#anyway celebrate short kings

[lelianasbong]

can't stand when short(er) male characters are ~mysteriously~ portrayed a foot taller in fanart/fic pairing them with women than they are in canon

[hanashiz]

Every Pirates' Dream

He's the man who stood up for the dream he once gave up

[bitternace]

(rock sass voice) they mean the world to me

[ID: a digital drawing of hayner, pence and olette from kingdom hearts. they are in their kh3 clothes, with chunky shadows. the background is light orange. They are shown from the thigh up, walking together. Hayner, on the left, looks at the others with a light smile on his face, he is holding a struggle bat over his shoulder. Pence, in the middle, smiles widely at olette, his left arm held at stomach height. Olette, on the right, lightly elbows Pence, winking with a wide smile. Pence and hayner wear earrings and studs respectively, while olette has a bridge piercing. /End ID.]

[sbc-movedaway]

Anyway I’m going to bed soon and I’ve talked about this in like. Two different servers but I NEEEEEEED to post this clip I NEEED to talk about it again

He says ‘I’m tall!!!!’ In a way that only a man who is 5’1 could. This is the most excited he’s been about anything in his entire life. His bite sized ass really needed this and you can tell. He is so excited about this and I love it I’m so happy for him.

[madaboutmunson]

Tag, You’re It

For the dailydrabble prompt 'Tag, You're It' by @strangerthingswritersguild

Ao3 Link

“No-no-no Sheepies. Eddie doesn’t do sports,” Eddie drawled lying back on the grassy hillside and pulling his sunglasses over his eyes.

There was a collective groan from the kids.

“It’s not even sports,” Dustin complained, “It’s more like...uh...like capturing a castle.”

“Capturing a castle?” Eddie scoffed, peering over the top of his sunglasses. “Aren’t you all a little old to be chasing one another around in a field, defending a tree stump?” He was aware of how hypocritical this was, only a few weekends ago he had been charging around a forest defending a tree stump of his own, albeit in character.

A frustrated blush rose to Mike’s face, “It’s not like that. It’s timed and-and there's a prize. Well two. And if you capture the stump you add a rule.”

“A prize?” Eddie yawned and leaned back on his hands on the grass.

“You’re not selling this,” Lucas huffed at Mike.

“Sinclair’s right you’re not. Be Gone!” Eddie sighed wearily and waved them away.

“Come on Eddie it’s embarrassing out there, the girls have Steve on their team,” Dustin whined.

“He’s only playing to spite me,” Mike grumbled folding his arms.

“He asked if we wanted some help, and genius Mike here laughed and said he had too much hairspray in to be on the boy’s team,” Lucas griped, “Now he’s kicking our ass, especially with his stupid rules.”

“Stupid rules?” Eddie asked with a deeper sigh. He was not interested in the game itself but he figured they weren’t moving, so he might as well get the gossip.

“Every time he gets the stump he makes up a rule so none of us can tag him,” Mike scowled.

“Huh? You can make up a rule that you can’t be tagged? Sounds like a glaring pit fall in the rules system here,” Eddie chuckled.

“No. He’ll say we can only tag him if we compliment him, or tell him he’s the best, or sing, or something,” Lucas added.

“Sounds pretty easy to me?” Eddie said looking between the three high-schoolers pausing for them, but its clear all the running had put their brains out to lunch, “Just say the thing.”

“NO WAY!” They yelled in unison.

“If you wanna win, sometimes you gotta swallow your pride guys. Now if you could stop casting your shadows so I can catch some rays, and take your putrid aromas with you, that would be splendid. Thanks.”

The three of them huddled up. Eddie could hear them muttering.

“What if we got you some beers?” Dustin asked, “Or a new D&D module?”

“Where are you pipsqueaks gonna get alcohol from?” Eddie laughed.

“The Christmas stash my mom has, she won’t notice anything is missing, Nancy, has taken a whole vodka bottle from it before,” Mike replied.

Eddie sat up, “I’m listening. Why do you wanna win so badly anyway?”

“At first it was for a bag of candy and who gets to choose the next film at the movies, but now we just really wanna beat Steve, he’s mocking us out there.”

Eddie peeked around the trio and true enough Steve Harrington looked pretty damn pleased with himself, and pretty damn cute. He was wearing very fitted athletic shorts and a snug white tank top that clung to his broad shoulders, as anyone in their right mind would being doing that close to Steve, sweat patches making it almost translucent in places, with his chest hair poking out the top. If that wasn't bad enough he was celebrating by flexing his muscles to mock the boys. Eddie took a deep inhale of breath, because he didn't realise he had been holding it.

“Alright, I’ll win it for you, but I don’t wanna hear a peep out you three begging me for shit the rest of the summer. Got it?”

They nodded in unison as Eddie got up, dusted off his denim cutoffs and tank top and pushed his sunglasses into his hair.

“Let’s take down a King,” Eddie grinned with malevolence.

Steve frowned as they approached the field again, “Munson? You joining us?”

“Yeah, thought I’d even the teams out. I heard the numbers were uneven?”

“And you’re the one to bring balance to the game?” Steve asked raising his eyebrows.

“Yeah,” Eddie said confidently, with his hands on his hips.

A laugh bubbled out of Steve getting louder until he was doubled over.

Eddie’s lip twitched, but he keeps his cool, “Well are we playing or what?”

The teams spaced out, and Eddie flexed his fingers, and bolted for the stump as soon as Robin blew the whistle.

His team mates flanked him but each of them fell, tackled by Max, El, and Erica.

Just as Eddie was about to leap for the stump Harrington beats him to it.

“Freeze!” Robin shouted and Eddie sneered at being stuck in place, “Go ahead, Steve.”

Harrington tapped his chin thoughtfully, “You can only tag me if you recite me a poem.”

There was a collective groan, but Eddie grinned.

“Ok unfreeze,” Robin called out, and Eddie hopped up on the stump crowding Steve.

“Roses are red, Violets are blue, Sugar is sweet,” he said smoothly before looking over Steve, “But not as sweet as you big boy.”

Steve didn’t budge, looked confused at Eddie.

“Stump is Eddie’s,” Robin officiated.

“No that’s didn’t even rhyme properly!” Steve complained at Robin.

“Poetry doesn’t have to rhyme,” Eddie smirked.

“Yeah it does!” Steve frowned.

“Steve I made my ruling. Eddie gets the stump, and the longer you stand there whining the more time you waste. You’ve got less than five minutes left.”

Steve huffed down his nose and stomped back to his starting position on the field.

“Eddie, your rule?”

“Uh that’s easy you have to tell me I’m real pretty.” He smiled wide and batted his eyelashes, as the girls rolled their eyes.

Robin shook her head but blew the whistle anyway. The others charged towards the stump. Harrington was way too fast for anyone to get there before him, and he slapped Eddie’s leg with his hand.

“Tag, stump’s mine,” Steve said.

Eddie looked down on him with glee, “Uh-uh you gotta say it.”

Steve’s face was a picture, contorting with effort as he looked up at Eddie, “YOUREREALPRETTY” he said quickly and weirdly loudly.

Eddie tossed his hair with his hand, “I didn’t know you cared Harrington.” Steve blushed hard. He smiled toothily and hopped down from the stump sauntering back to his starting position with no complaint, he knew the clock was ticking.

“What are you doing?” Dustin said through gritted teeth, “You said you’d win.”

“Oh but I am,” Eddie smirked and gestured to a confused looking Steve and Robin tapping her watch at him.

“Ok! Ok. It’s hard to think of one. Alright! Geez! You have to say...uh...you have to say I’m the smartest man in the universe.” Steve said and gathered up the girls for a huddle and pointed at Eddie.

Robin blew the whistle, and Eddie nimbly dodged the flying tackles from the girls. They were fast, but Eddie had that feral energy coursing through him now. He got to the foot of the stump and spanked Steve’s backside. “Tag,” he said slyly and grabbed onto Steve’s hips to hoist himself up onto the stump.

He looked right into Steve’s eyes, “It’s my stump, smartest man in the universe,” punctuating his words with a wink.

Steve didn’t say anything, just stared, dropped off the stump, and went back to the starting position. Eddie knew he’d rattled him and the next thing Steve wouldn’t do. No way.

“Eddie! Rule?” Robin said a little exasperated

“A kiss,” Eddie said.

“No way there are kids here!” Robin said.

“I didn’t say they had to kiss me directly, they can blow me a kiss”

Robin turned to the kids. They were all yelling at her about the time and didn’t seem to care.

“Alright, but for the record, I’m against this” she reluctantly blew the whistle, and just like Eddie predicted Steve was thrown, he was tackling the boys hoping one of the girls would head for the stump but they wouldn’t go for it.

Eddie looked smug, striking a mock-heroic pose as he flexed his much smaller, toned muscles with theatrical pride, fully aware of the irony. He grinned to himself, already picturing how he was going to be sipping cocktails on the porch tonight. His thoughts were broken by an angry Erica screaming, “Just do it sailor man! Go over there and blow that long haired freak a kiss!”

“We’ve only got ten seconds left!” Max complained shoving Mike to the floor.

“Yes Steve I don’t want to watch the same movie all summer,” El said.

The boys understood the assignment and made kissy noises at Steve to mock him.

Eddie rocked on his heels with a huge smile as he watched the last few seconds tick down.

Until he felt a slap on his hand and he was confronted with a furious Steve

Eddie raised his eyebrows with confidence, “Well Howdy there Big b-“

And before he knew what was happening, he heard a collective gasp and “Steve’s stump! That’s time, come on nerds,” Robin added.

Eddie felt pressure on his lips, heat on the sides of his face. Steve was kissing him and was grabbing his face. He was rendered speechless. Steve smiled. Eddie suddenly felt hands on his shoulders as he was pushed off the stump and landed on his ass with a thud, almost as hard as his heart was hammering in his chest.

He could hear the boys complaining and the girls cheering. He shrugged at them in apology, heart pounding and face burning, trying to suppress the chaos spiralling in his chest from that kiss. He pulled down his sunglasses and quickly tried to walk back to his van, before he had a public crisis.

He was nearly at his sanctuary when he heard the rapid footsteps on the gravel path behind him, “Hey! Wait up!”

Eddie’s stomach dropped to the depths of the abyss, twisting with something hot and familiar. Dread, maybe, or anticipation. He couldn't tell. He could run, but that would look worse. He stopped and turned on his heel.

“You didn’t shake my hand,” Steve frowned a little out of breath.

“What?” was all Eddie could manage.

“We beat you, we're supposed to shake hands after. No hard feelings. Sportspersonship stuff.” Steve tried again, extending his hand towards Eddie.

“Oh, yeah. No hard feelings here. It was literally just tag, man. You’re good.” Eddie laughed it off, eager to get away.

“You won’t shake my hand? Is it because of what I did?” Steve asked and Eddie could hear the shame in his voice, and he couldn’t have that. Not with those sad puppy dog eyes looking so wounded at him.

“Look. I set the rule. You just wanted the win real bad,” Eddie said, trying to sound breezy, though his voice wavered just enough to betray the heat still lingering on his cheeks. "It’s not a problem,” Eddie said and extended his hand.

Steve's smile brightened as they shook on it but as Eddie tried to let go, he found Steve gripping his hand tightly.

“You okay, Steve?” he asked and found himself pulled flush with Steve’s chest, their faces an inch apart. As they collided he was met with the full Harrington experience. The beauty marks, the crooked smile, the flecks of gold in his eyes, the soft swoop of his hair, the heat from his body, and that scent of sun lotion, cologne and sweat. It's enough for him to forcefully replant his feet, so he didn't collapse with how overwhelmed he felt.

“I would have done it sooner without a crowd,” Steve said gently.

“Shook my hand?” Eddie asked nervously, confused but he knew what Steve was getting at.

“If you ever want one again just give me a call,” Steve smirked, leaving a frazzled Eddie standing slack-jawed as he jogged back to the others.

[lovebugism]

how abt eddie x shy reader , she meet’s wayne accidentally & she brings like sm food for the week he LOVES HER but shes so shy

a request deep from the archives that i haven't stopped thinking about since i got it hahah please enjoy xoxo — you spend a fluffy morning in with the munsons (established relationship, fluff, 1.2k)

bug's one year celebration ♡

Eddie rouses from his sleep like a king on a sunken-in couch. 

Saturday morning cartoons play on the TV just ahead of him, mostly on mute ‘cause you’ve got the radio going in the kitchen. Something soft and soulful and too low for him to hear. The trailer swells with the scent of something sweet, of syrup and cooked sugar. 

Speaking of sweet…

His flushed cheek rubs against the arm of the couch when he looks up to find you. He can see you just over the top of the counter, like a scene from a movie. You’ve got a bowl of something wedged in your elbow, and you stir at it with your free hand — half-distracted because your nose is stuck in an open recipe book on the counter. Your glasses fall slowly down your nose. You try to push them up again with your shoulder, but they slip back down a second later.

Your gentle humming fills his ears, and Eddie figures this is what heaven must be like. There’s no greater nirvana than this.

He rises and stretches and walks the very short distance to the kitchen. Still warm with sleep, he wraps himself around you, chest flush to the expanse of your back. “Whatcha doin’?” he lilts, muffled into your sweater.

“Cookin’,” you answer in the same tone, only softer and a little more sheepish.

Eddie breathes hard once. You think you feel him smiling. “Dumb question, huh?”

“Did you sleep good?” 

“Too good to be passed out on the couch for an hour.” He lifts his head to prop his chin on your shoulder. It bobs against you with every word. “You were supposed to be sleeping with me, by the way.”

“I tried. But then I wanted to make you breakfast.”

“Correction. You wanted to make Wayne breakfast.”

Your giggling is as soft and sweet as the cinnamon concoction you’re stirring at. “Well, I don’t want either of you to starve, actually. So sorry for making sure the Munson’s are taken care of.”

Eddie’s chest swells. His heart starts to warm so much he’s scared it might burst. He tucks his face back into your neck and holds you tighter. “Don’t apologize, sweet thing. ‘M just being stupid.”

“That nickname’s not gonna stick, Eds,” you tease, tilting your head until your cheek meets his wild hair. “You can stop trying now.”

He scoffs and pulls back from you. His eyes, still softly swollen with sleep, are wide and glittering. “Why not?” he shouts, a bit too loudly to be so close to your ear. “You’re sweet and you’re my thing— it’s literally the perfect nickname.”

“You’re thing?” you echo with a distant laugh. “I’m not a toy, Eds.”

“Not all the time—” His boyish giggling is followed by a scoffed breath when you elbow him with your free arm. You shove him away halfheartedly, pushing him out of the tiny kitchen. “What?!” he exclaims, laughing loudly.

“Get out of the kitchen!”

“What’d I do?”

“My french toast tastes good ‘cause it’s made with love, and you’re tainting it.”

“How? I love you more than anything in the whole wide world.” He gravitates back to you despite your efforts to keep him away. He plants a smacking kiss to your lips and grins wide when he pulls away. “See? Now it’ll taste extra sweet.”

You’re glaring at him one moment, then happily accepting another one of his kisses the next.

The front door opens, squealing in protest and rushing in the cool morning air. It’s unsurprisingly Wayne. His work boots stomp heavy on the carpet. He holds a greased hand over his forehead. “My eyes are still closed,” he jokes, voice deep and gravelly. “You two have about three seconds to stop touchin’ each other.”

Eddie scoffs but steps back from you anyway. “That was one time!” he argues boyishly. “And we weren’t even doing anything!”

Wayne laughs a sharp breath, just like Eddie had, but a little bit gruffer. He forgoes the petty banter and shoots you a smile — tightlipped, barely-there, and weighed down by the exhaustion of the graveyard shift. “How ya doin’, sweetpea?”

“Good,” you answer, shrinking into your shyness. “I’m makin’ french toast.”

“That’s my favorite,” the older man grins. “How’d you know?”

“‘Cause it’s my favorite,” Eddie insists.

“It’ll be done soon,” you tell him, all quiet in your sheepishness. “If you wanna get changed or whatever.”

Wayne heads to the hallway, stopping short in the kitchen to muss at Eddie’s curls and pat you gently on the shoulder. “Thank ya, sweetpea,” he murmurs, voice dripping with fatigue. His accent always gets real heavy when he’s tired.

“You’re welcome…”

Eddie doesn’t say anything until he hears the bathroom door shut. “So Wayne can call you sweetpea, but I can call you sweet thing?” he asks, features swirled with offense.

“It’s different!”

The boy follows you to the cabinets like a lost puppy. Then, when you have trouble reaching the vanilla extract on the top shelf, he leans over you to grab it. “No, you just have favorites,” he argues, passing you the small container.

“That’s not true!”

“Whatever,” he grumbles, still pouting as he leans against the counter beside you. He mourns the lack of your attention when you give it all to the french toast mixture on the counter. You spoon in the vanilla with a practiced touch. “…Are you staying over again tonight?” he mutters, shier than you are now.

“I don’t know,” you shrug. “If it’s okay with Wayne, then—”

“Wayne! Sweet thing’s staying the night— is that okay?” Eddie shouts before you can blink. The trailer rings with the volume of his voice.

“Eddie,” you scold quietly.

The bathroom door squeaks open. A grunt sounds from the hallway, a nonverbal answer you’re not totally sure what to make of. The man returns in the pajamas he pulled from the hall closet — a thin t-shirt older than Eddie is and a pair of plaid pants.

“I’ll make dinner before your shift tonight,” you tell him with a soft grin that neither of the Munsons can say no to. “I promise.”

Wayne makes another scoffing sound. A laugh, maybe. A smile hints at the corner of his bearded mouth as he pours himself a coffee across the counter — in the painted mug Eddie made him for Father’s Day, several years ago now. 

“Well— In that case, I’m afraid I have to insist on you stayin’, sweet pea.”

“Thanks, Mr. Munson.”

“Call me Wayne,” he tells you, playfully chiding in a parental sort of way. He gives you a pointed look over the cup he sips from and heads back towards the living room. “You’re feedin’ us too good to be so polite all the time.”

You smile to yourself and laugh a quiet, slightly forced laugh.

The sofa squeaks when Wayne settles onto it, sprawling out the same way Eddie had before. Too tired to reach for the remote on the coffee table, he watches He-Man re-runs with heavy eyelids.

“Alright, sweet thing— what do you need me to do?” Eddie asks with a clap of his hands, making a very pointed effort not to drop the nickname. You get all flustered when he calls you that — smiling softly to yourself and then ducking your gaze to hide it from him. You’ll have to pry the name from his cold, dead hands.

You turn to peer at him from beneath your lashes. “You dip the bread, and I’ll fry ‘em?”

“Sounds like a plan, sweet thing.”

“Eddie.”

[zae-heeyyy]

Peregrine

Summary: Arthur misses your birthday. Pairing: Arthur Morgan x female!reader Word count: 2,124 Tags: angst, smut, high honor Arthur, oral, pnv, fingering Warnings: 18+ MDNI

an: A request fulfilment for my dear Kenny @emerald-ranch. I kinda added in the birthday thing, I hope that was alright! It became clear to me as I was writing this that I 1000% have a thing for Arthur on his knees...XD anyway, I hope you enjoy!

Peregrine: having a tendency to wander

The length of Arthur’s absences varied like the frequency of rumbles during a storm. Dark clouds hung heavy over every departure, and your tears threatened to drop like rain down a window.

“I’ll be back soon,” he always promised while kissing the top of your head and squeezing you tight. Some trips were short cracks of thunder, ending just as fast as they began; others would roll on for days, the heavy rain flooding the rushing river that was your anxiety. 

But in time, he’d arrive with blood, dirt, and sweat staining his shirt and the scar on his chin covered by his overgrown beard. Outstretched arms would warm you like the afternoon sun. You’d breathe him in, sighing contentedly despite scents of gunpowder and musk clinging to him.

This time was different.

The sun fell below the horizon for the fourth time since he’d departed. Glass bottles clinked as camp buzzed with the lively energy of celebration—a celebration for your birthday. You tried everything to enjoy yourself, forcing air through your vocal cords to mimic a laugh, stretching your lips and showing your teeth to fake a smile, all while trying not to panic.

All the possibilities of his absence spun in your brain in a demonic sacrificial waltz. Was he still alive? Did he get arrested? Was he captured by Pinkertons and tortured while the rest of you partied the night away? Or worse, was he out there, perfectly content with being away knowing you were desperately waiting? To keep yourself sane, you rationalized. He was out finding food and making money. He had mouths to feed and people to take care of. Survival was more important than a birthday.

Whether they were too drunk to notice or respectfully giving you space, nobody protested when you slipped away to Arthur’s tent for the night. Tears spilled down your face and onto his pillow as the last hours of your birthday ticked by.

The stench of dread infiltrated your dreams and ruminated even in your waking hours. Nothing you did could free you from the pain of missing him. At high noon, heavy footsteps prompted you to look up from the growing line of yarn in your lap. You’d memorized the sound of Arthur’s walk like your favorite song, yet the man standing before you felt like an imposter. He wore a familiar cattleman revolver on his hip and long silky locs of hair rested over broad shoulders like always–though more tame this time. And despite their vibrant colors, the wildflowers in his hands dulled in comparison to the bright white, freshly pressed shirt he wore.

And your heart plummeted like a stone in a lake; while you were crying yourself to sleep on your birthday, he saw to himself instead of you. Privy to your dismay, the cowboy’s features lowered into a frown. 

“Darlin,” he started, quiet and hesitant. “I–I ain’t got an excuse.”

You huffed, losing your stitch count and refusing to meet his eyes. “The king has returned.”

Leaves and twigs cracked under his uncomfortable shuffle as he faltered, “thought we could go for a ride, to–”

And you didn’t let him finish. “M’busy, Arthur.” 

Silence hung in the air while he thought of a response. “M’sorry.” He said, then continued when you didn’t acknowledge him. “I’m sorry, and that should’ve been the first thing outta my mouth.”

“Yeah, it should’ve,” you agreed grudgingly. The threads of intertwined yarn were jumbled and lopsided now, a tangled reflection of this whole week. You threw the needles and yarn down into the grass beside you and finally brought yourself to face him. He wanted to smile finally seeing you, but instead, something like a sigh of relief rolled out with his words.

“Time just…got away from me,” he admitted. “I’m a self-serving idiot bastard, and I’m just…sorry. Just lemme make it up to ya’.” 

You thought for a moment, then glanced over your shoulder at Grimshaw, trying to find an out.

” But I got chores,” you told him.   

“Don’tchu’ worry ’bout that.” He extended his free hand out to you, and dammit, yours was in it faster than you could deny yourself.  The outlaw lifted you up from your seat with one arm and locked yours and his together as he drew you away from camp. And you had to give credit where credit was due because he pulled out all the stops: a ride in a stolen stagecoach, wine, dinner, and a room. He spoiled you in the only ways he knew how, but still, you couldn’t rid yourself of the uninvited guest, unadulterated hurt, that squatted in your bones.

“How was the party?” He’d asked.

“Fine.” You replied, pushing food around on your plate.

“Charles told me the girls managed to get you a cake.”

“They did.”

And the conversation trailed off like it had so often tonight. Every time you glanced at him, the hair, and especially the shirt, hate-filled magma churned within, and you couldn’t hold it any longer, your words spewing out like lava. 

“S’a fancy shirt.” 

His chin touched his chest as he fiddled with the top button. He opened his mouth to speak, but you cut him off for the second time tonight.

“Glad you had time to stop and pamper yourself. Nice shave, fancy hair, new shirt. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think it was your birthday.”

You didn’t mean to sound so crass, but now that the pot had boiled over, stopping the overflow felt damn near impossible. 

