#don’t be rude and stare he’s self conscious

[ghost-bxrd]

For @pics-and-fanfics who requested Fae!Dick 💚

I got way carried away with this one lol.

Anyway, looking at other creatures too long isn’t recommended. Catching even a glimpse can be… disconcerting.

[suhkusa]

TO THE TOP.

PAIRING. Sakusa Kiyoomi x f!Reader

SUMMARY. Sakusa Kiyoomi was ranked #1 in his class. Was, at least until you came along. After this revelation, he makes it a (personal) challenge to overtake you. Sakusa Kiyoomi is a genius at everything he does, but for once he finds it a challenge when it comes to you.

CW. hurt/comfort, angst, fluff, rivals to lovers except kiyoomi is the only one competing, idiots in love (but theyre actually geniuses), high school setting, ~3k words

A/N. Got inspired from a tiktok and came up with this word vom hope u enjoy

Everything came easy for Kiyoomi. Academically, at least.

While all his classmates found themselves struggling to take tests or study, it was as natural as breathing for Kiyoomi. There were some cons to being as incredibly intelligent as him, but he found himself drowning in the gratification of being #1. 

At least until the 2nd semester of his third year. At least until you.

———

Class Rank: 2

Sakusa finds himself staring at the transcript in his hand, as if his ogling would have an effect in changing the number presented before him.

His eyes scan through his class history, looking for any clues as to how he might’ve dropped in ranking. But there was nothing. All A’s, and as many extra classes stuffed into each year as possible. 

Kiyoomi’s home room was rowdy as students caught up with one another, as winter break had just ended. While in his own little world, his ears catch onto a couple of words his classmates threw around.

“I heard Sakusa isn’t the top in our class anymore, is that true?”

“Woah, hasn’t he been the top of our class since the 1st year? I wonder who was able to catch up,”

His eye twitched a bit at that one.

“It was that new girl, Y/N,”

The paper crumbled slightly under his grasp. Y/N?

The ring of the bell, signifying the start of class, caused him to slightly jump in his seat. Kiyoomi crumbles his transcript before tossing it in his bag, it’s going to change soon anyways.

He would just have to step up his game.

———

It was ironic really. The world really loved to test Sakusa Kiyoomi, and not only at his school subjects. Of course, you were his desk partner in his math class. Only he had the amazing luck of being seated next to his new self-declared rival.

Kiyoomi knows it’s rude to stare, but he can’t himself because you’re the number one student? You?!

Honestly, you don’t seem like the academic type. You seem too pretty to be caring about stuff like that. At first, he considers the fact that you could be using your looks to get people to do the dirty work for you. But he witnesses first-hand as you write down every math equation, answer every question correctly, and even check your work not once, but twice.

His hyperfixation on you is bad. So bad, he missed the whole introduction lesson and is trying to rapidly copy down what’s on the whiteboard as the teacher is erasing it. Fuck-

“Would you like to see my notes?”

Kiyoomi’s pencil comes to a halt as he looks back at you, your papers are being pushed towards him on the desk. He watches as your eyes widen, as if you suddenly became self conscious. 

“I-Is there something on my face? You were staring at me so I wasn’t sure…”

Shit. 

“No,” he tries to make up something, but what comes out of his mouth is stupid, “I was just looking past you,” it appears it’s sufficient though, as you nod in response.

“I see, well, did you want to see them?” you gestured to the notes between the two of you.

Kiyoomi tells himself that if you hadn’t offered, he wouldn’t have asked. But since you oh so kindly offered them up, who was he to say no? He doesn’t need them. He could always ask his cousin, though his handwriting resembles chicken scratch more than human writing.

“Sure,” he takes the papers and positions them in a way where he could just look between them and his own.

In his head, Kiyoomi is scolding himself over and over again for not paying attention. This cannot be a regular thing. If he was going to take back his rank, he needed to be on his A-Game. 

His pencil slaps against his desk as he finishes, quickly sliding your papers back towards you.

“Thanks,” Kiyoomi offers.

He watches from his peripheral vision as you smile and give back an “Anytime,” before gathering your things and getting up to go to your next class.

Kiyoomi doesn’t know what it was about you, but he could tell he was going to need to up his game. This was war.

———

By the second week of sitting by you, he decides you’re annoying. More annoying than the people who talk while the teacher is talking. Which, in his book, is hard to beat.

Maybe you weren’t as smart as he pinned you to be, since you kept helping Kiyoomi with his work when he did not need it. 

Though, you were only able to backseat his work because you somehow finished before him. He’s used to being the only one who sits back and relaxes as the rest of his class struggles to complete the practice problems. 

It’s weird though. Because as much as Sakusa hates your yapping, he doesn’t find himself putting an end to it. Instead your voice plays in the background as he completes his work.

He hates it, or at least that’s what he tells himself, the way you praise him like a little kid when he finally completes the work sheet. 

“Nice job!” you smile at him, “but, how come you don’t check your work to make sure you’re right?”

“Because I’m always right,” he replies with a slight roll of his eyes.

You laugh at that, I’m not joking, he thinks.

“You’re funny, you know that?” you tell him. 

Kiyoomi gives you a shrug, “Whatever,”

———

A month in, he begins to indulge in your shenanigans. But only because he had felt bad.

During the third week of sitting by each other, you had taken his short and dry responses personally. You halted your chatter and no longer offered to help like you usually did. The way the classroom felt quiet without your talking was eerie, so Sakusa reluctantly decided that he’d rather hear your voice instead of nothing at all. 

So a month in is when your friendship, or whatever you called it, began with him.

“Why do you use erasable pens? Just use a pencil,” he questions you, eyes peering down at your pen.

You look taken aback as you respond, “I don’t know, is there something wrong with it?” you examine your pen, “I just found it on the floor and stuck with it,”

First of all, gross, remind him not to touch you or your belongings ever. “It’s just a hassle, sometimes it doesn’t erase,”

“Well, it hasn’t given me any problems, so!” you exclaim as you get back to write on your practice quiz. “This is kind of challenging, huh?”

“Nah,” he lies, “You’re just stupid,”

You laugh in his face, “Rude,” Kiyoomi watches as you glimpse at his paper before going back to yours, “That’s why you got the first problem wrong and I didn’t say anything,” 

Sakusa can feel his eyebrows scrunch up, he’s quick as he glances at it and then yours. Fuck. He’s mumbling something under his breath and he begrudgingly erases the circle around his answer. 

“Told ya,” you smile before moving onto the last problem, “you know, we should hangout or something,”

“No,” he’s quick to cut you off, catching you by surprise.

“Whaaat, it doesn’t have to be like that, weirdo,” it seems like you’re going back on what you meant, “Like to study,”

“Still, no,”

“C’mon, don’t knock it till you try it,” you nudge at him, and to be honest, if you were anyone else he might’ve punched you, “please, just once,”

You’re annoying and pushy. But he supposes that if saying yes to you would get you to leave him alone, he’d say, “Fine, whatever, it has to be my house, though. Your house is probably messy,”

Kiyoomi watches as your face slowly brightens before silently celebrating to yourself as you get your way with him once again.

———

“Wow,” you’re amazed as you walk through Sakusa’s house, “your house is so nice, do you have a maid to keep it clean or something?”

“No, just me,” he says before leading you into his room, “please don’t make a mess,”

“I won’t, I won’t,” you say before settling down on his rug, playing with the soft threads, “Okay, I was hoping to review the practice quiz, I know the teacher said I got it right but I feel like there were some parts that had me second guessing myself,”

You’re quick to open up your textbook and blab about whatever problem you were having trouble with. You actually came over to study. Kiyoomi was under the impression that once you got over to his house you’d make him do whatever silly shit you usually have in mind. But no, you actually respected his wishes. Which in turn, earned you some respect from him as well.

“So you’re number one, huh?” He asks, looking up from his textbook to meet your eyes.

“Yeah, but it’s surprising that all my credits from my old school carried over,” you mindlessly say as you continue to write on your sheet of paper.

The sound of the pencils scribbling on paper fills the room before you interrupt it, “You were rank one before I came, right?”

His pencil stills, “Mhm,” It was a touchy subject, though he never thought he’d hear it from you.

“I’m sorry,” you surprised him, “When I found out I took your ranking spot, I was nervous because people are serious about that stuff. And then, when I got seated by you and you stared me down, I thought you hated my guts,”

Well, you had it down to the T, but he wouldn’t tell you that. 

“You don’t have to apologize, it’s out of your control,” you smile at his words.

“Thank you,”

It’s then, in his room, when he realizes he’s losing sight of his goal. To overtake your position. As he watched you look back down at your textbook, he found himself locking in as well. 

He needed to get serious, now.

———

These hangouts, or study dates, or study hangouts, whatever, became basically practice. Always at his house, though. Since he couldn’t fathom the idea of how dirty your room might be. 

“I don’t know how you balance volleyball and school, Omi,” you say from your position lying on his floor.

“Don’t call me that,”

You laugh before continuing, “All I do is school and I’m always exhausted. I had to quit my shifts at the cafe down the road because I would fall asleep before making it to my room,”

“Dangerous, Y/N,” he says, frantically writing down practice problem after practice problem. 

Picking yourself off the ground, “Wow, you’re serious about this final, huh, Omi,”

He glares at you, causing you to laugh again, “Sorry, sorry,” your eyes meet his for a brief second before he looks back at his paper, “but you know it’s okay to take a break, right, that’s all you’ve been doing. We haven’t even gotten to try to compete for today’s Wordle yet,”

“Mhm,” is all he offers you.

You sigh in response to that, “Boring, so boring,” you say as you lay back down

“You can go home if you’re bored,”

“Ugh, rude,” you roll around to make yourself comfortable, “I would but sadly I like being in your presence,”

“Whatever you say,”

“Do you like being in mine?” you question, causing Sakusa to hesitate on the problem he was on.

“You’re tolerable,”

You find yourself cheesing, “That’s a yes in my book,”

———

Finals are coming up. There’s so much on your mind, that you finally decide to let one of the thoughts that have been driving you crazy go. The fact that you like Sakusa Kiyoomi. 

It’s nerve wracking. Not only because you’re basically confessing your feelings, but also because he’s your only friend you’ve made since being here. A lot of people think he’s rude and condescending, but to you he’s different. 

He lets you talk your head off about whatever your brain decides fits best. And while he gives you short responses, they show you that he’s listening and observant. He’s on your level regarding academics and can keep up to your train of thought. He just cares.

And while you hope he might feel the same despite only knowing you for the past couple of months, you chalk it up to fate as to whether or not your intuition is correct.

As you approach the gymnasium, you slow and quiet your steps as you hear familiar voices by the entrance.

“You’ve been hanging out with Y/N quite a bit, huh, cous’? Your mom told mines,” you assume is Komori based on his words.

“Yes. It’s not like that, though,” you recognize as Sakusa. 

You assume he might be fronting since it is his cousin, and feelings are embarrassing at times.

“C’mon, you can’t tell me you don’t like her, she’s like one of the prettiest girls in class and she’s smart. So like, your type,” Komori pushes. And while part of you likes that he said that, you soon take it back after Kiyoomi’s words.

“I don’t like her. I only put up with her because she’s so pushy and always hovers over me while I try to do my work. Plus, she took my ranking spot,”

The world feels silent for a second, the only sound audible to you is the sound of your heart slowly breaking.

“She’s just a nuance, honestly,”

Your feet are moving before you realize. Slowly backing away before running the opposite direction.

He doesn’t like you? You were right that he hates you because you’re number one? He let you into his house but only because you pushed him? Your thoughts are running faster than your own legs, you don’t even realize the drips of water slowly running down your cheeks. 

If number one was what he wanted, then you were going to give it to him.

———

Kiyoomi finds it weird. Finds you weird. Well, he’s always found you weird, but particularly as of recent. But only because you’re quiet. And have been for the past couple of days. 

At first, he assumes it’s because the finals had finally arrived and you wanted to focus on your work. Which, respect, because it also allowed him to focus on his own. 

But even after the finals had passed, you were still quiet. You opted for doodling in your notebook instead of talking to him about a new video game you’ve hyper fixated on or this new show you started to watch. 

It’s even weirder when the teacher is going around passing out the graded math finals, that he stops by your desk, letting out a whispered, “I’m disappointed in you, Y/N,” 

Kiyoomi hears, and it calls his attention towards your paper before even his own. His eyes widened.

A big, fat, red 0 marked at the top of your quiz.

“Y/N-”

“Are you happy now, Number 1?” you ask, still looking down at your paper.

He’s about to ask you what the hell you’re talking about before the bells conveniently cut him off, allowing you to take off without a second glance back at him.

His mind is caught up on your words, Number 1. Kiyoomi has never brought up his disdain regarding the rankings to you, ever. Yes, it bothered him at first. But eventually he didn’t mind it, since the only person he’d ever allow to be above him is you. 

Kiyoomi thinks back on any time he’s ever mentioned it before he remembers the one time he had ever verbally brought it up to anyone. But there was no way… unless.

Fuck, Sakusa thinks as the bright red 100 on his paper stares back at him. It mocked him, poking at his head uncomfortably. Without a second thought, he crumbles the paper before stuffing it into his bag. Kiyoomi had finally gotten back what he’s been working for this whole time, so why does he feel empty?

Kiyoomi realizes then that while you may have lost your Rank 1 position, he was the true loser. Because he didn’t have you.

———

He finds himself at your door before he even knows it. He’s giving an excuse of “she left her notebook,” to your parents as they direct him to where your room is. 

When he finally walks in, he’s shocked. Your room is clean. 

Even as you lay in your bed so peacefully, the space around you is clean, and he feels like it’s safe to walk in. 

“Y/N,” is his first attempt at waking you up, before he’s walking closer to your bed, crouching down a bit to pat your back, “Y/N,” again.

It’s by the fourth or fifth time that he calls your name that you finally look up at him, and you look heavenly.

He’s always known you were pretty, but even more so now you were gorgeous, hair messy, eyes droopy with sleepiness. You were perfect.

Your eyes blink a couple times before you look like you’ve processed who is standing before you. Quickly sitting up, hands moving every which way to fix your appearance, “Omi- I mean Sakusa what are- what do you want?”

Ouch.

“You need to leave, I-I don’t want to see you,” your voice is beginning to tremble and it hurts him, “You finally got what you wanted, I don’t know what more you want,”

“You, I want you,”

Your face drops in disbelief, “No, you don’t. I heard you, what you said,”

“Y/N-”

“No, you hurt me, Kiyoomi. I like you,” you cry, “You can’t just say all of that and then show up out of nowhere claiming otherwise,”

“I’m sorry, Y/N,” he’s kneeling now, allowing him to be the same height as you as you sit in your bed, weeping, “I-I’m sorry,”

His rough thumb smoothes away your tears as they fall, “I didn’t mean it, I was frustrated- and that’s no excuse for what I said, I fucked up really bad,” with every word another sob breaks loose from you, “And I’m sorry,”

“At first, all I ever wanted was to be rank #1, but then you came along and changed everything… Then I realized that it wasn’t being #1 I wanted, it was you,” he continues, “and that’s scary, because my ranking was all I’ve known all these years,”

“But even so, you made it okay. I was okay with being #2, I was so caught up in you that I forgot I ever wanted to be #1 in the first place,” your eyes finally meet behind the thick tears in your lashes, “I like you, Y/N,”

He can tell you’re at a loss for words. And for once he can finally say he has out-talked you. 

Until finally, you decide words aren’t sufficient in this situation. Before he knows it, you’re leaning forward, and your lips are on his. The kiss is short, but definitely more than a peck. But it felt infinite to Kiyoomi. He never wanted the moment to end, and found himself sad as you finally pulled away.

You stared him down for a brief second before tackling him down to the ground in a big hug, “I hate you, Omi,” you laugh angrily.

“Sure,” he smugly replies, watching as you smile into his shirt.

“My number one,” you sarcastically mutter as you fake pout at him.

He cringes, “Ugh, don’t. I feel guilty, why would you even do that? You’re crazy,”

“Because I don’t care about the ranking. I never did. Plus it somehow only dropped me to #2 since the rest of our class failed and I’ve taken too many extra classes,” you say, “I only cared about you,” 

Kiyoomi smiles at you before crushing you in his hug. 

Everything came easy for Kiyoomi. Especially now, his feelings for you.

© all writings belongs to suhkusa 2024. do not repost or change.

[samodivaa]

permeated by jealously

Paring: Bucky x Reader

Summary: In your tight-fitting red dress, you look ravishing for the date with a Russian guy—but the moment you retort to Bucky in Russian, it begs to be ripped from your body.

