#but maybe less human-looking. more arms ? or maybe legs ?

[mehiwilldoitlater]

Hi if your still up for requests; would it be ok if I request yandere destiny one with a Yaoguai reader who’s on the run from the celestial since the celestials planning to turn her into a pair of immortal pills

(maybe reader is part of the spider fan , or maybe she has a connection to the white bone demon or maybe reader is a human who just made the celestials mad 👀)

Hcs please 🙏

Long and slender legs that run between the tight bush, arrows and spears that whipped through the air, a heavy breath from the nostrils.

The hunt began weeks ago, but now the pursuers were able to catch on to their prey. A deer at first sight, but once the eyes were able to look closer, its mane was covered in silver gleam, the stars of the midnight sky in its eyes. The hunter had freed their dogs, trying to catch the deer now closer than ever to their Blade.

But the deer was fast; its legs were made to run and to own the pavement of the forest, but a frantic creature can take itself to its own demise. The wall of the mountain stopped its escape; the solid rock did not show any help for a climb, and bigger rocks stopped the passage around it.

The deer squished itself on the wall, fearing the sound of the horses and the barking of the dogs. 

It seemed like, despite the fear, it knew that running wasn't anymore an option, and accepting seemed almost inevitable. Yet, the sound changed, the barking grew more aggressive, the shouts were focused on something else, and the sound of spears clashed with the sound of metal and wood. 

The scream stopped; the dog dismissed or emitted some long whines before falling into silence. Then nothing...the Woods came back to its regular silence. The deer looked at the leaves and the branches, expecting everything...except for a monkey.

A young monkey, armed with a staff, walked towards the deer, looking at him with a glint of interest. What a peculiar creature, he was thinking; never had he seen a deer colored like the night. And what he couldn't expect more was that for the deer to suddenly get engulfed in a silver smoker and reappear with a humanoid form.

"Thank you, dear One! Oh, thank you so much!" 

And while the creature held his hands, thanking him from the bottom of her heart, he couldn't suppress the blushes on his face.

///

Your life was perfect.

Once, you were a mere deer, born to survive and procreate, nothing more and nothing less. But one day something awoke in you, a thought, a desire to be more, to do more.

You started to cultivate yourself until, after seeing more things than you were supposed to see, you woke up...changed. Your mantle was now of the color of the Moon that shone between the Misty Sky, and your eyes were like the many nights that had passed over your head. You were meant to be noticed.

A Celestial found you, and you shared your progress in your cultivation, and, maybe noticing a certain talent, he had taken you under his wing. 

You've taken your human form after a long period in the Celestial realm; you were beyond happiness, not just because you were able to achieve something that just a few did, but because you were able to escape from your destiny to be more than you were supposed to be! 

But you learned too much; you found out a secret that Heaven didn't want you to know. They were rational at first, trying to advocate with your silence, offering you a prestigious position!

They wanted to buy your compliance and your silence; you refused... and they didn't take it too well. 

They wanted to reduce you to a pill, to silence you, but you sniffed the danger and fled! 

While telling your story to the monkey, you couldn't hold your tears, so afraid and so lonely, without your kind and without a soul that could help you...

"I will," he said, with a confidence known only to his kind.

"But... I'll put you in danger... I can't..."

"Heaven doesn't like me ALREADY, and I can't LET them keep up with their schemes."

And with that, a new chapter begins for you... If you only could sniff the danger here too.

///

Living on the mountain was like going back to your old life, only for this one to be quite different. It wasn't just because you were there as a fugitive, but mostly because the mokey presence seemed like an almost constant now.

Every day you woke up only to find him around; the entire day was made to be at his side, taking care of chores around the village, and the last face you could see before closing your door was his own. You found it quite strange, odd even, but his kindeness and his protectiveness made you dismiss the fact that, since the beginning, no other monkey, especially the older ones, were allowed to stay close to you.

You weren't bothered; you weren't accustomed to monkeys way of living, and you thought that was normal behavior. And by the way, it wasn't always like that! He did make a few of his younger sisters watch over you, especially when he was leaving for his mission. 

They were always so caring and tender with you, calling you older sister and spending their days with you. They didn't like the idea of letting you roam off by yourself; they always found a new way to drag you back to the Mountain or distract you from your own agenda.

You never batted an eye, never suspected anything, and you never even noticed their way to try to persuade you to never leave their home, to stay there with them and their beloved older brother.

You never questioned his own actions; maybe it was normal around them. To hug each other so tightly, to linger a little too much close to you, to whisper things so near to your ears that your skin shivered.

His hands, always searching for yours, always sending his gaze on every move. To pry into every detail of your life, just to know you, even the more personal ones. You, in your own way, decided to indulge him; he was your savior. After all, a thing that even he never failed to remind you.

He saved you, gave you protection, food, and somewhere you could be protected like you deserved. It was almost an obligation to be kind and accept every one of those small demands that weren't even a big deal.

It was normal, right?

///

His breath was stuck in his throat, his eyes were wide open, and his pupils were as small as the head of a nail. His tail was as rigid as the staff he held in his hand, yet an imperceptible movement could be seen from it, such was the grip that was strong. It seemed like the weapon sensed the desire of its owner to smash the brain of the celestial that was holding you and...kissing you...

Your eyes shined with a gleam that he had never seen before when he was the one in front of her, and a smile that he swore was the most treasurable gift that you ever made.

"Monkey! Please let me introduce to you my future spouse!"

Did you mention about your spouse before? Maybe, maybe he just ignored your tale,

Like many times you had told him what made you uncomfortable, and he always was able to cross it. Maybe he hoped that, without the presence of that immortal around you, you would maybe change your mind and realize that the one with whom you wanted to spend your life wasn't part of the court.

Everything could be a good explanation, but in the meantime he was forced to see you embrace them like you never embrace anyone before, kissing their temples in tears of joy for your reunion, their hands in your hair, so close to you... The monkey couldn't stand it, but he couldn't take away his gaze either, imaging he was entangled in your arms.

That celestial presented themselves in all elegance; their gratitude was like water in their mouth, spilling in vigor for the happiness to find their future bride in good health and safe from the court clutches. But the monkey couldn't care less; how could he even listen when his mind was occupied with so many thoughts?

Why are they here now? Where were they when you needed them most? When you were on the run, with dogs and a soldier at your back. They wanted to transform you into a pill. What if that was a trap?! What if they weren't there to take you to safety but back there?!

No, the monkey thought; he won't let that happen. He wanted to protect you, not like that scum that professes to be your future spouse! He was there to help you and protect you; he did it before he was willing to do it again! Yes, it would be painful. It's clear that they had fooled you quite well, but if he had seen through it, he would not fail you!

And while his mind found every possible excuse it could, his staff spoke for him.

///

Your scream echoed in the mountain; blood spilled like a river, on the green grass and on his hands.

They were dead; their head was long gone. They were dead.

"NOOO! MY LOVE! MY BELOVED NO!" You ran toward the body; your hand clinged to what remained, hoping to feel a sign of life, everything... but their chest was still, and so was their heart.

The monkey looked at your face, tears running like raindrops on that body; the light of the sun made them like pure gold. You were beautiful; even in tears, you were a gift of the skies. Those eyes made of pure lapislazuli looked at you, shining more than ever.

"W...why? ....Why?! I trusted you; how could you?"

"They didn't love you. They left you alone. They wanted to bring you back!"

"How could you say that?!" You screamed in pain. "You killed them in cold blood; they just wanted to protect me like you!"

"No!" He roared; his voice silenced you in fear. A glint in his eyes, it was worse than the one that the wolves had during their hunt. His hands grasped you, holding you down, blood covering your white robes; you were like a bride now.

"I PROTECTED YOU! I DID! BECAUSE I LOVE YOU, MOR ETHEY COULD EVEN DO! I WOULD DO EVERYTHING FOR YOU!"

His hand left your shoulder, reaching for your legs. A shiver of panick made you struggle more, but his hand was solid rock.

"I would die for you. KILL FOR YOU! I'll take care of you; do everything to keep you here with me."

"Stop! You're hurting me! Monkey you-"

"EVERYTHING!"

A crack silenced you, then your voice broke the silence of the mounatin once more.

///

He did keep his promise; he did make everything in his power to make you stay.

The leg that you lost was bartered for Cuschion so soft that it could even be taken for a cloud; he was always there, caring for you and trading the wounds that you inflicted yourself in your attempts to escape. You can't go far with one leg, even in your deer form.

Sometime, especially at night when his arms are like snakes around you, you wonder if being a pill for another celestial wouldn't be so bad.

[kiame-sama]

What if HAE!reader had multiple piercings and/or tattoos? Would they(the monster boys) try to scrub away the tattoos? Would some be offended that reader purposefully marred their skin? Would others find it attractive?

They have tattoos in the monster Au, but the same things apply. Leona has a tattoo on his arm, same as canon, he certainly wouldn't mind if mousey had a few extra narks on them. Maybe you can get matching ones? He'll pay for them.

Riddle would be upset, why marr your pretty flesh? Why do any of this? He will eventually get over it and may start to ask if you would get one of a rose with a heart in it? He wants it for reasons.

Malleus is okay with it and vaguely debates puting a magic tattoo of his own design on you, a fine way to mark the crown jewel of his Hoard. He thanks you for the idea.

Azul likes it as he is one of the students who has marks of his own along his entire face and upper body. Like his Cecaelia form, his legs are a dark black on the front of his legs (knees, shins, tops of the thighs, outer thigh, ect) and purple on the back (thighs, heel, Achilles, inner thighs). He likes the extra markings on you and wonders if you have any more.

Rook thinks you already have natural patterning. He can see the Blaschko lines all Humans have on their skin which can come across as patches or stripes along the body. To most, these markings aren't visible, but Rook can see them and he thinks they're lovely to look at. He doesn't care if you have more, less, or no tattoos, your natural markings are already stunning. However you choose to decorate your body, he will appreciate.

Vil is irritated unless you have a peacock tattoo, then he can claim it as himself and he will immediately get over it. You had better not have mourning doves, he will come unglued.

[keeps-ache]

i need more object-head OCs. it's So imperative to my health

[zephyrchama]

Water Wrinkles

Seven demon brothers sat solemnly in a circle around you. You did your best to ignore them. It wasn't often that you got to spend time at the human world villa, and you were intent on soaking up as much sun as you could before returning to the Devildom.

You reclined your beach chair back, crossing your arms under your still-wet hair. It was a gorgeous day. Perfect for being at the pool.

Leviathan let out a muffled sob. As the demon with the highest affinity for water, he blamed himself.

"Let us take you to a hospital," Satan insisted for the tenth time.

"They're going to laugh us out of the ER," you nonchalantly repeated.

Satan lowered his eyes and muttered, "I couldn't find any traces of a curse in the water... So how...?"

Asmodeus had his head in his hands, unresponsive. Sometimes his fingers curled around the ends of his hair. You briefly glanced over to make sure he didn't pull his hair out - that would be grounds for a real emergency.

"I can't bear to watch. Lucifer, do somethin'," Mammon whined. He was fidgeting all over the place and winced whenever he looked at your feet.

The oldest glared at you. You knew it was out of concern, but his fears were unfounded. Even Lucifer refused to listen to reason when he thought you were in danger.

"Actually, yeah. Lucifer, can you pass me a towel?" you asked. It was embarrassing having seven shirtless demons intensely staring at you. If they wouldn't let you go back in the water, maybe covering up would make you feel less self-conscious.

Lucifer didn't move. It was Beelzebub who plucked a spare towel off his younger twin and handed it to you with a shaking arm. He looked like a wet puppy, having been the one who first discovered your "condition" and swept you out of the pool.

Belphegor hadn't gone in the water that day. He only hogged the plush towels because of how comfortable they were and, following Beelzebub's lead, dumped them all onto your chair. Now he sat, wide awake. He was anxiously squeezing a loose chunk of concrete but at some point, without realizing, it got crushed to powder in his hand.

You had more than enough towels now.

"In half an hour you're going to forget this all even happened," you said to reassure the worry warts.

"In half an hour, you might be gone!" Mammon snapped back.

"You're going to be a wrinkled mess of skin and bones," Asmodeus weeped quietly.

Leviathan pressed his hands over his ears. Though, with nothing to cover his eyes he was forced to look at your wrinkled hands again. Based on the noises he was making, you'd think someone was torturing him.

"As I've said!" you reiterated. "All humans get wrinkly in water. Look, now that I'm drying off it's going back to normal."

Beelzebub grabbed your ankle, raising it for the brothers to observe at eye level. "I don't see a difference."

You didn't expect the sudden manhandling and slunk several inches down the lounge chair while the demons stared at your foot. Kicking and twisting your leg was futile. You modestly crossed your free leg.

"I think it's getting worse," Satan said.

"We need to take action," Lucifer decided.

Asmodeus was actively quivering now. Belphegor and Leviathan had crept behind you and started picking at your wrinkly fingers. You tried to swat them away to no avail.

"Give me 25 minutes! Literally! Probably even less, this will go away on its own! I just need to dry off."

"We need a solution now," Mammon asserted. The cogs in his brain were turning. "We need fire."

You tried to sit up, to jump up and stop Mammon before he burned the whole villa down in an attempt to dry you off, but Beelzebub had not let go and you stumbled. You grazed your knee on the concrete and winced.

A second round of panic overcame the demon brothers. Beelzebub let go, Lucifer picked you up, and Belphegor wrapped your knee with every available towel he could lay his hands on. Asmodeus and Leviathan were crying on each other's shoulders. Mammon came running back, oblivious to the second disaster that just occurred, with a flaming stick in his hand that Satan tried to keep at bay. If you got burnt on top of everything else, they'd probably go insane and destroy the human world.

In the midst of the chaos you caught a glimpse of your hand. It was practically dry. You couldn't even see the wrinkles anymore. You angrily wiggled in Lucifer's grasp as various hands fussed over you.

"Stay!!" you shouted over the clamor.

The brothers went tumbling to the ground, save for Lucifer who fought to stay rooted in place. You could finally hear yourself think again. There was primarily one thought on your mind.

"I just want to go swimming."

[hitomisuzuya]

yandere!hybrid scaramouche x fem!reader. smut. porn with a little plot. breeding kink. cunnilingus. masturbation. cream pie. degradation. scara in heat. aggressive/possessive behavior.

i just wanted to write about scara as a hybrid for a bit. don't mind this high nonsense. it turned out way long, oml, i'm sorry😭

you could never have cats growing up. so when the opportunity to take one in presented itself, you naturally took it. scaramouche was very weak, and very injured when you found him laying underneath a cardboard box in an alley.

you couldn't bear to leave him out in the cold, and freezing rain. scaramouche huddled further into the cardboard box, hissing when you crouched down to reach for him. he fought you the whole time, hissing, scratching and biting until you finally managed to wrestle him into your arms, wrapping your jacket around him and cradling him to your chest so he could get warm.

the whole time you were cooing to him soothingly. "shh, kitty, it's okay. we will get you inside, and fed. i promise. and get you feeling better." scaramouche was incredibly startled finding out your voice was soothing.

a few instances on the way home, he thought he almost fell asleep listening to the sound of your heartbeat. it made him focus a little less on the pain in his very injured leg, and pain from being weak and starving. fuck it, it would be an opportunity to rest indoors out of the cold, and get something to eat before he bailed on you the next day.

and he was going to find and fuck up that alley cat he got into a fight with. maybe he would come back to your house, yowling for food before he fled entirely.

scaramouche sure didn't know what to think about you. what the fuck was up with you? any normal person would've just dropped and abandoned him after he hissed and clawed at them, but not you. you took it all with a calm, patient smile. he decided he would fiercely test that patience.

humans weren't as good as they liked to think, in his humble opinion.

scaramouche watched you with narrow eyes as you flitted about the kitchen, looking in cabinets to see what you had for him to eat. "i'm afraid you'll have to forgive me kitty, i still have to go the grocery store this week. if you don't like anything i have, i'll go back out to the store, and see if i can't find you something."

so test you he did. he turned his nose up at tuna, some cubed chicken breasts with gravy on them (even it smelled super good, he thought), some roast beef.

he thought, this is it! he was going to turn out to be right. you would undoubtedly get frustrated and put him back out on the street. or so he thought.

nope, you just made him a soft little nest on the couch with some blankets and pillows. turned on the tv for him, and told him you would be back with some other stuff. that you would find what he wanted to eat, it wasn't a problem.

you even looked happy to be taking care of him. and why the hell were you starting to smell really good every time you walked by him. he waited, curled up warm in your little hand made nest, glancing away from the tv at the door every now and then.

back you came, your scent more magnified than before to him. you brought fish, varieties of tuna, some cat treats and cat nip. you'd even stopped by the deli and picked up different things. for him. you didn't bring home any dinner for yourself.

scaramouche supposed he would feel like an asshole if he refused all of it. you'd gone back out in the freezing rain and wind to get food for him, getting nothing for yourself. he decided he was only going to be half the trouble, accepting some chicken and gravy that tasted better than he anticipated.

after that, you treated his injured leg and read to him until he fell asleep. he opened his eyes the next morning to discover you hadn't slept until he did.

scaramouche was incredibly weak from his injury. so much so that he couldn't transform into his more human form to make recovery easier. and if he had it his way, you would never know about it. a few days and he would be gone.

or so he told himself. before he knew it, one day turned into two. two days turned into a week. he got stronger everyday. oh how you smiled and clapped when he stood up without limping. your smile was beautiful, he admitted.

you'd put up with him all this time. the healing scratches and bite marks on your arms and hands proved that. what was in it for you? nothing. everything you did was for him. he couldn't find one hint of an ulterior motive. you even seemed to purely enjoy his company.

scaramouche was really starting to hate whenever you left the house, especially when you couldn't take him with you. why did you need to leave? he knew you needed to go out for food and things, but it would be so much better if you took him with you. you seemed way too nice. it probably made you really naive.

you were naive enough not to realize he was actually a hybrid with a very human form, and a name. A name you were talking about him needing eventually. a very human form with very human needs. you were smelling better and better every day. he almost couldn't stand it sometimes. it was intoxicating.

he was starting to jump on your bed with you at night to sleep, moving a little closer to you every night. one morning, you found him curled up asleep on your chest, purring softly. he avoided you for hours after that happened, darting off hissing in embarrassment.

that wasn't the worst thing for him. a few mornings later, he'd unknowingly shifted in the middle of the night into his human form, waking up very naked with a very hard cock. his arms wrapped around you, tucking you possessively against him.

to your credit (and his amazement), you didn't scream or send him away. he supposed he should've expected that. you didn't even throw him out when he scratched up your curtains, tore a hole in one of the couch pillows, and knocked what he thought looked the most valuable vase off the table, completely shattering it.

