#he is so getting scrubbed with a toothbrush

[ducktracy]

he needs what us city folk call "a bath", but my vintage cartoon collection grows as i accidentally drown myself in more pigs because nobody made any Daffy merch in the 40s

swine shrine

[dudefromtheooze]

the snapping turtle at work likes having his shell scrubbed :]

[kaijutegu]

Alligator Body Language and You, or: How To Know When An Alligator On Social Media is Being Stressed for Views

Alligators are wild animals. Despite the idiotic claims of animal abusers like Jay Brewer, they cannot be domesticated, which means they are always going to react on the same natural instincts they've had for millions of years. Habituated, yes. Tamed, yes. Trained, definitely. Crocodilians can form bonds with people- they're social and quite intelligent. They can solve problems, use tools, and they're actually quite playful. Alligators are also really good at communicating how they're feeling, but to somebody who doesn't spend much time around them, their body language can be a bit mystifying. And it doesn't help when social media influencers are saying shit like this:

That is not what a happy gator looks like.

That's a terrified, furious gator who isn't attacking because the ogre handling her has her in a chokehold. She's doing everything she can to express her displeasure, and he's lying about it because he knows his audience doesn't even know how to think critically about what he's doing. He knows that because his audience doesn't know anything about these animals, he can get away with it. This I think is why I hate him so much- he deliberately miseducates his audience. He knows what he's doing is factually inaccurate, he just doesn't care because attention means more to him than anything else in the world.

Let's change that! Here are two really important lessons for understanding alligator body language on social media.

Lesson 1: Alligators Don't Smile (in fact, most animals don't)

So what's going on in this video? Jay Brewer is aggressively choking his white alligator Coconut while scrubbing algae off of her with a toothbrush. And make no mistake, he is digging into the creature's throat while she is visibly distressed. He claims she's happy- but she's not. He is willfully misrepresenting what this animal is feeling. That's a problem, because people... well, we actually kind of suck at reading other species' body language. The reason for this is that we tend to overlay our own responses on their physical cues, and that's a problem. For example, let's look at an animal with a really similar face to ours, the chimpanzee. Check out Ama's toothy grin!

Wait, no. That's not a happy smile. That's a threat display. When a chimpanzee "smiles," it's either terrified and doing a fear grimace, or it's showing you its teeth because it intends on using them in your face.

How about a dog? Look at my smiling, happy puppy!

Oh wait no, this is a picture of Ryder when he was super overwhelmed by noise and people during a holiday party. He'd hopped up in my sister's lap to get away from stuff that was happening on the floor and was panting quite heavily. See the tension in the corners of his mouth and his eyes? A lot of the time when a dog "smiles," the smile isn't happy. It's stress! Why Animals Do The Thing has a nice writeup about that, but the point is, our body language is not the same as other species. And for reptiles, body language is wildly different.

For instance, look at these two alligators. Pretty cute, right? Look at 'em, they're posing for a Christmas card or something! How do you think they're feeling?

Well, I'll tell you how the normal one is feeling. He's annoyed! Why is he annoyed? Because the albino just rolled up, pushed another gator off the platform, and is trying to push this guy, too. I know this because I actually saw it happen. It was pretty funny, not gonna lie. He's not gaping all the way, but he was hissing- you can actually see him getting annoyed in the sequence I took right before this shot. Look at him in this first shot here- he's just relaxing, and you can see he isn't gaping even a little bit.

By the end, he's expressing displeasure, but not enough to actually do anything about it. He's annoyed, but he's comfy and that's where one of the best basking areas is, so he'll put up with it.

Reptiles open their mouths wide for a lot of reasons, but never because they are actively enjoying a sensation. Unless they're eating. No reptile smiles- they can't. They don't even have moveable lips. If a reptile is gaping, it's doing so because:

It is doing a threat display.

It is making certain vocalizations, all of which are threats. Alligators are one of the rare reptiles that do regularly vocalize, but most of their calls aren't made with a wide open mouth.

It is about to bite something delicious or somebody stupid. Check out this video- virtually all of the gaping here is anticipatory because these trained gators know darn well that the bowl is full of delicious snacks. (I have some issues with Florida's Wildest, but the man knows how to train a gator AND he is honest about explaining what they're doing and why, and all of his animals are healthy and well-cared for, and he doesn't put the public or his staff at risk- just himself.)

It's too hot and it has opened its mouth to vent some of that heat and thermoregulate. This is the main reason why alligators will often have their mouths part of the way open, but sometimes they'll open all the way for thermoregulation. This is what a thermoregulatory gape looks like- usually it's not all the way open, kinda more like < rather than V, but you can't say that 100% of the time. Additionally, a thermoregulatory gape... typically happens when it's hot out. If they're inside, maybe they've been under their basking light for too long. Heat's the dominant factor, is what I'm getting at.

There is another reason that a captive crocodilian might be gaping, and that's because it's doing so on command. Some places have their gators trained to gape on cue, like St. Augustine Alligator Farm and other good zoos. They have the animals do this in presentations that are genuinely educational. They ask the animals to open their mouths so that they can show off their teeth and demonstrate how their tongues seal off the back of their mouth. They'll also do it as part of routine healthcare, because looking at their teeth is important.

In this case, the animals aren't gaping because they're stressed, they're gaping because they know they're gonna get a piece of chicken or fish if they do it. And what's more, they're doing it on cue. They have a specific command or signal that tells them to open wide. It's not an instinctive response to a situation. It's trained. If the animal provides the behavior after a cue, the situation is much less likely to be negatively impactful.

It's also important to remember that there's a difference between a partially open mouth and a gape! As discussed above, alligators will often have their mouths a little bit open just to maintain temperature homeostasis. It helps them stay comfy, temperature-wise. These guys are all doing thermoregulatory open-mouthed behavior- that slight open and relaxed body posture is a dead giveaway. (That and it's the hottest spot in the enclosure.)

Lesson 2: A Happy Gator Is A Chill Gator

So if alligators don't smile or have facial expressions other than the :V that typically signifies distress, how else can you tell how they're feeling? One way is stillness. See, alligators subscribe to the philosophy of if it sucks... hit da bricks.

Basically, if they hate it, they'll leave. Unless, y'know, somebody has their meaty claws digging into their throat or is otherwise restraining them. (Restraint isn't always bad, btw. Sometimes the animal is going through a medical thing or needs to be restrained for their safety- which a responsible educator will explain.)

Let's look at a very similar scenario, in which a captive alligator is getting his back scrubbed.

As you can see, it's quite different. First, he's not being restrained at all. Second, look at how relaxed he is! He's just chilling there vibing! He could simply get up and leave if he wanted to, because he's not being held. Towards the end of the video, as he lifts his head, you can see that his respiratory rate is very even as his throat flutters a bit. I'm not sure what this facility is, so I can't comment on care/general ethics, but like. In this specific case, this is an alligator enjoying being scrubbed! And you can tell because he's not doing anything. A happy gator is content to be doing what they're doing.

Why Should I Listen To You?

Now, you should ask yourself, why should you listen to me? Why should you trust me, who does not own an alligator, versus Jay Brewer, who owns several?

Well, first off, there's no profit for me in telling you that what you're seeing on social media is in fact not what you're being told you're seeing. I'm not getting paid to do this. That's the thing with people who make social media content. The big names aren't doing it just for fun. They're doing it for money. Whether that's profit through partnerships or sponsorships, or getting more people to visit their facilities, or ad revenue, you can't ignore the factor of money. And this is NOT a bad thing, because it allows educators to do what they're passionate about! People deserve to be paid for the work that they do!

But the problem starts when you chase the algorithm instead of actually educating. A "smiling" alligator gets the views, and if people don't know enough to know better, it keeps getting the views. People love unconventional animal stories and they want those animals to be happy- but the inability to even know where to start with critically evaluating these posts really hinders the ability to spread real information. Like, this post will probably get a couple hundred notes, but that video of Coconut being scrubbed had almost 400,000 likes when I took that screenshot. Think about how many eyeballs that's reached by now. What I'm saying here is that it's just... really important to think critically about who you're getting your information from. What do dissenters say in the comments? What do other professionals say? You won't find a single herpetologist that has anything good to say about Prehistoric Pets, I can tell you that right now.

Another reason you can trust me is that my sources are not "just trust me bro," or "years of experience pretending my pet shop where animals come to die is a real zoo." Instead, here are my primary sources for my information on alligator behavior:

Dragon Songs: Love and Adventure among Crocodiles, Alligators, and Other Dinosaur Relations- Vladimir Dinets

The Secret Social Lives of Reptiles- J. Sean Doody, Vladimir Dinets, Gordon M. Burghardt

Social Behavior Deficiencies in Captive American Alligators (Alligator mississippiensis)- Z Walsh, H Olson, M Clendening, A Rycyk

Social Displays of the American Alligator (Alligator mississippiensis)- Kent Vliet

Social Signals and Behaviors of Adult Alligators and Crocodiles- Leslie Garrick, Jeffery Lang

Never smile at a crocodile: Gaping behaviour in the Nile crocodile at Ndumo Game Reserve, South Africa- Cormac Price, Mohamed Ezat, Céline Hanzen, Colleen Downs (this one's Nile crocs, not American alligators, but it's really useful for modeling an understanding of gape behaviors and proximity)

Thermoregulatory Behavior of Captive American Alligators (Alligator mississippiensis)- Cheryl S. Asa, Gary D. London, Ronald R. Goellner, Norman Haskell, Glenn Roberts, Crispen Wilson

Unprovoked Mouth Gaping Behavior in Extant Crocodylia- Noah J. Carl, Heather A. Stewart, Jenny S. Paul

Thank you for reading! Here's a very happy wild alligator from Sanibel for your trouble.

[luveline]

𝐛𝐲 𝐭𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬 | 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐮𝐬 𝐥𝐮𝐩𝐢𝐧

remus’ touch after a long night prompts a tired confession (and a slew of clumsy kisses). 

requested here. modern au. fem!reader, 3.6k.

˚‧꒰ა ✮ ໒꒱‧˚

“I'm going to bed,” Sirius mumbles, scratching at his eyes as he gets up. “Don't let her sleep in her makeup. She'll get an eye infection.” 

Your eyes are getting sore, but it's hardly Remus' responsibility to make sure you wash your face tonight, nor Sirius’ to remind you. “I'm a big girl.” 

Sirius sends you a smile, ignoring your chiding. “Goodnight, my loves,” he says, waving you both away as he heads out of the living room and up the stairs. 

“Notice how he didn't do his dishes?” Remus asks, shifting beside you. 

He's sitting as he tends to, slouched in a way that can't be good for his back in the long run but is clearly comfortable short term. His chin is on his chest, his legs kicked out under the coffee table, which is decorated by the casualties of the night. Sirius’ dinner plate, Remus’ mug, James’ rarely used handheld console. He'd been playing a cutesy farming sim before he said goodnight an hour ago. Sirius stayed to mess with James’ crops and eat a late supper. You're surprised it took him as long as it did to admit defeat. 

“What time is it?” you ask. 

You're laying on the sofa with your socked feet tucked behind Remus’ back, of which he's yet to complain. His elbow brushes your shin as he brings up his arm. “Nearly one in the morning, now,” he reads from his watch. “Let's go to bed too, yeah?” 

“I don't want to.” You turn your face into the pillow behind your neck.

“Me neither,” Remus says, dropping his hand on your knee.

You watch another twenty minutes of TV together failing to summon the energy to stand, but the want for a glass of water grows too big. Your head throbs as you get up, offering your hands to the pretzel that is your favourite housemate.

Remus turns off the TV and lights. You lock the front door. He carries the dirty dishes to the kitchen and you fill up two glasses of water to take with you. It's all so… regular. A routine you share nearly every night, only to climb into your two separate beds. 

He ushers you out of the kitchen and down the hallway with his hand behind your shoulders, his touch a phantom as you ascend the stairs.

You're silent beside the creak of the old wood, too tired to speak. Remus is similarly quiet, though he does whisper, “Watch,” when you nearly kick the box of Halloween decorations waiting to be taken up into the attic. 

You leave your water on the towel box in the alcove and dance around one another in the bathroom. Sirius’ toothbrush lays on the sink still wet, but otherwise there's no signs of him. 

You're feeling very, very tired. You hadn't realised how bad it was until you're putting your toothbrush in your mouth, leant up against the window sill, a slot of cold air seeping in from the dark outside. Your eyes shutter closed. The scrubbing sound of Remus brushing his teeth is almost lulling. 

He swills out his mouth and washes his brush. “Here,” he says gently. You open your eyes just enough to see him beckoning you forward. “Dove, your necklace.” 

“Oh. Thanks.” You turn your back to him. 

His fingers are damp and cool on your skin as he unclasps your necklace. He often takes it off for you. It's one of the things you'll miss when you guys aren't living together anymore, the slow meander to his bedroom, the wood of his door jam on your cheek as you lean against it and give him a hopeful smile. Sometimes he's awake, reading a novel on his side in bed or listening to music at his desk, other times he's sleeping. On those occasions you spend too long lingering, stolen seconds spent staring at the rise and fall of his shoulder. 

“Thank you,” you say as he puts your necklace in the jewellery dish. It comes out missing vowels, lips stuck together as though honeyed. 

You spit pathetically in the sink, rinse your brush, and consider sitting down. “I'm tired,” you whine, wiping your lips. 

“I know,” Remus says, giving you a fond nudge. “Just wash your face and get on with it.” 

“You first. I'm going to nap standing up for a bit.” 

He puts as much of his hair behind his ears as he can and turns on the tap. This is just as familiar as brushing your teeth together. It's not quite as bad as watching James Perfect Skin Potter wash his face with bar soap, but you have to admit that Remus’ eight-nine pence face soap hurts your heart. He washes it off, pats his face dry, and takes the small bottle of bio oil out of the medicine cabinet to pipette onto his pinky finger. “Wash your face,” he says, smoothing the oil into his scars one by one. 

You shake your head. “M'gonna do it in the morning.” 

“That's why your eye was swollen a few weeks ago. You know yourself you won't.” 

“I might,” you say, letting out a big breath as you rub your sore eyes even sorer, “I'm too tired.” 

“Can you sit up, at least?” 

“No.” Remus takes you by the shoulders and forces you to sit on the edge of the bath. “Aggressive?” 

“Don't fall in,” he says, cupping your cheek briefly as if to make sure you've heard. 

You are hearing him, seeing him, even feeling the immensity of his touch, but you're tired, and you know you can let yourself relax completely with him. You'd be the same with James or Sirius, though neither of them could have your head feeling so dizzyingly light from a single touch as Remus can. You probably wouldn't let them persuade you into this, either, tilting your head back to watch through blurry vision as Remus soaks a cotton round in your facial oil. 

“Close your eyes,” he says. 

“Was that a dracula impression?” 

“I command you.” 

You close your eyes. The queasy feeling of oil drags against your lids as Remus wipes them, loosening the stiff tubes of mascara that coat your lashes. It's not a short process because he's very, very gentle, holding your face delicately as though you're a flower in need of coddling, and him the sun. It's the only metaphor that would ever make sense for you and Remus; he's like the sun even if it goes against every statement he's ever made about himself, or anyone else has, for that matter. People think he's a moody, sarcastic boy, and he is, but he's also a vestibule of sweetness, softness, and warmth. The kind of heat you'd only ever feel kissing your skin under the summer sun. But more than that, he's the relief that follows when the clouds come out. 

And his hands are all over you. Your head gets heavier by the minute, eased into dozing by his touch and quiet tones. “We're almost done. I'm gonna have to carry you to bed at this rate.” 

“I'm going to miss this so much one day,” you say. It's easier to admit when you're not looking at him. 

Remus turns on the tap. Hot water runs, you can tell by the sound as strange as it seems, and he wrings the dirtied cotton round before replacing it with a new one. He wets it, bringing it just that touch too hot to your cheeks to wipe you down. “What are you going to miss, dove?” 

“Us. You. I'm going to miss you.” 

“Where are you going?” 

“Nowhere, but one day I will be. James will finally have had enough of us and I'll,” —you swallow around nothing as a rivulet of water runs down your cheek, a cooling tear from the cotton round— “have to move out and we'll never see each other anymore.” 

“Don't be silly, you're not going anywhere.” 

“It's not about the going,” you murmur, peeling your eyes open tentatively as his dabbing follows down your cheek to your neck. “I miss you sometimes and we still live together. I can't imagine how much I'll miss you…” 

Remus puts the cotton round aside. He takes your face into his hand, and suddenly his touch feels raw, nothing like it had moments ago. Because Remus would wash your makeup off for you any day of the week, but his looking at you like this, so unshielded and unabashed, is a rarity. 

“You won't have to miss me. Even if we did move away from each other, I wouldn't let it be that far.” 

“Friends move away all the time. We don't speak to half the people we knew at school.” 

“I only really knew you and the boys,” he says. It isn't true but it is at the same time. Together, you'd been a happy lot, but your current housemates are the ones you'd known. “And see? We're still together.” 

“But for how long?” you ask. 

Remus brings his second hand, holding your face entirely. He covers your cheeks, index fingers sliding slowly under your ears. He's exceedingly gentle, and his eyes are soft. He holds you like you're made of glass, like you could break under a hint of pressure. Slowly, he tilts his head to the side as though he might lean in for a kiss. Maybe he doesn't know he's doing it, but Remus is a very purposeful soul. He'd do much worse to wind you up if you wanted him to. 

You sober up. It's like he has caffeine in his palms. 

“You want to go where I'm going, is that it?” he asks quietly. 

“Yeah,” you say, barely say, voice shame-facedly weak. Is he asking what you think he is?

“Do you want to start now?” 

You breathe out as one of his hands shifts down your jaw. “Yeah, I… I want to start now.” 

“Okay, dove. Then close your eyes again.” 

You hold his gaze for a second that feels infinitely long and short at once, your heart racing. Clarity has returned, a thrust into wakefulness even if your fatigue ties knots around your ankles. You look at him in his late night glory, his scars shining a pink-white like the petals of a young peony flower, and you know it's happening now. 

You shut your eyes. 

He steps closer, though the bath you're perched on is low, and he has to bend a considerable amount to reach you. The weight of his hands on you doesn't change, not even as he grows near enough to sense the heat of his breath against your lips. It's his nose that makes first contact as it slides against yours, and then his forehead presses down into you, his lips noticeably absent. Each contiguity between you thrums. 

A pit opens in your chest, cleaved by his voice as he says, “I'm going to kiss you, okay? S'that what you want?” 

Your hands don't feel like your own. Under the sickening nervousness twining its way through your ribs, you're excited. You're smiling, your voice shaped by it. “Yeah. It's what I want,” you say. 