Warnings: smut, angst, kitchen sex, rough/possessive, unprotected p in v, miscommunication Words: 4k

Bucky's veins are full of the serum, but at this moment, they are full with belladonna tincture, the substance of jealousy. Seeing you with another man, he speaks of Love in the past tense. The scene that plays in front of him—that guy coming to pick you up from the compound, is perfectly adapted to a temporal phenomenon: distinct, abrupt, framed, already a memory. For a split second you stare at each other, you smile at him ruefully. A fleeting, lasting moment for Bucky. Why do you even notice him? Seeing you happy, gives mixed colors to the air of the moment—he is lost in time, sleeping being his only lover.

Bucky wants to kiss you. Instead he puts his lips on the tumbler glass, pretending that it is you. His t-shirt is unbuttoned at the top, and he runs a hand through his hair before he puts the glass down on the kitchen counter—flashes of you in that dress that you wear for your date and the way it lifts your body up from a single look races through his head.

His cock jerks and he shakes his head, grinning as he stares down the bottle of vodka next to his cup.

And, for the first time in his innocent and confined life, he senses in himself a potential for a different corruption that takes his breath away. He doesn’t blame himself. He is a curious, wanting thing—finally, enlightened and free, but also lustful and carnal. But It stabs at him, almost like a physical pain, and he feels both deprived and angry, deprived because Bucky wishes to be with you and angry, because his own choices causes him misery. ----- “It is almost like a reverse nightmare, like when you wake up from a nightmare, you're so relieved. I just wake up into another nightmare."

"And what is that nightmare, Bucky?" He keeps his blue, lusterless eyes fixed on Natasha with a calm but warm and kindly expression in them as he thinks how to say it  "My love life” “Maybe you need to ask her on a date, that’s what Vladimir does”

“Vladimir? Oh , so it is not just 'that one guy' anymore?”  he says in a quiet voice, without a trace of irritation, with a note of the simplest curiosity, his lips quivering as a forced smile comes on to his face. Nat momentarily startles. Then she starts to laugh. “You’re jealous of him?”

He clenches his jaw. “I’m not jealous,” a note of personal affront creeps into his voice “I don’t like his name”  ----- You are on a date, having fun—but anxiety grabs his mind, it is self-perpetuating. Worrisome thoughts reproduce faster than rabbits, he is trying not to lose his balance. Not yet. Especially when the jealousy sets in. 

Bucky is conscious every moment in himself of many, many elements positively swarming in him, ah these, opposite elements. He knows that they have been swarming in him since you started going out with Vladimir and they are craving some outlet from him, but he doesn't let them, would not let them, purposely would not let them come out, because he believes there is nothing so self-destroying, and so despicable, as his jealousy. He tries to appear as a hard shell on the outside when you finally enter the kitchen at 1 am—while there is a runny mess on the inside as he tenses, waiting for you to say something, anything. When you near the sink, your fingers find the curve of the faucet, the metal cool beneath the touch. He turns around to lean against the counter as you pour a cup of cold water. Bucky stares hard at you, watching you take a long drink then he follows the flick of your tongue over your bottom lip. His heart stumbles a beat. He is in such an irritated frame of mind, because of your quietness that in rude and abrupt fashion he blurts out the words:    “You must love that dress”

He takes time persing down the length of your body as you take a step back, watching you press against the counter and then back up before locking on your eyes again. You are not wearing a bra and your nipples harden from having his eyes on you. Red, the front needlessly too scandalous—at least for Bucky. The dipping v lets him see the swelled sides of your breasts pushed up and together. Just to be sure, though, a golden necklace with a teardrop pearl at the end, letting it trail just over your cleavage.

  “I didn’t know that you notice what I am wearing when I go out”

You answer, trying to look as innocent as possible. The vindictive smile that stretches on your ruined lipstick sends shivers down Bucky’s spine—did you make out with the guy, maybe more than that? You look beautiful sitting there looking at him like a she-cat. All he has to do is look at you, and he lusts. He wants to take off that delectable dress and make love to you until you don't have the energy to go out with anyone else ever again.

  “You’ve worn it for the second time. For your date.”

His gaze drops from your eyes, to the swell of your chest. Your chest tightens and you bite your lip to hide the grin wanting to escape. You notice the disgust written on his face and you laugh coldly, gaze never leaving his buff frame. With the certainty that you have well and truly punished him for not asking you on a single date. The angry, feral part of you feels so close to the surface that you can almost scent its blood-clotted fur. You want to lick the scratches you’ve made on him. You want to scratch him until he breaks apart. You gulp down the rest of your water to ease the heat flaming across your skin. Then you lick your lips. His gaze tracks the movement. You think you stopped breathing.

  “His name is Vlad” 

An audacious expression plasters on his face as you sigh in irritation at Bucky, rolling your eyes. Bucky is still leaning against the counter and rests his metal hand on the countertop while sipping vodka from the mug in his other hand. A beautiful yet deadly ornament—vibranium has no business being as hot as it is on him.

A note of personal affront creeps into his voice “Vladimir, mhm”

  “What else have you noticed about me?” your grin becomes a touch leery, innocently cocking your head to the side.

  “Try me” he says softly.

  “Favorite color?” you ask, interrogatively.

  He chuckles “Red”

  “Favorite quote?”

Your brows lift, anticipation making your nerves sing. You are not sure what he is about to say, but you have the feeling that it will be the right one, your heart leaps at the thought.

  “Much unhappiness has come into the world because of bewilderment and things left unsaid”  he answers, this time winking at you  “I know everything about you, sweetheart”   he adds and you feel like smacking that stupid grin off his face.

His mind works well when it comes to his work as an avenger, hovering on hummingbird wings, but when it comes to you, especially when you purposely play with his jealousy, It finds a way to push through any seal of his mind, his expressions are always an array of masks he uses to cover it up his emotions—but now, it is all over his face, pure surrender, because he is affected and you can tell, he is staring impudently at you, awning for your response.

  “I prefer kotyonok. Vlad says that cognac and wine is all for the heart and that vodka is for the soul. If it's hurting real bad and you’ve never had vodka before”

His brows lift, because this does surprise him and his stomach tightens at that particular Russian word. His mouth curls into a small snarl at the thought of that stupid man calling you that. A pang of jealousy surges through him. The bad kind. The kind of longing that makes him wonder that there must be a natural comorbidity between sexual appetite and sexual jealousy, between the desire to fuck and the desire to kill. He clears his throat, his face souring before his mocking tone grates:

  “Looks like you know a thing or two about me, too”   

He is trying to not be overcome by emotion. Emotion is the art of breaking hearts, minds, and tongues―but jealousy is too much, even for Bucky. He settles back into himself, shaking whatever momentary emotion flitted over his face and replacing it with a confident aura that screams laid back and in control as he cages you to the counter, his flesh hand still holding his half full cup. Your throat gurgles slightly, looking at the bigger frame towering you through your lashes like the starved woman you are. You are overwhelmed by his bold move, leaving you both speechless and breathless, but even then it is important to identify the correct emotion here—lust, a longing that goes on a loop. You try to ignore his hard cock pressing against your thigh, your attention remains on his face. You feel drunk without a drink, your nerves tighten, making your muscles clench―this is going exactly how you want. You want him to kiss you. But you make sure to keep your facial features mundane and level.   “If you keep looking at me like that, I’m going to think you have a crush on me, Bucky” You also ignore the annoying, visible blush on your cheeks, he must have noticed it because his expression goes grim for a second before a surprised laugh almost breaks free from his lips, responding only by a clink of his tumbler against yours. Judging by the rumble that vibrates in his chest, he likes your reaction, though the noise ends on a cynical note. His blue eyes drop to your mouth, warmth pours through your body and you moisturize your lips as he presses his knee between your legs. Right against your clit—you breathe out, a wave of pleasure sliding down your spine while Bucky just tips his glass back the last of vodka, allowing the burn to sear his throat and warm his stomach—while casually grinding his leg slowly against you, creating a sensation that has heat winding through your core and shooting down your legs.   “Na zdorovie” (cheers) You smile venomously with a kind of joyous sigh, your arrogance in this moment makes you feel very confident. Up to this moment possessiveness has not been that much of a torment, now it suddenly gnaws at his heart. As in slow motion, he pulls back to put both glasses on the counter. He realizes that you do something to him. Every time. It’s your only detriment this past month. To step on his heart—to test his feelings for you, and his jealousy already has made him erupt like a volcano. He has never been jealous before he met you. It burns. Some nights, watching you go with other men on missions, even that drives him mad. 

   “You and that fucking mouth, kotyonok” His voice sounds ill-natured, bitter, politeness that would only be laughed at, restraining an unruly nature, wary of the ways that you are trying to provoke him, but his tone shifts at the last word. Voice warm and low. Intimate. You like it this way. You like the way it sounds and it makes you gasp.   “You like this, don’t you, pretty girl?” Your character has absolutely changed. It is an entirely new and hitherto unknown being who now stands and stares at him somewhat lovingly. There is evidently, he concludes, something at work here, some storm of the mind, some paroxysm of emotion which he won’t question. When you say nothing, his hands move to your waist, his vision already blurring. His bones fill up with foam, a languid fear, and a terrible desire. You let out a deep breath and can’t deny the strange elation you feel when you feel his hands, needing more of it, of his touch. Your pussy contracts as his hands reach around, gripping a handful of your ass, forcing you harder against his both body and leg. The grip is both bruising and possessive, controlling every movement.     “Oh, god-” You open your mouth, and Bucky dips down, catching the moan with his tongue. Satisfaction sparks in his irises and he tilts his head and keeps watching you with those fucking lethal eyes of his. Bucky gives a small grin, a fake one. The type that shows no teeth and barely lifts at the corners. You feel a very small spark to your ego, knowing you are getting a rise out of him. But all of the playfulness in the air drowns beneath the intensity of his thousand shades of blue dancing in his eyes as if he is peeling back your mental layers, his eyes looking down watching the bare length of thigh that shows through the slit in your dress. 

   “You and these dresses” he groans. Whether you want to admit it or not, physically, this man affects you more than anyone else ever has, and that causes panic to percolate through every nerve, you feel like you are losing control, but you don’t mind it. You feel vulnerable, exposed, almost at his mercy at this point. Jealousy isn't a pleasant quality, but his jealousy is combined with modesty and there's even something touching about the filthy words coming out of his mouth. He wants you—and finally, he is not afraid to both tell and show it.

   “Ya ne mogu vyrazit', kak sil'no ty menya zavodish'” (I can’t explain to you how much you turn me on) Your lips part and you swallow audibly while he has the most delicious visual of his dick slipping between them, your eyes staring up at him in surprise and that sweet tongue running along the shaft. He surges forward, your face is an inch from his when you breathe out, he breaths in before crossing the final, tiny gap and pressing his lips to yours. It is not a sweet kiss. It is hard, demanding, and possessive, borne out of weeks of pent-up frustration and tension. His mouth is hungry and insistent, his tongue probing your lips, asking for greater intimacy. You grant it, tongues swirling together, yours follow his when it retreats and tasting his in return. When he finally pulls back, he rests his hands on your hips, and stares into your eyes for a minute.

  “Tvoy zapakh s uma menya svodit” (your scent drives me crazy) 

He speaks without haste, controlling himself so well, yet there is something in his voice, determined and euphoric, resentful and insolently defiant. Passion smolders in his eyes as he traces the line of your clavicle with his index flesh finger, pausing for only a fraction of a second. And then you become aware of all the magnificent silk wrapping around your body, you have the feeling that you might drown in his eyes, his two drops of winter rain.   “I would love to make love to you, but not tonight”  He studies your face, pleading silently for your approval, searching for the smallest sign, the slightest movement of your brow, the vaguest reddening of your cheeks, the surprise of your eyes. At that moment, your soul clenches as well as your pussy. The hard dick still pressing into you distracts you from replying. You can feel your panties dampening. And your nipples are suddenly incredibly sensitive, aching as they pucker against the material of your dress. Your chest warms, desire winding like a rope around your core. You think you like Bucky this way. A smile shows on your face. This would be invisible to any, but the closest scrutiny—Bucky has noticed it and taken it for his sign. Then he leans forward and presses his lips once more, his sugar roughness, his possessiveness is what you need to finally feel.   “What did you do when you went out?”   “We had a few drinks. We danced.” you reply, thinking it best to speak the truth at once. His lip quivers slightly, forcing himself to seem calm, but Bucky’s eyes are sparkling irefully, there is no doubt in his expression the full success of your endeavors to make him even more detested.   “You danced with him?” he asks, with sudden vivacity.   “Well, he is my date” You murmur, trying to smooth away all disquietude on the subject, you sense a physical weakness by the violent, unequal throbbing of your own heart, which beats visibly and audibly under the excess of agitation—but before you can even manage to open your mouth again, his metal fingers grab the front of your gown and pull it until it tears, no matter how beautiful, it was meant for another man—perfect breast on display just for him, his cock pulses at the sight. His touch tickles you on his way up to your boobs, skirting over your ribs before fully cupping them in his palms. “Tony’s rules include no sex in the common areas” “Fuck the rules” he grits out, more animal than you have ever heard from a human. And then he gives you a smile that just seems so genuinely sweet—with the filthy touch of his hands, that unexpected warmth rushes through you. His thumbs run over the hardened peaks, making you moan and his dick is so stiff that he is worried that he might come.   “Ty moya” he says coolly. (you are mine)

   He leans in, his voice a rumble in your ear.   “Moy kotyonok” (my kitten)

Bucky moves, gripping the meat of your thighs before he spins you harshly around and bends you over the counter. Your walls are squelching around nothing as you feel him pull back, murmuring something in Russian, it is sinful—and pleasurable, drawing a muffled whimper from your mouth as you hear him tear apart your panties. You lick your lips, trying to quench the thirst for him. Your throat is dry as you hear his belt clattering noisily as he unbuckles it, popping the buttons of his jeans open, followed by the low purr of his zipper coming undone, he drifts his hands down his sides and hooks both thumbs into his jeans, sliding them and the boxers down his legs before pressing his body against yours until every inch of him melds into you one more. Bucky’s metal hand grips your chin and forces your head back while the other closes around your throat as his cock presses against you—chills slide up your spine, arousal sending a shot of adrenaline through your center as you feel pre-cum on your naval. Fuck, he is huge. There is a certain satisfaction in manhandling you into this position, the flesh arm tightens around your nape, holding you close to him. 

   "How about we make a deal? You wear dresses for me and I take you out on dates?” He rambles against your ear, tongue slipping out to taste you, just a little bit. His cock nudges around your ass cheeks, to your sleek mound until he gasps as he guides his sticky cockhead with his metal hand, gliding through your delicate folds and returning his cold grasp around your chin. He doesn’t say anything as he slips inside you with ease, your wetness sucking him in, making it easy for him to thrust into you until he buries himself to the hilt.     “Fuck, you feel good”

Bucky moans quietly as his eyes close, focusing on feeling your cunt wrapping around his dick for the first time. His lips stay silent, but he chatters with his fingertips, with the way his hands hold, the way he fucks you. You want to see his face, but you can only imagine how perfect he looks.

His expression is dreamy, floating. Soaked in pleasure—breathless, possessed, lost in the volcanic eruptions of fever, lust and delight. Your pussy cradles around his dick as he pounds into you from behind. It is an igniting feeling to have so much control over your body. It is sick and twisted, he has long learned to run from what he feels and wants, that's why he has nightmares. To deny is to invite madness. To accept is to control. And he needs to take control over something for once in his life. You. He has lost control over everything, even the places in his head. When your moans become too loud, his hand closes around your neck, slowly cutting into your skin while cutting off oxygen. It is more painful than lethal, but more erotic than painful. His growls erupt from his chest, the primal noise flooding your senses, making your insides clench around his length.

   “Come for me, drench my dick”

He whispers, fucking his cock against your cervix. He nibbles at your earlobe, loving the sharp intake of your breath as you struggle to breathe. Jealousy…teeth dragging against your skin, living marks. The primal lust, the sheer need to claim you, quickly finding ways to express his sacred hunger to you in animal passion. He snarls out gluttonous groans against your skin as you clench and seize, pounding you harder as your body contracts. Pleasure breaks out like a wildfire, reaching around your temples, shooting up and down your spine as his thrusts never falter, his mouth hangs open with bliss, his cock plunging into you with skin-slapping speed and he finally reaches his orgasm, cock spurting a thick dollop of cum with each throb.

Lust is the best of all the deadly sins, you realize as he pulls out and helps you go back on your shaky feet. It all happened too fast. You only wanted a kiss. You push his chest like you want him off of you, but your fingers have Bucky’s shirt clutched in them and he knows you are full of shit. You want him. 

