#I dunno only if you want to not forcing anyone

[eowynstwin]

peristalsis - ii.

selkie!soap x reader. depression. suicidal ideation. strangers to "lovers." . Running away from life to the Scottish Hebrides, you meet a man who won't leave you alone. . Masterlist. Ao3.

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You sleep long enough that, when you wake up, you have enough energy to cry.

It’s a big one. The kind of cry that threatens to turn your throat out, with how hard you sob. Alone in the cottage, far away from anything resembling civilization, you wail like wounded animal, choking on your own tears and mucus, losing track of your body buried underneath the covers—

But it happens at a remove. You watch yourself implode from someplace deep inside, not entirely sure why it’s happening at all—but long past trying to figure it out.

This is how it’s been for a while. There’s nothing special about it anymore. Nothing urgent. Most of the time, you are a blank space of a person, a vacuum where joy or rage or fear should be, but occasionally some maelstrom or another kicks up to fill it in, and your only course of action is to ride it out until it ends.

You’ve stopped trying to fix it. And you’ve stopped hoping anyone else can, either.

So you cry, until at last, you’re empty again. Or you’re too tired to continue. The difference is negligible, but functionally irrelevant. Once it’s done, you get out of bed.

The pressure in the shower is as weak as Johnny reported, but the water is indeed warm when you turn it on; you stand naked under the flow, arms hanging at your sides.

The day stretches itself out before you with nothing to occupying it, just as you’d planned. Nothing to work towards; no effort to put forward. Nothing, thanks to your choice of locale, to feel guilty about not seeking out.

A day of peace and utter quiet.

Suddenly—violent banging, somewhere in the cottage. It startles you; you jump so sharply at the noise that you smack your wrist on the soap caddy attached to the shower wall. The banging comes again—annoyed, you realize with no little bemusement that someone is at the front door.

You wrap yourself in a towel and hobble out of the bathroom to answer it, a piece of your mind on your tongue, dart-shaped and ready to fly—

Of course it’s Johnny.

Johnny, big and burly in a sweater, kilt, and pelt once again, two paper cups balanced in one large hand and a grocery bag hanging from the other. Whose dark brows shoot up his forehead as his eyes travel with surprise, and blatant appreciation, down the dripping length your body.

“Well, good mornin’, bonnie,” he purrs.

“What,” you grunt. A cold breath of wind chooses that moment to force its way through the door, gasping across the shower water still running in rivulets from your hair to the rolled edge of your towel. Goosebumps erupt from your bare skin in millions of simultaneous pinpricks—you flinch bodily at the chill.

“Ah, hell’s bells, don’t just stand there,” Johnny says, following the wind. “It’s freezin,’ go on, let me get in, hurry.”

You let him step inside, for some reason, and he shuts the door behind him with the heel of his boot. He wastes no time after that, heading to the kitchen to set down his things.

“Brought breakfast!” he says cheerfully. “There’s this bakery on Barra I thought you’d like, fresh doughnuts and coffee. Dunno how you take yours, but there’s sugar in the pantry and cream in the fridge.”

“I don’t want breakfast,” you say.

“What? ‘Course you do. I’m no’ takin’ you seal-watchin’ on an empty stomach.”

He starts unpacking the grocery bag and setting things on the counter while your jaw hangs open. Several things occur to you to say—I never agreed to that and what the hell is wrong with you, for starters—but your stomach growls at him before you can. The aroma of fresh-baked pastry wafts through the kitchen when he opens one box, and he turns to grin at you, cheeks dimpling.

“Do you get dressed, bonnie,” he says. “It’ll still be here when y’get back.”

It is less polite than he perhaps intends it to be, given that his gaze travels appreciatively across your bare shoulders. You cross your arms fruitlessly over your chest and, nothing else for it, retreat to the bedroom, feeling his eyes on you the whole way.

You return to the kitchen after having pulled on wool leggings and the same fleecy sweater from the day before. Johnny, one hip set against the counter, has a cup of steaming coffee in one hand and a half-eaten cruller in the other, crumbs at the corner of his mouth.

“Got anythin’ heavier?” he asks around a chewed-up mouthful. “Gets cold out there.”

You look down at his bare calves, broad and taut and covered in a down of dark hair. “You seem alright.”

“I’m used to it,” he says, shrugging—the muscles flexing under your gaze.

You purse your lips. “I don’t have anything.” You hadn’t intended to leave the cottage overmuch.

You approach the counter. Johnny does not move a centimeter, forcing you to stand close as you pick through the two boxes of doughnuts and feel the body heat radiating off of him, displacing the scent of fried dough with his musk.

“That’s all right,” he says. You’re close enough to hear the way his voice hums deep in his chest. “I can keep you warm.”

You snatch a plain glazed from the box and take two very large steps away from him. The hair on the back of your neck lifts as you press against the sink behind you. If he notices your reaction, it doesn’t seem to bother him in the slightest—he lifts the cup to his lips and drinks, eyes sliding closed with simple, obvious pleasure, dark lashes curling against his cheek.

You take the brief respite from his gaze to stare at him. In the morning light, on a full night of sleep, you can almost believe that whatever you’d seen in him yesterday had been nothing more than a misfire of exhausted synapses. An overlay of a dream; a circadian prompt to rectify nearly seventeen hours of sleeplessness. You’d been cold, and tired, and hungry. That was all.

You bite down on your doughnut, not really tasting it. The nerves along your spine twitch and contract around the memory of his flashing gaze.

His eyes open again, and he smiles at you. “Good?” He flicks a look at the single bite you’ve taken, looks at your mouth, and then waits for your reply.

“It’s fine,” you grumble. Then, “How did you get here? I didn’t hear the truck drive up. Do you live close by?”

“Sometimes,” he says. He looks pleased that you’ve asked, that you’re interested at all, and you immediately regret inquiring. “Live on a boat, me. Moored in the cove right now.”

“A…boat,” you say.

“Aye.” A wisp of dark hair, something he must have missed when he gelled his mohawk this morning, flutters as he nods. “Nice and cozy. Not as grand as all this, mind.” He gestures around with coffee and doughnut at the less than five hundred square feet of the cottage. “But it’s still a sight nicer than some other places I’ve slept.”

He’s likely hinting at his military service. “Okay,” is all you say, unwilling to entertain it.

He smirk—undeterred. “We’ll take her out once you’re ready.”

“I never said I was going.”

Dark brows lift. “Got somethin’ else planned for today?” he asks, incredulous, as if he never imagined you wouldn’t want to hang out with him.

“No, I—”

You wrack your brain. You have no intention of explaining to this complete stranger that the last thing you’d wanted to do, when you booked this trip, was really anything at all—and in fact, you hadn’t even considered that that might be something anyone else would care much about.

Much less proactively address.

“No,” you repeat, sulking.

Johnny considers you, chewing. His eyes do not stray, this time, to places they don’t belong; but there’s an insight to them. A sharp awareness. A perception in his gaze that is just as undressing, as if whatever is going on with you is visible to the naked eye.

“I figure,” he says, slowly, as if to coax, “you put your wee shoes on, an’ I’ll pack this back up, and we take it along.”

“You don’t have to do this,” you grouse. “I don’t need you to, like—be my tour guide.”

“Aye, but that doesnae mean I don’t wanna,” he retorts, smiling.

He shoves the last bite of cruller in his mouth and gazes patiently at you as he works it with his jaw, the muscles flexing along his temples as he chews.

Exhaustion, your constant companion, stares you down alongside him. It would take so much more energy to fight him than to go along with whatever he has planned. Energy you just don’t have anymore. And going along doesn’t mean you have to pretend to enjoy yourself—it’s not like you care enough about Johnny’s self-esteem to conjure up a happy face to show him.

You can go, and be a bitch about it, and once you do maybe he’ll realize you’re not at all worth the effort he’s making, and then finally leave you alone.

“Fine,” you say, which is how you end up on a fishing trawler headed south toward, ostensibly, a colony of breeding seals.

It’s an old vessel—that much is obvious. Its edges and corners are dull with the passage of time and constant maintenance, scuffed by innumerable passes-over with cleaner and cloth. Mildew competes with the aroma of fresh varnish as Johnny leads you onto the bridge, which is mercifully closed in from the ocean wind.

The interior is mostly wood of a warm, orangish variety—you can’t tell if that’s a decision made with aesthetics or function in mind. The space comprises a kitchen, surprisingly well-appointed with a stove, sink, countertop, and fridge, and a small sitting area with both couch and booth seating. Surrounding windows allow in the grey light of the morning.

“Bought it off an old bloke on Lewis,” Johnny says, taking his place at the wheel, which is in a little alcove off the kitchen.

If you’d thought steering a boat would have curtailed his chatting, you’d have been wrong—he seems to have no trouble with that and talking, incessantly, at the same time, as he pulls the vessel away from the cove and into the open water.

“All his family moved to the mainland, he told me, an’ this is after generations fishin’ these islands, even makin’ it through the Clearances! No money in it anymore, he said, not like you could make in some office somewhere countin’ someone else’s money.” He checks something on the dashboard in front of him, but it doesn’t distract him for long. “Held on for a while, but people just kept leavin,’ an’ he was gettin’ too old to go out on his own. Got such a good price on it, I think he was just happy someone else was gonna take up the tradition.”

“Did he sell you the cottage too?” you ask, and then dig your nails into your wrist for encouraging him.

“Yup,” he says. “No one else wanted it, but me? I saw somethin’ special about it.”

He turns to smile at you—no doubt pleased you made the connection. You avert your gaze.

“Imagine someday I’ll have my own family here,” he continues. “Good place for it. Nice and slow, not like city living. Can hear yourself think out here. Perfect place to have a few wee ones.”

“If people stop leaving,” you mutter.

He turns to you again. “I’m no’ worried about that,” he replies. He’s still smiling. “You came here, after all.”

You have nothing to say to that.

The trip is a short one—Johnny brings the trawler alongside an island he informs you is called Mingulay, a square mile smaller than Vatersay’s tiny dot in the North Atlantic. Unlike the latter, he says, this island has not been inhabited since 1912, and has been completely reclaimed by the ocean and its wildlife.

After he drops anchor offshore, Johnny disappears down a steep flight of stairs below deck, which he had not offered a tour of, and emerges a short time later with a large, bulky coat.

“Didn’t I tell you?” he says proudly, holding it out by the shoulders. “Here, turn ‘round.”

You pause in the middle of reaching for it. You don’t know exactly why you comply—it occurs to you that if you grabbed for the jacket, he could simply not let go of it, and you would end up exactly where he wants you anyway. So you lower your arm and, resigned, give him your back.

He steps up behind you. Warmth pours off of him, more than you think any human body should be able to generate.

You hear him inhale, deeply, as he brings the jacket to your back. As you slide your arms into the sleeves, you feel his exhale on the nape of your neck, teasing through individual follicles of hair.

“There w’go,” he murmurs, much closer than you expected.

You can hear the low hum of his voice in his chest; his hands linger on your shoulders far longer than they need to, heavy, big enough that his index fingers brush along your collarbones.

When his hands make to slide down your back you step away from him and fumble to zip the jacket up; he chuckles lightly behind you. When you turn to face him, his lips are curled—smug.

“Alright then,” he says. “Let’s get out there.”

He rows the two of you to shore in a small kayak, two pairs of binoculars in your lap as you huddle away from the wind. You’ll be walking to the haul-out, he says—getting too close to the breeding grounds, which he calls a rookery, would spook them, possibly causing a stampede.

“It’s grey seals we’re gonna see,” he explains as the two of you pick your way across the rocky landscape. “Not the biggest haul-out you could see, some colonies get into the thousands, but we’ll have it all to ourselves.”

He insists on taking your elbow every time the two of you cross particularly uneven terrain, even though you don’t need it. You think he takes your attempts to shake him off as proof of your lack of balance, because he grasps you all the tighter every time.

“I’m not a child, Johnny, I can walk on my own,” you finally snap at him.

“Just bein’ a gentleman, bonnie,” he replies nonchalantly. He does not let you go.

As you get closer, you hear the seals before you see them, and when their voices reach you across the open island, you stop dead.

Groaning, grunting, hissing in a cacophonous chorus. Some part of your hindbrain double-takes, reshuffles itself—some ancestral instinct always on the lookout for predation. If you’d been given a chance to guess what a colony of mating seals might have sounded like, you’re not sure you could have guessed what they sounded like.

Certainly not like what you hear now—

Like people.

Johnny grins at you when he notices. “Aye, it’s a right ruckus, innit?”

He leads you up a small rise, where he has the two of you settle belly-down over the machair to overlook the wedge of rocky coast that the colony has claimed for its own.

And when you finally see it—it’s underwhelming.

Perhaps two hundred long, fat bodies, in varying shades of brown and grey, lay indolently along the rocks, in groups of three or four, some heavily galumphing from one place to another while others roll occasionally from side to side. The shifting winds catch their scent and blow it uncaringly into your face; you nearly gag at the admixture of dead fish and ammonia.

It doesn’t escape you that this is a rare thing to witness; you are not wholly immune to the fact that you are only a hundred meters away from something most people only encounter on a screen. It’s just that without a swell of awed music in the backdrop, or a narrator’s breathless wonder at the miracle of pinniped life, what’s left for you to observe is a population of wet, stinking animals, shitting where they lay, vocalizing without cease while they laze about doing basically nothing.

Johnny does not seem to notice your disillusionment; he hands you one pair of binoculars, and directs your attention to activity along the shoreline. You follow to where he’s pointing; one larger seal is hassling a smaller one, which snarls at the aggressor as it thrashes around with its substantial bulk.

“Little one there—” Johnny says, “that’s a female, probably obvious. Big one knows she’s ready to mate, can smell it on her.”

The female bares her teeth and lunges at the bigger male, which flinches back but holds his ground.

“Doesn’t look like she agrees,” you mutter.

“She’s just givin’ him a hard time. She’s all in heat, see? Just makes her cranky,” Johnny says. You feel his eyes on you, and lower your binoculars to look at him. “She’s got to fuss to feel all in control.”

You flush. “Right.”

“You don’t think so?”

“No,” you say. “He’s—he’s just bothering her.”