“Good. It's what I've wanted for a while–” while pressed into your lips, all shaken up by an emotion you've never heard him speak with. He kisses you and you're frozen, and he waits and waits and pulls away to push back in. You remember yourself then, responding to his wading with some pressure of your own. Sparked back to life. 

It's so strange. It doesn't feel real. Remus Lupin kisses you heated and hard for just long enough to feel it in your teeth before he pulls away. “Sorry,” he murmurs, his fingertip running down your cheek, following that same path as your earlier rivulet. To think he saw it, really saw it, locked it away to remember and trace into your skin now… maybe he's seen much more of you than you realised all along. 

“Will you do it again?” you say under your breath. 

Remus must hear the thread of insecurity running through your question; you're afraid he'll say no, but he strokes your cheek again with that unfathomable softness and says, “Yeah, dove, of course I will.” 

“Do you want to?” 

And that's less insecurity and more selfishness, wanting the confession. He hears that, too. 

“I want to kiss you more than I've ever wanted anything,” he says, eye to eye with you, your head tipped up and your heart in your throat, twitching and fizzling like a firecracker. “Yeah? And all that missing me you've been doing? All your worrying? You don't need to do that. You've never needed to do that–” 

“I just never thought you liked me like that.” You and Remus aren't new to one another. “You've been the same since the day we met.” 

Remus’ hands get a little more solid where he's holding you. “Dove. Dove, are you mad?” 

“Remus–” 

“Maybe I have been the same, but did you really not notice that I–” He squeezes your cheeks playfully, almost in disbelief. “If you want me, I'm here. I'm not going anywhere without you. You're not going anywhere without me.” 

“So you like me?” 

“Yes,” he says, his eyebrows pinched together at the starts. “Of course I do.” He laughs. “That's what I'm trying to tell you.” 

“Oh,” you say, lifting your head. 

Remus shuts his eyes a millisecond before you shut your own and kisses you again. The second round is softer, his smile to yours and struggling to find purchase. His breath huffs out in a minty laugh, shockwaves through your mouth. 

“Stop laughing,” he breathes, his hands falling to your neck, your shoulders.

“You first.” 

Your lips part under his, a split-second of contact. He yanks away before things can get too heavy, and you're glad he does, but for a moment you feel the loss like a wave of vertigo. 

“Sorry, I'm going too fast, and you're tired.” His touch is ticklish behind your shoulder. 

“It's okay. Maybe it is a bit fast, but I'm not tired anymore,” you confess. 

Remus hugs you, cementing every feeling for him you have as he wraps his arms around you from over your shoulders, a deft hand cupped behind your neck. “That's not true. I can feel your back shaking. Let's go to bed.” 

“After that?” 

“What, are you worried it won't have happened in the morning?” he asks genuinely. 

You go limp in his arms as he takes your weight against his chest. Not worried, but rather not sure you can be away from him so soon. You ask him in a whisper if you can come and sit with him, not to sleep with him, not to do anything else, and he whispers back, Anything you want. You both entertain the lie that you won't fall asleep in his bed. 

—

Remus tenses as he hears the scuffling sounds of movement downstairs. It takes a train of thought awakening for him to realise it's only James, rising early as usual to put on a load of washing and prepare bits for lunch before he goes off for training. He can see him in his mind's eye if he tries, his friend dressed in the red and white rugby uniform, green socks up over his calves and white cleats scrubbed pristine for another ruck in the mud. 

Remus’ relaxes, stretching out in bed until his hand bumps into something rigid. 

He flinches. 

You're laying on the mattress beside him, your head slipped off of the pillows and your arm tucked beneath you. It doesn't look comfortable, and if it were any other morning he'd pull it straight for you, but. 

I kissed you, he thinks to himself, as though talking to you. He turns away from you until his back clicks and alleviates the ache in his hips, though he has to settle eventually, back on his back, no way of ignoring you. He doesn't want to ignore you. The opposite —why are you so far away? Can he hold you? 

What are the rules here? 

Kissing… not dating… You're here in his bed, you'd asked to stay. 

He takes your hand and pulls at your arm. Still sleeping, you mumble and move onto your back, releasing the pressure on your shoulder as he pulls you toward his chest. Your face is impassive, lax in sleep. 

He should let you sleep. 

“Dove,” he says, stroking up the length of your arm. 

“Mm?” you hum. 

“I need to ask you something.” 

You twitch awake with a small cough. Your eyes are red with a lack of sleep as you open them, blinking, and he wishes stupidly that he could make it better. He makes a sympathetic sound for want of more to do. 

“Why have you woken me up?” you ask, blinking at him. You gather that there's nothing urgent happening and push your face into his shoulder, practically nuzzling him. “It's Saturday.” 

“I just need to ask you something.” 

“So ask me,” you encourage through your sleepiness. 

The washing machine whirs downstairs. It’s an old machine that you often joke is taking off into orbit during the final spin, loud as anything. He can barely hear your sluggish breathing underneath it, but he can't miss the catch in it after he asks, “Can I be your boyfriend?” 

It's not the catch he's expecting. You laugh and readjust, wrapping your arms around him from the side and kissing the side of his neck clumsily. “Y'u asked me last night,” you say in a borderless run-on, sounding about as dopily in love as he's ever heard you. 

He thinks about it. Yes, he did, after he'd kissed you many more times than he should've and curled up in bed with you, hands held loosely beneath the blankets. He remembers the question, the answer. The last kiss that followed, and you falling asleep beside him. 

“I need a coffee,” he says, encouraging your head back so he can kiss your temple. 

“No, you need to sleep more with me. And maybe kiss me again. If you want to.” 

Sleeping isn't half as interesting as kissing you. He slots his nose against yours and languishes in the feeling of your lips, wondering if he's having a false start. He could still be dreaming. It would make sense. 

The door clatters open with a curse. James stands in the doorway with a folded pile of Remus' washing from the radiators in his arms, an apology on his lips, “Sorry, mate, the door got away from– oh my god. Oh my god?” 

Remus isn't an overly shy guy but he can't deal with this. “For fuck's sake,” he mutters, dropping his face into your shoulder. Your arm wraps under his neck, fingers splayed across his cheek. 

“James–” you begin, resigned to your fate. 

“This is flat-cest. This is the cardinal sin.” 

“We don't live in a flat,” Remus says. 

“That makes it worse. You can't even blame close quarters.” Remus peeks up to watch James in the doorway, still clinging to Remus’ washing, pure shock curdling his features. He shakes his head. “I'm telling Sirius.” 

“Please don't!” you say.

You slump back into the pillows as James leaves anyways. 

Remus hugs your soft abdomen. “Don't worry,” he says.

“I guess it's a good thing you've already asked me out,” you say. 

“Why, what can they do?” Remus asks, wondering if he's allowed to put his face on your chest or if that's too forward. You rake a hand through his hair and encourage him forward, to his delight. 

Frantic words. You and Remus loved up in bed despite it. 

“I'm chucking them out!” 

“James, they've been seeing for weeks. Can I go back to sleep?” 

“What?!” 

You grumble into his hair. “That's not even true… Does everyone know, then? That I liked you?” 

Remus thinks of the shadow of you in the doorway, that sheepish smile you send his way before you ask him to unclasp your necklace before bed, or your face as he’d wiped the sooty stain of mascara from your cheek last night, half in love with him as you fell asleep in his palm. 

“I don't think so, lovely,” he comforts. “Don't worry about it. We'll clear it up at lunch time. James isn't even mad, he's just sulking thinking we didn't tell him.”

“How could you not tell me?” James asks on cue, rounding the door again, arms ever tighter around the bundle of Remus’ clothes. He assumes it's being kept hostage. “I thought we were best mates.” 

“James,” you say softly, all sympathy. 

Remus likes the feeling of your voice under his ear, and your slightly too-quick heartbeat. He could fall asleep here and now if it weren't for the company. 

“It's new,” you're saying, softness melded to a sweet pride. “Okay? I've barely told Remus how I feel, of course I was going to tell you. We were only talking about it last night. It really hasn't been weeks, Sirius is a stirrer.” 

Remus pulls the covers up over your heads and climbs on top of you in a rush, demanding that the both of you be left alone, to James’ great annoyance but your delight, your laughter loud in the shell of his ear. Your chest shakes with it beneath him. 

A great wad of fabric hits him in the legs. “Twats,” James says, seemingly stalking off. 

Your whisper sends shivers down his spine. “We're alone again. Do you have anything else to ask me while you're too tired to remember?” you tease. 

There's not a chance in the world that Remus would ever forget this. 

˚‧꒰ა ✮ ໒꒱‧˚

thanks for reading!! I really hope you enjoyed, it's been a little bit since I wrote for remus like this so I was actually a bit nervous and I hope it's okay :D &lt;3

[forsworned]

cw: sexual content, pnv sex, scratching, biting, marking, you being shameless as fuck about your sex life in front of the others, also not proofread

Johnny can't help but overhear the conversation you're having with Kyle about your hook-up gone wrong. About how "men just aren't men anymore", and "they don't make them like they used to". He chuckles, shaking his head as he watches his brew pour in his cup, but his ear perks up at your voice again, echoing from the hallway to the living room.

"...he literally stops me mid-stroke to whine about not scratching him! Can you believe it!" You huff, plopping down on the couch.

Kyle watches you with amusement, taking a seat next to you while he sips at his mug and glances up at Johnny. "He's unbelievable."

"And then he tells me that it hurts when I bite him!"

"Oi! Quit y'er moanin'! It's too early for allat." Simon grumbles, and you feel a touch embarrassed at his sudden outburst.

You pout. "Sorry." You apologize, deflating like a balloon on the couch and Kyle chuckles at you. He ruffles your hair to comfort you and you sigh. "You get what I mean, right?"

He nods, and then gestures for Johnny to 'solve' your little issue.

"What seems to be the problem?" Johnny leans against the counter next to Simon who is a bit vexed about being woken up to the sound of you bitching about a guy.

And then begins your tirade of how men just aren't as visceral and moonstruck by women anyone; how they've lost their passion and chivalry when it came to romance and you're starting to lose hope. Johnny pouts for you, but there's an amused look on his face.

He's so understanding. Truly, a gentleman when it comes to these sorts of things. So, it really doesn't come off as a surprise when he's offering to help you resolve 'said' problem.

Of course, you laugh in his face. You don't take him seriously. You never take him seriously.

"Up to you, obviously." He sits on the edge of your bed and you toy with the memorabilia that lines your worktable. You turn to him and he sits there looking like he got ready to fuck you.

Like no seriously, you can smell his aftershave, you can see that he's trimmed down his stubble and neatened up his disheveled mohawk. He smells like spearmint and cypress when he speaks and it's alluring to say the least.

"You're serious?" You quirk an eyebrow, fiddling with the little green toy soldier.

"As a heart attack." He smiles sincerely at you. "No pressure."

You set the toy down and silently move toward him. His baby blues never leave you as you reach out to grasp his shoulder, touch as light as a feather. Your legs straddle his hips and his arms instinctively wrap around your waist and you lean forward to place an experimental kiss to his lips.

They're soft and a bit raw. Like he's been scrubbing at them with a toothbrush for ten minutes straight and you giggle at bit.

"What?" His dark lashes flutter up at you, barely breaking the sweet kiss you've placed upon his lips.

You shake your head and smile. "Nothing." You hotly slot your lips against his and he collapses back against your bunk, easily maneuvering you against your mattress, and you feel a thrill run up your spine when he easily finds the sweet spot on your neck.

A moan easily escapes your lips, your spinal column curving as your chest presses up against his burly one. And soon your clothes are accumulating into a little pile next to your bed.

For a moment, you both analyze one another. It wouldn't be the first time you've seen Johnny naked. He shamelessly prances around the living room with his cock out because he seems to always forget his towel in his bedroom, but this is the first time you're seeing him rock hard. And fuck it's thick and veiny, uncut and weeping at the tip.

And he's sure as hell never caught a glimpse of your bare form, maybe clad in a towel, but surprisingly you've never sported a wardrobe malfunction in front of him.

"God, lassie--"

You cut him off, covering his mouth with your hand and shake your head. "I want you to show me that you're capable of fucking me right. No whining, no complaining."

He grins. "Right, just the visceral fuckin' you crave, huh?"

And that makes your pussy clench. From the minute, he enters you, you're clawing at his skin and he's groaning at the snugness of your tight wet pussy as he takes pleasure in the pain. It's addicting.

Your sharp nails against his shoulder blades, biceps, and the nape of his neck and your teeth buried in his neck as he fucks you so good. It's a deep, fast, and ravenous rhythm that makes you cum in two minutes. The orgasm he gives you is unlike any other you've experienced. Maybe because it was wrong. Using company time to fuck your teammate wasn't the best decision in the world.

But the way your body spasms, seeking purchase in his dark locks as he thrusts deep into you, getting at that sweet spot beyond that spongy area. Oh man, it's like a seventh heaven as you moan out his name.

And Johnny? Mans is on another planet. He can't even believe you're letting him fuck you. And the way you cum so quickly on his dick? He can't even hold out any longer, quickly following suit, but he's still hard. His dick molding your insides and you wipe the sweat that forms at your brow before stretching out your arms and giggling.

"Fuck, that was...that was really fun." You breathe. A grin stretches across his lips and he peeks down at the milky ring around his cock.

"Looks like ye had a lotta fun." He retorts, and you chuckle at his obvious remark.

You study the marks you've left on his body and he's more than happy to parade them around. "

"I loved it." He reassures. And he did. It was worth the two minutes, and maybe even more if you'd let him.

"Good." You grin before kissing his chin, and nipping at it. He groans in pleasure.

"Keep doin' tha' and I'm gonna have another go at ya."

You bite your lip looking at him with mischief brimming in your eyes. "Try me."

masterlist

[icypopz]

bathing with them ♡

↬ request from anon ; Hiiii may I pls request the love and deepspace boys with a reader who loves taking baths with them??

↬ notes ; rafayel, xavier, zayne x gn!reader

↬ from ice ; ice active era?! jk we all know i'm lying atp HAHAHA but here's my annual post which is also my first post for LADS :> i changed the prompt a bit but i hope u enjoy !

↬ warning(s) ; tiny spoilers for rafayel's backstory, xavier's is like microscopically suggestive

please reblog ! it helps a lot :)

[ rafayel ! ]

rafayel absolutely adores taking baths with you, even though he loves to tease you about being too clingy (he's actually the clingy one, but he'll never admit it for the world). he loves just chilling in the bathtub with you, especially on winter nights where he'll pull you closer in the hot water, complaining that "i need more warmth! protect me from the cold, miss bodyguard!"

he would get playfully annoyed when you joke about wanting to see his mermaid tail when he gets into the bathtub, scolding you about how lemurians also have powers to lure humans in and he'll be doing that to you if you don't get in the bath with him "right now!" also rafayel doesn't really like rubber ducks, he says it's weird that humans like to put toys like that in the water when they could just go swim in a lake if they wanted to see ducks. but! he does love bubble baths, he loves to put the bubbles in your hair, and when you make a beard for him with the foam, he finds it the cutest ever.

rafayel definitely has like several hundred bottles of soap, shampoo and conditioner in varying scents, claiming that their fragrance was so inspiring he just had to buy all of them. (the truth is, he wasn't sure which one you'd like so he just bought everything.) it's really helpful for when you stay over at his place though, you don't have to worry about packing a vanity case because he keeps everything ready for you, from your favourite toothpaste to a spare toothbrush. he also loves seeing you wrapped up in a towel, he thinks you look so adorable.

more content utc !

[ xavier ! ]

xavier isn't picky, he doesn't mind using either a bathtub or a shower, but after you visit him a couple of times, you definitely tell him he should use the shower instead. he always ends up falling asleep while he's soaking in the bathtub! he definitely loves showering with you though, he'll always do stuff like scrub your back or help comb through your tangled hair without you needing to ask. but it's almost impossible for both of you to bathe quickly, because you always end up getting distracted. who can you blame you though? it's not your fault xavier is so muscled from all his training!

xavier is the type who showers in freezing cold water, but he's willing to compromise if you don't like that. he ends up realising that hot water is more fun because he gets to write silly messages and draw hearts for you on the glass since it gets fogged up from the steam. also xavier's brain would totally crash the first time he showered with you, it would be that one tender night card all over again except better LOL. he's just that obsessed with you, you're the prettiest person with the best personality he's ever seen!

xavier would be one of those guys that has like the '10-IN-1! SHAMPOO, CONDITIONER, SOAP!' soap bottles. it's not that he isn't bothered about hygiene, he just finds it a lot simpler to use one single bottle for everything, and it evidently works for him since his skin is so clear and his hair is so fluffy. but ever since you've started staying over, xavier takes note of your favourite soaps and stocks up on them (especially after you tease him for that pitiful bottle of soap in his bathroom - he's the type to squeeze out every single last drop of soap from the tube so the bottle definitely looks like it has been through The Horrors).

[ zayne ! ]

zayne would usually prefer showering over bathing usually, because he's used to maximising time for work in his schedule, so he likes everything in his personal life to be extremely efficient. but once he starts dating you, that does kind of change. on days where he doesn't have to rush into work for urgent cases, or nights after a hectic day, he enjoys relaxing with you in the bathtub - it's a little slice of heaven for him to have you pressed up against him in the warm water.

zayne likes using his evol to tease you while you're showering. though he isn't usually a playful person and his humour is quite dry, the intimacy of being in such close proximity to him makes him act up a little LOL. so when you ask him to soap your back or anything like that, he'll purposely make his fingertips cold so you shiver when he touches you. "zayne!" you'll scold him, and he'll just let out a soft chuckle before doing what you actually asked him to.

zayne would just have the bare minimum essentials in his bathroom, but i also think he would be the type to buy in bulk so he only has to go out shopping once in a while. this way, when his soap runs out he can just get a new bottle from his cupboard. he likes going into his bathroom and seeing little traces of you all over the room, like your toothbrush in his cup or your favourite soap on his shelf - it makes him happy because it's like a reminder of you even when you aren't there.

✧ thank you for reading ! if you have a request, feel free to send it in 🌠

© icypopz 2024. do not repost or modify in any way.

[dilatorywriting]

Monster Mayhem: Siren's Song [Part 5]

Gender Neutral Reader x Vil Schoenheit Word Count: 6.8k

Summary: 'Rule 27: It’s a poor choice to help a hare at high noon, but it will certainly appreciate you if you do.'

WARNING for some descriptions of violence

[PART 1] [PART 1.5] [PART 2] [PART 3] [PART 4] [PART 5]

You’d first set foot on The Rose Queen when you were the tender age of eleven. Or, well, something close to that. It wasn’t like most peasant orphans were taught numbers, let alone how to interpret calendars well enough to mark the passing of years.