"scaramouche," he grumbled, his ears flicking as he looked away in embarrassment. "scaramouche is what you can call me," he could barely look at you that day. he spent most of his time in his cat form, hiding under the bed, or lingering from a distance, watching you suspicious eyes. undoubtedly your true nature would come out. a strange boy had woken up next to you, naked and hard from good you smelled. how warm you felt.

you, with your soft hair that looks oh so pullable. you, with your pretty lips and fragile body he was pretty sure he could break in half. now that he thought about it, you seeing his human form was really the best thing. now he could leave the house with you, and protect you from all the horrible things that would jump out from around every corner and snatch you away.

snatch you away from him. he couldn't have that, no matter what. especially not when you accepted him so completely.

as much as scaramouche tried to swallow these feelings, he was abruptly forced to accept them one day. he walked into your room while you were changing. he saw every bare dip and curve of your breakable body, caught sight of your breasts reflected in the mirror. something snapped in him after that.

of course, he hid away from you after that. only coming out to kick up an angry fuss about you running an errand. he snapped at you when you asked if he wanted to come with you, refusing out of pride and embarrassment for walking in on you earlier.

he was forced to accept two things that day. he was going into heat. and he was consumed with thoughts of breeding you. breeding you so fucking full that there would be no question who you belonged to.

what the fuck had you done to him?

while you were gone, he spent that time writhing on your bed, fisting his cock to thoughts of impaling you on it. making you cry and claw at his back to cum inside you. even better for him that you were starting to become twice as shy around him, looking at him with a blush on your cheeks.

he scented all your clothes, rubbing on them and rolling around on them in his cat form. he rolled around on your sheets and pillows. and as for you, he scented you while you slept. this is what was best. if you smelled like him, no one would so much as dare to take you away from him.

you are his, damn it.

when scaramouche is in heat, he gets twice as possessive. he was incredibly suspicious and weary of anyone that approached or even looked at you, especially another male. if he thought there were too many people around, he insisted on taking different ways home to avoid them. he can and will snap at people if he felt they got too close.

especially when you let him get handsy with you in a moment of weakness one night. he pinned underneath him on the couch, grinding his straining cock between your legs while he pawed at your clothes. his teeth nipping at your lips and skin in between angry and frustrated kisses. you just smelled so fucking good he couldn't control himself. you moaned and mewled so sweetly underneath him.

it did happen one day. he didn't want you to go into the cafe to get your hot chocolate. he insisted on doing it for you, but in the end relented and let you go inside. everything was going smoothly until the barista asked you for your number. you didn't need someone's phone number to give them a cup of hot chocolate. this asshole didn't need your number.

you already had scaramouche. was he blind? that was what went through his head. he wanted to tear the barista's head off. he bet it would pop off so easy, like a bottle cap under too much pressure. if it wasn't for your voice pleading with him to calm down, he would've gotten physical with the barista.

anybody would've gotten fed up and exhausted by now. especially since he raised a further argument when you both were banned from ever coming back. he bartered down for you to be allowed back but not him, since you didn't do anything wrong. that you really liked the whipped cream on their hot chocolate.

scaramouche is the type of hybrid that you have to isolate with when he is in heat. that much was obvious. and that was what he needed the most right now. to be with you, and hide you away from the world, making sure nothing and nobody touched you while he was in heat.

he knew you were strong, but that's exactly why you needed him to protect you.

after the incident at the cafe, scaramouche only completely calmed down when he was fucking his tongue into your cunt. "such a doting, delicate little thing, aren't you," he hissed, looking up at you from between your thighs. "it's going to be a pleasure breeding you," your fingers tightened in his hair, tugging on his ears in an intoxicating way as you pushed his mouth down onto your pussy.

his tongue swirled around your clit, groaning as you grinded on his mouth. he didn't know what was sweeter. the way you tasted or the way you moaned as he latched his lips around your clit.

how good it felt to finally sink his claw into his delicate little mate. you put up with him. cared for him. doted on and indulged him. you'd made him fall so in love, so much so that it was too late by the time he noticed.

now he was going to take care of you in the way you deserved.

and in the dizzying pleasure of cumming on his tongue, you didn't quite know what happened. but what you did know is that you were in love with him to. you didn't expect this cat you found injured to be the force of literal nature that was scaramouche. complete with cute ears. before you knew it, he'd pulled you right in, and you were happy to let him do it, in all the comforting weight of his dominance.

"i want to hear you scream it, slut," scaramouche moaned, his hands tightening on your hips possessively. he had the perfect view of his cock pumping in and out of your pussy from behind. your walls squeezed around his cock hearing him mock your moans as he bottomed out into your sweet spot over and over again. "babble about how badly you want to be bred."

your sopping cunt clutched tight and warm like a glove, your walls gummy and perfect. his eyes rolled into the back of his head how good you felt squeezing his cock.

"please, breed me. you feel so good inside me," you cried out, drool soaking the pillow under your cheek. he chuckled shakily behind you, you were always so eager to please him. even the way you shook, creaming hard on his cock was an intoxicating sight to behold.

a truly delicate gift for him to break.

the harder he made you cum, the more you begged him to fuck you full of cum. "cock drunk whore," scaramouche moaned, his thrusts turning sloppy as his cock pulsed cum inside of you. he doubted you could hear his soft whimpers of bliss over your own, which were much louder.

[nightingale-prompts]

Talking to Batboy

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"Do you want to talk?" Dick asked sitting at the end of the bed.

Danny had been spared from the memories of that night but it had done nothing for his mental health. He was handling the loss of his wings well at least. Although losing a limb was still not a good feeling.

But that isn't the problem. None of this is the problem.

The problem was…

"Why me?" Danny asked tucking his legs to his chest.

"What?" Dick asked confused.

"What made me so special? Was it just my wings?" Danny narrowed his eyes.

"I...don't know. I just wanted-"

"That's not an answer! It was the wings, wasn't y You don't care about me! Of course, it was the wings!" Danny jumped off the bed and moved towards the door.

"Danny, is it so hard to believe that I wanted you because I cared?" Dick grabbed Danny's hand pulling him back.

"Yes! This city is full of poor unfortunate orphans. The only reason I was special was because of how I looked. But that's not real! That's not what I am." Danny shifted, and his real appearance began shifting across his body. "BUT YOU DON'T WANT TO SEE THE REAL ME!

Danny started to hyperventilate as he pulled back until he hit the wall. He slumped to the floor.

"I don't belong here. I should never have come here." Danny said to himself.

Dick keeled down and spoke gently.

"Your right you did stand out. I thought you were a lot like me. Optimistic and energetic despite the pain you were in. I didn't know what you were and I still don't understand. I wish you'd just tell me so I can understand. I want to help you."

Danny scoffed.

"You want to help me?" He laughed taking off his shirt and letting his glamour fall showing the scars he had.

The lightning scar that ripped through his arm and chest all the way to his eye. The burn marks and blast marks littered his body. The unmistakable dissection scar.

In that moment Dick knew that he hadn't seen himself in Danny. He had seen Jason. Sweet little Jason who has a light in the night. His little brother who he hadn't treasured enough until he was gone.

"Danny…you.." He was lost for words.

"You don't want me. Even my parents didn't want me. Honestly, you are all the same. You don't see me as what I am. Just a monster. Not human." Danny grumbled.

"That's not true Danny! Stop trying to put words in my mouth! I love you, is that so hard to believe?" Dick held Danny's shoulders as the teen pushed him back.

"Yes! Now get away!" Danny phased through Dick and flew away to escape. He couldn't handle this right now.

Wings or no wings he could still fly. That was comfort enough.

He flew as quickly as he could only to end up in Crime Alley again. As eerie as it was it gave him a place to collect his thoughts.

Unfortunately, he forgot it was home to the relevant Red Hood or Jason. His unwitting family member. That was no longer a secret especially when Jason recognized him as Phantom. At least he didn't tell everyone.

He didn't want them to know the truth. He didn't want to be an undead monster to them. He couldn't go through that again. He refused. He'd rather return to the realms before suffering that again.

When Jason came (probably sensing his presence) Danny felt overcome with emotions. He hugged Jason feeling a little less alone.

"Hey, Spooks. What are you doing out here?" Jason asked letting the boy hug him.

"I…picked a fight with Dick," Danny said embarrassed with how he acted…again.

"First time?" Jason laughed "Trust me as his kid you probably will do that plenty more times. I know I still do with my ol'man. But Dick isn't like Bats. He loves differently. Although they both care too much, Dick is good at communication. Just talk to him."

Jason seemed more jovial now. Less pained. Apparently, now that the Joker was dead and gone a weight was taken off him. That and the tainted ectoplasm being eaten by Danny.

"I don't think I can," Danny said, what he wanted to do was run away. He may have gotten too deep into this. Maybe returning was the best thing.

"Then you sure chose the worst possible guardian. He's gonna keep looking. He did not going to stop either. So sucking it up and facing him is the best possible route." Jason laughed as Danny sighed. "You can't keep running."

"I can try." Danny thought bitterly. He could just rip open a portal and disappear. No one would know.

"Red Hood. Danny." A third voice entered the conversation.

"Batman." Jason scowled.

"I was sent to look for Danny." He said simply. "He should be focused on healing."

"How'd you find me this fast?" Danny gripped rolling his eyes.

"I had a feeling. Come along, Danny. " Batman reached out to Danny.

Reluctantly Danny waved goodbye to Red Hood and took Bruce's hand.

Bruce didn't take Danny home immediately. Instead, they climbed one of the tallest buildings in Gotham. Danny stared up at the sky. The stars were blocked out by the light and smoke. He always hated that part of Gotham.

"Danny look down," Batman said urging Danny to sit with him.

Looking down the city shined. Each light is like a blazing star.

"Each light you see is a person. Despite how difficult life is here they still choose to live their lives." Batman said. "They don't know if they will be safe but they still strive for more."

"Do they really think that or do you just hope they do?" Danny barked clinically.

"Both. It wasn't always like this. The city used to be dead silent before I became Batman. Now they have the strength to fight back even in the night. That's why I do this. So Danny, why do you fight?"

Danny was never really asked this. He had a reason right? A good one.

"I wanted to protect my hometown." Yet he no longer needed to do that. He controlled the ghosts now. They lived a peaceful life now.

"Then we have something in common. I want to protect Gotham. But I'm not perfect. The world we live in is unpredictable with forces we don't understand. I thought if I understood something then I'd have no reason to fear. That suspension was leveled at you because I thought it would protect you and the world. However, I only made you afraid."Batman apologized. He wasn't very good at that but he was genuine.

"What if I'm a threat? What if I'm dangerous and hurt people? People you care about." Danny wanted to aim that barb at Bruce but it actually hit him. He was scared that one day he would become that other version of himself.

"Then I want to help you because I know you don't want to hurt people. Trust me there isn't a metahuman on earth that doesn't share your fear." Batman put a hand on Danny's shoulder.

It felt surprisingly warm against his cold skin.

"I want to talk to Nightwing. I think. I think I'm ready to talk." Danny was finally ready to tell him the truth. Even if it scared him to death.

[wileys-russo]

mascot II l.williamson

"you nervous?" you asked, leaning in your door frame as leah glanced over to you with a firm shake of her head. "no." she replied quickly, not an ounce of doubt present in her voice but you knew her well enough to see the flicker of unease in her eyes.

you stepped into the bathroom, making your way over to her and gently pushing her hands out of the way where she'd been messing about with the collar of her jacket.

"it's okay if you are, means its important and you want to do well." you assured softly, folding over and smoothing out her collar, tapping her shoulders with a smile.

"maybe a tiny bit nervous then." your girlfriend admitted quietly, pulling you into a sudden hug as her chin rested on your shoulder.

"you mean to tell me the leah williamson, england captain and european champion is human?" you gasped teasingly, leah pinching your sides.

"you'll be brilliant my love. you've done everything right lee, now its time to go and enjoy it." you smiled kindly, holding her away from you at arms length, your hands gently clasping her face.

"what if i mess it up again?" the doubt was now clear in her facial features as her eyebrows turned downward into a deep frown.

"like i said lee, you're human. football has ups and football has downs, you've been smashing it back on pitch for arsenal. this isn't anything different, you go out and you give 100% and do your best for your country. no one can ever expect anything more from you than that." you assured, eyes never leaving hers as she nodded.

"i love you." she replied simply, leaning in and pressing her lips to yours. you indulged her for a moment, leahs hands slipping down to your hips and drawing your body closer into hers.

"i need to go before you get in trouble for having visitors." you pulled away with a smile, leah sighing but nodding none the less. "stop pouting, i'll be seeing you in like three hours." you laughed at her face, sweetly pecking her lips a few more times.

"i'll meet you with the mascots yeah? you'll have mia?" leah asked, hands grabbing yours and fiddling with your fingers as you hung about by her door. "we'll be there." you promised, your girlfriend nodding as you opened the door.

"ah! captain mode, be professional." you warned with a playful glare as she took the opportunity of your back facing her to reach out and smack your bum, her usual cheeky grin returning as you shook your head.

then with one more final kiss goodbye, you were gone.

~

"how does she seem?" you murmured quietly to keira, keeping a watchful eye on your niece as she ran around giggling, making friends left right and centre forever the social butterfly. "good. stern and serious as usual!" keira chuckled, bumping her shoulder into yours.

"back to herself then." you laughed quietly, greeting a few of the other girls as they joined you, your girlfriend still not to be seen as they called out for the mascots to line up so the girls could meet them properly.

you bid keira goodbye and squatted down as mia ran over. "come here you grub." you laughed with a shake of your head, re-tucking in her shorts and smoothing out her hair.

"you are just like your dad." you chuckled, your older brother forever bouncing about like an energizer bunny nearly his whole life. "do i have to tuck it in?" she groaned, stamping her foot and pulling her shirt back out of her shorts.

"all the very best footballers tuck their shirt." you looked up to see your favourite smile bearing down on you, mia tackling leah in a hug and wrapping tightly around her leg. "can you do it please?" mia asked, lifting her arms as leah knelt down to help her tuck it in.

"mia! what was wrong with how i did it?" you gasped in mock offence, hand on your chest as your niece shrugged. "aunty lee's the best at everything." she answered simply, leah picking her up into a tight hug.

"yeah very mature captain williamson." you rolled your eyes at the older girl who stuck her tongue out at you over the five year olds shoulder making her giggle. snapping back out of it your girlfriend gently placed mia back down, again squatting to her height.

"hey mee." leah started, poking at her sides and making her squeal. "so when you walk out with me in a little bit i won't be smiling very much. i want you to know that doesn't mean i'm upset or grumpy or anything. but all of this-" she paused to gesture her hands around the room.

"-this is my job. and part of my job means i have to be a bit more serious than usual, and make sure all my girls are ready to play the best football we can. but that doesn't mean im cross with you, okay?" leah finished with a reassuring smile, mia nodding along in understanding as your heart melted at the sight.

"you're the boss!" your neice chirped, tapping the england crest on leahs top with her hand making you laugh as your girlfriend grinned up at you.

"nah not the boss, just wear the armband and look after the girls. don't tell anyone but really i just pretend to know what im doing!" leah whispered looking around before grinning at the five year old, ruffling her hair and standing up as the refs appeared ready to walk out.

"now mia you listen to aunty lee when you're out there yeah? and then as soon as you're told to you come right back and meet me here and i'll take us to our seats. okay? no funny business!" you warned, your niece nodding as leah held out her hand, stern look already settled into her features as mia bounced excitedly on her feet.

knowing better than to break leahs professionalism you took a step back, huddling on the edge of the tunnel with the families of the other mascots as the girls walked out.

watching on as mia sang her heart out to the national anthem made your own melt, catching leah almost break her serious facade, some of the other girls chuckling at the unbridled passion from your niece.

it was so fast you might have missed it if you blinked, but you saw the indescribable pride flicker across your girlfriends face as she used the back of her hand to wipe away a single tear, masking it as she clapped and the girls started to disperse.

you smiled as mia raced over to you, babbling on and on as you chuckled, taking her hand and just catching leahs eye. "i love you." you mouthed, a small smile curling into the corners of her mouth as she winked quickly, dropping back into position as you hoisted mia up onto your hip and left to make your ways to your seats.

and you'd never felt prouder.

[tojisun]

it takes a rampage (to be a dad)

!! fluff & angst; simon’s pov; simon’s insecurities; vague descriptions of violence; repeating allusions to past child abuse; parenthood; f!reader // wc: 3.5k // dividers by @/plutism!

a spinoff of the apple that rolled over to the tree

simon’s not a good man, but he concedes that there are just certain circumstances where you have to be the good man. where you have to bleed and burn through, and sacrifice a shit ton because that’s what being good is.

case in point: the child, who couldn’t be any more than two, bundled in his arms as the squad tries to come down from the adrenaline after a dangerously high-tension exfil.

“where,” johnny pauses, breathing deeply, quick fingers unlatching any tight strapping that’s making it difficult to gulp in air. “where ye dumpin’ the brat?”

it’s callously said, but they all know johnny’s meant it in a place of worry—which is founded, by all accounts, because the base is a terrible place to care for a two year old toddler. no one’s even equipped to deal with the boy, not with the mission still on its last legs; granted, the winding dregs would only require their captain, maybe garrick for backup, to finish but nothing is ever certain.

but—

the boy shifts on his lap, big brown eyes staring up at simon with unfathomable trust. like the sight of his mask, and weapons, and even having seen him in action—poised guns and clean shots on the head; unfazed eyes scanning the explosion of brain matter spilling he’s caused—was not petrifying.

simon knows what they say about ghost—the living boogeyman; the harbinger of death and destruction. and yet here the little boy is, looking up at him like simon isn’t anything other than man; like simon is something so human.

simon thinks about his place back home that’s dancing close to the outskirts of the city; he thinks about its picket fence and its brick walls and its big backyard.

he thinks about its love, forged from the softest hands that simon’s ever held; from the hands of the only one that simon’s ever loved.

“i’m bringin’ ‘im ‘ome.”

.

laswell was kind enough to pull some strings so that the boy has whatever legal documents he needed so simon can bring him back safely—passport, citizenship papers… adoption documents.

jacob emory riley. (yakov in russian. yasha.) he’s simon’s ward now. his son.

