#-since he has moons on the pads of his feet you know??

[robbie-lee-zombie]

mini ficlet I got inspired to do ( @fluffymary )

When the gang of smiling critters have a sleepover, you better believe they go big or go home.

Kickin was the first to pass out after the movie, hanging halfway off the couch at the start, but eventually slumped to the floor at an odd angle and still hadn't stirred. Crafty and Bearhug aren't far behind as they both yawn, drifting off on the far left of the couch, holding onto one another. Hoppy, Bubba and Piggy were huddled in their own pile on the other end, looking uncomfortable to anyone else but snoring all the while.

What about our final two?

One of our sweet little friends was having a horrible dream. Horrible enough to leave him panting when he awoke, checking around the living room frantically for any monsters that might still be lurking in the dark. Dogday knew he was being silly, but it still got to him, he just knew something was coming for him! Something waiting to come out and grab him, something to steal him away and no one would ever find him again-

"Hey, hey, it's okay. Look at me. Just keep your eyes on me, okay, pup?"

One, a night owl, someone who sleeps in the day because he guards the night. He protects his family, his friends, while they're vulnerable, so they have nothing to fear. Right now, his closest friend - his partner - had something to fear. Catnap couldn't have that.

"I couldn't run away- it hurt so much, Catnap-"

"Shh, shshh I know sunspot, you don't have to explain. I'm here. You're safe here."

A few beats of silence pass. Then, Catnap got an idea.

"I got it." Catnap lifts Dogday's chin to look him in the eyes more clearly. Smiling, sweetly, he whispers. "You want to hear a lullaby?"

Immediately Dogday's face starts to feel hot and he's pulling on his right ear, twirling and picking at the fur in a nervous fidget. His tail starts thumping behind him. "You- What if- You don't have to, I'll be-" Dogday whines a little. Embarrassed. Excited. Eager.

"Let me try that again."

Dogday's sputtering was immediately halted by Catnap's purring. He could feel it in his touch, in his paws any time he held Dogday's cheeks in his hands, it was a soft rumbling under the skin. It was soothing. "May I sing you a lullaby, sweet pup?"

Dogday willed his tail to stop wagging for a moment to respond seriously. He nodded. "Yes. Please."

Their positions are shifted to have Dogday leaning on Catnap's chest, slouching comfortably in case he were to fall asleep sooner than anticipated, which Cat had already dubbed in his mind would be no time at all. Dogday's tail wags without his permission, but neither of them mention it.

Catnap's claws make quick work of Dogday's ears, scratching at the base. Enough to tickle, enough to squirm and smile so wide Dogday's cheeks start to hurt, but not enough to laugh. Meanwhile, Catnap's tail traces along each of Dogday's toes that are tucked under the blankets. "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star~"

Dogday knew what lullaby this was. It's kept between them purely for Dogday's dignity and from dying of embarrassment. Not because they'd tickle the life out of him.

"How I wonder what you are~"

But because of how well it works. Plus, Catnap isn't the first one to go around bragging about his own singing voice as it is, he'd never hear the end of it.

"Up above the world so high, like a diamond in the sky~"

"Wahahait!!"

"Dogday, you made me mess up the song, now I'll have to start over..."

"No! Nonononohoho don't stahahart over, please-" "Well, maybe I won't have to start over... If you can tell me where my tail left off?"

"Y-Your tahahail?"

"Yes, giggle pup, I need to know where my tail was on the last verse, so I can pick up where it left off. I can't recall..."

As Catnap whispers aloud, his tail sweeps up and down Dogday's soles. Dogday throws his head side to side, trying his best to keep his giggling to a minimum, but the faster that appendage swipes, the more restless Dogday gets.

"Was it along your soles, those bright suns on your feet? While we said "Up above the world" or was it-" His tail switches to sliding between his toes. "Between your poor little toes, as we said "Like a diamond in the sky"?"

Catnap knows this. Catnap loves this.

Dogday could hardly pay attention as Catnap's tail was sawing between his toes. Before he was even aware of his own actions, Dogday was squeezing one of Catnap's hands in his own, bracing himself on whatever willpower he had to not fight Catnap's attack. The other hand was frantic, pawing at the ground, his own torso in a self hug, hiding his face, he couldn't decide what made it better worse.

"Dihihiamond!! You were on diamohohohond!!!"

"Ah, that's right! Thank you so much, my little tickle pup, I knew I could count on you~"

As much as the lullaby felt like it droned on for hours, it really was helping. It was quiet enough between the two of them that this moment never had to be seen by anyone else, it was a special time that let them hold onto one another, to laugh away the nightmares. Catnap's song was eventually interjected with his red smoke - with Dogday's consent being the agreement to the lullaby in the first place, they established that ages ago.

That's what really knocks Dogday out, but Catnap likes to wait as long as he can to use it, just to savor in Dogday's bright smile and pink face just a little while longer.

"A pretty orange and pink sunrise, just for me alone."

As the sun rises in the windows through the curtains, Catnap finally falls asleep.

[pretty-little-mind33]

Tangerine x fem!reader

Summary: Tangerine has always chosen her over you, until he doesn't anymore.

Genre: angst and fluff

Warnings: Lemon, Tangerine, and reader are in their early twenties, toxic relationship, swearing, violence, men (the gross kind), body/weight insecurities, cheating, intoxication

~ based on a conversation i had with my wife @little-miss-dilf-lover and lightly inspired by Dial Drunk by Noah Kahn ~

TANGERINE MASTERLIST

It was midnight when you heard the sharp knocks on your apartment door. You knew your roommate was already asleep so you quickly pad out of your bedroom and through the living room, rubbing your sleepy eyes as you open the door a sliver and peer out into the corridor. You see Lemon first, a sympathetic look painted across his features as he holds up an extremely drunk Tangerine.

Tangerine's face is covered in bruises, the skin around his eye is slowly turning purple and you see the blood on his knuckles as he flexes his hands. Your eyes widen and you hurry out into the hall, your bare feet against the harsh carpet as you quietly shut the door behind you. "What happened?" you whisper, worried for him. Tangerine just grunts, his eyes glossy. 

He's been crying. 

Lemon groans and holds his brother higher, looking at you knowingly. As if he knows the news will somehow break your heart. You stare at him, as if to say 'cut the bullshit' because you want to see if it has something to do with Macey—which it probably does.

Tangerine and Macey have been dating on and off for years. Since high school she's had him wrapped around her pinky, his head a lust-filled mess that very quickly turned into full-blown puppy-love. She'd always be the one to dump him and he'd always come back because he loved her so much. It was an endless cycle that lasted until now, your junior year of university. 

You hate her. You have never hated anyone as much as you hate Macey Addams. 

You hate her silky ginger hair, the way her dark eyes contrast Tangerine's blue ones so well, and that fake smile she reserves for you when you see her. You hate how she laughs, how she talks, and how she looks in those skin-tight dresses Tangerine loves so much.  

You hate her.

You hate how you're not her. 

"Ran into some 'friends' from high school at the bar," Lemon says, emphasizing the word friends with a grunt, "Said some things this dick didn't like so he had to start a fucking bar fight, like some fucking criminal. All because of some bird who doesn't want nothin' to do with you anymore, mate," Lemon scolds Tangerine, who slouches against the wall and slides down, holding his head in his arms. 

"Someone called the coppers and I had to bail him out."

Your eyes widen and you run a hand in your messy hair, kneeling in front of Tangerine as you look up at Lemon. "Really?"

Lemon nods and removes his hand from Tangerine's shoulder. He walks away further down the hall, shaking his head as he groans. Lemon's mumbling curses under his breath and so is Tangerine, only his sound sadder than his brother. 

"Hey," you whisper, "Tan?"

His arms attach themselves to your waist, holding you close as he sobs. You sigh, resting your hand on his head as you let him hold you. Sometimes you'd find yourself being bitter, because why does he love Macey so much when you've always been here for him? 

You'd gift him the moon if you could, but instead, you're stuck being just this—his best friend.

Not that you're complaining. 

"Y/n?" he asks a while later as you both sit on the floor of your room, having managed to sneak him quietly through the living room. You're nursing frozen peas to his knuckles as he leans his head against your bed. Knowing Tangerine was in good hands, Lemon had gone home. 

You hum, looking at him. 

"If I could choose who I was in love with," he begins, his intoxication still obvious only he's slowly sobering up. He blinks slowly, finding his words, "I'd choose you."

You look into his blue eyes you'd normally want to drown yourself in and your heart shatters. He means well, you know this. Plus, how is he supposed to know you're actually madly in love with him when you've never told him?

However, the words hurt like hell knowing his love for Macey is almost otherworldly. He speaks of it like a chemical reaction he has no control over and you're simply the choice. Something mundane and easier. 

You turn your head and quickly wipe a tear from your cheek so he doesn't see. You look at him again and strain a smile. 

"I'd choose you too, Tan."

* * *

Four months later, although sometimes you would find him lost in thoughts of her, she was mostly a distant memory and your feelings for Tangerine have been successfully repressed.  

The pub is extra crowded this evening and you slither your way through people to where your date is. His name is Adrien, which is a respectable name. He's handsome enough if not a little boring. You order your drinks and then the conversation turns sour. 

"I mean, females need to watch their crabs, y'know. You should really order a salad," Adrien pushes the menu across the table, his voice calm like he'd just called the sky blue. You frown, cheeks warm as you cross an arm over your stomach, feeling insecure in your dress. 

"Females?" you repeat in disbelief that a man like this exists.

He doesn't answer. The waiter comes with the wine and you gulp yours down in one go.

In hindsight you should have left the moment Adrien opened his mouth, but something inside you embarrassingly craved any form of affection up until he tried to kiss you outside the pub, and when you pushed him away for the second time, he called you an ugly bitch and stormed off. 

Your lip wobbles as you stare at the lamppost, your hand clutching your purse strap so hard it hurts. You sniffle and fumble with your phone, texting the one person you know won't hesitate to come pick you up. You really don't want to walk home.

Minutes later, his car screeches in front of the pub and he opens the door from the driver's side, looking at you with a concerned expression as you climb in, buckling yourself. "Thanks," you mutter. 

"S'no problem, poppet," Tangerine says, sending you a sideways look as he starts the car again, shifting the gear as he drives off. You sink into the expensive leather seats and look out the window. You sniffle again, still holding an arm over your stomach. 

You keep hearing Tangerine's ringtone. Someone's bombarding him with texts. You turn, catching a glimpse of the contact's name as she calls him up again. The screen flashes her name. Mae. Macey. Tangerine turns his phone over in the center console, turning off the sound as he focuses on the road.

You look at him, your frown momentarily distracting you from how watery your eyes have become from the evening events. "Don't you want to answer?" you whisper. You know Tangerine would usually jump at an opportunity for her attention. This time, his jaw clenches and he shakes his head. 

"Rude to answer the phone when you're with someone, innit?" he says, looking at you briefly. "Are ya okay, love?" he asks, his tone softer now. 

You're a little surprised he's putting you over Macey but you relish in it.

You shrug. "Hm, bad date," you say. 

Tangerine's nose scrunches and his hands tighten on the wheel. "Did something happen?"

"If you count him being a jerk who thought it was normal to comment on my food choice on the first date, then yeah." You roll your eyes and look out the window again, blinking rapidly not to cry. You cross your other arm across your stomach as you instinctively suck in.

Tangerine catches the movement and his frustration boils. "You look beautiful," he says and places his hand on your knee. "Don't," he whispers, waiting for you to relax your poor stomach. You do it with a sigh and you're silent the rest of the car ride.

Once you're back home, Tangerine agrees to stay the night to keep you company after such a horrible experience. It really isn't smart, considering your heart latches on to him immediately, and it is only sent plummeting when just before your eyes flutter shut to sleep, you hear Tangerine's muffled voice in your bathroom, her name on his tongue.   

Of course, he'd called her back. 

* * *

Six months later Lemon is throwing a housewarming party for him and his fiancée, Liv. You'd decide to bring your boyfriend of three months. Unbeknownst to you, Tangerine also had invited a plus one neither you nor Lemon approved of. 

"Y/n/n!" her shrill voice calls over the music as you turn, your champagne almost falling from your hand as you see her. Her fiery red hair is cut shorter but it's as pretty as ever as she drops Tangerine's arm and skips over, pulling you into a hug. "I've missed you." Macey's tone is sweet, almost as if you'd been best friends for years. 

You see Tangerine handing Lemon his and Macey's coat, whispering something to his brother who sends him a dirty look. Macey continues to hug you and then introduces herself to your boyfriend Charlie. You don't miss how Charlie's gaze flickers to her breasts in her navy skin-tight dress. Macey smiles sweetly at him.

You feel sick. 

You excuse yourself and find Tangerine in the kitchen as he looks for a drink. "Macey? Really? You're a fucking puppy wrapped around her finger," you spit, slightly drunk from the champagne and frustrated from the situation.

Tangerine rolls his eyes. "She's changed. We're good now."

"You sound so stupid," you accuse, walking over and shoving his shoulder in an attempt to knock some sense into him. He grunts and steadies you with his hands as he frowns. 

"You're sloshed, Y/n."

You shake your head and push his hand away, eyes lidded. "You fucking tell your girl to keep her dirty mitts away from my boyfriend then!" Tangerine's anger rises as he hates what you're implying just as much as you do. 

"She's not like that," he argues and you scoff, turning around to storm off into the living room again. 

"Not anymore," Tangerine calls but you ignore him. 

An hour or two later, after some rounds of charades and sneaking glances you wish you hadn't seen between Charlie and Macey, you're even drunker. Lemon is beginning to worry as Liv insists you have more water. You don't know what you hate more, that your current boyfriend keeps looking at another woman, or how said woman keeps playing with Tangerine's tie as she sits curled up in his lap. 

You think it's all in your drunken mind when you stumble into the backyard and see Charlie with his hand under Macey's dress, her leg wrapped around his hip as they kiss passionately. They're probably fueled by liquor and lust but it doesn't matter, the dam breaks and you turn around, stumbling inside, alerting them to your presence. You're crying as you slam your head into someone's hard chest. 

"Woah. Bloody hell," Tangerine frowns and looks at you. He's probably the only sober person here. He's been fully sober for more than half a year now.  His hand comes up to your cheek immediately as he pads at your tears. "Love, what happened?"

You don't answer him, only sobbing more as you push by him and rush into the upstairs bathroom. Charlie stumbles inside, buttoning up his shirt and he makes uncomfortable eye contact with Tangerine. He stops cold, clears his throat, and nods his head at him before he rushes up the stairs after you. 

Tangerine's stomach drops. He takes a calming breath and puts his hands in his pockets as he walks outside and sees Macey adjusting her dress and wiping the sides of her mouth, where her mauve lipstick had smudged.

She turns to him, her voice still as she says calmly, "I can explain, T." She doesn't sound remorseful in any way, a clear indication that he's been letting her walk all over him. 

He takes another breath and walks to her, his demeanor just as calm and Macey's expression falters. Usually, this would rile him up and she loved the adrenaline she received from calming him down and taming him. This? This was new.

"It's one thing to hurt me," Tangerine drawls, staring at her with a cold gaze. "It's another to hurt her."

Macey frowns. "Who? Y/n? Who cares—"

"I care," he interrupts and takes Macey's chin in his hand, not tightening enough to hurt her, just to scare her. "You went too far this time and I should have never given you another chance. This? Us? We should have ended years ago."

He releases her and Macey's eyes widen. "Tangerine,"

"Get out." He says sternly and turns around, adding in a harsh tone, "And lose my fuckin' number."

Tangerine hears Charlie banging on the bathroom door the moment he enters the house again and his fists clench. He strides upstairs and pulls on your boyfriend's shoulder, feeling him jump as he looks at Tangerine. "Ya think ya haven't done enough?"

Charlie opens his mouth to protest but hearing Tangerine, you open the door just a little and peek outside, looking up at him with tear-filled eyes and a mess of snot under your nose. Tangerine's gaze softens when you sniffle. 

"Tan," you whisper. 

Charlie puts his hand on the door and attempts to pry it open. "Y/n!" He sounds urgent but Tangerine shoves him away, sending him a glare as he lets himself into the small bathroom and locks the door behind him again. 

You're inconsolable now as you cry violently. As angry as you are with Tangerine for bringing her, you need him now. You grasp his shirt and rest your forehead on his chest, shaking. Tangerine is as mad at himself as you are, maybe even more so. He wraps his arms around you and inhales the scent of your shampoo as he kisses your head repeatedly. 

"Darlin'," he whispers, his voice hoarse, "I'm so sorry. I'm so fuckin' sorry."

He hears another annoying sharp knock from Charlie again and instantly bangs his heel against the door, startling you a little but he holds you tighter and barks. 

"Piss the fuck off, twat."

The knocking ends. 

* * *

An hour later, Tangerine has you sitting on Lemon and Liv's kitchen counter as they clean up from the party. He hands you some water as he rolls up his sleeves. One of his hands finds your thigh and he rubs it soothingly. You look up at him from behind your glass, unable to resist the question.  

"Is there something wrong with me?"

Tangerine's forehead pinches and pulls his hand away so he can cup your cheeks instead. He stands in between your legs, his eyes level with yours as they search your features. "Pardon? Say that again."

"What does she have that I don't? Is she prettier than me? Does she have a better body? I- I want to be wanted like her," you sniffle, your words slurred as you're still very intoxicated no matter how much water you've drank. Your cheeks are damp from your tears. "Why does she take every man I like? Why did she take you from me when I loved you damn so much?"

Tangerine's heart leaps at your words. "Loved me?" he repeats, his thumb caressing your cheek.

You nod and look into his eyes. "Love," you admit, "For years—and it never stops either and I tried. I tried, Tan."

You sound so sad.

His hand shakes on your cheek and for a moment you think he's leaning in to kiss you as your eyes flutter, but instead, he crushes you into a hug. You relax in his arms, shutting your eyes fully as you whimper and the sound hits him hard. 

He'd been such an idiot. 

"I would kiss ya," he whispers, sounding sincere, "I'd kiss ya if ya weren't so damn drunk."

You're speechless. 

