up the courage to put one foot in front of the other and travel by foot.

A distant thought is plucked from the back of the blonde's mind. He could, in all seriousness, simply go home. Kakavasha’s apartment is half the distance from the university than it is to HQ. He longs for something - a bed or a sofa, or even the floor at this point; he's not fussy - to crumple into and fall asleep on. To let the sweet embrace of unconsciousness take him.

How poetic, he thinks with an amused snort. He can’t afford to take a break from his research. To stop now after all his tireless work would result in complacency. He wants his wretched luck gone. He wants to live like what he is: a human. He wants to live and die as one. His luck acts as an impenetrable barrier to living like a human. He should have died on Sigonia-IV in that vile desert he called home in the arms of his sister. But he didn’t. Because of his luck. And he hasn’t seen himself as human since. 

Hmph. What a way to bring the mood down.

Back in his body, he trudges along at a pace that lies between brisk and leisurely as his destination looms closer. He approaches a gridlocked main road. A chaotic four-way junction results in the annoyance of many drivers as heard by the incessant beeping of their car horns. Ahead of him, several irate pedestrians stand on the edge of the pavement. They wait impatiently, a few of the particularly annoyed even tap their foot on the cement below them as if trying to step on an invisible button that would make the lights change colours faster. This junction is notorious for its inconsistent traffic system. There are even moments when all four traffic lights for their respective roads are green at the same time, resulting in complete chaos.

However, the second Kakavasha steps up to the traffic lights, green promptly turns to red and the pedestrians around him breathe a collective sigh of relief. A particularly portly businessman beside the scholar takes notice of his approach and chortles in an ugly manner.

“Oh, aren’t you lucky? Be glad you didn’t have to wait for these blasted lights to change.” Kakavasha, unsure on how to respond, nods and stays silent. That always happens: the blonde cannot remember a time when he had to wait for a traffic light to turn red. Such is the life of a lucky man. His pace quickens as he crosses the street and quickens further once he realises the aged businessman wishes to continue his one-sided conversation.

6:04pm - Wednesday

It takes utter discipline and pure strength of will not to put his back to the wall and sink to the floor once Kakavasha arrives at the Intelligentsia Guild’s HQ. Perhaps it was the freezing temperatures or the sun deciding to hide away under the horizon that made his journey here seem so long, but the scholar feels as if he’s just walked a marathon. 

Headquarters is still busy despite the time of day. Men and women of science flit past him in a whirl of white lab coats, clipboards, and briefcases. He waves somewhat half-heartedly to the receptionist as he weaves through the crowd. Kakavasha hunts through the inside pocket of his jacket and retrieves his lanyard, tapping it on a scanner at the elevator. As if on cue, the lift lands on the ground floor and out comes a stream of scientists and scholars. A few dip their heads in his general direction in a gesture of recognition, and he returns them all with a professional nod. Once the cramped space is clear, he steps in and taps 67: the floor number of his laboratory. 

He swears this stupid elevator stops on every second floor. At this point it’d be easier to take the stairs. The Avgin genuinely debates stepping off and doing such a thing for a good two minutes or so until his thoughts are interrupted by a tap on his shoulder. His head twists to the right to see a squirrel-like woman with a tattered notebook and a pen in hand. 

She clears her throat nervously. “Uhm, you're Dr. Kakavasha, right?” she asks, pushing a pair of circular glasses up her nose.

The Sigonian’s features remain neutral. “The very same,” he replies. “Do you need something from me?”

“Er- forgive me. This isn’t very professional of me, but could I, uh- could I get your- erm-.”

Kakavasha decides to take pity on the woman. “Are you asking for my autograph?” 

“Yes please,” she squeaks, her skin turning a bright pink as she hands him the notebook and pen. 

“Do you want it on any specific page or does it not matter?” he questions in a monotone manner as he flicks the book open. In the back of his mind he knows he’s being incredibly blunt and potentially rude. He’s usually more friendly when speaking to his admirers, though after such a long day, he can’t find it within himself to be amiable to anyone.

The woman swallows in a comedic fashion. “Uh, no! Anywhere is fine.”

He nods and scribbles his signature on a random page. The ink dries up slightly in the middle of it, so it looks a little skewed and messy, though neither of them comment on it. He hands the notebook and pen back to the woman.

“Ah, thanks so much! My son is a big fan of yours. He’ll love this,” she smiles. 

Kakavasha nods. “I’m glad.” The woman dips her head in response, before promptly realising she’s reached her floor and waving goodbye to the doctor as she exits.

By the grace of whichever Aeon has decided to look down on Kakavasha today, he arrives at his own floor quickly afterwards. He reaches his personal laboratory promptly and plops himself on the stool by the desk. On it lies his computer monitor, a microscope, a few packets of sterilised needles, and some sanitary wipes; as well as a few scattered papers in various states of comprehension after countless experiments that lasted long after burning the midnight oil.

The blonde turns his computer on and opens up his research notes. Lines and lines of typed words concerning previous experiments, methodologies, and plans pop up. Clicking a tab at the top of the screen, he reads: “Experiment Progression”.

Date: TUE xx/xx/xxxx

Experiment No: #482

Aim(s): 

To discover the recessive “luck” alleles in subject’s genotypes by recreating specific DNA sequencing in a sterile environment.

To discover a way to destroy or alter the recessive “luck” allele without harming surrounding DNA helixes and/or sequences.

Method (UPDATED): 

Extract blood from subject and separate plasma from blood cells via separation centrifuge.

Examine plasma DNA helixes via microvolume spectrophotometre and absorbance microplate reader to single out correct allele.

Find out a way to recreate or duplicate DNA samples under lab conditions.

Find a way to destroy or alter specific alleles under lab conditions.

Recreate experiments on a larger scale to create cure.

Administer cure to subject.

Notes: In experiments #439 to #481, it was eventually discovered through testing that the recessive “luck” allele is found in the blood plasma DNA of subject. As such, further extraction and experimentation of subject’s blood plasma is required to continue research and development of cure.

Below these notes are audio recordings. Most simply act as an instrument Kakavasha used to get his thoughts and hypotheses on record without having to put it into written word. Others have his blunt opinions and irritated ramblings. Unfortunately for present-day Kakavasha, past Kakavasha didn’t have the foresight to label which ones were which, so he’s going in blind. He brings the cursor to one of the recordings and clicks play. The sound of his own tinny voice makes its way to his ears.

“This is… a breakthrough. An annoying breakthrough, but a breakthrough nonetheless. I had hoped that the specific DNA genotypes that caused my overt luckiness would be in something more easily collected, like bone marrow or skin tissue, but no. I'm going to have to extract a lot of my blood for this. It wouldn't be a major problem if it weren’t for my inherent-” a pause, as if he was mulling over which word to use, “eh- distaste for needles, but so be it. 

There is a rustling of what sounds like paper in the background for a few seconds before he speaks again.

“I managed to call in a favour with Hu Xu next door to borrow his separation centrifuge. With it, it'll be a lot easier to separate my blood plasma from my blood cells. Singling out specific DNA genetic sequences is going to require more complex machinery and will be difficult to acquire, but I’m sure I can pull some strings and flutter my eyelashes and manage it. I fear that means I’m going to have to speak to,” an almost comical, audible shudder is heard, “ugh- Sharon, but I suppose suffering through her – oh what’s the word – bleating is a necessary evil. In experiment #483, I need to extract a few vials of blood and separate the blood plasma before putting them in adequate storage so nothing is damaged. I’d like to give a formal apology to the future-me who has to deal with that.” 

With that, the recording ends and Kakavasha throws some Sigonian slurs at his computer screen under his breath. Great Gaiathra Triclops, why was yesterday’s version of himself such an asshole? He grumbles and pushes himself up from his chair to grasp the packets of sterile needles on the other side of his desk. 

This is going to be a long night.

–

00:04am - Thursday

Date: WED xx/xx/xxxx

Experiment No: #483

Aim(s): See previous experiment. [LINK]

Method: See previous experiment. [LINK]

Notes: Following on from experiment #482, two dozen (24) vials of subject’s blood have been extracted and blood plasma has been separated via centrifuge. Plasma samples now safely stored in a cryo-fridge for future testing. 

When the recording plays, Kakavasha’s voice sounds fatigued and a little jumbled.

“Hm, the plasma samples have been collected and put into- er- storage. I may have gone a little overboard, but I need as many viable sources of my own plasma as possible. Nearly 500 experiments have come and gone, and I am bar-” his voice slurs together. “Ahem- excuse that- I am barely any closer to the end goal from when I… from when I began.”

Quiet follows for a peculiarly long time. Two minutes go by in utter silence. If an outsider were to listen to it, they’d think the recording ended.

After this prolonged silence, a weak voice sounds out.

“I’m getting desperate.”

--

Definitions: Allele - Two or more versions of a DNA sequences that make up your genetic makeup. You get them from your parents and can be recessive or dominant. Genotype - The genetic constitution of an organism Separation centrifuge - Basically a machine that spins around super fast and separates substances based on their different properties using centrifugal force Microvolume Spectrophotometre - Something used to examine DNA Absorbance Microplate Reader - Something used to examine DNA

[stepinthyme]

The Red Means I Love You

Alice Wu Gulliver x Necromancer!Reader

Your girlfriend told you she'd be gone to finish some buisness, and you feel her death happen. You refuse to let her go.

Word Count: 1k

Content: second person, no use of Y/N, ressurection, kissing, fluff, blood and gore, Alice is naked but that is not the focus here. Reader is refered to as "girlfriend" at one point, but otherwise this could be read as gender neutral

A/N: If no one will feed me, I will feed MYSELF. I may cross post this to ao3 in the morning, but I needed to get this out of my head while it was all still fresh. This is very heavily inspired by Marcille's ressurection of Falin from Dungeon Meshi, but fuck it, if Billy's allowed to ressurect Tommy by putting his soul into another kid's dead body, then theres gotta be at least one other person able to do necromancy, and why not do lesbianism. Alice is probably a little ooc but I did this in like an hour, cut me some slack.

Today, running the butcher’s was very slow, predictable for the sleepy little metropolitan area of Eastview and Westview. It was run of the mill and average, what everyone in the town basically forced it to be ever since the scarlet witch scared half the people within a three mile radius.

You were just finishing the last of closing procedures and headed into your apartment above the shop, making a quick dinner and settling in for a simple night watching tv when you could feel it. The moment Alice's life was snuffed out. No, more like drained out of her, in a drawn out action. She had told you she was just going to finish some family related business, that she'd be back before the night was over. She'd be back before you knew it. Kissed you on the cheek and everything like she did when she'd head off to work.

Before you had even really processed anything else, you were already setting up the ritual, drawing out a sigil with chalk, placing candles in the appropriate places, scouring your cabinets for all the assorted offerings needed.

You and Alice had met because you were outcast witches. She had distanced herself from the craft after the death of her mother. And you were known as the disgrace of all green witchcraft. You were an odd duo, but you were happy so long as you were together. She had asked you a few times how you had earned your title, and you always laughed it off.

She was going to finally learn why you were called that very quickly.

You were grateful for your day job as a butcher, as you used magic to carry large cuts of cow and lamb, bones and all from the commerical freezer to the living room. plopping them haphazardly onto the sigil. It wasn't her body, but it would do in a pinch. You would deal with any consequences later. You lit the candles and got onto your knees, placing your hands on the sigil as you began the incantation you had done at least a dozen times. Your voice almost seemed to echo through the room as forbidden magics are called upon.

In a basement a couple miles away, death reaches out for a soul, only to see her violently yanked away from her grasp, disappearing from sight.

You continue to shout as the meat and bone fuse together, almost melting as it reformed itself into a human shape, features slowly refining itself to resemble the soul now bound to it. The last touches are added as your girlfriend, albeit covered in blood and naked, now lies in the middle of the circle. You nearly collapse, but you stare anxiously, hoping, praying, that it worked.

Alice's eyes snap open as she bolts upright, gasping for air. You release a breath you didn't realize you were holding as the tears finally roll down your face and pull her into a tight hug.

“Alice! Alice, I thought I lost you, I..”

You continue to squeeze her, kissing various spots on her face, not caring about the copper taste of the blood. Alice seemed to be finally coming out of shellshock as her hands found their way to tangle in your hair. Her eyes met yours.

“Is… is this real? Am I really here?”

“Yes Alice, you’re really here, I promise. You're here. I'm here.”

Without much warning, you were pulled in for a deep kiss. If you didn't know any better, you'd have thought she hadn't seen you in months with how desperate it was. Your tongues danced with no clear rhythm as you tried to get enough of each other, only stopping when you both needed air. Alice let out a huffy laugh of disbelief.

“How did you… how did you even do this? I was dead. I saw death.”

You glance away, picking at some of the melted wax on one of the candles, suddenly conscious of what you had done, how much of an overreach it might have been.

“It's. A long story, trust me. I understand if you don't want to be around me anymore after this, I just-” Alice gently takes your hands in hers, rubbing circles with her thumbs.

“Hey, hey. It's okay. Look at me?” You meet her gaze once more, her warm eyes looking softly at you.

“It's okay. What happened was weird, yes. But I think quite literally breaking the laws of life and death is maybe the most romantic thing a girlfriend has done for me. Just don't make a habit of it, okay?” You can't help but laugh at that.

“Only if you don't make a habit of it. What even happened?” Alice paused at that.

“It’s also a long story. I’ll tell you after I get cleaned up. You should probably too, considering” she gestures to your now bloodsoaked clothes, and you nod.

“I’ll take care of the cleaning in here while you shower, and I'll meet you in the bedroom later after I get washed up. If you're still awake by then, we can exchange stories. Otherwise that can wait till morning. Alright?” She nods, placing one last kiss to your forehead before attempting to get up and then immediately falling over. You stand up, offering a hand to her.

“Need help?” She takes it, and you help pull her up, resulting in a much more successful attempt to stand than the last one.

“I thought I was supposed to be the one protecting you.” You can't help but giggle at the remark.

“Everyone needs help once and a while. The usual doting can wait for later.”

You walk with her to the bathroom to make sure she doesn't fall again before even making it to the tub, before heading back to dig through the supply closet. You pull out the cleaning supplies and head back to the living room area, and the now giant stain of blood and chalk on your floor. Necromancy is a bitch, but it's all worth it now that you have Alice back with you. Whatever happens next, the two of you can sort it out together.

[acerathia]

exhibitional || Qi Yu | Rafayel

Summary:

Going with Rafayel to one of his art exhibitions leads to a discovery and certain feelings about it.

Wordcount: 2.7k

Read on AO3

Pairing:

Qí Yù | Rafayel / Reader | MC

Tags/CW:

Minors and Ageless Blogs DNI!! porn with some plot, fluff, dollification (implied from reader), being in love waow, he's doing your makeup, art as love language, exhibitionism, bathroom sex, both are brats again, vaginal fingering, finger sucking (again lmao), quickiy </3, prone bone (over a sink), piv, marking, making out ofc

Note:

literally don't talk to me, idk what i'm doing with my life atp, this is a mess

The front door is unlocked and you enter. This is the same security issue you have told him about multiple times, but you suppose someone like Rafayel does not have to worry about someone breaking and entering (even if it’s more of accepting an invitation than committing an actual crime at this point). Stepping through the corridor towards the place he spends most of his time, you can already hear his voice.

“There you are, cutie. Hurry up and put these on, we barely have time to arrive fashionably late,” he greets you with a smile, taking his time to envelop you in a warm hug and to peck you a couple of times on your lips, despite his hurried words.

You pout at this words. “Hey, it’s not my fault someone forgot about their own exhibition and invited me at the last minute.”

“You’re right, this is Thomas’ fault, why did he arrange me to go in the first place?” With a sigh, he releases you out of his grasp, only to unload a bundle of stuff upon you, pushing you towards his bedroom.

You enter the room and immediately turn around. “You mean to tell me, you didn’t even plan on going to your own– wait!”

Before you could even finish your sentence, Rafayel has closed the door. His voice muffled behind the chic wood. “We need to hurry uuup, c’mon, cutie!”

Huffing at his avoidance, you throw the stuff onto the bed, recognizing a resplendent dress, something out of a piece of art, coupled with jewelry and shoes to complement the look. You bite your lips in thought and admit to yourself that Rafayel does have exceptional taste in clothes, which is no wonder seeing his art and the way he carries himself. Yet, it’s another matter entirely to actually be dolled up by him with you specifically in mind. It kind of excites you.

So, you don’t delay in taking off your own clothes in exchange for the prepared outfit. Soft, silky against your skin, colors making you shine brilliantly, adding to the glitter of the jewelry enriching your elegance even further. Even without looking into a mirror you feel beautiful, adorned in his choices.

A knock against the door hinders you from scouring the room for a mirror to showcase how you truly feel. It’s Rafayel.

“Are you done? May I enter?”

There is no need to wait, especially if you’re both in a rush to get to that exhibition of his. That’s why you let him know that it’s okay to enter the room.