(laswell had congratulated him with crinkled eyes and the softest of smiles; it might just be the first simon’s ever seen her look so at peace.

somehow, it was that brief talk with laswell that made everything feel tangibly raw; simon realized that things got too real too fast, and that he found himself almost wanting to reverse everything he’d done so far because what if he wouldn’t be a good guardian to the child? what if simon’s too broken for the child? what if—

his thoughts stuttered, quaking until they reach a tentative halt because the boy closed his little fist around the entirety of simon’s finger. he was so small, like that, and still so blindingly trusting even with all the littering scars on his little arms and little legs. he held onto simon so fiercely, he didn’t even notice the turmoil in simon’s heart. or how simon had almost given him away in an act of his cowardice because simon is a coward. especially with this.

but jacob—

but yasha held him, chose him, and the storm raging in his head died down, petering into a quiet chill until simon could bite out a weak but not any less genuine, “thank you,” to laswell.

laswell stared at him, all-knowing as always, before bidding him and yasha a sweet goodbye.)

the boy responds better with the diminutive, all giggly and grabby hands as he toddles over simon. the rest of the squad had eased into their roles, battle-worn bodies turning into the softest cushions with yasha in their arms. he is a shy little thing, hiding behind simon’s leg whenever price would come visit, or refusing to be put down from simon’s arms or even make eye contact with mactavish when it’s his turn to babysit.

garrick was a different story altogether. yasha had looked at him once, studying with such inquisitive curiosity, before deeming his sergeant the safest after simon. he’d grumbled and cooed and begged for uppies—garrick had been all too pleased to give it to him.

which is why saying goodbye now is difficult.

yasha would not stop crying, pale face all blotchy and snotty as he wails, chubby arms thrashing, trying to reach for kyle, but the sergeant and their captain are already suited for the mission, ready to leave the moment simon and johnny and little yasha do.

“ky! ky!” he cries out, unable to fully say kyle’s name but trying so desperately because his grief is so much bigger than himself.

simon bounces him on his hip, trying to calm the little tyke down, but shrill wails pierce their ears, unstoppable, and he wonders if it was too cruel to have made him say goodbye to kyle and price. simon heard from the medic that it was healthy for children to cry, but yasha sobs like he is grieving, and simon can’t fault him—this is his first, and hopefully his last for a long while, experience of abandonment. sure, they’ve all told him that kyle would just be gone for a while, but yasha is a child, unable to reconcile such reality where his uncle isn’t flying home with him.

(they didn’t mention the fragility of their lives in their line of work; how, every time they suit up, there are chances that they’ll never return. yasha is too young for such reality.

‘sides, kyle promised to come back. so he has to.)

kyle is teary-eyed, so is mactavish, and simon presses his sorry’s and his reassurances on yasha’s inky black hair, while kyle makes a vow once more.

“don’t worry, son,” their captain croons, his face creased in the softest it has ever been. “i promise i’ll bring your uncle back in one piece.”

yasha sniffles, watery brown eyes not looking away. then, “o’ay.” he lifts an arm up, waving it cautiously. “buh-bye?”

“yeah, bubsy,” their captain replies because no one can, not kyle who is crying nor simon who can’t lift his face up from where he’s breathing in his son’s baby smell. “bye bye.”

“buh-bye,” yasha repeats, still quiet but more sure. “ky? buh-bye?”

kyle chuckles wetly. he steps forward and pinches yasha’s cheek. “bye bye, little man. see you in two weeks, okay?”

yasha hums, having grown exhausted from his emotional outburst. the base shrink said that’s normal for children; that it’s good when they’re emotional, it’s healthy, so simon bites the inside of his cheek to stop himself from fussing.

instead, as a distraction, he nods at his captain and his sergeant, and he and mactavish turn to leave.

“daddy?” the little tyke asks.

“yeah?” simon replies, turning his full attention to yasha.

“buh-bye?”

“oh, son no,” simon murmurs. “daddy’s always goin’ t’be with you.”

yasha nods, and flops back down on simon’s chest, satisfied.

.

the flight was tedious, sprinkle the listless child with that, and it was just about draining. he couldn’t thank johnny enough for being with him throughout because being an uncle to tommy’s kids didn’t teach simon much about this—cranky and emotional two year-old’s, and their complicated tastebuds that almost made it impossible to feed them aeroplane food, and their odd sleeping patterns.

but as simon shoots yasha a glance, watching the boy sleep peacefully finally, he thinks to himself how it’s all so worth it.

.

johnny doesn’t follow them to prestwich, crashing instead somewhere in stratford before making his way back to dundee. yasha hadn’t cried as hard for johnny as he did when he said goodbye to kyle, but he’d been teary-eyed even when he refused to be given to his sergeant’s waiting arms. still, simon’s boy had been solemn and gave mactavish a weak wave.

simon tells yasha that johnny would come back in two weeks’ time too, with the captain and garrick, before trailing off when he realized he doesn’t know how to tell yasha exactly why johnny was giving them space.

shit, he hadn’t even thought about how yasha would react when—

the house appears past barren trees, and simon’s lungs constrict in one full swoop. god, he’s missed this place, very much so.

pinpricks fill the back of his eyes, and he desperately blinks them away as he tries swallowing past the lump in his throat, but not even the familiar warmth of yasha could ground simon back. rather, the reminder that simon’s not returning on his own this time makes everything feel a lot more intense, like ragged tendrils curling at the base of his neck, grasping him until reality and faraway dreams blend into something miasmic.

simon’s never once deluded himself with thoughts of having his own family. he once thought he’d go grey on his own, something he was perfectly fine with because nothing is ever sacred—the catholics had a word for it, johnny said, how one’s mere existence was the original sin, and simon is neither a pagan nor a believer, but when you grow up with shadows that are ever so perpetually haunting, you learn that not even the sign of the cross can truly ward off the demons.

but then, his beloved appeared before him—just as… fearful; as self-punishing as he had been, and he knows it was twisted but he had been pulled. he had been lulled into the weight of your gravitational force, dragging his heart until it was homesick for anything less.

(two words have never sounded sweeter to him before.

i do.

since then, he’s never hunger for more.)

(until yasha.)

the cab stops, the driver dutifully ignoring how simon must look, all brooding and emotional as he holds his child close, like if he blinks, someone would take him away. he tips generously, and declines any offer of helping with the unloading of bags in the trunk. simon didn’t even bring much, just a travel bag and a rucksack stuffed with as many travel essentials for yasha.

the boy is asleep again, exhaustion dragging him back to his dreams. he looks so peaceful like this, and younger too, and simon knows that isn’t a good thing because yasha’s so small for a two year old. simon’s only comfort is that he’s bringing him somewhere safe; a place filled with boundless love.

he walks to the front door, debating on whether he should just take the spare key underneath the nondescript potted plant to get in or just bite the bullet and introduce yasha to you like this, through the entrance.

the choice is taken from him when you swing the door open, surprise and disbelief lining your face.

“i saw you—” you say at the same time that he rasps out, “love—”

he beckons you to go first. you did so with a tremor in your voice.

“i saw you from the cameras,” you pause, roving your wide eyes over him, before stopping at the bundle he’s carrying. “haley helped me set them up—said you can, uh, get notification of movements outside and, and…”

he watches as you realize that you’re about to ramble, so you take a deep breath, finding the centre of your gravity, before, “baby? who…”

simon adjusts his hold on yasha, before a careful hand sweeps away the blanket so you can see the boy better.

“this,” he says, quiet and fragile. “this is our son, jacob emory riley.” he licks at his chapped lips, the word ‘our’ settling so warmly in the pit of his stomach. “our yasha.”

“oh,” you whimper instantly, tears already springing from your eyes. a choked sound gets stuck on the back of your throat before you’re rushing forward, careful to not jostle the tyke awake, until you’re pressing yourself against simon’s side, watching raptly.

“simon he’s—” you hiccup, rubbing your face on his shoulder. “darling, he’s perfect.”

simon ducks down to brush his lips on the crown of your head, humming deep because yeah, he is. but so are you—and he wouldn’t have done this, anyway, without you. because yasha deserved the best and simon doesn’t know anyone who could step up other than you.

you, who is so bright and joyful; who has crafted fortitude from the ragged shards of your pain.

you, who is the strongest person that simon’s ever met; how you could look at the storm and find a reason to dance.

you, who is so beautiful and lovely, and so utterly full of love that it spills into everyone you meet and everything you do.

yasha deserves you.

and, love, you deserve a family just like this too.

.

yasha wakes up and simon makes the mistake of not being there for him. he didn’t even know he accidentally slept in the living room, long body sprawled on the couch gracelessly. he jolts awake after the loud ring of cries, the fear he felt at hearing yasha’s familiar sobbing slams so fiercely into simon’s heart.

he topples to the ground, knees thudding against the hardwood floors, before he bolts up, frantic as he tears through the house, trying to find his boy, desperate to comfort him and to apologize and to make things right because he never wants yasha to feel so alone in his new home—

simon pauses, feet stopping just in front of the bedroom where you and simon had put yasha in since the guest room has yet to be baby proofed and prepared, when he hears your familiar croon.

“shh, darlin’. you’re alright, i promise.”

simon angles himself so that he can see through the ajar door. you’re kneeling on the floor, head a few feet away from where yasha’s is pillowed. the boy is staring at you with wide eyes, wet and red, but he’s no longer wailing, and simon wonders if it’s because yasha’s internalizing his fear, but then he sees the tyke make grabby hands at you—pudgy fists closing, then opening again. he seems like a baby like this, more than a toddler, and simon watches as you coo, inching closer, giving yasha room to roll away if he wants, but the boy turns to his side, facing you properly, and it’s all the confirmation you need to take him in your arms.

you rise up from the floor, yasha perched on your hip. the boy is still watching you, curious, and you murmur something too faint for simon to hear, before wiping at his wet cheeks and his runny nose.

“hi, love,” you murmur, voice a tad quiet. simon sees the hesitance in your gait, like you don’t know what else to say. it takes a heartbeat, before you’re uttering your name, voice curling around the vowels the way simon never gets tired of hearing.

“i’ve heard good things about you, you know?” you say, brushing the pad of your finger along the bridge of yasha’s nose. simon’s ears pick up huffing sounds, then your giggles, and yasha’s hum.

“oh, i sure did,” you add, smiling, bouncing the toddler in your arms. “simon said you’re the best boy ever!”

simon did, he guesses, say that but with more words—he told you how he found yasha, and how yasha had been so brave after such a stressful change in his life; how yasha had been so excited to learn and to trust, and how he’d brighten up everyone’s day back at the base; how yasha had first called him daddy, and the others unca’, his brave little boy so eager for a family that he made one even when all he’s surrounded with was a ragtag of broken men.

yasha is truly such a beautiful boy, so darling and loving.

“si-‘on?” yasha says, attempting simon’s name.

“yeah,” you reply, just as choked up as simon is. “simon… your daddy.”

yasha hums, fist curling up your shirt.

“daddy,” he repeats, nodding. then, like he remembers that simon isn’t there, yasha begins to look distraught again, whining, looking up to you like you hold the answer when he asks, “daddy where?”

simon takes that chance to walk in. you two whirl to look at him, both with pained faces easing up into the loveliest of smiles just at his mere presence. it makes simon feel… raw; that somehow, all he needs to be is himself, and it’s enough to brighten up the room.

his lips twitch up in his own smile too.

“hey there, kid,” he greets, slotting himself to your side so he can pull you close and be in yasha’s line of sight.

you turn, moving to pass yasha to him, but the boy’s hand is still tight on your shirt and he still looks at ease with you, and simon nuzzles his face on the top of your head in comfort when he sees the way your lips wobble at yasha’s easy display of trust.

“daddy!” yasha cheers. “you here!”

simon ruffles the soft tufts of yasha’s hair. “of course. did you nap good?”

yasha nods, distracted by the bright colours on the bed. the yellow pillows and the baby blue blanket.

the dog stuff toy.

yasha gasps, utterly delighted, and he wriggles out, begging to be put down, and you and simon watch as he runs to the side of the bed, plucking the toy out with a giggle.

“towy!” he says, showing it to you and simon.

simon files the name for next time, focusing on yasha as he runs to hug simon’s leg, then yours, before running back to the bed, chatting animatedly to the toy.

simon pulls you close, slotting your back to his front to bury his face on the crook of your neck, because this, right here, is change. but also, he’s home.

“i missed you,” he murmurs, because it is the only thing he can verbalize. he wants to say more—he wants to say how he’s never once stopped thinking about you, how he’s always kept a picture he has of you in his helmet, tucked under the crown pad, how he’d always toy with his ring when he has the chance because simon is made of many things, and one of them is your love.

but this is all that forms from his lips, inadequate, but then simon hears the twinkle of your laughter, and, “i missed you too, love.” and knows, there needn’t be any more words. not when you two have more time than he’s ever had the privilege to spend.

.

the first time yasha calls you his mom—“mommy!”—was just days before the squad was set to meet the riley’s in their residence.

it was a mundane day; you and yasha are in the living room, playing with his army of anatoly’s—towy—when yasha squeals, finally able to dig out his favourite anatoly from underneath the couch after futile attempts. you’ve asked him if you can help him with it, but he’d been so adamant, tutting the way simon does and it’s honestly so adorable that you let him have at it.

so you laughed at the sound of his happy trills, watching as he turns, running to you, saying, “mommy, towy look!”

he falls to your lap, humphing loudly and smooshing the turtle stuffie on your face, and all you can do is gather him close, trying not to cry in front of him but—

he’s called you mommy.

your little brave boy called you—

“mommy, sad?” yasha asks, readily giving you another treasure, saying the word so naturally like you were never anything else to him.

“no, sweet pea,” you reply, choked up with the weight of your joy. “mommy’s the happiest she’s been.”

you kiss his chubby cheek, breathing in his scent, before letting him squirm out of your hold so he can play with another anatoly, leaving you the turtle one. you hold it close, trying to ground yourself, but the happiness bloats and you feel floaty.

god, it is almost unimaginable.

(you tell it to simon later at night, and simon coos as he wipes the tears away from your cheeks.

“i’m so, so happy si,” you breathe out.

simon bumps his forehead to yours. “i am too, baby.”)

.

simon is not pouting, thank you very much. if anyone says otherwise, he’d like to go on record and say that they’re all a bunch of liars. yes, that includes his beautiful wife too because, again, simon is not pouting.

sure yasha has refused to detach himself from uncle kyle, but that doesn’t mean simon’s jealous, he swears.

“yer a lying scumbag,” johnny hisses at him because he’s been trying to get simon to admit that he’s jealous, which simon isn’t. “i’m on you, LT. i’m on you.”

“whatever ‘tavish,” simon grumbles, hands twitching at another hearty giggle that rings from where kyle is playing with yasha. “last i checked, the boy still runs away from you so, you know, start with that.”

“oh you motherfu—”

“boys,” price barked out, and simon and johnny cringe at the chastising voice of their captain. “language.”

johnny says something that no one picks up because he’s chewing on his words. simon sniffs, looking away only to meet your eyes. unabashed glee is bright on your face, and simon knows he would be hearing you teasing about this later on tonight.

simon scrunches his nose. you reply with a playful rolling of your eyes.

yeah, it’s a good day. and simon still isn’t pouting.

notes: it turned out to have heavier (?) parts than expected. also to clarify, yasha’s been picked up from a mission (the specifics were removed since things got a wee graphic). i’ve included a concept photo of simon and yasha, which was fun to use while reimagining! i hope u guys liked this <3 peace out and sm love mwah!!

[milkloafy]

HEY, BEAUTIFUL STRANGER — DAN HENG

⋆｡˚ ❀ summary: in which you are trying to enjoy the wardance on the luofu, the ipc guards ruin everything, and a beautiful stranger comes to help you.  ⋆｡˚ ❀ contents: fluff, first meetings (at least in this lifetime…), fem!reader, vidyadhara!reader, reader is anti-ipc uwu, warning for shitty sexist pathetic ipc guards who try to harass reader >:( ⋆｡˚ ❀ wc: 1.7k+ ⋆｡˚ ❀ a/n: was playing the 2.4 update and this idea was spawned <3 i missed my mans !! was so happy for the dan heng content i can live well again :3 also i hate the ipc so if ur an ipc lover i would scroll past this fic :>

You knew you were capable of defending yourself. 

Verbally, at least.

You were once a distinguished Vidyadhara healer in your past life, aiding in the war efforts to heal wounded fighters on the field, and you were no less capable now in your more normal current life. However, being gifted in the Cloudhymn magic that specialized in healing powers did not mean that same strength carried onto the powers that could part seas and send waves crashing down. 

In short, while you hoped you could be intimidating and defend yourself when needed, in actuality, your physical prowess…lacked. 

Still, you never would have guessed that one of the most humiliating moments in your life would come during a time of festivities at the Wardance when some IPC guards decided to stir up trouble with the unfortunate passerby who accidentally bumped into them on the streets of the Luofu. 

And to be clear, you were that unfortunate passerby. 

“Hey! Watch where you’re going,” sneered an IPC guard as you tripped in front of them, getting distracted by the bustle of Starskiff Central and not noticing the curb beneath your feet. The guard looked to his friend and shook his head with a scoff. “These people here.”

“How shameful of me to have never known the IPC was full of such charming and chivalrous men,” you said sweetly with a smile dripping of honeyed poison as you pushed yourself off the floor and dusted off your skirt with a swift flick of your hands. “I appreciate you both so much for partaking in the simplest task of helping a fallen damsel and being decent humans.” 

The guard who had yet to talk finally spoke up. And you truly wish he hadn’t. 

“You know, you could actually be pretty if you didn’t have such an big mouth,” he said, his metallic voice grating your ears as you fought off the urge to roll your eyes. “Maybe I would’ve helped you up if you just sat there and said sorry instead.”

You folded your arms lazily, a yawn coming out of you from having to engage in such a bothersome and useless conversation. Still, you couldn’t help yourself from continuing to bite back. If there was one flaw about you, it was perhaps that your mouth went running off before your brain and legs could catch up. 

“It’s rather humorous of you to assume I’d want your help in the first place,” you stated as you looked at the guards’ IPC uniforms in disdain. What business would you want with such pathetic interstellar colonizers? “It is also appalling that you place yourself in such high of a pedestal that you would assume I care about what you think of me.” Before the guards could reply, you flipped your hair behind your shoulder and turned sharply on your heels. “Now, this conversation has taken up too much of my time. I have a festival to enjoy. So, if you would please excuse me—”

You felt a heavy hand grab your elbow to prevent you from walking away. Blowing air out of your mouth, you gritted your teeth and tugged your arm to no avail. 

You silently cursed yourself for never taking up martial arts. As much as you liked watching the performances, you personally believed you had seen enough violence in your past life and didn’t see the need to learn any swordsmanship in your current reincarnation. 

All your past lives were cursing at your arrogance now, you could feel it. Or perhaps it was just you internally scolding yourself. 

How much more badass would it be if you had the strength to easily shove the IPC guard’s out of the way and carry on with the Wardance? Instead, you were like a fly caught in a sticky trap, kicking and fighting with no real chance of escape. It was hopeless and embarrassing. 

