#i drowned pebbles in warm pebbles

[nnomsu]

[azullumi]

WHERE WE LIE ON THE EDGE OF SUMMER !!

premise— you didn’t think that being neighbors and childhood friends with scaramouche would come with many things. for one, you have a sassy loser pathetically in love with you. content tags & warning — pairing: scaramouche (w/ gender-neutral reader) | modern!au, childhood friends, puppy love, scaramouche can’t skip stones, secret pining (for scaramouche), scaramouche words of reassurance and act of service advocate, fluff, word vomit, unspoken confessions | wc: 4.8k ; one-shot

notes from a jellyfish — (repost) first fic for the eat your heart out event!! nearly lost my mind writing this, but enjoy!!

SCARAMOUCHE is a liar. 

No truths spill from his mouth, that much is certain. 

He could never understand how poets write the beauty of a single sway of grass in the wind nor see how artists condense a single moment into a small stroke of a brush and find it breathtaking when it will all be bound to rot, but he tells others that he does anyway because he is a liar.

His words would bloom withered in his mouth, a shameful garden of ache, and the petals would never feel the lingering warmth in his lips.

But he never liked the heat, the suffocating warmth, always preferring the winter cold. But it was summer when he first met you and he remembers your laughter as you threw pebbles across the water, your smile gently shaped by the warm sun.

i. standing in between here and there

“Are you okay?”

There was only a grimace of annoyance on his face when you turned to briefly look at him. 

It was summer once more and Scaramouche dreaded summer more than anyone could, much more so now that he’s spending this hot day with a stranger—a child of his aunt’s friend, who is also their neighbor. The combination of sitting under all this heat and being forced to get along with someone he doesn't know is deadly. He can't even remember what their name was. Perhaps they had uttered it once only for it to be lost among the pebbled path or to be drowned in the river.

He raises his eyebrow at you, “Is it not obvious enough?”

“What’s with this sassy lost child? Jeez.” You mumble more words underneath your breath, something along the lines of him being grumpy. The summer breeze brushes across your skin as you stare at the river, contemplating. Perhaps you were debating if this stone will reach farther than the frog who jumped across just now, or maybe you’re just thinking of the boy—who your mother had asked you to get along with—sitting silently on the grass behind you since earlier.

You throw one stone over the water. It bounces once and twice, the surface responding with small ripples, sliding across before eventually sinking. You do this many times and he watches you every single time, eyes seemingly unable to look away. But curiosity is a hungry monster that consumed him, so he speaks to rid of the itch that claws at his throat:

“What are you doing?”

“Stone skipping,” you paused, witnessing the stone jump only once before reuniting with its old friends at the bottom of the river, “wanna try?” You blink at him, waiting for his answer. There was silence then came a grumble. He stood up from his seat with an expression that makes it seem like you forced him to do so.

You handed the boy a pebble, but he had to stare at it for a few seconds before he took it from your hand. You waited with an expectant gaze, your mind somehow anticipating that he’ll do better than you—Scaramouche looks like he’s good at everything that he does.

Oh, but how your expectations came crumbling down the way your breakfast cookie fell into your glass of milk.

“Go on, throw it.” You had told him and you didn’t know that he was that much of an obedient child because he really did throw it. Just not aimed at the water. He threw it like how one would pass a ball to a friend; his stone didn’t even graze nor come near the surface of the water.

But Scaramouche had the same perseverance of a rock against the wind. He picked up a pebble and threw it once more; this time, it is now aimed at the water but it only went straight ahead, sinking slowly to the bottom.

You don’t think you’re in the right time to say anything, so you just stood still and watched the struggle of a young boy who had a small stone in his hand, with the occasional rustling of leaves as the breeze passes and with the sound of a splash prodding at the silence that envelops you like a familiar companion. You wanted to go and teach him how he’s supposed to do it, that there is a certain angle that he has to reach and he’s not supposed to throw it just as it is, but your mind seems to tell you not to so you didn’t. It’s all quite a spectacular watch, after all, it was as if you were watching your favorite show at 7 PM after waiting hours for it to go on air.