It was the first ship you’d ever seen up close—sleek, and salt-stained, and creaking beneath your toes. The Boy King at its helm had turned his nose up at you in his too big coat, with his too big boots and tricorn hat that kept slipping down over his eyes. It was a ragtag crew that you’d wandered into, made of nothing but runaways and street rats. The ship itself was just as unusual and fresh-faced. It was built in a very impractical sort of way, with hallways that led to nowhere and portholes that opened up into endless seas of shadow where you could tumble down, down, down for hours and never see an end (or so you’d been warned). There were paintings on the walls, all off-centered and hanging on crooked nails that wobbled with every dip in the waves. The masts and rails were stained a deep, bloody red, in honor of its title. And no matter how the raging winds and waves battered at those petals, your Captain would have you out there the next morning to paint them anew. The Rose Queen was the finest pirate ship in all the ocean, and you only half-said that out of personal bias.

The vessel of the Silver Songbirds was… not like that.

It was grand, certainly. But there was a barren cleanliness to it that didn’t feel lived in. Sure, Riddle’d had you literally scrubbing stains out of the deck with a toothbrush and pot of turpentine, but this was different. Sterile, rather than squeaky. The wood planks didn’t whine with a weary, seaworthy groan beneath your feet that you could feel through the heel of your boots—as if to reassure you it was there. The air smelled of salt, sure, and you could see a group of gulls circling overhead, but the whole of it felt… empty. Lonely.

The black haired man led you to a small, private room in the ship’s hull. That alone was strange. You’d been sharing quarters for the whole of your seafaring career. This new little suite of yours had a bed, and white paint on the walls, and a porthole for a window. He gently coaxed you into sitting at the foot of the mattress and readjusted the coat resting along your shoulders. His smile was soft, kind. The sort of warm, pretty expression that you could read about in a love poem.

You remembered your Siren’s vicious, pointed smirk—red, and haughty, and sharp enough to cut glass—and fought a pang of something you absolutely refused to put a name to.

When you blinked back into focus, his lips were moving in a slow, steady flow and you focused your best on the shape of them. It was hard, with how placid his expression was—with how little there was to make out of anything he was attempting to get across. And whether it be your furrowed brow or a sudden memory that oh right, you’d told him your ears worked as well as a three-legged horse pulling a one-wheeled cart, he startled into silence. His face twisted up with chagrin, and he offered you an apologetic smile with round, pink cheeks.

He fumbled around in his pockets for a piece of paper and scribbled out a hasty note to press into your palms.

‘My name is Neige Leblanche, and I’ll be taking care of you for this journey.’

You paused, fingers worrying at the sides of the neat, square bit of parchment. It felt right to offer your own name in return. That would be the polite thing, surely. But you paused, throat tight with uncertainty and a prickling, unpleasant sort of heat. Because you’d never even told your Siren your name, had you? Not even once.

And beneath that sudden, sour gut punch was something else.

‘Rule 116, your name is not a number, but it is your value. Do not offer it to any whose own interests are undue.’

The first time Ace had found himself with a wanted poster (‘Ugly,’ he’d complained, bitter. ‘How am I supposed to hook any tail with this? I look like a mutant potato. This stupid portrait is worse than prison.’), Riddle had taken your handwritten Book of Rules and underlined that one thrice over. You hadn’t thought much of it until you’d had to cut a hangman’s noose from around your idiot, foxy friend’s throat—the handiwork of the tavern folk he’d been boasting to only an afternoon before. And then it had made sense. Ace had survived (with a new, grand tale of woe that he liked to repeat ad nauseum until you wished you’d left him strung up), but the lesson had remained.

Carefully you swallowed the words resting on your tongue and offered a polite-ish nod in their place.

“Nice to meet you, sir. Thank you. For saving me.”

Neige shook his head in a panicked sort of rush, hands waving back and forth with a clear ‘none of that! None of that!’ before reaching back into his pockets to search for another note.

‘It was my honor,’ he wrote, words jumbled and sloppy in his haste. ‘It’s the duty of all officers to help those in need.’

Your brow pinched. Officer? Officer of what?

Your Siren had called these Songbirds dangerous. ‘Not safe’ written into the sand over and over again with his curled claws. You didn’t know much of mainland politics and other such nonsense, but maybe there was some sort of… Siren Hunting Order? Soldiers of the King sent out to scour the seas and keep them safe for a host of weary, would-be-merman-meals? That would make sense. It would make a lot of sense, actually.

Another note was pressed into your hands.

‘How did you end up stranded on that island?’

Islet, you wanted to correct petulantly. Riddle would have. Your Siren would have.

You opened your mouth and hesitated. Telling Nigel, or Nergal, or whatever his name was that your ship had been besieged by a pod of ravenous mers (and one fair-faced asshole who you already missed far, far too—) was as good as serving them up on a silver platter, wasn’t it? Siren hunters probably traded information like how pirates traded maps or merchants traded gold. And you’d be damned if your loose tongue was what led to your friend companion co-strandee’s family being hunted for sport just after he’d finally managed to make his way home again.

So you stiffened your upper lip and turned to look your savior in the eye.

“I fell overboard,” you said, firm. “Because I’m an idiot.”

He blinked, startled, and you could recognize the spluttered ‘…oh’ shaping his lips.

He handed you another scribbled bit of parchment, gaze averted and awkward.

‘I’m sorry.’

“Never apologize to the half-wit for whatever fallacy of their own led to them falling into the pit,” you recited naturally, and Nigel startled. His doe eyes went round with confusion and he tilted his head at you like a curious hound. Nothing intimidating, more like some kind of fluffy cocker spaniel or primped up lapdog staring up at you with too-long-lashes and too-few-thoughts.

You shrugged.

“Just a rule I was supposed to follow,” you shrugged off. You offered a slanted grin. “Though when you’re the idiot in question, it can be pretty hard to avoid.”

Neville smiled at you with a soft sort of laugh that you swore you could feel dancing along your skin.

Another note.

‘I’ll be back in a bit. Please enjoy the amenities here and get some rest. If you need anything, let us know and I’ll get it sorted personally.’

You dipped your chin in thanks and collapsed back against the small, flat mattress in the corner. It was soft, sturdy, probably good for your back and all that nonsense. The sheets were crisp and white, and they rubbed blandly at your weary hide. You could smell the lingering, sharp fragrance of some kind of tacky soap in the cotton. Totally not unpleasant at all. Theoretically, it should have actually been the best bed you’d ever slept in. But a part of you missed swaying back and forth in a net hammock, and an even bigger part missed plopping down in the sand with the heat of a crackling fire at your front and the even steadier warmth of the long, curling, press of gemstone scales at your back.

You flopped over onto your side and stared at the empty, carefully manicured surface of the desk opposite you and wished more than anything that you’d brought your shell.

.

.

The room was cold when you next woke, and you shivered into the jacket Neige had draped along your shoulders (because it was ‘Neige.’ It had been signed on the bottom of the note he’d left you that morning alongside your breakfast. Which was stupid. The dumbest name you’d ever heard). The starched fabric of it all wasn’t exactly comfortable, but it was better than shivering through the chilly ocean mists that were seeping in through the porthole.

You burrowed into the swathe of white and blue wool like a rabbit in a hole, and then winced in irritation when another of those stupid, gaudy pins dug into your cheek.

You plucked the first from its place—the duo of silver songbirds. It really was quite pretty, despite the ominous undertones and all. Two, graceful, delicate sets of feathered wings arching up into the sky—forever frozen in a dance to the clouds. You dropped it into the little, dark crevice between your bed and the wall. Good riddance.

Next came a crest that was familiar in a distant sort of way—a memory that tickled that back of your brain from days long past. You hadn’t noticed it before, what with the echoes of ‘not safe, not safe, not safe’ blaring in your head like an alarm, but it was just as neatly polished as the birds pinned above. It was diamond shaped, the edges embossed in twining lines like the cut of a rope. At its head sat a strange sort of crown, with the arches and more familiar pointed designs replaced by the billowing arcs of sails.  All of that gallantry surrounded a pair of rearing stallions—hooves crossed along a golden edged sword and circled with blue ivy.

You twisted it between your fingers, watching the metal glint in the low light. You hadn’t set foot in proper society since Riddle had let your young, dumb self abscond into the ocean all those years ago. You could hardly remember the flag of our home country, let alone the specifics.

You frowned and the edges of the badge pricked at your fingers.

You dropped this one behind the bed too, with a petulant flick of your wrist to make sure it really stuck.

.

.

‘I’m sorry I haven’t been around more often, there’s some business I’ve been having to take care of.’

You handed the note back with a shrug.

“It’s no bother.”

Neige offered an apologetic grimace nonetheless and another of those smiles that looked a bit too sweet to be real.

‘Do you mind if I ask you something?’

You bristled before you could help it, thoughts spiraling away to harpoons, and nets, and hunting parties. And then you settled your shoulders into a polite, easy line and offered one of your own too-put-together smiles in return.

“Yeah, sure. I mean, you saved me after all.”

Neige smiled again, easy and comfortable, and pressed another slip of parchment into your palms.

‘Where were you headed? When you fell overboard?’

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck you with a barbed cactus branch dipped in—

Ahem.

You cleared your throat in a way that was surely a Very Normal Person Thing To Do, and tried to ignore the fact that he was so brazenly attempting to map out his plan of attack—to pinpoint the route that the sirens had been chasing and run after it like hounds tracking a fresh scent. Which, to be fair, sirens were a scourge on the seas. Hundreds upon hundreds of good men and women had been lost to their crooning songs and wickedly sharp teeth. They were vicious, often cruel, and so much stronger than any mortal sailor that of course the world above would fear them. You’d been very much of the same opinion until only quite recently, and now—now you just couldn’t.

“I don’t know where we were going,” you lied, and Neige’s brow pinched in a dour, rejected kind of way. “But,” you tried, sprinkling in a touch of truth to make the lie go down easier, “I know we were coming from Port o'Bliss.”

He nodded, that uncongenial expression slipping off his face as easily as it’d settled there.

He rattled off something quick and bubbly, and you pointedly arched a brow. The brunette blushed bright pink and hastily scrabbled for another bit of paper.

‘Thank you for being so helpful. I know it can’t be easy.’

Your neutral expression froze on your face and when you smiled it felt more like a polite bearing of teeth. Did he know? Could he see right through you? Or worse, was he getting all the answers he wanted from you either way, no matter how you tried to coat it in a veneer of misdirection.

“Sure thing.”

He handed you another note, this time for his pocket. Crumpled and soft, the ink a bit smeared along the curling letters.

‘It’s a poor choice to help a heron at high noon,’ it said, ‘but it will certainly appreciate you if you do. So my thanks to you.’

Something settled in your gut at the familiarity, something deceptively warm and homey.

“It’s a hare,” you said, without much thought. “Not a heron.”

Neige nodded with a polite, smiling mumble that looked like another apology, and then left you to your own devices.

That night, a veritable feast was delivered to your tiny, white-walled cabin. A grand spread of food fit for a king. There was roasted fowl, pools of thick, spiced gravies, mountains of vegetables that you’d never even seen before. And tarts. So many colorful, fruity tarts that were so sweet they almost made your tongue curl.

“What’s the occasion?” you asked as Neige took a seat at your desk to nibble at the meal alongside you—a cloth napkin folded neatly across his nap and a clear glass flute for wine placed a bit precariously by his elbow.

He smiled, honey warm, and offered you another note.

‘For helping the hare.’

.

.

Neige didn’t come to visit you the next morning, and his absence had the hair at the nape of your neck standing on end.

You paced and paced around your cube of a barrack. It was maybe four steps from one end to the next, but the constant bumping your toes against the wall was better than just sitting there doing nothing. The worst part was the silence. Not the one in your head. Yes, yes, you were more than used to that. On and on, yada yada. But the silence of the ship. The Rose Queen had always felt like a living thing, a great, wooden beast with a pulse you could feel thrumming beneath your toes, your palms. All you had to do was lay a hand against its side and you could feel the rumble of the tide beyond, the rushing footsteps of sailors sprinting about to meet one of Riddle’s orders or other, the thump of heavy, wet mop heads smacking the deck overhead. It was quiet, but it wasn’t quiet. This ship? No matter how you laid against the boards or pressed flat to the walls, there was nothing. And it made you feel like you were trapped aboard a vessel full of ghosts.

The sun had long begun to set by the time Neige returned, and by then you were nothing but a livewire of nerves.

Had they found him? Your Siren? Was he there somewhere, just a few floors above—strung up like a fish in a net? Caught and displayed like a fine trophy? Or had they killed him outright? Had they found his pod? Had he put up a fight? Had he—

A piece of rolled parchment was held out for you to take, a satin blue ribbon tied along its belly. Neige’s soft, brown gaze was glued to the floor and you snatched the paper from his hands like a rabid cat and tore it open. You could barely keep your eyes steady to read it all—fine, pointed print done up in a neat hand.

‘—danger to those who venture—'

‘—for the safety of the people—’

‘—therefore, the decision has been made—'

‘—with the greatest consideration—’

‘—with immediate effect—'

‘—we have declared the extermination of—'

“You can’t!” you wailed, and Neige’s doe eyes darted up to yours and immediately away once more in guilt. “He’s—he’s not bad. I swear! I know how things look—and—and I know he’s not—that’s he’s a—but you can’t—”

Neige’s wavering stared jumped back to you in open surprise, and you saw his lips twitch on one word—delicate brows pinching in question.

‘He?’

You frowned and fought the urge to stomp your feet. Because, okay, fine. Sure, you were arguing tooth and nail for someone whose name you maybe didn’t even know. Someone who had swum away from your stupidly sentimental ass with all the power and grace of a beast fit to rule the depths of the oceans while you could barely flounder at its surface. And sure, sirens killed people and ate them. But this one was—he was special, and you’d be damned if you let some primped up fishermen try to reel him in on a hook just because he’d maybe eaten a few people. And—

There was a hand on your shoulder, and Neige was staring down at you with an expression not dissimilar to that of a parent about to tell their child that the cat had got out and met a terrible, squishy end beneath the wheels of your neighbor’s carriage. He sighed, dark lashes brushing along his cheeks, and then reached out with his other hand to tap a finger between your collar bones.

“What?” you snapped, and he tapped again. “Me? What about me?”

He paused, gaze meeting yours with a pointed sort of melancholy.

Oh.

Oh.

You remembered the pins you’d dropped behind your bed, one by one. You remembered the strange coat of arms crowned with golden sails and bearing a great, shining sword. Something regal, something imperial that a commoner like you would have only caught fleeting glimpses of in parades, and marches, and war calls.

Something like, say, Pyroxene’s Royal Naval Fleet.

You glanced down at the parchment again, crumpled between your fists, and smoothed it out into something legible beneath your fingers. You reread the text with careful focus.

‘For the Crime of Piracy’ it said. Right at the tippity top. In red ink.

��…ah,” you blinked. “That makes a lot more sense.”

.

.

You were to walk the plank on the ‘morrow.

Which honestly, you hadn’t even thought was really a Thing—walking the plank, argh. Fiddly dee and a yo-ho-ho. That sort of storybook nonsense. The parables that parents passed onto their children to try and scare them away from a life of villainy. Real pirates were put to the rack, or hanged in the town squares to scare the adults away from doing the same.

But you supposed it was practical, at least. Blood was hard to scrub out of wooden decks, so beheading would have been a bit of a mess. Bullets were best to be conserved out on the high seas where stocks were already low, and honestly, your body would just have to be thrown overboard anyways before it stunk up the barracks. So, like, doing it all in one would be quite efficient. You could appreciate that. 

Your hands would be bound at your back and you’d be given three breaths, three steps, and then you’d be tumbling down into the waves below. Claimed by the waters that you’d patrolled for so many years now. Fitting, honestly. Riddle would be proud (beneath the raging, spitting indignation of you being caught at all, but that was another matter). At least you wouldn’t be going out from food poisoning or something mundane like that, so that was a win. And who knew. Maybe your Siren would find you again when you were nestled to rest in some seabed not too far from here, and he could finally make a meal of your dumb ass yet. Happy endings abound.

You wondered idly at the dual branches of fate you’d wandered along in these past weeks, and if it would have been better to hide away when you’d first seen those sails on the horizon. To keep to the little, crescent island you’d found yourself on and slowly starved to death. Alone, abandoned, and sitting in a forever stillness worse than any silence you’d known before.  Forever staring out over the horizon for a glance of amethyst fins that you knew you’d never see again.

If given the choice between the two, you’d take the plank.

.

Neige brought you another feast that night, and you gorged on it merrily. 

When he nervously kept piling your plate with choice cuts after choice cuts, gaze diverted to the floor and looking like a kicked puppy dog with its tail between its legs, you rolled your eyes and swatted at his fingers.

“Unclench yourself,” you huffed, and he puffed up stuttery and pink in horror. “It’s not the end of the world. You’re just doing your job, right? If we’d met under different circumstances I bet I would have shot you first. So, really. All’s fair.”

He worried his lower lip between his teeth, guilt still swimming heavy and warm in those doe eyes of his.

He said something under his breath, something that you’d bet even if your ears were working at full capacity you wouldn’t have been able to parse out. He leaned forward to scrawl a note on the napkin beside your plate.

‘You’re happier now? After all this? I don’t get it.’

You reached out to pat him merrily on the shoulder, more a smack smack smack then anything really pleasant. He could see him fighting a wince with all the trembling sort of bravery of a field mouse. Poor dear. What was the Royal Navy thinking? Hiring on someone who looked like they belonged on an advert for rouge and sweets. This was the last face a pirate was expected to jeer into? This one? Really? It was a wonder this little, squirrely man hadn’t keeled over the first time someone spat on his boots.

“It’s a poor choice to help the fish at high noon,” you said around a mouthful of crumbs. “But it’s my choice. And I’m happy to do it.”

“Fish?” you saw him mouth, brow pinched, and you batted at his shoulder again before reaching for another of those too-sweet tarts.

.

.

There was a whole procession for your execution. With speeches. Which even with the slowly encroaching panic worming into your guts, you couldn’t help but think was at least a little funny.  

The whole crew was lined up in solemn formation, listening stalwartly to some judge, or high ranking officer, or whatever rattle off who even knew what. Your crimes? A homily? The lunch menu? Fuck if you had any clue. And you were the one being fed to the sharks. There had to be some joke hidden in here, right? The scoundrel pirate who could never be tried, simply because they couldn’t hear their own sentencing. You wouldn’t even know when to stand up and shout ‘I object!’ It would probably be pretty funny, right? If you just did that out of nowhere. And what was the worst that could happen? Oh, no. A fine. Please, sir. Add it to the list of debts I owe from beyond my watery grave. Amen.