“I thought–”

“Thought?” A curt laugh halted his attempt to explain himself. “It’s hard to imagine you doing any of that.”

And he hung his head, an old dog with his tail between his legs–shameful that he’d disappointed the one he loved the most.

“And you paid for a bath too. Tell me, was it twenty-five cents or fifty?”

Your chair screeched against the floor, and you jerked back before he could answer, fleeing to anywhere but that table with him. The room key Arthur gave you in the stagecoach burned a hole in your pocket. You trotted up the stairs, searching for 2C and ignoring his calls from behind you. The least you deserved was a night behind closed doors, locked away from everything, even if it meant locking him out in the process.

Warm light burst out as you crossed into the room. Lit candles lined the fireplace mantle, their flames casting dancing shadows on the walls. A brand new day dress draped across the chair, a decorative hair comb resting atop it.

“Saw it in a window.” His words poured out smoothly like aged whisky, the sudden sound causing you to jump but prompting the skin on your arms to prick up all the same. And you were embracing each other without another thought—your fingers intertwining behind his neck, his hands settling on your hips.

“M’sorry, sweetheart. Ain’t ever gonna forgive m’self for lettin’ you down.” 

And you listened patiently while he devolved into his long-winded explanation.

“Was hoping to make a quick house call. Get in n’ out in one night, quick and easy. And I did, but some goddamn bounty hunters found my trail on the way back. Spent a day hiding out, and knew I wouldn’t make it back in time. Figured I oughta bring something nice back with me, you deserved that much.”

Your eyes drifted to the buttons of the shirt again, and he tilted your chin to look back up at him. 

“I saw the dress in a window, and let the man sell me the shirt too. Wanted to be at least a little presentable–somebody you’d wanna look at. Ain’t much I can do about my face, but...” 

Chuckling under his breath, he snaked a hand into yours and flicked your stuck-out lip. “Then I saw a sign outside the barber. Buy some pomade and get a free comb for your lady,” he touched his hair and rubbed the grease between his fingers.

“Then I got the key, laid everything out nice, stopped for some flowers, and thought I was prince charmin’ off to sweep you away to the ball–well, the room, more like.” He scratched his neck nervously and shook his head. “I thought you’d think a stagecoach fancy enough to make you forget how much I screwed up. No magic pumpkins ’round here though,” he shrugged. “Just an idiot, head-over-heels, hoping you can find it in you to forgive him.”

And frankly, you’d forgiven him the second you stepped foot into the room. Trying to fight your smile was a losing battle.

“You’re right about the idiot part.”

The gunslinger let out a breathy, almost laugh, before taking your hands in his and ushering you to the bed. Relief ran through you. After four long nights, you could finally submerge yourself in those eyes, blue and gold-like specks of sunlight reflecting on the sea.

“Please, forgive me, darlin’, I’m beggin’.”

Rough pads of his fingers traced over your knuckles as he waited patiently for your response. You crossed your legs and bounced your foot playfully. 

“I don’t know, I seen dogs beg for scraps better than that, Arthur Morgan.” 

And while your words were harsh, both of you were smiling now. He grunted, a sure sound of him swallowing his pride, then sunk to one knee, then another.

“Sweetheart,” the pet name came out thick and rich like honey, “M’sorry. Lemme fix it.”

His hands gripped both your knees, squeezing them lovingly, his touch so reassuringly familiar. He scooted in closer, guiding your legs apart and settling them on either side of his shoulders.

“I can do that thing ya’ like.” he offered, his chipped tooth smile brightening his face.

You ran one hand through his hair and brought him in by the collar with the other, pecking his lips once, then twice. On the third, you slowed down, lingering with your mouth against his, savoring the all too fleeting feeling of home. Soft giggles slipping between your lips interrupted the moment. Arthur stared up at you with nothing but devotion in his eyes, that laugh like the sweetest medicine, healing his diseased heart long riddled by self-loathing and loss. His right hand had started slow circles on your thigh, reminding you of his proposition.

“Thing I like? Don’t know what you mean, Mr. Morgan.” 

But you were shimmying yourself back onto the bed, and he was grabbing at your bloomers at the same time. He lifted his brow knowingly, and hummed a “mhm,” while you lifted your hips, helping him take the garment off and toss it to the floor.

You bunched up your skirts around your waist and looked down at your lover as he lay on his stomach between your legs. His beard grazed your inner thigh, sending thousands of butterflies fluttering in your stomach. Squeezing your eyes shut, you sighed in relief, releasing four nights of pent-up anxiety as his lips found your center.

And minutes later, just after letting you come down from the first one, he got to work on another climax, fingers pistoning steadily while he whispered all the things he loved about you in your ear. He was on his side next to you now, his own arousal nudging your thigh. The gruffness in his voice sent another surge of pleasure through you.

“You know, I never stop thinking ’bout you when I’m away.” You fluttered around his fingers, and your hips arched a little higher off the bed, “always thinkin’ ’bout you like this, all pretty and spread open for me.”

His thumb started fast circles on your clit, and you braced yourself for another tidal wave as his passionate speech continued.

“Next time y’miss me, get on that cot, spread these pretty thighs, think about what I’m doing t’ya, and use those fingers to getcherself off, can you do that for me?”

Your eyes rolled back as your mouth fell open, but only sounds of absolute ecstasy came out of you.

“Whatd’ya say, darlin’?”

And with that last question, the dam broke, your orgasm busting out around his fingers. Your sounds were the most divine opera, rising in pitch with every “Yes, Arthur,” as you melted. 

And he wasn’t done with you yet. Despite being miles away from camp, both of you made a home with each other. Home was the trail of raised skin that followed his touch and pairs of eyes meeting in love-filled exchanges. Home was the first few flutters of your pussy as he sheathed himself deep inside you. One night or even a week’s journey wouldn’t deter him, for he’d claw his way through the fiery depths of perdition to get back home to you.

[ordinary-barbie]

scary dog privileges.

summary: Nobody's messing with you as long as Rafe Cameron is around.

pairing: rafe x sweet!pogue!reader

word count: 1.7k

tags: fem!reader, swearing, a guy acts like a creep towards reader, fingering, cunnilingus, p in v sex (protected), mutual orgasms