No matter how many times Scaramouche tries to throw and make the pebble bounce across the river, it always just sinks the first time it comes into contact with the surface. He’s silent, but the frustration is evident in the scrunch of his eyebrows and the increasing aggression in his movements.

“Oh, wow, you’re terrible at this.” You were the first to break the silence—your words seem to have stabbed his unyielding spirit as he groaned and just went back to where he was sitting. An act of surrender after struggling for so long.

”You don’t want to try again?”

“Why should I?” The pebble will only sink anyway. What’s the point of doing something when you know you’ll fail in the end?

“Come on, just try it once more.” But you were a stubborn one and Scaramouche doesn’t have much of a choice, not when you’re already right in front of him, taking his hands into yours and pulling for him to stand up. You drag him back to where he was earlier, still holding one of his hands even as you pick up a pebble right at your feet.

“Here, do it like this.” Your hand is warm against his, gentle, in contrast to the crumpled look on his face. You guide him, saying words that he can’t process that much as he’s way too focused trying to fan the flames that danced across his cheeks.

He throws, in the same angle and form that you have guided him into before you had stepped back to watch, holding hope that he’ll succeed this time in the same hand you held him. The stone doesn’t immediately celebrate with his other failed attempts at the bottom as it bounces against the surface. 

You cheered, the sound of laughter slipping out of your lips as it seemed to tickle the insides of your mouth the more you held it in. There’s a certain feeling of warmth that washed over him when the melody rings inside his head. The roughness of the feeling, sharp in its unfamiliar edges, is akin to a huge wave that crashed into his form, but the comfort of it as it submerges him reminds him of the afternoon light shining on the floors of his home.

“It only bounced once.” He says, trying to downplay it all to get rid of the feeling that consumes him.

“But it did. That’s what matters, doesn’t it?” The feeling only seemed to grow stronger as if it’s feeding on your every word, being fuelled by your gaze, by your smile, by the sound of your voice. He tries to drown it all by thinking of other thoughts, diving into a different topic instead, and all the while, copying you as you resume your stone-skipping activities.

“Do you not get bored doing this?”

You hum, contemplating for a few seconds before you answer: “I think everything is a little more fun when you do it during summer,” you beam at him, then return your gaze back to the river before you throw, “Like this, especially when you’re doing it with someone.”

To be honest, he doesn’t even understand what you’re saying. This childlike mindset—although, for one, you and him are just a pair of children, playing beside the river, feeling the heat prickling against your skin. The bugs only grow louder in each second that passes as the afternoon slowly comes to the pass, replaced with the onset of the evening. The sky is painted with various colors mixed together but all in harmony, oranges and reds mixed with something golden, tainted with purples.

And yet, he would always ask himself, what is even nice about summer?

“I don’t know why but maybe I’m just saying that because I like summer,” you say as if you had read his mind, as if you had noticed the lingering question on his face that asks you why. “Do you like summer?”

It takes him a moment to answer, letting the orchestra of the wind against leaves, of the stone splashing against water, of the cicada’s song last longer than his silence. He could have said no, he could have disagreed with you and argued with your answer. He could have said that he despised summer for its heat and bugs. But he didn’t and that was the problem.

“I… like summer.” There are razors in his tongue as he speaks, the utterance of the sentence making him bleed internally as he bites on his words. Perhaps the hesitation in his tone betrays his words or perhaps it was the twitch of his lips paired with the contort of his forehead that made it appear as untruthful as it actually was.

Even so, you were convinced. You gleam at him, eyes bright with excitement: “Really? You don’t seem to be one to like summer.”

“I do, why would you say that?”

You shrug, “You just seem like a winter person to me.”

That wasn’t exactly a lie. In fact, that was the whole truth and the actual lie was him saying that he likes summer. He still doesn’t understand himself for saying such words—maybe it’s the heat getting into his head or maybe it's the sound of your laughter that plays over and over inside his mind.

It feels like having a crush—He slaps himself mentally at the notion.

“We should always spend summer together then.” You’ll say, watching a pebble bounce across until it reaches the other side. A feat you have only achieved twice—the second time being this moment. You silently rejoiced for your success, clenching your hand into a fist.