A hand at your lower back gave you a gentle nudge forward and you shifted against the ropes binding your wrists. They were nicer than your own stores aboard the Rose Queen. Not nearly as itchy, the fibers neat and clearly expensive. Neige stepped up beside you and offered you a look that was likely meant to be kind, but your growing nerves had started to eat through your willingness to play friendly. You could feel the weight of the crew around you, even if you couldn’t hear them. The creak of the deck beneath your toes as they shifted about, the way their bulk must have been shielding you from the worst of the wind. Unlike with your own mismatched family of castaways, their presence wasn’t reassuring. And you kept your eyes locked forward and away from the field of sharp gazes eating into your hide.

The plank was narrow, and immediately you were fighting the urge to sway on your toes. Having your hands bound at your rear only made it worse. It threw off the whole of your center of gravity and had you feeling dizzy and seasick.

You took one breath, stuttery, and one step. The wood whined beneath your heels in a vibration you could feel all the way up to your knees.

Another breath, another step. You could feel the salt soaked board starting to bend now. Clearly it wasn’t meant to support much of anything, let alone a whole person. And for some reason the idea of it breaking beneath you was so much worse than taking that last step all on your own. A sudden plunge that was out of your control. It had your heart hammering in your throat and cold nausea bubbling in your belly.

You looked down. You didn’t want to, but it was like your gaze was a weighted, magnetic thing. Pulled down into the salty depths below. The water looked rougher than it had a moment ago, or maybe you were just really starting to panic. You could see the white froth of the wake breaking against the ship’s hull. It churned like the start of a storm, which was really, terribly inconvenient. Seeing as it’d been so still and calm just a few minutes before. And, y’know, the fact that you had to fall into that mess of sharp peaks and rocking waves. You swore you could see dark shapes flitting about just beneath the surface, a flash of grey, or maybe green. It was hard to tell, with the brightness of the early morning sun in your eyes.

No one was poking at your back, urging you forward, which you thought was quite odd. You’d been taking your sweet ol’ time sauntering to your demise. You’d assumed they’d have less patience for a pirate with cold feet. Instead, the world around you was just silent and still. Shifting with the raging waves below, but empty and quiet as a tomb for all you knew otherwise.

You took your last breath, your last step.

And then the ship lurched and you were plummeting towards the water. The dissonance between having something beneath your feet—no matter how frail—and then nothing was jarring, and it had you gasping on impulse. Hair whipping at your cheeks and lungs squeezing tight as the air screamed past your throat. It felt like you were drowning before you even hit the water.

When you did finally crash into the waves, it hurt. You’d always been a fairly proficient swimmer, but whether it be the mind numbing panic or the ropes binding you tight, tight, tight, you just started to sink. The salt stung like an open wound, and the water was cold. Frigid. Like being tossed into the jagged side of a glacier. You at least had the sense not to gulp down a mouthful of water out of reflex, but that didn’t make things much better.

You screwed your eyes shut, bubbles frothing at your nose, and tried to find that peace that you’d clung to all night long. A life for a life, one catch for another. No one was going to miss you anyways. And if you had to meet the reaper some way, then of all the ends the universe could have spun for you, at least this one had some meaning to it.

You sighed into the darkness, soft, but when your lips parted next around what should have been a mouthful of icy saltwater, all you could taste was air.

Your eyes shot open in the gloom to a mess of familiar golds and purples that you’d thought you’d never see again.

Your Siren pulled back, bubbles curling from the edge of his lips into a soft stream of warmth between the two of you. Nestling as deep as a full breath all the way in the tightest corners of your lungs. You could feel the dip of his claws as he settled his hands at your shoulders—keeping you in place. And immediately you shrieked and flailed in your bindings.

“You—!”

You promptly choked on another mouthful of sea water and your Siren wailed—all that molten fondness in those lovely amethyst eyes of his sharpening into familiar, pissy exasperation from one second to the next. He dragged your face back to his, slotting his mouth against yours and pushing more air into your lungs. You leaned into it before you could help yourself. Half for the whole oxygen thing, and half, because, well—

When he pulled away this time he smacked a hand over your mouth with a sneer, his thumb and index finger hooked upward to pinch at your nose. He jabbed a claw in your face with a clear ‘stay put’ and immediately went to work cutting through the bindings twined along your arms. The ropes fell away beneath his talons like butter to a hot blade, and he fretfully ran his palms up and down your limbs—looking for any stray bits of netting like a compulsion. Once he seemed certain that you’d been properly freed from your ties, he hauled you up against his chest in a grip that had you losing all the air in your lungs all over again. You could feel the cool jut of the sea glass around his neck pressing into your collar, and he buried his head down into your throat until you didn’t know where he ended and you began. The frills of his tail fluttered in the water, and the bulk of those twining strands curled up and around your legs like a barnacle.

He was warm. Warmer than you’d been expecting, for a creature who spent his life patrolling the darkest depths of the ocean. It wasn’t the same sort of heat that would beat off a human’s hide, but it was more comforting than any you’d ever known. You burrowed down against his shoulder, nose scrunching against the side of his neck and the fins at his ears brushing your temple. You could feel his claws flexing at your sides, feel the shift of his scales against your skin. And just as your lungs were starting to burn, he ducked forward to pull you into another kiss—filling your chest with wonderful, wonderful oxygen all over again.

You blinked blearily past the sting of salt in your eyes and he scrubbed a thumb against your cheek.

Now that those high, wonderful, heart bursting emotions were settling back into something manageable beneath your ribs, you took a moment to look at him. Really look at him. Because you’d sent him on his way, hadn’t you? Waved him off with well wishes and a hope for his happiness. And all that aside, how had he even managed to find you—

Bubbles streamed from your nose as that newest shared breath began to run dry, and your Siren hooked an arm around your waist to propel you upwards.

You crested the surface with a gasp, paddling instinctively against the churning wake. When all that did was leave you smack, smack, smacking at your Siren’s chest like a flailing toddler, he hissed—a spitting, pissy thing you could feel on the breeze—and hauled you back up against him. Just like he had all those times you’d swum together in your cove. You forced yourself to settle, bobbing gently against the tide as he kept you both aloft.

Once your body had managed to catch up with your brain to realize that it was, in fact, not drowning, all of the adrenaline rushed out of you like a broken spicket. You slumped against the Siren’s chest, fuzzy headed and dizzy. Because he’d saved you. Which made no sense in the least. But you’d almost died, and he’d saved you—

Your gaze drifted back up to the ship from which you’d only so recently taken your Cannonball of Doom and startled.

There was blood everywhere.

Staining the railings, splashed along the low flying flags, dripping along the deck. A macabre mess of gore and claw marks gutting the once grand vessel like a beached whale. Some of the crew still seemed to be hanging onto the life rafts, others were taking running leaps into the water like they were under compulsion—eyes glazed over and distant. There was a prickling all along your skin, something twisting familiar and strange in your gut, and oh. Oh.

One of the grander looking officers (the one who had been giving your pre-execution speech, perhaps? He looked similar enough) was shouting something from his place at the bow of one of the life rafts—arm extended in a grand show of valor and sword glinting into the light of the morning. And then a great, emerald siren was rearing over the side of that tiny vessel with a sharp grin on his face and sharper talons on display. The officer was dragged overboard, and the siren’s tail came down on the guardrails with a force that had the wood splintering and the already haphazard little boat rock, rock, rocking until it caught on a high wave and capsized.

You could see the flash of colorful scales and the tips of even brighter fins all around. Cresting above the water just long enough to grab hold of another wailing victim and drag them down to the depths. There was enough blood in the water that you could smell it. Acrid and copper against the ocean’s already sharp, salty musk. And sure, you were a pirate. You’d been in raids, you’d seen death. Plenty of it. But this. Well. It was unfamiliar. In a strange, detached sort of way. These assholes had chucked you overboard, after all. So you only really had a teensy, tiny pinch of sympathy for the fact that being eaten alive probably hurt like a sonofabitch.

It was more strange, you supposed, to be at the center of a sirens’ hunt and not be the one facing down the angry, bitey end.

You kicked in the water, nose scrunching when the red tide lapped against your chin.

“This isn’t going to attract sharks, is it?”

Because if you were saved from drowning at the hands of a royal militia only to wind up as a fish’s dinner, you would be terribly annoyed.

Your Siren rolled his eyes at you, like you were just the most ridiculous and stupid creature in all of creation. And then he made a languid swipe of his large, fully-healed tail and began to swim away from the literal bloodbath he and his pod had wrought. With you and all your silly, fragile humanness in tow.

It was far too relaxing, being pulled along against his side. The gentle rocking of his tail beneath you as he swam at the surface—always ensuring to keep your head above the water as he did so. You could feel your eyes starting to dip, feel a yawn cracking along your lips. Maybe it was just the adrenaline crash hitting, or maybe it was the relief that you hadn’t even wanted to address. He’d come back. For you.

The earless pirate who never seemed to do much but stumble into one conundrum after another. Who had only annoyed him at best and shorn his fins to shredded, useless bits at worst. Who had thrown shells at his head and only nicked him a little when you cut the ropes from his hide.

Who had made him human foods with fire and taught him your language in a messy scrawl of sand and snark. Who swam with him in the bay and twined a necklace of shining, purple sea glass around his neck. Who braided his hair, and laughed at his pouting, and—

There was a rough roll of surf that splashed in your face and you spluttered against the white froth.

The Siren paused and beat his tail against the deeper waters, propping you upright as you hacked and fretfully patting at your back. You could see his mouth moving as he mumbled something, brow pinched, and stared back at him with your own wobbly frown—confused.

“Why did you come back?” you asked, and the Siren’s brows jumped up into his hairline. He looked startled, genuinely. And that only had you even more befuddled. “And how did you even find me?”

This time when he huffed, there was a subtle sort of irritation there that you’d learn to recognize well.

He was pouting.

Something brushed against your fingers in the water, soft and fleeting. You glanced down just in time to catch a blur of lavender flitting nervously below the choppy waves, never dipping close enough again to touch, but looking hesitant to keep much further either.

The Siren followed your gaze only to narrow his eyes, pointed teeth bared as he swatted at the poor, round, little octopus with his tail. A clear shoo, shoo if you’d ever seen one. The octopus squeaked, sending bubbles spiraling in all directions, and frantically looped out of the way of the mer’s petulant tantrum. You whacked him right back, indignant on your teeny friend’s behalf. Because—!

“You followed me,” you burbled, and the little octopus spun in a fretful circle. If you didn’t know better, you’d say the poor, little dear was wringing its hands. Your Siren bared his teeth and smacked out again. “Hey! Don’t be an ass! He saved me,” you argued, and your bitch of a merman just snapped his fangs in your face like a feral cat.

You gawked.

“No way. You can’t be annoyed that you were beat out by a baby, purple octopus the size of an orange.”

He huffed and turned up his nose, and you burst out into laughter for the first time since you’d watched him swim out of your cove all those days ago.

You laughed and laughed until tears were beading at the corners of your eyes, and your Siren was grumbling in complaint and pinching your sides with his curved claws. There wasn’t real malevolence in that stern glare of his, though—just more of the prickly, teasing sort of snide side eye he’d given you in your latter weeks together. Fondness, you realized. That’s what was softening it all. The same sort of warmth you held for him.

Your favorite, pissy, preening, self-righteous goldfish.

You snorted into his shoulder, still shaking on giggles, and you could feel his sigh against your temple. You burrowed down against his side, feeling his fins brush along your hips as he kept the both of you afloat.

“Thanks,” you said, soft. “For coming back.”

You were expecting another melodramatic sigh, another plaintive roll of the eyes. Instead, his fingers came up to twine with yours and tugged your hand to rest against the pendant at his throat. You blinked, confused, and he just curled your palm around that little, sand-smoothed piece of glass.

You arched a brow. “What does that have to do with anything?”

This time he did roll his eyes at you, and when he spoke he mouthed the word dramatic and wide so he was sure that you could see it.

‘Moron.’

You whined in complaint and smacked his fingers away. “But I’m your moron.”

Another huff, soft against the nape of your neck. And you could see the barest twitch of a smile on his red lips as he turned back into the tide and continued his trek home.

.

.

.

[TAG LIST - CLOSED]

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[princessbrunette]

frat!gooner!rafe is weird and icky.

occasionally he’ll follow you into the bathroom at his place, crowding you from behind with his hands on your hips so you don’t shut the door in his face as he eases you into the room to do your business. you’re used to him, unbothered as ever as you innocently pull your panties down and pee in the toilet, the watchful boy stood before you with a wide stance in grey sweats and parted lips, staring at the little pudge of pubic meat that peeks from between your legs.

the sound of your tinkle fills the room as you swing your legs, looking up at him curiously. “cute… can hear how tight you are just from the sound…” he has no shame in the way he says it, looking down right at you as he stuffs his hands in his pockets. for something said in such a flirtatious way he sure was off putting at times. “you ever like… pee’d… pee’d on a dick while its fuckin’ you?” his voice is rasped, drawled, like he’s already horny at just the mere thought. you shake your head.

“only ever had sex with you, remember?” you blink dolly eyelashes up at him and he nods, fixing the backwards hat on his head.

“oh shit, yeah. aha…”

only later on he’s following you back into the bathroom to see what else you’ll get up to. it’s later in the evening, and you’ve headed to brush your teeth. when you’re minding your business, the tall fratboy looms over you and takes the toothbrush from your mouth, taking over for you.

he grasps your chin with his fingers, seemingly concentrated as he works the bristles over your teeth. it’s seemingly innocent at first and you even giggle, in which he responds with a distracted ‘hm’ with a smile. but rafe being rafe, he gets carried away fast— making sure to really scrub at your tongue until you’re grasping at his wrist with wide slightly panicked doe eyes and a furrowed brow, toothpaste frothing and drooling out your mouth at the corners as you gag on the plastic device.

“yeah… fuckin’ sexy even like that.” he mutters to himself, before he’s had enough of it and lets go, leaving you coughing and wiping your mouth, departing with a slap on your ass. “hurry up n’ come to bed already.”

he’s also the type to randomly start jerking off whilst the two of you are watching tv. it’s nothing special, you’re rewatching gossip girl and when rafe gets disinterested — he puts his hands down his basketball shorts, thumbing at his cock until it’s hard. he leans his head back, staring at the ceiling in a daze as he does so, and you only notice he’s doing it when he pulls it out, jerking it at its full stiffness.

“rafe!” you widen your eyes, startled. he licks his lips, completely unfazed by your reaction.

“what?” he has the audacity to sound mildly irritated by your surprise. “s’a very normal thing, alright?”

“you just caught me off guard.” you pout, head tilting in curiosity as you watch the way he works his fist over himself, unable to help yourself from mentally taking notes. he looks at you, chest rising and falling with slow deep breaths as he touches himself, and after a few seconds he speaks.

“well are you going to keep staring or do you wanna help me out here? this dick won’t suck itself, fucking unfortunately.”

you shuffle closer, huffing out your nose with a frown. “you know i’ll always help.” you argue at the insinuation and he presses his lips together in a smile, both arms now resting along the back of the couch as you lower yourself between his legs.

“thats why i like you sweetheart. me n’you are just the same, isn’t that right?”

[inkykeiji]

⋆₊˚⊹♡ 𝐡𝐚𝐳𝐛𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐞𝐧 + 𝐛𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐡 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮

characters: vox, val, alastor, lucifer warnings: implied smut in some; 18+ minors do not interact, daddy kink (+ papi for val), toxic relationships, pet/master dynamic (for alastor), reader is a bit of a brat with vox, implied drugging the night before (val), praise + pet names, fem!reader, reader is carried in val’s words: 2.7k

₊˚⊹ 𝐯𝐨𝐱 ⊹˚₊

You love mornings with your Daddy—truly, you do; love waking up next to him, slow and soft as his fingertips outline your features; love eating breakfast with him, feet kicking back and forth on one of the barstools as he prepares something simple for the two of you, know that he had to pull teeth to get the mornings off of work so he could spend them with you, getting you ready for the day and seeing you off—but there is one part, right at the very end, that you absolutely despise. 

Like everything with Vox, dental hygiene is a meticulous procedure, a rigorous routine with a set of immutable steps to be followed in the exact order Vox has laid them out in—carved into concrete, set in stone.

And, like everything else with Vox, no one knows how to perform them correctly except for him.

Still, it isn’t like you ever make it easy for him.

What else could he expect from his little troublemaker, really?

“Open up.” 

A thumb and a forefinger clamp down on the hinges of your jaw, palm wreathed around your chin, and squeeze, popping your mouth open with practiced efficiency.

“Daddy,” the word comes out as a stringy whine, slightly garbled, face crumpling in petulance. “Dun wanna.” 

Jerking a little in his grasp, you try to pull away from the advancing toothbrush slathered with translucent teal gel, and Vox clicks his tongue. 

“And I don’t care,” he says simply, fingers flexing in warning. “Good little girls need to brush their teeth—especially if they’ve eaten two bowls of sugary cereal for breakfast.” 

“But—”

Vox pulls back, face flattened into something serious. “Do you want cavities eating holes in your teeth?” 

“No—”

“Didn’t think so. Now hold still and let Daddy do this for you, yeah?” 

A groan vibrates on the back of your tongue, but your body goes pliant in his grasp, chin leaning into his pillowy palm.

“Atta girl,” he murmurs to himself, a small smug smile on his face.

Warmth blossoms in your chest, swells your lungs and stretches your ribs as you droop a little more beneath his praise and he chuckles, a fond little melody playing on his tongue, grip tightening infinitesimally. 

And he’s so precise with it all, maneuvers painstakingly perfect as he tilts your head one way, then the other, sure to scrub each tooth thoroughly, bristles scouring in little circular motions as he cleanses.

“Aaaah,” he hums, mimicking the action as he pries his mouth open wider, another praise falling from his lips as you instantly obey, allowing him to reach the molars at the very back of your mouth—brushing on top, on either side, behind, then on top again. 

“Tongue out.” 

Another whine sticks in your throat, brows pushing together and crinkling your forehead, open mouth downturned in a frown with a slight shake of your head, struggling against his hold.

“Come, now,” Vox chastises, but his voice is hard, fortified with a subtle threat. “You were doing so well for me—don’t start acting up, Daddy’s almost done.” 

His gaze holds yours steadily, a single eyebrow raising in question—are you really going to test me?—and you cave, again.

Reluctantly, your tongue unfurls from your mouth, face still scrunched in irritation as he scrapes the bristles across the muscle, working up a healthy lather, refusing to cease until that telltale disgruntled whine claws at your throat, evoking another one of those patronizing little chuckles.