note: dipping my toes into obx fanfic after hyperfixating/crushing on Drew Starkey and reading a ton of Rafe stories, haha. I have not seen the show but I'm shooting my shot here anyway!

~~~~

They say that opposites attract, which couldn't be more accurate regarding your relationship with Rafe Cameron.

Rafe was the Kook king of Kildare Island, someone who oozed cockiness and arrogance. Meanwhile, you were a soft-spoken Pogue. When people spotted the two of you together, they couldn't wrap their heads around it, and frankly, neither could you. Rafe had his pick of any girl on the island - especially the Kooks - but somehow he only had eyes for you, which warmed your heart.

It all started last year, with a party at Tannyhill to celebrate your class graduating from high school. You were content to stay under your covers, binging Love Island Australia on Hulu, but your friend Olivia had begged you to come with her. Eventually, you relented, your curiosity about one of Rafe Cameron's famous parties getting the better of you.

Within five minutes, you'd ran into Rafe—literally. You'd been swaying to the music and accidentally bumped into him, spilling your drink all over his shirt. You'd been mortified, apologizing profusely and insisting on helping him clean up.

Rafe was a goner ever since.

Now it was time for another Tannyhill bash to celebrate the start of summer, and you were squarely by Rafe's side. In the year you'd been together, you'd discovered how protective your boyfriend was. He held onto you like an anchor, always having an arm wrapped around your waist or shoulders, no matter if he was talking to Topper and Kelce or kicking some rando's ass at beer pong. You appreciated it; parties often made you feel like a nervous baby deer, and it was nice to have someone to hold on to.

Unfortunately, you couldn't always be joined at the hip. "I'm gonna piss but I'll be right back, baby," Rafe promised, giving your ass a light squeeze on the way to the bathroom. As soon as your boyfriend was out of sight, your smile dropped. While you'd made an effort to get to know Rafe's friends, you were still incredibly nervous in a house full of Kooks.

To kill some time, you scrolled through Instagram, giggling at Olivia's latest story. She'd posted herself having a "friendly pizza sesh" with a guy, but you knew she'd had a huge crush on him since high school.

Suddenly, a shadow passed over you. "What's got you laughing like that, pretty girl?" You jumped, startled by the unfamiliar male voice.

A smirking guy with short, curly dark brown hair and glinting hazel eyes sauntered up to you. "Hey, I'm Aidan. I'm new in town—but maybe a cute thing like you could show me around?" he lazily drawled.

Your skin prickled with discomfort. You suddenly wanted to shrink into yourself, but you forced yourself to smile anyway. "Sorry, I'm not interested."

Aidan laughed, undeterred, and leaned into you. "Playing hard to get, huh? That's kinda hot," he whispered into your ear, making your stomach churn.

"I said no thanks," you responded, laughing nervously. You should run. You needed to get out of there. But for some reason, you found yourself rooted to the spot, trapped with Aidan and the pungent stench of his cologne.

Aidan pouted, using his arms to pin you against the wall. "C'mon babe, just give me a chance. I don't bite."

"How many times is she gonna tell you to fuck off before you get the point?" Relief flooded your chest at the sound of your boyfriend's voice.

Aidan rolled his eyes. "Why don't you fuck off, dude? We were having a moment."

Rafe glared at Aidan, his eyes blazing with rage, and grabbed the other boy by the collar of his Lacoste polo. "That's my girlfriend, you jackass. And you're gonna step the fuck away from her. Now."

You suddenly felt a zinging sensation in your core, turned on by Rafe's behavior. He was so sweet and silly and kind but could turn into a snarling dog in an instant — definitely not someone to fuck around with.

Rafe released Aidan's collar and the brunette gulped, suddenly trembling with fear.

"I - I'm sorry man. I had no idea," Aidan stammered. "I'll leave her alone."

Rafe wrapped a protective arm around your waist, scowling at Aidan. "Get the fuck out of my house."

Aidan meekly nodded, scurrying out of Tannyhill. The party filled with laughter, with people cheering Rafe on. But Rafe ignored the commotion, only focused on you.

"I'm so sorry baby. I should've been there to protect you from that—that asshat," Rafe apologetically said, tenderly stroking your cheek. You leaned into his touch, instantly comforted by the warmth radiating from his body.

"It's okay, Rafe," you assured him. "It's not like you could take me into the bathroom with you."

Rafe frowned, kissing the top of your head. "Maybe I should. Can't have these fuckin creeps tryna mess with my girl."

You laughed, shaking your head at your well-meaning boyfriend. "I adore you, but I'm not gonna stand there and watch you pee."

Rafe flashed you a lopsided grin. "Why not? We've done way worse things in there. That poor sink has seen some shit."

You playfully shoved Rafe's shoulder. "Rafe Alexander Cameron! I can't believe my knight in shining armor is so crass."

"Don't act like you don't love it, baby," he casually replied, kissing your neck. You let out a soft moan, tilting upward so Rafe could have more access.

The two of you were interrupted by the sound of Topper fake retching. "Begging y'all to please get a room," he pleaded. You couldn't help but snicker at Topper's dramatics.

Rafe lazily flipped off his friend before whisking you off to his bedroom and locking the door. "Get on the bed for me, pretty girl," Rafe said huskily, brushing his lips against your ear. Damn, that nickname sounded so much sexier from Rafe's lips than that douche from earlier. (Aaron? Andrew?)

You kicked off your sandals and laid down on top of Rafe's king-sized bed, pulling off your dress and underwear. Rafe quickly shed himself of his clothes and laid on top of you, kissing down every inch of your body.

"So I'm your knight in shining armor, huh? Well let me give my princess the treatment she deserves," Rafe drawled, relishing in the way your body reacted to his touch.

He plunged two fingers inside you, pumping them in and curling them right against your sweet spot. You gasped, loving the way he stretched you out. Rafe had been the only guy you'd ever slept with and at this point, you couldn't imagine yourself with anyone else; how could you, when you've only experienced the best?

You began to crave more than just his fingers, however. "Rafey," you whined, fully overcome with lust.

Rafe chuckled, lazily rubbing at your clit. "Use your words, princess. Tell me how to make you feel good."

You gulped, still feeling a little timid when it came to expressing your desires in the bedroom. "I need—I need your mouth, Rafey. Please."

Rafe knitted his eyebrows in mock confusion. "Where, baby? Your lips? Your cheek? Your forehead?"

"Rafe Cameron. Eat my pussy before I explode," you begged, your horniness taking over.

Rafe smirked, pulling his fingers out of you before slowly running his tongue across your folds. “Fuck, I love it when you talk dirty. Almost as much as I love this sweet little pussy. She's already so wet for me, holy shit."

You whimpered, arching your back in ecstasy as Rafe continued to pleasure you, kissing and sucking at your clit. You felt that familiar fire in your stomach, a sure sign that your climax was fast approaching.

"Oh, Rafe—'m gonna cum," you moaned, your legs shaking. Rafe sped up his movements, rubbing your clit with his thumb and index finger while pumping his tongue in and out of your hole. Eventually the dam burst and you felt your orgasm wash over you as your legs clamped down on either side of Rafe's head.

You took a minute to come down from your high, admiring the sight of your boyfriend with mussed-up hair and your glistening slick decorating his face. Even while looking totally disheveled, Rafe was a work of art.

Rafe wiped his face with the back of his hand, savoring the rest of your juices on his fingers. "Always my favorite meal baby," he purred. "But now I need to be inside you. Turn around for me, princess."

You shifted your position on the bed so you were lying on your stomach while Rafe rummaged in his bedside drawer for a condom. You heard him unwrapping the foil packet and rolling the condom on before feeling the head of Rafe's cock teasing your hole. You let out a breathy moan, loving and loathing the teasing simultaneously.

Rafe held on to your hips as he pushed into you, thrusting in and out at a steady pace. "Can't get enough of this pussy," he grunted. "So warm and tight f'me."

The din of the party going on downstairs faded away, and you could only focus on the sounds of sex occurring in the room: the duet of moans between Rafe and you, the creak of the bed, the sound of skin slapping against skin. A year ago, you couldn't imagine coming out of your shell like this. But now? Well—

"Gonna cum again, Rafey," you breathily blurted out, feeling your pussy clench down on Rafe's cock.

"Fuck yeah, princess, just come all over my cock," Rafe groaned.

Almost as if on cue, you felt your climax wash over you, and Rafe helped you ride out your orgasm before spilling his load into the condom. You had a fleeting thought about Rafe shooting his cum inside you instead, but you weren't quite ready for that yet.

You and Rafe took a minute to catch your breaths before he took off the condom and tied it up, tossing it into the wastebasket next to his bed. He rolled over on his side, enveloping you in his arms and burying his head in the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent.

"Baby, you're incredible," Rafe murmured, kissing your shoulder.

You smiled, feeling light and airy inside. "Rafe, you're incredible. Thanks for being my scary dog earlier."

"I'm sorry, 'scary dog?'" Rafe repeated with a laugh.

"Scary dog privilege. It's something I saw on TikTok," you explained. "Basically it means that if you're with an intimidating-looking person, people will leave you alone because they don't want to mess with a scary dog. And seeing you be protective like that? It was pretty hot."

Rafe fondly gazed at you, stroking your hip. "Well shit, I'll be your scary dog anytime then, baby."

[mihii-i]

(I don't do requests often, so I read your rules like three times out of nervousness 😭)

Could you write an Il Capitano x fem!reader where the reader is forced to walk home by her family after a ball. While walking back, Capitano picks her up and offers to take the reader to where she lives. Maybe toss in some soft/kind Capitano?

Thank you so much, I hope this is an ok request!

pitch black.

Pairings: capitano x fem!reader

CW: sfw, female reader, assy family members, written before natlan, so capitano might be slightly ooc, can be read as platonic or romantic, yum frostbite yay, ngl id cry myself to sleep if I was in snezhnaya bc I can’t handle cold weather, probably an iron deficiency, lazy writing at the end again AUUUUGHHHH, freakytano my glorious king, not proofread.

A/N: HIHIHIHI ALSO IM SORRY IF I MISREAD THE FAMILY THING BUTTTT I ACTUALLY WROTE ON A WEEKDAY YAY also guys should I do like a special for 1k cause my followers are eating rn ok but seriously thank u so much for all the support love yall!! 🕯️

Cold swishes of air circled the pitch black sky faintly illuminated by a star or two, ruffling the silky fluff of a heavy coat adorning your figure. You firmly tightened your grasp around the lapels of the large coat, fabric wrinkling and dragged between the clutches of your paling knuckles tinted a soft pink from Snezhnaya’s biting cold.

Hollow crunches of your footsteps simply rang aloud in your years as your father’s words piled up in your mind. They were merely harmless, yet the intent behind your family’s dismissal stung like a sharpened blade spearing into your chest. But of course, it wasn’t anything new. A gust of wind howled into the canal of your ear sharply, ringing the ill memory of your family spitting the venom laced words of ordering you to trudge home in the nation’s burrowing winter. They didn’t even bother to provide a coat or furnish your body in any way, simply shooing you off as if they were desperate to make you keep your distance from them.

You had been awkwardly situated next to them, the chatter making you shift uncomfortably in an off putting stance, similar to that of an upright statue. Their exasperating laughs bellowed throughout the ballroom obnoxiously, catching an occasional glance of a person or two eyeing them. If hunching your shoulders in embarrassment wasn’t enough, their attitude was more than enough for you to have a strong urge to pray for the Tsaritsa’s wrath to be bestowed upon them.

People had noticed your huddled stance, tracing the rim of your glass in circular motions in hopes to distract yourself from the growing oddity of your placement in the ball. And without hesitation, they would of course begin to approach you. Possibly out of pity? Perhaps even the goodness of their heart wanting to accompany the girl who wasn’t very engaged in the celebration. Each person would approach you, friendly smiles stretching their face as they’d attempt to greet you—only for it to be cut short by your parents’ attention snapping to the guest stood before you, slicing the conversation short as they’d beckon the person to come speak with them instead.

Tremors of disdain pooled inside of you upon seeing your family members so obviously attempt to shove out any possible chance of a trail of hopeful socialization paved on your direction. Your isolation only grew more and more frustrating as indistinct chatter bounced off the walls of the ball, your eyes following the sound of the echo trailing from the marble structure to the intricate chandelier and candles flickering. At this moment, you purely felt alone. Isolated from everything as you mentally stood still in a pitch black void, with drowned out voices clouding the lonesome darkness.

“(Name). I think it’s about time you headed home.” Your father rasped out, not even making eye contact with you as his gaze was locked onto the champagne bottle and glass snug between his hands. “The ball is over anyway. We’re only staying for extra drinks. Your mother and I will be out meeting some other relatives at the nearby restaurant.”

“Father, it’s too cold for me to walk back home. You know how-“

“Oh, (Name). You’ll be fine. I raised you to be an independent woman. You’ll find the way home just fine.”

Pushing past your father, your mother pokes her shoulder out as well, casting you a glance as she chimes in to the conversation.

“He’s right, dear. Go ahead and head home for the night. I trust you’ll fare just fine without us accompanying you home.”

“Mother, that’s not what I-“

“(Name). That’s enough. You should head home. End of discussion.”

You knew you couldn’t properly explain to them. They’d always toss you aside and swat off your remarks as such. You bit back your protest, swallowing as you scanned the ballroom for a spare coat anywhere. There were a few harbingers around, so a raggedy stray coat shouldn’t be too uncommon.

“Sorry. I’ll be heading home now.” You submitted under your breath, masking your mixed irritation dissolved into your tone. You only further grimaced slightly as your mother smiled and leaned over to place a faux affectionate kiss to your forehead. With one dismissive wave once more, her and your father turned their back to you to exit the ball, shouldering through the heavy spruce doors packed with people crowding them.

You blinked, fervent shivers making you tremble against each flake of snow that brushed along the exposed parts of your skin as you realized you had just stepped midway through. The searing cold made your head spin as you began to lose yourself, frostbite clouding your senses and enveloping the tips of your fingers slowly. No matter. You could make it home if you simply stopped spacing out and thinking about your shitty parents. Just then, a loud crunch resounded with the howling wind, heavy clanks of metal being heard in addition to the crunches.

The heavy thuds only seemed to become clearer as they grew closer and closer, a light drag of chains shuffling behind you as well. Your heart nearly pounded out of your chest in anticipation, a sense of apprehension overtaking you as you clutched the coat draped over you tighter in a pathetic attempt to shield yourself using the thick fabrics. The thuds came to a halt as your eyes slowly roamed over the man who halted before you. His figure loomed over you, as his towering frame was quite intimidating to the least.

The metal lining of his mask enshrouded his face in a sightless black, cloaking his face completely as it seemed like an empty void bore into the gap of his helmet. Streams of jet black hair along with that adorned along the cheekbone of his mask and down his shoulders, a few stray strands of his long hair edged along the sharp steel edges of his mask. On top of that. A thick white coat with black fluff was draped along his shoulders, the small fabric emblem in the corner pertaining to that of the Fatui. If he was wearing this coat, your best bet was he was definitely a Fatui harbinger. Likely a strong one at that.

Backing up slightly, your eyes wandered over the man’s figure as you stood neatly frozen in place, the wind swaying his streaming hair while the harbinger looked down upon you.

“Is something the matter, ma’am?”

His low voice cast the illusion of protruding through the thickened frozen air, a faint muffle present in his speech considering he had spoken through the hollow opening of his seemingly endless mask.

“I was just walking home..”

“You seemed to be troubled, though.”

You simply wanted to scoff, yet you only tilted your head away from the harbinger in shame. Had your family humiliated you this much to the point where a figure of such high status took pity on you?

Sucking in a breath, you slowly turned your head back towards him, his body frozen in place, and looking down at you like a great statue. His gaze remained locked on you—yet you couldn’t tell due to the hollow blackness pitched into the carving of his mask. “Your name?” He hummed lowly, his body still enveloped by his large coat, and arms hidden under the sides of the thick pale silk.

“(Name).” You replied bluntly, clearing your throat and lowering your voice almost immediately after as to not give a rude impression. “Yours?”

“Il Capitano.”

Capitano seemed to follow your lingering gaze as he spoke, tracing each spot your eyes transfixed on periodically. However, there was one particular spot you couldn’t take your eyes off, and he didn’t take long to notice you focused on the Fatui emblem at the corner of his harbinger coat. “First of the Fatui harbingers.” He added, sensing that you had been wondering his relation to the infamous organization serving under the Cryo Archon dispersed across Teyvat.

Sensing your evident shifts and subtle kicks of your feet, he didn’t take long to pick up on your troubled state fidgeting before him, as if you were afraid of a train of emotional danger clouding your judgement to even think properly—much less walk in such bitter conditions.

“Where are you off to so late, miss (Name)?”

“I’m just walking home…it’s important family business.”

You immediately added that last part as an audible afterthought, not wanting to involve a harbinger in your personal affairs. Capitano wasn’t stupid, however. The clouds of tension and fear were palpable amidst the indifferent expression of yours, flaked white from the occasional crystals of snow fluttering onto your face. Heavy clanks followed your words as he stepped forward carefully, not wanting to startle you as he made his way directly beside you.

The black fur lining the neckline of his coat brushed against your collarbone as he stood closely shoulder to shoulder with you, head kept high. He continued to stare off into the distance ahead of him, as if the burrowing fog wasn’t enshrouding the entire vicinity before the two of you and dimming your line of sight.

“Do you mind if I accompany you home?”

You blinked out of pure surprise. A harbinger? Walking you home? At first it was too much, you couldn’t possibly accept this, much less waste his time like this! However the chilling thought of walking alone at night so late sent a shiver down your spine, and it was definitely not just from the cold.

“Not at all, Sir Capitano.”

He shook his head, stepping forward as he beckoned you to catch up to him.

“No need for formalities. Just Capitano is fine.”

Nodding, you briskly walked beside him to match his pace. The two of you were purely silent as he walked into the swirls of fog patterned along the vicinity clouding the array of homes lined up on either side of the street. Shuffles of chains and howls of wind were the only noticeable sound echoing along the empty night roads, inducing a rush of calmness that replaced your previous anxious state. Halfway through, you proceeded to extend your arm out, pointer finger fixing ahead of you at a slight angle.

“My home should be around there.”

Capitano simply nodded, shifting his path in the direction of your finger’s aim as he slowly headed toward the squeezed space of homes cluttered along the sides. Once reaching your doorstep, he halted at the hardened spruce topped with a silver knocker situated above the center, as if he was awaiting your next words. You delivered him a sincere and thoughtful smile, folding your arms as you didn’t know what exactly to do with them. The freezing steel of the knocker uncomfortably brushed along the exposed skin of your shoulder, which was not effectively covered by the ragged coat, making you hunch over upon contact embarrassingly.

“Thank you, Capitano. I don’t think I could have reached home quick enough before passing out on the streets..”

He let out an affirmative hum once more, looking down at you through his helmet framed by his long hair which was now a bit unkempt from the winds mixed with the fog. But it was only a strand or two off anyway.

“The pleasure is all mine, Miss (Name).” He paused briefly, before adding once more. “If you’re in any trouble that requires my assistance, don’t feel afraid to call me.” His words were sweet, yet they made you laugh faintly, making you biting your tongue at his low tone questioning what was so humorous about his statement.

“Ah. It’s nothing, Capitano. It’s just…we met under a few hours ago..”

“It’s not the time we knew each other that’s the matter. Rather, it’s the fact that it’s obvious you’re clearly going through something, (Name). I don’t mean to pry, I just want to do what is just for you. And I can tell you’re a good person.”

His words only brought that faint elated smile back onto your face, an unexplainable disappointment drooping within you when he steps away from the door to head back. You wave to him, and he gives a quick nod, turning his back to you and heading back to god knows where. That smile remained on your lips for quite a bit, even when you rocked open the door slowly into the comfort and warmth of your home.

What a respectable and kind man.

A/N: it’s 1 am and I have a quiz tomorrow morning LOLLL

Anyway I’m so happy I got this done yay

[opal-owl-flight]

I didnt expect to see Octavio in the Grandfest...and neither did 3, for that matter.

In my interp of the lore, Inkadia is aware of who he is. 3 and the platoon have been fighting for years with the Inkadian powers that be to recognize Octaria as a legitimate nation, for it to be held in equal regard.

That day finally came on the Grandfest. Or at least, the beginnings of it, anyway.

More on the two's convo below!

"Hm! |...Sir Octavio! Im...surprised to see you here.|"

"What. You think Octaria doesnt deserve to celebrate the biggest event in the continent alongside you squits?"

"|No! No! Im...|" they chuckle, a smile breaking across ther face. "|...glad to see that you made it!

But I dont remember arranging a pass for you...|"

"Aah. Well. Your old man pulled some strings. That, and the Inkadian and Splatlandian powers that be invited me themself."

Now 3s surprised. "|...Really?|"

"Mhm. I brought the dome-dwellers up here with me. Look around! Didnt you notice them in your matches?"

Are they dreaming?

They never noticed them at all. It wasnt even like there was much of a difference. For months there have been an increase of migrators and visitors. Allowed to turf. Allowed to stay. Allowed to...

Live in the sunshine.

They stagger, which made the Octarian king hold out a tentacle to steady them. "You alright, bucko?"

3 nods. "|A-a little overwhelmed, thats all.

All those patrols. All those deserters I helped to assimilate. All that struggle they had to go through to escape Octaria-

And now, its just...so...|"

"Easy?"

3 nods again, silently.

"Mmmm. I'll admit though, not everyone is keen on just letting people explore. Not everyone was keen on coming up here for this festival, either.

...too much, has happened for them to trust Inkadia again."

3 hangs their head low. He held their chin and made them look up again.

"...But you. You and your platoon of hooligans. Youve been changing that. You are Inkadians that went the extra mile in understanding us. Listening to us, respecting our decisions. Allowing us to rule our nation as we wished.

It means...a lot. More than you know.

To the point where even those who dont trust Inkadia are at least respecting it from a distance now."

The conversation is cut short by a couple of young Inkfish kids.

"Oaah...its the Octarian king!"

"Hes REAL!!!"

"Of course Im real, squirts! Who'dya think leads all the Octarians?"

"Yeah!!" squeaks another kid, who waddles closer. "Our king is so nice! He brought us up here to play!!"

"Woaah, really?"

"Mhm." He grunts. "Everyone deserves the sunshine."

The kids eyes all shine. Theyve had ex-Octarian friends who spoke much kinder words about the king. It was easy for them to accept the fact that hes just there, grinding wasabi peacefully. Talking to the Inkfish who wants merch. Having generally gruff but...daresay, gentle vibes.

Octavio grunts out a chuckle. "Are you enjoying the surface, little one?"

"VERY!! I made new friends!! The sun feels so warm, ah!! The music! The music!! Oh, so wonderful!!!"

3 smiles again...

"Oooh... wait, I can finally ask!!" squeaks one of the kids. "Mister king, sir! Did you really fight someone called Agent 3???"

3s smile becomes a nervous one. Octavio picks that up immediately.

"Why yes. Little hooligan, that one. Ack! Gave me a headache like nothing else!"

"Did they convince you? To be good now?"

"Mh. Its a little more complicated than that, kiddoes. But I..." he sighs. "...I guess, they did."

"Wooow!!"

"So cool...I wish I could meet them!!"

"Well..."

Octavio sees, from the corner of his eye, 3 making the subtlest movement of shaking their head.

"Its said...that theyre one of the top players in the leagues. If you look hard enough, youll find em."

The Octarian kid looks straight at 3, knowingly. The two other kids notice -- and look at the golden badge they hung around their neck.

"Oh! Oh! Youre a top player, right?"

"Do you think youve met them?"

Octavio is doing EVERYTHING he can to not laugh.

"|...Im not sure. Im not exactly sure what to look for.|"

"Ill help your search, all of you." Octavio grunts again. "What exactly to look for."

3 looks at him, eyebrow raised.

"Theyre ruthless on the field. Whether it be a real fight, or in the leagues. They think on their feet, move faster than most eyes can register.

But underneath that cold efficiency...

Is one of the gentlest, most understanding squids I know."

3s expression changed from nervous to...comfort? Theyre not sure what it is, but its warm.

"Watch for a player who goes out of their way to be nice to kids and beginners. One who's a good sport in the cutthroat top leagues. One who's willing to share their battle tech to anyone, something that most top players keep under wraps.

One who's motivated to help you become the best version of yourself.

No matter how long it takes."

Octavio sees 3s shoulders relax a bit. He smiles.

"Yeah, I may have fought them a lot, back in the day. But now, Id really rather think of them as a friend."

The kids start bickering about which player it could be. The Octarian kid already knew. Shes seen them before, after all. She points at them now.

"Hehee! Maybe you should try looking in a mirror, miss. That sounds a lot like you!"

The other kids stop bickering and take a closer look.

"Huh?? Them? Hmmm...now that you say it-"

"Shes right!!! Its right in front of us!! FOR3VRFRSH! Agent 3!!!"

Octavio grinds one of his wasabi sticks a little harsher on the table to get their attention. "Kids, kids! Remember what the legend says!"

That confirms it!! They shush each other, but are still sqealing quietly. They look up at 3 again, the new info putting the top player in a different light. They threw a glance at Octavio before squatting down to their level.

"Yes," they rasp. "Me and the king...were more friends now...than enemies. Time...passes. People...change.

Remember that, okay?"

"Yes miss! We'll remember!!"

They wink. "Good...now...Stay Forever Fresh!"

Octavio looks on, leaning slightly to whisper to the floating squid jerky next to him.

"You did good with this one, Cuttlefish."

He says nothing, like during this whole conversation. One thought was in his head.

He didnt do that. That...was all 3. They were better than he ever was. He only wished...

He didnt push them as hard as he did.

----------

HOO BOY THATS A DOOZY OF A READ. I didnt PLAN for the beginnings of the acceptance of Octaria to come this early but Nintendo gave me material!! A lot of this is still semi-rough so forgive me if the pacing is whack. I just had to make and write something!!

[ledesaid]

Billy: Excuse me, sir! Do you know where the great ship-eating whirlwind of the north is!?

Random Sailor: What!?

Billy: Do you know how to get to the northern ship-eater!? I got lost in the storm!"

Random Sailor: What!?

Billy: Never mind! Thanks anyway!

Amidst a fierce storm, their silence makes sense. However, falling through a transdimensional rift linked to a third act? That's beyond comprehension.

After that, he met a guy named Sinbad with a great ship. This ancient world, with its bizarre tales of kings of the seven seas and magical weapons, feels surreal. Magical dungeons with hidden treasures?

The strangest part: everyone believes he's a Magi! A mage of creation who has immense power capable of creating dungeons or destroying countries… Okay, Billy could do that, he can do that, he doesn't plan to do it, but it’s curious that they know what he is capable of without him telling them. It takes a bit of the burden off his shoulders.

Yet, it seems Sinbad wants Billy to stay as Sindria's Magi permanently.

While looking for a way home, he can't help but admire him. He treats Billy as an equal, even without knowing about his big magical transformation.

However, Billy suspects the king is not too keen on helping him return.

Their quest to stop the marine disaster responsible for the typhoon hasn't been very successful.

Sinbad: Billy, any luck!?

Billy: No! The storm is very strong, and people are running for shelter!

Sinbad: We'll try again tomorrow! Let's return to the ship!

The storm that was battering the region only disappears when Billy manages to interact with the glowing butterflies called Rukh and stops the whirlwind causing the problem.