Liv walks in, holding an armful of paper towels with Lemon on her heels. She smiles when Tangerine shifts away from you, clearing his throat, and you try to look busy, your head spinning from Tangerine's previous words. Lemon raises an eyebrow at his brother and Tangerine communicates with his eyes. Lemon chuckles.

"G'night, lovebirds," he grins as Liv puts away the paper towels and smirks too, slapping Lemon's arm playfully.

Tangerine's cheeks burn crimson all the way up to his ears. 

Once they're gone he turns his attention to you again, looking at you fondly. "I've been a real fuckin' prick, haven't I?" he says and pushes some hair behind your ear. "Lookin' at 'er, when what I wanted was right here in front of me this whole damn time."

You blink at him, his words sinking in but you're too drunk to comprehend. 

Tangerine kisses your forehead. "I'll make it up to you," he says, his chest filling with warmth. It's a promise. One he keeps because when you wake up in Lemon's guest room, Tangerine walks in shirtless with a breakfast tray full of an assortment of toast, beans, and eggs. 

"Monrin' love," he says. He's wearing that familiar smile. A peaceful, happy, smile. The one you haven't seen him wear in a while. 

Damn does it look good on him.     

tags: @kravensgirl, @brokeaesthetic, @earth-elemental18, @lqrlei, @princesssunderworld, @longlivedelusion, @thewinterv, @siriuslycaptainofthedawntreader

[pileofmush]

In the dead of night, he crawls into your bed. 

Your eyes flutter open, but you already know who it is, for you are intimately familiar with the pad of his feet against the carpet. With the dip of your mattress underneath his weight. With the sense of calm that washes over you whenever he graces you with his presence. And that’s the best way to describe whatever you and the sorcerer have going on. Intimate—and familiar. 

You never know how to categorize it when your friends ask. 

Not friend, nor foe. Maybe both. Or maybe something in between?

There’s a tug of war inside your brain that struggles between wanting to tangle your legs with his under the soft press of your duvet, and wanting to climb atop him, wrap your hands delicately around his neck, and squeeze.

Most nights with him, you do neither. Just lie flat and stare up at the peeling ceiling tile, just barely illuminated by the midnight glow of the moon streaming through your blinds.

Some nights, you do both. Yuuta never seems to mind, either way. Says he just wants to be near you, as he wraps his limbs around you and pulls you to him, snugly. You play dead; go limp in his arms and count the warm puffs of air against the back of your neck like sheep.

It’s not normal, you know.

But it works for the two of you.

It goes like this: Okkotsu Yuuta is a lonely, lonely man, with too much heart and not nearly enough sense. 

It goes like this: You want to crawl into his skin, make home inside his chest.

And that’s really all there is to it. 

Tonight, you sit up and turn on the lamp that sits on your nightstand, casting a muted yellow glow over your surroundings. You blink, rub your eyes, and lift your head in greeting. 

“Hey,” he whispers, black eyes roving over you curiously. He seems alright—whole—though his shoulders sag with an inconceivable weight, and his eyebags speak of many sleepless nights. “What are you still doing up?” Gesturing to the clock on your nightstand that reads 3 am.

You hum. Press your tongue against your teeth. “Waiting for you,” you say, candidly. You understand he's a busy man. That he has responsibilities—'missions', he calls them. But it’s been two weeks since he last visited you. Far too long since the last time. Not long enough. 

At your admission, Yuuta’s mouth melts into a cotton-candy smile. “I missed you, too.”

…

You hadn’t said all that, but you’ll allow it.

Yuuta’s hand slips under the covers, searching for yours, and gives a firm, quick squeeze. He pulls away, reaches behind him and pulls off his navy blue sweater—the soft, cashmere one that you said would look good on him one relaxed day at the mall. The ministrations expose the taut, pale sheen of his skin as the hem of his tee slides up, and you have to breathe deeply to ground yourself.

He folds the sweater in his lap while you push the covers back, then leans over you to set it on your nightstand. Something about him hovering over you flips a primal switch within you, and without thinking you flip it so that it’s him on his back and you leaning above him. Yuuta, to his credit, doesn’t bat an eye. Gets settled between your thighs and waits calmly for…

For you to inhale deeply; to breathe him in and try not to choke. His scent is a cloying, sickly sweetness. A poisonous flower, luring you to something sinister. Begging you to taste him and face the consequences.

It’s a sight to behold, his dark hair fanned out against your pillow, his darkening cheeks, and his dark, dark gaze that pins you in place. 

His hands rest on the back of your thighs, flexing assuredly, and your hands rest on his rising and falling chest, then slowly trail up, up, up, to his cheek, his jaw, his neck. You pinch his skin gently between your thumb and forefinger. Feel his pulse jump in his throat. 

He swallows, and you feel the lump of spit travel down his esophagus.

Intimate—and familiar. That’s what you are to Yuuta. Who else can say the same?

Not one. 

Your hands smooth down to his shoulders as you slowly bend to his ear. Goosebumps prickle across his flesh as you whisper, softly, “Text me the next time you’re going to be away this long.”

Yuuta’s shudder is sinful. 

“I won’t,” he croaks, then backtracks. “Take this long again. I promise.”

Your lips twist into a wry grin. “Good.”

ty for reading (๑´`๑)♡ for my lovely anon, rosie <3

[pedriache]

GAVI ANGST. He can always think too much into something, and that leads to him questioning reader sooo much to the point where she’s just like, ‘do you not trust me or something?’ and he’s all like well yes! And it’s this argument…. Or nah Lmk perhaps angst to comfort

Fine Line — Pablo Gavi.

Pairing: Pablo Gavi x Fem!Reader

Summary: Since failing to mention that you’d gone out with a few friends, one who happens to be a guy, Gavi cannot help but read too much into it, which leads to an argument.

Word count: 1.04k

Disclaimer/s: angst ! reader is slightly tipsy as well!

A/N: gulps..

The crescent moon did nothing to light your path up toward the front porch of you and your longtime boyfriend’s shared home. In a slightly drunken haze, you stumbled over air, at one point having to lean against the fake cobwebbed railing that lead up to the door for a few moments just to gather your bearings.

Eventually you did make it safely to the door, which you went to unlock only to realize it hadn’t been locked for the night. You mumble a string of curses before opening it as quietly as possible. He may not have been asleep, but you weren’t prepared for him to know you were home just yet.

But, unfortunately, he was standing in the hallway that separated the entrance from the living room. You give him a lopsided sheepish smile, “hey…”

“It’s one in the morning.” He states simply, and from his tone you can tell he’s agitated. In all fairness, you had told him you’d be home thirty minutes ago.

“Yeah, sorry, the girls wanted ice cream before we went home.” You take off your stilettos that matched your costume perfectly, might you add, before flexing your feet to rid them of the pain the heels had given you.

Gavi’s arms are crossed over his chest, his face cocked to the side in annoyance. “Girls, and Matteo?”

Right. You gulped hard. You recognized that tone in his voice. It was the one get got when he wasn’t simply upset, he was jealous. You hated when he got jealous, he always shut down and shut you out.

“Baby, he showed up last minute.” You sigh, padding your way toward him. “I didn’t know he was going to be there.”

Gavi’s jaw ticks, “right. That’s what you said last time, and the time before that, and—“ Your hands resting on his forearms gently shut him up mid sentence, and you could tell it was taking a lot out of him not to shrug them off.

“Gavi, hon, it’s not like that.” You attempt to assure him, mentally taking a note to stop with the pet names. Every time one rolled off your tongue, his tongue made a quick appearance in the side of his cheek. “Please look at me?”

He denied you of that simple ask, his gaze zeroing in on a random portion of the wall beside the two of you. “I just don’t get why he has to show up every time you girls’ partners aren’t there! It’s weird.”

Tongue darting out to lick your lips, you’re suddenly aware of the fact that you’d almost instantly sobered up, and now the weariness was catching up to you. “Pablo. Look at me.” You finally huff, using your index finger to push his face in your direction.

Once he was finally looking at you, you frown. “Do you seriously not trust me or something?” A small, simple question, but seriously. He was getting worked up like he believed you’d actually cheat!

“Yes!” He practically laughs it out, his head shaking like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Hurt flashes across your face, making your boyfriend feel a twinge of guilt, but he doesn’t take it back. Even if he didn’t mean it.

Your head bobs slowly as you stuff the hurt back into your throat. “Oh. Wow, okay. That’s insane! But thanks, at least for once you’re honest.” You scoff, hands dropping to your sides.

“I mean, come on. This isn’t a coincidence! He’s always everywhere you are, and you never tell me! It’s like a secret you seem to enjoy so much, since you were giggling your whole way up to the door.” His hands fly up to his head, brushing over his hair to pull it back. They stay there as he looks at you, disappointment and anger evident on his face.

And something else. Something a little like insecurity.

“Oh lord.” You groan, “Pablo, I swear to fucking God, I was just drunk. I was giggling because I was drunk and trying to keep myself up. I don’t enjoy the fact that Matteo shows up, he just does and I don’t tell you because I know how you react!” You motion over his body with your hands. “Jealousy is not cute anymore, we’re twenty, not fifteen.”

It’s Gavi’s turn to roll his eyes. “Oh please.” He shakes his head in disbelief, a mocking laugh escaping his lips that only furthered you to get angrier. “Listen—“

“No. You listen.” You snap, finger pressing into his warm chest. “I want nothing to do with Matteo because I love you. I wouldn’t even want anything to do with him if I didn’t! You’re insecure and jealous and you not trusting me after three years together, well, it hurts.” When you finish, you feel all the energy that you once held, deplete. You needed a hot shower and good nights sleep as soon as possible.

But you hated to go to bed with unresolved anger, so you stay there, waiting for a reply that never comes.

Gavi stands in front of you, his face fallen as his eyes flicker across your face. He just nods, running a hand across his jaw as he exhales slowly.

Having enough of the whole situation, you give in. “If it makes you feel better, the next time he shows up, I will leave.” You didn’t want to fight anymore, you just wanted to go to bed.

Your boyfriend’s eyes soften, “that’s not—no. You shouldn’t leave early because of him, or me, I just want you to communicate these things. Is that too much to ask?” He reaches out to you, wiping a piece of the fake cobwebs off your sleeve.

You watch the motion while nodding. “Okay, I can do that. Sorry.”

“I’m sorry too.” He purses his lips. “Please go shower before bed, you reek of alcohol.”

Nodding you turn in the direction of your bedroom, but Gavi’s hand on your bicep stops you. Turning to him, you’re met with a guilt ridden expression. “And, I do trust you, I was just pissed off. I didn’t mean that, I promise.”

Without saying anything in response, you nod twice in understanding, and make your way toward the bedroom.

Likes , comments , and reblog’s are all appreciated. Lmk if you’d like to be tagged in future posts.

DTS , @halfwayhearted @spidybaby @gadriezmannsgirl @unx100to !

[nightsmarish]

hiiiii this maybe weird but could i request a wolfstar x reader and she has like a lovey stuffed animal from when she was a baby she still needs to sleep with that she was trying to hide from the boys and how they’d react to finding out?? I love your writing :)

Poly!wolfstar x reader (Remus Lupin x Sirius Black x Reader) | 700+ words

A/n: a little short than I planned, but that's okay. Thank you for requesting, boo!

Tw: sleepy Remus, anxiety, first time the boys sleep at ur flat, kinda modern-ish, werewolf thing in implied a secrete r doesn't know? Kinda like a mid fic at best

★⋆｡°⋆𖦹✮₊★⋆｡°⋆𖦹✮₊★⋆｡°⋆𖦹✮₊★⋆｡

Most couples sleep over at eachother houses. It's completely normal. But, despite that fact, the nerves are eating you alive.

It was agreed before hand that the boys would crash at your place after your date. It is extremely late since the drive-in double feature ended at 2 a.m., and your apartment is much closer than Remus and Sirius' flat. Which means you've had ample time to hype yourself up, to tell yourself they won't judge you for sleeping with that bloody stuffed animal.

But now? Sitting in the passenger seat of Sirius' car with Remus half passed out with the nearly illegal amount of blankets and pillows the three of you brought? Your very not prepared for them to see the small stuffie.

Everyone stayed rather quiet throughout the car ride. Remus was already tired before the movies, probably because the moon was a few days ago, but you have no real conformation that affects him; all just speculation you've made the past few months of dating the boys. And Sirius is coming down from a sugar high, which leaves him calmer and more tired than usual. As well, with the added fact that he doesn't want to disturb your shared boyfriend as he goes in and out of sleep.

And the quietness stayed when the car parked infront of your apartment complex. Grabbing the blankets and pillows and helping a groggy Remus to his feet, the three of you manage to make it safely into your flat.

And while the boys just happen to conveniently be a bit distracted on assessing what blankets and pillows will be used to properly sleep in your bed, you sneak away to the bedroom.

There, laid out in the middle of your bed lays the little creature you've had for probably too long. You scurky on over to it and grab it, trying to quickly find a place that is both safe and well hidden for the night.

But, alas, one does not simply walk away from Sirius Black and expect him not to follow.

"Whats that, love?" Your shorter boyfriend stands in the door way, fluffy, dark green blanket in his arm. Behind him, in the living room, Remus is fighting, a little lazily, with two blankets that got tangled together.

"Wha-?" You glance down at the plushie in your hand, "This? Nothing. Nothing, why?"

Sirius quirks a brow, and dear Salazar, he can be intimidating; it's like his gaze is boring into your soul.

"Pads, leave 'em alone." Remus joins him in the door way, successfully having one of the two blankets.

"I'm not doing nothin' just wanna see who will be joining us tonight." He walks further into the room, throwing the green blankets onto the bed. Turning to face you again, gently grabbing your hip with one hand and cuping ome of your hands that holds the plushie, "assuming he will be joining us?"

You pause for a moment before practically melting into Sirius, who chuckles as he hugs your waist properly, "yeah- he's gonna join us. If that's okay." Your voice is muffled into the black t-shirt he's wearing.

"'Course, that's okay, dovey." One of the two is behind you now, having dropped the extra blanket on the bed as well. You can feel him press a light kiss to the top of your head from behind.

You move your head from where it laid on Sirius, looking at the two extra blankets that taint your bed. "I have enought blankets, we didn't need more."

The smile never leaves the boys face, letting go of you and landing unceremoniously onto your bed, looking up to you and Remus, "nonsense, darlin, how else will be over heat in the middle of the night?"

"We won't overheat in the middle of the night." The tall one gets in the bed as well, much less dramatically and soooo ready for bed.

"You are so confident in that." Sirius twists his body to see Remus getting comfy in the extremely messy bed, then glancing at you. "'Cm'on, doll, bring your friend and come join us."

A small smile graces your lips as you join the boys, one halfway to a dead sleep and the other welcoming you into his waiting arms after you turn off the bedside lamp.

[futurecorps3]

Sirius black with a busty reader

𝐒𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐮𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐚 𝐛𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐲!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

Masterlist<3

MINORS STAY AWAY I'LL BLOCK EVERY SINGLE ONE OF YOU, THIS IS +18!!! See also… All marauders versions in my marauders masterlist<3

I want you all to picture me giggling and kicking my feet while writing this 'cause this is my main hoe 🤭💗

-BUYS. YOU. NECKLACES.

-I'll die on this hill dear god

-Pretty silver chains, golden necklaces with expensive charms, you name it! HE SPOILS YOU SM BECAUSE THOSE ARE EXPENSIVE ASF TOO?????

-Yk that good house of Black money n shit hehe

-Loves seeing how it sometimes gets in the middle of your tits and pulls it out himself, definitely touching you more than necessary

-"Wait, I'm almost there doll" "Do you need to bury your face in my boobs to get that crow charm out?” you deadpan with a smile, looking down at the pretty boy, feeling his nose dig in like he’s on a treasure hunt

-“Helps my visibility” yeah visibility my ass he loves your pretty tits

-He’s the “Wear what you want, I can fight” type of guy <3 (all of them are!!!)

-Will and has gotten into fights if someone’s staring and making you uncomfortable. No one disrespects his girl like that:)

-L E A T H E R T O P S

-You both wear leather tops that show your belly and chests, matching ones ofc!!!

-Remus loves sweaters, James loves crop tops

-Sirius lives for seeing you in lacy bras AND his leather jacket:(

-Boy gets heart eyes, jaw to the floor, drooling, screaming (ofc the boys mock him for it<3)

-“You’ll catch flies with that mouth, Pads” Remus smirks, watching Sirius watch you having a conversation with some Ravenclaw girl as you pour more fire whiskey on your glass “Shut it Moons” he replies, dreamy voice too entranced to even comprehend the chaos the party around him was causing

-Speaking of parties, he loves doing vodka shots from your boobs.

-Ogles them sm and compliments them all the fucking time!!!!!

-He’s shameless about it as well

-"Your tits look amazing" with a lovesick expression on his face like he genuinely loves them so so so much

-He knows his friends stare and he doesn’t mind as long as you don’t either. Boosts his ego quite a lot tbh!!

-If you feel uncomfortable, he’ll definitely do something about it! The boys would never make you uneasy, of course. They look away to be respectful, but those small glances have Sirius all cocky

-Having said THAT…

-Marks u up <3

-I’m talking love bites, scratches, hickeys

-Makes sure to make them on a regular basis so they don’t fade out with time

-Yes the boys have walked in on him marking you many times

-“Fucking hell Padfoot just lock the bloody door” James groans while covering his eyes since he knew damn well his best friend wasn’t stopping. “Hey Prongs” you giggle “Hi darling” he says, still not looking at you guys

-“Could you tell your pig boyfriend to lock the door next time?” “ITS AN ART YOU WOULDNT GET IT!!!” he yells, but the sound comes out muffled and barely understandable. “We’ll try” you muse, giggling slightly as the other boy left the room

-Won’t do any of these if he knows it bothers you!! Respectful legend <3

-So, summing it up

-He absolutely adores your boobs, is very much shameless about it and will not tolerate bullshit from anyone <3

[psychedelic-ink]

𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐔𝐄𝐓.

