#he’ll give him a solid pat on the back if he’s the one of the only ones who can do it

[sixoclocker]

red giant starlo au doodles

[satoruan]

How their kid breaks their heart  — Jujutsu Kaisean

( cw ) f!reader, fluff, domestic, kinda hurt/comfort but not really hehe just butt hurt husbands, breastfeeding  

featuring. Gojo Satoru, Choso Kamo, Nanami Kento 

authors note. I haven’t written anything in so long I think I forgot how to. Anyway, I love dilfs ❤️ JJK dilfs are my favorite thing ever.

CHOSO KAMO 

Choso’s infant has been screaming for what felt like hours, he has a clean diaper, there aren’t any tags on his clothes that may be bothering him, he’s swaddled tightly, and he refuses to drink the lukewarm bottle Choso made him so that must mean he’s not hungry, right? Choso just wanted to be able to do this himself, take care of his baby, and not depend on you so much but when you step into your bedroom after returning home, he almost starts crying too. “I-I can’t-” He stutters, eyes wide as you make your way into your shade bed. “Hey, hey it’s okay baby.” You whisper as your hand moves to cup the side of his face. You lift his head and kiss him a few times before reaching for your baby. He continues to scream before you give him your breast. He settles down almost instantly. “He hates me.” Choso almost whimpers as he lays his head on your shoulder, the both of you looking down at the little boy. “No, he doesn’t, I promise you he doesn’t.” You say, reaching down to kiss his forehead. “I tried to feed him and he just turned his head and screamed, it felt like he was cursing me.” He grumbles, rubbing at the baby’s swaddled feet. “That’s because he it’s used to the bottle, he’d rather have a boob, rather suck the nipple than the bottle tip.” You explain to your husband. “Well, at least he takes at me in that regard.” “You’re disgusting.” 

GOJO SATORU 

“Daddy look, it’s Uncle ‘Guru!” Your daughter squeals as she grabs a photo from the pile on the floor between your little family. You guys were supposed to be making a scrapbook but Satoru and your daughter weren’t much of a help. “Yes, that is Suguru baby! That’s from when we were back in high school and look mommy’s there too” Satoru smiles at the photo. “Were you and Mommy married?” She asks with a smile on her face. “No, not yet—“ “I’m gonna marry Uncle ‘Guru!” She exclaims, looking at her father with a huge smile on her face as the thought infiltrates her mind. Satoru feels his heart sink into his stomach. This can’t be happening. “He’ll be the bestest husband in the whole world Daddy!” “What about me baby? Wouldn’t you rather marry someone like Daddy?”  He whines trying to take this picture out of her hands. “Nope! I wanna marry Uncle ‘Guru! You’re too stinky.” She side-eyes him before going to sit next to you, picture still in hand. Satoru just stares at her, mouth slightly agape as she smiles down at the old picture. You lean over the scrapbook and pat your husband’s knee. “Well, ‘Toru that’s another one of our daughters that would rather marry Suguru. Better luck next time.”   

NANAMI KENTO 

“Come to Daddy!” “No come to mommy!” You playfully shove at Nanami’s shoulder. Your baby stares at you two from a few feet away with curiosity. You guys were doing that trend that was circling social media, set your baby across the room and see who they crawl to. “Daddy lets you eat some of his solid foods, come to me, sweetheart.” Nanami pats the floor, motioning for your baby to come his way. Your baby starts to crawl slowly, looking at both of you, questioning who he wants to crawl to. “Mommy has an endless supply of food on her right now, Daddy doesn’t have any on him! Come to Mommy!” You tap at the hardwood floors. Your baby seems to make up his mind then and rushes to you. Nanami frowns as you jump up and celebrate. He was certain you he would crawl to him. “Ha! I win you lose! Mommy’s the best!” You laugh and soon enough your son starts to laugh too and even though Nanami is a little hurt he can’t help but smile and join his little family’s celebration. 

[kayawolfhorse]

He sticks around for a while after the disappointment of his failed trap. There’s no one left to sue him over it.

The blood is just starting to crust over where it clings to Joel’s scabbard, and it flakes upon his skin. His clothing is still filthy, but it hardly matters—the grime is of this server, and will remain with it when he leaves.

Sunset blankets the world in fiery oranges and brilliant pinks, dripping darkness like spilled ink across cliff sides and into pocket-marked craters. In its wake, without the chaos of the wild cards, in the absence of any living thing, the silence is near-deafening. Joel sighs once, loudly, just to fill the space, and does it again when he thinks about how it’d annoy Jimmy if he were still here.

The bridge to the base is remarkably intact, and the planks creak beneath Joel’s steps. He spares Gem’s empty cobbled barn a fleeting glance and reminds himself that he’ll see her soon as he marches up to his car and sets about ridding his inventory of unnecessary junk in the grass next to it.

He can practically hear Grian’s insistence that he get on with it already, but one of them is dead, and the other has a car to fix, so Joel effectively banishes the thought and pokes his tongue out in the vague direction of the sky above him.

Joel works through the night. Exploded as it had been, just about every part of the car needs repairing. The exterior comes easily enough, and it’s by torchlight that he reconstructs the engine, using up the last stores of his and Gem’s iron before raiding Etho’s waterlogged chests to finish the job.

Just before dawn is about to break, Joel slides into the driver’s seat and gives the keys a turn. The engine sputters for a moment before roaring to life. Joel grins.

It’s a bumpy ride through the center of the map, and Joel doesn’t want to talk about the times he had to rapidly construct a bridge across the rivers to get across. Once the ruined bases are confined to his rearview mirror and all that stretches before him is unmarred terrain, he floors it, giving a whoop in delight as the speedometer climbs higher and higher.

The blue shimmer of the world border overtakes the frame of the windshield. The pale morning sun has just started its ascent. Joel pushes forwards, hands tight against the wheel, teeth clenched firmly together. Thirty blocks, twenty blocks, five blocks away—

Joel slams through the border to the sound of shattering glass, and his vision goes black all at once.

—☾—

“For the record, that should not have worked,” Grian says. “And did you really have to bring that here?”

Joel’s not entirely sure where here is. Grian looks mostly corporeal, though his edges waver like the illusion of water against hot pavement, and Joel himself feels pretty solid, but all around them is vast nothingness. Pearl and Scott are bright flashes of red and blue somewhere behind Grian, and Joel can just barely make out Martyn and Scar further back.

It’s a little dizzying, honestly, and Joel quickly resolves to not look down. Despite the nausea that threatens to bubble up in his throat, he makes no move to stop the smirk that spreads across his face. He gives the car’s hood at his side an affectionate pat, and is smug as he says, “Much like family, the car is forever, Grian.”

Grian buries his face in his hands.

[keisobe]

── ⋆˙⟡♡ 𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐧 𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐬 (𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐚)

from spider-man : across the spiderverse (spoiler free!!)

characters. miles morales. miguel o’hara. hobie brown & peter b. parker. + pavitr prabhakar

notes. i quickly wrote this because spiderverse has consumed a lot of my attention (cue the tiktok edits i’ve saved of hobie and miguel). anyways hope i did the characterization accurate enough and hope it was fun to read ( ˘͈ ᵕ ˘͈♡) + not completely proofread

𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐬 ❤︎

he’s painfully awkward when it comes to hugging. his limbs don’t know where to wrap around, so they keep flaring everywhere until you end up locking him into one solid hug.

miles is also very respectful of your boundaries, he would do that weird hover hand thing over your waist that would look very off in photos (his hand literally 3 inches away from your shoulder, but a good photo overall).

but when he’s close to you, he would pull you into a protective and warm embrace— especially if he has been worried sick about you. that’s until he pulls away and let’s out a chuckle accompanied with a light scratch on the back of his neck to ease his worries.

“umm… wait— lemme just…”

miles’ arms were bending awkwardly and moving in lightning speed, a nervous smile plastered onto his conflicted features— twitching brows and all.

you huffed at his failed attempt to simply embrace you, so you forcefully hooked your arms around his neck and brought him closer, feeling the softness of his cheek against your forehead and the pacing heartbeat you didn’t know he had.

“it’s fine, it’s just me silly.” you teased into his ear, prompting miles to chuckle at his own awkwardness and to wrap his strong arms around your waist.

“right, it’s you.” he whispered more to himself, leaning down to reach your height and to cutely rest his head in the nape of your neck. “just you.”

𝐦𝐢𝐠𝐮𝐞𝐥 𝐨’𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚 ❤︎

hasn’t been held in so long. he says that he doesn’t do hugs, will probably go into flight-and-fight mode if you even asked for a small embrace. if you’re lucky though, he’ll leave you with a deadly glare and an annoyed huff.

but in the heat of the moment, in the moments of needed comfort, he will be there to give you an embrace. although, his hugs are tight, to the point you have a hard time breathing. it’ll take him a moment to notice that you’re literally breathless and will cough a lousy sorry as compensation for squeezing you to death (but he actually feels bad).

what nobody knows (maybe expect you) is that he prefers hugs that can display his strength. lifting you off from the ground with ease makes him smirk to himself. surprise hugs from the back also avoids the awkwardness of confronting actual romantic contact (it’s also more fun for him).

“what now?” miguel folds his arms impatiently as he watches you dumbly spread your arms out, a determined glint in your eyes.

no response, you simply spread your arms wider. miguel huffs an annoyed laugh and awkwardly comes up to you to embrace you, with a tightness that made you choke for air. then he suddenly lifts you from the floor, making you latch tightly around his neck.

miguel sighs deeply, the irritation that emitted from him suddenly became comfortably warm.

“did you need this hug?” you managed to breathe out, threading your fingers through the loose brown hair in the back of his neck.

“yeah, i really needed it.” miguel mumbles out in embarrassment, tightening his muscular arms around your waist— prompting a weak yet satisfied wheeze from your lips.

𝐡𝐨𝐛𝐢𝐞 𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐧 ❤︎

he’s chill with hugs, but he’s very friendly about it. likes to latch an arm on his mates and such— but an immediate sweet embrace you won’t really get (he’s good at reading people, so if you’re vibes are off, he ain’t moving an inch).

he generally prefers to give side hugs, nothing too personal and definitely fits his overall demeanor. match that up with a firm compliment and a friendly pat on the shoulder. but if he’s close to you, he’ll be there patiently with open arms.

then he’s analyzing you closely as you embrace him, listening closely for a change in your heartbeat or any small noise that escapes your mouth. he subtly smells you too and will not forget your scent (will use the same detergent as you right after the embrace). there’s a moment of silence and it’s perfectly comfortable.

“c’mere.” hobie faintly whispers with an expanded arm, his expression unusually soft.

immediately you ran to receive an embrace from his slim body, a wet sniffle muffled into his webbed suit as tears began to pour from your eyes. hobie hovers a calloused hand over your back, thinking for a moment, until he decides that it was fine to do so. he pats the small of your back comfortably, murmuring a song he wrote to soothe your sadness.

“thank you hobie.” you hiccuped, leaning onto his chest. hobie simply nodded, playing with the ends of your hair with a painted finger.

“yea...” he mumbled, noticing that the tears that stained your cheeks before faded and your breathing steadied. “no probs.”

𝐩𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐛. 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐞𝐫 ❤︎

he’s painfully awkward too. pull him into an embrace, he will let out an uncomfortable chuckle as he carefully pries you off his body. peter makes it obvious he wants his space, rightfully so.

actually, head pats is something he prefers to give. it’s comforting for him to be able to teasingly mess your hair to get a whine from you, or feel the texture of your hair under his palms. also, he’s an old man (will feel extremely insulted if you say his comforting technique is equivalent to that of an elderly folk).

but if he’s close with you or there is a moment when an embrace is desperately needed, he wouldn’t hesitate to pull you into a deep embrace. due to his new plushness to his body and rarity of his soft affection, peter’s embraces feel warm and inviting. sorry though, it’ll only last a few seconds until he’s pulling away immediately (will give up if you pull him back into the embrace tho).

“there, there kiddo…” peter softly pats your head, poorly attempting to cool your temper.

“not working peter.”

peter sighs in defeat as he slowly retracted his hand, thinking of a solution to cheer you up. without a second thought, he quickly pulled you into an embrace with efficient strength— the softness of his stomach contrasted the hardness of his chest. immediately you light up, nuzzling into his warm arms as he playfully swayed your body side-to-side.

“better?” he chuckled at your dazed expression, maybe hugging wasn’t so bad.

“yeah…” you could hear the slow patters of his heartbeat as he tightened the protective hold around your waist.

MOCHIFILM © 2023. please do not copy, translate, or modify any of my work. all of my works are not permitted to be posted on any other sites.

[gloomwitchwrites]

Summer Camp Slasher

Serial Killer Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader

Content & Warnings: 1980’s AU, Summer Camp AU, swearing, survival horror, suspense, brief sexual content, blood & gore, descriptions of corpses, brief mention of alcohol, smoking, second chances, ambiguous/open ending

Word Count: 5.4k

A/N: Requested by @kylies-love-letter for 3.5k Spooky Bingo (80's Summer Camp Slasher)

Hillford Camp, 1985

Hillford Camp is having a reopening. As owner and operator, you’re excited for a restart after a string of grisly murders took place on the old campsite. You’ve hired on Simon Riley as Camp Director. Not because he’s your ex, but because he’ll be great at the job. Everything is going great—until it’s not. Two camp counselors go missing only to reappear in morbid display in the dining hall.

With only yourself, Simon, the local sheriff John Price and his two deputies MacTavish and Garrick, it’s a race to find the killer before they find you.

ao3 // main masterlist // 3.5k spooky bingo masterlist

"I can't believe this. It's finally happening!"

A dream has come to fruition. Not yours exactly, but your mother’s. You’re on your toes, a bouncing ball of energy. Simon Riley, the man you hired on as Camp Director, stands next to you, a beacon of solid muscle and calm energy.

Hillford Camp is the place your mother spent her youth as a camp counselor. She loved it so much, she eventually bought the land and intended to run the camp herself. She’s gone now, but the land is yours. The camp is yours.

With the tip of his index finger, Simon pushes the rim of his sunglasses down, revealing whiskey-brown eyes. “Give me the word and I’ll make them leave,” he says, gaze fixed on the herd of media in the parking lot beyond the wooden fence.

“Leave them,” you mutter. “Won’t matter if they stay or leave.”