You felt your face grew hot with humiliation. This is why past you stuck with healing, it seemed. 

“Oh, how cute,” the first IPC guard snickered, looking down at you with a patronizing grin. “Look who finally shut up. If I knew some force was all it would take, I would’ve done this much earlier instead of listening to you talk and talk about how much you—”

“Can you finish talking already?” you asked impatiently, tapping your foot on the floor. “You’re too close to me and your breath stinks.” 

His grip tightened in anger and you hoped he couldn’t see the grimace on your face from the slight feeling of pain in your arm. 

You really did it this time, you thought dryly to yourself. Pissed off the IPC guards just by tripping and opening your mouth. This would be your shortest life yet, at this rate.

Surprisingly, the feeling of pain didn’t last long and a soothing wave of comfort washed over you instead. Your body knew before your eyes could see— A Vidyadhara was around you, helping you. Not only that, but the smallest part of you felt they seemed the slightest bit familiar. 

“Is everything alright here?” a cautious, yet firm, voice asked. 

You looked up and saw a man step in front of you and swiftly yank the guard’s hand away from your arm. The force seemed minimal and effortless, but you knew this familiar stranger had to be strong to fight the burly guard off so easily. 

“That’s none of your business,” scoffed the guard on the left.

Your newfound savior stood resolute and unwavering. “I desire no involvement in your affairs. I only wish to ensure the safety of the Wardance attendees.”

“And you think we’re a threat to safety?” questioned the IPC guard, folding his arms over his chest and frowning. “Seems to me like you’re targeting the IPC. What will they think of the Xianzhou Luofu endlessly bothering the IPC? First, the cargo, now, this.” 

The man in front of you simply shrugged. “Believe what you will.” Instead of engaging in the endless bickering any longer, he turned around and offered you a smile. “Would you like me to escort you to the festivities, miss?” 

Quirking your head to the side, you grinned back and nodded playfully. “Yes, please! You seem like much better company than these idiots over here.” 

“You brat—!”

Eyes widening as the IPC guards began to draw their weapons, you exchanged glances with the grey-eyed man grabbed his wrist, running head first into the crowd and away from the guards with him only a step behind you. 

You would be the death of yourself one day, with no one else to blame, you were sure of it. But for today, you escaped happily. With a cute boy in tow. Somehow, you felt like you won this time. 

Once you were certain the guards lost you, you finally slowed down to catch you breath, a wide smile on your face when you noticed the man stopping next to you, realizing that meant he dutifully followed you amidst the crowd. 

“Thank you for your help…” you trailed off, prompting him for his name. 

“Dan Heng,” he introduced with a nod of greeting. 

“Dan Heng,” you repeated with a chirp. “I’m not sure if I could’ve removed myself from that situation safely without you.” 

He chuckled lightly, shaking his head. “My intuition tells me you would have found a way. Still, I’m glad to be of assistance.” 

You looked around at the booths around you. The streets weren’t filled with vendors like Aurum Alley, but it had its fair share of food stalls littered around. The smell of sweet berrypheasant fruit filled your senses as you immediately perked up at the thought of a treat after a tiresome encounter. 

“Can I get you a little something to show my gratitude?” you asked, with a hopeful glint in your eyes. For whatever reason, you felt comfort and familiarity around Dan Heng. A remnant from your past lives, you considered. “It’s nothing big! But the best berrypheasant skewers are nearby. This food stall even coats the fruit in melted sugar! You have to try it.”

Dan Heng hummed to himself, as if genuinely considering your offer. “I do have to return to the Palace of Astrum soon, but a short detour for some snacks wouldn’t hurt.” He gave you a small smile as he finally made his decision. “Okay, I will join you.”

You clasped your hands together in excitement, leading him over to the beloved skewers you were talking about. 

It took almost getting your ass handed to you by two meathead guards, but at least you managed to meet Dan Heng along the way. Whoever he was.

“Do I seem familiar to you, too?” you blurted without thinking. 

His step faltered but he continued on after a brief pause. “It’s vague, in all honesty. But…yes. There’s some sort of subtle tug.” 

You noticed his slight tone of discomfort and decided not to press the subject. Even if there was a sense of familiarity between the two of you, it was likely in your past lives. And for some Vidyadhara, they preferred the past stayed in the past. Or, they would at least prefer not to share their past with a completely random stranger such as yourself. While that wasn’t the case for you since you seemed to lack self-preservation, you truly wanted respect that about Dan Heng. 

“Cool!” you said simply, quickly changing topics. “Now let’s get some fruit skewers!” 

Slightly taken aback, he bit out a noise of laughter and stood in line next to you. “Gladly.”

You looked up at him with a smile. “And maybe, we can get to know some more about each other. Our current lives.” 

Dan Heng nodded in agreement. “There is still some time before I have to return to the Express. I would enjoy getting to know you more before then.” 

Ecstatic that he agreed, you ordered some fruit skewers and handed one over to him. The two of you happily crunched on the delightful treat and shared a moment of contentment. 

You smiled to yourself as you exhaled happily. Dan Heng requested another skewer and shared a piece with you. 

Nothing could beat good company and a sweet treat. 

For once—just this once—something good came out of the IPC. 

[dark-moonlust]

Bonds Of Fate: Comission for @dragonqueen2021

I had a great time writing this. I absolutely love how it turned out. Happy reading everyone!

I have one commission slot open on Patreon if you’re interested. I will add more slots when I am less busy!

Pairing: Centaur (Leon) x Werewolf (Val) x fem!human (Melisa)

Summary: Melisa is struggling to get away from the men who are chasing her only to stumble upon a towering werewolf and centaur. They protect her and sense she is their mate. They show her that no matter how reluctant she is, that they belong together.

Warnings: minors don't interact, 18+!!!!, explicit smut, fingering, magic to fit, huge 🍆, p in v sex, oral, dp, lots 💦.

They were catching up on her.

Melisa pumped her legs, her heart pounding in her chest. She ran through the forest, her breathing ragged. Her knees were weak, her clothes torn by branches but she didn’t dare slow down. Not with the men chasing right behind her, leering and shouting. They were four of them. They’d tried to attack her but she’d fled from them, sprinting like the devil was chasing her. But she had no chances unless by some miracle someone stronger intervened.

But she didn’t believe in miracles. Only in herself.

And right now, the only solution was to keep running and eventually lose them in the woods.

Desperate, she took a sharp turn, darting around trees and over fallen logs. The voices became distant and suddenly, a small ray of hope appeared in the shape a small cabin. Help! Maybe she could get help there, or at least a place to hide. She ran to the cabin, frantic and terrified. She stumbled over a branch, lost balance—

But the fall never came.

She had crashed into something solid and warm.

She looked up and a gasp left her dry lips. No… no this couldn’t be!

Two massive figures surrounded her, dwarfing her small frame. The one holding her was a werewolf, tall and towering with dark fur, amber eyes and a scowling mouth, revealing sharp fangs. His furry arms encompassed her waist. His hold was tight but strangely, gentle enough. Next to her was a centaur, his chiselled human torso merging into the body of a large, muscular horse. His face was sharp and handsome, his animal mane an earthy dark brown, like his eyes.

Melisa struggled to escape, but the werewolf didn’t loosen his hold and kept staring at her with his shining amber eyes. 

That was when the centaur talked, “She’s terrified. Be gentle with her.”

The werewolf sniffed the air. “Someone’s coming. Four of them.”

Melissa trembled at that and struggled to find her voice. “P… please, they’re after me.”

Before she could explain further, the group of men had caught up. They burst into the clearing and stopped short when they saw the werewolf and centaur shielding her. The men exchanged uneasy glances but didn’t back down. They held up their weapons and circled them.

“It’s four of us against two of you,” one of the men sneered. “Beasts or not, we can take you.”

The centaur stepped forward, his hooves thudding on the ground. “Leave. Now.”

“Hand over the woman and we’ll leave,” another man demanded, his leery eyes on Melisa. “She’s ours.”

The werewolf growled, his eyes flashing dangerously. “She belongs to no one.”

“You’re in our land”, the centaur warned, his behaviour more controlled. “Leave now or pay the price. The woman is under our protection.”

The men didn’t heed the warning.

They lunged forward, weapons poised high. But they were no match for them. Keeping Melisa tucked between their bodies, her protectors struck, hooves and claws tricking out. They pushed back her attackers, knocking their weapons with deadly punches and feral growls. The fight ended as quickly as it had begun and the men retreated, bruised and barely able to walk, fleeing with screeching cries.

Melisa looked at her saviours with wide eyes, gratitude and fear for what came next flooding her heart. She huddled into a small ball on the ground, her mind reeling. They’d saved her but what now? Was she dead meat? At their mercy? Humans spread all kinds of horrible rumours about creatures like them.

“You’re safe now,” the werewolf kneeled beside her, his eyes on her. “I’m Leon. You are safe.”

“I am Val,” the centaur said, “no one will harm you. Why were they after you?”

Melissa took a deep breath and peeked at them. “Bad intentions. I did nothing wrong I swear!”

“We believe you,” Val said. “And we’ll protect you. No one will dare lay a hand on you.”

“You won’t eat me?” Melisa said and heard them laugh.

“We don’t eat humans, little one,” Leon said, the timbre of his voice tender. Not the way you think, he thought but kept it to himself. He didn’t want to terrify her.

“Promise?” Melisa asked, her heart beating frantically within her chest.

“We promise,” Leon said and slowly reached for her hands. They were small and soft in contrast to his own rough palms. 

She tensed at the touch but did not draw away. 

Val also knelt, leaning down to frame her cheek. “Don’t be afraid,” he said, his tone so soft that somehow eased her.

“You’re here now,” Leon said and before she could react, he sniffed her, his snout burying in her hair.

Melisa shivered but again, she didn’t move. Something inside her made her feel safe with them, something that told her it was okay. Leon and Val exchanged looks, their faces unreadable. Just then, she felt an inexplicable pull, something squeezing her heart. Something strange was happening. She felt hot and she also felt the warmth radiating from their bodies.

Val’s hand tangled into her hair, his breath hot against her forehead. “Found you,” he uttered, growling deep from within his chest.

“F-found what?” she stuttered, his deep voice sending shivers down her spine. It awakened feelings she hadn’t expected to feel and they went straight to her pussy. Warmth pooling, aching delightfully. 

“Yessss, so good,” Leon inhaled the air, his baritone causing another shiver of arousal.

“Such a sweet scent,” Val said, his mane brushing against her skin.

“What’s going on?” Melisa attempted to crawl away, but their gazes held her captive.

“Mate,” Val explained. “You’re our mate.”

“No!” She took a step back, away from their tempting touches. “That’s impossible. We can’t! We can’t do this.”

“We’ll protect you. You have nothing to be afraid of,” Val said and lifted her, pulling her chest to chest.

“Please…” Melisa’s lips quivered, her eyes brimming with tears. She was suspended in the air, pressed so tightly against the centaur’s broad chest.

“Shh… my sweet love.”

And then Val was kissing her, his hands cupping her face, keeping her there for his sweet assault. Melisa squirmed but relented with a sigh, giving in to the pressure of his body and lips. A moan left her when the full length of Leon’s body rubbed against her back. The werewolf was hugging her from behind, spreading licks and kissed across her neck.

“Yes,” Val whispered. “Don’t be afraid. Let us scent you.”

Before she could protest, Leon angled her head to the side and tasted her lips as well. Melisa moaned, and he took advantage, his tongue slipping past her mouth, tasting, claiming. More moans left her as he kissed and fed from her mouth, her resolve wavering, her body betraying her.

She was shamefully wet, her nipples tight and aching.

And they knew, or more rightly, they sensed.

The haze of need took over her senses as they kissed her, taking turns claiming her mouth, their tongues brushing with hers. Before she realized, Val’s hands were tugging at her clothes, fingers fumbling with the buttons of her shirt while Leon tugged down her pants and panties. They cooperated despite her reluctance, their hands pulling everything off until she was naked, fully bared to them.

Melisa shook all over and not from the cold.

She was naked, arousal pooling in her belly.

And they were naked too. Leon had dragged off his pants, revealing a thick veiny cock and two heavy balls hanging from between. Val had also removed the harness that concealed his shaft and her eyes widened at the massive size of it. It was thicker than Leon’s though not as long.

Still… the sight of them so well-endowed, made her cower a little.

Val shifted a little, so he did not terrify her with his size and turned her over so she was facing Leon. The centaur’s warm chest pressed against her back while the werewolf bent, his fur teasing her nipples. His tongue traced the curve of her neck, while Val’s lips pressed gentle kisses to her temple. When their hands started roaming her body, Melisa bit her lip hard as not to whine. Val’s human hands trailed her slender shoulders then cupped the swell of her breasts. He kneaded the sensitive flesh, thumbs flicking her sensitive nipples.

“So soft,” Val said, pinching her nipples lightly and causing her to arch and whimper.

“Hmm…” Leon hummed from where he trailed kisses down her stomach, his tongue dipping into her bellybutton. His lips danced between her legs but Melisa kept them shut tightly.

“Nn…nooo,” she muttered while Val’s lips found her neck, suckling gently.

“Open sweetheart,” Leon rasped, his thumbs rubbing her thighs invitingly. “Open for us.”

“We’re going to make you feel so good,” Val said, his breath hot against her ear.

Leons’s hands stayed on her legs while he took a nipple into his warm mouth. He circled the bud causing her to moan then took it into his mouth, suckling. Melissa wiggled helplessly between them. They had trapped her, trapped her between their strong bodies and she felt no fear, only desire. Mindbreaking desire. Eventually, her legs opened and Leon’s hand slid between them, his fingers teasing her folds.

“Fuuuuck,” Leon growled, his warm breath fanning over her core. “She’s even softer here. Warm and soaked.”

Melissa gasped, her body trembling as Leon spread her out and made room for Val to slide his fingers and feel her as well. The centaur manipulated her folds, his fingers probing her moist entrance while Leon found her clit, teasing the bud with feather-light strokes.

“Oh god,” she moaned, her knees weakening.

Val grasped her from under the knees, lifting her back against him, opening and exposing her in all her glory. Leon retracted his claws and rubbed his finger back and forth on her little cunt. He lubricated that finger in her juices, then thrust it inside her slick heat. Melisa whimpered as that digit, as thick as a human dick, curled deep inside her. It stretched her pussy, delightfully so.

Immense warmth spread through her as they teased her, her toes curling in the air. Leon’s eyes were shining amber, she noticed, and Val was rubbing her clit, murmuring words in a language she couldn’t understand. Her pussy tingled, her muscles seizing. Her mind was a whirl of sensation and arousal, and soon their strokes pushed her over the edge, stars flashing in her vision.

“Wh…what did you do?” she panted watching where they were still caressing her. With shock she noticed that both their fingers were deep, very deep inside her, stretching her pussy at its limits. But she felt no discomfort at the stretch.

“That was our combined magic,” Leon explained, giving her sensitive clit a lick. “It will make it easier for you to take us.”

“You will take Leon’s cock first. He will stretch your little hole and prepare you for me,” the centaur whispered, his fingers spreading apart her outer labia, offering her fluttering hole to the werewolf.

Melisa glanced between them, then at Leon. He was pumping his wolf shaft, the tip was a slightly pointy, leaking pre-cum. Val kept her legs open from under the knees and watched as Leon rubbed his shaft against her pussy. A soft hitch left her when the cock entered her depths and filled her up, until Leon’s hairy balls pressed against her bum.

All three of them gasped.

Melisa felt full at the invasion, body stretched to its limits but blissfully craved more. Leon gave more to her, his cock plundering her depths as if it was made to dominate her. Meanwhile, Val pinched and teased her bouncing breasts, his eyes glued to the sight of her little slit being forced open by Leon’s cock. She whined, overstimulated and Leon increased his thrusts, his hips snapping repeatedly.

Pussy clenching, Melisa came with a cry, her orgasm tearing through her in an explosion of senses. She thrashed, but Val held her steady while Leon pistoned inside her, his knot swelling and catching at the rim. Then with a roar, the werewolf thrust to the hilt and locked their bodies, spurting rope after rope of cum inside her. Melisa winced at the sensations, his seed was warm and filled her up to the brim, the knot plugging everything up.

Once his knot subsided, Val was next to claim her. The centaur bent down and kissed her and this time, her lips parted eagerly. His tongue tasted her mouth, their tongues brushing together. He pressed her to a makeshift bed of moss and leaves, on her hands and knees. Ass up in the air, Val caressed her asscheeks before his huge horse body covered her.

Something thick and pulsing pressed against her pussy. Leon assisted, spreading her folds so that Val could press the broad head of his cock against her tight heat. Her pussy was drenched and cum-stained so with a nudge, the centaur’s girth popped inside. Melisa whined obscenely, clutching the earth in her fists. Val was thick, impossibly thick, her belly bulging with his size.

Yet he surged inside her and fit perfectly, owning her pussy until he was pulsing so deep, she felt him close to her heart. Hooves digging into the earth, Val claimed her, his cock squelching as it fucked her. Her frame buckled with each slam, rocking against his massive cock. He hit all the right spots, and she couldn’t stop moaning.

“Feels good mate, doesn’t it?” Val growled, his mane tossing wildly with his thrusts.

“Hmm—so good…” Melisa nodded fervently, her walls tightening around him. “More! More!”

“Look at our needy little mate,” Leon rumbled and kissed her moaning lips. “Takes us cocks like a good girl and asks for more. She deserves it all. All our seed, hm?”

“Yes,” she nodded fervently. “Want you. Want your seed.”

“That’s it, take him deep,” Leon urged, watching your soaked cunt swallow Val’s cock. “Take it all.”

“Going to breed our pretty mate,” Val panted, picking up speed. “Fill her with our seed to bursting until she’s carrying our offspring.”

With a final, powerful thrust, Val sent her over the edge and she moaned wildly, her voice echoing through the forest. Pleasure tingled everywhere, her muscles convulsing violently. Triggered by her climax, the centaur shuddered and exploded into her, spilling buckets of cum that filled her to bursting. Her belly bulged, much of it overflowing and dribbling down her pussy lips.

From there on, everything turned into a pleasure haze.

They fucked her, two huge beasts claiming her as their mate, keeping her pussy stretched and filled with their cum. Leon knotted her again and again, and Val filled her up with so much cum, she was bathed in it. It was intense, one orgasm crashing over her after the other. She barely had one cock out before it got replaced. They took care of her mouth too, teaching her how to lick and suck them deep. They alternated so when one fucked her pussy, the other was deep down her throat.

It went on and on through the night— them filling her, stroking her, putting her in all kinds of positions, drawing out her pleasure and building it anew. They whispered lovewords, praised her and swore to protect her, to make her proud to have them as mates. And the more they claimed her, the more she accepted them, yielding to her mates.