Obviously, they return to Sindria to celebrate. Sinbad's friends and the townspeople celebrate him in a way he knows won't happen at home. He decides to enjoy it.

The days turn into months, and they refine into years. The League takes ten years when they can finally come to rescue him.

Billy: Friends!

Superman: Captain!

Wonder Woman: Brother! Thank Athena you're in one piece. It took us a few weeks to find your location. We feared that something…

Flash: Buddy, you look younger, or is it my imagination?

Billy: Well… it's been a bit more than a week for me…

Superman: You can tell us at home. The portal won't last long.

The now twenty-year-old man looks back. It is not his childhood that frames his gaze; he left that place long ago. But he has waited for this moment for so long that... he already had some short-term plans in mind... He has lived ten years as Billy Batson and ten years as Billy the Fifth Magi.

Flash: Cap… how long has it been? Flash seems to understand Billy's dilemma a little.

"Ten years."

That makes everyone hug him. Billy cries with happiness.

Billy: I’ve helped this world a lot. I’ve met many countries… I’ve been the Magi of several of them. I feel like I’ve learned a lot. But despite having enjoyed it here so much… I don't forget my role as the champion of magic at home… let's go back.

The people of our dimension also have the right to their own Magi to protect them. I have many stories to tell you. There was a really cool guy named Sinbad, a boy named Alibaba who reminds me of myself, a little Magi named Aladdin, and this pink-haired girl like Jinx who was as strong as you, Diana.

But I'm happy they arrived now. If they had arrived seven years ago, they would have had to face Sinbad, the king of the seven seas.

-------

Hi!, I am participating in BILLY BATSON WEEK 2025! @marybatson

Day 1 | u are here | Day 3 | Day 4 | Day 5

[mcflymemes]

PROMPTS FROM SHREK *  assorted dialogue from the 2001 film, adjust as necessary

two things, okay? shut... up.

you didn't slay the dragon?

some of you may die... but it's a sacrifice i am willing to make.

they judge me before they even know me. that's why i'm better off alone.

how will you kiss me?

that wasn't in the job description!

what is so funny?

let's just say... i'm not your type.

pick me! pick me!

i've got a dragon and i'm not afraid to use it!

now really, it's rude enough being alive when no one wants you, but showing up uninvited to a wedding?

it's a compliment! better out than in, i always say.

you can't tell me you're afraid of heights.

let's do that again!

what's that? it's hideous.

only a true friend would be that cruelly honest!

well, technically, you're not a king.

the battle is won.

so where is this fire-breathing pain in the neck, anyway?

hey, don't look at me. i didn't invite them.

it's on my to-do list!

you're meant to charge in, sword drawn, banners flying!

that's not the point!

huh, celebrity marriages. they never last, do they?

that'll do, [name]. that'll do.

you're going the right way for a smacked bottom.

well, that's not very nice. it's just a donkey.

where are you going? the exit's over there!

i have to save my ass.

what kind of a knight are you?

i was talking about the dragon.

man, this would be so much easier if i wasn't color-blind.

we can stay up late, swapping manly stories, and in the morning... i'm making waffles!

whoa, look at that. who'd wanna live in a place like that?

that... would be my home.

i think i need a hug.

you're a monster!

we were forced to come here!

you know, you're really quite a decorator!

it's amazing what you've done with such a modest budget!

i like that boulder. that is a nice boulder.

you know, not everybody likes onions.

everybody loves cake!

i don't care what everyone likes!

have you ever met a person, you say, "let's get some parfait," they say, "hell no, i don't like parfait."

end of story! bye bye! see ya later!

parfaits may be the most delicious thing on the whole damn planet!

it talks?

i'm not the monster here, you are!

now tell me, where are the others!

eat me!

i've tried to be fair to you creatures, but now my patience has reached its end.

all right then! who's hiding them?

oh you're going to love it there.

men of his stature are in short supply.

it's getting him to shut up that's the trick!

hey, what's your problem [name], what you got against the whole world anyway, huh?

i'll find those stairs.

look, i'm not the one with the problem, okay? it's the world that seems to have a problem with me.

do you think he's maybe compensating for something?

hey, where're you going?

oh man, i can't feel my toes!

take a look at me. what am i?

doesn't that bother you?

man, i like you. what's your name?

you're so wrapped up in layers, onion boy, you're afraid of your own feelings.

there you are, doing it again!

oh... oh this is all my fault.

you can't do this to me! i'm too young for you to die!

you gotta warn somebody before you just crack one off, my mouth was open and everything.

believe me, if it was me... you'd be dead.

i steal from the rich and give to the needy.

man, that was annoying.

i was sent to rescue you.

i'm supposed to be rescued by my true love!

your job is not my problem.

you love this woman, don't you?

i don't want to rush into a physical relationship.

like that's ever gonna happen!

why are you following me?

stop singing!

it's no wonder you don't have any friends!

[dyinglikenarcissus]

Kitten

7k words

Warnings: 18+ only! This is pure smut. A little dubcon. Your brother’s alpha besties want you but they’ve been so good for so long. What happens when a group trip turns into a one bed situation? Also reader is Sam’s long lost sister or something. Suspend your belief 😂 (I had to include some kind of Sam for our shared birthday)

Enjoy 😊

Please do not copy or repost my work

This really wasn’t supposed to happen.

They’re your brother’s friends. How did you end up like this?

They were supposed to be going on a boys fishing trip to celebrate your brother’s new job but he suddenly came down with something and wasn’t feeling up to it and, as his roommate and baby sister, they insisted you take his place. You didn’t know the first thing about fishing! But when it came to his two alpha buddies you got all tongue tied and your omega came spilling out like an over boiling pot. They were just so handsome and big and imposing and charismatic. They have great jobs and fancy cars and penthouse apartments. The ideal alphas.

It also didn’t help that you were a couple weeks away from your heat. It just makes their sway over you more powerful. They didn’t mean any harm. They were just used to being surrounded by other alphas. They didn’t know how to reign it in. Normally your brother was around as a buffer. You were rarely ever alone with them…

The two hour car ride was the longest you’d ever spent with just the two of them. They went on and on about baseball and beer and guns and other things you had absolutely no knowledge about so you just sat quietly in the back seat with your phone and your switch and prayed you were almost there.

But it would be fine! It was supposed to be a huge family suite with a bunch of rooms and a full kitchen and everything. You’d have your own space to retreat to if they became…too much for you.

But being there gave you absolutely no relief.

“I’m sorry!” The hotel front desk manager started after looking up your stay. “We accidentally overbooked and had to give away your room. We can rectify it tomorrow but tonight all we have is a single king.”

They readily agreed, not paying any attention to your protest. They said it would be fun. Like camping.

You never liked camping.

So now you stand between the rock that is Steve Rogers and the hard place that is Bucky Barnes.

“We’ll just take the floor, kitten,” Bucky smiles using the nickname they’ve called you since you were children. “I prefer it anyway. Better for my back.”

“Yeah. You get comfortable. Don’t worry about us,” Steve assures you. You just nod while the boys call down for extra pillows and blankets and food while you clean up from the long drive. It wasn’t super late but it was late enough that you weren’t going to do anything else tonight. The boys wanted to get up early. Apparently that’s when the fish are most active? The most you knew about fishing was from Animal Crossing and if any of that was true, they should be waiting for it to rain. Which reminds you that you that you need to water your flowers in your little digital town. You’ll do it as soon as you’re out of the shower…

Well, ain’t this some shit.

You didn’t exactly pack to share close quarters.

The only PJs you brought were mini shorts and cropped tank tops that were pretty much transparent in the right light. You should have brought a comfy sweater or something to cover up in but you wanted to pack light. You didn’t want to look like ‘that girl’ with a suitcase for every night. But at least you’d have a sleeping sweater…

You roll your eyes at your idiotic lack of foresight and choose the least see through ones and hope they don’t look too closely.

So much for that.

The second you walk back into the main room, two sets of blue eyes are on you. They suddenly forget all about their baseball, their beer, and their guns at the vision in front of them. Your soft curves are clearly visible through your lack of clothes: a sight they’ve only seen when the group goes swimming. They can barely keep it together with you prancing around in tiny fabric triangles that barely cover your wet and obviously cold body. But normally your brother was there to keep them at bay.

No older brother in sight. Just you left alone for the two of them. All. Weekend. Long.

Steve is the first one clear his throat and avert his gaze. “We ordered some pizzas. Is that okay with you?”

“Y-yeah! Pizza’s great,” you smile nervously. “I’m done in the bathroom if either of you want a turn.”

Bucky doesn’t even spare Steve a glance as he makes his way to the bathroom. “Age before beauty,” he snarks at the blond leaving the two of you alone.

You just smile at the tall blond sitting on the edge of the bed before rifling through your luggage for your Switch unknowingly giving Steve the perfect view of your peach ass through your tiny shorts.

“Shit,” Steve breathes, tilting his head slightly to see what else you’re hiding under there.

“What was that?” You ask pulling yourself out from your duffle.

“Oh, nothing,” the blond says quickly snapping his head back to the TV. “Just the game. Crazy play…” he trails.

“Oh?” You smile and nod already knowing you won’t understand what’s going on so you don’t bother asking. You snuggle up against the pillows to play your game and ignore whatever sports ball game is on.

“What are you playing?” His voice doesn’t initially reach you as you shake your head and focus on the alpha watching you. When did Steve’s eyes get so pretty? They’re like kaleidoscopes of green and blue. Hmmmm…

Wait. He said something, didn’t he?

“I’m sorry?”

“What are you playing?” He asks again leaning back to see the screen of your handheld console.

“Animal Crossing,” you whisper. He’s so close you can feel the body heat radiating off of him. He’s never been this close…

“That game’s super popular lately, huh? Never tried it. I used to just play Halo and GTA when I was as your age.”

“GTA is pretty fun,” you smile.

“What’s an innocent little thing like you know about GTA?”

“I get on my brother’s PlayStation every once in a while,” you admit. “I’m not that innocent,” you giggle singing the song.

“I feel like we’ll be learning all kinds of things about you this weekend,” Steve laughs as his hand finds your ankle, stroking the smooth skin gently. You practically leap from your skin. He can’t do that! Can he? He can’t do it again…

And then he does, his rough fingers tracing the inside of your ankle, and a wave arousal spills from you like clockwork. His fresh rain and smoke scent washes over you heavily and a soft whimper escapes your lips.

You can’t do this! Not for a whole weekend!

A knock at the door has you leaping away from him, tugging your feet away quickly.

“Someone’s jumpy,” Steve laughs before getting the door. Saved by the bell. A hotel employee brings a stack of pillows, blankets, and towels before rolling in a cart with two pizza boxes and two pitchers of beer.”

“We figured you wouldn’t eat much,” Steve laughs grabbing a chilled glass and plate before leaning next to you on the bed.

“Food’s here?” Bucky grins stepping out of the bathroom in a pair of low hanging grey sweats. Just a pair of low hanging grey sweats…

So many muscles…so much outline…

You’re going to die here.

His hair was still wet and messy as he mimicked Steve; grabbing food and finding a spot on the other side of you on the bed.

“What’s up, kitten? You gonna eat?” He asks before taking a bite.

“Uh, yeah,” you whisper and slide out from between the two giant men. When did it get so hot? You’re suddenly glad for your lack of clothing.

There’s no chairs or a table in this room. It really is the barebones. It’s hard to believe that this is the same hotel with three bedroom suites.

You sit on the edge of the bed, taking Steve’s spot and nibbling on your food quietly.

“Kitten, you know we love you but you’re blocking the TV,” Bucky groans. “Come back up here.” No. No no no no. Not back there between those two big imposing men.

“Your spots still nice and warm for you,” Steve sighs patting the spot in between them. You didn’t need warmth. Warmth was the last thing you needed. But you slide your plate across the bed and scoot back between them.

“Ain’t this nice?” Bucky asks.

“You don’t want a drink, kitten?” Steve wonders.

“Oh no,” you smile. “Beer isn’t really my thing.”

“Shit! We should’ve ordered something for you. We should know you better by now,” Steve sighs.

“Rosé, huh, kitten?” Bucky asks guiltily.

“Yeah, a rosé would be nice but I’m fine,” you insist and shake your bottle of water before taking a sip.

“That’s no fun kitten. We want you to drink with us. I’ll call down and get a bottle.” A whole bottle? Oh no! You attempt to stop the brunet alpha but he’s already on the phone ordering their best bottle.

“Don’t worry about it, kitten. We’ll pay for it,” Steve laughs. That’s not the problem! You almost shout at him but then he uses that alpha influence on you. “Sit back and relax. Please.”

“O-okay,” you whisper and settle back into the pillows.

“Who knew you could be so obedient?” Bucky laughs hanging up the phone. “You never listen to your brother like that?”

These two are not your brother.

“Did you see that play?” Steve shouts.

“He’s going! He going! He’s going!”

“Come on, Evans! Fuck yeah! You’re going to owe me a fortune at the end of the season,” Steve laughs.

“My bracket’s going to turn around. Just you wait, punk.”

“Whatever, jerk.” You smile at their antics. You’ve heard it your entire life but it never stopped being adorable.

“You two are cute.” The words slip from your mouth before you get a chance to stop yourself. Their blue gazes are back on you in an instant.

“Cute, huh?” Bucky smirks, biting his bottom lip slightly. Oh no.

“You would know, wouldn’t you?” Steve grins leaning slightly closer to you. No no no no! You almost claw your way out from between them when there’s another knock at the door. Thank God!

You move to get up but Bucky presses your thigh back down. “Sit. I got it.” He returns only to hand you a glass of wine. “Drink up. You have a whole bottle to get through.”

“There’s no way I’ll finish that, Bucky,” you laugh taking the glass with both hands.

“You won’t know until you try, kitten,” Steve smirks poking your nose with his index finger.

These two are going to kill you.

You’re soon giggling at Bucky’s jokes and leaning into Steve’s touch after your third glass of wine.

“You should’ve seen him. He was puking over the railing. Those poor fish!” Bucky laughs at the man behind you’s expense. Steve attempts to fight off his own laughter, gripping your waist and pulling you closer against him as you laugh at Bucky’s story.

“Whatever. You keep talking shit. I’m going to take a shower,” Steve chuckles and pulls away from you.

“So, kitten, tell me about your first date?”

“What?” You laugh, taking a sip of your wine.

“We told you about ours. I wanna hear about yours,” Bucky smiles running his hand up your thigh.

“Oh, it really isn’t all that interesting. It was just this guy in high school. We went to the movies. I think we saw Superbad or one of those Michael Cera movies. He tried to kiss me before my mom could come get me up but I wasn’t feeling it.”

“You wouldn’t kiss a guy after one of Michael Cera’s attempts at acting?”

“No,” you giggle. “He’s a fine actor. I just wasn’t feeling it,” you shrug.

“Alright, tell me about your first kiss then.”

“My first…?” You ask scrunching your brows up at the alpha. “Umm, well…”

“Don’t tell me you’ve never been kissed,” Bucky laughs leaning a little closer. His hand hitches a little higher on your hip, gripping what’s exposed of your ass. Any other time you would have been running as far away from him as possible but right now his sandalwood and lavender scent is going to send you straight into an early heat.

“Promise not to laugh?” You ask looking up at him through your lashes.

“I won’t. Scouts honor.”

“Like you were ever a scout,” you smile in disbelief. “Well, I didn’t have it until college.”

“Late bloomer, huh?”

You nod. “I went to my first ever college party and got really wasted and I was dancing with this guy.”

“Recipe for disaster,” Bucky grins, pulling you a little closer. You happily curl into him, slotting your leg between his. Your hand comes to rest on his lower stomach. You’ve never felt such strong abs before. You can’t help but feel a little bit. You hope he doesn’t mind.

“I told you not to laugh!” You smile.

“You’re telling the story so dramatically I can’t help it.”

You groan softly and continue your story. “So I was dancing with this guy and my friends were ready to leave so we left and he came with us. Walked with us all the way across campus, it had to have been a couple of miles and he lived close to where the party was.”

“He was trying to get some,” Bucky laughs spanking you softly.

“He was! And he wasn’t subtle about it at all! We were plotting how to ditch him the entire walk. So my friend, Milly, said just make out with him and we’ll have the automatic doors at the dorm lock him out. She didn’t know I’d never kissed a guy so I was just dreading it. Like, why do I care how this guy thinks I kiss but we made it to the dorm. They’re looking at me expectantly, waiting to slam the auto doors on this poor kids face. I just copied what I’d seen on TV, lured him right into the doorway and I just went for it. I literally puffed out my cheeks and pressed my lips against his and he tried to stick his tongue in my mouth and it was horrible! It scared me so much, I stepped back before the girls said go but Milly was on the wrestling team so she has lightning fast reflexes and she slammed the door right on his tongue.” You can’t help the laughter that spills from you and Bucky’s soon follows. “You said you wouldn’t laugh!” You cry pressing your hand against his chest.

“How could you expect me not to laugh at that?” He chuckles. “Poor fucker. Didn’t know what he was getting into with a feisty little omega like you.”

“Feisty? Me?” You laugh.

“Yes, you,” Steve laughs from behind you, sliding back into the bed freshly washed and in only a thin pair of boxers and a tank top. “What’d you do, kitten?” His strong arms wrap around your waist pulling you slightly from Bucky’s grip. One hand splays across you stomach and the other rest a little too high on your ribs to be friendly.

“She was telling me about her first kiss. She’s an evil little thing.”

“Oh, not our kitten. She’s an angel,” Steve admits nuzzling his face in your neck. It feels so good. To be wrapped in two pairs of strong arms. Both their scents settle over you so comfortably. You wish you could drown in it. You practically purr at their touch. In fact…

“Kitten,” Bucky laughs. “Are you purring?”

“No!” You deny quickly pressing away from them. “We should really get ready for bed-”

“Aw, come on, kitten,” Bucky sighs pulling you back down into his embrace. “Hang out with us.” Hang out? The last thing these two were doing was hanging out but you fall back into his arms anyway. “Was your second kiss any better?” Bucky asks distracting you from Steve’s touch.

“W-well, yeah. They were all much better after that.”

“So, you’re a pretty good kisser, huh?” Steve asks pressing his lips against your neck then licking at the sensitive skin there just above your scent gland. “Do you kiss as good as you taste?”

“Wha-! No! Steve!” You whine squirming under his touch.

“Kitten, really. I wish you’d relax for us,” Bucky sighs. “You haven’t slammed anymore tongues into doors?”

You shake your head no while Bucky’s hand grips your ass, pulling you into him and right into something more stiff than his abs but they don’t even give you a chance to react to that.

“Can you show me, kitten? How you kiss?” Steve asks softly, his hand snaking under your tiny shirt and pressing you down onto your back.

“Stevie, Bucky, w-we really shouldn’t be doing this,” you whine looking up into Steve’s ocean eyes. He really does have beautiful eyes.

“Why shouldn’t we?” Bucky asks pressing kisses to your bare shoulder. “You trust us, don’t you?”

“We’d never hurt you, kitten. You have no idea how long we’ve waited to get you away from your brother.”

“Practically since you presented.”

“That long?” You whisper, attempting to look at Bucky.

“You developed all these tantalizing curves, kitten. How could we resist?” There are hands all over your body. You can’t tell which ones belong to who. All you know is that you don’t want them to stop.

“We know you want us,” Steve sighs pressing your tiny shirt up over your breasts. “Your scent is fucking intoxicating.”

“And it spikes like crazy when we’re around. Just let us make you feel good, kitten. If you hate it, we’ll leave you alone,” Bucky promises.

“But we know you’ll love it.” Steve presses down your body and nips at your breast. You whine, spreading your legs to accommodate his large body.

“See? You already love it,” Bucky chuckles. He finally presses his lips to yours and it practically takes your breath away.

“Bucky,” you whimper against his lips as his scents spikes for you.

“Fuck,” Steve groans against your nipples. “Open up for us. Good girl, kitten.” You whine as your core clenches around nothing. You need them. You’ve never needed anyone more in your life. A set of fingers find your clothed core and you arch off the bed dramatically. “Warm her up for me, Buck?”

“You got it, pal,” Bucky chuckles around your lips. So many of your senses were firing at once. You didn’t know what to focus on. Steve’s tongue on your nipples and Bucky’s fingers at your clit. Fuck. It was all too much.

“Please,” you whisper not knowing what you wanted but you needed it.

“Please?” Steve chuckles. “Whatever you want, kitten. We’ll give it to you.”

“But you gotta tell us,” Bucky mutters. His fingers clear your tiny shorts and make contact with your naked pussy. You gasp at the feeling making them both chuckle softly.

“What can we do for you?” Steve asks.

“I-I wanna-I wanna-“

“You wanna what, kitten?” Steve’s mouth sucks at your sensitive nipples and Bucky’s fingers press against your quivering clit.

“Wanna cum!” You whine sharply.

“Yes, ma’am,” Bucky chuckles and pulls away from you along with Steve.

“Wai-! Where are you going?” You pant as they sit back to watch you.

“We need to get rid of all these clothes first,” Steve explains and presses your legs together to pull off your shorts while Bucky tugs your tiny top over your head. Then they work on themselves. Your eyes widen as you watch them peel off their bottoms, revealing their hard red leaking cocks.

“What’s wrong, kitten? You look like you’ve seen a ghost?” Bucky smirks as he tosses away his sweats and grips his heavy erection, a steady stream leaking from it’s tip and making his scent so much more heady.

“You’re alright. Just relax,” Steve’s scent permeates beyond Bucky’s settling over you like a weighted blanket as he strips revealing his own giant cock. Precum bubbles out of his tip in thick globs making you gulp.

“Y-you’re both so big,” you whisper.

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” Steve laughs. “We’ll get you nice and warmed up. You’ll barely feel us.” Barely!? You want to run away but you’re paralyzed under their gaze. “Now, let me get a real taste of you.” Steve tugs your legs up over his shoulders until you’re dangling with the top of your head on his lap and staring blankly at a now upside down Bucky. You don’t even have time to think about it before his tongue licks a strip up your core and you’re left screaming for him.

“Told you we’d make you feel good,” Bucky chuckles. “Now look at you. In the perfect position to fill up that cute little hole.”

“Wh-“ But you’re cut off by Bucky tapping his tip against your bottom lips. “That’s not gonna fit!” You protest but it’s on deaf ears as he presses past your lips into your hot, wet mouth.

“See? We know what we’re doing, kitten. Trust us,” Bucky sighs as he strokes himself against your lips. A hand wraps around one of yours and guides it around his thick member, showing you how hard to squeeze. “There you go, kitten. Good girl. Just like that. Fuck. How long do you think she can stay like this, Stevie?”

Steve pulls away long enough to mutter, “Until she cums,” before diving back into your hot pussy.

You whine around your oral burden feeling the blood simultaneously rush to your head and your core until you feel like you’ll pass out from the pressure. Your whimpers get more frantic and your attention on Bucky’s cocks gets more spotty until you’re legs are clamped around Steve’s head for dear life. You get so close as everything gets so dark and fuzzy around the edges. You can’t hold on anymore. Your eyes flutter shut just as sparkles burst behind your lids and you cum flooding into Steve’s awaiting mouth.

Fuck…

Fuck!

Your eyes wretch open at the impossible stretch inside your core. “Ah! Ahhh! Stevie! Bucky!” You cry out softly as the walls of flesh around you start to console you.

“Hey! Hey, kitten. You’re okay. Calm down,” Steve instructs, his scent starting to lull you into a sense of security as his fingers stroke your cheek gently.

“We told you you’d barely feel it,” Bucky laughs from behind you.

You feel it now! He feels impossibly large and how is he fucking you twice?

You glance down to see between your and Steve’s bodies.

No. No no no no! You let out a strangled scream as the pain of having two monster cocks inside of you starts register.

“Hey! Relax!” Bucky barks. “It feels good, doesn’t it? Being this full of us?”

“Just imagine being full of our babies,” Steve grunts.

“Fuck, you’d look so beautiful. All round with huge, leaking tits,” Bucky chuckles as his fingers dance across your hard nipples.

“You aren’t on birth control, are you?”

“N-no,” you whisper, smothering your face is Steve’s shoulder.

“Good,” they both reply at once. Not good. You weren’t ready for babies. You didn’t even have a mate…

“Stop,” Bucky calls to his partner sensing your distress first. “What wrong, kitten?”

“Tell us. Let us fix it,” Steve seconds as they both still inside of you.

You can barely think straight with them stretching you like this let alone reply.

“Can’t-can’t have a baby,” you strain.

“Why not?” Steve asks, stroking your braids from your face before cupping your face.

“I-we-we’re not-“

“Out with it, kitten,” Bucky groans smacking the side of your ass.

“Bucky,” Steve reprimands. “Talk to us, kitten.”

“We’re not mated!” You finally moan into Steve’s shoulder.

“Oh?” Steve laughs.

“Is that all?” Bucky chuckles. “Don’t worry about that.”

“You’ll have marks all over you by Sunday. No one will ever question who you belong to,” Steve smirks before gripping your hips and beginning to thrust into you anew. Bucky follows suit and you wonder just how much the human body can take before it splits in half. It’s too much. Far too much. They’re too big! They take up too much space in your little body. Just when you think you’ll pass out again Steve grumbles that he’s going to cum and Bucky mimics his notion shortly afterwards.

“Please, please, please,” you chant, slurring your speech with how close your own release is.

Then one of them hits that spot just right and you’re screaming for them, clinching around them enough that they cum spilling inside of you. And then you’re left screaming again as their knots pop into place keeping all that essence bottle up inside you as they continue to spew their seed.

You gasp as you feel your belly bloat with all of it, bowing outward against Steve’s strong abs.

“Too much!” You whine at the feeling. Too full. Too tight. Too heavy. Far too much.

“Hey! I know. I know. It’s a lot. Hang in there for us,” Bucky attempts to soothe but you immediately feel another round of hot cum paint your insides and ballooning your stomach even more.

“Can’t!” You cry but both men rub your arms and your face, attempting to calm you just enough to get you on your side. Bucky’s hand finds your bloated stomach and rubs soft circles into it while Steve whispers sweet praises in your ear.

“You were so good for us, kitten. The best girl we could ask for. You gonna hold on to all that hot cum and make us a bunch of babies?” You can only nod slightly as you attempt to get comfortable. Your quickened breaths eventually get heavier as you start to doze off. “There you go, kitten. Get some rest. You deserve it.”

“She’s tight as a drum, Stevie,” Bucky sighs as his fingers find your navel. It’s straining against the need to pop to give the cum inside you a little extra room.

“We might have over done it,” Steve chuckles until he feels his partner starting to strain against his knot. “The fuck are you doing?

“She’s just so hot like this. I can’t help it,” Bucky groans as he humps into their little partner.

“Fuck, Buck!” Steve hisses trying to ignore the friction against his own cock. “You’re gonna make me cum!” But Bucky just ignores him thrusting shallowly into you while you sleep.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fu-“ Bucky sighs cumming into you once more and pulling Steve closely behind with him. You whimper softly in your sleep as your tummy bows out even more.

“Fuck, Buck! No more. She can’t handle it,” Steve says with an air of authority as he holds you against him protectively.

“I’m exhausted anyway,” the brunet yawns and cups your breast and your stomach as he follows you into sleep.

You wake up far more bloated than you remember when you fell asleep but at least both your alphas knots had gone down.

Your alphas…

It was interesting to think of them like that after so long of them being your brother’s friends. Your alphas sounds…nice.

You scramble from between the two sleeping giants and rush to the bathroom to release the load they deposited in you. You watch your bloated stomach deflate and wonder what pregnancy would be like.

You quickly shake your head of the thought. No babies without mating! You don’t care how much your omega instincts want to take over, that was never going to happen!

