#but this someone believed in a world with vivid color

[novaursa]

The Veil of Fire (2/3)

- Summary: Your twin sister, Helaena, had her dreams, but you were gifted with something else. Something akin to a terrible purpose.

- Paring: aunt!reader/Jacaerys Velaryon

- Note: Keep in mind there is an unspoken time jump at the beginning. For more of my works, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top. This was requested by @witch-of-letters. Enjoy! ❤️☺️

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Word count: 6 000+

- Previous part: 1

- Next part: 3

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff

The dream begins as it always does: a rush of cold air against your skin, the sensation of soaring high above the world. But this time, it's different. You are not merely flying. You are the one flying. The sensation is more intense, more visceral. The air is no longer just cold—it’s frigid, biting at your scales. Your scales. You feel them shift and ripple across your massive form as your wings beat powerfully against the wind.

You are not in your own body anymore. You are Morgoth, the great black beast, the Cannibal. Every breath you take is a storm, every movement a tremor through the sky. The power surging through your veins is intoxicating, more so than any wine. It is raw, untamed strength, and you revel in it as your sharp eyes scan the land below.

The world is a patchwork of greens and browns, interspersed with the blue of rivers snaking through the land. The familiar coastlines and rocky shores of Dragonstone fade behind you as you soar southward, your massive wings cutting through the clouds like a knife through flesh.

You feel hungry—an overwhelming, primal hunger that gnaws at your insides. It is a need that cannot be ignored, a relentless force driving you to find something, someone, to satiate it. You spot movement below—a flash of color among the drab hues of the earth. Your vision narrows, focusing with deadly precision.

It’s a child.

The thought, the recognition, flickers at the edge of your consciousness, but Morgoth doesn’t care. Morgoth doesn’t know guilt or mercy. The boy is small, alone, wandering too far from the safety of his village, and that makes him prey.

You swoop down with a terrifying speed, your wings folding in, the wind howling around you as the ground rushes up to meet you. The child looks up, and for a brief, agonizing moment, you see his face clearly—wide eyes filled with fear, mouth open in a scream that will never be heard.

And then your jaws close around him.

The crunch of bones breaking, the hot rush of blood flooding your mouth—it is all so vivid, so real. You can taste the metallic tang on your tongue, feel the flesh tearing as your teeth rip through it. The child’s body is small, fragile, and it is gone within moments, reduced to nothing more than a memory of a meal.

But the hunger remains. It is insatiable, a constant demand that drives you to keep hunting, to keep killing. You feel the blood dripping from your jaws, the pieces of torn flesh stuck between your teeth. There is a satisfaction in it, a primal contentment that you know is not your own. It is Morgoth’s. But it is also yours.

The realization hits you like a blow to the chest. You are Morgoth. No, not just Morgoth. You are something more, something different. A warg. The word comes to you from the depths of your memory, a whisper of knowledge shared by your brother Aemond. He would know, of course. He is rarely wrong in matters of scholarship.

You are a warg—the first in Valyrian history, if Aemond’s ancient texts are to be believed. The thought should terrify you, and yet, it does not. There is a certain exhilaration in it, a sense of destiny fulfilled. The Old Gods of the North are said to gift such powers, but never had you imagined that it would be you—a daughter of Viserys Targaryen, twin sister to Helaena, bonded to the Cannibal—who would carry this curse, or gift.

Morgoth's form begins to fade, the sensations dimming as you feel yourself being pulled back, back into your own body. The taste of blood lingers on your tongue, even as the sight of the mutilated child haunts the edges of your vision. It is a part of you now, forever etched into your soul.

You wake with a start, gasping for air as if you had been submerged in water. Your heart pounds in your chest, a wild, frantic beat that echoes the flight of the dragon. The darkness of your chamber feels suffocating, the air thick with the remnants of the dream. You can still feel the echo of Morgoth’s power coursing through you, the raw, untamed energy that had once been his.

But it was not just his. It was yours.

The room is silent, save for the sound of your ragged breathing. Your hands shake as you clutch the sheets, trying to ground yourself in the reality of your chamber. Yet, the memory of the dream, of Morgoth’s hunt, is too fresh, too real to dismiss.

The door creaks open, and you turn sharply, still on edge. Aegon stands in the doorway, his usually languid expression tight with concern. “I heard you,” he murmurs, stepping into the room without hesitation. He is the only one you have ever allowed to see you like this—vulnerable, afraid.

“I had another dream,” you confess, your voice barely above a whisper. “But it was more than a dream. I think I—” You falter, the words sticking in your throat. How do you even begin to explain what you have become?

Aegon approaches, his brow furrowing as he listens. “What did you see?” he asks, his tone softer, more careful.

You swallow hard, trying to push back the rising nausea. “I was Morgoth again,” you say slowly. “I was him, Aegon. I felt everything he felt—saw through his eyes, tasted…tasted blood.”

He goes still, his eyes searching your face for any sign of jest. But there is none. “You’re serious,” he breathes, his voice tinged with disbelief.

You nod, unable to speak. The memory of the child’s body, the way it was torn apart, flashes before your eyes again. You shudder, wrapping your arms around yourself as if that could somehow protect you from the horrors you’ve witnessed.

Aegon’s hand is warm as he reaches out, pulling you close. He holds you tightly, offering what comfort he can. “You’re the strongest person I know,” he whispers into your hair. “Whatever this is…you’ll face it. We’ll face it.”

You cling to him, your heart still racing, as you try to find solace in his words. But deep down, you know that this is only the beginning. The bond you share with Morgoth is growing stronger, and with it, the darkness that comes with being a warg. You are not just a Targaryen anymore. You are something more, something ancient and terrifying.

And as you close your eyes, you can still feel the echo of wings beating against the wind, the hunger that will never be sated.

The halls of the royal quarters are eerily silent, save for the soft padding of your footsteps on the cold stone floor. Hours have passed since Aegon left your chambers, his presence a fleeting comfort in the wake of the nightmare that still clings to your consciousness like a shroud. You cannot find peace, no matter how hard you try. The burden of this terrible purpose—this dark gift that has revealed itself to you—weighs heavily on your mind.

You feel Morgoth's presence within you, a shadow that has taken root in your very soul. The power, the hunger—it lingers, a constant reminder of what you have become. Every breath you take is filled with the taste of blood, every shadow in the corridor seems to whisper your name. You wrap your arms around yourself, trying to ward off the cold that seeps into your bones, but it is no use. There is no warmth to be found in these halls tonight.

As you turn a corner, the distant sound of muffled voices reaches your ears. You stop, your heart quickening as you recognize the direction—toward the nursery. A sense of dread washes over you, and without a second thought, you quicken your pace, your feet moving faster and faster until you are nearly running. The voices grow louder, more frantic, and you can feel the tension in the air, thick and suffocating.

When you reach the door to the nursery, it is ajar, just enough for you to see inside. Your breath catches in your throat as you take in the scene before you.

Two men are standing over the cradle where your sister Helaena's twins—Jaehaerys and Jaehaera—lie sleeping. One is a large, brutish figure with a butcher’s cleaver in his hand, the other smaller, wiry, with the sharp, feral look of a rat catcher. They move with purpose, their intent clear. The larger man lifts the cleaver, poised to strike.

Rage explodes within you, hot and blinding. Without thinking, without hesitation, you burst into the room, a fierce cry tearing from your throat.

“No!” you scream, launching yourself at the butcher with a force that surprises even you. Your body slams into his, and the two of you crash to the floor in a tangled heap. The cleaver skitters across the stone, out of his reach, and you feel a momentary surge of triumph.

But the butcher is strong, far stronger than you anticipated. He grapples with you, trying to throw you off, his thick hands closing around your throat. You struggle beneath him, your vision darkening as he squeezes tighter, but the fear, the desperation, only fuels your anger.

And then, something primal takes over.

Morgoth’s presence surges within you, filling you with a savage strength. You snap your head forward, your teeth sinking into the flesh of the butcher’s neck. The taste of blood floods your mouth, but you do not stop. You bite down harder, feeling the skin tear, the muscle give way. His grip on your throat loosens as he lets out a gurgling scream, but you do not relent. You rip at his throat, tearing through flesh and artery until the blood sprays across your face, hot and metallic.

The butcher's body goes limp, collapsing onto the floor beside you. You release him, panting, your mouth and chin drenched in his blood. The rage, the bloodlust—it thrums through you, and you feel more alive than you ever have before.

The rat catcher, the smaller of the two men, watches you with wide, terrified eyes. His hand shakes as he raises a knife, but he is no match for you. You stand, the taste of blood still on your tongue, and he hesitates, his fear palpable. He slashes at you wildly, the blade catching your cheek and lips, splitting the skin open and sending a fresh wave of pain coursing through you. Blood drips down your face, mingling with the butcher’s, but you barely feel it.

He turns and runs, fleeing in terror, leaving you standing over the lifeless body of his accomplice. You can hear the soft whimpering of the twins behind you, but you do not turn to look at them. Not yet. The taste of blood is still in your mouth, the memory of your teeth ripping through flesh still fresh in your mind. You close your eyes, trying to steady your breathing, to calm the storm that rages inside you.

“Where were the guards?” you ask aloud, your voice hoarse and trembling with a mixture of anger and disbelief.

At that moment, the door to the nursery opens wider, and Helaena steps inside. Her face is pale, her eyes wide with horror as she takes in the sight before her—the blood, the body, the terror written across your face. “What…what happened?” she whispers, her voice shaking as she rushes to the cradle, checking on her children. They are safe, unharmed, but their frightened cries tug at your heart, pulling you back from the brink.

You swallow hard, trying to push the words past the lump in your throat. “I—someone sent them. Assassins. They tried to kill the children.” Your voice breaks, and you can see the tears welling in Helaena’s eyes as she clutches her twins to her chest.

“Where were the guards?” you ask again, more insistent this time. Your voice is a raw, angry rasp, filled with the same fury that drove you to kill the butcher.

Helaena shakes her head, her expression one of dazed confusion. “I don’t know,” she whispers, her voice trembling. “I don’t know…”

You feel a surge of frustration, of helplessness. How could this have happened? How could they have gotten so close to the royal children without anyone stopping them? The questions burn in your mind, but there is no time to dwell on them now. You need to find your mother.

You rush from the nursery, your blood-stained hands clenched into fists, your mouth still aching from where the rat catcher’s blade cut you. You make your way through the winding corridors, ignoring the startled looks from the few servants you pass. They shrink back, their eyes widening as they take in the blood on your face, but you do not stop. Your heart pounds in your chest, a drumbeat of urgency, driving you forward.

When you reach your mother’s chambers, you do not bother to knock. You shove the door open, your breath coming in harsh gasps as you take in the scene before you.

Alicent is in bed, her hair loose around her shoulders, her face flushed with the afterglow of pleasure. And beside her, just beginning to rise from the sheets, is Ser Criston Cole. The sight stops you in your tracks, a cold fury settling in the pit of your stomach.

They both freeze, their eyes locking onto you. Alicent’s expression shifts from surprise to horror as she takes in your appearance—the blood, the cut on your cheek and lips, the wild look in your eyes. “What happened?” she demands, her voice rising in panic as she scrambles out of bed, clutching a sheet to her chest.

“I killed one of the men who tried to murder Helaena’s children,” you say, your voice cold and detached. “I tore his flesh with my teeth like a morsel.”

Ser Criston recoils, his face paling at your words. His disgust is clear, but you do not care. He is nothing to you, less than nothing.

Alicent gasps, her hands flying to her mouth as she takes a step toward you. “Gods, what has happened to you? What have you done?” she whispers, her voice filled with a mixture of fear and concern.

You take a step closer, your eyes locking onto Ser Criston’s. “He could be next if he touches you again,” you say, your voice low and dangerous. “Do you understand me, Mother? I will not allow him to sully our family any further.”

Ser Criston’s hand instinctively moves to his sword, but you do not flinch. If anything, your gaze hardens, a silent challenge that makes him pause.

“Go,” you command, your voice filled with the authority of a queen. “Leave us. Now.”

He hesitates, his eyes flicking to Alicent for guidance, but she says nothing, her face ashen. Finally, with a reluctant nod, he turns and leaves the room, casting one last wary glance over his shoulder as he goes.

As the door closes behind him, Alicent sinks onto the edge of the bed, her hands trembling as she looks at you. “What are you becoming?” she asks, her voice breaking with the weight of her sorrow.

You do not answer her. You do not know the answer yourself. All you know is that something inside you has changed, something dark and fierce, and it will not be easily tamed.

The usual murmur of voices is absent today in the small council chamber, replaced by a grim silence as they await the arrival of King Aegon. Every face is drawn with worry, every pair of eyes darkened by the implications of the previous night’s events. The attempted murder of the royal children has shaken the Red Keep to its core.

The door swings open with a force that startles everyone in the room. Aegon strides in, his expression thunderous, the weight of his fury visible in every step. His usually languid demeanor is gone, replaced by something fierce, something primal. He looks every inch the dragon he was born to be, and it is clear that the rage burning in his chest will not be easily quelled.

Following close behind him is Ser Criston Cole, his face a mask of stone, and Dowager Queen Alicent, her expression one of anxious concern. But it is the sight of you, being carefully led by the Grand Maester Orwyle, that makes the entire room go still. Your face is pale, and the fresh bandage covering your cheek cannot hide the dark bloodstain that has soaked through. The scar will be a permanent reminder of the violence you endured, a testament to the ferocity with which you defended your sister’s children.

Aegon’s gaze hardens as he looks at you, and a muscle in his jaw tics with the effort to control his emotions. He cannot allow himself to lose control, not here, not now. The council must see him as strong, unyielding in the face of this treachery.

“My children,” Aegon begins, his voice low and trembling with restrained anger, “were almost butchered in their beds last night. My sister”—his eyes flick to you, softening for just a moment—“bears the proof of her courage on her face, yet the threat lingers. Who dares to strike at the heart of the royal family?”

He slams his hand down on the table, the sound reverberating through the chamber. The council members flinch, but none dare to speak first. They have never seen Aegon like this—so utterly consumed by wrath.

It is Larys Strong who breaks the silence, his voice measured and calm, as if speaking of the weather. “Your Grace,” he says, leaning forward slightly, “all traces of this foul deed lead to one conclusion. It was your uncle, Daemon, and his wife, Rhaenyra. They are the only ones who would dare such a brazen act against you.”

There is a murmur of agreement around the table, but Aegon’s eyes narrow dangerously. “Daemon,” he repeats, the name dripping with venom. “Is this about Luke?”

“There can be no other explanation, Your Grace,” Larys continues, his gaze flicking to you momentarily. “The men who were sent to do this terrible thing—they were no common cutthroats. They were professionals, well-trained and well-paid. Such men would only be employed by someone with the means and the motive to strike at the heart of the Targaryen line.”

Aegon clenches his fists, his knuckles turning white. “And yet, despite all of their planning, they were thwarted by my sister.” His voice rises, filled with pride and fury in equal measure. “She fought them off, saved my children from certain death. And she has been rewarded with a scar that she will bear for the rest of her life!”

He turns his gaze to the Grand Maester, who is busy tending to you, his wrinkled hands gentle as they adjust the bandage on your cheek. “Tell them, Orwyle,” Aegon demands. “Tell them what they’ve done to her.”

Orwyle looks up, his eyes filled with a mixture of sympathy and regret. “The wound is deep, Your Grace. It will heal, but the scar… The scar will remain. It is a mark of great courage, but also of great pain.”

Aegon’s expression darkens further, and he seems on the verge of losing control. “They have maimed my sister,” he growls. “They have tried to take my children from me. And you all stand here, debating who might be responsible, as if there is any doubt!”

Lord Larys remains calm, though there is a hint of satisfaction in his eyes. “Your Grace, if we are to respond to this attack, we must be certain of our enemy. Daemon and Rhaenyra have been gathering forces, preparing for war. They believe the Iron Throne rightfully belongs to Rhaenyra. This is a move to weaken you, to destabilize your reign.”

Aegon’s eyes flash with something dark and dangerous. “Then we will give them war,” he says, his voice cold and resolute. “We will hunt them down like the traitors they are. But know this—my sister, the Princess, is under my protection. Any harm that befalls her will be met with a wrath that will make the Seven Kingdoms tremble.”

He looks at you again, his expression softening just a fraction. “I will not let them touch you again,” he vows. “Not while I still draw breath.”

The council members exchange uneasy glances, but none dare to oppose the king’s decree. They know that Aegon’s rage is like a wildfire, and any who stand in its path will be consumed.

Ser Criston Cole steps forward, his voice steady and reassuring. “Your Grace, I will see to it that the palace is secured. We will not allow another breach like this. The guards will be doubled, and I will personally oversee their training.”

Aegon nods, his anger still simmering just beneath the surface. “See that you do, Ser Criston. If there is another attempt on my family, I will hold you personally responsible.”

Ser Criston bows his head, accepting the king’s command without protest. He knows that Aegon’s fury is justified, and he will do whatever it takes to protect the royal family.

Aegon turns to you once more, his expression softening even further as he reaches out to take your hand. “You saved them,” he murmurs, his voice filled with a rare tenderness. “You saved my children, and I owe you more than I can ever repay.”

You look up at him, your eyes still filled with the pain and fear of the previous night. “I would do it again, Aegon,” you say softly. “They are my blood as much as yours.”

He squeezes your hand, his gaze filled with a mixture of gratitude and sorrow. “And I will make sure that no one ever harms you again, sister,” he promises. “This, I swear.”

The small council remains silent, the weight of the king’s words hanging heavily in the air. The room is filled with the promise of retribution, and as Aegon looks around the table, each member knows that the events of the previous night have changed everything.

War is coming, and the blood that has been spilled will be avenged.

The flickering light of the hearth casts warm, dancing shadows across the stone walls of your chamber. The air is drenched with the scent of burning wood and the faint aroma of lavender from the candles you’ve lit. It is a rare moment of solitude in the Red Keep, a brief respite from the constant watchful eyes and the burden of your newfound abilities. You cherish these moments, where the weight of your responsibilities can be set aside, if only for a short while.

You sit by the fire, your fingers tracing the thin, silvery scar that now mars your cheek and lips—a permanent reminder of the night you fought to save your sister’s children. It is a small price to pay, you tell yourself, though the sting of that night lingers, not just in your flesh but in your heart.

Before you, on the small table beside your chair, lie two letters, each carefully unfolded and read multiple times. The first is from Daeron, your youngest brother, currently stationed in Oldtown. His words are full of affection and concern, the kind of letter that reminds you of simpler days when you were just his beloved sister, not the fierce protector or the silent warg you’ve become. You smile faintly as you reread his words, feeling a swell of love for him.

My dear sister, the letter begins, I think of you often, and I miss our days together in the gardens, where we spoke of nothing and everything. I long for the day when we are all reunited, and the shadow that looms over our family is lifted. Please take care, and know that my thoughts are with you always.

The innocence and sincerity in his words warm your heart, but they also remind you of the distance between you now—not just in miles, but in the paths your lives have taken. He still sees you as the sister who read to him and played with him in the courtyard, not as the woman you’ve become—marked by blood and fire, burdened with secrets you cannot share.

You set Daeron’s letter aside and reach for the second one, your heart beating a little faster as your fingers brush the familiar seal. Jace’s letter is more worn, the edges slightly crumpled from being unfolded and read countless times. His words, penned in his bold, confident hand, ignite a different fire within you—a longing that has been your constant companion ever since your secret affair began.

My dearest heart, the letter reads, it feels like an eternity since I last held you, since I last saw your face and felt the warmth of your smile. The days are cold and empty without you. I can think of nothing else but our next meeting. There is an island, a place we both know well. Come to me, my love. Let us forget the world, if only for a night.

The passion in his words makes your heart swell, your thoughts immediately drifting to the secluded island where you and Jace have met so many times before. It is a place of solace, of stolen moments that belong only to the two of you. The thought of seeing him again, of feeling his arms around you, is enough to make your breath catch.

But as you sit there, with the two letters before you, you are reminded of the dangerous path you walk. The love you share with Jace is forbidden, a fire that could consume you both if discovered. And yet, you cannot deny the pull, the need to be with him, to feel alive in a way that only he can make you feel.

Your eyes drift to the flames in the hearth, their warm glow reflecting in your eyes as you contemplate what must be done. With a heavy heart, you reach for the letters and hold them over the fire. The parchment catches quickly, curling and blackening as the flames consume the words written with such care and affection.

As the letters turn to ash, you feel a pang of regret, but also a sense of resolve. These letters were too dangerous to keep, too risky to let fall into the wrong hands. Your love for Jace and your affection for Daeron are now secrets you must carry in your heart alone.

You stand, brushing the ash from your fingers as you move to the window. The cool night air brushes against your scarred cheek, a contrast to the warmth of the fire. You close your eyes, letting your thoughts drift to Jace, to the feel of his hands on yours, the sound of his voice whispering your name. The thought of seeing him again fills you with a mix of excitement and fear. The danger, the secrecy, it only makes your love burn brighter, more fiercely.

But there is something else as well, something darker. The abilities that have manifested within you, the connection with Morgoth, the warg abilities you have struggled to control—they are always there, lurking in the background of your mind. You’ve been practicing, trying to understand and master them, but they are wild, untamed, much like the dragon within. The more you use them, the more you feel them growing stronger, more insistent.

The thought of what you could become, of what you might be capable of, both terrifies and excites you. You wonder if Jace would still love you if he knew the full extent of your abilities, if he knew the darkness that now shadows your every step.

But these thoughts, too, are set aside as you prepare for what comes next. There is no turning back now. You will go to the island, you will see him again. And you will face whatever comes, with the same fire that has carried you through every trial.

For now, you are content to let the night air soothe your worries, even if only for a moment. Tomorrow, you will return to the role you must play—daughter, sister, protector, and secret lover. But tonight, you allow yourself to imagine what it will feel like to be in Jace’s arms again, if only for a few stolen hours.

And as the flames in the hearth die down, leaving nothing but embers, you find yourself whispering into the darkness, a promise meant for no one but yourself: “I will see you soon, my love. And may the gods help anyone who tries to stop me.”

The island looms on the horizon, a solitary speck of land amidst the endless expanse of sea. The wind rushes past you as Morgoth’s powerful wings beat rhythmically against the air, the dragon’s massive form casting a long shadow over the water below. The island is a place of memories, of secrets shared in the moonlight and promises whispered in the dark. It is the only place where you and Jace can truly be yourselves, away from the prying eyes and the heavy weight of duty.

Morgoth lands with a graceful thud, the ground trembling beneath the weight of his massive claws. The familiar scent of salt and sand fills your senses as you slide from his back, your boots sinking into the soft, sun-warmed sand. You take a deep breath, the tension that has coiled in your chest since you last saw Jace beginning to unwind. Here, on this island, you can forget the world and simply be.

As you look around, your eyes find him almost immediately. Jace is just ahead, dismounting Vermax with practiced ease. His dark hair is tousled by the wind, and even from a distance, you can see the familiar warmth in his eyes, tempered by a hint of something darker—anger, perhaps, or worry. It doesn’t matter. The moment you see him, your heart leaps, and before you know it, you’re running toward him.

“Jace!” you call out, your voice filled with the joy and relief of finally being near him again. He turns at the sound of your voice, his expression softening as he sees you rushing toward him.

You reach him in moments, throwing yourself into his arms with a force that nearly knocks the breath out of you both. He catches you easily, holding you tight against him as if he never wants to let you go. The warmth of his body, the familiar scent of him—it’s like coming home.

“I’ve missed you,” you whisper against his neck, your arms wrapping around him as you press yourself closer, as if trying to make up for all the time you’ve spent apart.

“And I you,” he murmurs back, his voice rough with emotion. He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes scanning your face as if committing every detail to memory. But then his gaze catches on the scar that mars your cheek and lips, a reminder of the night that nearly tore your family apart.

His hand comes up to gently trace the line of the scar, his touch featherlight. “They did this to you,” he says, his voice hardening with barely restrained anger. “Daemon and my mother—they’re responsible for this.”

“Jace,” you begin, trying to soothe him, but the fire in his eyes only burns brighter.

“They sent those men,” he continues, his jaw clenching as he speaks. “They tried to kill your family, and you—” His voice breaks, and he closes his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath to steady himself. “They tried to take you from me. Like Aemond took Luke.”

You can see the storm of emotions raging within him—anger, guilt, fear—but you cannot let him carry this burden alone. You reach up, cupping his face in your hands, your thumbs brushing over his cheekbones in a tender caress. “I’m here, Jace,” you whisper, your voice filled with the love and reassurance you know he needs. “I’m alive. They didn’t take me. I’m right here with you.”

His eyes open, meeting yours, and you can see the flicker of uncertainty in them. But before he can say anything more, you close the distance between you, pressing your lips to his in a kiss that is both fierce and gentle, a silent promise that nothing and no one will come between you.

The kiss deepens quickly, the passion that has been building since your last meeting igniting like fire. The world falls away, leaving only the two of you, wrapped up in each other, in the heat of your desire. His hands slide down to your waist, pulling you even closer, and you gasp against his lips as the intensity of your connection overwhelms you.

The sand beneath your feet is soft and warm as Jace lowers you both to the ground, his body pressing down against yours. The feel of him, the weight and the warmth of him, is both comforting and exhilarating. His hands are sure and familiar as they begin to undo the laces of your clothing, and you help him, your fingers trembling slightly with the urgency of your need.