DAY FIVE OF HAUNTED HOEDOWN

prompt: animal shapeshifter au + "you're not actually scared are you? of me?"

pairing: animal shapeshifter!pero tovar x f!reader

genre: explicit smut, minors dni, romance, cottagecore, fantasy au

summary: you decide to take a swim in a lake that is deep in the middle of the forest. during your swim, pero finds you, and he's not happy that you went out alone during a full moon.

word count: 3.1k

warnings: breeding, marking, biting, does this count as monsterfucking if he's just human with wings and two cocks, pero has two cocks, despite the warnings this is actually quite soft, double penetration, praise kink, soft!dom pero, possessive!pero, creampie

a/n: during this i learned that some bird species have two cocks. you're welcome for this information and thank you for voting in the poll dfvdfvf (also i didn't edit this so sorry about that ily all)

The moonlight beckons you. It always has and always will. You watch as the water effortlessly brings the white light pouring from above with gentle waves kissed by the calm breeze. That same breeze rustles the leaves of dark trees. You’re not afraid of the darkness anymore. Haven’t been since you moved out from your family home, away from those who want to stifle you and silence you. 

Your steps are soft as you near the lake, the ends of your dress brushing the grass. You feel a predatory gaze taking in the sight of you, he’s in the shadows, enjoying the show. 

Your grumpy companion, if you will. 

Slowly, you drag the back of your hands up your waist and trace the pads of your fingers over the sweetheart neckline of your bodice. You lower them, feeling the rich ribbons holding the entire dress together. 

With one swift movement, you pull one thread and the rest comes down, pooling at your feet. 

You enter the lake, it’s cold but not cold enough that you’d want to jump out. You exhale a shaky breath and swim deeper, turning in the water, you observe the full moon. 

A rustling fills the silence. And feather-like steps are heard. Your feet sway underwater as you float upright. What captures your gaze first are a set of deep brown eyes that are too human to belong to a beast. 

Then you notice the fur, the pointed nose, and the snarl that shows white pointy teeth. The beast steps closer, paws large enough to cover your entire face. You swim close to the edge of the lake, your feet move against the thickness of water, you want to place your arms over the ground to brace yourself but decide against it. He’s angry, you can feel it, you just don’t know why yet. 

He stops at the edge you refuse to brace yourself against and leans down, his wide nuzzle an inch away. He inhales and exhales deeply, the force of his breath nearly drying your skin. He still bares his teeth towards you and you notice the faint traces of blood over his dark fur. 

“You shouldn’t be here,” he growls, the deep voice echoing in your head. “It’s the full moon it’s dangerous.” 

“There are no people here.” 

His tongue darts out to move over his teeth, eyes watching you carefully, “It is not the people I fear, little soul.” 

With a sudden need to be close to him, you bury your fingers into the thick neck of the beast and urge him to come closer until your forehead is pressed firmly against his. He doesn’t close his eyes but you do. He’s incredibly warm; a faint scent of lavender and blood clings to his skin. 

“Join me,” you murmur. He watches you curiously for a moment before nodding and taking a step back. You revel in watching his transformations. His eyes finally flutter closed, a dark purple mist surrounding him, he lets out an audible breath. 

You first see the wings; dark and lush, they spread to his sides before folding back. 

Then you see the rest of him. Sunkissed skin, broad chest, and a stomach that has gotten rounder ever since he met you—a sign of a life with balance. Even though you have them memorized, your eyes dart over every faint scar that is scattered all around his torso. You love them. Tracing your tongue over every since one, the lightened patches of skin reminding you of stars. 

Pero steps forward, naked as the day he was born, soft cock hanging between strong thighs, he approaches the lake. And you. 

“I am still mad,” he grumbles, his accent thicker now that he’s using his actual voice. “You did not tell me you were going to come here.” 

“I knew you would find me.”

He doesn’t say anything and slowly submerges into the water, his wings follow him in the water like a mermaid's tail. You frown when he turns his back, his back tense and shoulders raised, you come closer and begin to cup water and release it over his wings. A shudder crawls up his spine, the delicate limbs playfully twitching despite his anger. 

“Just because I did not kill you the first time—” 

“Or the second.” 

He grunts, “Or the second—” 

“Or the third.” 

“¡Suficiente!” his wings raise higher and he turns viciously, the same anger you saw in him as a wolf returning full force. “This is not a game. There are creatures out there that won’t hesitate to rip you shred to shred.” 

Pero forces you to swim until your back hits the shore, the lake’s depth surpasses you both, yet he manages to towards over you. 

“Pero. . .” 

“You do not know what is out there but I do,” he snarls. “I am one of them.” 

He places a hand over your chest, blunt nails biting into the skin right above your heart. The curve of his nose brushes against yours. Underwater, you feel the heft of his cock pressed against your stomach, it takes you everything not to moan and rub yourself against him like a dog in heat. 

“What you don’t understand,” he hisses, voice dangerously low. “This heart belongs to me now—Not yours, fucking mine.” 

He pins your hips together, knocking the air from your lungs, your jaw drops and all you can do is stare. Instinctively, you legs press together, the lack of motion threatening to pull you under the moonlit lake. Pero doesn’t allow it, however, both his hands drop to your waist, keeping your head barely above the surface. 

You feel the brush of his lips on your cheek. 

“That muscle that pumps blood in your veins and keeps you alive. . .  it is not strong enough to take the attack of claws and teeth, or something worse. You owe it to me to keep it alive. You owe it to me to let me know of late-night dips, after making me fall for such a susceptible creature.”  

You close your eyes, your heart racing in your chest. You have no idea how he’s been around, centuries perhaps, he’d never told you. But you know it was a lonely life, to be gifted with the remarkable talent of turning into every animal imaginable only to cease to be human, for that talent, which was thought to be a gift, seep into the essence of your humanity. 

His gaze wanders over your countenance. You feel the heaviness of it. Finally, you open your eyes and bring your thumb over to the scar that goes over his eye and stroke it gently. The ridges of puffy skin catch against the pad of your thumb and you swallow.  

"You are not actually scared, are you? Of me?" he murmurs.

You smile, “Never,” you brush your lips together. “And you’re right. I’m yours. Sorry for wandering off. I honestly was just looking for you, I missed you and knew you’d trace my scent.” 

You scratch his jaw, the short hairs tickling your skin. He observes you a second longer before cracking a smile and nuzzling your neck, you feel teeth on your skin as he rocks his hips forward. “I’ve missed you too, my sweet soul.” 

Before you know it he’s hauling you both out of the lake, laying you over the velvet grass. The soft blades tickle your skin. Pero lies next to you, propping himself up on his elbow, he allows his eyes to devour you whole. His wings stretch over you both like the night sky, long and wide, you swallow as you ache to touch them—to feel their softness on your fingertips. 

“You like my wings,” he states, an observation. You nod and a wing descends, the tip of the feathers moving down the valley of your breasts and over to your stomach. You hold your breath as it inches closer to your clit, and you spread your legs without a second thought. “So obedient,” he murmurs. “Or is this your way of apologizing to me, hermosa?” 

The brush of feathers between your legs halts the words that were about to spill. Your body arches, a loud gasp tearing from your throat. The subtle touch makes your body sing for him, begging him to touch you with force. Enjoying your pain driven from pleasure, he continues to play with you with the end of his wing, and you enjoy the sight of slick smearing against the feathers. 

“Perhaps it’s both,” you murmur, sliding your hand down his torso and cupping his cock. You wrap your fingers and where he would groan eagerly, he turns rigid. Thinking that he’s still angry, you swipe a thumb over the head and move down. 

Something else hits your hand. Something hard like the one in your palm.

“P-Pero. . .” you look up to him. He grunts in acknowledgment, waiting for your question. You move your hand again to make sure what you’re feeling is correct, your fingers slip between two heavy cocks, one of them decked in soft, tiny feathers. You let out a strangled sound. “Do—Do you have two cocks right now?” 

He clears his throat. Normally you’d find the flush of his cheeks and his loss for words cute but you’re in shock. You’ve been with him many times before and never did he have two cocks. 

And there was no way you missed one. 

“It only happens once a month,” you squeeze the feathered one and he groans, hips thrusting to feel the softness of your palm. “It is. . . a side effect.” 

“Side effect of what?” 

“Of whatever the hell I am,” he answers bitterly. “It is for breeding. The. . . feathers they’re not actually feathers, they heighten the pleasure of a female and make them more. . . fertile.” 

A beat of silence. 

While you’re at a loss for words, you continue to stroke him, and indeed he was right. The soft things you deemed as feathers left a flowery-scented substance on your palm. Your lids flutter at the scent, your heart feeling light and full of want. 

The mere thought of Pero filling you is enough to have your cunt drooling for him. And he must’ve sensed it because his eyes darken and his wings hide you from the watchful gaze of the moon. 

He thrusts a little harder than, the bulbous head of his second cock hitting your wrist, “You like it?” he nips at your chin and cups your mound, slipping two fingers inside with ease. “I would want nothing more to fill this pretty little cunt up with all of me, but are you sure?” 

Pero skims his teeth down your neck, “I never had someone during the full moon.” 

“Then I’m happy your first,” you grind into the heel of his palm, moaning, when he presses hard against the bundle of nerves. “I want you, Pero. All of you. I want to feel you for days.” 

“Oh, preciosa, you’ll be feeling me for centuries.” 

There’s something exceptionally filthy being on all fours in the middle of the forest with Pero fucking his tongue into your sopping entrance. 

He’d been going at it for at least half an hour, you lost track of time during your forth orgasm, the ground beneath soaking your essence. His mouth, his fingers, he spared no expense in working you open. His mustache chafed your skin as he stuffed you full with three fingers, scissoring them while being knuckle deep. 

“Pero—I—I need—” you break down, tears streaming down your face. It’s too much. You don’t know how much you can take it. “Please.” 

“You think you are ready to take me?” he kisses the lips of your cunt long and slow, the tip of his tongue tracing your folds. “Poor thing. Did I tire you out already?” 

“I—I just want your cock. . .s,” you say, yet you still follow his mouth with your hips when he moves away. He suddenly flips you to your back, the force of it knocking the air from your lungs. 

“Say it again,” he growls. “Say it.” 

“I want your cocks,” you sinks his teeth into your neck, his regular cock brushing your folds. “I want all of you, Pero. Breed me.” 

“Fuck,” he rasps, his tone frustrated. “Fuck—Of course, bebita, I’ll breed you so fucking good. Then I’ll fuck you again and again, until you are round with me,” something dark flashes in his eyes when you whimper. “You are making it really hard to go slow.” 

You cry out again, purposefully grinding against his cocks, his eyes roll back and he momentraily loses himself, thrusting forward—

You both moan in unison; you, from being stretched around the girth of him, and him from how easily he slides inside of you, the tight fist of your cunt wrapping deliciously around his lenght. 

Pero begins to fuck you with shallow thrust and your eyes roll back. You can’t imagine how good it’s going to feel when you have both of them inside. You’re a whimpering mess beneath him, his very being towering over yours. You clench around him as his thrusts become deeper, a gush of wetness soaking him. He presses his sweaty forehead against yours, his chest heaving, he holds your gaze. 

“I’m going to slide in the other one now,” he kisses your lips and pulls away. Your eyes drift to his wings that stretch again. He pulls back his hips and when he pushes back again there’s an added pressure. A mixture of moans and pained hisses bounce behind clenched teeth, your finger curling into the dirt. Pero waits for you to adjust to both of him, his voice dripping with adoration. “You’re taking me so well. So good for me, my sweet little human, always wet and ready.”   

When your body relaxes around him, he presses forward. The feel of his other cock is different, that feather like texture tickles your walls, the prickles quickly melting into drops of pleasure inside you. A burst of arousal awakens in the pit of your stomach, your eyes go wide, your legs spreading further until the tendons begin to ache. 

“Please, please, please,” you cry out, hands grasping his forearms. “Fuck me, fuck me—shit—what is this?” 

Pero pins your hips to the ground, “Calm down, you are going to hurt yourself,” a heavy scent of lavender fills your nostrils, more liquid dripping from your core. “Like I said, it adds to the pleasure but I am only half way in, mi amor. You need to be patient so I can fuck you properly.” 

Your chest heaves, lungs collapsing, you taste salt on your tongue, “Okay. . .” you whisper. “Okay.” 

“Such a good girl,” he coos, but despite that, he doesn’t release your hips. “Taking two cocks at once so beautifull. I wish you could see yourself,” his thumb traces where you two connect, then he begins drawing languid circles around your clit and your entire body loosens momentarily. He bruises himself deeper with small thrust. “So close, just a little bit more and you’ll have them both inside of you.” 

Pero’s large hand caresses the swell of your stomach, you smile at him with a dazed smile, “Just a little bit more.” 

You know he’s fully sheathed from the sounds he make, something between a growl and a moan. The stretch you feel is immaculate. You feel so full. Both cocks twitch  uncontrollably inside, the sensation shortening your breath. Sweat beads at his foreahead, fingers biting into your flesh as he tries to stop himself from ruining you completely. 

When you cradle his cheeks, his eyes snap at you and he bares his teeth. It might’ve been tricks of the night, but you sweat his pupils become dark diamond before returning to normal. His wings flutter around you both protectively. 

“There’s no one here,” you say calmly. “I’m all yours.” 

Realization strucks him, his eyes widen, lips parting with a soft exhale. His expression makes you want to laugh. This isn’t the first time you’re telling him this, yet everytime you do he looks at you with the same awe-struck expression. 

Then all hell breaks loose. 

His teeth sink into your neck, his hips relentless as he hammers into you. Wet noises fill the forest. You’re left screaming his name, the burst of pleasure you receive with every stroke mind numbing. You feel so stuffed. Both cocks going in an out of you with embarrising ease, your body is on fire and something devastating begins to build up rapidly inside. 

“P-Pero,” you stutter, slack-jawed. “I’m—I’m going to—” 

“You feel it don’t you,” he sucks a nipple between his lips, tongue lapping the hardened peak. “The way pleasure feels endless and something that you can drown in forever. I have been feeling like that during every full moon. Finally I have someone to fall from the heavens with me—” 

He hooks his arms underneath your thighs and pushes them up until your knees graze your forehead. Your spine screams in agony, yet the thickness of having both cocks inside is enough to numb you to it. He goes deeper with every snap, your eyes roll back, ever muscles goes taut right before he pushes you over the edge, your cunt gushing around him as you scream his name, over and over. 

“That’s it, my sweet girl. Come for me,” he buries his head into your neck, fully exposing your body to his weight while he viciously pounds into you. “Fuck, can you feel me?” 

You definitely can—but you can’t form the words. His cocks expand, throbbing and twitching as they both strike that one spot that makes you see stars brighter then the ones above. 

Pero keeps his promise and spills into you, both cocks filling you until your body can’t take anymore and he drips around the edges. Your eyes flutter closed. Your mouth gasping for air, there’s so much, his cock pulsing. He gradually releases your legs, and they drop to the ground, framing his waist. Pero’s face remains buried in your neck, inhaling your scent. 

“Do I smell good?” you joke. 

He hums, “You smell amazing,” he answers. “You smell like me.” 

You want to quip back and say it must not be that good then, but you swallow your teasing for now, admitting to yourseld that you wouldn’t want to smell like anything else. 

“I never want to leave you,” he mutters. “Feels too good.” 

“Then don’t,” you say, clenching around him. You whimper as you feel both cocks still hard inside of you. “Doesn’t look like coming once subdued you anyway.” 

“Say it,” he peels away from your neck, grinning down at you.

“Say what?” 

“That you want me to fuck you again.” 

You roll your eyes. “No way.” 

His grin only wides when he rolls his hips and your words break into a loud, wanton moan. “That is okay, your body speaks for you anyway.” 

Before you can reply, he silences you with a kiss.

[honeybeefae]

omg imagine rhys with a s/o that has a crush on him, like an actual huge crush, they’re mated, married and have been for a long time but she still blushes and gets nervous around him. She gossips with her friends ab cute stuff he does and she’s just being soooo inlove. She tries on new dresses and literally does everything to get his attention even though she already has it, He notices obviously and thinks it’s so cute😩🥹 imagine he’s in a meeting and he gets out of his office and reader just runs up to him and leaps in his arm and AHHHH SO CUTEE

stop bc i just know that if i were mated to Rhys i could be 10,000 years old and he would still make me kick my feet and giggle like a teenager. that man is FINEEEE. Also, I love writing fluff so this was so fun.

also listened to Tattooed Heart by Ariana Grande while writing this <3

Butterflies (Rhysand x Reader)

It was baffling to you how even after hundreds of years of being mated, after countless dates, sex, memories, everything really, your mate was still able to make you feel like you did when you first met him.

Rhysand was the definition of perfect in your eyes. His midnight-colored hair, those blue eyes that turned violet and held a million stars, the voice that made you feel safe and alive, and his touch that had saved you so many times. All of it could be found in him. He was your beginning and ending, your moon and sun, your everything.

You knew your friends grew sick of you talking about him all the time, about the most recent way he had spoiled you or taken you. It was so hard not to talk about him. You felt like a teenager with her first crush.

If you were being honest, it should be embarrassing. Every time you go out and buy new dresses you pick out something you think would catch his eye or a matching set of lingerie that he would ravish you in. Whenever you cooked you made sure it was something he would like and don't even get started on the notes you two wrote to each other.

He knew what you were doing, of course. He knew you would try to catch his attention when he was busy or wear his favorite perfume just to get him to come closer. You loved watching his eyes light up when he saw you in his favorite dress or heels, loved the way he would pull you into his arms and kiss you like you were the only two in the entire world.

Today was no different as you stalked outside his office door, the soft pads of your feet barely making any noise as you waited for him to finish whatever business he was attending to.

It had been three days since you had seen him due to his trip to the Illyrian camps with Azriel and Cassian. Rhys had asked you to stay here, knowing this was not a happy meeting, and you were mostly fine staying behind. You just didn't know how hard it would be for you not to see him.

The pen was still scratching against the paper as you let out a small sigh and began the walk back to your shared room. It had been several minutes since you had been waiting and you knew he probably was going to be a few hours more.

As you touched the doorknob you heard a door at the end of the hall open, the familiar scent of citrus and sea wafting over to you as you turned your head. Rhysand stood there, tired but smiling, as you let out a small squeal of happiness and launched yourself towards him.