You return to the main room and find Bucky and Steve had turned into more comfortable positions without being knotted inside of you. You still crawl in between them and curl over Bucky’s chest in exhaustion.

“Hey? You alright?” He yawns feeling your weight as you nuzzle into him. You just nod and attempt to snuggle further into his chest. “Hang on. I want my pick of spots. Sit up for a second.” You sleepily obey, sitting on your heels before him while he scrutinizes you. He tilts your head to the left and bares his fangs into your shoulder right above your scent gland. Your eyes widen at how simple it is. No posturing. No rituals. Just a mark and you already feel more drawn to him. “There. All mine,” Bucky smiles proudly. “Punk! Wake up and claim her!” You can’t help but giggle at the two before you slide into Steve’s arms. You hold up your head on the opposite side of Bucky’s for him and that’s it. He’s marked you for life. You feel his pull start to tug you in as well as you press a kiss to his lips. You crawl from his arms and attempt to curl back in between them.

“You are far too active for a pregnant woman,” Steve mutters turning over to face you. “It obviously didn’t take and we need to try again.”

“I agree,” Bucky laughs only for you to protest and use the sheets as a shield against them.

“We have all weekend, right? You two can destroy me again tomorrow?”

Bucky smirks at you knowingly before averting his gaze to Steve. “Only if that’s a promise, ‘mega.” Your eyes widen at your brunet alpha.

“Goodnight, kitten,” Steve wishes and presses a kiss to your temple. “Get some rest. You’re gonna need it.”

You were suddenly very awake.

“Kitten? Rise and shine, my beautiful little omega.” You curl further into the sheets after hearing your name.

“Too early,” you mumble.

“What happened to you being ours today? You promised.” You whine softly and peek from the pillows to see Bucky watching you expectantly. He’s already dressed for the day and so is Steve as he rubs your back from behind you. So sore. You wiggle your hips hoping to alleviate the pain but it doesn’t help.

“We should let her sleep in,” Steve sighs pulling you closer to him.

“She’s fine,” Bucky insists. “Get up and get dressed.” You stretch against Steve’s body, the sheets falling away from you and instantly reminding you that you’re completely naked. You let out a soft gasp and cover your chest out of instinct completely forgetting about last night’s activities.

“Shy all of the sudden?” Steve laughs and kisses your cheek. “You don’t have to hide from us. Come on. Get up.” You roll from the bed and stumble into the bathroom as the events from the previous evening start to flood your mind. You’re mated now. To your brother’s best friends...

He’s going to kill them.

Your eyes widen at the thought before you catch yourself in your reflection. Your braids are a tangled mess but under them you see two sets of semi circular marks on either side of your neck. You really are theirs now.

A shutter runs through your body and ends right at your core.

Theirs.

Your alphas.

This is kind of a lot to spring on someone after one night. You laugh at the situation. You never in a million years thought you’d be mated to Steve and Bucky. Sure you fantasized about it but it was never something you thought would become your reality.

You emerge from the bathroom freshly dressed in a short sun dress. “There she is,” Bucky smiles and pulls you into his arms. “You look so cute all dolled up for us.” You stand on your toes and press a kiss to his lips. He hums positively and pulls you back for more.

Steve chuckles from behind you. “Let her go so we can get some food. Gotta keep our little omega fed.”

You giggle and grab Steve’s hand as he leads you down to the hotel restaurant.

Your first time in public as a mated omega is interesting. All the attention you’re used to getting is gone? Well, not really gone. Alphas still look but they notice the marks you proudly bare on your neck and quickly glance away. It also didn’t help that your alphas were constantly all over you: making your plate, feeding you, making sure you got exactly what you wanted.

“Grab a jacket and something to keep you entertained,” Bucky instructs when you head back to the room.

“Am I going fishing with you guys?” You ask, stretching and yawning. You just wanted to go back to sleep. Steve gives you a positive hum while he gathers his things. “I can just hang out here. Get a massage or something,” you suggest. “Maybe a bigger room will be ready and I can move our stuff…”

“Nah, you can’t do that by yourself,” Bucky denies. “And we want you with us, kitten. It’ll be fun. Better than this stuffy hotel.”

“If you insist,” you sigh and follow them out to the truck. It’s a short drive to their fishing spot, maybe a little over half an hour. They’re quiet as the set up their gear so you set up a folding chair out of their way and work on your town.

“Kitten, you didn’t think you’d sit over there with your game all day, did you?” Bucky laughs calling you over. He grips your thigh under your dress and places a kiss on your hand.

“Is this fishing? Sitting around in the sun by the water?” You ask seeing their set up: a case of beers and a baseball game streaming on one of their iPads. How were they even getting a signal out here?

“Basically,” Steve smirks up at you, those beautiful eyes squinting in the sun. “I’m glad you wore a dress today. Less to work around.”

“Huh?” You question dumbly.

“Kitten, you remember how you promised to make us a baby this weekend?” Bucky asks pulling you closer by your leg.

“Right now?” You blanch looking around the forested landscape.

“Yes, right now. We have plenty of time.”

“What if someone sees?” You ask quietly.

“They’d get a beautiful show,” Steve sighs as Bucky’s hand snakes further up your leg to find your panties. He repositions you between his thighs before tugging the little piece of fabric down your legs. Bucky presses a kiss to your stomach just before his fingers find your slit.“Bucky,” you whisper, your face heating in embarrassment.

“Open up for me, kitten.” He kicks your feet apart and you fall into him, gripping his shoulders to keep your balance. His fingers tuck into your core, making a beaconing motion and immediately finding that spot he abused the night before. You let out a soft shriek as you grip his strong shoulders. Bucky lets out a satisfied hum and kisses your cleavage. “You’re so perfect for us. So glad we have you.”

“My alphas,” you breathe.

“Our perfect little omega,” Steve sighs stepping behind you hiking up your skirt over your ass. “With the best ass on the planet,” you hear the smile in his voice right before he smacks your ass roughly. “Open her up a little more for me, Buck.”

Bucky grips your ass and pulls your knees over his thighs on his folding chair. “Shit. Hold on,” Bucky grunts and stands with your legs around his waist. “Jacket, Stevie?”

Steve lays his jacket down for you to rest your knees on.

“Thank you, Stevie,” you smile.

“Anything for you, kitten.” Steve kisses you but you chase after his lips wanting more, both of their scents calming your nerves a little.

“Is this the same omega who was worried about being caught?” Bucky laughs gripping your bare ass.

“Bucky,” you giggle squirming in his grip.

“Calm down. We’re going to fuck you no matter what,” Steve jokes and kisses you once more. Bucky sits back down with your legs spread open for Steve, you can already feel your juices slipping from your core for them.

“There’s still some cum in you, kitten,” Steve sighs, swiping his fingers through your folds.

“I-it’s your fault,” you whimper.

Steve hums back, the sound of it runs straight down to your core. “My fault? It seems like I have a little kitten who needs to learn to clean up her messes.”

You drop your face into the bend of Bucky’s neck and inhale his scent. It’s so potent and heady you can barely think straight.

“Someone’s getting a little hazy,” Bucky sighs. “Your heat starting, kitten?”

“N-no!” You quickly deny and pull away from him.

“It’s okay. Come back.” He pulls you back into his embrace. “It’s okay if you can’t control it. That’s why we’re here.”

“Let us take care of that pesky heat,” Steve sighs. “You just be our sweet little omega.”

“Speaking of being our sweet little omega, do you wanna mark us, kitten?” Bucky asks pressing his lips to the mark Steve left on your shoulder.

“Y-you want me to…?” You question, your lids starting to feel heavy from the hormones suddenly overtaking your system.

Bucky gives you an affirmative hum, his lips never leaving your skin.

The thought never crossed your mind. You always assumed you’d belong to your alpha. Not the other way around.

It didn’t seem normal. Or, at least, no one ever talked about it.

“You’re sure you want me?” You whisper, trying to fight back the heat for a moment. It was coming no matter what at this point. It’s just a matter of letting it come.

“Kitten, we told you last night. We’ve wanted you for years,” Steve sighs, tilting your head back so you can see him.

“But you’re like a skittish little cat. You run at the first sign of danger. So we had to corner you,” Bucky adds trailing his fingers along your exposed cleavage.

“Get you alone, away from that protective brother of yours,” Steve smirks and kisses your forehead before releasing you.

“We want you, kitten. We have rooms made for you at our homes. Our kitchens are stocked with your favorite foods on the off chance you might come by. We just need you to submit.”

“B-both of you?” You breathe, glancing between the two of them.

“We’re a package deal, sweetheart,” Steve chuckles.

You watch Bucky’s chest for a moment, your fingers gripping his Henley lightly. You glance up at his blue eyes before shifting your gaze to his scent gland.

You nod slightly before leaning down to meet his skin. You kiss the area, trailing kisses until you find the perfect spot for your mark. Then you bite down hard and Bucky’s scent explodes for you. A fresh wave a slick coats your core and you almost feel faint.

“…so good,” you sigh out, mostly to yourself.

“If you like that, just wait for my rut,” Bucky grunts in your ear making your face heat. Everything suddenly feels so hot and your skin is so sensitive.

“My turn?” Steve asks, picking you up to cradle you against his chest. You nod and wrap your arms around his shoulders. You nuzzle against his neck, finding the perfect spot on him as well. Your lips explore his skin before you finally bite down. A whine escapes you as Steve’s scent overwhelms your senses. You grip his shoulders as a cramp runs through your body.

“Fuck, kitten, I felt that,” Steve groans.

“You need someone to scratch that itch?” Bucky asks.

“It’s more than an itch, Buck. She needs to get fucked,” Steve laughs and places you back in his lap.

“Is that right, kitten? You need to get fucked?” A soft whine escapes your lips as you squirm in Bucky’s lap.

You nod weakly. There’s no use in hiding it now. They know you carnally. They feel everything you feel and they definitely feel the slick dripping down your thighs.

“Good girl,” Steve sighs. Steve spreads your lips with his fingers and thrusts in so slowly you feel every ridge and vein adorning his cock. The moan that escapes your lips is feral. You need this. You need them.

Steve completely buries himself in you and your jaw falls open dumbly.

“Fuck,” Steve groans. “You feels amazing, kitten.”

You feel your core clinch around him so tightly it’s almost painful.

Bucky lifts you up while you’re still impaled on Steve’s cock. He unzips his own pants and spreads your cheeks. His fingers wipe up the slick seeping out of your core before fingering your puckered hole.

“Deep breath kitten,” he sighs as he massages your insides, spreading the slick until you’re nice and slippery. “Keep breathing for me.”

Then you feel him. His thick head starting to breech that hole where it definitely shouldn’t.

“Too big,” you whine and struggle between them but before you know it, Bucky is fully sheathed within you.

Part of starts to panic as your heart and breaths race.

“Calm down, little omega. We’re gonna take care of you,” Steve coos.

“Very good care of you,” Bucky agrees.

You return to the hotel and the woman at the front desks apologizes again and hands Steve the keycards to the room he initially booked. The three of you look at each other before Steve speaks. “Actually, do you have any king suites available?”

You let your alphas carry your luggage to your new room. There were much more amenities than the last one. A kitchenette, a jacuzzi, a separate living room and bedroom.

“This a little better kitten?” Bucky asks wrapping his arms around your waist.

You nod and accept a kiss. Your phone vibrates on the table and a picture of your brother pops up on the screen. You pull away from Bucky’s grip and press a kiss to his lips before answering your phone.

“Hey, Sammy! How you feeling?”

“Way better! So I drove out to meet you guys. I knew you didn’t want to be left alone with those jokers for too long.” Your eyes widen and meet Bucky’s gaze like a deer in a set of headlights.

“What’s wrong?” Steve asks throwing himself on the bed after he finishes unpacking again.

“Um, S-Sam…Sam is-Sam is…”

Bucky plucks the phone from your fingers. “Hello?” Bucky asks all concern but his face quickly lights up. “Hey! Yeah! Come on up. Room 532.” He hangs up your phone and places it back in your hands. “Sammy’s here,” he tells Steve as if it’s completely normal.

“Cool! I’m glad he’s feeling better.”

“The couch pulls out. I’m not moving rooms again,” Bucky sighs and pulls you to the bed.

“Wait!” You cry. “He-he’s gonna know. He’s gonna kill us!”

“I’d like to see him try,” Bucky laughs rubbing your stomach comfortably. “What are we doing for dinner?”

“I was just looking…there’s a steak house in town, twenty minutes away.”

“Steak sounds good. Anything for our kitten there?”

“They have salmon, shrimp risotto, oh! Lobster ravioli! You love lobster ravioli.” You do love lobster ravioli but your brother is about to see that his two best friends obviously fucked his little sister and you were all about to be on his shit list.

How can they be so calm about this?

There’s a knock at the door all too soon before you could even start to process a defense for the situation.

Steve gets up to answer the door and you hear the two best friends greet each other. Sam sounds so happy.

Too happy!

You start to panic when Bucky’s hand finds yours.

“Hey, relax. We’ll handle this. That’s what alphas are for.”

“Where my baby sister?” You hear Sam call and you pull away from Bucky and stumble from the bedroom. Steve brushes your lower back as you step up to Sam. You look up into his brown eyes and he instantly knows something is off.

He inhales your scent and sets a glare on Steve. “You fucked my little sister.” It wasn’t a question.

“Can you blame us, Sam? We’ve wanted her for far too long. We weren’t going to pass this up.”

“We? Both of you?” His gaze falls back on you. “Are you okay?”

You cock your head to the side. Are you okay? You let out a laugh and fall into a fit of giggles. “Surprisingly, I survived,” you breathe out through your laughter.

“Are you okay with this?” Sam asks once you sober.

You glance between the two men on either side of you. “I’m really happy, actually. They’re perfect,” you smile and grip Steve’s hand.

Sam glances between the three of you. “As long as you’re happy.”

“Anyway, we were thinking steak for dinner. You hungry?” Bucky asks and grabs Sam’s bag off of his shoulder.

“Starving,” Sam sighs. “Traffic was horrible.”

“Right? Poor kitten’s switch died and she was stuck just listening to us. She’s a fucking saint for that.” You giggle falling into Bucky’s chest.

“I think I fell asleep at some point,” you smile.

“And the room situation has been a nightmare. You don’t mind sleeping on the pull out?” Steve asks leading your brother into the room.

“Let me guess, they were out of three bedrooms and it was the one bed situation and now I have to watch my sister and my two best friends act like mates?”

“Yeah! That’s exactly it, actually,” Steve laughs.

“And we did mate her. You’re pretty good at this, Samuel,” Bucky smirks.

Sam looks between the three of you absolutely dumbfounded. “Alright,” he lets out a shaky exhale. “Give me a few days to adjust to this. Please.”

Bucky grins cheekily. “Should we start calling you brother, yet?”

“What about ‘a few of days’ aren’t you getting, Buck?”

“Your sister’s anything but quiet so you’re gonna hear about it all night,” Steve smirks.

“You know what, I’m just going to get my own room. I don’t wanna hear it.” You giggle softly at your brother’s comment. “Just don’t hurt my sister and you three can do whatever you want.”

“You know we could never, Sammy,” Steve grins.

“At least not in a way she wouldn’t beg for,” Bucky smirks.

“Stop! I told you I don’t wanna hear it. I’m not listening,” Sam calls before grabbing his bag and heading back downstairs.

“Wouldn’t it be funny if the only room left was the one next door?” Steve hums, pulling you closer and resting his chin on your head.

“Or the one we just left,” Bucky muses.

“Fine! I’ll get a different hotel!” Sam groans making you laugh again.

“Be nice, boys. We’ll behave.”

“You have to behave first, kitten,” Steve mutters before pressing a kiss to your temple.

“Definitely staying in a different hotel,” Sam sighs.

“Yeah, whatever,” Bucky smirks. “Like you’ll leave her alone with us for another night. Let’s go get some food.”

Master List

[tyrantisterror]

My Childhood Wonder Grew Up

Yesterday I wrote a short post about how I had a smutty story idea that none of the friends I showed it to discouraged me from developing, and as a result it's, uh, developed into something I might actually make. And because the past two months have been ABSOLUTE HELL, especially for any other more fruitful/less smutty creative endeavors of mine, I feel the need to share something I've created to validate my existence in some way. But because this idea is, again, shamelessly smutty and self indulgent, I'm going to give you a proper warning of what you're getting into so you can back out from looking at it.

Ok... so... I'm a big Digimon fan, or at least a big fan of the first three seasons/series of Digimon anime - I feel they kind of dropped off in both story and monster design after Digimon Tamers, though they've been returning to form lately. Have you seen Dinomon? Dinomon kicks ass, even managed to supplant Plesiomon as my favorite mega.

But anyway! Digimon designs vary a lot more in aesthetics than pokemon do, but the best ones all have this cool grungy punk rock feel to them. And because Digimon was the punk rock to Pokemon's pop music, it had more edge to it. Yeah, your dinosaur buddy could evolve into a bigger dinosaur if you want, but it could also evolve into THE FUCKING DEVIL if you played your cards right/wrong. And while the Digimon animes have more or less focused on the most logical evolutions - little dinosaur becomes bigger dinosaur becomes cyborg dinosaur becomes, like, humanoid dinosaur knight - there's a part of my brain that's always thought about how you could take the "person partnered with an evolving monster" setup in a weird direction. Like, what happens if your fun monster pal digivolves into one of those nightmarish Final Boss digimons like Diaboromon or Apocalymon? What if you had a partner who digivolved into one of the "garbage" monsters, i.e. the pathetic, gross, mostly useless digimon that were a result of you sucking at playing the virtual pet game these were originally made for?

Or... I mean, I warned you this was a smutty idea... what if your digimon partner evolved into one of the hot digimons? Like any of the MANY digimons that are basically monster girl dominatrixes? What if your partner turns into LadyDevimon?

And that silly, smutty idea just rattled in my head for a while. 'Cause there's sort of a fun twist you can do on the stock "I've grown up and my childhood friend is now hot and I don't know how to process that" plotline in romance stories with it, you know? Because how does that cliche storyline change if the childhood friend in question was originally a three foot tall lizard, but now she's a nine foot tall dragon-woman?

It's a smutty idea! A terrible, shameful, smutty idea!

...

but no one's stopped me, so...

My Childhood Wonder Grew Up! is the story of five ten year olds who accidentally wandered into another world filled with monsters called wondersprites. Partnering up with five of these wondersprites, the kids went on a grand and harrowing adventure to defeat the Dread Kings, five uniquely strong and wicked wondersprites who were deadset on ruling both the World of Wonder and the human world with a tyrannical iron fist. They defeated the evil, parted with their wondersprite friends, and sealed off the World of Wonder forever, becoming celebrities in the human world in the process.

And then eight years passed.

The "Wonderkids" have graduated high school, and are all struggling with the burden of childhood fame, the gnawing fear that their lives may have peaked when they were preteens, a complete loss as to what they should do with their adult lives, and most of all, a deep sense of grief at being parted with the weird creatures they had befriended during that bizarre and wondrous childhood adventure. As they step out of childhood into adulthood, something remarkable happens.

Wondersprites reappear in the human world, chief among them are their old partners. Except their partners have grown up too, transitioning past what was thought to be the final level of their life cycle. And their new forms are... unexpected.

The leader of the "Wonderkids" was/is Ren Akari. Once a bold, confident (perhaps even overconfident) kid with a flashy and bizarre sense of fashion, Ren's lost all that brash attitude over eight years of people mocking their childhood exuberance and role as the face of the Wonderkids. Now they just want to be invisible, covering themselves in dark and muted clothing, hiding their face (and their goggles - try as they might, Ren can't give up all their childhood habits) beneath a hood, and generally trying to shrink from the public eye as best as they are able.

Their sprite, Scaly Wonder, was a sweet dragon that could match and exceed Ren's enthusiasm pound for pound. She's kept that exuberance, but in her new form it reads a bit differently than it did when she was a pudgy (if badass) dragon.

(Ren and Scaly both identified as male when they were kids, but as young adults they identify as nonbinary and female respectively).

The "bad boy" of the Wonderkids, Colt Ford was stoic, aloof, and generally had an air of being too cool for all this fantasy isekai bullshit. He was always the first to criticize Ren's leadership, but also the first to jump into the fray to help out his friends. Though he often insisted to the contrary, it was clear he cared a great deal for his friends, especially his bird-like partner, Feathery Wonder.

Colt has, unfortunately, remains distant, aloof, and closed off through his adolescence, growing into a young man who's even more shut off from his feelings than he was as a kid. That's ok, though, it's what a man's supposed to be according to his parents.

Colt's partner, Feathery Wonder, has struggled to live up to those same expectations. Though he's definitely tried to keep getting stronger like colt wanted, somewhere along the way he crashed, and his new form is... well, it's anything but strong, though it does has surprising utility in helping out the other wondersprites with mid-battle upgrades.

A tomboy whose confidence almost matched Ren's, Jaime Shannon was the heart of the group in many ways, mending disagreements between the other Wonderkids and always making sure they remembered they were in this together. Jaime was never afraid to speak her mind, and also enjoyed playfully ribbing her friends when they got too wrapped up in themselves.

Unfortunately, that confidence was relentlessly criticized when Jaime and the other Wonderkids were put in the public eye after saving the world, with many tabloids and pundits singling her out as a "bad role model." Jaime purposely tried to distance herself from her childhood personality as much as possible, becoming prim, soft-spoken, and very traditionally feminine in a hope to prove she's not the grubby tomboy everyone thought she was.

Her wondersprite partner is Shaggy Wonder, a fuzzy furball of a creature who was perhaps the most self-serious of the lot, constantly making heroic proclamations and speeches, much to Jaime's amusement. He's still like that, of course, but with his much more heroic build, he's beginning to look like he might actually live up to his own hype now.

Seymore Sullivan was a scrawny, bookish kid who tried to live up to the idea of brains beating brawn, often with very limited success. Though shy and full of insecurities, he proved an important asset to the Wonderkids, as his wealth of knowledge and analytical mind allowed him to devise strategies his fellow ten-year-olds could not think of on their own.

Seymore had a very eventful journey of self discovery after the whole Wondersprite Adventure. She goes by Siobhan now, and with that change in identity she seems to have gained all the self confidence that many of her fellow Wonderkids lost.

Siobhan's partner was Crawly Wonder, a goofy and mischievous wondersprite who took a playful and irreverent attitude to their adventure in the World of Wonder, even when things got VERY perilous. Though Crawly loves putting people off kilter, they're a little worried their newest transition might be too much - it looks a little terrifying, doesn't it?

(Siobhan/Seymore identified as male when she was young but now identifies as female, while Crawly Wonder was and is nonbinary)

A girly girl through and through, Cassie (yes, Cassie, ignore the name I wrote on the paper, this is all a work in progress and shit will change) Vasquez may have been a bit whiny in the eyes of her peers, but she also had the strongest moral core out of all of them, and was the most successful at winning other sprites over to their side and away from the rule of the Dread Kings. She proved again and again that her femininity was an asset, aided by the help of her surprisingly versatile aquatic wondersprite.

Cassie has grown up to be a bit less traditionally feminine, though she would say her love of all things lady has only grown with age. She picks and chooses aspects of various alternative lifestyles that suit her - a little hippie here, a little punk there, etc. - and of all the Wonderkids, she's the one who most openly pines for the World of Wonder, even sporting several tattoos in explicit honor of her wondersprite partner.

Said sprite, Slippy Wonder, was invaluable in the water as would be expected, but also surprisingly capable of holding her own on land, battering enemies with her venomous tentacles. Slippy also openly pines for a reunion with Cassie, and is even more overjoyed than the others that the World of Wonder is connected to the human world again.

While the return of wondersprites to the human world is, ostensibly, the conflict that the Wondernot-quite-kids and their partners need to solve, the meat of My Childhood Wonder Grew Up lies in how their relationships to each other have changed now that they've grown up. Sure, there's a new Wondersprite Adventure for them to solve, with threats both old and new alike to deal with and a big mystery to solve, but all of that is hard to focus on for our no-longer-kid protagonists. As much as it seems like their childhood is back again, can it really be when they themselves have changed so much?

And also... are they gonna smooch those monsters? 'Cause some of them are... oddly smoochable.

...so yeah, that's the smutty little idea I've come up with and no one has stopped me yet. None of this is set in stone, naturally - I might age up the kids a bit, for example. Like, 18 feels thematically appropriate, it's the official transition point between childhood and adulthood, and graduating high school feels like a potent time to explore the feelings of leaving childhood behind and entering adulthood... but also I'm thirty-six and 18 doesn't really feel like an adult age to me now, even if legally it is, you feel me? Twenty would feel more appropriate, even if it's a less thematically interesting age.

And either way this probably won't come to fruition for, like, MANY years yet - when I get back my writing mojo I will be going right back to Maude and Mordi, and Wizard School Mysteries still has five books to go yet, and Dark Chivalry needs to fit in there somewhere too, not to mention a polished version of At Sea Without a Map and the 10th anniversary special editions of No Sympathies and ATOM Volumes 1 and 2...

But someday, maybe, we'll see this become a thing. A smutty, smutty thing.

[bonne-chanson]

a/n: first part of the stormbringer collection! <3 i’ve never published anything for verlaine despite him being my favorite (also because i just started this blog a few months ago lmao) but here he is! i hope i did him justice :> on another note, please assume that everything i write for will be gender neutral unless specified through request! this is also my first time writing a fic this long (and a first attempt at slow burn and drama…) anyway, happy birthday, paul! 🥳 here’s over thirty pages of a fanfic. oh, and another thing, this is canon-divergent! the flags are alive because of you ;>

i. mars, bringer of war

the first movement of the planets suite (masterlist).

✑ character/s: paul verlaine x reader

✑ short desc: paul verlaine has only ever known a life of violence and bloodshed. the first time he comes to know what tranquility and peace are like is through you.

✑ content includes: romance ; drama ; slight angst ; slow burn ; canon-divergent (the flags live, but for a price) ; paul verlaine needs a hug ; nsfw (MDNI!)

✑ word count: 15.4k words

Inside Paul Verlaine brewed a tumultuous storm of anger, anguish and despair — something once akin to a vicious, feral dog now turned into the likeness of barren weeping willow. In the eye of such a complex storm laid the kind of emptiness understood and able to be empathized with by no one else but himself, only adorned by a deep sense of grief and graced by a hint of envy and longing for something beyond his very existence.

Paul Verlaine was not human, no matter how much he yearned to be one. An innate sense of humanity was something he simply did not have.

At least, that was what he believed his origins dictated him to be.

Much the same way sculptures were crafted and portraits were painted, he was also born by the hand of a human being; carefully shaped with a firm idea in mind, built finely with the kind of details meant to follow a certain image in one’s head, and formed particularly to suit the desires and the planned design of the artist. Yet while the paintings of Monet and the statues of Michelangelo could be looked at by people with the kind of admiration any other human being would be able to coax out of another, however, Paul would be looked at in terror and disgust — the kind of reactions he soon grew to become more familiar with over time.

For what is a man-made being fated to become, when created with the sole purpose of destruction in joy and love’s stead?

Paul Verlaine was made to be a weapon — born through creation, ironically made to obliterate on command. A bringer of war, they said, a being made for the sake of bloodshed and demolition.