   “I wish I could say I felt guilty for what I did. I don't.” The timbre of his voice goes into that low register that makes your insides curl in on themselves. You want that tongue to swipe your sex like licking the frosting off a cupcake. It is the sexual chemistry you want more of. It is electric. But guilt sets in. You are feeling torn between your commitment to building a relationship with Vlad while engaging with Bucky, in a way it feels like cheating. A part of you is hoping someone from the team would wake up and catch you, so you wouldn't have to live with this lie. But no one wakes up and in the silence that follows, you understand the nature of your new curse: you are going to get away with it. Your silence hurts him, his mouth tightens. But there are some wounds that he can heal only by deepening them and making them worse. And yet, sometimes facts are no more than pitiful consequences, Bucky knows how the public will perceive you if you are dating the former Winter Soldier. Seeing you standing there unresponsive makes him realize that silence has a sound—he knows that you regret sleeping with him. You are the people's favorite Avenger, the one everyone look up to with admiration and reverence—he is sure that you are thinking about it, but he understands. The blue moons in his eyes are glimmering with an emotion you can’t put his finger on—and he should be sad, but instead, he feels nothing. He feels a lot of nothing these days. He is empty, as if whatever makes him feel and hurt and laugh and love has been surgically removed, leaving him hollowed out like a shell. This is for your happy ever after, Vlad might be a stupid Russian, but he is at the very core of his existence—a real human. He turns around and paces the room, as if he can leave his regret, you, behind. But it cracks you as you see him walk away, leaving you naked like an ugly shadow made by himself. You have mistaken his lust for love. Regret. It turns into anger, into hatred. And where there is anger there is always pain underneath. You eventually come to understand that in harboring the anger, the bitterness and resentment towards Bucky who has hurt you, you are giving the reins of control over to him—maybe It’s time to finally say “yes” to being Vlad’s girlfriend.

[queenothegeeks]

Awkward creator reader drabbles

This is based off a previous post about the reader being an awkward creator.

(warning, this all based off of chaotic ideas me and a friend had while on call, and this is not beta read, so I apologize for any bad spelling or grammar)

Imagine, just, having tea with Zhongli, and he's just talking about wine or something boring idk, and he notices that you look a little zoned out, like, eyes glazed over, mind clearly elsewhere. While he’s worrying about The Creator not liking him or whatever, you are just trying to figure out how to process being in another world, with all these people that you know everything about, but at the same time, don’t know anything at all. 

When you notice him looking at you weird and not talking anymore, you worry that you may have missed something important. So you just blurt out the first thing that came to mind, to fill the silence. 

“It's kinda funny that you're working under Hu Tao. She’s like, a billion years younger than you. Also, you should cool it on the adventuring, you might throw your back out gramps.”

And then, realizing what you said, you just grab your now lukewarm  (yes, he was talking for that long) cup of tea (or whatever else you want if you don’t drink tea)  and take a long sip, trying to hide your red face. 

(Bonus, you choked on your tea) 

Imagine going to Fontaine, and just gawking at the scenery there. Imagine, in order to find out about where in the timeline you are (and because you want to see some of your favorite characters) you decide to go to the opera house, and see if there's a trial going on, where you can ask Furina or Neuvillette about the wellbeing of Fontaine. Instead, you find a flier for Lyney and Lynette's magic show at a nearby theater. Deciding to go, you pay the ticket master, who looks in slight shock as the creator buys back row seats like a normal person (you were too scared to ask for a better seat while paying, so you just asked for the cheapest one) 

Sitting down, you wait nervously for the show to start, all being completely ignorant of the panic and rumors backstage. 

“The creators here! At our show!?”

“Calm down, it's fine, we don’t even know if it’s true.”

And, just to stir the pot, a tall lady sits next to you. You feel like you should know her from somewhere, she just seems so… familiar. 

Realizing you had been staring for quite a while, you turn your head back to the stage, waiting for the show to start. About midway through the show, you realize who it is you are sitting next to.

The knave, fourth of the Fatui harbingers. 

At the end of the performance, you shift in your seat, suddenly wayyyyyy more self-conscious than you were at the beginning of the show.  Wanting to say everything and nothing at the same time, you decide it's best to shut your mouth for the time being. It’s probably not even her, why worry-

“Excuse my rudeness, would you happen to be the creator?”

She knew you were of course, hence why she chose to sit next to you, instead of the front row seat that was reserved for her, as it always was at one of her children's performances. 

“I.. am… but you can call me y/n! I don’t really like fancy titles or anything! Would you be the Knave? Or do you prefer Arlecchino? ack-wait , sorry. I’ll shut up now, let's start fresh, what do you think of the show?”

You half say-half shout, flailing your hands around, and then shrinking in your seat, trying to become as small as possible. Arlecchino chuckles.

“I think it was a lovely performance, as they always are. My children are very talented, you know.” 

“Y-yeah! They're really great! I have to go! Great meeting you miss-Arlecchino-Knave-ma’am” 

You say as you bolt out of the room, the embarrassment and social awkwardness you naturally possess driving your feet. 

(Bouns, you tripped over your own feet and wanted the floor to swallow you whole) 

@lorkai

[icarryitin]

Episode 4: Workplace Hot

spencer reid/gn!reader

look i don’t know what this is or where it came from, all i know is one day i woke up normal and then by the end of it i had started CM from the beginning and fallen in love w this man

series masterlist

word count: 1.2k//warnings: literally zero, just vibes

summary: It’s just a crush on a coworker. That’s normal, right?

Things never go smoothly, do they?

Never quite to plan, there’s always something missing from the final draft, or something unexpected lurking in the background of the big picture.

This surprise comes gift wrapped just for you, in stupidly attractive, nerdy, beanpole patterned paper.

The first time you lamented about your unfortunate crush on Dr Spencer Reid had been over mojitos at your favourite little hole-in-the-wall bar. Sitting at the raised table with the remainder of your girl group from college, staring dismally at the bottom of your glass, they’d tried to convince you he was just Workplace Hot. Proximity Hot. Work crushes are commonplace as anything, they come just as quickly as they go. God, you wish they’d been right.

You’d tried to convince yourself of it, anyway, and that worked for a little while. You were happy enough to sit at your desk, the man in question mirroring your position somewhere on your right, five days a week. You could do your paperwork in his general vicinity and not feel like you were about to catch fire every time he leaned over the aisle to pinch a file from your stack. And then, there was The Incident.

The Incident - named for the absolute havoc wrought on your nerves until the early hours of a Sunday morning in May. Uncoordinated nights out though they had been, with your own friends out celebrating a birthday and his little group with their own agenda for the evening, it would have been rude not to wave across the bar at him. The rest of them had been too far gone already but one of your friends noticed your shy grin, arguably your best - friendship forged in the fire of back to back forensic psychology classes would be hard pressed to die. She noticed, because of course she did. So you’d told her, because of course she’d have worked it out. And then, to your horror, she’d walked right over to him. Because of course she would. She’d wandered back over to your group only a few minutes later, a solemn look on her face under the dulled bar lights.

“Do you get what I mean?”

“Oh, I get it, my condolences.”

You had been doomed from the start - cursed, bewitched. Lulled into a false sense of security via cardigans and wide eyes and odd socks until you find yourself here. Six months into your new job, and six months into an embarrassingly cumbersome crush on the good doctor.

Which probably would have been fine if either one of you stayed behind at Quantico regularly, but you don’t. Instead, you’re burdened by six months worth of knowledge of all his little quirks thanks to case after case after case.

You know he’ll commandeer the couch on the jet when he can, because he likes to stretch out when he naps. You know exactly how much sugar he takes in his coffee, too much - you feel mildly nauseous every time you make him a cup, but you still make it. You know that he chews on the inside of his lip when he’s thinking particularly hard about something, just as well as you know he doesn’t even realise he’s doing it. And sure, it’s not just him, you’ve learned these silly little things about every member of the BAU team. But Reid’s just seem clearer to you. More significant. You’re a little more self conscious when you find yourself looking at him. Even in conversation, even if he’s looking to you for an observation about the Unsub. You can’t hold his eye for very long.

He knows, you’re sure of it.

There’s a rule - don’t profile the team. The golden rule. The golden rule that gets broken about fifty times a day.

Spencer likes the rule, even if he doesn’t always respect it. Sometimes it needs a little disrespecting, he thinks so anyway. Sometimes his colleagues, his teammates, his friends - they need somebody to prod them a little, letting people in goes against every fibre of a behavioural analyst’s being. But trust has to be built somehow.

He’s about this close to cracking you.

Which hasn’t been easy by any stretch of the word. You’d held him at arm’s length for much longer than the others, and at first he’d thought he annoyed you. It made sense enough, he’s been called annoying enough times in his life to know he definitely can be, and the way you’ve never really been able to look him in the eye would suggest you don’t want to get into the situation where he could be. He tries his best not to ramble at you, even now, just in case. Though that initial ice has long since melted.

You’re a lot more open with him now, even if there’s still parts he has to chip away at thick stone walls to get to. Silly things, that not everyone would care to know about their co-workers, but Spencer absolutely needs to know about you.

Which is where the stakeout game comes in.

It’s silly, really. Twenty questions - who plays twenty questions as a grown adult? FBI agents who desperately want to get to know other FBI agents whilst they’re stuck in the confines of an SUV’s backseat for hours on end. That’s who.

Derek and Emily sit up front, watching the quiet street, the way they’re supposed to be - as Spencer desperately tries to guess your favourite movie. He’s narrowed it down to two in his mind, in only three questions. The traditional rules of the game had gotten boring after the first few cases, you’d laughed and told him that he’s too good at guessing. He’d told you that you’re just not asking the right questions on your turns. You’re watching him carefully in the dark now, the way you’re meant to be watching the Unsub’s house. You don’t make eye contact but you’re studying his face all the same, he wishes you would. He’s become a little too dependent on the way his heart seizes when you allow him that kind of vulnerability.

He doesn’t have time to pick a film or ask another question anyway, because the Unsub is flying out the back door of the house, he’s jumping out of the SUV with everybody else, and the Unsub is surrounded. Thanks to your work, your observation being the final piece of the puzzle that had clicked everything else into place.

You’re chatting to a local officer when Spencer calls out the title of your favourite movie across the street. His guess, twenty questions completed in just three. How very Spencer Reid of him.

He’s right - obviously. He doesn’t need to watch the way your head drops and your shoulders shake with a giggle, interrupting your conversation to turn to him. But he watches all the same, he always does.

Your eyes sparkle in the dark when you look back over your shoulder, finally catching his under the orange haze of the streetlights, and sending a kaleidoscope of butterflies surging in the pit of his stomach. Paper thin wings clog up his throat, spindly legs tickle his lungs.

Work crushes are commonplace - but this one might just be the death of him.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Retrogradation

Warnings: non/dubcon, coercion and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Part of Roo’s Pajama Party (October 7-8)

Prompt: Retrogradation - a backward movement. (List of prompts here) + this look

Note: Please leave some feedback and reblog <3 As always, I love to chat with you all. I hope you enjoy this one and have a lovely weekend.

This isn’t how you saw things going. Nothing ever really goes how you expect. You think you’d be used to it by now. That after all the disappointment, you would give up hope. You tried that too but it still hurts. 

You pull the blanket over the couch. You don’t anticipate a good sleep. The springs are broken and squeaky and the cushions not quite thick enough to pad the jabbing metal. You can’t complain, it’s somewhere to lay your head. That morning, you didn’t have even that. 

You try to fluff up the slightly dingy pillow. You just as sad for your brother as for yourself. This isn’t anyway to live. Thin walls, noisy neighbours, and that constant stale smell that doesn’t go away. Even so, you won’t spurn his kindness. It’s all you have. 

You can at least be grateful for the solitude. He left about an hour ago, said he’d be back in a few hours. You didn’t ask why. He’s an adult and you’re sure he has more to worry about than his errant sister. 

Before you can recline, footsteps make their way steadily down the hall. You stop and listen, watching the crack beneath door. For a moment, you think it’s just your brother but the knock that follows assures you otherwise. He wouldn’t do that. 

Hm. Maybe you should ignore it. If it’s his friend, they might assume that he’s not there. They knock again. It would be rude to not answer. What if it’s an emergency? 

You get up and cross to the door. You pause for just a moment as you think about how short your pajamas are. How the top is a bit too loose so that the top button hangs a bit lower than it should. They won’t think about that. 

You open the door and choke on your voice. You’re so stunned to see Mr. Smith there, you’re certain you’re dreaming. You must have fallen asleep and not even realised. You stare as his lashes flick to mirror your surprise. 

“Eh, think I might have the wrong place,” he says. “Sorry, love.” 

“That’s quite alright. It’s... do you remember me, Mr. Smith?” 

“Oh, yes, I do recall,” his cheek twitches, “you moved on from the kiosk, yes?” 

“I moved to the home store, sir,” you explain. He was a regular down at the south end location when you worked at the small coffee pop-up near the train station. “How are you doing?” 

He looks back and forth evasively and fixes his glasses, “very good, love. As ever.” He turns back to you. “And you...” his eyes wander up the splintering door frame, “suppose serving medium roast to the masses doesn’t pay much.” 

“It’s money. This... I’m...” you’re suddenly very self-conscious. Having to say it aloud is harder than you expect. “My brother’s letting me stay over. Just until I find a new place.” 

“Oi? What happened then?” He asks with a tweaked brow. 

“Evicted. They’re upgrading my flat to let at a higher price.” 

“Hm, I don’t think that’s very legal.” 

“I didn’t either,” you shrug. “Anyhow, I hope you find whoever you’re looking for.” 

“Me too. Say, I know it’s not your neighbourhood but you wouldn’t happen to know where I might find a lad by the name of Alex?” 

“Alex?” You echo and add your last name. “That’s my brother. How do you know him?” 

His blue eyes flicker and he takes a deep breath. His cheek ticks again. He smooths his hand over his slicked back hair. 

“Is he in?” He asks. 

“Not at the moment. Can I help? I can tell him you stopped by.” You offer. 

“Mm, well, it’s rather urgent. Any way you can tell me where he is?” 

You frown, “I can give him a call but I don’t know where he’s off to.” 

“That’ll do then.” 

There’s a solemnness to his agreement. He hardly seems happy about your solution. It is rather late. You suppose he doesn’t want to be waiting around all night. 

“Would you like to wait inside?” You ask. 

His cheek dimples and gives a single nod, “alright then.” 

You step back as he enters. You spin in search of your phone as the door clicks shut gently. You scoop up your phone and filter through for your brother’s number. You tap call and put the phone to your ear. Your keenly aware of Mr. Smith pacing by the door. It must be urgent with how restless he is. 

No pick up. You try a second time to the same end. You leave a voice mail then text for good measure. You shrug as you face Mr. Smith. 

“Sorry, sir, he’s not pickin’ up. Should I tell him you stopped by?” 

“Mm, you think he’ll be back soon?” 

“Well, he left a bit ago. I’m sure he’ll be back soon. If you want to stick around, I guess you can.” 

“Sorry if I'm imposing. I don’t mean to.” 

“No, it’s fine. Not my place,” you go to the couch and fold up the blanket and stack it on the pillow. You turn back to him once more. “Would you like a cuppa? I think Alex’as at least a few bags in the cupboard.” 

“Thank you but I’m alright,” he waves you off. “Your brother... you’re close to him?” 

“Erm, he’s my brother. We’ve not been very chummy since we were kids,” you shrug. You notice how his eyes flit around the room. You squint. “Are you looking for something?” 

His blue eyes meet yours. His jaw ticks and a dire shadow fills his eyes. You squirm. 

“You’ve any idea what business your brother’s mixed up with?” He asks. 

You swallow and shake your head, “he works down at the garage, I think.” 

“Oh, does he? And he lives here? Known some mechanics in my day, they take home a decent pay,” he says. “Yet he’s livin’ in a slum like this.” 

“Well, er, I...” a trickle flows down your spine. “Mr. Smith, why are you looking for me brother?” 

His eyes drop and he tilts his head. He sighs. He tucks his hands into his pockets before he looks at your again. 

“He’s taken something from me.” 

You stare at him. His tone, his posture, his very gaze, you know what he truly means. Alex has stolen from him. But what? 

“Well, why don’t we have a look around and see if we can find it--” you suggest. 

“That won’t do. It isn’t the sort of thing you just give back and call it even,” he says dully. His demeanour shifts with his timbre. He steps closer and you shy away. “And I’m not the sort to let that sort of thing go.” 

You know Alex lies. You know better than to buy into his stories but you wanted to believe. You wanted to hope. Still, even after all is lost, you really, truly wanted it all to turn out. 

“Oh,” you swallow.  

“You see, he’s crossed me. I’m not a man to be crossed and this isn’t it about getting back what he stole. It’s about the principle of it all. About teaching him a lesson,” he comes close until you have nowhere to go. Until he is right in front of you and the couch is against your legs. “I really wish you hadn’t have been here, sweetheart.” 

Your mouth falls open. His words are like a punch in the gut. You expect worse than that by the gleam in his eyes. 