He gazes at you for a moment, contemplative. Corners of his mouth quirking upward. He does not reply for a long moment, long enough that you have to avert your gaze from his.

“Nah,” he finally says, and you don’t think you’re imagining the low, sultry note in his voice. “She wants it bad as he does.”

You scowl, uncomfortably perceived, and return your binoculars—the pair is still facing off, gurgling and growling at each other. The female is slim, almost sleek, unlike most of the other seals populating the rookery.

“Is she sick?” you ask.

“Hm? Oh, no, she’s alright. The mums lose a lot of weight when they nurse. Takes three weeks, and they don’t eat in the meantime.”

“Jesus.”

“Be nice if the dads ever brought ‘em a bite, aye?” Johnny agrees. “Deadbeats, the lot of them.”

The two of you survey the colony in silence for a moment. As the morning wears on, the cloud covering thins overhead, allowing cool sunlight to filter through. The temperature doesn’t rise in response; begrudgingly, you tug Johnny’s jacket a little tighter around you.

Then, suddenly, his hand lands on your back, between your shoulder blades.

“Got some pups over there,” he says. “Look, by the kelp.”

You find them; smaller bodies, white dinged with wet sand and dirt, lounge near their mothers or wriggle with aimless difficulty. They’re fluffy and round as plush toys, with shining black eyes and noses, and once Johnny’s pointed them out you can differentiate the higher, sweeter pitch of their cries from the overall cacophony.

“Sometimes,” Johnny murmurs, “search and rescue’ll get called out because someone thought they heard a baby crying. Some kid stranded or lost, right? Turns out to be a baby seal.”

“That’s kind of scary,” you say.

“Aye,” says Johnny. “Always makes me think that’s where the old legends come from, about seal people or mermaids.”

A small ways away, some of the mothers lay with their pups far into the surf, letting the waves break over them. You watch as one mother thunks her large head overtop of her pup’s as the water rushes toward them; the pup wriggles, and then, as the wave engulfs them, it begins to thrash, whipping up a panicked froth.

“Time for swimming lessons already?” Johnny muses. “Seems early.”

You’re horrified. “She’s going to drown it!”

The hand still on your back pats you consolingly. “Just watch,” says Johnny.

The wave reaches as far up the shore as gravity allows, and then begins to recede. The pup’s thrashing calms as the air meets its face once again; the cow allows the pup to lift its head, and after a few sputters, the pup seems no worse for wear.

“They’re hardier than they look, bonnie,” Johnny says.

His hand, heavy and warm even over his borrowed jacket, slides down from your shoulders to your lower back, and then he rubs, slowly, side to side, as if to comfort you—but the knobs of your spine contract at his touch.

“Last of the births this season, looks like,” he says. “Mum’s getting ready to leave—probably not the only one.”

Something hard drops into your stomach.

“They leave their babies?” you ask.

“Aye. Once they’re done nursing, they mate, and then they go.”

You look back at the other cows with their pups. One baby has its muzzle to its mother’s belly, quivering and suckling, while she lays with her head on a patch of grass. She looks uninterested—more, she looks disinterested. As if how voraciously her pup is nursing has nothing much to do with her, and she’s bored of even having to think about it.

Bored—and already looking forward to the next part of her life without a baby in it.

“That’s horrible,” you say.

“They’re solitary animals, bonnie,” Johnny says, not ungently. “The only time they’re really all together is for this.”

A line tightens between your stomach and throat, and you feel it start to build between your ribs. A tremor—foreshocks. The wind picks up, bringing a sharp chill off the ocean and up the rise that cuts into your stinging eyes, abrades the naked skin of your hands and the exposed part of your neck.

When you look through your binoculars again, you wonder how many of the pups you see have already been abandoned.

“Aw, bonnie,” Johnny says. There’s a kind of pity in his voice that has your hackles raising.

“I want to leave,” you say, yanking away from his touch and shuffling down the incline. “Take me back to the cottage.”

“Bonnie, it’s okay!” Johnny protests, rolling to his back to look at you as you stand. “The pups make it, they figure out how to fend for themselves.”

You glare at him, vision blurring. “All of them?”

Some part of you knows you’re being irrational—knows that nature is a cruel home, and that many children face worse fates than the seal pups. Abandoning the young, the needy, is no aberration; it is, in fact, far more the standard than the human practice, which lingers for decades—

Most of the time.

Johnny has no response. He holds your angry gaze, brows drawn low, mouth pressed into a thin line. It’s the first time that cocky aura, which seems to rest in every fine line on his face and every angle at which he holds his body, is completely absent.

He isn’t reflecting your anger back at you, though—he’s internalizing it. Letting it hit him, you think, and trying to use it to figure you out.

You do not want to be figured out.

You scoff again. “Take me back,” you repeat, and then you start walking in the direction you came, without waiting for him to follow.

Johnny drops you off in the cove, and thankfully does not linger this time before he departs—he bids you farewell after rowing you to shore, contemplation on his face, and then leaves you to yourself.

You retreat, seeking the cottage’s empty quiet.

As you perch on the couch you listen to the radiator hum—the wind blow over the reeds in the thatch roof—your own heart beating a drum in the arteries of your neck.

Percussive. Quick and hard. Like heavy knockers on a door. Pounding as if to burst through.

You realize you’re still wearing Johnny’s jacket, and you throw it off, disgusted with yourself. You get up and pace, and try to ignore it lying in a heap on the floor.

You do something you swore you wouldn’t do the moment you set foot on the island—you turn your phone back on.

True to Johnny’s word, there’s no signal. You picked this island, this part of the world, for a reason; for the past several years, a slow exodus from the British isles has vacated the need for dedicated cell towers or satellite or internet access, especially given that the only ones who remain are too old now to want it or need it or know how to use it.

It’s isolated. Cut off. Left behind by anyone with better options, and only clung to by those trying to preserve the only way of life they know.

Some kinder part of you belongs with that demographic; the part that was telling your mother the truth, before getting on the plane.

The rest of you holds your phone up and starts walking around.

In the furthest corner in the bedroom, you find a single bar of signal. A tiny chip of connectivity—a thin, frayed thread. Something you lied to yourself about cutting.

It’s a weak connection. Unstable. It could take a while—you stand there, waiting.

The screen dims. You tap it again.

Blank.

You unlock it, look through your apps. Wonder if maybe your notifications are bugged by your new SIM card.

Nothing—

No one.

You whip around and, with a cry, pitch the thing at the far wall—it hits the stone with a crunch, falling to the floor in pieces.

You’re out of the cottage then in a mad dash, door slamming behind you, driving yourself back into the wind. Far away—you want to be far away, far from everything, so far that nothing could possibly reach you. You trudge down the path toward the beach, banding your arms across your chest, shivering in the cold, and yet you hardly feel it.

Not worth it. No point. Waste of your time. Energy. All of it. Stop trying. Stop wanting. Nothing. Nothing. You want nothing.

You’re halfway down to the shore, not really knowing what you’re going to do when you get there, when you catch sight of a body on the sand.

You gasp, a sharp breath down your larynx, and freeze in a dead halt.

The body is completely still.

A swimmer? A diver? It’s dark, like it just pulled itself out of the ocean—or washed up—

Then, it moves. A twitch, a ripple across its bulk, and your chest rapidly decompresses.

A seal. It’s a large seal, lounging alone on the beach.

You stand motionless. You’re very close—much closer than you and Johnny had been at the rookery. You hadn’t contended with the sheer size of the animals, tucked safely up and away from them, but there is no illusion of distance now.

It’s the biggest one you’ve seen today, you’re sure of it. Bigger, you think, than most adult men. Its pelt is a riot of every shade of grey, splashy, like liquid paint thrown across a canvas. Black speckles scatter overtop of marbled white and cool slate, and down the center of its back is a broad, dark line, soft at the edges, which reaches all the way up to the top of the seal’s head.

The bull—it must be male—turns over. It lifts its head, and opens its eyes—

Fear suddenly zips up your spine as it looks right at you.

You stumble backward and trip on your own feet, landing hard on your ass. Johnny’s care with keeping enough distance from the colony rushes back to you, along with the warring couple’s bared teeth.

They can’t move that fast on land, right? They aren’t interested in people, right?

You scramble backward. It’s so much bigger than you ever would have imagined. If it got to you—threw itself over you—it could crush you with its weight alone—

The bull watches you placidly. Unperturbed.

You pause.

Its small eyes are dark and glossy—watchful and focused. The whiskers on its muzzle twitch a little as it takes you in. It breathes, deeply and evenly, huge body expanding and contracting at a slow, calm tempo. Its—his—nostrils flex, widening and narrowing, as he blinks docilely.

Unafraid.

If anything—curious.

Then he snorts, and wriggles in place. It startles a laugh out of you, more reaction than humor. Still watching you, the bull lowers his head back down, resting it again on the sand.

Your heartbeat abates. He doesn’t move again—nor does his attention leave you. Slowly, you sit up.

Wary. No sudden movements.

He doesn’t react; only continues to watch you.

You draw your knees up. Wrap your arms around your shins, and dust a bit of sand from your leggings. Rest your chin in the crevice between your knees.

There’s an intelligence in the bull’s eyes that is fathoms deep. There is a massive gulf between his experience of the world and yours, millennia of evolution separating your species from his—and yet…as you hold his gaze, you recognize the look in it.

Him, seeing you. And seeing you see him. The pendulum swinging between awareness of each other, and recognition of that shared awareness.

An empty space in the cloud cover passes overhead; sunlight touches the earth, warms it briefly before disappearing again. You wonder a little why this bull isn’t with the other seals.

Johnny would probably know.

“I didn’t come for you, you know,” you grumble at him.

The seal blinks. Awareness notwithstanding, you don’t share any language.

You sigh. “I guess you didn’t come to see me either,” you say.

But you don’t move away.

And you stay like that for a long while, you and he—regarding each other as the wind breathes out across the shore.

next chapter early access

a/n: follow for more seal facts™

Also huge thanks to Lev for trawler listings/info. Didn't explore it much this chapter but Soap's boat will show up more soon :)

[sageourplanetmeow]

WATCH MOON GIRL AND DEVIL DINOSAUR

IT’S GREAT ESPECIALLY AT SEASON ONE’S FINALE I PROMISE YOU

PLEASE WATCH AND REBLOG THIS/ADVERTISE THE SHOW SO THAT SEASON 3 CAN GET GREENLIT

(Please we must prevent what happened to TGAMM, TOH, Ducktales and a bunch of other shows to happen to MGADD)

There’s also such clever writing in this show and the animation is creative and beautiful. The visual stuff is awesome. The fact that stuff have consequences and last and aren’t solved immediately means a lot. There’s some VERY powerful metaphors sprinkled in and the characters, their design and their VAs are fantastic and leave me wanting to see more of them after every watch.

Check out the tags cus I’m promoting more shows in there including ones that are already gone but oh well.

Oo imma also promote some indie shows in there.

[transmasc-tabris]

More screenshots (bonus, managed to find Bull a shirt and don't know how to feel about that)

[moonstruckme]

hii!! i love ur blog lol. i saw ur requests were open and i thought maybe id send one in! no pressure at all to do it, thank you for writing what you write (it’s really comforting!) i was wondering if you could do poly!marauders with a reader who is overworking herself for exams/college stuff and is hiding from her boyfriends because she knows they’ll be stern with her and make her take a break? so she tries to evade them but they foil her evil little plan lol. maybe like dom!remus… i’m obsessed w him.. just an idea!!!! have an amazing day 🩷

Thanks for requesting, hope you have an amazing day too!

cw: d/s dynamics to be found if you want them to be, mostly they're just bossy

poly!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 814 words

There are nice voices seeping into your consciousness. Soft, comforting. You snuggle into the gentleness of their familiar hum. 

Something moves from underneath your face. You start to open your eyes, slow and reluctant, and when the something is gone your face lands in a warm palm. It feels safe, easy enough to settle into, but as you’re about to let yourself slip away again it strokes its thumb over your cheek. 

“Angel.” James’ voice sounds almost like he’s trying not to laugh. He thumbs your cheek again. “Angel, hey.” A pause. “She doesn’t seem to want to wake up.” 

“She’s awake,” Sirius says. You feel his hand sweep across your shoulder blades. “Come on, sweetness. This is no place to spend the night.” 

You make a disgruntled, whiny sound you’d never allow in full consciousness. Your eyes peel open. 

“There she is.” Sirius rubs your back encouragingly.

You blink blearily in the sickening fluorescent light of the library. James is squatting at face-level in front of you, his expression somewhere between fond and pitying, while Remus stands behind him with your backpack over his shoulder. You can see Sirius peering down at you in your periphery, his hand still moving over your back as though to keep you from falling back asleep. 

There doesn’t seem to be anyone else around. It must be late. 

“Oh, no,” you groan, forcing yourself up. Your neck and back crackle as you straighten, making James cringe. 

“I agree,” Sirius says smoothly. “I too would be devastated if I traded a warm and cozy bed with my loving boyfriends for a hard, cold desk. But don’t be embarrassed, there’s still time to make things right.” 

“I didn’t mean to fall asleep.” You press the heels of your hands into your eyes, trying to rub wakefulness into them. “I…where’s my laptop?” 

“I have it,” says Remus. 

“I need it.” 

“You’ll get it back tomorrow.” 

A slow, heavy anxiety laces your bloodstream. “But I have to finish…” 

“Dove.” Remus’ voice is stern, though not unkind. “You have to sleep first. At home.”

You blink, your brain still lagging. “But…” 

“Sweetheart, c’mere.” James takes your face in his hand, angling you towards him. He brushes his thumb over the corners of your eyes, then smiles at you. “There. Sorry, you had crusties. Ready to go?” 

“I…” 

“Let’s go, babe.” Sirius winds an arm around your waist, hauling you up with him. “It’s definitely bedtime.” 

James chuckles. “Seems like it. Poor love.” 

“What about my stuff?” 

“I’ve got it, dove,” Remus reminds you. He frowns. “When was the last time you slept?” 

You think back. “Last night.” Was it really only last night? It feels eons ago. 

“But for how long?” 

“Uh…” you wince. “I dunno, a couple hours.” 

James makes a low pitying sound, and Remus’ frown worsens. On some level, you know you’d known they would react like this. Probably, you’d even known they were right. It was why you’d been spending as little time at home as possible, catching twenty-minute power naps in library chairs and avoiding your boyfriends. 