He caught you with ease, burying his nose into your hair as you wrapped your legs around him and clung to him like a babe. You could feel his rumbling chuckle in your body as he kissed your temple and pulled back to look at you.

"I missed you, darling. Three days is much too long for us." He smirked, licking his lips.

"Any day without you is too long, Rhys." You said softly, caressing his cheek. "Did you see what I'm wearing?"

"It was the second thing I noticed after your smile." Rhys hummed, letting you go so that he could examine you properly. "I think it's so cute that you still think you have to do all these things for my attention, Y/N."

"I want to make sure your eyes and heart are always on me." You grinned. "Just like mine are always on you."

"Darling you've had my attention since the moment I met you. No one else can ever come close to you." He purred, pulling you into a sweet kiss. You melted into him, wrapping your arms around his neck as you savored him as if it were your first kiss.

[avonne-writes]

Hello! For the Situations ask game, could I request 59 - forced to lie about something for Buck and Bucky please?

I would prefer it to be gen but if you don't fancy that then don't worry :)

Thank you for the prompt! 💖 I kept it gen. 😊 It might not be what you expected, but I hope you still like it!

Edit: uploaded to AO3 too

59. Lying curse/forced to lie about something

Gale pads across the space between two barracks on light, quick feet. He's on the prowl, his senses alert and mind happy and clear. Sweet summer smells tickle his nose and make his lips twitch. The waning moon shines bright tonight, casting long shadows over the grass that brushes his slender legs in the most pleasing way. He marvels at his own dark silhouette, stopping to admire it fully.

That's his mistake. He rarely allows himself a moment of vanity, but, apparently, one moment is enough to earn its due punishment - he’s noticed.

"Hey." The slightly slurred, cajoling voice sounds familiar. The hair stands up on the back of Gale's neck at the prospect of being caught in the state he's in by none other than his best friend. He’s frozen in place, staring with wide blue eyes as Bucky walks closer with slow steps, his arms outstretched in a way that's supposed to look welcoming.

"Hi there, beautiful." Bucky coos. "Where did you come from, huh?"

"From the pub, where you left me." Gale hisses, because he’s still a little pissed about that. He isn’t too fond of wrangling drunk, rowdy soldiers while Bucky is outside, chasing skirt in an alleyway. So, Gale came back to base, then snuck out to do some chasing of his own.

Bucky, of course, doesn’t understand.

"It’s okay. Don’t be scared." A few feet away from Gale, he crouches, almost falling over in his drunken state. With his sharp sight, Gale can see the cheerful twinkle in his eyes. "Come here. Kitty, kitty, kitty."

"I ought'a scratch you." Gale growls, irritated that his midnight fun has been interrupted. He can hear all the fucking whiny mice scurrying around the base. He could have had a veritable feast!

"I know, I know." Bucky soothes him quietly, inching closer. "I promise I'm very respectful. No tail pulling, no tummy touching. Just wanna pet you, princess."

"Jesus, John." Gale drawls. He could bolt, make a run for it. Wouldn’t be much of an effort, but then, he’d leave Bucky dejected. He doesn’t have the heart to do it, not after the last missions they had. So many lives lost, so little comfort to be had. He, too, only has the cradle of the moonlight and his best friend.

The friend whose face splits into his disarming, squinty-eyed smile as his palm comes into contact with Gale's back. "Good girl."

"I'm not a goddamn girl." Gale protests in a long meow as he’s picked up, his fluffy tail lashing back and forth. Nevertheless, Bucky's hold feels comfortable, clearly familiar with the feline form as he tucks Gale to his chest. The solid warmth of his body feels like a balm to a wound on Gale’s soul that he didn’t even realize he had. Oh, how he missed to be cared for.

"There." Bucky murmurs, holding him with one arm and using his other hand to stroke Gale's cream-coloured fur gently. Over his head, down his back and side, then scratching gently behind his ear. "What a pretty kitty."

Gale can’t help it, he closes his eyes and leans into the touch. It has been so long since he felt physical affection beyond a pat on the back or a careless arm around his shoulders, and even longer since anyone touched him in this form. He missed it, he realizes. Feeling warm and safe like this again might be even better than catching annoying pests. Within two seconds, he’s purring with the joy of it, boneless in Bucky's hold. His legs dangle over Bucky's arm. He thinks about kneading him, either to satisfy his instinct to reciprocate or to sink his claws into his skin in retaliation for being left in the pub, but it's too much effort.

"Aren't you sweet?" Bucky chuckles and sways in place as if Gale was a baby. Or, perhaps he’s just too drunk to stand upright for more than a minute. He’s silent for a long moment, just thumbing at Gale’s silky shoulder, then opens his mouth again. "Oh, Curt would've loved you."

Gale stops purring and looks up at him. Tears glisten in Bucky's dark eyes. Bucky sniffs, then chuckles wetly and goes back to massaging Gale's ear, to get him to purr again, Gale assumes. Overcome with sadness and sympathy, he obliges. Lets the rhythmic rumbling in his chest comfort them both as they grieve together in silence. In and out goes the air in his lungs in soft purrs. Back and forth swipes Bucky's gentle thumb. All around them, the night is quiet and still warm with summer, but a cold breeze sweeps over the airfield.

"Will you bring me good luck, girl?" Bucky talks to him in drunken whispers. "Gotta go back up there soon. Watch my friends get blown up." He sighs, long and hard. "'m glad I caught you. Miserable fucking night and all."

He sighs and pulls Gale higher to press his face to Gale's fur. "Had to leave the pub to clear my head. Felt fucking awful so I went back for another shot." He exhales in a long blow. "Where the hell did he go?"

Gale's heart clenches, but he refuses to acknowledge it as guilt. How could he have known it wasn’t some pretty girl John went after? John never said a word about feeling unwell.

Gale rubs his head against John's neck in apology, deciding he deserves that kneading after all, but before he could get any further than extending his claws, another man passes by and notices them both.

"Is that a cat?"

Hell no, Gale’s instincts scream, and his claws scratch at Bucky’s uniform, flailing to get away. Bucky yelps and his arms loosen enough for Gale to jump free, landing on his four feet practically running. He flees the scene without looking back, sharp ears flicked back to listen to pursuing footsteps, but all he hears is a disappointed huff.

"Great job, private, you scared her away."

Relieved, Gale runs and runs until he’s almost back where he's supposed to be, behind the Officers' Quarters. There, in the sanctuary of darkness, he concentrates and lets his limbs grow, his fur disappear, claws turn into nails, until he’s back in his human form with the clothes he transformed in when he left on his hunt. He smooths his hands over his uniform, takes a deep breath to control his rapid panting, then walks back inside.

He’s pretending to read in his bed when Bucky enters to stumble over to his own. He's uncharacteristically subdued as he makes quick work of his outer layers, and Gale doesn’t know why, but he feels he needs to snap him out of it.

"Had a good night?" He asks quietly. He hates how easy it is to sound casual and unaffected about it.

"Fantastic." Bucky says, bitter at first before he puts on a smile. "Know that redhead, down the street from the baker?" He clicks his tongue as if to say, what a fine broad. "She likes my singing."

It's a lie, Gale knows, but he can’t tell Bucky that. He can’t reveal himself, nor does he want to draw light to something Bucky wants to hide from him. "I bet."

Bucky snorts, amused. What an ironic turn of phrase. "Hey, Buck."

"Hm."

Bucky pauses, brushing a hand over his discarded uniform. When Gale squints at it, he notices the layer of white fur on it in horror. Oblivious to Gale's pounding heart, Bucky smiles. "Have you seen a white cat around? Big one, long fur."

Yeah, I've looked into a mirror, Gale thinks. He can’t say that though. No one is supposed to know. "No."

Bucky nods, running his hands over his clothes again. "I caught it, but some stupid private scared it away."

Gale swallows. "It will come back eventually."

Bucky lies down in his cot, his back to Gale. "Yeah. Maybe." For a moment, he’s silent, then he adds, "But I might not be here."

Gale has nothing to say. The night feels too fragile to hold the weight of another lie. He can’t promise something he can’t control.

"Good night, Buck." Bucky mumbles after a few minutes.

"Night, John." Gale says. His skin itches.

He wishes he could curl up and purr.

It would make the world feel like a better place.

---

[darknight3904]

𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕽𝖆𝖈𝖊

ᴀᴇᴍᴏɴᴅ ᴛᴀʀɢᴀʀʏᴇɴ x ꜰᴇᴍ!ᴏᴄ! ᴛᴀʀɢᴀʀʏᴇɴ

ᴘʀᴇᴠɪᴏᴜꜱ ᴘᴀʀᴛ / ꜱᴇʀɪᴇꜱ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ /ᴍʏ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ

Longest chapter so far 2.8k :)

132 AC

The moon had disappeared behind a cloud. Her room was darker than ever as Rhaella tossed and turned beneath her covers. She had bid Rhaenrya's family farewell only half a day ago and was to depart for Highgarden in the morning. Yet, she could not find sleep. Perhaps it was her conversation with Lucerys and Jace in the library the other day. Or how Aemond seemed so hellbent on revenge for something that happened a lifetime ago. All she knew was that sleep was evading her.

The padding of footsteps and the clanking of armor passing filled her ears. The light of a torch reached it's way across her chamber from the crack under the door. Something was happening while the castle slept...Or perhaps the guards were catching Aegon slinking about, no doubt returning drunk from his ventures in Flea Bottom.

As she lay there amongst feather-stuffed pillows and silken sheets, she thought of Aemond. How he had angrily marched her back to her chamber muttering a goodnight before disappearing down the steps. He had been so distant and cold lately. Rhaella thought it might lessen once Jace and Luke were finally gone from Kings Landing but after their litter left the yard, he had turned on his heel and disappeared into the castle with nothing but a murmur on his lips.

Perhaps it was all for the best. She was going to be married before the next moon, she shouldn't remain hung up on a childhood friend. Truly, leaving whatever they had in the past was what was best for all. For herself, for Aemond, for Lord Tyrell's son whom she had yet to meet.

That being said, she couldn't help but want him. His presence, the way he smelled slightly of citrus from whatever soap he used for his baths. Before she left she was determined to see him again, the way she wanted to, not however he wanted to portray himself to her. The gloomy solitary self Aemond had painted would not be what she would remember for the rest of her days with her husband.

The stones of the castle floor were cool on her feet as she slipped into a simple pair of slippers. Perhaps Aemond would still be awake at this hour.

In her haste, she quickly zipped down the hall, only to be stopped by a whisper of her name. Aemond? Was he lurking somewhere?

"Rhaella!"

She turned to her right where Maester Edric's door greeted her.

Seven Hells, the old man was going to be the death of her.

"Yes?" She greeted, pushing his door open. She felt like she was a child again, being scolded for not wanting vegetables at dinner.

"Where are you off to now?" He asked from his bed

Maester Edric's age was catching up to him, a fact Rhaella hated. He had become immobile four moons ago and his eyes had begun to go as well. Rhaella hated that it meant he'd most likely die soon. He was too weak to travel with her to Highgarden and she feared he might die before she was able to visit again.

"Just because I cannot walk does not mean my ears are not sharp." He said

"How did you know it was me?" Rhaella asked, sitting at his side

"I only know one person who dashes about the halls like that at night. You've done it since you were a little girl. Crawling into my bed claiming a White Walker was beneath your bed or hiding in your wardrobe." He laughed

"White Walkers aren't real." Rhaella laughed

"You never know." He smiled, "Now tell me, where are you off to tonight?"

"I want to visit Aemond. He has been...troublesome recently." Rhaella said

"You spend too much time thinking of him," Edric said, waving his hand in dismissal.

"He is important to me." Rhaella sighed

"He is young. Aemond is unpredictable." Edric sighed, "Better you turn your sights on something more stable."

"Let me guess? The Tyrell I'm set to marry?" Rhaella groaned not wanting to hear anymore of him, it was all Queen Alicent talked about around her.

"I was going to suggest Sōna." He laughed, "But the Tyrells work as well."

"What about Sōna?" Rhaella asked

"You're a dragon rider. You ought to train with your dragon. The best Targaryens have always had a strong bond with their dragons. Your father is an example of it." Edric said

"My father is hardly a great Targaryen." Rhaella laughed

"Perhaps he is not a good person...But no one can deny his fierceness. He is a warrior, his bond with his dragon is one of the strongest I have ever seen." Edric smiled

Rhaella shook her head even though Edric couldn't see her. She hated it, but he was right. Daemon had always had a magnificent bond with Caraxes.

"A bond like that takes years." Rhaella sighs

"You better start soon then." Maester Edric encouraged

A loud cough interrupted whatever was going to leave his lips next. Rhaella immediately reached for the cup of water that was kept on his bedside table. She slowly tipped it back and helped him drink.

"I'll let you rest." She said, started for the door.

"Are you going back to your room?" Edric asked, "Sleep is important."

"You know me...always dashing through the halls," Rhaella said

Edric lets out an amused laugh and wipes at his face where the water trickled down the sides of his face.

"Wherever you go, be safe." He encouraged

Rhaella gently shut the door behind her, hoping the old man on the other side would truly sleep the way she wanted him to. She thought of what she originally set out to do. Aemond. He was just a few halls and a flight of steps away from her. Perhaps he'd see her, maybe he wouldn't.

"Better you turn your sights on something more stable."

Her dragon riding clothes were a bit smelly. She made a mental note to hand them off to her handmaiden tomorrow morning. The horse she had stolen away from the stables snorted loudly as she tied him off in the small stable outside the pit.

"Hush. You're alright." She soothed pulling a ripe apple from her pocket and feeding it to him

Sōna bellowed, most likely in confusion, as the keepers brought her out. Rhaella must've woken her up. Her dragon was on the lazy side, much like her mother. She had heard tales from Dragonstone that Silverwing often slept the days away.

"Lady Rhaella, are you sure you wish to fly? It is late." The keeper said, rubbing sleep from his eyes

"Yes. I will be back before dawn, do not worry." Rhaella said, reaching to climb on her dragon

"Sōvēs!"

The way the cold air whipped at her face would never grow old. Rhaella took a deep breath of the fresh air among the clouds. Here, the stench of the city couldn't reach her nose.

Sōna let out a loud trill as they flew over the Kings Wood. Rhaella looked around. What could she possibly see this late at night? A stag running through the trees? Dragons were constantly hungry...

Instead of a possible snack for her dragon, Rhaella was met with another loud bellow. However instead of Sōna making it, she looked down to see Vhagar looking up at them from a large clearing.

What the hell were they doing out here?

Rhaella's feet crunched over the dried leaves and sticks as she walked through the woods. The moon was doing a good job of providing light but Rhaella was still stumbling every few steps. Sōna let out a churn everytime she nearly lost her footing. The dragon was more nervous than Rhaella was.

"Aemond?" She called as she reached the shore of the lake where Aemond taught her to swim so many years ago

The chirps of bugs and the hoot of an owl responded. Perhaps he was not here. Could it be that Vhagar was just resting here? Perhaps Aemond was back at the castle now sleeping the night away the way Rhaella was supposed to be.

"Looks like he's not here, girl." Rhaella said turning to Sōna who looked back at her, expressionless.

The loud crashing of bushes being trampled through had Rhaella's head snapping to the right. Sōna let out a deep growl beside her, the dragon's mouth opened, her long teeth gleaming in the moonlight.

"Seven fucking hells!"

Rhaella's eyes widened when Aemond crashed through the shrubs.

"Rhaella?" He asked looking at her

Rhaella glanced over at Sōna who was already looking at her with interest. Neither of them was expecting this...

"Aemond...what are you doing?" Rhaella asked, taking in his appearance. He was disheveled, a few leaves were even stuck in his hair. Oddly enough his hair was free from its usual style, instead it was tucked behind his ears, a few strands falling free and framing his face.

"I could not sleep. I thought a flight and a walk would clear my head." Aemond explained, "I...got lost in thought and wandered off the path."

"So you were lost?" Rhaella asked, a smile pulling at her lips.

"No!" Aemond said defensively

Aemond Targaryen, master swordsman, flyer of Vhagar, prince of the city had been crashing through the woods, lost. Rhaella could feel the laughter welling up in her stomach.

"Sure you were." Rhaella laughed

"I was not." Aemond said

"You're lying," Rhaella said, even Sōna knows it. Rhaella motioned to her dragon who had decided to lie down after realizing Aemond was no threat to her rider.

"Your dragon isn't even awake." Aemond pointed out, "Much less discerning whether I am lying or not."

Sōna let out a loud snort, as if she could tell Aemond was talking about her.

"Why are you out here?" Aemond grumbled, changing the subject.

"Same as you, I could not find sleep," Rhaella explained

"Clearly we need better tactics," Aemond said, sitting down on a large rock

Rhaella laughed at his tone. This was the Aemond she had been missing. His boyish humor and sarcasm were something she had always enjoyed. She quickly closed the distance between them and sat beside him, bumping their shoulders together.

"What are you doing?" He asked

"Sitting next to you. " Rhaella explained

Aemond let out a grunt and kicked at the dirt at their feet.

Silence settled around them as Sōna's deep breaths were the only thing that reached her ears. Rhaella took in Aemond's appearance. She couldn't remember the last time she saw him with his hair down surely, it had been years. Her eyes greedily roamed his frame as she sat next to her, eyes fixed on the lake. He had been bigger than her for years now but Rhaella had never been able to get over how truly board his frame had become. He was nowhere near fat but his thin frame was clearly muscular, his broad shoulders were what truly stood out to Rhaella. Surely if she placed her hands on them, she'd be able to feel the way the muscles beneath his dragon-riding clothes tensed.

"I am sorry." Aemond's soft tone filled her ears, "For ignoring you these past weeks."

She wasn't expecting an apology from Aemond, he never apologized when they were children. Even that one time when he scared her in the middle of the night and then she walked into a door. Her nose had bled for nearly twenty minutes after that.

"I have...been upset that you are leaving for Highgarden. I guess I thought if I ignored you, the issue would vanish....I see I was wrong though." Aemond sighed, still not meeting her gaze, "And now you are leaving tomorrow and we have no good memories to look back on."