“Mr. Smith, please, you don’t have to--” 

“You don’t get it. It’s not up to me,” he grabs you by the neck and you cry out.  

You bat your lashes at him as your eyes glisten. You don’t fight. You can’t. No matter what you do, you lose. Whether it’s him, your landlord, or life in general.  

He pushes you until you sit. His grip tightens for an instant than eases. He inhales through his nose so it flares out. 

“Will you listen?” He asks. You lower your eyes and nod. He sees right through you. He already knows you’re weak. “Alright then, don’t pull nothing.” 

He rescinds his hand. Your skin tingles where his fingers had dug in. He reaches to your top button, undoing it with both hands. You shudder and let out a squeak. He continues down the shirt and lets go. The fabric opens around your naked torso. 

Your bottom lip quivers as you stare at the tailored weave of his pants. He brushes his fingertips along your hairline and down your cheek. You lock up as his touch continues down your neck and wanders along your chest. He fondles your naked tits as your top slumps down your shoulders. 

“Get up.” 

You stand as he backs up. He grabs your upper arms and turns you with him. He takes your place on the couch. He sits back and braces his thighs. 

“Finish it. Everything off.” 

You nod and keep your head down. You shrug off the shirt and untie your shorts. You shimmy them down and kick them away.  

Your eyes are drawn up by his movement. You waver as you notice his open fly. He strokes himself above the rich brown fabric of his pants. You press your hands to your stomach and shudder. 

“Get on me,” he orders. 

You sway and dare to bring your eyes up to his face. You don’t understand. Mr. Smith was always so polite. He always tipped and wished you a good day. Why would he do this? 

“Bad luck, that’s all it is,” he assures you. “Isn’t my fault, eh? Blame your thief of a brother.” 

You gulp and step up. You bend and grab his shoulders. You feel as if you might collapse at any moment. He latches onto your hip with one hand and guides you down. You ease yourself down and wince as his tip brushes between your folds. You whimper. 

He lines up with your entrance and pushes you down. You stretch around him as you whine. Your voice grows louder and louder with each inch. Your tears leak out and you puff through your teeth. You’re set alight by the shame that underlines your pain. You won’t even resist. Like everything in life, you just let it happen. 

He takes your hand and lifts it to his cheek. He leans his jaw into your palm so his beard tickles you. He holds you like that as he rocks your hips. You roll against him, following his motion as you weep softly. He groans and bites his lip. 

You hang your head as you give yourself over to him. You snivel as your core swirls with heat and your skin speckles hotly. You bring your free hand up to wipe your nose. 

“Sir, does this—will this--” you can barely speak or think, “my brother...” 

He growls and pulls your hand further, hooking your arm around his neck as he forces you closer. 

“I’m still going to break his fucking hands,” he snarls. “But I think I’ll keep you too. Show him what it’s like to lose something.” 

You sob and nod. He runs his hand away from yours and up your arm. He nudges your chin up as he keeps your hips moving. 

He groans and grunts through shallow breaths, “don’t be sad, sweetheart. I’ll take care of you. Better than this heap.” 

[twistyfish]

prompt~ rafayel fluff -> angst where he’s rude and apologizes after. requested by anon!

“Why did you paint my acne scars so clearly?”

“Because they’re on your face!”

While you were normally impressed by Rafayel’s attention to detail, today it was making you very self conscious. “Was there really a reason to include them, though? They’re temporary marks that aren’t a part of me. And you literally drew the individual pores on my nose- Raf, this is so unflattering.”

“Quit micromanaging me. Art isn’t supposed to judge itself, you know.”

You huffed at his response. “But art is supposed to be pretty. This is not pretty. It’s uncanny. It looks too much like me, I don’t like it.”

He chuckled. “You don’t like that the portrait I’m painting of you looks like you? You’re so interesting, cutie.”

“Stop, you know what I mean.”

He didn’t turn his head, but his gaze flitted to meet yours before returning to the canvas. “Just trust me. I know what I’m doing.”

You watched the brush flutter around the canvas like moth wings, leaving intricate strokes in its wake. As Rafayel became more engrossed in his process, you left him to work and went out with a few girls from your team.

You had a nice time catching up with them and getting coffee. Well, two of you got coffee and Tara got hot chocolate.

When you returned a few hours later, he was staring at the painting with a look of intense scrutiny. You walked up to him quietly.

A little too quietly, because when you put a hand on his shoulder, he tensed and his paintbrush created a small splotch on the canvas mid-stroke.

“Oh! I’m sorr-“ you started, but he cut you off.

“Are you kidding me? I just finished painting that section.”

Your heart sank a little. You felt genuinely apologetic. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“I don’t care what you meant to do. You ruined it. There’s a huge smudge over the nose.” His shoulders were tense, and he was holding himself more rigidly than he had been when you left.

“Raf, I think you should take a break.”

“Oh, so just because I’m upset that you interfered with my painting, I’m being irrational?”

“That’s not what I-“

“Don’t think I didn’t notice. The spot where you made me mess up is right on top of the part you didn’t like. If you’re that insecure, you shouldn’t have asked me to paint you.”

Your mouth opened slightly. “What?” You said harshly.

“You heard me. Why ask me to paint your face if you’re going to criticize me every step of the way?”

“Stop. I accidentally startled you and you made a mistake because of it. Are you seriously accusing me of sabotaging your painting because of that?”

“Maybe.”

You stared at him blankly. “I can’t believe you.”

“I can’t believe you either.”

You shook your head and picked up your bag, walking toward the exit. You weren’t going to argue with him like this.

Your mind spun. Why was he acting like this?

Fortunately, he seemed to come to his senses fast because you didn’t even make it halfway home before the phone rang. You accepted the call half heartedly.

“Hey,” his voice rang through the phone.

“Hi,” you said with a flat tone.

“I’m a dick.”

“Yeah, you are.”

“I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t have called you insecure and I shouldn’t have accused you of anything. I’m the one who messed up.”

“It’s not a huge deal, but yeah, you shouldn’t have.”

“No, it was unnecessary. And what I said about me not painting you? That was stupid. I love painting you. I would paint you all day if I could. I can’t capture your likeness perfectly, but trying to recreate that radiance makes me so, so happy.”

Your lips spread into a smile hearing that. “Really?”

“Really. I got too defensive over my art of you, but that wasn’t cool because I snapped at the real you. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, Raf. I forgive you.”

“Yay!”

[bruisedboys]

I have a concerning amount of Bradley Bradshaw thoughts, so I was so excited to see your post asking for them!! You also made a post about being bad at eye contact and I’ve never related to something more in my life. So…

I started thinking about Bradley and shy!r who can’t hold eye contact with him!! But I can’t decide if he’d be understanding or hold your face toward his and lovingly tease you. What do you think??

(This is my first time requesting but I’ve been following you for a while and love your blog!🤍)

omg. so I’ve decided he absolutely does the second one because he’s such a huge flirt …… also I made this a blurb hope you don’t mind !!

bradley ‘rooster’ bradshaw x fem!reader

You’re out grocery shopping with Bradley (which is nerve wracking enough already, he keeps pulling you out of the way of other customers by the waist, leaning over your shoulder to read the ingredients on a tub of yoghurt you’re looking at, his face an inch from yours) when he stops in the ice cream section and just looks at you. At first you think you’ve got something on your face.

“What?” You ask, confused and a little self conscious.

“You look really pretty,” he says simply, smiling that awful (gorgeous) smile that you hate (love) and obliterating any thoughts of self consciousness you previously had. “I’m so in love with you I could die, sweetheart. Seriously.”

Your heart seems to explode out of your chest. Your face gets hot and you’re sure your legs almost give out. You can’t look at him any longer because he’s so handsome and he’s lovely and kind and looking at him means knowing he’s looking right back at you. With his stupid gorgeous brown eyes and pretty smile and undeniably handsome moustache.

You avert your gaze to the linoleum floor. Staring at it as if it will save you from your incredibly sweet boyfriend. And then said boyfriend starts laughing. He laughs and you should be offended, should tell him off for laughing at you when you’re literally being tortured in the middle of the grocery store, but his laugh is maybe your favourite sound in the whole world.

Bradley drops the carton of ice cream he’s holding in the cart and surges forward to take your face in his hands, never rough but definitely demanding of your attention.

“Babe,” he says, faux serious, eyebrows pinched in an almost-glare, though his grin betrays the act. He lifts your jaw so you’re looking at him again. “I’m talking to you. You know it’s rude to look away while I’m talking to you.”

He’s joking, of course he is. He knows how shy you are and would never ever demean you for it. Still, you struggle to meet his eyes, opting for staring at his nose instead.

“Bradley,” you say, breathless but trying not to be. “You can’t just say something like that while I’m trying to get groceries. It’s life ruining.”

“Life ruining!” Bradley laughs, loud and ecstatic. “You’re life ruining. You’re so lovely it makes me sick. Can’t you give a guy a break?”

“Oh my gosh,” you complain, almost begging with him. “Stop.”

You wrestle your way out of his grip (he doesn’t put up much of a fight at all. If he did you’d still be firmly stuck), and step away, hot around the collar, stomach churning with butterflies, wishing the floor would swallow you up.

Bradley just grins at you. “You’re cute,” he says. “Come on, let’s find the sprinkles. Do you want chocolate syrup too?”

You honestly don’t think your stomach could handle it.

[after-witch]

When You Looked at Me, I Should Have Run [Mahito x Reader]

Title: When You Looked at Me, I Should Have Run [Mahito x Reader]

Synopsis: Your trip to Japan doesn’t go as planned, thanks to a monster in the forest.

Word count: 7400ish

notes: Yandere(ish); body horror, violence, vore and implied digestion, reader is transmasc

If there was one thing you could appreciate about getting lost in Japan, it was the fact that people were very willing to give you directions. So when the realization hit you--you have been unfortunately walking the wrong way for some time now--there is none of that stomach-churning dread that occurs back home, when asking someone for directions typically ends with someone telling you to “fucking looking it up on your phone.”

And sure, you didn’t exactly speak Japanese, but that’s what your secondhand “301 Phrases You’ll Need in Japan!” book was for! You’d also found that you could ask in English, and people didn’t seem to mind. Or at least, they didn’t say they minded, and that was what counted. 

Sighing, you grab the book out of your tote bag and begin to flip through. A few people veer to the side from behind you after the sudden stop, but you pay them no mind, instead focusing on finding just the right phrase you need. When you do, you repeat it out loud what feels like a million times before tucking the book away.

The map comes out next, and you unfold it haphazardly, searching for the hiking trail you’ve been searching for all morning. It was supposed to be really scenic, but a little off the beaten path. Perfect for photos, plus you could tell your friends back home that you weren’t on one of the annoying overcrowded tourist paths, which was always a bonus. 

Now, to find someone to help and--ah! 

A young man leaning up against the alley wall of a charming little storefront would do. He’s dressed unusually, wearing a flowing shirt with a striped pattern, and he was maybe in an accident of some kind, with stitches on his face. But you don’t stare (well, maybe for a second); because that would be exceptionally rude, Japan or otherwise. 

You smile, bowing (maybe too low, maybe too dramatically, but it was hard to get the angles right) and hold up your map. In very accented Japanese, you ask, “Can you help me find the…” And the word you had memorized from the book vanishes, so you tap the map, shaking the paper. “Mountain trail?” You complete in English. 

The man blinks at you, saying nothing, which is a bit strange. A bit rude, you might say. Maybe you pronounced the words completely wrong. You fumble for the book, finding the page again, and hold it up for him to see. “Mountain trail?” You ask again, still in English.

The man blinks again. 

You sigh, and point at the page where the phrase sits, not wanting to attempt a pronunciation in Japanese at the moment. 

He leans in closer, too close, really, and his silver hair ghosts your shoulder. Mismatched eyes--contact lenses? He was really trendy!--scan up and down before he moves backward, staring at you again.

Then--

The man grins.

Widely. Unusually so, among the people you’ve met. But perhaps since he was younger, he was breaking social norms a bit. I mean, he already was, with his outfit--with his hair, long and impossibly silver. And those contacts! 

His eyes roam over you--and you feel suddenly self-conscious of yourself, wearing a simple touristy t-shirt and trousers with hiking boots--and his finger finds the map even as his eyes never leave your face. 

The finger slithers down the paper, and you force yourself to follow it (geez, why was he staring so rudely?) as it lands on a particular sidestreet marked with a hiking trail symbol. It’s not too far off, thankfully, and you could probably cut across a few streets to get there sooner. 

He says something in Japanese, but you don’t know what. When you stare at him blankly, he grins again.

“Forest,” he says, in English. His grin gets even wider, somehow, and you swear one of his stitches twitches. “Fun.” 

“Thank… you very much,” you murmur, in your accented Japanese, before giving the strange young man another exaggerated bow. You wave--a habit--and don’t bother folding the map before you leave, walking quicker than you might have, to avoid wasting anymore time on this trip.

The wave seems to amuse him, and he waves back, beaming. 

A strange young man, sure. But just as helpful as anyone else you’ve met on your trip so far. And his hair was really pretty; it was a wonder nobody was so much as staring at him.

--

There is something in the forest.

There is something in the forest, wild and large.

There is something in the forest, wild and large--and it is following you.

You’re not sure exactly when it started; you weren’t paying much attention to the forest itself until it became too loud and obvious to ignore. There weren’t enough service bars on your phone to look it up, but it had to be some kind of bear, right? Japan did have bears--you think. 

Maybe it was a deer. But deer would be too skittish, wouldn’t they? To follow you around in the woods, despite all the noise you were making. Unless it was one of those deer that was used to being fed by people, though if that was the case, wouldn’t it have made itself known by now? Begging for an apple and bowing, like the videos you saw online.

Probably not a deer. Maybe a bear. Or a fox or something else large and rumbly and, you think, eyeing you as a potential snack. 

Whatever it was, it was staying hidden. In the brush and trees, with the occasional rustle and snapping branch to give away its position. 

What do you do? Your mind tries to trace back to those Saturday evenings spent watching the occasional “When Animals Attack” documentary with your family. There were episodes on bees and mountain lions and sharks and bears, too, you’re sure… should you play dead? Make more noise? Run like hell? 

How can you get help, in the middle of the woods?

There’s on one else on the trail. Your phone isn’t working. And you’re not entirely sure if you should retrace your steps or keep going on ahead, to make it lose interest. The choices are all too confusing, with the adrenaline steadily growing inside your body, and your heart beginning to beat altogether too fast.

A decision can’t be made, not like this, heart and brain buzzing too quick and too loud to be steady enough for a proper thought process. 

In the end, though–

It doesn’t matter.

Your choice is made for you, when the animal retreats from the camouflage of the brush and steps right onto the trail. Its body takes up the entire trail, and it’s a wonder it was able to hide amongst the leaves and branches at all. 

And–

And it’s not a bear, or a deer, or anything you’ve ever seen before.

The creature that has been following you for oh-so-many steps is deformed. A monster. Something you’ve never seen in your entire life and so entirely wrong in its construction that your brain doesn’t register it as being real for a few awful, agonizing moments.

What is it–

It--whatever it is--has too many limbs. That’s what stands out at first, because it’s the most bearable thing to look at--the limbs. There are at least 6, skin-colored arms sprouting from the torso on downward. Claws or… hands? Fuck, they look like hands; hands are at the end of each arm, fingers wiggling like worms.

The creature doesn’t just have too many limbs. There are too many mouths, all open and red, with white human-like teeth showing in the center. Opening and closing and there’s a sound being made, but you can’t register if it’s human speech. It couldn’t be, because this thing was not a human. The sight of it was making you crazy, that’s all, and that craziness traveled from your retinas to your ears.

The worst sight of all, and it’s the sight of this that finally unfreezes your legs, is the rippling underneath the skin. A solid mass worming its way around the body. Like there was something else underneath the flesh, waiting to burst out, slithering along like a gorged snake.

You couldn’t let it come closer. You wouldn’t let it. 

So when your legs feel like they can move, when your breath gets sucked in with a terrible gasping that nearly chokes you, you bolt.

The creature comes after you. Of course it does. You ran like prey, and you feel like prey; you are prey, here, in the woods. You hear the creature now in full force, no longer meandering in the brush of the woods, but chasing you. The sound of too many feet hitting the ground, the sound of the air whipping by its many arms, and its breathing. Steady, loud, increasing as it gets closer. 

Your own breath comes out ragged, desperate, wheezing. You weren’t made to run like this–or perhaps you were, and that’s the crux of this whole damn trip–but this creature was clearly meant to chase. 

Regret on ever coming to the woods courses through you every time your feet pound against the ground, but regret wasn’t going to save you. Thoughts whir together--don’t let it catch me, how do I get out of here, will anyone be able to help me?--as you rush down the winding paths of the forest trail.