“Sweetheart,” Remus sounds tired himself, and guilt sprouts behind your ribcage, “you can’t run yourself ragged like this. It’s not sustainable. It’s not going to help with your schoolwork, and it’s awful for you besides. Why are you doing this to yourself?”

You heave a sigh. “I guess I just like living on the edge,” you grumble sardonically. 

Sirius huffs a laugh. He slots a piece of hair behind your ear. “Hey, recklessness is my thing,” he says, kissing your temple. “You need to get your own thing.” 

“Sorry.” 

“You need to take better care of yourself,” Remus chides. “You’ve tried your way, and it’s clearly not working. Right?” 

You’re silent. Then Sirius pinches your side, and you squeak, “Right.” 

“Good girl.” Remus’ tone warms some with amusement. “So we’re going to go home, and you’re going to sleep at least eight hours. Then, after you eat and drink something, you can have your laptop back. Okay?” 

“Okay.” You want to be more reluctant, but the allure of your boyfriends’ evil scheme is too tempting to resist. You don’t have the energy to fight them on it. “Thanks for coming to get me.” 

Remus holds the door open for you all to exit the library. As you pass, he cups your cheek with a small smile. “You’re welcome, dovey.” 

“And maybe during this next round of studying, you could take a break from time to time,” James suggests lightly. “I haven’t had a proper cuddle in days.” 

“Oi!” Sirius’ chin nearly smacks the side of your head as he whips around to see James. “What would you call what we did this afternoon?” 

“Not a proper cuddle. Your elbow has probably left a permanent indent in my stomach.” 

“There are people who would pay for a souvenir like that, Jamie.”

[kikyoupdates]

Rivalry | Bakugou Katsuki x F!Reader 

katsuki catches feelings for his new rival

Bakugou Katsuki has a crush, and he refuses to admit it. 

There’s a girl in his class who drives him absolutely insane. All throughout middle school, he’s had the top grades. His attitude, foul mouth, and appearance may fool people into believing he’s a delinquent—and to some extent, he is—but the truth is that he has a rigid, early bedtime, he does all his homework diligently, he studies at great length for tests, and he’s never missed a single day of class. 

He’s the best student there is. Or rather—he’s just the best in general. 

But this year, everything changed. 

There’s something about you that seems to catch everyone’s eye. You showed up at the beginning of the school year, a new transfer student, and from that moment onward, Katsuki swears his life got flipped upside down. 

You’re gifted. You’ve got the best grades not only in the class, but out of everyone in the whole school. Every time exam scores are posted for others to see, Katsuki is forced to grit his teeth at the sight of your name at the very top, time and time again.

It’s not just your grades, though. You’ve got a powerful Quirk, too. It’s some kind of energy control that allows you to levitate objects, enhance your physical strength, and also defend against attacks. It’s strong and versatile. Perfect for becoming a hero—which is exactly what you plan to be. 

The final nail in the coffin is that you’re also popular. 

Katsuki is used to being the center of attention wherever he goes. He’s used to being complimented for his intellect, his talent, his strength, and the sheer magnitude of his presence. Thanks to everyone praising him to high heaven, ever since he was a kid, his ego has become massively inflated. 

So, when he realizes that people are paying more attention to you than they are to him, he doesn’t know how the hell he’s supposed to handle it. 

Katsuki finds himself glaring at you just about constantly. You’ve always got a group of students gathered around you. You’re always smiling and laughing, looking carefree as can be. You’re also the only person in the whole class who doesn’t treat Izuku like dirt—which just pisses him off even more. 

One day, you stop in front of his desk with a bright smile. 

“Here you go, Bakugou,” you say, handing him a cookie. “This is for you.” 

Katsuki looks up at you in disbelief. “Why would I ever want this shit?” 

“I dunno. It was my birthday recently, so I baked cookies to hand out to the class. Don’t you want one? I thought everyone likes cookies.” 

“I would rather die than eat that,” he snarls, and he angrily shoves the cookie back into your hands. 

He’s dramatic as all hell, of course, and that kind of vicious remark would have been more than enough to make anyone feel self-conscious. It was needlessly harsh. He obviously didn’t mean it. Given the option of eating your cookie or dying, he would definitely eat the cookie. 

Not that it really matters, though.

You’re completely unfazed. 

“Damn, I didn’t know you were deathly afraid of cookies,” you muse. “I’ll have to keep that in mind for next time. What about cupcakes? Are cupcakes safe for you to eat?” 

Katsuki’s entire face turns red. “That’s obviously not what I meant, asshole!” 

“I know,” you giggle, and for some reason, the sound makes Katsuki’s heart skip a beat. “Sorry for teasing. You’re really funny, Bakugou. I like you.” 

He parts his lips to respond, but he’s incapable of forming any words. It feels like whatever he was about to say just died in the back of his throat. All of a sudden, he’s frozen in place, brain running haywire. 

“I like you.” 

You’re making fun of him. You have to be. And why should he even care whether you actually like him or not? He doesn’t give a shit about you. He can’t stand you. You’re the bane of his goddamn existence. 

…fuck. 

That’s what he keeps telling himself, but given how red his face is, it’s sounding harder and harder to believe. 

“I’ll make something else next time,” you beam. “I’m sure one day, I’ll figure out something you like. I’ve noticed you eat spicy food a lot. Maybe I should try making a curry. Ah, but if it’s good, you have to be honest with me, okay? You’re not allowed to lie.” 

Katsuki’s heart does another flip. It’s so stupid. He can’t believe his mind even bothered to read into it, but…

The fact that you know what kind of food he likes means you’ve at least been paying some attention to him, right? 

“I’m going to beat you,” Katsuki blurts. His voice wavers slightly, and he grinds his teeth together in embarrassment, but still, he persists. “On the next round of exams… I’m going to place first. Just you watch.”

Normally, Katsuki can’t stand to lose. He can’t stand the feeling of inferiority. The idea that someone else might be better than him.

And yet, despite his frustration, despite how much he claims you drive him up the wall, he actually doesn’t mind the challenge. It’s exciting. It makes him respect you that much more. 

“We’ll see about that,” you grin—and he’s convinced you have to be the prettiest girl he’s ever seen.

No doubt about it. 

Something about you just gets his heart racing.

Check out the author’s library!

Read more on Ada’s Quotev (Kikyo and Starflame), Ao3, and Wattpad (Kikyo and Starflame)!!

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[xiaowhore]

intoxicating.

premise. your boyfriend dumps you and says he doesn't love you anymore. of course, being the petty bitch that you are, you have to prove that you don't need him in your life either. and of course, intense emotions often lead to rash decisions, so you go to a bar in hopes of finding a new man.

somehow, even when all you've managed to do is scowl at anyone who approaches you and mope at the bar counter, you still manage to get one.

Wriothesley has dealt with his fair share of unruly drunks before, but they were something more along the lines of aggressive and sloppy, not depressed and sappy.

He finds that he'd rather manhandle angry alcoholics than a person who makes a slobbering mess all over his shirt, clinging to his arm and sobbing to his sleeve. Your body starts to sway even when he supports your weight, your footsteps unstable as your attempt to walk in a straight line fails entirely.

Okay, so maybe you are sloppy after all.

Wriothesley sighs and tightens his grip on your shoulders. There's no point in losing his patience with a drunk person. He didn't even mean to pick you up, it's just that as a police officer, his sense of responsibility makes him want to fix a troublesome situation whenever he sees one. Even when he isn't on duty, he often leads disruptive drunks out of bars and restaurants, forces them out when he has to, and is always on the receiving end of owners' gratitude.

However, he has no experience dealing with drunks that just got dumped by their boyfriend and chugged away the sorrow with alcohol. You know, like the one dragging their feet as he drags their inebriated body away.

At first, he thought you were hitting on him when he felt your head lean on his shoulder in the bar. It's a common strategy, one that he's dealt with enough times to know when someone is just pretending to be drunk and trying to get his attention. He was still thinking of what to say when tears actually rolled down your cheeks and you started retelling your life story that he never asked to hear about.

Wriothesley isn't actually trying to listen, but he still gets the gist of it. It would be hard not to when you're still prattling on about it beside his ear as we speak.

“He said...” You hiccup, warm liquid seeping into his shirt as you sob into his arm. He hopes that's from your tears and not your snot. “He said he doesn't feel anything for me anymore...”

So you glammed up for tonight and tried to have fun at a bar so you could prove to yourself you didn't need him in the same way he didn't need you. He can already recite the story perfectly from the amount of times you told him. Your plan is irrational at best, and he doesn't see himself doing the same if he were ever to be in the same situation, but he can't berate you for it. Not when you looked so miserable and hopeless to the extent he didn't think it would be safe to leave you alone back at the bar.

“You can't force yourself to be happy,” Wriothesley grumbles, finally giving up on carrying you by the shoulder and instead hoists you up on his back to give you a piggyback ride. Your shoes slip off your feet, so he sighs as he crouches down to pick them up. “At times like this, you should find other ways to feel better.”

Your body jolts against him as you hiccup once again. “Like what?”

“Dunno.” He shrugs, and he can feel you gradually getting used to being carried. It takes only a bit more for you to melt against his body, your chin snugly tucked in the juncture between his neck and shoulder. “Watch movies at home in your pajamas, I guess. Treat yourself to good food. Go on a trip. You look like the type to enjoy that. Much safer than getting involved with guys when you're still emotionally unavailable.”

You sniffle. “Romance movies only remind me of him. Eating at restaurants will make me remember the dates we've gone to. And going on trips will make me wish he's there with me.”

Why do they have an argument for each point I make? And I never said anything about the movie having to be romance. “Well, you still have to go through that,” he gives up on making you think otherwise. “But one day, you'll feel a little better about it. Maybe you'll want to start dating again when you watch that romance movie, or you'll want someone else to eat with on that restaurant you once went to. And when you're on a trip, maybe you'll even think you want somebody special to go with you.”

You go quiet. For a moment, he thinks you've fallen asleep. But then your head slowly rises from his shoulder, dazed eyes peeking at him unsurely. “You really think so?”

“It won't be easy,” Wriothesley says, because nothing ever is. “But you want to say you don't love him anymore, right?” He glances at you, at the dry tear streaks on your cheeks, at what glitter remains around your eyes from all the times you've rubbed away your tears.

For the first time that night, he sees you smile. “Yeah... I want to say it without feeling hurt anymore.”

He turns away, and he feels himself smiling without meaning to. “That's good.”

“...So do you like watching romance movies? Or eating [hometown] cuisine?”

“...No?”

“Then I'll settle for a movie you like. And I can make good food from anywhere.”

“...Are you hitting on me? Using my advice?”

“Is it working?”

Wriothesley laughs, looking at the person he's carrying on his back, who he is escorting to his apartment because you lost your keys and your roommate won't be back until tomorrow, whom he wrapped his leather jacket around because he felt you shivering against him, and who caught his eye the very moment he entered the bar.

“That's not a no.” He knows you're pouting even when he isn't looking anymore.

“Yeah,” he agrees with you, almost indulgently. “It isn't.”

When you wake up in an unfamiliar bedroom, dressed down to your undergarments and a t-shirt you definitely do not own, and with hardly any recollection of events from the past night, you think you've made a terrible, terrible mistake.

But then you spot the hangover medicine on the bedside table, your alcohol-spilled clothes drying in the laundry room, and possibly the most gorgeous man you've ever seen cooking breakfast in the kitchen, so whatever you did last night couldn't really be that bad.

“Oh, you're awake,” he says once he notices you standing in the middle of the room, completely awestruck. You don't even know what you should be staring at; his chiseled face, his strong arms, his tight tank top that faintly traces his muscled torso, the gray sweatpants that-

Okay. You are not going to look anywhere below his waist.

“Yeah,” is all you can manage, simply glad you didn't fuck up that one syllable. You feel like you're on the verge of either saying something really stupid or making really weird strangled noises. You prefer the former, if you can help it.

“Sit.” He pulls one chair from the dining table, gesturing for you to take it. You meekly take your seat, eyes shifting everywhere but his face. “You're rather quiet today,” he muses, taking one glance at your reddening face as he fixes the plates of pancakes in front and across you.

“...How was I yesterday, then?” You ask, though you don't actually want to hear the answer.

The man hums in thought, taking his sweet time while pouring coffee over two mugs. “Troublesome,” he decides to say. “You nearly puked over my rug, after all.”

You sputter, making all kinds of apologies and promises of compensation when all of a sudden, he laughs. “Nah, I'm kidding. But this means you don't remember anything at all, right?” He sits across from you, sliding the mug to your hand.

“No...” You take a sip, but you barely register how it tastes. “I remember ordering a lot of drinks, but that's pretty much it.”

“That's a shame.” He sighs, leaning back on his chair as he sips coffee. “I suppose that means our dinner plans are void, then.”

“Absolutely not!” The words come out of your lips before your brain-to-mouth filter processes it fully, your hand slamming down the mug on the table in protest. “Uh... that is... if you're available whenever...” You get a hold of yourself and feel your cheeks burning in shame.

He doesn't try to hide the amused smirk on his face. “Sure. I'll be looking forward to your hometown cooking, then.”

Just what on earth did you do last night...?

???

[asuyaka]

"How do the monster trio act around (and eventually get with) their crush?"

☆ - Monkey D. Luffy, Vinsmoke Sanji, Roronoa Zoro x M! reader.

♡ - guys m'sososososo insane ab these three m'literally gunna explode | also !! jus cus reqs ar gunna be closed, doesn't mean m'won't be uploadin !! jus not takin reqs f'the time bein (❁´◡`❁)

— MONKEY D. LUFFY.

He's so clingy around you, more than he is with anyone else.

Always, always, shares his food with you. Especially if you were busy training before dinner.

He's always around you no matter what. Oh? You're trying to help Sanji cook? He's on the floor watching you. Want to go buy supplies for Nami? He's clung onto your back like a Koala. Want to sleep due to a long day? He's right there in your bed with you.

He's so dorky about it too! Wants to spend every waking moment with you but doesn't know that he has a crush on you, just always wants ta be around you!

He's so jealous without even knowing it. What are you doing hanging out with Usopp when he's right here??