He responds, “So we could just watch stones bounce on water the whole time?” and this made you chuckle before you refute: “Unless you want to, but there are tons of other things to do during summer.”

This went on and on: you, just listing out whatever activities you could do and saying whatever, and him, who listens to every word you say and would give you short responses. It is not until dusk had ended and the evening came, and now, you’re standing by the doorway, saying your goodbyes to the boy who’s terrible at stone-skipping.

“You don’t even know my name, do you?”

“I do.”

You laugh, “Liar.”

ii. take a step closer, won’t you?

Summer came to visit like an old friend you had known for years.

It’s a fleeting companion, a familiar stranger bound to disappear, gone as the wind carries your scent. The sun kisses your skin very delicately, the grass will hold your being as if you were its own child, and you will miss its embrace the moment it slips out of your hands quietly. But there’s a strange comfort welling up in your heart knowing that you will feel it once more in time and you won’t have to spend a lifetime missing it—or him.

“What are you being so slow for?” The dark-haired man stops from his track and turns to look at you, his eyebrows furrowed and his lips formed into a frown. “The sun will set before we even reach the river.” It’s the mayor of complaintown, throwing his usual complaints at you. You could only roll your eyes before you run to him, catching up to his pace before the two of you resume walking.

Scaramouche, somehow, kept his promise. Although it’s not exactly a promise because the two of you didn’t make any, he did keep his word of spending every summer with you. And right now, you’re in the middle of walking through the forest near your home—an adventure, you may say, despite the fact that you have taken this path multiple times already and you’re just returning to the place where the two of you usually spend your moments under the summer sun.

The gentle murmurs of the rushing water reach your ears, eventually getting louder as the two of you draw close to your destination. Not sooner than later, a familiar scene comes into view: the small river—a stream, to be exact—in all its glory displayed before you, a path of water stretching from here to there across your line of vision, carrying memories of when the two of you played around it.

There’s a small smile embedded on your lips. It’s the thought that it's only the two of you that knows of this place that makes you warm—it’s like a secret place for you and him.

You come close to the body of water, crouching down, staring at your rather unclear image by the water, and making out the contours and edges of your face. You try to reach out to your reflection, disturbing the surface with the tip of your fingertips, and you watch as it ripples underneath your hand. Although you’re way too focused on whatever you are doing that you forgot the existence of the boy who came here with you.

“Are you just planning on staring at the water all day long?” Scaramouche says as he crouches down beside you. He speaks as if he didn’t spend his time staring at you, admiring the way the sun holds you in its embrace, while thinking that he could just look at you for hours without getting bored.

You hum, “I really don’t know what else to do now,” you draw something on the water, the surface coming in creases.

“I thought you said there are a lot of things to do in the summer.”

“Yeah, but we already did nearly all of them.” You grumble, turning to look at him with a troubled expression. Indigo orbs meet yours in a gentle gaze; Scaramouche’s gaze, tender and soft, doesn’t often match the harsh bite of his words. It leaves you wondering, confused, if this is just his way of showing that he cares or if there’s something more. But you don’t like thinking about it—fools base their thoughts on foolish assumptions, and you are no fool.

If only you know what festers underneath his skin. Looking at you like this, honey light against your skin, he thinks you’re beautiful—the word isn’t even enough to capture the essence of your being. The world seemingly held its breath for this moment as everything came to a still except for the wind that brushes against your face. He is foolishly and utterly starstruck by the existence of you, as if you were meant to be in this place, to experience this small, fleeting moments with him, to be bathed under sunlight, to breath in the air of your surrounding, the feel the coldness of water against your feet—to live.

There's you and his mere image being reflected by your eyes, and he tries to see into the waters of your gaze for something that is akin to the just adoration he holds for you, hoping that you hold him under the same light too. He may speak of words that hold no meaning, no truth, but his feelings for you are intense and unwavering that it consumes him. Won’t you pull him a little closer?

You break the stillness, your surroundings seemingly coming back to life with the sound of your voice: “What are you thinking now?”

“Just how stupid you look.” The boy answers. Liar.