But there’s no one in sight, and there surely wouldn’t be anyone to help you if you went deeper into the woods. The only chance for salvation, if there was a chance at all, would be to head back towards the city. Monsters didn’t live in cities, didn’t thrive there. There’s an almost prickling fantasy that blurs through your mind: cross the threshold of the trail and it will stop instantly, like a fairy tale creature unable to cross a magic bridge. 

You will be safe, if you can get back there. 

But how to get there, with a beast at your back? 

You’ve got to turn around, somehow. If you can turn around, you can go back the way you came, and get back to human civilization. If you get back to human civilization, where monsters are dreams and movie magic, you will live. 

If you keep going into the woods, you’ll only get lost, you’ll be so deep that no one will hear you scream. If you even had the lung capacity to scream, after all this running. Would the lungs the monster tears through with its claws, its teeth, have anything left in them? 

You can’t turn around the proper way. Your brain, frantic though it is, is steady enough to understand that fact. You’ll lose momentum if you try to pivot and go back the way you came, and who is to say if you’ll be fast enough to evade the monster at all? 

But you want to live. 

So you do what the signs at the beginning of the trail forbade you to do, and veer off the trail, pushing into the thicket of the forest. The branches snag on your clothes, and you’re glad you decided against wearing the fanny pack after all. You’re able to pull the fabric of your shirt and trousers free from the branches as they snap and rustle around you; a fanny pack would have been a death sentence.

And when you make your desperate foray into the thicket of the woods, something happens. Something that makes your blood run cold, despite the heat of your pumping muscles and the sweat beginning to drip down your back.

The creature stops running. Oh, just for a moment.  You hear the racket of its limbs, of its power and size, cease. And you hear a little sound, a bit like a chuckle. That can’t be right, though. It must be catching its breath. Even monstrous creatures get tired. 

It must have been a wheeze, that’s all. The alternative is far worse.

It doesn’t stay still for long. You hear its body pushing through the canopy of trees now, too. 

It’s faster than you. And stronger than you.

But you keep running. Desperate, human, wanting to avoid the horrible fate at the end of its teeth and claws.

Your thighs and lungs and chest burn awfully as you hop over branches, run through canopies of leaves that slap your face as you go through them, the sting of micro-scratches registering as if you’re experiencing them as a third party.

What does a few scratches mean, if you get attacked by some--thing? No one will ever find your body, probably. Or it will be so unrecognizable that they’ll never identify you.

If you trip now, you’re done for. If you trip now, that thing will be on you, with its many mouths and many hands and many teeth.

If you trip now, that is.

Somehow, sheer dumb luck or some otherworldly being guiding your burning legs, you don’t trip until you reach the very edge of the woods, when the beautiful sight of the trail’s entrance is within arm’s reach. 

“Fuck!” 

You shout out, hands catching you before you hit the ground proper and hurting awfully in the process. Your palms sting, you’re sure there will be blood and scrapes. Like when you used to trip on the sidewalk as a kid and you wound up with gravel in your palms for the trouble.

That doesn’t matter though. What matters is that you can feel the weight of the creature behind you, can imagine it rearing up, can smell something--its breath, its body?--and you know you’re about to die.

This is it. A lifetime, all ended with–

Ding-ding-ding!

The ring of a bicycle bell turns out to be your saving grace. Someone pulling up to hike or maybe they heard your distress or who fucking cares, really, because at the sight of the bell, you hear the monster retreat back into the woods.

The person on the bike seems appropriately concerned at the state of you, sweat plasteirng your hair and clothes to your skin, your face red with exertion. They offer a hand and you don’t know what they’re saying because the thought of getting your translation book out right now is the furthest thing from your mind.

They murmur in concern at the scrapes on your hands. Those scrapes are nothing, compared to what was behind you; what should have happened, when you tripped. Child’s play, in more ways than one.

You let this stranger–your savior, really–guide you on jelly-like legs that carry you away from the forest, back towards the little town and what must be safety. Safety in numbers, safety in humanity, safety in the knowledge that the streets are filled with buildings, bikes, cars; the smell of automobile smoke and food stalls. The chatter of people, car horns, all of it a far cry from the wild woods and the wild creature behind you.

As you walk away on unsteady legs, you swear you hear another sound from the forest. you swear–but no, no, the rational part of your mind bubbles you safely away from it; oh, it can’t be real it can’t be real it can’t be real.

Because--

It sounds like laughter.

--

You don’t tell the police about the arms, and mouths, or the laughter. Only that you were chased by some kind of animal--you don’t know what--that was following you on the trail. 

The police smile at your story, told to them in shakily typed app-translated Japanese, and one of them types into his own translation app that they will search the forest, but that it was probably an aggressive bear. 

It was not a bear. You know this. You know this, and you let them placate you with assurances that they will put up signs, and send out a forest warden. Despite the awful knowledge that nests in your stomach like a rotten egg: this was not a goddamn bear. 

It was a monster in those woods. 

But who would believe you, if you tried to tell the truth?

–

The stranger with the silver hair and mismatched eyes spots you that afternoon, sitting at a local cafe with what must be a shaken, sullen expression. You’ve hardly touched the food you ordered, instead keeping your hands wrapped around your warm drink, focusing on the way it spreads through your fingers. 

Not that he seems to mind your look or the clear tension surrounding you like miasma. In fact, he plops right into the chair across from you without even asking, all grins, and swipes one of the mini sandwiches you ordered for lunch.

The audacity. The over-familiarity. Honestly? You can’t help but find it refreshing, in this moment, your mind and body still shaken from the ordeal. It was better than the awkward distance between you and everyone else; it was like the monster in the forest had laid its scent on you, and everyone knew to keep a step back.

“Trail?” He asks, eyes glancing over your hair, cropped short and still sticking a little to your forehead from sweat. He smiles a little–at you, maybe. Or maybe he just likes to smile. “Fun?”

The word hits, but not too hard. Not as hard as it would have, if anyone else had asked it.

It’s not like he knew what happened. And maybe… maybe he would know something more? A local who knew the trail, who lived around here, might take you more seriously than the police. Especially since he was a little strange himself, he might be used to the idea of not being believed. 

So you shake your head and offer up your phone to this perfect stranger, with the translated story from the police station still typed in. An animal, but you didn’t know what kind; a chase through the woods. 

“Ah,” he says, after a while of staring unblinking at the screen. “No fun.” He smiles, when he shouldn’t. “Scared.”

“Yeah,” you admit, breathily, almost smiling yourself. A lighthearted confirmation for a terrifying experience. Something about this stranger makes you want to open up. Makes you want to trust him. It’s like he gets you, and considering the fact that you stuck out like a sore thumb in this small foreign town, you latched right onto it. 

Then, leaning forward, you type the eager words into your app before asking them out loud: “Have you ever heard of there being a monster in that forest?”

You’re not sure if he knows enough English to register what you’ve said before reading the phone screen, but your words make his eyes widen. 

So you continue, almost babbling a bit, describing it in more detail. You’re not sure how much he understands, how much he’s getting. Your fingers type frantically into the app, repeating a choppy version of what comes bubbling out of your lips, hoping it makes enough sense. App translators weren’t exactly known for their accuracy. 

But you want to tell him, need to tell him, all about the way it moved, the odd breathy sounds that almost sounded like speech, and the rippling under the skin. The primal feeling of being prey in the woods, the same as any rabbit, any deer. 

People are glancing over as you speak, as you show this stranger your phone and go on about the horrors of the forest; and you’re not entirely sure if it’s because he committed an awful social faux pas in plopping down at your table to casually or because of you. Your words, your clothes, the way you’re getting increasingly frantic as he actually listens to what you say and doesn’t tell you that you’re some crazy American tourist who might consider going back to your hotel and taking a nap.

He gets you, he gets this, you’re sure of it even before you’re finished with your story.

When you’re done, you can feel new beads of sweat dripping down the back of your neck. During the course of your conversation, his wide-eyed expression has gone somber. Seriously. Like he knows exactly what you mean and it makes your chest clench in sick hope. 

“Yes,” he says, finally; low, leaning forward. His voice is soft and earnest and you latch onto it in a sea of unfamiliarity. “I know about a monster.” He glances around, apparently now keenly aware of the stares, although they only make him grin. “I tell you… not here. At home.” 

Home? His home? Maybe you shouldn’t--lord, stranger danger--but the stares only seem to intensify when he stands up, and you follow suit on instinct. It makes you feel naked, judged. Frayed-nerves don’t do anything but amplify the sensation. 

This is stupid. You read enough travel articles before coming to know that you shouldn’t go to places with a stranger. Hell, you knew that before you searched “Japan travel tips” on your phone for the first time–how many times did your mother tell you to never be alone with a stranger, back when you were small and so very different? 

But you were an adult now. More sure of yourself, in more ways than one. And this stranger, this strange young man, might be able to help you. If someone else knew about the monster, well; it might mean you weren’t out of your mind. It might mean you could leave Japan with this part of yourself intact. 

It’s something of a relief when the stranger grabs your wrists and pulls you away from the cafe. 

Your stomach flutters equally with that relief–and uncertainty. 

--

His home, he explains in his own accented English, is at the edge of the forest. It’s enough to make you nearly trip over your own shoes, when he tells you. The stranger turns around, smiles, but he doesn’t stop walking. He doesn’t let go of your wrist, either, holding it with a gentle firmness that makes you want to avoid pulling away.

“Scared?” His smile is small and almost private. Whether it’s just for you, or him, you’re not sure.

You swallow. And nod. A knot of fear tightens in your stomach, but you try to remember that there is strength in numbers. 

He looks you up and down, and tugs you closer, so that you’re walking nearly side by side as he holds you close. The closeness is, you think, a comfort. 

“The monster lives anywhere,” he says. There’s a blend of solemnity and humor to his tone that you can’t quite place. It might just be his accent, you tell yourself.

You tell yourself a lot of things. Like that he sidepasses the forest trail and takes you through a shortcut in the woods because it’s quicker, and safer.

Branches and leaves snap underfoot, and the dead silence of anything but the noise the pair of you make as you walk is all too familiar. The quiet is unusual, in a forest like this. There should be the sound of animals, the sound of scurrying, the steady hum of insects.

Silence in a forest means something is wrong. 

You shouldn’t be here, your body tells you. Your heart begins to pound again, and you tug a little on your wrist--you should tell him that you don’t want to go to his home, after all. You’re fine with not knowing the truth about the monster.

You’re fine with not following this stranger into the woods, in a foreign country, after having just been chased by something mere hours ago. 

If he notices your tug, your apprehension, then he says nothing. He only maintains his steady grip, his steady smile. 

“The monster eats people,” he says again, with that awful casualness. There’s a thought in your mind--you, tripping, the monster over you, tearing you apart with its teeth. Nobody finding your body, or whatever was left of it.

Without warning, the stranger stops. His grip on your wrist loosens and you slowly pull it towards you, heart thudding in your chest.

He stopped, yes, but why? There’s no house here. Only the woods around you, without the comfort of the manmade trail as a guide. Not that the trail kept you safe the first time. And are you really at the edge of the forest? If anything, you walked deep into it, away from the trails, from the markers, from the tourist spots marked on the maps.

Oh. 

Something is wrong, something is wrong, something is–

“How do you know so much about the monster?” You ask, quietly. There’s only so much room for proper thoughts in your brain, and the only one that worms its way to the top is a sensible, naive question. “Have you seen it before?”

He doesn’t answer. Not in words, English or otherwise. You wish he did. You wish he kept talking, and you kept talking, and you found yourself at some run-down shack where he lived off the grid.

That doesn’t happen.

Instead, he tilts his head up, long hair almost slithering across his shoulders with the movement. As he does, he grins, the profile of it broad and then wide and then wider and then--

Then it’s so wide that it splits his face into two, revealing a mass of dark red colored flesh and teeth sharp enough to tear through your muscles. And oh, my, grandmother, what big teeth you have.

There are undoubtedly words within you, words that might express the primal shock and horror at what you're seeing. But all that comes out of your mouth is a squeak, a wheezing little sound that has him turning.

You wish he didn't turn. You wish all you saw was the profile of his split face, because as he turns it is no longer possible to recognize him as the young man from before. Except for that beautiful silver hair, cascading over his shoulders, beautiful and grotesque.

His body expands as he turns, and muscles beneath the skin rise as his height gets too tall, his arms grow too numerous, and you can't believe mere moments ago he was simply a quirky good looking stranger who was going to help you solve this traumatic tourist mystery.

It’s not enough that he has too many arms. It's not enough that he has too many teeth, and they are so sharp that you know without thinking that they are going to tear through your flesh and rip it like well-braised beef.

There is something underneath his skin. It was there before, and it’s there now, only you’re closer–and still–and its presence is not some shock to the system but a confirmation of an earlier, terrible scene.

Oh, yes, there is something under his skin, and it does not stay still. You can see it moving, like a worm or an alien. Only instead of bursting out of his chest it simply moves, rippling the flesh underneath. Is it separate from him? One and the same? Is this some solitary mass, or are there more–to go with the creature's many arms and many teeth? 

How can this creature be anything but a monster, something other? 

Unless--unless you're looking in his eyes. 

(His, or its? You don’t know, and you never want to find out.)

But those eyes, those eyes are just as pretty and human as they were before.

His human eyes are staring right at you. Your mouth is agape, and you wish you had something other than domesticated teeth designed for chewing and not ripping apart. Because there's nothing you can do in the face of this but run.

You are prey, after all. The rabbit. The deer. The thing that scurries and squeaks. 

So you do run. For the second time in so many hours, you run for your life.

Only now the sun is starting to set, and you are in a completely unfamiliar part of the forest, and you know the monster is real and that it wants you and that it played with you like a cat plays with its food.

Your breath comes out in sharp, short pants. There's something tingling in the adrenaline that courses through your veins, pumping straight from your brain to every extremity, making even the tips of your fingers feel numb and floating. 

It’s like you're high from the fear. 

"Why run?"

The monster calls after you, even as it gives chase. It doesn’t sound as winded now.

And fuck, his voice sounds exactly the same. Why couldn't he sound like a monster? Why couldn't he sound like some guttural beast with no connection to humanity?

Why does he sound like the helpful, if a bit strange, young man who sat with you in the café? Who cheerfully pointed out the spot on the map you ought to go? Who seemed kind, if odd, an unusual character you would surely tell everyone at home about once you got off the plane? 

But the resemblance ends at his voice, at these little things. It ends at the glimmer of silver hair and the too-human eyes that you can no longer see as you try desperately to lose it in the forest. Swerving here and there, stumbling and half-leaping over obstacles, whipping through tree branches that claw at you in the dimming light.

You’re bleeding, you know it. You think the monster knows it, too.

"I like you," the voice says, light and breezy, from behind you. He says it in English and you wish he didn't, because it means he wants you to understand. 

It’s better when you don’t understand the monsters that chase you. 

Your foot trips on something, a branch or a log or the bone of a dead animal, and for the second time today, your body goes sailing through the air. This time, you land on the ground with a thump, half-crumpled. 

You could lie down here. You could lie down and die; let it rip through your throat and hopefully it would kill you quick before consuming your flesh.

But you don't want to. You don't want to die and it's not fair and you're just supposed to be on a nice trip, the end result of an entire year's worth of paid time off accrual. But instead, you're panting and bleeding and being chased by something in the forest that wants to eat you and likes you in what may be equal measure.

So you force your exhausted arms to push up from the ground and you stumble into a run. Pitiful as it is. Pointless as it is. 

Behind you, the creature laughs. Or the young man laughs. You're not sure which is which, or if they were different to begin with.

"I like you," it says again. There's something lighter in its tone now. Or maybe you're imagining it, high on adrenaline and lack of oxygen from all the panting. The tingling in your body hasn’t stopped, even as you stumble forward. 

"I'll keep you," it--he? You don't know, fuck--says. "Always."

The silliest of thoughts worms its way through your fear-addled brain.  Did he learn English just to communicate with you? Did all monsters speak different languages? Or did he shove his face into a tourist phrasebook in between chasing you and finding you in the cafe?

It's this silly thought that sticks in your ear as you go sailing to the ground again. Pushed, maybe. Or maybe you tripped on the bones of a dead fox, its flesh long eaten away by predators then maggots, in that order.

Palms stinging, knees burning. Blood bubbling through a tear in your trousers--cut on a sharp branch, you think. 

Your thigh aches.

Your lungs ache. 

Your chest aches.

Behind you, there is only the forest-noise of the monster chasing you. Arms and legs and the presence of it, pushing through branches and bushes like nothing. It could kill you like nothing, too. Maybe there are claws at the end of those hands, too many hands and too many fingers, and the world makes no more sense than it did a few hours ago.

Still, you don't want to die. Not here, not like this. So you push up with your burning, aching arms, and force yourself into a wobbling, weak standing position. 