Violent. Cataclysmic. Inherently inhuman.

He had long since given up on any attempt to cope and come to terms with his inhumanity, much less make himself feel human, allowing himself to sink deeper into the only lifestyle fit for a being like him: assassination. After all, there was no point in trying to convince himself he was a part of something bigger the same way everyone else was, not when he was so alien. A God above existed, but that same God did not love him enough to give him the same sense of belonging every other human received the moment they were born — he was sure of it.

And soon after, his name would be whispered among even the strongest in his field, uttered with caution by passersby and spat with spite by the most elite of anyone he made an enemy of. Nobody in their right mind ever went up to the soulless King of Assassins to face him head-on, at the very least not willingly, not if they wanted to die with their lives lived in full.

The first time you had ever heard of the name Paul Verlaine was on the day of Chuuya’s one-year anniversary as a mafioso.

“Chuuya,” the European man before you had bent down on one knee, bowing his head towards the russet-haired boy as he would to royalty, “I have come to protect you.”

In the midst of playing a happy game of pool with your friends, the Flags, to celebrate your youngest member’s first year of survival in the mafia, chaos ensued when a brunet man had somehow managed to enter the Old World bar that the seven of you often frequented. Albatross had thrown his kukri at the foreigner first, reacting quickly before being followed by Piano Man’s strangling wires and the thrusts of Iceman’s cue stick — all of which were dodged easily by the man dressed in blue. And even when Lippmann’s gunshots were fired and Doc’s lethal injections were aimed at him, not a single scratch scathed his skin, and he had avoided each attack by a mere whisker.

“I did not come here to fight you,” he clarified, fixing his suit. “My name is Adam Frankenstein. I am a Europole detective.”

The tension in the room changed the moment he spoke.

“...You’re a cop, huh?” Piano Man smirked, fingers flexing to ready the wires twisting between them. “We seem to have come to a misunderstanding, then, Adam. It was a mistake on your part thinking that a cop could waltz in here and make it out alive.”

He then turned to Chuuya.

“Chuuya, consider this another one of your one-year anniversary presents! You’re free to break his arms and legs as you please!” he says with a hearty laugh, about to wrap another wire around his neck until—

“Wait,” you interject, preparing to reason with the rest. Though you had no ability, considered no more powerful than that of Yokohama’s average civilian, you were still their friend, and as their friend, they held a great deal of value for your opinions, too. “Let’s hear him out first.”

With a polite nod of his head, Adam momentarily looks at you. “Thank you.” He dusts away the rest of the debris tainting his well-pressed clothes before facing everyone else. “I was created by the skill user engineer Dr. Wollstonecraft. I am the first autonomous humanoid supercomputer in existence. Again, my name is Adam Frankenstein, and I have come to arrest the assassin who is after your life.”

Albatross raises both brows, picking his kukri back up to sling it over his shoulder. “An assassin?”

“That’s right,” the robot responds. “The assassin’s name is Verlaine — Paul Verlaine.”

Paul Verlaine… You allow the name to linger in your head for a little longer, ingraining itself into your thoughts.

(You have absolutely no idea just how much those thoughts would consume you later on.)

“...Verlaine?” Chuuya muttered before his gaze became fixed on Adam. “How do you know that name?”

“You know this guy, Chuuya?”

Straightening his knee, Adam stands, his posture exuding an aura of pristine perfection. “You cannot defeat Verlaine alone, Chuuya, which is why I was sent here. He is no ordinary assassin, you see,” he warns. “Paul Verlaine is known globally as the King of Assassins—”

There is a short pause, and for a moment, you would have been able to sense the hesitation in his voice (if there was any) had it not been for his mechanical intonation.

“—and your older brother.”

Chuuya can only frown in response. “That can’t be true.”

Paul Verlaine is dead.

At least, that’s what he believed.

It was what Rimbaud had told him the year before — Paul Verlaine, his long-time partner, was dead. Shot and killed after an incident that happened at the research facility located in Suribachi City. The Arahabaki Incident that occurred prior to Chuuya’s recruitment into the Port Mafia involved the betrayal of one of their sub-executives who created a god, and the root of the incident could be traced back to nine years ago at the end of the war.

Two European agents and highly adept skill users Arthur Rimbaud and Paul Verlaine both managed to steal Arahabaki from the former national defense force, whose primary focus was to research an artificial skill-derived life-form: Arahabaki itself. Verlaine, however, had other plans—

And chose to betray Rimbaud at the very site of the mission.

According to Rimbaud, his partner wanted to take Arahabaki all for himself and it eventually led to a fight that escalated into something violent. Rimbaud eventually emerged victorious for the price of having to kill Verlaine, although their battle alerted the military’s attention and their tracking unit, and due to his injuries, he had no choice but to absorb Arahabaki and use the skill as his own, losing most of his strength and his memories in the process. Thus, the Impostor Predecessor Incident was staged in an attempt to lure out the real Arahabaki — Chuuya Nakahara.

And as soon as Chuuya finishes elaborating the entire fiasco, Adam shakes his head. “No, I must correct you,” he says. “Paul Verlaine is still very much alive.”

You lean in a little more, intrigued by the statement, which seems to surprise the rest of your friends; you had always been known for your gentler personality among them, never really choosing to involve yourself in any quarrels and dangerous situations, so this came off as quite the shocker. “What evidence do you have?”

“I can prove it,” Adam replies, his tone leaning into being a little more serious, “but doing so would violate my obligation to secrecy in regard to the mission. The only individual concerned in this matter is Chuuya, ergo he is the only one authorized to learn the details.”

“Can’t we have at least some form of proof?” you argue, catching the interest of the Flags. Your enthusiasm towards the affair seems to have caught their attention as well. “We’re already involved in this, too. I mean… as much as the issue may be about Chuuya’s past, we deserve to know at least the significant details so we’re well-aware of what we may be dealing with.” There is a short pause before you add, “Chuuya is our friend, too, after all.”

(You have absolutely no idea how your interjection just saved their lives.)

As if processing your words, Adam blinks before handing you a file holder from behind his back.

“Huh? Where did he get that from?” Albatross questions, looking back and forth between you and the foreign man. “Did he just—?”

“I suppose I can provide you with some evidence without breaching the regulations assigned to me,” he says, handing you the file holder.

You thank him promptly before opening the file holder, the Flags piling up behind you to take a peek as well.

“Yoshino Ryota,” Iceman says, his tone carrying a sense of familiarity. “Wasn’t he one of the two guards at the top floor of HQ?”

Doc tugs his IV pole closer to him as he looks over the document. “If I remember correctly, the boss had the two of them replaced only recently after an incident occurred — something about one of their heads getting blown off and the other getting minced.”

“Death by implosion?” Lippmann finds himself wincing at the descriptions offered by each document. “How brutal…” he murmurs.

You hand the sheets over to Piano Man, turning to Adam yet again. “Is there anything else you could provide us with?”

“Whoa, (Y/N),” your leader snickers, a little amused by your zealous behavior. “You’re awfully fascinated by this whole ordeal. Mind sharing?”

You feel your face burn up at his sudden accusation. You? Fascinated? You were only being a good friend by taking as many precautions as possible. You couldn’t fight and neither did you have any ability to your name, but you still wanted to be as useful as possible to them in order to aid their safety.

(Again, you have absolutely no idea that what you are doing right now ends in saving their lives.)

“I’m just… trying to help,” you mutter, a little shy now. “Verlaine is the King of Assassins for a reason, after all. Better safe than sorry, you know?”

“(Y/N)’s right.” Chuuya stands in front of the closed door. “This may be my problem, but if something ever happened to any of you guys, I don’t think I could just ignore it. I’d try to help whether you liked it or not; I bet the rest of you’d feel the same way.” He looks at Adam, his gaze now stern. “That being said, detective, spit it out and tell ‘em, too, or I’m not cooperating.”

Adam nods. “I understand perfectly how you feel, Chuuya,” he replies, his voice a warm assurance. “You value your friendships and make decisions accordingly. I suppose this is what is called human nature.” And suddenly, he’s approaching the shorter boy with a graceful stride in each step. “Very well. I will give up on trying to persuade you and instead propose a different method.”

And out of Adam’s elbows shoots two anchored wires, spinning around in the air before wrapping around Chuuya. The magnets on each anchor connect, binding him in the process, leaving him confused and irritated as the brunet hoists him under his arm and leaps out of the doorway.

“My mission is the priority, and it is what you humans would call—”

He pauses, mulling the words over in his system.

“...one’s nature, I suppose. Therefore, I will be borrowing Chuuya for the next thirty minutes,” he announces, and within the next few moments, he’s off running to the next residential district with Chuuya in tow.

Awkwardly, you stare at the open door before you, pursing your lip.

“...So,” Albatross coughs, “what now?”

Iceman can only shrug, taking a cube of cue chalk from the pool table to rub at the tip of his cue stick. “All we can really do is wait.”

Everyone is quiet for a good moment, letting the awkwardness of the situation pass before Piano Man speaks up.

“Iceman’s right,” he says. “I say we have our fun while waiting.” Picking up the rack from the side, he grabs each billiard ball and places them inside, shaking the triangle for a bit to even out the spacing between each one. “How about we help ourselves to another round?”

You shrug and smile, walking towards the table to grab a cue stick of your own. “I’m down.”

No one argued against it — if anything, they were all for it. It was precisely because of that that the pool hall became full of its usual noise: the clacking of sticks against the cue ball, the combination of cheers and trash-talking, the sizzle of the alcohol being poured and the chime of the glasses clinking together. It was a scene you would never, under any circumstance, find yourself wanting to trade for anything else in the world. And why would you when you were blessed with such a closely-knit group of friends who would always be there for you during your ups and downs, your worst moments and best celebrations?

(Little did you know.)

One by one, each sphere began to fall into the pocket points, eventually only leaving one left during your turn. All eyes were on you now, and only a singular point was needed in order for you to bring home the gold.

Carefully, you aim, the chalked-up tip of your stick very breathily brushing up against the white cue ball before you as you make your attempt to center your push against the remaining red pool ball. The alcohol, however, makes it difficult for your hands to focus, quivering as they try to stabilize themselves for your point’s sake.

That’s when you feel a pair of arms slither gingerly up around your own, steadying your hands on the stick to allow you to focus better.

“Here,” a suave, familiar voice murmurs beside your ear, and for a moment, your breath hitches in your throat; you can’t tell if the warmth blooming across your cheeks is coming from the beer or the contact. “I know the booze makes it difficult for you to keep your hands in check, so aim like this.”

And then—

Clack!

Albatross’ jaw drops and he whines, stomping his foot on the ground almost childishly. “No fair, Lippmann! You can’t just leech onto (Y/N) for a point like that!”

Lippmann’s laugh is canorous. You find yourself stunned at his voice — as is the situation with everyone else in the room — when he chuckles at Albatross’ complaint, only waving a hand to dismiss the younger Flag’s protests. Staring at him was something you simply couldn’t help yourself doing, not with his unusually handsome face and sweet, attractive smile. His beauty, after all, was unrivaled; whether he decided to dress in men’s or women’s fashion, anyone would find themselves falling too easily for him.

You were no exception to the rule. Though you never looked at him in any other way than as friends, the thought of him being so beautiful that it stilled your heart every now and then would still sometimes catch you by surprise.

Smiling, your hand reaches up to squeeze his shoulder playfully. “I’m giving him half my point since he helped me gain it.”

The others groan and mutter to themselves about the entire ball game being unfair, with Piano Man even huffing about how the blond had, yet again, used his charms to work his way out of last place.

Unbeknownst to everyone else in the room, however, and including yourself, the actor’s gaze lingers upon you for a little longer than it should while you laugh, blissfully unaware of his attention. You’ve never known anything about the way his body would naturally gravitate to yours under any setting, the way he would every so often mirror your speech patterns just to keep you interested in the conversation, or the way he’d speak softer around you, his language a little more gentle than with the others. It’s why you never bothered to acknowledge it — to acknowledge him.

His thoughts, however, are cut when the ring of your phone echoes throughout the pool hall, and with a long sigh, you excuse yourself quickly to take it, only to find that you’re being summoned by your friends’ boss himself.

And so, with a brief farewell and a promise to return shortly, you leave, the sounds of laughter, alcohol glasses and billiard balls becoming more distant as you walk outside the Old World bar.

The first time you had ever heard of the name Paul Verlaine was on the day of Chuuya’s one-year anniversary as a mafioso, and the first time you see him personally is only hours after through smoke and ruin.

“Hm?” Amidst the grunts and groans of your friends and the wreckage of the place you once called your safe haven, you freeze, unable to move a limb in fear. “I don’t exactly recall seeing any record of you anywhere.” He pauses, not even turning to you to see your face. “Nor have I heard of a person like you being in Chuuya’s life before.”

There was no warning. Everything went down to hell while none other than the boss had attempted to recruit you into the Port Mafia earlier (to which you had politely turned down, saying you’ll “think about it”); Paul Verlaine had entered the Old World bar so casually — almost as if he were nothing but and under the guise of a regular customer, ready to drown himself in alcohol after a particularly overwhelming day. Not a single person in the room had assumed otherwise given his attire was that of a normal black suit and the sunglasses that all mailmen of the Port Mafia wore as their uniform, and the only addition to his ensemble was the porkpie hat similar to that of Chuuya’s. Yet before they knew it, their bodies were thrown all over the place as if they were mere ragdolls, their weapons practically comparable to toys against the only man left standing in the room.

Piano Man was bloodied up, strangled by his own wires with multiple lacerations decorating his body; Iceman had been stabbed with his own cue stick from earlier, the other half of it sunken too deep into his body for him to move; Albatross had been slashed cleanly by the kukri he frequented, his body left to lay in a pool of his own blood; Doc’s bones had been crushed enough to render him motionless, the pain so severe that he cannot even scream—

And Lippmann…

Lippmann was being held up by the throat, limp and almost breathless, his hands wrapped around the stranger’s wrist in a useless attempt to free himself. His eyes, typically a beautiful shine of earthy brown, were glazed over and wet from asphyxiation, his usually kept blond hair was a complete mess from being tossed around, and his pristine cream-colored crombie coat was dripping with red. The one who held you earlier and sobered you up during a game of pool with your friends to help earn you a point, the first one next to Piano Man who welcomed you into the Flags, the one whom you felt closest to in the group was now in the very hands of death himself.

And death, as you would have liked to call the perpetrator, only stared him down, his brown eyes so distantly cold as he watched the actor in his grasp suffocate.

“(Y– Y/N)...” your friend manages to choke out between desperate gasps, “run—!”

“How peculiar,” Verlaine murmurs aloud, using his free hand to brush away some of the stray strands of hair splayed across Lippmann’s face, getting a better view of his beaten-up complexion. “If my research tells me I’m correct, you were supposed to be the most difficult one to kill.”

You can only stand there, completely still in terror, your legs aching to do as Lippmann says and bolt out of there as fast as you can, yet they shake so uncontrollably that you would have thought you’d collapse by now. Rapid thumping beats against your ribcage as your mouth goes dry, and you find that your hands and feet have quite literally gone cold, numbing themselves to any form of escape as if they had suddenly shut themselves down on instinct.

“Well,” the breathiness — disappointment — in his voice snaps you back out of being in your own head, “you didn’t exactly put up much of a fight, now did you?”

It was almost as if you weren’t even there. Your presence was barely acknowledged by him, and though you suppose that may be quite the plus when it comes to your survival, your friends were all barely being grazed on the cheek by death’s fingertips and all you could do was stand there with the thought of being next.

Verlaine sighs in mock compassion. “Pity… I’d say this is the most awful way for you to go out, no? What, with you born with such luck, after all — blessed with such a beautiful face…”

The hand formerly tucking away Lippmann’s hair behind his ear grabs him by the face.

“A career in which your hands are able to remain clean…”

The assassin’s fingers press against your friend’s throat a little tighter, leading him to start choking on his own saliva.

“People who adore you endlessly…”

His lips begin to turn blue from the lack of air, and Verlaine can only smirk.

“Friends who love you to death...” He watches Lippmann’s eyes roll back, hands wrapped around his wrist in a desperate attempt to flee slowly going limp. “Don’t worry, I’m not so merciless. I’ll grant you the favor of eternal sleep first.”

And then he smiles so kindly that it almost confuses you.

“That way, you can end your perfect life without having to see the rest of your loved ones suffer.”

“No, don’t!”

Verlaine blinks.

His head snaps over to look at you, and much like a deer caught in the headlights, you stay put.

“…Oh, goodness, what’s this?” he adds, a small smirk gracing his features as he glances back at Lippmann. “You truly are quite the blessed one, aren’t you? A pretty face, a good career, loving friends… and a darling partner to boot.”

Lippmann tries his best to turn his gaze at you, drool seeping from the corner of his lip and down his chin at the lack of air. Even at the touch of death, he still thinks of you.

“(Y/N)—“ he squeaks, coughing and gasping, “don’t—!”

“(Y/N), hm…? Come now, let them speak,” Verlaine coos, tightening his grasp on the blond’s neck, blooming purples and blues across the expanse of his throat.

Your breath gets caught in your lungs as all sorts of possibilities race through your head at the same time, all of which ending in a single outcome: he’d make a quick kill out of you, regardless of it being by crushing your head into a pulp or by making your heart implode. You had easily come to the conclusion that Paul Verlaine was too talented of a killer to be stopped by a mere civilian like you; if he had managed to take down five of the most skilled and feared members of the Port Mafia by himself without so much as breaking a sweat, then what could you do?

A weak cough interrupts your train of thought as your eyes follow the sound, leading you to a bloodied Albatross with a large gash across his chest, gushing red.

“...(Y/N),” he chokes weakly, “run…”

Yet with a trembling lip and glossy eyes, you stand your ground, looking up at the dangerous man before you again, trying your best to brave yourself.

You allow yourself the luxury of ingraining his appearance in your head first, however, even if not willingly—

And there is no denial that the assassin in front of you is a beautiful being.

He stands so elegantly, his posture balanced and effortless even as he holds another man by the throat so violently — a stark contrast to the air of poise he radiates. Blond hair perfectly frames his face in a relaxed flow of waves, the right side of his face obscured by his bangs and the left decorated by a small braid that blends well into the rest of his long, tied hair. Rich brown eyes bore into yours with the kind of intensity swirling in them that would have left you breathless had it not already been for the anxiety swallowing you whole, and even the way he dresses is sleek, not a wrinkle in his suit to be seen. The general atmosphere around him emits a kind of finesse and grace you would only be able to find in a fairy tale’s Prince Charming with the complexion of an ancient Nordic god, and, if you were bold enough to think of it, the tempting prowess of the devil himself.

Paul Verlaine is a handsome man, almost irritatingly so.

“You aren’t supposed to be here.” He tilts his head to the side and his voice almost comforts you, snapping you out of being stuck in your own head completely. “I had planned to make this quick.”

The dryness of your lips prevents you from responding as urgently as you would have liked to, and you find yourself tripping over your own words. “I… please, don’t…”

“Don’t what?"

You wince, your knees locking while his sharp words cut through you like a knife.

“Don’t— don’t kill them,” you sputter, breaths uneven and stance unsteady.

Entertained, he loosens his grip on Lippmann’s neck, and a sense of hope washes over your entire being at the action. It’s not nearly enough to keep him alive, but the chances of you doing something — anything — to help keep them alive and breathing were still there.

“Why?”

Your hands go cold yet again and you feel that familiar twist in your stomach make a knot. One excuse runs after the other in your head in a pathetic attempt to conjure up a justification good enough for him to let your friends go and to leave all of you alone, yet you know well enough that for a man only concerned with his kill, much the same as a predator ready to pounce on prey, no reason nor rebuttal will be adequate enough to make sense for him. It won’t matter at all. If anything, you find that you are approaching the situation blindly; you have absolutely no idea what you are doing, only that you are doing it simply because you have to and you are left without a choice if you want your friends to see the next day.

Swallowing hard, you release a shaky exhale of your breath. “I just… I don’t want them to die. It’s not something they deserve.”

He hums.

“Mm. And do you think that matters?”

Your heart nearly stops beating, but you continue anyway. “It… it should, because it does.”

“Hm.”

The relief you feel is incomparable to anything else in the world when he drops Lippmann’s weak body to the ground. It’s harsh, and you can’t do anything but stand there if you want to keep yourself breathing, but it’s a step forward in the direction you want the situation to progress in.

“...How interesting,” he murmurs under his breath, approaching you. With every footstep, you shrink further into yourself, afraid of the things he’s capable of doing to you. “Both your reasoning and your eyes.”

…What?

Now confused, you open your mouth to ask him what he means by that. It makes no sense, but perhaps it’s his way of returning the response you had given him only moments prior. He seems half-amused and half-bored, but an incomprehensible emotion lingers in his gaze the longer you two stare into each other’s souls, searching for something—

…But what are you searching for, anyway?

“I’m feeling merciful today, and so I’ll leave them alive, as you wish,” he speaks, taking a step back. “I’ve spent far too much time here than I’ve intended.”

And before you know it, he is gone.

“(Y/N)!”

The shrill voice of a young boy pulls you out of your thoughts and you turn around to find none other than Chuuya run up to you, his feet clumsy and in a rush as he treads down the hospital’s hallway. Behind him, Adam follows, his footsteps wide yet perfectly measured as always, and he quickly manages to catch up to Chuuya with ease.

For a good while, the russet-haired mafioso is stunned, looking at you with an expression that can only be described as relief. His eyes were sunken, dark circles accentuating his brown hues, and his skin was deathly pale — both a result of his anxieties and stresses for the past week or so.

“You… you’re okay,” he breathes out, reaching out to check. “You’re not hurt or anything, are you?”

Immediately, you shake your head no, placing your hands on his shoulders with a small smile. “I’m alright, Chuuya. He left me unharmed. Didn’t even lay a finger on me.”

He sighs and smiles at you, reaching up to squeeze your hands in his own while you turn your gaze over to Adam.

“Are you two alright? Did anything happen while we weren’t with you?”

Adam nods, briefing you on the situation on their end quickly. “That’s very kind of you to ask, Mx. (Y/N). Quite a lot occurred in your absence.”

Verlaine had apparently come to fetch Chuuya dressed in his mailman attire while you were busy calling for help for the Flags. You didn’t understand most of what happened with his ability during the fiasco that transpired, only that it must have caused him a great deal of pain when Verlaine had opened up his Gate before Dazai had come in to salvage him using his anti-skill ability.

Yet even amidst his own suffering, his first thought was of his friends.

“Are the others alright?” Chuuya places your hands down gently, still squeezing them, hoping for a good answer. “Piano Man, Lippmann, Iceman, Doc, Albatross — are they…?”

You give him another reassuring smile, squeezing his hands back.

“They’re alive.” The breath he’d been holding released itself at your words. “Not… not particularly in the best condition, but they’re alive.” You gesture towards the door to the emergency room, entering with both Chuuya and Adam, and inside you find your beloved friends.

All of them seemed to be in critical condition. Piano Man had multiple bandages wrapped around his body, particularly around his neck where he’d been strangled by his own wires; Iceman seemed stable enough, and he almost looked as if he were only asleep, but the IV bags full of blood and the lack of color on his face were enough to say that he was still in a severe state; the same could be said for Albatross, who, although was in a rather wonky sleeping position, had multiple dressings and blood bags used to aid his rather serious condition; Doc was decorated in plaster casts and splints in order to realign most of his broken bones and immobilize his movements for healing, though surgery could definitely be seen in the long run—

And Lippmann, the only one you caught barely conscious at the time of your unexpected encounter with Verlaine, was now fully unconscious, bandages wrapped around his throat, dressed in a hospital gown instead of his typical suit and crombie coat.

“I… Your boss — Dr. Mori — said they should fully heal in a few months or so. Their injuries were indeed life-threatening, but nothing that your organization’s doctors couldn’t handle.” You take a deep breath and place a hand on Chuuya’s head, stroking it affectionately. “They’ll be okay. Promise.”

“...That’s all I needed to hear,” he responds, and you can almost hear his voice tremble when he speaks.

You only nod, turning your full body to face both Adam and Chuuya.

“I should get going now… I’ve been here all day and I do need to run errands back at home,” you explain. “The nurses told me to tell you to feel free to stay as long as you need.” A glance at your friends tells both the android and the gravity manipulator all they need to know. “They’ll need as much support as they can get, after all.”

Chuuya reaches up to squeeze your shoulder as he nods. “Right, take care, (Y/N).”

Again, you nod, but before you’re able to take your leave—

“Oh, and one more thing—”

You blink.

“What is it?”

He pauses for a good moment, running the words through his head first before saying them aloud. “Stay away from Verlaine at all costs. I don’t know the full details of what happened, and he may have been lenient with you considering you were in the same situation as the rest of ‘em—” he gestures to the Flags, “—but there’s no telling whether or not he’ll be merciful with you the next time anything happens.”

His lips press themselves into a thin line as he looks down, avoiding your gaze.

“I nearly lost all of you only around a week ago… I can’t afford to let something like that happen again.”

You don’t say anything in return, but the nod of your head is enough to tell him that you’ve acknowledged his simple request — to avoid Verlaine at all costs.

(That chance encounter you had with him earlier was only the first of many to come.)

Soon after, you find yourself back at your apartment; it’s a small, humble place with just enough living space for yourself. There isn’t much to it other than the essentials and a few decorations you find enhances your home, but it’s cozy enough for yourself. There’s nothing extravagant nor overtly special about it, but there’s no need for it to be — it’s comfortably lived in, snugly shaped to fit its sole inhabitant’s needs, carrying with it a certain intimacy meant to cater to you and you alone.

Per usual, you go about your nightly routine, something you had perfected over time to soothe you after a particularly long and stressful day. The monotonous practice of taking a bath and changing into your pajamas before eating a warm meal seems to pacify any feelings of worry and stress you’d been holding onto earlier, and not long after, you are in the comfort of your own bedroom, the balcony left open to allow the gentle night breeze to caress your skin.

The thought of the events that occurred three weeks ago haunt you, however, and a single question lingers in your mind:

Why did he spare me?

It bothered you, and it had been almost a week.

(You don’t know it yet, but he’s found himself quite preoccupied with the thought of you.)

Almost a week since you met death face-to-face; almost a week since you stood in front of him as life itself; almost a week since you had spoken words that should not have made sense, yet mattered enough when it came to saving the Flags’ lives; and almost a week since Verlaine had gazed upon you, not as something of a nuisance, but as something to be considered.

Every so often within the small time frame between what happened and the now, you find yourself wondering how things would have ended had he decided to put you in the same condition as the rest of the Flags. He spared you, after all; there was a look in his eye that was unreadable during the life-saving conversation you had with him — something that could only be described as… fascination? Interest? Captivation?

You were never the strong type, neither did you wield a special ability that even made you worth considering in the eyes of an assassin like him. There was no power in your veins, nor did you have anything he wanted when it came to his issue involving Chuuya. In fact, you had absolutely no business standing there when it all happened, yet you chose to remain anyway, both because you had a moral obligation to your friends and because of fear.

Paul Verlaine is a bearer of destruction, after all — someone more than capable of bringing wreckage and ruin everywhere he goes. That natural talent of his does not rage through him in the same manner as a devastating storm, however, and it instead is as eerie and as still as its eye. He is chaos within the serenity that houses demolition, embellished by a deception of peace, similar to that of the false clarity the clearness of the sky brings in the middle of such a calamity.

"How interesting. Both your reasoning and your eyes."

If anything, his potential fascination in you scared you more than it should. And with him still being on the loose…

"I’m feeling merciful today, and so I’ll leave them alive, as you wish."

There was no telling what he would do next.

You sigh, trying to brush your thoughts off, dismissing them as you smoothen out your nightwear in the small, cozy space you called your own.

Only this time, you are not alone.

The moment you turn to the mirror in the room, your heart plummets to your stomach.

Paul Verlaine.

Immediately, you turn to face him, but your step backward creates a stutter in the rhythm of your heartbeat as he follows, taking a step forth, mimicking your movement.

You didn’t even so much as hear him. His movements were so quiet and precise that it completely slipped your mind how easily he was able to enter your home without making the slightest indication that he was there.

“…If you have any plans to kill me, please—“ you gulp, the air around you suddenly tasting so thick and unbearable, “just… just make it quick and painless. I won’t ask for anything more.”

But he says nothing in response to your request.

It irks you at first, the stress pulsing through your veins the longer he stares at you. Your heart is screaming, eating at itself alive because of how agonizing the fear of being right in front of him is becoming, yet he makes no move to snap your neck or crush your bones—

And instead, he reaches a gloved hand up to your face.

You can’t feel the warmth that radiates from his skin. His gloves hide the dirt and blood that stain his entire being, and that barrier is something he’d rather keep when touching you — you, who knows nothing of the anguish he grew up experiencing; you, whose only worries of every day life are your schedules and mundane tasks; you, who are clueless to the kind of bloodshed and violence only he is capable of drawing out from his own palms. His fingers grace your cheek so gingerly, and had you braved yourself enough to look at his hand, you would have caught a glimpse of him trembling, almost as if he were afraid, feeling unworthy of tracing the softest patterns on your skin.

He knows he doesn’t deserve a moment with you like this, that even God himself above would frown in disapproval at the sight of an inhuman being indulging in the presence of someone like you. But God almighty be damned, because that same divinity abandoned him the moment his existence was manifested in that laboratory, leaving his entire existence to spiral down to hell, and the last thing he wanted now was to let such a cruel deity take away what little innocence he had left to keep — the small piece of heaven, of innocence he seems to have found in another person that is you.

He doesn’t speak, and neither do you move, your breaths shallow and quivering, halting entirely when he takes your chin in his hand, thumb brushing along the seam of your lips so tenderly.

Paul Verlaine is a man of violence and a man who knows nothing but war, both of internal conflict and between people, and yet you, without a sliver of knowledge about anything beyond the boundaries of your own comfort, somehow manage to tame that beast of a man every single time you come into his view.

(Unbeknownst to you, however.)

“…What are you doing?”

You choke on a whimper, trying to keep your terror at bay while he stares, holding you. You are afraid, deathly so — with a swift movement of your hand, he could easily twist your head to the side more than it is capable of taking, and your life would be over in seconds.

But he never takes the chance, no.

The longer you look up at him, the more you notice the way his eyes begin to grow so soft — they glisten in the light of the moon with the kind of fondness you would only be able to see from an artist drawn to his muse, a knight during a rendezvous with his noble sweetheart, a poet obsessively writing sonnets for his beloved.

That dollop of fondness for you only continued to swell in the weeks following your first encounter.

(He simply couldn’t get you out of his head.)

His lips press themselves into a thin line before he speaks.

“Do yourself a favor—“ for me, “—and stay out of trouble for now, alright?”

The voice that exits his lips is far more gentle now, hushed and almost affectionate. It’s a stark contrast to the way he’d threatened you and the Flags earlier in the Old World bar.

Slowly, he lets go of your cheek, taking a few steps back toward the balcony.

“Wait,” you surprise yourself, reaching a hand out to him, and he pauses in his tracks, his attention solely on you. “Will I see you again?”

(A part of you still want answers, after all.)

“...That depends,” he answers. “Will you let me?”

Taken aback by his question, you are unable to answer, and so he continues.

“I’ll see you again soon.”

There was no underlying threat behind his voice. Just a promise made certain.

And before you can ask about anything else, he is gone.

Not a moment during the few milliseconds that you blink is wasted — only the swishing of your cotton curtains with the gust of a breeze is visible before you, and before you know it, the King of Assassins has taken his leave as quickly and as quietly he had arrived.

This wouldn’t be the first instance in which you’d meet with him.

“…Psst— Earth to (Y/N)? Hello?”

The fog in your head immediately clears at the sound of Albatross’ voice.

“Huh?”

“What were you daydreamin’ about?” he asks, a cheeky grin decorating his face. “You’ve been pretty out of it lately, what, with the way you look and all—“

Bump!

“Ow!”

A quiet sigh escapes from Iceman’s lips as he takes the cigarette away from his mouth, having elbowed the blond a little too harshly. “Knock it off.” He seems to have sensed your current state of confusion, not about what Albatross said, but of the events that have occurred lately in your life.

(Not a single one of them knows about the fact that you’ve secretly been seeing the King of Assassins behind their backs.)

“I was just mentioning it out of concern, honest!” Albatross whines, rubbing his side.

You chuckle and ruffle his hair affectionately. “It’s alright, ‘Tross. I’m fine.”

“You sure?” This time, it’s Lippmann who asks. “You seem like you’ve been in your own head a lot as of late.”

Shaking your head, you smile.

“I’m fine, really.”

The evening hums with the typical clinking of glasses, alcohol buzzing through your veins as your friends fill the pool hall with their usual chatter. It had already been three months or so since the incident, and they seemed to be recovering quite well. Save for their major injuries, they seem to be back to normal, with Piano Man and Doc sharing a few drinks and Iceman and Albatross playing another round of billiards. Next to you is Lippmann, swirling around his whiskey in his glass before he turns to you with a small smile gracing his perfect lips.

“Hey,” he murmurs, squeezing your hand softly. “Walk with me for a moment? You look like you could use some fresh air.”

“...Okay.”

Not another word was shared between the both of you as you excuse yourselves from the rest of the group to exit the Old World bar, making your way to the entrance before walking down the streets with him. Shared laughter and stories echo throughout the quiet night, the streetlamps above you both casting shadows along the tranquil residential areas, stretching the peaceful atmosphere between you both. And after a while of talking to one another, which, admittedly helped calm your nerves a little from all the unease you’d been feeling lately—

“(Y/N)...?”

“Yeah?”

He chuckles to himself rather awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck. “This is really awkward… I mean, I had this whole thing planned out, and, well…” Lippmann faces you with a small smile — something so genuine that it couldn’t be mistaken for anything else. “I’d like to ask if you’d be willing to go out with me sometime…?”

…Oh.

Oh.

So now everything about the way he approached you made sense.

It was so obvious in the way he talked to you, so much more gentle in his words and mannerisms as opposed to when he was interacting with the rest of the Flags; obvious in the way he always offered to give you a ride home just to see you off safely; obvious in the way his gaze would direct itself to you first before anyone else in the group whenever he told stories or made jokes; obvious in the way he always took the seat next to yours, the way he would order the same drink as your own, how he never failed to smile whenever you did—

“Lippmann…” you begin slowly, “I… I’m sorry.”

That itself is enough to tell him everything he needed to know.

There’s nothing about him worthy of rejection — everything about him is perfect. But human feelings simply didn’t work that way, and reciprocation is always a gamble.

Ever the actor, he only smiles back at you. You can’t tell just how much he’s hiding behind it.

“It’s alright,” he says with a small nod. “Don’t be sorry. I’m just glad I finally have that out of my system.”

You smile back, bittersweet. “I hope this doesn’t change anything between us.”

He shakes his head and waves his hand, dismissing the thought immediately. “It won’t, I assure you. Though, I must ask… is there already someone?”

You find yourself a little taken aback by his question.

(Does the King of Assassins count?)

And then you shake your head no.

“...I see.”

An awkward silence befalls the both of you before he gestures to the way you both came from.

“Let’s head back, shall we?”

The rest of the night goes on as it usually would, and the weight of Lippmann’s confession from earlier doesn’t seem to lie heavy on either of you. If anything, he takes it better than most men would take it, and remains the same respectful friend toward you as the hours of darkness outside deepen.

You’re more than grateful to have a friend like him. You wouldn’t have it any other way.

Your time together eventually ends, and before you know it, the cool air of the night brushes against your skin while you’re stepping away from the bar, bidding your friends farewell with a wave, letting your glance linger a little longer on Lippmann after what happened. They had insisted on walking you back home to your apartment, only for you to kindly turn them down, knowing that their tipsy selves would very likely argue over something trivial on the way back (not that you would have minded, though — any banter they had with one another was always light-hearted and never serious).

Now, with only the quiet rhythm of your footsteps, you allow yourself to get lost in your own thoughts once more.

The confession plays over and over again in your head. You grimace at the memory of it, silently wishing to yourself to never have to go through anything like that ever again.

It wasn’t that you didn’t care much for Lippmann at all. In fact, it was precisely because you care that you turned him down. You didn’t feel anything for him beyond the friendship you enjoyed with him, and there were never any romantic undertones or hints to the gestures and words you had directed at him. There was no use in forcing anything either — you didn’t want to hurt one of your dear friends, and the sting aches, not of regret but of knowing that he definitely deserved better than being rejected on what was supposed to be a happy Friday night for all of you. Lippmann deserves something real for someone as flawless as him, after all, and you didn’t want to selfishly take him for yourself without being able to give him that.

(You have no idea of it at the moment, and a life spent with Lippmann sounds pleasant to the ear, but the tug on your heart was being pulled by another already, even if not strong yet.)

Not long after, you are in your apartment again—

…only to find that a familiar blond is sitting on your couch.

And it isn’t the blond that had just confessed to you earlier that night.

“You’re back,” you state simply, your shoulders a little more relaxed now compared to when he first arrived on the railings of your balcony.

His footsteps were deadly silent entering your home, his general presence even quieter, and he sits with the grace and confidence of a polished killer even while he's only reading, but you no longer shake in his presence.

You’ve begun to look forward to his visits for some reason.

You don’t really understand why, but you choose not to at the same time.

“I am,” he responds, his eyes never leaving the small book of poetry in his hands.

Cautiously, you circle around him, trying to put some distance between you both before heading over to your kitchen to make yourself a cup of tea.

(How strange; you are making two.)

Your mind wanders yet again.

It’s officially been three months since the incident occurred, and here the King of Assassins was, lounging around in your living room as if he, too, lived in your space, visiting you almost every night for your company. The Flags had survived, and though you find yourself thankful for whatever miracle took place during the time of their supposed massacre, you still feel a sense of unease around the man in your room knowing that both you and your friends are supposed to be dead. After all, Paul Verlaine meant to erase you and the Flags from existence with the experience of a killer, cold and efficient, who never knew hesitation.

His words ring in your head again and again:

"I’m feeling merciful today, and so I’ll leave them alive, as you wish."

(Unbeknownst to you, that had been the first time he’d ever hesitated.)

Verlaine sits on your couch with his ankle atop his knee, cheek resting on his fist with his elbow supporting the weight on the arm of the couch. His eyes rove over the words in the book — your poetry book, one of the few that you keep on the coffee table — as you continue preparing some drinks for yourselves. If such a situation were under different circumstances in a different setting, the sight of it may have even been domestic, the room warm and bathed in the soft glow of your night lamps, garnished by the scent of fresh linen and the steam coming from brewing tea, and the atmosphere quiet with only the gentle breeze and the occasional chirps of the crickets outside to make for some late night ambience.

It doesn’t take long before your refreshments are ready, and your cold hands grasp one of the mugs tightly to try and soothe yourself for a moment.

And then he speaks up.

“You look well,” he muses aloud, and the observation somehow sends something of a cold shiver up your spine.

You hum, taking both mugs, trying to steady your hold as you place one in front of him and sit next to him on the couch, albeit putting some distance between you two.

“I could say the same about you.”

He hums, taking the mug and blowing on the steaming liquid for a moment before taking the first sip, savoring the calming taste and scent of your brewed chamomile.

The air between you two remains thin, and for a long time, not a single word is uttered between you both. For some reason, the silence helps your nerves ease up a little more before you gather the courage to speak.

“...Adam told me a little more about you.”

“Did he now?” There’s a slight edge to his voice that you choose to ignore. “What did the android tell you?”

Your lips press themselves into a thin line before you answer. “I… Well, he told me quite a bit about your targets — particularly the one back in the U.K.”

“Hm?” He raises a brow. “Ah, the one involving the queen?”

He’d said it so casually, too. There was an incident not too long ago at the coronation chamber in one of England’s cathedrals involving the assassination of three highly skilled and trained imperial guards, all of whom had their bones crushed and died of severe internal injuries shortly after. Like the documents you had read from before, there was no struggle seen from the victims — only that they were dealt with quickly. Not too long after came the assassination of the queen’s body double followed her ceremony, the event of the murder as swiftly as the manner in which the crown was placed on her head.

To think that both the British royal family and the Order of the Clocktower were both known to be impenetrable forces, and yet someone like him managed to sneak in and even kill people; it was befitting of his title as the King of Assassins.

You nod in response. “Yes, that one.”

“Don’t think much of it,” he coos at you, almost lullaby-like in tone. “That has nothing to do with you.”

Again, it goes quiet. And again, had the events from three months ago never occurred, you would have found your current situation with the assassin quite domestic.

“You haven’t asked me why yet.”

His words break the silence between you both.

You blink at him.

“Huh? Asked you what?”

“Why I didn’t take the chance,” Verlaine clarifies. “Why I let you live.”

Rendered speechless at him asking you why you have yet to ask him of what happened back then, you stare at your tea, slowly growing colder by the minute.

“...I figured somewhere down the line that I shouldn’t question good luck.”

He nods, placing the book of poetry down on the table.

“I see.”

After taking another sip of your drink, you set the mug down on the table and place your hands on your lap before looking up at him. If you’d been paying attention earlier, you would have been able to catch the slightest hint of a smirk playing on his lips, disappearing as fast as it had first etched itself onto his face.

Your curiosity gnaws at you the more you bite back at it to hold yourself from asking any more than necessary.

“...If I asked you now, would you still answer?”

Yet your curiosity, as always, remains stubborn in its endeavor.

He chuckles — the sound is melodic, but his timbre is empty. For a faint second, you find yourself captivated by his short-lived laugh, appropriate to his handsome face. Then, he turns to face you with a much gentler version of that expression he first looked at you with. If he was considering your existence during the first meeting, now he was leaning into appreciating it a little more.

Not to your knowledge, however.

“Sweet thing,” he murmurs into his mug, drinking his tea before setting it down. “Does it really matter now? Would you rather I have made quick work of you and your friends?”

“I’d at least like to know the reason behind why you spared me entirely.”

Verlaine tilts his head, resting his arm on top of the couch’s headrest. “Curious little one, aren’t you?”

You gulp and look down, unsure of how to respond.

“I… well… I just want to know, is all.” You fiddle with the hem of your shirt, feeling small under his gaze. “And to answer both your questions: no and no, but I would rather try to understand. You keep coming back here, and I’ve eventually welcomed you into my home for the past few months of your returns. I just want to put a reason behind your actions to put myself at peace.”

That, you think, and I want to get to know you beyond your name on newspapers and wanted lists.

His brows furrow. “Don’t you think your friends would be upset if they knew about how you’re willingly trying to come closer to me?”

“Then why do you visit me every night?”

Suddenly, he is rendered silent. What answer does he have to a question he’s never thought of entertaining?

Truthfully, it was because of the innocent look your expression had that day that he lost all will to commit the massacre then and there. How interesting it was to him, both your reasoning and your eyes, able to cease an act of violence completely.

“...Would you like me to stop?”

The conversation is in circles — no questions are answered, only rebuttals are offered.

Thus, you decide to end that.

“...No,” you whisper, a little timidly now. “I must admit, I’ve learned to expect your presence every night when I come back home. It almost feels empty without you in it… Like I’ve learned to look forward to your visits.”

His heart stutters at your words. What?

“Are you hearing yourself right now?” he scoffs, looking down at you despite you never returning his gaze.

Slowly, you reach your hand out to his own, taking his gloved one in yours. His gloves are a pristine hue of white, not a stain or a single inkling of discoloration present, and your fingers brush over his covered knuckles so gingerly, much the same way his fingers had brushed themselves along your cheek the night he first met you by your bedroom balcony. It’s a tender, almost intimate gesture coming from you — the kind of gentleness he never thought he was deserving of nor something he’d be able to experience from a human being.

“...You’re not afraid,” he mutters.

“Not as much as I was when I first met you.”

Little by little, your palm meets his, and the size difference between your hands nearly makes him want to squeeze yours. It’s softer, far more delicate, and much more innocent compared to his own. How ironic that the hand that has taken the lives of many, waged destruction and ruin across multiple organizations and different people, is now so tenderly pressed against yours.

And with a bold move, you slot your fingers between his longer ones, your palm fully fitted to his.

His breath hitches in his throat at your actions.

For a moment, he considers doing the same, and you can see the way his fingers twitch, knuckles bending ever so slightly in order to mirror your movements—

Then he stops.

And he pulls his hand away.

No. He can’t let this continue. An inhuman being cannot find something as human as love in another person.

Paul Verlaine is a murderer, after all — a monster whose only purpose to serve in life is to take and take. Inside him brews a storm that he realizes is far too tumultuous for anyone to subdue, and such an innocent soul as yourself is deserving of something worthy of your fondness and endearment, of your love. After all, no matter how much he yearns for a sense of humanity, he will never receive it, and a beast such as himself will never be deserving of a beauty such as you.

He has nothing to his name — no friendships or family held any value to him because he had none; the only names he had learned to familiarize himself with belonged to the lives he had taken, and even then, they were only for the briefest periods of time, used as information to make the kill; his hands were tainted in blood due to his life as an assassin; and he knew, deep down he knew of no one who would be willing to share their love with him in the same way others — human beings — would receive it.

Someone— rather something made to kill is not worthy of your attention, much less your affections.

He knows he’ll never be able to measure up to the other blond you call your friend. Fate was cruel enough to allow their paths to align, even if violently by his own hand, because in him, he saw the reflection of someone he could never be for you.

“Paul…?” you call, and goodness, it’s the first time he’s ever heard his name on your tongue. You call him so sweetly, it almost makes him forget about the way his name would be uttered with malice and spite by the vast majority of people he’s come across in his life.

“Paul,” you call again, a little more worried now that he isn’t as responsive as he usually is. “What’s wrong?”

He stays silent for a good moment before answering.

“It seems I’ve made quite the grave mistake.” He chuckles bitterly. “It isn’t a good idea for us to continue.”

You retract your hand, hesitant to ask, but you do so anyway. “What do you mean…?”

“(Y/N),” he breathes out your name, speaking it in an almost hazy manner, “you shouldn’t keep letting me in like this.”

A frown makes its way to your features. “Why is that?”

Abruptly, he stands.

“You wouldn’t understand.” You nearly wince at how sharp his tone had become once more. “You… a human being like you shouldn’t keep having to entertain a non-human like myself.”

Panic begins to pool in your chest, the weight of his words lingering heavily in the air. “What are you talking about?” And then you freeze. “Is… is this about that again…?”

That.

He’d opened up to you only recently about his origins — where he came from, how he came to be, what he was made for — and you came to accept him wholeheartedly still. To you, his past didn’t matter. Never did, never will. You’ve become aware of his internal struggles, of coming to terms with accepting that he was fundamentally not like everyone else around him, that even if he was created to be strong and physically perfect, he would still forever be incompetent and hollow inside, a mere shell housing no soul.

A bringer of war he was born, and a bringer of war he will always be. And a bringer of war had no business trying to earn your love.

“Paul,” you begin slowly, taking his hand in yours and squeezing it tightly. “You know I don’t care for any of that—”

His voice comes out as an aggravated hiss and he glares at you — something he’s never done before, not even during your first meeting when he had every intent (rather, almost every intent) to kill you.

"Don’t."

Your shoulders drop and the expression on your face nearly weakens his resolve.

“...Paul?” you call one last time, shakier now. God, the things he’d do to keep hearing you say his name like that, but he’s well-aware of the fact that his name does not deserve to have a place on your tongue. “Paul, wait, don’t go.”

Yet before you are able to stop him, he leaves the same way he had first entered your abode all those months ago — through the bedroom balcony.

You aren’t sure if he’s ever going to come back, and there is a painful stab to your chest as you realize that.

That ache in your heart never fully goes away, even months after Paul’s disappearance. It dulls itself every now and then, usually quieting down into a throb, but the pain of him leaving you ironically never leaves.

Your home isn’t the same anymore after he’s vanished — you’d become so used to his presence that your space now feels much closer to being the apartment it was when you’d first moved in: empty and somber. Every night, not to the knowledge of the Flags, you’d take a stroll around Yokohama in a desperate attempt to search for him despite being well-aware of the fact that both your friends and the man you’d been having secret rendezvous with have become sworn enemies over half a year ago due to the incident that occurred.

It hurts, the constant “what-if”s plaguing your mind and having been left in the dark by Paul, whom you’d grown so unusually close to in the times you’d spent together.

“(Y/N)?” This time, it’s Iceman’s voice that breaks you out of your own head. “Are you alright?”

You remain quiet for a while, mulling over your own thoughts until—

“Maybe they just had too many drinks tonight— ow!”

Cue Doc poking Albatross’ side with the needle of his medical syringe.

“I’m alright,” you murmur before deciding to change the topic. “You’re always asking about me, though… How about all of you? How have you guys been? Y’know, since…”

There is no mention of what you are referencing, but they all know.

“The boss said our injuries have already long since healed,” Lippmann answers with a smile. “Everything’s been alright on our end, but…”

“But…?”

Piano Man shares a glance with everyone else, then looks at you. The air in the bar becomes heavier than usual, and even with the soft hum of jazz music in the background, the tension only gets thicker by the second.

“...We were planning to start looking for him. For our sake and everyone else’s safety.”

“Him?”

“Paul Verlaine.” An uncomfortable silence befalls your group. “If we don’t start looking for him now, he might just come back for us.”

You don’t even realize you’re gripping the glass in your hand tight until the condensation slips between your fingers. You’ll admit that in over the half-year that passed since you’d first had your secret meetings with Paul, you eventually came to forget the fact that he and your friends had bad blood going on with each other.

The plan was to keep it a secret for as long as possible, after all. It was a selfish, selfish wish, but you couldn’t help it—

Not when you’d also found yourself falling for him in the shared, and especially intimate times you’d spent together.

“...Maybe we should just leave him alone,” you respond, trying to keep it as casual as possible. “He did spare our lives, after all.”

Albatross cackles, pausing mid-sip. "You serious, (Y/N)? Leave him alone?"

“He let us live,” you argue, but your attempt to not sound as defensive slowly begins to falter under your temper, built up from the lack of Paul’s presence over the past few months that followed since his disappearance from your life. “He hasn’t done anything to any of since, including Chuuya. Maybe he’s left us alone. That’s already more than what everyone else got.”

“You think that means we’re still safe?” Doc retorts, standing up from where he was initially seated.

No. No, it didn’t mean all of you were safe, but you — you were confident that you were. It was all because Paul had always come back to you. Time and time again, night after night, before the next day would rise, he would always come back to you. Not them. You.

A slow exhale leaves your lips and you sigh. “I just don’t think chasing after him would be a good idea.”

Maybe, just maybe, if he came back, you could convince him to—

“What are you saying, (Y/N)?” Piano Man frowns, clearly in disapproval of what you are suggesting.

“I’m saying we shouldn’t have to go after him considering what happened to all of you. He let us go, didn’t he?” you finally argue, pushing your glass away from yourself.

Lippmann holds your shoulder in an attempt to calm you down, but the same frown on Piano Man’s face is mirrored in his own expression. “That doesn’t sound like you, (Y/N). Where is this coming from?”