You acted as if you were offended by his statement, letting out a gasp and even placing your hand over your chest to show that you were quote on quote, hurt. He only rolls his eyes at your performance.

You jest, “Why are you so grumpy? Do you just hate being with me?”

“Stop assuming things, I didn’t say anything like that.” His attention is now to the river, watching as the stream flows and as the rocks remain unmoving.

You grab this moment to take advantage of his vulnerability and inattention. Snickering, you scoop a handful of water before splashing it to him, drenching him in the process. At the sight, laughter bubbles from your throat—he reminded you of a wet chick.

“So we're playing this game?”

“You started it.” You grin, splashing him once more but this time, he was able to shield himself from your attack.

“Oh, yeah?”

“Cold!” You exclaim as he repays you the favor.

It became a battle between you two. You’ll splash him with a handful and he’ll only retaliate after like two or three of your attacks, and even so, he’ll only fight back with only so little. Nevertheless, water drips from your head, down to your face and he, too, is left there on the side of the river with you, completely drenched and with his clothes sticking to his skin. His gaze is on you and yours are on him, and the two of you break into laughter—you think you’ll remember the sound of yours and his tangled together forever.

For a moment, it felt like the two of you were children once more.

“Ah, now we’re both wet.”

Scaramouche flicks your forehead, earning a groan from you. “And whose fault is that?”

“Yours, duh.” You sneeze as soon as you finish your sentence. Scaramouche doesn’t fail to notice you tremble, hugging your knees close to your chest as if to quell the growing chill. 

He abruptly stands up, and you watch him as heads over to where his bag is. He’s been carrying that since earlier and you’ve been curious as to what it contains—you didn’t get the chance to ask him earlier but now, your question is going to be answered. 

You follow after, standing and peering behind him to see the contents. Your eyes are able to make out a water bottle and some snacks—were those your favorite?—among the pile of things. Albeit you didn’t get to see anymore of it as he turned around and placed something on top of your head, obscuring your vision.

You realized it was a towel when he started to gently rub your hair and the side of your face with it, drying you with the soft fabric.

“I didn’t know you had that much prepared.” You comment, letting him seemingly take care of you. Sometimes, it feels like you’re indebted to him with how much he looks after and cares for you. It feels unfair; you take so much from him and he never takes anything from you. He never lets himself indulge, settling on here and there, but never by you. You wish he would come close, he wishes you’ll hold him closer.

“I think we’re going to get sick after this.” You ask with worry lacing your tone; the water was cold and none of you brought any spare clothes, save for the towel he had prepared. And while he’s the one who got drenched the most, he’s here, focusing on you instead. 

(You’ll always find yourself being bathed underneath all of his attention, whether you notice his gaze or not.)

“You’re the only one getting sick between the both of us.” He answers, draping the towel all over your shoulders before he goes and takes out a smaller towel to dry himself. There’s a small pout on your face when you hear his words—you can’t say anything in retort.

“Are we going home now?”

“If you want to, that is.”

The sun is already setting and darkness is slowly creeping into the day as time passes. Your surroundings are dyed with a warm golden, fading into blue. The animals that dwell in the night are revealing themselves as the ones who thrive during the day are returning to rest. Eventually, you also have to go home too. Exhaustion has seeped into you, settling into your weary bones.

“Can you carry me?”

“What? Can’t you walk on your own?”

“Oh, please, almighty Scaramouche. My legs are hurting and I’m tired.” Your hands are clasped together as you speak, batting your eyelashes at him.

Scaramouche could have complained a little more, dismissed your request, and walked back on his own, but he didn’t. And it’s not like he did not want to, but he just could not. How could he ever deny you? You were all that he could ask for, you were only asking him for one thing. Rejecting you at this moment was just like turning away from you—even though he knows that you’re most likely bluffing and are capable of your own. 

(But, oh, he’s simply nothing without you. After all, you make up half of his soul even if he’s not even a fragment of yours.)

“You’re so troublesome.” You’re his favorite problem anyway.