Clicking and a swing. And silence. You look at him only to see his flushed ears and an agape mouth. His eyes continue to wander over you, over and over and over again, almost like he can’t believe that you’re standing in front of him, looking like art carved out of marble, made by the artisan of the century, made to be admired and loved and cared for.

You smile and give him a little twirl. This seems to pull him out of his haze, as Rafayel finally steps closer to you, a smile of his own gracing his features, eyes filled with so many indescribable emotions, yet so incredibly soft.

He raises his hand to caress your cheek. “You look absolutely gorgeous, my love,” he whispers, succumbing to the desire to kiss you, a kiss so sweet and filled with love, with warmth and devotion. And you can’t help but melt into him, seeking him fully and truly.

Until something cool grazes your skin and you shiver, pulling yourself away to see what has touched you so suddenly. Only to see a makeup palette in his hand, one familiar to you. You smile.

“Do you want to do my makeup for me?” you ask with a cock of your head.

“Why yes, who better suited to adorn your face than the master artist, me?”

With that, he takes your hand in his, leading you to sit on the next available space, a soft armchair, one you could feel yourself sink into with a book and a blanket. And Rafayel sits on the armrest by your side, leaning down on you with a brush in his hand. You close your eyes, enjoying the soft strokes, the masterfulness of his craft applies on your very skin, the delicacy of his moves, carefully maneuvering around your features.

Soon, he’s closing the palette with a soft click, and you feel his gaze upon you, admiring you and your beauty, your existence in his life, and he restraints from showering in kisses filled with color and life. Instead, he gracefully bows in front of you, offering his hand to you. With a giggle, you put your hand in his and allow him to pull you up and to lead you away, towards the rushed appointment, where his presence is deeply anticipated.

It doesn’t take long for the two of you to arrive at your destination (especially as Thomas has arranged a drive for you, aware of his employers behaviours). Rafayel exits the car first to open the door for you and to give you his hand in assistance, and you know it’s just an excuse to hold your hand, but you aren’t someone to refuse such intimate instances. So, the moment you’re steady on your feet, you allow yourself to hook your arm around his and to shorten the distance between you.

“Well, this isn’t how a bodyguard is supposed to act,” he admonishes you with a grin, but his hand is clutching yours tightly, like he never wants you to leave his side.

“Oh, I wasn’t aware that this was supposed to be a gig, we didn’t discuss payment, though.”

At this, he leans closer to you, his mouth warm against the shell of your ear, his words heat molten whispers. “There will be a proper payment later on, just be patient, yeah?”

You shiver and you furrow your eyebrows at him in question. But he doesn’t look at you again as he enters the building with you hanging on his arm. It doesn’t take long until someone else awaits his attention and he has no other choice but to let go of you, as you told you, you wanted to look at his art, crafted by those beautiful hands of his. At your words, he gives you a small pout, but in such a situation, he cannot cling to you or enthrall you with his enchanting words. So, you depart and so does he.

The first couple of paintings are familiar to you, hues of blue meeting the warmth of the sun. You walk slowly along, moving from one piece to the other, taking your time to imagine his strokes, his feelings, his thoughts with each depiction. Until you stop in front of one so different from the others.

The painting depicts a big window, one taking over the entire wall, opening up the world to the breathtaking sunrise over soft, bleached sand, the waves greeting the shore with slow moves, filling the onlooker with nostalgia. But what truly catches your eyes is the figure in front of the window, back turned towards the viewer, bare and soft. You recognize this one as your own, and you even remember that time, a small vacation on an even smaller beach, just the two of you, and endless time for each other and the beauty of the sea. And as you take a closer look, you notice the details, the marks he has left on you, the rumpled blankets framing your form. The whole artwork is brimming with his unbridled desire and feelings, and you feel your heart race between your ribs.

Biting your lips, you turn around, eyes glancing over the room, looking for something, anything else comparable to this piece. And soon you lay your eyes on a sculpture, one you can’t help but step closer towards.

The soft off-white of the marble seems to make the sculpture glow. Despite being made out of rock, the clothes carved flow like touched by the rain, meshing out your figure for all to see. The person, you, is looking back, features blurred by the artist's desire to keep you to himself, yet share his love for you with everyone, yet you imagine seeing a bright smile etched into the corners. Once again, depicting a vulnerable moment, one you had shared with Rafayel, one so precious to both of you.

You feel something building up in you, knotting up more and more with each new artwork showing you and his love for you, the beauty in these moments, the happiness he experiences. And you immediately begin to look for him, the desire to see him getting almost overwhelming.

Finally, you find Rafayel tucked into a corner, his eyes glancing all over the place only to land on you and to brighten up with joy. Walking up to him, you grab his hand without words and drag him out of the exhibition room into an empty corridor.

“Hey, what’s going on?” he asks, as if he can’t already read your thoughts off of your face, being familiar with every little tick of yours.

You don’t answer, leading him into an empty bathroom, only to push him against the door, locking it with one hand while the other grabs his collar to pull him into an open-mouthed kiss. Without a second of delay, he reciprocates, caressing your tongue with his, tasting every bit of you. As you press yourself as closely to him as possible, you let your free hand wander to his butt, squeezing him there before slowly sliding over his thigh.

His own hands glide over your waist, grabbing your hips as his own begin to press against you in slow movements. For a moment, he interrupts the kiss, saliva still connecting you, that itself is artistic in a way.

“I suppose, you have seen–,” he murmurs, peppering small kisses along your jaw.

You interrupt him. “Of course I did. How dare you. This has worked me up and you have to take accountability for this,” you grab his jaw and straighten it so he looks straight into your eyes. “Take care of this, pretty boy…” Once again capturing his lips with yours, you let your hand wander over his throat, stroking him there, feeling his pulse race, hot and expectant.

You grope his thigh, your hand wandering slowly towards his crotch. Only to find him already hard, yearning for you. Grabbing him, you murmur against his lips. “Now, now, we still have to go outside after this little escapade, control yourself…”

A low groan escapes him, his lips finding your throat, latching themselves onto soft skin. His own fingers have traveled down your thigh, feeling the slit in your dress to meet your skin there, caressing you further up until they meet the crease of your hips, close to your needs and wants. You bury your fingers in his hair, a gasp escaping you as the tips of his fingers graze your throbbing clit over the wet cloth.

“The same can be said for you,” he rasps, nipping at your collarbone and letting his fingers slide your underwear out of the way, and cold skin meets heat and want.

He lets his fingertips slide through your folds, slowly, meticulously, exploring you like a painting to be appreciated. Only when you begin to buck your hips closer to his hand does he touch your clit, lightly, the fleeting touch of a painter's brush. Yet, that makes you moan all the same.

At this, he clicks his tongue. “This was your idea, we can’t have them catch us in the act, yeah?” he nuzzles your neck, kissing your earlobe, only to straighten up and to look at you.

His gaze falls onto your lips. But Rafayel doesn’t kiss you, rather he raises his hand, pressing the pads of his fingers against your swollen lips, the smudged lipstick, pushing them out of the way, meeting your tongue and filling your mouth. You groan around his digits, muffled, only for him to hear and to feel.

After this, only then does he press his finger against your clit, more pressure, building it up slowly and steadily, moving in circles and touching the right spots, familiar and exciting, a painting he has worked on over and over and over again, one he wants and desires and loves.

And all you can do is move your hips, clenching around nothing, asking for more and more, for him to fill you, to complete you. Your moans of his name muffled by his fingers tracing your mouth, taking care to memorize every detail, the way your tongue moves, speaking his name, moaning it, asking for him and only him. Yet, he does not give you what you want, he does not put his fingers in you, as he wants to give you something more, something to truly give you what you deserve, everything and more.

Applying more pressure, keeping a steady pace, each move calculated, it doesn’t take long until you feel the tension building up inside of you, with each stroke, each touch, until it all unravels into a high filled with nothing but him and him and him.

Before you could even get the chance to get down from your climax, Rafayel turns you around, pressing your torso onto the sink, still keeping his fingers in your mouth, his front against your back. And as he begins to lift your dress for better access, you begin to lap at his knuckles, nipping and adoring the tips of his fingers, the very ones showing you love and desire in every way possible. He groans and his moves speed up, a zipper, and hot breath down the back of your neck.

Before you know it, his hips are flush to your behind, rutting against you, feeling his length dragging through your folds, and you moan his name, desiring him to fill you, to paint you in his colors from the inside. Not soon enough, the tip of his cock catches on your hole and you curse, unable to even beg for him, his fingers moving around your tongue, caressing it and you nip and bite at him. And then he enters you with slow strokes, too slow, too little, and you press your hips against his, trying to get more out of him.

He barely bottoms in you, when you hear voices outside, murmurs of people conversing, getting closer and closer. The possibility of getting caught makes your veins burn and your body tense and you clench around him, needing him to move inside you, even if there are people just outside the door.

The very door, which rattles with knocks, and you hear him curse, feel him throb inside you, and he pulls out of you, slowly, only to immediately push back into you with a smooth flow. A broken moan gets stuck in your throat and you throw your head back, glancing at him with hazy eyes, meeting his own glazed over with excitement and lust.

His hips ruts against you, his tip hitting your spots over and over again, and his hand wraps over your hips, reaching for your clit to caress it. With each word spoken outside, his pace quickens, the tension growing. His teeth dig into your shoulder, muffling his own moans of your name. This simple act throws you over the edge, and you climax hard, clenching around him, your sounds barely muffled by his fingers in your mouth. And he soon follows, spreading inside of you, painting the walls the colors belonging to him, giving you your very own art piece.

Immediately, he pulls out, pulling you back to your feet and steadying you. Despite want still burning in your veins, this had to suffice until you had more time. Who knows what might happen if you both occupy the bathroom any longer. So, you both hurry and fix your appearance as best as possible, cleaning yourself and straightening your clothes. The only thing you don’t do anything about are the marks left by him around your neck and cleavage. But that’s the least of your worries as you exit the bathroom.

Walking back to the exhibition room, hand in hand, fingers interlocking, you whisper to him about the things you still want, the pieces of art you might create together, ones piecing together your life in a beautiful panorama of love and desire. A never ending masterpiece.

[cosmos-coma]

Winter Mountain Soldier Spy - Part 1

A/N: I'M BACK. I've been stewing on and writing this idea out for an entire year now and I'm finally ready to put out the first chapter! I'm REALLY excited for this piece because I really wanted to make it self indulgent and more applicable to who I am and what I do. I am a naturalist and I live in lonely wooded mountains and I wanted to really reflect that. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do.

Pairing: Winter Soldier x F!Reader

Words: 3747

Summary: The Winter Soldier, armed with only a knife and his fragmented memories finally flees HYDRA's grasp. Bloody and fading, he stumbled through the woods and countryside to find safe refuge.

You think yourself a simple woman. You live in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by deep woods and farm fields and you're happy. It's a sleepy little place, hardly any excitement to go around, but you're happy to call it home. When driving home on the empty country road you encounter the last thing you expect: a man stumbling from the woods, bleeding out and wary of anything that moves. You try to take the soldier home, but will he accept your help?

And even If he does… Will he stay?

Bucky Masterlist | AO3

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Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

________

Flecks of snow danced along the wind, dusting the forest floor in a pristine blanket of white that perfectly blended his dark figure into the rocks and surrounding woods. Cold, biting air settled around him like an old friend, his breath puffing out like chimney smoke, but he did not feel it. 

A raven cawed its passing overhead- a grim reminder of exactly what he was here for. He watched his target move through the scope; male, average height, middle-aged, unremarkable in just about every way- save for the fact that he happened to be in HYDRA’s way. 

‘A man… not just a target.’ The Winter Soldier reminded himself in an odd thought, but he knew better than to say it out loud. The last time he did, it didn’t end well. 

‘There are civilians-‘ he paused, wincing instinctively at the pain that used to follow, he corrected himself, ‘There are obstacles on the premises.’ His target was with their family, surrounded by bodies who had been getting in the way all evening- all evening until now. 

 ‘Proceed as intended,’ his handler replied, their voice void of any remorse for their hand in this bloodshed.

His finger ran over the trigger, but remained hesitating, ‘They’re children….’ 

They had him wiped mere seconds after that mission’s debriefing, but- whether fortunately or unfortunately- they did not wipe him well enough. Fragments of thoughts and memories of the waking weeks before remained like scattered puzzle pieces. Now all he had left was to put them back together. 

He’d been discovering more and more of these fragments as of late- remembering pieces of missions here and there, things he’d done…. And blood he’s spilled. Yet these memories never go very far back, a few months at most, and he was beginning to wonder just how much was still locked away. 

“I said: Soldier, do you copy?” The voice in his earpiece interrupted, slicing through his thoughts and bringing him back to the task at hand. “Prepare the machines, we may need a wipe upon debrief...” he heard his handler continue in the background.

“I copy.” He was quick to reply, his tone even and cold just as it always was. He couldn’t risk another wipe; he had been quiet and obedient to a T to keep his changes under the radar. He just needed to hold out until the time was right.

“Finish your job and get back here for debriefing.” 

His finger twitched on the trigger.

“Yes, Sir.”

——- 

The world was painted in various shades of black, white, and muted browns, all blending together as you drove through the winding country road. The sky was a blanket of low gray clouds, tiny droplets of rain making their slow descent like dust from a shaken-out quilt. Fog crept down the mountainsides like an ancient creature scouring the earth, its breath leaving ghostly wisps that lasted long after the creature had moved on. 

You hummed, half-singing the lyrics to a song you didn’t even realize was stuck in your head. You tried to listen for the patter of rain against your windshield, but even that was muted, too soft to even leave an audible mark.

This was one of your favorite types of weather- a midwinter rain. Perhaps it was something about the way it melted the snow back into what it once was, making the cycle whole again. Or perhaps you just liked the dreary weather, and there wasn’t any more to it than that.

Wide open fields expanded to the right of you, sectioned off by old stacked-stone walls and whatever old trees had taken root there decades before. To the left of you lay steep forested mountain, the ground littered with rotting leaves and brightened only by the still green ferns that poked out of the melting snow. Mossy rocks of all sizes covered the mountainside, providing texture and support for the fallen trees as well as giving credence to the local phrase that there were ‘two rocks for every dirt’.

Nodding along to the quiet music now knowingly stuck in your head, you took the last sharp turn toward home when- 

SCREECH

You slammed on your brakes, nearly standing straight up on the pedal as you came to a screaming halt, your bumper coming just shy of the large dark figure that stumbled wildly into the road. At first, you’d thought it was a massive black bear- albeit out of season- until the figure slowly clambered up onto its two legs and turned to face you.

This was no bear. 

His cold, distant blue eyes seemed to bore right through you, leaving nothing hidden as he scanned you through the windshield. Long strands of dark, shoulder-length hair framed what you could see of his face, the rest hidden behind a rigid, muzzle-like mask. Even then you still found him… oddly handsome-for a man who had just stumbled from the woods.

Broad yet slumped shoulders drew your eyes next- the way they stretched and pulled his leather jacket with each labored breath. His right side had a full sleeve, sitting snuggly around a muscular arm while the other side was completely bare, showing off a silvery, plated prosthetic the likes of which you’d never seen before. He looked like a soldier, a man on a mission - but as his hand pulled away from his side you began to guess that was not quite the case- not anymore. His hand came away a blazing crimson as blood coated every inch of his palm and began to steam against the cool air. It looked like he had been trying to apply pressure as he ran- and from the looks of it, it was not working.

“Fuck…,” you whispered, quickly putting on your hazard lights and jumping out of the car. Thank god this road was always empty. “Are you okay? What-What happened? Did you-“ Your words faltered as you spotted other wet streaks running down his jacket, fitted with bullet holes above each one. Glancing briefly into the woods you spotted the scant red trail left in his wake, following it with your eyes until it ran out of sight. Blood continued to pour out of him even now as his pulse hammered on. How on earth had he still been running like this…? 

“You’re hurt-“ you said, stepping toward him with your hand outstretched.

Blue eyes widened in a flash of momentary fear as he took a staggering step back, trying to keep his distance and biting back a grunt of pain as it jolted up his side. “I’m fine,” he spoke firmly through the mask, his voice far rougher than you had imagined, or was it just the exertion? Fingertips hovered over the knife hidden in his belt as his feet steadied into a defensive stance, repeating, “I’m fine….” 

“You’re not fine...! You’re bleeding out!” You exclaimed, “I’m not here to hurt you, okay? Please, just let me drive you to a hospital or-“

“No-“ he rushed, a slight panic hidden in his tone that he was quick to extinguish before continuing, “No hospitals….” 

Slowly you nodded and held your hands up, glancing down at your feet as you risked another small step toward him, “Okay… Alright, that’s fine. No hospitals then-“

His fingers glided over the handle of his knife, but for some reason, his instinct refused to draw it. Perhaps it was the disarming softness in your expression…  or…. Or was it the loud breath echoing in his ears? Unaware at first that they were his own they now became something overwhelming, taking over his senses as they ebbed and flowed shallowly. When did he start breathing so hard? Has he always been moving this slow…? And Why… Why were his thoughts… lagging…?