The corners of his mouth turn downward. "You know what they're talking about."

"I'm aware," you grumble.

"And it doesn't bother you?" he counters.

"I'm not allowing it to bother me," you reply.

Hillford Camp was popular for years before people started disappearing. It started small, just one or two people a season. Their bodies were never found, and many chalked it up to accidental deaths. The forest beyond the camp is wide. Local authorities believed the missing campers likely wandered off.

Everything changed ten years ago.

People started disappearing, and this time, their bodies started to turn up in gruesome display. Hillford Camp was shut down completely and left to rot in the shadow of the forest. The Hillford Camp Murders remain unsolved.

No one knows who did it, or why, but the rumors persist, especially now that you’re reopening the place.

Simon crosses his arms over his chest. His high-waisted khaki shorts stop mid-thigh, showing off thick, muscled thighs. The Hillford Camp shirt he wears beneath his jacket is a size too small, the material stretching tightly across his pectorals.

"I don't like it,” he says cooly, gaze still fixed on the herd of media.

A little flare of heat blooms in your chest and rolls outward to steam your cheeks. You may have hired Simon as Camp Director, but he’s no stranger. There was a time when the two of you shared secrets in the dark, when he learned your curves, and made you moan for him.

An old memory resurfaces and you quickly wave it off like a pesky fly. You will not venture into old territory.

“They can’t cross the property line. It’ll be fine, Simon,” you reassure him, patting his arm.

Your hand lingers a little longer than necessary, that old memory resurfacing again. As you pull back, Simon gently grasps your wrist, keeping you close to him. That one touch sends a little reminder to your clit of just how sweet he can be.

"Are you sure?" he murmurs. "I can make them go. Just say the word."

He's always been protective. Even now you're reminded of just how gentle he can be with you.

"It's fine," you emphasize.

Within his grasp, you twist your wrist, presenting your palm. Simon glances down at it, his thumb rubbing against your pulse point. A little shiver runs through you, and you know Simon notices by the way he smirks.

"All right, love," he says, dropping your wrist.

The moment with Simon is there and gone but your heart rate remains a pounding thing that doesn't cease. All day through orientation, introductions, and team activities, you float around the grounds, moving from place to place. That feeling never abates. It clings to you like gum on the bottom of a shoe until your head finds your pillow.

When you awaken, you expect the feeling to pass. Instead, it stays, and it is Simon's first words to you in the morning that turn that sensual anxiety to bleeding stress.

"Two of the counselors are missing."

"Missing? What do you mean missing? Who the fuck is missing?" you hiss, leaning close as the two of you monitor breakfast.

“Jessica and Michael.”

“Oh, God.”

Simon sighs and nods at a passing camper before he speaks again. “Their bunk mates said they weren’t in their beds when they woke up this morning. No one’s seen them.”

“Do their bunkmates know where they might be?” Simon shoots you a look and you already know. “Fuck,” you sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Is anyone looking for them?”

“I have the Activities Director and Lead Lifeguard discreetly searching all the possible spots.”

"You're fucking with me," you groan.

Simon smirks and then leans in a bit closer. "Blood runs hot at that age. Remember how we were together?" You smack his chest and he laughs. "Just saying."

"These are college freshmen we're talking about, Simon. They’re here to earn a little extra cash. Nothing more."

"That's my point." A group of teens walk past and Simon waits until they're gone. "They probably found themselves a cozy spot in the woods to get drunk and fuck. They're likely trying to avoid their walk of shame."

"They better be,” you snap. “Calling the local authorities on the second day is the worst possible scenario."

Simon laughs and takes his sunglasses off his head, cleaning the lens with his shirt. "I'd think calling them at all would be the worst."

"Simon. I swear—"

He places his hand on the back of your neck. It's a protective yet possessive gesture. Your body instantly calms—instantly submits to him.

"Let me handle this,” he murmurs, his voice a gentle caress. “It's my job."

You do allow Simon to handle it even though your stomach is a knot the rest of the day. After everyone moves through the dinner line and evening activates wrap, Simon appears at your private cabin.

You open the door, and Simon leans against the doorframe, taking up far too much space.

“Can I come in?” he asks.

You step aside, and Simon enters. Closing the door behind him, the small space suddenly feels incredibly cramped. Staff cabins are slightly larger than those the campers live in, and they aren’t communal.

Simon drops onto your bed, taking up the entire surface. He fishes around inside his grey windbreaker, retrieving a small bottle of whiskey.

"Care to join me?" he asks, offering the bottle.

"What's the occasion?" you counter, taking it from him. You uncap the lid and bring it to your lips.

"An update on our missing lovebirds."

You take a massive swig, the whiskey burning as it goes down. You grimace and offer the bottle back to him. Simon takes it and sits up, taking some for himself.

"And?"

Simon sighs loudly. "And we haven't found them."

You place your head in your hands, groaning with frustration.

Simon sets the bottle down and reaches for you. "Come here," he murmurs.

With the whiskey warming your veins, it's easy to go to him, to settle beside him, and rest your cheek against his firm chest. Simon's arm drapes over you, keeping you close to him. You inhale his scent, remembering the way it felt to be in his arms like this when the two of you were lovers.

"Simon," you sigh, shifting your face toward him.

You don't mean to sound so breathy—so needy, and yet Simon responds, closing the distance, gently pressing his lips to yours. Calmness washes over you, chasing away the day's anxiety. The missing campers are pushed to the back of your mind.

With his arm draped over your hip, Simon uses that leverage to gently roll you onto your back, pinning you beneath him. His hand roams upward, trailing over thigh and stomach before exploring the valley between your breasts. Further he ascends until his hand comes to your throat. He grasps it, a sign of dominance and possession.

Is he not over you? Is this simply going to devolve into sex? A distraction? And does it even matter?

His kisses deepen and you greedily accept them, wanting to consume like you did the whiskey. Forgetting would be nice right now. The trials of the last two days can wait until the morning.

You part your legs and Simon slots himself between. His hardness presses against your pelvis, an insistent sensation that you want to explore. You haven't been with anyone since Simon, and your body yearns for him now.

His free hand explores. Roams. It delves beneath your shirt, stroking skin until you're both tugging at the fabric in an effort to remove it. Your bra is gone next. Then his jacket and shirt. The two of you are skin against skin, fingers digging in, mouths meeting repeatedly until you're both gasping for breath.

"Let me in," he murmurs softly as he fumbles with the front of his pants.

You reach for him, helping him out of his shorts before removing your own. The moment there is nothing between you, his lips find yours again, limbs entwining on the small bed.

Simon's hand delves between your legs, stroking until a pressure builds. Molten and bright, it explodes outward. You moan into his mouth, and Simon swallows it down, enjoying every second.

The head of him replaces his fingers, and your body greedily accepts him, devouring every inch until you're full and perfectly stretched. Simon rocks his hips. The damp, sticky air clings to your skin and his, mixing with sweat.

"I miss you," he whispers into your ear, lips brushing along the curve.

Another release builds, swamping your senses until all you know is Simon and the humid air. The fan in the corner of the ceiling spins and clangs, but it is a distant thing. He groans, lower back stiffening against your hands as you press him closer. You come undone before him, shuddering, and Simon follows soon after.

The two of you linger above the sheets, a tangle of limbs. There is rest for a bit, and then you're reaching for him again. Simon happily complies, the two of you further tiring yourselves until sleep seizes you both.

Early, just before the sun rises, you and Simon grab flashlights and hike out to the place you want to forget: the old Hillford Camp.

Not a single building was torn down. Due to the police investigation, the buildings remained standing, but after they cleared out, the buildings were boarded up and left alone for years. It's not like you didn't try to have it all demolished.

The case is still open. And the buildings are nothing more than skeletal structures.

From a clip off his belt loop, Simon produces a massive set of keys. Shuffling through them, he finds the one he's looking for. Placing it into the lock, it clicks, the chain holding the metal fence together sliding away as Simon gives it a tug. He pushes it open, the metal screeching loudly, echoing amongst the trees.

Before you are the old cabins. The rec center and communal buildings are further in. While most of those went untouched, the cabins are another matter entirely. Each one is a crime scene. Each one tainted by the killer's bloodthirst.

"Should check them all," says Simon, pointing his flashlight at the nearest cabin. "Look for signs of entry."

"There's thirty cabins,” you counter. “We can't cover them all one-by-one. We should split up. Cover more ground."

Simon's response is immediate. "You're not leaving my sight."

You casually shrug. "We’ll find nothing except a few empty bottles and dust." You shrug absently. “Maybe a dead racoon or two.”

"I'd feel better if you're in my line of sight at all times."

His “line of sight”. As if you’re one of his old targets. A part of you loves the protectiveness while the other wants to smack him over the head. The two of you aren’t a couple anymore, and this isn’t the military. He won’t boss you around.

"Seriously?"

"Dead," he grumbles, striding toward the first cabin.

The two of you walk around the perimeter checking windows and the front door. All of them are sealed tight. Cabin by cabin, the two of you walk, finding nothing out of place.

"No fresh tracks," mutters Simon. "Not of the human variety."

The sun is starting to rise, the dark giving way to the light.

You shine your flashlight on the nearest cabin door and frown. "Simon. Look at that."

He turns, flashlight beam joining yours. The door appears askew as if it's not entirely on its hinges. Simon strides toward it, you following on his heel.

As you near, you notice the crack.

The door is open.

Simon holds up a hand, a sign to stay put. You nod. In this, you will do as he says. Simon reaches out with the flashlight, pushing the door open further with the tool. It creaks but swings inward.

Inside, it is dark. Simon slowly swings the flashlight back and forth across the interior. You step up behind him, peering around his shoulder.

The two bunks are empty, all four stained mattresses on the ground. Next to them are several used condoms, crushed beer cans, and a half-consumed bottle of off-brand vodka.

Simon snorts. "They left vodka." He tuts. "A shame."

"At least we know where they snuck off to." You turn the beam of the flashlight outward toward the rest of the cabins. "Just need to find where they went."

Simon leans against the doorframe, a sultry smile on his face.

"What?" you prompt.

He nods toward the mattresses. "You want to get on all fours for me?"

The image of you on your hands and knees as Simon fucks you from behind invades your senses, momentarily seizing your sanity. With it comes the feel of his hands, of how large and strong they are, of him grasping the back of your neck as he holds you in place.

You roll your eyes in an attempt to hide your sudden arousal. "You're disgusting."

Simon barks a laugh, slapping your ass on the way to the next cabin.

Each one is searched, and the remainder are all untouched.

“We should search the communal buildings,” you suggest.

Simon shakes his head. “I don’t have my walkie,” he replies, patting the empty spot where he usually clips the behemoth of a device. He glances up into the sky. “We need to return. People are going to start questioning where we’ve run off to.”

You give the old campsite one last long look. "I wonder where they went," you murmur, the unease starting to settle in again.

Simon relatches the lock on the fencing. "I'll radio the sheriff when we return."

John Price, the sheriff of the nearest town, is a good but stubborn man. You’ve only talked to him a handful of times, but he was always polite to you.

Approaching the communal dining hall, you notice a large crowd of campers gathered outside. The main doors are shut when they should be wide open for the breakfast crowd. Several of the older camp counselors stand in front of the doors, barring entry.

Simon arrives first at the edge of the crowd. They part for him like Moses and the Red Sea. The eldest of the camp counselors, Jesse, a senior in college, has a stony expression on his face. His tanned skin is pale, eyes sunken as if he's sickened overnight.

"What happened?" asks Simon, keeping his voice low. Jesse shakes his head, keeping silent. "Is there anyone inside?"

Jesse licks his cracked lips. "Yes," he murmurs. "But they're not—" He glances at the crowd like a wounded animal looking for an escape and grimaces.

Simon lowers his voice further, trying to soothe the young man. "Let us see."

Jesse steps aside and Simon cracks the door open. The smell hits you first. Rotten. Fetid. Like garbage that's been left out in the sun.

Simon pokes his head in and then retreats, turning toward you. His mouth is a thin line, and his face is grim.

"You shouldn't," he whispers.

You shouldn't? What the fuck is in there?

"I will," you insist.

Simon’s nostrils flare slightly. It’s his tell when he’s irritated with you. But he doesn’t push back. Simon opens the door, ushering the two of you inside.

The smell is worse with the door closed. The lights are off and all the windows are shut, the blinds down but cracked, allowing in some of the morning light. The large ceiling fans overhead are still, leaving the air stale and unmoving.

At this hour, the place should be full with people at tables stuffing their faces with eggs and pancakes. But the place is utterly silent. You check the switches on the wall but none of the lights turn on, nor do the ceiling fans.

"Are the generators not working?" you ask, staring up at the unmoving fans.

"I think we have worse things to worry about," replies Simon.

You follow his line of sight, coming to rest at the far end of the dining hall.

At the center table closest to the kitchen are the two missing camp counselors. Jessica and Michael appear completely normal at first, but as you move closer, you suddenly realize the horror before you.

The two lovebirds sit across from each other at the communal dining table. Before each of them is a plastic tray. In front of Michael on his tray is a small pile of open condom wrappers. On Jessica's tray is a lone pregnancy test. You have no idea if it's used or brand new, and you don’t really care to know. Between their trays in an empty liquor bottle, the label partially removed.

They are posed with arms outstretched; hands clasped. Their skin is grey and sunken, mouths terribly stretched into loving smiles. Flies swarm them, switching between bodies and buzzing about in the air. Their eyes are gone. Not vanished, but crushed to pulp.

Your gaze lingers and then moves beyond them toward the kitchen. It's designed to be an open kitchen, giving an airy feeling to the space. It’s also designed with space in mind and for the kitchen staff to keep track of how many people are eating and still need to fill their plates.

All six cooks stand behind the buffet line and yet nothing is on. Nothing is cooking. They are posed with tongs and spatulas in hand as if ready to serve the horde outside. Most of them are upright as if they're completely fine. Yet as you look closer, you notice the hooks and wires digging into their clothes and flesh. You follow those wires, and how they're anchored to heavier objects to counterbalance their body weight.

"They're all dead," murmurs Simon.

You wretch, the stink and horror becoming overwhelming.

"Fuck," says Simon, placing his hand at your back.

Another wave of nausea hits you. Simon grabs your arms, guiding you away from the grisly scene toward the side door. He kicks it open, the two of you almost falling down the short stairs to the hard ground.