Yes, they were hers. Both of them, beastly yet in love with her, strong yet soft with her. And she was theirs, in every way.

By morning, they finally spilled the last of their cum inside her. Exhausted but sated, Melissa lay between them, her womb filled with their hot seed. Val and Leon took her into their cabin, tucked her into their massive bed and held her close. Melissa tried to keep herself from sleeping but she was exhausted, so utterly safe and comfortable between them.

“Sleep, little mate,” Val whispered, kissing her eyelids.

Melisa stifled a yawn. “I’m afraid to wake up and realize that this was all a dream.”

Leon chuckled. “It’s not a dream, sweetheart. We are very real. We are your home now.”

“Are you mine? Forever?” she asked, aching for those magnificent males to be hers and hers alone.

“We belong to you," Val drawled. "And you belong to us now; body and soul...all ours."

Melissa smiled and drifted into a blissful sleep, knowing that her life would never be the same again.

She had found hope and love.

THE END

[tinkerbelle05]

Clingy Zoro x reader. You should make the story on Zorro and y/n are laying in bed after a wild night 😏. And y/n has to get up and go make breakfast but Zoro doesn't want to let her leave the bed.

Clingy Bastard

Characters: Zoro x fem!reader

Genre: Fluff

Summary: (Requested) Thanks luv 💚

Warnings: alluded to past and present sexual experiences also this is my first time writing for Zoro so please excuse any ooc.

-

You woke up slowly, the morning sun shining light in the otherwise dark room. Blinking away the sleepiness, you saw the bright red numbers of the clock reading 11:30.

You briefly recalled that it was Saturday so no work for you to do but you still didn't want to rot in bed all day. Slowly you rose from the bed just to be pushed down back to the bed by Zoro’s arm.

He intertwined his legs with yours, trapping you in them and pulled your body closer to his, your back on his chest and his arm around your body. Holding you like you were his human teddy bear or something.

“No moving,” he mumbled tiredly into your neck. His voice was deep and croaky from sleep.

The audacity of this man.

He’s always doing this! Wanting to cuddle and snuggle until both of your bodies are sore due to the immobility and you didn’t know where your legs began and his arm ended so trying to untangle yourselves just made your already aching body hurt more. You two ended up pretzeled together for what seemed like hours (and it probably was) was not how you wanted to spend your Saturday morning.

Don’t get you wrong, you loved cuddling with Zoro. You loved when he held you against his chest, feeling his heartbeat through your back and the soft rising of his chest. It made you feel safe and warm and loved. Protected in a way that was unfamiliar to you for so long.

But you were….sticky. Yea, sticky and sweaty were the best words to describe the state that you were from what happened last night. They were the best words to describe Zoro too. But before showering, you desperately needed some food. And maybe coffee. And to y’know, get out of the bed too.

“Zoro, let go,” you said in your best “I’m not playing around” voice though it failed miserably judging by the way he snorted at you.

He hugged you closer to his body and you felt him slowly relaxing, his body melting into yours becoming one. He wrapped around you, coo-conning you into his body.

“No, let’s just stay here a bit longer. Why mess up a good thing?” He asked, his voice muffled a bit.

You sighed and thought about the best way to deal with the situation. Usually, after some begging and bribing Zoro would let do what you needed to do. But that’s when you need to do work so he would be less willing to comply when there was no work for you to do. And you didn’t wanna beg to just lay in the house all day anyway. And really, you weren’t that sticky.

No, no, no you definitely were.

So you had only one option. Something where you two would both get what you wanted.

“Wanna shower with me?” You offered to him. You saw his eyes slowly opening, cutting you a look with a sly grin.

He chuckled and kissed your neck, “Oh really? And what have I done to deserve such an honor?”

“Being a clingy, stubborn bastard,” you answered dryly and frowned at him but you couldn’t help the smile that was starting to form on your face when he started to laugh at your comment.

He dragged you onto his lap, his fingers digging into your waist, “Oh, I'm being clingy? Stubborn? You act as if you don't like it. Stop pretending.”

You rolled your eyes at him but was still smiling because despite how absolutely annoying it was, he was right. You did like it.

You’ll never admit it verbally though.

“That a yes or no, Roronoa?” You asked again.

Zoro gave you a toothy smile and carried you to the bathroom, slamming the door shut.

Something tells you that you wouldn't do much cleaning though.

-

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[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Where Will All The Martyrs Go [Chapter 1: Welcome To A New Kind Of Tension]

Series summary: In the midst of the zombie apocalypse, both you and Aemond (and your respective travel companions) find yourselves headed for the West Coast. It’s the 2024 version of the Oregon Trail, but with less dysentery and more undead antagonists. Watch out for snakes! 😉🐍

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, med school Aemond, character deaths, nature, drinking, smoking, drugs, Adventures With Aegon, pregnancy and childbirth, the U.S. Navy, road trip vibes, Jace is here unfortunately.

Series title is a lyric from: “Letterbomb” by Green Day.

Chapter title is a lyric from: “American Idiot” by Green Day.

Word count: 5.1k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🥰

“What do you think, should we kill ourselves now or later?” Rio is spinning his Beretta M9 around on his index finger. This is not advisable. He doesn’t care.

Your hands are gripping the skeletal latticework of the transmission tower, steel hot enough to burn you; no electricity hums in the power lines suspended above your heads. Your eyes are on the horizon, golden June sunlight over fields no one has planted. Weeds are growing up through the earth, feral and defiantly useless, reclaiming their land just like the deer are, and the rabbits and the opossums and the turtles and the squirrels and the doves. The reign of humanity is over. Now you’re prey animals too. “Let’s wait.”

“For what?”

“Maybe someone will save us.”

“Ain’t nobody coming, Chips!” Rio says. “We’re a hundred feet off the ground in the middle of nowhere, motherfucking Catawissa, Pennsylvania, and we haven’t run into anyone since that Amish family back in Lightstreet, and I wouldn’t count on them driving by in their horse and buggy to pick us up.”

“We’re about sixty feet off the ground.”

“Okay, Bob the Builder, why don’t you whip up a helicopter or something to get us out of here?” Rio’s M9 has one bullet left in it, yours has three, nowhere near enough. At the bottom of the tower is a swarm of fifty-four zombies; you’ve counted them twice. There are no cute euphemisms: walkers, biters, the infected. They were once people and now they’re not. They wear the vestiges of their former lives, like how those who believe in reincarnation see meaning in birthmarks: here you were stabbed, there you were kissed by your true love. They lurch and snarl and hiss in their professional attire, college t-shirts, Vans and Jordans, septum piercings, wedding rings. They decompose in a miasma of metallic blood and spoiled meat. Parker had been the last one to the transmission tower, and they grabbed him by the legs. Now they’re chewing the gristle off his bones: disconnected ligaments that swing like strands of cobwebs, scarlet threads of muscle. “Oh shit,” Rio says, looking down. “We’ve got a smart one.”

Most zombies don’t have the fine motor skills to climb, swim, or open doors, but every once in a while—just like out of every 5,000 or 10,000 or however many ordinary humans you’ll pull the lever on the genetic slot machine and get a Picasso or a kid who can score a 1600 on the SATs—you run into an overachiever. This zombie, a teenage boy with red hair and a blue plaid shirt, is slowly scaling the tower. He’s already ten feet off the ground.

Rio aims his M9, semiautomatic, packs a punch but won’t break your arm with the recoil. “Fuck off, Ed Sheeran!” He fires and misses; the bullet grazes the boy’s shoulder. He groans dramatically and asks you in defeat: “Will you take care of that, please?”

You pull your pistol out of your holster and lean away from the tower to get a better angle, holding onto the scaffolding with one hand. You feel Rio’s large fingers close around your wrist, ready to yank you back if you slip. You click off the safety with your thumb, peer through the front sight, aim and wait until you’re sure. It’s a headshot: shards of skull ricochet off steel beams, half-rotten brains spray out in a mist. The carcass plummets to the earth.

“All this horror, all this catastrophe.” Rio’s eyes, dark like a mineshaft, drift mischievously back to you. “We could…distract each other.”

He’s not serious; this is a game you play. “No thanks.”

“You don’t want to die a virgin.”

“I do if you’re the only other person up here.”

“You deny a condemned man his final wish?”

“We’re not dying,” you insist. “What about Sophie?”

“Sophie would understand given the circumstances. She would want me to be happy.”

“What if we have sex and then immediately thereafter get rescued? You’d be a cheater. You’d be consumed by guilt. You’d never be able to take me back to your parents’ doomsday prepper cult commune in bumblefuck Oregon to wait out the apocalypse in peace.”

“You’re going to appreciate those doomsday preppers when you’re eating Chef Boyardee out of a can instead of shuffling around as a reanimated corpse.”

“Yeah, I’m sure I will,” you muse. “So you agree we’re going to get off this tower somehow.”

Rio sighs and whistles a morose tune: what a shame. “You should have gone out with that Marine at Corpus Christi.”

You frown, repentant, wistful. There’s nothing on the horizon except fields and trees and black storm clouds of crows taking flight. “I was afraid of making a mistake.”

“And now look at you. About to die as pure as Pope Francis.”

“How did this happen?! We’re not idiots, we’re goddamn professionals!” You re-holster your M9. You’re still wearing your uniforms from when you went AWOL, stealing away from Saratoga Springs like rats from a sinking ship.

“I’ll tell you exactly how this happened. You let that loser Parker come with us even though I knew it was a bad idea—”

“I couldn’t just leave him there! He started crying!”

“And he had one job, which was to check the oil in the Humvee, and clearly he failed because…” Rio glances at his watch. “Approximately four hours ago, the engine started smoking and the whole thing died on us, so we had to get out and walk, like we’re pioneers or some shit, and then that hoard down there came out of nowhere, and the only place left to go was up. Freaking Parker. I could murder that guy.” An awkward pause. “I mean, the zombies beat me to it. But still.”

“He had two jobs. He was also carrying the extra ammo.”

“Don’t remind me.” Rio isn’t messing around with his M9 anymore. He’s contemplating it as the sun hovers just past noon, hot and shadowless. “How many bullets do you have left?”

“Two.”

“Good. Don’t use them.”

You look at him, this man you’ve known for over four years, this man you’ve traveled the world with. You’ve already gone so much farther than Oregon together. How is it possible that what was once a six hour flight is now a month-long journey that might kill you? “It’s not over yet, Rio.”

“Remember what you promised me.”

His hushed voice in the moonlit indigo of the Humvee the night you left Saratoga Springs: Don’t let me die alone. “We’re going to be okay. We’re going to make it to Oregon.” Then you grin, sweltering summer air breathing over you, humid, heavy, the screeching of insects in the trees. “But if it comes to that, I’d be happy to shoot you first.”

Rio smiles as the zombies below growl and claw at the steel framework of the transmission tower. Flesh peels off their fingers until you can see the gore-stained white of their bones. “Don’t miss.”

“I rarely do.”

“Do you have any more packs of Cheddar Whales in your pockets or—?” He cuts off as he spots something in the distance. His eyes go wide, his jaw drops open. “What…what is that?!”

It’s an SUV, massive, dark blue, rumbling across the field in a dust storm of displaced earth. It’s headed straight towards you. There is someone standing up through the sunroof, short dark hair that whips wildly in the wind, binoculars. You can hear the engine revving and, faintly, Kanye West’s Gold Digger. As the SUV nears the tower, Sunroof Kid ducks inside and closes the hatch.

Rio explodes into hysterical, rapturous laughter. “Oh my God, we’re saved! We’re not going to die up here! Oh, thank you, Jesus, thank you. I’m never going to jack off on Sundays again.”

The SUV, still accelerating, plows through the mob of zombies. Severed limbs go flying; bones crunch and snap. There’s a woman driving, you can see now through the slightly tinted windows. She puts the monstrous vehicle and reverse and does another pass. Zombies paw futilely at the sides of the SUV, a Chevy Tahoe, as it turns out. They smack their open, soggy palms on the windows; they gnaw and lick at the bumpers and the wheel wells. The Tahoe circles to regain speed, the engine growling, a bear, a dragon, and barrels into the remaining ambulatory zombies. The hoard is now largely incapacitated. Rio is cheering and clapping his hands.

The Tahoe’s doors open, and your rescuers appear. There are two men wielding baseball bats: one with long dark curly hair, the other tall and blonde, and there’s something wrong with his face, the left side, though you are too far away to see clearly. They move rapidly through the battlefield of felled, moaning bodies, swinging their bats and crushing skulls. There’s another blonde guy, shorter, softer, pink with sunburn, wearing plastic sunglasses and a teal polo with a popped collar. He’s spinning a golf club in his right hand. He is followed out of the Tahoe by one last blonde, spindly and swift, stalking the perimeter with a compound bow, a quiver of arrows secured to his belt. Rio is singing along to Gold Digger, drumming his fists on the steel beams.

“Now, I ain’t sayin’ you a gold digger, you got needs

You don’t want a dude to smoke, but he can’t buy weed

You go out to eat, he can’t pay, y’all can’t leave

There’s dishes in the back, he gotta roll up his sleeves…”

The driver wriggles out of the Tahoe with some difficulty; she is seven or eight months pregnant. “Stay in the car,” Madame Driver tells someone inside as she slams the door shut. She’s holding a hammer and sets about euthanizing the zombies still squirming on the ground and gnashing their cracked teeth at her.

Golf Club says: “Jace, bro, that’s so embarrassing. You’re gonna let her do that?”

Curly—or, rather, Jace—shrugs. “Exercise is good for the baby.”

All three blondes respond at once in a chorus of appalled disapproval. Interestingly, your rescuers have British accents. From within the Tahoe, someone turns off the CD player. This is wise; noise tends to attract more zombies. Madame Driver, unaffected, puts her hammer through the eye socket of a former Arby’s employee.

Jace flings back: “She likes helping! It would be sexist to tell her she’s not allowed to!”

The Scarred Man looks up at you and Rio and salutes, two fingers glanced off his forehead. You begin climbing down the scalding rungs of the transmission tower to meet them.

“Oh fuck, Aemond, you gotta deal with this,” Golf Club says. He is holding a yowling zombie at arm’s length by the straps of its overalls. It’s tiny, maybe a kindergartener. “You know I can’t kill the little kid ones.”

The Scarred Man, Aemond, turns to him. He’s wearing a maroon Harvard University t-shirt. “You have to learn how to do things yourself. I might not always be around.”

Golf Club scoffs. “As if I’d outlive you.”

“Go on. You can do it,” Aemond says. Behind him, more people are emerging from the Chevy Tahoe: Binoculars Buddy, a slight girl with shifting, watchful eyes, a blonde woman in a billowing sundress and with a burlap messenger bag slung over one shoulder.

Golf Club is still struggling. “Aw, Aemond, man, he’s got light-up sneakers!”

Jace strides over irritably. “Aegon, you’re so fucking useless…” He kicks the miniature zombie to the dirt, raises his bloodied baseball bat, and brings it down on a skull that disintegrates like an overripe Halloween pumpkin. “You’re welcome.”

“Get bit, you poodle.”

Rio hits the ground first, his boots thumping against untamed earth. Aemond sets his baseball bat aside and reaches out to offer assistance as you dangle from a white-hot steel beam. “No,” Rio tells him roughly. “Back up.”

Aemond shows his palms and complies, retreating several paces. Rio helps you down. Now you can see Aemond’s face perfectly. There’s a relatively fresh wound running down the left half of his face, the violent red of burgeoning scar tissue, clear stitches; his eye has been sutured shut. But that’s not why you’re staring at him. His other eye is a focused, hypnotic blue, his short blonde hair disheveled. He keeps touching his chin, a nervous tick. Immediately, there’s something you like about him. He gives you the impression of someone who has gotten very good at hiding how afraid he is. Aemond looks away from your gaze, thinking you’re horrified by his injury. Then, reluctantly, he comes back. There’s forbidden temptation the lines of his ravaged face, a curiosity, a hesitation.

“Thank you for saving us,” you say to your rescuers, tearing your attention from Aemond. It’s not easy. “That was really, really cool of you, and we know you didn’t have to do it. So thanks.”

“Yeah,” Rio adds. “Sorry your Tahoe is covered in guts now.”

Aemond turns to confer silently with his companions, then asks you: “Where are you headed?”

“Odessa, Oregon.”

He nods. “We’re going to California.”

“NorCal,” Jace says, holding his baseball bat across his shoulders. “Bay Area.”

“Are you two together?” Aegon asks.

“Yeah,” Rio says, misunderstanding the question.

“Not like that,” you clarify. “He has a wife and baby, that’s what’s in Oregon.”

“So you’re single,” Aegon says, grinning toothily. His fellow travelers—family? friends? classmates? a combination thereof?—grumble and roll their eyes.

“Um, I mean, yeah, technically…?”

“Aemond’s also single,” Madame Driver informs you, relishing the chaos.

“He’s single but deformed and traumatized,” Aegon says. “I am mentally uninjured.”

You chuckle awkwardly. Your eyes, by their own volition, flick back to Aemond. He peers down at the ground then up at you again, smiling, a little sheepish, a little wicked.

Aegon groans, swinging his golf club around. “Man, come on.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Aemond replies.

“No, it’s just right there, all over your fucked up face.”

Madame Driver feigns a sympathetic frown at Aegon. “How sad. Guess you won’t have anyone to give your syphilis to.”

“I don’t have syphilis,” Aegon tells you. Then, to the others: “I can’t be the only single guy! It’s pathetic!”

“I’m single,” Archery Team says brightly.

“You’re like twelve. You don’t count.”

“I’m seventeen!”

“Are you Army?” Aemond asks you and Rio.

“Navy,” Rio replies. “We were stationed at Saratoga Springs in upstate New York.”

Aemond is fascinated. “You’re deserters?”

“What are you gonna do about it, Brit Boy?” Rio says. Aemond blinks at him. Aegon cackles, drawing huge circles in the air with his golf club.

“Everyone’s deserting,” you explain diplomatically.

“They were going to evacuate the base and send everyone left into New York City,” Rio says. “Fuck that, we’d heard things, we weren’t about to go on some suicide mission. We weren’t even in a combat unit for Christ’s sake, we’re Seabees.”

“You’re what?” Aemond asks, puzzled.

“We do construction. That’s why we were still at the base. If they’re putting us on the front lines, the situation is desperate. I’m not going in the meatgrinder. I’m not gonna be like those Hitler Youth kids sent to Russia.”

Aegon is squinting behind his sunglasses, truly lost. “Huh?”

“We should go west together,” Aemond suggests. He’s attempting to sound casual.

“I thought we didn’t want to travel with strangers, Aemond,” Jace says pointedly, mocking him. “I thought they couldn’t be trusted, Aemond. I thought they might slit our throats and steal our Tahoe in the dead of night, Aemond.”