No good memories? What were the past few years then?

"Do the past years not count?" Rhaella asked

"No!" Aemond jumped "They do. I only meant...you're going to fly off tomorrow and all we've done is ignore each other."

Rhaella smiled, no matter how he grew and tried to change, Aemond was, at least with her, still the same boy she had met years ago.

"We can still make a few memories...." Rhaella grinned jumping to her feet, "Come."

Aemond watched wide-eyed as Rhaella began to shed her dragon-riding clothes. What was she doing? Secretly he hoped she didn't stop losing articles of her clothes but he knew that was wrong.

"What are you doing?" He sharply asked, catching her hand as she went to shimmy out of the ornate shirt she was wearing. The faux dragon scales that had been created from fabric glistened on her chest under the moon.

"Remember when you taught me to swim here?" Rhaella asked

"I tried to," Aemond said surveying the area thinking back to the day he plotted to murder a duck for food before Rhaella stopped him. It seemed like a lifetime ago.

"Tired to." Rhaella smiled, "Let's have another lesson."

Aemond swam out to where Rhaella was already struggling in the water.

"Relax." He said, gently placing his hand on her shoulder.

He tried to ignore the way her chemise was clinging to her in the water. Surely it had been like this last time. Had he just not noticed? How foolish of him, to ignore the way the wet fabric made her look. It was positively sinful.

"I am relaxed." Rhaella defended, a gulp of water invading her mouth.

"You're about to swallow half the lake." Aemond said, "Watch me."

He slowly moved his limbs in unison, hoping she could see the way he was moving. A simple breaststroke surely wasn't too hard for Rhaella and her lack of skill.

Aemond found himself smiling when she swam towards him, copying his movements.

"I'm doing it!" She smiled when she reached him

"Not bad." He said

"Would it kill you to compliment me?" Rhaella groaned beside him, treading water so she remained afloat.

"It would, in fact." Aemond laughed

"You are truly terrible." Rhaella declared, flicking a bit of water onto his face. most of it hit his eyepatch and dripped off into the lake.

"Do you ever take it off?" Rhaella asked

"What?" He asked, pretending to be clueless

"The eye patch. I know you have a sapphire below it but I do not recall ever seeing it." Rhaella said, swimming so close that their noses brushed

"It's not a sight you want to see." Aemond said thinking of the ugly flesh below the leather on his face.

"I'll be the judge of that." Rhaella said

Before he could protest, she reached for his face and pulled it off his face.

"Rhaella!" He gasped reaching for it with his head pointed down.

"Come get it!" Rhaella called swimming off

He never should have taught her how to swim.

Aemond chased her into shallow waters where they both could stand. Rhaella was laughing when he finally got close to her. He let out a curse when she evaded him again. Since when was she so fast? All that fabric from her small clothes should be weighing her down.

He caught her off guard by quickly catching her by the waist. His face heated up even as the cool water lapped at their skin when he felt Rhaella's legs wrap around his waist. Did she truly not realize what she was doing?

"Give it here." He said

"Look at me first." Rhaella said

He reluctantly turned his head. He hoped she wasn't too scared, he was enjoying this proximity, the way her body was pressed to him was driving him mad.

Rhaella examined Aemond's face. The sapphire was gleaming in the moonlight and only seemed to shine brighter in contrast with Aemond's silver hair and milky skin.

"Has anyone ever told you how good-looking you are?" Rhaella asked, in awe of her friend's features.

Aemond scoffed, pulling the eyepatch from her hand and slipping it back on.

"I don't need you to lie to me." He said

"I'm not lying," Rhaella said, placing her hands on those shoulders she had been thinking about earlier. She had been right, you could feel the way the muscles below the skin tensed with each movement.

"We should fly back. Dawn is coming." Aemond said quietly, his face slightly red

"Just...one more minute." Rhaella said, resting her head in the crook of Aemond's neck, "I don't want to leave yet."

Cool water lapped around them as the moonlight faded away. A minute passed, and then two, and then many. Aemond was not sure how long they stayed there, water up to their chins as Rhaella drove him mad with her closeness. All he knew was that he never wanted this moment to end.

Next Part

The dance is looming...Aemond and Rhaella are you ready??? (They are not ready)

Also uh idk what happened but this part posted twice and the second time it posted it only posted half of it?? Tumblr is on something.

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[corroded-hellfire]

A First Second Date - Eddie Munson x Reader

Summary: Feeling bummed about your dating life, you have a middle of the night run in with the cute guy who lives in the apartment across from yours.

Note: Me? Projecting? Never. Also, yes, Butterbean is a real cat who hangs around mine.

Words: 2.1k

The apartment still has the warm pleasant smell from your earlier baking as you walk out of your room, shrugging on an oversized navy hoodie. A little baggie awaits you on the counter and you snatch it up and shove it into your hoodie pocket. The heavenly smelling sugar cookies you’d made look too tempting as you pass them by, forcing you to grab one. Then halt in your tracks, turn around and grab a second one, before continuing your way towards the front door. 

It’s just before two in the morning and it’s quite possibly your favorite time of day. No one asking you to do anything, no one expecting anything of you, time to just be. The whole apartment building seems to have fallen silent—another perk to this time of night. The sound of your feet padding down the thinly carpeted hallway is all that’s heard. 

Coolness kisses your skin as you push outside, making sure not to let the heavy door slam behind you, lest it disturb the peace. Only a few wispy clouds decorate the sky above, most of the frills consisting of the glistening stars and beaming moon. 

Dry grass crunches underfoot as you step across the lawn of your apartment building. There’s a small stone wall up near the sidewalk, with a large oak tree conveniently plotted right behind it to give you something to lean back on when you’re lounging on the parapet. Taking up your usual post as the late night watch woman, you take a generous bite into one of the soft cookies in your hand. The vanilla and buttery notes have you letting out a content sigh as you tuck your legs up underneath you and lay your back against the mighty oak. 

As if your sigh was the cue he was waiting for, your loyal nighttime companion hops up on the wall next to you. The pale ginger cat greets you with an insistent meow before he begins to rub up against your arms, the calming purr radiating throughout his body. 

“Hey, Butterbean,” you say as you reach up to scratch between his ears. The volume of the purring increases as Butterbean moves his head around, letting you know exactly where he wants the scratchies. While he’s in his ecstasy, you finish off the first sugar cookie. As if the sight of your treat reminds him, he looks up at you eagerly, ears high on his tiny head, and his large eyes wide.

“Yes?” you ask.

He lets out another meow and brings his paw up to scratch against the chest of your hoodie. 

“Oh, is that what you want?” you tease the feline. “Of course I’ve got something for you.”

Butterbean’s excitement grows as he watches you take the plastic baggie out of your pocket and sprinkle the cat treats on the stone wall next to you. Your pantry has its own little stash of cat treats ever since you befriended this neighborhood sweetheart. He’s gained weight since you’ve begun giving him the food—which he needed. You don’t know where he was before he came into your life, but you prefer to think that the little nub he has on his rear end instead of a tail is just how he was born. 

“Glad you like ‘em, kid,” you tell the cat as he finishes eating. Next, he decides it’s time for him to bathe himself right there next to you on the wall. 

Closing your eyes, you tilt your head back and take a deep breath. You’ve been trying to keep the thoughts at bay for a while now, but now was the time for them to resurface. 

What did I do wrong? Should I have offered to pay for dinner? Could he not stop staring at this stupid zit on my chin? Did I say something stupid? Oh, I probably did. And why stop at one thing, there were most likely several stupid things I said. 

Letting out a groan of frustration, you run your hands over your face. This was the fourth first date you’d been on in two months. Not a second date to be found. Why was the only one who wanted a second date the one who I wanted to literally run from? You’re about to voice this question out loud to your furry friend, but the sound of footsteps coming up the sidewalk catches your attention. No one’s ever out walking the streets this late at night. It has you on your guard, and you’re ready to sprint for the front door of the apartment if you need to—scooping up Butterbean to bring him to safety as well. But it’s just your across the hall neighbor, Eddie. The one you’ve had a massive crush on since the day you moved in. How could you not when he offered to move the heavier things for you and then gave you that devastating smile? Life would be so much better if you could just date him. But you don’t even let your mind think about that for too long unless you're lying in bed at night with your hand between your legs. Thinking about dating Eddie, about him caring about you, was just asking for more heartbreak than you already have. 

“Hey, stranger,” Eddie says as he strolls over to you. Butterbean raises his head to look at Eddie, who waves at him like it’s a common occurrence. “Hello, Ginger.”

You can’t help but let out a snort of laughter at that. “Ginger?”

“Yeah, I named the cat,” Eddie says defensively, a playful smile dancing on his lips. “So what?”

“No, no,” you say with a shake of your head, still laughing. “I named him, too. Just something a little more creative than the color of his fur.”

“How do you know he’s a boy?” Eddie presses, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Because it’s very rare for an orange cat to be a girl,” you inform him. “It has to do with the chromosomes.” Great job, you think to yourself. Give him a science lesson, that’s how to seduce a man. 

“Okay, Miss Smartypants, what did you name the distinguished gentleman?” Eddie asks, with an overdramatic flourish in the cat’s direction.

“Butterbean,” you admit, bashfulness creeping in your voice. 

Eddie throws back his head and lets out a crack of laughter. It’s not at you, though, you can tell. 

“Oh, I love that,” Eddie says. “So much better than mine.”

A chill breeze blows across the yard, making you tuck your legs up closer to your body. A reminder of what time it is and that you should probably get inside soon. What was Eddie doing out this late? Probably coming back from a date. The thought brings a lump to your throat. If he’s coming back this late from the date, it must’ve gone well. Images of Eddie in some other woman’s bed start to invade your mind and you’re pretty sure you’re physically wincing when Eddie’s words break you out of your thoughts.

“Whatcha got there?”

“Hmm?” You look up to see Eddie gesturing to the second sugar cookie in your hand. “Oh. I made these today. Do you want it? I just had one.”

“I will never turn down free food,” Eddie tells you as he plucks the cookie from your hand. As he bites into it, you watch as the crumbs scatter over his lips and the way his tongue pokes out to collect them. It shouldn’t turn you on as much as it does. “Holy shit. That is amazing.”

“Y-Yeah?” you ask with a nervous chuckle. 

“Hell yeah.” He brushes the sprinkles of sugar off of his hands and gives you a playful smirk. “You’ll make some man a happy husband someday.”

“Ha!” 

You didn’t mean to let that out, but it felt like a reflex to respond to the idea of someone wanting to be with you with a bark of laughter. 

Eddie furrows his eyebrows at you. “Why’s that funny?”

“Nah,” you say, shaking your head. You don’t want to get into this with him, so you try to just play it off. “S’just I don’t see it happening.”

“You don’t want to get married?”

“No, I do.” You’re speaking to your lap now, and Butterbean has curled up by your side for support. “I just don’t think I will.”

“I don’t understand,” Eddie says with a shake of his head. 

“Can’t seem to get past a first date with anyone,” you say with a self-deprecating chuckle. 

“Hey.” Eddie nudges your shoulder, so you look up at him. “Least you’re going on dates, sweetheart. Same can’t be said for everyone.”

The slight downturn of the corners of his mouth makes you frown.

“Wait, you don’t mean you, do you?” The very idea boggles your mind.

“Yep, little ‘ol me.” Now it’s Eddie that seems to look anywhere but at you. 

“You’re not coming back from a date now?” Again, not something you meant to let out. Your filter must stop working at two in the morning. 

“From a date?” Eddie meets your eyes, his eyebrows raised into his frizzy bangs. “No.” He chuckles as he shakes his head. “Covered a shift at the plant my old man works at. He wasn’t feeling great and he’s getting older, so I said I’d fill in.”

“Oh.” The knot in your stomach from picturing him with a woman starts to untie itself. “Well…you should go on dates.” With me, you don’t add.

“Why’s that?” Eddie counters.

“Because…you’re great.” 

“So are you,” Eddie says, jutting his chin in your direction. 

“So, we’re both great,” you say. The words hang in the air, and you wonder who will speak first. You’re not sure if he’ll pick up on the implication that you should go on a date together because, well…it was barely there. But you leave the ball in his court, the silence between the two of you only broken by Butterbean’s soft snores. 

“Okay, uh,” Eddie starts. He clears his throat before continuing. “Say the next guy you go out with isn’t a total asshole. Where would you want him to take you on a second date?”

“Well, you said he’s not an asshole?” You click your tongue and shrug your shoulders. “That means he won’t want a second date. Only the assholes do.”

“Hypothetically here,” he says, throwing you a small smile.

“Second date…” You purse your lips as you ponder the question. “Where did he take me on the first date?”

Eddie squeezes one eye shut as he thinks of a proper date spot. “Lunch date at Benny’s Diner.”

“Not a bad choice,” you concede. “Second date, hmm. Might not be a step up, probably a lateral move…but Waffle House.”

This makes Eddie laugh. His ring-covered hand comes to hold his stomach and he shakes his head in amusement. 

“The Waffle House?”

“Best waffles I ever had,” you tell him. 

“All right,” Eddie says as he scratches the slight stubble covering his chin. “So, what would you say if I asked you to go to the Waffle House?”

The cookie you’d eaten only minutes ago suddenly feels like it sprouted wings and it’s flying uncontrollably all around your stomach. Afraid to scare him away by simply shouting YES at him, you take a moment to think of a calmer response. 

“I’d say that sounds like a second date spot and we haven’t been on a first yet. But I’d make an exception for you.”

The smile that grows on Eddie’s face baffles you. You put that smile there? That stunning, orgasm-inducing smile? All by saying you want to go on a date with him? Seems impossible. 

“I’m honored to be the exception.” Eddie sketches a bow that sends you into a round of giggles. The noise wakes Butterbean up, and he stretches his long paws out in front of him. 

“When should I expect this Waffle House invitation?” you ask.

“Hmm. Perhaps as I escort you back inside? It’s pretty late.”

Conceding to his point, you hop off the wall, Butterbean jumping down after you. After rubbing himself up against your legs a few times, he wanders off, only to be seen again tomorrow night when you have his little baggie of treats. 

Eddie opens the front door of the apartment for you, and you step inside the building that now feels too warm. The two of you walk side by side up the stairs, and after he holds the staircase door open for you, he clears his throat.

“So, would you like to go to the Waffle House sometime? Whenever you’re free?”

“I’d really like that,” you say, excitement bubbling throughout your whole body. “Are you usually up this late? Because I am and the Waffle House is open 24 hours.”

“I could go for some midnight waffles, shit yeah. Tomorrow?”

Trying to keep your beaming smile to a minimum, you nod your head.

“It’s a date.”

“The first of many, hopefully.”

Maybe all guys weren’t so bad after all. 

[saiintvalentiine]

three dog night

Summary: three dog night - a night so cold that it would take three dogs to keep warm.

It's the longest night of the year. It's the coldest too. Something escapes into the depth of the forest, and Wato is about to find out an unfortunate truth.

Word count: 3,081

Notes: heavily inspired by stories of the Korean gumiho, I bring to you: my insane ramblings that I'll be passing off as a Christmas gift for you guys. This is a real mess so you'll have to super suspend your disbelief for it. Warnings for gore, violence, and death. Feel free to point out any SPAG errors, b/c this is unedited af. Enjoy.

The cold feels good. It's painful on his face, biting his nose and chapping his lips. But his heart, missing its pearl and as black as the night sky, beats easier in the freezing temperatures.

The hunger is the only thing keeping him upright.

He has no idea how long it's been since he escaped the facility. Time moves like sludge in the winter, white flakes on his white hair on a white world, with only the white moon watching between the pines. It can't have been more than a few hours.

There's a man walking. He's walking through a forest alone, which is strange and dangerous, but the man smells like liquor. It travels through the air like a whip crack, his tail puffing up in subconscious disgust. A rotten liver. But the man’s heartbeat is strong and hot and loud, and he is oh so hungry.

Even in his current state, it's easy to crack the man's skull open with a rock. His body gags, tries to bring his pearl up only to come up empty. Pearlless. A dud. He doesn't care. He descends upon the body, tearing through fabric and flesh all the same, and finds the still-beating heart between splintered rib bones. The first bite is too hasty, splatters blood all over the exsanguinating corpse and his face and clothes, but the hunger dulls— it's not about the blood, after all, although it does soothe his throat. He eats every scrap of muscle until his breath starts to run hot enough to fog in the air.

The liver is, in fact, rotten to the taste, but he eats it anyway. None of the other organs entice him, speak to him, demand his teeth on their sanguine surfaces. He contemplates taking the man's shoes, but as he licks his hands clean, he decides he's taken enough. The body would dissolve away soon enough.

He struggles to stand up, snow sinking and melting with the warm blood. He's still hungry. He gags again, coughs out a spray of sparkling black. No pearl. Just the starry darkness on his chest. If he doesn't keep eating, he won't last, not without a pearl.

He tries to wipe the blood off of his face, but he can't see if he's making any progress. Burying his hands in fresh snow, he rubs it into his face, pointed ears flicking to catch any suspicious sound.

He stands up, bare feet padding through the snow in a staccato. His face is wet and cold, globs of pink snow dripping down from his cheeks. He doesn't really know where he's going, just that he is, and that he needs to eat again.

It's the longest night of the year. If there's one drunk, there's a hundred. He'll eat again or he'll die, and he can't die so soon after breaking free, so he will eat again.

Wato is pretty good with the cold. It doesn’t bother them as badly, wolf blooded as they are, but it’s still cold as fuck out here. They heard someone say it was going to be the coldest night of the season tonight, which they’re not too sure about, but it feels like the coldest night of the season so far. Though—

Wato’s memory has been spotty lately. They’d never say that their memory was the best, but it had never been so bad. They’re not even really sure what they’re doing in this town surrounded far and wide by an old growth taiga. This is, maybe, they think, the town where Wifies has his big ole escape room warehouse. Craning their head, Wato spots the looming shape of the bulky building, taller than most of the buildings in town but smaller than the spruce trees. Wato’s been there a few times, helped make a few rooms. Checking their chat, it looks like that’s exactly what Wato was doing here. The last message in Wifies’s chat is from Wato announcing they’d arrived.