Yanking yourself from Simon’s arms, you fall to your knees in the dirt, gagging. Saliva pools in your mouth.

You spit into the dirt. "What the fuck was that?"

Simon is far more experienced in the art of brutality. Before all this, he was military. He’s seen war—worked on countless mission.

"I'm calling Sheriff Price," says Simon. "We're shutting this place down. Sending everyone home."

"Oh my God," you murmur, rubbing your dirt-stained hands against your legs in anxious agitation.

Simon's hand finds your shoulder, and you flinch. "I'll handle this," he reassures, helping you off the ground.

His embrace is comforting, reminding you of how much you’ve missed him. It’s cruel and unfair, and somehow completely needed. In this, Simon is your rock. An anchor in a stormy harbor.

"We handle this,” you reply. “Together."

Simon cradles your cheeks, thumbs brushing away your tears.  "You need to be out there. Put on a brave face. Smile. Take everyone to the amphitheater. Have a couple of the remaining camp counselors go to storage for water bottles and packaged snacks. Feed everyone. Keep them entertained."

It’s the smart thing to do until a plan is formed. Keep everyone in one place. Nobody wanders off.

You nod, swallowing.

Simon presses his lips to your forehead. "Take a deep breath. You can do this." You follow his instruction, exhaling slowly. Simon holds you the whole time, not letting go until the shaking stops.

“Ready to face the crowd?” he whispers against your hair.

“No,” you reply. “But I will.”

"Tell me what happened again."

Sheriff John Price lights up a cigarette, his sunglasses low on his nose as he stares Simon down.

"I told you," replies Simon, his voice nearly a growl. "They're all dead."

“You said that.” Sheriff Price takes a long drag on his cigarette. Expelling the smoke from his lungs, he returns the cigarette to his mouth. "You also said," he checks his notepad, "you're missing five additional personnel."

Simon sighs heavily, clearly irritated. "We are."

"You didn't check to make sure everyone was accounted for before you left?" The accusation is clear, and Simon is clearly agitated by it.

"Sheriff," you interject, placing your hand on Simon's bicep in a comforting touch. "As we noted earlier, there were signs of tampering to the generators and vehicles. We needed to do what was best for the campers. And that was getting them to town as quickly as possible."

"By leaving personnel behind?" counters Price.

"All of the campers are accounted for,” you reply, ignoring the question. “We need to start reuniting families with their children, Sheriff." You emphasize his title to get your point across.

Sheriff Price sniffs and puffs on his cigarette. It hangs from one side of his mouth while he exhales smoke from the other side.

Not long after you herded everyone to the amphitheater, Simon sought you out to report damaged generators, a severed power line, slashed tires on the Jeeps, and missing fuel. Calamity after calamity. Something had to be done.

"Unification is important. Is it not?" you continue, wanting to move on from this.

Sheriff Price tucks his notepad and pen into the front pocket of his uniform. "It is," he agrees. The sigh he releases is heavy.

You aren't upset with him. It's understandable. You showed up with an entire summer camp. There are now hundreds of people occupying the Hillford Library. You've dumped far more in Sheriff Price's lap than he can handle. And that doesn’t even begin to tread on the crime scene of a communal dining hall back at camp.

Without removing the cigarette from his mouth, Sheriff Price presses the button on his walkie attached to his shoulder. "I need Sergeants MacTavish and Garrick to report to the library's south side exterior."

A pause. Then the radio crackles. On our way.

"So, we have dead staff. Busted generators. Slashed tires. Missing fuel. A severed power line," lists Price. "What else am I missing?"

You sense a snarky remark ready to fall from Simon's lips. "Nothing, Sheriff,” you answer before Simon can interject.

Sergeants MacTavish and Garrick appear. They both look a little weary. Price begins rattling off orders the moment they arrive.

"The five of us are heading back to Hillford Camp. Return to the station and pick up a squad car. Grab a camera and the evidence emergency bag. We need to collect what evidence we can." He turns toward MacTavish. "Tell Deb to call the federal bureau in the city. I want them here now. We need to prepare for media coverage. Everyone else needs to be here. I want families contacted. We need cots. Blankets. See if any of the locals are willing to assist."

"On it, sir," replies Sergeant Garrick. He pats MacTavish's shoulder, the two men briskly walking away.

Sheriff Price watches them go. When they disappear, he turns back to the two of you. "Well then. Let's go catch ourselves a killer."

It's full dark by the time you, Simon, Price, MacTavish, and Garrick arrive at Hillford Camp.

With the generators damaged, all the outside lights are off, submerging everything in utter darkness. Your quintet stands in front of the squad car, headlights and brights on to cut through the void. Each of you holds a flashlight but even that doesn't seem to pierce the night. Forests are always more sinister in the dark.

"This is fucking creepy," mutters Sergeant MacTavish, slowly sweeping his flashlight beam back and forth.

An owl hoots and insects buzz but otherwise there is complete silence.

"Show me the bodies," says Price.

"They’re this way," says Simon, guiding the group forward.

The smell of the corpses is worse now that they've been sitting. Covering your nose and mouth helps a little, but the stench is nearly overpowering. You and Simon linger near the main door, watching the three men move about the communal dining hall, flashlights illuminating the horror. Simon places his hand on the back of your neck. With just the slightest pressure, he pulls you into him, lips pressing to the top of your head. He's trying to comfort, to bring you peace, and while his touch and closeness is pleasant, you're still on edge. Still wired and unsure.

"Look at this," says MacTavish, tracing the wires and hooks with the flashlight beam.

"This can't be one person," observes Garrick.

"If it is, it's goddamn impressive."

"I want to take a quick look around. Show me those damaged generators. And the severed power line," says Price.

As you exit, you sense a presence. A lingering sense of dread, as if a knife hovers above your head, ready to drop.

"Simon," you whisper, reaching out in the dark for his hand. His fingers find yours, tangling, pulling you close.

"What is it?"

Something wet drips onto your face. It's just a drop. Lukewarm. On your forehead. As you reach up to wipe it away, you feel another.

"What the fuck," you mutter, smearing whatever it is. There’s no rain expected in the forecast.

Simon brings his light closer, and then his hands are on you.

"Are you hurt?" he asks sharply.

"I'm fine. I—"

You see it then, the deep dark red smeared across the back of your hand.

"What the fuck," you mutter.

"Move!" yells Price, waving. "Move.”

Simon grabs hold of your arm, drawing you away, all the flashlight beams pointing upward into the trees.

A scream lodges in your throat. It sticks, twisting.

The five missing personnel dangles from the overhead tree limbs. They are naked, skin split and splayed open as if they are descending from the heavens.

"We need to leave," growls Simon.

"Back to the squad car. Now!"

One moment Simon’s arm is around you, and the next it’s gone. You stumble forward, flashlight beam swinging wildly as you try to find balance.

Behind you, someone cries out.

"MacTavish!"

You glance over your shoulder as the sergeant takes a swing at something in the dark. His flashlight goes tumbling as he draws his gun. Shots ring out. You flinch at the first one, cowering as MacTavish unloads his weapon.

There is silence, and a groan.

"MacTavish!"

Price and Garrick go down on their knees beside their coworker. MacTavish is on his back attempting to sit up.

But where is Simon?

His name forms on your lips, and then you feel hands on your arms. You shriek and swing out.

“It’s me. It’s me.”

You throw yourself into Simon’s arm, chest heaving.

“We gotta get him back to the car. Lift in one…two…”

Sergeant MacTavish howls as they lift him. “My bloody fucking ankle. Goddamn it!”

The five of you shuffle toward the exit only to find that there is no escape. At least, not by car.

“You’re fucking joking,” mutters Sheriff Price.

Sergeant Garrick sighs. “Tires are flat.”

Price turns to you and Simon. "Where can we hole up until morning?"

"My office," replies Simon automatically. "I have a first aid kit."

When you arrive, Price barricades the door and checks the windows while Simon and Sergeant Garrick lift MacTavish onto the desk.

“Just twisting. I’m fine,” mutters MacTavish.

Price lifts MacTavish’s pant leg, revealing the bruised and swollen skin. “You can’t fucking walk on that.”

Simon opens up a nearby cabinet. From it, he removes a hunting rifle. He turns to you, and you realize that you might not see him again.

“You’re staying here. With him.

“Simon—”

“Stay. We can move faster with three of us. You don’t leave this room. Not unless one of us comes to the door. You understand?”

You nod. “I understand.”

Staying is hard. But you do it, because what other choice is there? At some point, you help MacTavish off the desk and into a chair, elevating his leg. All you can do is pace, tapping the side of the baseball bat Simon left for you against your leg.

"Where are they?" you murmur to yourself.

MacTavish grunts. "They'll be fine."

"What if there's more than one out there!"

He shrugs. "It's possible, but I doubt it. Killers don't like to hunt in packs. They're lone wolves."

In the distance, you hear a gunshot. You and MacTavish both jump.

Another shot. Distant.

“What if that’s them?” you whisper. “We should check.”

“We are staying here,” replies MacTavish. “I have to protect you.”

“With that ankle?” you counter.

MacTavish snorts, and then flinches when another shot rings out.

“That sounds like Simon’s hunting rifle,” you murmur, saddling up to the window. You partially open the blinds, but see nothing in the empty dark. You quickly close them and back away.

MacTavish has a deep frown on his face.

“We should—”

You hear you name. It’s shouted, but muffled as if from a distance. You and MacTavish’s heads snap in the direction of the noise.

The two of you remain quiet, lingering in expectation.

Your name, again. Closer now. And clearly Simon’s voice.

“Stay here,” you insist, handing MacTavish the baseball bat.

“You can’t leave,” he replies sharply, attempting to get out of his chair but failing as the pain radiates up his leg, causing him to fall right back in it.

“It’s fine. He said not to come out unless one of them called for us. I’ll be right back.”

Hope blooms in your chest. Unlocking the door, you step outside, and into the utter dark. The reality of the darkness begins to creep in, invading all your senses. The forest is eerie at night without light. Simon may have called out to you but he’s nowhere to be seen.

You linger on the small stoop, listening for anything. When you’re greeted with silence, you plaster yourself against the side of the shed, moving slowly, unwilling to step away. If he calls out to you again, you might be able to discern direction. Part of you longs to call his name, but another part knows better.

The killer might still be loose.

As you approach the north side of the shed, the darkness moves. It is human shaped and tall. Towering.

A flashlight clicks on, but the light does not illuminate the figure. It’s pointed at you, the beam incredibly bright and blinding. They have it aimed at your face, causing to shrink away from the light and squint.

“Simon?”

The beam lingers on your face, and then it arcs up, illuminating the figure before you.

“Simon,” you sigh with relief.

Your limbs relax, and you start to reach for him, but hesitate at the last moment. There is something strange about him. His demeanor has changed. And there’s…blood. Lots of blood.

“Simon,” you whisper, eyes widening as you notice just how much there is. He’s nearly soaked to the bone but he stands tall and unafraid.

This isn’t his. It’s not his blood.

As you glance up to meet his gaze, you find only coldness there. A deadness.

A scream sticks in your throat as he reaches out with one bloodied hand. It wraps around your forearm and squeezes. Like iron, there is so much strength behind it. With a yank, Simon tugs you away from the wall of the shed, shoes sliding and skidding against the ground as you resist the pull.

“Simon!” This time you do shriek. This time you yell. “Let me go!”

Has it been him all this time? And where are Price and Garrick?

When you swing out at him, Simon gives your arm a firm yank. It sends you spinning, twisting until you’re pressed into his side. He hooks you against his body, half-dragging you in the direction he’s walking.

“Was it you?” you whisper. ���Did you do all this?”

He doesn’t answer.

“Why?” you ask. “Why?”

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[novaursa]

A Lion's Leap (child's play)

- Summary: The king announces the betrothal of his youngest daughter, you, to Tyland Lannister. But even the Lannister Lord is taken off guard, as there has been some miscommunication regarding the proposal.

- Paring: targ!reader/Tyland Lannister

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: credit's due

- Next part: runaway

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround @misspendragonsworld

Tyland Lannister was a man known for his calm, even temperament. But as he stood in the nursery, watching his newborn daughter Alyssa vanish into the sky, cradled in Daemon Targaryen’s arms as Caraxes flew off with them, he realized that his calm had officially left the building. Gone. Completely abandoned him.

“What... what is he doing?” Tyland sputtered, his hands flailing as he tried to find the words to express his utter horror. “He’s taken my daughter! Our newborn daughter! Onto that—that dragon!”

You, ever the voice of reason, placed a reassuring hand on his arm. “Tyland, please, calm down. She was crying, and Uncle Daemon only wanted to help soothe her.”

Tyland whipped around, staring at you as if you’d just suggested that Caraxes could babysit for the weekend. “Soothe her? By flying off on a dragon that’s known to be as volatile as its rider?”

You managed a small smile, clearly trying to comfort him. “You know how dragons are. They can be very calming for Targaryen children. And Caraxes may be... spirited, but he’s never harmed anyone he’s been entrusted with.”

Tyland’s eyes were wide with panic, his mind racing as he imagined every possible worst-case scenario. “Yes, and what if Caraxes decides he wants to show her a particularly sharp cliff? Or if Daemon—oh, gods—what if he does one of those flips he always boasts about?”

You chuckled softly, though you quickly tried to stifle it, realizing Tyland was very much not in a laughing mood. “Tyland, Daemon’s not going to do flips with an infant. He knows better than that.”

“Does he?” Tyland shot back, his voice high-pitched with panic. “This is Daemon we’re talking about. Daemon. The man who sneaks dragon eggs into cradles and encourages mischief in a toddler. Are you entirely sure he’ll resist the temptation to show off mid-flight?”

You sighed, giving his arm a gentle squeeze. “Tyland, he loves our children as much as we do. He wouldn’t put Alyssa in danger.”

Tyland was about to retort, perhaps with a few words on how his definition of danger was slightly different from Daemon’s, but a sudden piercing shriek from above interrupted him. Both of you looked up, your heads tilting toward the window, where the distinctive roar of Caraxes filled the air, followed by the delighted coo of a very happy Alyssa.

“There,” you said, a hint of satisfaction in your voice. “See? She’s already calmer.”

Tyland’s jaw dropped, his hand going to his forehead as if steadying himself. “I... I just... I can’t believe we’re at a point where our daughter’s first flight happens before she’s even out of swaddling clothes.”