“-Let me take you to my place instead.” You suddenly offered, surprising even yourself as you took another slow step forward, yet you couldn’t seem to help yourself as you continued, “It’s just up the road here.” You pointed beyond him, “I can patch you up and then you can leave whenever you want, okay? No hospitals. No doctors. Just please let me help you try to survive this….” 

The Soldier’s jaw clenched as you finally came within arm’s reach, his eyes searching and scanning for any semblance of a threat in you. But there was none. All he saw were your big eyes; Soft, round, and… earnest. It wasn’t an emotion he was familiar with- seeing or feeling- But between the blood still weeping from his wounds and the way his vision was beginning to swim in his eyes he wasn’t sure he had a choice anymore.

Slowly he nodded, pulling his hand away from the knife and bringing it back to its place on his side, “Your place…” he breathed heavily between his words, “No hospitals….”

“No hospitals,” you agreed with a short nod, moving even slower this time as you reached out again and laid your hand on his cool metallic shoulder. Like nervous prey, his wide eyes watched your every move as you came up beside him, your hands carefully placed between the bullet holes to support him.

He stepped forward on his own at first, his movements seeming to insist that he could do it himself, that he was still fine, but as his feet began to stumble toward the next step his cold metal hand shot out for your support. His movement still felt stiff and distanced now under your supportive touch, yet you found him leaning into you more and more as you helped him towards the car.

Once the stranger sat securely in the passenger seat you hopped into your still-idling car and sped off through the rest of the empty winding roads. 

You tried hard not to let yourself get distracted as you drove, yet you still found yourself stealing glances at the handsome stranger. He had finally relaxed into the seat, his head falling back against the headrest as he took in heavy breaths. Though blood still seeped from his open wounds, you grew hopeful as his breath began to even out; with any luck, it’ll keep him from bleeding out in your care.

You lived along a quiet semi-dead-end road, with only a few houses here and there that sat occupied by older couples you had yet to actually see. You were fortunate to be where you were, with no neighbors close enough to bother you and town a good 30 minutes away, you could live in relative peace and solitude.

Pulling to a stop in front of your old farmhouse you quickly hopped out to help him in, finding his rather dense weight leaning heavier on you now than before. His adrenaline must’ve finally passed and now he was beginning to fade. You weren’t sure how many waking minutes he had left- let alone if you could continue carrying him.

You needed to work fast.

“Come on, big guy- we’re almost there…” You urged as you tucked yourself under his thick metal arm. He didn’t fight this time as you slipped your arm around his torso, half-walking and half-dragging his heavy feet inside. He grunted half-heartedly as you entered the house, looking around through slow-blinking eyes.

“Okay, we’re almost- It’s right over there- fuck… !” You felt his knees begin to buckle beneath him, tugging the both of you down. Thankfully the coffee table was already nearby and, though it was a struggle, you managed to pivot and slowly lower him onto the table, leaving him in an upright slump.

Tired blue eyes looked up at you- your relentless efforts and your heavy breaths as you took a second to recover. His lips parted beneath his mask; he wanted to say something, but even he wasn’t sure what it was. But before any noise had the chance to spill from his lips you were off again, the sounds of you rummaging through drawers and cabinets evident as you went throughout the house.

“Aha!” you exclaimed in victory as you ran back to your patient, the first aid kit held proudly in hand.

 You approached the stranger once more, kneeling down, “We need to get this mask off first, okay? You need to breathe properly…” You explained as you reached toward his face. With a flash of silver, you felt cool metal wrapped around your wrist; impossibly strong fingers held you with surprising delicacy. Though fear dwelled in his exhausted eyes, his touch held no malice, only that of caution. 

For a brief moment, the two of you stood in silence, fixed in place by each other's unyielding gaze until your hand finally continued on its path. Though his grip loosened, his touch remained steady on your skin as you disconnected the mask with a click, and slowly pulled it away. 

You prayed he didn’t hear your quiet gasp as you finally gazed upon him. Soft blushed lips, protected from the winter’s harsh cold, lie parted as he breathed through the radiating pain. His sharp jaw and shallow cleft chin were roughened with days-old stubble, perfectly suiting his disheveled look. 

Trying to focus your attention back on the fading man in your care, you carefully peeled away the blood-soaked jacket and shirt, unleashing a strong whiff of iron along with it. You chewed the inside of your cheek as you looked over the man stranger below you, trying not to let your mind dwell on his state of undress. ‘NO! No, getting distracted now! Focus..!’’ You yelled at yourself internally, reining your thoughts back into place as you went about patching up the gruesome wounds.

He had been hit 3 times; once in his shoulder, once in the side, and once right above his hip. Thankfully the one on his hip seemed to go straight through, but the other two were not as lucky. You’d have to go in through his back and dig each and every piece out. 

Your eyebrows furrowed in concentration as your tweezers dug through his flesh for every fragment you could find. It took all your composure to ignore the way each sickening squelch turned your stomach, but somehow you managed to prevail. “You were shot in the back…? ” You prodded, trying to keep him awake as you pulled out the last of the pieces. “You must’ve pissed someone off real bad….” 

His head bobbed shallowly, “Something like that…,” his brows drew together in pain, but otherwise kept his practiced expression. Ever observant eyes and craning neck tried to watch you as best he could over his shoulder, but to little avail. 

It’s your touch that concerned him now; like a taser, each brush of your fingers sent lightning across his skin. Its warm, crackling sensation ran throughout his body like a storm cloud charging up for its final strike. It was a new sensation for him, the way his skin grew warm and his heart stirred- it had never happened before, and yet still felt so deeply familiar- as if in another life he’d known it by name. 

Did you feel it too? The thrum of energy deep in your bones? The kind that both put you at ease and made your heart bounce off its walls? The kind that soothed your inner storm yet still left the waves running passionately for the shore?

He grunted, digging the heel of his palm into his forehead as he attempted to wrangle his thoughts. ‘It’s the blood loss talking. Nothing more…’ he assured himself, his metal hand moving to clamp tighter over the still-seeping wound of his hip. The pain would ground him, force him to think clearly again, of that much he was sure.

“You okay?” You asked, your worry evident as you smoothed the medical tape over his skin “I’m almost done with your back and then I can move on to your hip….”

It felt like his mind was being torn in two, warring with itself as it tried to determine whether or not he could really trust you. “ Fine… I’m fine,” he barely assured.

He couldn’t afford to trust anyone- not yet. He was on the run now and who knows how far HYDRA’s claws reached or who they had already sunk them into… but as you moved to settle before him, a small smile on your lips as you brushed his metal hand aside- he wanted to.

 He’s never wanted anything more.

You simply nodded, not wanting to press him any further, and gently pushed his hand out of the way, revealing the last of his wounds. Eyes followed your every movement as you secured the last bandage, each accidental brush of your fingers against his skin, each firm press of the gauze against the staunched wound.

 He wanted to trust you.

“There… that should be the last bandage,” You said with a grateful sigh, wiping the blood from your hands, “but I’m no doctor, so you might need to take it easy for a while.” You said as you stood once again and motioned to the couch behind him, a small, yet resigned frown passing over your expression, “However…I  did promise that you could leave whenever you were ready….”

By God, he wanted to trust you.

You wished beyond anything for him to stay. Not only for the pleasant curve of his lips, the smooth skin that stretched perfectly across toned muscle, nor for the interesting company he would no doubt be. No… it was his eyes that really captured you, that made your heart beg for him to stay. Cold, calm, and vibrant blue- the kind eyes that wrapped around you and held you under. It reminded you of a frozen lake and part of you craved to find out what made him so. 

But you knew better than to try and hold him. 

“I’ll gather the rest of the bandages and antibiotics for now, but there's no rush.” You offered with a tight smile, hoping he couldn’t read your expression as easily as you felt it was painted on your face. You carried the littering of packaging and the now significantly emptier first aid kit back to the bathroom, pausing just inside the cracked door to listen for leaving footsteps.

But the Soldier hesitated.

His eyes moved to the front door. It was left ajar in the rush to get him inside,  the cold of winter still pouring in. He could leave. Leave and never look back, ever moving toward a fate unknown. But a part of him- a part that had been wiped clean so many times- urged him to stay and find fate here.

For once in his life he could choose to listen to this part of him, no matter how small or repressed…

And he would not waste the opportunity. 

———- 

Craning your neck to look beyond the pile of blankets, pillows, and clothes overflowing in your arms, you padded your way up the creaky wooden stairs, “Hopefully, the spare room will be okay for you tonight. And I found some old clothes in the basement that should be about your size.” You offered as you blindly opened up the door before you. 

The man followed only a few steps behind, his trained footsteps eliciting barely a squeak on the usually talkative staircase. He watched on in confusion as you made up the modest queen-sized bed for him, and stashed a few extra blankets and pillows to the side just in case.

You smiled gently as you finished, and finally turned to hand him the clean change of clothes.

Like a sheet of ice in the ever-warming sun he felt his once-piercing gaze now grow soft as he took the small bundle with the utmost care.

It was such a quick and subtle change you weren’t sure you really saw it, but you sincerely hoped you did.

“I know it’s not much right now, but I hope you’ll still be comfortable for the night.” You said as you looked over the room, hoping you didn’t forget anything. 

He blinked, tilting his head to the side a bit as he lingered on your words.

Why would it matter if he was comfortable? What purpose would it serve you? And why were you just giving him these things…? Did you want something in return? “I…” He paused, a small frown coming to his lips before he managed to speak again- the most emotion you’d seen from him yet. “Why?” he questioned.

“Why? Oh, well…“ You thought for a moment, surprised by the unorthodox question, and eventually shrugged, “You deserve to be comfortable…It seems like you’ve been through a lot recently and you deserve to finally rest…” you said with a hint of a smile. And you meant it. Between the bullet wounds and the near-bleeding out- not to mention, whatever must have come before- you figured he probably deserved a few years rest if nothing else. But for now, you were happy to help him take it day by day.

He didn't return your smile- though you didn’t really expect him to- but still, a softness lingered in his eyes. However, this softness did not dwell alone; beyond that, it laid an inkling of fear- an inkling of impermanence. How long could all of this really last? And what would it be like when his time finally ran out?

But for now, he would allow himself the rare unguarded moment as he repeated your words, his voice scant above a whisper, “I deserve to rest….”

His eyes cast down to the soft fabric in his hand, his calloused thumb running over its well-loved structure. They smelled old, but it didn’t bother him. These were the first clothes- the first gift- that he had received in… well, he wasn’t sure how long.

With a soft and reassuring smile, you nodded and slipped past him as you stepped out the door, “I’ll let you get settled, okay? I’ll be downstairs if you need anything-“ You paused “Ah… Hm, I guess I never really got your name in all the rush earlier…” 

The Soldier shook his head, his voice rough and low with its minimal use, “Don’t have one.”

Your brows furrowed, “You don't have a name…? Hasn’t anybody ever called you anything...?”

His weight shifted from side to side as he thought about his next words, his eyes flicking up to yours; they looked like they carried the weight of lifetimes.

 “They used to call me the Soldier… the Winter Soldier.” 

_________

General Bucky Taglist:

@writingmysanity @simpxinnie @goldylions @yeehawbrothers

My apologies if i missed anyone! Its been a while writing for the winter soldier! If you wanted to be added to the general or WMSS Taglist please ask and let me know!

[skyward-floored]

Whumptober Day 18 - Revenge

CONTINUE TO DAY 10 go read that one first if you haven’t <3

sorry it’s late again, I was lovingly kidnapped yesterday and too busy after I got back. These might just all be a day late now I don’t even know 😬 we’ll see. Also thank you to everyone who’s been reading these!! I really REALLY appreciate you guys <3 thank you so much!

Warnings: blood, violence, grief, brief mention of a dead body

ao3 link

Day 10

NEXT (day 26)

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hyrule has been gone for over a week, and nobody knows why.

He just... disappeared. Gone out to grab some firewood, and then never came back.

Nobody was too worried at first, thinking of Hyrule’s propensity of getting lost, but as the hours, and then days, had worn on, nobody was cracking jokes anymore. Their search became frantic, and they’d combed the forest they were camped in, every bush and tree scoured. Twilight had even followed Hyrule’s scent as a wolf, but his trail had abruptly stopped, leaving no trace of the traveler.

There was no sign of him anywhere.

Something had happened to him, that much was plain to see. And they all knew the odds of it being something bad were high.

Hyrule wasn’t a loud presence in their group, but his absence was strange, and tensions grow the longer they go without any clues to where their traveler has disappeared to. Anxiety and worry color every conversation, heavy looks exchanged, and theories of good things that might have happened to Hyrule get passed around with shaky voices and glassy eyes.

And Legend stays silent through it all, a feeling deep in his gut that something was very, very wrong.

Heroes don’t just disappear.

They don’t stumble upon a portal until a full week after they last see Hyrule, and Legend isn’t the only one who stiffens at the sight. Nobody speaks, and hands remain near their weapons as they file through, faces lined with worry. Legend is the first to go, Wild right behind him, brows determined but hopeful.

Legend’s heart thuds in his ears as he enters the magic, hope and fear warring in his chest. The dark magic ripples like a syrupy soup as they step through, thick and disgusting, but Legend brushes it off, and emerges without issue.

And stares.

The others do the same, coming out from the portal, then stopping in their tracks, staring at what Legend saw with just as much dismay as him.

The sky is red.

They all stare up at it, eyes transfixed on the crimson sky, dark wisps of clouds curling in thin tendrils. All of them shift into defensive stances, breath catching, eyes wide, memories flickering in gazes.

Legend stares up at the sky, frozen as he takes in the deep, blood-red color, and has a horrible, awful, heartbreaking thought.

The blood drains from his face as he tears his gaze away from the sky and looks around the land they’re in, struggling but hardy plants, wild woods and tangled thickets, a castle standing proud in the distance. A particular flower catches his sight, an herb their missing member often keeps on him, and it hits Legend like a lynel’s hoof to the ribs.

This is Hyrule’s time.

And Legend can only think of one reason why it would look like this.

“No,” Wild whispers, obviously coming to the same conclusion as Legend. “No, he... no.”

“No what?” Wind asks, his expression worried and concerned at the devastation on Wild’s face. Not all of them know about Hyrule’s blood curse, but those of them that do soon remember it, and their expressions turn horrified as well as Wild sinks to his knees. “Guys, you’re scaring me, what does it mean?” Wind asks again in a panicked voice.

“It means Ganon is back,” Legend somehow manages to whisper. “And Hyrule...”

“He’s dead,” Wild chokes out.

“What?!”

Time quickly explains Hyrule’s blood curse to those unaware, which Legend is grateful for. He doesn’t think he could handle telling the story right now. Not with the pressure building behind his eyes, the denial, the first few sharp pricks of grief like freezing rain on his soul, the anger...

Legend latches onto the emotion, knowing it’ll serve him well in the upcoming days. Anger is what he needs right now. Not anything else.

He looks back up at the crimson sky and around at the forest, proof of Hyrule’s blood being spilled soaked into the very land itself, and feels his stomach harshly lurch. Everything around them already looks wilted and sucked of life, grass crackling under their feet, all because Hyrule is dead.

Dead.

Hyrule is dead.

Legend’s anger falters, an icy wave of grief shooting through his chest. He’ll never share a stupid joke with the traveler again, chastise him and Wild for running off to explore. Never insist Hyrule isn’t taller than him despite what the others say, never argue with him about magic, never hear his laughter that has an extra chime to it after he makes an awful pun.

Never tell him how proud he is to have a successor like him.

Kind, sassy, humble Hyrule.

Dead.

Legend can’t even remember what the last thing he said to him was.

“Oh Hyrule,” Sky whispers as Time finishes the explanation, still staring up at the crimson sky. His voice is nothing short of horrified, and Legend curls his hands into fists as he looks up, forcing back the sting in his eyes.

“Is he really dead?” Wind asks in a small voice. He looks at Legend, and Legend looks away.

“He might not be... right?” Four says hesitantly. “You just said his blood needed to be spilled to bring Ganon back. Isn’t it possible the ritual didn’t need all his blood?”

“And then what, you think Ganon would just leave him alive?” Legend snaps, and Four purses his lips.

“I only meant it’s possible,” he says quietly, his face pale, and Legend turns away. He doesn’t want to see the emotion on everyone’s faces, listen to anyone try not to cry. He can’t. He needs to focus.

Legend sharply inhales, and looks down at the castle in the distance instead, flags and banners noticeably absent from the walls. There’s smoke drifting in the air, signs of a battle at some point. Ganon must already be down there, probably captured both the princesses, probably told them of how he murdered—

Legend’s nails leave red crescent-shaped marks on his palms.

Ganon.

That vile pig.

A few of them had been quietly talking, but soon a horrible silence falls over them, heavy with shock and grief and...

Rage.

Legend wouldn’t say that they’re an angry bunch, but something hits them all then, a deep, righteous fury. That one of their own is dead, pulled away from them without any hope of helping him, that their greatest enemy used him to come back.

That they never got to say goodbye.

Legend unsheathes his sword without thinking, clutching the handle so tight it’ll leave dents on his palms.

“I’m not letting that filth roam free,” he whispers, and doesn’t even care how violent he sounds. “I’ve killed him thrice and I’ll do it again.”