"[Name]..." Luffy groaned, clinging to your back with a sad expression on his face. He had his limbs wrapped around your torso and his head between your neck. "You aren't going to talk with Usopp again, are you?"

You stop walking, staring at him through the corner of your eyes. "Yes? I thought you and Usopp were best buddies, what happened?"

Luffy groans louder, causing Nami to yell at him to shut up from her room. "Nooooo, stay here and talk with meeeeeeee!" He wraps his arms around you three times (thanks to his devil fruit) and starts to shake your body around.

"Luffy— I can't even move if you don't let go of me!"

Luffy looks at you with puppy dog eyes. "Why hang out with Usopp when I'm right here?! I should be the only one you have eyes for..." He pouts as he presses his cheek against yours.

Your body flushes. Did... did he realize what he just said?

"Luffy, you can't say things like that if you don't know what they mean..." You huff, trying not to look too deep into what he could've meant by that. Luffy says things he doesn't mean, so you don't want to get your hopes up.

That only seems to coerce Luffy into whining. "I do know what it means! I said it, dummy! Stupid!! You should be mine, not Usopp's! I'm cooler and better and bigger and amazinger and uhm, you're mine because I say so!!"

Amazinger...?

You can't help the giggle that comes out of you, trying to force yourself to calm down while Luffy shakes you repeatedly. "[Name] c'mon, you'll be mine, right? Not Usopp! Cause, he can't cook and he's a sniper!"

"What does him being a sniper have to do with anything? And besides, you can't cook either Luffy."

Luffy blanks for a split second before going back to what he was doing. "I dunno. Doesn't matter! C'monnnnn, [Name], you're bullying meeeeeeeee!"

You hold onto Luffy's arm with a laugh, pressing your cheeks together as a form of affection. "Yes, Luffy, I'll be yours."

Luffy stares at you with surprise before turning back to his usual happy-go-lucky self. "Yippie!! Now, we can do all the things boyfriends do! Like go on dates, and eat together, and sleep together, and—"

As he continues to list off all the things he thinks boyfriends do, you can't help but chuckle.

Not like you two weren't doing that before his confession.

— VINSMOKE SANJI.

(inspired by @/sanjisboyfie 's oneshot ab this tragic little adorable man !! :3)

It took so long for Sanji to realize he liked you because he's not used to being attracted to men.

Thought that every time you complimented his cooking and his heart swelled up, it was just the flu. Nothing interesting or important.

Then, he started noticing how pretty your features were when you were eating, or how embarrassed he gets whenever it's just you and him in the kitchen.

When he realizes he does like you, his mind utterly falters, because... why would you like him back?

Even though there are lingering fears in his heart, he always tries his best to please you. Even if it means blushing like a moron whenever you address him directly.

"[Name]! I uhm, made this for you since you were... hurt, during our last fight." Sanji muttered nervously, averting his eyes as he held out a plate of food. Something small and easy to digest, but a food you like.

You smile warmly as you take the plate from his hands, your fingers brushing slightly as Sanji's face flusters even more. "This looks amazing! Thanks, Sanji. Do you want to sit with me? The seas are calm tonight."

Sanji pauses as he looks at you. His cigarette is inches away from falling out of his mouth and his face dazes.

"Sanij? You okay? You can say no, I won't be mad. It's not even your shift yet and everyone needs sleep." You say with an airy smile as you turn your attention to the food.

Sanji was right (like he was most of the time when it came to you and food), after the 'Big Mom incident' you were quite injured (and hungry). Seeing all the... talking food, didn't do much to raise your appetite.

There's a soft thud right beside you, long black legs resting a safe distance away from yours. A comfortable silence falls between the two of you, even if Sanji's cheeks are flushed and he's nervously playing with his thumbs.

"Wowww, this is really good Sanji!" You say happily, flashing Sanji a warm smile as you return to eating the food so gracefully given to you. Oblivious to the man beside you whose face looks so red it rivals Luffy's signature vest.

Sanji looks at you with nothing sort of affection. It's not the same as when Nami or Robin compliment him, you just saying his name is enough to make him flustered, but being this close to you alone might send him into cardiac arrest.

"[Name]...?" His voice is quiet, staring at you with expectant eyes.

You pause eating, covering your mouth, and cocking your head in confusion.

"This uhm... might be a weird question, but do you um,, l-like anybody?" He becomes more flushed with every word that comes out of his mouth.

The second you take too long to answer he starts to curse himself out for even sitting down. Everything was going so well until he opened his mouth—

"Yes, I do. What, trying to feel out if I'm single?" You tease with a light chuckle, picking up the last bit of food and holding it out expectantly. "You want some?"

Sanji can't say no to you. Even if he tries his hardest, his body will not let him say no, not to an indirect kiss; especially when you're offering. Even if you might not see it in the same light he does.

He opens his mouth and lets you place the spoon in his mouth as your eyes turn into crescents. "See? Does it taste good?"

God— Sanji feels like he's going to explode.

He nods, begging himself to calm down before his mind starts to run.

"Oh," You say suddenly, "—that was an indirect kiss, wasn't it?" You lin hum thoughtfully and place the plate beside you, letting out a soft yawn as you stretch. "You sure you don't need to—"

"I am so in love with you."

"...pardon?"

Sanji stands up immediately, his face red. "Nothing!! I'm sorry, I'm really sleepy now so I'll—"

"Sanji, what did you say?" You ask carefully, holding onto his hand to try and stop him from running away.

"It's nothing, [Name], please just let me—"

"Sanji." Your voice comes off soft, relaxing your body so you come off as gentle and not hostile. "Just say it, one more time for me, okay?"

Sanji could feel his entire body burning up just from holding hands, more so from him getting caught blurting out his feelings again. He stares at the floor of the Sunny, too ashamed to look you in the eyes. "I... I'm in love with you? I'm sorry if you don't like me back, I didn't mean it I swear!"

"Sanji, what makes you think I don't like you back? Better question, what makes you think I didn't know?" You cock your head playfully, pulling him gently so he's sitting again.

"...what?"

You chuckle. "I've heard all the other embarrassing times you've confessed your feelings, it's just that the crew was around and I didn't want to put you on the spot. I've liked you since we met on the Baratie, silly."

Sanji's eyes widen as his mouth falls agape. You've liked him... for two years?!

"Sanji...?" You move up to straddle him, your hands resting on his cheeks. "Can I... kiss you?"

Sanji nods so fast he thinks his head might fall off.

You smile, leaning forward to press your lips together. Sanji's body physically relaxes as he practically melts into you, his face redder than blood.

It takes all his willpower and the need to breathe for him to finally pull away from you. His face is flushed and his breathing is heavy, staring at you like you're the only man in the world— like you're the prettiest thing in the world.

You giggle, pressing your heart onto his chest. "I love you so much."

Zoning back into reality, he carefully places his arms around your waist. "I love you too, so so much [Name],"

— RORONOA ZORO.

Zoro isn't good at expressing his emotions, everyone knows that.

So, when he figures out he might have a romantic attraction to you, he's confused about what to do. Considers asking Nami about it, but goes with Robin since Nami is... an interesting woman!

Robin tells him to be upfront with his feelings, or subtly tell the person.

He's a naturally mature person, having a crush on his crewmate doesn't change that by any means.

Even if he is cold to everyone, if you two are alone on the deck of the Sunny, he lets you sleep with him or touch his swords.

Just having you around is enough to calm him down. Seeing as his biggest love language is quality time and you enjoy talking about the randomest things around him, it makes his heart flutter whenever you act like he's the only person in the world who you care about.

"Mhm! And did you know that otters hold hands when they're asleep?" You point to an otter in the marine life book Zoro got you during your last pit stop.

Zoro shakes his head, his arms crossed with a small, barely noticeable amused smile on his face.

"Yeah! It's so they don't drift off when they're asleep. Not sure anyone knows why, but I like to think it's because they don't want to lose each other. After all, they're social animals! Oh! They also like to cuddle a lot—"

"Kind of like me and you, no?" Zoro interrupts with a playful aura, causing your train of thought to stop, face flushing as you stare at his smug expression.

"Um, y-yes! Like... like me, and you..." Your voice progressively gets smaller under Zoro's gaze. He moves closer, causing you to move your arms back, resting on your palms. "Zoro?"

"Keep telling me about the otters, don't worry," He replies coyly, grabbing you by the waist and bringing you into his lap.

Your face flushes, stuttering over your words as you nod. Shakily grabbing the book to bring it closer. Carefully picking your words, you begin speaking again. "They might also, uhm, hold hands because they don't have very thick fur. It could be to share body heat and keep warm, since they get cold easily."

"What if I said we were otters?" Zoro asks from behind you, resting his chin on your head.

"Ah, then we'd have to hold hands when we sleep!" Quickly realizing what you said, you try to reel it back in. "O-of course, only if you want to! I wouldn't want to make you uncomfortable or anything, I know how much you like your personal space so—"

"You're in my personal space and it doesn't look like I mind very much, does it, [Name]?"

Twiddling your thumbs meekly, you shake your head no. Zoro laughs and takes one of your hands, putting it above his. The size difference is obvious, your fingers stop just below his second knuckle. Something about that causes a riot in your brain, especially when Zoro squeezes them together.

"Okay, another question," Zoro starts, moving the intertwined hands to your lap. "What if I asked you to be my boyfriend?"

You turn around immediately, staring at him with wide eyes. He isn't... joking, is he? Zoro doesn't normally joke about things (unless he's with Sanji), so it wouldn't make sense for him to joke about this. Especially when it's something so serious.

"Hm? What's your answer, pretty boy?"

You've liked Zoro ever since he sat down and listened to you talk about the different kinds of fishmen after the ordeal with Arlong. Zoro has never expressed romantic attraction to anybody, not even to the bountiful amounts of women who've expressed attraction to him.

Your mind blanks, and you must've been staring at him for too long because the smallest bit of worry falls on his face. "You okay? I'm not forcing you, you know? Saying no is okay."

Saying... no? To a man that looks like he was crafted by Zeus himself? Hell no! "No! I-I mean, yes, I mean—"

"Take your time pretty boy, I'm not going anywhere."

He's adjusted your position to where you're facing each other, hands still intertwined as he looks at you with a soft (?) expression. Taking a deep breath, you force yourself to make eye contact with him.

You've never looked at his this close before. Sure, you two have cuddled to sleep on countless nights, but then you were always faced away from each other.

He has long eyelashes. Not extremely long, but longer than you thought they were. Even if his eyes are black, you've noticed they soften whenever he looks at you, it makes him pretty.

Meekly, you nod. Holding your head down to try and hide your embarrassment. Before you can, though, Zoro stops you by lifting your chin up with his finger. "You can use words, can't you?"

It should sound condescending, the way he's talking to you, but it sounds more encouraging than anything. Even if there might be light teases mixed with his words.

"Yes, I, I would want to be your uhm... your boyfriend."

Zoro grins at that, pressing a quick kiss on your lips and twisting you around, pulling you closer so the back of your head is between his boobs pecs. "Love you, pretty boy."

"I-I love you too, Zoro," You force out, even if it feels like you're overheating due to the blood rushing to your cheek and... other places, as well as Zoro's added body heat.

You two truly were like otters.

[nanenna]

Detective Work on the Other Side

We getting into my own HCs now, enjoy the lore!

Sleep King Master post (it should actually work this time)

---

It felt weird sitting in the Specter Speeder as Phantom with his parents. It wasn’t that long ago that he’d finally told his parents himself, but just like Jazz had said they’d loved and accepted him as is. Danny was still getting used to it.

Danny pointed out the windshield, “That island there should be good.” It was little more than an oversized boulder with some grass on it, but it was big enough for the speeder and was pretty close to Johnny and Kitty’s lair, so it would do. Once they landed, the three Fentons disembarked so Danny could let the lovers out of Soup Time.

“Ugh, finally!” Johnny griped once they were set free.

Danny crossed his arms, “How do you keep getting into Amity? We put extra protections on the portal, no one should be able to get through.”

“Your dinky portal isn’t the only one in the whole world,” Kitty said with an eye roll.

“You just gotta know where to look,” Johnny added with a wink.

“Well stop it! I don’t want to have to repeat a grade!”

“Then stop chasing us. Jeez, no one’s forcing you.”

“Danny, sweetie,” Mom interrupted, “ask them about the summoning.”

“Summoning?” Kitty asked, perking up.

“It’s really concerning,” Dad said while scratching his head.

“Yeah, I was asleep so I don’t really remember it but I got summoned last night.”

“How’d you sleep through a summoning?” Kitty asked incredulously with a sneer.

Johnny just nodded, “Damn, wish I could sleep through a summoning.”

“I don’t know!” Danny threw his hands up in the air. “The really weird part is they were trying to summon Pariah!”

That got Johnny and Kitty to stop laughing. “Oh shit, really?”

“Johnny! Don’t cuss around the baby!” Kitty smacked his arm lightly.

“You owe the swear jar,” Dad boomed eagerly.

Johnny just rolled his eyes.

“That’s what we were told,” Mom cut in. “There was a cult that was trying to summon the Ghost King and somehow got Danny.”

“Wait, were they trying to summon Pariah by name or the Ghost King title?” Kitty asked eagerly.

“Ghost King,” Mom said decisively.

“Oh no,” Danny said. His grades may be in the toilet, but even he could put two and two together. “No, there’s no way I’m the Ghost King!”

“Maybe,” Kitty said while looking Danny up and down.

“Not like it means anything,” Johnny said airily.

Danny thought the matter over, “How does it not mean anything?”

“Well Pariah just declared himself the Ghost King one day, others only listened because he forced them to. And it’s not like we need a king, we’ve had the council ever since.”

“Ugh, stupid eye balls,” Danny griped. “But yeah, if he just decided to make himself king I guess it doesn’t really mean anything.”

Mom sighed deeply, “You mean like Alexander the Great? Or Ghengis Khan? Or William the Conquerer? Or anyone else from history who declared himself in charge and then killed anyone who didn’t listen?”

Danny drooped, “Okay, so maybe it does matter. But how would that even work? Why am I the Ghost King now?”

“Dunno,” Johnny said with a shrug. “It’s not like you even have the crown or ring.”