You smiled, clearly amused by his disbelief. “Well, that’s Targaryen blood for you. She’s already showing her heritage, and Daemon’s just helping her get a feel for it.”

Tyland shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose as he muttered, “A ‘feel’ for it? She’s barely a week old! She should be in her crib, swaddled up and safe, not... not dragon-back!”

As if on cue, Caraxes reappeared over the courtyard, his massive, sinuous form casting a shadow that passed over the nursery window. Tyland instinctively stepped back, his hand clutching at his heart as he watched Daemon guide the dragon to a gentle, albeit dramatic, landing in the courtyard below.

“Ah, finally,” Tyland muttered, trying to keep his voice steady. “Perhaps now I can get my daughter back on solid ground, where she belongs.”

You patted his shoulder, smiling as you watched Daemon dismount, still cradling Alyssa with surprising gentleness. He was grinning broadly, looking far too pleased with himself as he approached the entrance to the keep, likely to bring her back up.

Tyland narrowed his eyes, muttering under his breath, “If he so much as smirks when he hands her over, I’m going to...”

But before he could finish, Daemon strolled into the room with Alyssa held up proudly. “Look at her!” Daemon declared, his eyes alight with mischief. “She’s already got a taste for flying. No more fussing from this little dragon, eh?”

Tyland’s eye twitched. “A taste for—Daemon, she’s barely out of the womb, and you’re taking her for a flight as if she’s... she’s...”

Daemon chuckled, passing Alyssa to you with a casual shrug. “Oh, come now, Tyland. She was wailing like a banshee. Caraxes did wonders, didn’t he?” He winked at you. “Worked like a charm.”

You smiled down at Alyssa, who was now snuggled contentedly against you, her tiny face peaceful. “Well, Tyland,” you murmured softly, “she certainly seems much happier now.”

Tyland threw his hands up, sighing. “That’s wonderful. Just wonderful. Our daughter’s first flight at a day old, and with Daemon as her nanny.” He shot a look at Daemon. “Next time, could you at least ask before taking one of my children into the skies?”

Daemon smirked, his expression as infuriatingly smug as ever. “Why, Tyland, I thought you trusted me. And besides—” he gave Alyssa a fond look, “she’s got Targaryen blood. I’d say she handled her first flight splendidly.”

Tyland opened his mouth to argue, but he was stopped by a small, sleepy sigh from Alyssa, her tiny hand curling around your finger as she settled against you, clearly content.

Tyland groaned, though a reluctant smile tugged at his lips. “Fine. But next time, Daemon, maybe let her reach at least a month before her next flight.”

Daemon laughed, clapping him on the back. “Where’s the fun in that, Lannister?”

And with that, Tyland simply gave up, muttering as he looked at his peaceful, dragon-loving daughter. “Gods help me... I’m surrounded by Targaryens.”

Tyland Lannister had just finished seeing you off as you carried baby Alyssa to the nursery with Rhaenyra, who was also taking her infant son, Jacaerys, to sleep. It had been a chaotic day, to say the least, and Tyland was looking forward to a moment of calm. But as he turned back around, ready to gather his thoughts (and perhaps a goblet of wine), he realized something distressing: Daemon, his rambunctious toddler, was nowhere in sight.

A ripple of panic washed over him. Daemon, the toddler who thought every corridor was his playground, who had an unsettling curiosity about dragons and absolutely no fear of heights, had vanished. Tyland’s mind immediately conjured a parade of worst-case scenarios—his son scaling the battlements, climbing on dragon statues, or, Seven forbid, sneaking off to the Dragonpit.

“Oh, gods,” he muttered, feeling his heart start to race. “Where has he gone?”

The halls of the Red Keep suddenly seemed infinitely large, every shadow a potential hiding spot. And Tyland, who was normally a master at staying calm, found himself setting off on a desperate, frantic search for his missing son.

The first place he checked was the kitchen, where Daemon had recently discovered the thrill of “borrowing” pastries. But instead of his son, he found a very confused cook holding a half-eaten lemon cake, wondering who in the Seven Kingdoms had taken a bite and left the rest behind.

“Has anyone seen a boy about yay high, silver-gold hair, who’s prone to... mischief?” Tyland asked, trying to sound more authoritative than desperate.

The cook shook her head. “Not since he stole half a custard pie this morning, no.”

Tyland groaned and hurried out of the kitchen, mentally preparing himself for what was beginning to feel like a wild goose chase.

His next stop was the library—surely Daemon hadn’t wandered in there, right? He wasn’t known for his quiet, studious nature, but perhaps the lure of towering shelves had tempted him. But no. Instead, Tyland encountered a very annoyed Maester Orwyle, who was hastily putting away scrolls that had somehow fallen onto the floor in a suspiciously toddler-sized pile.

“Lord Tyland, please tell your son that if he wishes to read, there are more... delicate ways to go about it,” Orwyle grumbled.

Tyland tried for a polite smile, though he could feel his anxiety mounting. “I’ll... be sure to pass along the message, should I actually find him.”

Next, Tyland headed toward the gardens, praying to all the gods that Daemon hadn’t gone anywhere near the Dragonpit. But before he reached the exit, he was stopped by the sudden sight of Ser Criston Cole, who had a very damp-looking cloak slung over one arm.

“Lord Tyland,” Cole greeted, his brow raised in a mixture of confusion and amusement. “Your son, by any chance... would he have an interest in fountains?”

Tyland paled. “The... fountains?”

Cole nodded, suppressing a grin. “Yes, he was last seen trying to ‘catch’ the water in his hands, with very little success.” He held out the damp cloak. “He left this behind.”

Tyland took the cloak, muttering a silent prayer of thanks that his son hadn’t tried to climb into the fountain. “Thank you, Ser Criston. If you see him again, do... whatever you can to keep him on solid ground.”

He was about to head back toward the gardens when he suddenly remembered Daemon’s favorite place to hide—behind the throne room tapestries. It had become his secret spot, and Tyland wouldn’t put it past his son to sneak back there. With a mixture of hope and dread, Tyland made his way to the throne room, ignoring the puzzled stares of various courtiers as he inspected each tapestry.

Finally, he spotted a small, suspiciously wiggling lump behind one of the heavy, velvet curtains. Tyland’s heart leapt, and he yanked the curtain aside, revealing a very pleased-looking Daemon, who was clutching a feather quill like it was a royal scepter.

“Daemon!” Tyland cried, relief washing over him. “There you are!”

His son grinned up at him, clearly unbothered by the whole ordeal. “Papa! Look! Feather!” He held up the quill proudly, as if it were a dragon’s egg.

Tyland shook his head, torn between laughter and exasperation. “Yes, Daemon, that’s a... very fine feather.” He scooped the boy up, holding him close. “You had me worried sick, you little scoundrel.”

Daemon giggled, clearly finding his father’s worry more amusing than concerning. “I hid good!”

“Yes, too good,” Tyland muttered, though he couldn’t keep a smile from creeping onto his face. “Now, let’s get you back to your mother before you decide to go on another grand adventure.”

With Daemon safely in his arms, Tyland made his way back to the sunroom, already feeling his heartbeat start to return to normal. Though he’d never admit it, a part of him knew that with a son like Daemon, there would likely be many more wild searches through the Red Keep.

And despite himself, he couldn’t help but chuckle at the thought.

Tyland Lannister had decided that, after months of chaos with a newborn daughter, a toddler who seemed to have inherited his Targaryen relatives’ taste for adventure, and a dragon who still hadn’t learned not to chew on tapestries, he was owed some alone time with his wife. A few uninterrupted moments, that was all he wanted.

And so, he’d taken careful measures. He had the servants instructed to keep an eye on Daemon in the nursery. He had assured that the maids would be handling any cries from Alyssa. He had checked, double-checked, and triple-checked that you would have no reason to be called away for at least one evening.

He finally had you all to himself in your chambers, where you were nestled on the bed, laughing softly as he took his place beside you, leaning in, his hand brushing your cheek.

“You know,” he murmured, his voice low, “I don’t think I’ve had a moment with you since... well, since before Alyssa.”

You smiled, reaching up to twine your fingers with his. “A moment sounds lovely.”

Tyland leaned in, his face inching closer to yours, heart hammering with anticipation. Just as his lips brushed against yours—

A knock on the door.

He froze, clenching his teeth. Of course, he thought, holding his breath, praying whoever it was would simply go away. But alas, the knock came again, a little more insistent.

“Lord Tyland!” came the voice of the nursery maid. “I... I’m terribly sorry, but young Daemon—well, he’s, uh, found a way out of his crib again.”

Tyland squeezed his eyes shut, feeling his patience hanging by a thread. With a sigh, he stood, muttering a quick, “One moment, my love,” before opening the door a sliver.

The maid stood there, looking thoroughly frazzled. “I thought he was asleep, my lord, but the next moment, he was... climbing the curtains.”

“Climbing the...?” Tyland felt a vein in his temple begin to throb. “I’ll deal with him later. Just... just keep him off the curtains, would you?”

The maid nodded quickly, clearly eager to avoid more questions, and scurried away. Tyland closed the door, letting out a long sigh before turning back to you with an apologetic smile.

“Now... where were we?” he said, easing back onto the bed beside you, sliding an arm around your waist.

“Right about here,” you replied, a soft laugh in your voice as you leaned in to kiss him.

Just as he was about to close the distance, the distinct sound of baby Alyssa’s wail came from down the hall. Tyland’s shoulders slumped, and he resisted the urge to let out a groan. Not again.

You sighed, giving him an understanding smile. “She probably just needs a quick feed. I’ll only be a minute.”

Tyland took a deep breath, trying to keep his frustration in check. “Let me at least go with you,” he muttered, following you to the nursery. He leaned against the doorframe, watching as you gently picked up Alyssa and soothed her.

“See?” you murmured, cradling her, “she just missed her mama.”

Tyland smiled, though it was laced with exasperation. “It seems I’m not the only one.”

Once Alyssa was settled and back to sleep, you both returned to your chambers. Tyland closed the door, bolted it for good measure, and turned to you with a determined expression.

“This time,” he said firmly, “nothing will interrupt us.”

You laughed, pulling him close, and this time, you actually managed a proper kiss. Tyland’s heart soared, and he felt a rush of relief, his hands slipping around your waist as he deepened the kiss.

But just as things were heating up, a very distinct scratching sound echoed through the chamber window, followed by a loud thud.

The two of you froze, pulling apart as Tyland glanced toward the window. His stomach dropped when he saw the familiar scaly head of Viseron, peering in through the glass with what could only be described as curiosity.

“Oh, come on,” Tyland muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Viseron, apparently deciding that he was missing out on something interesting, let out a high-pitched screech and nudged the glass, his wings twitching as though he were seconds from clawing his way inside.

You bit your lip, trying not to laugh. “I think he’s jealous,” you whispered.

Tyland shook his head, his voice a mixture of resignation and disbelief. “Of all the dragons in Westeros, ours just had to be a nosy one.”

With a sigh, Tyland walked to the window, cracking it open just enough to stick his head out. “Viseron,” he hissed, “go back to the courtyard. Now.”

The dragon blinked, tilting his head in what might have been a pout if dragons were capable of such expressions. But after another pointed glare from Tyland, Viseron snorted, flapping his wings in a disgruntled manner before turning to lumber off.

Satisfied, Tyland turned back to you, his determination reigniting. “Now,” he said, crossing the room with purpose. “No children, no dragons, no interruptions.”

You grinned, letting him pull you back into his arms. “Think we’ll make it this time?”

He leaned down, his lips brushing your ear. “I’ll barricade the door if I have to.”

And as he kissed you once more, Tyland prayed to every god in Westeros that this time, he’d finally get his moment of peace.

The morning sun was just beginning to filter through the curtains when Tyland Lannister stirred, a pleasant haze of sleep still clinging to him. He lay there for a moment, relishing the warmth and comfort of the bed—and of you, nestled beside him. After the endless interruptions of the previous night, you’d finally managed to steal a few precious, uninterrupted hours together. It had been, in short, a success, and Tyland hadn’t felt this relaxed in months.

He sighed contentedly, shifting slightly to get more comfortable, when he felt... something. A presence. A very unwelcome presence in the room.

Opening one eye cautiously, he blinked as he found himself staring into the wide-eyed, curious gaze of none other than his toddler son, Daemon, who was standing at the side of the bed, clutching his favorite stuffed dragon.

Tyland’s heart skipped a beat, and he sat up abruptly, trying to shake off the sleep and gather his wits. “Daemon!” he croaked, his voice somewhere between shock and resignation. “What... what are you doing here?”

Daemon blinked, as though that were the silliest question in the world. “Papa, I hungry.”

Tyland’s shoulders slumped as he fought the urge to laugh—or maybe cry. Of course, it would be hunger that drew his son into their room at the crack of dawn, a mere few hours after Tyland had finally managed to reclaim some peace with his wife.

Beside him, you began to stir, lifting your head with a sleepy smile. “Oh... morning, love,” you murmured, only to pause when you noticed Daemon. “Oh! Daemon, sweetheart, what are you doing here?”

He beamed at you, apparently delighted to find both of his parents in one place. “I hungry, Mama!”

Tyland sighed, running a hand over his face as he muttered, “We can’t have one night, can we? Just one night without—”

But before he could finish, a loud squawk interrupted him, coming from the window. Tyland turned his head, groaning inwardly as he spotted Viseron, his scales glinting in the morning light as he perched on the window ledge, craning his neck to peer inside with a look that could only be described as keen interest.

“Oh, not again,” Tyland muttered, rubbing his temples. “First, he’s spying on us, and now he wants to join us for breakfast?”

You stifled a laugh, giving Tyland’s arm a reassuring squeeze. “He just misses Daemon. Look at them—he’s practically family.”

Tyland arched an eyebrow, glancing between his son, who was now waving excitedly at the dragon, and Viseron, who let out a pleased little rumble in response. “Family? He’s a dragon, not a house cat. I can’t even get him to stop stealing tapestries.”

But before he could launch into a full-blown complaint, Daemon scrambled up onto the bed, plopping down between the two of you with all the confidence of a child who had absolutely no idea he was interrupting anything. “Papa, Viseron want breakfast too?”