“I’m with you,” Wild says, eyes blazing, his bow already out.

“We’ll take him down,” Warriors agrees in a voice like ice, eyes sharp and grieved.

Time closes his eye. “We’ll do what Hyrule could not.”

The sounds of the others drawing their swords rings out, and they stand in a circle, a noticeable gap in their ranks. Wind is the one who raises his blade forward, and the rest touch the tips together, bowing their heads in a quick mark of grief for their fallen brother.

“For Hyrule,” Twilight says in a voice both grieved and enraged.

Legend closes his eyes, hating the tears that escape.

“For Link.”

(...)

They hit the castle like a hurricane, striking fast and decisive.

There’s tons of monsters around, but they go in with everything they’ve got, only holding back in preparation for fighting Ganon himself. Their stock of equipment and healing supplies is remarkably full for once, and so nobody hesitates as they rush in a side door and storm the halls leading to the throne room.

There’s signs that there was a fight in the castle before now, but they see nothing alive except monsters. It worries Legend, but a part of him hopes that maybe the majority of the civilians got out before the worst of things, or are hiding somewhere safe.

His cynical side snorts at that, but he hopes anyway.

Vengeance speeds their blades, and they draw nearer and nearer to their goal. They’ve never been here before, but Hyrule had told Legend about it, eyes bright and smile wide as he talked about how his land was healing, the castle fixed up, what the princesses were like. Legend knows he’d hate what it looks like now, curtains and tapestries torn, plants dying, walls broken, bodies and blood strewn across the floor.

A vibrant, gory picture of what he failed to protect.

Oh Hyrule, Legend grieves, nearly wailing as he catches the dead eyes of a soldier slumped against the wall. I hope it was fast. I hope you didn’t see this.

We’ll fix it. I swear.

A smell in the air gradually strengthens as they near the throne room, a metallic, heady one. It reeks of blood, but the intensity of the scent doesn’t match the amount of crimson on the ground. Legend would maybe be concerned, but he’s stuck firmly in a cloud of grief and rage, and the fact that he notices at all is surprising in and of itself. The more squeamish Links look a little pale the stronger it gets, but it doesn’t quash their determination a bit.

And soon the doors of the throne room loom ahead of them, elegant wood looking nothing but foreboding in the red light from outside.

The heroes pause for just a moment, healing injuries that need it, taking stock of gear, going quickly over the plan of attack. Legend already has it memorized, and his very bones seethe with impatience despite how fast they got here, knowing the single being he absolutely, truly, hates is right behind the door.

His murderer is right there.

But the others finish quickly, and Twilight gives his shoulder a single squeeze. His expression is full of a lot of things that Legend knows will make him either cry or scream if he studies them too hard, so all he does is nod in return.

And finally they all face the door, grieving, fierce, and determined to take their enemy down.

They burst inside, and see him.

He isn’t as big as he is sometimes, probably only about half again as tall as Time. There’s red lines painted all over his skin and into his fur, stripes and symbols rather striking against the bluish color of his skin. They’re on his arms and chest, cheeks and forehead, though the biggest is a single blood-red handprint, right over whatever shriveled husk must be left of his heart.

He watches silently as the heroes run in, weapons unsheathed and ready to attack him, and looks only vaguely amused.

“Ganon,” Wind spits, eyes grieved and furious.

The monster smirks. “In the flesh.”

Legend startles a little, not having expected him to speak. But he supposes it makes sense. Hyrule fought a mindless beast, but his blood resurrected something more.

Ganon takes a long draught of the wine in his glass as the heroes point their blades, holding it with his long claws in a surprisingly delicate manner. He licks his lips as he lowers it, revealing fangs stained red, and Legend realizes with a sickening lurch that it wasn’t wine that he was drinking at all.

Someone gags behind him.

“Don’t look so surprised. The little hero’s blood is quite the energizer,” Ganon says with his smile growing, picking up on their horror. “Freshens one right up. Tastes better straight from the source, but it’s not bad a bit stale. And this castle has some very nice goblets.”

“You—” Twilight spits, a fury in his eyes Legend’s only seen maybe twice. “You vile—”

“Yes yes, I’ve heard it all,” Ganon says with a yawn, almost lazily picking up a huge trident by his throne. “You hate me, I hate you. Let’s skip the theatrics, shall we?”

“Bold words from the monster drinking blood from a wine glass,” Legend scoffs. Then he almost throws up as it hits him again that Ganon is drinking Hyrule’s blood.

Oh goddesses let it have been a quick death.

Ganon snorts, twirling his weapon. “Hero of Legend. You haven’t changed a bit.” His eyes narrow, and an enraged sneer alights on his face as his eyes lock with Legend’s. “You’ll find that I have though. And I can’t wait to add you to the list of heroes I’ve crushed. Would you like to know how it happened to your friend? How he sobbed at my feet, groveled, begged me to let him—”

“Liar!” Wild snarls, and looses an arrow straight at Ganon’s snout.

The monster simply moves his head right before it would have hit him, the arrow sinking into the wood of the throne with a loud thunk. Ganon laughs, a familiar booming sound that has nearly all of them freeze, and stands up, his face gleeful and enraged.

“He was a pitiful insect, unable to stand against my power. Weak. What a glorious legacy you’ve left, Hero of Legend.”

Then he rushes forward and strikes.

Legend leaps out of the way of the trident, prongs leaving marks in the floor mere inches away from him. The others scatter as Ganon laughs, and they try to put their strategy into effect.

Wild and Twilight harry Ganon with arrows from a distance, trying to hit something vulnerable like an eye. Four and Wind go for the legs and tail, while Warriors, Sky and Time do their best to deflect weapons and also hit his torso. Legend moves around to anywhere he’s needed, and as he strikes where he can, he keeps a sharp eye out for a weak spot. Ganon must have one.

And yet, no matter how hard Legend and all of them look, Ganon doesn’t show any signs of a weakness.

He’s fast on his hooves and dodges most of Wild and Twilight’s arrows. Something about his skin and fur is thick enough that any blows they land barely do a thing, and every attack he hits them with brims with power. He blasts magic at them that singes hair and very nearly takes Four’s head off at one point, and can even turn himself invisible for a few terrifying seconds, making him impossible to hit.

This Ganon is worse than any Legend has fought, which is saying something.

It’s Hyrule’s blood, he realizes grimly, narrowly dodging a strike to his chest. It must be. Almost all of us have beaten him on our own, and yet eight of us are struggling to land so much as a scratch.

They’re all accruing injuries too small to use a potion on, but draining nonetheless. Legend is bleeding from a scrape on his cheek, and his arm aches from how many times he’s had to shield against an attack.

The blunt end of the trident catches Time in the side, launching him sideways with a sickening crack. He’s back up in a few moments, face pale as he wipes potion from his lips, but they can’t keep taking hits like this.

Legend’s mind is whirling with plans, what items he could use, what needs to be done. The only thing that even remotely phases Ganon is the Master Sword, but he’s been exceptionally good at avoiding it so far.

Legend’s thoughts are going so fast he almost misses it when it begins, a tickle in his head, a featherlight touch of magic. It grows to a whisper, distracting him from the fight, but as Legend’s hair raises on the back of his neck, the strange feeling grows louder, forming abruptly into words that he can actually understand.

“...please hear me please hear me please he— AURORA I BROKE THROUGH IT WORKED!”

Legend jumps at the shout, and a few others flinch as well, Sky and Four looking around in confusion, Wild’s eyes gone wide. The others don’t react, but Legend isn’t focused on them.

He’s too busy finding that little spot in his head, the only place he ever hears a voice beside his own.

Legend hurriedly falls back to a safe distance from the fight, and focuses on the voice he’d heard, trying to connect to it and respond despite the way Ganon follows him.

...Princess? he thinks hesitantly, forcing the word out as far as it’ll go. Or, princesses? Is that you?

“Oh we really did reach them!” the voice exclaims again, tears in the words. “Oh thank the goddesses. Yes, it’s us, we’re in the uppermost tower, Ganon has magic trapping us here.”

“And you’re okay?” Legend asks out loud, dodging an attack. Ganon follows him, eyes narrowed like he knows what he’s doing.

“Yes, Yes we’re fine, but listen hero of Legend!” Zelda’s voice says frantically, her voice shaky but determined. “Link is alive!”

Legend freezes, heart pounding.

Wild almost falls off his perch nearby, and Sky and Four stop dead in their tracks.

“You’re sure?” he chokes out, and Wind nearby looks at him like he’s insane.

“As sure as I can be. We don’t know where, but he’s in the castle somewhere,” Zelda’s voice promises, still shaking. “I... I would feel it if he were dead. Ganon is drawing on him for power, you need to find him and break their connection.”

Legend almost falls over at the rush of emotion, and his instincts are the only thing that save him from being skewered by a thrust from Ganon’s spear.

Hyrule is alive, he’s strengthening Ganon against his will, he’s alive—

He whirls on the beast, fury and hope clouding his vision.

“Where is he?!” Legend howls, lunging at Ganon with his blade, Ganon barely deflecting the strike.

Emotion roars through him as he attacks, hacking and slicing and fighting furiously as he tries to land an hit on the beast. Ganon still avoids his attacks, and starts laughing, not answering his question in the least.

Legend is so blinded by fury that he misses Ganon charge a magic attack, and the blast hits him square in the shoulder. He goes flying backwards with a shout and sear of pain, and his world blacks out for a moment when he hits the ground.

He comes back to Warriors pressing something to his lips, and Legend swallows the half a potion with a pained groan, hurriedly sitting back up when he remembers what’s happening.

“Legend what are you doing?” Warriors asks when he tries to launch himself at Ganon again, grabbing his shoulder and giving him a concerned look. “What’s going on?”

“He’s alive, the princesses reached out, he’s here somewhere,” Legend snarls, and tears his shoulder out of Warriors’ grip. “That pig knows where he is!”

“Legend, slow down, explain,” Warriors demands, and drags him far enough away from the battle that hopefully they can actually exchange a few words.

Legend growls and explains as fast as possible, trying not to listen to Ganon’s laughter and the cries of the others as they struggle against him. Warriors’ face lightens with hope as he hears the princesses’ message, and Legend can see the gears turning in his head.

“We’ll have to split up,” he says finally, wincing at the thought.

“I’m going,” Legend says firmly.

Warriors nods. “I’ll go with you, and Wild can be our backup,” he says, looking quickly out at the battle. “This way we have fighters and someone to carry Hyrule as well. The others should be able to handle things here while we’re gone.”

“Sky and Four heard too, they’ll pass it on,” Legend says, catching Sky’s eyes across the room. The Skyloftian nods, face determined and furious, and Legend and Warriors rush across the room, looking for Wild.

“Hero of Legend,” a slightly different voice calls suddenly, the voice of the other Zelda. “Link is difficult to pinpoint, but we think he’s in the dungeons somewhere. Neither of us can reach out to him, you’ll need to free him and break Ganon’s hold, or else Ganon will remain undefeated.”

“Thank you. We’re going right now,” Legend chokes out, his eyes stinging again. He hurriedly wipes them on his sleeve and keeps going.

They finally reach Wild, the champion still shooting arrows, two and three at a time. He immediately turns to look at them, his cheeks damp and expression fierce.

“You heard?” Warriors asks quickly, and Wild nods, his eyes red.

“He’s alive. And we’re getting him out,” he hisses, shooting one last hail of arrows at Ganon’s face. “Let’s go.”

The three of them rush for the door, and Ganon howls, throwing magic at their backs. Time leaps forward and deflects the blast with his sword, knocking it back at Ganon, who knocks it back at Time.

“Four told us, go find him!” he shouts, the magic exploding onto the wall.

The three of them nod and they bolt, rushing out the door with Ganon’s roar shaking the walls behind them.

We’re coming Hyrule, hold on, please.

[ddaz3d-and-cc0nfused]

༉‧₊˚. 𝐬𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐚 𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐬𝐞, 𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐚 𝐜𝐨𝐰𝐛𝐨𝐲 || 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐥 𝐝𝐢𝐱𝐨𝐧

― pairings: daryl dixon x plus size!reader

― era: season 4/pre-Governor

― summary: while out on a run, you find a cowboy hat, and what was once light-hearted teasing had actually woken up something inside of you, because he just looked too damn good.

― warnings: daryl in a cowboy hat (duh), unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it!), cumming inside, oral (d. receiving), blowjobs, come eating, riding, biting (mentioned literally once), marking, established relationship, kissing, praise, dirty talk (mostly daryl's dirty mouth 'cause yes).

― wc: 1841

⋆ a/n: uhhh it's the way this almost turned into a 2k one shot of just straight up porn?? like i shit you not i one hundred percent think i lost my self-control while writing this, but oh well, i enjoyed it and i hope you guys do too! thank you all for the mass influx of support over the last few days, it never fails to blow my mind every time. i love you all!

masterlist | AO3

You swear your intentions were pure at first; it was just you trying to shoot the shit with Daryl and a cowboy hat, but you hadn't expected him to look so… natural with it on.

Walking around the shopping mall you, Glenn, Daryl, and Maggie were scouring through, you had come across a plain black cowboy hat lying on the floor alone. It appeared to be relatively spotless besides a little dirt and dust on it. You bent over and picked it up, your hand patting away the grime as you examined it. You couldn't help the shit eating grin that split on your face, your eyes flaring mischievously as you made your way back to your poor unsuspecting boyfriend who was searching through the camping department. 

Sneaking up behind him, you quickly placed the hat on his head, eliciting a surprised grunt from the man in front of you. 

"There," You said with your hands placed on your hips. "Now you're a real cowboy." He turned around to look at you with a glare. "Ain' no cowboy." He grumbled, and your breath caught at the sight of him. Every witty comeback you had been curating in your mind had suddenly died in your throat along with your ability to speak. "Wha'?" Daryl asked at your sudden silence. You swallowed nervously, "You look great, real sexy." 

“Shuddup.” He scoffed, taking the hat off and placing it on your head so that it slightly obstructed your vision. He continued further into the department.  “I’m serious!” You called out with a laugh as you chased after him. 

“Wild west movies used to really get me going, you know!” 

He didn’t see you shove the thing into your bag, or the fact that you were biting back a smirk the whole ride back to the prison. 

You hadn’t forgotten about the way he looked in it, nor the fact that everytime you passed by your bag, the hat felt like it was going to burn a hole right through the floor. You were waiting for the perfect opportunity to bring up its potential use in the bedroom until one fell into your lap - more like his.

You were sitting on his lap as he had his back pressed against the prison wall, his lower half resting on the two mattresses the both of you had pushed together to make a makeshift double bed. His fingers dug into the skin of your hips, your hands tightly clasping his cheeks, holding his lips onto yours as you made out fervently. Your body was slightly raised above his when you remembered the cowboy hat. You pushed a finger in between your mouths as you separated with a smirk.

“Wait.” You breathed. “You okay?” He asked in concern, searching your face and eyes for any sight of discomfort. “I got something I wanna try, if that’s fine with you.” You nodded gently. “Wha’ is it?” Your smirk formed into a wide smile at his question.

He watched you with a mix of curiosity and anticipation as you leaned over and unzipped your backpack, his palms that rested on your hips continued to keep a firm grip on you as reached for what you were looking for. His eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets when they caught sight of the brim of that stupid cowboy hat.

“The hell?” He couldn’t help but say. It wasn’t full of disgust, but rather surprise. You laughed, “I may or may not have brought it back home with the intention of asking you to wear it while we have sex.” The sides of his lips quirk as he takes the hat from your hands. “I guess ya really were serious about wild wes’ movies gettin’ ya goin’.” But nonetheless, he puts it on, and you bite your lip. 

“Like I said, you’re the sexiest cowboy I’ve ever seen.”

He tilts his head up as your lips lock in an amorous embrace, and you grind your hips down on his hard-on. He groans against your lips, gripping and pressing your body down to receive maximum pressure from your cloth covered cunt. Your kisses trailed down his neck, nibbling on his scruff and unbuttoning his sleeveless shirt to push off of his shoulders, which he helped you do. Your greedy hands trailed through the patch of hair on his chest, following the hair down to where it disappeared into his jeans. You unbutton them, moving your butt down a little bit so that you could take him out of his underwear.

He hissed in pleasure as you pressed down on his leaky tip, rubbing his precum around before you bent forward, adjusting your body so that your ass was raised and arched, licking a stripe from the vein on the underside of his cock to the tip, twirling your tongue around it.

“Shit!” He let out a raspy whimper, burying his thick fingers gently gripping onto the roots of your hair. The pressure on your scalp was welcomed as you took him further down your throat, swallowing around him and fondling his balls with your free hand. Daryl desperately tried to keep himself quiet, seeing as though the walls of the prison weren’t thick, and anyone could hear him, and that was something that he didn’t think he would be able to live down.

He could feel himself nearing his climax with every suck of your devilish mouth, and he knew that you could feel him too. You peered up at him through your eyelashes, watching his shirtless chest rise and fall heavily, he looked dark as he practically gazed into your soul, the cowboy hat adding a shadow over his features that turned you on beyond comprehension. You pressed your thighs together to desperately relieve the growing tension between your legs, and when the fat of them put pressure against your clit, you whined, the noise shooting up your boyfriend’s spine.