Memory problems are no joke. Wato really needs to get onto fixing it. It's just a bad season for that kind of thing, with daylight hours so scant and time already stretched thin.

Walking through town feels like walking through a shut-down movie set. Everything is quiet, the only movement coming from a bar Wato passes with disinterest. The snow dampens all sound, freshly laid though the sky is clear now, so low and quiet that even their ears struggle to catch much. There’s a clear border where the town ends and the forest starts, and Wato stands on the threshold. Digging through their pockets, they’re thrilled to find their box of cigs and lighter. Popping the box open, they snort. One cigarette is left, flipped around.

“It’s my lucky,” Wato mutters, pulling it out of the box and flipping it back over the right way.

Holding the correct end in their mouth, they struggle with their lighter for a few moments. It sparks but doesn’t light, and the wind isn’t helping. Through the sharp, grating noise of the sparkwheel failing over and over, they hear. . . something. It’s quiet, but it sounds like someone panting or breathing heavily. Their ears flick, angling towards the forest. Glancing over, Wato doesn’t see much, but the treeline is thick and dark. They pocket the cigarette and lighter.

“Hello?” Wato calls out. “Is there anyone out there? You okay?”

The noise stops. The crunch of snow takes over. Someone with a notable limp from the sound of it.

“Hey, if you need help, there’s still places open in town,” Wato calls out.

Their suit and loafers are ill equipped for the snow. At least the streets are salted. They’re not going into the brush if they can help it. There’s movement, tree branches shaking and shedding a thin layer of snow. From behind an ancient trunk, a white head with pointed white ears appear— and then red, staining the tangled tips and neck of—

“Wifies?!”

Wifies— it can’t be Wifies, Wifies has dark hair and soft, folded ears that are only mottled with small spots of white. But it’s Wifies’s face, gaunt maybe, eyes the wrong color, a shimmery violet-gold instead of deep dark brow.

Those violet eyes dilate. The pupil eats the iris up until he looks more right. Wato takes a step towards him, slow, since they don’t want to startle him if he’s hurt.

Wifies books it in the other direction.

Wato doesn’t think about it; they make chase. They’re not sure if it’s concern for Wifies, or an unfortunate trigger of their prey drive, but it doesn’t matter. They can’t just let Wifies (maybe Wifies?) go if he’s hurt. The scent of blood is thick, tangy, easy to follow, and Wato lets their nose guide them to weave between trees.

The limp is even more noticeable now that they can see him, along with the absolutely drenched state of his clothes, with both blood and water. Even in their horrible shoes, they catch up to him easily.

“Wifies! Slow down!”

He might say something like no, but the air whipping past them both destroys all sound. Wato hates to do this, but they can’t think of a better solution. Bracing their shoulder, they speed up and ram right into Wifies’s back, knocking him flat. Wifies goes rolling, like a white and grey bowling ball, crashing into the stump of a felled tree. Wato cringes as they slow down.

“Sorry! I’m sorry, I didn’t know how else to stop you!”

Wato slows down, crouching in front of Wifies, body winded from the chase.

“Wifies—”

He darts up and hisses, all animal instinct and fear and sharp, sharp teeth. Wato doesn’t flinch. This. . . Imposter Wifies? Is clearly some kind of fox, tail puffed and ears pinned in fear. Wato can out run him if need be. Foxes are sly but he’s already hurt and slow. He struggles to climb over the tree stump and away from Wato while keeping eye contact.

“You’re not Wifies,” Wato says. “But you look like him. Who are you?”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he says, voice crackling, sounding just like Wifies, a non answer. “I like you. You were nice to me. But I’m hungry, and I don’t want to hurt you.”

What?

There’s a crack. Both Wato and the fox snap to attention. The wind that cuts through the trees is blowing away from both them and the noise, so Wato can’t smell anything about what it might have been. The fox shifts until he’s behind the stump, and Wato can tell he’s getting ready to run again.

“Your leg’s busted,” Wato whispers, still staring into the depths of the forest. “Where are you even gonna go?”

“I need to eat,” the fox says, then again, “I need to eat,” and then he spirals, hysterical but quiet, “I need to eat, I need to eat, I need to eat.”

Another crack. The fox scrambles back. An arrow whizzes through the air, burying deep into the top of the stump at an angle. Wato jumps away, and the fox scuttles like some kind of prey animal behind a tree.

“Did I get him?”

It's disorienting seeing Wifies, the Wifies that Wato knows, come into the clearing, while the fox that wears his face sits only a few feet away. He’s holding a crossbow and is wearing a lab coat that has to be doing absolutely nothing for the cold.

“Did you just try to shoot him?” Wato says, processing what just happened.

Wifies glances over, void eyes sucking in the bright moonlight like blackholes.

“He stole my face, Wato,” Wifies says, a black ear twitching. Wato can’t help but flick their own ear out. “Plus, he’s not some innocent little fox.”

“He’s already hurt.”

“Oh? Did you get that eating your first real heart, 24?”

The fox gags. It’s a disgusting noise, like he’s trying to drag something up and out of him, but nothing happens— at least Wato can’t hear him throw up or anything of the like.

“No pearl, no heart, no name,” Wifies notches another arrow in his crossbow, and Wato feels their hackles rise. “And a stolen face. Make this easy for me, 24.”

“I’m not going back,” the fox says, snow crunching as he retreats.

“Wifies, what’s going on?” Wato inches closer. “I was here today. We were working together. This is—”

“I was hoping you would’ve left already, because prolonged exposure makes you hard to control,” Wifies sighs, pulling something out from the inner pocket of his lab coat. “But I guess I can work with a few more hours of exposure.”

Wato sees the mask. It’s the Omz Mask, the one they had to pry off of Ken’s face. How the fuck was it here? Why did Wifies have it? The crossbow is pointed at Wato, mask held out casually.

“Put it on,” Wifies says.

“Do you even know what you’re holding?” Wato asks, stepping back. Wifies matches them step for step.

“I know. Put it on.”

“No.”

The crossbow fires, and Wato dodges, but it manages to clip their shoulder. Harming radiates off the wound, blurring their vision. Wifies notches another arrow.

“What the fuck is wrong with you!”

“Put it on.”

Jesus fucking Christ, what has Wato gotten into? Their eyes dark around, trying to find— something! Anything! A wisp of red circles behind Wifies.

“I won’t,” Wato says, voice rising. “What’s gotten into you?! Put the fucking crossbow down. That mask is dangerous, Wifies, it destroys the psyche of whoever wears it, did you hear what it did to Kenadian?!”

“It was Kenadian’s blunder that allowed me to get to it in the first place. He’s the fool who—”

A branch cracks across Wifies’s temple, thick and dark and wet. Wifies is felled, though he manages to trigger the crossbow on his way down; it sinks into Wato’s thigh, and Wato falls back onto the snow with a scream. The fox lifts the branch again, shaking, sleeves sliding down, and Wato’s focus comes in and out, but the fox is bludgeoning Wifies as best as he can. It's sickening, and Wato feels bile rise in their throat.

“Stop,” they cry out. “Stop!”

The fox stops, dropping the stick and looking at Wifies.

“I need to eat,” the fox says. “I have no pearl. I need to eat.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

Wato is willing to believe that this is all some kind of horrible feverish nightmare as the fox drops down on his knees and begins to tear through Wifies. He digs into Wifies's back and rips him apart, blood scattering like snowflakes in the air and stringy muscle melting into powdery white. The sticky haze of pain from his leg, the dizzying realization of where his memories may have gone, being threatened by someone they thought was a friend, and now a fox plucking a human heart out and eating it like it’s an apple— it’s all too much. Wato tries to crawl away.

“What the fuck, what the fuck,” Wato says over and over again, because they need to say something to the sight of a— they think it's a kidney? They don't know, they're not familiar with internal organs. “You're eating him, what the fuck!”

“He has it,” the fox whispers between bites of viscera. “He has to have it. He likes trophies. Where is it?”

Through the fox’s scratching and digging around, he finds “it”, Wato guesses, because he makes a thrilled chittering noise and holds something small and round to the light.

“My pearl,” the fox says, opening his mouth and dropping the pearl in.

The strangest thing happens, though Wato isn't sure if it's the strangest thing to happen tonight. The fox straightens up and his face brightens. Wato hadn’t realized, but this whole time, the fox’s breath hadn’t been visible until now. It rises like steam off his face, and he shudders. He then continues to loot a dead body he just cannibalized.

Wato is still unsuccessfully trying to get the fuck away when the fox stands up and stalks over to them.

“I like you,” the fox says, like he’s trying to remind Wato’s muddled mind.

“You just killed a guy! A friend of mine!”

“He was going to put the mask on you,” the fox kneels and grabs Wato’s ankle. “Stop moving, I’m gonna get the arrow out.”

“I’m going to bleed out if you do that!”

“Nah.”

Nah? Nah?! What world is Wato in right now? The fox straddles their calf.

“Stop it,” Wato bares their teeth, trying to growl through the nausea.

“Wato!”

Wato snaps up to look at the fox, covered in gore, stained ears to tail in red and pink, and doesn’t know what to say or do or feel. The fox wipes a bloodied hand through the snow, then wipes it on the back of his own sweater, and then places a potion bottle in the snow next to Wato’s hand. Their suit is heavy with melted snow, clinging to their skin and numbing their senses.

“I need to get this out,” the fox says, bracing his newly “cleaned” hand on Wato’s thigh next to the arrow’s barrel. “And you’re going to drink that when I do.”

“Are you fucking delusio—”

The fox yanks the arrow out of Wato’s leg, and Wato chokes on their words and collapses onto their back. The arrow is tossed away and the fox swirls the potion in Wato’s sightline.

“Drink,” the fox insists, tipping it into their mouth.

Wato only struggles for a moment, until the taste of melon convinces them to swallow. It hits their system like a wave, the wound on their arm closing first, and then the pain in their joints disappearing next.

The fox stops about halfway through the potion. He puts it back in the snow and scrambles off and back to Wifies’s body. Wato sits up, panting, watching the fox take the Omz Mask in hand.

“Wait, wait,” Wato grabs the potion, their leg still bleeding. “What are you— you can’t take that!”

“I like you,” the fox says, taking a step back, then another. “But I don’t trust you.”

“Please, just— don’t go, explain to me what just happened?”

The fox hesitates, and Wato drinks the rest of the potion, finally able to stand up again as the arrow wound sews shut.

“No,” the fox decides, turning around and running.

“What the fuck,” Wato freezes.

Wifies’s body is here, but the fox killed him, so it’s— fuck. Wato curses and follows the fox. Even with the head start, the fox still has a bad leg and the tang of blood trails him like a ribbon. Wato only realizes where they’re heading for once the silhouette of the warehouse breaks through the treeline, the fox zig-zagging between trees and around the northernmost wall of the warehouse. He cuts around the front, and Wato hurries— they have no idea how to get into the warehouse if the fox locks the main entrance, and they don’t have anything to break in with right now.

Rounding the corner, Wato has to stop and catch their breath, because the fox is gone. Checking the warehouse door, it’s unlocked. Wato doesn’t want to go inside. What they want is for their inconvenient memory loss to be convenient for once, and forget whatever the hell just happened, and leave.

“Wato?”

Turning around, Ken stands behind them in a puffer jacket and beanie.

“Wato! Are you okay?” Ken rushes over and grabs Wato’s arms, inspecting them with an increasingly furrowed brow. “I haven’t heard from you in two weeks dude, what’s going on?”

Wato doesn’t know what to say. Their legs hurt, their lungs are filled with pins and needles, and their head can’t stop replaying the decay of their night.

“It’s a three dog night out here,” Ken mutters, shivering. “Can we go in?”

“You have no idea,” Wato replies. “And you will not fucking believe what’s happened to me.”

The sharpened smell of blood is gone, like the fox hadn’t cut through here at all, but Wato knows that can’t be true. The sky is still dark and the night still has legs and Wato has seen more than they know what to do with. It all presses against their mind.

They say the only thing they can think of.

“Ken, I think I’m in trouble. I need your help.”

[marigold-hills]

Wolfstat for “take off your shirt” 😇

here you go! 🥰

trigger warnings: tiny bit of blood, mentions of a fight, light injury

(List of prompts!)

It’s not the first time. Of course it’s not, Sirius with the self preservation of a suicidal toad does this kind of things all the time. Gets into arguments. Gets into fights. Protects Remus’ dubious honour.

“Take off your shirt,” Remus tells him, his very unhelpful mind supplying him with snapshots of the times he imagined saying those words in much nicer contexts.

Sirius does. It’s not easy, with his bruised ribs and a spell damage cut that extends across his torso. He winces and then grins, like the pain is a reward for good behaviour. There’s a little bit of blood on his teeth and on his lips and Remus wants to clean it off him.

They keep a supply of dittany paste for this, and for Remus, whose skin tends to break even outside of the full moons. Remus scoops some up with careful fingers and layers it, gently, across the damage.

“You need to stop this, Pads,” he says without looking up.

“He called you a-“

“I know what he called me. It doesn’t matter.”

Sirius, always ready to defend, doesn’t get it. “Of course it matters! You’re worth-“

“I know, Sirius,” Remus interrupts him again, sparing himself the pleasure-pain of having Sirius describe him in the flattering words he always uses.

It would be so easy to fall into this. To let himself believe that when Sirius says you’re beautiful and you’re brilliant and anyone - anyone, Remus - would be lucky to have you, that he means it as more than just a friend. That when they slump together on the sofa and invariably end up tangled up in each other, the comfort is more than just proximity.

The fall would be lovely, but the ground would catch up with him sooner or later.

“You don’t know.” Sirius catches Remus’ wrist, fingers tight around it. “If you knew… if you could see yourself the way I…” Sirius let’s go, braces himself on his knees. Meets Remus’ gaze head-on, jaw clenched. “I promised myself not to say anything. You’re my friend and I won’t ever ruin that. But you have to know how I feel about you.”

The ground runs from under Remus’ feet.

“I’ve loved you since I’ve known you,” Sirius says. “I understand that you don’t feel the same,” Sirius, the embodiment of all of Remus’ wants, says. “But I can’t keep watching you treat yourself like you’re worthless. It’s tearing me apart, Remus. You’re tearing me apart.”

Remus has no words to speak. He wraps himself around Sirius, leaves a streak of dittany across the edge of his jaw.

When they kiss, Sirius exhales into Remus. It tastes like relief. 

[lorilane33]

Midnight Musings

Pairing: Echo x Reader

A/N: I think I should start a bingo card for myself with all this fandom hopping I'm doing lol Star Wars is my current hyper fixation, and one special copy paste boy had my soul in his hands.

Summary: You wake up to find Echo not in bed.

Word Count: 1,098

Warnings: This is truly the saddest thing I've ever written, which isn't saying much. But Echo has been to hell and back, and he needs all the hugs in the entire universe. So this was my self indulgent self doing just that.

In a quiet bungalow somewhere on lower Pabu, something suddenly pulls you from the pleasant dream you were having. In the bed you share with Echo, something didn’t feel quite right, but you couldn’t place what it was.

You huff, mildly annoyed at the inconvenience of being pulled from sleep and snuggle deeper into the blankets in hopes of finding sleep again. 

You sleepily reach behind you in hopes of Echo being able to hold you until you fall asleep again, only to find the sheets cold. “...Echo?” you mumble, sleep thick in your voice. Less sleepy than you were mere seconds ago, you now understand what had pulled you from your sleep. 

Your boyfriend was not where he needed to be, and you had a feeling you knew just where to find him. Pushing the covers off yourself, you swing your feet over the edge, sliding until your feet gently hit the floor. 

You start your journey out of your shared bedroom and into the living space, leaning against the doorway. Looking around for his familiar bald head, you find him sitting at the table, head resting in his good hand.

From what you can see, he’s glaring down at his scomp link that rests in his lap. “Honey, are you alright?” you whisper. Some nights Echo had a hard time with nightmares or sometimes it was his survivor’s guilt that did him in. 

In the light of the moon, Echo looks up at you, a shimmer of regret in his eyes as he responds, “I’m sorry, cyare. Did I wake you? I didn’t mean to.” A sad smile lifts at the corner of your mouth as you pad towards him. 

“It’s okay, really Echo. I woke up and you were gone so I thought I’d come find you.” Reaching the table, you place your hands on his shoulders to gently pull him back into a sitting position. “What was it this time, my love? A nightmare again?” 

He sighs and reaches his hand up to hold yours that sits on his shoulder, then shakes his head no. “No, mesh’la. Not this time.” 

Leaning forward you place a kiss to the top of his head. “Then if not a nightmare, what is keeping you awake at this hour, hmm? And if you think of fibbing to me and saying it’s nothing, then you will indeed have another problem to reckon with,” you respond, almost whispering the words into the top of his head where your lips remain. 

You hear him chuckle tiredly at your sass, the sound of his laughter lifting your spirits a little. Breaking the hold of his hand on yours, you slide your hands over his torso, stopping at the chest plate that sits atop his sternum. You feel him sigh, simultaneously in relief and in resignation at your touch. 

“Alright, fine.” The low cadence of his voice soothes you, as you hold him from behind. He reaches his good hand back up to lay over yours again, and you smile into his neck as he answers your question. 

“Cyare, it’s just…I don’t…,” he sighs, struggling putting his feelings into words. “I miss Fives, so kriffing much. The rest of the Domino Squad too, but Fives and I were brothers by choice. The two of us had been together since Kamino. Having to carry on now? Knowing he doesn’t get to? It hurts.”

You feel him shudder in your arms as speaking becomes too much for him, your arms instinctively pulling him closer into your arms. Heart breaking for this beautiful man, you softly respond, “I know you wish you could bring them back, and if it were possible, I’d do it for you in a second.” 

Stepping back, you keep one of your hands clasped tightly in his as you slowly slip around his shoulder to face him. Dropping to your knees, you reach up to caress his face with your free hand. When a tear falls from his amber eyes, you lightly brush it away with a swipe of your thumb. 

You squeeze his hand before continuing, “But I do know that wherever they are, they are so kriffing proud of you, Echo. You may have the scars and some metal parts to contend with now, but you survived. And are all the stronger for it. Your resilience and quiet strength are a couple of the millions of reasons why I have fallen in love with you.” 