There is no hesitation, no shyness between you. You’ve done this before, so many times, yet every time feels like the first—new and exhilarating, filled with the thrill of discovery and the comfort of familiarity. The sound of the waves crashing against the shore is a distant hum, drowned out by the beating of your heart and the ragged breaths you share as you finally, finally, come together.

When he enters you, it’s with a practiced ease that sends a shiver of pleasure through your entire body. You both gasp, the sensation overwhelming in its intensity, as if every nerve ending has been set alight. You move together, a rhythm as old as time itself, each movement a silent declaration of your love, your longing, your need.

“Jace,” you breathe, his name a prayer on your lips as he buries his face in the curve of your neck, his breath hot against your skin.

“I’m here,” he murmurs in response, his voice rough with emotion. “I’m here, my love.”

Your fingers dig into his shoulders, holding him close as the passion between you builds, becoming wilder, more desperate. There is nothing gentle about it now, only the raw need to be as close as possible, to feel every inch of each other, to lose yourselves in the heat of the moment.

The world narrows down to the two of you—two souls entwined, lost in each other, as the fire between you blazes hotter, brighter. And when you finally reach that peak together, it is with a shared cry of pleasure, your bodies tensing and trembling as the waves of ecstasy wash over you.

Afterward, you lie there together on the sand, your bodies still entwined, your breathing slowly returning to normal. The warmth of the sun, the gentle breeze, the sound of the sea—it all feels distant, secondary, to the presence of Jace beside you.

He presses a tender kiss to your forehead, his hand coming up to brush a strand of hair away from your face. “I love you,” he whispers, his voice filled with the kind of tenderness that makes your heart ache in the best way possible.

“And I love you,” you reply, your voice soft but filled with conviction. You reach up to cup his face again, your thumb tracing the line of his jaw.

The warmth of the aftermath lingers in the air, the sound of the waves gently lapping against the shore as you lie entwined with Jace on the soft sand. His arm is draped around you, holding you close, as your head rests against his chest. You can hear the steady beat of his heart, a comforting rhythm that contrasts with the turmoil in your own. For a while, you both simply breathe, savoring the peace of this stolen moment. But the silence between you is heavy with unspoken words, and you can feel the weight of your fears pressing down on you, threatening to shatter the fragile tranquility you've found.

It’s Jace who finally breaks the silence, his voice soft and filled with concern. “You’re quiet,” he murmurs, his fingers gently tracing patterns on your back. “I can feel something is troubling you.”

You take a deep breath, steeling yourself for what you know you must say. You’ve carried this burden alone for too long, and if there’s anyone you can trust, it’s Jace. He deserves to know the truth, no matter how dark it may be.

“There’s something I haven’t told you,” you begin, your voice barely above a whisper. You feel his body tense slightly beneath you, but he doesn’t interrupt, waiting patiently for you to continue. “Something…something I’ve been struggling with for years now. And I’m afraid of what it means.”

Jace’s hand stills on your back, his attention fully focused on you. “You can tell me anything,” he says softly, his voice filled with a quiet reassurance that makes your heart ache. “Whatever it is, I’ll understand.”

You sit up slightly, turning to face him as you gather the courage to speak. The look in his eyes—so full of love and concern—gives you the strength to continue. “I can…warg,” you say, the word feeling foreign and heavy on your tongue. “I can warg into Morgoth.”

Jace’s eyes widen in surprise, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he reaches up to cup your face, his thumb gently brushing against the scar on your cheek. “Into your dragon?” he asks, his voice filled with a mixture of awe and disbelief. “How is that possible?”

“I don’t know,” you admit, your voice trembling slightly. “It started a few years ago, in my dreams. I thought it was just that—dreams. But then it became more in recent months. I can feel him, see through his eyes, control him. I feel his hunger, his anger, and it terrifies me, Jace. I’m afraid I’m losing myself to him.”

Jace listens intently, his expression one of deep concern, but there is no judgment in his eyes—only understanding. “When…when the assassins came for Helaena’s children,” you continue, your voice breaking as the memories flood back, “I used that power. I was fighting one of the men, and I… I bit him. I tore out his throat with my teeth, just like Morgoth would. It wasn’t just instinct—it was something darker, something…unnatural.”

Tears well up in your eyes as you confess this, the horror of what you’ve done finally spilling out. “I’m afraid, Jace,” you whisper, your voice shaking. “I’m afraid I’m becoming a monster.”

For a moment, Jace says nothing, and you fear that he’ll pull away, that he’ll see you for the monster you believe yourself to be. But then, to your surprise, he pulls you closer, wrapping his arms around you in a protective embrace. His hand cradles the back of your head, his lips pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead.

“You’re not a monster,” he whispers fiercely, his voice filled with conviction. “You’re the bravest, most selfless person I know. You saved your sister’s children and you’ve done nothing but protect those you love. Whatever this power is, whatever it means, it doesn’t change who you are.”

You bury your face in his chest, letting his words wash over you, trying to believe them. But the fear still lingers, the doubt that you can’t quite shake. “But what if I can’t control it?” you ask, your voice muffled against him. “What if I hurt someone I love?”

Jace pulls back just enough to look into your eyes, his expression serious but gentle. “Then we’ll figure it out,” he says firmly. “You’re not alone in this. We’ll learn to control it, to understand it. You’re stronger than you think, and I’ll be with you every step of the way.”

His words bring a sense of relief you didn’t know you needed. For so long, you’ve carried this burden alone, but now, with Jace by your side, it doesn’t feel so overwhelming. You nod, trying to smile through your tears, but Jace catches the flicker of doubt still lingering in your eyes.

He leans in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your lips—a kiss filled with all the love and reassurance he can give. When he pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours, his breath warm against your skin. “You’re not alone,” he repeats, his voice barely above a whisper. “And I will love you, no matter what.”

You close your eyes, letting yourself believe in his words, letting his love and warmth seep into the cold, dark places within you. For the first time in months, you feel a glimmer of hope—hope that you are more than the darkness, more than the power that threatens to consume you.

“I love you, Jace,” you whisper, your voice steady for the first time since you began speaking. “And I trust you.”

In that moment, as you lie in his arms with the sea gently lapping at the shore, you feel a sense of peace you haven’t felt in a long time. 

And together, you will find a way forward.

[milksnake-tea]

━━ die with a smile .

In every zombie apocalypse, there's always one who is immune to the infection. And Blade, it seems, is the unlucky one who has to carry that burden.

blade x gn!reader (kinda. relationship is ambiguous)

contains: gorey language (rotting flesh, wounds), zombie apocalypse au, horror(???? I GUESS????? I DONT EVEN KNOW BRO), reader dies lol, blade got major issues

wc: 2.4k

a/n: lord i am NOT good with horror BUT !!! might as well give this a try. if you can call this horror. I DONT EVEN KNOW I DONT WRITE OR READ HORROR IM JUST A GIRL anyways. this is for @stellaronhvnters's event that's happening rn! the prompt i ended up choosing was zombie, and i hope i brought it to life! i am actually so sad i wasn't allowed to write for sunday. can you believe this. SIGHS

taglist: @sh0jun , @themoderatelyawesomeninja , @xphantasmagoriax , @rainswept , @lucensei , @akutasoda , @naraven , @scribs-dibs , @apathicace , @flurrina , @tragedy-of-commons , @cakechase , @kiiyoooo

Immune.

It is a word that Blade has heard time and time over again, and a word he has grown to hate.

Immune. Immortal.

A blessing, it is, to any other soul, especially in an apocalypse such as this. In a world where survival itself is a luxury, and comfort even moreso, what sane person wouldn’t wish for eternal life - or better yet, a life without fear of death?

They say he is lucky, the others. They say that he is blessed, and that whatever cruel deity overlooked this world must’ve found a sliver of fondness towards him.

They say that he is not human, the others. They say that he is something entirely else - not someone, no, something that cannot possibly fathom the pains of humanity, of a mortal life.

And so they say, why not let him bear the weight of a savior? After all, blessings must be used, and they cannot allow Blade to be selfish.

A pity, truly. They seemed to have forgotten, the others, that no matter how blessed he may seem, the deity is still cruel, and will not stand for shortcuts.

And so, Blade has long forgotten the meaning of the word “companion”.

Days pass like seconds in his constant weariness, and his body has become something akin to that of a clock; going through the motions, surviving but not living. His eyes bear witness to the downfall of his home, and yet he cannot see it - he cannot see anything; not the once-vivid colors of nature nor the once-bright streams of light that dare to warm his barely living skin.

He knows not where he is right now. All he knows is that he is injured, a gash on his arm that streams with useless blood. It will heal in due time, which is why…

“This is unnecessary,” he rasps.

If you had a name, he doesn’t remember it. Your face is blurred as everything else in this world is. You’re one of many, hundreds, that he has traveled with - why, he doesn’t know. Perhaps he feels some sort of obligation, like the ones the others have said long ago, to protect those who aren’t favored like he is.

But that isn’t Blade’s main concern. What is, is the bandages binding his wound, bleeding bandages that are wasted on someone of his constitution.

“I will heal,” he continues, his voice a repetitive drawl. “Save it for your own skin.”

And yet the bandages do not fall - in fact, they may have tightened.

“Your blessing allows you to recover from injuries and pain,” you reply, weariness wearing down your own voice, and yet there is a spark of indignation beneath the exhaustion. “It does not excuse you of pain.”

Blade scoffs. “I am not so weak as to kneel from such an insignificant wound.”

“But it hurts, doesn’t it?”

He blinks. Seizing his stunned silence, you continue.

“While your body takes the time to heal, it becomes prey to infections, parasites, all of which are painful and annoying to deal with, as I’m sure you know. It isn’t wise to rely on your blessings all the time.”

But it’ll only take a second. Gods work quick, after all, and their blessings quicker. He has no need for your bandages nor for your ointment.

He sighs.

“Do what you want.”

He doesn’t have the energy to argue much further. If this futile attempt at aiding him is what will calm you, then he will bear with it.

Blade rears his head slightly so that he can catch a glimpse of the wasteland that lies outside the broken-down shack you’ve temporarily taken refuge in. The streets are quiet - for now. But evidence of past destruction stains the road in warning: do not stay, do not yield. Do not think you are safe, for even a moment, because that is when they will strike.

And they will come, the victims and the assailants, with their rotting flesh and grey skin, and you will have but two options: survive and remember, or join them in their pack.

Both you and Blade are well aware of this fact, evident by the fact that you are still human. No one survives long in a world like this without some sort of wits on them, which makes your insistence on treating him all the more befuddling.

He inhales, and the stench of decay fills his nostrils.

They will be here soon.

He stands up abruptly, interrupting your work and leaving the bandage untied. With a grunt, he finishes the binding himself, cutting off the excess with his namesake.

“We can’t afford to dally,” he says gruffly as he pulls on his black coat once more, hiding the bandages and shielding his scars from past battles. “Come.”

He doesn’t wait for your answer. If you have any brains in there, you’ll follow.

It’s eerie, the way fog curls and billows like smoke as he wretches open the door. He cannot feel the wind, but he sees it well enough in the way it drags the fallen clouds across the deserted earth and tickles what little life is left in the leaves of wilted trees.

He hears your footsteps behind him, along with a little sigh, and he resumes his march.

Dried leaves crack under his boots. The air is quiet, as if he were in a vacuum chamber, too quiet. He wonders how long ago it had been since these dirtied streets were clean and covered not by leaves and dried flesh, but by the pit-pats of dozens of people, all on their next chapter of life.

The silence is deafening. His brows furrow slightly.

With a glance back at you, he confirms his suspicions. Your hackles are raised, and the grip on your weapon has switched from idle to offensive. You peer into the fog’s depths, scanning the premises for anything, live or dead, that might be hiding.

Neither of you dare to speak. Talking only sets them off.

But then again, if they are really here, there is little you can do to deter them.

They come in packs - at least, most of them do. Like the humans they used to be, they can be quite fickle. Most prefer each other’s company - if they can call it company, but there are always one or two or five who go on their own, and those either die quickly or become stronger than what is manageable.

His breath mists from his slightly parted lips.

He breathes in through his nose.

The air is sour.

He stops.

He listens.

And then he hears it - the crack of a leaf, crushed under a foot that is neither his nor yours.

Instinct seizes him and he whirls and grabs you and throws you out of the way. Steel meets flesh, carving it with the precision of a butcher and the life he used to have. He faintly registers cold blood as it coats his face in a splatter, its iron taste on the tip of his tongue as he shouts at you,

“Go!”

They come in packs, the creatures. As they swarm him like an infestation of houseflies, Blade begins to miss the eerie silence.

He plunges into a familiar, red-tinted haze. He slashes and slices and cuts through corpses of those who should’ve been put to rest. Rotted teeth bite into his arms (he briefly remembers your insistence on infection) and he kicks them off and his namesake soon follows.

Undying, the two of them are. They are more similar than the others like to admit, but truth is, they are both cursed by the deity. Never will they live, never will they die. Forever, they must exist in this world, until all that’s left of them is a memory.

For how much longer must he endure this? For how much longer must he fight?

He’s tired.

He wants to sleep.

But rest doesn’t come easy.

In the corner of his eye, another one of them lunges at him, falling teeth bared and eyes lolling from their sockets. He tugs his sword, but it is hindered - only slightly, embedded in the flesh of another. It’s a second he’ll lose, and a second that decides it all.

For a moment, he’s half tempted to let it bite.

But then comes a BANG! and then the distinctive smell of gunpowder and then his face is coated in body bits once more.

“What’re you doing?!” Now it’s your turn to grab his arm and pull him away. “There’s too many of them. Let’s get out of here!”

He clicks his tongue in annoyance. You’re loud, but you’ve got a point.

You shove him behind you and unclip one of the many grenades that hang from your belt. He knows this move well enough now, and therefore knows to avert his gaze once he hears the pin pulled and the bomb sails into the crowd of them.

BOOM!

The explosion is only just enough to startle their attackers and create enough of a divy in their ranks that you can push through. Blade leads the retreat, catching any stranglers with his sword while you keep your gun aimed behind you to ward away any pursuers.

He runs, as he always does. He scales hills with a speed that should’ve left his legs stiff and burning, leaps over canals that are flooded with pollution, and turns corners so fast that his neck might’ve broken. Only once or twice does he glance back to see if you are following. 

You are, although, you are slower. Something is weighing you down.

He runs, until he can no longer hear the groans of the deceased and the sourness fades away into crisp nothingness. The smoke-fog lolls back, and he thinks he finds peace, but then-

A weight crashes into his back, making him stumble. With a growl he doesn’t feel, he leers at you.

“What now-?”

He stills as he sees your state.

“Sorry, I just-” Your breath is ragged as you pant. You try to push yourself off, but your legs give out and you crash back into him. But that’s not what catches Blade off-guard.

You are like a second sun, with the heat searing through your skin and burning him through his clothes. His eyes widen as he fully takes you in.

Sweat drips off of you in raindrops. Your skin shivers in small, terrifying tremors. Your breath is short and rasp and choked and hollow, as if every inhale takes all of your energy. Your eyes are barely peeking open as you try to stay conscious.

Words die on the tip of his tongue.

You inhale again, gasping as you try to speak. You want to move, but your body fails you.

“S-”

“Quiet.” He turns you against his chest to assess the danger. Your chest heaves, and- there.

He’s seen it far too many times.

No. Not again.

How- When? When had it- no.

His brows furrow and his teeth grit.

There, tearing through your jacket and into your shoulder, ripped clothes and frayed threads, a bite, black, purple, bruised and bloody and slobbery. And in between, the beginnings of greying skin.

An infection.

His mind begins to race for the first time in years. Fear erupts in him like a sealed volcano as he fights himself on what to do with you.

He should kill you. Get it over with, make it quick before you suffer. There’s no coming back from a bite - you’re as good as dead now, so it wouldn’t be wrong, right? It wouldn’t be the first time he’s had to kill a fallen companion (if you could even call them that).

Yes, he should - he needs to do it. Now, while you’re still weak and vulnerable, while you still hold your humanity within your grasp.

In one hand, is you, a person whom he has only known for a month or so. In the other hand is the sword that has never left his side.

The choice is obvious.

Yet why can’t he make it?

“Bl…Blade,” you rasp. His glare pierces you. “I…”

“Don’t waste your energy,” he says quietly, almost gently. He doesn’t recognize his own voice.

“...this-” you cough suddenly, hacking phlegm for a few horrid seconds before you’re able to speak again. “This is- like a really bad time to say this, but… you smell really, really good. Like… like… like meat.”

He freezes.

Now. Do it, as you always have. Don’t think of it any longer.

Yet his feet are rooted and his hands are stone. Like a moth to a flame, his eyes can’t tear away from your face as you stagger, dirtied hands clutching at his dirtied coat. Your lidded eyes are hazy.

His namesake is heavy like a weight in his hand. Bandaged, calloused fingers grip and shift and relax and then tighten again around the handle as he struggles with a decision.

He takes too long.

You lunge at him with abrupt strength and tackle him to the ground. Blade chokes as gravel digs into his shoulders. Still-warm hands seize onto his broad shoulders with a grip so tight they might shatter. And above him, the sun halos your silhouette, basking you in shadow.

The grip on his shoulders trembles.

“Sor….” your language begins to slur, deteriorating into the common groan of them. “Hung….”

Blade doesn’t reply, too caught up in his mind and in witnessing your last moments as a human. Your mouth hangs open, breath and saliva dripping from it as the grey climbs up your skin in patches of mold.

“Hurs…” you mutter. “Hurs… so…”

Your hands leave his shoulders in favor of pulling down his collar in a manner that is hauntingly gentle. You pull, layers and layers of cloth down and away until his throat is fully exposed, Adam’s apple bobbing.

Fingers trace his throat, thumbs rubbing against it. Animalistic hunger overtakes your pupils, which have always smiled so kindly and tiredly at him, blurring all sentient thoughts away.

Blade squeezes his eyes shut. He breathes, feeling the air pool in his lungs.

And then, at last, he decides.

You scarcely resist as he switches your positions. He slams you to the concrete and raises his namesake, pointed tip situated just above your heart.

And then he sees you, as he always has.

And despite your clouded eyes, your dog-like breaths, and the mold growing on your skin, you smile softly.

But why?

Out of relief?

Out of gratitude?

Or… out of forgiveness?

Blade doesn’t know, nor does he ever find out, as he takes one last look at your life, soaking in all that remains of you and burning it into his memory.

And then he plunges, and the deity laughs once more.

And again, he loses the meaning of companion.

reblogs w comments are appreciated !!

[gladiatorcunt]

- BELLY OF THE BEAST | II.

the ocean washed open your grave

cw: kinktober prompt (teratophilia), made up mer anatomy, double penetration (in reader’s ass and pussy) w/ two dicks on one guy, implied painal, merman!john b with siren tendencies, mer people eat humans, implied somnophilia and kidnapping and oviposition, mating rituals but only one party knew about them, background jjpope, blood, extremely dubious consent bordering on non con, implied plus size reader, reader’s intentionally silent, yandere

please do not repost, translate, or feed this work to ai

kinktober 2024

It’s the heart of july. You can see Venus this evening. Picked clean fish bones scuttle along the pebbled gray beach like a rake sifting through bramble. Broken shells litter the sand, shards of vivid color and shades of dull nude turned this way and that. Someone’s inspecting them on the edge of the water, angling their hands in strange ways to investigate how the sunlight shimmers off the shell. They’re agitated, their search going unsatisfied, loose strings of thread frayed at the ends without objects to connect.

Summer is stressing you out, too much time spent feeling pressure to have experiences when you should really be lounging the dog days away in an old timey rocking chair. You’d cringe at the condensation sliding down your glass of sweet tea. You’re on an aimless walk on the beach instead, keeping a wide berth from the shore.

That’s when you see him.

A sunken sunbeam on earth. His tail is a myriad of red-yellow-orange scales, when he moves he becomes a human man on fire. The flick of his ruby tail fin looks like flame taking shape in the open sea, something that you know is basically impossible, maybe your brain is swelling. But it gives you a moth’s wings all the same. You rub your eyes but he’s still there when you open them again.

A merman.

He’s hissing at the blonde guy fooling around with the shells, “JJ, get your tail back home or so help me.”

Which to you is just a series of clicks and trills.

“JJ” snorts, sticking his tongue out and going back to rifling through the shells.

You stand around awkwardly, transfixed and somehow unable to move away. The merman with brown hair finally spots you and his eyes widen for a split second before he makes a distressed bunch of clicks, to which the blonde one seems to get the message and dart under the surface of his water. His pile of shells are left unattended on the shore.

The brunette merman clears his throat, “Hi, there. What’s your name?” His voice is groggy around the unnatural syllables, but his tone is smooth and enticing.

You freeze, and all thoughts of sneaking away are out the window. You’ve seen him, you can’t ask him to trust that you wouldn’t tell anybody about him, not that they’d even believe you. Still, having insurance never hurt nobody.

You find yourself making footprints in the sand, stepping forward until you’re right in front of the merman, looking down at him like a child peers down a well. A cold sensation splashes at your spine through your clothes, but he doesn’t sing so he must not be a siren, that or he doesn’t need to sing to ensure you in his talons.

His teeth would give a great white shark the shivers as he smiles, mouthing your name back to you in the sea air.

The sloshing of the waves under the setting sun is all you can hear, and his warm brown eyes are all you can see. The world swirls around you, becoming mist that falls to the ground and is swiftly swept out to sea. One minute you’re plopping yourself down on the sand in front of the merman’s grinning face, and the next he’s scraping the edge of his talon along your thigh.

Men will be men, no matter the species.

“My name’s John B.” He says, his pupils dilating at the scent of your blossoming arousal, a shark with a single drop of the blood in the ocean. “So nice to meet you, babe.”

Later you’ll remember stuttering, trying to make excuses to peel away and run for the hills. But John B clicks disappointingly and sucks his teeth, fishing a stuck piece of flesh out from in between them. It’s the skin and hair still on that bit of meat that makes you stay, another stupid decision you’ll kick yourself for later if you even survive. You try to open your mouth to speak, but the movement is sluggish and your words feel trapped in your vocal chords by some kind of force field.

How much can you explain away putting yourself in danger because the man with a fish’s tail and gills was hot? John B smiles from ear to ear when you give into the pull between you two, swishing his crimson tail fin back and forth as your eyes fixate on the flecks of melted gold in his.

Hours seem to pass by in a blur and when you’re aware of reality again, you’re on your back with John B hovering above you. His talons are buried in the sand on either side of your head, and the full moon behind him sparks a feeling of trepidation in your belly.

He smiles, razor sharp teeth glinting in the moonlight. “Do you trust me?”

You try to answer and he laughs, his sharp claws scraping against your nose as he boops it. John B knows you can’t actually form the words, but lucky for you he has a knack for knowing exactly how you’re feeling. And pushing you to feel however they’d need you to, but he digresses, it’s the cusp of mating season after all. He’s not going to pump you full of his eggs, but those first glimpses of your thighs in your swimsuit has his cocks itching to come out.

JJ is probably back moping with the others anyway, they’ll have found some other poor unsuspecting humans for dinner and settled in for the night. He can be a little late to catch up with his pod, just this once.

Your mouth drops open as John B grinds his lower half against yours, having ripped off your swimsuit bottoms in the blink of an eye like it was nothing.

His scales give you little cuts here and there, but their smooth texture and the way their coolness soothes the heat licking at your body has you trying to gasp.

You feel an opening push against your pussy, semi-hard folds with the hint of a deeper recess. You’d have no serious problem if you spent your night bumping pussies with what some would say is a freak of nature, but then you feel a couple slight bumps in the middle of his folds.

John B grins, bloodthirsty.

“Gotta coax ‘em out of their sheath, give ‘em something to fuck into.” He grits, pressing your hand to the outer sheath and guiding your coaxing movements, little rubs and pats. “And lucky for me, I've found the perfect thing. I’m sorry, I normally don’t play with my food. That’s JJ’s thing.”

He tsks, and half out of fear and half out of crazed desire your rubbing becomes more focused and your pats turn into love taps. Sure enough, two long cocks begin to jut out from his opening. They’re the same fiery color as his tail, each as thick as your forearm, with more of a tapered tip than a human cock and sort of squishy even when they’re hard. You don’t want to even try to guess how big they are, definitely larger than any human’s dick could be.

You hear a woosh go through your ears and you find that you can little sounds into his salty lips now, whining as they brush against yours. John B hums what sounds like a lullaby and you feel your pussy release a gush of slick, loosening up to prepare itself to be torn apart.

You whimper into his mouth as he teases the tips of his cocks against both of your entrances, and he kisses you quiet as he starts to push in without warning. His teeth cut your lip open, and the taste and scent of your blood only spurs him on more.

“Oh, that’s it, human. Work that pretty ass back on me.” He trills hypnotically, his scales scratching against your flesh as he slams both of his cocks to the hilt inside of your holes. “Look at you, pounded all sloppy by monster cocks you can’t even see.”

You can’t really scream, when you try it just sounds like the last weak sound someone would make before they die. But… you don’t feel any pain, and you look to confirm that you’ve indeed taken every inch of the merman’s dicks. A plus to fucking a monster with powers, you guess, you know he could’ve made you feel, could’ve ripped your walls open and used your blood as lube to work up an appetite.