“Alright, alright,” he’s pacifying as he tips a glass to your lips, a palm cupped protectively beneath your chin. “Rinse.” 

And, Christ, he loves how fucking obedient you are, even as the urge to misbehave bubbles behind your ribs, lips set in a deep pout as you follow his instructions, swishing a mouthful of water between your cheeks, waiting perfect and patient for his next order. 

“Spit.”

Oh, so compliant, so disciplined you are as you instantly spew blue liquid down the drain, a fierce sense of pride, of ownership, igniting deep within his soul, blazing bright and hot and strong, reflected in the amplified glowing of his eyes.

Your features are still scrunched up in a cute little pout, glaring at him through your lashes, arms crossed tightly over your chest.

“See? That wasn’t so bad, was it?” A thumb runs along your forehead, attempting to iron out the crease between your brows in a gentle caress.

“It was awful.” 

“Fucking brat.” 

And he just can’t help but laugh out the word, the sting the insult should bring instantly negated by the tender affection it’s smothered in, turned soft and melty on his tongue.

No, you never make such endeavours painless for him, but you do always make them interesting, and for that, he loves you, he loves you, he loves you.

₊˚⊹ 𝐯𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐨 ⊹˚₊

It’s late in the afternoon when Val decides it’s time to get up, deep crimson light spilling through the narrow gaps in his thick curtains and painting thin, long strokes across the shag carpet.

He doesn’t bother formally waking you as two of his hands scoop you from the nest of silk and cradle you to his body, chuckling out a coo as you automatically snuggle into his chest, legs latching around his waist. 

The haze of sleep still hangs heavy in your skull, a soft protest grumbled into his skin as he carries you somewhere, lids staying firmly glued shut, body beginning to melt into his again as the bliss of unconsciousness entices you with promises of whimsical dreams and relief from your aching muscles. 

Cold marble stings your bare thighs suddenly, forcing a small jolt through your form, a soft hiss exhaled from between your teeth.

“I know, I know, it’s cold,” Val pacifies, his voice a pleasant fog curling around your cheeks as he leans around you, tinkering with something.  

“Papi,” you whimper, reaching blindly for him, lethargic head falling forward, forehead pressed tightly to his sternum.

“Mmm, I’m here,” he murmurs distractedly, two of his hands still wrapped firmly around your hips as the other set busy themselves with uncapping a tube of toothpaste.

“Wanna go back to bed,” you slur out in a whine, nose nuzzling into his chest, fruitlessly looking for a place to rest your head, dense drowsiness curling the edges of your mind.

“But it’s time to get up, princesa,” he chides gently, a finger tracing the curve of your cheek. “You’ve been asleep for fourteen hours.” 

“M’still tired.” 

A hum of contemplation vibrates at the back of his tongue as a hand twines around your jaw, examining your face this way, then that, before tilting your chin up.

“Maybe I gave you a little too much last night,” he muses to himself through a dark snicker. “It’s kinda cute that you’re still this fucked up, though. Can’t even open your eyes for me, can you?” 

And you try, really, you do, attempting to heft your leaden lids, features screwing up cutely with the immense effort, and Val coos again, as if your intoxication is so pathetically precious—poor little girl can barely handle her Daddy’s drugs! How sweet.

“Well, that’s okay,” he purrs, first pair of hands slipping further beneath his dress shirt—a makeshift nightgown, his favourite nightgown on you—and tugging you closer to the counter’s edge. “You don’t have to worry your pretty little head about anything; Papi will do it for you.” 

A sound of indignation sticks in your throat as you finally pry your eyes open, squinting against the harsh light of the bathroom, bleary gaze fixed on the sparkly pink toothbrush in one of his hands, face rumpling into a pout. 

Your lips press into a tight, firm line, sealing your mouth against the rapidly advancing utensil as your eyes slip shut again, weighted with narcotic-laced exhaustion, head shaking in messy little motions.

“C’mon, be co-operative,” the points of his nails dig into your skin, hard enough to leave superficial indents—a warning. “Don’t upset Daddy this early in the day, baby.” 

Wrenching your eyes open again, your nose twitches with a sniffle, chin beginning to quiver.

“But—But—Do I have to?”

“Yes, you have to,” he says, but his voice trembles with the effort to stay calm, to stay pleasant. “Your mouth is very dirty from last night, and it needs to be cleaned.”

A thick torrent of tears rush to cloud your vision, sudden and stinging, a hiccup stuttering your chest. The hand curved around your jaw tightens, yanking your face toward his own, foreheads knocking together.

“Now, open, before I make you open.”

Your jaw falls slack, a slave to his orders, unable to disobey a direct demand from its owner, and Val purrs, something wicked unravelling on his face, smile stretched sharp and sleazy from edge to edge, the glow in his eyes flaring with your instant compliance.

“Good girl.”

₊˚⊹ 𝐚𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫 ⊹˚₊

Alastor, you’ve come to learn, has a plethora of odd regimes; stringently scheduled customs that are non-negotiable, that extend to you, including brushing your teeth. 

It’s become routine, now—habitual, as most things with Alastor are—and your days no longer feel right without it; weird, off, incomplete. 

Because it’s become something of a comfort; something so simple, yet so intimate, something calming and rewarding, something to look forward to—a moment shared between the two of you, twice a day, once at the beginning, and once at the end. 

“You don’t have to do this, you know,” you try tell him, the first time he insists on doing it, trying desperately to look over your shoulder as he ushers you into his ensuite.

“Nonsense!” he waves a hand in dismissal. “It isn’t a problem at all. Now, sit.” 

“Alastor—”

“Sit.” 

With a tiny frown, you perch gingerly on the edge of the bathtub, fingers curling around the rim.

“I’m serious,” you murmur, teeth nibbling superficially at the skin of your lip, wary eyes watching as he flits with practiced ease around the bathroom, a twinge of confusion settling in your chest, something akin to shame sitting thick and bitter on the back of your tongue. “I can do it myself…” 

“I know you can,” he replies simply, focused on depositing a strip of white toothpaste on your toothbrush. 

“Then…” you blink up at him, watching him advance with wide eyes, shoulders shrinking as he blankets you in his shadow. “Why are you doing it for me?” 

Irritation twitches at the edges of his grin, Alastor exhaling a controlled sigh.

“Because,” he begins, keeping his voice light, taking your chin between his index finger and thumb. “A good Master takes proper care of his pet.” 

His grip strengthens, tilting your face up further, his form looming over your own as you sit, vulnerable and exposed, beneath his touch. Crimson eyes glow as they scour your face, his back bent at an uncomfortable angle as he practically curls around you, the scent of earth and cedar tinged with copper wafting across your face with his calm, even breaths. 

“Besides,” he continues, voice dropped an octave lower, his nose nearly nudging yours. “I couldn’t possibly trust you to do it adequately.” 

A cruel little chuckle plays on his tongue, as if the mere thought itself is preposterous, the sound stinging as it seeps into your cheeks, hot and full of spikes. 

“Now, open.” 

Instantly, your mouth falls agape, and Alastor’s smile stretches infinitesimally wider, a sharp glint flaring in his eyes.

“A good owner maintains their pet’s hygiene,” he explains as he works, gaze fixed intently on his actions, cleansing with a meticulous sort of vigilance. “Bathes them, grooms them, dresses them—performs all of the basic necessities a pet needs to appear presentable.”

His hand shifts slightly, angling your head to the side, and you follow easily, malleable in his grasp, his smile shimmering. 

“And I pride myself on taking very good care the things that belong to me.”

And, really, he does. Because Alastor doesn’t just brush your teeth with rigorous care, conscientiously certain to cleanse every dip and gap; he flosses them, too, with gentle hands and painstaking precision, then ensures you’ve rinsed with germ-killing, enamel-strengthening mouthwash for exactly forty-five seconds, counting uniformly and observing with large, unblinking eyes as you adhere to his every instruction, cheeks bulging with burning liquid, eyes squinting from the intensity, but never daring to blink, to glance away, to stop at all. 

“Look at you,” he purrs after you’ve spit down the drain, gazing back up at him with a sort of desperate devotion—demented, devious, damned to his hell—syrupy condescension dripping from his teeth. “So well behaved for me, aren’t you?”  

A palm cups your jaw, his thumb running across your cheek in rhythmic strokes, the tip of his claw caressing your skin with just enough pressure to leave behind shallow scratches. 

“What, hoping Master will give you a treat for being so obedient?” 

“No, Sir,” you whimper out, voice gone dreamy as you nuzzle into his hand. “You taking such good care of me is more than enough.” 

Something sinister oozes into his face, something that contorts his smile and corrodes his eyes, leaving behind nothing but raw hunger, like he’s about to devour you whole, pops of static fizzing thickly in his voice. 

“That’s my good girl.” 

₊˚⊹ 𝐥𝐮𝐜𝐢𝐟𝐞𝐫 ⊹˚₊

Everything hurts, muscles stiff and aching and full of sand, your motions clumsy and cumbersome as you attempt to brush your teeth, joints creaking with every slight shift.

Fatigue blurs the edges of your eyes, your vision fading out of focus again, mind gone fuzzy as you try your best to concentrate on your movements—up, down, all around, repeat—features screwing up in a wince as you catch the harsh bristles on your gums, again. 

“You’re making a bit of a mess, sleepyhead,” Lucifer’s tender chuckle pulls you from your foggy stupor, a quiet hum vibrating in your throat as you look over at him in question, the gesture lethargic and delayed. 

“You’ve got some—Here,” he says softly, hands curling around your shoulders and turning you to face him, then tilting your chin up. “May I?”

Another affirmative sounds on the back of your tongue and Lucifer uses his thumb to carefully clean the foaming paste collecting at the corners of your mouth, then catching a slow dribble streaming down your chin with a deft knuckle. 

A frown mars his face, his forehead creasing beneath the strain, his other hand stroking your shoulder as worried eyes search your face, slow and careful.

“Is everything okay, sweetheart?” he asks. “You’re really struggling to brush your teeth.”

“Jus—really tired,” you mumble through the bubbles in your mouth, Lucifer skillfully catching another trickle of watery paste, concern tugging at the corners of his lips, frown deepening.

“Do you want me to do it for you?” 

Sleepy eyes blink up at him, slow and sluggish, your hazy mind taking a moment to process the question.

“Mhmm,” you finally nod, hand loosening the instant his fingers skim yours, allowing him to gently uncurl your grip from around the base of your toothbrush, his own effortlessly taking its place. 

“Alright, alright, Daddy will help you,” he’s pacifying in a murmur, but his gaze has turned melty, glow dimmed and pupils gaping, lids heavy with love. “Poor thing…Last night was a long night for you, huh?” 

“S’a lot,” you confirm in a messy mumble, lids drooping heavily with the weight of exhaustion.

“Yeah?” his thumb rubs loving little circles into your jaw as he works, gaze trained on his task. “Was Daddy a little too rough with you?” 

The question is uttered out tenderly, full of sympathy and care, his brow furrowing as his eyes flit back to yours, searching for veracity in your pupils.

“Maybe I should be a bit gentler next—”

“No!” you cough around the refusal, puffy lids snapping open suddenly, the unexpected vehemency causing Lucifer to flinch.

“No?” he laughs, and it’s warm with affection, his features, hard with worry, mollifying beneath fondness, amorous amusement twinkling daintily in his eyes. 

“No,” you whine out with a tiny pout, head shaking a little in his grasp. “Please.”

“Okay,” the pad of his thumb runs along your cheek, his stare trailing after it. “If nothing else, at least Daddy will always be there to take care of you the morning after.”

[rayhalloffame]

Getting butterflies in my belly thinking about bf!art who actually worships the ground you walk on. When it’s Halloween and you convince him to dress up as a dentist so you can be the tooth fairy he barely complains. And at the bar he can’t decide between standing in front of you to shield your chest or behind you to cover your ass from the perverts who can’t take their eyes off of you. He doesn’t stop himself from staring at you though, tells you you’re beautiful with his warm lips ghosting against the shell of your ear. He keeps rubbing his hands over the soft lacy dress you’re wearing and isn’t even really bothered by your fairy wings that snap against him when you’re shifting around in the crowd. He watches your mouth lewdly whenever you lean in and wrap your lips around his straw to sip from his drink, and then laughs seconds later at the cute scrunch of your nose when you dislike the taste.

Back at home he happily lets you kiss him silly while he guides you backwards to the bathroom. Your body is pressed so tightly against his that he can feel your pert nipples through his scrub shirt. He takes a second to slip the wings from your back, then lifts you so you’re seated on the counter. He’s rubbing your thighs and apologizing moments later when you shudder from the contact between your bare thighs and the cold counter top.

He very sweetly arranges your skincare in the correct order, then starts delicately removing the makeup from your face. He gets distracted and presses a few kisses to your lips and chuckles against your mouth when you ask if “the dentist needs to do an oral exam”. He finishes cleaning your face, wets your toothbrush and puts a dollop of toothpaste on it, steps forward to fit in the space between your thighs. His big hand comes up to cup your chin, then he prompts you to say “ah”, which you do. Art is very gentle brushing your teeth, focused on doing a good job and not hurting you. He holds your face firm by your chin to avoid any unexpected movements. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t purposely sweep the brush a little too far along the back of your tongue just to see you gag. His pants do get a little tighter.

He tells you to spit, and you lean over to do so into the sink. You give him your best doe eyes when you sit back up and wipe the corner of your mouth with your thumb. His hand is back on your face, squishing your cheeks and giving you a wet kiss on your lips.

You watch him when he brushes his teeth next, veins prominent in his forearm. It’s all too easy to get your hands into the elastic of his scrub pants and pull him flush against you. His erection is hot against the inside of your thigh. He ends up with his pants and briefs hugging his upper thighs minutes later, burying his thick cock deep inside you. He’s slow and intentional, complimenting you and holding your head in his hands while he kisses you. He tells you that you should be a vampire next year so you can mark him with your fake fangs. Art hisses when you sink your blunt teeth into the side of his neck, hard, and then he comes.

[pastorpresent]

tw: abuse, eating disorders, mentions of alcoholism

One of Wade's earliest memories was being four years old, sat at the half rotten kitchen table, sobbing hysterically over the food on his plate - all while his parents screamed at each other in the background.

"He needs to fucking learn, we're too poor for his fussy ass to waste food!"

His dad, getting in his mother's face, hands curled into fists as a warning, or a threat.

"I know, but he's not gonna fucking eat otherwise, and you heard that doctor. He's underweight as it is! I've got his chicken nuggets in the freezer-"

A smack, and the reverberating sound didn't even make Wade flinch anymore. He was kicking his tiny feet, trying to lift the fork to his mouth to end all of this, but it's like his body just... couldn't do it.

He was trying to be a good boy. He really was. He didn't want mommy getting hurt because he couldn't be good. It wasn't fair.

"Eat, Wade. Now," and that was definitely a threat, the words growled in his face, and Wade let out a sob as he quickly shoved the forkful past his quivering lips.

"You don't move from this fucking seat until this plate is empty. We clear?"

The grip on his arm hurt, but he knew if he tried to squirm away it would only tighten.

"Y-yes sir," he hiccuped, and his dad smirked, triumphant. As if he'd won, and his tiny self couldn't explain it but it made him feel like crying harder.

It took two hours, and tiny bites, but he finished the meal.

He didn't feel right the rest of the night. It was gone and done, but he felt utterly sick, like he needed the food and the taste out of him, and it didn't matter how many times he scrubbed his teeth with his spongebob toothbrush, up on his tippy-toes to reach the sink, the taste wouldn't fade.

He'd ended up spewing the meal back up a few hours later. He hated throwing up because of how shaky and weak it made him feel, and yet that night? He'd been practically giddy to have the food out of him.

It was the first time, but it wasn't the last. It may of been his earliest memory, but he had hundreds more exactly like it as a kid. Sat at that stupid table. The plate in front of him. Tears in his eyes.

Half the time, he'd just take the beating. At least he could settle after that, and not agonise for hours over the foods presence in his stomach until he was able to get it the fuck out.

He expected to grow out of it, as he hit his teens. He did start actually trying new foods, to usually poor results. His grandmother had scoffed, labeled him 'fussy', her eyes as disapproving as her sons. Wade had accepted the label, wore it with a twinge of embarrassment- because while he was good at not taking himself seriously, it still sucked ass not to be able to order off the adult menu in most restaurants and to turn down completely normal adult snacks because he couldn't stand certain textures or tastes.

He never grew out of it, in the end, but the list of foods he deemed as 'safe' did expand just a little.

It wasn't until he was older and they learnt about neurodivergence in health class that he ever heard a description accurate to his relationship with food. Avoidant restrictive food intake disorder. ARFID.

Wade had scribbled it down in his textbook, and ended up being late home from school that day because he was busy looking it up in the school library.

He could've cried with relief, honestly. A word. A diagnosis, even if he'd never get an official one. He wasn't some unique, one person freak show. It was a disorder. A disorder a lot of people suffered with.

He still struggled, but it was nice to have that layer of understanding.

His mutation made it worse. Changed the texture of his mouth, his tongue, and so things that had once been safe no longer were. He was practically starting from scratch, but he managed.

He got his ramen. His chicken nuggets. His boxed mac and cheese.

It was all fine and dandy and hey - on the plus side, the nutrionless crap he was eating couldn't kill him now! Unless heart disease could beat out regenerative healing, but when he considered how often Logan must've destroyed his liver by now - he figured he'd be fine.

Well, it was all fine until Logan moved in.

Him and Al never really 'cooked". They'd get take out, where Wade could get exactly as he wanted, or if not they didn't really eat together. Al would have whatever she was having, and Wade would knock himself up something of his own, and other than an occasional lighthearted comment about Wade having the dietary choices of a toddler, not much else was said. Al's comments didn't bother him anyway, because he knew they weren't insults. Didn't sting like his father's words.

He did their grocery shop too, so it all worked out fine.

When Logan moved in, he wanted to be helpful. He was struggling to find a job that would take him without a social security number or any form of identification that didn't technically belong to a man everyone knew to be dead. It meant he couldn't contribute to the rent and bills, and Wade knew he felt guilty about that even if he'd told him a million times over that it didn't matter.

He loved having Logan around. He'd pulled him from his own universe to be here. Giving him a roof over his head and sharing his bed while Al took the pullout really wasn't a big deal, and absolutely not something Logan had to repay him for.

He started taking on the domestic duties around the house as a way of payment anyway. The apartment had never been cleaner, that's for sure, and he took Mary Puppins on all of her walks.

It was fine. Everything was fine. Until Wade had came home from work one day and found that Logan had took it upon himself to go stock up on groceries, and cook dinner.