Tyland groaned softly. “I don’t think he’s hungry for breakfast, Daemon. Not... our breakfast, at least.”

Daemon didn’t seem to hear him, as he’d already scooted to the edge of the bed, trying to reach out toward the window where Viseron’s snout was pressed against the glass, fogging it up with each breath.

You laughed, ruffling Daemon’s hair. “It seems our family time just expanded.”

Tyland looked at you, exasperated but unable to keep the fond smile off his face. “We can’t even have one morning alone, can we?”

You leaned in, kissing his cheek. “Oh, we’ll manage. Just consider it... training in patience.”

Tyland sighed, pulling Daemon close and glancing at the dragon outside. “Fine. But if he starts demanding his own room, we’re drawing the line.”

And as Daemon babbled excitedly about breakfast with Viseron, Tyland couldn’t help but chuckle, knowing that, interruptions or not, he wouldn’t have it any other way.

[as-is-above-so-below]

The Captain - Simon Riley x Sniper!Reader, Wife!Reader

Blurb 2: Too Fast

I'M ALIVE! Thank you all for your patience :) I've had so many big life changes in the last four months (and in the coming months) - it's hard being an adult, people. I've been traveling (mainly visiting @lethalchiralium a bunch <3), planning a big move, looking to land a new job...all the things. Anyway! Please enjoy. Blessed be, and Happy Yuletide!

<< Previous | Next >>

“Si…”

“Hm?”

“He’s getting too big.”

Simon turned his chair slightly away from his desk to peek over his shoulder. In the doorway to their office stood Freyja with a six-month-old Arthur on her arm, clad in a cow-print onesie. The little hood was pulled up over his head, sporting fluffy little ears on top, along with a pair of horns. 

He just about melted when Frey pouted at him and sniffled, rubbing their son’s back. Simon was up in an instant, padding across the carpet to stand by her side, a soft, sympathetic smile gracing his features. He bent his head a little and attempted to get the baby’s attention, gently brushing his back with his fingers “Art. Artie…” he hummed, the last syllable drawn out a bit. “Look at Dada, Art.”

Arthur did eventually turn his head, after a moment, preoccupied with gumming his toy and confused by the interruption. The hood that used to hang over his face and block his vision now sat snug on his fine hair. There was no need to adjust it back to meet his big, curious eyes. 

“Hi, pup.”

Simon wasn’t his preferred parent by any means; that privilege was reserved for his mum. Still, on seeing a familiar face, the baby smiled around his teething ring, and his fat cheeks chubbed up as he cooed and wiggled in Freyja’s hold. He pressed his hand between the two, his palm against Arthur’s chest, and took the infant onto his forearm, his little back against his chest. 

Simon let out a dramatic huff, kissed Art’s head, then patted his belly. “Oh, yeah,” he said, giving his wife a playful look. “Look at those big, manly legs of yours. Thing’s a bit tight on ye, now.”

The baby craned his neck, trying to look back at his dad as he spoke, and quickly getting frustrated and crying out. Simon chuckled and turned him around, supporting his neck and peppering kisses on Art’s rosy cheek. When he was satisfied, he leaned down for a quick kiss from Freyja.

“It lasted longer than I thought it would. He’s nearly busting out of it.”

“Simon!”

“What? He’s six months old, Freyja. He’s been wearing it since he was born. Oversized, might I add.”

“Shut up. It’s my favorite. My little moo cow.” 

“We can buy him a new one.”

“He’s growing too fast. I hate it.”

Don’t I know it?

To Simon, it felt like Artie had only been born yesterday. Where did the baby in front of him, who was sitting up on his own and already using a sign or two, come from? He had no idea, couldn’t say where the time went. God forbid he blinks, and suddenly he’ll be walking and chasing after his sister-

No. It’s fine. That’s what babies do, yeah? They start eating solids, learn to crawl, then walk. Then they go to their first day of primary school, then…secondary…

Stop it.

He settled for a soft, “I know, love.”

Arthur cooed up at him again, a sound known to pull easy smiles from the man. He would listen to it forever, if he could. 

“Yeah? Do you like that idea?” Simon asked, tracing patterns on Art’s back with his fingers again. “Do you want a new cow onesie?” A little smile from Art. “Alright, pup. Dad will get you one.”

taglist: @esthervalea, @miss-leto, @sweetestcowboy, @blueoorchid, @apocalypticseagull, @eatingtheworldsoffanfiction, @covenlovenn, @330bpm-whiplash, @gnoccheyy, @jaggernauticals, @dwkfan, @untoldshortsofthefandomsdoms, @bobfloydsgf, @maviee, @thomaslefteyebrow, @kyovy, @prodyng, @scout-fang, @avalkyrieofparis, @misshoneypaper, @berryjuicyy, @voteforpedropascal, @beakami, @addictedtothefictionalworld, @kaghost, @witchy-writing, @67-angelofthelordme-67, @thychuvaluswife, @mysticalpandabear, @cabreezer0117, @halfmoth-halfman, @peachesofteal, @nirvanaaaonly, @ysljoon, @ssoliva, @fenixyrie, @voodoo-writer, @eleazarkate, @tomhardy41, @glitterypirateduck, @cringeycookies, @captainquake42

Copyright © 2023 as-is-above-so-below. All rights reserved.

[tadpolebrains]

With patch 6 giving us new kissing animations, I’d like to present:

Companion Hugs

Because we deserve a hug update.

“Can I have a hug?”

Gale buries his head into your shoulder, inhaling deeply. He wants to get lost in your warmth, feel completely surrounded by you. His hands grip firmly at your waist, or his arms will sling around you snugly. If you ask for a hug during a moment where you need comfort, he’ll instead take a hand and cradle the back of your head, guiding it down to rest against his shoulder, fingers woven into your hair. His other arm wraps around you, hand settling between your shoulder blades. When you go to pull away, he’ll pull you back in for a moment, letting your foreheads rest against each other for a few moments of silent understanding before letting you go.

Astarion doesn’t understand exactly what to do at first. Hugging isn’t something he’s used to. I’d imagine in-game, act 2 hugging animations would be a bit stiff and awkward. Slightly uncertain pats on the back, not knowing when to pull away. But being unable to drop the lingering smile on his lips afterwards. By act 3, he’s more used to it. Less hesitant in pulling you in. Will even nuzzle into your neck- not even to bite, but because he knows you trust him not to bite unless given permission. It’s rare for that kind of trust to be extended, and it warms his undead heart to have it.

Wyll likes fully leaning against you, your chests flush against each other, lightly swaying back and forth, almost as if you’re slow-dancing. One of your foreheads rests against the other’s chest, or perhaps an ear over the other’s heart so you can hear the heartbeat. He hums lightly, some random tiny tune that is sometimes a known song, and sometimes something random. Going to him for comfort will get you a gentler embrace, a hand rubbing along your back.

Karlach gives the best fucking hugs. This woman is taking every excuse to hug you as soon as she gets her engine fixed. They can range from strong, excited hugs that lift you off the ground to soft, tender ones where she just surrounds you with her heat like a heated blanket, tail curling around your legs just to keep you a little bit closer. She loves nuzzling her nose into your hair, feeling the softness against her cheek. Platonically or romantically, she’ll also give little kisses on your forehead and cheek, just as an extra show of affection. She doesn’t really do quick hugs unless she really has to- ask her for a hug, and you’re getting at least a solid minute. At least. If you need comforting, that minimum time extends.

Lae’zel doesn’t understand it at first. You… want to trap her against you? Is this some sort of battle maneuver, or a show of dominance? She doesn’t see the point of it until you mention someone else in camp gives ‘the best hugs.’ Well, clearly she must be the best at this ‘hugging’ of yours. Once she either watches you do it with someone else or demonstrate for her, she seems to take it as a personal challenge. Will squeeze you tightly against her. Tight, crushing hugs that you feel like could break a rib. If you two are close and you go to her for comfort, she might just let you squeeze her tighter than she squeezes you. Just this once.

Shadowheart isn’t as eager to hug at first; not under Shar, at least. She prides herself on her self-control and independence, and doesn’t see hugging as something she needs. If you ask her for one while she’d still under Shar and you’re close, she’ll do it for your sake, and hate that she likes it so much. Denies it. Doesn’t want to come to rely on it. But once she starts coming into her own, she begins accepting the hugs, even letting herself enjoy them. She’s a gentle hugger, loosely wrapping her arms around you and letting her eyes slip closed, enjoying the moment.

Halsin is literally a bear. Bear hugs, all day. Will scoop you up in his arms and hold you tightly so you feel that nothing could possibly harm you while in his arms. The muscles combined with that softness is perfect hug material. If you need comfort, he’s your man. Comforting hugs from him can feel almost paternal, and he’ll make sure to reassure you that the want for touch is entirely natural. It’s a human need, and you should never be ashamed of giving into your natural urges. Those large hands rub along your back and twirl your hair, grounding you in the moment.

[scrumptiousmongerhumanoidshark]

Hades characters and affection

In an established relationship

Zagreus

Zagreus’ favorite place to kiss you has got to be your forehead, where he can just quickly bend and give you a quick kiss.

If you’re busy doing something he can, and will, disturb you by lifting your head up so he can give you that goddamn forehead kiss.

If his dad killed him (again), he’ll be even more insistent on his affection, wrapping his arms around your waist and putting his head on your shoulder, muttering under his breath about how his blasted father won again

Hades

You’re not getting kissed, for one, not even Persephone gets kisses most of the time.

His affection is mostly just him having a hand on your shoulder, he’s just not very touchy- with how touchy his brothers have always been he’s grossed out by most interactions that include touch.

The only time he’s really ‘clingy’ is when he looses a fight to Zagreus, but even then it’s mostly just him sitting on the ground and leaning his huge weight on your side.

Nyx

Nyx also isn’t super affectionate, I mean she’ll lean down and give you a little peck on the forehead, but it’s not often.

She’s more of the kind of person to sit down on the bed with your head on her lap as she pets your hair and tells you about some story Chaos once told her about.

If you’re out in the House she’ll hold your hand or put her hand on your shoulder, but not much more.

Charon

Chances are, even if you have Charons affection- you’re not getting touched.

The most he will do is let you lean against his side if you’ve been walking for a while, otherwise literally all of his affection is in small free gifts.

If Charon likes you enough, he will sit down beside you and drape his long cloak over your shoulders.

Hypnos

Out of everyone here, Hypnos is the clingiest, arms constantly around you whenever you’re close enough to grab.

He’s not much of a kisser, usually just having his arms and legs locked around you as you force him to actually do his job.

He will however freeze for a solid minute or two if you give him a kiss.

Thanatos

You’re being kept at an arms length- literally.

Thanatos loves you, he does- but he just doesn’t do affection, if you’re lucky he’ll have his scythe around your shoulders to keep you in his presence.

The closest he’ll get is when he’s tired, or in bed, but even then it’s just him resting his head on your stomach or lap.

Zeus

He gives Hypnos a run for his money at how clingy he is, but Zeus won’t leave you alone.

Kisses are being pressed all around your face, your neck, even your hands. He has his arms around you with you in his lap, nuzzling you or bragging about his achievements.

Your ‘alone time’ is just when he’s tired and sort of flopped against your side with his head tucked under your own.

Poseidon

He’s not nearly as clingy as Zeus, but he still almost always has an arm around you.

He’s not exactly a person who will give you kisses, but he will absolutely hold your hand or link arms. He’s also fond of leaning against your side.

Poseidon will absolutely have your head tucked under his chin as he tells you a story that one of the ocean creatures told him.

Aphrodite

She is quite affectionate, going between holding your hands, cupping your face and even nuzzling her nose against yours.

Most of her affection comes in the form of praise, complimenting your appearance, what you’ve done today, what you’re wearing- everything.

Aphrodite definitely has her hair over your shoulders as she shows you this interesting new thing she’s found.

Ares

I honestly wouldn’t recommend accepting his affection- his affection is not nice and sweet.

He’s more likely to put you into a headlock and wrestle with you, correcting your form and giving you a smug grin or a (hard) pat on the back to praise you lasting that long against him (it wasn’t long at all)

The sweetest he will be is putting all of his weight on you when you’re in bed and passing the fuck out.

Dionysus

He’s sort of clingy?? He’ll have his arms around you when he’s drunk, mumbling random stories into your ear.

He offers you wine, an arm around your hips and hand on your thigh just to hold you up against his frame.

His kisses are rare and sloppy, usually on your cheek or forehead.

Hermes

He is the king of quick pecs, always moving around so whenever he spots you he nearly knocks you on your ass as he quickly kisses your cheek or forehead.

Hermes will never hold hands or lock arms- just because he’s too impatient for it.

Hermes will, however, football tackle you into a hug.

Achilles + Patroclus

If this is in a platonic sense, you’re not getting much. Achilles with clap you on the shoulder or give you a side hug- Patroclus won’t touch you at all. They’re tough soldiers, not super affectionate.

That’s all taken away if you’ve joined their chaotic relationship.

If you’re dating them, Achilles has an arm around you always, causally leaning down for forehead kisses. Patroclus is even affectionate, cupping your face and nuzzling his nose against yours… or mocking your height.

Theseus

First of all, how did you get this man’s affections?

Second of all, his form of affection is holding you, he’ll hold you up in his arms and walk around with you as if you’re the sun itself.

Kisses are not a thing, you just have to listen to him bragging for hours on end.

[thehypnone]

Sundown: Chapter 1

WC: 2,6k

Relationship: Pre-relationship SwissAlps

Tags: Transfeminine Mountain, AU; Cowboy!Swiss x Barmaid!Mountain, First Meeting, Fluff, Protectiveness, Discussion About Being Transgender, Transphobia  (warning for that if someone's sensitive to it), not from swiss tho he's supportive!!!

Swiss has been travelling for a while. He finally gets to a place he can rest in and meets an unique individual. He's immediately enamored.

Notes: comm for @jazz-bazz, first part of our au! ty bex <3

Read chapter 1 under the cut or on AO3.

He’s been sweating his ass off for three days before something resembling civilization has finally come along. He’s half dead, his chick is half dead, and all he wants is to get a pint of cold beer and a damn bed.

The town—barely big enough to be called such—is obviously sparsely populated. Swiss doubts it’s even inhabited at first, but the closer he gets the more signs of life he’s noticing and the hope in him grows. He leans down to pat his chick’s neck and sighs at the puff of dust coming off of her.