His teeth keep cutting you as he kisses you, graciously letting you adjust before flicking his tail fin in the air and fucking you into the sand back. His talons slide all over your body, playing pat-a-cake with the skin on your tummy and groping your tits when one of his thrusts has his cocks feeling particularly good. You moan when he pinches your nipples, his claws scratching your pert buds just right as his cocks split you in what seems like four different directions.

You reach up to shakily grab onto his wet shoulders, closing your eyes as the summer night breeze wafts over you. Till a sharp poke to your cheek makes you open them again. Ah, he wants you to see what kind of “man” you’re really fucking. Once again, men will be men even when they live underwater.

The cock in your pussy hits a spot deep inside you that has you gasping for air, a useless effort since John B does it again and again and again. Your hands fall to brush along his gills, divots in his torso with smaller fins extending outwards, wanting to firmly grab that part of his torso but also not wanting to incite a frenzy in the merman.

If only you’d known that a mer’s gills are even more sensitive than their genitalia. The second your finger tips touch the small flaps, John B hisses and digs his talons into your love handles, drawing blood as he picks up his thrusts. His tail thumps against the sand, how he has the strength to life all 200+ pounds of his body and tail to fuck you in a missionary sort of position is beyond you.

Your voice is gone at this point, carried away by the wind into the night. You wrap your arms around John B’s neck and hold on, smelling the salt water and something sweet like coconut, letting the motions of his cocks molding your insides around them move through you. The one in your ass rebels against the tightness of your asshole, bullying it with every stroke with what little slick trickled down into the rim from your pussy.

He wraps his strong arms around your waist and lifts your hips up, forcing you to take him at a deeper angle. John B grounds him by gripping your ass cheeks, his talons pushing into the thick globes, drawing blood there too. He doesn’t have the leverage or means to properly smack them, but that’s something for next time, seeing how the water would ripple around them with every slap.

You’re dazed, lying there and taking it. You hear music, drums and rumbling vocals, but there’s no one around and no one’s singing. You’re bleeding from a few different places, so maybe it’s dizziness brought on by blood loss that emboldens you to pull the merman into another kiss. Even as his cock in your pussy pummels your g spot and the one in your ass abuses the puckered hole, John B is strangely mindful of his teeth this time.

Your tongues shyly flick against each other, he clicks and slaps his tail fin on the sand bank in quick succession. Instead of quickening his thrusts as he swims towards release, the merman slows down, shimmying his hips and jostling his cocks inside you. The moonlight combined with your blood and the joining of your bodies means you’ve signed up for something you can’t even comprehend.

John B tentatively skirts a talon down your stomach, deep in thought as well as deep in your guts.

“You know what? I think this needs to be round anyway, be a shame for you to be another skeleton decorating our cave.” Are the last words you hear before a wet hand closes around your throat and a louder lullaby reaches your ears. “We’ll figure out the whole “human” thing later, I could kiss JJ for wanting to waste his time on finding shells for Pope.”

Distant whoops and cheers follow you into unconsciousness.

[callmebrycelee]

I've been mulling this over for the last few days and I figured I'd just put what I'm thinking out there in hopes that someone will understand what I'm coming from. I'm reading a wonderful fanfic where Buck leaves the 118 and goes to work at Air Operations. He is paired with Tommy and the two of them strike up a friendship and an eventual romance. I'm only a few chapters into the story and there's a conversation where Buck and Tommy are relaying their backstories to each other. Buck talks about getting crushed by the fire engine, the subsequent surgery and setback, and him suing the LAFD. Tommy talks about his time in the Army and ultimately joining the 118. He goes into vivid detail about every single awful thing he did to Chimney and Hen. He ends the story by telling Buck that even though the Chimney and Hen chose to forgave him, he can't quite move past his guilt and works hard daily to become a better person. The thing I've been mulling over is the concept of white guilt and how it often triumphs over forgiveness extended by people of color. I find this so funny because even when people of color, esepcially Black people, are at their most vulnerable and open, whiteness still finds a way to be greater than.

Now I'm not here to excuse any of what Tommy did during his time at the 118, but I have to admit that the majority of the people I have seen taking umbrage with Tommy and his behavior, even after he has been forgiven by those whom he offended, and even after he has taken strides to change, are white, non-queer individuals. And before we making this a B*ddie versus BuckTommy situation, I have seen individuals from both sides of the fence taking Tommy to task.

Before I jump into my thoughts on this, let me just say that I'm a Black man. I'm also a queer man. Most importantly I'm a Black queer man and let me tell you a little something about poor behavior from white people. It happens so much and so frequent that oftentimes I don't even see it happening until I am allowed to have a moment to process and reflect. With that said, quite a few of my close friends and acquaintances are white and all of them at some point have said or done something deliberately or accidentally offensive to me. Now not all Black and/or queer people are a monolift so let me make this very clear right now. I am speaking on behalf of myself and myself only.

Now that I've gotten out of the way, I will say that in any and all cases where I have been offended, my forgiveness is more for myself than the other person. Forgiveness is something I do to protect my peace. I fundamentally understand how whiteness works here in America and I understand how it operates. You don't get to half 39 years as a Black queer person without learning this. Especialy living in the the south. I also realize that at the apex of whiteness is the white, straight male and whether we realize it or not, we all, for the most part, at some point, seek proximity to him. You see this happen with white women, with Black men, and evenwith gay white men. In fact, the only group you don't tend to see this with is Black queer women and I believe this is because they are truly the antithesis of the white apex.

With that said, any time my friends or acquaintances have behaved badly, especially towards me, especially regarding my race and/or sexuality, I understand where that energy comes from. I really do. And, if we are being truly transparent here, there have been moments in my younger existence where I actively participated in the oppression of Black women and queer people. I, too, was a Tommy who hid myself by participating in the toxicity directed towards queer people. And yes, I felt tremendous guilt for my actions when I had time to reflect.

Here is the thing people forget about guilt. Much like grief, guilt ebbs and flows, and it doesn't really go away. What happens, or what should happen, is that your world gets bigger and bigger to the point where that grief or that guilt doesn't occupy as much space. That's exactly what I believe has happened to Tommy Kinard. Yes, he still feels bad about what he did to his friends back then (and he should) but his world has gotten so much bigger since then. That guilt that was once a loud roar is hopefully only a whisper now because he has done the work to understand why he behaved the way he did and has taken strides to be a better version of himself.

So, to all the white, non-queer individuals out there who have been taking Tommy to task for things he did a long time ago, things he's been forgiven of a long time ago, parts of himself that he has made better, ask yourself this one simple question. Why should my guilt (white guilt) be bigger than the forgiveness provided to him by those he offended? Second question I would ask you to ask yourself. Why am I demanding that Tommy actively punish himself and be punished for something he has already been forgiven of? When you answer that question, there is one last question I want you to ask yourself. Why am I feeling guilty and projecting that guilt onto someone else?

Again, I am not excusing any of what Tommy Kinard said or did during that time of his life. I just find it strange that so many of you are condemining him of something he once did when you should be asking yourself, am I actively participating in the oppression of those around me. There's a 99.9% chance you are so maybe focus on your own garden before you start asking others to clean up theirs. Also, for those of you coming at this from the angle of, well we didn't see Hen and Chimney forgive him. So what! Unless you have a camera following you around 24/7, no one will ever get to see you be forgiven of the fucked up stuff you've been doing. Most of all, stop projecting onto fictional characters. It's weird. Okay, those are my thoughts. Do what with them what you wish. As always, these are my opinions.

[ms-snape]

Hi, i see that request are open.

What if Severus survived the war but didn't tell anyone. He moved far away, to another country (maybe Italy). But at home, his wife was waiting for him and she was his biggest support during the war. She refused to believe he is dead. And a few years later she would find out by accident when she bumped into him on the street hand in hand with someone else. Lots of angst. I mean….. lots of angst. 🙂

Title: Moving On

Request: Finally a request I've been waiting for one for like days.... REQUESTS ARE OPENED

Summary: I don't think I can give a better summary than the request so...

Warning: angst.... sad ending...

Word Count: 2305

Masterlist

---

In the heart of Italy, where the sun-drenched landscapes mingled with the whisper of ancient cobblestone streets, YN felt a certain heaviness. It was a weight she carried not just in her suitcase, filled with clothes and hopes for a brighter future, but in her heart, where the memory of Severus Snape lingered like a ghost. The world believed him dead, a casualty of a war that had torn apart the very fabric of their lives, but YN had never accepted that finality. She could not bring herself to mourn him as everyone else had; instead, she clung to the thread of hope that wove through her despair.

YN had been broken when the news of his death reached her—a jagged dagger that pierced her soul and left her hollow. The days that followed were a blur of grief and longing. She had wandered through her life like a specter, lost in the memories of their time together, each moment spent with Severus replaying in her mind like a shattered record. She remembered his quiet intensity, the way his dark eyes would soften when he looked at her, the sound of his voice as he spoke of potions and spells, of love and loss. It was as if he had taken a part of her with him when he vanished from the world.

Ella, her best friend, had insisted on this trip—an attempt to pull YN from the depths of her sorrow. They ventured to the quaint coastal town of Positano, with its colorful cliffside houses and azure waters, where laughter echoed around them like a distant memory. But even in the midst of beauty, YN felt numb. The sun could not warm the chill that resided in her heart. Every breathtaking view of the Italian coast felt tainted by the absence of the one person she could not forget.

As Ella tried to engage YN in conversation, pointing out the charm of the local markets and the deliciousness of the gelato, YN’s mind drifted elsewhere. She found herself staring out at the sea, imagining it was Severus standing there, his silhouette framed against the horizon, waiting for her to join him. The thought was both comforting and torturous, a bittersweet reminder of love that once was.

“YN, you can’t keep doing this to yourself,” Ella said one evening as they sat on a balcony overlooking the sunset. “You need to let him go. It’s been years.He's gone and you need to accept it”

But how could she? How could she dismiss the love they had shared, the promises whispered in the dark? Each time YN closed her eyes, she could see Severus—his furrowed brow, the way his lips curled into a half-smile when she teased him. The memories were too vivid, too real. They were the only thing that anchored her to the world, the only thing that kept the shadows at bay.

The days passed, and YN felt the ache in her heart deepen. She wandered through the streets of Positano, searching for something she could not name. Perhaps it was closure, or maybe just a sign that Severus was still alive. She explored the narrow alleys, the vibrant shops, and the azure beaches, all while carrying the weight of her unyielding hope.

Then, on a seemingly ordinary afternoon, everything changed. YN had taken to wandering alone, her heart heavy with the memories that haunted her. She meandered through the bustling market square, the colors and sounds swirling around her like a kaleidoscope of life. She paused by a stall selling handmade jewelry, absentmindedly running her fingers over the delicate pieces. The sun dipped lower in the sky, casting a golden hue over everything, and for a moment, she allowed herself to breathe.

But then, as she turned to leave the stall, she collided with someone. The force of the impact sent her stumbling back, and she looked up, ready to apologize to the stranger. But then time seemed to freeze. There, standing before her, was Severus Snape—alive, breathing, and somehow more real than the memories she had clung to for so long.

Her heart raced, a wild tempest of disbelief and hope. But as her eyes traveled down to his hand, the world shattered around her. He was holding the hand of another woman—a stunning brunette with an easy smile and laughter that danced in the air between them. YN felt her heart plummet, the fragile thread of hope she had carried for years snapping in an instant.

Severus looked at her, confusion etched across his features. The moment stretched, the bustling market fading into silence. YN’s breath hitched in her throat, a mix of joy and agony tearing her apart. She wanted to rush into his arms, to feel his warmth envelop her again, but the sight of the other woman kept her rooted to the spot, paralyzed by the pain of betrayal.

“Severus?” The word slipped from her lips like a prayer, a desperate plea for him to explain, to make sense of the scene before her.

The smile faded from his face, replaced by a flicker of guilt. “YN… I—”

But she couldn’t hear him. The world felt as if it were collapsing around her. She had spent years believing he was dead, clinging to the hope that he would one day return to her, and now here he was, a living ghost of her past, with another woman at his side. The anger bubbled within her, mingling with the heartbreak that consumed her.

“Is this why you never came back?” YN’s voice trembled, laced with a hurt that cut deeper than any spell. “You were alive all this time and didn't even come back to me, you wife? Did you choose to leave me behind?”

Severus’s eyes darkened with regret, but YN couldn’t bear to see it. The anguish she felt was all-consuming, a tidal wave of emotions crashing against the fragile dam she had built around her heart. “I waited for you, Severus. I never stopped believing you were out there, that you would come back to me. And now… this?”

“YN, please, it’s not what you think,” he said, stepping toward her, but she recoiled, the distance between them stretching like an unbridgeable chasm.

“Not what I think?” The bitterness in her voice cut through the air, sharp and biting. “You were supposed to be dead! I mourned you! I grieved for the life we could have had, for the love we shared. And now you’re here, holding her hand like I never existed?”

The woman beside him looked between them, confusion evident in her eyes, but YN couldn’t spare her a glance. Her world had narrowed to just Severus, the man she had loved with every fiber of her being, the man who had shattered her heart without a word.

“YN, I had my reasons—”

“Reasons?” She interrupted, her anger boiling over. “Was it worth it? Was it worth leaving me in the dark while you built a new life without me? I thought you loved me.”

“I did love you!” Severus’s voice rose, desperation lacing his words. “And I never stopped loving you or thinking about you, but I had to survive. The war… it changed everything. I thought you were safe, that you could move on without me.”

“Move on?” YN’s laugh was hollow, devoid of humor. “You think I could just forget? You think I could just pretend that you didn’t mean the world to me? You left me with nothing but the ghosts of what we could have been, and now you stand here, alive, with someone else?”

The bitterness spilled from her lips, a torrent of pain that had been building for years. She felt raw and exposed, like a wound that had never healed, and now it was laid bare for him to see. The anguish in her heart felt like a physical weight, pressing down on her chest, suffocating her.

Severus’s expression twisted with regret, his dark eyes brimming with unshed tears. “I never wanted to hurt you. I thought you’d be better off without me. I thought I was protecting you.”

“Protecting me?” YN’s voice cracked, the pain evident in every syllable. “You didn’t protect me; you abandoned me. I was left to pick up the pieces of my shattered heart while you… you moved on.You found someone else...”

The silence that followed was deafening. Around them, the world continued to buzz with life—laughter, music, the distant sound of waves crashing against the shore—but for YN, everything had come to a standstill. She felt as if she were standing on the edge of a precipice, staring down into an abyss of despair.

“I thought you were dead,” she whispered, her voice barely audible above the noise. “I thought I had lost you forever.”

“And I thought you moved on,” Severus replied, his voice heavy with regret. “I never meant for this to happen.”

“But it did happen, Severus.” The tears she had held back for so long began to spill over, a torrent of grief and rage. “You’re here, with.... her, while I was left to drown in my sorrow. You can’t just waltz back into my life and expect me to forget the pain you caused.”

Severus’s expression faltered, a mixture of guilt and longing etched across his features. The woman beside him shifted uncomfortably, the weight of the moment pressing down on them. YN felt the heat of anger mixing with the chill of betrayal, a volatile concoction that threatened to consume her.

“I can’t change the past,” he said, his voice low, almost pleading. “But please, YN, don’t push me away. I still care for you. I always have.”

The words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken promises and memories that felt like a lifetime ago. YN looked at him, at the man she had loved fiercely, and felt the ache in her heart deepen. She wanted to believe him, to reach out and bridge the gap that had grown between them. But the reality was too painful, too raw.

“And what about her?” YN’s voice trembled, the bitterness creeping back in. “What am I supposed to do with that? You’ve built a life without me, Severus. It feels impossible to reconcile that with the love we once shared.”

“I never meant for any of this to happen,” he said, anguish etched in every line of his face. “I was lost, and I thought I was doing what was best for you and me.”

YN shook her head, tears streaming down her cheeks. “You think abandoning me was what was best? You think I wanted to live in a world where you weren’t there? I was lost too, Severus. I was lost without you.We made a vow, we promised to laways be there for each other, but apparently it meant nothing to you”

The hurt between them was palpable, a chasm that felt insurmountable. YN’s heart ached with the weight of memories that threatened to drown her. She wanted to scream, to rage against the universe that had torn them apart, but all she could do was stand there, feeling the walls close in around her.

As the sun began to set, casting a warm glow over the cobblestones, YN felt the flicker of hope extinguish. The world around her was beautiful, but in that moment, it felt like a cruel joke. She had come to Italy seeking solace, but instead, she found herself face-to-face with the man who had become both her salvation and her tormentor.

“I can’t do this,” YN whispered, her voice breaking. “I can’t pretend that everything’s okay when it’s not. I loved you more than anything, but I have to let you go. I have to move on, even if it breaks me... I wish you a really happy life... perhaps better than the one you once had with me....”

With that, she turned away, an instinctive reaction to shield herself from the pain. She couldn’t bear to see him with her, the woman who had become the embodiment of all her fears. It felt like a betrayal—a cruel twist of fate that had stolen her love and replaced it with a bitter reminder of what she had lost.

As she walked away, the tears streamed down her face, each step feeling heavier than the last. The streets of Positano, once vibrant and full of life, felt suffocating, closing in around her as she retreated from the scene that had shattered her world anew.

Behind her, Severus called her name, desperation lacing his voice, but YN didn’t look back. She couldn’t. She had given him everything, only to be left with nothing but the echoes of what once was. The colors of Italy faded into a blur, and as she walked away from the man she had loved, she felt the weight of her heart breaking all over again.

As she reached the edge of the market, the sounds of laughter and joy faded away, replaced by the haunting silence that had become her constant companion. YN had come to Italy to escape her pain, to find a semblance of peace, but instead, she was reminded of the love she had lost and the life that would never be.

In that moment, as she stood alone in a foreign land, she realized that some shadows lingered long after the light had faded. And as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the world into darkness, YN felt the weight of her despair settle heavily upon her shoulders, an unshakeable burden that would follow her wherever she went. She was lost, and the echoes of Severus Snape would forever haunt her heart, a bittersweet reminder of a love that had been both her greatest joy and her deepest sorrow.

[grapejuicestyless]

I’ll Crawl Home To Her

Harry Styles x fem!reader

Summery: There was no distance that could keep Harry from you. Not even the vastest oceans would slow him down. As the holidays near closer and closer, all he really wants is you.

PURE FLUFF

He thinks of her always. A plaguing memory of the last time they spoke, a vivid painting of the way her eyes would crinkle when she smiled. He carried her honey-sweet laughter within him. Her voice the ground beneath his very feet.

He thinks of how lucky he is. To be blessed with someone so soft, so sweet. When he was with her, Harry didn’t seem to ever worry about heaven or hell. All he wished for was to be gently placed beneath the soil. He wished for him to be able to stay there, somewhere he could pull himself from, even in death to find her. Trace the dimples in her back just one last time, feel her lips pressed to his temple just one last time.

He could write all the songs for her, tell everyone just how much his heart yearned for the girl, but no words could describe her fully. Her honest smile and wild hair. If he were to sing it, he was sure nobody would ever be able to picture her right.

She had an aura that could never be captured. A rare beauty no person could ever really swallow fully. The more Harry thinks about it, the more starved he becomes.

He tortures himself with the image of her eyes twinkling in the fairy lights. The tree behind her littered with ornaments they collected from all their adventures together. At first he had wanted a theme for their tree. A color scheme. She insisted it would feel more like home to have it that way. She was always right. No gold and white color coordination could fill him with as much pride as the small plastic figures on the branches would.

He sees her wrapping presents. The thought of her doing it all alone, without the specially curated playlists he made drives him mad. How the kitchen floors are untouched because she’d sworn dancing just wasn’t dancing if it wasn’t with him.

He knows the oven is cold. There are no treats on the counter or glasses of milk on the counter like when he was there. He wishes he could live a life with a job that wasn’t so demanding.

He thinks about the thousands of people begging for his attention. And even in all of their praise and love for him, it’s nothing but a fraction compared to what she provides. Harry decides he can’t take it. He has all the heart to speak of her like she’s all he could ever need, but here he is half the world away, sitting alone in a hotel room with a bottle of wine and Tylenol. She would laugh at him for sure. The thought only motivates him further.

So when he calls her that night, it’s from the airport. He claims it’s the stadium buzz, the usual sound of his team and their own team too. She buys it because he would never lie to her.

When he walks through the door that same night, she doesn’t believe it. How someone so distant could be so close now. And she can’t trust herself until her hands are gripping at his shirt snd her nose is in his neck. Her tears wet his collar and she swears she can feel his running down her shoulder. When she asks him how he’s done it, he answers by telling her how much he loves her. And when she laughs he takes her face in his hands, cradling it delicately and rubbing his thumb to dry her tears.

“Not even death could part me from you. No grave can hold my body down. I’ll crawl home to you.” It’s honest and raw. It’s something that Harry could never have said before. Words he never knew how to say before. He thinks she’ll take his words as crazy, back off and laugh. But she places her hands on his and massages his fingers between hers.

And when she presses a kiss to his palm, he swears he feels more alive than ever.

[mysteryshoptls]

SR Vil Schoenheit - Playful Dress Vignette

"I was able to witness such a rare sight"

[Playful Land – Bazaar]

Puppet: Come By, Come And See! Would You Like A Playful Land Souvenir!?

Vil: …...

Vil: Well, I thought I would get some souvenirs for those back at school, but…

Vil: These accessories, medals, and mugs… aren't really gifts I would give others.

Vil: Oh, is this… a badge? It's small, I do like how prettily the gold shines.

Vil: This may be a perfect find. Could you wrap this up for me?

Puppet: Of Course!

Jade: Oh my, Vil-san. I thought you would be exploring the park, but have you turned to souvenir shopping already?

Vil: That's right. I spotted some lockers earlier, so I thought I would use those until we leave.

Jade: I hadn't noticed there were lockers available.

Jade: I planned on leaving souvenir shopping for later, but if that is the case, then I suppose it won't be a bother to shop for some now.

Vil: Well, if you weren't over here for souvenirs in the first place, why did you come this way?

Jade: Me? Something rather fascinating happened to have caught my eye…

Vil: Something fascinating?

Jade: Indeed, take a look at these.

Vil: These are… fashion accessories?

Jade: Yes. These are character hats, character headbands, and other various accessories that can be worn around the park.

Vil: A hat with fox ears, a scrunchie with a small cat figure attached to it…

Vil: There are even sunglasses with frames that look like a silhouette of a fox.

Vil: So, you like these kinds of character merchandise? That's actually rather surprising.

Jade: WELL, YES, ABSOLUTELY! Although, I haven't had much luck purchasing any since I left the Coral Sea.

Jade: Unfortunately, it's quite difficult to coordinate outfits with these kinds of poppy and cutesy merch…

Jade: I wonder if there is anyone out there who could suit such specialized character accessories.

Jade: If they did exist, I would love for them to show me how they'd wear it, but I'm sure that's easier said than done.

Jade: …That would be much too convenient, right?

Vil: You... I'm more than certain you are lying through your teeth when you say you like such cute merch.

Vil: Does this mean you've come all the way to this shop to try to get a rise out of me? What a charming personality you have.

Jade: Oh, my. A lie…? Nonsense. Please believe me, Vil-san.

Vil: I assume you're only here to try to see me struggle matching those accessories to my outfit.

Vil: Allow me to show you just how fundamentally flawed your scheme is.

Vil: After all, our knowledge and experience are nowhere near the same.

Vil: Well then, first… Ah, I'll start with the sunglasses.

Vil: My current outfit has a base black color, with a purple focus and red accents.

Vil: I do not want to upset the balance of these colors. With that in mind, I would choose this one.

Jade: Those sunglasses have such a vivid red frame… So you chose it based off your accent color instead of the base color.

Vil: Yes, of course. The face is the most prominent part of your body, so it would be a waste to frame it with a color as muted as my base color.

Vil: Next are the earrings. Since we don’t want it to clash with the sunglasses, here we would choose a subtle gold or white gold shimmer.

Vil: The scrunchie should be an eye-catching pink that doesn't take too much attention away from the sleeves.

Vil: I'd match the backpack to purple, and attach plenty of charms to it, within reason.

Jade: …Wonderful. Although you are decorated in character goods from head to toe, your refined presence still shines strong.

Vil: Naturally. Character goods like this are just another facet of fashion, so as long as you keep to the fundamentals, you can't go wrong.

Vil: Specifically, one must always be aware of the color balance. You cannot simply throw everything on without any thought.

Jade: I see, this has been a wonderful learning experience. I shouldn't expect anything less from someone like you.

Vil: Obviously. There isn't a fashion item in the world that I would not be able to put to good use.

Vil: …Or is that too much of a boast? Fufu.

Jade: This was astounding. By the way, may I…

Vil: No photos.

Jade: Ah, I see. That is a shame.

Vil: Well, I've finished choosing my souvenirs, so I'll be off. Goodbye, then.

Jade: …Yes, I'll see you later.

[Playful Land – Gentle Square]

Vil: Playful Land truly is large.

Vil: There's the Catch the Star wheel, an Undersea Walk… As well as a Brawl Bungalow.