“We’re useful!” Rio bargains. “We can shoot things!”

Aegon is very confused. “I thought you did construction.”

“Everyone has to go through basic training,” Aemond tells him impatiently, watching you.

“She got the Marksmanship Medal,” Rio says, grinning, proud.

“A lot of people get that,” you demur immediately.

“We can give you guys weapons training,” Rio continues. “You seem…like you probably don’t know about guns. Like you read a lot of books.” He gestures to Aegon. “Except that one.”

Aegon snickers, unoffended, still swinging his golf club around. “I don’t read books. I read maps.”

“Okay, lets do it,” Aemond says. “We’ll stick together across the Midwest and split up before we get to the Pacific. That puts us at ten people, and there’s safety in numbers.”

“Why do you get to make all the decisions?!” Jace demands. “Who signed that fucking contract? I didn’t consent to those terms.”

“Because that’s what Criston told us the last time the phones worked,” Aegon replies smugly. “He said Aemond’s in charge. So he is. If you want to find your way to California on your own, you’re welcome to try.”

“Who’s Criston?” you ask.

“Our fake dad,” Aegon says.

“Oh, your stepdad?”

“No, our mom is still married to our dad, he just sucks.”

“He does suck,” Archery Team confirms.

Rio tells you: “Hey, Chips, you’re standing in a torso.”

“Am I?” You look down. Your boots are buried to the ankles in the rotting gore of a bare midsection with only one limp arm still attached. You step out of it and shake off the bits of decomposing organs. “Gnarly. Thanks.” You spot Parker’s backpack containing the extra ammunition, pick it up out of the dirt, and throw it over your shoulders.

“Chips?” Aemond says. “Like…chocolate chips?”

“No, like woodchips. I’m a carpenter. I mean, I was a carpenter, I guess. That’s what I did in the Navy. Some people call the carpenters Chips.”

“I was an electrician,” Rio says. “So clearly, now that all the power is down, that turned out to be a fantastic career path.” Then he formally introduces himself. “Hi everyone, I’m Rio.”

Aegon perks up. “Oh, like the Rio Grande.”

Rio pretends to be scandalized. “Wow, racist.”

“So racist,” you agree.

Aegon’s chubby pink face fills with horror. “No, wait, I didn’t…um…”

Rio laughs and taps the nametag on his chest, black letters stitched over green camouflage: Osorio.

“His first name’s Bryan,” you say. “But no one calls him that.”

“My mom calls me Bryan. Sophie calls me Bryan.”

Aemond points at his companions, one after the other. “That’s my brother Aegon and my sister Helaena. Jace and Luke are our cousins. Then Baela and Rhaena are their girlfriends. Well, Baela…she’s kind of a fiancée. But there’s no official ring yet.”

Jace says: “Unfortunately, all the jewelry stores were looted on account of the apocalypse.”

“And I’m Daeron,” Archery Team says buoyantly, waving. Then he shields his eyes as he notices something at the edge of the field. “Oh, guys…?”

There are zombies approaching with clumsy, staggering strides, only a few now, but more will follow. That’s the thing; they are in seemingly endless supply. It’s easy to get too comfortable with them, to think of them as slow and mindless, even comical, even pitiful. But they can surprise you. And it only takes one bite to become just like them.

“Time to return to the Tahoe,” Baela announces, waddling towards the driver’s seat. Rhaena climbs in the passenger’s side. The rest of you pile into the back. The SUV has nine seats; Aegon crouches on the floor without being asked to. He’s unfolding a map he pulled from the pocket of his salmon-colored shorts and laying it flat across Rio’s knees so everyone can see. Baela turns the key in the ignition and the Tahoe rumbles to life. You spot a few red gas cans under the seats. If you can’t find more when that runs out—siphoning it out of other vehicles, stumbling across a gas station that is miraculously not drained dry—you’ll be walking, biking, or skateboarding to the West Coast. Or embracing the Amish lifestyle with a horse and buggy.

“We were planning to swing by Fort Indiantown Gap,” you tell Aemond. He twists around in his seat to look at you, that absorbed crystalline blue gaze. “That’s where we were headed before our Humvee broke down. It’s a National Guard Training Center. It’s probably cleaned out like everywhere else, but if it’s not…we might be able to find some guns and ammo there.”

“Where is it?”

“An hour south of here, just outside of Harrisburg.”

Baela is watching Aemond in the rearview mirror. He gives her a nod. “How do I get there?” Baela asks you.

“South on Route 42. Did you see the signs on your way in…?”

“Yup. Got it.” Baela steers the Tahoe across the field, kicking up a vortex of parched soil. She intentionally runs down four zombies before swerving left onto a two-lane road. Then she turns up the volume on the CD player: War Pigs by Black Sabbath. “It’s a mixtape,” she informs you.

Aegon points to southcentral Pennsylvania on a map of the United States of America, highway arteries and local route veins. “We’re here,” he says, sliding around on the floor of the Tahoe as Baela drives. His index finger traces the path; it’s a precarious balance between avoiding the most heavily populated areas and still having access to the necessary trappings of civilization: supplies to scavenge, roads to follow, buildings to take shelter in. “We’ll stop by Fort Indiantown Gap and then head northwest, thread the needle between Pittsburgh and Cleveland, stay south of Detroit and Chicago, cut across Iowa, Nebraska, Wyoming, that top part of Utah, then go our separate ways in Nevada. Oh my God, it’s just like the Oregon Trail! Do you guys remember that game?! Fording rivers, getting dysentery, hunting bison to extinction?” He starts humming the theme song.

Jace smirks, chomping on a Twizzler. “Hope you don’t die of a snakebite or something. That’d be awful.”

Aegon ignores him and refolds the map. “Rio! Fuck, marry, kill. The last three first ladies before Biden.”

Rhaena says, exasperated: “Aegon, you have to stop asking people that. It’s inappropriate.”

“Oh, easy,” Rio replies. “I’m fucking Laura Bush.”

“That’s what I’m saying!” Aegon gives him a high five.

“And then I have to marry Michelle.”

“You gotta.”

“Which means Melania gets the grape Flavor Aid.”

“It’s the only logical answer.”

“I’d fuck Melania,” Jace says.