“No, Pariah still has the ring and last I saw the crown Vlad had it.”

“Good old Vladdie,” Dad boomed eagerly, “holding onto a powerful artifact like that to keep it safe!”

“So shouldn’t Vlad be the new Ghost King?” Danny asked with a shudder.

“Well the summoning circle thinks you earned the title somehow, so I guess it’s you now.” Johnny snickered as he got on his bike, Kitty quickly hopping on behind him. “Anyway, see ya ‘round, your majesty.” Johnny sneered the last part, then the pair both laughed like Johnny had just told the best joke ever as he zoomed off.

“Well I’m proud of you!” Dad slapped Danny’s back so hard he face planted. “Fighting that nasty Ghost King was really brave of you, and look at you now! Our boy, the Ghost King!” Dad wiped away a tear of deep paternal pride.

Danny had already floated himself up off the ground and dusted himself off, completely unharmed. “Thanks Dad, that means a lot.” And it really did! He was used to his parents being proud of him, not for his grades obviously, but just… in general. Or something. To have his dad say he’s proud of things Danny did as Phantom just… hit different.

“Is there anyone we can ask about this? The council that ruffian mentioned?” Mom looked thoughtful.

“Ugh no, the council hates my guts for some reason.”

“Well… if they’ve been in charge since Pariah was put in the sarcophagus and you’re the king now, maybe they feel threatened?” Dad asked, rubbing his chin.

“That’s probably it, sweetiepie. They’re just threatened by you.” Mom gently pat his arm.

“That’s so weird! I don’t even want to be king, I’d probably be a terrible one anyway.”

Dad gasped, “Danno! That’s just not true! Sure, you’re a bit young to be king now, but in a few years I bet you’d be a great king!”

“Pass.” Danny did not want to add a crown to his disaster of a life. Especially if it meant he’d have to be a bully to make others listen to him anyway, it’s not like anyone listened to Pariah.

“So honey, anyone else we can ask about the Ghost King? Or summoning circles? I’m really worried about you randomly getting summoned by creepy cults.” And boy, did Mom have a point about that! Yikes!

“Uh… maybe Frostbite?” The yeti did keep calling him “Great One” and that had to mean something, right? And if not he could hopefully point them in the right direction.

“Wonderful!” Mom chirped as she started herding Danny back into the Speeder. “And along the way you can answer a few small questions about your fight with Pariah.”

“I’m sorry about taking the Ecto-skeleton without asking,” Danny blurted out, face turning green as it grew colder.

“It’s alright, baby boy,” Mom pinched his cheek, “we understand why you did it and why you felt you had to at the time. But never do it again, okay?”

“Yeah,” Danny said miserably as they got back into the speeder. Once Danny had pointed them in the direction of the Far Frozen, he sat criss cross applesauce in the air. “So uh… questions?”

“Oh yeah! What questions did you have, fudgecakes?”

“Well…” Mom started but hesitated before continuing slowly. “This sounds like it might be a right of conquest situation.”

Danny had no idea what that meant. Well he knew what the words individually meant, and he had a pretty good idea what the phrase meant generally, but he had no idea what the rules or details were.

“Was this an official challenge?” Mom asked when Danny only stared blankly at her.

“Uh… maybe?” Danny tried thinking back to the fight, “What would make it an official challenge?”

“Did the Ghost King say he accepted your challenge? Or challenge you?”

“He uh…” Danny tried to remember the times he’d bantered with Pariah. “He said he accepted my terms,” Danny said with a squeak near the end.

Mom just nodded, “Right, so it sounds like a challenge. And did you take his crown at any point in the fight?”

Danny tried to remember the end of the fight, and well… “Yeah, I knocked it off him right before shoving him back into the sarcophagus. But Vlad had the key that actually locked it, and then he had the crown the last time I saw it.”

“Danny, sweetie, Vlad didn’t challenge the Ghost King to single combat, and he didn’t take the crown as part of that challenge.”

“Oh,” was all Danny could say as the realization of what he’d unwittingly done sank in. “Well… shit.”

[eccentricallygothic]

Pairing: Dark Daddy!Rafe Cameron | Naive Little!Reader. 

Warning(s): Dubcon, cold shower, waterboarding, possessive!Rafe, Dark!Rafe, toxic relationship, dumbification, dacryphilia, manhandling, fear kink, dark ddlg, allusion to spanking, he's mean okay? Browse at your own discretion. 

Rafe does not like his little girl smelling like anyone or anything other than him.

But she's too stupid to understand it, even though he has explained it to her many, many times with all the patience he could muster. 

So now? 

He will teach her. 

"Daddy, please–"

"Shut up" a cigarette dangled from Rafe's lips as he pushed the younger in the bathroom by her hair, the force he used causing her head to loll forwards.

"B–" 

He pulled her head back roughly to level her ear with his mouth. "Not one word, little girl" she had been too engrossed with pleading her case to notice where he had brought her. But now that he pushed her inside the shower, the girl looked around her in confusion as her body scrambled about due to the raw strength it was being subjected to. 

She resisted the urge to voice her distress, knowing how easily irritable her boyfriend became when he was unhappy. 

But this, this was something new. 

Y/n had no idea what was brewing in his head but with the rather ample knowledge of how creative and cruel Rafe got during the times when he felt like she needed adjustment or maintenance, she could not help but feel scared. 

Even though her boyfriend always assured her that he was the only person who she wasn't to fear because all he wanted to do was to protect her since she was too little and dumb to do it on her own, it did not feel that way when he got angry. 

Like, right now. 

Rafe took a drag of his cigarette before exhaling the smoke in her face after turning her around with the grip he had on her head. "Smell yourself" Y/n blinked up at him in confusion at first but hurriedly grabbed her shirt when he raised a dangerous eyebrow at her. "And tell me, what do you smell like?" 

Tears glistened in her eyes at his tone and she whimpered, ducking her head a little and moving the shirt up the rest of the way until it touched her nose. Her hands trembled as she took a sniff. 

"Well?"

These kinds of situations were tricky. 

She never knew what he wanted to hear. 

And wrong answers only damned her further.

The girl opened and closed her mouth a couple times, unsure. Rafe shut his eyes and took a deep breath, the action causing her to panic as she raked her mind for an answer, aware that he did that whenever he was struggling to remain composed. 

And he only bothered with that for her. 

"Sweetheart" he cradled her face closer with his other hand, the nicotine stick between his fingers dangerously close to her cheek. "My question isn't gonna answer itself…" The sudden tenderness in his words as he tried to remain as calm as he could manage caused her to sob in both guilt and fear, shaking a little as she spoke. 

This was why Y/n was one of those girls who preferred not to piss their Daddies off. 

Rafe was too scary when he got like that. 

"... D- Dunno… D- Daddy…" His features scrunched in annoyance and he craned his neck back to take a long drag of his cigarette, causing her bottom lip to wobble.

It was only after he had exhaled did he chuckle slowly, nodding to himself. "Of course, how could I forget?" Looking back down at her, he wiped her tears with the pad of his thumb, nails scratching her scalp in a comforting manner where he held her hair. "You're too stupid to know anything, aren't you, baby?" 

The girl went to agree just for the sake of pleasing him but before she could respond, he was hauling her under the shower head and hitting the handle at the coldest setting. 

"So let me just teach my little girl this time around." 

Y/n screeched as heavy drops of ice cold water splashed against the top of her head and then the rest of her body like millions of tiny shards of ice, trickling down the rest of her alarmed skin in a way that stiffened every muscle in her body. 

Her spine tightened inwards.

"DADDY!" Half of her cry drowned under the unrelenting burst of the shower head, her hands weakly trying to tap and push at his hard arms that did not budge. 

Their strengths were incomparable. 

The sizes of their bodies did not and would not matter regardless of how big or small she was.  

Rafe was too strong, especially when his mind numbing rage was pumping through his veins. 

Like right now. 

"I know, baby, I know" he was unfazed by her gasping and thrashing around for air and comfort as he sucked at his cigarette, his buzzed head glittering with the droplets that had sprayed on him. "You wanna thank Daddy for making the effort to set you straight, I know." 

Y/n's lungs burnt for oxygen as she choked on the icy water, blindly tapping about with widened eyes that stung under the chilling water. Her nostrils ached whenever she tried to breathe, since the unforgiving water seeped in quicker than the air she so desperately needed.  

A loud, strangled gasp escaped her when Rafe jerked her out by the hold he had placed on her neck, bringing her face in close proximity to his so she could hear his menacing whisper. 

"Since you are too stupid to remember that I don't like it when you smell like anything other than me everytime," to make matters worse, you smelt like your male bestfriend's -whom Rafe could not stand to save his own life- body spray. "Maybe if I show you what will happen the next time I smell asshole on you, you will actually try to use that tiny brain before getting close to anyone other than your Daddy." 

The male remained unbothered when she coughed out water in his face to try and clear her system so she could speak, the drops causing his cigarette to hiss. "S- Sorry– Daddy- Sorry–" 

Rafe snorted. "Oh, yes. Sorry you will be," her eyes widened and she screamed only to have it get muffled again when he pushed her back under the unforgiving stream, "by the time I get done with you." It was not that he didn't trust his baby or doubted her loyalty, it was everyone else. 

The fucked up world that was too dangerous for his precious little special girl. 

Who seemed to brush his concerns and worries off like they were nothing. 

Silly little thing. 

He was not one to be taken lightly. 

And she would learn that for good by the time the night was through. 

"Hmm…" Y/n was shivering and wheezing when he pulled her away from the vicious downpour again. "Let's see–"

"Daddy, please! I am sorry! Swear I am!" He only cocked his head to the side and raised an eyebrow at her pleading sob. 

"I told you to shut up" Y/n's heart hammered against her ribcage and breathing nearly ceased when he pulled her even closer, squeezing her throat for emphasis. "Didn't I?" 

"Sorr–" she was too panicked and cold to properly process anything.  

Rafe clicked his tongue in disapproval as he shook his head, snorting before sucking on his cigarette again. "Oh, bunny" using his free hand to push the drenched strands away from her face, he sighed. "Your little mind has forgotten all its manners, hasn't it?" And she was shoved under the water again. 

"Constant back talk as if it's not already bad enough that you still don't smell like my good little girl" her nails were turning white from how they dug into the skin of his hand that forced her still. 

Rafe kept her in for the longest duration this time around, only pulling her out when her body nearly went limp.

Though she was dunked back in the moment he saw light return to her eyes. 

The male kept at it for a good few minutes, constantly stripping her of all dignity and freewill before allowing her a shred of solace only to snatch it away again the moment hope would try to rekindle in the flushed face that he adored so much. 

As much as Rafe loved Y/n, he liked her best when she was in her place. 

Which was under him and at his whim. 

"Hm" he took a sniff of her shaking and panting tired form when he thrusted her body towards himself this time. "This will do" nodding to himself in approval he shut the shower off. 

She was ordered to strip from her drenched clothes. The girl obeyed, the only task on her mind to make her Daddy happy again by pleasing him.

Because he was right.

He looked out for her and protected her all the time, the least she could was to follow her rules and be good for him.

Daddy was always right. 

"You're lucky I care for you, baby" her uncontrollable tears were warm against her cheeks in contrast to everything else. "So I will teach your pea brain the same old thing again" discarding the finished cigarette, he reached for his belt before undoing the buckle. 

The girl just stared at the floor quietly; trembling and meek.

Though she could not maintain the silence for very long and was forced to break it when her chest rumbled at the sight of his belt snaking out of the hoops of his jeans. Soft sobs fell from her lips as she hugged her arms. 

Oh, no.

"Go ahead now~" Rafe nodded towards the door as he helped himself to a new cigarette. "In the bed, face down and ass up."

[cryptfile]

᪇ꫭ dreamseeker, [ qimir x jedi!reader ]

summary — it all started when you find out he’s alive.

warnings — pure angst, violence, blood, mentions of injuries and tons of tension, sfw.

side notes — 4k+ // English's not my first language so please be kind! went slightly away with this one so would catalogue it as an alternative universe. Heard liking without reblogging makes you fall in an awful curse that breaks my heart in the process so let that sink in, anyway everything it's appreciated!,,, thought about making an +18 second part? dunno,,, thks also for the 110 followers! love you guys sooooo much *heart avalanche*

The air's hot in the room when you woke up.

The sweat made the sheets stick to you body as you got out of bed for the third time that week, a terrible headache forming as you leave the dormitories in the middle of the dark. Coruscant suddenly feels unbearable. You've slept almost nothing through the course of the week, so you surely are in a bad mood when the cold wind of the night makes you shiver at the sudden change of temperature.

I'm searching for you. Even in my dreams.

The words are repeating in the back of you head, scratching a part of your brain while you keep on trying to remember who's voice you're dreaming so much lately.

It's all connected somehow, always is. You've learned to trust the force a while ago, learned that destiny's intertwined with an energy field that holds the galaxy together the hard way, so you know, deep down, that you have to trust your guts in this one, something that you know it concerns you but can't quite understand what really is in the first place.

Dreams. Dreams are a cruel thing that you tend to forgot sometimes, the reflection of the mind and soul projected like a high-class transmission in your head. Dreams talk, and they make you think about things you've let in the past, things you've certainly need to come back at some point.

That's why you can't sleep later, cause you know it means something. You know that dreaming the very same dream every single night for the past week means something more than just mere imagination playing around, far from an innocent scenario.

The temple is silent at night even when the city outside seems to be so wake in contrast of the inside, most of the lights out as you crossed the empty hallway hoping to avoid anyone, cause you know they'll ask questions you don't have an answer for.

In all truth, you don't have a clue why are you up so late, why this deep voice kept you awake when you should be deep in your sleep, dreaming about something more than superstitions. You don't have an answer to any superior, don't seem to have an answer for yourself either.

The Jedi trials ended long ago, yet, you don't think of yourself as someone as successful as Yord Fandar, your talent being far from what it should be expected. You never complain about anything and never would, they were the only family you ever knew and you refuse to lose everything you've been working so hard for just for questioning your bare existence.

"Can't sleep?" The male voice makes you stiff almost immediately, checking your surroundings to notice Master Sol approaching you from the left. The Jedi Master catches you by surprise, your hands already on the lightsaber that is hanging on your waist before you notice you're safe, even when you don't want to talk. "I'm sorry. Didn't mean to scare you."