It halts when you stand. You don't turn to see, you don’t even register the cessation of the rush of brush and bramble--you just know. 

One step forward, on wobbling legs. Legs that can’t run anymore, no matter what is chasing you.

“Oh,” says the monster. A soft, sweet sound.

Another step forward, and your knees buckle underneath you. Down you go. 

“Oh,” it says again. You do register the lack of sound, now. Nothing but distant insects (you wish they were closer) and your own breathing, and a sort of rustling as the monster approaches you from behind. 

”Cute,” it says. And oh, now, you can imagine its wide mouth, all those teeth, cradling the word like soft candy. 

You stare, barely able to support your body on your arms, at the ground underneath you. This will be the last thing you see, you think. At least it’s kind of pretty--nature. Green and brown and there’s life here, some insects meandering along underneath you, uncaring as to whatever is going on up above. 

Maybe they’ll get to eat what’s left of your body, when he’s finished. The circle of life, and all that. 

But it won’t be the last thing you see. Because you’re turning--no, you’re being turned, four or five or six arms on you, cradling you in a sickeningly gentle way even as your weakened muscles strain against their hold.

Your lungs strain and your breath comes out in short, terrible pants. The soft, sad acceptance is a lot harder to keep up when you’re facing death head-on. 

The last thing you’ll see will be this monster, above you, silver hair almost shimmering in the dimmed light of the forest. His mouth too wide, his limbs and teeth and scars too many, his human eyes boring into you with a glinting fascination. A sickly sweet sort of affection. 

That something is still underneath the skin, too. Rippling. Like a tick burrowed underneath the flesh, straining, wanting to get out but being unable to do so. 

His stretched mouth opens and there are so many fangs--you imagine the pain--imagine the teeth boring down into your chest or your neck, the tearing of your flesh. 

But that isn’t how you die; that isn’t how he eats you.

Instead--instead--his mouth opens wide and you hear the grinding of flesh as he teeth retract further into his mouth, leaving only a gaping dark hole staring down at you. Above it, his nose, distorted; above that, those eyes, still human, still searching your gaze as he leans forward and your body is gently cradled into the open mouth and pushed down into the tight cavern of his throat.

He swallows you down, and pushes you forward into his throat, down his gullet, onward and onward. There are brief glimpses of the world outside just before you enter his mouth, and then everything goes dark.

But not because you’re dead. Oh, if only you were dead. Instead, you are alive–you are inside.

It’s wet, inside. Wet and warm, like an inside should be. But there’s a wrongness to it all. You were never meant to be pushed down a gullet, to be surrounded by this pulsating warm darkness that slickened your skin even as your mind began to constrict along with your lungs.

Too tight. Too warm. Too many limbs--and despite all those teeth, they did nothing to ease your passing, to tear through your arteries and let you bleed out before you were swallowed up. 

You were swallowed whole, instead. Like Jonah and the whale. Like Pinnochio. Like other characters in other stories, and you can’t think of them now, with the buzz in your brain getting both louder and weaker all at the same time.

You don’t want to die–and not like this; the buzz in your brain constricts, something primal, telling you to GET.OUT.

And you try. You really do try, through pure instinct alone. An instinct you didn’t know you had until you were in this forest, inside of this beast. That animal instinct to free yourself from the jaws, the very stomach, of death.

Your arms, pressed up against your side by the pressure of the moist muscles around you, begin to flail. Your legs, too, constricted by the space you’re in–but moving. Squirming and kicking, trying to get some sort of purchase inside your living prison.

Strange, dim thoughts come as your body begins to squirm. They are the only thing keeping you human, separating you from the mouse clawing from inside a snake.

The thoughts–Being in here is like the time you wrapped yourself up in a sleeping bag and got stuck; being in here is like the first time you went down the tube slide at the playground as an adult, drunk at midnight, and almost got stuck.

Being in here is like all those times you thought you were going to suffocate inside something tight and warm and wrong–only this time, there is no triumphant roll as the sleeping bag unwraps, no sigh of relief as you wiggle your body back up the slide to freedom

There is only the wetness and warmness and the feeling of the monster around you. He hums–oh God, you can feel him humming, feel the way his body rumbles. He says something, too, you think. Something with a cadence that you’re so glad you can’t understand.

You have to get out. You have to get out, damn it. 

There’s a sick sort of rhythm to it, and while your mind recoils from the slick feeling against your skin as you begin to trash, it also gives you hope. This is how you get out, how you get free. Somehow, squirming inside the beast that’s swallowed you–you’ll survive. 

If only you could move more. If you could raise your arms and claw at the warm, wet interior, it might hurt enough to let you go. Throw you up or spit you out or maybe you could burrow your fingers so deep it rips the beast’s flesh open, like a bear gutting a salmon.

A salmon is perhaps what you most resemble now as your thrashing becomes a spasm, reflexive, increasingly jerky as the oxygen in your lungs begins to dwindle. 

Get-out-get-out-get-out, your mind screams.

Your body does its best. Your breath comes shallow now, panting loud inside the tight space and its moving, living walls. It’s all too moist, too hot, too wrong.

Warm, damp limbs jerk and kick and get nowhere in particular for their troubles. The moving walls against you constrict and release, slowly, and you find your thrashing only helps move you down further.

Further into the body of the beast. Further away from the world outside, further away from everything that made you a living breathing tourist just looking for a pretty mountain trail to explore and winding up eaten alive for their troubles. 

It was just an hour or so ago, wasn’t it, that you were sitting in the cafe? It seems like a lifetime, a distant memory, a dream. You cry out, the sound all warbled and wrong inside the tight cavern of his body. 

You want out–you want to go home–but there’s nothing you can do but trash again, soft, bleating sounds pushing out of your increasingly constricted lungs. 

“Oh.”

The monster speaks again, and the rumbling against you is softer, somehow. Cooing and low. And oh, Jesus–you feel him now. Feel his hands on the outside of what must be his belly, where you’ve wormed your way towards with every thrash.

The press of his hands against his skin from the outside is nearly unbearable, sending the wet-hot interior of the inside pressing against your cheek, smearing something slick against your skin, against your eye.

It stings against your lashes and you can’t see, can’t move your hands up enough to properly wipe it away. It makes you jerk again, makes your breath come in tighter, faster, less thoughtful and closer and closer to pure instinct.

Thoughts don’t come as easily. There’s only that desire to get out, to break free, to get away from the wet heat that surrounds you. There’s more slickness now, and a strange sort of acrid scent. A bitter, acidic scent in the air that stings your nostrils. 

He presses against his belly again and you wail, and he coos, and there’s hardly any space left for you to thrash but you try as best you can.

One.

Two.

Three more times.

And then the world gets too woozy, too hazy. You can’t breathe in here. You can’t move, really, aside from the way your limbs still twitch on instinct. You can’t see, and the sounds are only the strange rushing, the warbled noises from the beast that are hard to distinguish. 

The last thing you can sense with any sort of human distinctness is another side, slick and slithering, the sound of something inside the beast with you–oh God, you are not alone in here–and this last thought is when you stop being a person. When the thoughts cease to come as distinct lines from your brain and turn into a low, humming, dying thing.

The twitches that send your body spasming are not that of a person trying to escape, but of prey, finally subdued. 

Undoubtedly, you were once a human being. A person who grew up and imagined a future, some distant thing you couldn’t conceive as a child but which grew more concrete with every passing year. Someone who wanted a girlfriend or boyfriend, and eventually got one. Someone who thought, yeah, maybe kids, some day, if you adopted. 

Who imagined going to school and getting a job that paid decently enough; who did just that, working your ass off, spending all nighters drinking shitty dorm coffee before examples. All to get a degree to get an internship to get a desk job, so you could take nice vacations like this one, where you saved for a year and submitted your time-off request 6 months in advance and everyone at work told you to have fun and take plenty of pictures.

You were a person with hopes and dreams, with a family, with a past, with memories both clear and fuzzy. Sitting on the beach as a child and getting pinched by a crab you tried to place on top of your sand castle. Pushing another kid off the swing when he refused to give you a turn. Coming out to your parents and your dad making a joke about father-son fishing trips and your mom laughing too loud because she didn’t know what to say about having a daughter and now having a son.

All of that, and so much more besides--all of that and everything you ever were, everything you are, everything you will now never ever be, is lost inside a warm void of a body, a slithering, living cavity.

There’s no buzz in your brain now, no lungs to draw in desperate sucks of air. Nothing to register the monster sprawling out on the forest floor, satiated, thinking of how pretty you looked when you ran and the warm, full with the feeling of you inside him now.

He’ll rest here, dappled sunlight warming his skin, letting you digest; breaking you down with acid, absorbing your nutrients into his own body. 

And you? 

You’re dead and gone and there’s no comfort in knowing that Mahito will think of you for a long while, even after you’ve been digested. You were such nice prey, after all. 

[smolandweirdwriter]

Love the idea of still ears being a signal for tired/laziness. feel like that makes up a bunch of “lights are on but no one’s home” type of sayings - yea he’s a nice guy but those ears don’t twitch, you get me? I was so tired last night you’d have through someone petrified my ears! Etc etc

Adaine muttering, "My ears are stones I'm so tired" after a long night of adventuring and everyone just. stares at her. except fig, who knows what it means, and fabian, who touches his own ears, which don't move involuntarily and which he has to focus hard to make move. (not that hes self-conscious about that. no. definitely not. he grips his battle sheet tighter.)

elves and goblins have a lot of sayings about ears. "Stiff-ear" is basically the equivalent of "couch potato" for elves, but it means someone rude or insensitive to goblins. this causes some interesting communication blunders for adaine, fig, and riz

[amortentiainmyfirewhiskey]

|hide-n-seek| imagine

draco malfoy x hufflepuff reader

Description: Hi! I love your works! Can I request a fic of Draco x female hufflepuff reader where she is super outgoing and always nice to everyone? she’s also super smart! she is bullied by most of the slytherins (but not draco). draco and her don’t talk a lot, but they sometimes partner up for school projects and he’s nice to her. he is ignoring her bc he doesn’t know how to deal with the fact that he likes her, and she is super upset and is sad and self conscious and he notices and realizes that’s it’s his fault and fixes it?

Word Count: +1.2k

For: @spencerreidisbootiful

 --

 Draco perked up when he saw a head of (y/h/c) and a black and yellow tie enter the charms classroom, she was late. She was never late. You apologized profusely to Flitwick who waved his hand at you, telling you it was fine and that you could take your seat.

You plopped down beside Draco and put your head down on the dark oak table, “ Ugh,” you groaned.

Draco raised a neat pale brow but didn’t say anything until everyone began practicing the charm ,” Why were you late?” he asked pulling his wand out of his robes, “ You weren’t in the bathroom were you?”

You scoffed at his rude implication, “ No, Draco,” you said reprovingly, “ I was just late, that’s all,”

Draco looked you over and said nothing more about it.

---

It was two days later and once again you were late. Draco felt his heart sink the slightest bit, sensing something was wrong he interrogated you as soon as you entered the classroom, “ Where the hell were you this time?” he hissed quietly as they were supposed to be reading.

Your (e/c) eyes hardend and you pursed your lips, “ I was just late again, that’s all,”

“ Oh, horseshite, “ he snapped back.

You said nothing more and carried on with your assignment.

---

It was after class now and Draco watched you leave your last class, silently admiring how your hair glittered in the afternoon rays of the sun. You laughed at something a friend said and a small but genuine smile graced Draco’s face, maybe there wasn’t anything wrong.

He didn’t know (y/n) very well, they only sat by each other in Charms but he had grown quite fond of her. Draco had known who you were, you were rather popular and outgoing so most people did.

You used to annoy him horribly just because of how nice you were. He had concluded it was all fake but now he knew it to be genuine, which freaked him out more.

You didn’t seem to have a care in the world.

Later at dinner, Draco sat beside Blaise Zabini who was taking sips of pumpkin juice while reading the evening prophet, “ Zabini?” he asked.

The handsome boy merely hummed in acknowledgement without so much as turning to look at him.

“ What do you know about (y/n) (y/l/n?”

Zabini’s focus wavered and he set down the prophet and sent Draco a confused look , “ You meaning that overly peppy girl? What you trying to shag her?”

The image of being intimate with (y/n) made Draco’s pale face turn pink, “ No you idiot, Merlin never mind!” Draco shot up and practically ran from the dining hall and back to the Slytherin dorms.

He went into his down and flopped down on his bed and stared at the ceiling of his canopy bed, why the hell did he feel like this? Why was his stomach bubbling and why were his cheeks burning. His heart was racing and his palms sweating. Why did what Blaise said embarrass him that much-?

Oh.

Oh no.

Draco jumped out of bed and began pacing around his dorm, what was he going to do? He had to do something, right? He couldn’t fancy her, he was Draco bloody Malfoy, and she was just some half-blood in Hufflepuff!

That night Draco lay wide awake contemplating his plan for the next day and how he would get rid of this unwanted crush. He decided to just ignore it, that seemed simple enough, right?

---

You came in late once again and you looked to Draco, waiting for his questions but they never came. The Slytherin stared straight ahead, not even looking in your direction.

You sent him a questioning look but ignored it.

Later in class you asked him how his day was going and there was no response, you figured he didn’t hear you so you said it louder, and again there was nothing.

You expected this from the other Slytherins, but not Draco. You felt a dull pain in your heart and swallowed the lump rising in your throat. You weren’t sure wahy you were on the brink of tears. People had done worse than this to you, they practically still do torment you.

But their taunts felt like nothing compared to this silent treatment.

“ What did I do?” you asked at last.

No response.

When the bell rang you flew past Draco who hadn’t even left his seat. You were out the door before he could blink. He felt the unfamiliar sensation of guilt coil in his stomach and the next thing he knew, he was following you. 

Draco made it just in time to see the tail end of you turn down a corridor. He pursued you, trying to think of what he was going to say, or how he was going to explain. He just knew he couldn’t tell you the truth, he couldn’t even believe it himself.

His shoes slapped against the flagstone floors as he tried to find you, but after a little over fifteen minutes he gave up. At least he knew he’d see you when you left Transfiguration in a few hours.

It was his study hall so he headed toward the library when he heard a group of boys roaring with laughter. He didn’t pay it much mind, it wasn’t uncommon to hear students horsing around in the halls.

When he rounded the corner his stomach dropped through the floor.

It was you, surrounded by five of his housemates.

“ Aw, did we make you cry, Puff?” sneered Anthony Stone.

Your fists clenched beside you and you stood tall, “ Shove off! I can only stand you lot once a day, why break the routine now, huh?”

The boys laughed once again, “ You think you’re so big and bad? Show us what you can do, bitch!” said one of them shoving your shoulder.

He noticed the way you tensed up but nevertheless you shoved his hand off you. He recognized your wand in Avery’s hand and he took that split second to admire your courage. Five creepy ass blokes against one tough, but practically defenseless girl.

 Draco managed to awake from his stupor and in an instant he felt blood rush to his ears and his heart hammer against his chest, “ Oy!” he hollered.

The boys looked up just as Draco sent a flurry of hexes their way, not giving a rat ass they would run off and tell their other housemates about him defending a half-blood. Merlin he could already hear the howler.

The group of Slytherins screamed as sharp pins poked them on the bum as they ran down the corridor, eventually fading from view.

You blinked with a dumbfounded but horrified look, “ I-,”

“ Why the hell didn’t you tell me?” snapped Draco, “ I could have done something about-,”

“ Why would you?” you asked incredulously.

“ Because I-!” he stopped himself, he couldn’t finish the sentence. They stayed in awkward silence for a moment, barely a foot apart and staring at one another.

“ Because?” you asked softly, a (y/s/t) hand reaching out to touch his forearm. Your (y/e/c) had his insides melting and your hopeful face obliterated him, what did he do?

“ Because... that’s what friends are for?” he said like he was unsure himself.

You couldn’t help but giggle and step a little bit closer, “ Draco?” you hummed.

“ Er yeah?”

You smiled, “ For once in your life shut the hell up,”

That was all it took for the blond to swoop down and kiss you.

[invaderzia1]

Horns (Wyll x Tiefling!Reader)

After breaking his promise to Mizora, Wyll navigates life as a brand new Tiefling. Luckily for him, he has support in his tiefling friends.

yes I’m aware the game isn’t out yet but I really liked that scene with Wyll and Mizora. Also this is set in act 1

Since disobeying Mizora, Wyll had been rather moody. Nobody could really blame him, not after the way she stormed into their camp and basically turned him into a tiefling, laughing about how some magic even she can’t fix. She left him with rather hefty horns on his head, leaving him to figure out how to navigate life with them by himself and laughing about how it’ll affect his reputation as the blade. So nobody was surprised when the heavy horns caused Wyll to struggle with his balance and maneuvering through his recent days, but they rather kept to themselves, all having other things to deal with then offer support to the poor man.