A small smile graces your lips as you drop his good hand and gently pick up his scomp link still sitting in his lap. “This old scomp link? Is proof to me every day that you survived and are here with me. I wouldn’t trade that for anything, Echo. And if you need me to remind you every kriffing day that I love you, and that I’m not going anywhere, then that’s exactly what I’ll do.” Lifting it to your lips, you place a gentle kiss against his scomp while retaining eye contact with him. 

His bottom lip quivers, and his eyes blink slowly. You can see the emotions churning below the surface of his beautiful face. Then, you are suddenly yanked up into his lap and into his embrace as he holds you close. 

You place one arm around his neck, pulling yourself level with him. His response is a rumble of emotion, “Thank you, my love. You always know exactly what to say to me to make me feel better. I’m sorry you have to-”

“Ah!” you suddenly place a hand over his mouth. “If I hear another apology out of your mouth, good sir, then I'll have to punch you. And I’d really hate to have to do that, Echo.” A grin breaks out on your face, as you make eye contact with him. 

He looks emotionally drained, but graces you with one of his genuine smiles as you lean forward and place a kiss against his headset. As soon as you move your head away from him, you feel him turn his head and pull you in to press a gentle kiss to your lips.

“You’re not wrong, cyar’ika. I’d hate to have you get violent. Your punches hurt.” He chuckles, and you feel it tingle on your lips. “And for the record? I love you too. Thank you for being so understanding.”

He kisses you again, pulling you close. The two of you continue to sit in the quiet of the kitchen, trading kisses and soft words until the sky outside turns gray; a new day on the horizon.

[slowd1ving]

II. HOW DOES ONE DEFINE A NIGHTMARE? .・゜DAN HENG

One of the theories pushed forward in this universe—a common conjecture between scientists throughout the stars—is that there are disturbances in a system that is being observed, versus one that is not. This is astutely named the observer effect. And this situation is the first proper example he’s seen of that. Dan Heng feels that as soon as he takes his eyes off you, you’ll phase back to a space between these dimensions, like some specter there are only myths about. when data nerd Dan Heng finds the forbidden dictionary and masters the hidden art: synonyms male! engineer reader warnings: eventual nsfw, kind of but not really spoilers to dan heng's backstory, amab reader

HONKAI STAR RAIL MASTERLIST

DRINKER OF THE MOON, DEVOURER OF DREAMS MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

PREVIOUS PART . 　⁺ NEXT PART

There are many ways to encapsulate his sleeping hours. 

He doesn’t quite want to delve into all the different synonyms that essentially make up harrowing.  

Nightmare after nightmare plagues him. There’s the echoes from his past incarnation— feeling the terror, the loss, the anguish (yet never actually knowing the context behind this pain). There’s the haunting impression of being alone—a world of nothingness, in which he is bound by chains and fated to an eternity of stagnancy. There’s that pair of beastly eyes—so utterly, undeniably red as the insatiable sword pierces straight through his sternum. 

It’s no surprise when he wakes up with cold sweat plastering his hair to his temples and his clothes sticking uncomfortably to his skin. 

Even on the Astral Express, the torturous sleep continues to chase after him. 

He stumbles out of the archives; cold air hits him as he pads towards the kitchen, while the sweat still glistening against dermis only exacerbates his shivering. That’s why his vision is narrowed to only the door of the dining car and beyond—it’s appalling as a guard, but nothing out of the ordinary for just a man in this tender moment. 

He can barely see, so excuse him for not being aware of his surroundings. 

He doesn’t mean to crash into you. Really, he doesn’t. One minute he’s dragging his sluggish feet just fine against the plush carpeted floors—the next he’s stumbling over seemingly nothing, falling, falling, into what he knows will be a cold metal wall—

Except it’s not. 

He’s just ploughed himself into your side, and you fumble.

It’s a strange experience. He doesn’t think he’s ever felt that sort of sensation before—the embarrassing trip and fall—but what’s even stranger is the proximity of the position he’s entangled himself into. 

He’s shoved you against the wall, and is currently wrapped around your shoulders as he attempts to stand up again. Except he can’t; either he’s lost it completely, or he’s still recovering from that nightmare. Either are equally plausible. 

“Ow,” you comment, far too late. 

He wants to bury himself in space rubble. 

“You make all your journeys to the kitchen this way?” you add, and it’s a lethal hit. 

“I’m so sorry,” he manages to choke out, partly in panic, partly in apology, and partly in pure and utter mortification. He somehow pulls himself together enough to push himself off you and into leaning against the wall, but his eyes have been blown wide and his cheeks flushed in such embarrassment he doesn’t think he’ll ever recover from this. 

Gone is his stoic image. If he showed his face on the Luofu in this state, he thinks he might get away with it since he’s so revoltingly unrecognisable at this moment.

“All good, man.” It’s delivered with such casual finality he can’t help but stare. Certainly, this has helped him forget the horrors of just minutes prior, but at what cost?

“You had a nightmare?”

This question is also delivered in the same, offhand tone that offers him the choice of simply remaining silent. But it’s not like he wants to do that—this, after all, is only one part of the already-too-few interactions he has with you. 

“You could say that.” It’s not enough. The words don’t come out the way he wants: all shaky and so unlike his normal, composed cadence that he almost lets out one of his dry, sardonic laughs. 

He’s not following you as you slip into the dining car. 

When you glance back, he’s still against the wall: still thinking, still gaining his sense of self back. 

“You, uh, need a hand to get to the kitchen?” 

Now, you’re awkward. Had he not made himself into a fool, he mightn’t have witnessed this particular layer beneath the sculpture. 

“That would be appreciated,” he lets out; the words stumble over themselves in one big mess. He agrees to your suggestion, totally for the support, totally for the additional stability, definitely not to be closer to you for once—

Look. 

You offered in the first place, so why wouldn’t he take this hand of help?

Except, he would’ve most vehemently denied it had it been anyone else. If this was the IPC, they’d doubtlessly expect something back in return; but it’s not like he’d show them this sort of vulnerability in the first place. 

You’re different. You don’t expect anything. Though your methods of interaction are crude at best and flat-out disturbing at worst, you aren’t cruel.

Himeko was wrong when she tried to make you more palatable to him. He’s a sweet— he’s not a bad person. 

She’s wrong, in the sense that he’s still waiting for the bitter taste to taint his tongue around you: washing down his throat like the most pungent of coffees. You should be bitter, most definitely, but the way you’re wrapping his arm around your neck and holding it as though he— he, of all people—might break; the way you’ve got your other arm gripping the black fabric of the shirt resting against his ribcage like he might slip away again; the way you keep glancing to him then back to the walls, both checking in on him yet making sure it’s not too awkward—this isn’t bitter, this is anything but. 

She was wrong when she corrected herself, or maybe she didn’t expect Dan Heng to realise your true nature by himself. 

Even if it were Himeko or Mr. Yang, or even Pom-Pom, he would’ve also declined their hand. Maybe he just doesn’t want to feel like a burden, or maybe he doesn’t want to let them down, or maybe he’s just scared of disappointing and being disappointed—but the apathetic neutrality you held him to from the very beginning doesn’t seem so easily swayed. 

As above, so below. There’s a certain beauty in this ‘equilibrium’. 

But he discards those musings for a time where he can actually appreciate them, and focuses on the material rather than abstract. 

You still carry the scent of motor oil; faint alkanes taint the gallery. Beneath it is harsh steel and iron: not unlike blood, but decidedly more pleasant. It mingles with the aromas coating your dermis: acerbic energy drinks, and more perplexingly, the sweet smell of mandarins he’s come across in his travels. At the very end of the long path of fragrance, there’s that decidedly human aspect: sweat, and hazy soap that clings to skin. 

He decides he doesn’t mind the odd medley of scents (in fact, it’s very soothing—especially after the stench  of blood in his nightmares—and he’s definitely not getting sleepy). 

You’re warm. A pulse beats from where his skin exerts pressure on yours—steadfast, so utterly resolute he wonders if you’re ever affected by proximity. Are you picturing a Dan Heng pressed up against you, or is it a machine you’re lugging to repair? It would be amusing to think about if he wasn’t still shivering. 

“You cold?” 

You usher him into a stool by the counter, barely letting him process the question before you’re sliding a glass out of the cabinet, a pitcher out of the fridge, and a can of something from the cardboard pack stashed in a drawer. 

He wants to deny it, he really does, but you’ve already seen him embarrass himself—if he answers you with his teeth chattering, he doesn’t know if his ego will even remain intact. 

Scratch that. It’s already in tatters. 

“A bit,” he admits. 

When you turn back around, you’ve got a glass of icy water in one hand— for him, you slide the beverage—whereas you crack open the can of what he can only assume to be another caffeinated drink. Perplexingly, you’re shrugging off the loose hoodie draped haphazardly against your shoulders and—oh. 

It’s warm against his bare arms, and smells so much like you that he thinks you’ve cloned yourself. If you performed mitosis right now, he wouldn’t be surprised. You’ve behaved stranger. 

This, however, is something completely new. 

“Thanks.” It’s quiet. Can you see the small smile he fights down while he takes a long swill of the crystalline liquid? 

“No problem, man.” He can almost taste the artificial fruit extracts dance through the air as you take hurried sips of your own drink. 

He’s forced awake at odd hours. 

You’re working at odd hours. 

It’s starting to become a bit of a problem. Each time he makes his way for a cold glass of water into the kitchen, you’re there replenishing your energy to take a break from whatever you’re working on. 

It’s becoming routine. Nothing as embarrassing as that first night in the gallery, but something still so awkward he can’t help but feel antsy every time he alights from the futon in the archives. 

It’s also becoming routine that he starts sleeping wrapped in your clothes, breathing in the scent of motors and mandarins and that hazy soap. He’s forgetful when he’s panicking, stumbling towards the kitchen where he knows you’ll be to distract him with whatever you’re talking about. Whether it’s interstellar politics, complaints about the ‘shitty’ manufacturers and other organisations of their ilk, or maybe some more idle things like card games—you welcome the break in this lonely hour, and he welcomes the reprieve. 

One morning, it’s not the enthusiastic slam of his door from Pom-Pom that awakes him, but the methodical knocks from Himeko before she enters the archives. 

“Wow,” she comments as he sits up at her entry. “You’re getting close with my dear apprentice, aren’t you?”

He doesn’t quite know what she’s talking about until he finally looks down and it registers. There’s another of your sweaters—this one graphically decorated with bleached robots who are puzzlingly sunbathing (“They’re recharging their solar cells,” he can almost hear you say, serious intonation and all). Before he knows it, his head’s already buried in his hands and he can feel the flushed skin pressed in the grooves of his palms. 

He helps me sleep better— but the words die in his throat as he realises how that sounds, no matter how true they are. Feeling the warmth of another person—thick fabric, recognisable scent—helps him feel more secure when he inevitably settles in for the peaceful interlude in the next dreams. 

Though, despite his refusal to acknowledge it, he has a feeling Himeko knows exactly the idle leisure that transpires past 3 system hours. 

“Thanks.”

He pauses in his trance-like thoughts.

“I’ve known him for quite some time.”

She hesitates, and it’s the first time he’s heard her voice thicken like that.

“I think he’s happier nowadays, with a friend like you.”

Friends. The word catches at his own throat, and he doesn’t quite know why. 

Himeko leaves, but the syllables linger in their own sort of way. 

I think he’s happier nowadays, with a friend like you. 

　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　   ☾

The word when occurrences transpire more than thrice is habit, or more accurately, pattern. 

It’s a pattern that his feet seek you out; pattern that you pour him a glass of icy water; pattern that you sit at the bar stool opposite from him and swing your legs idly.

For that half-hour, his thoughts are tranquil. Only for that half-hour. Before the system ever brushes past four hours, you’ve retreated back to your room and he can find not hair nor hide of you until the next nightly rendezvous. 

It’s almost enough to make him forget that this is meant to be a temporary journey. Once one forms social bonds, it is that much harder to break them again—especially one as hard-won as yours. 

Friendship is something Dan Feng knows well; those warmer feelings have been passed down to this current reincarnation. They are two separate beings, but the tenderness transcends mind and body. 

Though he feels a foreign warmth at these systemic hours, he supposes he can’t call this friendship. 

He doesn’t have an iota of knowledge about your past, nor you of his. There’s a mutual understanding to not pry, to not ask questions—to go any deeper than a superficial level. If this were a biology lesson, you’d be stopping at skin level and delving no further. 

It’s so superficial, in fact, that it’s almost a comfort. You distract him from his nightmares and he doesn’t have to feel uncomfortable when you examine the why; he distracts you from the gruelling work you dive into daily, and he doesn’t question the why either. There’s an element of unhealthiness to it all, but the two of you are both at least a little sick in the head—perhaps that’s why the two of you stave it off a bit like this. 

But you don’t acknowledge him outside that prescribed timeslot. You rarely ever leave your room, and when you do, that game of chess last played two months ago seems worlds away. There isn’t a word spared for him—you’re talking to Himeko, to Mr. Yang, and Pom-Pom. But not him. 

It’s as though at night, a layer of yourself has been ground down by the day. You’ve softened enough to let him through that hard marble shell, just a little. As tough as the steel you craft. Maybe you’ve crafted your exoskeleton from it too—he wouldn’t doubt your capabilities that way. 

He and you are not quite friends, it’s something far lesser.

And he’s left wondering where the line is. 

Tonight especially.

It’s easy to slip into slumber—Trailblazing has a way of making him feel like it’s the Express crashing into him. After logging the important details of his mission into the Data Bank, he’s out like a light immediately. 

The dream starts off mundane. It’s the regular—a nonsensical storyline, fragments of faces he’s seen weaving inconsistently through the dreamscape, some he’s never seen before and can only assume belong to the convoluted past of Dan Feng. 

It’s nonsensical, but it stops being cheery when crimson starts seeping into its corners. 

The nightmare, at this point, should also be mundane but is still anything but. The red-eyed man still chases him, he’s still getting pierced through by an insatiable sword, he’s still dying excruciating deaths as punishment for his sins. 

Except, there’s an unexpected variable this time: you.

You’re getting slain in his stead, glassy eyes staring up at him—as if to remind him of the impression he first got when he saw you, like some cruel fucking joke. 

You’re bleeding out continuously, and the smell of metal on you is no longer from the machines you adore, but from the iron inside you. 

You’re dying, over and over, while he’s begging you to stay— don’t leave me. Like all the others in the ‘past’, don’t leave me too. 

He wakes up panting—there’s a frigid atmosphere from the sweat drenching him to the very bone. 

Dan Heng almost runs to the kitchen: stumbling through the luxurious gallery like that occasion all those weeks ago.

When he flings open the door, he crashes into you as you’re at the counter— breathing you in, taking in all the warmth so bitterly robbed from you. 

“You…” you trail off, your words a mumble as his arms weakly support himself on the counter. He’s still leaning into you—your hands are pressed steady against his shoulders, and he can feel the warmth of your calloused palms on his bare arms. “You’re freezing.”

It’s unspoken. Almost robotically, you pull your sweater off yourself and he pulls it on. 

Though, this time, you don’t hand him the icy water as is your modus operandi. 

Rather, you’re rummaging through the cupboards, and you pull out a small cardboard box labelled with a script he doesn’t recognise. 

“Camomile, lavender, and peppermint,” you translate, offering no explanation as you steep the tea in a mug with a wobbly cat drawn with wobbly lines with a wobbly handle. He gets it, he really does. “Sleep-aiders from a planet I knew.”

You don’t have your usual can either, instead choosing to brew yourself another mug as well. 

That’s another surprise, but then again, you’re not the most consistent person. 

“Thank you,” he mutters. He wants to look down at his hands, but he’s transfixed on your expression as you lose yourself in your thoughts. 

You pass him the steaming mug, and he thinks the brush of your fingers against his scalds him more than the tea ever could. 

“Worse, this time huh?” It’s not probing. You already know it was worse. 

Yes. More than you could ever know. Your eyes, glinting in the soft light, did not look like this in his endless night. 

He gives a noncommittal noise in response. It could be a hum, it could be a soft mumbled yeah. He doesn’t know. 

You mull over something as you take a sip of your tea. Some of his is beginning to waft steadily upwards, drowning him in a gentle fragrance that somehow suits your presence when you’re like this. At this hour, when you can spare him more than a cursory glance, more than silence. 

“Do you…” you pause, and he can feel his stomach tense in anticipation. “Do you want to stay in my room for a bit while I work?”

He didn’t expect that. 

He almost drops the mug. 

“Ah, you don’t have to or anything,” you explain hurriedly. “But Pom-Pom always says they get sleepy when they watch me map out new projects so if you’d like—”

“Yes,” he interrupts breathlessly. He shouldn’t be doing this, shouldn’t sacrifice his dignity to basically beg you to numb his mind a bit more. 

“I’d like that.”

And when you take his hand in yours—warm fingers clasped roughly around a clammy palm—he thinks that maybe he should stay on the Express a bit longer. Maybe a friendship won’t be impossible with you. 

In your sweater, drinking your tea, he doesn’t feel as much of a stranger as he might have otherwise when he’s standing in your room.

It’s cluttered, as cluttered as he saw all those weeks ago—but that was just a small piece of it, nothing like the sprawled chaos that surrounds him now. 

There’s a warm amber light shining over all the various machines decorating each corner, too many to count. They obscure the sprawling workbench tucked away near your wardrobe—it’s covered in various blueprint rolls and small bits of machinery that lay scattered between tiny screwdrivers and one comically large spanner placed bang in the middle. 

You make the chaos work. Gauzy fabric flutters against the ceiling and windows—linking delicate trinkets, colourful lamps and various machines that shouldn’t belong where you sleep. If he’s honest, it looks like some opulent laboratory he only saw glimpses of in the Luofu—though he much prefers yours. 

There’s no bed. When he asks, you inform him that you don’t sleep. 

That is a joke. 

When your deadpan expression finally gives way, you admit that the bed self-disassembles and assembles when the need for sleep surfaces. 