“Soon, girlie. I’m gonna give ya a good brush, you deserve it.” The mare nickers and the pair continue their slow walk toward the town. It doesn’t take that long for them to make their way into the shadow casted by the town’s buildings. It smells like cow’s shit, but the people obviously have more water and food than they really need, which means there is a chance Swiss and his horse will get some. If not given freely, he’ll take it, but he is tired and he hopes their visit in that place will go smoothly.

Swiss doesn’t see any heads peeking out of doors or windows to look at him, neither threateningly nor curiously, as he looks around searching for any sign that would indicate where he can find a bar. He really needs a beer.

His knees crack when he jumps down from his mare. The ground is dry and a cloud of dust arises as his boots touch it. He finds something that could be a spot for travelers’ horses and as he leaves his chick there he hopes nobody will shoot her off if he was mistaken. It’s a solid roof over a spot covered in a thick layer of straw, with buckets full of fresh looking water hanging off of wooden beams and cubes of hay under them. Inviting enough.

Swiss pulled the reins over the mare’s neck and pulled the bit out of her mouth before tying her to one of the beams by the water. He hopes she won't be too picky. “Drink, girlie, I’ll be back soon.”

He pats her on the ass on his way and walks away, heading into the adjoining building. The batwing doors’ hinges squeal loudly as Swiss walks into what indeed is a saloon. It’s nearly empty, only two men are sitting in a corner and talking quietly over drinks. Swiss scans the space and even though it’s empty, it seems nice. The men from the corner don’t acknowledge his presence, but he doesn’t crave attention this time, so it is fine by him. It’s a bit colder there than outside and he already feels some relief.

Swiss goes straight to the bar and just as he’s sitting down on one of the squeaky stools the barmaid walks out from behind a dark brown curtain hanging between the shelves. A gorgeous, tall wo…man? They are a very pretty man, if that's the case. He shrugs, though, it’s none of his business.

They are wearing a long, light green dress—a little old fashioned in style, but it’s a good piece. Little dirty-white apron covers the dress from their waist down to where their knees are under the skirt. The dress doesn’t have sleeves, only straps digging into their shoulders and going down to create a laced neckline that makes their tits look very compelling. Their hair is long and wavy, a beautiful shade of dark amber flowing down their back and over their shoulders.

Their eyes, though…oh, their eyes are what makes Swiss’ belly swoop and his mouth go even drier than it already was. Big—adorned by thick and long lashes—and in the color of the healthiest, most fresh, summer grass ever. Swiss haven’t seen grass as green in years.

“Anything to drink for you?” They ask, picking up a rag to wipe the bar. More to busy themself than because it’s dirty. If anything it’s dusted over from unuse. 

“Well, ain’t ya a pretty thing?” Swiss winks, his head tilted to the side. He knows he most definitely looks like a creep, but he can’t stop staring.

“Oh, me? Uhm–thank you?” they stutter as blush creeps up their cheeks, coloring them a light rosy pink. Gorgeous. “What…what about that drink?”

“Get me a pint of some good ole beer, sweetheart. Pretty please.” 

“Mhm,” they nod, obviously flustered, and turn to disappear behind the curtain again. Swiss sighs—he really is exhausted—as he rests his chin on his fist, his other hand scratching at his stubble. Well, more like a beard, he didn’t have much time or opportunities to take care of it, so it’s a bit unkept now.

Soon enough the bar…person returns with Swiss’ beer and hands it to him with a light smile. “There you go.”

“Thank you kindly,” he mutters, nodding, before pressing his lips against the chilly mug and tipping it back. He moans at the refreshing feeling washing over him the moment beer pours into his mouth.

“Is it that good?” the person chuckles, leaning against the wall with their hands crossed over their chest. Their beautiful, full chest and it’s–Swiss shakes his head. He ain’t seen no tits in ages but he isn’t an animal, damnit.

“Nah,” he snorts before taking another gulp. “It’s piss, but I’ve been dry as a desert, sweetheart.”

The person curls their lips into a little amused smile and turns, grabbing the rag and starting to wipe the bar again. Swiss tries to not be obvious in his staring—looking from under the rim of his hat. The stranger is so captivating, he can’t tear his eyes away. 

“Listen, I don’t mean any disrespect, sweetheart, but I’ve gotta ask–” Swiss starts after clearing his throat, but gets cut off. The other probably expected it to go that way.

“You’re the nicest person I’ve encountered in a long time,” they say with a smirk and Swiss bows his head, grinning. “Phrase your question as nicely and there’s a chance I won’t take out the revolver from under the bar and shoot your hat off.”

“Damn, sweetheart.” He recoils dramatically, raising his arms defensively. “You’re too pretty for me to offend, don’t ya worry.”

“So?”

“Are you a boy or a girl?” The question lands, but no offense shows on the person’s face. Swiss continues. “Cause if you’re a boy, then you’re the prettiest one I’ve ever seen—and I’ve seen a lot—and if you’re a girl, then…well, then you’re the prettiest one of those.”

“I’m a woman, kind sir,” she laughs, fully this time, and the melodic sound of it goest through Swiss’ ears right to his heart, “you haven’t proven yourself worthy of permission to call me a girl. Yet.”

“Understood. I'd love to try and prove my worth.” He winks and lifts the mug nodding, as if in a toast. “You’re a gorgeous woman, ma’am.”

“Thank you. I do understand the confusion, though, even my own body didn’t get the memo.” She sighs, fidgeting with her hands and worrying her lip between her teeth. Swiss gets a sudden urge to gently pull it free, lest she breaks the skin and paints her mouth with blood, but he doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t, they’ve just met. Swiss doesn’t know what possessed him.

“Huh, that’s so…” He mumbles, staring holes into the already rugged wood of the countertop. With the corner of his eye he sees the barmaid pull up a chair on the other side of the bar and sit on it, right before him.

“Unnatural?” she finishes for him, but her guess of his thoughts couldn’t be falser.

“No, I wanted to say it makes you unique. It’s amazing,” Swiss says—confident—looking up at her again. She is so much closer now and so many more details of her beauty are visible to the man, and if she’d let him he’d count all the golden freckles adorning her face a hundred times over.

“Oh…” she whispers. Swiss doesn’t count her freckles, but he does follow the path of a blush crawling up her cheeks. “Well, uhm, I don’t know. It doesn’t feel amazing most of the time.”

“That must be tough,” he replies, wondering. “Is it like…like you don’t feel right in your body? Like it’s not yours?”

“Yeah, sometimes,” she has no idea why she’s suddenly spilling her innermost thoughts to a stranger she has met not even half an hour prior. There is something about him, though, that makes her feel safe and maybe carries a chance of finally being understood. Even if just a bit. “And sometimes I just feel…wrong all around.”

Swiss hums in acknowledgement and leans down to his mug, swallowing down a few gulps. Once his mouth is unoccupied again, he asks, “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

“It’s Mountain,” the barmaid says, “but I prefer just Mounty.”

Swiss snorts at that, but immediately regrets it upon seeing Mounty’s brows furrow in confusion and her eyes fill with a tiny bit of hurt. “Sorry, sweetheart, I ain’t laughing at you! My horse’s name is Monty, that’s why!”

“Oh. Oh, okay,” she relaxes and chuckles, too, a bit embarrassed by her immediate defensiveness. “Yeah, that is funny.”

“Nice to meet you, Mounty.”

“Won’t you give me your name?” the barmaid’s eyelashes flutter and Swiss wouldn’t be able to refuse or lie to her even if he wanted to.

“Swiss, sweetheart,” he says, lifting up the mug again. “My name’s Swiss.”

“Nice to meet you, too, Swiss,” Mounty replies, her face lighting up with a soft smile, and if Swiss was standing it would make his knees buckle. Still, his insides warm up and twist and he’s never felt like that; so stupid and…vulnerable.

Swiss feels himself blush and he quickly hides behind his mug.

“Would you–” Mounty is about to ask him something, but a squeak of the doors and heavy steps interrupt her.

“Afternoon!” a stranger calls out, walking into the saloon as if it was his own ground. Swiss looks up at the barmaid and sees her tense up—her lips turn into a thin line and her brows furrow. She knows the man and she isn't fond of him in the slightest.

Swiss doesn’t like that look on her.

“Afternoon, sir,” Mounty mutters, standing up. The man doesn’t reply, just walks over and sits down by the bar next to Swiss. He is alert after Mounty’s reaction, one of his hands close to his gun.

“Get me some whiskey, girl,” the stranger grumbles, spitting the last word out like it burns his tongue, like an insult. Swiss realizes it is supposed to be one and the knot inside him tightens, this time with something resembling anger. How can someone treat such a gorgeous, brilliant and kind creature without utmost respect?

“Hey, she ain’t your girl,” Swiss hisses as Mounty disappears to get the man’s drink. He won’t sit there and pretend he is okay with what is happening right next to him. “Bark orders at your wife like that. If you even have one, it don’t seem like you’ve got a lot to offer.”

“Why do you care?” the stranger scoffs, “he’s a freak.”

One second Swiss is sitting relaxed, sipping on his beer, and then in the next he’s up with his back straight, looming over the other man and staring down at him with fire in his eyes.

“I suggest you either apologize to her when she gets back,” he growls, reaching behind himself, to his revolver, “or get out now so neither of us have to see your ugly face any more. Or else…”

“Or else what!? Ya one of them, too, hm?” the man—clearly an idiot—snarls, craning his neck to look up at Swiss, pretending to be brave. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you had no balls on you.”

“Oh, I’ve got enough balls, asshole,” Swiss laughs and that seems to hit. He pulls his revolver out from behind his belt, twists it on his finger and watches the other man hesitate about his next words. “You wanna lose yours?”

The man scoffs as if there wasn’t fear in his eyes. He’s a coward and he storms out accordingly, because it’s unlikely he knows better than to actually challenge Swiss. He doubts he knows who he was.

Just as the man disappears outside, Mounty returns with a glass of whiskey intended for him. There’s no smile on her face and her rather neutral expression turns to confusion as she sees only Swiss by the bar. “Where did he go?”

“Oh, he realized he left something at home.” Swiss shrugs, returning to his stool.

“And what would that be?”

“Respect for women,” he says with a smirk and Mounty returns it, knowing and thankful. She sits again and looks at the glass in her hand before pressing it against her lips and cringing as she tips it back to drink. “Not a fan?”

“Not at all,” she coughs and Swiss chuckles. She is adorable. “All I drink is tea.”

“Tea is good,” he says and looks into his mug—there was still some beer left. He lifts it again and silence falls for a moment.

“You really are nice to talk to,” Mounty speaks after a while. “I get called a freak and other names all the time, usually the moment I come into someone’s view. It’s nice to be treated normally, have my feelings acknowledged…and be protected. You know?”

“I can only imagine.” Swiss smiles at her fondly. It must be hard living like that. Trying to live right by yourself and offending others by simply existing, just because they are too thick-skulled. If he could, he'd sit on that creaky chair every damn day and chase off every single man who'd as much as look at Mounty wrong.

It’s quiet again, Swiss finishing up his beer and Mounty drinking her whiskey—frowning at every single sip. They have just met, but the silence is comfortable. It feels like not only did they know each other for ages, but that they have a…special connection, of a kind.

Swiss snorts at his own thoughts. He’s stupid for them, for thinking this is anything more than…than what, exactly?

“A’ight, sweetheart,” he sighs after a moment, breaking the dead silence. “I should get going, find somewhere to sleep.”

“We’ve got beds,” Mounty perks up, immediately shying away as she realizes she might’ve been a bit too enthusiastic, “if you want…”

“I’d love a bed, but I don’t have much money,” the man shrugs. He’d rip anyone off without any remorse, but not her. He’s never gotten a soft spot for someone as fast as he did for her. “And I’d rather get a place for my horse than myself.”

“And if it’d all be on the house?”

“What, like me so much already you don’t want me to leave?” Swiss laughs, winking.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Mounty scoffs, but her own wink says something else. “You’re clearly exhausted, who would I be if I let you go back on the road without a proper rest?”

“Will you at least accept my help in here and in the stables as a payment?”

“I can consider it,” she mumbles, smiling softly as she stares at Swiss through her lashes.

“Alright, then. I’ll stay, sweetheart.”

[breakfastteatime]

Today's Fallen Order request is "Don't move" for @highbrasshighkass:

The sorry sound of BD’s warble tugs at Cal’s heart. “Don’t move, BD,” he says, trying to contain his own panic. “It’s going to be okay.”

BD believes in him with every single circuit in his frame, however he’d also really, really like Cal to figure this out a little quicker, because BD’s boosters are dead and the ground beneath him is very, very shaky, and if he falls into the river, he’ll be washed away into the sea, lost forever in the depths.

“That’s not happening.” Cal carefully works his way down the tree trunk, testing each limb before transferring all his weight. Unlike the trees on Kashyyyk, their Zeffo counterparts are scraggly and thin-limbed, and Cal doesn’t trust them to hold him, especially as he works his way down the cliff. But if he doesn’t get BD off that crumbling ledge soon, his friend really will be lost forever. Cal hasn’t felt the loss of his abilities this keenly in a while. If only he could pull BD to him. And if wishes were Venators, they’d all fly. “I’m nearly there.”

BD beeps apologetically. It’s enough to send some more clumps of soil tumbling into the river.

“Don’t move, and don’t talk,” Cal advises. “It’s okay. The stormtrooper who hurt you is history.”

BD stays still and silent.

Closer. Closer… Cal places his boot on a branch poking out the cliff and feels it dip, hears it crack. He curses under his breath. If BD falls, he can slow him –

Just like Prauf

– and then he’d just have to dive, grab him, and hope he can fight the current enough to get them back to dry land. He really doesn’t relish the idea of such icy waters, but he’ll do it for BD. They’ll just have to make a fire, dry out, then carry onto the next tomb.

Finally, he’s close enough to reach out and pluck BD off the crumbling ledge. He leans, leans, leans –

The root he’s clinging to gives. Cal cries out as he drops, only for his fall to stop when the root catches. He doesn’t hesitate, grabbing BD and pulling him close, just as the ledge crumbles to nothing, rocks falling into the racing river below. Cal pulls BD close. “I got you, buddy,” he says, swallowing hard against the crush of emotion. If anyone asks, it’s the icy wind making his eyes tear up. “Can you hold on?”