Except, you had been watching him. You had always found him quite charming and handsome, it honestly made you quite glad that he accepted traveling with you and the rest of your companions.

It had been a week since the incident and you’ve kept a close eye on Wyll, giving him space to process everything. But being a tiefling yourself, you couldn’t help but notice the lack of care he is giving his new horns. You knew what happened when people didn’t take care of them correctly, having suffered the consequences of failing to properly take care of your own.

Wyll is stood by the river near camp, having finished cleaning himself and getting ready to join the others for whatever food Gale decided to cook up. He barely even notices you sneak up behind him, too busy staring at himself in the reflection of the lake, still not used to his visual changes.

“You know, you gotta take care of them.” Your voice startled Wyll, causing him to jump slightly before turning to look at you. “Can’t just pretend they aren’t there or they’ll grow weird or get too brittle.” You moved closer to him, trying yo be cautious around him while assessing his new horns. “Kind of hard to tell right now what they’ll do, but I have some extra things if you need them.”

“What?” Wyll says in disbelief, almost self conscious about you having noticed how poor he’s cared for them the past couple days.

“If you don’t take care of them they might start grow weird.” You walk over, trying to get a better look at how his horns seems to be growing. “Or, they’ll become brittle and start to chip off.” Reaching up, you cautiously bring your hand to his right horn, but refusing to touch it until Wyll gave consent.

It takes Wyll a few seconds of going through his emotions before he leans his head down, letting you touch his horns. Your hands touch softly against it, standing on your top toes to get a better look at where they meld into his head. Then moving to look at the sharp tip of the horn.

“Hmmmm,” you let your feet fall flat again, letting go of Wyll, “I have an extra pad to smooth it down. They look healthy, but you are going to have to be careful of them getting over grown.”

“Like a sheep?” His voice comes out as a mix of surprise and disbelief, raising an octave.

“Yes,” you smile, finding it a little funny how that’s the only comparison he could think of, “like a sheep.”

He makes a noise of annoyance, accompanied by the sound of your laugh. As he looks up at you, he takes notice of your broken horn, recalling Karlach also has a similar situation. It feels rude to just ask, but he feels the situation permits it.

“May I ask what happened to your horn?” Wyll nods his head to your broken horn, instinctively your hand goes up to touch the nub.

“Oh this old thing,” you start, laughing a bjt to yourself as the memory surfaces in your brain, “fun story actually, when I first started traveling I didn’t have enough money to keep my usual tools with me. So I went without taking care of them. Ended up in a fight against a lone gnoll, thing got a good grip on my head and just took the rest of my horn off.” You can’t help but laugh, knowing to everyone else that seems wildly traumatic, but so much time has passed that you feel disconnected from it. “Luckily, I was able to even the score. We both left that fight pretty fucked up.” Your hand falls to the necklace around your throat, decorated with teeth that Wyll is now able to identify as gnoll.

Wyll’s mouth drops horrified for a brief second, then letting air escape his nose as he starts to laugh. It’s a weird and fucked up thing to bond over, but for the two it seems to work. As the laughter dies down, you put a hand on his shoulder.

“Wait here, I’ll go grab my bag and help you with them.” You say, then running back towards camp, leaving Wyll slightly flustered by your kindness.

You rush back, a brown bag tightly held in your hands as you come back. You gently lead Wyll to a large rock by the water, patting it for him to sit down, which he does. Placing the bag next to him, you jump onto the rock and kneel behind him, just like your parents used to do for you when you were young. Reaching into the bag, you pull a small vial of a yellowish liquid and a round brown pad.

“Alright, now this is horn polish, you can find it in most market places or you can make your own.” Your hand snakes over his shoulder, showing him the vial. “It goes on before you use this,” your other hand goes over his other shoulder, reveal the coarse rough pad of material. “This will help you buff out your horns and keep them looking smooth.”

Your hands disappear behind him, he can hear the vial open behind him and then feels your hands softly applying some of the liquid to his horns. You take great care in making sure you cover all of them, then wiping your hands off on your bag.

“This is going to feel kind of weird the first couple times, but it’ll get better, I promise,” you warn him, giving him a few seconds to brace himself.

The feeling of the rough pad against his horns is awkward and uncomfortable, almost like hearing nails on a chalk board. Wylls teeth grit together as he clenches his hand together, trying to brace himself as you go to work. He feels your body get closer to him, trying your best to comfort him while using both hands on his horns. You try your best to be both thorough while going quickly, recalling how much you hated this when you were a kid. To try and distract him, you opt to speak.

“When I was a kid, my dad used to help me with my horns. He was always better at this part than my mom,” you admit. “I used to start crying when she would do my horns for me because she was so rough with it. If I saw her with the pad in her hand I would immediately start crying and run off, trying to hide. She’d always find me though.”

“Really?” Wyll chuckles.

“Yeah. Looking back, I feel kind of bad about the trouble I gave her when she was just trying to help me. But at the time it seemed like a reasonable response.”

Wyll and your laughter blend together, the mood becoming more light as you continue to work on his horns. He starts to tell you small bits of his teen years, talking about the trouble he used to get in.

“Alright, now that we are done with this part, it’s time to move on to the finish touch,” your voice announces, slowly putting the used product back into the bag. You pull out another bottle, this one looking more clear than the polish, but a thicker consistency. Your hand rests on his shoulder, leaning over as you show him the bottle more. Wyll feels his heart rate pick up feeling you this close to him, but watches as you start to explain this product. “This is your last step, it’s a protective coating to keep your horns shiny and helps strengthen the keratin.”

“So, I just slather it on them?” Wylls face turns slightly to look at yours.

“Yeah, you don’t need much either, it spreads like crazy.” You lean back, popping the bottle open and reaching up to his horns again.

Slowly, your hands start to rub the oil onto his horns, being as gentle and smooth as possible. It grows quiet as you concentrate on keeping the oil only on his horns and making sure it’s spread as thin as it can be. Wyll, on the other hand, grows quiet as he enjoys the intimate position you are in. It’s been years since he’s felt this close to another person, having spent years to following Mizora closely. He allows himself to drift closer to your touch, feeling more at ease now than he has the past couple weeks, possibly even the past couple years.

“And that should do it,” you reach down and wipe off your hands on your bag. Wyll snaps back to reality, giving some space between you. You smile softly down at him, then gesturing from him to look at himself in the lake.

Wyll stands up and takes a few steps, looking down at his reflection and seeing how nice his horns now looked. Moonlight now illuminated them from the shine, its a small change but it makes him feel warm. It’s the first time since becoming part infernal that he’s felt content with his new appearance.

Wyll looks back up at you, still looking amazed by the work you had done. He takes a step closer, putting a hand on your shoulder as he speaks.

“Thank you.”

“No problem, I know it’s been tough for you.” You smile softly at him.

Wyll moves closer, as if he wants to lean closer. You prepare yourself for him to do so, your body leaning closer to his until a loud voice interrupts the both of you.

“Are you two done down there or should we just eat without you?” You both hear Gale ask, followed by comments from Shadowheart and Astarion that you most certainly don’t need to hear to know that its innappropriate.

Now both your cheeks flush red, flustered by being caught by the rest of the group. As you hear Astarion make one more comment, you start running up the hill and threatening to grab your a stake for him. Wyll just stands there, watching you as you start to argue with Astarion, hearing Shadowheart and Karlach laugh at the display. His heart fills with warmth as he looks back at his reflection in the lake, seeing the way his horns now shine with the moonlight. Grabbing your bag, he slowly makes his way back to camp.

[evermoreparker]

Lost in Translation- Chapter Six

Synopsis: Peter and you were inseparable since you were kids, until you started hating each other right before you two went to college, but now Peter needs your help to win a bet.

A/n: Hi!! It's been sooo long! I'm sorry for any grammar mistakes, I didn't check it this time. Enjoyyy! 💜

Did you really just sleep with Peter Parker? Your arch nemesis? Yeah. But you can’t deny that he looks so cute, softly snoring. Is that such a huge mistake?

Definitely. What the hell were you thinking? You hate his guts, and he hates yours. He didn’t mean any of that shit he said to you last night. You two were just in the moment. That's it. Two adults that slept with each other. Does he think that too? Was it meaningless? You really can’t tell. It’s just driving you crazy, having all these thoughts running through your head, and he is sleeping so pretty, without a care in the world. You can fix that. 

“Get up.” You throw a pillow on his face and he catches it mid air. Well… Does the ground count as mid air?

“God you were so nice last night, forgot how bitchy you can really be.” He mumbles against your pillow.

“Yea, great night. Whatever. Had better.” He smirks.

“Great night, huh? It meant that much to you?” Peter sits on your bed, rubbing his eyes just like he did when you two were kids. Carelessly and with a big yawl after. 

“Just shush. We should have recorded this…” Peter laughs.

“Oh my God! You are so obsessed with me.” He smiles. 

“For the bet we made, dumbass! They wanted something like my moans or some shit. Now we need to reenact it.” You see Peter smirking. “Absolutely not like that. More like in Easy A.” Peter nods. You loved that movie when you were a teen. 

“Fine.” Peter gets up heading to your bathroom and coming back smelling like your very expensive body wash after 5 minutes. 

“YOU DID NOT.” He knew exactly what was yours and what was your roommate’s. 

“Oh I did.” He attempts to hair flip. “Thanks for the shampoo!” He proceeds to sit on your bed with a wet towel around his waist. 

“PETER GET OUT OF MY BED.” He smiles, not moving from your bed at all. In fact, he just grabbed his phone to check and there are a lot of messages from his ‘friend group’. 

All of them are talking about that they heard from someone, that they heard from someone else, that he left the party with you. God he hates every single one of them.

“Do you wanna call the bet off?” You snort at what he says. “What? Are you scared?” Peter rolls his eyes. “Now get OUT OF BED.” 

“Fine!” He giggles at something on his phone, and you don’t know why but it pissed you off so much. 

“Can’t you leave already?” He scoffs. 

“Oh please, stop lying. We both know you want a piece of this again.” You stare at him before you burst out laughing making him feel self conscious. “Fuck you! That was mean.”

You nod. “I am mean. And we need to win this bet. I wanna buy a new bed.” He nods.

“Yours look good. What’s wrong with it?”

“You were on it.” He gasps. 

“So what? You are gonna burn it or some shit?’’ You scoff. 

“No! But the sheets, yes I will.” He laughs, coming closer to you. 

“You can lie how much you want, but we both know you don’t regret last night. Neither do I. So let’s just be grown ups, which I know is extremely hard for you, and admit we had great sex last night and that was it. It doesn’t have to be a big thing, just casual. And you know…’’ He reaches out for your hand. “It could happen again if you wanted to.” You stare at him, getting a bit lost for words. How the fuck do you respond to that? And he was right! Sex was great. But that’s Peter we’re talking about! 

As you ponder on what and how you should answer to Peter, your roommate bursts the door open. Thankfully, Peter is putting his clothes on.

“OMG! Sorry, I didn’t know you had someone over! You didn’t text me! Wait, is that…”She rudely points to Peter. 

“Yes and he was just leaving.’” Peter gives your friend a half smile and finishes getting his stuff. 

“Alrighty then… Bye Y/n.’’ He curses out himself for saying alrighty as he closes the door. 

Back in your dorm, your friend is smirking at you.

“You dirty little b-”

“I didn't plan it! It just happened, and- Well, yea.” She nods, waiting to hear more about it but you’re saving the details for yourself, it seems. No one can know that Peter fucked you that good. 

“And?” She sits on her bed waiting for more. 

“And it was just sex! Nothing special, so don’t get your panties in a twist!’’ You can’t help but blush as you recall what happened the night before. She keeps smirking, knowing you’re about to blurt out everything. You take a deep breath before admitting what you’ve been dreading. “He’s so…goodinbed” She gasps. 

“Now was that hard to admit? Did you come?’’ You nod. You two had a very open relationship about everything. 

“God why was it so good?’’ Your friend rolls her eyes at your question.

“Because you two are both young and attractive people who happen to have an unresolved past and will later on fall in love?” You laugh. 

“Oh please, we don’t hate ourselves that much.” She smiles with a knowing look.

“You two are already a ‘we’!” You hit her with your pillow.

And outside of your dorm , Peter doesn’t know what to do with what he just heard.

[yanderecrazysie]

Idol Chapter 2: Game Start

I decided to keep it as Haikyuu, since that poll was winning.

Chapter One: here

Characters: Kozume Kenma

WARNINGS: swearing, Doom being ported to a handheld gaming system

You chewed on your watermelon-flavored bubblegum, your lidded eyes giving off the impression of boredom. In reality, you were not even remotely bored- more like a nervous wreck. You exited the car and swaggered up to the door of the massive building in front of you, trying to look more confident than you felt.

Aunt Rika clearly sensed your hidden feelings, because she took your hand in hers and gave it a squeeze. Gritting your teeth, you walked through the door and to the elevator. Aunt Rika pressed the number 12 and the elevator began to move.

You looked down at your combat boots, suddenly feeling a little self-conscious… No, fuck that, this was a great decision!

You stood straighter. You weren’t going to change who you were just because this was a corporate environment.

The elevator opened to a modern lounge area with leather couches, huge windows, and sleek decor, like a sculpted bust, nice paintings, and countless- I mean, countless- posters of the same five boys you had seen in the autographed photo in the car.

A large desk stood against the wall but had no one behind it. You glanced around, playing with the hem of your suit.

“Hello, Kenma, this is your new assistant manager!” Aunt Rika announced, making you jolt a little in surprise.

Confused, you looked around the empty room, wondering who the fuck she was was talking to. Then, you spotted him, sunken into the couch and slouching heavily, his pudding cup brown-to-blonde hair barely showing over the arm of the couch. 

Immediately, your mind blanked. Shit, I’m meeting one already? I was not prepared! And wasn’t his surname Kozume? Is Aunt Riza so familiar with him that she calls him by his first name? Or do all idols go by their first names? 

While you were frantically chewing your gum at 60 mph, your aunt walked over to the couch and sat down next to the male. To your surprise, he didn’t so much as blink at either her greeting nor her presence.

You walked closer to get a better look at the idol and found that his golden-brown eyes were glued to the screen of a handheld game console. He gave a tiny nod, the only indication he’d heard anything. 

You stared at him, unsure of what to do with this guy. You could barely see his face, curtained by his blond hair and red hoodie. His expression, from what you could see was detached, as if anything beyond his game didn’t matter.

The silence seemed to go on forever and, the longer it lasted, the more pissed you got. What’s wrong with this guy? Does he not know even the slightest bit of politeness?

Aunt Rika, sensing a storm brewing, gestured for you to join her on the couch.

“Don’t just stand there! You’ll be working closely with Kenma- he’s the main songwriter of the band. It’s important to build a connection.

Ew, professionalism, you made a face, but you strode over to the couch anyways and sat down gingerly next to the male engrossed in his game. It almost felt as though you were intruding on a private moment.

Kenma’s golden-brown eyes flickered up for the briefest second, taking the sight of you in before returning to his game. A soft clicking sound filled your ears as he tapped on the buttons at top speed. You weren’t sure if he was ignoring you on purpose or this was “normal Kenma”.

Either way, it pissed you off.

“Hi,” your voice came out uncharacteristically squeaky and you tried again, “Yo, I’m (Y/n), I look forward to working with you.”

No response.

Not even a glance.

You chewed your gum ferociously, feeling both anxious and seriously annoyed.

Aunt Rika, however, didn’t seem to think the guy was rude, she simply smiled and patted Kenma’s shoulder like this was entirely normal. “Kenma’s not much of a talker,” she said quietly. Why she bothered to stay quiet was a mystery to you, considering he was lost to the world, “But he’s one of the most reliable people in the group.”

“Uh huh,” you grunted. Reliable wasn’t the first word that came to your mind as you watched him silently tap away at his game.

You fiddled with the hem of your suit jacket again as the silence stretched on, your eyes darting between Aunt Rika and the near-stranger engrossed in a video game world. What do I say? Does it even matter? Can we leave this guy and meet the others now?

Suddenly, Kenma’s soft voice startled you out of your thoughts, “Don’t worry about trying too hard. Just do your job, and we’ll be fine.”

It wasn’t much, but it was finally something.

“Right,” you said, trying to sound confident, “I’ll do my best!”

Kenma didn’t respond, but you felt as though you’d gotten enough acknowledgement from him. 

Aunt Rika smiled at you, clearly pleased with the exchange, “I’ll leave you two to get acquainted, I have to attend a meeting,” she looked at Kenma, “Make sure you’re not too hard on her.”

Kenma didn’t respond in the slightest. You reached out an arm and mouthed “don’t leave me” to your aunt, but she merely laughed in response and waved goodbye as she walked down the hallway.