Vil: I would love to visit every attraction I haven't been able to check out yet, but there may not be enough time.

Jade: Indeed. Taking into account what free time we have remaining, I would think we could perhaps look into 2 or 3 attractions.

Vil: I concur. That may be the case, especially considering the crowds.

Vil: …Also, Jade, I thought we sent our separate ways back at the bazaar. Why are you still following me?

Jade: I simply thought it would be more exciting to stick with you, Vil-san, than look around on my own. I have no ulterior motives.

Vil: …Honestly, I absolutely cannot believe that. Especially with how much of an innocent front you're displaying.

Vil: Well, no matter. I was just thinking about actually finding some activities to enjoy here at Playful Land.

Vil: And, well, you've an abundance in forethought, so you may not be a terrible companion.

Vil: If you absolutely must, you may join me.

Jade: Thank you very much.

Vil: There is a certain place I would like to go. Let's head there.

[Playful Land – Expedition Whale]

Vil: We've arrived.

Jade: This is…

Vil: Expedition Whale, the largest roller coaster in this amusement park.

Vil: Obviously, we cannot pass up the main attraction. Come, the line is over here.

Jade: Wait a moment, Vil-san. Why don't we visit the Brawl Bungalow first?

Vil: …Huh? Why? The roller coaster is right in front of us.

Vil: You want us to head towards the Brawl Bungalow from here, and then turn all the way around to come back here? I think that is a complete waste of time.

Jade: No, I… The line for the roller coaster is rather long, so I thought perhaps waiting for our turn may be a waste of our time.

Jade: If we use that potential waiting time to visit another attraction, perhaps we could be able to enjoy an additional one…

Vil: …Sigh.

Vil: You know, Jade. I'll only say this once. I gave you permission to "follow me if you must."

Vil: I never said you could direct me anywhere. I don't want there to be any misunderstandings.

Jade: Right, my apologies. Only, if we consider our limited time remaining…

Vil: Oh… And here I thought you would back off because I was a little sterner there. How odd.

Vil: I don't think you rather look to be that interested in the Brawl Bungalow, either. It's as if you are trying to avoid the roller coaster entirely.

Vil: I'm sure it absolutely isn't the case, but… Could it be that you're attempting to avoid the roller coaster because you're scared…?

Vil: That couldn't possibly be the case, right, Jade?

Jade: Of course not. To tell you the truth, I am simply worried for you, Vil-san.

Jade: It seems as though the roller coaster will splash us with water in the end…

Jade: I couldn't help but be concerned for your beautiful makeup. We wouldn't want it to run.

Vil: Mmhmm. If you say so. Uh-huh…

Vil: If my makeup runs, I just have to fix it.

Vil: Is that all you have? Come on, let's go.

Vil: Well, now… The coaster is about to move. Are you ready, Jade?

Jade: Ready? I'm not entirely sure what you mean… I am still fraught with worry for you, Vil-san.

Jade: I must at least be prepared to shield you, after all, in case your makeup runs.

Vil: You truly don't ever stop speaking. …But I wonder, how long will you be able to keep it up?

[clank, clank, clank…]

Vil: Look Jade, the view is breathtaking. We can see the whole of Playful Land.

Jade: Yes, truly… It is very high… And from this height, I assume we're about to…

[clank!!]

Jade: URK…!?

Vil: …Heh.

[RRRRRGGGGGGOOOOORRR!!]

[SPLASSSH!!]

Vil: Ahh, that was a superb thrill…!

Vil: Rollercoasters this long and thrilling are completely out of the ordinary.

Vil: But, I'm quite elated to have been able to experience such a one-of-a-kind attraction. On top of that…

Vil: I was able to witness such a rare sight: Jade, speechless.

Vil: I'm sure you tagged along, hoping to find some reason to rib me… I'm sorry it didn't work out for you.

Jade: …...

Jade: …Oh no, I am just the same as ever. That was a enjoyable coaster.

Jade: However, perhaps I would like to refrain from riding it for a little while…

Vil: Oh, have you recovered already? I guess I should at least commend your moxie.

Vil: We're moving on to the next attraction, Jade. I'm nowhere near satisfied yet.

Requested by @farfalla049.

[francesminos-tt]

Lucemond time travel fix-it au with a twist where a 11-year-old Aemond and his 30-year-old self switches bodies.

Older!Aemond is happily married to Lucerys. They have three children and Lucerys is nursing their youngest.

Youger!Aemond just got his eye gauged out. Poor boy.

It all starts at that fateful night on Driftmark. Aemond claimed Vaghar but lost an eye. The pain is too intense, the hurt too deep, the humiliation too intolerable, and most importantly, the indifference in his father’s eyes is too much to bear. As the maester is sewing his flesh back together, Aemond blacks out for a bit.

When he wakes up next, he finds himself in a strange place. He’s lying on a massive bed; the unique ocean scent tells him that he’s still on Driftmark, but the surrounding is completely different from mere seconds ago. Did he pass out longer than he thought? Did his mother put him to rest? Why is his face not hurting? What is the warmth on his left?

Aemond doesn’t have to wonder any longer, because the warmth shifts and Aemond hears a small yawn as he feels hot breath on his neck.

“Why are you up, Aemond?” A mop of brown curls emerges from Aemond’s blind side. It’s a boy, no, young man with soft features and sleepy eyes the color of honey wine.

Aemond doesn’t know him. Seven, he never sleeps in the same bed with anyone else. And he certainly doesn’t cuddle.

“Who are you? I demand you to get off my bed and identify yourself.” Aemond says, his voice deep and resonating, nothing like the voice Aemond is accustomed to.

This is NOT his voice.

The young man frowns, sleep disappearing from his eyes. He studies Aemond for a while before slips off the bed. The young man fishes an oversized tunic from the floor and throws it on. The tunic comes down all the way to the middle of his thigh, and Aemond belatedly realizes his companion is completely naked. So is Aemond.

“Did Aegon give you something nasty again? I am going to cut off his balls.” The young man spits, pacing around the room to light the candles.

Aegon, right, that’s a familiar name. His older brother is constantly horny and drunk which annoys Aemond to the core, but now he would die to see a familiar face again.

“Here. Drink some water. Does your head hurt? Do you feel like vomiting? I can have the maester prepare some tonic for you, or do you prefer some warm soup?” The young man returns to the bed with a goblet in hand. He offers the goblet to Aemond before leans down, pressing their forehead together to feel Aemond’s temperature.

Aemond’s breath catches in his throat. Never is someone so caring to him. Not even his own mother. Alicent is always civil and aloof. She is more Queen than mother to him. Aemond can’t remember the last time someone showed such affection and devotion to him.

“How do you feel? Talk to me, Aemond, beloved, you are scaring me.” The young man brushes a strand of silver hair from Aemond’s forehead, his touch so tender that Aemond doesn’t want him to stop.

“Who are you?” Aemond asks again, this time barely a whisper. This is a dream, Aemond is sure of it. Maybe the maester gives him too much milk of the poppy. That’s why he would have this strange but incredibly vivid and addicting dream. He is afraid if he asks the wrong question, the caring stranger would disappear and he will be left alone with pain again.

The stranger chuckles, as if Aemond just did something silly but endearing.

“I can’t believe you are so hang-over that you forget your own husband.” The stranger says. His eyes twinkle, small beads of sweat gives his skin an inviting sheen, and Aemond could see red bite marks scattered all over his chest, especially around his nipples.

“Husband?” Aemond repeats, rather stupidly.

“That’s right. I am your husband, Lucerys.” The young man kisses Aemond on the lips as he reveals the truth.

Aemond’s whole world starts to spin. No. It cannot be. This is merely a milk of the poppy induced dream. There is no way he would marry Lucerys of all people. The boy who just took his eye.

But, come to think of it, Aemond now sees a pair of big doe eyes, unruly curls, plush lips, full cheeks, and a cute button nose. All those features scream Lucerys to him.

“What year is it?” Aemond mutters.

“Are you sure you are all right, love? It’s 140 AC.”

And just like that, a 11-year-old Aemond somehow transfers into the body of his older self almost 20 years later.

Bonus:

121 AC, Driftmark

Aemond (turns to the maester): Can you look at my husband Lucy, eh, I mean my nephew Lucerys? I think his nose is still bleeding.

Everyone looks shocked except for Lucerys.

Lucerys (sniffles): Are you hurting too much uncle?

Aemond: It’s not too bad. Come here, you can kiss it better.

Lucerys (stumbles toward Aemond)

[delopsia]

Better | Bob Floyd x Reader

Word Count: 6,200  Cross Posted on AO3 Warnings & Notes: 18+, Reader has the callsign 'Weave.' AFAB! Reader, post-jet crash scenario, unprotected sex, cunnilingus, face-sitting, hurt/comfort if you squint, friends to lovers trope, blood, and bodily injury, and a likely inaccurate description of naval aviator gear.  

There is nothing quite like waking up and seeing a multi-million dollar aircraft burning right before your very eyes. 

It doesn't look real. Vivid hues of red and orange dance along the busted shell of what used to be a Naval aircraft, a stark contrast against the pristine, white snow. The hellish heat that licks at your exposed, frozen cheeks is the only indication that it's not a figment of your imagination. Distantly, you think you must've crashed, but it's hard to believe when there's not a single ache in your—

"Fuck!"

You shouldn't have moved, you shouldn't have moved, you shouldn't have moved.

Eyes screwing shut. Mouth ajar. Yet not another sound escaping. Every bone, joint, and muscle on your left side is screaming. White-hot, piercing through every nerve. Your rib cage feels as if it's just burst open, burning hotter than the remains of your plane. 

God, what happened?

You don't recognize this place. These trees don't look like the ones from back home, and you don't recall the weatherman saying California was expecting six inches of snow. What you do recognize is the stray boot that pokes out from behind the jet. U.S. Navy issued. But you're not missing any shoes...

"Bob?" The joints of your shoulders beg you not to move, but you've already pushed yourself up, vision blurring as your head swivels. Your feet scramble for purchase on the powdery snow, but something tugs at you from behind, throws you off balance. 

It's your parachute, tangled within the branches of the tree above you, leashing you. Closing your frigid hands around the material is near impossible, fingers so frozen that they can hardly bend. You've barely enough strength to disconnect yourself. 

"Bob?" You try again. 

No answer.

There's a numbness in your legs as you stumble closer to the roaring flames. On its own, the world seesaws, leaving you to stumble as you struggle to keep upright. You only mean to take one step left, but that singular step becomes two, four, five. 

The ground comes back up and smacks you in the hip.

From down here, you can see the boot better, but you can't the leg attached to the foot that occupies it. Or maybe...that's three boots. They're right in front of you, but when you reach out to touch them, your hand can't seem to reach. Scooting forward, you swipe out and try again. All you get is snow.

But they're right there. 

Forward a little more. Nothing. Something within the jet pops, wicked flames bursting out in a mushroom-shaped plume. Ravenous heat claws at your skin, threatens to eat right through you. Just a little closer. Just a little...

your hand grabs hold of the boot, vision centering a little. Around you, the wind spins like a top, but even through the haze, you realize something.

There isn't a body attached at all.

Your head feels like someone's just filled it with lead. The colorful hues of red, mere feet away from your face, threatens to reach out and melt the skin from your cheeks. You need to move. You know you do, but even as you tell yourself to move, your body refuses. 

The collar of your flight suit tightens as you're yanked backward. 

In the blink of an eye, you've got control again, wriggling, fighting to turn around as you're drug away by the thin material of your collar. Words tumble out of your mouth, but your ringing ears hardly comprehend them. Your foot catches on a rock, body flipping around and—

that face is familiar.

Cheeks patched with soot, blood pouring from a gash that stretches from his temple down to his cheek, just barely avoiding his eye. Glasses long gone, but there's a red indent between his eyes from the frames. 

"Bob?" You know it's him, and yet it tumbles off your tongue anyway.

"'m here," his voice breaks, shaky.

The arm you're using to brace your weight crumples out from under you; the snow that catches you is pillowy soft, but the numbing cold stings at your skin, nevertheless. Bob's next tug on your collar is half-hearted, urging but lacking the strength to put behind it. 

Next to you rests a bootless foot, bathed in a deep crimson that makes your heart sink. 

On its own, your hand wanders out to hold onto his thigh, "you're hurt."

Your observation doesn't receive a response, doesn't exactly warrant one, either. Silence is better than hushed insistence that he's alright when you both know that's a downright lie. Instead, he shifts to rest his weight on his forearm, curling his body around yours as a viciously strong wind ripples past. The fire behind you spikes with a roar, heat blasting. 

His free hand strokes the side of your head, thumb swiping at what you only assume to be blood, "what's the last thing you remember?"

And where the hell is your helmet?

There's a fogginess to your memory. You remember waking up to Natasha snoring and Bradley clapping his hand over your shoulder a bit too hard on your way out of the cafeteria. But you don't remember taking off, and your memory lacks a single shred of where you flew. 

But your ears vividly recall a flurry of voices coming through your radio. Your bones still rattle with the vibrations of a too-close-for-comfort explosion, a missile narrowly avoided. A tiny voice screams out from the commotion, barely audible over it all.

"I remember you telling me to brake left," you shouldn't be leaning up into Bob's touch the way that you are.

His response takes some time, but eventually, he hums, "I didn't account for the one comin' up from beneath us."

After all this, you'd better get a raise and a vacation. 

It's hard to miss the faint hum that cuts through the air. Too far away for you to see, but even through the ringing in your ears, the sound is unmistakable. Bob's head lifts, tilted toward the direction that it's coming from. 

Muscles aching, you push yourself up to your knees, ignoring the angered twinges of muscles that beg you to stay still. Shelter. You need shelter. Bob doesn't require any urging, already has one hand braced on the trunk of a tree as he heaves himself up. 

A yelp ripples through the chilly air, echoing through the forest around you. 

It's not until Bob falls back into the snow that you realize who it came from. Crimson drips from his trembling foot like a waterfall; beneath, dull white shines through. 

"'m okay," his voice wavers, "I'm okay." With his good leg, he shields the wound from your view, but you know what you saw. 

The whirring of that helicopter is growing louder. Closer. 

"No, you're not," but there's no time for you to grill him on it. He's already trying to get up again, breathing through gritted teeth as he's forced to put weight on his injury. You know your backseater too well for your own good. Already know he's not going to ask for help.

And that's exactly why you lift his arm and shove yourself beneath it. 

"You don't need to do that," he fusses, but all it takes is one step forward for him to gasp and lean against you. That foot can't bear weight, and you both know it. 

Liar. 

It's hard to tell where you're going, but with the whirring of those helicopter blades growing louder, you don't have much of a choice. The only thing you know is that you flew in from the South-West; your best bet is to head in that direction. Search and rescue has a better chance of finding you there. 

But only if your enemy doesn't follow the patches of red that mark your trail.

Your swollen shoulder strains under Bob's weight, so sore that even the slightest of pressure has you gritting your teeth to bear it. Fuck, never mind your shoulder; everything hurts. As your weary feet tread through the snow, it's difficult to tell what's just sore and what's been injured. Though, you've got a sneaking feeling that your shoulders and ribs are decorated with some hellish bruising. 

And yet, even as he limps along by your side, suffering through the same ejection pains you are, Bob still has it in him to smile at you. It's watery, faltering when that mangled foot is forced to touch the ground, and it doesn't quite meet his eyes, but it's there. 

"Bobby—"

"'m alright," he turns his head off to the side, shielding his eyes from your sight. You hate that you know what he's trying to do. Those baby blues tell a story too heavy for his tongue to bear; if they meet with yours, they'll start talking. 

It's the one reason why he can't play poker. 

"What's that brown mass on our right?" It's hard to tell if he's trying to change the subject or if he's actually trying to figure out what he's looking at. 

The muscles in your neck are tight, making it difficult for you to turn your head. "We need to get you Lasik after this," joking through the pain, you squint in the direction Bob's transfixed on. Trees, trees, more trees, a clearing, followed by, you guessed it, more trees. You don't see what he's—

oh

wait.

Tucked up against a steep hill sits a tiny shack. The paint has long since withered away, leaving behind nothing but brown, rotting planks. The front of it bows forward, the neglected roof sinking inward, but it's shelter. 

A shelter that might collapse on you. But that whirring is growing louder and louder. The ground hums with the motions of the unknown helicopter's blades. You're in no place to argue.

"It's some sort of shack," you observe aloud, fighting the urge not to hasten your step. 

It's a longer walk than it looks. It would be easy to sprint through the clearing, but Bob can't run in this state. There's no guarantee someone won't spot you from overhead. By your side, Bob meekly hobbles along; blood no longer stains the snow, but his noises grow with every step. Little grunts of pain that burn you to the core. 

That helicopter just keeps getting closer and closer and closer. And finally, you see it emerge over the horizon; looks nothing like the ones back on the aircraft carrier. That's not search and rescue. 

"They don't see us yet," Bob's words are rushed, jumbled together as he tries to move a little quicker. Grunting with every step, eyes bolting shut. 

You're almost there. Just a few more steps. Just a few more.

"Almost there," you grunt, stumbling in tune with his hobbled steps, "almost there."

You don't even get to touch the door handle. 

It's hard to tell whose foot gets caught in who's. All you know is that you're falling forward. Shoulder slamming into a flimsy wooden door that gives at the slightest amount of pressure. The decrepit floor knocks the breath from your lungs. Leaves you struggling to garner another breath. 

Rusty hinges wail as the door swings shut behind you. Oddly...human.

Light barely filters through the tiny, broken windows, illuminating a cracked fireplace and what looks to be a shelf that's fallen off the wall. The very definition of bare bones.

Movement on your left has you turning your head. 

Bob's shoulders shake like leaves in the Autumn wind. Laying on his belly, pretty face buried in the crook of his arm, concealing the tears that you already know are there. The blades of the helicopter are loud, but his wobbly breaths are louder.

Careful, as if moving too quickly will hurt him, you reach out to smooth your hand along his shoulder blades. Only serves to make him shake a little harder, sniffles escaping even as he visibly tries to swallow them down. 

"'m fine." Not daring to lift his head. 

"No, you're not." Running your hand upward, you dare to run your fingers through his messy hair, the damp locks remarkably soft, even now. 

You can't be doing this. Touching his hair only makes you want to gather him up in your arms and kiss those tears off his cheeks. Your tongue already bears the words you'd whisper into his ears, sweet nothings and reminders that his feelings matter to you.

"Bobby," you try again, this time allowing the pads of your fingers to skitter across his temple. His jaw moves, ready to speak. You beat him to it. "Don't you dare tell me you're fine."

That's enough to get his head raising, red eyes peeking out from the corner of his elbow. Those baby blues meet with yours, immediately flickering away as if your gaze has just burned him. 

"Me whining about being hurt is going to do nothing but get on your nerves," he murmurs, his voice barely audible, and yet his words burn themselves right into your skin, "it doesn't fix any—"

"Moron," even being shot out of the sky cannot knock the attitude from you, "you never got upset when I dislocated my ankle and whined about it for a week straight. Why would I ever get upset with you?" 

Bob's eyelashes flutter, voice raising by an octave as if it'll strengthen his argument, "I didn't want to upset you."

"I love you too much to get upset with you for being in pain."

Silence.

Your mouth feels like it's full of lead. Face growing even colder than it was out in the snow. Did that really just fly off your tongue? Now of all times? 

On second thought, being gunned down by that helicopter doesn't sound so bad. "I'm sorry, I—"

"D'you really mean that?" Well, he doesn't sound upset, at least. Shallowly, you nod. 

You don't expect him to lift his head from behind the barricade of his folded arms, opting to rest his head on top of them instead. The hand that was just in his hair slides down to the dusty floor, limp. Bob watches it as if it's the most interesting thing in the world. Even reaches out to run his fingers along a tear in your glove. They curl around it, loosely holding your hand as he looks back up at you. 

And he just...stares. A quiet transfixion on your face, like it's the first time he's ever seen you. Taking in every detail, every wrinkle and crease that your skin has to offer. His head moves forward by just a fraction, but then an awkward smile overtakes him, and he has to look away.

Your synchronous inhale is so loud that it echoes through this tiny, one-room shack. Bob tilts his head back to you, seemingly unable to take his eyes off of you. Next to his head, his fingers twist together, like they always do when he's deep in thought. You wonder if he can hear the way your heart pounds against your chest like a drum. Any stronger, and it just might break free of its confines. 

Bob's moving. Pushing his weight up onto a forearm, tilting his body towards you. Hesitates, just shy of bumping his nose into yours. Again, your eyes meet. Getting shot down was scarier than this. 

Hesitant lips press against your own, slotting together like puzzle pieces. There's nothing else to it, each holding it in fear of the other having second thoughts. Only lasts a few seconds, but it feels as if you spent forever there.

"We shouldn't...be doing this," you find yourself saying as if you're not actively curling your hands around his bruised cheeks, "if Cyclone finds out..."

"Fuck Cyclone." And then Bob's lips are on yours again, no thought required.

It's cruel how easily you fit together. You have a sea of options out there, and yet only Bob Floyd's lips fit against yours so flawlessly. Only your backseater smells of suede and jasmine because he can't stay out of that Polo Blue cologne to save his life. The hand that curls around your cheek feels as if it belongs there. This is how things always should have been. 

The angle is awkward; you want to wrap your arms around his neck, but one of your arms is stuck, bracing your body weight, while the other awkwardly flings around to rest between his shoulder blades.

A shy hand presses against your belly, urging you to sink back against the floor. You don't know what possesses you to comply, but the feeling of Bob settling on top of you is something else entirely. Gasping as he disturbs his injury, but unable to draw himself away. Your knees rise, caging either side of his lithe hips; Bob's not wide by any means, but with him between them, your legs feel like they're spread for miles.

"Bobby," panting against his lips. 

"'ve got ya," one of his hands glides up your sides, working its way beneath your heavy gear, greedily taking in what lies beneath him. Your back arches, leaning into the touch; haven't felt someone touch you like this in so long that it's foreign. 

The desperate need for air is the only thing that can drive a wedge between you, lungs stinging as you gasp for much-needed oxygen. Even that can't stop you from leaning back up, still panting as you press a wayward kiss to his exposed neck. Faintly, Bob's breath catches.

"'m probably sweaty," he warns, but his words fall on deaf ears. You're already dragging your tongue along a protruding vein, sealing it with a wet kiss. "Oh, that's..." the words die with nothing but a sigh. 

You've waited your entire life to hear him make that noise. "You're lucky your gear is keeping me from your collarbone," it's more of a cautionary remark than it is anything else. You're itching to nibble on those pretty, exposed bones, can only imagine what sounds he would make.

It only takes him five motions. One to unclasp his life jacket. Two to undo the strap across the chest. One to pull the underlying zipper down and another to shrug the harness off his shoulders, letting it fall down to rest against his hips. 

Hallelujah.

Bruises scatter his collarbones and shoulders, glaringly sore but so sensitive as you gingerly work your way down to plant kisses on them. Feather-light, teeth only grazing so as to not hurt him. The motion leaves your neck exposed, giving him the perfect opportunity to press his wet lips to the skin beneath your ear. 

"Shit," you hiss, fingertips curling against his shoulder blades. He doesn't say anything, but you can feel his mouth curling against your skin.

His hips dip down, moving on their own accord, something hard brushing against your core. With a strained noise, Bob freezes, nose wrinkling with the grimace that laces his features. 

"Were you trying to grind on me, pretty boy?" Teasing. A futile distraction from the pain.

Cheeks heating red, he nods, "'n I got my karma for it, too."

It was just a simple brush, not even full contact, but you've already gotten hooked on that feeling. This isn't the time, nor is it the place. You can already hear the downright fit Cyclone is going to have when he catches wind of this. 

Bob's eyebrows raise just a fraction, "yeah?" 

Motivated by spite alone, your fingers are already halfway through fumbling with the confines of your harness. Wouldn't have even realized you were doing it had Bob not said anything. It takes some squirming; getting that harness off your legs is harder than it looks, and Bob can only get it down to his knees before he needs assistance. 

The millisecond you get that harness safely off his ankle, you plant two firm hands on his chest and push. 

"Jesus," he chuckles, arms opening up to welcome you as you climb on top of him. 

It's easier this way. You've got to do most of the work, but it keeps Bob from disturbing his ankle. And now, there is nothing that can stop you from tentatively straddling his hips, ass brushing against a hardness that you hope to become overly familiar with someday.

"Better?" You chirp, back aching as you lean down to meet his waiting lips.

As the gap closes, he hums, "better."

Beneath your hands, you can feel his heart pitter-pattering away, soft little thumps that mirror the one that rattles through your weary bones. In the back of your head, a familiar little voice asks you if rolling your hips down into Bob's hard-on is a good idea. There may be no going back from this. The last thing you need is for Cyclone to split you two up and never let you fly together again.

But Bob's sharp inhale tells you that this is a very, very good idea. "Sweetheart," it's hard to tell if it's the pet name or the deep, guttural groan that sends your head spinning, "'m not sure you wanna do that to me."

Eyeroll. "But, Bob~" singsonging. 

"But Weave," he whines back, twitching up to rub against the curve of your ass. His eyes scrunch shut, ankle disturbed, but it doesn't hinder him in the slightest. "If we do this," grunting, "I don't think I'm ever gonna be able to get my hands off of ya."