Wade hated how nervous seeing someone standing over a fucking stove made him. He knew a psychiatrist would probably give some dumb spiel about PTSD and unresolved trauma, but Wade just felt like a fucking idiot, freezing up in his own kitchen at the sight of Logan cooking and humming along to their old, shitty radio.

"Hey, how was work?" Logan glanced up from the steaks sizzling in the pan.

Wade needed to get it the fuck together. He couldn't let Logan realise how pathetic he truly was.

"Fine, dull," he replied with a shrug, hanging up his jacket and trying to quell the rising panic, but the smell alone was a lot and he could already feel his body tensing up, his fight or flight kicking in, and he wanted to scream and rip his own skin off because it was so fucking dumb.

"You alright, bub?" Logan asked, pulling Wade from his thoughts.

He nodded.

"Yeah I- need to shower," he excused, figuring it was a good enough reason to dip out and try to get a fucking grip.

"Alright," Logan said, eyebrow raised, "well dinners probably gonna be ready in twenty minutes or so."

Wade nodded, plastering on his best grin, "can't wait, peanut," he said, before quickly rushing out the room.

//

He felt like he was walking into the lions den, entering the kitchen. The shower and ten minute self pep talk did very little to fill him with confidence. Logan and Al were already sat at the table. Mary Puppins waited eagerly at their feet.

"There, the fuckers here. Can we eat now?" Al demanded, and Logan rolled his eyes but he was wearing one of those almost fond smiles, "go ahead."

Wade took his usual seat next to Logan, between him and Al, and picked up his knife and fork, staring down at the plate. Steak, mashed potatoes and green beans.

A normal fucking meal for an adult, and yet Wade felt his stomach tying itself into intricate knots just looking at it.

Al and Logan were chatting about the movie they'd watched last night, but their voices were muffled and distant. He scooped up a tiny bit of the potatoes, shoving it in before he could change his mind, forcing his throat to work and swallow it quickly. He could still taste it, could feel the texture imprinted onto his tastebuds.

He could do this. He could. Just get through one measly meal, and it would be fine. He already knew how strange he came across, and it was an honest to God miracle that Logan had stuck around - what if this was the final straw? Watching Wade waste the perfectly good meal he'd stood and cooked for him in favour of something beige and cooked in the microwave?

If he was going to lose Logan, it would have to be for a hell of a better reason than that.

He kept going, so focused on getting the food down that he missed the worried glances Logan was throwing his way.

He wasn't sure how much time had passed, but his thoughts were interrupted by the clattering of silverware.

"That was delicious. Who knew your dumbass could actually cook a meal?" Al commented, and when Wade looked up both of their plates were clear. He looked back to his own. At the single missing green bean, and pitiful dint in the mashed potatoes. The hardly distinguishable sliver of missing steak.

"I'm two hundred years old, picking up some hobbies here and there becomes a necessity to maintaining sanity," Logan shrugged, smiling, but it didn't feel like it was fully a joke and it only made Wade feel that much more guilty.

"Well, it's Wade's turn for dishes so I'm off to bingo. Don't wait up," Al left the table, barely side stepping Mary Puppins, and Wade could feel Logan's eyes on him now.

He didn't dare meet his gaze, forcing a bite of steak past his lips.

"What's up with you? You not into steak?"

There was no bite behind the words, and yet they made his breathing pick up all the same.

"I- I am, it's- good, honest. Thank you," he said, taking another bite, ignoring his body's protests, suppressing the shiver.

"Wade. Look at me," his head snapped to Logan. He was already in trouble. If he started being bad and not listening, it would hurt more, and he couldn't-

"Hey," Logan's voice was oddly soft when he spoke, but firm enough to get his attention. He reached over, pushed Wade's hands down gently, uncurled his fingers from their white knuckled grip around the cutlery.

Wade watched him do it, utterly confused.

"I'll eat it. I will, I'm trying," he hated the childlike panic that had taken over his brain. He felt like that four year old again, staring at his plate with a wobbling lip and damp eyes.

But he felt helpless to stop it.

"Do you not like it?" Logan asked.

Wade was biting his lip hard enough that he tasted blood, "it's... thank you. For making it for me."

"That's not an answer bub," Logan hummed, "do you like it or no?"

Wade chewed the torn skin of his bottom lip. Shook his head once. Tried to get his body to calm the fuck down.

Logan reached over. Wade flinched, cringing in on himself, eyes squeezed shut, bracing for an impact that never came. Instead he just used his thumb to release the lip Wade was using as a chew toy from between his teeth.

"Ok, that's alright. No worries, yeah? You want me to make you some of that ramen stuff you like instead?"

"I- I have food, you cooked me it, I shouldn't..." he trailed off when his throat felt tight.

"And you don't like it, which is completely fine. I'll clean up, you go sit on the couch and I'll bring you some ramen in soon."

"Logan-"

"Wasn't a request, bub. Go pick us a movie to watch," Logan stood, piling up all three plates, and Wade could've cried with relief honestly.

He got up and went to the couch, picking out Shaun of the Dead and sticking it in the pink Hello Kitty DVD player he'd scored years ago at the thrift store. He sat down, but his leg was bouncing like crazy and he couldn't get his eyes to focus.

Logan said it was fine, he reminded himself. He wasn't angry. But what if he was lying? What if he was just trying to lure him into a false sense of security? Make that first hit hurt even harder?

His dad had done that, in the past. Wade never understood why. Boredom, maybe? The same cycle of screaming at him, beating him bloody, rinse and repeat probably got old he supposed.

By the time Logan came over, bowl of noodles in hand, Wade was struggling through a fully fledged panic attack.

"I'm sorry, sorry, I'll- been bad, I'm sorry," he couldn't stop shaking, his breath punched out of him as he curled in on himself, burying his head in his knees which he pulled up tightly to his chest.

'You're a little pussy, no fucking son of mine. Stop hiding, boy!'

"Wade, Wade no. I'm not angry, you didn't do anything bad," he felt the couch dip next to him, and an arm wrapped around his back, pulling him against the solid warmth and familiar scent of Logan.

"I'm sorry," he didn't feel capable of saying anything else, and Logan shushed him softly, reaching out to grasp his hand, "it's fine, really. Look at me, sweetheart."

Wade reluctantly lifted his head, looking over at the older man who's face was filled with a genuine concern.

He hated that. Hated that he was so much of a fucking freak, making Logan worry about him because he couldn't get a damn grip on his own thoughts. He knew comforting people wasn't something that Logan necessarily enjoyed, and it was ridiculous and unfair for him to have to do it over something so small and dumb.

"I-"

"Shhh, just breathe. In and out. Slowly," Logan guided, emphasising his own, his thumb rubbing gentle circles around Wade's shoulder.

Wade copied. Eventually, he felt his body relaxing somewhat. He didn't realise he was leaning so heavily against him, eyes slipping closed, until one of Logan's arms wrapped around his waist.

His cheeks burned, but Logan wasn't pushing him off, and there was something soothing about his body heat and listening to the beat of his heart, even if it was muffled by the metal binded to his ribcage.

He wasn't sure how long he lay snuggled into Logan's side, but eventually he felt able to speak a bit more, his throat not so tight and brain not so crowded.

"My dad used to... get mad, if I didn't eat what I was given. Used to beat me for it," he said quietly.

Logan was silent for a long moment, and Wade almost pulled back just to see if he could read his expression. The hand on his waist tightened, fingers slipping beneath his shirt to run patterns over his hip bones.

"Dad's fucking suck. Hell, I killed mine. I wish I could kill yours, for doing that to you."

A sick, deeply twisted part of him wanted Logan to do it. Wanted to watch as his dad squirmed on the floor, covered in blood and bruises, all while he begged for mercy from an angry man who was so much bigger and stronger than him. Poetic justice really, but...

"He's already dead, sadly. Heart attack a few years ago."

"I'd say sorry for your loss, but I'm not," Logan commented, and Wade snorted against him, "yeah, me neither."

The silence returned. Wade hated silence, usually. Would say any dumb shit to fill it. Except it felt kind of... nice, right now. Comfortable. He didn't mind stewing in it for a few minutes.

"You know I'd never..." Logan trailed off, struggling with his words for a moment, which was odd. Wade had never heard him do that.

"I'd never hurt you like that. I know that sounds dumb, given the fact we fought each other a million times in the void, but I wouldn't..." he trailed off again, grunting in frustration.

Wade finally lifted up enough to look at him.

"I know. It's different when we fight, anyway. I'm immortal. You're immortal. I get my own hits in, and I fight dirty. It's a level playing field. With my dad... he started when I was four. I didn't have much of a chance," he shrugged, ignoring the flash of anger on Logan's face at the number, "I kind of like our fights. They keep me on my game, and I know I can't actually hurt you permanently. It's more like..."

"Play fighting?" Logan finished, his tone teasing but Wade knew he was serious, knew it was probably the only accurate word for what they did, "yeah," he grinned, and Logan chuckled.

Silence returned, their gazes locked. Logan's eyes went impossibly soft, "you alright now, bub?"

Wade nodded, leaning into the touch of his hip, bringing his own hand to rest on Logan's chest, "yeah, thank you."

"You want your ramen?" Logan asked softly, hurriedly adding, "if not that's okay, you don't have to. Just don't want you going hungry."

Wade nodded, and separated reluctantly from Logan to grab the bowl. He immediately felt a brief shock of that familiar panic and dread, but forced himself to remember that Logan wasn't mad, hadn't left him, he was right there.

He started eating, and Logan's arm returned to his waist, tugging him back in against his chest so he was situated between the older mans legs.

He looked up with a small smile, but Logan was pointedly watching the TV, even if the corners of his lips twitched upwards.

Eating the noodles was easy, and Wade didn't realise how hungry he'd been until it was gone.

"Can I ask you something? You don't gotta answer if you don't want to," Logan asked, taking the empty bowl from his hands and putting it on the coffee table.

"Sure," Wade shrugged, getting comfortable against him.

"It's... safe foods and stuff, right? You can only eat certain things? It's got a name, an annogram... starts with an A, I think?"

Wade sat up fully, brows furrowing as he looked over at Logan.

"ARFID. How do you know about that?" He asked, head tilting to the side. It's not something he had even knew where to start explaining to somebody like Logan. He worried he'd have the same outdated 'kids are just brats these days' kind of outlook on it that his dad did, but he scolded himself for that. Ever since they'd met, Logan had proved his stance on most topics was oddly forward thinking. Wade remembered one particularly impassioned rant about gay rights one night when some old trump clip had played on the news.

He just didn't expect Logan to know what it was at all, nevermind identify the behaviours as such.

"I never taught at the mansion, but I was around a lot. Charles said the kids liked me, for some reason, and I sort of became... not a counsellor, because I'm too fucked up for that, but just someone who the kids knew they could come to. Few of 'em struggled at meal times. Would come see me and I'd make chicken nuggets or whatever they felt able to eat. Sit with them while they did," Logan had that sort of glossy distant look in his eyes, the same one he always seemed to adopt whenever he'd reflect on his past.

Wade felt ready to melt into the damn couch cushions, his love for Logan increasing tenfold. There was a niggling sense of envy, too, just below the surface. He was glad the kids Logan cared for weren't abused for something out of their hands. That they were understood, even if only during their stay at the mansion.

But it didn't stop the jealousy from burning low and ugly inside of him. He never got that, never had an ounce of understanding from anyone. He was punished instead. Not starved, because he was always offered food technically, but in a way...

"I'm glad they had someone like you to support them. I'm sure that meant a lot," Wade said, no jokes, his face serious.

Logan looked away. That look grew more haunted, and he shook his head, "very little consolation considering most of them died because of me in the end."

"Lo, you didn't-"

"I know," Logan interrupted, his face completely unconvinced, "I know you disagree, that's fine. We don't... let's not talk about it again," he said, and Wade didn't want to drop it, wanted to argue until he lost his voice that what those people did wasn't Logan's fault - but it's an argument they'd had a million times over, and he never made any headway.

It always ended with Logan storming out to a bar to get pissed, likely in some dumb effort to prove how 'terrible' he was, and then they wouldn't speak for a few days until they both missed the other's company enough to put the debate and their pride aside.

So as much as Wade wanted to argue his point, he let it be done for now.

"Do need you to do me a favour though, bub."

"Hm?" Wade hummed.

"A list - all your safe foods. Bit pointless me shopping and cooking if I don't know what you can eat," Logan said, and Wade's throat went completely dry.

He'd wrote a list once. Only once. When he was nine, when he'd convinced himself his parents didn't hate him - they just didn't understand, and he could help. He wrote a list in his wobbly handwriting, the foods he liked - the foods he wouldn't need to expel from his body. He'd drew pictures next to each one. He'd gave it to his dad with a smile.

The smile had been slapped off his face. The list had been hung on the fridge, the only piece of his artwork to ever feature there, as a warning to his mother about what not to buy on their grocery trip.

And now here Logan was. Asking for one, so he could make sure he could stock those things, cook them for him.

He all but threw himself against Logan, who merely grunted at the impact, wrapping him easily in a hug while Wade practically squeezed the life out of him.

"Thank you," he mumbled against his neck.

"Don't mention it."

[cod-dump]

Teen!Alejandro: Dad... can I borrow some money?

Mr. Vargas, reading the newspaper: didn't your tía already give you your paycheck?

Teen!Alejandro: I... Okay, I want to get Rudy a really nice gift. Something expensive and nice because he deserves it and he deserves something nice for his birthday

Mr. Vargas:

Mr. Vargas, pulling out his wallet: Here's my card

Teen!Alejandro: That easy?

Mr. Vargas: I fully expect you to marry him so yes, I will help you spoil him. But if a cent doesn't go towards whatever you have planned you'll be scrubbing the shop's floor with a toothbrush

Teen!Alejandro: ... gracias, papá

[youvebeenlivingfictional]

Okay, so I’m weirdly into the idea of being someone’s estranged wife???

Imagine being Patrick’s estranged wife?? Like maybe he married you bc he couldn’t have Tashi and then just…never signed the divorce papers? And now he’s knocking on your door bc there’s a challenger he’s gonna play in buttttt his bank account’s a little low so could he pretty please crash with you? He’ll sleep on his couch and be on his best behavior, he swears

Queue him crawling into bed with you at 2 am bc it’s cold in the living room and you’re soft and pretty and whoops, he’s hard

Ooo love this

Warnings: Fingering, Patrick Being Patrick, bitter and estranged ex-wife Reader

"You have any chicken nuggets?"

"What are you, five?"

"Adults can enjoy chicken nuggets."

They certainly could, but you didn't grace that reply with a response, just watched with tepid interest as he rifled through the contents of your fridge.

A single phrase kept resounding in your mind:

I should've left him on the doorstep.

And maybe you should have. It wouldn't be the first time that you'd given Patrick the cold shoulder, and it wouldn't be the first time that he just parked in your driveway and slept in his car. But you just couldn't stand the sight of him out in the cold, pouting and gnawing on his lower lip in the fish-eye lens of your peephole.

"Why don't we order a pizza?" He tacked on.

We. It was always 'we' with him, but never in the action, or the cost—that was a 'you' action, not a 'we' more often than not.

"Who's paying for it?" You asked. Patrick turned to you with a dopey, guilty little smile affixed to his lips as he cocked his hip.

"Well until I sign the papers, the two shall be as one, right?"

"Yeah—Why haven't you signed, by the way?"

"Your guy's never been able to serve 'em." He turned back to the fridge, ducking his head as he looked around. "You got any beer?"

You rolled your eyes. "Third shelf, at the back."

"Bingo. Want one?"

"Not right now. But thanks for offering me something that I bought and paid for. Really appreciate it."

Patrick huffed a soft laugh as he turned toward you again, opening the beer against the edge of the counter.

"Mine mine mine," He teased. "What is it with you and what's yours, huh?"

"Just stating facts, Zweig."

"So self-righteous, Mrs. Zweig." He used your married name with a vinegary smile before taking a deep swig from his bottle, pointedly ignoring the way that you bristled. "So. Pizza?"

--

Just the couch.

Patrick had pleaded it between bites of pizza, scrubbing the back of his hand across his mouth to clear the crumbs and oil left behind. He'd framed it as a reasonable enough request, like it was the easiest thing in the world to let your estranged husband back into your home.

You won't even know I'm there.

As if you hadn't been fighting to find a harmony within yourself for the last year, trying to serve him papers for the last six months, to get your divorce to take, to rid yourself of his last name.

Watching him sort through the garbage bags of clothing that you'd packed up for him to come and take between tours had been a little pitiful, but he'd unearthed what he'd needed to sleep in.

"Still have a toothbrush for me?" He asked.

"No."

"Face wash?"

"Don't you just use soap?"

"Yeah, but you put me on that, uh—That regimen, that routine."

"You never followed it."

"So you threw the stuff out?"

"I wasn't using it, so. Yeah."

"Huh." Patrick straightened, PJs in hand. You couldn't help but watch him strip off as he passed you, eyeing the ripple of his back muscles as he tossed his shirt in the direction of his bag.

"I'm showering," He called over his shoulder, "If you'd like to join me."

"I'd rather chew glass, but thanks."

--

He was sleeping. He had to be, right? It didn't matter if he was or wasn't. It didn't matter that Patrick Zweig was asleep on your couch, just a floor away. It didn't matter that you were worked up, at the midpoint between pissed off and turned on.

How did he always manage to do that to you?

You should've been able to clock early on that it was trouble. None of your friends or family thought it would work out, and you'd been chagrined when they'd been right. For as much as you had once loved him, for as certain as you and Patrick had been sure you would fit, that you would fix whatever needed fixing, no matter what fate had in store for you, you just...Couldn't.

It didn't help that he had been chasing glory on the court, or that you had spent your relationship trying to fill the shoes of a woman that you could never be. It didn't help that the two of you were just fundamentally different, in ways that you either of you were unwilling to compromise. When he'd left, it hadn't been a surprise, but it had been so goddamn hard to serve him papers. But you'd had such trouble trying to pin him down during your relationship, why should the way you broke be any different?

But when you'd been in bed together—Hell, you'd been even more certain that it could work. You and Patrick just fit. Things had been so right with so little conversation or hesitation. Your needs had fueled one another's, and you'd been able to lose yourself in him. It should have been enough.

But it wasn't then, and it wasn't now.

He was asleep. He had a match the next morning, and he needed his rest. You could do the same—You should do the same. You needed to be staring at the ceiling right now like you need a goddamn hole in the head. You drew in a deep breath, closing your eyes and doing your best to focus on your breathing. In for five... Hold...Out...For...Five...In for...One...Two...Three...Four...

Your eyes opened, your breath catching as you heard the door open. You held completely still as you heard the door close again, chased by the soft pad of feet along your floor before the mattress dipped beside you. The covers shifted, lifting and falling as he laid down.