There are things that are worth hiding, but with Sol? Master Sol seems to see through it all, the worries and the dreams that you don't know if you should call nightmares, even when you try to lock them away for a minute. That's the main reason the man stares at you, cause you expel that smell of desperation, the tension in your muscles as you don't sleep in what seems are ages.

"What's troubling you?" He asks, your own eyes betraying you as they can't hold the weight of his gaze. "I know it's not my place to ask, but are you sleeping well lately?"

"Not really, but nothing to worry about" you say almost afraid that it's going to get you in trouble, the lack of sleep making you think the most stupid things as you stop in the middle of the hallway, making sure there's no one around more than Master Sol and yourself.

Not sleeping is a dangerous thing when reality tends to become a feverish version of itself.

I'm searching for you. Even in my dreams.

You're unsure of telling him what's really going on, unsure of trusting the people you've been close your whole life out of nowhere. A sudden sixth sense that commands you to keep the dreams to yourself, the sound of the male voice you've been listening like the most important secret you've ever hold account of.

It's almost embarrassing to admit you don't trust a Jedi above your rank, that your sixth sense all of sudden makes you keep the truth when it can be something important, when Master Sol has been like a friend to you after all those years of training.

Things have been weird since your Jedi Master was found recently murdered in Ueda, a heavy weight in your shoulders as it saddened you more than you even expected. Master Indara was like close family, and you find yourself missing her, mostly in moments like that when you wish you have someone to talk to

“I was going to the dormitories” Sol explains soon after, walking by your side. “I needed to ask you for a favor my dear friend, and I’m afraid I cannot wait much longer for you to heal.”

Heal. Are you ever allowed to heal? It’s been less than a couple of days since you found out about Indara, let alone the dreams that were tormenting you the rest of the week and suffer the loss, so it seems funny when Master Sol tells you he cannot wait much longer: No Jedi ever has time to heal.

“What can I do to help?”

It’s all it takes to leave Coruscant after, trapped in space in a small ship with not only Master Sol, but Yord and Sol’s younger padawan Jecki Lon, strange enough, also with Verosha Aniseya, a former Jedi you keep an eye on through time passed.

Suddenly you’re traveling through the galaxy and there’s no time for any more tears. Suddenly you need to toughen up and act like this Jedi Knight you’re supposed to be, even when you keep questioning yourself more than ever.

Maybe it’s because of Indara’s death. Her decease came so out of nowhere it shocked you to the very heart — It’s clear that you’re sensitive, dreaming stuff you’ve been getting tired of deciphering, pure nonsense, but then, the ship lands in Khofar and Sol it’s convincing you to stay inside even you’re perfectly capable of taking Verosha’s twin and his alleged master.

It’s your own mind that plays tricks on you, making you believe you’re not good enough to help. Truth is you felt your training as a padawan was not enough, you’re an easy target now that you’re hurt and it seems to make sense when all of sudden the group of Jedis leave you to fucking rot between white walls and buttons that sparkled.

It’s clear you’re affected. How can you not be affected by it? You’re overcome by sadness and anger both mixed together, and that feeling by itself is a dangerous one when in history, makes people question things too much to the point of no return.

So when you find yourself close to the light of the hologram that you turned on being so bored in the ship, your fingers dim between the white and blue rays as you wondered: Is it honorable to seek for revenge? Is it true to a Jedi to feel this gut-wrecking wrath?

You know the answer deep inside. You know it’s wrong, yet your feet think otherwise, cause when you leave the ship in the middle of the night you still debate yourself if you should disobey, if you should do what you want instead, walking through the woods like you know which way to go.

You never disobey any command, so it’s a new thing to openly doubt about the judgement of your superiors, to walk in an unknown planet despite the orders you were told. The path seems to light by itself as you can sense it in the air, the force conducting you in silence as you walked in a fast pace. You know deep down, know everything went wrong.

The blue light of your sable is enough to light the way, the humidity in the air makes you sweat as concentrated in the sounds of the nature, you run, run until your lungs are burning and your heartbeats are so fast you’re afraid the organ itself is going to jump out of your chest. You run even when the long leaves of the plants hit you in the face, when your legs are getting cramps and you can feel the lack of oxygen: The pain is not enough to stop you.

You can hear it from far away, the heat of the fight. The sounds of the physical effort, the buzzing of the lightsables against the silent night. Adrenaline creeps across your blood flow, and even when you can't breathe properly at all you run to the chaos, driven like a moth to the flame. You let the force conduct you as you close your eyes, jumping and elevating from the floor enough to hold the sable from over your head — You attack.

I'm searching for you. Even in my dreams.

It’s coming again, the rough sound of your dreams when your blue sable hits the red out of nowhere, force colliding against each other as the impact is enough to send you directly to the floor. You know who the enemy is, the surprise in Jecki’s face and the disapproval moments after

The stranger is fast and he doesn’t hesitate when he strikes, it’s fast enough to hurt in a mortal way and you became aware of it when Jecki’s falling to the ground and the acid in your mouth is enough to make you look away — The anger comes moments after, the red stains blurring your vision as you let out a scream, gathering the force to dodge his deadly attack.

It’s for Indara, the young padawan, and the Jedi’s he just slayed like they were nothing: It stings in your soul yet you stop holding back, stop holding yourself to finally hit harder, to strike faster than he does, to hurt the stranger as much as he hurted you. And he responds, but not fast enough to beat you, cause you let the metallic back of your sable hit his head when he’s kneeled on the floor, and you smile to yourself cause you have no damn mercy when his helmet finally cracks and it’s enough to break apart revealing his face.

It’s all it takes then. All it takes to froze you in that very spot, holding the sable over your head, ready to end his life with no second thought.

You know that face. You know it when suddenly he’s smiling at you.

I'm searching for you. Even in my dreams.

It makes sense soon after, lowering the sable to the floor without fully believing it, a ghost in front of you as you feel the air leaving your lungs. Drinking the sight of him like he’s not real, like it’s a sick joke your mind made to break you down, to make you weaker.

You’re pulled by a sudden force, by the force. However, falling to the floor hurts way less than seeing him again, the words stuck in your throat unable to speak. It’s imminent, it’s devastating when the pain catches you by surprise, your back aching against the rough surface.

He’s going to kill you, isn’t he?

It makes sense to die by his hand. The memories you two share, the intimacy that was taken away so sudden, it only makes sense to die by the one you loved before, even if it's a surprise you'll never recover from.

The heat of his red lightsaber against your neck is not enough to scare you, but enough to finally look at his face, to encounter his eyes and reveal the truth that was hidden all along between lies. You experience the intensity of his gaze, how it softens when realizing you're looking at him with that same look you have been doing it years ago.

"You're alive" it slips away from you before even noticing, the sound of your voice wrapping him in a haze he didn't expect at first, to be so devastated by you even after all the time resenting the Jedi's and everything they represented "Qimir you're alive..."

He knows you're shocked, the sound of your voice piercing in his ears as he threatened with the weapon against your neck, any sudden movement would slice you in the second — "Hello to you too."

He's real, when he speaks out loud you know he's real, he's standing in front you erasing all the theories you made about not sleeping enough now making you delusional, he's there, standing ready to kill and take what he wants to feel like he won.

It's a personal vendetta, you know it as you expect any answer, any word at all until Sol's screaming as he's taken away from you once again.

He's not a friend, he's not the Qimir you once knew, and he's not someone you can trust again as he was ready to kill. He's not was he used to be, and you can tell by the way he moves, the way he goes against Master Sol hoping to leave the Jedi in the floor, his anger when he refers to his acolyte as a traitor.

He's the one responsible for Indara's death indirectly. He's not a lover. He's not a friend.

You think he died years ago, never really understanding what really happened to the bright man you met in Coruscant, a secret no one dared to bring up. He has the same fucking smile you know too well, the one that make you crumble completely in the sight, and it sadden you, it saddens you he take that path when you seem to woke up from whatever has you nailed to the floor and finally run to help Sol.

You believe you're in the right side, you've been taught about the light and the dark, and you put your heart out filling your mouth saying how you're doing good, how you're making things right.

It's kill or get killed. It’s clear that Qimir does not seem to care about any connection you shared before, hurting you no longer means whatever it meant before, and as the sable burnt your tight, no one cares when you're fainting in the floor, abandoning the fight when it approaches his end.

Sol's mad, but it's not enough to make the master stop to check if you're alive. So many lives were lost in Khofar, and the fight was so demanding you're soon forgot in a planet when the sun is finally rising.

You know you've always been alone, know the last time you saw your family you were too young to even remember, so it's not a surprise when you're left behind. Jedi's come and go, that's why they keep training them generation after generation — It's expected to lose some percentage in missions.

What's not expected, it's when Qimir is close to your cold body later in the early morning. Still deep induced in the fever of pain when he's betrayed by his own heart, his old feelings resurfacing even when he made sure to bury them in a hole in the back of his head.

He's weak it seems. And he should be ashamed of himself when he's the one carrying you back to his ship when everyone has left you behind.

I'm searching for you. Even in my dreams.

Is that his voice? The rough sound that makes you wake up in a uncomfortable place with clothing you don't remember owning.

You're confused for a second before realizing you're in unknown place, a cold breeze shivering your skin: You're in someone's house, using someone's bed.

It's all it takes to make you stand up, leaving the warm sheets behind as your eyes scan the place looking for both a person or a way out. There's a saucepan in the fire cooking slowly, and a smell you can't describe at first.

You move carefully, theories in your mind about what happened that seemed so imposible. You're sure you're far from Coruscant where you should be, yet, you don't feel much danger when you discover you're left alone in what it seems to be a cave, one that lets a windy current enter through a slit between the rocks.

You're unsupervised: Does that mean you're not a prisoner?

You remember fainting in the cold surface of Khofar, the humidity in the air as the air leaves your lungs before entering a state of unconsciousness. You remember Qimir as a ghost in front of you, smiling like he's young again, trying to get to your room in the middle of the night as if it wasn't forbidden.

Was that your dream about? A warning about the stranger being alive?

You don't dare to drink the water, you don't dare to touch any belonging more than the necessary when inspecting. Its more of a hiding than a home itself, so it lacks of belongings as you can't find anything else more than your clothes, protecting yourself from the cold air.

You're not treated as a prisoner, yet you don't feel any safe at all due to the recent events that seemed to say otherwise. You cannot seem to find your sable, and the silence it's making you lose patience.

The cave is a mess soon after, you're searching for your most important weapon, so now the lack of it seems to make you nervous. You search until you're no longer alone, a new presence in the cave as you adopt a pose of defense.

"Where's my sable?" you ask to what it seems the air, acting all tough before noticing who's the person that dragged you to a different planet, the responsable of healing your wounds with a unexpected speed. You know who it is from before, the change in the cave when he's around even when you don't receive any answer back "I'm talking to you, Qimir."

He doesn't talk when he's tossing it over the things he brought from outside, the orange details in the heavy metal shining against the dim lights of the cave. He knows you are not leaving without it, that you're too attached to it for your bad luck.

"Where am I?" you ask soon enough. At this point you lack of patience out of all, you're tired and your body is sore, you're still dreaming that very same thing, and you're not resting enough to keep your mind sane, so it's not a surprise when you're demanding answers, after all, you wanted to know what happened back in Khofar.

It hits you how much you miss him now that he is in front of you in full silence, not in the middle of violence like before, how much you wanted to hug him until he no longer breathes and spat something stupid as a not-very-funny joke. You miss him after all those years of believing he's death, that he disappeared out of sudden without telling nobody, not even you.

The silence makes you mad, and the stranger knows it, sense it in the force when the anger hits you, filling the air of the cave that feels small even when the spaces are big enough. He lied. That's all you can think of, he lied and never bothered to tell you he's alive after suffering his departing so whole heartedly.

Nights without sleeping as you let the insomnia carry you to a state you can't leave, overflowed by feeling you've learnt to deal with in the pass of time. Time heals it all they say, but it just makes things more bearable, help you live with it.

But now. Now it was cruel, it's a wound that opened by itself with the things you saw, the person he was now, embracing his dark side like it was something worth celebrating.

"Talk to me," you say, and you don't know why you're the one asking for answers when you shouldn't. "This is not fucking fair."

Fair.

"Nothing's ever fair," he says, and the sound of his voice is enough to make you shiver. Now that you're surrounded only by the crashing sound of the waves hitting the rocks outside, you can hear him without the buzz of the fight. "Your people know that very well. You make the rules after all. You decide what's fair in the galaxy."

It's a knife in your heart. You don't want him to affect you like he does, but it's impossible when it stings like a burnt from the sable, the weight of his words, the hatred on his tone when he spits the words like they're acid in his tongue.

"I've never made nothing" it's a declaration of self-hatred at it most, how you've not been capable of doing much even when you pride on being called a Jedi Knight. "You know that."

There's no response. You're used to follow orders, not question, trust you're working with the correct side, so his look is something new, something that leaves goosebumps on your skin.

"You're alive," you still don't believe it at first, now studying his factions like they were still craved in stone back on your head. "After all these years, you couldn't tell me you were alive?"

It's a bad joke, one that makes you laugh leaving a bittersweet taste in your mouth — "You couldn't tell your best friend you were leaving? Nobody talked about you all of sudden, you became a dream. Almost making me sure you never existed at all."

"That's what they told you? That I leaved?" the way he's telling the information makes you furrow your brows in response, trying to make sense of what he was saying: Was he implying they lied to you?

"Please, explain me then" you're not in the mood of fighting, instead, you want information, crucial information to what you were choosing to be "Enlighten me. Tell me why you left me there without saying goodbye. Why it doesn't seem to affect you as much as it affected me."

The stranger has grown cold. He has now adapted beneath this rough amour that separated him from what he was before. So he doesn't give you any answers even when you question him, looking at you without saying a word.

You've changed too. You're not the little padawan that followed Indara around and look up at Torbin, you're not afraid of showing your force anymore, after all those years he has told you you're more than capable of defeating any enemy, you are starting to believe it more that ever. Even when he's not around to see that change happen in front of his eyes.

He's not going to answer, he's not talking nor giving you what you needed.