Should you be making major decisions fresh out of a crash? Probably not.

Will you make that decision anyway? Yes. 

Leaning down, you allow your mouth to open, teeth grazing the shell of his pale ear, "maybe that's what I want." And that ear goes ruby red in the blink of an eye. 

Hands running up your sides, Bob bats his pretty eyes up at you, "then lead the way, pilot."

In all of your whimsy daydreams, you've never come up with a scenario quite like this one. Your quiet, sweet-eyed backseater, laying beneath you in a decrepit shack in the middle of God-knows-where, fresh after an ejection. But somehow, as your hips begin to work themselves against Bob's clothed bulge, and as his hands timidly draw up to cup your breasts, you can't help but realize how fitting it is.

His hips unintentionally shift, and in that simple motion, everything changes. Even through the material of your flight suits, you can feel the outline of him pressing deliciously against your cunt. Not much friction, but it's just enough to have both of your heads rolling, surprised gasps falling from your lips. 

You don't know when he's found the opportunity to unzip your g suit, the material that was once wrapped snuggle around your waist, now hanging low on your thighs. But now those deft fingers toy with the zipper of your flight suit, waiting on your command. Rolling your hips once more, you nod. 

Bob can't get it down quick enough, barely gets the zipper halfway before he's reaching beyond, hands remarkably warm as they slide beneath your shirt. Those dull nails drag just right, tickling your skin.

"So damn soft," he muses, and with the way he's stroking up your spine, you almost think he's petting you. 

They're on the move again, concealed by the distraction of his hips rising up to meet you halfway. Your bra shifts as those wandering hands dive beneath it, doing nothing but feel the shape of you in his palms. Thumbs flick across your nipples, sends your body jerking.

"Jesus, Bobby," squirming as he toys with them, you idly fumble with the side-zipper of his g suit.

"You're lucky there's snow on the ground," he's not even looking at your face, absolutely consumed by what's going on beneath your shirt, "else I'd be beggin' to get this blasted shirt off your pretty lil' frame."

"We can—" fuck, it's hard to talk with him handling your chest like that, "we can save that for when we're sneaking around on the carrier."

"We ain't never gonna hear the end of it," he rolls his hips with yours as he speaks, "Bob and Weave, validatin' everythin' them Admiral's keep sayin' 'bout us."

Just as quickly as he'd reached under your shirt, he retreats, instead taking hold of your devilishly spiraling hips. The pressure tells you to move forward, but when you do, he keeps asking you to move further. 

"Bob...?" You're fully sitting on his chest now, and he's still wordlessly asking you to move up.

He reaches up, dragging that zipper down as far as it will go. Right down between your quivering thighs, exposing the flimsy shorts you're wearing beneath. Whether or not he recognizes that these are his own shorts is a different topic entirely. 

"Up a little more, sweet thing," he urges once more, "want you sittin' on my face."

Oh.

You don't even know what to think. It's hard to believe that your innocent backseater even know this was a thing, to begin with, but here he is, hooking an index finger into the crook of your shorts and panties. His breath is hot against your sensitive skin, enough to have you trying to rise up and away from the feeling.

"What if you can't breathe?" Bracing your hands on the ground beneath his head.

Brilliant blue eyes flick up to take in your expression. "Good."

And with both of his hands gripping your hips, he leans up and drags his dripping tongue right between your folds. Broad, flat as he spreads you open with it, fuck, that's a hell of a feeling. With you distracted, he pulls you downward, forcing you to sit on his pretty face. 

"Bobby," fuck, fuck, fuck, his tongue flicking against your swelling clit is something else. 

The bastard hums, somehow already understanding what you mean when you whimper his name. Already knows that the fingers tangling in his hair are a good thing. If you'd thought his breath was hot, this is something else entirely. The wet muscle that laps at your cunt burns hotter than the flames that consumed your aircraft, threatens to burn right through you. 

Only plays with your clit for long enough to have you whimpering his name under hushed breaths before lapping his way down, down, down to your neglected entrance. Tonguing it, tracing your sensitive rim before pushing inside. The soft tip of his nose presses into your clit, paying it attention while his tongue works in and out of you.

"Fuck, fuck, Bobby," you hope there aren't any foot soldiers looking for you; they'd be able to hear you a mile away, "how the hell did you—ah, even know about this?"

You shouldn't have asked that. No, no, you shouldn't have because now he's peering up at you as he works your sensitive cunt, "y'talked 'bout it one night at the Hard Deck." He doesn't even try to pull away as he speaks, words vibrating right up your spine. "Been dreamin' 'bout it ever since."

Then he's drawing back up, swirling around the swollen bud that he can't seem to leave alone, "Can y'imagine the heart attack this'd give Mav?" How long has he been hiding lewd words under a sheepish smile? "Find'n out I've got my pilots sweet lil' pussy on my tongue right after I promised I wouldn't?"

Mav. Poor bastard spent the past month convincing Cyclone you and Bob weren't seconds away from jumping each other's bones, only for it to actually happen the moment he turned his back. Not a soul on that carrier has a clue. They don't even know you're alive, never mind squirming on your backseater's face as he laps at your pussy like it's his nine-to-five. 

That thought alone sends something tightening in your gut. Familiar. 

"'m close," you gasp, tugging at his short locks, "don't wanna cum like this."

Bob pauses midstroke, seems to think a little before speaking, "how d'ya wan' it?"

"I'd rather cum around your cock," not even missing a beat. 

And even with his face right between your legs, tongue fresh off your pussy, Robert Floyd has the audacity to turn beet fucking red. 

"Well," suddenly unable to meet your eye, "then...be my guest?"

You hate him, you think, as you squirm back down, dragging his flight suit zipper along with you. You hate, hate, hate this motherfucker and his ability to sway so seamlessly between demanding and sheepish. 

Beneath his flight suit, his shirt has risen up, revealing a milky-white tummy that absolutely demands a kiss or two. Even if the angle is awkward and puts a strain on your already sore neck. 

"'r you really kissin' my belly right now?" Combing his fingers against your scalp, but that doesn't sound like a complaint to you.

"I've gotta do what I've gotta do," the cold tip of your nose nuzzles the smooth skin that resides just next to the waistband of his shorts. Your fingers itch to pull them down, but his flight suit creates a hell of a conundrum. You can't even catch glimpse of his pale thighs, and those are probably an eighth-world wonder on their own.

Next time. 

For now, you'll have to be content with pushing the loose material of his shorts upward enough so that you can see his briefs lurking beneath. Even from here, you can see the strain he's putting on the material, makes it easy to find him when you reach past.

"Shit," he hisses, hips rising as you take hold of him at the base. Slowly, slowly, you guide him out, finding yourself amused as he chases your touch until he no longer can. 

He's bigger than you thought he would be. A considerable weight in your palm, pale-pink tip silky soft as you toy with it. You hope there will come a day when you can sit down and see how long it takes him to get off from you playing with that mushroom tip. Because right now, as he bites his lip to stifle his noises, you don't think it would take too long.

Speaking of...

"Hah-!" That's a new sound. Peering up at him from beneath your lashes, you poke your tongue out and run it against his length once more. Clamping his hand over his mouth, he reaches down to bat you away from his poor cock, "'gonna get us caught if ya keep doin' that."

Maybe that's the point. Dying with his cock in your mouth. What a way to go.

Cautiously, you settle yourself up on his lap, one hand braced on his sturdy chest while the other guides him to where you want him the most. Blunt head spreading your folds with such ease that it's as if he was made to do it. Once you apply the slightest bit of pressure but allow him to slip forward, just a slight taste that has him grumbling beneath you. 

Drawing him back, he catches on your entrance, and slowly, as if moving too quickly will break him, you allow yourself to sink down. It's been a long while since the last time you felt the growing pressure that comes with such an intrusion, gradually stretching to accommodate his girth. 

You want to make a remark over the way he downright whimpers into the back of his hand, but you can't so much as make a noise. A little too distracted by how your walls mold to fit the shape of your backseater, filling spaces you forgot you even had. Then your hips are flush together, and it's as if your voice has been punched back into you.

"Fuck, Robby," panting like a dog, you're forced to brace yourself against his chest with both hands or else you'll collapse into a messy heap on top of him, "you could've at least warned me that you were packing."

He rolls his eyes. You hope they get stuck back there. "'m not that big," but he is, and it's so dizzyingly delicious to feel inside of you. Not necessarily long, but thick enough to warrant a wide-load sign. 

Experimentally, you lift your hips, testing the waters as you rise up, then slowly sink back down onto him. He hasn't even hit anything special, and yet it's enough to have your lips parting with a silent sound. You haven't the slightest clue where he's finding the strength to swivel his hips beneath you, blindly searching on each timid upward stroke. 

And then your breath is hitching, stars sparkling beneath your eyelids as his plush head finds the neglected bundle of nerves hidden within those gooey walls. There it is.

"Better?" He chirps, smiling. Evidently, he's not just good with buttons and switches in fighter jets.

Nodding. "Better" 

Drawing yourself up quicker now, barely clinging to his chest as you find your pace. Something shallow enough to avoid the aching in your thighs but quick enough to give you what you want. His head downright nails that poor little spot, has your cunt fluttering around him like a damn butterfly.

"Look so beautiful on top of me," he whines, absolutely awe-struck by the way your body moves, working up and down like you've trained for this moment all your life. His hips twitch upward, weakly meeting you halfway, and rips a surprised cry right out of your throat. "Fuck, 's that what you need, darlin'?" 

"Just like that, Bobby," you don't even know what you're saying, only capable of moving a little quicker, desperate to feel him strike that sensitive bundle again and again and again. "Bobby, just like that."

You want more. Need to hear his soft grunts that follow every lewd smack of skin on skin, need more of everything he has to offer you, but your thighs are growing sore. Muscles burning, begging you to stop. 

"Can't," you're trying, but your legs just aren't having it, unable to chase the familiar tightening of your core as you ride him. "I can't keep—"

"I got ya," there's an unfamiliar strength to his hands as they tighten around your hips. His upward thrusts are weak, but he pulls you down into them so hard that you can hardly notice a difference. 

Two motions of his hips, and you're crumbling like a house of cards, collapsing into his chest. All of a sudden, his name is the only thing you're capable of uttering, face hiding in the crook of his sweaty neck. You don't know where this is coming from, but you pray it never goes away.

"So good for me," he mindlessly babbles against your temple, "cum on my cock for me, sweetie."

His words have you clamping down around him like a vice, writhing as he fucks you. Rhythm faltering but downright merciless as he works that sensitive spot over and over, sends a fire rippling up your belly. Skin prickling as it builds, your mouth starts to move on its own. "Bobby, Bobby."

"Cum, darlin'," and he's saying more, some whispered encouragement to give it to him, but you don't need it. 

One, two, three more pumps of his cock, and you're biting down into his collarbone, unable to stop the strangled squeal that he just about jackhammers out of you. Distantly, you can feel his hips stalling, an unfamiliar heat filling you, but your head is back up in the clouds. Foggy, the air so thin that you can't catch your breath as you weakly pulse around his dick.

But this time, when you open your eyes after a long while, you don't find yourself surrounded by snow and an unfamiliar forest. No, you're wrapped in the strong arms of your Weapons Systems Officer, cock still wedged in you as he presses kisses to your sweaty forehead.

"Y'still with me?" He coos into your temple. 

Nodding, "barely." 

It's twelve hours before search and rescue are finally deployed to come and find you. It takes another twelve for them to release you and Bob from debriefing hell. It's an hour after that when the honorary "they're not dead!" celebration takes off. The cafeteria that houses the impromptu event reeks of alcohol, which may be the reason why nobody catches you and your backseater sneaking out of your own party. 

"I still can't believe you didn't break it," you muse, too focused on rewrapping Bob's ankle to pay attention to the fingers that stroke your cheek. The countless stitches look worse than the original gash itself did, sends a chill down your spine every time you see it. 

"See? I told you I was fine," his eye-roll is audible in his tone, never has been good at hiding it. 

Not missing a beat, you nip at his thumb, chasing his hand away from your face. You need to focus. The last thing you want to do is wrap his ankle too loosely or too tightly. But as you place the metal clasp back into his gauze, your work doesn't look too far off from the medics. 

"Better?"

"Not yet," tapping his lips, "'m still missing a little something."

Huffing, you lean up, meeting his lips halfway. You fear that you're slowly creating a kiss fiend. "Now, is it better?"

All of it is worth it when you get to see his face light up, features laced with a grin so big that his eyes wrinkle with it. "Better."

[transgenderer]

i really like the "mimesis as make-believe" take on myth, that thinking of them as like "true" or "false" is missing the point. like, yes, they're not true, but they arent really intended as truth claims, they're intended as imagination devices, for imagining a story with particular vividness. but they predate the notion of fiction as like, a discrete section in the bookstore. their use and function is perpendicular to the "true story based on evidence"/"false story somebody made up" divide. their truth value is, for their purpose, simply not important! its like asking about the color of a hammer! sure, theres reasons to care about what color your hammer is. but if you ask someone what color their hammer's handle is, theres a good chance they dont remember, because it doesn't

and imagining is valuable not just because it's fun, but because it can allow you to understand something better! the mechanism here is somewhat unclear but also kind of undeniable. reading a story about some concept often makes you feel you understand it better afterwards, without the story making any truth claims on that topic. because imagining requires you to...draw in, marshal up, organize and direct your knowledge of the world, to construct the imagining, and that process lets you form new connections between things

[jarofstyles]

FICTOBER DAY 12- In My Dreams

FICTOBER Prompt list/masterlist

Patreon

-----

Y/N felt like she had seen a ghost as she looked up in the coffee shop. 

Her job was nice. Making coffee for passive aggressive soccer mom’s wasn’t the highlight of her day, but getting to be out in town and greet her regulars was always a fun time for her. Y/N was a dreamer, but dreaming didn’t make life free- so she had ended up getting a job at the most tolerable place she could find until she could lift her feet off the ground and meet her head in the clouds where all her dreams reside. 

Dreams were a big thing for her. So vivid, so real, especially since moving to the next state over where rent was cheaper and cost of living just slightly less terrifying. The city hadn’t cut it and she needed a place to start over, so returning to suburban life had been a no brainer. Her entire life she had dreams, odd ones, some that plain old scared her, but lately they’d been some of the best she’d ever had. 

Her dreams consisted of going out and living her dream life as an author, only this time it felt real. It felt like she escaped from her daily life by going to sleep. It was odd, and she knew she should probably see a professional from how attached she was to her dream life, but she couldn’t see the harm. She spent days at this cafe as a customer instead, sipping her iced hazelnut coffees and getting a cinnamon bun while she worked on the manuscript, editing, plotting for new books in her head. 

She had a cat in her dreams, one she had always wanted- a flame point ragdoll that let her put tiny pink bows on the top of her head that she named Miffy after her favorite cartoon rabbit. Her new apartment had a large multicolored rug and a view of the downtown, high ceilings and a fireplace. She still didn’t know how it was always turned on when she returned home in dreamland- but she figured it was because of her dream boyfriend. 

Oddly enough, she didn’t know his name. She knew his face, his green eyes and longer nose. She knew his pink mouth and how it tasted, how gentle it could press kisses to her eyelids before she woke up into her real life. She knew his touch, how it was slightly cool and his hands were soft, stroking over her cheek as she told him about her ideas and plans and when she sometimes cried about not wanting to wake up. 

Her dream life was her escape, her wishes come true, and it somehow made the real thing both more tolerable and more hated. Her brain must be giving her a break, but she had no idea how she had made up this man in such detail. To the way he liked his coffee, to his preference in cinnamon to peppermint gum. How he disliked the color coral but loved a soft orange, even choosing it for their shared bedspread. He had become such a fixture in her thoughts that it had begun to ache when she woke up, not seeing him next to her in her bed that wasn’t the one she had fallen asleep in. Y/N’s world just felt somnolent without his arm wrapped around her waist and his gentle humming as she drifted off to ‘sleep’, as much as she tried to fight it. Her eyes always opened anyways. 

H. That’s his name, or at least what he had told her. The dynamic would drive anyone else insane- it even did for her- but she knew that one day she could have something like that. 

He was the sweetest thing, sweeter than cherry pie. A man of few words, simply asking about her day in a hushed voice, questioning her about her likes and dislikes, telling her some trivial facts about him and kissing right between her brows when she came to him with a history question for her historical romance pieces. He said he was a historian, but he was brilliant. Almost as if he had lived through some of the events, retelling portions with passion and giving her real insight into what he believed it would be like for someone at that time. 

An odd man, but someone who she wished desperately was real. 

“Y/N, that guy outside is staring at you.” 

Her coworker interrupted her daydream as she waited for the milk to finish frothing. The trickle of chills slivered down her back as she turned her head to the side in time to see a man walking inside, the chime of the shop bells ringing as the door opened up. 

It felt like her breath was stolen as he stepped past the welcome mat, a hand clad with rings that looked like a picture she knew of brushed through pushed back curls. Her hand shook slightly as she struggled to turn off the milk frother, blinking repeatedly as he approached the counter. Despite the sunglasses, she felt his eyes. They were intense, boring into hers behind the filmed lenses, her stomach twisting and body cold as he finally stood at the counter, plushy lips opening to place an order- but when the glasses came down and those all too familiar green eyes met her own, she felt like she couldn’t breathe. 

What the actual fuck was happening? 

“Vanilla latte, please. With a shot of caramel creamer.”

 His voice was the same, soft and deep as he recited the order she already knew by heart. One she prepared in her dreams a million times- but this was not a dream. Not even if she wished it was. There was a specific euphoric feeling in her dreams and this was not that. Her feet were firmly planted on the ground, even if her head perhaps floated too high.  She knew by the aching of her feet and her splitting headache from the squeaks of the coffee machines and blenders going all day, there was no way this was her dream world. It was just her dream man standing in front of her, eyeing her in a way to say he knew. His eyes were expressive, like they could see into her head. And he knew she was freaking out, but trying to stay calm. 

“I’ve seen you…. You’ve been in my dreams.” Her voice whispered across the counter, her trembling fingers typing the order into the pad as her eyes stayed on his own. “Or I’m crazy.” 

That seemed like the more plausible option, but somehow… she knew she wasn’t.

“You’re not crazy.” He replied, placing the money for his drink into her hand. “You get off in twelve minutes. I’ll wait for you.” 

[wannabepoeticischiya]

if I can stop one heart from breaking

[ 11 ] — the present

⟵ prev | master list |

He existed in the morning dew, in the afternoon haze, within the illusions of twilight. He was there. In the silence of midnight, in the wake of dawn... he was there.

Hoshina Soushiro was everywhere... except right here. He existed in every corner of the cosmos—just not in the space beside her.

If only you did not come to me that day… if only you had left me to this cruel fate.

Everything in Tokyo was too bright. The sun, the buildings, the people… like they were left in eternal autumn; shaded every color lighter, every color brighter than what they should be.

Echoes of sound rang from every corner, meandering from one street onto another. Chatters of everyday life drifted into the horizons of the sky—the same blue canvas she had been cradled under nearly seven years ago. When the space beside her wasn’t so… cold. A rift in time that felt surreal, nothing but a momentary reverie. So short lived one would wonder if it really did happen.

Everything in Tokyo was too loud. There existed no orchestra of trees, no singing waters, not even the rhythmic thuds of wood parrying one another. Only the frantic footfalls from the rush hours, beeping of the pedestrian crossing lanes, blares of the trains passing by.

It was a world riddled in chaos—a world in ruin, but there were no people laughing. The promise of a happy life at the price of nothing was nothing but a make-believe. An illusion of hope conjured by those who have yet to witness the cruelty of reality. Or those who shouldered the weight of it all only to realize that people who swore to share the weight will leave them to be crushed, barely held together by a thread that was ready to break.

Everything in Tokyo... felt out of reach. Here, in this place where humans were so close to touch. Galaxies were nearer. Black holes pulling it closer all together, all at once, but never enough to destroy. The scenery before her looked more like a dream. A distant fantasy blurring between the lines of sadness and anger.

Him—just like everything else in this godawful city… he was far too vivid.

Everywhere she goes, he was there.

A poster. A billboard. Someone with the same height. An image of him that would disappear when the light turned green, and vehicles would swarm the highways. The song that would play in the local convenience store. A knife lying on the kitchen island. He was there.

In every little thing… he was there.

The air was cold; summer nearing its end. She didn't know if the breeze was a gentle caress to soothe her aching heart or if it was a ruse—a reminder that his warmth will never return to her. That she'll spend autumn and winter and spring and all the seasons after that feeling like all the stars have disappeared.

Maybe, it has. Maybe, when he decided to walk away from her, he took all the lights that hung in the sky. Maybe, the moment he told her to stop loving him, he plunged the heavens into infinite darkness.

One would think that after all these years he would be nothing but an echo. A buzz in the thundering events of daily life—one wave in the finite vastness of the ocean. A lone cloud painted on the canvas of the sky.

But he remained.

A melody in an endless tune, dust motes that littered the air, the scent of violet that followed like daylight.

He existed in the morning dew, in the afternoon haze, within the illusions of twilight.

He was there.

In the silence of midnight, in the wake of dawn… he was there.

Hoshina Soushiro was everywhere… except right here.

He existed in every corner of the cosmos—just not in the space beside her.

Perhaps, it wouldn’t hurt as much—that maybe we’d be alright… even if we were not lovers.

Her fingers curled around cold metal, heaving the heavy object over her shoulder, walking over to the edge of the tall wall. Away from the sight of the city. The reminder of him and all his empty promises. Letting the curtain fall over the cabinet that housed his achievements; announced his priorities.

“This is Captain [Name], requesting permission for limiter removal.”

Because he surrendered.

“Copy that, releasing in three… two… one…”

He grew tired.

Unleashed Combat Power—93 Percent.

And he gave up.

Uehara [Name] gave all that she could. In every waking moment, she carried the weight of the world on her shoulders: his dreams, her family’s expectations, what society had wanted from her. Those moons that have passed them by, only once did she voice out that she had enough. Only once did she ask if she could still take it. Just once did she gather the courage to say what she really felt—that it was heavy and it hurt, that she was tired.

Just one time, out of the many times that she could have given it all up, but she didn’t.

Turns out, it only took him one time, too… to throw it all away. To leave and never come back.

[Name] needed him to fight for them that night—in that moment—because she was exhausted from fighting alone.

Just one time, she grew weary… and he left.

Is that what your love is like, Soushiro? How could you give up so easily? How could you not find a reason to stay?

“You’re clear for fire, Captain.”

Was it not enough that I loved you too?

The weapon in her arm grew heavy, even after years of training her body to reach past its limits… it never felt lighter—not her weapon nor the feeling withering in her chest. No matter how many times she pulled the trigger or how many people she met, she remained behind an invisible wall. Restless nights from the cramps of her muscles. The aches of her heart.

At some point, I wanted to believe we could always be together wherever I ended up. But I realize just how selfish that sounds. Maybe that’s what I am. A cruel, heartless liar. The person who deserves you the least. Who comes last in your list of priorities. The last thought. Last resort. The failsafe. And it’s okay… so long as I’ll have you. Turns out you didn’t have room for me in your heart, but I tried to be greedy for once.

It was all the same.

A wall of fire erupted from the distance, vaporizing the waters of the ocean. Skies of the summer season were always curtained by the unending parade of clouds, now they circled around the body of the obliterated kaiju.

Streams of fiery sunlight pierced through the haze, flowing down on the cold metal wrapped around her finger. Tarnished under the care of time.

If I could have stopped your heart from breaking… maybe, I could have saved mine too.

Thank you all so much for your support! It really means a lot <33 This story has been a rollercoaster of emotions, even for me! It took me all of summer break to write this because I was sitting around watching fruits basket (it was posted on ao3 first 🥰) the comments and hearing other people's thoughts really make me happy 😁 I cannot thank you enough for reading this one-shot expanded story, it really was meant to be a one-shot, honest🤚 I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I had fun TEARS, THE LITERAL TEARS, THE SCREAMS, THE PAINFUL HEARTACHE OF WRITING THE HAPPY SCENES KNOWING I WAS GONNA HURT THEM, THE JAWBREAKING GRIN I HAD WHEN I WAS KICKING AND GIGGLING, AND THE REALIZATION THAT IT WASN'T GONNA END HAPPILY writing it 😇🙏

If you're interested, see my other works🧺🤗

Preview: had I not seen the stars

The worst part of it all was that I still remember it. I still remember your love. I walk around this damned city remembering it all. I'm going to live in a universe you've left me in. And I'm going to die in a universe you've loved me in.

[kizudnyy]

Aubrey's Sunset 2019 

― You stand before the grave of a young soul, a bittersweet smile spreading across your face as tears slowly spill down your cheeks. Your one true love is gone, and there’s no changing that. 

“Have we met before?” The voice of the dead rang inside your head.  Unable to process everything as reality struck you hard. You have repeated the cycle once more. 

"I…" you begin, your voice trembling as a weary chuckle escapes your lips. "I guess we have, huh?" 

I know the fandom and the whole ordeal itself is dead at this point, but I don’t fucking care cause the hyper fixation just got back to me and – As a writer, it is my DAMN duty to project my thoughts into the archives! To hell with the 2023-2024 problematic shit! 