“Of course you would, you sick, sick man,” Aegon mutters, rolling down a window and sticking his head out like a golden retriever, his sunglasses still on, his blonde hair flapping in the wind. There’s a tattoo in black ink on his forearm, you notice for the first time: It’s not over ‘til you’re underground.

~~~~~~~~~~

Fort Indiantown Gap is a ghost town like a gold seam emptied, an oil well run dry, a collapsed coal mine. There’s no central armory but instead a series of arms rooms, one for each unit. Every single scrap of lethal metal is gone: no pistols, no rifles, no grenade launchers or machine guns, no ammo, not even pocketknives, although you do find clean PT uniforms for you and Rio to change into, t-shirts and running shorts and sneakers. Clothes are surprisingly difficult to acquire now. Most stores have either been looted or overrun by zombies, and Amazon is tragically no longer delivering. You can break into houses that seem abandoned, but then you have to hope the people who lived there just so happened to be your size and also aren’t waiting inside to eat you. It’s not usually a wise gamble.

You study Aemond and his companions as you move through the base clearing buildings, you and Rio with loaded M9s in your holsters and clutching borrowed baseball bats; gunshots are best avoided if possible so as not to attract unwanted attention. Aemond and Jace take point, almost always; Aegon hovers on Aemond’s blind left side, wagging his golf club around, occasionally slapping Aemond’s shoulder to remind him he’s there. Daeron prowls at the back and on the periphery. Baela pretends she isn’t struggling to keep up. Luke and Rhaena are the lookouts. Helaena fills her burlap messenger bag with small treasures you don’t even notice her accumulating: bottles of Advil, batteries, lighters, pens, tweezers, Band-Aids, Uno cards. You encounter only three zombies, easily decommissioned. Fort Indiantown Gap must have been evacuated weeks ago. You wonder what pointless battles her soldiers died in. Everyone knows the dead have won.

What the abandoned base lacks in weaponry it makes up for in food. You find a chow hall with an untouched kitchen, a wealth of shelf-stable delicacies: chili, saltine crackers, applesauce, fruit cocktail with bright red gems of cherries, peanut butter, strawberry jelly, green beans, carrots, peas, beets, tuna fish, chicken noodle soup. You feast—a Thanksgiving, a Last Supper—then settle into the barracks next door as the sun begins to set. There are plenty of bunkbeds and a closet full of pillows and sheets. Someone always has to be up to keep watch; Daeron and Jace immediately go to sleep so they can get some rest before they are shaken awake sometime around 2 or 3 a.m. Baela says she’s going to lie down for a minute and almost immediately begins snoring. Helaena makes silent amendments in her notebook; she keeps an inventory of everything the group has, needs, or wants.

Outside, Rio and Aegon are engaged in a spirited game of Uno. Luke is sitting cross-legged on the roof of the Tahoe with his binoculars. Rhaena is beside him softly reading a book out loud: The Hunger Games. Aemond is on a wooden bench on the front porch of the barracks, watching the sun sink into the west. When he notices you, he seems pleased. “Hi.”

“Hi. I’m sorry we wasted your gas to come here.”

“No, it was a good idea. It was worth a shot. And now we have a safe place to sleep tonight.” His eye drops lower, his scarred brow crinkles in concern. “What happened to your hands?”

“My hands?” In the haze of the adrenaline, you didn’t even notice. Your palms are blistered, swollen and stinging. “Oh. It was the transmission tower. The steel beams got really hot while we were up there. I’ll be okay.”

“Let me bandage them. You don’t want to get an infection.”

“Really, I’m fine, I shouldn’t inconvenience—”

“Sit down,” Aemond insists. You take a seat on the bench while he goes to the Tahoe to fetch a black nylon bag about the size of a briefcase. Rio casts you a furtive, crafty grin. It’s nothing, you mouth back, more to convince yourself than him. Your pulse is thudding in your ears; your cheeks are warm. You haven’t felt like this since you almost agreed to go on a date with that Marine you met at Corpus Christi, where your battalion had been dispatched to build a series of new airplane hangars. Aemond returns to the bench and begins wiping down your palms with antiseptic. “Sorry if this stings.”

It does, but you’re grateful for the distraction. “It isn’t too bad.”

“You’re not from Oregon.” He’s noticed your accent.

“Kentucky,” you confess.

“You aren’t making a stop at home before traveling west?”

“Why would I want to go back there?”

Aemond looks at you uncertainly; he can’t tell if you’re joking. You like the way his voice goes quiet when it’s just the two of you. You like the way he barely shows his teeth when he talks, like he’s keeping secrets.

After a moment, as the sky begins to turn to orange and pink and lilac, you continue. “People join the Army for a paycheck and a place to sleep, free college, health insurance. People join the Marines to prove they’re the best. People join the Air Force because they want to be in the military but think they’re too smart for grunt work. And people join the Navy to get away from home. I wanted to get far, far, far away.”

Aemond smiles. “Are you far enough yet?” He doesn’t mean by miles. He means the fact that the world will never be the same. Now he’s coating your hands in a thick white ointment, cool and blissful.

“I was afraid of so many things, and now none of them matter.”

“We all have brand new things to be afraid of.” He gets a roll of gauze and begins to wrap your palms, careful to keep your fingers and thumbs unencumbered.

“Aemond?”

“Yeah.”

“What happened to your face?”

He shrugs. He’s trying not to be resentful about it; he can’t change it anyway. “We were scavenging supplies from a Home Depot. We had to board up the house and wait until things…got quieter and it was safe to travel out of Boston.” And by got quieter, he means that the initial wave passed, the zombies began to wander out of the cities and disperse, the survivors were hunkered down and not participating in gunfights or Vikings-style pillaging in the streets. “A piece of sheet metal fell on me from the top shelf. Aegon and Jace dragged me home, they thought I was dying.”

“I’m glad you weren’t. Who treated it?”

“I did.”

You can’t disguise your shock. “You…you stitched up your own face?”

He smirks, finishing the bandages on your hands. “I was in medical school before all this.”

“You’re a doctor?”

“I was an intern. So definitely not a doctor, but the closest thing to one I had access to. And I had taken some things from the hospital when everything went to hell. So I got a little mirror, and I lidocained myself very generously, and I started suturing.”

You don’t know what to say. His eye?? He stitched his eye shut?? “I mean…you did a great job.”

“I’m aware I look like Frankenstein, but I guess it’s better than not being here at all.”

“No, seriously. You look amazing, Aemond.”

He stares at you, bewildered. You realize how bizarre it must sound. You both start laughing as Aemond packs his supplies back into his medical kit. He touches his fingertips to his chin a few times—restless, meditative—then stands to return inside the barracks. “I’m…going to go check on Helaena.”

“Yeah. Cool. See ya.” You don’t watch him leave. This takes intentional effort.

Seconds pass anonymously: no time you need to be anywhere, nothing late, nothing early, no television premiers, no football games, no State Of The Unions, no time zones to do mental math over. You aren’t even sure what day it is. The earth has erased your invisible prisons. Now all that remain are the real ones: weather, terrain, disease, predators.

There is the creaking of weight on the porch steps. You warn him: “I’m not interested in your commentary.”

Rio winks as he says: “Maybe you won’t die a virgin after all.”

[kimberly-spirits13]

Dating Jason Todd General Headcannons

warnings: nothing graphic but there are a few bed preferences in there without being descriptive

He's a very veryyyy touchy person

There is not a time in your entire relationship where he doesn't have his hands on you somehow

he wants you to sit in his lap and be cuddled up against his chest, wants his hand on your thigh, pinkies linked, holding your hand, touching shoulders while standing close together, literally anything

He's a total big spoon almost always

He likes to engulf you and it makes him feel like you're safe

Also likes it when you use his chest or stomach as a pillow

"Don't you have a pillow to sleep on Y/N/N?" "yea, I'm using it doofus."

He likes to sleep on top of you and have you scratch his scalp or run your fingers through his hair

has him out like a light

Jason is a heavy sleeper so if you move around a lot, it won't bother him

That being said, it's hard to wake him up from a nightmare

sometimes you can't wake him up and have to let him ride it out and wake up on his own

He HATES waking up alone and will tightly wrap his arms and legs around you when he sleeps

He likes being able to do things separately but in the same room

maybe you're working on a case and he's reading Jane Austin or something

He really prefers a vigilante S/O because he knows they can take care of themselves

it's one less thing for him to worry about if you can roundhouse someone three times your size

He really thinks that it's hot when you get aggressive on patrol or missions

gets hot and bothered very easily

he's not one to say anything degrading while you two are in the sheets

he's more like a really sweet and attentive type that can also get aggressive but never mean

he's not into choking, sorry but no- you two have been choked to near death enough and he doesn't find anything attractive about it

He also isn't the type to immediately want to get it on the moment you're in shorts or have your shirt off or something

Like he'll tell you that you're fine as hell but he's not immediately a dog towards you unless you want to do anything

He's the kind of person that you can be very very comfortable around

Likes to ride his motorcycle with you since it's another chance for you two to be close

is a hype man and is the kind of person that you take shopping with you

He'll always be bias towards red though

I don't know that I'd say that Jason is the type of person that is sleeping around with everyone

I think that he's had a few relationships before (maybe like 2 or 3, 4 at most) but he's not going around the neighborhood

Is extremely protective and loyal

Like would not even think about doing ANYTHING that could hinder your trust towards him

He is the type to open your car doors and open the door into a building and order for you if you want and walk closest to the road

if scary dog privileges were a human

Jason is the sweetest little thing but he looks like he can snap anyone like a twig with his pinky

He likes being held

Please wrap this man in your arms for a few hours

that's ultimately all he wants

He doesn't have a boobs or butt preference and generally just loves everything about you

There's no being insecure in this house y'all

"What'd you say about yourself?" "Jason it's really not a big deal, I just don't like this scar from that sword fight a few years back." "You know what Y/N, no, uh uh, sit down and let me tell you something you literal angel"

goes on and on and on and on about how perfect you are

Sticks his head under your shirt

It's a common occurrence

ultimately, Jason just wants love

that's it, that's all the puppy wants

He really likes to cook for you since it's very domestic

He likes anything domestic, even cleaning the house or doing something mundane like the dishes

it makes him feel at home with you

he's the one that buys the candles in the house since I think he would secretly have really good taste in things like that

takes care of himself really well after he was resurrected in the Lazarus Pit

uses nice shampoo, conditioner, washes his face and moisturizes, shaves often, he's down to do face and hair masks with you at any point

[seresinhangmanjake]

The One I Want: Part 16

Jake Seresin x plus size!reader

Summary: You're new in town and some guy named Jake is about to be your roommate. Being skeptical of new people keeps you lonely and uninterested in any entanglements, but Jake is desperate to change that.

Warnings: a little smut

Words: 1500

The One I Want Masterlist / Main Masterlist / Tag List

“I can’t tell you much,” Jake had told you, but you knew that. “We’re not a hundred percent in the clear, but it’s looking like four weeks, maybe five.”

“Beats fifteen,” you’d said, hearing a rewarding chuckle in return. 

You were thankful no one could witness the mess you were at that moment, your face-splitting grin heavily contrasting the puffiness of your eyes from tears. But that was just the beginning of weeks of inner turmoil. 

For forty-eight days, your stomach has swirled a storm that’s consistently had you on the edge of nausea, whether from anxiety regarding his safety or butterflies at the thought of Jake returning. You miss him, more than you thought yourself willing to, and regardless of what he told you, nothing guarantees he will walk through the door of your apartment. And if he doesn’t, you know exactly what will happen to you. You’ll crumble into unsalvageable pieces, and no one—not Millie, not Rooster, not anyone who has been kind to you over the last months—will be able to put you back together. 

And then what? Your only choice will be to leave. Start anew. Twelfth new place. Except this time, you’ll be more numb, less human, less operable on a daily basis. It’ll be like waking from a dream to a gray environment. You fear nature will lose its color, and you will lose your light once again.

—

It’s another week before your phone rings with a name other than Millie’s plastered across the screen. Unknown Number, but the first three digits are recognizable, matching those of the number Jake has been using to call you with. What you hear on the other end of the line, however, is not Jake, but instead, a gruff voice asking you to confirm your identity. 

“Yes,” you answer. “That’s me.”

The man clears his throat. “You are the emergency contact for Lieutenant Jake Seresin. We’d like you to come down to our medical facility as soon as possible,” he says before providing you directions.

You drop your phone, and then you’re running. Running to his truck, running from his truck to base, running through halls until you find someone willing to lead you to him. You’re so terrified, your arms jittery, legs barely functioning from the panic of Jake’s pending fate, so overwhelmed by nerves that when you finally do see him, it pisses you off. 

That man with the voice that imbued you with dread is on your shit list for life. Maybe next time, he could lead an emergency contact call with He’s fine or Don’t worry, because his implication was severe enough that you feared lost limbs or damaged brain functioning. But there Jake is, not in a coma or with some life-threatening injury, but sitting on the edge of a bed in a room with his back to you as a nurse seals a strip of medical tape across a small patch of shaved hair on the side of his head.  

When she’s done with her work, she smiles at Jake and nods at something he says before walking out of the room. She jumps at the unexpected figure lingering just outside the door, and then realization dawns. 

“Oh, you must be the girlfriend,” she says. “You’re welcome to go on in.”

So you do, cautiously easing into the room, hoping that when he turns, his face won’t be covered in slashes and bruises—a sight you’re not sure you can handle with strength and maturity. You’d love him all the same, but to see him in such pain would take you to your knees. But again, he’s fine. Beautiful as ever. Not a mark on him that you can see save for the one on the mend. 

Jake’s face brightens at the sight of you; he practically glows, and you’re shocked to discover yourself not running into his arms. You’re frozen for a moment as you take him in. It’s a quick moment—a brief second to recover—but then you’re stepping to him, your eyes watering, your bottom lip quivering, your fingers reaching up to brush over the stark white tape. You’re careful with your feathery touch, relieved to see that his injury is not so sensitive as to make him wince.

Jake’s arms wrap around your waist. His eyes do not break from your face. He’s patient as you scan him once more for visible injuries, verifying for your own sake.

“It’s just the one,” he tells you, his voice soft and only a few notes above a whisper. Your eyes snap to his. He lifts his hand to cup your cheek, thumb stroking your cheekbone. “Come here, beautiful.”

You melt when his lips gently touch yours, but the kiss doesn’t last long as innocent. There’s bites and sucking and giving and taking, and it’s perfect in its semi-sloppy neediness. Voices passing by the door is what breaks the two of you apart. Jake lightly groans before he chuckles and rests his forehead against yours. 

“I missed you,” he says. He places another quick peck on your lips. “I want to take you home.”

“Then take me home.”

—

“J-Jake!”

You feel his mouth curve against your core before he licks another stripe right through you, tongue like a heated blade slicing you in two halves, spreading you open and baring you inside and out. You’re completely gone—lost in the sole way you’re willing to be lost—as Jake tethers you to this earth. He’s the only one you trust to ground you while simultaneously letting your head float amongst the clouds. 

His arms curl around the thickness of your thighs, locking onto you and keeping your hips steady atop the mattress as he devours and tastes and sucks and licks some more.  

“Come on, beautiful,” he mumbles into your folds, just loud enough for you to hear through the rush of blood in your ears. “Let me have it.”

As if you could hold it back. 

Your whole body jerks and writhes as you sink into pleasure, back arching, head digging into the pillow. Jake reaches a hand up to intertwine your fingers and you squeeze them tightly while he continues to kiss folds and brush his nose against the overstimulated bud.

“There we go,” he coos until your body calms.

Jake crawls onto the bed, lips and tongue traveling up the soft flesh of your stomach, between the valley of your breasts, into the dip in your throat before he kisses you, demanding you taste everything you just gave him. 

Jake introduced you to your taste during those weeks before his deployment. His head lived between your legs. He showed you how to perch perfectly on his face, encouraging you through your concerns of suffocating him. He begged you to relax when he backed you up against the wall, slipped your pants off, knelt, and tossed your leg over his shoulder as he dove in. And after each success of making you crumble to pieces, he sealed his lips to yours and pushed his tongue into your mouth. 

You know your taste as well as you know his, and on the occasions he spills down your throat before he returns the favor, you get the satisfaction of the combination on your tongue—a mixture more intoxicating than an alcoholic binge. 

“I’m never going to want anything like I want you,” he says after he slips inside of you, the intensity of the love in his eyes penetrating your soul.

“Then it's good that I’m yours,” you whisper back.

Thrusts that were paced and steady and gentle falter. With your words comes a sharp rut of his hips—unexpected to you both—that hits hard, deep. Jake chokes on the air in his lungs, his eyes snapping shut as you cry out. 

“Fuck” hisses through the grit of his teeth. Then he finds his pace again. 

His head falls to your neck. Nibbles make you gasp, and the image of examining claiming bruises in the mirror first thing come morning causes your walls to clench around the veiny column moving in and out of you. Your fingers fist into his hair. Nails dig into the toned muscle of his ass. 

“I do love you, Jake,” you say. 

He stops completely, but you don’t question it. The fingers in his hair loosen and you lightly scrape your nails along his scalp, down to the base of his neck, then back up into blond locks. Turning your head, you stamp a tender kiss onto his temple. 

Jake doesn’t say a thing. He doesn’t look at you. His thick breaths burn the delicate skin just under your ear. When he begins to move, he’s slow, taking his time before he picks up, working to nudge that special spot inside of you that tightens a white-hot coil in your belly. 

“I love you so much, beautiful,” he whispers.

[ckret2]

Chapter 48 of human Bill Cipher slowly dying inside for 24 hours straight with no signs of stopping anytime soon:

The Eclipse: Part 6

Over a month since his death and after nearly 50 chapters, at long last, the moment you've all been waiting for:

Bill has a complete physical and mental breakdown.

Unfortunately there's only one person available to deal with it.

They landed near where they'd camped last night. While the Pines climbed out, Bill stared at the sharp gray rocks beneath the cliff. The blood was gone. It took him a moment to process that Ford was speaking: "We can pack our tents, return Tate's boat, and borrow a phone to call Stanley for a ride."

Bill numbly climbed onto land.

Their tents were in disarray, but more or less where they'd left them the night before. While Ford and Dipper dealt with the largest tent and cleaned up the campsite, Bill methodically attempted to fold up the tent he'd slept in.

He couldn't make sense of it. There were too many plastic rods with too many little joints and too many fabric flaps, he couldn't parse the geometry of it. This should be easy, he'd watched Dipper assemble the tent last night, how hard could it be to do the same in reverse?

But it wasn't working. His hands were shaking. The joints were bending wrong, the joints were bending in directions that shouldn't exist, in impossible dimensions, shrinking and expanding perversely as they twisted in alien foreshortening—

Bill let out a gasp so loud and sharp that Ford and Dipper immediately whipped around to face him. Ford asked, "What is it?"

Bill couldn't speak. He just stared down at his awful human legs.

"Bill?"

Voice very far away—but impressively calm and flat—Bill said, "I have to sit down."

"Why? What happened?"

"My legs aren't working. I can't feel them."

His knees buckled. He tried to grip them to keep them straight, but found only one arm responded. "And—my left arm." He dropped to his knees in the mud.

And suddenly he was the center of attention, two humans moving around him in a dizzying flurry, all grotesque limbs and fabric: "Hey, are you okay?" "What happened? Are you injured?" "Think we should get help?" "Maybe he needs food—"

Too much. He closed his eyes, but there were still fingers on his arm and shoulders and back. He swatted at them with his functioning hand. "Don't touch me don't touch me DON'T TOUCH ME!" His shriek startled the birds from a nearby tree. He attempted to bite somebody, he wasn't sure who—this was what he'd been reduced to, no legs, no strength, no power, he couldn't even protect himself from being touched, all he had left was his teeth—but he misjudged the distance and bit only air. But it was enough to make the humans back off, shrinking into the distance.

"Don't touch me. Stop trying to move me. Don't ask me why I can't move. I don't know. This—this—" he gestured frantically at his body. He was moving too fast, talking too fast. "This—corpse—human body—is stupid. It's just being stupid! I need to sit. Leave me alone, I need to sit. I need to sit, and—look at nothing, and breathe." He was talking far too fast, breathing too fast. "I need it so much. Go away."

No matter how hard Bill tried to imagine the humans spontaneously ceasing to exist, they did not go away. Ford knelt in front of him, studying his face. "Try to smile."

Bill forced a smile. "Good. Good, good. Positive thinking."

"No. I'm trying to see if you're having a stroke." He sat back. "Your face muscles are still working symmetrical."

Bill decided to keep smiling anyway. He thought it might help. Happy happy happy.

"You say your can't feel your legs."

"Yes."

"Or your left arm."

"Yes."

"Did you feel any pain beforehand? Tingling in the limbs, or...?"

"No—no, no. They were working fine and then they were gone. They just—disappeared." Bill laughed. The laugh went on too long and sounded too high and too nervous. 

Ford nodded. "Okay. Drink this."

A water bottle materialized in Bill's field of vision. It took a couple of tries for Bill to manipulate his hand through three-dimensional space to grasp it. He shakily drank as much as he could. It tasted like drowning.

"Dipper, run to the bait shop and call for an... The nearest hospital is at least twenty miles outside Gravity Falls' weirdness barrier, Bill can't get there. Call for a doctor and I'll stay here to—"

"No," Bill snapped, "no no no, don't call a doctor. I don't want—" He didn't want to be seen like this. He didn't want somebody picking him up and helping him into an ambulance like he was too weak to move himself. He didn't want Mabel to know. Bad enough Ford and the brat did. "I don't need it. I'm fine."

"Fine?!" Ford gestured at him in disbelief. "Three fourths of your limbs aren't functioning—!"

"I'm fine, I'm fine. Something's wrong with the body. It's got nothing to do with me. I'm fine, I'm just in it." He shut his eyes and tried to breathe. "Just—just let me sit."

"Let you sit and then do what?"

"Give me time. It'll come back. Don't tell anyone and—stop looking at me."

There was silence. Bill didn't want to open his eyes. He heard Ford stand and walk away.

####

"Do you think he's faking?" Dipper murmured.

Ford hated that that always had to be the first question. "I can't imagine what he'd stand to benefit from pretending he can't walk." Bill had been desperate to get back inside the last two days. If he'd now decided to—what? maybe take advantage of his freedom to try to escape?—then why hadn't he done that when they got separated in the lake, or in the caves where Bill could see in the dark and Ford hadn't known how to call the geodites? If he was trying to separate Ford and Dipper from each other so he could kill them one by one—why hadn't he just let them die?

It was hard not to think about how he really had saved them for no clear reason.

"He's spent two very stressful days hardly eating, sleeping poorly, and hiking through half the mountain. I'd say he needs food and rest. And probably more water." He'd gulped down two thirds of Ford's water bottle.

"Seriously? He can't feel his legs, is—is that normal for like a day without food and sleep?" Dipper asked. "People can go longer than that, right? You've gone longer."

"It's not a 'normal' symptom of exhaustion, hunger, or dehydration. But I think he'll fight us if we try to get medical help. Let's deal with the immediate problems first and—see where we are then. Even if it doesn't help, at least then he won't be paralyzed and starving."

Dipper nodded uncertainly. "What do we do if he's dying?"

The boy catastrophized at the drop of a hat. In a way, Ford supposed it was a good thing—having been through his fair share of catastrophes, he knew it helped to be prepared—but Dipper was so young. "Get him to a doctor as soon as we can; and, if that isn't enough... hope we're lucky." In other words: hope Bill stayed dead.

Dipper nodded again. "What's our strategy if Weirdmageddon restarts? Maybe... I wonder if that's what the Axolotl was trying to warn me—"

"Lunch first," Ford said. "Then we can plan for the apocalypse."

####

Bill knew they were going to make him move. They hated him. They would parade him through the streets to make a mockery of him, look at the alien loser in a malfunctioning corpse, washed-up puppeteer who can't even control a meat marionette, he's already dead and you can make his corpse in the forest a tourist destination—

"Okay," Ford said. "We'll give it an hour. Dipper's heading to town to get some proper food and call the shack."

The shack. Like a prison cell with an open door and a black hole inside trying to suck him back in. "Don't tell them—"

Dipper said, "I won't, I'm just letting them know we're not dead. And that we'll call again in a couple of hours."

No doubt so that Bill couldn't kill them without the shack knowing something was wrong. "Right."

"Do you... want any specific food?"

"Not hungry."

There was a pause. "Right. I'll just... grab something."

Bill didn't care what he did. As Dipper left the sound of each footstep was like a knife in Bill's ears. He just needed to breathe, needed to breathe and be normal and feel normal and happy—

Something soft landed on his head.

Bill opened his eyes.

There was an unzipped, slightly moist sleeping bag draped over his head and around his shoulders; and Ford standing several feet away, hands awkwardly clasped behind his back, looking somewhat embarrassed with himself.

Bill said, "What."