Dusk is settling in the corners of the forest, and in the midst of the trees and along with the harmony of cicadas, is you and Scaramouche. The dark-haired man carries you on his back while you keep him occupied with your chatter of whatever that comes to your mind.

And just as he notices every small thing about you, you can’t ignore the dark hue his skin is painted in:

“Your ears are red.”

He takes a few seconds, mumbling, “It’s too hot.”

(Maybe it’s summer that is warm, or maybe it’s you.)

The next day, however, Scaramouche got sick and you had to nurse him back to his health—out of worry and guilt. Although you held that fact over your head, treating it as some sort of trophy.

iii. aren’t we already close enough?

Something knocks at Scaramouche’s window.

That’s how most horror movies start, but this is no horror movie, and it doesn’t take much for him to know that it was just his neighbor trying to grab his attention.

Another knock came. He heads towards the noise, pushing the curtains aside, and immediately seeing you across in your own room, standing by your open window. Upon seeing the man, you enthusiastically wave at him.

You mouthed, even doing some hand gestures to throw your message across to him: “Do you wanna watch the stars with me?”

It seems like he didn’t understand what you were trying to say as he only stares at you with a confused expression. You sighed and gestured for him to wait, disappearing from his line of sight for a moment before returning with a pen and paper in your hand; you scribble something on it and he watches you with a curious gaze.

With your words written by ink, a few of it crossed out, it reads: Let’s go stargazing.

He mouths, “Right now?” In which you responded with a nod and a smile. Then you return to your pad in hand, turning to new page before writing:

There’s going to be a meteor shower tonight. Let’s watch it together.

Scaramouche puts down his reply on his paper that he has gotten as you were writing.

Where? 

The forest has a small clearing, it’s perfect for stargazing.

Right, and why are we talking like this?

It’s more fun this way and I don’t want to wake people up.

So, do you wanna go???

Okay. Yeah.

YAY !!! I’ll meet you outside.

But just as you were about to leave, he threw his pen at your window, an attempt to grab your attention although he did end up startling you.

It’s cold.

Wear something warm.

You beam at his display of his concern and give him an ‘Okay’ sign.

A few minutes flies by and you come out, jacket in hand. A certain man, with hair as dark as midnight, greets you. He’s clad in sweatpants and an oversized shirt, layered with a jacket on top—he was dressed comfily, as if he were planning on sleeping prior to this.

“Were you planning on going to sleep?”

“I was, until you called.”

“You could have just turned me down. I don’t mind watching the meteor shower alone.” You feel guilt rising in your chest, looking down at the ground you were rooted on. Thoughts whirl like a hurricane, creating a vortex of doubt that wreaks havoc inside your head. You don’t know what’s wrong with you, feeling all of these all at once over a simple and small thing. You were the one to insist, always the first one to come barging into his door.

But somewhere between your thoughts and his own, between loving you and adoring you, he knows you in ways that no one could. You’re the only one he ever knows.

“You’re not bothering me,” Scaramouche ruffles your head, messing up your hair. He speaks in the same note of his touch, soft and gentle, and it feels foreign and familiar at the same time; you want this, you could get used to this—the small thought that remains inside your mind echoes as he dispels all of your worries with just a few of his words. “Besides, I also wanted to watch the meteor shower.” With you.

“Really?”

“Where’s the stubborn and strong person who’ll drag me out of my room every summer that I know?” He flicks your forehead, making you wince and rub the spot to ease the pain. He adds, a small smile etching into the curves of his lips, “You were the one to say that everything is better when you do it with someone.”

“Well—”

“There’s no need to worry over such useless things,” He heaves out a sigh, “If I hated you, you would have known.”

He doesn’t know what took over him to have his hand seek out your face, caressing your face so tenderly like a lover would. The dance of his fingers left a trail of warmth across your skin, blooming and spreading like fire, and maybe it was your fault or maybe it was his that your face leans closer to his touch as if desiring for more of his softness. He doesn’t fail to notice the look on your face, the fire that festers within you spreading to him.

Scaramouche is mesmerized by the miracle that is you. 