“Fuck, sweetheart. ‘M gunna cum.” He warned, his back arching and hips chasing your warm mouth. You only pulled off to say, “Down my throat.” Your words were heavy and breathy, but you didn’t care, taking him back into your throat and stroking what you couldn’t swallow. He gulped, allowing his head to lean back on the concrete cell wall, biting on his bottom lip so hard in an attempt to stay silent that he could’ve sworn he tasted the metallic tang of blood.

“Yeah?” He asked with a breathless groan. “‘Wan’ me to paint that pretty little mouth of yours white?” You whined at his dirty words, and he felt your noises burn through his veins like fire. He didn’t hold back from occasionally bucking his hips, his thrusts growing sloppy before he pressed your head down, shooting his load deep down your esophagus. 

You swallowed his cum, which caused him to hiss due to oversensitivity. You pulled off of him, licking your lips before sticking your tongue out to show him that you hadn’t wasted a drop. 

“God damn, girl.” He grunted as you crawled your way up to his lips to place a deep kiss on his lips, allowing him to taste himself. “Are ya tryin’ta kill me?” He asked when you pulled away. You giggled, dragging playful fingers up and down his chest. “Maybe?” You said, biting your bottom lip with a smile.

He just scoffed, kissing you once more as you avoided knocking your head against the rim of his hat. “Let me ride you, cowboy.” You heaved.

He nodded, allowing you to stand and take your clothes off as he rid himself of his pants and underwear. 

You clambered back on top of him, allowing your soaked slit to gently caress his hard cock.

“Fuck.” He cursed, the grip on your hips turning bruising due to your teasing. You mewled at the feeling of his heated skin brushing your sensitive clit, your self control slipping as you reached down and lined his cock up to your entrance, slowly sinking down due to the lack of foreplay and prep. The initial stretch of his tip hurt, your nails digging into the skin of his tanned shoulders, a silent cry leaving your lips as your head fell back. 

Daryl gave you a moment to adjust to his size, distracting you with his calloused thumb, which rubbed comforting circles onto your tiny bundle of nerves. Your muscles loosened as you moved, slightly bouncing until you found a rhythm where your ass met his thighs. He aided you in your riding, guiding your body up and down.

“So fuckin’ wet.” He grunted, rolling both of his lips between his lips as he watched where your bodies joined together, as though he was in a trance. “‘S all for you, D.” You slurred. His cock repeatedly brushed against that sensitive spot inside of your body. He was already sensitive, which made him all the more determined to help you reach your peak first.

“Put yer hands on the wall.” He rasped. You placed your arms on either side of his head, your breasts pretty much shoved in his face when his hips rose up, fucking themselves into you harshly. You yelped in surprise, pressing your palms harder against the walls as he pounded into you from below. He raised his head, his eyes searching for yours from under the hat. 

His irises swam with lust and need, but also a hidden determination that only he knew about.

“‘Gunna make you cum real good, pretty girl.” He huffed a ragged breath. “Promise.” 

“Please, Dar. I need it!” You cried. 

He looked away from you, focusing on his thrusts which were unforgiving, bruising your cervix with every slam of his tip. Your arms grew shaky as you neared your end, almost causing you to fall forward if you hadn’t laid your head on the cool rock. 

“So close,” You breathed, “‘M so close, baby, please.” You begged. “I gotcha. ‘Gunna cum with ya, sweet cheeks.” Your body flushed with relief at his words. 

Your bodies worked together to help reach your climaxes, and when you did, you held back a loud moan, and Daryl hid his in between the valley of your breasts, which lightly bit into. There might be a mark there tomorrow, but who cares?

You shuddered through your world shattering orgasm and he worked you through it, lazily thrusting into you until you muttered the words, ‘no more.’

You slowly sat back down, wincing seeing as though his softening cock was still shallowly buried inside of you.

“Holy fucking shit.” You laughed deliriously. “If I knew ya would’a been all pent up like this over some hat I would’a worn it sooner. Maybe even take ya righ’ then and there in tha’ mall.”

You smirk in amusement at his daring words, “Is that so?” You asked with a mischievous smile. “Mhm.” He hummed with a grin, his hands descending to gently massage your outer thighs whilst you cupped his cheeks, both of you falling into a blissful, giggly kiss. 

ೃ⁀➷ my lovely taglist!: @alina02 @louderfortheback @minervadashwood @fandomsarelifee @theendofthe70s @nomajdetective @mgg-theprettiestboy @phoenixblack89 @murdadixon

[gingerwritess]

hello!

popping back in here to let you all know that i see you and your sweet messages. i reread comments, i scroll my ask box, i scour the reblogs. every single one of you who have left comments, likes, sent messages, read my work; thank you.

your words and support helped me finish writing my first novel.

i stepped back from tumblr a while ago to finish uni, travel/move, and work on my own projects, and you all helped me along the way. i’m currently editing my first novel and am beginning the query process, so if anyone is interested in hearing more about that orrr potentially beta-reading, please lmk :)

now the info you’re really here for:

for all my remaining loki loves—i hear you, you want more pre-dating idiots. i’ll do my very best to find a way to wrap that storyline up.

for my dear elucien (kqav) readers—i had big plans that may have been too big for me at the time, and for that i apologize! i’m outlining the rest of that story so please rest assured that it will be continued soon. to everyone who supported me over the last few years on ao3 with that story, thank you so so so much; i’ll do my absolute best to finish it for you.

this little community on this blog is so lovely and i will always be grateful to everyone who has supported my writing even at its very rocky beginning (and middle). I’ll try to be more active on here now because bringing you joy brings me immense joy—and nothing screams “graduated college” like reviving an old tumblr blog.

lots of love,

theo

[brabblesblog]

𝕽𝖊𝖒𝖊𝖒𝖇𝖊𝖗 𝖞𝖊 𝖓𝖔𝖙 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖋𝖔𝖗𝖒𝖊𝖗 𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖘.

Chapter 18: When the gods choose to punish us, they merely answer our prayers.

A sequel to Whither is thy beloved gone? (AO3)

After the events of ‘Whither is thy beloved gone?’ Lord Astarion Ancuńin and his consort wife navigate their relationship anew. The ghosts of the past - his, hers, and theirs - threaten to unravel everything they’ve worked for.

Look where we will, the inevitable law of revelation is one of the laws of nature: the lasting preservation of a secret is a miracle which the world has never yet seen.

Professionally edited and collaborated on by my dearest friend <3 @editing-by-night

Masterlist

Read on AO3.

Art by Shiroishi

“Sweetheart,” she called out placatingly. He scoffed and bit down on a tart, his jacket draped over his other shoulder. He’d decided he would start early today; there was little doubt going through the lower city would take some time. Ban was lounging on her throne, legs crossed and documents in hand. In his absence she would have to manage three meetings - not too horrible, especially since one of them was to finalize the turnover of the Sharran cloister to the city.

“I was just teasing!”

He rolled his eyes, turning back to scowl at her one last time, the faux-anger shifting into mirth. He shot her a wink. “I’ll try to be home relatively early. If not, well…” he waved the last of his tart, “it’ll be a lonely dinner for you yet again. Maybe you’ll miss me this time.”

The sound of her laughter was the last thing he heard before the door closed behind him.

He and Ban hadn’t been back to the lower city often since the end of their adventure. They’d visited occasionally, but there had been no reason to of late.

Over the past week, he had sent his staff to begin searching.. So far all of the upper city had been scoured and to no one’s surprise it had yielded no results. He had also covered a fair amount of the lower city. That had likewise borne no fruit.

He had also considered… other possibilities. A Sending spell had allowed him to contact the twins in Waterdeep and inquire as to whether Vel or any of his associates had been active in Baldur’s Gate at that time. They had answered in the negative.

The morning proceeded in relative boredom. He went from house to house, knocking on each door and holding up Adrien’s portrait. A lot of them seemed surprised to see him - an elf in ostentatious clothes - tramping about lower city in all his finery going door to door about some man, but he found that he didn’t mind, as he agreed with their assessment.

He ended up at a house at the far end of a street and knocked on the door. It looked relatively well-kept, if a little old. The door creaked open, and a younger elf peered at him. Astarion cleared his throat, and began his spiel.

“Hello. My name is Astarion Ancunín.” He had avoided tacking on his title for this errand. “Have you by any chance seen or met this man?” He held up the open locket. His name is-”

The elf scratched his head. “Adrien, yeah.”

Astarion’s mouth fell open. He closed the locket, pocketing it. “Adrien Glasscraft, yes. You know of him?”

“He was my friend.” He opened the door wider. “You should probably come inside, Mister Ancunín.”

The house was quaint, even cozy, and Astarion made himself comfortable on the couch. Sprawled in his usual way, he caught the disapproving glance from the other elf as he sat on the chair opposite him. Astarion pointedly ignored it.

“My name is Lulen.” When Astarion made no response, merely tapping his knee, Lulen continued. “Adrien is someone I knew for several years, before he stopped coming by. If I may ask,” and he leaned forward. “What is your interest in him?”

Astarion’s lip curled. “He is important to someone important.” That, he felt, was as detailed an explanation as he was willing to give. Lulen fell silent, eyes fixed on a spot behind him, and Astarion waited.

Lulen scanned Astarion’s clothes. “It does make sense. He comes from a rich family, as far as I know. Some offshoot of a patriar family. He griped about it a lot.”

“Tell me what you know of Adrien, then,” Astarion prompted, “and perhaps you might be able to help me find your friend. Where and when did you see him last?”

“It was an evening, several years ago. He arrived here, angry, which was not an uncommon occurrence with him. We talked for some time, then he said he would head out and get some food, clear his head, and…”

“And?” Astarion prompted, leaning forward, hands on his knees. “Did he tell you where he went?”

Lulen shook his head. “No, but he mentioned heading to Wyrm’s Crossing.”

Astarion stood outside Fragyo’s, his scowl deepening. The sun was high in the sky, the midafternoon light harsh. There were several places to get food in Wyrm’s Crossing, and he had left this one for last, hoping he wouldn’t have to go in. The idea of stepping back into that cesspit was unpleasant; he did not relish the idea of having to relive all of his previous activities in that establishment, but it couldn’t be avoided. He’d been hoping to have his meal somewhere better, but he had lost track of time, so he supposed he’d grab something here while he investigated. Perhaps Adrien had slept over in the flophouse before he left Baldur’s Gate.

He made his way in. It wasn’t too busy at this time of day, and he headed up to the counter. The halfling custodian peered at him, seemingly recalling his face.

“You’re- you were with…”

Astarion raised his eyebrows, waiting with his arms crossed.

“With the group - the ones who saved the city!”

Ah. He was relieved to be remembered for that and not for his other, older exploits in the flophouse.

“Apologies,” the halfling - Dashkent, he remembered now, bowed. “I am not very good with faces, and so it took me a moment to remember where I knew you from.”

He scoffed, but waved his hand dismissively. Resolving to question the halfling after he’d eaten, he ordered his lunch, and then slipped into a seat at an empty table, scanning the room. He had been here countless times before, of course. They’d always kept a low profile when they’d hunted here, hunkering in corners and darkened alcoves at night, whispering those sickly sweet words, laying their traps.

He ate with disinterest - the fare here was still bland, despite having his sense of taste back - and flicked open the locket, studying Adrien’s features for what felt like the millionth time. The black hair, that jawline, those eyes…

They always stood out, those eyes. They could hardly have done anything else. They were Ban’s eyes, after all, an exact match down to the shape and shade of brown-

No… not just that. He’d seen them somewhere else.

It was a cold night, and it had begun to rain. He pulled his cowl over his head. Ahead of him Dalyria and Petras had already opened the door, heading inside. Neither left the door open for him; he slipped inside without a word.

The three split up, as was their wont. Astarion took his usual corner, mug in hand, scanning the room. Searching for potential marks was a skill he’d fine-tuned. Anyone who seemed alone, a little lost, would be perfect. Attractive, if he could manage it, but when pickings were slim it didn’t matter. Tonight, however, was a good night for hunting - the flophouse was teeming with people, the rain likely helping force them indoors. He took his time; there was no need to rush with so many options.

Dalyria slipped into the seat beside him. He rolled his eyes.

“What?”

“I told you it would be a good idea to come tonight, didn’t I?” Her eyes also roamed over the patrons. “Good pickings. I’m sure even Petras will find someone. Why aren’t you mingling yet?”

He scoffed, and took a sip of whatever he had ordered - he didn’t exactly remember. “Petras needs them blind drunk before they’ll even look his way. I’m giving him a head start.”

Dalyria laughed. “Of course you are. Astarion, the prettiest of us lot, barely even needs to try, eh?” She tried to playfully touch his cheek; he growled and shifted away.

She stood up. “Do find yourself… something. Two more nights of coming up empty-handed and you’ll be…” she bit back a laugh as he snarled at her.

The thought was unpleasant, but he did not let it show. “Worried about me? How sweet of you.” He rolled his eyes at her. “Godey has nothing new under his metaphorical sleeves, dear sister. It’ll be uneventful.”

“Judging by the way you screamed last time, I doubt that’s true.”

She drifted away and Astarion seethed, stewing over her flippant remarks.

Two weeks. Two weeks of coming up empty-handed and he’d come face to face with Godey. The door would latch closed behind him and not open again until the master was thoroughly satisfied. A date with Godey’s toys, a night of manacles and instruments and of blood, of screaming himself hoarse and it still not being enough to sate their lust. Two weeks - sometimes less, if Cazador’s whims dictated it so - until he was reminded of exactly how painful drawing his master’s ire was - not that he ever forgot. The man took what felt like boundless joy in breaking him, after all - far more than the rest. He rubbed a hand over his face, resentment bubbling to the top. Even in their shared suffering, he endured more. Far more.

Astarion swirled the contents of his mug, staring down at it absently. It wouldn’t do to fail tonight. He slipped into his thoughts, however - something he found himself doing more often lately, his mind sinking into nothingness. When someone jostled against his table and snapped him out of it, he had no idea how long it had been. He scanned the room. A fair bit of time must have passed, he realized, as Dalyria was now in the arms of a burly man.

A man caught his eye. He was seated at a table, alone, nursing a goblet of what looked like wine. Handsome. Black hair, square jaw, and alluringly dark brown eyes. Astarion sauntered over.

To his surprise the man looked up before he managed to say a word. “This chair’s free.” He tapped the seat beside him. Astarion slid in.

“You look awfully lonely, darling. Is it the weather, or something else?” Astarion sipped from his mug.

The man shot him a nervous smile. His eyes brightened as he took stock of Astarion’s face - a look he knew all too well. Tonight, that meant success.

“Something else.” The man returned his gaze to his drink. “The rain doesn’t help, I suppose. I headed out before it started. And you? What brings you here?”

Astarion noticed, belatedly, that the man had no cloak or anything to cover himself with, other than a jacket that was already soaked. He clicked his tongue. “Well, then. I’m all ears, if that’s what you need.” He would have added a coy ‘and perhaps more, if you want’, but something told him he’d have to take this particular mark slowly. He didn’t bother answering the man’s questions; more often than not people just wanted to talk about their own problems.

“It’s nothing more than common family drama,” the man said, pushing his sopping hair off his eyes. “The usual, really. I really don’t want to talk your ear off,” he chuckled, “and I’d rather hear about something else.”

Astarion found himself pleasantly surprised, but he was ready. “I am a magistrate. I’m here to meet someone, but…” he pretended to look around the room, “it seems that they have misplaced their clock.” He huffed. “Not my loss, considering that I now get to talk to you.”

“Adrien.” The man held out his hand.

He shook it, allowing his fingertips to subtly drag as he pulled away from Adrien’s grasp. “Astarion.”

Adrien nodded. “A wonderful name.” Again the man took a moment to look at his face; Astarion smiled, angling himself slightly so the light would catch his cheekbones. “Do you come here often?”

“Mm, once in a while.” Astarion took another sip of his drink. “And you? I haven’t seen you before, I feel. I’m certain I would have remembered a face like yours.”

“It’s my first time here, yes. I don’t come to this area often.” A blush crept across Adrien’s cheeks. Perfect.

“There must be a good reason then. With all the rain, and the frankly horrid state of this place… I will be very concerned if you tell me you’re here for leisure.”

Adrien laughed. “You… you got me. I was walking by to just… get my bearings, and have some dinner, but it started raining. I might have to stay the night here, and as correct as your assessment of this place is… I’d still rather be here than at home.”

“You and me both,” Astarion mused. It wasn’t exactly a lie, he supposed. Clapping his hands together to snap himself out of his melancholy, he sat up. “So. You’ve made me tell you my frankly boring reason for being here. Your turn, dear.”

“I suppose so. It’s a long tale, but I can give you the sum of it.” He wrapped his hands around his goblet and took a small breath. “My parents are shit, and I’m here-”

“To get some reprieve from them, yes.” Astarion slid closer. “While I would agree that that’s common… it doesn’t mean that it’s not important.” He waved a hand. “Like I said. I wouldn’t mind lending you an ear. Or my… company. Whichever you prefer. I’m not picky.”