CHAPTER 1: My deepest regrets, is to never tell you that ‘I love you’ 

The sun was beginning to set, casting a long shadow over the cemetery. The world around you have never felt so eerily still, so numb, and so-so cold. It was as if reality itself has taken a huge disliking to you and you only, letting you suffer such great consequences, and yet despite everything, it had held its breath for the presence of such deep sorrow. You could hardly believe that you were standing here once again, above the soil that had buried someone so important. A grave, a person’s spot that marked a resting place of one person who had meant everything to you. 

'Do you think we will be together in another universe?'

'I hope so.'

You took a shaky breath, trying to steady yourself. The memories kept replaying back to your mind. Memories of your time together played in your mind like a film reel, each scene more vivid than the last. His laughter, his smile, the way he always seemed to know how to make you feel better—everything about him was etched into your heart.  

But now, he was gone. And you were left with only the remnants of what once was. 

“Why does it have to always end like this?” You muttered to no one in particular, your voice barely a whisper, making it seem like the question was meant to be answered by you. “Alex, Alex, Alex. Why!” Your voice was already trembling with emotion. The weight of the cycles that you went through, the endless repetition – a curse of finding him at your very lowest, to losing him at his peak. It was becoming too much to bear, too much for your little heart. 

But now, he was gone. And you were left with only the remnants of what once was. 

"Why does it always have to end like this?" you whispered to no one in particular, your voice trembling with emotion. The weight of the cycles you had lived through, the endless repetition of finding him and losing him, was becoming too much to bear. 

You knelt beside the grave, your fingers tracing the letters of his name carved into the stone. It felt cold and distant, a stark contrast to the warmth you had known in his embrace. Tears blurred your vision, but you didn’t bother wiping them away. This moment, this heartache, was all too familiar. 

And then, as if summoned by your grief, his voice echoed in your mind once more. "Have we met before?" 

The question lingered in the air, a cruel reminder of the countless times you had met, loved, and lost him. Each cycle was different, yet the outcome was always the same—his life cut short, leaving you to mourn him over and over again. 

"I…" Your voice cracked as you tried to respond, the words getting caught in your throat. A bitter laugh bubbled up inside you, born of frustration and sadness. "I guess so, huh?" 

You leaned back on your heels, letting the stillness of the evening wash over you. The sky above was a canvas of orange and pink, the colors fading into twilight. It was beautiful, yet the beauty felt hollow in the face of your pain. 

A part of you wanted to give up, to let the cycle break and leave this endless loop behind. But another part, the part that still clung to hope, refused to let go. You knew that as long as there was even the slightest chance of saving him, you would continue to fight. 

The device that had brought you here, that had allowed you to travel through time, was still tucked safely in your pocket. It was both a blessing and a curse—your only means of seeing him again, and the very thing that condemned you to relive this tragedy. 

You pulled the device out, your fingers brushing over its smooth surface. It was small and vintage, yet it held the power to alter the course of history. But no matter how many times you used it, no matter how many variations of the past you lived through, you could never seem to change his fate. 

‘Remember, history isn't meant to be rewritten, even for love. It serves a purpose beyond our understanding.’ 

"One more time," you murmured, your resolve hardening. "Just one more time." 

‘...’ 

With a deep breath, you activated the device. The world around you began to blur, the colors bleeding into one another until everything was a whirl of light and sound. You closed your eyes, focusing on the one person you wanted to see more than anything. 

When you opened them again, you were no longer in the cemetery. The grave was gone, replaced by the familiar surroundings of a bustling town square. People milled about, unaware of the time traveler in their midst. 

And there, in the distance, was the boy you had come to find. He was younger, full of life and energy, completely oblivious to the fate that awaited him. Your heart ached at the sight, knowing what was to come, but you couldn’t stay away. 

You had to try. Even if it meant risking everything. 

As you made your way toward him, the sound of his laughter reached your ears—a sound you had missed more than anything. You swallowed the lump in your throat and called out his name, your voice trembling with a mixture of fear and hope. 

He turned, his eyes meeting yours with a look of surprise. For a moment, you saw a flicker of recognition in his gaze, as if some part of him remembered you, even if he couldn’t place it. 

"Have we met before?" he asked, his head tilting slightly to the side. 

You smiled softly, the words tasting bittersweet on your tongue as you replied, "In a way… yes." 

KIZU'S MULTI-FANDOM MASTERLIST

[polin-fanfix]

Writer!Penelope

Photographer!Colin Writer!Colin

So photography was invented in the late 1820s?

In the heart of London’s bustling city, amidst the clatter of horse-drawn carriages and the whispers of the Regency era��s elite, there lived two souls, seemingly worlds apart yet bound by a thread of destiny. Penelope Featherington, a writer of wit and charm, spent her days weaving tales that captured the hearts of many. Her words danced across the pages of her novels, bringing to life stories of love and adventure that resonated with the yearning hearts of her readers.

Colin Bridgerton, a travel writer and photographer with a thirst for the unknown, roamed the farthest corners of the globe, capturing moments of breathtaking beauty through his lens. His travel journals were a tapestry of cultures and landscapes. Each posted a window into the vibrant tapestry of the world.

Their paths crossed one fateful evening at a ball hosted by the esteemed Lady Danbury. Colin, home from his latest expedition, was the talk of the ton, his tales of exotic lands enchanting every ear. Penelope, a wallflower often overlooked, found herself entranced by his vivid descriptions and the passion that lit his eyes.

******

Penelope looked up in surprise with a book in hand. “Oh! I didn't expect anyone else to be here.”

“I could say the same. I needed a break from the crowd.” Colin said, leaning on a bookshelf.

“I find the same escape in words. This library is a haven.” Penelope smile looking around the candlelit room.

“It seems we both appreciate stories, albeit in different forms.”

“Yes. Paris must be a dream through your lens. I often set my stories there.” Penelope remembered one of his travel tales.

“It's a city that looks back at you, almost like it's telling its own tale. What do you write about?”

Penelope blushed. It was not often that someone was interested in her hobbies. “Romance, mostly. The kind that makes you believe in unexpected connections.”

“Then we're in the business of crafting dreams, aren't we?” Colin half smiled.

Penelope nodded. “Dreams that sometimes speak a truth louder than reality.”

Colin walked over to the settee and sat across from Penelope. “Have you ever been to Paris?”

“No, but my characters have. Through them, I've walked along the Seine a thousand times.”

Colin’s heart warmed at the sentiment. “Maybe it's time you write your own story there. I could show you the city beyond the postcards.”

“That would be a story worth telling. And you, have you ever written about your travels?”

“I capture moments through photographs and I've tried putting them into words. However, I doubt my writing would impart the splendor of the places I've toured.”

“Perhaps we could teach each other. I'll write the words for your pictures.” Her voice playful and hopeful.

“And we can exhibit my photograps along side the moments you conjure with your pen.”

Penelope extended her hand. “It's a deal, Mr. Bridgerton.”

Colin shook her hand, feeling an unexpected jolt run up his spine.

“And a pleasure, Miss Featherington. Shall we start with the first chapter tonight?”

Penelope laughed in surprise. “Let's. But first, tell me, which part of the world is your favorite?”

Colin leaned forward.

“Right now, this library in London seems to be a strong contender.”

******

As the night wore on, they found themselves in the quiet sanctuary of the manor’s library. Surrounded by leather-bound tomes and the soft glow of candlelight, they spoke of their dreams and aspirations. Penelope confessed her longing to see the world beyond the pages of her books, while Colin admitted his desire to find a story that would stir his soul as much as his travels did.

In the weeks that followed, their friendship blossomed. Colin began to see the world through Penelope’s eyes, finding beauty in the simplicity of everyday life. Penelope, inspired by Colin’s photographs, started to infuse her writing with the colors and textures of the places he had seen. They were two artists, painting a canvas of shared experiences, each stroke bringing them closer together.

One afternoon, as they strolled through the verdant gardens of Hyde Park, Colin turned to Penelope with a sparkle in his eye. “I’ve been thinking,” he began, his voice tinged with a hint of nervousness, “about a new journey. But this time, I don’t want to go alone. Would you… would you join me?”

Penelope’s heart skipped a beat. The prospect of exploring the world with Colin, of seeing the places she had only ever dreamed of, was exhilarating. “Yes,” she whispered. Her voice barely audible over the rustling leaves. “I would love nothing more.”

And so, they set off together. Their love story unfolding across continents and oceans. With every sunset they watched and every mountain they climbed, their bond deepened. Penelope’s writing flourished. Each word a testament to the love that grew between them. Colin’s photographs, once solitary snapshots of the world, now had a constant, radiant subject – Penelope, the woman who had become his muse.

Years passed, and their adventures became the stuff of legend. The Bridgerton-Featherington expedition, as it came to be known, was a symbol of love’s power to bridge distances and differences. They had found in each other a kindred spirit, a partner in both life and art.

As they sat together, old and gray, in the very library where their love had first sparked, they knew that their greatest adventure had been the journey of their hearts. For in the end, it was not the places they had seen or the accolades they had received that mattered most, but the love that had guided them through it all.

And so, the story of Colin Bridgerton and Penelope Featherington became a timeless tale. A reminder that sometimes, the most extraordinary journeys are those that lead us to love.

[hellobunny044]

Yours. | One shoot

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An original Haikyuu! AU Pairing Sakusa Kiyoomi and a female oc (I haven't thought of a name, so she is all of you female readers)

short desc. just thinking of post time skip Sakusa meeting the girl of his dream who is a reporter ??? (idk that came out of nowhere) and... I'm bad at describing my work properly so um... expect yourself to find some hopeless romantic trace, cringe-worthy remarks, and a little toe-curling smut at the end - and so, i wish you all good luck bearing with my work. heh heh.

⚠️warning!! 18+ Minors DNI. NSFW content ⚠️

word counts. 13107 words, good luck :)

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Yours

Supposedly, Sakusa couldn’t possibly remember the last time he favored gatherings, people, and things that would eventually connect him to the public. The search for the word attention had long been eliminated in his terms. If only, that day he did not stop for an interview.

It was the first interview he had ever done in his terms being someone who genuinely hates being put in the spotlight. It was nothing, Sakusa just felt that he had no place in society other than a position as an opposite hitter on a volleyball team... anyway, getting back to the talk, well, actually his first interview was not as what of a disaster as he pictured it.

His first interview was still so vivid in his memory to this day: why he agreed to one (all because of that idiot Atsumu and a particularly tangerine-haired shorty), about the questions, his answers, and most importantly, the who part.

If only he did not stop for that one interview, perhaps his mind would be a little quieter these days.

It was because of a sports reporter for a national television channel that his mind turned into somewhere too noisy for him to hide from the world.

His monotonous and comfortable world fell into a massive transition since the intersection brought them. And don’t get it wrong, Sakusa is one of the many who don’t believe in love at first sight, to tell the truth he would gladly abuse the idea. He would a thousand times rather believe in how good luck charms work than believe in such clichés, until that damned unidentified, unfamiliar oddness struck him like a bolt of lightning.

Logically speaking, she wasn’t really the prettiest girl he had ever seen. And instead of wearing a revealing outfit like some of the reporters on their flirty attempt to get an interview with him, she just wore a track jacket.  Track jacket sets, navy blue in color, white sneakers, a small black watch on the left wrist, hair tied in a ponytail and her hair wasn’t something that of a distinguishing tangerine color though she has some bangs, ideally parted just right, her eyes are the same color as her hair which was deep brown, and less make up. If he would say something, compared to most female reporters that he had ever seen, she almost looks like someone who was forced to do an interview yet there is something very bothering about her.

Something about her was just irresistible.

She was not the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, yet she knew how to carry herself. She was not the most beautiful woman he has ever seen, yet her eyes whisper of forgotten familiarity. She was not the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, yet when she laughed, it was as if there was a sprinkle of amusement in the air, and before he knew it, his smile unfolded.

From then on, his head never stopped fussing about her. And on the question “Do you have a girlfriend, Sakusa Senshu?” During his second interview with her, Sakusa’s answer came with a firm, “No.”

That was definitely not for the public. Rather, the answer was for her. To let her know that Sakusa Kiyoomi was single, and perhaps, she could consider that.

Another thing about this woman was that she was a professional at her job. Her eyes never went to check on him when the camera was off, but instead, it was Sakusa’s hobby to steal glances in her direction until one time on an off-air interview session that he voluntarily accepted, the PD suggested that they talked with each other while waiting for the set to be ready.

Her gaze then met his, for the first time, behind the wall that they were two professionally connected.

Her smile unfolded, acknowledgement. Her head bowed, politeness and formality. Her voice warm, pleasantries. Then she turns to the PD to say, “I think I know enough about Sakusa Senshu for there is more left,”

She laughed. How sweet. She has a good laugh. He likes that.

“There is though,” Sakusa said.

Her eyes were on his, before briefly glancing at the staff and returning, “You have a question?”

Sakusa didn’t bother answering that one. Purely an impulse from within him prompted by his inadequacy in small talk, his question was blunt, “Do you have a boyfriend?”

He had enough time to see the gradual change on her face just like how she had enough time to take his question in before reacting.

“Oh?” Her voice low, followed by a small nods before, “No.”

The answer came after some consideration, or perhaps confusion—he didn’t know, don’t ask him whatever. He’s never really good at this kind of stuff in the first place.

Sakusa nodded.

“Why do you ask?” She asked, her gaze on him.

“To make sure,” Sakusa said.

He saw the slight change in her eyes to his words, like something flickering, and didn’t miss it.

“That means, I can get your number without a problem, right?”

Her answer came a little too late for it to be, “Um... yeah... I’ll give you my business card later,” then her smile unfolded just as the frown in her brows, but something about it amusing to the sight, “when we’re done.”

Sakusa hummed. His gaze did not leave even though she already did. He didn’t hide the way he looked at her curiously, studying every inch of her face that wasn’t pretty but somehow wouldn’t leave his head silent every night ever since. When her eyes returned to him briefly, Sakusa hadn’t left, reluctant to.

****

The station corridor is where she gave her business card as promised. Her smile unfolded, but this time it was a little awkward when her hand gave it to Sakusa. Rather than her business card, Sakusa lingered on her eyes and everything he could capture on her face.

And perhaps feeling too much of a stare, she frowned and asked, “What is it?”

“Hm?”

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

Sakusa shook his head. His eyes leaving as he felt something in his stomach reacting, uncommonly but not uncomfortable, odd yet amusing— who put some damn butterfly and asked them to flap their stupid wings there? He didn’t bother hiding his broken smile, why would he?

“Why are you smiling?”

Her eyes to him, his smile gradually leaving yet it somehow lingered in his eyes, in contrast to the seriousness he masked himself with.  

“Why? You don’t like that?”

He waited quite a while for her answer, and in that long time their eyes locked, captivating each other, and spoke to each other in a language that was easier to understand. Yet then her answer was a rejection.

“Hm.”

She got him.

****

Sakusa knew that she was lying. Obviously she lied when she said she didn’t  like it when he smiled, because otherwise she wouldn’t have been here to see him on the weekend.

To be honest, she could have refused in many ways. Immediately rejecting him outright when he proposes this whatever date, canceling the appointment at the last minute, or pretending to have forgotten about their plans. But instead, the same woman who said that she didn’t like his smile, showed up in a pretty dress, hair styled differently, smelling a little more sweeter, and some hints of makeup on her face.

It was during their first meeting behind the what-so-called professional wall that all the things that seemed to be silenced breaking free, evident through gazes. Suddenly, Sakusa was no longer a stranger to conversation. He suddenly forgets that in general, he genuinely hates conversations, especially those that are called small talk, stupid pleasantries. However, who was he to choose? Before him is a sure thing.

It was also during these encounters that he became familiar with clichés such as questions about the weather, about complimenting the taste of coffee after the first sip or also when seduction was channeled through gazes, and some new things that had never been taught to him. And the one enlightened him the most, was that when he complimented her on her looks, her eyes went to other places but his that then another smile unfolded. 

His heart pounding in joy, a long rhythm of comfort and celebration, yet desperate to jump into her hands, wanting to be held. 

It was clear that the more time passed into something old and decrepit, everything that was done was thick with every element of deliberation.

Sakusa returns to his more accustomed silent self, letting his eyes convey his feelings to each second that is left to tick on its own. His eyes on her, her eyes on him, three, six, nine seconds... isn’t it easy to fall in love? Then after enough of looking at each other as they enjoyed the ecstasy of falling in love, they left each other being even sure of what they wanted.

Sakusa’s smile unfolded when he returned to obviously watching her. The woman, intrigued by his gaze, frowned and didn’t forget to smile back at him as her hand put her cup down.

“What?” She asked, and Sakusa shook his head.

Her brow furrowed, and her gaze on him, as if demanding an answer that was obvious between the two of them. Sakusa is clearly reluctant to compromise, a man of few words yet his eyes speak a variety of languages that she can easily understand. But at times, Sakusa can also be the most vocal and outspoken person she’s probably ever known, and an example of this is when he bluntly asks:

“You don’t have a boyfriend?” he asked, incredulous. 

His words were like a spark, igniting a flame of amusement in her. She laughed, the sound spilling like a cascade over the rim of her coffee cup. 

“Are you really asking that?” she countered, still chuckling. 

His tone and eyes flat, yet flickered with amusement, “What else am I supposed to be asking, then? I’m not a reporter,”

Sakusa Kiyoomi is definitely not a sweet talker. His words would be thicker with sarcasm or teasing rather than smooth remarks which was probably something she sought from men. And amused by his sarcasm, as if all too familiar with it, the woman smiled.

“Of course,” she said. “Rather than asking questions, you’re someone more used to answering, aren’t you, Sakusa Senshu?”

Sakusa smiled, drunk in the way she played her tone and words just right. He hummed in agreement.

Her eyes returned to him just before she started, “There’s something else, like perhaps am I your type, or something like that…” 

He liked it when her eyes momentarily returned to half-heartedly trying to explain a misunderstanding. 

“Well I am clearly not your type,” she mused, her lips quirking in a smirk. He liked it more how she decided to keep  things the way it is the next second, clearly not hiding the seduction in her sarcasm. She is a quick-learner, and he loves it when she takes his remarks and plays it like she owns it. 

Sakusa didn’t miss a beat. “And what makes you think you’re not my type?” he shot back, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. 

There was a beat of silence between them, each gauging the other’s reaction. The tension was palpable but not uncomfortable. Finally, leaning his head into his palm prompting the arm of the chair, that damned question slipped out of his mouth mindlessly.

“Am I your type?” he asked, his voice soft and calm, knowing what it could cause in what was to come between them.

His eyes didn’t left any movement she made since the question came, as if anchoring her in his gaze and telling her that there was nowhere to hide from something so unspokenly obvious in the air.

But sipping her coffee was her way of hiding. Winning the silence that was Sakusa’s territory was also her way of avoiding the hand that had almost caught her. How he didn’t bother hiding his feelings from her eyes was a victory for her instead, at least to prolong this little catch-me-if-you-can until the last thread of his despair snapped.

Then after quite some log of stealing much of his time, and enough consideration to decide how much she wanted to reveal, she met Sakusa’s gaze head-on as she set the cup down. 

“No,” she said simply, her voice matter-of-fact. 

Sakusa’s lips stretched into a grin. “Liar,” he accused playfully, voice low and gentle.  

She shrugged, the motion fluid and relaxed. “It’s true, though,” she said, meeting his eyes again, this time smiling.

For a moment, they were both silent, simply regarding each other over the rims of their coffee cups.

Sakusa was the one breaking the silence, asking, “What’s your type, then?”

She locked him in her eyes, wooing him with her eyes yet rejecting him outright through a short, asserting answer, “Not you.”

Sakusa was not backing down, he took the challenge and stared right back. He hummed,  “Clearly,”

Just know that cupid did a very great job; they’re just testing their limits.

****

This time her dress was dark red, knee-length and quite covered, and her hair— oh, he didn’t know why women spent their money on stupid things like some big bow clips to wear on the back of their heads, but it gave the impression that they were lovers on their way to have brunch at a fancy restaurant— well, he would love to take her to one, it’s just, let him drink all of the moments during this stupid cringe-worthy date for a little longer, though. He wanted to know her in different ways, from different perspectives, through the traces her feet and fingers left in every corner of Shinjuku. Today it was Shinjuku, next week he could probably take her to Harajuku, then to Shibuya, then have dinner in Roppongi. Perfect.

On their way to a café, Sakusa had asked, “You mean what you say?”

She turned, “Which one?” smile lingering on her face, eyes searching.

Sakusa was silent for a while. Not considering what he wanted to say, rather, taking her in: the look in her eyes, her face, the full picture of her standing before him, halting and waiting for him to come with her, every bit of her in that moment he hung in silence. When his answer came, Sakusa hid a smile behind his flat tone, “That I’m not your type,”

Something just flickered in her eyes and he didn’t miss it.

He knew the answer. It’s just that asserting is important. Oh, and he had yet to add how lovely it was to see her trying to fool him despite the tenderness evident in her eyes.

“Am I still not your type?” Sakusa pressed, his tone laced with a hint of playfulness.

Her eyes on him, letting the silence take over, also letting Sakusa think that he was in control of the situation. Finally, she answered, a clear hum that made the stupid butterflies in his stomach go mad— seriously get the fuck out of there, he’s going to break a laugh.

A huffed laugh, amusing laugh, as he muttered, “Liar,”

She sighed, smiling, “Well, everyone needs a little distraction on weekends.”

“Oh? I’m being promoted as the little-distraction-on-weekends, I see.”

Her gaze on his and the world disappeared on their senses.

Sakusa was the first to break their eye contact as he walked ahead of her. 

“This way,” he said, as his hand opened the door and let her in.

It’s nothing, really. It’s just about two people connected in an unspoken desire, enjoying the sensation of falling into an endless abyss called love, fully aware of it, yet in terms where they are only two little fingers away from each other, they never turn to each other to express what is obvious. And just know when you see cupid with a deep frown on her brows, it’s because of these two.

“What about you, Sakusa Senshu?” she asked, sipping her coffee.

“What?”

Her eyes were everywhere but his when she asked, “your type, I mean.”

Her gaze returning, familiar with how Sakusa had waited and would remain so for some time before he answered.

“Red dress, a reporter,” he replied, immediately without hesitation.

Seconds ticked by in silence, their eyes still locked, but the silence was chased away by an amused huff of laughter. Her eyes returned to him when she finished exploring the other side of the cafe, her hand somewhere on her nose, still not recovering.

“It’s true, though,” Sakusa said, his eyes serious and sincere tracing her gaze, as far as she would allow.

She shook her head, “That’s the lie.”

“Really?” He retorted, amused.

She hummed.

“How would you know?”

Her eyes on his, and she smiled, “You like European women,”

Sakusa’s brows rose at her reply, his eyes trailing to her gaze slowly leaving his the second he decided to think about her words further.

He pulls backward in his head, traces back and quickly searches for something about European women then remembers that one time in an interview with some of the other Black Jackals players, Miya Atsumu, that muscle-brained stupid fox, blurted out a statement about how “Omi-kun likes blonde European women with sexy eyes,” when the reporter asked about their Ideal types. He remembered now.

The frown on his forehead was with a smile that spread across his face, amused. “You... Did you look for some things about me?”

Her eyes returned to him, a pause, and as if it took a lot of energy to say something, she took a deep breath, “Well, my job requires me to look for some things about some of the people I’m going to interview, like some key words and highlighted remarks for reference. And yes. Since you’re one of quite a few I’ve interviewed, I did. I did and I found out some things about you, a lot,"

Sakusa nodded, unconcerned with her overly convoluted explanation, “And if so, you also know that it wasn’t me. That was Miya,”

“Answering on your behalf,”

“Answering on my— no—”

“Since you’re mute,”

Sakusa stopped when she chuckled.

“I’m joking, okay?” She said.

“On which part?” He asked.

When she didn’t answer, Sakusa sighed. “Miya didn’t answer on my behalf,”

“I thought you were agreeing afterwards?” She retorted.

Which was true, “Yes– but,”

Meeting his gaze, her brows raised, “No buts.” She said.

Sakusa frowned, “What?”

“We don’t need buts, Sakusa Senshu,” she said, her smile sweet and thick with innuendo. “You don’t need to explain anything to me in the same way I don’t need to explain why you’re not my type."

“Well– logically speaking,” Sakusa agreed. His eyes on hers, she was sipping her coffee after shrugging playfully. 

“The last one’s incorrect,” he said. When her gaze returned, he continued, “you are my type.”

There was a missing beat before she retorted: a sigh like she was wincing as she closed her eyes and slightly scrunching her nose, “Too bad, I’m not even a European woman.” She looked him right in the eyes as she said, “and you are not my type to begin with.”

Sakusa laughed. He nodded, humming in agreement, “Keep doing that,” his words a gentle mutter of intrigue, “you’re doing a great job.”

She echoed him in a small laugh and returned to her coffee.

The silence that slipped itself between them was another face of comfort, and perhaps a distraction as she said. And in this long-lasting silence, Sakusa’sgaze doesn’t leave her. There was determination in his gaze; something about finding out more about her through the loudness of her silence, a tenderness that didn’t bother hiding, a certain amount of visible affection, and a hint of possessivity.

Shutting out the world was probably the wrong choice, and before he realized, they were being watched. And finally, someone interrupted.

Standing before him were a couple of girls, much younger than him, staring at him with heart eyes, almost drooling.