You shrug your shoulders, mainly to shove his hand off with how unnecessarily irritated you were becoming, but also to force the nonchalance you were fighting so hard to keep. “I don’t know.” You pause. “Listen, I care about all of you, alright? But I’m also tired of going after the things that shouldn’t concern us anymore—”

"Shouldn’t concern us?" Piano Man scoffs, the look on his face now darkening. “(Y/N), he tried to kill us—”

“But he didn’t, did he?”

The tension between all of you swells into something so thick that, for the first few moments, nobody in the room dares to make a move.

Lippmann, however, is the first to cut it.

“You’re acting like you know something we don’t.”

You stiffen before standing up from your seat and leaving a few bills on the table for the drinks you had earlier. “...I just don’t want to start a fight we have almost no chances of winning right now. Neither do I want you to gamble away your lives for a single person.” There is a pause in your statement before you continue, sincerity lacing your words this time. “I can’t handle being like this anymore — having to chase after a life lived so… so dangerously.”

And just like that, as the night wears on, you begin to feel the unbearable crack in the trust you’d always shared with them.

They’d understand someday, you hope to yourself. Perhaps not now, but when things have settled down and when you are ready.

(It’s the last time you’ll ever see them again. For now, at least.)

“...I didn’t think you would return.”

Your voice cracks as you speak, and tears blur your vision as you race towards him. There was no silence held between the both of you, no moment of reflection before you rushed into his arms. Instinctively, he holds himself out for you and lets you crash into him, your face nuzzling the crook of his neck, your body relishing in his warmth as he wraps himself around you for a tight embrace. In the process, he takes off his hat, his eyes shutting closed as he nuzzles his nose into the crown of your head.

“Shh, shh…” he whispers, hushing and cooing at you softly to soothe your sobs. “I’m here.”

Not once in his life had he ever felt this wanted before. He had always known he was replaceable, maybe not easily so, but he was, and yet here you were, crying like a child who had lost and found their precious stuffed toy because you had no idea whether or not he would come back to you.

“I thought… I thought you weren’t—” you hiccup, pulling your head away as you look up at him, the moonlight accentuating the gloss of your eyes.

Ever so tenderly, he holds your face in his hands, wiping your tears away with his thumbs before pressing a kiss to the bridge of your nose — the both of you are well-aware that the action comes off as unexpected and completely new, but it isn’t unwelcome, and it comes as it is so naturally that it doesn’t feel unusual. So, he carries on, pressing kisses all over your face, murmuring whispers of sweet nothing in the process while peppering you in his affections.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles into your forehead, pressing one last kiss there, letting his lips linger a little longer. “I’m sorry… I was wrong to run from it all — from you. It’ll never happen again, I promise.”

“...I don’t think my heart would be able to take it if it does.”

His own heart aches at your response.

And when you finally, finally lean up to kiss him, his brain goes haywire, unable to process anything. Your soft palms cup his face so lovingly and your lips feel so mellow against his own, he finds his vision going hazy and his heart thumping quicker than he’s ever remembered it to be capable of.

(The last time his heart beat this quickly was when he made his first kill — even then, he no longer remembers anything of it, except that whatever this is he is experiencing with you is far more pleasant.)

He’s stiff at first, even when you move your lips to guide him, one of your hands leading his own to hold you, allowing and giving him the freedom to react as he pleases. He could take the opportunity to crush your ribs at an instant, make things quick for you by letting you enjoy the moment as you do whatever you desire to distract you, but he can’t bring himself to, not when he wants to enjoy it with you, too.

(And certainly not when he wants to keep you all to himself.)

When you pull apart for a brief moment to allow yourselves to catch your breaths, your fingers slip beneath the fabric of his gloved hand—

“What are you doing?” he hisses, pulling back slightly when he senses you trying to take them off.

He doesn’t mean for it to come off that way, but really, you don’t deserve to have his tainted hands touch you — not without at least a layer of a barrier between his skin and your own.

“Huh?” You blink. “What’s wrong…?”

The question sounds so innocent, and he nearly melts on the spot when it is accompanied by the curious tilt of your head. He can’t find it in himself to tell you.

So, when he doesn’t answer, you continue with languid movements, slipping his gloves off of his hands, setting them aside on the bedside table. His hands are warm and oh-so soft — you would think that an assassin like him would have hands as calloused as the bark of a tree from the amount of lives he’s taken, but his ability gave him the title of a king for a reason, and for that same reason, his hands remain as pristine as they are.

“…Here.”

And when you bring his palm up to your neck, he’s done for. You’re far too trusting, letting a man like him hold you this way, in such a vulnerable position, but goodness, he can’t help the way his breath stutters at the sight when he sees you look up at him as if you were offering him your own life.

Hell, if you really were, he was going to take it.

And you let him.

Not a moment is wasted when he leans down to press his lips to your own, a breathy sigh coupled with a heady moan escaping his lips as he savors the feel of your skin beneath his touch during the kiss. Astonishment is present on your expression for just a brief second before you melt into him with the sweetest whine, your arms finding purchase on his broad shoulders, wrapping themselves around his neck while he pushes himself against you because it’s not enough for him — he finds himself wanting more.

“Paul,” you mewl, his fingers slowly trailing up your cheeks. He doesn’t let up — he is far too consumed by a hunger that can only be satiated by you.

Slowly, your knees buckle. His stronger arms wrap themselves around you to keep you upright while your hands grasp onto the soft locks of his hair, and in the process, you find your bodies pressed together so intimately that he can’t help but growl at the feeling because you’re just so damn soft compared to himself.

And then you stumble, the back of your knees hitting the edge of your bed, but he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t dare pull away, slowly guiding you to sit down and urging you to move back on the mattress, giving him the space to crawl and take his place on top, and oh, letting his hand dwarf your own when he holds one of them in his hair, your grip tight and needy, bringing him down over and over again to meet his lips with yours.

When you whimper, lips swollen and pursed as you gaze at him with glossy eyes, glazed over with a sheen of the same kind of yearning he has for you, he nearly snaps.

It takes everything in him to be gentle — to hold back in fear of hurting you because you tempt him so.

“It’s okay,” you coo, his hands trembling as they hold you.

He can only sigh and bury his nose into the side of your neck, nuzzling you there with the softest kiss. “You were supposed to be afraid of me.”

You stifle a giggle, sitting up to cup his face in your hands again.

“How can I be,” your tone is as soft as the sheets beneath you, “when you hold me with the kind of gentleness I’ve yet to see from another man?”

Something in his chest clenches at your words. The way you talk about him so endearingly, almost lovestruck and in a daze (and you are), has him dizzy with the most amorous haze. You speak of him as if he were the most deserving being of your love when he himself knows that every single moment he has with you is out of his own selfish desire to have you all to himself.

You think he deserves it anyway. The same can be said for you as well, after all.

He holds your hands in his own, kissing your knuckles fondly before you intertwine your fingers with his. The atmosphere becomes a little more playful when you try to flip your position, your gesture affectionate and skittish.

But he’s stronger — and he uses that strength of his to grab you by your waist, positioning himself beneath you, sitting against the headboard while he settles you onto his lap, your legs parted to accommodate his thighs. Sensing your hesitation, he grunts and brings you down onto him, and you stiffen at the sensation for a moment when he presses his hand against the small of your back.

To have the King of Assassins himself be the very throne you sit upon was quite the statement on its own.

He wastes no time and effort, capturing your lips in his own again with the kind of greed you’ve never experienced before, him gripping your hips to keep you in place, and—

“Paul—!” you whimper, and his hands rough as they guide you to roll yourself against him, the heat of his body radiating to match your own. He sighs yet again, his kisses fervent as he grinds you on his lap, the world around him fading away as the haze of the moment begins to sit and linger, dizzying him.

The air around you grows hot and heavy, and you make an attempt to put some space between you both, only for that same attempt to be refuted, shot down quicker than you are able to proceed with the act.

“Don’t you dare,” he groans with a guttural undertone — a warning to keep you still. Immediately, his voice pushes you deep into compliance, rendering you malleable and submissive. You’ve gone too far into your shared bliss with him to even consider moving away from such an intimate position, and upon realizing such, his need to fan the fire teasing both him and yourself dwindles down into something so much more gentle. “Please…” A breathy sigh follows, and he finds himself embracing you close to press your chest against his own.

And when your hands move up to grip his hair once more, supporting yourself as he moves beneath you so desperately, rutting up against you like he’s been starved of human touch for the longest time (and he has), the world around you two burns away. Flames lap at the pit of your stomach when his right hand moves beneath your pajamas, pressing his warm palm against the soft area of your belly, right where that oh-so delicious feeling is licking at your insides as you both give in to the friction.

How ironic that his hands, made solely to kill, were now so gingerly holding you like this, embracing, squeezing and fondling every part of you like a man having his final night with his beloved.

(You both know this won’t be your last.)

Your toes curl and you wrap your thighs around his waist, encouraging him to go further by rocking your hips in tandem with his own as a response, lips caught in an eager lock. One of your hands finds its way down the expanse of his chest, and the other follows. The heat has become too much for you to bear — you want his tie out of the way (you convince yourself and say that he needs to breathe a little more, after all), maybe pop open a few buttons (the atmosphere has become too difficult to soak in with so many layers in the way), slide his waistcoat off (perhaps his belt as well)—

But he stops you.

He holds your wandering hand in his own, looking down at you with his face so close to yours, your breaths mingling.

His expression says enough — he isn’t worthy of this, of having you.

Yet you think he deserving, and that is all that matters.

So, you decide to take it slow instead. Languid kisses with whispers of the sweetest nothings in between, pulling his ribbon out of his hair and undoing his braid to allow his pale blonde waves to cascade down his back and shoulders. It’s an intimate gesture; you undo him so lovingly, and in turn, he allows himself to be undone for you.

His lips continue to chase yours, desperate, barely letting you breathe when you pull away every other moment for some air, but he holds onto you like he’s afraid you’ll leave. You don’t say anything about it — you only indulge in his desperation, soothing that turmoil boiling inside him that he himself cannot tame.

He doesn’t understand anything, doesn’t understand the kind of yearning he feels to have you in the most primal way possible, but he gives in anyway. For all the struggles he’s had with his own humanity, you sharing your own with him is something he will gladly take and take so as long as you are always willing to give.

(He thinks he has learned to love you. Has he really?)

And slowly, almost agonizingly so, he guides you onto your back, propping your head onto the softest pillow there is, gently leading your thighs to wrap around his waist as he continues to roll his hips against yours. You can’t help the little whines he swallows, his hair tickling your nose when he trails his kisses down to your chin, then your throat, nipping at your skin before nuzzling at your chest so affectionately, almost as if he were asking for your permission. His arousal is present — you can feel his longing and ache as much as you feel your own, and you allow him to take control, giving him the freedom to yield to perhaps the most vulnerable, most humane way to express himself right now.

Paul Verlaine was never a stranger to bedding anyone, and whenever he did, it was always first and foremost to take something for his gain — an exchange of information, important valuables for a mission, a person’s life. His body was a tool, and such a tool, as he was taught, was always useful in his line of work as an assassin, a pretender of pleasure and promises, but a harbinger of death and destruction.

You, however… you were the exception.

With you, he simply wanted to give.

And if he were to take (like he is now), it would only be because you’d be the first to give.

Either way, both would be solely for the self-centered reason that he wanted you for you – not for any sort of intel, not to take your life, God no, but because he simply wanted you.

Wordlessly, you say yes, pressing a kiss to his scalp.

When his mouth goes lower and lower, removing each article of clothing from you so delicately, casting them aside and onto the floor, he nuzzles at your abdomen next, pressing another heated kiss right below your navel.

“If you’ll let me have you…” he breathes, looking up at you with the faint glow of the moon illuminating the beautiful brown hues of his eyes. “May I…?”

You say nothing, not wanting to ruin the moment. Instead, give your answer by raising your hips, and his fingers immediately tug at the waistband of your bottoms to tug it down, starved and eager. He kisses the damp patch on the only piece of clothing left to cover whatever modesty you have left, whispering an amorous “thank you”, and before you know it, his arm is draped over your stomach, keeping you down, and your grip on his hair is tight. He keeps your lower half pinned to the bed coupled with an obnoxious slurp every now and then, rasping declarations of his affections towards you right there between your legs, his hair a mess as you thrash your feet around and his mouth glossed in your essence—

Only for him to use his ability to keep you down.

“Shh,” he murmurs between your legs, pressing an open-mouthed kiss right where your slick spills just to taste you, “there you go, there you go…”

A short-lived cry of his name comes messily from your lips as you clutch onto his soft hair, head digging into the pillows from being thrown back while you squirm (or, at least try to). “I— I can’t—“

“Mon cœur, stay,” he begs yet again, his voice simmering into the softest growl; he found more pleasure in devouring you, after all — to have your taste on his tongue is something only he is so fortunate to have. “I'll never leave again, I promise; I’d sooner stop the beating of my own heart than have the heart in front of me move away.”

Somehow, you have a feeling that there’s more to his words than he means, that he isn’t just speaking from the place between your legs, but from the very depths of the darkest parts of his soul — a place where no one else would be capable of reaching but you.

He feels (and is) inhuman enough as is. To have his heart be ripped from his grasp would make him cease to find reason in continuing to exist. After all, what purpose would there be for a man like him, born without a soul, if his heart were to be taken from his hands?

(Born without a soul… and yet, with the way he kisses you so fervently and worships each curve of your body, he has done nothing but convince you otherwise.)

In response, you can only whine and whimper, grabbing onto his locks tight, earning a quiet moan from his lips as he continues to enjoy himself, loving on you in every way he can.

The rest of the hours that follow are hours full of bliss — one movement blurs into the next and the sounds you both make are shameless, breaths mingling and voices calling out for each other. All you can recall clearly are the moments in which your legs wrap around him tight, his fingers intertwining with your own as he presses you deep into the sheets, and the shared, delicious warmth that blooms into the fiery pits of your stomach after.

Even then, he doesn’t stop. He pants your name into your ear like it’s the only thing he can say, and he says it so fondly and so lovingly, it could almost be mistaken for a prayer.

At this point, heaven may as well know your name.

When he finishes, his tongue lathering itself along your most sensitive parts, he gives you one last feverish kiss right where he’d finished his meal before claiming his position atop you once more. Paul nudges at your throat with his nose, sighing shakily as you hold him and slowly undo the belt keeping his pants up, deft fingers ginger with their movements, a reflection of the way you feel for the man above you.

“...Run away with me.”

You blink and tilt your head as he lifts his own to meet your confused gaze.

“Paul…”

“Won’t you run away with me?” he asks, his voice dwindling into a passionate whisper as his lips meet yours for the briefest moment, short but tender. “We can live together, you and I, off to somewhere kinder… perhaps in a small place of our own in the French countryside where no one else can bother us, where you’ll be free to do as you please. Our lives could have another fresh start and you won’t have to worry about the rest of the world anymore — not while I’m here.” He pauses, brushing his knuckles along the soft apple of your cheek. “I’ll protect you and take care of you… I swear…”

Having his entire existence founded upon being born essentially as a laboratory experiment, the only purpose he knew of growing up was for anything other than himself — to be an assassin, a killer, a rabid dog, a weapon of war, and to never experience the kind of autonomy that every other human being was born with, all because he was created with 2,383 lines of code, and not a soul (still, you are not convinced, not with the way he makes love to you that very same night). That being said, for once, Paul Verlaine decides that he’s had enough. He will continue to exist as he knows, for the sake of anything other than himself as he believes it to be, but this time around, it will be because he has learned to love you, and he will live with the purpose of dedicating himself to you wholly.

(He will soon come to accept his autonomy because of you.)

You don’t give him any words in response, simply pulling him down by the collar with the sweetest moan, gripping his hair as your breaths mingle together and your bodies bridge themselves together in the most humane way you both know how. He has his answer.

Paul Verlaine loves you so.

He knows he’ll wage war and conflict with him wherever he goes — born of violence, rooted in hatred, and alive by spite. But all of that changes every single time your lips part to whisper the softest phrases in his ear or when your fingers hold his face like he’s the most delicate being in the world, because amidst the heaviness of all that innate hostility he carries, there is you, and he doesn’t know it yet, but you’ll always be there to soothe him and bring him the tranquility he’s been craving his whole life.

You make him feel more than what he was created to be, and he allows himself to linger in your humanity which you share with him no matter how many times he tries to reject it. He’ll feel undeserving, incompatible, yet he’ll melt into it anyway, utterly and stupidly smitten by you.

A bringer of war he may be, but that long-held burden dissipates in your presence because you never fail to bring his restless mind and heavy heart a sense of peace.

a/n: i imagine verlaine would want to be with someone who exudes warmth in any way possible, but also a part of me thinks that he’d lean towards being a protector of sorts (given his character in stormbringer), so that desire borders on wanting someone who exhibits some kind of innocence or naiveté — someone who can ground him when he’s too far off into his own head every now and then (can you guys tell how much i love verlaine yet?) but yeah, this was a very experimental work for me with a lot of firsts, so i’m a bit nervous as to how this one will be received (though it’s def my favorite one i’ve written so far!)

anyway, again, happy birthday, paul! 🥳 i hope all of you enjoyed reading this one shot as much as i enjoyed writing it!

[lovebugism]

miss bug I have something to ask 🙋‍♀️

i don’t know if you do sickfics but! mayhaps steve and shy!reader where she doesn’t show up for school, steve goes to her house, and she’s utterly mortified because she feels like she’s nowhere near presentable

thank u for requesting!! — king steve pays his lab partner a visit when he hears you're sick, but definitely not because he has a crush on you (shy!reader, friends to lovers | 1.6k)

bug's two year celebration ♡

Steve waits for you that morning with half a bagel and his heart in his throat.

The desks in Ms. Click’s class grow slowly full with bustling bodies — some sluggish like zombies, others too chipper for an early morning. Steve cranes his head in search of your face in the crowd. Yours never shows, which is strange for Hawkins High’s future Valedictorian.

“Where is your partner, Mr. Harrington?” Ms. Click wonders beneath the grating morning bell. She ducks her head to peer across the classroom over her sparkly, cat-eye glasses.

Steve pauses, mid-bite of his sausage-egg-and-cheese. He shrugs wordlessly, with a wad of food jutting his cheek and crumbs sticking to his mouth.

The older woman sighs, too used to King Steve’s antics. She looks past him and asks, “What about you, Miss Buckley? Where’s Carol?”

“Probably under the bleachers with Tommy Hagan,” Robin mutters under her breath, though loud enough for everyone around her to hear, causing them to bite back their subsequent laughter. Steve, himself, nearly chokes on his bagel.

“Well, you’ll just have to pair up with Steven for the day,” Ms. Click tells her.

“Oh, god…” Robin groans in a whisper.

“Get to work.”

Steve spins his chair around to face the girl behind him, who he only really knew because of how highly you spoke of her. Despite your frequent praises, Robin doesn’t even look at him, nor does she bother to make mindless small talk. She just keeps her head down and scribbles notes on a worksheet. 

Steve, in spite of their differing statuses, struggles to find the courage to talk to her.

He slouches and tilts back his chair. “Hey, do you, um—”

“We don’t have to make conversation, alright?” Robin interjects before he can even start. She keeps her head bowed but glares daggers from beneath her lashes. “Let’s just get this hour over with so we never speak to each other again.”

Steve’s eyes widen. “Well, I was— I was just gonna ask where your friend was. ‘Cause I don’t think she’s missed a day since, like, kindergarten.”

Robin’s freckled face flushes. She’d feel worse about being so short with him if he wasn’t such a douchebag. “Oh. Uh, she’s— She’s sick, I think.”

“Sick?”

His chest pinches with an immediate worry. Robin bites back a smirk at King Steve’s palpable concern for arguably the biggest nerd on this side of Hawkins. “Yeah,” she shrugs. “I figured she was just allergic to your hairspray.”

Steve laughs under his breath and turns away. Robin smiles only until he looks back at her, now with a brown paper bag in hand. It was meant to be for you — an even piece of his bagel, ‘cause he knows you don’t get breakfast yourself. He figures you’d rather not want it to go to waste.

“Want my other half?” he offers to the girl across from him, like some kinda olive branch.

Robin’s eyes dart from Steve to the paper sack and back again. It goes against every code in her personal handbook to take anything from Hawkins Royalty, but she shrugs in response anyway. “What the hell. Sure.”

—————

Finding your trailer isn’t hard. He visited there, once, for a project at the beginning of the school year. It’s the house directly across from the Freak’s. Eddie made it a point to play his guitar as loud as he possibly could, knowing The Hair was around to hear it. (Munson would never miss an opportunity to annoy King Steve, and honestly, you couldn’t blame him).

Steve decides to make his entrance through your bedroom window. Dead, unmanicured grass crunches under his sneakers as he rounds your trailer. He rises to the tips of his toes and knocks four times on the high-up window. The old glass feels strangely delicate under his fist.

He waits for an answer for several long moments. When he doesn’t get one, he lifts his hand to knock again. The window squeaks open before he can — and there he finds you, standing above him, holding a half-empty box of tissues in your hand like you plan to hit him with it.

“Whoa—” Steve flinches.

You look equally shocked to see him, fear swimming in your glassy eyes. “Oh, my god—”

“Sorry,” he grimaces with his palms splayed in surrender. “It’s just me.”

“I thought you were a burglar or something…”

“And what? You were gonna take me out with a box of tissues?” His laughter feels like warm honey compared to your splitting, icy migraine.

You take in a heaving breath and swallow hard through a stinging throat. “Sorry,” you sniffle. “Come— Come in.”

As Steve climbs through your window, trying hard not to get caught in the curtains, you become very hyperaware of your living space. It is your childhood bedroom, after all — every phase of your life is stored within these tiny four walls. Posters, trinkets, slightly dated decor. And on top of all that, you’ve been living like a total slob since you got sick over the weekend.

Your bed’s a mess, you’ve got bottled water and tissues piling in the bin, and you haven’t changed out of your pajamas in two days. It’s certainly no way to greet the king of Hawkins High, though he doesn’t quite seem to mind.

“You coulda just knocked on the door, you know?” you mumble, slightly nasally, as you swipe a balled-up tissue under your nose. “I would’ve let you in.”

Steve pants and stands to full height again, finally in your room with little to no struggle (though he’s pretty sure he’s stamped his footprint on your wall). 

“Well, what can I say? I like to make an entrance,” he jokes with a lopsided smile. The rosy expression fades when your glassy eyes glaze over with a faraway look. “…You okay?”

“Yeah, sorry, I’m just…” you shake your head, which only makes the dizziness worse. “I’m just a little lightheaded. That’s all.”

Steve rushes to your swaying form without thinking. He grasps your arms in two wide, gentle hands. His honey eyes are wide and wild as they dart over your features, sufficiently bleary with whatever bug you’ve caught. 

“What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing,” you insist despite the obvious. “Just can’t break this stupid fever.”

“Here. Lay back down.”

He guides you the short distance to your bed, foreignly patient with your sluggish movements. He keeps a hold of you with one hand and reaches for the mussed blankets with the other, pulling them back to ease you beneath them.

“Sorry for bailing on you today,” you apologize in nearly inaudible slurs as the boy props you against the pillows. 

Steve shakes his head with a quiet smile. “You’re sick. It’s okay. Stop apologizing,” he insists and tucks the covers on top of you again. You can smell his aftershave when he leans over you, a striking minty scent that melts nicely with his deeper cologne.

“Sorry,” you repeat before you can help it.

Steve rises again and fights the urge to brush the hair sticking to your clammy cheek. “Have you had any medicine?”

“I had some… cough syrup earlier…” you slur, face half-buried in the pillows.

“What about food?” he asks with his hand on his cocked hip. “Had any of that?”

“‘M too sick for food.”

Steve laughs and fills the gloomy room with sunshine. “You have to eat, babe. So you can get your energy back. That’s, like, science or whatever—”

His eyes widen, only then realizing his use of the nickname. His heart drops to his ass. He hopes he said it so quickly that you missed it. You seem to have, as sick as you are, basically half-asleep before him.

You’d heard it, though. The word alone has your delicate heart beating with a newfound fervor. You can’t tell if it’s killing you or bringing you back to life.

Steve starts rambling before he realizes it. “I can whip you something up, if you want. I make a mean macaroni and cheese— In the microwave, obviously, ‘cause I’m less likely to burn it that way. Did you know that you can actually burn pasta in the microwave? Yeah, I had to learn that one the hard way—”

“Steve?” 

“Yeah?”

“Can you just sit with me?” you sniffle, eyes still shut. “Please?”

He nods rapidly until the words catch up to him. “Yeah. Yeah, of— Of course, yeah.”

The boy climbs into your bed with a lot less confidence than he’s used to. This is by no means the first time he’s been in another girl’s bed, but something about this one feels different. This time, he has to keep reminding himself to breathe. This time, his hands are all clammy and tingling with an anxiety he isn’t used to. This time, he feels so utterly unsure in his body that he doesn’t know how he became King Steve in the first place — let alone how he got here, next to you.

What’d an asshole like me do to deserve all this? his mind reels.

Your breath catches when the mattress dips under his weight. He sits over the covers, but still a lot closer than you thought he might, all things considered. You turn slowly onto your back to look at him without going dizzy again.

“You’re not scared you’ll get sick?” you croak, blinking up at him with sleep-swollen eyes.

Steve shrugs with his back propped against the headboard. “Not really. I mean, what’s the worst-case scenario— I get sick and have to be quarantined here with you? That doesn’t sound so bad to me.”

His lips curl into a lopsided smile that makes your chest feel sparkly. You turn away and hide your own grin in the pillow. “You’re an idiot, Steve Harrington,” you quip, half-muffled in the cushion.

“Yeah, I know,” he hums, never once taking his eyes off you. 

He can’t wait to kiss you when you’re better.