Another sorry beep from BD. That shock baton the trooper caught him with mid-scan really fried his systems.

“Not a problem.” One-handed climb it is. He tucks BD against his chest with his left arm and carefully scrambles his way up the cliff. By the time they’re on solid land, Cal’s right shoulder burns. He says nothing as he sits down, BD in his lap. “Will a system reboot help?”

It will, but it will take some time.

“Okay, I’ll get us someplace safe.” Cal looks around. They’re too far from the Mantis to go back, but they could take shelter in that crashed Venator, out of the weather and away from any patrols, before carrying on. “Let’s go.”

BD whistles with joy. And then, calmer, he thanks Cal for saving him.

“Anytime, buddy,” Cal says. “You’ve done the same for me so many times.”

And please don’t scare me like that again, Cal wants to say but instead settles for giving BD a pat on the head while holding him just that little bit tighter.

[shineonyoucrazyyandere]

Hi! How about a hcs with a gender neutral reader that gets turned into a cat temporarily by a stand, how would la squadra react?

Have a nice day :>

Sure! I’ll go character by character on this one

Yandere! La Squadra w/ gn! Darling turned into a cat by a stand

Risotto - *bat bat bat* He hears the soft sound of something messing around with his hat (he takes it off every so often aside from showers and sleeping). There’s immediate suspicion as he goes to investigate, finding a cat rather than you mesmerized by the golden baubles that spelled his name. Doesn’t take long for the leader himself to put two and two together that you are the cat. Considering he makes sure you won’t escape whatsoever any other time.

It’s hard to tell but his eyes soften slightly from amusement of cat you playing with his hat. He’ll likely pick you up, expression hardening at a potential stand user looming around. He’ll immediately order the rest of the group to be on high alert and track down the user. As cute as you were in cat form, he was not amused by this little trick no matter how harmless it seemed.

Formaggio - manages to squeeze a crude joke, makes a casual comment of how cute you were like that. How he’d love to spend time with you being like that more, while scratching under your chin. He observes if your full on cat, which seems to be the case. Doesn’t mean he won’t be constantly bringing up how willingly you allowed him to pet you, when you revert back later.

Illuso - Amused you were turned into a cat of all things, he’d love to have alone time with you in his mirror world without disturbance. Just an hour or two of holding you close to him. He wouldn’t lie he would have extra satisfaction of bashing the stand users face in from turning you into a cat. Though before that he snaps a picture with a camera of you in cat form for later usage.

Melone - coos and fawns over you the second he sets eyes on you. Even in cat form you seem to be fairly stiff around him, and he absolutely notes every behavior like a decent scientist would. Light touches and pets down the back, and he doesn’t flinch if you decide to try and scratch. You can be certain he’ll be calling you kitten or similar cat nicknames when you revert. Not to mention maybe receiving cat related clothing or other items.

Ghiaccio - In typical fashion he’s more irate that somehow someone got passed them enough to do something to you. He might pet you a bit while ranting how he’s likely going to freeze the user solid if he narrows down where they are. He does think you’re cute in all honesty, he’s simply pissed a slip up on his part or his team caused this headache. The scene is mildly amusing as he continues his rant and pets your soft fur. He’ll likely mention how cute you were with a smirk when he calms down and you’re back to normal.

Prosciutto - As obnoxious as Ghiaccio’s yelling could be, he’s also aggravated at this massive oversight. He definitely ends up approaching to pet you, knowing full well he’ll have to take care of any fur that gets on his suit later. He notes the color of your eyes in cat formed more observationally than anything. Coaxes you to come closer, while side eyeing Pesci who seems giddy at you being a cat. It’s cute but he wants you in human form back as a soon as possible.

Pesci - He’s pretty much over the moon upon seeing you, but trying to keep it to a lower level so he doesn’t end up being poked fun at. Or alternatively being slightly reprimanded by Prosciutto for losing composure when an enemy could be in the vicinity. He has all sorts of thoughts of using one of those mouse toys with you. The man’s pretty much squeaking internally at how cute you were all while giving you some nice head pats. Though he would diligently help eliminate the perpetrator when it came down to it.

Sorbet and Gelato - both of them are pretty fond of the attitude of cats, and they both laugh that you were turned into one of all things. They’ll likely make fun of the user for such a ridiculous strategy, even if they’re nowhere near around. All taking turns holding you, noting how helpless you were not that it made a difference being human either. They both figure out where you like being pet almost immediately, and of course maybe weaponize it against you later like some of the other members of La Squadra.

[theonceandfuturequeenoftarts]

Prompt-ober 2023 – Breathplay, deep kissing, transformation

Read part one of Harrygmalion and Galatom here~

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

Harry’s back in his studio bright and early the next day, eager to examine his sculpture with fresh eyes. If it’s as close to finished as he thinks it is, he’ll make the call to Luna today or tomorrow about getting an exhibition set up. He’s loath to part from this particular piece, but he can’t really afford to be precious about displaying and selling his work.

And there it sits, looking glorious in the morning sunshine and exactly as he’d imagined it when he first brought that marble block in here. He’ll really have to think of a name or title for it soon. Something regal to match that haughty look.

As he gets closer, he sees something that brings him up short. There’s something off about the lips.

“Shite,” he curses. If giving into a bit of whimsy last night left a stain after he’d been so, so careful for months to prevent exactly that, he’s going to be extremely cross with himself.

He gets out a soft cloth to see if the damage can be wiped off. Stepping up on the plinth, he leans over the figure and rests a hand on the throne to keep his balance. But, upon closer examination, the lips don’t look like discoloured marble. They look human.

Impossibly strong stone arms wrap around him, holding him pinned against the sculpture. He shouts in surprise and confusion – what…? Looking down, Harry sees the figure’s white, stone eyes staring back at him in flinty amusement. He freezes in shock – jesus, he hadn’t ever thought the statue would actually come to life – until he’s pulled down to the sculpture’s eye level. His struggling doesn’t have much (well, any) effect on the cold, hard stone, even after one of its arms releases him to raise a hand to Harry’s jaw and draw him into a kiss.

…What in the fairytale nonsense– Did he actually kiss his sculpture to life last night??

The lips pressed to his grow gradually warmer and softer, slowly parting to deepen the kiss. Harry feels a too-smooth tongue trace along his bottom lip, encouraging him to open to his mouth. With a light moan, he does. If he’s lost his mind, might as well enjoy it. 

The kisses are slow and thorough and drugging. He’s having trouble catching his breath and his head is spinning. When one of the sculpture’s hands tangles in his hair and holds his head in place while its mouth seals over Harry’s, he realises the sculpture is stealing the air from his lungs. He pushes and smacks frantically at solid shoulders, but there is no pliancy in that grip and black spots start to cloud his vision.

The other heavy marble hand grabs hold of Harry’s right wrist, forcing his arm against the edge of the stone sword. He didn’t think he’d made the blade all that sharp, but it slices into his forearm easily. Blood wells up around it and begins to drip down the blade and his arm, pooling against the hilt and the sculpture’s hand, and spilling off onto its lap. The blood sinks into the stone flesh wherever it lands, turning the translucent-white marble surface to milk-pale skin.

When the hands release him, he steps back too quickly, tripping over the plinth and his feet and landing hard on the studio’s floor. Harry stares uncomprehendingly at the figure in front of him as he heaves air into his oxygen-starved lungs.

Everything looks as he carved it to look – brows, hair, lips, nose, firm body, long arms and legs – but now the skin is inarguably living, with a network of veins and arteries just visible beneath its pale surface. The thick, wavy hair is a faceted dark brown, the lips a light pink, and the eyes are a dark reddish-brown and shine with intelligence.

The seven dark green striations remain, however – the only thing to mark the figure as inhuman.

If he weren’t so on edge and possibly bleeding out, he’d pat himself on the back for creating the vision of perfection before him.

Glancing quickly down at his arm, he notes that the wound, while still bleeding and several inches in length, is fairly shallow. He’ll likely need stitches, but it didn’t cut into the muscle tissue and probably won’t affect his ability to work. If he survives his suddenly animate (and amorous?) sculpture, that is.

He may still be in shock.

When the figure continues to sit and stare at him, Harry clears his throat. “Erm…”

Great start.

The figure (which he really needs to name) tilts its head to the side as a sharp, lopsided grin pulls at its (his?) lips. “Hello, Harry.”

“Uh… Hi,” Harry replies warily. The sculpture knows his name. Is that normal? 

(He internally slaps his forehead. None of this is normal. Maybe he fell and hit his head on the plinth last night and his imagination is going buckwild in the moments before his brain bleeds out.) 

The figure stands, notably still holding the kind-of-bloody marble sword, and steps off the plinth towards him. The modesty sheet he’d carved for the statue’s lap slides off and he gets quite the eyeful. Damn. That is an unfairly pretty dick.

The sculpture-guy gives him an amused look. “My eyes are up here.”

He just got called out for perving on his statue by his statue. He’s had that nightmare before, and now he can officially say that it’s a humiliating experience in reality, too.

“Er, sorry,” he says, eyes firmly fixed above the waistline. “Uh, could you maybe put the sword down?”

The figure looks down at its hand, as though it hadn’t realised it was holding anything, before glancing calculatingly back at Harry. “I will not. I am all too aware of how troublesome you can be.”

“Wh– I– troublesome??” Harry sputters, standing up and pointing an accusatory finger. “You’re the one who just turned months of hard work into something I can’t sell anywhere other than the black market!”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” the figure dismisses disdainfully. “Fate has once again brought us together. It would never allow you to sell me like chattel, nor would I let you part us. Especially not so soon after our reunion.”

Fate? Reunion? What on earth…?

(Wasn't the face familiar even though he knows he's never seen it before? Hadn't he known what to carve with a level of certainty and exactitude he'd never felt before?)

“Who are you?” Harry asks wonderingly.

“I am Lord Voldemort,” the sculpture-turned-man announces imperiously. “And you, Harry Potter, are mine.”

[salamandergoo]

This was written in snippets on a discord server, thought I’d clean it up and slap it here! Haven’t been able to stop thinking about roadie Steve 💕 There’s a lil bit of spice in here, just to keep things fun :)

Steve, after everything that happens, doesn’t really know what he wants to do. Working at Family Video is… fine, but Robin is finished with her gap year and now she’s getting acceptance letters and scholarship offers from colleges and trying to decide where to go.

She keeps asking him if he’ll be okay and Steve tells her to go because he’s excited for her! She’s excited too! And yeah, they’ve had nights where she stays over with him and they cry about how they won’t get to be attached at the hip, but they can’t stay in Hawkins, it’s not realistic. They’ll never be… okay, if they stay.

She goes off to college and absolutely loves it, she thrives there, and they’re in constant touch, but Steve feels like he’s lost a part of himself. His platonic soulmate, the woman he’s so used to just… being there, is gone. So when he’s invited to a Corroded Coffin gig, he jumps in, thinking that if nothing else, it’ll be a solid distraction from his wallowing.

They’ve played a few cities in Indiana, a frontman accused of satanic murders is pretty great for their image surprisingly enough, they’re just waiting for Gareth to finish school before they jump in fully. The show is pretty local, just barely outside of Hawkins city limits, but it’s refreshing for Steve to be… somewhere else, just for a night. And the gig is fun! Steve can’t hear the words to the songs too well, can’t keep up with the music so great, but he can feel it in his chest. And he loves the energy of it.

Partway through, something goes wrong with one of the amps and they’re trying to get it fixed. Steve offers to give them a hand, and in just a few minutes and some tinkering he has it working again. And the pats on the back from the guys and the bright smile from Eddie sparks something in Steve.

The next day, he finds himself in the library, checking out books on electrical equipment and instruments and anything he can think of, and starts reading up. By the time Gareth graduates and CC has a few shows set up, Steve comes along. He’s able to handle any technical difficulty they come across, he’s the guy making sure it all goes smoothly.

And suddenly they’re recording their first album and blowing up and Steve is their go to guy for live shows, he’s the first person on their payroll. For awhile, he’s the only one, he runs everything that isn’t playing music, but eventually, a few more hands are needed.

Eddie makes it clear that Steve is in charge, naturally trusting him to be the head of the road team.

The band is doing great and soon enough they’ve upgraded from Eddie’s van and Jeff’s station wagon to an actual tour bus. Eddie is so amped about it and it’s hard not to let his energy be infectious.

Of course, driving across hours of plains dims some of the excitement, but Eddie and Steve start to come up with… interesting ways to pass the time. Ever since they left Hawkins, Steve’s eyes have been wandering a bit. Turns out metal heads are his type, who could’ve guessed?

At first it was making out in an alley in Indy with a girl who had shaved hair and piercings shoving him against the wall and making him beg to eat her out. Then it was the boy in a leather jacket in the mosh pit in the middle of summer, sweat slick skin covered in ink and a gentle hand but commanding voice in a motel room. And then it was his own fantasies, covering his mouth as he touched himself in a shared hotel room bathroom thinking about Eddie, who else?

So there’s an ongoing game of gay chicken and Eddie hasn’t been quiet about his own conquests along the way. It’s little things, Steve shifting a little closer to Eddie on the bus, a hand on the thigh that creeps upwards, whispering in hushed tones just a little too close.

It finally snaps in California, a sold out show attended by Argyle and Jonathan (who moved back out west a few months after the world didn’t end). They’re slipped a few “party favors” before heading off to a motel for the night, a reprieve from the rumbling, uncomfortable mattresses on the bus. One of the rooms only has one bed because of a booking issue and before anyone can complain, Eddie snatches the key and declares that “Stevie’s with me”.

So the band splits up to go to the rooms, Eddie has to wait while Steve inspects the bed closely to make sure there’s nothing gross, and then they settle in, still sticky with sweat and buzzing with adrenaline. Eddie lights a joint and teases Steve a little with the way he groans and sighs as he takes a hit, but Steve gives as good as he gets

He straddles Eddie’s lap and asks to shotgun in this pretty, lilting voice, cocking his head in a way that makes his eyes, sparkling with mischief, catch the light just so. And Eddie isn’t going to deny a pretty boy on his lap, not when he’s seen Steve in those tight jeans. He takes another hit and tugs him in by the shirt collar, breathing out the thick smoke into Steve’s waiting, parted lips. And Eddie is treated to the sight of thick eyelashes fanned against freckles cheeks, the expanse of pale skin on Steve’s neck as he tilts his head back to avoid blowing the smoke back in Eddie’s face.