When he found out that they were Black Jackals fans as they started attacking him with questions about the clubs and the other player with familiar remarks, not to mention that they were getting closer and about to touch him, a horror threat to his privacy, Sakusa immediately went on high alert. His body was pulled away, and the frown on his forehead deepened when he had to cover his face and look away from the camera phone of one of them who was already happily taking a selfie with him.

Without thinking, he quickly grabbed her hand and led her out of the cafe. Then as they expected, the girls ran after them while shouting his name hysterically. They could still keep running, at least until the girls got tired, or Sakusa could carry her and keep running until the girls lost track of them.

Asking why Sakusa Kiyoomi is popular is like asking why romance books are so popular with girls. 

Although he wasn’t the topic of conversation as the hot player like Miya Atsumu, something about Sakusa made girls crazy about him, although perhaps one of the few girls who didn’t like him was this woman.

His senses were too busy alerting for the worst to realize that they were very close.

Later, after making sure that the hysterical screams of those girls faded, Sakusa let out a sigh of relief. As his head lowered to ease his beating heart, and their gazes locked, he realized that it probably wouldn’t be at ease for some time.

The silence that had fit itself between them now was the spokesperson for their feelings that were spilling out of each other’s eyes, and honestly their position was just perfect: her back pressed against the wall, her body locked by his arms, one near her head and the other somewhere that would probably be close to her waist. From then on, in the silence that turned into the ticking of a newly found despair, Sakusa kept highlighting the part that they were in somewhere quiet, far from the public, away from distractions, not even the sunlight could bother them here.

The narrow space created an intimate enclosure, intensifying the connection that seemed to crackle between them. Time seemed to slow to a standstill as they stood there, suspended between reality and the raw, unspoken desire that enveloped them.

Besides underlining the chance in his favor, Sakusa also didn’t stop convincing himself that she was lying when she said he’s not her type— and really, he doesn’t want to ruin anything if suddenly something more than just staring in this damn situation happens. He was willing to put up with it, as long as they could still see each other next week. 

That was a story on a different page, one where her eyes don’t look like they are calling him in.

As the tension mounted, Sakusa’s movements became slow, sensual, as he leaned in closer, his lips just mere inches away from hers. The anticipation hung heavy in the air, electrifying their senses. But just as the world around them faded into a blur, she looked away and said, “We should—”

The fuck? She even for a moment looked like she was mirroring something in his eyes, he swore she was breathless and her words were barely above whisper– damn. 

Sakusa huffed a disbelieving laugh, hiding the embarrassment, humiliation, and the fact that he was so vulnerably lost in the thought of them finally having their kiss. 

“Hotel?” he asked, returning to her. His frown deep but his gaze amused.

Her frown melted into a playful expression, her laughter restrained. “No,” she asserted with a teasing glint in her eye. “Correct yourself before joining me.”

A chuckle escaped Sakusa’s lips as he reluctantly relinquished his grip. He trailed behind her, an invisible thread connecting them. 

Catching up, Sakusa corrected himself, “there’s a good caffe three blocks from here,”

They walked the streets of Shinjuku once more, their laughs intermingling, their eyes holding a secret language that only they understood. 

They entered another cafe, one with dim lighting and comfortable couches that seemed to invite them to stay forever. They sat close to each other, their fingers almost touching, as they talked about everything and anything. 

“You still don’t like the way I laugh?” Sakusa asked, his tone light, as if he didn’t really care about the answer.

She looked at him for quite a while, her eyes taking in every part of him, from the way his hair fell over his forehead to his dark, piercing eyes. It was as if she was studying him, trying to see beneath the surface of the laughter and the smiles.

A flicker of mischief dancing in her eyes. With a subtle lie, she responded, “Hm.”

That was the lie.

Sakusa hummed in understanding, accepting her unspoken truth. His  gaze never leaving hers.

*****

“The setters are undoubtedly the favorite,”

In the bar where they met again,  what the point was of saying such a thing in front of him? Well, women— he knew where the last stop of this conversation would be. A subtle hum was his answer he took a sip of his beer.

“Kageyama Tobio from Schweiden Adlers and Miya Atsumu from your team are on the constant topic,”

Sakusa hummed.

“But Miya-san is undoubtedly the darling of the fans,” she commented.

Under his breath, Sakusa muttered about the familiar call he had just heard. There was no professionalism in that referring, and Miya-san was too much when he was plainly Sakusa Senshu.

His eyes on her, studying every inch of her face in this topic, studying every fiber of the muscles in her face in every second he braced himself as they entered this topic. He didn’t feel like competing with the hot setter or the whatever-darling of the public, but why should she talk about Miya Atsumu in the first place, though?

Another thing to underline during this conversation was that possessivity in his eyes had become thicker as time grew. And she was not unaware that there was a loud displeasure in his silence as he listened to the whole pleasant description that she delivered so neatly about the blonde idiot— oh obviously it tickled the jealousy hiding behind the possessivity in his gaze.

Amused, she asked, “What?”

His tone remaining in a collected demeanor when he asked, “You seem to be enjoying yourself,”

She cocked an eyebrow, still amused, “Excuse me?”

“Well, he is comfortable in the spotlight— he loves it, I bet,”

“I told you, he’s the darling of the public. Reporters are competing with each other to get an interview with him,”

“Which include you in it,”

“Exactly,” she said. Her eyes on his, “I make a living by who I interview, and it could be Miya-san.”

Sakusa’s possessive nature immediately surfaced, and a frown creased his brows. He almost clicked his tongue when once again he heard the referring. Taking a moment to collect his thoughts, Sakusa finally spoke up. 

“Do you really want to do an interview with him?” His eyes on hers, watching.  

“I mean, he’s a great player,” she started, taking the snack they ordered before. His eyes trailing her every movement and stopped in her eyes when she swallowed, ready for another mess she was about to make in him. 

“Miya-san is an outstanding player to begin with. I was looking at some stuff about the MSBY Black Jackals and came across something about the best high-school setter in Japan who had participated in the Youth— ah, the setter of Schweden Adlers also went there if I was correct,”

“I was in youth too,” His competitive nature fired up.

“Yeah, but you’re not a setter, Sakusa Senshu,” She replied, her tone calm and collected. Not bothered at all, purposely.

Her pointer played with the rim of her glass, tracing it as she continued, “I’ve done an interview the Adlers’ setter,” her pointer tapped gently on where she stopped, her tone smiley, and when he shifted, she was actually smiling as she said, eyes tracing the memory of that interview, “he was such an angel.” and she returned to his eyes, a moment before she took a sip of her beer and looked away.

That was the most bothering part.

When she finished, she said, “I think I might have to try harder for an interview with Miya-san.”

He did not like Miya-san, and he swore to let that damned Miya-san knows that he hated him with every fiber of his wellbeing.

“I’m telling you, he’s just an idiot, a simpleton,” he prompted his head with his hand and watched her. 

“And hot,” she added. 

He hummed in agreement and asked, “what about me?” 

Her eyes hesitating, inferior to the piercing gaze of Sakusa’s dark eyes since the last time she referred to Atsumu as Miya-san. And despite still continuing with what she believed was right for her to be doing, her fingers playing with her beer glass told him that she wanted to run from that question, knowing that this time if she wasn’t careful enough, her mouth might betray all her efforts to be in control in their little game of pushing gears.

“What?” 

“I didn't get any of those things coming from you?” he elucidated, his voice low. His stare locking, sharp yet tenderness lurking behind his dark eyes, possessivity an evident truth.

“Like... just, hey, Sakusa Senshu, not Sakusa-san obviously, is such a good guy. Or that I am good at my play, since Miya-san obviously takes all the crunchy parts for himself.”

Her eyes widened, and she burst into laughter, unable to contain her amusement. 

In that moment when time ticked in the clear ringing of her laughter, Sakusa kept his gaze locked on her, taking in the lovely sight of her laughing. 

He was actually intent on playing a little annoyed, but all the walls he had built collapsed when her laughter broke out. And like someone had sprinkled intoxicating smiling powder, he echoed her laughter through a vulnerable smile as his eyes traced all of her.

This time, however, he did not forget to tell her, “I like your laugh,” he said, “since the first time.”

When she finally recovered from her laugh, and when her eyes were tender in silence staring into his, Sakusa is to play the annoying little jerk that he wanted. 

“Though you still hate my laugh and I am not as hot as Miya-san,” he said.

It took a while for the response to come, and for that she smiled as she said, “Well, I think you’ll have to live up with the fact that Miya-san is hotter than you,”  

Sakusa scoffed, childishly retorting with, “yeah, just like the fact that he’s just so amazingly stupid.” 

She giggled. He was ready to sip his beer when he said, “Just tell me if Miya-san is free and up for an interview. If you’re willing to lend me a hand of course,” 

He turned, almost wincing, “Seriously?”

She shrugged.

Sakusa stares at her for quite a while, only to sigh then shake his head. He then turned away, and took a sip of his beer. When his eyes returned to her, he was surprised to find her waiting for him. Her gaze was warm, and welcoming. The significant warmth that bloomed in his chest at that sight almost had him wincing, and his heart was struggling to get away, desperately begging to be released from his body to jump into her palms.

For a while they were immersed in silence, this was the part where they ran away from their egos and immediately declared what was obvious between them. Through their eyes, in the protection of the loud silence, they were free to express what they had delayed through words.

Then in a moment of vulnerability, when her eyes flickered, her hand reaching out without hesitation, as if familiar with all of him. Sakusa automatically closed his eyes and let her, betraying his ego just once would not make him die. In fact, he would probably die if he dared to stop her hand from going where she wanted of him.

He felt it somewhere in his hair, and opened his eyes to see her hand pulled back, dropping something he couldn’t catch somewhere on the floor. His eyes returned to hers, “What is it?”

Before him, the woman smiled as she said, “I already threw it down,”

Sakusa frowned.

“Just some stuff,” she said.

Sakusa immediately left to search for any trace of it. His eyes only briefly on the floor to return and conclude, “you just want to touch my hair.” 

He didn’t miss the way she smiled, and somehow she didn’t even try to hide her smile anymore. But even then, she was still the stubborn woman he knew would say, “No.”

Sakusa stares: taking her in, considering, making sure. Making sure that she was lying. Then the next second was about his hand reaching out to him, his fingers hesitating as they came into contact with her forehead, bringing his eyes back to her briefly before he brought his fingers to just lightly brush her bangs. The blush on her cheeks wasn’t of the alcohol, it was for him.

"Is there something in my hair?" she asked.

Sakusa looked up at her when she said, “No. I just want to touch you.”

Something flushed in her face, the look in her eyes wavered, probably of the alcohol. Clearly it was the alcohol because Sakusa, on the other hand, was also fighting so hard to resist the huge urge of kissing her right away. He shifted, immediately. He was about to take a sip of his beer when he said, “I’ll let you know if that stupid fox is up for an interview.”

“Hm?”

He returned, her head tilted while looking at him in confusion, innocence.

“Miya,” he said, still having enough urge to emphasize, “your Miya-san.”

His eyes did not leave her, locking onto her even as he sipped his beer.

Later when this whatever-date ended, she was drunk enough to be left home alone, so, after calling a taxi, Sakusa decided to tag along and make sure she got home in one piece.

Arriving at the apartment where she lives, Sakusa makes a little dash to open the door for her. And even though she preceded him with her hand opening the door smiling, being familiar and friendly to the taxi driver in the thanks she said, he waited for her. His hand outstretched to help her up, he leaned down. And instead of taking his hand to help herself with, both her hands were brought to cup his face and she warmly brought her face close to his, leaving a soft kiss on his cheek after tracing all the way before it with her warm breath.

“I had a great time.” Her voice was just above a whisper, and somehow fucking unrealistic. Then she pulled away, enough to stare and say, “Thank you, Sakusa-san.”

Her hands are still there on his cheeks.

The world stopped, and Sakusa froze. No, he didn’t. He didn’t freeze. Rather, his entire body was warm. He was so warm and he knew that his face was probably as red as a fuji apple.

Rather than using his hands to help herself out of the car, she helps herself out of the taxi, missing how Sakusa follows her with his gaze, everything she’s done since the moment after she said his name in a familiar calling. Don’t blame him, blame her for making him lose his cool, his composure, his damn self-control– are they something now? Like… what? Was that made her his girlfriend, no?

Sakusa immediately said, “I’ll call you later.”

The woman paused, turning to face him again. She blinked and shook her head, “Not sure If I’m sober enough not to say some incorrect things,”

“You’re correct, I promise,” he replied.

 Her smile unfolded, vulnerable.

*****

Sakusa had never considered that Miya Atsumu was his rival since she had left her trace on his cheek that night. Her kiss was definitely a sign of the new thing they were bonding over. Although no cringe-worthy words like I love you, or stupid confession session happened, they were two adults who loved each other and that was enough. Honestly, after that, Miya Atsumu’s name disappeared from his head.

But today was a different story. At an MSBY Black Jackals match, and she interviewed Miya Atsumu with a beaming face full of enthusiasm, the story took a different turn. Miya Atsumu earned his place on the top list of his rivals— and he swore, from the moment he saw how his hand touched hers as he reached for the mic for whatever he was going to do after that, something in the back of his neck snapped.

He no longer had enough good mood left to linger there, shoving Bokuto Kotaro’s hand off of his shoulder as he walked away, coldly ignoring Hinata Shoyo. Far enough away to exclude himself from the boisterous crowd filled with media, his fingers typed out a message to her, a meeting in a place away from everyone’s attention, where there was no Miya Atsumu.

After the message, he waited in a corridor at the back of the gymnasium leaning against the wall, his arms folded in front of his chest. Greeting the footsteps he heard from afar, his eyes shifted, taking in her arrival which started with how she stopped to reply to what seemed to be a very important message, until eventually their gazes met and her steps quickened towards him. No fair, she was so cute.

“Sakusa Senshu,” she should know that right now is not too good a time to call him that way.

Sakusa straightened up to meet her, seeing the smile on her face that broke out sincerely when she said all the praises for him and congratulated him on their victory. His heart warmed at the thanks for a good game, but he was defeated by the intoxicating jealousy. Then without thinking, he blurted out, “I see you finally got to do an interview with Miya,”

“Oh, yeah. Well,” She smiled, nodding. “I didn’t expect that he would stop in front of me either.”

Sakusa scoffed, “Really? Aren’t you the one who’s purposely lining up on the first row to get his attention?”

Eyebrows raised, she frowned, “Huh?”

Sakusa scoffed, “In the end you are only after Miya.”

And her answer that came had only made everything worse, “Well, everybody’s after Miya Atsumu Senshu after he serves us a good game and I was just one of many reporters looking for the star of the match and I don’t think it’s an exaggeration to say that he was the MVP of this match. He scored 3 aces— and, Sakusa Senshu, I don’t think I need your help to interview Miya-san—“

“You clearly don’t need my help for that,”

Sakusa didn’t care about the hint of confusion in his gaze, his words flowed like a stream of water, “Did he get your number after the interview? Oh, I bet he insisted on shaking your hand,"

“Excuse me?”

Sakusa returned to say, “Which hotel did he ask you to meet at?”

Her brow furrowed deeply, “I don’t like the direction you’re going. This is dangerous,”

“Not as dangerous as you are,” Sakusa cut in quickly, “and I don’t like how easily you go to one person after being satisfied toying with the other.”

“Toying? What are you—“

Sakusa approached, towering over her as his sharp eyes locked onto her, “Yes, toying. You seem to be really enjoying yourself, huh? Knowing you had me under your little fingers while you made your way to another man– what do you want, really? You want me, you—” Sakusa paused, his feelings churning at his dead-end words. He began again, “—you kissed me and I don’t know if you’re greedy enough for someone else or if you were just after Miya from the start,"

There was a silence that made Sakusa even more uneasy. After the answer comes, she laughs, and that’s not really not good. “We’re  just doing an interview,” she said, “After all, weren’t you the one who said that you’ll let me know if Miya-san is up for an interview?”

“No, you’re not going there right away,” Sakusa shook his head, adamant, “you missed the part where you had to tell me if you were greedy enough to want me and Miya at once,”

She  frowned, "What are you talking about?"

Something on the back of Sakusa’s neck snapped, and he was sure that was the last thread of his despair, of his patience, and of his rationality, all at once. 

“My feelings for you are so obvious—”

“No. That’s not—”

“— in fact even blind pig could tell that I stare at you like I would go crazy if I didn’t—”

“—what I mean—”

“— but you had the balls to play with it like it was nothing!”

“No—what?” Something flushed into her eyes, “Repeat yourself,”

Sakusa immediately responded, “no. You heard it.”

Her brow furrowed, “What did you say? Playing with your feelings? And what else was it- toying?" She leaned closer, her gaze challenging, “Try telling me If I wasn’t the one kissing your cheek— and what, playing with your feelings? Do you even know what you're talking about?"

“That’s where all the trouble started,” Sakusa exclaimed, almost snapping.

“What are you talking about, Sakusa?”

All formality, warmth, and respect left her words as she called him by his last name.

“You kissed me and left with Miya, which hotel he asked to meet you at, huh?"

“Sakusa, that one’s—”

“Or did he manage to touch you somewhere before you came to me?”

“Are you really up for the rest of it?”

“And here I am, getting only the scraps of the trace of his hands on you,”

“Sakusa!”

“My feelings for you are real!” He snapped, missing and not caring how she flinched, and subconsciously pulling away when he approached her closer.

“They are fucking real! Ever present, not a past tense! They’re always there to put up with all of your cooing, and tell me I’m hopeless but I sit and dream of the way my hand would traced your face and stupid me for thinking that you would have just a slightest bit of mercy towards me and my feelings but fuck you because my feelings are real for you—” 

“So are mine!”

In the seconds she let drown in silence, she gave him a chance, and his silence was too long for her to deal with. However, before it was too late he quickly pulled her  as she was about to exclude herself from him. The slightest jerk of his grip brought her back to him, into his eyes.

“Did you mean it?”

She did not answer, deliberately silent to punish him. And rather than having any intention of saying anything, she wanted to leave.

His grip tight against her will to break free. Then a little tighter than before, he pulled her, bringing her back to his eyes that were almost overflowing with all the unspoken truth that had been trying to be silenced. His tone broke as he said, “Tell me you mean it,”

Her eyes leaving him while her hands tried harder to break free but he was clearly too strong for her to handle half-heartedly. Her eyes returned after her last attempt was a repeated failure, “You know what, I didn’t. I didn’t mean any of the thing I said—”

The next second, her breath caught in her throat when he had locked her waist possessively.

“You liar,” And though his tone cold, his eyes vulnerable.

Their lips collided in a heated embrace, tongues intertwined and hands exploring every inch of each other’s bodies. In this kiss, where all the feelings that were previously taboo in words, all poured. Sakusa’s grip tightened as he pulled her closer, his breath hot against her skin. It had been a long time coming, this moment that they had both been avoiding for so long. But now, everything seemed to fade away as they lost themselves in each other. The world around them ceased to exist as they were consumed by their love for each other.

For so long, they had both fought against their feelings, denying the attraction that burned so deeply within them. But now, with every brush of their lips, every touch of skin on skin, they knew that it was all worth it.

Sakusa, melting in vulnerability under her touch, kissed her like there would be no tomorrow for them, like this was the last day that the world would exist. There was despair in every trace he left on her, but he didn’t rush her, he made sure every touch was enough and providing. Before they knew it, they had stumbled upon the wall, but his hand was quick to get behind her head.

They were fragile, succumbing to this moment.

Her hand gripped somewhere that she could grasp of his jacket, only to fail as she was too lost in their kiss, then she went to trace somewhere on his neck, squeezing on the skin which he responded to with a hum. Her other hand went somewhere on his stomach— really, he didn’t want her to stop touching him, he didn’t want her to be finished with him, he didn’t want this kiss to end. He wanted to forever drink from her scent, fight for air with her, dance with her lips against his, and feel her knuckles tracing every inch of his body. It was only after what seemed like forever, with their breath catching, that they finally let go of each other.

Panting against his mouth, she said, “I think now’s the right time for…”

Sakusa immediately connected the last word, “hotel? Yeah. Me too.”

His hands were on her waist and behind her head, caging her possessively, as he caught his breath, while hers were on the back of his neck and somewhere on his stomach. Again after that, unbidden, they went hand in hand to welcome each other into another kiss that this time was softer, unrushing, something calmer and warmer.

But then just suddenly, Sakusa abruptly pulls away from the kiss, having her whining for the sudden loss of contact. His words come quickly after that, “Now? I’ll have to go first, though,”

“Later, then,” she said, her hand slipping to the back of his neck, pulling him to meet her again at the end of her words, “when you’re done.”

Sakusa smiled before their lips collided. This time, both hands curled around his neck, reciprocating the possessivity that had only been shown one-sidedly before, not wanting to be outdone. Unfortunately, this kiss doesn’t last long, interrupted by a familiar voice out of nowhere, a calling that Sakusa will only hear from a particular party.

“Omi-kun!”

Immediately, still drunk in their feelings, they pulled away from each other, trying not to leave a trace to each other when Miya Atsumu got there for Sakusa. They’re lucky they had enough time to part and to slightly wipe the remnants of the kiss.

When Miya Atsumu got there, he immediately greeted Sakusa with his amusing calling. And he who was also familiar with the reporter also greeted her. But later, rather than listening to Sakusa’s words, the hot setter of Jackals was now preoccupied with his own search and it took him a single glance to understand what happened on the scene before he got there. Then right before he lead the way, he turned, “Omi-kun,”

Sakusa frowned, “What?”

The blonde setter’s face was convincing when he said,“you got lipstick on your mouth.”

Sakusa spontaneously touching his lips, to halt and realize when the setter giggled. When his gaze returned, he heard him, “Gotcha!”

*****

It’s funny how at the end of the day, Sakusa was the one who got her all for himself in a very hotel room. Sakusa Kiyoomi, the one’s filthy of his words, accusing her of having Atsumu taking her to a hotel, was the very man having his mouth and hands all occupied once the door to the room closed, blindly tracing over their way to the bed.

Arriving somewhere near the bed, his kisses shifting, tracing every inch of her face, then down, stopping by her lips, then down to her chin, and away down her neck, nuzzling, kissing, sucking, nipping, and licking at the vulnerable spot on her neck that enlightened him with sweet sounds that are her responses to his good work.

Sakusa gets the determination to play longer there, he loves hearing her voice. And as he continues to explore her neck with new things his lips can do to satisfy her desire, he hears her, “you know, before, when Miya Senshu came,”

Sakusa responded in a hum, not stopping. Wicked thought flashing when he heard that name mentioned. They are making out and she dared to mention that very name– no, he’s going to show her who owns her. In the next second, he had her moaning his name when he licked that sweet spot, sucking on it expertly.

Though she stretched herself even more, giving him more access to do as he please, he was wrong to think that she’s stopping,  “I didn’t use any lipstick,” 

He hummed, still nipping, kissing her neck. “Yeah,” he managed to answer before moving to the other side of her neck.

“And you fell for that one,” she tugged on his hair just enough to make him stop. His eyes on hers, vulnerable, thick with love and lust. In that short pause, he took his time to gaze into her eyes, grateful that they had finally ended up the way he had always imagined. He heard her say, “idiot,” 

Sakusa hummed and then kissed her again. His hands quickly guided her arms to lock around his neck, along with how his hands went tracing down her curves, stopping somewhere in her waist for a gentle squeeze.

His kisses continued down her neck, sucking, small bites or gentle licks that made her giggling in amusement, but when his mouth suddenly sucked hard on the crook of her neck, his name left her mouth as an exclamation.

He chuckled, satisfied with her reaction as he returned to kiss her. In between kisses, he said, “but you like it, don’t you?”

She whines and he chuckles. His hands went to undo the remaining buttons of her shirt, and by the last few remaining buttons, he pulled away her kiss.

He went on to kiss her shoulders, stopping by her chest, and the other shoulder before helping her out of her shirt. Following the shirt that he discarded somewhere on the floor, was her hands that went to undo her bra, his eyes wide with anticipation. And when it completely left her body, his face flushed in redness to the sight of the way she shyly presented herself to him. His gaze long admired her breasts, alternating with his eyes, as if studying what was going on and what he should do with it— obviously though, the hunger he had on his gaze was enough to tell that he wanted to feel them with everything.

Slowly, he brought his hand to touch her breast and watched her reaction. Her eyes were on him at first touch, and when she nodded, he immediately brought both his hands to squeeze them, slow and sensual at the first few, and gradually greedier through each attempt. When she moans, Sakusa gains new determination to repeat what he did. Then he switches to his mouth, dominating.

Sakusa is professional in his work on her breasts. 

He gives them equal attention when he plays with them. When his mouth was busy playing with one, then his hand would keep the other company. Simultaneously gently squeezing the mound as his mouth sucked on her nipple and the mound of the other, greedy for what he could take in. He was like a hungry little baby being served his last meal. But more than that, he knew what he had to do. He licks, sucks, and swirls his tongue on her breast just right the way she wants him. He puts her on cloud nine with every single thing he does to her, not to mention the sounds he makes in response to her moans.

“This isn’t your first time, right?”

On the edge of the bed where he had laid her down, Sakusa, who was about to return to her neck, halted midway at her question. He looked at her with furrowed brows, “What?”