A small risk, that.

The man turned to him, surprised. His lips pursed. “I would love your company, really. But I’ve already promised the rest of my evening to another. However, the first part of your offer I would heartily accept.”

Astarion groaned inwardly. He wanted to make a quick exit, but there was nothing for it. The night was likely to be wasted, anyway; the patrons were slowly clearing out as the rain began to ease off. “Of course. Please, do regale me.”

“My father wants me to be his heir. Wants to marry me off. If only she hadn’t left…” Adrien murmured angrily, and Astarion opened his mouth to ask some followup question he didn’t even give a thought to when the words died in his throat.

Petras stood in front of them, drink in hand, glaring at Astarion.

“Petras!” Adrien smiled. “Please, sit. I was merely talking to… uh…”

“It doesn’t matter.” Astarion stood up. “As much as I’ve enjoyed this conversation, darling, I must be off. After all, my associate may yet still arrive. Wouldn’t do well to be otherwise occupied, as pleasurable as that would have been for both of us…” He couldn’t help that last statement, smirking as Petras resisted the urge to hiss - and failed.

“Nice to have met you, Adrien.”

He sauntered off, a little miffed that Petras, of all people, had stolen a mark off him. Not stolen, exactly, he corrected himself, but still. Petras? Over him? That Adrien must’ve had bad vision. Astarion slinked back into his corner, nursing his drink and pointedly not looking at where the other two were in deep conversation.

To his dread, the night ended fruitlessly for him. He headed home some hours later, slipping into the palace and down to the dormitory. Petras had left first, followed by Dalyria, who had also managed to bring home a victim.

Astarion opened the door to find Petras on his bunk, legs crossed and smirking. He sighed. “Of course you’re filthying my bed, Petras. Won’t you ever be anything but predictable?”

“You have to admit I was anything but tonight. Didn’t expect that, did you?” Petras shifted, and Astarion bit back a snarl as he realized his sibling was lying on his blanket.

“Expect what? A man to be kind enough to uphold an earlier arrangement, even to one as… well, to someone who looks like you do?” Astarion laughed. “A surprise, to be sure, but angels do exist. As do charity workers.”

Petras glowered, and then he flicked something at Astarion. He caught it instinctively, opening his hand to see what it was. A cufflink. “Here. A consolation gift. Gods know you’d gripe about losing to me for days. Maybe this’ll get you to shut up.”

It looked expensive, jewel-encrusted, and he held it to the light.

Astarion frantically reached into his pocket, pulling out the cufflink the Glasscrafts had given him. There was no doubt - this was its counterpart. Fuck.

How would he tell her? Darling, we killed your brother. He was there, that day, perhaps only a couple of rooms away. We stupidly did the rite, not thinking someone we cared about might be in one of those damned kennels. We-

He snapped the locket shut, unable to look that portrait in the eye. Her eyes. He should head home, that was for certain. There was nothing to be done. There was nothing to search for. Nothing.

Astarion’s mind whirled with the possibilities. He could not tell her, that was always an option. He could already imagine the words he’d say.

Darling, I have some bad news. I’ve scoured all of Baldur’s Gate, and there was nothing of your brother to be found. Perhaps he’s made his life somewhere else, and we’re better off leaving him to his peace?

Darling, your brother told me he wanted nothing to do with you. He shooed me away, threatened to stake me- gods, you didn’t tell me he was vehemently against vampires!

Darling-

…He couldn’t do that to her.

Oh, but it would be easy. He could simply say the words, run his hands down her body, cup her ass, slip a finger between her legs. Purr and say the right words with just the right tone, and she’d believe him, because she trusted him. Trusted him to no longer use his skills to deceive her, trusted him to be honest.

And he would. As frightened as he was of her response, he would.

The long carriage ride felt like mere seconds. He was willing it to drag out, to delay seeing her face, asking him, ‘Love, how was your day?’ How would he respond?

He wondered if she'd leave him. Likely not, he figured - hoped, but she would be beside herself and rightfully so. He had no idea how much affection there was between Ban and Adrien, but he had no doubt it was more fond than he and his own siblings had been. Would she blame him? Not unreasonable, if so - that price was paid for him, after all.

What would she have done if they’d walked past those kennels and seen Adrien? Would she have stopped the ritual, told him to find a spare to swap her brother out? Would that have been the push to make her entirely say no to the idea? What if he’d argued back? And he was sure he would have - he could still recall the ice-cold fear that had gripped him then, the smell of blood and rot so strong it had suffused his senses and clouded out all other thoughts.

They would have fought. No, she would have talked him down. No. He would have stormed off. No. They would have-

He shook his head, trying to clear it. There was little use in what ifs, especially at this point.

He felt a sudden surge of loathing and he placed his trembling palm over his racing heart as he watched the mansion come into view. The price that had been paid for it, for all this - it had never really mattered, not for him, and barely for her, but now…

He was sure some god was out there, laughing at their fate. He would have seen the humor in it himself, if it hadn’t befallen them.

Soon he was spilling out of the carriage into the courtyard, breaths coming too short, praying she wouldn’t yet be out of her last meeting for the day. Please.

He stepped into the foyer and called the chamberlain over.

“My lord?”

“Rainier, where is the lady of the house?”

The chamberlain frowned. “She is still occupied in the gardens, making arrangements with Shadowheart and the city representative. The cloisters-” he cut off as Astarion waved a hand at him.

Good. He had some time to try and at least present a solution together with the problem. That would at least ease the blow.

“A Sending spell. To Gale. Ask him to come as soon as possible. Tell him it is an emergency. Bring him to the study the moment he arrives.”

Astarion’s head whipped up a little while later as Gale stepped into the room. He was still dressed in what looked like his teaching robes. The man looked slightly harried, the robes ink-stained on the sleeves.

“Astarion.” Gale sat in the armchair opposite his. “What brings me here, in such a hurry? Did something happen? Where’s Ban? Are you both alright?” His eyes followed Astarion as he quickly shut the door, locking it.

“Ban is fine. She’s outside, in negotiations with Shadowheart and the city planner.”

“Then what is-”

“It’s about her brother.” He sat in his own armchair, then leaned forwards, rubbing his face. “We were making attempts to look for him. He disappeared several years ago, and she wanted to seek him out.”

“A brilliant idea, which I assume did not yield the results you wished for. What can I do to help?”

Astarion glanced at him, grateful for the offer. “We - or rather, I - found him.” He looked away. “Or what became of him, at least.” There was a waver in his voice, he knew, but there was no hiding it.

“What became-” Gale trailed off at the look on his face. “Astarion. What exactly befell the man?” Gale’s concern was obvious. Astarion felt some relief there; at least someone could share in this burden that felt like a stone in his heart. “If he’s dead, a scroll of true resurrection would work, provided either his body or in the absence of it, his soul…”

He shook his head, and Gale’s sentence trailed off. How would he say this? Gale had been there as well. In some ways they all had doomed Ban’s sibling.

“He was one of the seven thousand, Gale.” Astarion kept his eyes fixed to the wall. “We killed him, and damned his soul as well.”

Gale swore. “Then why would you ask for me to come, if you knew this? True resurrection would definitely not work.”

“Wish.”

“Oh, no. No.” Gale shook his head, raising a finger. “The risks involved in casting that spell… no. It cannot be done.”

As Astarion opened his mouth to protest, Gale pushed on.

“Wish is a difficult spell to cast, for one. I’m not even certain I’d be able to cast it. Then there is the issue of intent - what is your stated goal? To return Ban’s brother, yes. But by what means? Are you able to specify, down to the minutest detail? If you do not, the spell will have unintended consequences, consequences that are certain to only bring more trouble.”

“If I specify-”

“What do you specify then? Undoing the rite itself? What about everything else that came with it? What about Ban? What about the arrangement with the hells? Would they not come after you if seven thousand souls they owned suddenly disappeared? What if it undid time itself, reverted everything back to before it happened, including our memories?” Gale stared at him, and Astarion had no choice but to meet his gaze head on. “Wish is a spell that alters reality, but it does so in completely unpredictable ways. It is manageable for smaller requests, smaller wishes that wouldn’t unravel so much of the fabric of reality. But you’re dealing with something that’s on a massive scale, involving thousands of souls, Astarion. I would not risk it.”

Astarion found that he could not disagree. “If I only ask for one soul back, what then?”

“You could, but what would happen with the rite? It required each and every one of them as payment. What would the hells do, were you to renege on your arrangement and pluck one right out of their grasp? And what condition would her brother be in? Would he be a tormented soul? A spirit? He might even come back in the form of a coin, for all we know.”

“A coin?”

Gale exhaled. “When souls are sent to the hells, to demons or devils - it matters not - the soul may be used in some other manner, but they are usually turned into soul coins.”

It took a moment for that to sink in. “The coins we found when we were wandering about? The same coins Karlach used?”

“One and the same,” Gale nodded, voice grim. “Now, a lesser devil might have used some of the souls for something else, made them into servants or something of that nature, but the fact that Mephistopheles was the one who received them, and received seven thousand of them in one go… it’s likely her brother’s soul is now, in fact, in a coin.”

Astarion swallowed. “And am I not able to simply wish him to come back as a whole, living being? That would circumvent his arrival as… as that, wouldn’t it?”

“It would, but yet again we do not know the consequences of it. Usually turning into a coin is a one-way process. And there’s a chance the spell would consider that as a second wish: one, that her brother return unharmed, and that two: he returns as not a coin. So you see-”

“I know!” Astarion got up, pacing. Wish would not work; that much was obvious. “Do you have any other ideas, then?”

Gale stared at him, askance. “Simply accepting what happened and mourning her brother aside, I would suggest reading up on the circumstances regarding the rite.”

Astarion froze. “And what good would that do?”

Potentially a lot of good, he knew. He still didn’t want to do it.

“Because you’d want to know the specifics of the contract. It might help with understanding or finding a means by which to retrieve Ban’s brother, if any such method exists. You could also consult a diabolist,” Gale added. “Or, Karlach and Wyll might be able to wrangle some fiends for you.”

They were all good suggestions, but right now it merely felt like meaningless words swimming in Astarion’s head. There were too many options, none of which seemed to lead to better chances of success. Then there was the bigger concern in his mind - telling Ban about it in the first place.

“Thank you,” he managed to say. “I’d invite you to stay over for dinner, but I doubt tonight will be anything but deeply unpleasant.”

Gale stood. “I understand. I will, of course, begin researching on my end as well. Let me know if you need anything more, and I will be in contact if I find anything of use. Good luck, my friend.” He clasped Astarion’s shoulder, and slipped away, leaving him to his thoughts.

He found her seeing Shadowheart and the city planner off. She was standing by the front door, waving goodbye. Shadowheart shot him a smile from afar, no doubt thinking about her wedding present, but he could barely muster a response, merely raising his hand in farewell.

As they departed, Astarion wrapped his arms around Ban from behind, pressing his nose against the top of her head. Taking a deep breath, he held her close, hoping she would let the moment stand. He did not know what to say, or how to even begin; but he needed to seek comfort. Gods knew this might be the last peaceful moment they would have for a while. Possibly ever.

Her hands settled on top of his arm, rubbing gently. Her muscles were tense, he noted, but that thought was brushed aside. “Good evening, love.”

Ban arched her neck, and he pecked the proffered cheek. “Did your day go well?”

“Well enough. I-” He stopped himself. Not yet. She didn’t turn to face him, or ask him about what he had just tried to say. Evidently something else was on her mind. “I trust the business with the cloister has now been fully resolved?”

She pulled away from his grasp, heading back inside the palace. “It has. They’ve agreed on a lump sum. Only the paperwork needs to be signed.”

He followed her in, a step behind her. “That’s… wonderful news.”

They headed towards the dining room. If she was avoiding his gaze as much as he was hers, he couldn’t muster enough courage to ask.

Dinner was a quiet affair. The only sounds were of clinking glasses and the utensils as they ate. Neither reached out to the other’s mind - an uncommon thing during mealtimes - but neither commented on it. He was thankful for it - it gave him some time to think and consider exactly how he wanted to broach the topic.

She finally cleared her throat after dessert, the first sound she’d made in a while, and he looked up.

“Astarion,” she said, her face tight. He tensed. Did she already know? How?

“My love?” He forced a lightness he did not feel at all into his voice.

“I think it’s time you tell me how much contact you’ve actually been having with my parents.” Before he could say anything she passed an envelope to him, and he looked down at it.

A letter addressed to him, from Roderich. Ban hadn’t opened it. He fought down a flood of relief, then waved it at her. “If you were so concerned about our correspondence, love, you could have opened it. I would not have minded.”

“I’d rather hear it from your own mouth.”

Cold. Angry. He sighed, thoughts of Adrien temporarily pushed from his mind. He ripped the envelope open, scanning the text as quickly as he could. As expected, it was nothing of import.

“Here.” He passed the letter to her. “They are merely asking for updates, the impatient wretches.”

Ban read the letter, and then reread it. “I see. But why would they ask for updates in the first place?”

“I made an agreement with them,” he confessed. “I was to inform them if… if we found Adrien, and in return they promised to leave you both alone.”

Her eyes softened. “That… well.” She reached out and grasped his hand. “Sorry. It’s just that… when it comes to them, I… I find it hard to be reasonable.”

“I don’t blame you.” His old methods slipped back in without his conscious choice. Sidetrack the conversation, spin it into something else. Do anything, everything - just to avoid what needed to be said. “There’s little need to apologize. Shall we head to our room, then? I've yet to finish that book.”

Ban stared at him for a long moment, far longer than she usually did. He felt her eyes move from his face to his body, her index and middle finger shifting to feel his pulse.

Controlling his body language was something he could do without much trouble, seeing as he'd had to do it for centuries. Calming his pulse however, was another; he hadn’t had much practice with that. As her fingertips touched his wrist he pulled it away.

She frowned. “What's wrong?”

No. Fuck.

Fuckfuckfuck.

I’m not ready!

He spoke anyway.

“Adrien left your parents.”

She broke into a laugh. “Well, that's ironic. And also good! If he ran away, I'm sure we'll stumble onto him eventually, but there's no rush. He'll handle himself well - at least I hope.”

He made a small, strangled sound, fighting to get the words out.

“He… left, to cool off.”

“Oh.” She sat up straighter. “And then decided to run away? Impulsive as always.”

“That was my initial conclusion.” Astarion gripped the table, knuckles white.

“But there's more to it.” The smile on her face died. “What happened, Astarion?”

“He-”

A deep breath, and then another. His hand sought hers, gripped it tight. Ban bit her lip.

“He's dead, isn't he?”

Astarion didn't know whether to shake his head or nod. He felt frozen, eyes locked onto hers. “He…”

“He is.” Her voice cracked, and he hated it. Ban was never one to cry, after all. He could count on one hand the number of times she'd allowed it to happen in his presence. “Y-you don't have to say anything, I… thank you, for finding him.”

“He isn't just deceased, Ban.” He locked eyes with her, steeling himself. His jaw tightened.

“Then what? Please. I know it's bad. The way you've been acting all night, the way you haven't spoken - please.”

“By all definitions he's dead,” he managed to say. “The circumstances of his demise are, however, a matter in and of itself.”

He stared at her for a long, hard moment.

“We killed him, love. We killed him in the rite.”

[afreakingdork]

Soft Spot - Chapter 24

RotTMNT Donatello x Reader

I'm going ham depicting all the OCs this time around so here's everyone's favorite phone obsessed peep, Eugene! Obviously they were captured at their most flattering by the magnanimous @grumpytheunicorn

Rated: Explicit

Warnings/Tags: Romance, Established Relationship, Married Couple, Married Life, Aged-Up Mutant Ninja Turtles, Villain Donatello (TMNT), Love, POV Second Person, Babies, Pregnancy, AFAB reader, Vaginal Sex, Rough Sex, Penis In Vagina Sex, Creampie, Breeding Kink, Multiple Orgasms, Angst, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Fertility Issues, Pregnant Sex, Pregnancy Kink, Reader-Insert, Cunnilingus, Fellatio, Cum Eating, Turtle Noises (TMNT), I have a Biology Degree and I’m Using it, Menstruation, There WILL NOT be any Miscarriages

Synopsis: First comes love. Then comes marriage. Then comes the next step about as smooth as the others arrived. The baby-oriented sequel to Weak Spot.

Also available on Ao3

NOTE: So my secular ass that was raised without religion genuinely had no idea that godparents was a religious concept. I curse the christian-centric values bred into the American zeitgeist. Like obviously, it has the word 'god' in it, but no one said this dork had a high IQ (I very much don't). I was genuinely inspired to even do a godparent story line because of the movie Life as We Know It (2010). My deepest apologies if this misstep alienated anyone. Please know that it does not come from a place of faith and instead is meant only in the non-religious terms which is a guardian who takes custody of a child should anything happen to a child's parents.