And Eddie can only restrain himself so much as he leans in and kisses the faded scar that cuts across Steve’s adams apple. Steve licks his lips and is looking at Eddie’s mouth when he opens his eyes and something between them snaps. He leans in and whispers, “kick me if I’m misreading this” before kissing Eddie on the lips. It’s firm, but not messy, charged and searching. Eddie has to take a second to remember how to move his limbs, holding Steve tight around the waist, careful not to bump the lit joint against his shirt.

He kisses back, but it’s not enough, he needs more, wants to ride out the low thrum of the coming high with Steve. He pulls back just long enough to take another hit and lifts a hand to cup Steve’s jaw. He breathes the smoke out, letting his tongue trace Steve’s lip as he takes it. Steve holds the smoke like a fucking expert, tangling his tongue with Eddie’s as he lets the smoke back out from the corner of his mouth. Eddie distantly wonders if he looks like a dragon like that, a thought that has him giggling. And then it’s really hitting him that he’s 1) a rockstar 2) making out with his high school crush Steve Harrington and 3) absolutely rock hard.

Judging by the pleased expression on Steve’s face when they part for air and the way he grinds his hips down slow and teasing, he definitely noticed that last part.

[raphmybeloved]

Mama

This is a little fic I made for @idiot-mushroom 's Teenage Turtle Ninja Mutants iteration. This is not canon to that iteration but I was just thinking a lot about shitty parents who suck at boundaries and the combination of oldest daughter syndrome and this was born.

TW there is no actual incest but Splinter makes an incredibly poor taste joke along those lines that's uncomfy to read

Raph doesn’t know when her brothers first start calling her mama. They mostly use it to tease her or complain that he’s a mother henning them. She thinks there may have been a time where it annoyed her but these days he likes it. 

As far as nicknames go it’s pretty solid and better than the normal dipshit and dickface that they tend to call each other. 

It doesn’t bother her. Until it does.

At first none of them put any thought into Leo entering the kitchen with a “hey mama what’s cooking?” It’s practically a guaranteed reaction from Leo when he sees Raph wearing an apron. It's normal.

They aren’t thinking about the fact that Splinter is in the room.

“Mama?” Splinters asks and Raph watches her siblings all freeze. This could go bad. Splinter's parenting is one of those things he’s sensitive about and there's always a chance he’ll have a reaction even to something as small as a nickname.

Splinter laughs and Raph knows it should be her cue to relax like her brothers are doing but she just can’t. She just has a feeling of dread that keeps her shoulders tense.

“Oh Mama, that is hilarious. Raphael is such a good mama after all. Always taking care of cooking and cleaning! It’s like he is my little wife ha!” 

Raph watches her brothers relieved awkward smiles transform into uncomfortable grimaces. He has no idea what his own face looks like or even how to fix it to an appropriate expression. Splinter seems to be immune to the clear discomfort that is drowning the rest of them as he continues laughing.

“Alright ‘mama’ I am going out,” Splinter says, patting Raph on the back before heading to the door. “Make sure to put the kids in bed.” 

The silence after he closes the door is suffocating until it isn’t. His brother’s are talking but Raph doesn’t really know what they are saying. Everything is a little too fuzzy to understand and it's hard for Raph to fully comprehend anything except this feeling of wrongness..

She feels weird. She feels gross. He can’t even quite pinpoint why but the feeling just consumes her. Eventually he must have shaken it off even if he can’t remember doing so because suddenly he’s in bed and everyones eaten and the lights are out.

She has no choice but to try to fall asleep and ignore the phantom feeling of bugs crawling all over her.

Like a lot of things they don’t talk about it. Her brother’s stop calling him mama as much and she tries to ignore the feeling of wanting to vomit whenever splinter says it.

She would have probably continued to never talk about it if it wasn’t for Casey Jones.

It's a fire escape night. A routine for just Raph and Casey to look out at the city, eat snacks, and shoot the shit. No siblings, no responsibilities, just a flimsy little platform that could give out any moment and two teens who don’t care. 

“So is something up?” Casey asks. The snack of the night is sunflower seeds and Casey seems determined to get as many shells into a flower pot on a balcony across the alley between apartment buildings and is mostly failing at his goal.

“What do ya mean?” Raph asks. She wishes she could join Casey in his quest but he eats her sunflower shells whole in a way that horrifies her friends and family and therefore has nothing to throw. Instead she picks at her nail beds.

“You’ve been weird, Mikey called you mama and you flinched. You’ve never done that before.” Casey says and not for the first time Raph is reminded that Casey is far more observant than he lets on.

“It’s nothin,” Raph mutters. 

“C’mon you know I don’t believe that.” Casey stops his sunflower seed mission and turns to look at her. There's something about the look Casey is giving him that Raph actually wants to tell him. 

“Splinter caught on to them calling me ‘mama’ and now he's started doing it,” Raph tries to keep her voice even as she stares out into the city but she can feel the bitterness sink in. “Pretty sure he can tell I don’t like it but he won’t stop.”

There's a moment of quiet before Casey lets out a hiss of air from his teeth.

“That sucks.” There's another moment before Casey lets out a small laugh.

“What’s so funny asshole?” Raph says glaring at the boy who is unfortunately her best friend

“Your dad is such an ass that he accidentally validated your gender. I mean obviously he’s being a dick but it’s just kind of funny that he is doing it in a way that uses feminine terms after trying to ignore your whole deal for so long.” Casey snorts, “What a fucking idiot.”

Raph looks at Casey. In a way he’s right. Splinter has brushed off any attempt Raph made to come out and now he’s using a feminine term. Sure it’s in a shitty way. At best it’s a crappy consolation prize and it doesn’t fix the weird gross feeling but-

Casey is trying. Raph shared an actual feeling and Casey isn’t mocking isn’t ignoring he’s trying to make her feel better. It’s.. nice. It helps Raph push away that gross feeling Splinter brings.

“Yeah,” she says. “What an idiot.” 

Things aren’t really better. Splinter is still an ass and Raph is still stuck in a situation where he just has to deal with it but when Casey smiles at him it's not hard to smile back.  

She at least has that.

[captain-mj]

angels of digitalism part two please very very pretty please

Done!! Part 1 is right here

Soap pulled into the parking lot the next morning just in time to see Ghost fly by and park. Without Roach. He noticed a car he didn’t recognize and assumed they must’ve came separately today. 

“Hey Ghost!” Soap beamed at him as Ghost slipped off his helmet. He just had a neck gaiter on so Soap could see his fluffy blond hair. It was clearly bleached, having the unnatural platinum that came from doing so, 

“Johnny.” Ghost tilted his head at him and Soap almost tripped over air.

“Don’t remember telling you that name.”

“It was on your resume. Would you prefer I stick to Soap?” He looked at him, tilting his head. Ghost had the most puppy dog brown eyes that Soap had ever seen. It didn’t help that his hair fell in his face and that he could only be described as pretty. 

“No. It’s fine. Only you can call me that though, alright?”

Ghost’s eyes crinkled like he was smiling. “I’m glad I’m your favorite.” He started walking and Soap felt flustered as he started to walk after him. 

Soap looked up at him, hands going behind his back. “You uh… have any plans today?”

“Mostly rigging checks. I put the wires and harnesses up myself so I’m going to make sure they’re all solid.”

Soap frowned. “Don’t the venue owners handle that?”

“Don’t trust them. A lot of them don’t follow the same standard. Not putting Rudy and Roach at stake because of that.” 

“Also you. You’re also doing the fancy tricks this time right?”

Ghost shrugged. “Not the same. I fall, I recover. They fall and they… crack. I threw Rodolfo onto a bed once and it sounded like pop rocks.“ He sighed. Soap had to pause and really think about that. 

Did he have it wrong? Was Ghost dating Rodolfo and Alejandro was dating Roach? Where did that leave Alex? Was Alex dating anyone? 

Maybe if he was single… He was a strapping young man. 

Soap laughed and decided to change the subject. “You hurt your wrist so bad you can’t play guitar.”

Ghost was silent for a minute and Soap was wondered he offended him before laughed. “Fair enough. I did…” He rubbed his bandaged wrist. 

“How did you hurt yourself anyway?”

“Scraped it up on my bike. Someone pulled out in front of me too fast and I skidded across the road. More embarrassing than anything honestly.” 

Soap frowned. “You were in a fucking accident?? And that’s all that happened?”

“No. I’m just lying to you.”

“Oh.”

“Also, don’t trust any story Alex gives you about losing his leg. 50/50 chance he’s lying to you.” Ghost patted his shoulder and held the door open for him. 

Soap nodded and just got to work. He perched on the edge of the couch since Rodolfo was lounging on it, headphones in. Occasionally, he’d speak in spanish so Soap assumed he was on a call. Made sense, he was the manager. 

Soap started to draw again and tried out different methods and styles to see what might look best. 

Rodolfo sat up after a while and used the couch properly. He kicked his legs out and took his headphones off after saying goodbye in English. 

Soap hummed. “Who was that?”

“Alejandro Vargas. He’ll be dropping by later. You can ask for an autograph if you want but no pictures.” Rodolfo started to work on his tablet.

Soap shrugged. “Might get one for a friend of mine but I don’t actually like his music that much.”

“Me either but he’s a friend of everyone here.” 

Soap nodded and showed him what he had so far. 

“I like it. This it?”

“No. This is a rudimentary sketch.” Soap frowned, wondering if they seriously considered that worth the amount of money they were paying him and decided not to ask, lest his feelings get hurt. They didn’t really seem to get how art like this worked.

Rodolfo nodded and handed him roughly 40 bucks. “Coffee again. Need me to text it?”

“Nah, I still have the texts from yesterday.” Soap took the money and did a two finger salute. He once again got all of their drinks and handed them out. When he got to Ghost, he paused. “Uh, where is Roach?” He was trying not to look at Ghost who was hanging upside and shirtless. After working up there for the past hour, he must’ve gotten hot but that logical explanation did not erase that Ghost was fit and scarred and so damn attractive Soap was worried he’d get hard right then and there. 

Ghost glanced around. “He might be working with Alex. I think they were doing something with his outfit for the vocaloid.” He twisted himself in the ropes so he sat upright and took his drink. The position spread his legs and put a little strain on his arms, making them tense. Soap’s knees started feeling a little weak. 

Ghost drank some more and tilted his head. “You okay? You look really flushed?”

“I’m fine.” Soap smiled, noticing the tattoos circling Ghost’s arm. They were clearly covering some scarring. It looked rough, a bit like a dog or something had attacked him. “I’ll go find Roach.” He stepped away and went in the direction that Ghost pointed out to him. 

Soap watched Alex grab Roach’s hips and move him. Roach’s back arched a little and the image on screen just didn’t move. Alex sighed and put his head on Roach’s, almost pouting. 

Were they dating?? 

Alex glanced over, hand going around Roach’s waist. Roach leaned into him and they both either didn’t realize the position or simply didn’t care. Soap wasn’t sure how to handle that considering just yesterday Roach and Ghost had been tangled together. He stared for another minute before Alex snapped his fingers. “Hey, Soap, you alright?”

“Yeah. I’m good.” 

“Cool.” They took their drinks and got back to debugging the vocaloid. Roach would do certain moves and the vocaloid would just stop and freeze until it would snap into whatever position Roach was in. Alex was quickly getting annoyed and it was obvious. They went back and forth on it with them either moving around or standing still. 

Alex groaned. “Soap. Wear the costume.”

“What?”

“Wear the costume.” 

Roach started to strip and Soap stared blankly. “Why do I need to do this??” When he was down to his underwear, he handed them to Soap. 

“I need Roach to help me at the computer so someone has to wear the suit.” 

Soap slowly took of his own clothes and quickly put on the outfit. Roach was a little slimmer than him so it was tight over his shoulders and ass. It was just leggins and a long sleeve shirt with wires so it wasn’t the most revealing, it was just tight. He listened to Alex’s explanations and watched Roach sign back at him. Roach had no shame in continuing to stand there in his underwear. It was hard for Soap not to look at him. They were musicians and performers, it made sense they were attractive, had to be honestly, but it was ridiculous just how hot Roach was. Slim figure, the exact opposite of Ghost, nice thighs and an even nicer ass. And the entire time, he’d bend over the laptop, back arching slightly. 

Was everyone here trying to kill him? What next? Alex taking his shirt off and pouring water over his head? Rodolfo speaking to him in spanish?? 

Was this flirting? Or were they just oblivious? They couldn’t be, right?

After a bit, the vocaloid followed the movements like they were supposed and Roach beamed at Soap. He reached up and lightly bonked their heads together before helping Soap out of the clothing. It felt more like he peeled the shirt off and it made him really flustered. Roach’s hands were very cold and they brushed against his back before he politely handed Soap’s shirt to him. He was clearly smiling and that made Soap even more flustered when he pulled it on. Soap nodded at him and fled, running back to his couch and his laptop. 

Except… Alejandro was sitting there. He was playing what looked like a knock off of candy crush and completely ignored Soap as he walked past him. 

“Hi.” 

Alejandro nodded at him. He sipped his drink and Soap picked up the tablet to get to work. The silence was… actually kinda nice. Soap wasn’t usually one that could handle sitting there without talking, but he was deep in his art and Alejandro was deep in typing whatever it was he was typing. 

Ghost reappeared and Alejandro wolf whistled at him. “What are you doing walking around like that?”

Ghost glared at him. “Fuck off you slag.” 

“Not my fault you’re a fine piece of ass.” Alejandro grinned and Ghost rolled his eyes and pulled his shirt back on. His back muscles flexed as he did. 

“You’re so annoying. Why are you here?”

“Tour just ended so I’m hanging out with you guys. Obviously. Why? Don’t love me anymore?”

Ghost shook his head and sat between them. Three big men on a couch was a bit of a hard fit, but Soap wasn’t going to complain. 

Soap showed Ghost who leaned into him to watch him draw. The silence was slightly less comfortable so he started explaining what techniques he was using. Ghost didn’t really seem to get it, but he listened nonetheless. 

Soap was coming to terms with the fact they were all a lot less cool than he was expecting, but it was nice. Maybe they could be friends when this was over.