"Am I prisoner?" you ask again, another question added to the pile.

"Does it look like you're being held?" he asks back, squatting close to the stove in the fire to the stir his soup. "No. You're not my prisoner."

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. He always was a man full of pride, but now it seemed he thrive in it, in sharing his knowledge he was sure it was so powerful he needed to take a pupil, some kind of dark padawan he wanted to train.

"I don't know you anymore Qimir," you state out loud, hoping to talk to him as a long-time friend, as the person he was in love all those years but never acted on it too afraid of the rules at first. "I don't know who you've become, and i've been mourning you like it's only yesterday you vanished from my life, yet you've been alive, plotting against your family."

"Family?" he asks, hurted by the words you choose. "I've never had a family. You know that very well, it was always me against them, against anyone who questioned their power, their use and knowledge of the force."

"So is that how we are going to act now? Like pride is enough to make you leave and act like we were never a thing? That I wouldn’t die for you without even question?" you seem disappointed as you speak — “Why you didn’t kill me back there when you had the chance?”

He's taken back by your words, the sincerity as you admit what it seemed impossible to say back then. It’s known by him the feelings he had for you were enough to stop the whole galaxy, but he never had the courage to say something about it, to go against the rules and let alone admit to you anything at all.

So to know that you care for him, even when you talked about it like it was in the past, is enough to make him short-circuit, to make his face change in a new look.

“You already know why I didn’t kill you” he says it so casually while cooking, that even when you stand in the middle of the room trying to think about anything, anything more that him and his powerful gravity that made you spin around him, drawn by his pulling force — “Doesn’t matter who you stand with, i’d never do anything to you.”

You let that sink in. You let him say it cause maybe, deep down, it’s what you need. Your eyes are full of tears but you don’t want to let any single tear roll from your eyes the second you feel the sadness, you don’t want to show any weakness whatsoever, anything that will make you look less than what you really are.

“I could ask you the same” he says soon after, looking at you from over his shoulder in a low voice that sends shivers down your spine “Why did you let me live back there?”

It’s a bruise in your ego, to your sense of defense — Walls up, not letting any feeling show at all. His question is left out in the space as you look at him through narrowed eyes, reminding yourself he’s the enemy.

He cannot have the satisfaction. He’s the one behind Verosha’s twin sister after all, the one who send her to seek her own revenge. You know you should kill him with no second though, to cease with the leak, destroy the rebel cause that was so dark and powerful, so dangerous, but as before, you can’t hurt him by any chance, too attached to the enemy to even think about using the force against him.

Qimir. You don’t expect him to be alive, to be so angry at his lies. You don’t expect him to be the threat to peace and tranquility you’ve been so warned about.

Fuck that. You can’t deal with him again.

Maybe you are a coward after all, not worthy of being called a Jedi Knight. Always too unsure, questioning if you’re doing things the right way.

It’s not your fight. It’s not your place to be, you’re not his prisoner so you reach your lightsaber quick enough to leave his side, holding the weapon against your bare hands as you leave the cave, facing the daylight and the ocean in front of you.

You're not his prisoner, so you quickly leave as soon as you can leave, unable to hold his gaze anymore, to answer a question you shouldn't be asked. Even if it's cold outside, the sun still shines and you are sure you're going to find a ship that will take you out of there, as far as possible — Maybe, even leave him there.

But when you walk, you're followed close by in silence. Not a prisoner, but not free enough to leave free whiningly.

Even when you pace fasten enough to try to leave him behind, it seems like it's not a physical effort to follow you near by, to follow the same footsteps you give in order to look for a way to get out.

What's his plan anyway? Follow you forever? He's going to get tired soon enough, the problem is you don't have the patience enough to wait for it, you can't wait for Qimir to be enlightened by mercy, to be rational, to let you leave so you can be as far away from him as possible.

So at any sudden sound, you happen to snap, to turn on the sable in one swift movement, quick enough to pull it against his neck, almost touching his skin, the blue light reflecting in his pupils as he seemed pleased by your attention.

That's what he wants in the end. Even if it's anger, he wants to get any reaction out for him.

"Stop following me around" it's a knot on your throat, a sting in the heart as you threat him, the sound of your voice almost mixing with the loud crashing of the ocean. "You said yourself, i'm no prisoner."

He can sense your anger yet he's devastated by what you've become, devastated by finally being in front of you. Even when you're hesitating to spare his life once again, he's driven by the smell he was so caught on before, the memories you brought, attacked by the lonely life he was forced to live, the perks he enjoyed embracing his dark side.

It seems like forever, an eternity while the energy just flows, while the tension consume you both.

You're caught in a spiderweb you cannot get out, cause when he opens his mouth to speak again, you don't expect to make your world tremble that way.

"I was searching for you."

You know what's coming next, the sound of his voice like a recorder playing over and over in your head, the vibrations of his tone matching the ones you've been dreaming about lately.

"I was searching for you. Even in my dreams."

It's enough to make you lower your sable.

To make the stranger smile.

my masterlist

[gaywarcriminals]

YQY getting hit with truth serum so he has to confess The Secret to SJ is definitely a thing, because jesus fucking christ ANYTHING to make that man talk, but I think the potential for an even larger audience is fantastic.

A scenario like SQQ's trial. Things are dug up. Other things are implied or even fabricated. YQY is on trial. He's presented with some kind of truth serum. He refuses to take it until it's clarified that it won't compel him to speak, just prevent him from lying. He takes it.

They were lying. It absolutely does compel him to answer any questions asked of him. And the results are completely unhinged.

The Xuan Su thing doesn't even come up. It doesn't need to. In an attempt to paint him as scheming and ambitious, he's asked why he became sect leader.

"So I can give Xiao Jiu whatever he wants."

The assembled crowd: ?????

Is this Xiao Jiu a....mistreess? A son? What the hell. Questioning continues, and Yue Qingyuan's insanity is put on full display.

"What if 'Xiao Jiu' wanted to be the sect leader?"

"I would make him the sect leader."

"Surely the other peak lords of Cang Qiong would object. What would you do, then?"

"Whatever I had to."

Whatever they were originally asking about gets seriously derailed as they realize that this guy, arguably the most powerful cultivator in the world, is singularly obsessed with a person he calls 'Xiao Jiu.' Why did he seek power? Xiao Jiu. What is his ultimate goal? Xiao Jiu.

It's also starting to seem like maybe Xiao Jiu isn't exactly a willing participant.

"What does Xiao Jiu ask you for?"

"To leave him alone."

Okay. So his attentions are unwanted. Yikes.

Further questioning reveals that this mysterious person seems to hate Yue Qingyuan, but is regularly subject to his attentions anyway.

The one question he won't answer is 'who is Xiao Jiu.' He's bleeding from the mouth and eyes, but he just shakes his head or says, "He told me not to call him that."

In the audience, no one noticed Shen Qingqiu's total bluescreen, because honestly? All of the peak lords are feeling pretty lost for words right now.

I dunno, I just think it's specifically interesting to a) have a public reveal that this man is a lunatic, and b) have SQQ find out the depths of YQY's devotion without being able to get the answer he wants most.

This would drive SJ absolutely insane. On the one hand he’s happy that YQY isn’t spilling every little detail of their past for these vultures to pick through, on the other hands where the fuck is this coming from??? What sense do these answers make in the mouth of the man who abandoned him? If it was anyone else saying these things he’d be wildly uncomfortable, but this is just confusing (if he were to really sit with his feelings, he might realize that any immediate sense of revolution was swept away by a long-dormant sense of possessiveness). He intends to grab YQY and shake him as soon as YQY stops giving the OPM grounds to charge him with stalking or harassment or something, and YQY will just give him guilty eyes because he things SJ is mad about every he said on the stand 😔. Actually scratch that for qijiu’s benefit the potion should still be in effect, so the moment they’re behind doors SJ can furiously ask why, if YQY doesn’t despise him, he saw fit to abandon him back then and every day since their reunion. YQY can try to hold himself back from speaking to the point of coughing up blood again, which only enrages SJ further, and eventually YQY is forced to speak his explanation through his rough and bloodied throat. SJ is have every single emotion today and has a 50/50 chance of learning what YQY’s blood tastes like (for normal kissing reasons. Normaler than usual).

On a different note, I felt palatable anxiety reading the first part of the ask because I thought you were going to say that YQY confessed about Xuan Su in public, his greatest weakness and a questionable/unnatural feat of cultivation that he could well be criticized for. I legit think that if that happened SJ would consider killing everyone else in the room to stop the secret from getting out— he doesn’t have time to process all the complicated emotions from what YQY just told him, he only knows that’s it’s intolerable for YQY to be this vulnerable in front of people SJ distrusts or despises.

[wendichester]

could you pls write about reader attempting to bake a pie 🥧 but dean and sam already know it’s not going to be good because while reader is skilled in many things, cooking/baking isn’t one of them but they don’t have the heart to tell her no, that is until reader leaves the room and they spit it out cuz it’e awful 😂👩🏽‍🍳

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･🥧༄⋆ baking time,

summary. who knew homemade pie could be so... tasty?

pairing. dean winchester x reader x sam winchester

wordcount. 641.

You’re in the kitchen, humming to yourself, as you carefully follow the recipe you found online. Sam and Dean are sitting at the table, watching with a mix of concern and confusion. They’ve been through this before—your attempts at cooking and baking are... let’s say, a little less than successful. But neither of them has the heart to tell you this probably isn’t going to end well.

Dean leans back in his chair, eyeing the pie crust you’ve just rolled out. “You sure you don’t want some help?” he asks, trying to sound casual but failing miserably.

“I’ve got it!” you say, flashing him a grin that could only be described as pure determination. “You two just relax. I’m going to bake the best pie you’ve ever tasted.”

Sam glances at Dean, but before either of them can get a word in, you’ve already started dumping ingredients into a bowl, mixing them with an intensity that has Sam’s eyebrows knitting together. “Uh, maybe you should double-check the recipe? You’re using... a whole stick of butter, right?”

You glance over your shoulder, laughing. “That’s what it says. I’m not skimping on the good stuff.”

Dean coughs, trying to hide his grin. “Sure, sure. More butter never hurt anyone.”

The smell of baking fruit and sugar fills the air as you continue your work, oblivious to the concerned looks Dean and Sam exchange. At one point, Sam swears he sees you accidentally spill an entire jar of cinnamon into the pie filling.

Dean shifts in his seat, his eyes darting between you and the pie. “You sure this is the best way to do it?” he asks, hoping you won’t catch on to his barely disguised panic.

You flash him another confident grin. “Relax, Dean. I know what I’m doing.”

When the pie finally goes into the oven, you stand back, hands on your hips. “There. Now we just wait.”

Dean and Sam look at each other, both clearly thinking the same thing: This is going to be a disaster.

A few minutes later, the timer goes off, and you skip over to the oven, pulling out the golden-brown pie that’s, well, kind of slanted on one side. But you’re beaming. “It’s perfect!”

Dean and Sam exchange a glance. “Looks... uh, great,” Sam says weakly, forcing a smile.

Dean clears his throat, trying not to laugh. “Yeah, if you like your pie with a little... character.”

You’re so excited, though, you don’t even notice. “Okay, I’m serving it up now.”

Dean looks at Sam with wide eyes as you put down the plates, one slice in each. He leans in as soon as you turn your back, going in for a third slice. “Uh... maybe we should... I dunno, have a little taste test first?” He grabs a fork before Sam can protest, and takes a cautious bite.

Sam watches him, a little horrified. Dean’s face scrunches up, his eyes watering. He chews a little longer than necessary before spitting it out dramatically into a napkin. “I—I don’t think this is supposed to taste like that.”

Sam hesitates, then gingerly picks up his own slice. He takes one bite and immediately follows Dean’s lead, spitting it out. “I think I’ve had better pie at the bottom of a dumpster.”

But neither of them has the heart to tell you how awful it really is. When you turn back around with a plate of pie, you see both of them smiling with strained expressions.

“Best pie ever,” Dean says, forcing a smile.

Sam quickly adds, “Amazing. Really, I’m impressed.”

You beam, obviously proud of your work. “I knew you’d love it. I’ll make it again next week!”

Dean and Sam exchange a glance, both of them silently agreeing they’ll never, ever let you bake again. Not unless they want to die from cinnamon overload.

want be part of the taglist.ᐣ ⋆.˚ ★— @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing ⋆ @deans-daydream ⋆ @ariasong11 ⋆ @ambiguous-avery ⋆ @krabog ⋆ @itsdearapril ⋆ @whereiwakewarm ⋆ @nymphet-quenn ⋆ @bluemerakis ⋆ @titsout4jackles

[mrsshabana]

𝐄𝐦𝐨 𝐆𝐲𝐮𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐨 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬

꒦꒷‧₊ Content Gyutaro x genderneutral!reader, fluff ꒦꒷‧₊ Note A gift for @matsukaah based on a beautiful artwork she did ♡

"Is that Gyutaro Shabana?" You said in disbelief as you saw the familiar boy walking around the mall in heavy emo fashion.

Black nails, eyeliner, ripped skinny jeans, studded belts, and combat boots. He looked like he walked straight out of an early 2000s HotTopic ad.

This isn't how you're used to seeing him. No, at school he's usually dawning the same uniform as everyone else and keeps to himself.

He always seemed so shy and quiet that you never would have imagined this was how he dressed outside of class. Though it makes sense—the prestigious Catholic school would never allow such a thing.

Gyutaro only goes full out like this on long breaks, like summer and winter. Mostly because he'd get annoyed painting his nails every weekend just to have to rub it off before school started on Monday.

God, did he hate that school. He's only going because his stupid stepdad is forcing him to. But if it were up to Gyutaro he wouldn't be in school at all. He much rather start a band with his friends.

Not to mention the constant bullying he goes through. You wouldn't know it because you never hung around him that much, but he gets picked on almost daily. His unconventional appearance and his shy personality make him a prime target for bullies.

Sure, you were nice to him when you'd cross paths but it was never enough to make a significant difference or improve his shitty school experience.

So you could say he's shocked when he sees you approaching him at the mall, waving your hands like you two are friends.

"Uh... hey Y/N," he mumbles when you get close.

"Hey Gyutaro! I like your outfit!" You say with a cheery expression that would annoy him if it was on anyone else's face but yours.