He takes small swallows of the fragrant drink, watching as you quietly fit the parts together without screws. There’s no music, so the only sound present is the clink of metal pressing against metal, the sound of your careful breathing, and the pulse of his heart. 

Unlike the kitchen, you don’t sit opposite him when you work. You’re sitting right next to him on the workbench. Each time you inhale, your torso expands ever so slightly and your arm presses against his in a way he definitely takes notice of. 

He fights down the strange embarrassment that tightens his chest, and keeps sipping his drink. 

It’s only when you’ve finally disassembled it and reassembled it with the screws that he finally begins feeling the soothing effects of the tea. 

You’ve started sketching—a rough idea for a building, he notes—lines confident and bold despite your use of a ballpoint pen rather than pencil. 

By now, he’s on his last morsel of the liquid ambrosia you’ve fed him. 

And he’s getting sleepy. 

There’s that constant scritch-scritch of pen as it moves against a thick sketchbook—easing into the paper with such languidness he feels it reflected in his own body. 

His eyelids are fighting to stay up, and he knows that he should be polite and excuse himself so he can curl back into bed with flowers still on his breath. 

He can’t bring himself to leave. 

There’s just something about the warm lights and the lethargy that hits him with the force of the Express. He’s loathe to leave it; it’s easy, so easy to let his head drop, before it finally hits—

Not the desk, but your palm as you protect it from the collision. 

“Wow,” you remark. “The tea really did do the trick.”

You don’t chase him away. When you ask if he’d like to stay a little bit longer, you don’t argue with the incoherent hum that exits his voice box. Before he can think about what he just did, your palm is cradling his head onto your shoulder. 

He’s soft, Dan Heng notes; he’s already sleepily inhaling the clean scent of your fabric softener—face smushed into the folds of your shirt. 

This isn’t his proudest moment. In fact, this is in his top three embarrassing ones. 

However, that’s a conversation to be held in the morning. 

He’s certainly not about to move from this position. 

Dan Heng isn’t awoken by the hurried knocking of Pom-Pom—no, this sound is much more familiar, much more dangerous. 

It’s the sound of a camera shutter clicking.

His eyes snap open, and he’s met with the sight of your folded torso and a flash of red in his peripherals. There’s something inexplicably soft pressing against his cheek, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that the sleep that overtook him somehow landed his head in your thighs while you slumber over your desk. 

He sits up—careful to bang his head on neither the desk nor your chin—and looks in horror at Himeko, who’s smiling serenely as though that sound he heard was nothing. 

 “Himeko.” It’s the first time since he met the woman that his voice holds that note of utter caution. “What did you—”

“Shh.” She gesticulates to you, then mimes her finger on top of her lips. “He’s still sleeping.”

He refuses to look at you.

“Delete that,” he mouths.

 He thinks it’s the first time he’s been so stubborn with the older Trailblazer. And it’s only after he secures an agreement from her that he finally leaves your room—flinching from the door closing behind him as though it scalded him. 

He never ends up talking to you about what happened that night. He’s not sure he wants to bring it up, but it never does happen again. Dan Heng’s nightmares have lessened considerably, after all—yet his body still urges him to wake at three and fall into restless sleep at four system hours, so the nightly meetings continue. 

There’s a kind of mutual agreement between the two of you. Move on. The past remains unexamined, unexplained, and unapologetic. 

He thinks he prefers it that way. 

But in this situation, he really doesn’t know what to think. 

He’s been here for over two months, or more accurately, 1480 system hours by now. Every time he makes a stop at another planet, he wonders. 

Will this be the one? Would his journey start anew? Would he leave?

Each time, the answer is no. 

It’s a lot to mull over. He’s running his fingers over the uniform rows of CDs and cassettes and physical drives in the cabinets of the archives: a calming, rhythmic pattern— over and over and over.

Why can’t he leave?

Dan Heng pulls one out at random and stops short in disbelief. In all his years, he doesn’t think he’s been so astounded at someone’s audaciousness. 

It’s that damned photo, the one Himeko swore up and down was deleted—and clearly it wasn’t. He quickly adds aggravating to his mental list of her adjectives. He doesn’t know how long it’s been there—anywhere from a few hours to a week or so. 

He’s looking at you, slouched over your desk with a spanner intimately connected to the side of your cheek. It’s not a flattering picture whatsoever, but he finds himself entranced by this side of you— yet another, undocumented crack in marble. There’s a faint glimmer of drool on your lips— slightly parted— but the expression you wear isn’t tainted by anger nor exhaustion. It’s all washed away. You’re relaxed.

You’re relaxed, and his head is firmly marooned on your legs. The position makes him flush—while his face is thankfully forward, his ears are pressed to both your thighs and your chest as you snooze on the table. He’s not just confused, he’s flabbergasted. How did he get there? Was it really that bad—sure, he remembers waking up against your legs, but nothing as compromising as this!

He stares at the image a moment longer, then buries his face into his palm with an exhausted sigh. 

Dan Heng knows he should throw it out—use his spear to hack away at the picture until all that remains is artificial snow for good measure for both his dignity and yours—but he can’t, for some stupid reason. 

With lips pressed together, he slides the photo back into the cassette holder and quietly copies the data into a blank one. When it’s replaced back on the shelf, it looks identical to the one he’s still holding. 

It’s shoved into his bag: yet another secret to keep under the layer of superficiality. 

And when his mind finally clears, he’s already forgotten what he was meant to be doing in the first place. 

All that lingers is one thought: I don’t mind this friendship.

This thought is quite bittersweet. 

　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　   ☾

[lowtaperfeyd]

Larva (2/5)

Lady Jessica x Daughter!Reader, Dune x Reader

(not beta-read, we die like feyd-rautha)

author's note: if you enjoyed, this dont be afraid to like and reblog!

warnings: dune spoilers, self doubt, descriptions that could be interrupted as a panic attack

wc: 2791

Larva, (synonym: caterpillar): to describe someone who preys on others or an extortioner. 

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“Brother,” (Y/N) said as Paul walked into the sparring room. It was like any other morning on Caladan, the sun streaming in through crystal clear windows. The thing that made this sunrise special was the fact that it was her last day on Caladan. They would leave the next day, in the early hours of the morning, when the moon was still up and only the owl sang. The moon and archaic stars would see her family leave the planet they’ve been for centuries. It was her last sunrise that was accompanied with songbirds’ song and the slow, easy sway of trees. 

“Sister,” Paul said, walking through the room barefoot and eyes half filled with sleep. His feet made a soft padding noise throughout the room. 

It had been a recurring thing for Paul and (Y/N) to spar, so they would be able to keep their abilities sharp, without fear of hurting the other. But it had been months since they had the chance.

“How long have you been up?” Paul asked with a yawn. 

She turned back to face her brother. It was quite comical, even though they were twins, they were completely different. Paul was destined to become something the history books couldn’t comprehend, as their mother would say. (Y/N) was to fall into the background, to make sure she didn’t upstage her brother. He was to be duke. She was to be a wife. He wanted to be a dreamer. She dreamt of leading. He wanted to continue undergoing mentat training. She wanted to do more than pick place mats. 

The only thing they had in common was Bene Gesserit training, and only for her it was allowed to pursue it more than her brother. 

“Not long,” she said, “a little while, maybe an hour, hour and a half.” 

“And you?” she questioned, “it looks as if you just rolled out of bed and put on whatever was available.” 

Paul’s lips quirked slightly at the side. He strolled over to the table at the opposite end of the beige room where the shields and weapons were splayed out. 

“Have you heard anything about Duncan?” she asked her brother, knowing his fondness of the swordsman. 

Even though the question was innocent enough, Paul’s whole demeanor changed. He stiffened and froze in place like he had heard something or been reminded of something awful and terrible pertaining to Duncan Idaho. 

“He's fine,” he bit out quickly. 

(Y/N) was taken aback by this. Even though for the past couple of weeks Paul has been quieter than normal, never in her life had she heard Paul speak this way. A way which was so snapped and tight, so short, so irritated, maybe irritated by her. Paul seemed to have changed since the night she heard his wails. Paul continued what he was doing and snapped on the shield. 

(Y/N) carefully walked over to the ornate table that was covered with different kinds of weapons. She took a spot near Paul and put her own shield on as well. The atmosphere around them was as thick as molasses. 

“Are you alright?” she asked, attempting to make some sort of amendments. She knew that he didn’t feel well. But her brother was not in the mood for trying to have any sort of reconciliation. 

“Can we just spar?” he said coldly, grabbing a knife. He walked back to the center of the room. He tapped the button on his shield and the murmurs began as the shield washed over him in a blue haze.

(Y/N) sighed and tapped her own shield button, the cover enveloping her from head to toe. She grabbed her own weapon and stood opposite from her brother. 

They both took fighting stances and looked at eachother. (Y/N) took in her brother’s face, no longer full of childlike wonder and youth, some of that seemed to fall away into something darker, some not all. After a quick nod from her brother, they began fighting. 

They took turns taking slashes and hits against each other. The sound of clinking metal filled the echoey room. 

“What happened all those nights ago?” she asked her brother breathlessly as she took refuge in the far corner of the expansive mat, trying to catch her breath. 

“What do you mean?” he responded, lunging forward to get her.

Quickly, she jumped and turned around to the opposite side of Paul, now in the corner. 

“With you,” she took a step forward to slash him, “in the library”

Paul’s shield flashed blue as he put his sword against her weapon. The two were eye to eye with one another. 

“Nothing happened,” he bit, in her face. He pushed all his weight against her, to make her unsteady. (Y/N) haphazardly stumbled to the side, Paul falling forward onto the floor, miscalculating the amount of force needed. 

“Even if something did happen, it would be none of your business.” he growled. 

“If something happened with mother than you should say something”

“Why does it always come back to mom for you?” he probed. 

“You make her out to be some sort of villain!” he raised his voice at her, getting off of the floor. 

(Y/N) scoffed at this. 

“You only say that because you’re her favorite.” she retorted back, “having everything handed to you! You’re painfully entitled!” 

Paul let out a groan and tackled her to the floor. Both uselessly struggling and throwing punches against each other. (Y/N) back was against the mat, Paul’s hands were rough around her shoulders, pushing her down further. Her shield flashed that blood red color. She put all her might into kicking him off, but her attempts were futile. Her lips were pressed together and breathed even more labored than before. Something deep inside of her stirred and commanded her actions. 

“I’m entitled! I’m not the one who left for months to go off and study some ancient agenda!” 

“Get off of me!” 

Paul seemed to be pushed by some other worldly force off (Y/N). Quickly he scurried to his feet. (Y/N) propped herself up on her forearms, panting. 

Paul jabbed a finger in her direction and tried to speak some words to existence, but his fury made it impossible for those words penetrate through the air. He knew she used the voice on him. Out of anger, Paul stormed out of the room, leaving his sister to deal with her actions. 

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The thoughts of earlier this morning plagued (Y/N)’s head. The beauty of the view from the flight deck couldn’t quell her racing mind. The partly cloudy blue sky added insult to injury, her surroundings were so heavenly and luscious while her actions made her feel like some sort of gnarly, ugly witch. 

You did nothing wrong. You were protecting yourself. 

Her body was slumped in on herself as she stood, her arms crossed with her hands on her upper arm, like she was comforting herself. Her neck was beginning to ache from it being virtually folded to her chest. 

You had shields, why did you need to protect yourself like that?

The self doubt consumed her like pools of bone chilling water. The water slowly rising and hitting at her ankles. How it would seep into her shoes and freeze her feet rendering her immobile. The panic would set in, the fear of not being able to move. When the water has already risen to her knees and it would run like a raging river, like her brother's rage. His rage would knock her over and it seemed like she couldn’t move her arms forward. Her head had gone below the water, rotten and polluted. Her screams couldn’t be heard from below the river she drowned herself in. The water seeping into her mouth, a bitter taste was all she could make out. It would fall down her throat and into her lungs, like she was letting the rage and hatred consume her. 

“(Y/N)!” she jumped, being pulled out of her thoughts at the shouting of her father. 

Frightened, she turned around to see her father in his pilot gear with his arms outstretched wide and a smile equally as wide on his face. The fear melted from her body, like poisoned ice to clean water, and she began to walk toward him. 

“Hi,” she said to him, letting herself be taken in by his warm arms. Her father was like a lighthouse in a deep, dark storm. When the masts and sails seemed to creak and flatter and navigation failed, he was a light that constantly showed up. He pulled away from the hug, but his hands were still on her shoulders.

“Are you ready?” he asked her in an excited, but hushed tone. 

“Yes,” she said with a small smile on her face. 

Her father smiled back at her and placed an arm around her shoulder as they walked to where the ornithopter was. 

“Have you finished all of your packing yet?” Duke Leto questioned.

“Most of it,” she responded, her voice still soft, not fully ready to be expressed.

She cleared her throat, eyes cast to the ground, “I have some papers and other little things to pack up, it shouldn’t take me long.”

Her father looked at her, his eyebrow up in surprise. It wasn’t like his daughter to act so aloof and out of it when they went out. 

“Are you feeling alright?” he probed. 

“Yeah, yeah,” she affirmed, her voice just a little bit unsteady, “just tired. I didn't sleep well.”

The two of them got closer and closer to the royal ornithopter. She saw Lanville in the machine making sure that everything was okay and nothing would fail while they were out. (Y/N) slid from under his arm and hurried up the ramp and into the cockpit, almost forgetting to thank Lanville. 

“Thank you,” she rushed out to say as she plopped down into the chair, quickly buckling her seatbelt. Her father entered seconds behind her. The two of them worked to set up and prepare for the flight. The air was filled with the clicks, taps, beeps, and chimes of buttons and switches. The engine came to life below them and the wings began to flutter up and down. 

“Are you ready?

“Yeah” 

Her father grabbed the cyclic stick and slowly but surely they began to lift off the ground, she pressed a button that raised the feet from the ground and into the thopter. The two left from the hangar and began flying out over the azure sea of Caladan, the last time they would be able to. 

“It’s beautiful today,” he said over the roar of the engine and wings. 

“Yes it is.” she responded, continuing to just look out the window. 

Her father looked over to her with a worried look on his face. 

“Have I ever told you about my time on Ix?” he asked, his eyes straight ahead on the sky in front of him. 

“Briefly”

“When I was your age,” he started, “maybe when I was just a little younger than you, my father sent me to Ix for me to proceed with my education. I didn’t want to go but I had to, it wasn’t my choi-”

“Paul and I fought today,” she interrupted her father. 

“I know, I saw him before he met with you.” he said, matter of factly, slightly confused. 

“Paul and I fought today.” (Y/N) urged, she closed her eyes tightly, like if she opened them she would be greeted with her worst fears that manifested from childish nightmares. 

Her father’s eyes soften at her

“Oh, my dear…” he said lowly, in a tone that would be used to console a small child. 

“I don’t think it was even about anything important,” she sniffled. 

“If it's making you feel this way then you should say something.” 

And it was suddenly like the river that surged through her mind earlier was being drained, all the words came out. 

“I called him entitled and that he had everything handed to him.” she paused for a second, “that he was mom’s favorite and that's why he was those things I said before.” 

Her father let out a long sigh

“Is there anything else?” he inquired.

Yes! Tell him about the night in the library! The voice! The anger, disdain, and fury that courses through your body!

She looked over to her father, his eyes were full of worry when they looked at her. Silently, (Y/N) shook her head and looked back to the window. 

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The lights in (Y/N)’s bedroom were low and no moon rays came through the window. The walls were bare with no pictures and every table seemed to be cleaned of all life. Bookshelves were so clean you could see your reflection off them and pens as well as other small items didn’t exist in her room anymore. 

Thoroughly, she went through all her drawers, bedside, desk, closet, and searched for any things she may have left and forgotten to pack up. But, almost every crevice was empty, there was nothing in them, only the memories. 

She walked to the second closet in her room, a smaller one, used for nothing more than coats and shoes. She opened the dark, wood grain doors and they creaked like screeching cats. Reminiscing, she ran her hand over the wooden bar that the hangers hung off. The bar was smooth like marble with no chips or cracks, it was as perfect as she first remembered. 

She set her hands down on the top of the chest of drawers beneath the clothes line. The surface was cold and had a laminated feeling under her hands. She looked down at the mahogany and a face looked back at her. Her face, tired and aged, there she realized it would be her last time on Caladan. No more rain showers, no more hearing the playing of bagpipes early in the morning, and no more coats. 

Quickly, she changed her mind to something else, checking the drawers. The first drawer she opened was as empty as the castle walls, nothing was left in there, just a little bit of stray lint. She crouched down and opened the middle drawer. In that drawer she found a singular pen, a basic one with silver details. She sighed out and placed it into her pocket. 

She dropped to her knees and opened the final drawer on the very bottom. The space was much like the other ones, a dark mahogany with minimal imperfections in the wood, perfectly glossy and with silver accents outlining the corner of the drawer. The only thing that made this drawer different was a small, intricate, embossed chest no bigger than a book they had in the library, covered in a thin layer of dust. She used her hand to brush the dust off the top of the chest. Dust bloomed into her face and she coughed slightly. The box had a small sparkling silver latch at the front of it. The latch had space for an equally tiny key. She looked around the drawer looking for the key. 

Surely enough, something dazzling in the corner of her eye caught her attention. She looked over and saw it was the key she was looking for. She took the key, no longer than a paperclip, into her hand. 

Delicately, (Y/N) unlocked and opened the box. The hinges didn’t groan at the sudden movement, even though it had been closed for what seemed like years. Inside the box was a stack of documents, letters, and pictures. Nostalgically, she flipped through the papers. One was a letter from a close friend on Wallach IX that had been lost. Another was a birthday card from her 7th birthday. Even a doodle she had drawn from a decade ago was there lying in the pile. At the end of her scouring through the documents, she found a photograph she thought she had lost ages ago. 

The photo consisted of her and her brother in the field by their home. The two of them had juvenile and wild grins on their faces. They were sitting with their legs crossed in a patch with an abundance of little yellow and white daisies. It had most likely been taken by one of the nanny who used to take care of her and Paul. She looked closer at the photo and saw a small crown on Paul’s head, a crown she had made out of the daisies for him, crowning him Duke of Caladan.