"Are you asleep?" He murmured. It was another moment before his palm skimmed across your belly, his rough cheek nuzzling against the curve of your shoulder. Your breath left you in a soft sigh, your muscles untensing bit by bit.

"I know you haven't been here in a while," You muttered, "But this is not the couch."

He huffed a soft laugh. "I know," He snuggled closer, and it was just a moment before you felt the press of his cock against your hip. You drew in a shaky breath, hands lowering to his arm.

"Patrick," You mumbled. "You should be asleep."

"I can't sleep." His teeth scraped along your jaw as his fingers snaked under the hem of your nightshirt.

"Indigestion?" You squeaked. "Shouldn't've had that third slice of pizza. I told you not to."

Your eyes squeezed shut as he rolled his hips against you.

"This feel like pizza to you?"

"Well—"

"Baby," He pleaded. "You gonna tell me you didn't miss me?"

It took you a moment, and you couldn't help your slight squirming.

"Not even a little."

He laughed again, and you knew that you hadn't been able to sneak a thing by him.

"You don't have to lie. I saw you watching me." He tipped his chin up, sucking a tender kiss to your neck. And you had, but—

"I wasn't."

Patrick tutted disapprovingly. You shuddered, arching up into his touch as his thumb skimmed across your hardening nipple.

"You're a shitty liar, you know that?"

"You're an asshole," You hissed as Patrick lifted his head.

"You like it."

You couldn't get a word out to argue as Patrick's tongue swept between your lips. You whimpered in spite of yourself, sinking back against your pillows and raising your hand to fist in his hair. He was over you in a moment, body shoving your thighs wide as his hands rucked up the bottom of your sleep shirt. You drew in a sharp breath as his head dipped to catch one of your nipples between his lips. You tightened your grip on his, shivering as he teased it with his tongue.

Patrick's hips ground against yours, rolling against where you're growing slick in your sleep shorts.

"How long's it been?" He murmured, "Huh? Since me?"

And it was too embarrassing to say—too embarrassing to admit that you hadn't slept with anyone since Patrick left.

"Shut up," You hissed, "Just—Please, shut up."

His hand snuck beneath the hem of your shorts, swiping gently across your tender clit, and he grinned as your hips hitched up into his deft touch.

"S'okay," He cooed as he eased a couple of fingers into your tight, aching cunt. "I missed you, too."

--

"You gonna come watch me play?"

As with the rest of the last day or so, your answer should be no. You didn't turn to look at Patrick as you rummaged through your dresser for something to wear.

"I've seen you play, Patrick."

"Not lately." He tried again: "It's a challenger."

You hummed, giving a noncommittal shrug as you pulled out a pair of sweatpants and a shirt.

"...Well can I stay here tonight?"

"If you win, sure."

"How will you know I win if you don't come see me?"

You rolled your eyes, hip-checking your drawer shut before pulling up your pants and tugging in your top.

"Fine. Just tonight. You'll have to find somewhere tomorrow night."

"I'll have the prize money by then, I'll crash at a motel."

"Oh, a motel. Hey big spender," You drawled, heading for your door.

"Hey."

"What?"

"You have the papers here?"

It stopped you dead in your tracks, your stomach churning with unease as you looked at him again.

"...What?"

"The divorce papers," He clarified. "I can sign 'em while I'm here."

It would be so easy. It would be so easy to go down to your office and draw the file out of your desk drawer, to plop it down in front of Patrick with your favorite black ballpoint pen, to flip between arrow tabs and instruct, "Sign here, here, here, here, here, and here."

But you found yourself shaking your head.

"I don't have a copy," You fibbed. It took Patrick a moment before he nodded a little.

"Can you get them?"

Hell, were you that out of practice? One night back in bed with you and he was ready to call it? But you were certain that wasn't it—That Patrick was, for once in his goddamn life, trying to make it easy on you after so much hell.

"...Maybe, I don't know," You shrugged. "It's the weekend."

"Okay."

"Coffee?"

"Yeah—Hey."

"What?"

You watched as Patrick pulled the covers away, unashamed of his nakedness as he strode toward you. He grasped your chin, tipping your head for a soft kiss. It took everything in you not to melt into him as he skimmed his hand over your hip, drawing back just enough to give you a sleepy, hazy smile.

"Good morning."

You couldn't help your own, indignant smile.

"Sure, Patrick." You turned away, determined to push on with your day, your life like he wasn't there—like he wouldn't be hanging over you as you made breakfast, or dominating the court as he played, or in your bed again in just a few hours. "Good morning."

[daistea]

Could you do a suggestive mithrun x tallman reader fic where the reader somehow managed to become friends with mithrun and they ask if they can touch his ears out of curiosity (I just like the idea of elf ears being sensitive)

Ya! This one was fun 💕 thanks for the prompt!

1800 words

Mithrun x Tall-man Reader

no tws except for smoochin and a suggestive tone

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

You had a measure of decorum. Not much, though. A teaspoon, maybe. A teaspoon of decorum. Yet, that still existing decorum nearly stopped you from doing what you currently wanted the most:

To touch an elf’s ear.

Pattadol said no. Fleki laughed at you and said ‘keep dreaming’ as if you’d just hit on her. Lycion became a bit flirty in a way that threatened you. Cithis also said no. Otta… also said no, out of loyalty to her current partner. Otta’s response made you wonder what the implications of ear touching were to elves. Was it intimate? Was it embarrassing for them? Was it considered rude if you didn’t know the person well, like how using a half-foot’s first name was considered rude for strangers? That teaspoon of decorum caused you to hesitate.

Mithrun, though, wouldn’t care. Mithrun hardly cared about anything. And you were friends, sort of. He didn’t outright call you his friend, but that was fine, you could live with that. He put up with you. That was fine. Fine.

You knocked on the door of the little apartment above the noodle shop. Mithrun’s monotone, though muffled, voice told you to come inside. You found Mithrun on the floor, on his knees and hunched over the baseboards. He wielded a toothbrush like a dagger as he scrubbed at the nonexistent dust, and only spared you a glance, but said no greeting.

It wasn’t the first time you’d seen Mithrun clean like that. It was yet another habit Milsiril had instilled in him during rehabilitation, though you had a theory that Milsiril only taught him to clean so ardently because she thought it would come in handy for hiding murder evidence.

Mithrun’s home was simple. It was near empty aside from the most basic furniture. Yourself, Kabru, and several of the Canaries had given him little decorations. The pillows on the couch with the badly embroidered cows on them were from Otta. The simple, thick white curtains were from Pattadol. The painting of Mithrun’s assist dog dressed in royal garb was from Lycion. And most of the utensils in the kitchen were from you, given to him after you saw him attempt to eat spaghetti with a spoon— he knew better, but couldn’t be bothered to buy proper utensils.

As you took a moment to watch Mithrun scrub, your mind began to wander. Was this truly worth it? You’d only recently read about how soft elf ears were, yet you hadn’t been able to get the thought out of your mind. And they were so cute, too, with how they drooped and perked up. You’d even seen Mithrun’s ears droop when he pulled his hair back. It wasn’t as pronounced as other elves’ but no less endearing.

“What do you need?” Mithrun’s voice yanked you from your mind. It was as if he’d grabbed your shirt and pulled you forward, making you stumble for words.

It would be easiest to just blurt it out. He wouldn’t be offended. He might give you the look, but it wouldn’t bother him, surely. Yet, it was as if you’d hit a mental wall. What seemed like such a simple request ended up stuck in your throat, refusing to climb.

Mithrun sat back on his haunches and raised his head to look at you. He rested his forearms on his knees, toothbrush dangling from his fingers. His hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and there were his ears.

You knew that look. He was expecting something. And he would stare in silence until you blurted it out.

“I want something,” you finally said.

“I already asked what you wanted,” Mithrun reminded, monotone.

“Technically, you asked what I needed, and this isn’t really a need. I mean, it feels like a need, but it’s really not. I can live without it. However, I would like it. It would please me.”

Mithrun didn’t miss a beat, “And you know how much I wish to please you.”

“Okay, smartass, tone it down,” you put up a hand, shooting him a glare, “I’m really nervous, so don’t make this harder for me.”

“I wasn’t kidding.”

“No, you were being sarcastic.”

“I wasn’t being sarcastic.”

“You’re just trying to make me squirm,” you accused, “you’ve become a sadist after regaining your desires, huh? You like watching me struggle?”

Mithrun only slightly raised a brow, “A bit. But use your ears, I wasn’t being sardonic.”

Your heart skipped a beat and you couldn’t help but pause. “...I’m going to think about the implications of that statement at a later date. For now, on the subject of ears, I have a request.”

He finally stood, brushing past you to deposit the cleaning brush into the sink and washing his hands in a water basin. After drying them, he went to pull the rubber band from his hair, but you made a panicked squeak at the sight, which gave him pause.

“Don’t,” you pleaded as he looked at you blankly, “keep your hair up.”

If Mithrun was confused by the request, he gave no hint. He kept his hair up, though, as he strode through the little apartment and sat on the couch, gesturing for you to join him. You’d done this a hundred times before, sitting next to him in comfortable silence as you both focused on your own things— Cithis called it ‘parallel play’ as if you were kids on a playdate. You’d spent hours on this couch, resting an arm over the back of it as you curled your feet up and talked. Mithrun would usually cross his arms and fold one leg over the other, staring at the wall as if he were ignoring you. He wasn’t, he never did— sometimes he did, but you forgave him.

You took a deep breath as you plopped down beside him gracelessly, your nerves taking over your joints and rendering you a clumsy mess. You weren’t sure why you were so nervous, though, it wasn’t as if this was a big request. It would only last a few seconds, and you’d have your curiosity sated. If Mithrun didn’t want you to touch his ears, he would simply tell you, and you’d both move on with your lives.

Yet, Otta’s earlier answer rang in your mind. She wouldn’t let you touch her ears ‘out of loyalty.’ What did that mean?

It was yet another statement that you’d have to consider at a later time. For the moment, you tried your best to get comfortable as the request rose in your chest. It was undeniable.

The words broke through the dam and flooded your mouth. “I would like to touch your ears, please.”

You watched as Mithrun stiffened. His good eye widened for half a second before he schooled his expression. He didn’t look at you, gaze glued to the wall, but the slight raise of his brows betrayed his surprise. Surprise. Why was he surprised? Was ear touching offensive in elven culture? Mithrun didn’t even acknowledge elven culture most of the time.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he looked at you. Your heart clenched and it felt as if someone had punched both your lungs, but you managed a smile. You knew you looked stupid, shoulders slumped and eyes wide and smile shaken. But he didn’t look at you like you were stupid, he looked at you like you’d just spoken gibberish.

“You want to feel my ears?” He asked.

You nodded, “Yeah, I like soft things, and they look pretty soft. I asked the other Canaries first and they all said no.”

Mithrun cracked a little smile. It was barely there, but you could feel the amusement coming off him in waves. “Of course they would all say no. They know better.”

You weren’t sure what that meant, but he’d yet to give you a straight answer. “Whatever. Can I please just feel them, at least a little? Then I’ll never ask you for anything again.” (That was a lie and you both knew it.)

Nonetheless, Mithrun’s gaze flickered around the room. It didn’t look like he was scanning anything in particular, but rather letting the thought absorb. Once he returned to you, he slowly nodded, “I doubt I have any nerve endings left, so it’s fine.”

Nerve endings? It didn’t matter, you were so close to your goal. Some called you single minded, you preferred the description of ‘determined.’

Slowly, you raised a hand. The moment felt monumental. The air was thick with anticipation that set you on edge, raising the little hairs on your arms. You let out an exhale as if to prepare yourself, then gently brushed your fingers on the soft skin of his cut ears.

You traced the jagged tip. Then the lobe. Then the back. Mithrun leaned into your touch and his eyes threatened to flutter shut, but he managed to send you a look, “Don’t look so excited.”

“Yes, sir,” you answered immediately as you tried to school your expression.

He let his guard down, his eyes shutting as he exhaled slowly. There was a hint of gravel in that exhale that sparked a fire in your lower abdomen.

You should probably stop.

“There are definitely nerve endings left,” he murmured.

You gently took his other ear and began rubbing the tip.

Mithrun lowered his head a little, brows furrowing and lips forming a frustrated frown. He leaned in. Only when you looked down did you notice how tightly he gripped his pants. His knuckles were turning white. The sight just made you want to press a little harder…

Wait.

If you’re getting hot, and if Mithrun is breathing that heavily, then—

Otta’s words made sense. Lycion’s flirting made sense. Elf ears are erogenous zones.

You’d asked every Canary if you could basically touch their privates.

More horrifyingly, you’d asked Mithrun if you could touch his—

It felt as if your face was on fire. You tensed, slowly pulling back, but Mithrun’s hands went to your cheeks before you could react. And his lips were on yours. Eager. Hungry. That spark in your abdomen flared and spread and suddenly you were a bonfire. He held your face a bit roughly, and the kiss was desperate. You should probably kiss back, you thought.

You let yourself melt into the feeling, but kept your fingers on his ears, gently massaging the soft skin. He let out a gasp between kisses before diving back in. His chest pressed against yours and you took the hint to lean back on the couch so he could slip between your legs and consume you entirely.

The mortification concerning the fact that you’d unknowingly sexually harassed all your friends was temporarily set aside. At the moment, all you knew was Mithrun, and this new power over him that your curiosity had bestowed upon you.

You will, most likely, use it for evil.

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

[emmyrosee]

Every morning was a pleasant routine.

Rintaro would get up, press a sweet, light kiss to your head before heading out for a run- then, he’d come back just in time for you and Kaiya to be up and making breakfast for him while he showers.

Then, he’d change, have a small bite for breakfast, watch one episode of whatever show was on with his baby while he brushed her hair, then kiss her goodbye and allow you to drown him in your own share of goodbye kisses before he heads off to work.

But today, he just. Skipped it. Instead of getting up for a run, he whines and buries himself in the pillows for a bit more sleep. Instead of showering, he throws on clean enough clothes and deodorant while you’re struggling to prepare a semi-sufficient breakfast for your husband as he scrambles to get all his practice gear ready. He packs Akito's lunch and sends him off to school with a ruffle of his hair, while a toothbrush is jammed down his throat.

Kaiya watches, confused, as you smear apple jam over a piece of toast and pour him a cup of coffee, knowing he’d have to take it in the car in any chance to make it in on time. The child merely makes her way into the living room to wait for her father to come watch Bluey as he did every morning.

“Got your phone? Water? Protein bar? Lunch- Rin do not forget your lunch again- change of socks?” All of your asking gets a hurried, quickly glanced “yes” or “got it” from Rin. He stuffs the toast into his mouth and plants a half-successful kiss to your cheek in order to head out. “Love you girls!”

“Love you too!” You call back, watching him make his way out of the house, struggling slightly with the disorganized bag.

“Mommy?” Kaiya whimpers, her cheeks stained with strawberry juice. “Where daddy going?”

You crouch down to your little girls height, wondering if she just forgot that he left everyday, or whatever the case may be, “well… he’s going to work, baby, he’ll be back soon!”

“Daddy’s gone?”

“Yeah baby… we can get lunch with him later if you would like to-“

“No!” She cries, her wide, green eyes filling with tears. Your heart sinks, you really don’t know what the problem is, and that sadness only grows when Kaiya, in all her four year old energy can muster, runs to the large living room window that looks out to the driveway, her tiny fists banging on the glass. “Daddyyyyy!” She wails, her cries becoming more frantic.

“Kaiya, it’s okay! Daddy will be home later-“

“Daddyyyyyy!”

Instinctively, you bring your hands up to try and cover up your ears from the scream of your baby, shocked at the volume and distress of her shrieks.

Suddenly, she runs from the window to the front door, and your heart absolutely jumps in your throat, fearing she’s going to try and book it about the front door to follow her dad.

When you make a move to chase her, you let out a relieved breath to see her clutched in the arms of her Rintaro, her tiny face buried in his neck and his, in her hair. Little sniffles and whimpers slip from her tiny face, interwoven with small little “I’m sorry, princess,” falling from Rin’s lips.

“She had a meltdown when you left, Rin,” you explain, leaning against the wall in exhaustion from the already hectic morning. Your hands scrub your face to relieve the fatigue, but you freeze and almost smack yourself when Kaiya finally peeps up.

“I-it’s ‘cause you didn’t say goodbye t'me,” she whimpers, and Rintaro squeezes her impossibly closer, his eyes screwing shut to fight his own shame. Neither of you even processed that, it was so crazy that a simple ‘love you!’ was sufficient enough to quell your need for his affection, but both of you clearly forgot about your daughter’s needs.

“I know, Angel, I’m so sorry,” he says softly, placing a sweet kiss on her temple. “Daddy was too busy this morning huh? Needs to make sure he takes care of his favorite girls?” His eyes flick to you before he opens one of his arms for you to come into for a hug.

His embrace is tempting, but you sigh softly, “Rin, you’ll be late-“

“‘M already late,” he chuckles, shaking his head. “But I’m almost halfway tempted to call in sick and spend the day here, so I’d get in this hug if I were you.”

In truth, you’d be lying if you said you weren’t about to take him up on that offer, spend the day with the two loves of your life with a nice hot breakfast, maybe a couple of Disney movies and a walk in the park, but it wouldn’t be right; not when Rin already works so hard to be able to provide you with that life while he’s busy playing or even out of the country.

Regardless, you slip to your knees and crawl into Rin’s other side, your hand wrapping around his broad shoulders so your fingers can tangle in his soft hair, which he happily leans into.

He plants a kiss to your head before nuzzling his nose against Kaiya’s own dark hair, “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, baby. I’ll be better next time."

“You better,” she whimpers. You and Rin look at each other and chuckle, none of you daring to leave the hug.

If anything, you squeeze tighter, not ready to let the world interrupt yet.

—-

tagging u 🥺👉���👈🏻 @reverie-starlight @tsukiran @wolffmaiden @thoreeo @aliensknowmyillusions @tutuwusworld @lavishcherie @sassycheesecake @cheolattes @rrairey 🩷

[roosterforme]

The Younger Kind Part 55 | Rooster x Reader

Summary: Bradley can't get enough of the adrenaline rush that is accompanying his special mission, but he has reached the point where the excitement doesn't outweigh his desire to return home. Every day feels the same for you, until one of them starts to feel much worse.

Warnings: mentions of blood, pregnancy topics, potential pregnancy complications, swearing, angst, fluff, and age gap (18+)

Length: 4300 words

Pairing: Single dad!Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x babysitter!female reader

Check out my masterlist for more! The Younger Kind masterlist.