First 💜 Previous

You wanted to say you marched into the arena. In a tight, single file formation, double doors were shoved open in front of you. The leaders of your group paved the way for the opposing team’s imminent loss. Another set of doors were breached and the suction seal of sound was broken. Fanfare erupted as the first challengers were seen. Flickering lights danced around mimicking paparazzi and within a few steps, you too had entered the building. Your husband was the heavy on the end, the last force to back up your intrepid part and from the front, your general spoke.

“I am here…” Eugene threw a thumb at their person over the host stand. “… for the 100 wing death challenge.”

“Party for Eugene.” The woman double checked her notes before chirping through the illusions of grandeur. “Right this way!”

You were now simply a group of friends who had walked into a sports bar and were led to a table that accommodated your numbers. While you had been incubating a baby, your friends’ lives had continued. Eugene had picked up an interest in eating competitions after binge watching some competitive eating show. They had scoured New York City for a reasonable enough challenge and relied on their spiced upbringing to win them a particular gold. This bar had recently opened and no one had been able to achieve the goal as of yet, so Eugene marked themself down to be the first. This gave them precedent and they took a seat at the head of the table to face their cheer squad.

Kaleb was fast tracking for a promotion and hadn’t had much time for antics. He was a little all work and no play, though you bet everyone at his job still considered him the quintessential jolly man. You heard he had been driving out of the city for some curry place as his only extracurricular as of late and he manned the second seat to the head of the table.

Coral sat immediately across from him with her usual poise. If this were any other event, she might have been the one executing, but she had deferred along with her taming. Exercise had fallen off of her interest list and mimosa flights had moved in. Bubbly was her means of celebration as she and Nelson had been dating for almost three whole months.

You headed for the seat next to hers since said man was on a work trip. Besides a label, very little had changed in their dynamic. Both Coral and Nelson would have been here to cheer Eugene on, had he been available. He was probably texting the group chat asking for updates and you meant to check, but you struggled to fit into the slot she had tucked into. She had chosen a route along a wall and your little one was feeling especially not so little in your 28th week.

“Shit.” Coral noticed and clicked her tongue. “Sink, switch!”

“No way!” Kaleb slapped his belly. “You think I’m squeezing my ass in there? Bring that baby to the open side.”

He gestured to the seat next to his and how his row had space as it butted up to walkway.

“I want to sit next to Y/N!” Coral broiled.

Donnie paused at the end of the table to select whatever was leftover.

“Okay.” You caught a chair and put some weight onto it. “I can fit, I just need a second…”

Kaleb looked right at Donnie. “Colonel, let’s just move the table.”

“I can fit!” You snapped.

Donnie stayed especially still.

Kaleb blinked.

Eugene grinned pre-gamed shit.

Coral’s frown lined her cheeks.

You took a single breath to keep the next line out of your mouth at bay. You sympathized heavily with a particular woman who had just wanted ice cream. Now far removed from easily concealed bump days, your supposed helplessness was on the rise. There was always someone trying to make way or, worse yet, trying to touch you, and your mate often picked up the slack. An irrational part of your brain said your friends should know all this, but you had been just about as scarce as they were in life updates.

You were glad when Eugene had asked you to come.

They had made sure to ask specifically you.

They said they wanted you there.

They said they wanted to catch up while they suffered.

A gauntlet, they had joked, referring to yet another program.

It meant something.

It all meant something.

Coral’s care.

Kaleb’s assumption.

Donnie’s patience.

It was all equally irritating.

Your feet ached.

Your lower back was incessantly sore.

Your calves would throb from this short pause.

You were in a never ending battle between sitting down and your bladder.

You breathed in and out again before you tried to meaningfully look over your options. Kaleb’s mind for engineering argued his course was best and it would be nice to be able to easily get in and out of your seat when you inevitably had to hit the restroom next.

“Move the table.” You admitted trying not to be too sad about it.

The hoist took less than a few seconds and no one made further notes.

Donnie eventually sat across from you and beside Kaleb. Waters were passed out and other, more paltry orders were taken. Eugene’s serious air kept the table from falling into much catch up and eventually a team of employees approached the table.

“Welcome!” The first spoke as the hostess from the front. “I have a whole spiel, are you ready?”

“Born ready.” Eugene looked up with a fiery gazed they hoped matched the wings.

“Alright.” The woman bowed slightly. “Welcome to The Vertigo Venue, home of the 100 wing death challenge, where you won’t leave without your head spinning. As the reaper implies, you need to finish 100 of the world’s hottest wings in under 45 minutes. They will be brought to you in groups of 10 with the last 5 beings made with some of the hottest peppers in the world. Do you think you can stand up to the heat or will you be running from our kitchen?”

A man beside her who looked like he had come from the cook staff nodded appropriately.

“I’m here to win.” Eugene stared straight on.

“We’ll see. We’ll need you to sign a standard liability waiver.” The perky woman took an offered piece of paper from the third member of their trio and passed it along with a pen.

Kaleb and Donnie both tried to eye it as Eugene signed it without reading.

“Perfect. The rest of your food will be out soon. Our server, Monica, here will monitor you. You’re not allowed to drink water, use dip, or get into anything else that might cleanse your palate between wing sets. Still sound good?”

“Let’s get it going!” Eugene hollered.

The rest of the table minus Donnie cheered alongside.

The two others bowed out and Monica took the far seat opposite Eugene.

“Monica.” Kaleb immediately leaned forward to see her. “Scare the pants off Eugene. Tell us all about the losers.”

Monica jumped a little. “Uh… I only just started last week…”

“Aw!” Kaleb sank back in his chair.

“Pathetic.” Eugene sneered.

“Though… I heard the first guy who tried it fainted and was taken away in an ambulance…” Monica continued on.

Eugene hiccupped.

“The second and third didn’t make it past 50 and the last one…” Monica thought hard. “I think I heard they threw up or burned their sinuses or something. That also might have been a lie for the newbie…”

The rest of the table was now staring at her.

“I mean think about it!” She squeaked.

“Can I get a copy of that waiver?” Coral oozed malevolence. “I want to hang it over Eugene’s hospital bed.”

“Shut up!” Eugene swatted at her.

Conversation opened up and broke apart. From the table to smaller parties, you chatted with Coral about how she thought the celery and carrots were a waste of time. Eugene went on to speak about their utility which went on until Monica stood. It was a signal and you all quieted as a server came around your table. Food was dispersed to everyone else in a way that made Eugene stand out.

They were center stage when that cook from earlier walked out to personally deliver the first ten hot wings.

He spoke of some insane number of Scoville units, which measured the spice.

Eugene seemed unimpressed and the man departed.

Monica pulled a digital clock out from somewhere and readied it. “I’ll start it when you take your first bite.”

Eugene nodded once.

Kaleb was already through a few of his own wings as he watched.

Everyone else waited.

Eugene picked up a flat and leveled their gaze at Monica.

She found some courage and returned it with a hand over the button.

A few wild west seconds ticked by before they took a bite and she pressed the clock.

“Oh!” Eugene immediately perked up. “That’s pretty good.”

They ate at a steady pace with a relatively impressed expression.

“What’s the math on that?” Kaleb tipped his head to Donnie.

“For 45 minutes, 2.2 wings a minute.” Donnie answered, having yet to eat anything.

“The point two wings part is the real challenge.” Kaleb spoke like a joking sage.

Your spouse nodded without further mention.

Kaleb examined him with a creased brow.

The cook came out with the next basket.

You sort of heard the new Scoville number, but really you smelled the spice.

You salivated.

Your own wings were something basic.

Your gastrointestinal system had been particularly active.

It didn’t help that your child was kicking.

Dr. Kuro had you doing what she called a ‘kick count.’ While she admitted the egg shell made it a bit odd, she cautioned that the larger the baby grew, the more active they would become. You figured they got Donnie’s smarts because soon after that they seemed to realize they could get a reaction out of you only if they kicked the malleable placenta. You would find yourself struck at odd hours and heaving when your organs were attacked.

Counting out your abuse was a given.

Donnie, who apparently could hear the movement, was always nearby for a hand to squeeze. You guessed you considered that a forewarning of birth, though that was still a tossup. Dr. Kuro said she was waiting to see something specific before she made a final determination on whether you’d be up for natural birth or not. You quaked at the thought of passing the plastron, but your doctor seemed confident it was soft enough. You found that hard to believe when she seemed to only be able to tell that by sonogram, but you had no choice but to defer to her centuries of knowledge.

If the knocks to your insides weren’t bad enough, your heartburn picked up the slack.

You had never particularly noticed any cravings. If anything you developed aversions, but they always seemed to make sense. Eating a constant diet geared toward your health often put you in food ruts. There were only so many ways vegetables, fruits, and lean proteins could be prepared for maximum benefit and you hit those walls fast. You did your best to rotate the crops. An attempt was made so you didn’t deplete your reserves in each food group, but it had been a neverending balance act.

Acid reflux hit you hard in week 27.

Without obvious cause or culprit you were burping up boiling oil. For the first time in your pregnancy, you felt the ache of nausea. Churning guts had you reaching for antacids. You had to check which were safe when all you wanted was to stop the burn. You tried to hastily switch your diet in an attempt to offset it, but there seemed to be no rhyme or reason for the burn.

You ate a banana one day with no problem.

The next it caught in your throat a second time after swallowing.

You moved swiftly through your meal plans and it all culminated in a little pregnancy oddity. There were tons of these as far as Dr. Kuro was concerned and she likened them to the babies themselves. She said cravings and the like were all the baby deciding what they liked best, even if there was no evidence to support it.

You were sick enough to agree, but your mate had been hung up on the lack of science.

He had researched what he could, but abandoned it with relative swiftness. Pools of data were riddled with error and emotion. He likened it to the source of his ninpo as if he hadn’t taken to his new power like a moth to a flame. After his display of grandeur in the living room, his constructs were soon things he made without second thought. You figured it was an extension of those holograms that were linked to his brain. Ninpo bypassed some microscopic lag that supposedly came from his chip and had far greater application.

With a touch, he had a mug warmer keeping your tea the right temperature while you agonized over getting the minty aid down. With a tip of his head, a prop would appear if you needed to rest. He had even whipped up a neck pillow, though it was unusable. Tests found that while he understood organic compounds, he couldn’t recreate them with his power. The polyester he tried to manifest had been itchy and coarse. Though he was annoyed he couldn’t help you, knowing that mysticism had its limits seemed to soothe your mate.

They were caps on the intangible and he saw the rules as physical concepts. For moving mass, they were the calculations for friction and he loved parameters. He moved within them and wove throughout. You saw him create new battle shell prototypes in blinks just so he could see the components. He would turn the manifestations with flourishes and burst them into pieced blueprints so he could walk amongst the parts.

If you hadn’t been so sick as of late, you could have seen him revel more.

As it was, those glimpses had been few and far between. You wanted to encourage him because you loved to watch, but as of now Donnie barely spared time to practice. He only seemed to work with his ninpo to make sure his handle on it was a safe one. You and your child were his greater focus. He cared little for some great power as he deemed it unnecessary with the current state of his life. He had other things he wanted to do and, even if his ninpo could have helped, his plans were to do things with his own two hands, so he did.

The lumber for the crib had arrived a few days ago.

He was still reworking the perfect blueprint.

Tending to your tender stomach had kept him from long stretches of design.

The closing in of all you needed to do further upset your stomach.

So much of the time you thought should have gone to preparing for the baby had been used to instead see what shape the baby would take. It was difficult to think about buying clothes when you weren’t sure how sharp the carapace would be. You didn’t know how to account for diapers if there was a tail or not. Bottle types were a stalwart until one considered if formula was even necessary.

As far as you noticed, you hadn’t even produced milk or whatever precursor concoction it was called.

It was head-spinning.

You were already neglecting your friends as it were. Falling behind in regards to your kid which was the one thing you were supposedly putting all your energy toward felt like the ultimate failing. The thoughts might have consumed you had you not heard but opposition.

From Dr. Kuro, who had immediately picked up on the faintest hint of your anxiety, to Donnie, who was the king of over-preparations, neither party allowed for your doubts. Contingencies were always possible, but, as most of these things went, it didn’t matter how prepared or unprepared you were; a baby was coming. You would be ready because you had to be. Whatever you needed would be acquired and, if it had to be something different, then you would get that instead. Without the economic bars, that should have been settled for you, but the admonishment for thinking with such privilege in the first place came as a countercurrent.

It felt like a resurgence of the inadequacies you had long overcome. Years had gone by since you berated yourself in that way and the feelings had crept in to poison your heart and mind before you knew it. You decided that they were the leak of acid upsetting your stomach to absolve you and your baby of blame. It was the bad thoughts making you sick and not any infantile kicks. A change of mindset wasn’t something that happened immediately, but you had seen a turn as soon as you started to dismantle that train of thought.

Except now you were heavily debating on sucking the clean bones Eugene left behind.

Two more baskets had cycled through in that time and people were talking. Coral had left you behind to debate something with Kaleb that seemed to relate to Eugene. Said person sat at the center of a storm and seemed to be faring well. There was the faintest flush to their cheeks, but they continued eating at an even pace.

The smell of spice was in the air and tucking back into your nostrils. Waves of it wafting into a manifesting cloud that beckoned you forward. You moved by your nose alone as you leaned against the table. Your baby held onto the metaphorical edge to peak themselves at the treat unknown to them because you wanted one of those wings.

A level four spice couldn’t have been that bad.

You were turning toward Monica before you realized it. “When does the waiver kick in?”

Monica was schooled enough that she didn’t look away from Eugene. “It’s for overall consumption and the last fifteen.”

“Are the other sauces…” You glanced at one of the discarded baskets that had yet to be picked up and felt that drive hit you. “… on the menu normally?”

“Y/N…?” Coral caught wind of what you were doing.

 “Huh?” You couldn’t pull your gaze away.

“You gonna do the challenge? You think eating for two gives you an edge?”

“What? No.” You finally blinked away.

“You’re eye fucking the bones.” Coral’s smile quirked.

“I don’t-!” You shook your head.

“Craving!” Eugene gulped out a fiery breath. “Mom did that with me! I was a spice baby!”

“You are good with spice.” Kaleb was inclined to agree.

“How’d that work out?” You felt a little guilty asking since it took Eugene’s attention away.

Eugene thought while they chewed.

You could feel Donnie eyeing you.

“Ever had heartburn so bad you couldn’t move?” Eugene finally animated and pointed a set of bones at you.

You sort of wanted to lean forward and bite the sinew on the joint.

“Haven’t you been dying with heartburn already?” Coral leaned suspiciously into your person.

“What’s another?” You found yourself saying.

Eugene laughed right into a choke.

Kaleb and Monica both shot to attention.

“Spice! Throat!” Eugene coughed out. “M’okay!”

Coral whacked their back and was cursed out for it.

Another set of wings for level five arrived.

You watched with a dropped jaw as your coveted bones were removed.

The new set scorched your nostrils from two seats away and your baby kicked with demands.

“C-can I-?!” You tried to call out to the cook, but his back turned and he was gone.

Donnie fluidly stood from his seat and chased him down.

“Ah…” You sounded your displeasure.

“There’s something!” Eugene took his first bite of wing 50. “Thought they were going easy on me!”

Coral glanced at the clock. “Might do it… Huh!”

“Non-believer!” Eugene shared spittle.

“I’m siding with the winning team.” Kaleb cheered.

“Fair-weather fan!” Coral cursed.

Donnie returned.

“You know what a fair-weather fan is, Dee?” Kaleb went to share the joke.

You sort of saw your husband shake his head, but you were staring at some napkins.

An insane part of you wanted to snort their red blotches.

Not only was that patently gross, it also would have been bad for your skin.

Craving or not, the thought of hot sauce swallowed your rationale.

You wanted it.

Your own food was completely unappetizing.

You only wanted something of that spice caliber.

Nothing else would suffice.

Heat.

Tongue burning.

Gasping for water.

You wanted to choke on it.

It would be all you could taste.

You sucked back up literal drool to wash your mouth out.

“Excuse me.” There was a tap to your shoulder.

You jumped as far as your belly allowed.

Everyone paused at your yelp.

You turned to find a server equally shocked, but still holding onto a small basket of 6 wings. “I-I’m so sorry. Are you alright? You couldn’t hear me, I just thought-!”

You meant to apologize.

Take blame.

Anything.

Except right at eye level was oozing lines of heat.

You could see the steam warping the air.

It came with a scent.

That spice that had been dropping down Eugene’s gullet at a dangerous pace.

The server was still talking and you only looked up at them. “Those are mine?”

“U-Uh! Y-yes!” They offered you the basket.

You smacked the untouched set you had ordered before away.

You heard Coral clear her throat from behind her hand.

You felt Eugene stare.

You didn’t care.

You yanked the wings down and let the smell wash over you.

Your eyes watered.

“Uh…” Kaleb drawled out concern.

“Shh!” Coral hissed.

You selected your first wing and everything else fell away.

There was clearly more than one flavor in the basket, but you didn’t care. Whatever wing was closest was your first choice. If you had been a better friend, you might have paid attention to spice level explanation. You were sure you had an excuse.

Tender flesh reached your lips and you tore into it indelicately. 