He clears his throat, looking away, afraid that he’s going to be consumed by your light the more he keeps his gaze on you:

“Let’s go before we end up missing it.” His tone falters into something sweet, and his hand, too, falls into something kind—his fingers slipping into your own. You could only nod your head in response, afraid that your words would break in your tongue before you could even speak.

It doesn’t take long to reach the spot you were talking about. But it did feel like time moved slowly with the silence as neither of you let go of each other’s hand; you battled with your reasoning, thinking that it will help you walk better in the dark and not trip over anything even when you’re already familiar with the path. Or maybe it was just too cold, you don’t know; it’s not like you want to let go either.

(And in the same cadence of your thoughts, his soul whispers to you: “I don’t think I want to stop holding your hand.”)

Tonight, the stars are a witness to the wake of something foolishly beautiful. As the streaks of light fill the sky like a stroke of a painter’s brush on an empty canvas, lush grass forms into nothing as it sinks beneath your being, intertwined with his as he clutches your hand tight—the sky holds the stars as the earth bears your weight all the same. When the warm breeze leaves and when life all becomes nothing in the absence of indigo merging into golden, can you stand with him a little closer underneath the fading warm?

“Kuni.” What does his name taste like in your mouth?

“Hm?”

Scaramouche isn’t stupid, but you make him feel stupid, and he loves you stupid, like a loser stumbling over the stars in your eyes. He understands why poets write the mundane and how artists portray a fleeting moment bound to rot by time. It doesn’t take much but he spent a long time seeking comfort in the warmth to know the answer—he knew what it was when he wished you were with him to enjoy the sun.

You reside in the deeper parts of his soul, tangled in the loose threads of his being. Scaramouche prays—even when he doesn’t necessarily believe, but what is a god’s gaze for your love?—to whoever is listening that you’ll stay there forever. Can a human ever stop their heart from wanting? 

“Don’t you want to go home now?” You had asked him; the meteor shower has finished and the clouds are already hiding the vast blanket of stars above you. There’s not much left in this night, just silence and a pair of people who had nothing and everything at the same time, lying on the grass as if they’re the only ones who matter in the world. He has always existed right there beside you and he has belonged to you in ways that you may never know.

“I’m still not sleepy yet.” But his mouth gapes into a yawn and you laugh.

“Liar.”

Call him whatever you want, he just wants to stay with you a little longer.

Scaramouche may be a liar.

But he likes you, that much is certain.

taglist: @felibrary, @yunicide, @bittersweetmiko

© AZULLUMI 2024. plagiarism of any form and type, stealing, copying, translating, reposting my works on other platforms is NOT permitted.

[diejager]

Oh my god imagine step-father König having to go with reader's mom to the airport (lets say it takes 2 hours)and dbf!Horangi coming to take care of her, but when he enters he sees her trying to get food and sneak in her room and lock the door or smth and he catches her lays her on the dinner table and starts eating her out till he overstims her ,but suddenly she feels smth strange and tries to push him away, he does not move and as a result she squirts for the first time. She is so embarasses poor thing but horangi is just so proud cause she did it for him the first time in her life ❤️ as a bonus how would könig react to seeing that scene coming home in that exact moment or when horangi brags?

Cw: DUB-CON/NON-CON, DARKFIC, STEPCEST, oral sex(fem!receiving), overstimulation, squirting, tell me if I missed any.

You cursed yourself for being too slow to exact your plan, holding a few bags of snacks and little sweets before locking yourself in your room, planning your day away from Horangi - who you mother made him promise to watch over her adult daughter - and your stepdad until you had to leave, but he’d suddenly grabbed you from the back of your shirt, shocking you enough for you to drop your bags in fright. He manhandled you to the kitchen table, a wide and cold surface against your warm skin, ripping your shorts in half and burying his face between your thighs.

You squirmed as much as you came, coating his face in slick and squeezing him with your trembling legs. His hot tongue pressed down on your throbbing clit, running the smoothness of the flat of his tongue over your nub, lifting the hood of your clit up and subjugating it to more pleasurable torture. Then he swirled the tip around your nub after holding the hood up with his thumb, holding you down while you jerked and twitched beneath his mouth. You cried out of oversensitivity, your bundle of nerve touched incessantly by Horangi’s tongue, feet kicking out and occasionally hitting his back.