You were left alone with him. Great. Fantastic. Really fucking amazing. Now, the only sound was the clicking of buttons once more.

“So, uh, what game are you playing?” you asked, figuring that would get a response.

Nope. Nothing.

You peered over his slouched form and curiously looked at the game yourself. You recognized it instantly as one of the older Doom games.

“Oh, sweet, Doom,” you said, unsure of what else there was to say, “Pretty sure I’ve beat that one.”

Kenma stopped pressing buttons instantly and turned to stare at you. His face was of the uttermost seriousness and disbelief when he said, “I didn’t know girls played video games.”

You just about slapped him right then and there.

[bucknastysbabe]

thanks so much! that’s totally fine, it doesn’t even need to be a full blown imagine even just a small blurb will suffice. I just can’t get chubby Aegon out of my head, I feel like he’d be insecure but the reader would make him feel okay about the way he is. And he’d just be so needy for her, but when he sees people trying to steal her from him, another side shows of him & he plays the King card so well.

God just imagine sitting on his thick thighs while he sits the Iron Throne.

THE THOUGHT OF THE THIGHS N THRONE SLURP, sorry if this was super short but I have another one in the askbox for chubby Aegon too hehe

Also I accidentally spent on this adit app best 50 accident ever so I can make someome chonk lmfao

Big king, bigger thighs, biggest throne

Rating: Mature

Tags: TW wg, fluffy, chats of sex, chubby jealous Aegon, hims wife is sweet, general awe, wife reader

Aegon pulled you from the visiting lord of Griffin’s Roost, plump lips frowning. He sternly chided Lord Connington, “Tis’ a bit rude to be openly ogling the King’s wife, hm? Some take it as a punishable offense.” You stared at him in shock, the red-haired man in front of you both apologizing profusely and darting away.

Aegon pulled you from the visiting lord of Griffin’s Roost, plump lips frowning. He sternly chided Lord Connington, “Tis’ a bit rude to be openly ogling the King’s wife, hm? Some take it as a punishable offense.” You stared at him in shock, the red-haired man in front of you both apologizing profusely and darting away.

Aegon pulled you from the visiting lord of Griffin’s Roost, plump lips frowning. He sternly chided Lord Connington, “Tis’ a bit rude to be openly ogling the King’s wife, hm? Some take it as a punishable offense.” You stared at him in shock, the red-haired man in front of you both apologizing profusely and darting away.

You looked at him in concern, asking gently, “He was being polite Aegon, what’s wrong?”

He was in excellent pouting form, muttering, “I don’t like the way they make you smile.”

You held yourself from scoffing in your husband’s soft, pretty face. His big violet eyes looked hurt. Poor thing was so sensitive and needy when it came to you. Running a hand down his chest you sighed, “Aegon dear, I’m merely doing my duty as queen. Obviously you’re my only love, I take our vows very seriously.”

Aegon frowned harder at your thinly veiled jab about the past, apologizing, “Fine, sorry, can we just go to bed? I’m not drunk enough for all these,” the king searched for a word, “Arses.” You laughed at his eloquent description, grabbing the blonde’s hand. You cooed, “Yes, lead the way.”

Your self-conscious husband’s fit of self pity had increased tenfold upon being alone in your shared quarters. He picked at his tight doublet, sighing dramatically. You toed off your shoes, waiting for the inevitable.

“Is it because I’ve grown fat?,” Aegon whined.

That was different than his usual criticisms of self. You raised your brows in surprise, unable

to come up with a planned response. Aegon’s lips trembled as he bemoaned, “Oh gods, it’s true, you think me a hog!” You held your hands up and yelped, “Stop it right there!”

He paused, face comically quizzical. You stood up to get a better look at him. You were around him all the time, you hadn’t noticed any changes. Aegon whined again, you shushing him, “Quit sniveling, I didn’t notice anything off!”

Your eyes roved his form.

Well he wasn’t fat by any means. But your husband had put on a few. Drinking like a Braavosi sea lord and eating like a king will do that to one’s figure. You slid a finger down his front, noticing his thicker torso. Aegon mumbled, “Say something at the least!”

You made a circle, eyeing his hips and ass. Indeed, he was thicker. Returning to face your husband you shrugged indifferently. He squawked, “What the bloody hells is that supposed to mean?” Stifling laughter your wrapped your arms around his midsection and hummed, “You’ve gotten a bit…podgy. But I quite like it.”

His eyes narrowed in suspicion, arms encircling your own slim waist. Aegon stated, “You jest.” Huffing in annoyance you retorted, “Obviously I don’t care that you’ve got a belly if I’m still riding your cock every night. If you want to lose it then start riding my cunt.” You pinched his fleshy hip and teased, “Lazy.”

He peered down at you, blonde brow raised. Quietly he asked, “Truly? You do not care?” You nodded and kissed his plump lips to seal your point. Aegon relaxed some, his hold tightening on you. He smiled softly, “My perfect queen.”

You pinched his fatty belly and teased, “Someone’s gotta do it, come on my king, take me to bed.” He laughed and drug you along.

After a thorough fucking, you really got to know Aegon’s softer frame and it was delicious. Then blonde was much more sensitive and blushy. Especially when you nipped at his sore pink marks from growth.

[errorryx]

unraveling — part one, season eight

read on ao3 | hermitcraft, 2.2k words

This fic was written for the MCYTblr AUfest (@mcytblraufest)! My artist was @ghastspidergwen, who made this beautiful doll for the AU! please go give that post lots of love, it would mean the world to me <3

—

There are two new server members this season, and for most of the hermits, this is their first look at either of them. It’s probably a little intimidating for Pearl and Gem to be stared at from above by everyone else, but it’s difficult for most of them to remember to be courteous about it, because they're too busy staring at Pearl.

Players on Hermitcraft have always come in all different shapes and sizes, but none of them have ever been anything like Pearl. She’s a player like the rest of them, that much is obvious, but her body appears to be made out of wool, rather than any sort of organic material. Her eyes are buttons, and she has soft fuzzy antennae protruding from her hat that look like feathers.

Pearl stares back up at them, a slight grin on her face. She has yet to do much in the way of moving. Finally, when it comes time to introduce herself, she hops up to join the rest of them, moving around as easily as any other player.

Eventually, one by one, the hermits come to the conclusion that everything must be in order after all. They graduate from staring to sneaking occasional looks, and they do their collective best to treat her like any other player.

Because if there’s one thing Hermitcraft is known for, it’s things that defy logic with their very existence. And in that respect, Pearl fits right in.

—

Shortly after the Boatem Pole incident wraps up, it occurs to Mumbo that he’s gone and joined another club for the season—and that one of the other club members is a newcomer that he’d really like to know more about.

He figures Grian is his best bet for information about Pearl, seeing as he’s the one who invited her to the server in the first place. Mumbo finds him offloading his inventory into the start of what’s sure to be a formidable chest monster, and asks, “You know Pearl pretty well, right?”

“Of course!” Grian says. “We’ve been friends for years.”

“Has she always been…you know.” Mumbo carefully considers his choice of words. “Did she use to look any different?”

Grian shrugs. “Maybe.”

“You don’t know?”

“A lot of people have looked a lot of different ways over the years.” Grian closes the lid of the chest. “You can’t expect me to remember everything.”

He has a point, unfortunately. “What about since the last time you saw her?”

“You mean ten minutes ago? I doubt she’s changed much since then.”

Mumbo rolls his eyes. “Before today.”

“That was…a couple months ago, I think. Or a couple years. One of those.”

Sometimes, Grian is an extremely frustrating person to hold a conversation with. “I just want to know why she’s made out of yarn and stuffing!”

“Oh! Why didn’t you just say so?”

“Because—” Mumbo stops, realizing he might be equally at fault here. “I thought it would be rude.”

“Well, to answer your question,” Grian says, “I haven’t the slightest idea why she’s like that.”

“You never asked her?”

“I thought it would be rude.”

“That’s never stopped you before,” Mumbo points out.

“Excuse you! I don’t go around asking why you’ve got that mustache.”

Mumbo strokes the mustache in question, feeling a little self-conscious. “I think it’s a nice mustache.”

“Me too,” Grian says. “I also think Pearl looks nice the way she is.”

“So do I,” Mumbo agrees quickly. “Really, I do.”

“Glad we agree!” Grian pats him on the back, and Mumbo leaves even more confused than before.

—

Grian’s still thinking about his conversation with Mumbo when he goes to ask Pearl for help with a build.

The build in question is actually a prank on Mumbo, but that’s not why it’s on his mind. In the few weeks since they spoke about Pearl, it’s occurred to him that there is something a little different about her—he just can’t quite put his finger on it.

“Have you gotten a haircut recently?” he asks her. “It looks nice.”

“Don’t be silly,” Pearl says. “You can just tell me you like my new wings!”

Right, of course. The wings. Grian feels a little embarrassed that he didn’t realize. “I do quite like them,” he says. He knows that Pearl’s wings have been there since the beginning of the season, it just hadn’t occurred to him that they were new. Like he said to Mumbo, he doesn’t keep track of these things.

“I appreciate it.” Pearl pokes him in the shoulder. “I like yours too, you know.”

“Yeah, well—” He rolls his eyes, his feathers instinctively fluffing up at the acknowledgement. “They aren’t exactly new.”

“I still like them!”

“Thanks.” Grian takes a closer look at her wings. They’re grey moth wings with a similar texture to the fabric that makes up the rest of her body, though they have more detail than any of her clothes. With such a small wingspan, they shouldn’t be aerodynamic enough to get Pearl off the ground, no matter how little she weighs. “You can’t fly with these, surely.”

“Not with that attitude I can’t.”

“I’ll be very impressed if you manage to prove me wrong.”

“Oh, yeah?” Pearl walks outside through the left-side door, and Grian follows through the trapdoors in the center. “Watch this!”

The way she rises is odd, to say the least. Grian is intimately familiar with the process of taking flight, and he’s pretty sure Pearl’s method violates the laws of physics. It’s not so much that she’s flying as it is that she’s being lifted, like an invisible hand is pulling her up by the feelers and holding her there, letting her dangle inelegantly in midair.

“Ta-da,” Pearl says, spreading her arms open.

Grian squints up at her. “When did ‘Suma give you access to creative mode?”

“I’m not cheating,” Pearl says, offended. She turns her back in midair, displaying her wings, which are slowly flapping back and forth. She begins to bob around in the air, sort of like a slow-motion hummingbird. It’s only marginally more convincing than her initial ascent.

“Fine,” Grian agrees, if only to get her to stop. “You can fly. I’m impressed.” 

Mostly, he’s disturbed. His wings itch just looking at her.

“Thank you,” Pearl says, and much to Grian’s relief, lands beside him. “So what’s this about a tree war?”

The vague plans that have been taking place in Grian’s head will require flight for them both, but he really, really doesn’t want to watch Pearl hover like that ever again. “First things first,” he says. “Let’s get you an elytra.”

—

Keralis is no stranger to the unusual. He knows he’s a little unusual; people tell him so all the time! And unusual things are constantly happening around him, only some of which are his fault. But Pearl is really something special.

The first time she comes to visit, Keralis ropes her into a scheme he’s just come up with, which is to get a clock from Bdubs so he can do some interior decorating. This is only part of his motivation—he takes to the extraordinary like a moth to a flame, and there are many extraordinary things about Pearl. He wants to discover them all.

Like her player head, for instance. Normal player heads, dropped in the event of a player's death, have a very simple effect: when equipped, they give someone the physical appearance of that player from the neck up. Usually they don't feel like anything, but Pearl’s head behaves a little differently. The first time Keralis tries it on is a very disorienting experience.

He and Pearl continue to meet up over the course of the season, hatching various schemes to try and swindle Bdubs out of even more clocks. Tango joins them for their third meeting, and Keralis wears his Pearl head again. It still feels very funny, and he decides that sharing is caring. “Here, put on a Pearl head!” Keralis says, throwing Tango his spare.

Tango puts it on, and now two Pearls are looking back at him. “Is it supposed to feel like my head is full of cotton?”

“Yes, that is perfectly normal,” Keralis assures him. “You get used to it!”

“He’s right,” Pearl agrees. “I’m very used to it.”

Keralis squints at her in suspicion, but he currently has buttons for eyes, so he’s not sure if anything actually  happens. “Was there a time when your head was not full of cotton?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Pearl says, “what with the cotton in my head and all. Makes it hard to remember these things.”

Keralis respects and admires that Pearl wants to maintain an air of mystery, so he laughs along. But he does not quite believe her.

—

On the day they decide to tear down an entire castle and rebuild it on Bdubs’ mountain, Keralis and Pearl wind up killing each other for fun midway through the project. Mumbo arrives with his end crystals to further complicate things, and after several rounds of recreational murder, Keralis puts on Pearl’s head again.

He knows what to expect by now, so the strangeness of it doesn't catch him off-guard. The interesting part comes when Pearl retaliates by putting on one of his heads. Keralis isn’t sure what he expected, but it’s not a knitted version of his own face staring back at him, complete with oversized black-and-white buttons for eyes.

“You've got a lovely head on your shoulders, Pearl,” he says. “Not terrifying at all.”

Mumbo turns to look at her too, and jumps about a foot in the air. “Good heavens!”

“What?” Pearl says, the picture of innocence. “Have I got something on my face?”

She blinks—and, come to think of it, Keralis can’t remember whether or not he’s ever seen Pearl blink before. Maybe he has, and he never noticed, but it’s hard not to notice when her eyes are so much larger. Mumbo seems to notice the same thing, because he asks, flabbergasted, “How on earth did you just blink with button eyes?”

Pearl does it again, twice in a row. Keralis is no closer to understanding how she does it, but he’s all the more invested in watching her to find out. “How do you blink with your goopy eyes?” Pearl asks.

“Oh, very easy. We use our eye muscles!” Keralis tries to demonstrate, but finds himself unable to do so. “Sorry, one second.” He pops off the Pearl head that he’s wearing and bats his eyelashes. “See?”

“Muscles, right. I’ve heard of those.” Pearl stretches her arms up to her head. “You used to have some, right, Mumbo? Do you still have ‘em?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because you’re a potato? Last I checked, potatoes don’t have muscles.”

“Yes, but surely…” Mumbo looks down at his arm, poking the skin—the peel?—around his wrist. “Oh, dear. Do I have muscles? How am I meant to tell?”

“I know!” Keralis draws his axe. “We can slice off a little piece of you and look inside!”

Mumbo goes faintly green, resembling a poisonous potato. “I would really rather you didn’t.”

“No, I like this idea,” Pearl agrees. “Aren’t you curious, Mumbo? I know I am.”

“And we could also find out what your head looks like on Pearl’s head,” Keralis suggests.

Mumbo sighs. “Fine,” he says. “But only because I strongly suspect you’re going to do it anyway.”

“I promise I will be careful,” Keralis says, crossing his arms behind his back. “Just a teeny tiny slice.” 

“I don’t want to watch.” Mumbo holds out his arm and looks in the opposite direction.

Keralis cuts into Mumbo’s arm. Unfortunately, he misjudges the amount of strength needed to cut through a potato with a large axe, and ends up slicing off Mumbo’s entire hand. “Oopsy-daisy.”

“Ow,” Mumbo says, as Pearl picks up the hand from the ground. He sounds more annoyed than agonized.  “Really?”

“It’s okay, it’s okay! Five minute rule, remember? You will be good as new after a nice respawn.”

“He’s potato all the way through,” Pearl reports, showing the hand to Keralis. “You don’t even have bones, Mumbo, see?”

“Can I get that respawn now?” Mumbo asks, still refusing to turn his head.

“Of course!” Keralis slices him through with the axe, then does it again. The hand that Pearl’s holding disappears, as does the rest of Mumbo, who pops up at the nearby respawn bed while Pearl picks up his player head from the ground and plops it on.

Similarly to Keralis’s head, Mumbo’s head on Pearl’s body is made out of interwoven material with button eyes. This time, however, the yarn has been replaced by what appears to be little strips of potato peels.

“Well, that’s distressing,” Mumbo says, summing up what they’re all thinking.

“I can’t see what this looks like,” Pearl says, “but it smells like raw potatoes in here.”

Her specification of raw gives Keralis an idea. “I wonder if we could put Potato Boy through a furnace?”

“I think I’ve had enough scientific experimentation for the day,” Mumbo says, gathering up his things from the chest. “I need to put an end to this whole potato business as soon as possible.”

After he leaves, Pearl walks over to the crafting table. “We could put his head through the furnace.” She crafts a furnace and sets it down, taking off the Mumbo head. “Aw, it won’t go in.”

“Too weird for normal Minecraft,” Keralis says, shaking his head.

Pearl laughs. “Story of my life.”

—

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