A moan escaped you.

The lapping heat licked your tongue right back.

You took another bite.

You skirted bone.

The sauce scorched your lips.

It felt divine.

Hellfire washed you clean from inside out.

Each bite siphoned more of that spit down your throat. It burned your esophagus and went further down. Through winding tubes and whatever transformed that mash into something your baby could use. It sucked up the residuals in a form palatable for their development and satisfied that kick count for whatever high reaches it met today.

The basket was empty before your eyes rolled back from their journey to find your brain.

You must have put on quite the display from the state of your tablemates.

Coral was visibly shaking from withheld laughter. The only part of her facing you was her phone and it was clearly taking video. Eugene had fully stopped their challenge to outright gape with a full mouth. You skirted the wad to find Kaleb wearing a frown that was levied by how high his brows were. Even your mate, who had surely seen you at your absolute worst, was staring with uncharacteristically wide eyes per his public persona.

You meant to excuse yourself, but a small burp came out.

It was a feather light topping that offset the scales.

Everyone laughed.

Even Monica, who you had almost forgotten was privy to the party.

“A t-true g-glowing vi-vision!” Coral cackled as her phone shook.

“Give me a break!” You tried to take it.

She snatched it away. “Gross hands! No!”

“I’m not a dog!”

“Don’t eat like one then!”

You went to touch her shirt.

She shrieked.

“The time!” Kaleb suddenly shouted.

Eugene squeaked and dove back into his basket.

“18 minutes left.” Donnie remarked.

“What’re they at?” Kaleb turned back and forth.

“67.” Monica spoke, ready.

“Is that-!?” Kaleb continued to whip back and forth.

“Ahead of schedule.” Donnie said. 

“Oh! Fweh!” Kaleb sank into his chair, dropping all concern. “False alarm.”

With a full mouth, Eugene grunted out unintelligible complaints.

Your mouth was on fire.

You wouldn’t have it any other way, but breathing was becoming a bit of a curse. 

Each bout of life-sustaining oxygen fanned the embers on your tongue.

It hurt, but you loved the burn.

You thought about asking for another basket.

“Ugh.”

You could barely register what was happening before a napkin smashed into your mouth.

It was your turn to grunt into it.

“You’re drooling!” Coral wiped your chin.

“What the fuck!? I’m not a baby!?”

“Stop acting like one then!”

“Is this some ploy for godparentdom?!”

Coral buckled with guilt.

“Coral, you’re joking.”

“Ha! Ha! Yeah!” She curled away with your used napkin.

“It’s wasn’t a thing!”

“You put me with the hippo!!” She snapped.

“A mutant!” You swatted at her.

This time you made contact.

“This is not me being prejudiced! Don’t you hold that against me!”

“I am and I told you: it wasn’t that serious! Yes, we want godparents, but it was a spur of the moment decision! Mikey asked and I said the first people that came to mind!” 

“You don’t just pick based on feeling! I want you to pick me because it should be!”

“If you think it should be you, why are you mad?!” 

“I want to earn it!” 

“That doesn’t make sense!” 

“Yes! It does! It means something!”

“I know it does! Donnie and I have been discussing it!” 

“So you already decided!?”  

“I didn’t say that!” 

“Oscar the Grouch doesn’t discuss. He debates! I know what he thinks of me! He argued against me, I know it!” 

“World revolves around you, huh!? That wasn’t even on his mind!” 

“So now I’m not even worth considering!?” 

“Coral, I swear-!!!” 

“Final five!” Kaleb whooped, seemingly unaware.

You and Coral had hands on each other, but both turned in time to see Eugene take their first bite of the spiciest wings in the challenge.

You watched in slow motion.

Their lips hit the meat.

You had to lick your own vestiges.

Eugene tore away and chewed a single time before they appeared to light up.

In something out of a cartoon, you swore you watched the heat travel straight through their face where it bled steam out their ears.

“WHAT THE FUC-!?!” Eugene snorted and the lava must have gone elsewhere because their eyes went wild.

They scoured the table.

“No water!” Monica announced.

Eugene looked up with tears running down their face.

“I m-mean-!” Monica tittered nervously. “Of course, you can, but it would violate the rules of the-!”

“No water!” Kaleb slapped a hand down to the table. “You got this!”

Eugene turned the weepiness toward their captain.

“3 minutes.” Donnie added.

Eugene swallowed and it apparently went down like glass because they wheezed.

“Eu-gene! Eu-gene!” Kaleb started up a chant and stared expectantly across the table.

You and Coral unwove from one another to pump your fists and join the encouragement.

Donnie only joined in only after Monica participated.

Eugene wobbled through their 95 wing.

They sobbed through 96.

By 97 they were dry heaving.

98 came with another choking fit.

Their hands were quaking around 99.

Splatters of the sauce shot out threateningly from the shake.

You swore you could see them burn holes in the table.

Time moved slow and fast.

Eugene was out of pace.

The clock sped by while they lagged.

“10 seconds!” Monica suddenly yelled.

All of Eugene’s speed caught up with them and they deep-throated 99.

The ensuing wretch was heard around the restaurant.

They disappeared from their seat and the only marker of where they had gone was a sauce print on the wall.

The alarm clock beeped out the final time.

Instead of looking after Eugene, everyone looked down at the one untouched wing left in their basket.

The plea bargains came immediately.

“Throwing up is a caveat!”

“Where’s choking on your waiver?!”

“You cannot hold this against them!”

“It’s one wing!!”

As Monica’s hands lifted, the hostess who had set this in motion appeared.

“I’m sorry, everyone. Rules are rules…” She spoke law.

There were grumbles shared.

Eventually Monica departed.

Kaleb eventually coaxed Donnie up to go find Eugene.

Your husband shot you a look and you nodded for him to go.

There was a moment of silence for the failure.

Coral spoke as soon as the quiet set in.

“Wanna eat it?” Coral pointed to the final wing that had been Eugene’s demise.

“You eat it.”

“You were horfing these down a minute ago.”

“Like one through six, not the waiver ones.”

“I’m surprised the restaurant left it here.”

“Isn’t it a liability for the rest of us?”

“Totally must be.”

“Godparent duties if you eat it.”

“Fuck you.”

“Fine, don’t be godmother.”

“Fuck you.”

You laughed.

“I do not care that you’re pregnant. That’s bullshit.”

“You never care.”

“I care about this and you’re being mean about it.” 

“Yeah, I don’t really get why.” 

“You don’t.” Coral leveled with you. 

Her look took your words. 

“You don’t.” She repeated with a different inflection. 

“You make me want to apologize.” You squirmed in your seat. 

“It should be obvious.” 

“Coral-”

“Yeah. I get it. It’s not.” She sighed. “Maybe I haven’t tried to talk to you enough. After we stopped doing the pilates together…” 

“You got a boyfriend…” 

She relented a little. “It’s not like I stopped caring.” 

“Of course.” 

“I want it. I’m not huge on kids, but this’ll be your kid. I’m in your corner, always have been. They’re gonna be a little extension of you. If anything happened to you…” 

You looked her over. 

“I’d do it right.” She decided. “Raising them how you’d want.” 

You gave her an earnest smile. 

She gave her usual awkward air at sincerity. 

You gave the moment time to breathe before ruining it for her sake. “Wiping my mouth and trying to get me a booster seat is not a great way to show it.”

“I did not!” She lit up at the shift. 

“You did!”

“There’s no booster seat for the current size of your ass.”

“FUCK YOU!”

Coral laughed maniacally.

You elbowed her.

She sent one right back.

Two calm seconds panned out before you were bumping each other’s chairs.

The scraping summoned a server who was clearly too scared to interrupt and ask if everything was alright.

They also spied the wing.

They turned tail for the kitchen.

“Last chance!” You pointed and almost got her eye.

She swatted you away at the last second. “Not on your unborn spawn!”

“Rules are rules!” You mocked.

“Who else besides Hypno!? I know you aren’t giving it to him with that husband of his!”

“Don’t worry about it!”

“I will because I’ll be stuck with them!”

“Nuh uh!”

“Uh huh!”

The kitchen doors opened in a telling way.

You both went rigid as the cook came out and headed in your direction.

“Lick it and it’s yours!”

She sat out a beat and the man disappeared behind a pillar on the way.

You kept lookout.

“One lick!”

You watched her reach out.

A single digit emerged from the rest.

You waited for the bluff.

It never came.

She made contact and hid the sauce laden finger back on her person, just as the cook arrived.

“Apologies! Let me get this for you!” The man took only the one basket.

You both watched him go with the intent of prey animals before looking at where Coral had cradled her hand to her chest.

You heard her gulp.

You saw her shudder.

She inhaled deep to steady herself before bringing her hand up.

You caught her wrist before it got too close to her extended tongue. “I was joking!”

“You were?!” 

“Yeah! I didn’t think you would-! That sent someone to the hospital!”

“It’s pretty hard to tell!”

“I would not make you eat some death wing to make you my kid’s back-up plan!”

She pointed the poison at you.

You caught a napkin and wiped it away. “Careful!”

She frowned for a moment before it turned into a pout.

“You can ask.” You wadded up the napkin and safely tucked it away so no one might accidentally use it. “Officially.” 

“Does that mean-?”

“Of course, you’re the godmother.”

“Thank fuck!” She threw her arms up and lolled into her chair with a clanging of its legs.

“There’s two positions anyway!. Hypno was up for the other, you realized that, right?”

She made a face.

“What is with you?! I thought you liked him!”

“I do! I just-!” She made a disgruntled noise. “Like I don’t want it to be Nelson. He’s not cut out for it and also I feel like that’s us going too fast, but I guess I thought it would be… I don’t know…! That… your stupid hubby got his pick too. You too are always so gross with your shared grossness. He’s been branching out. Making friends and being almost a person, so…” Her mouth went as small as it could. “I know he’s not picking Hypno and he’s like… inspiring or… something… I guess…”

You blinked.

“It’s whatever! Goals! Ugh! Is that what you want to hear?!” She folded her arms.

“Goals… as in…?”

“You two! I don’t know!”

“Like…?”

“Like relationship. Through all the shit. It’s crazy how you two are. Parent goals. I wish my parents were one tenth of the Grinch.”

“The Grinch being Donnie.”

“Hell, I’ll take the cartoon guy. He treated that dog pretty well.”

“Coral…” You moved to hug her.

“Gross! Don’t!” She gave no actual resistance.

You had to twist your body to reach.

Gas moved.

You felt the bubble.

A harmless burp.

Until the bile chased it.

The noise you made was gaseous and made Coral actually flinch away.

“Oh shit, are you gonna throw up too?!”

“N-no!” You covered your mouth and could smell the spice.

It burned straight up as it mixed with the battery acid of your stomach.

“Ugh… Heartburn…” You choked it down and went for water.

“They have to have milk.” Coral looked around. “Or ice cream?”

“Yeah…” The acid retreated without the threat of coming out, though sometimes you wished it would.

Instead, you would be burping like this for the next few hours.

Or days based on the level of heat on those wings.

You didn’t curse your baby, but a small part of you groaned at its insistence on pain.

You burped again on your own terms to try to circumvent the next one and groaned.

“They’re avoiding us, I swear.” She looked around.

You sank back into your chair and felt the usual pressure of your bladder.

Getting up was going to exacerbate things.

There was no fighting it.

“I’ll be right back.” You told your companion.

“To throw up?” She checked earnestly.

“Nah, gonna pee. Get me ice cream though.”

“As soon as someone comes!” She huffed. “What flavor?”

“Vanilla’s fine.”

“I’ll see if they have better.”

You smiled and left. You sort of registered the others hadn’t returned, but focused more on the trip. You had to weave through tables and groups to get across the bar. There weren't any sports events that you knew were playing and the TVs seemed to confirm that. They sat on and useless, showing replays with sportscasters talking over smaller images. You paid them little mind as you found the break in the wall that clearly led to the restrooms.

Down the hallway leading to them, you saw the family stall was propped open and the sound of a tap running full steam leaked out.

“You okay, man?”

It was Kaleb’s voice and you slowed.

No one responded and the soft rush from the sink continued.

“I can’t be sure, but you’ve been weird since I mentioned the big guy…”

You didn’t chance peeking and only crept closer.

“Raph can crack bones with his jaw pressure right? I thought he’d be a beast with wings.” Kaleb went on. 

Even with the static, you heard the exhale of your husband.

“Something happened…” Kaleb spoke his realization. “I’m sorry, dude. I didn’t realize things had gone south again.”

“No… That’s not-” Donnie tried. 

Something beeped. “Switch eyes.”

You heard a babble of Eugene and the water pitch shifted as something was moved under it.

You really wished you could see.

“All good, we’ll get it all out. Just hang in there.” Kaleb ushered.

Eugene gurgled a response.

Your friend must have had their head in the sink.

“But, yeah. Sorry. I won’t bring him up again.” Kaleb continued.

“We… No…” Donnie struggled. “It was… me. I was excessively cruel.”

“I mean-”

“I was.” Donnie pressed.

Kaleb relented with a popped vowel.

“I don’t know what to do.” There was a thump against a wall.

“Yeah?”

“How do I…? How can I… apologize?”

“It’s not like they apologized to you.” Kaleb spoke knowingly.

“Raphael did.” Donnie said simply. “Raph…”

There was some quiet.

“He did.”

You heard a clap like a hand on a shoulder.

“Our acquaintance was fragile. No fixing disrepair.”

“From engineer to scientist, we both know that’s not true.”

You didn’t hear a response.

“It’s all about creative solutions in our line of work. So what are we thinking?”

“Kaleb…” Donnie sounded exhausted.

“I know you’ve thought of something.”

“It’s unreasonable. You understand unusable theory. Hypothesis best kept-”

“Donatello.”

Your mate went silent.

“Just hit me. Safe space. It’s a bathroom. The safest of spaces. Holiest of tiles!”

Eugene made an affirmative noise.

You could almost see Donnie taking in the definition and adding it to his notes on behavior.

You didn’t disagree, but you might amend that one.

“I would need a gesture. Something meaningful.”

“Mhm…”

“The godfather position…”

Only the water droned on.

“But that entails my child, mine, falling in with the Hamato! That can’t possibly-!”

“Raph… he’s… good with kids, right?”

Donnie said nothing.

“He runs those dojos. He, like, exclusively works with kids. We went to that one city-wide match. It was crazy. The kids loved him. The parents loved him.”

Eugene’s hair would have been soaked through.

“Didn’t he quit the family? I mean obviously he didn’t, but like he put his foot down. He’s had enough of it. I don’t know him like you, but I don’t know… I can see him… If something happened to you… giving up everything. Dropping it all to take on that new duty. I’m not vouching for it, you can do whatever, but it’s not that bad of an idea. It’s a big gesture. He goes soft at the slightest thing. You offer him this and he’s definitely going to cry. ”

There was quiet again and the rushing water was getting to you.

Your bladder ached.

You shifted stance to try to alleviate pressure.

It did little.

It rarely did these days.

Your limit was your limit.

“I admit I’ve… considered such…” Donnie murmured.

You pulled the closest bathroom door and ducked inside.

You checked and saw that there was a mechanism to close it quietly and did your business.

You emerged in time to see a soaked wet cat of Eugene send you a blood red glance.

“What happened?!” You quaked to fuss over them.

“Vomit in my eyes. I do not want to talk about it.” They glared as much as their swollen eyes could before continuing along and leaving drips behind.

“We got most of it.” Kaleb was next in line.

Donnie nodded and looked worn.

You smiled at him and he came to join you.

“You good? The wings get you?” Kaleb wondered, not put out by third-wheeling.

You slipped your arms through Donnie’s. “Nah, classic gotta pee business.”

“Truth.” Kaleb’s head bobbed and you headed back to the table.

Eugene was there with their face in a bowl of ice cream.

Each place setting had a specific scoop set and Coral smirked over her dominion.

“Nice!” You dropped down hard in your seat and grabbed a spoon.

Eugene sighed dreamily.

“They… good…? They look like shit.” Coral asked with a thrown thumb before she got eyes on Kaleb and Donnie. “Are you guys good? You look like shit too.”

Kaleb popped the wet prints on his shirt with pride before taking his ice cream bowl. “It’s called friendship. This is mine. Wiping drool is yours.”

“Like you were in the running! Shoe weirdo!” She teased.

“Do not besmirch cutie baby booties in front of my ice cream!” Kaleb pretended to cover his dish’s ears. “Don’t worry. Mean old Cor’ didn’t mean it.”

Coral rolled her eyes.

Donnie reviewed his ice cream like a child given some kind of consolation prize for being good at the dentist.

His metaphorical drilled tooth hurt too much to enjoy the treat.

You took your bite while toeing for him under the table.

His long legs weren’t too hard to find.

He looked up at you tepidly. 

You sent him a smile that held all your thoughts on the matter you had both discussed already.  He reviewed you with a steadying breath before moving to take a bite of his own.

💜 NEXT 💜

🎵I just want to celebrate ᶜᵉˡᵉᵇʳᵃᵗᵉ my betas @tmntxthings and @unrestrainedhotsoup 🎵