Something gathered in your core, heavy and violent, it felt unbearable to you, an extremely tight knot coiled around another knot. It only amassed in potency, his lips wrapped snugly around your pulsing clit and he sucked, sucked hard while he filled you with his fingers. You came with a burst of light, your walls closing around his intruding fingers, pumping in and out of you at a lazy pace, curling upwards in effort to hit the inner parts of your clit. You soaked him with cum, body buzzing with energy, still riding out your orgasm with the gentle swirl of his tongue and a firm kiss on your thigh. You tiredly raised your head to peer at him, gazing down to brown eyes through a blurred and tearful sight.

Even in your numbed mind, you could see how drenched he was, His nose and cheek glistened with your slick, lips hidden by your soft mound that were to busy drinking up the cum dripping out of your hole. His eyes blazed with overwhelming passion - sacrilegious - as he gazed at you with unblinking eyes, drowning himself in the sight of your debauched figure, breasts rising with every laboured breathe you took, pebbled nipples from the colder air and skin layered with sweat. You were clueless about what happened, why you felt so sluggish yet so powered, but Horangi seemed to know seeing his proud and overjoyed smile.

“Was this your first?” He grumbled out, voice thick with something as he kissed your inner thigh.

“First what?” Your reply was slow —lethargic, in the face of his excitement. “I don’t-“

“Fuck, you’ve never squirt?” He brimmed with mirth, a dangerous amount of elation that made you feel trapped, unable to do anything but take what he decided to give.

How could you even defend yourself against someone so tall and practiced? You couldn’t even stop him from diving back in, his black eyes bright and gleeful.

“Was?” König sounded shocked from the tone of his voice, the higher pitch compared to Horangi’s softer voice, mumbling something to him once he stepped through the entrance of your house, “You made her squirt?”

Fuck, you caught the same eagerness in his tone.

Taglist: @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @bvxygriimes @distracteddragoness @konigsblog @havoc973 @daisychainsinknots @0alk0msan @danielle143 @dont-mind-me-just-existing-sadly @tuttifuckinfruttifriday @kaelysia @notspiders @brokenpieces-72 @petwifed @aldis-nuts @randominstake @cassiecasluciluce

[comet-forgot-you]

could you do sam carpenter smut please?

smut. 18+ pls.

do not repost for any reason.

her coming home from the gym, pressing a kiss to your head. she hardly says anything, mumbling something about feeling so gross and how she desperately needed a shower. you groan, having not seen her almost all day due to your schedules not aligning.

minutes pass, the water turns on and you can’t get the image of sam out of your head. water droplets rolling down her tan skin, the hot water, the pump of her muscles from her workout, it wouldnt leave your head. you needed her, you needed her now.

you go to the bathroom, knocking just enough for her to hear. a muffled “come in,” comes from the other side and you open the door. the sight of sam behind fogged shower doors nearly has your knees buckling. she looks so good, so fucking good. your tongue darts across your lips, wetting them.

“can i join you?” you dont wait for a response before you’re stripping your clothes. sure, you had taken a shower not even an hour ago, but you needed sam now.

“yeah,” sam mumbles, a knowing smirk on her lips. you join her in the shower, the hot water hitting your skin, you can hardly feel it, far too focused on how good your girlfriend looked. her hands reach for your waist, pulling you in closer to her. “see something you like?” she teases when your eyes dont meet her own.

theyre taking in her figure. her toned muscles, her tits, the water rolling down her body. she looked too good not to eat. you dont respond, pushing her against the cold, tiled wall and pressing your lips against her own. she groans slightly at your splay of dominance.

your lips leave her own, trailing down her neck, to her chest, taking a pebbled nipple into your mouth. “fuck.” she huffs, fingers tangling in your hair as she pulls you closer. you groan against her nipple, your hands moving to roam her body.

her abs flexed under your touch and she takes her bottom lip into her mouth. you drop to your knees, hoisting one of her legs over your shoulder. you press open mouthed kisses to her thigh, the muscles flexing slightly. god she was so sexy, you needed her now.

you bite down on her thigh, certain to leave a mark. she hisses at the feeling, fingers tugging at your hair. “y/n,” she warns, glaring down at you. you look up at her with innocent eyes.