Ford cleared his throat. "It. Helped when you were, ah... had a hair cut. I thought—it can't hurt."

It took Bill a moment to figure out what he meant. "Oh." The towel. Ford had seen him hide under a towel. Right. 

Ford winced and muttered, "Maybe it can hurt."

Bill croaked, "What."

It wasn't until he tried to speak that Bill realized he was crying so hard he couldn't breathe. His vision swam, his shoulders shook, his breath came in sharp hitches—no no no no, that wasn't okay, not in front of— Stop, stop, stop.

He covered his eyes with his hand. The water bottle slid off his thighs and spilled on the ground. Between gasping breaths, Bill forced out, "This's—this is—good. Good."

"How is it...?"

"It's a—hint. This—it's—prob... probably... ps-psycho—som—ss—" 

"Psychosomatic?"

"Mm. Mhmm." He tried to get in a deeper breath and failed. "'Sgreat. Means—no inj—injuries. Flesh is—fine."

"So you're..." Ford's footsteps came closer, "saying it's psychological—?"

"No!" Bill let out a hysterical laugh. "I'm FINE! 'M happy. It's the body. It's—some hormone—hunger—exhaustion—just... s-synapses—and neurotrans—transmm—tr—"

"Easy. You can barely talk." He heard Ford sit next to him, felt the sleeping bag shift as he brushed against it. "Try to focus on breathing—"

"WHAT do you THINK I'm TRYING to—" Bill ineffectively pummeled Ford through the sleeping bag. "Move! Move, move, move! Don't t—touch—" He let out a frustrated scream that morphed into a humiliating sob, and had to clap his functioning hand over his mouth to smother the sound. He was not this body; he was a separate thing locked inside the body. This body was a prison, this body was a punishment. The legs didn't work, because the body was doing something to him. These weren't his tears, his grief, his fear. They were the body's. Which hormone was at fault? What could he blame other than himself?

He felt Ford's weight shift away from his side. "Okay, okay," Ford said. "Just... take it easy."

Bill socked him again. "Don't t-talk to me like a horse." He covered his eyes.

He didn't mean to risk his life for Ford.

Former friend, false worshiper, useless pawn, now enemy. Bill had just seen him floating out there and he'd done it—and he'd forgotten he could die.

In the Nightmare Realm he had saved his friends from peril billions of times before, because it was so easy for him, powers like a god, to see someone he was fond of and casually pluck them out of harm's way. It had been billions upon billions of years since Bill had been vulnerable to physical harm. He'd seen Ford in danger and he'd done what he always did and he'd forgotten he could have died.

He could have died. Eternally, permanently, last chance—he could have died.

And it would have been for nothing.

Bill was selfish. He had effortlessly saved friends billions of times but he'd also casually let them die just as many—assuming he didn't kill them himself. He saved friends because he liked them; but he didn't put himself out for ex-friends. Ford hadn't had one nice thing to say to Bill in years. Bill would never lure Ford back under his sway. Ford's survival endangered Bill's. But Bill had saved him anyway. He hadn't even stopped to think.

He didn't know. He didn't want to know. He didn't want to think about saving the human hellbent on killing him, he didn't want to think about almost dying, he didn't want to think about how peaceful it had been floating under the water, how easy it would have been to open his mouth and breathe in—he didn't want to think. He wanted to stop thinking. He wanted to empty his mind. He couldn't meditate through his hitching breaths and the way his stomach ached from struggling to keep his sobs silent, and his legs and left arm were gone.

He was fine. He was happy. He'd always been happy. Happy happy happy.

His entire body shook with sobs. He was dizzy—gasping between sobs for air he couldn't get. He was so lightheaded and crying so hard he couldn't stay upright. The edges of his vision went dark.

Ford wrapped an arm around Bill's shoulders and tugged him against his side. He held him up until Bill was too exhausted to cry anymore.

####

There was zipper noise, then a sound like shifting vinyl. Bill cracked his fingers apart to peer through them. Ford had unrolled the portable chessboard and was setting it up. "What?"

"It looks like we'll be here a while," Ford said, addressing his statement to the chessboard rather than to Bill. "It's... something else to focus on."

Bill wasn't sure what the emotion clawing its way through the grief-stricken haze in his mind was, but it felt very similar to relief. He nodded. "S—smart. I'm already—getting bored." His cheeks itched, his eyes burned, and his head was throbbing. As Ford set up the board, Bill closed his eyes and tried again to force himself to breathe more evenly. He was still dizzy from hyperventilating. Embarrassing—even a comatose human can breathe, and Bill couldn't even get that right. "Black?"

"I know."

Of course he knew. Bill always chose black. "First?"

"Fine." And Ford also knew, despite white traditionally getting the first move, Bill always moved first.

Bill waited in numb silence for Ford to finish setting up the board and sit on the other side. Moving almost automatically, Bill picked up a queen, hopped it over his line of pawns—

"Play it properly," Ford said irritably. "I put up with your cheating and lying for years, I'm not putting up with any more."

Bill gave Ford a look that he intended to be deeply offended, but immediately realized was probably just wet and pathetic. "Really? Now?"

Ford at least had the good sense to look a tad embarrassed, but he said, "I didn't set up the board to watch you move random pieces around like an untrained kindergartener."

"Three of my limbs don't work, Stanford."

"Are you suggesting your right arm doesn't remember the proper rules of chess?"

He wondered what Ford would say if he said yes. "I have a headache."

"You're probably dehydrated." Ford rummaged around in his backpack and offered over another bottle of water.

Bill reluctantly accepted it. He probably was dehydrated. "You owe me your life."

Ford fixed him with an unimpressed look. "You're trying to cash in a life debt... so you can cheat at chess?"

Bill opened his mouth; paused as he slowly thought that over; and dissolved into broken, hysterical giggles. "I don't know w-what I'm trying to do." He covered his mouth, squeezed his eyes shut, and tried to steady his breathing again.

Ford sighed. He waited until Bill had regained some control over himself; and then he said, "You can make up one new rule."

Bill considered the offer. "Total, or per game?"

"Per game."

Deep breath. "Fine. But I'm not telling you what it is. You have to guess it."

Ford considered it. "Three conditions."

"Mm?"

"One: you have to share what the rule was at the end of the game. If any of your illegal moves didn't conform to that rule, you automatically lose."

"Mm."

"Two: any rule you come up with has to apply to both sides of the board equally. Nothing that only advantages you or disadvantages me," Ford said. "Three: if I can figure out what your new rule is before the game's over, I can use it too. Obviously, you lose if I ask you about the rule and you lie."

Bill mulled over Ford's terms. His head was so foggy, he'd already forgotten the first one. "Deal."

"Deal."

####

Bill lost every game.

Badly.

He was clobbered. He was creamed. He was a faint red smear upon the pavement.

Back in Ford's dreams, Bill had won a good four-fifths of their games. Ford had heard during his travels that Bill was a mediocre player, but he didn't think he was so bad that all of those games had been won due to cheating. Even when he wasn't cheating, Bill had sometimes taken Ford by surprise.

But now, Bill was squinting at the board like he was struggling to see where the pieces were. Occasionally his fingers pinched down on thin air like he was trying to grab a non-existent piece. So Ford assumed the catastrophic losses were more a reflection of Bill's mental state than his skill level.

The option to make up rules didn't save Bill, but it at least made the games more interesting—and unlike the rest of Bill's abysmal playing, the new rules gave Ford a glimpse of the devious mind still buried somewhere in the traumatized human body.

The first round, Bill decided that the queen could leapfrog over pieces like a knight, and when Ford pointed out that would mean whoever had the first move could put the opposing king in checkmate in one move, Bill grudgingly amended the rule: the queen could leapfrog to an empty square, but could only take pieces in a straight line in the conventional manner. Ford had to maintain a phalanx of pieces jealously clinging to his king to guard against Bill teleporting his queen to the king's side. Bill managed to check him twice before Ford won.

One round, Bill decreed that rooks could only land on pieces the same color as they were sitting on, then smugly nestled his king on a white square next to Ford's rook on a black square; and then promptly lost the game when Ford pointed out both of Bill's rooks were currently on white squares, meaning he'd broken his own rule before he'd revealed it.

One round he decided that kings could move like queens, which Ford only discovered when he thought he'd checkmated him and then Bill zoomed his king across the board to take Ford's bishop; and then Bill lost a few moves later when Ford used his own king's newly revealed power to properly corner Bill.

One round Bill decided that once any back row piece was captured, it reincarnated in the body of the corresponding front row pawn. Ford genuinely liked the new rule—it meant you had to capture and checkmate both the king and the king's pawn before the game was over, and you had to be more cautious about what pieces you took since it could inadvertently set up a previously harmless enemy pawn to devastate your side of the board. But by the time Bill revealed that rule by jumping a pawn like a knight, Ford had already taken Bill's king's pawn and seen a way to checkmate him in two moves. It was a sore disappointment to end the game before getting to experiment with the new rule.

A few games were so short that Ford won without ever seeing Bill pull a nonstandard move. Round seven was one such game. Ford cornered Bill with a knight and a bishop. That had been the quickest match yet. Game over. "Checkmate."

"Checkmate," Bill said. 

Ford paused, looking over the board, thinking moving his bishop must have given one of Bill's pieces line of sight to his king; but no, his king was perfectly safe. "What?"

"Checkmate."

"You can't mate me, I just mated you."

"I know. Checkmate."

Frowning, Ford said, "Explain."

"The extra rule this game is that both kings are wearing suicide vests." He tapped his king, "He's wired up with enough explosives to wipe out the whole board." There was a look of steely exhaustion on his face. He looked like the kind of desperate, hopeless man who would put on a suicide vest. "If I'm going down, you're coming with me."

Ford laughed so hard his stomach hurt.

It was petty revenge for losing seven games in a row. A frustrated child flipping the chessboard, but making a self-deprecating joke out of it: as long as we both know I'm going to lose anyway...

When Ford had recovered himself enough to look at Bill again, Bill was giving him a faint, grim smile that didn't quite make it to his one open eye. Still—he looked a little less miserable than he had for the past hour. Or the past couple days.

Ford said, "We'll call that one a stalemate."

"I'll take it."

####

After trying all morning and half the afternoon, Dipper had remembered part of what the Axolotl had told him. Just one phrase: sixty degrees that come in threes. He could hear the rhythm and rhyme of whatever the Axolotl said next, something something something -eez—it rhymed, he was sure of that—but the rest...?

It took Dipper over an hour and a half to get back to the campsite; he'd gotten lost in his thoughts, and consequently, gotten lost in the forest. He returned with a plastic bag of the kind of junk food they regularly saw Bill consuming in the shack, a few slices of gas station pizza, and a clear takeout container of nachos. Bill immediately went for the nachos.

While Bill was inspecting the circle-shaped tortilla chips with obvious disappointment, Dipper rummaged around in the plastic bag until he found a small jar of rainbow sprinkles and offered them to Bill. Bill took it without acknowledging Dipper, awkwardly untwisted the lid with one hand and ripped off the seal with his teeth, and liberally drowned his nachos.

"The gas station looks like an earthquake hit it," Dipper reported. "And most of the cars had popped tires. I guess they must've floated up and then crashed back down." He took a cheese pizza slice and offered the box to Ford. "Nobody I asked saw the Axolotl."

Ford glanced at Bill, expecting him to have some kind of comment on that; but Bill just grunted "Mm," focused on the chess game like he thought he'd be killed if he glanced away.

Dipper pointed out when Bill pulled an illegal move, Ford explained the new rules they were playing by, and Dipper settled down to watch. He tried to razz Bill the next time he lost; but Bill made such a pathetic figure that he couldn't even enjoy making fun of him and quickly gave up.

During the next game, Bill unexpectedly slid a pawn backward diagonally to take out Ford's queen. While Ford was silently fuming over the loss of his most powerful piece, Dipper hazarded, "Can pawns capture both forward and backward?" That would have been Ford's guess too.

But Bill simply said, "No."

Dipper mumbled, "Huh," lost focus on the game, and stared off into the distance, murmuring something under his breath. He kept getting lost in his thoughts today. Ford supposed nobody in this hiking party was in the best mental state.

Maybe pawns could move like bishops? But when Ford tried to slide one diagonally across the board, Bill said, "That's illegal," and Ford returned it to its original spot. There was some hidden condition he was missing. Maybe which color square the pawn was on? Or maybe it was like en passant, you could only capture an enemy piece backwards if that was the first time the enemy piece moved?

When the game was over—Ford won, but Bill had held out longer than usual—Ford asked, "All right, what was the new rule?"

"Pawns can capture forward and backward." While Ford and Dipper stared at him in mute outrage, Bill ignored them to casually shift his posture from kneeling—his knees had gotten sore—to lotus position, and said, "Next game?" as though he couldn't even be bothered to notice the humans' fury.

"But that's exactly what we said!" Ford snapped. "You lied to me!"

"No," Bill said, "I lied to the kid. I'm not playing against the kid. Why are you paying attention to what I tell him?"

Dipper demanded, "How is that fair? Anyone listening would think—"

But he fell silent when Ford laughed. "Of course," Ford said. "I should have expected that. Any loophole you can find. That's part of the game to you, isn't it."

Bill gave Ford an unsettlingly knowing look; and Ford supposed it was part of the game to him, too.

(Somewhere in the back of Bill's foggy mind, he kept count: three times. Before today, Bill wasn't sure he'd heard Ford laugh once this summer. What changed? What was Bill doing differently? Maybe Ford only liked him when he was completely broken.)

It took until halfway through the next game for Ford to realize Bill had moved his legs.

####

Over Ford's protests that they should wait until his strength was back, Bill insisted they get moving immediately. He'd rather be locked in the shack again than spend one more minute sitting by the lake.

"I hate being surrounded by trees. Why do humans like nature so much. This is miserable." Caked in mud, still wearing a towel like a skirt, teetering with exhaustion, Bill certainly looked like the most miserable camper to ever exist. "I cannot begin to tell you how sick I am of looking at pines."

Ford wondered whether the pun was intentional.

Bill's limbs were weak and uncoordinated. He could twitch his left fingers when asked, but his grip strength was nonexistent and the arm hung limply at his side when he wasn't actively trying to use it. His legs moved, but when he tried to get to his feet he collapsed back into the mud. But he thought he could probably stand with support. He ignored the hand Ford offered and crawled to the nearest tree to lean on as he got to his feet. Ford could see Bill's knees tremble.

"I don't need your help," Bill grumbled. "I can stand fine on my own."

Ford wouldn't argue with Bill's definition of fine. "But can you walk?"

"I could." He couldn't even make the lie convincing.

"Then be my guest."

"I'm saving my strength."

It would almost be funny if he wasn't being such an inconvenience. "Well, you're here and the boat is over there." Ford gestured. The shore was much further away than it had been yesterday. "If you can't walk, then you're either crawling or you're getting help. Which you'd prefer is between you and your dignity."

Bill's face reddened. "Don't talk to me about my dignity, like you've ever cared about my dignity..." He twisted around to inspect the tree behind him, tired gaze looking over the branches—maybe he was planning to break off a walking stick? He attempted to grab a thin branch that wouldn't serve as a walking stick for a toddler. He wasn't strong enough to break it off. He kept trying.

They were never getting to the boat. "Please let me help."

"Go jump in a lake. Again."

How did Ford handle this without prodding at Bill's bruised ego? "Consider it my thanks for—ah..." Ford cleared his throat. "For actually telling the truth about the eclipse. In spite of... what was no doubt immense temptation to lie like a cheap rug. Since we didn't believe you anyway." He had averted his gaze in embarrassment; he forced himself to face Bill like a man. Bill was actually looking at him again. "And for not chucking my gnephew's body off the cliff when you had the opportunity." The bar was so low it was on the ground, and yet it was still impressive that Bill hadn't found a way to dig under it. "And... for saving my life."

Bill set his jaw tight, as if he didn't like being reminded of his moment of decency; but he said, "Fine, get over here." He held out his good arm. "Help your hero and savior limp triumphantly off the field of battle."

When Ford offered his hand, Bill ignored it, and practically snarled when Ford tried to wrap it around his waist for support. Rather than putting his arm over Ford's shoulders, Bill seized a wad of fabric near the collar of Ford's t-shirt as a handhold to hang his weight from. Ford felt less like he was supporting Bill, and more like he'd just gotten in trouble and his father was marching him into the living room by his collar to give him a stern talking-to.

"First time you've ever thanked me for anything I've done for you," Bill muttered. Ford told himself he could drop Bill once they were on the boat.

Dipper was completely zoned out, waiting on the boat staring off in the direction the Axolotl had flown. He didn't react as Bill sat next to him, and Bill didn't acknowledge he existed. Ford started the motor, and they crossed the lake toward Tate & Backle's Bait & Tackle.

####

(You can't imagine how long I've been waiting to post this chapter. Hope you enjoyed, I'd love to hear what you think, and I hope those of y'all who have been waiting for Bill to cry like a baby are satisfied.)

[estesphantom]

Midnight Bite | Bucky Barnes & Reader

Summary: It was another one of those nights Bucky spent sleeping on the floor while fighting memories of his past. Conveniently, he had you next to him and some snacks in the kitchen.

Warnings: smut, p in v, oral (f receiving), pre-established “situationship”, unprotected sex, nightmares, age gap (considering Bucky is over a hundred years old), slight dom/sub, not entirely proofread, MINORS DNI

Word Count: 1.8k

Your chest rose and fell intermittently as your eyes were glued on your partner’s resting body. The hardwood floor felt worth sleeping on if it meant Bucky didn’t feel alone sleeping there when you were accompanying him. The TV chattered on low volume and the lights lit up the living room ever so slightly so that it wasn’t pitch black. The house was kept this way when he slept to feel safer while simultaneously preventing his night terrors.

On the contrast, these conditions did everything but help you have peace when you slept. Here you lay unable to sleep, however, you were content with that as you got watching him sleep as a fair trade.

His eyebrows began to scrunch closer together. Yours mirrored his as you watched him in confusion. His body slowly grew restless in small motions such as fingers twitching and tossing and turning. He told you not to wake him for your own safety, so you hoped this was just a vivid dream and not a nightmare. You knew this was wishful thinking.

He continued to progress in stress and fear until he subconsciously broke out in tears and eventually woke himself up. By this time you inched closer to his body to make sure things didn’t get serious. He jolted up and his eyes darted around the room before they met yours. He let out a brief, hard sigh.

You frowned in sympathy. “You’re safe,” you say gently as you place a light hand on his bare arm. His breathing began to return to a normal pace ever so slowly as he slumped against a wall. He was too shocked to speak or process your presence at the moment.

“They won’t go away,” the man sounded childlike and defeated as he stared at the wall. You scooted right next to him and laid your head on his shoulder to bring him back a little more.

It came clear to him that physical strength doesn’t mean a thing when his brain is the most power tool that serves his body, yet poisons any ounce of peace offered to him.

“Maybe that’s the truth for now,” you say, inhaling. “But time heals all wounds. You’ll make it out alive,” you smile at him reassuringly after you lift your head up to see his tired, loving eyes meet yours.

He picked up your hand. His rough, calloused thumb caressed the back of your hand as he raised your hand to give it a kiss. You smiled at him even more. Making you smile was something that made Bucky feel more human. Less killing-machine like.

“Grab a snack with me?” he asks, standing up and lifting you up gently. You giggle as he carries you to the kitchen and sets you down on the counter. He opens his fridge and glances at you. “All right, doll, strawberries? Blueberries? Yogurt?” he listed off things he knew you liked. Your legs swung as you ruminated.

“Yogurt,” you spoke after a few moments of debating.

“Yogurt it is,” he says, grabbing two for the both of you. He peeled yours open and grabbed a spoon, scooping a little out.

Your legs we had enough room in between them so that he could stand between them. He leaned against the counter and placed a gentle hand on your chin, opening your jaw ever so gently and feeding you the yogurt with the other hand. You swallowed it with a hum of satisfaction.

His thumb wiped off the excess yogurt on the side of your mouth. His eyes seemed so calculating. He watched you like a hawk. It made you sort of nervous, how close you were and the look in his eyes. You could recognize that look from anywhere.

“No, Buck, it’s midnight,” you say before he feeds you another scoop of yogurt. He chuckles smugly.

His hand placed the yogurt down and snaked around the back of your neck. You gulped the yogurt down and sharply inhaled as you knew where this was going. His other hand rested on your thigh and remained stationary, waiting for consent.

You sighed and giggled, nodding at him.

“‘Atta girl,” he kissed your chin. “I wasn’t interested in this yogurt anyway.”

He pushed the yogurts out the way and, with both hands, pushed your thighs apart. You gasp in surprise as cold metal laid on your right thigh. Your lips were suddenly shut as they met his. The kiss was feverish and sloppy as he used one hand hooked the waistband of your pajama shorts. You lifted your hips and he slid your shorts off.

He broke the kiss to admire his beautiful doll spread on the counter just for him. All his. You blushed in slight embarrassment, feeling exposed before him.

“You’re so fuckin’ pretty, doll, every bit of you,” he mutters as if he’s saying it to himself. He peppered your face in loving kissed before placing both hands on your waist and pulling you to the edge of the counter, laying you down.

Your chest rose as you gasped for air, feeling his lips on your clit. Your hands grabbed for any nearby surface as you felt his tongue lick across your clit painstakingly slow. A moan escaped your lips as you felt two metal fingers coat itself in your slick and enter your body while his tongue simultaneously explored your core.

His fingers curved inside of you, slowly pulling in and out. Your back arched as his tongue gained a little bit more speed from when it was familiarizing itself. You began to squirm and whimper as the sensation was already a lot for you.

He didn’t allow this, of course, and used his free, warm hand to firmly grab onto your waist. You moaned in agony as you were held in place and had to endure the sensation. There were nothing but butterflies in your stomach.

Once again, his fingers increased in speed. You moaned even louder while your hand clasped onto the one holding your waist down in a desperate attempt to be freed to squirm. To no avail, it stayed.

“You taste so fuckin’ good, princess,” you felt his voice vibrate against your clit. Your walls clenched around his fingers as they incessantly picked up speed.

“Fuck, I might—“ as you spoke, Bucky immediately pulled his fingers out and stood from his position. You groaned in even more agony as the sensation quickly died down in your body.

“You can’t have your cake and eat it,” he tutted, his hand on back to guide you to sit up a little. Your eyes begrudgingly looked into his as you sat up to eye level with him.

His flesh hand opened up your jaw, two of his metal fingers entered your mouth. He had you taste the fresh slick of your core before he slid his fingers out of your mouth and chuckled. Your eyes were big and round while gazing at him.

“So good f’me, not an utter of complaint,” he smirked before guiding your smaller hands to his boxers. You sharply inhaled as you pulled them down low enough before they fell at his ankles.

He laid you back down on his cold counter before spreading your legs once again. You felt his warm tip tease your entrance as it coated itself in your slick. Your eyes squeezed shut. His hands rested firmly on your hips.

“Tell me when you’re ready for me to start moving, okay?” he warns. You felt his cock enter you and you whimpered in pain.

You struggled to even clench as he filled you up. Pain was the first thing you felt as he inched deeper and deeper inside of you. You heard him groan in pleasure above you. The unspoken thing about Super Soliders was that they were large in not only length, but also girth. You struggled as you felt yourself stretch against him.

“So fuckin’ small, you are,” he gritted out as his hips finally met your pelvis. You took a deep, long breath.

“Okay, I’m okay,” you muttered out. His thumb caressed your waist in response and his cock slowly pulled out. You moaned as the pain subsided into pleasure. Delicious, drool-worthy pleasure. He was big, and it felt like he was sculpted just for you.

Beginning at an easy pace, he thrusted in and out of your body, earning moans and groans from the both of you. You clenched around his cock in pleasure as you stretched just so perfectly around him. He felt the same way; Bucky lifted one hand off of your waist to grope your breast through your thin tank top.

Your moans began to increase as he picked up his pace to a perfect speed. He used a thumb to circle on your clit. He grinned at the sight of you; drooling, moaning, your cunt stretched as far as it can for his cock. The perfect view if you asked him.

He fucked you silly.

“I-I’m not lasting for much longer, Buck,” you managed to ease out as you felt your climax coming in quickly.

He picked up the speed as he groaned, not being able to form a response. You were so perfect. Your moans and groans turned to a symphony as you both were in sync, getting closer and closer.

“Cum for me baby,” he pleaded with you as he thrusted in and out of you. You whimpered in response and felt warmth all over your body as you reached your climax, he seemed to do the same as you felt warm seed enter your body. He groaned in pleasure and relief.

He thrusted in and out of you sloppily as you felt your clit throb from exhaustion. He pulled out of you slowly to give your body time to adjust. As he left your body, you felt his cum deep out of you. You groaned in uncomfortableness.

He kissed your damp forehead, grabbing a nearby tissue and wiping the leaked cum off of your skin. He peppered your face in kisses as he whispered sweet nothings and ‘thank you’s to you.