His eyes widen like he can't believe you just complimented him, "Th-thanks... I like your shirt. D-Did you get it at HotTopic?" He asks shyly, not used to having casual conversation with someone as cute as you.

You look down as he points to the anime shirt you're wearing, "Oh, yeah I did. How'd you know?"

"I go there all the time, I've seen it before," he smiles softly and moves a strand of hair out of his face, revealing his red cheeks, "Um... they're actually having their semi-annual sale right now. Maybe... I dunno... we could go check it out together?"

"I'd love to," you blush, surprised that he wants to hang out with you, "Lead the way."

After that day you exchanged numbers and he'd always ask you to go shopping with him. You were the only person besides his sister who knew he was emo, so naturally he loved inviting you out with him so he wouldn't be so lonely.

Despite his intimidating appearance, Gyutaro was a sweet guy. Extremely shy, but super sweet.

He'd be too shy to ask you out on proper dates, only asking you to go shopping with him because he didn't want you to think he was weird or to know that he was crushing on you. But to his dismay, Ume told you exactly how her brother felt about you.

Because the first time you came over to their house she said, "Brother won't shut up about you! It's Y/N this and Y/N that! I think he's obsessed with you. Can you guys just kiss or whatever so he'll stop talking about you all the time? It's like getting annoying."

Gyutaro's face turned red with embarrassment and he ran to his room. He can't believe his sister outed him like that in front of his crush! It's taking all of his willpower to hold back his tears. The only thing stopping them from flowing is knowing that it'll ruin his eyeliner if he cries.

"Hey Gyu... can I come in?" you say as you softly knock on his door. You don't get a response so you enter the room anyways to find him sitting on his bed with his hands covering his face.

He can't bear to look at you as he feels you sit beside him, the embarrassment he feels is overwhelming.

Gently wrapping your hands around his wrists, you move his hands away from his face and stare into his watery blue eyes. The amount of shame and fear in his gaze makes your heart ache.

So in a swift movement, you lean forward and kiss his chapped lips. His eyes widen but he doesn't pull away, instead leaning into your embrace as your acceptance feels too good to ignore.

Once you pull away you smile and move his long hair away from his face, "If I knew you liked me as much as I liked you I would have done that a long time ago."

And that's how your relationship with the shy emo boy began.

[thewalkingdilf]

OKAYYY i’ve had this idea of a perv! daryl x shy, inexperienced reader that i just cannot get out of my head.

18+ mdni, poorly written smut, not proofread, perv!daryl, large age gap (reader is early 20s), loss of innocence

this is a drabble-ish. not a completely finished work, this is more of just an idea that popped into my mind that i may create a larger work for later.

your heart is absolutely racing as daryl’s darkened eyes stare you down like you’re his prey, nothing but an easy target. he’s above you on the bed, a large hand on each side of your head, holding his weight above you. you felt trapped in the best possible way. your head felt fuzzy and your pussy was aching with desire. he knew you were a virgin, innocent and as physically pure as could be. It’s not like you hadn’t wanted to do these things before, you’d just never had the opportunity to while living in your strict, religious home. besides, you hadn’t even found anyone you had taken that strong of a liking to, no one worth throwing your innocence away for; not until daryl, anyway.

there was just something about him that you were so intrigued by that you just couldn’t quite place your finger on. maybe it was his age— how much older and stronger he was than you— or maybe it was his rough, manly, and intimidating exterior. regardless, you had never had anyone make you feel like this before.

daryl, on the other hand, couldn’t help but be attracted to your innocence; you were so different from him, and in a world like this, he needed that, almost just as much as he needed to mold you into a perfect little toy for him like he had been fantasizing about since he’d met you.

“daryl,” you cry out pathetically as one of his hands come down to touch your sopping wet pussy for the first time, causing a fire to burn within your core. He felt his jeans tighten; your reaction to the slightest touch was already on the verge of being over the top. i mean, he barely touched you and you were practically drooling for him just like your aching cunt was. how in the hell were you going to handle his fingers, let alone his cock?

“sorry,” you mutter, embarrassed of your intense reaction, “i’ve just never done anything… ya’ know, like this before…” your soft voice trailed off, your big doe eyes staring up at him, “feels really good.”

daryl smirks, collecting your slick on his fingers, moving up to rub tiny circles on your puffy clit, “nothin’ at all? surely ya touch yourself, right darlin?” he questioned, pausing all movement, awaiting your response.

a deep blush covered your already hot cheeks at the admission of your already obvious innocence to the older man, “well, i mean, i tried before, but i dunno how to do it, it just felt weird. couldn’t make it feel good so i gave up.”

fuck. you were more innocent than he thought. not only are you a virgin, you’d never even came before? he was going to have so much fun with you.

“holy shit,” daryl muttered, “pretty thing like you has never felt an orgasm?”

“…no.”

his cock strained against his jeans so hard he could’ve sworn he was seeing stars for a moment. the last remaining traces of his once icy-blue orbs disappeared, deep black taking over as he gazed down at you, like a predator hunting his prey, hovering above you in a straddle, one knee between your legs, the other on the opposing side. “fuck, sunshine, you’re gon love this. promise.”

daryl’s finger returned to your clit, working itself in circles a bit faster than before, the new sensation causing you to arch your back and whine, your pussy clenching around nothing, causing a string of your arousal to drip down your plush thigh.

“ahh, fuck! fuck daryl, pleaseeee.”

“please what?” he teased, continuing his pace, watching you completely fall apart beneath him.

please what? that was a great question, you had no idea what you were begging for, you just knew that whatever he was doing was way too good for him to stop now.

a large, calloused hand gripped your jaw, forcing you to meet daryl’s lust-blown eyes, “i said please what? don’t ya’ wanna be a good doll and answer me so i can help ya’ out? c’mon pretty girl, just tell me whatcha need and i’ll take care’a you.”

“i-i dunno… i-” you felt embarrassed out of nowhere, like the feeling had just popped out of thin air. you cover your face with your arms, a bright pink wave creeping along your cheeks once again, spreading to the tips of your ears. you knew nothing about this, didn’t know what you wanted, what to ask for— you just knew you needed daryl to keep doing whatever it was that was making you feel so fucking good.

you felt the strength of daryl’s large arms gripping your dainty wrists, pushing them away from your face and onto the bed, holding them there with a force you knew you wouldn’t be able to escape from.

“ah, ah, ah, c’mon now, sunshine. keep those hands away from that pretty face of yers. you know i wanna see all those pretty looks my doll gives me while i make her cum ‘round my cock.”

[keferon]

Okay- I adore the Mecha AU.. so now I have to share MY terrible idea, dunno if anyone has said this yet but- you remember that in pacific rim when Raleigh & Mako DRIFT and they both experience each other’s trauma?

What if that happened with Jazz & Prowl?

Like-

One day Prowl starts noticing a difference in Jazz's behavior, noticing how he would suddenly tense up or flinch whenever somebody suddenly started speaking loud or in the morning he’d notice how he was soaked in sweat and shakily making his way to the wash racks. Whenever he’d ask if he was alright he was always met with a smile and a reassuring remark, yet he knew something was off and he wanted to help.

So then (once he’s fully healed) he suggests to Jazz that they should do trust exercises under the guise that since he doesn’t have another Mecha so they should strengthen their own bond for any future battles. Jazz is hesitant, especially since he blames himself for Prowl being in that situation in the first place, but he also wants to spend time with Prowl so he agrees.

Prowl probably would go to a secluded spot in the forest they’re in, somewhere safe where, once Jazz is relaxed enough he can ask him about these strange behaviors he’s recently been exhibiting. Surely nothing bad will happen and surely Jazz will be fine like he usually is…

The training exercises go well, Jazz is feeling fine and they’re both in the zone when suddenly a bad memory spontaneously starts to haunt Jazz and it triggers a PTSD-esque Episode where Jazz freezes up and is suddenly taken back to that horrible time..

The time he was strapped down to a bedbunk, his body writhing in agonizing pain, the constant sting of needles piercing his skin followed by an intense burning sensation that can only be likened to being burned from the inside out, his vision going blurry and his throat raw and bleeding from screaming and crying, his body shaking and shivering as a thick sheen of sweat coats his body.

And right now… because of the DRIFT.. Prowl sees it too, he not only sees it but he’s there, standing over Jazz's restrained body, he hears screams and sounds he never EVER wanted to hear, not from Jazz of all people. His precious partner, he’s looking down at him unable to help or protect him from these strangers, these monsters who are ignoring the ear piercing, spark-wrenching screams of pure agony. Worst of all? He can’t move, he’s frozen in place, forced to stand there helplessly as Jazz is begging for mercy, begging for someone to help him… and. he. can’t. move.

It lasts just for a moment but for both of them it felt like an hour until Jazz screams himself back into reality, freeing both him and Prowl from his nightmare. Prowl drops to a knee, his mind racing as he tries to figure out what the actual hekk he just saw until he feels Jazz pounding his fist against his chest, he can vaguely make out his choked up plea which scares Prowl as he’s never heard Jazz make that noise before. Prowl opens it and barely manages to catch Jazz as the man tumbled out into his own shaky servo in a trembling heap.

Jazz is slightly pale and tears are in his eyes as he struggles to catch his breath, he knows he’s not there anymore but he still feels it.

Prowl rushes back to Ratchets hideout where he the others are and calls for him, fear gripping his tanks as Jazz is still huddled in a fetal position, hyperventilating as he grips his soaked hair. Ratchet immediately recognizes what’s happened and quickly moves to help Jazz calm down before he has a heart attack which he is very close to having with how high his pulse is. It works but the man is so worn out from the stress that he just passes out.

I don’t know but that’s been plaguing my mind since I started reading your AU and I just HAD to share it lol, what do you think? How do you think Prowl would actually react to that? I figured he’d freak out as humans and their fragile bodies are still new territory for him.

Also sorry if it’s all a bit unclear or confusing or like- boarderline rambling I’m not good at storytelling and just stick to RP and making RP plots lol.

OH MAN. OH FUCK. YEP UH HUH YEAH. THIS. oh my god

Knowing Prowl, he would probably rush to learn every bit of information he can access about. You know. How to help someone in that scenario. Because he’s scared that something would went wrong while he has zero knowledge about humans.

But also. I think it would make him realise just how strong despite his small size Jazz actually is.

Jazz might drop something about his brain being over dramatic when it’s not helpful at all. While Prowl is just are you fraggin serious you’re a superhuman

[biting-miguel-ohara]

Solnyshko - Natasha Romanoff x gn!Reader

A/N: I really really wanted to write a small thing for Natasha, so here we are. I set this in a 2012ish era, which is why the Avengers live at the Tower and such. I might do something more with this Reader and their powers in a future story as well.

Also, solnyshko means little sun in Russian. It’s the only potentially gendered language in the fic

Dividers by @/whimsicalrogers

CW: fluff, language, soft Natasha, Natasha speaks Russian, Reader is a former SHIELD agent, Reader has powers, failed missions, mentions of blood and injury, very very light angst, a forehead kiss, soft ending, probably ooc Natasha

640 words

“Hey, Nat,” you greet the red-haired Avenger with a sleepy smile. “Early morning, huh?”

“Good morning, solnyshko.” Natasha smiles back at you, handing you a cup of tea. “I should be saying that to you. You look like you’re still half-asleep.”

You laugh and rub the back of your neck, taking a sip of your drink. “I feel like it. I dunno how you can do early morning missions. I feel like shit.”

Natasha just smiles and pulls out a seat for you at the table.

You’re a former SHIELD agent. One of Barton’s old teammates. You’ve known Natasha since the day she joined.

Now you’re an unofficial member of the new team. The big team. You deal with the remnants of SHIELD for them and they help you train your powers.

You don’t have anything really special. No magic or anything. But your light powers come in handy for making illusions and you’ve been called in several times to help out with Loki when he comes to Earth. So all in all, you’re not complaining.

You take a seat at the table and enjoy the bits of morning you have. You’re leaving in an hour and you want to savor your last moments with the team.

Well, the members of the team who are up. Cap comes in before his morning run, but doesn’t stick around for long. Tony passes through briefly to grab a cup of coffee. The others, you know they won’t be up for another couple of hours at least.

So you enjoy your morning with Natasha. It’s been a while since you and her chatted, and you enjoy the conversation.

Eventually your time is up.

“Wish me luck,” you tell her with a wry smile.

She laughs and gives you a fond look. “You’ll do great. You’re our best, after all.”

You laugh at that and head on out.

Your return isn’t nearly as happy or cheerful.

The mission was a failure. Despite your best efforts, your target got the jump on you and shot you four times. You’d barely made the journey back, your wounds bleeding profusely.

By the time you’re sent to the medbay, you’re woozy with loss of blood. Your steps are sluggish and you lean against the wall for support.

There’s a voice calling your name. Then arms sliding under you, scooping you up.

There’s hair as red as blood brushing against your face. And then your eyes shut.

When you open them again, you’re in your room at the Tower. Your body aches like hell, but you can feel all your limbs.

You shift your arm, your muscles groaning in protest. Still, you force yourself up a bit, before a hand on your shoulder stops you.

“You gotta lie down.” It’s Natasha, looking rather tired and weary. “Doctor’s orders.”

“Fuck the doctor,” you mutter, trying to get up further.

Natasha gently pushes you back down. “Not the time, solnyshko.”

You don’t resist further. Instead, you sigh and stare up at the ceiling. “The mission failed.”

“It wasn’t your fault. We had bad intel.” She toys with the sleeve of your shirt. “Our inside man was a double agent.”

“Still. I could’ve done better.”

She gently flicks your forehead. “Don’t play that game. You did what you could. Getting shot like that would put anyone out of commission.”

You look at her. At her red-as-blood hair. “Even you?”

She smiles faintly. “Even me.”

It makes you feel a bit better and you nod. “Thanks.”

She leans in and kisses your forehead. “Always.”

A yawn overtakes you and you groan softly. Natasha laughs a little. “Go back to sleep. Your wounds need time to heal.”

You yawn again and nod, letting your eyes close. “Goodnight, Nat.”

Her fingers find yours and she gives your hand a light squeeze. “Goodnight, solnyshko. Sweet dreams.”