Every day was the same now. Every morning started out with a hopeful feeling in your chest. Your engagement ring was still noticeable on your finger, although you figured that would fade with time as it became a permanent fixture. At first, you woke up to the delicious feeling of being pregnant and engaged to Bradley, but when you rolled over to reach for him, the rest of the bed was cold. The covers were untouched. His pillow was still in the exact same place you left it when you made the bed yesterday.

Tears stung at your eyes. You knew exactly how many days he had been gone, because the updated number was practically all you could think about. The days had become a week. Then two. And now that hopeful feeling was starting to vanish only to be replaced by dread almost immediately after you cracked your eyes open.

You whispered, "I miss you," and climbed out of bed without even looking at the vacant side now. You started to dress in your scrubs without a smile on your face, and then you went into the bathroom which was completely silent. You thought that if you just had an inkling, the barest idea of when Bradley might be returning, you'd feel much better, but you had no clue.

You and Noah had only had one brief conversation with him over the phone. The connection had been pretty bad, and you knew someone was sitting right there with him monitoring every single word. He'd told you that much before his personal phone had been taken away from him the day he arrived. You had to pause as you put toothpaste on your toothbrush, because the tears were going to start if you didn't get yourself under control. 

Bradley had hung up a few post-it notes around the house for you and Noah to find. Most of them were reminders of how much he loved you, but the one on the bathroom mirror took your breath away every time you saw it. It said April 25th with a heart around it. And above that'd, he'd drawn a crown. The fact that you had no idea how much of your pregnancy he was going to miss threw you off every single time. You ran your fingers over the note, but you didn't move it.

"Mommy?" Noah called out, and you heard him jump down from his bed. It was so obvious how much he missed his dad; he was extra clingy with you right now, even shedding a few tears now when you tried to drop him off before you went to work each day.

"I'm in the bathroom," you called out as best you could with your toothbrush still in your mouth. You opened the door so he could come in with you, and he immediately wrapped his arms around your thigh.

"Is it daycare today?"

You spit out the toothpaste and rinsed your mouth. "Yes, Sweet Noah. You have daycare today."

"I want to go to the park with you and Daddy."

That sounded so perfect, you wanted to scream. "As soon as Daddy comes home, we can all spend a whole day at the park. But not today." You didn't even want to tell him that you had to work an extra hour and a half and as a result would be picking him up later than usual. You agreed to cover some extra shifts all week long even though you were tired enough that you'd been passing out in bed right after Noah went to sleep each night. 

When he sniffed and looked up at you with watery eyes, you could barely handle it. Bradley had been gone for less than three weeks, but you were already getting a little desperate. You knew you would feel like a failure if you reached out for help at this point, even though Natasha and Penny had both been texting with you to check in. Bradley even had Tracy emailing you in case you needed anything, and you couldn't decide whether you had to make more friends to get him off your back or simply be appreciative that he cared enough to set things up.

"I know," you whispered to Noah, running your fingers through his soft curls. "But we can make ants on logs later. And we can take Skittles for a nice walk." When you said her name, the pup appeared in the bathroom doorway, her brown eyes also a little sad without her favorite person at home.

"I'm hungry," Noah murmured against your scrub pants. You bent to scoop him up into your arms and carried him to the kitchen where you got breakfast ready for everyone. It was going to be a long day for you, and you'd been so wrapped up in your feelings, you almost forgot you were going to have to see Casey. 

You groaned at the thought of her, and you immediately lost your appetite and scraped your eggs into the dish on the floor for Skittles to enjoy. After you packed yourself a lunch and got Noah ready, you realized you were kind of running late. Everything felt ten times harder when you had to do it all yourself. 

"I don't know how Bradley managed," you whispered as you zipped down the block in your car. A soft smile played at your lips as you thought back to how adorably hopeless he had been when you first met him. He hadn't eaten a good meal in probably months before you started babysitting Noah for him. At least he could cook a little bit now, even if he still couldn't figure out how to use his phone. 

When you took Noah inside his daycare, Casey's eyes were immediately glued to your ring as it shone in the sunlight. She slid the clipboard to you and watched you sign Noah in while you held his hand. Then you knelt down and kissed his cheek and whispered, "I'll pick you up later. I love you."

He smiled, and then you let Casey walk him inside. You stood there long enough to make sure he started to hang up his bag like you always did, and when she walked back out into the lobby, she was smirking. "Did Bradley leave you? He hasn't been here in weeks."

You rolled your eyes as you said, "He's deployed. We've been over this before."

She held up her hands in mock surrender. "I'm just saying, it kind of looks like he left you and Noah in the dust."

"In what world would that man leave Noah?" you practically shouted. 

"That's true," she replied with a smile. "Bradley would never leave his adorable son, but I could see him ditching you and your make believe baby."

You rubbed your temples and took your phone out of your pocket to check the time. You'd barely make it to work before the first patient if you didn't leave right now, but you couldn't help yourself. "I'm done, Casey. I've had enough. Which of the owners is here today? Because I'm not going to listen to you talk to me like this for one more minute."

Her face went ghostly white and she muttered something that you couldn't quite make out. "Speak up," you snapped. "Or apologize to me and don't bother talking to me again unless it's completely necessary."

"Sorry."

"Great," you told her loudly. "Have a great day, and when I pick Noah up later, just keep your mouth shut."

You took in the stupid looking expression on her face before you turned to leave, storming out the door and across the parking lot to your car.

---------------------------

It didn't take Bradley long to get used to the sleek controls and seductive design of the sixth-generation fighter jet that everyone appropriately referred to as Shadowhawk. By the second morning on base in Yokosuka, Admiral Palmer was singing Bradley's praises. He showed up early and did as he was told, hoping to spend as much time in the air as he could each day.

It was an adrenaline rush every single time. He was going substantially faster than he ever did in a Super Hornet, and all of his readouts were being recorded. He had to pass a quick physical and stress test every morning before he was allowed to fly, and then he was hooked up to monitoring equipment and let loose. He and Shadowhawk were flying the same loop far out over the pacific ocean at insanely high altitudes, and each time he fell a little bit more in love with being in the air. He could maneuver through rolls and dive into an attack formation faster than he could even imagine. 

When he was flying, it was easy enough to focus on the task at hand. He knew if he wasn't one hundred percent focused, it would be dangerous. He might not snuff out the launched missile in time with his flares or his guns. He might lose sight of his targets. But as soon as he had any sort of mental reprieve, he was thinking about you and Noah and Skittles and his bungalow tucked away on a side street in Coronado.

"Fuck," he muttered as he unloaded from Shadowhawk one day just as the sun was setting. He was drenched in sweat and exhausted, and all he could think about was taking a shower with you before dragging himself off to his king size bed that always smelled like wildflowers and falling asleep in your arms. He let the peripheral staff detach all of the cables and heart monitor from his flight suit before he found an officer who spoke English. "Is there time for me to make a phone call tonight?" he asked. 

It was about three o'clock in the morning in California, and he knew he wouldn't be able to talk to Noah, but he was dying to hear your voice. He knew he'd wake you up, but the ache was so strong, he absolutely needed to if he could. He'd been allowed to make exactly one call so far, and that was already more than two weeks ago.

All he got in response to his question was a quick shake of his head. "Tomorrow," she responded. That's what they told him every day. The lack of communication felt like a prison sentence at times, but there wasn't much he could do but accept it. All of the data they were collecting as well as Shadowhawk itself were considered proprietary and top secret. He practically had to sign his life away every day before he was allowed to touch the thing.

"Tomorrow," he repeated. "But will it actually be tomorrow? Or does that mean a week from now?"

"Tomorrow," she said more firmly, and he thanked her quietly before heading up to the tower to debrief with the admirals. There wasn't much else he could do.

The next day was a lot more of the same, and the routine was starting to grate on his nerves now. The aircraft still felt incredible, beyond his wildest dreams. He was still happy to be here, but at the same time, he was ready to go home now. They weren't giving him any updates on the progress of this assignment or when it might end, so he just decided to approach Admiral Palmer directly.

"Sir, I'd really appreciate a ten minute phone call, if that can be arranged." Once again, it was the middle of the night for you, but Bradley needed it.

The older man eyed him closely and cleared his throat. "It's a liability, Lieutenant. I'm sure you can understand that."

Bradley felt his fingers flex into fists at his sides. "Sir, someone would be monitoring me the entire time. And I'm just asking to talk to my fiancée and my son. That's it. Any time of any day."

The answer of, "There's no guarantee," did not sit well with Bradley. He had to bite his lip until he was tasting blood to keep himself from talking out of order, but he was sure the other man could read the frustration on his face and in his posture. "Maybe a very brief call, but we could be wrapping up our preliminary testing on Shadowhawk any day now. Either way, I'm sure you'll be able to finish out this temporary assignment like a professional."

Bradley swallowed down every retort that came to his mind, saluted Admiral Palmer, and left for his tiny room in the barracks. But another week passed, and Bradley knew there was no end in sight. And perhaps no phone call either. 

-------------------------

"Is this normal though?" you asked Natasha over the phone one night after Noah was in bed. You'd thought about taking a long bath, but you were so tired from working late almost every day, you could barely hold yourself up. You were already in bed at 8:45 with your phone pressed to your ear. "I haven't heard from Bradley in almost a month."

The words made a lump form in your throat. It was actually twenty-two and a half days since he'd called. You needed to hear his voice. Noah was asking for him nonstop, and he had missed your most recent checkup with your obstetrician. The whole thing had been such a blur during your lunch break without him there, and you wanted to show him the new ultrasounds.

"Well, I don't think this assignment is exactly normal, you know?" she replied. "On a regular deployment, you'd be able to talk to him almost weekly. But this is something else altogether."

You made a soft sound. There had to be a way to make the time pass faster. If you didn't have to get Noah by six o'clock every day, you would try to pick up more hours at work. Maybe this weekend you could start cleaning up the extra bedroom that you and Bradley decided would become the nursery. You already promised Noah that you'd take him shopping for a Halloween costume, so at least that would entertain him for a little while. 

"Thanks, Natasha," you murmured to Bradley's best friend.

"Hey, if you need a little break this weekend, I'd be more than happy to come over and play with Noah on Saturday or Sunday," she said, and you sighed in relief.

"That actually sounds fantastic. I'll call you."

You ended the call a minute later, curling up in a ball of exhaustion as you tried to imagine where Bradley was and what he was doing. You were tired now as you tried to do the math to determine what time it was in Japan. Was he sixteen hours ahead of you? Something like that? You yawned and fell asleep with your phone on the pillow next to your head.

Then you heard your ringtone blaring in your ear, and you almost fell out of the bed as you realized your phone was so close to you. RESTRICTED CALLER. "Oh my god," you gasped, trying to answer the call while you saw that your battery was down to four percent because you never plugged it in. "Bradley?!"

"Princess."

"Bradley!" You climbed out of bed, your body immediately shivering as you were exposed to the cool air. Your nerves were frayed as you plugged your phone in and asked, "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, Baby. I'm so sorry I woke you up."

"It's okay!" you said, your voice sounding more like a sob as you sat on the floor. "I've been so worried about you."

His voice was a deep, familiar rumble as he said, "I've got five minutes. Tell me everything."

"We miss you, Daddy," you said, rubbing your hand low on your belly which was starting to feel a little tender as you got closer to thirteen weeks along. "Noah asks for you all the time. The baby looked good at the last appointment. But your best friend, Skittles, is barely holding it together."

"I missed your appointment," he said, his voice strained with emotion. "I should have been there."

"It's okay," you whispered. "We're doing okay." But you weren't. You and Noah thrived when you had his attention. You felt loved when he was home to hold you and whisper plans about the future until you fell asleep each night. "I just thought you'd be able to call more often."

"Me too," he said in a tone that sounded both annoyed and resigned.

"Do you know when you'll be home?" you asked in as hopeful a voice as you could manage.

"Soon, Princess. Soon. Now tell me everything about your appointment."

You gave him more details as you shifted around on the floor, and you told him that Noah painted a picture for him. Then you heard someone on his end of the call telling him that it was time to go, and you wanted to scream that it wasn't enough. But instead you let the tears fall down your cheeks, thankful that you at least knew he was safe. 

"I love you, Bradley."

"I love you too, Princess. I'll be home before you know it."

You dried your tears and climbed back into bed, and even though you weren't able to fall asleep again, you felt so much better. Your imagination drifted to thoughts of the baby in the nursery, all of you curled up on the floor for story time together. You would start getting the room ready this weekend.

On Saturday, you took Noah to the Halloween warehouse store that seemed to pop up overnight. "You have to hold my hand," you reminded him as he reached for every single display in the crowded store. There were so many aisles, this would probably take up your entire morning with him. He was keeping a running list of options that he liked for trick-or-treating, and you had to keep reminding yourself not to check the price tags. You'd put whatever he wanted on your princess credit card and call it a day.

"Mommy, let's all be dinosaurs," he said, pointing to a costume in his size. 

You glanced around the area and said, "They don't have any in my size. Can we pick something else?"

"I want you and Daddy to dress up, too," he whined, and you didn't want to have to tell him that you weren't sure if Bradley would be home in the next week and a half to accommodate that wish. 

"Well, I will definitely dress up with you, okay? Let's pick something out where you and I can match."

But he wasn't going to be deterred. He was demanding that all three of you match along with Skittles. You walked around the entire store twice before you found an option that he agreed upon, and you were smiling as you gathered the costumes in all of the necessary sizes. "This is perfect, Sweet Noah," you said as you looked at the costume for Bradley and laughed. You just hoped he would be back in time to wear it. If not, maybe you could ask Maverick. 

The sky was starting to look overcast, so you took Noah home for lunch and didn't feel too bad about keeping him inside for the afternoon, especially when it started raining. You set him up with his array of coloring books at the kitchen table and then went to investigate the extra bedroom. Nobody ever slept in there, so it was a bit dusty. There was basically no furniture besides the bed and an old desk, but it was cozy and perfect for what you had planned. 

Your muscles were sore from standing at work, and you were so tired, but you started moving the bed anyway. You'd have to tell Dr. Kelly and the others that you were pregnant soon. It was time now, but you kept putting it off, enjoying the secret that only you and Bradley really knew about. Plus it still got under your skin a little bit when you considered that other people would have a knee jerk reaction to the timeframe of when you got engaged compared to when you got pregnant. 

"It's none of their business," you whispered to yourself as you walked to the kitchen to check on Noah every few minutes. Then you went back to the bedroom and cleaned, moved things around and took measurements. "How big are cribs, anyway?" you mused before looking up some dimensions online. "Pretty big." 

It took some creativity, but you thought you'd finally sorted out where everything should go. Then you moved Bradley's random junk from the closet to the attic, wiping the sweat from your face with each trip. You kicked your way through the boxes where you'd found the USB drive with the video he made with Meredith. At first you grimaced and thought you might cry, but then you remembered the way he had smashed the stupid thing to bits in the backyard. You wanted him to come home. You needed him to. 

"Mommy?" Noah called out, luring you back into the kitchen. You were a mess, and when you noticed how much he was yawning, you silently rejoiced. 

"It looks like you could use a nap," you said as you kissed the curls on top of his head. He scrambled up into your arms and hugged you, such a tiny reminder of his dad, and you carried him off to his room. After a few stories, he was asleep as the rain picked up a little bit, and you knew this would be the perfect time to take a shower.

You moved Skittles' bed into Noah's room temporarily, and coaxed her in with a treat. "Keep him company in case he wakes up," you whispered, and she walked around in a circle on the plush cushion before settling in. Her crooked, purple bow made you smile. Everything in this house made you smile and think about Bradley. You knew he'd have even more ideas about a theme for the nursery, but you started to scroll through some inspiration online as the shower warmed up for you.

The water ended up feeling better than you anticipated. Your shoulders were sore. Your hips were sore. Every part of your body was aching. It seemed it didn't matter how much you were sleeping, you were still exhausted all day long. Maybe Dr. Kelly would reduce your hours and give you a break. You thought about sneaking home one afternoon a week to take a long nap before going back out to pick Noah up. Then you thought about how Casey hadn't said a single word to you since you told her you were going to her boss. Then you smiled. 

You were squeaky clean when you got dressed again in some old sweats and headed to the kitchen. Your stomach was growling, and you desperately wanted some coffee. "One cup is okay," you whispered, turning on Bradley's fancy machine while you made yourself a snack. You'd been meticulous about how much caffeine you were drinking, and Bradley helped by bringing home only decaf from the coffee shop. You downed the cup, and it was hot and delicious, and almost immediately you had to pee again. 

Your doctor told you that was normal as the baby grew and started to stretch things out. You passed Noah's bedroom door where both he and Skittles were still sound asleep as the rain splattered against his window, and then you went to the bathroom. When you wiped, the toilet paper caught your eye, and your hand started to shake. Pink. Blood. Just a little bit, but there was blood. 

"Oh no," you gasped, a dizzy spell overtaking your body. You'd read about this in your textbooks, and you knew it could happen, but you'd blocked it out of your mind when it came to yourself right now. You didn't want to be an example. You had to grip the toilet seat with one hand to keep steady as you wiped yourself again. There was more blood, a little bit less pink and more red this time. 

Your own breathing was too loud. It was echoing through your mind and through the bathroom, and you wanted to throw up. You eased yourself onto the floor and started to panic. The baby. What if something was happening to the baby? "No," you whispered, trying to ground yourself. Using the edge of the tub, you pulled yourself slowly to your feet, your head spinning more with every inch you moved. "No," you said louder. 

When you were standing on your own, you had yourself almost convinced you'd imagined it. You didn't feel bad. You were just a little sore. There couldn't be anything wrong. You reached for another piece of toilet paper and wiped, but the result was the same. 

Where was your phone? Who were you supposed to call? You walked around in circles around the house while your heart thudded a sickening rhythm in your chest. You paused, unable to locate your phone and convinced you were going to throw up. After you backtracked to the extra bedroom, you found it and unlocked it.

Natasha's name was right there in your recent calls, and you tapped on it before you could even fathom what you were going to tell her. 

"Hi," she said brightly when she eventually answered. "Want me to come over and play with Noah so you can take a break for a little bit?"

"Please," you gasped. "Please come over. Right now."

She must have sensed something in your voice, because hers turned serious as she assured you she was on her way. While you waited for her, you wiped yourself again and again before you made yourself wait in the living room instead of the bathroom. When she walked inside with dripping wet hair and concern on her face, you said, "Noah is still napping. I need to take myself to the emergency room."

----------------------------

Get to the hospital, Princess. This kind of scenario is very real and has happened to me. I will tread as carefully as I can. Please don't scream at me. We will hear from a doctor in the next chapter. Thanks @mak-32 and @beyondthesefourwalls

PART 56

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