Somehow in his gaze, there was enough dislike- disappointment. And before he could say anything, her hands cupped his face as she said, “Just asking, pretty boy,” 

His frown fading, replaced with a warm dusting on his cheeks as he welcomed her in. A kiss on his lips to soothe him, or an apology for her accusation being so sharp, which brought all over the place below his lips until he finally had to stretch his neck and give her room to go down, tracing him with her kisses.

Her name was warm on his lips, a shudder when she left light kisses in the crook of his neck, and a satisfied hum when she was softly nipping on it.

“Mark me,” he commands.

“Hm?”

She paused, pulling away just enough to ask him, “are you sure?”

He turned, greeting her as his hands tightly hugged her waist, and said,  “yeah, as yours.”

Meeting his eyes, she smiled, then leaned in to leave a vulnerable kiss on his cheek. Then her mouth descended, tracing his chin, under, and his neck, with feather kisses. A moan slipped past his mouth when he felt her sucking on a spot behind his ear, as her fingers moved sensually massaging the back of his head. Her name was in his mouth as she continued to repeat it on several other spots on his neck. His hands moved greedily grasping and squeezing her waist as she sucked his neck, just enough to leave a mark.

“Yes—ahh….” 

Again, repeating it somewhere else on his neck and he called her name in a whimper. She giggled, and went to kiss the marks she had left gently.

Her fingers went to trace the mark, “They are visible,” his eyes met hers.

“And?”

“They’re somewhere you can’t cover with your jersey, Sakusa Senshu," she said.

His hands trailed down her back, pecking them sensually. When he gave a light squeeze on her back, he said, “Just let them think that my girlfriend is a pervert.”

“Girlfriend?” She frowned, amused. 

Murmuring, Sakusa jerks her closer to him, “what are you then?”

She chuckled, “yeah, girlfriend. And clearly they don’t know that the boyfriend asked to be marked as hers,”

"What then?" He retorted. He went to kiss her shoulder and arm.

Coming back to her briefly, he heard her, “don’t make me famous, please.”

He chuckled and went to kiss her collarbone gently, tracing. But while he was so lost and determined to left more trace, she pushed him, then said, “Let me,”

Then her lips were on his chest, tracing them with soft kisses, licking it with her hot, wet tongue, and as she played with his nipples, he moaned her name, his hands tracing her back greedily, possessively.

Her kisses are brought down and her eyes open with anticipation as he gets further down. His hands in her hair, not missing a second of the moment when she goes down for him. His moans a shudder as her hand brushes over his clothed cock, rock hard for her name on his lips. His hands scratching the back of her head and press her to kiss his stomach more. At the sensation that was heating up and making his chest tight with anticipation, she pulled away almost too suddenly for him to even react. Her eyes returned to how she had held him, neck stretched to meet his gaze.

Finally, she said, sighing, “I really am hooking up with a Black Jackals member,”

They stared at each other for quite some time in silence. His hand went to reach her face, stroking it gently. His heart swelled with love and affection seeing how she closed her eyes, melting under his touch, and returned to look at him warmly, mirroring the affection and love he had for her. Finally, he said, “as long as your feelings are real,” voice barely a whisper.

“They are,” she responded immediately.

She pulled away to release her embrace, and brought her hands to start unbuckling his belt and unbuttoning his pants. His chest tight with anticipation as her hand traced his cock while looking up at him. But what makes him throbbing with desperate need is when she goes down to kiss him while locking gazes with him. He’s hot, red, and overcome with need.

Then she strips off his briefs, giving room for his hard, angry cock. In her palm, he couldn’t calm down and instead gets greedier with need. He hissed, subconsciously jerking his hips towards her hand. His moans were a series of disjointed, imperfect shrudders of pleasure, and she quickly cut it off.

Her hand on his stomach, calming him. Then when he looked down, her gaze laced with teasing.

“Relax, big guy,” she said, her voice soft. And he did calm down, completely surrendering to her mercy.

Her hands moved to start playing with his length, leaving kisses on the red tip as his hand ran through her hair, tugging them from time to time. Then other kisses went down his entire length as her hands moved to continue pumping him, and in the end, she made sure to meet his gaze as she gave him a long, hot lick on his length. His cock twitched, his greed firing. 

“Fuck,” he hissed. “That was so hot.”

She smiled, giggling. She seems to be enjoying herself as she plays with his cock. Her other help to further lower his pants down, letting him get off of it to rush back and submit himself to her hands. The remnants of his sanity leaving his body in each of her strokes, he was on cloud nine.

“Relax, it’s just my hand,” she whispered, her voice cold and evil.

“Fuck! Your hand… your hand feels… s’good…”

She increased her speed, only to turn him down as he was so close chasing his high, starting over with slower pumps—  this definitely wasn’t the first time she’d done this.

In the midst of his thoughts being solely occupied with his cock in her palm, and he let out a satisfied moan at her work, he managed to say something.

“What about you?” He hissed when he saw the way she pumped his cock in her palm, expertly destroying him.

“What?” He asked, his gaze on the innocent.

“Is this your first time?” 

Their gazes met, and she was not surprised as he was. Her hands remained focused on working him out just how he wanted.

Then her answer came at last, a, “Yes,” as she gave a nasty lick to his cock that almost had him losing his mind, “you are,” 

When her hot mouth captures the entire of his long-hardened length, aching and desperate for her touch, keening for it, his world momentarily disappears from his senses. Suddenly, she is everywhere filling him up. In his hearing, above and below the surface of his skin, lingering on his tongue, everywhere in his entire being filled with her.

Each pump, each of the ways she sucked him deeper into her mouth, taking him flying higher in pursuit of his high. She knew exactly what she was doing when she was working on him, and like someone whose senses were filled only by her every second she was destroying him with her mouth and hands, Sakusa clearly couldn’t hear how desperate his moans sounded with every minute the intensity of her touch felt less and less like enough.

He was desperate as he whines for more, closer to his high, subconsciously helping himself with small thrusts into her mouth and hands.

“Please… please… please…”

She had him going crazy, completely losing his mind in her unforgiving touch. Under her touch, there was never enough. Every time the high felt so close, it was like he had to try harder to beg to be delivered there immediately. His breathing ragging, racing with all the incoherent, uncharacteristic utterance that slipped past his mouth the further she took him. He couldn’t feel anything, just her, and the powdery bliss of her hands and mouth rubbing against his length.

He was at the end of his rise, almost arriving at the place where he could see stars, when her mouth and hands worked doubly fast and intensely in their work down there— oh god, was this heaven? He swore he moaned as loudly as that one of a porn he had once accidentally watched in high school and he now knows why that time the actor had to moan so disgustingly. His eyes rolled to the back of his head he swore he could see his skull. Her name came out of his mouth like a prayer, a mantra dominated by all sorts of begs.

One long suck, and his eyes returned to her at her mischievous hum and he was done, coming in a long, thick white rope inside her mouth. His first orgasm struck him like a tsunami. 

He braced himself towards her, hands gripping on her shoulders, eyes locking with hers. He jerked his hips deeper into her mouth as he chanted her name desperately, and she rolled her eyes whilst taking all of him in. However, he doesn’t stop yet, his first one is probably quite a lot for her to handle and she coughs.

Worried, Sakusa immediately pulls himself out of her mouth while soothing his throbbing length with short, fast pump. He grimaced, groaning, then he returned to her, with enough worry and guilt, cupping her face and asked, “are you okay?”

She was still coughing, her hand somewhere on her mouth, yet she still managed to lick the remnants of his cum on her hand and on the tip of her lips afterwards, a wicked sight that shot right to his cock. Sakusa almost whimpered as the sensation that came over him made him hard again.

“That was pretty fast,” she commented. She smiled at him, her eyes mirroring his own.

Sakusa sighed, “Yeah, you worked really hard for it.”

“It was fun,” she winked.

Sakusa’s voice was low, and his gaze dangerous when he said, “you naughty little demon.”

She laughed at his words, quickly adjusting herself to immediately releasing her bottom without being asked to. He came hard to the sight as she lay down for him, clearly under his mercy. Her face flushed with shyness as he took all of her in, trailing every inch of the full picture of her raw beauty in his gaze.

“Stop gazing,” she said.

And Sakusa immediately stopped, his gaze returning to her eyes as he descended.

“Is it wrong for me to look at you?”

“No,” she replied. Her hand went to move the pillow away, not needing it. She caught him in line with her legs, blushing when she saw him kiss them gently and attentively. Her heart swelling with love and affection at what she had just seen, and when his eyes returned to her, his hand briefly took hers.

“You are so beautiful,” he whispers.

“Because I’m naked, and at your mercy,” she retorted. 

Sakusa shakes his head, contrasting with how his hand slowly, sensually, strokes her leg, going between them.

“You know, even though I really want to fuck you right now, I want you to feel comfortable,” Sakusa said, eyes never leaving her through each strokes. 

Her brow furrowed, catching his words amusingly, “I don’t know whether to be pleased, touched, or honored of what I just heard— is that your confession?” She asked.

“Don’t try,” he warned, his dark orbs piercing through her, “I mentioned every damn word pretty clearly just now.” 

Silence falls upon them, and in the silence, the temperature in their bodies rises along with the tension that is also mounting. Within each touch, Sakusa gives the message that she is his, that no one else has the right to mark what is his and he is quite competitive and determined in this regard. One last touch and he gave her a light squeeze and gentle look in her eyes yet his tone a command, “spear your legs.” 

She spread her legs for him, shyly at first.

“More,” he said.

And more.

“More,” 

“I think that’s—“

Sakusa’s eyes are on her, sharp and coldly piercing, demanding, “More,” his low, deep voice sending shivers down her spine, and something down there throbbing with need. Her eyes narrowed in desperation as she whimpered his name, she felt a quick wetness down there.

“Sakusa-san…” 

Her breath caught in the back of her throat when his mouth cupped her pussy quickly, kissing her in the way he kissed her lips, something that made her mind go on an instant error. Her moan a naughty, reciprocated with a satisfied hum that makes her slowly tighten up. How could she not? His tongue and lips know what exactly they are doing, licking, sucking, then slightly swirling a circle that makes her breath catch in her chest.

“Don’t stop right there— ahh…. Don’t… please don’t….”

He hummed, working his tongue like an expert who never failed in his first try. For a moment, just a moment, she thought that he might be lying about this being his first.

Her hands reached for his, locking his fingers with squeezes every time he did his thing, finishing her with a pleasure that left her only craving for more. His name in her mouth a barraging of desperate whine, needy moans, and though he let her press his head deeper into her welcoming cunt, each time he denied her when she was so close to be done.

“Please… I want to cum,” she whines, eyes glossy with need, despair, lust, and love.

He hummed. 

The next time his name slips out of her mouth in a whine, he slips a finger into her hole, and his name is a satisfied cry as he pulls them out and pumps them in along with his tongue at work on her clit.

Her ragged breathing, needy moans, and words of praise, as well as his name almost a prayer in her mouth becomes music to Sakusa’s ears.

“Sakusa-san… Sakusa-san… don’t stop don’t stop….” She mindlessly muttered.

And when two of his fingers fit themselves into her holes at once, his name a pleased shuddering, begging him not to stop.

Sakusa knows better and does exactly what she wants, gladly satisfying her while pumping himself at every sound she makes on his work. He comes once again just for her voice and the sweet taste of her juices in his tongue— it sounds pathetic and exhausting, but even then, his cock was still too excited to the thought of her.

With increased speed and intensity, his fingers and mouth bring her to the star she’s been desperately wanting to see, and his name a barrage of satisfied cries interspersed with sweet moans. His fingers creamy when he pulls them out, and he licks them in her watch.

His other hand was still pumping himself lazily as their eyes locked together in silence, drowning in the love and lust thick in the air, begging for immediate repayment.

The first to break the silence, she said, “that wasn’t really the fuck part.”

Sakusa smiled, “I know right,” he said. “I’ve been pumping myself.”

She chuckled, “Oh, I bet you really want to fuck me.”

“I’m rock hard just because you call my name, is that a good enough answer to make you let me fuck you?”

Their gazes locked together.

“Or should I just keep pumping myself on my own with you watching me?” He asked.

Sakusa waits quite some time for her answer, and his hand doesn’t stop pumping his still hard and very excited length. His heart racing, and honestly, he’s at the limit.

“Why would I watch you pump yourself?” She said finally, spreading leg open for him.

Sakusa smiled. Still pumping his cock lazily, he brought his length closer, lining against her entrance.

Sakusa doesn’t immediately insert his length into her, he lets the tip in for a while, then pulls it out, kissing her awaiting cunt with the tip and repeating it a few times until she says, “don’t tease.”

Sakusa smiled, not stopping what he was doing, this time locking his gaze with hers.

“Sakusa…. Please…” she begged, face flushed red, desperate.

“Please what?” He didn’t stop, “I didn’t recall that you’re desperate to be fucked.”

He enjoyed the sight of how her breathing was ragged and her gaze was pleading. Her hands reaching for him desperately, and though he won’t stop teasing her until she begs for it, he didn’t leave her alone and catches her hand in his.

“What is it, babygirl?” He cooed, tone gentle, fingers intertwining with her own. “What do you want, hm?”

“Please… I want to feel your cock inside me…”

He groaned.

“Fuck me, Sakusa-san, please,”

Her words shot right through his hard rocking cock. He groaned as she giggled, realizing she got him again. This time, though, he let it be. 

“Fuck, I want to fuck you so bad…”

The next second was their moans coming together in satisfaction as he finally slid himself into her cunt. His hand fell down to hold the weight of his body beside her head, the other still locking with hers, squeezing each other in bliss. 

“Fuck! You’re so tight!” He hissed, having trouble going deeper with his size inside her tightness, not yet used to him.

Underneath she softly whimpered. Her hand looping on his arms, clinging to it, squeezing like her life depends on it. 

“F-fuck— Just a little more,” he peered down, then left a kiss on her forehead, “ahh... just a little more and I promise it’ll feel good.… f—shit! You’re so tight— is it hurting you? Are you okay?”

When she didn’t answer, Sakusa called her name, panic evident in his eyes. His hand went to guide her back to his eyes, “Hey,” his voice soft. “Talk to me,” he said, “are you okay?”

She smiled, chuckling, “Yes… I am okay.” 

His eyes on hers for quite some time, searching for something that spoke of doubt or fear to find nothing. His hand then went to wipe her sweaty face, his touch gentle.

“It’s… started to feel good now,” she said

Sakusa hummed, obeying with a few slow thrusts as he helped himself in. His free hand immediately sought her out, spreading their fingers together to lock back  as he brought himself in deeper with each thrust. His hand tightened against her, locking possessively and protectively.

With each thrust, he gambled with what was left of his sanity not to do this depravedly in one go, but the looser and more accustomed her walls became to him, the less he could resist turning up the intensity of each of his thrust. Their moans were in sync, something that spoke of satisfaction and blind, raw pleasure, where love and lust melted into one. He drew himself closer to her as he left her hands, leaning down, longing for her warmth and she welcomed him with a hug. He murmured her name in her ear, nuzzling further into the crook of her neck, and nipping. Her hands snaking on his back, gripping, scratching sensually.

“Oh my god you feel so good, baby…” he moaned, increasing the speed and intensity of his thrusts.

“You want my cock to thrust deeper into you, don’t you? You want it to keep filling you, don’t you? You want it to fuck you, don’t you? Should I continue fucking you?” He rasped in her ear, 

“Yes please, Sakusa…” Her head nodding mindlessly, she moans desperately, begging, almost crying with need.

“We gotta say it, baby,” he said.

“Yes please, don’t stop fucking me, Sakusa—ohhh….” She says it clearly in his ear and Sakusa completely throws his morale after that, gone brutal in the pace he sets as he manages to hit the spot that had her moaning even more desperately in a barrage of his name.

His name a barrage of prayers, greedy whimpers, pornographic moans and everything else in his hearing the entire time his cock hitting that spot perfectly on each attempt and all praises, whatever it is:

“Oh good it feels so good Sakusa… please don’t stop…. Oh yes right there… Sakusa…..!!!!!”

She came once more, creaming the tip of his still rock hard cock with her sweetness. Sakusa groaned, his cock hard. He’s about to come once again. His hands quickly flipped her over to bend, exposing her ass to him, her hands and knees on the bed. She gasped for air when he immediately inserted his length without a warning. He groaned at the familiar, welcoming sensation. Her walls were still pulsating and still warm, the imprint of his cock still there. His hands held her waist steady on the first, intense thrust and made her gasp for air in an imperfect moans.

Sakusa positions himself better before he thrusts again, this time having her perfectly moaning. Before his next thrust, he stops and kisses her back, curing his longing for the warmth of her body. Welcoming him who traces along her shoulder with a soft kiss, she reaches towards him. Her hand scratched his head as he squirmed on her shoulder, and he hummed to acknowledge her. He briefly kissed her arm. 

When he finally pulled away, their room was again filled with their colliding moans as his waist continued to help him push himself deeper and deeper into her, deep where he remembered a spot that would make her moans in contentment.

It wasn’t long enough for him to stay in that position, as he was quickly missing her warmth to him, craving her touch. He went closer, hugging her while calling her name desperately, longingly. He kissed her back and shoulders, the back of her neck while his hands went to trace her curves as his waist continued to work to bring his thrusts home, repeatedly hitting that spot that had his name slipping out of her mouth in a mindless plea, a satisfied, pornographic moan.

He began to lose his rhythm as her walls pulsed, squeezing him in. He groaned at his name as a desperate call in her mouth when she was close.

“Sakusa-san…” she called out, desperate, glancing through her shoulder.

He responded, calling her name in each of his thrusts.

Her hands reaching out, calling out to him once more. And he greet her, kissing her fingers and letting her touch him.

“Sakusa-san….” 

He called back to her name, and said, “I’m close…” voice trailing, unable to contain himself for any longer. His rhythm was messy, just a raw need of wanting to be done, to see those stars again with her walls wrapping him.

“Me too…” she said.

He pulled her into a short, intense kiss. Then in the midst of their hazy thoughts of exploding lust, she asked breathlessly, “Are you mine?” hands still tangled in his hair, squeezing him. 

Sakusa replied, catching his breath, “yours… yeah… forever…”

And she asked again, “you promise you won’t leave me the next morning?”

Sakusa nodded breathlessly, “I won’t leave you, I’m yours…. I’m yours…. yours to take…”

Then she pulled him into an intense kiss and ended it with a desperate moan, “Oh…. So good— god I’m so close!!!”

“Yes…. Yes…. Have me with you, baby… I’m so close too…” Sakusa answered.

She responded with an incoherent hum, a proposal, “Inside please,” 

Sakusa’s mind was foggy but he managed to make sure, “Huh?” 

“Inside,” she asserted.

“Y-yeah?” he asked, breathless.

She nodded, “cum inside me, please,”

Sakusa doesn’t need to be told twice, he picks up the pace and lets her cream on him as his name slips out of her mouth mindlessly, and shortly after she comes, he follows, breaking into the rhythm of his thrusts as her name is the final fragment of satisfaction on his ride. He did not just see stars, heaven was all along in his every sense.

He fell, his body limping against her on the bed as exhaustion finally rippled their muscles. For some time they are silent, focused on calming themselves and catching their ragging breaths.

Sakusa is the first to recover, and is calm enough to bring himself to kiss her back, her shoulders, the back of her neck, and whispering a thank you in her ear, and was responded with a hum and a soft kiss.

After that there was only silence, and also love bubbling in the air as they became too tired to talk. However, when Sakusa slowly trailed his arm to cage her, he had enough urge to say, “I bet your hot Miya-san can’t do something like this,” 

“I will bet that he’s the type to last longer in bed though,” she retorted. 

Sakusa chuckled, “yeah, clearly. Atsumu’s a bed master. A professional playboy.” 

“And you?” She asked, hunching her shoulder slightly as she peeked on her shoulder. 

He welcomed her affectionately, nuzzling his nose into her cheek, “I’d say a dedicated lover.”

She hummed, a skeptical hum, then added, “Or you can also say, a jealous, possessive, hyper protective, high-guarded little brat.”

Sakusa hummed, finding his comfort in the crook of her neck.

Then she said, “Now get off of me.” 

Silence, then, “No,” he said, giggling against her shoulder. 

“You’re going to hurt my back, Sakusa-san,” she said.

“I’ll massage you later…” He gently muttered, a cute plea with a pout as he peered into her. 

She sighed, “I warned you. We’re not sleeping like this.” 

Sakusa hummed. 

She turned to meet him, and just like that he understands what she needs and gives it immediately. Another kiss on the lips. Tender, unrushing, a promise.

[royalreef]

@littlebadger inquired: “ I don’t think you’re truly mean. You have sad eyes. ”

"And I think that if you believe myself to have 'sad eyes'," the two words came back in a perfect mimicry of his voice, turned back a few seconds to replay what had already been spoken, "then you clearly do not know enough about me to make any assessments whatsoever."

She exhaled hard, whuffing as her nostrils flared open wide enough to see a sliver of pale yellow skin. Her eyes, bespoken as they were, did not turn upwards, did not look back. The muscles beneath her iris flickered, drawing shut the two sides of her slit pupils to thin them further, a singular crevasse splitting open a shallow sea. Dark and deep and unspeaking of whatever lay beneath it, dwelling and thriving so long beneath the surface that they might never be seen by anyone who did not already live there all the same — and contrasted so sharply by the brilliant turquoise all around it, a sharp and vivid teal undercut only by the faintest rivulets of true blue, something that should have been warm, inviting, beckoning, but always looked faintly off. No whites to her eyes, no relief until her eyelids pinched shut, until her salt organ trailed off from the corner and slipped down towards the end of her snout.

Most people couldn't read her eyes, Miranda knew that. Virtually all landfolk, really, because they didn't know what they were looking at. She was smart enough to realize when they found her uncanny, as reading people was a part of her job, a necessity for her day-to-day. It wasn't a feeling she shared or understood with much depth, but she did still know that.

It was just... not what they were used to. Eyes were like that, really, because they were unique as to each animal which used them. They had to be. They spoke innately of navigation, being a direct means of contact, interaction, comprehension with the world itself, and what they were looking for and how they were looking for it mattered. Pupil shape spoke of light, whether it was uniform or dappled, whether it needed to be stretched across a horizon line, whether the structure sought colors or not. The color and the way the equipment parsed color suggested what they were looking for or fine-tuned for, when they sought what they did, how they understood it to be what they needed. It even told of when eyes were not the first line of understanding, when they were mere articles worn after the fact, utilized but not depended upon, or when they were vital, essential, weight-bearing upon which the rest of thought depended.

Thus, minor differences were hard to miss, and especially when someone was looking for familiarity in another. Even if something was slightly wrong or misplaced, then that changed things, altered the rest of their structure in a way that could not be tolerated, could not be understood.

Landfolk had whites to their eyes, because they used those for communication, eye-contact and eye-direction important to them. Landfolk eyes were all soft material, without an orbital ring to keep their shape. They tended towards roundness, because landfolk were tall and did not stay down low, where they had to judge distance despite themselves being in shadow and their target being in light. They were better with color, and Miranda was better with light. Miranda had more of an eyebrow ridge to shield and protect her eyes, complete with her nictitating membrane and her salt organ, and landfolk examples were paltry against her own.

All of these made it hard for landfolk to look at her and recognize her for what she was. Her thoughts did not map to theirs, written in a different language, impressed upon a different material, possessing different subjects as landmarks. They looked at her and could not comprehend her, in the same way they might look at a frog, or a turtle, or a bird, and be lost even trying to guess at what their emotional state, their given reactions, might mean. They would look and see a vast and uncertain expanse, a great and terrible void, perceive mystery as darkness. Already they struggled to see her as little more than an animal, at least when she was more merfolk, less princess, wearing her influences a little more blatantly. It just became harder when they sought details for refuge, thinking that they could find console in the map of her body, expecting her to have some latent traits that were theirs, instead of her own.

Miranda struggled with it less, or she thought so, at least. It helped, certainly, when she barely cared about eyes to begin with. Merfolk weren't very visual, and what was the point with staring into someone's eyes? If you were that close, there were better things to do, and most of the time she was far enough away that it didn't matter what she was looking at.

But it also helped that she had been around landfolk for years, and they had only ever seen the one merfolk in all their lives, defined entirely by however long Miranda wished to talk to them. That was what irritated her, she supposed. Landfolk could change. It wasn't like it was hard, they could certainly be taught how to read a merfolk, how to read her. Miranda had been taught herself, and she had settled in fine to it, without many hiccups after the first year or so. If they had just tried, if they had realized for a moment that she was her own, that she possessed her own rules, her own mannerisms, that she could not and would not move nor look like them...

It was all besides the point. It didn't help either that most merfolk also struggled to read her, but Miranda knew exactly why that was, and that was because she didn't want them to. She had been taught that too, how to obscure herself, hide her hand before she played it. It was useful, in the way most practical knowledge she possessed was, in that it left her untouchable and thus free to enact her will as she pleased.

Her fins pulled back, carded themselves into a straight line so that all three laid on top of each other as one, pressed the fuzz near her cheek into her scales and against the fronds.

"Truly, I do not know what you are hoping to get out of this. Do you have a point in trying to insist you know who I am, or are you merely going to continue standing there and wasting my time?"