“hmm?” you hum, pulling away from her thighs to meet her warm cunt. she doesnt respond, sucking in a breath when your mouth takes her swollen clit. she lets out a shaky breath, barely audible over the water.

you flatten your tongue against her clit, humming against it. sam’s grip in your hair loosens for a moment, and when you circle her entrance with your tongue, its tightening as she pulls you closer. the floor of the shower digs into your skin, but you cant seem to focus on it, your need for sam drowning it out.

“fuck!” her voice echoes off of the shower walls, your fingers pushing into her cunt. you glance up at her, her abs flexing once again. your pump your fingers in and out of her at a fast pace, your tongue working at her clit.

shes so fucking hot. she brings a hand up to cover her mouth and you hate it. you need to hear her, you need to have as much of her as you can. you tug her hand away from her mouth and sam glares down at you. “what the fuck?” shes not used to you being the more dominant one, but when she sees the way you look at her, like you want to devour her, it has her feeling some type of way.

you pull off of her cunt, licking at your lips. “i wanna hear you so bad, sam,” you plead desperately. it sends heat throughout her body.

“yeah?” she groans, bucking her hips against your fingers. you nod, free hand moving to keep her hips in place.

“so bad, sammy,” you whisper. your mouth is back on her in an instant, lapping away at her cunt. her hips strain against your arm, desperate to rut her cunt into your mouth. you glare up at her, a warning look in your eye and she lets out a high pitched moan.

your fingers fuck into her, curling every so often. her walls clamp around your fingers the closer she gets to her orgasm, her moan bouncing off of the shower walls. its hard to breathe, the water and your busy mouth restricting your breath slightly, but you dont seem to care. you need her, you need her bad.

“fuck,” she groans out, arms flexing slightly as she grips your hair. “gonna cum,” she mumbles, abs tensing. you smile against her cunt and she can feel it, a groan falling from her lips.

she lets go of your hair, moving to hold onto the handlebar for stability. your fingers curl inside of her one last time and shes coming undone, a drawn out groan falling from her lips. “fuck,” she groans out. your arm drops from her stomach and shes quick to buck against your mouth.

you pull away from her, bringing your fingers to your mouth to clean them of her orgasm. you press a kiss to her thigh the moment your fingers leave your lips, wrapping your arm around her thigh to pull it off of your shoulder. you trail kisses up her body until you reach her lips.

“you looked too good not to eat, baby,” you whisper. her breathing is heavy, eyes not sure where to look, flickering from your eyes to your lips. you smile before stepping out of the shower, wrapping a towel around your body.

a minute passes before sam is groaning, “you wasted all my hot water.”

[lay-z]

May I ask for a drabble where Soap and a fox hybrid self-insert went on a date in a forest where the fox hybrid got all dirty and then playfully tackled Johnny to the ground getting him all dirty, so they had to take a bath together? It could be fluff with a suggestive undertone or whatever else you wanna make it. I just think it'd be cute. Also, I'm obsessed with the cotton candy clouds fic, I absolutely love it! I can't wait to see what happens next!

This took a very fantastical/magical turn. The world consists of hybrids in this. Sorry this took me so long to write and I hope you’ll still enjoy it! 🤍✨️🦊🐺

Pairing: grey wolf hybrid!John MacTavish x red fox hybrid!fem!Reader

Warnings/Info: 18+, mdni | Hybrid AU | courting; fluff; friends to lovers; slightly suggestive; abrupt ending (sorry!:()

Spring sunshine tickles your nose, making it twitch and scrunch as you step out of the treeline into the valley; sniffing the soft breeze with your face turned south and your eyes fluttered shut in bliss.

The forest is lush and alive with local flora and fauna. Juvenile birds singing and chirping, looking to attract their soulmate, bumblebees seeking out blossoming wildflowers to gather their first honey, the flow of water rushing in a nearby creek.

Your ears swivel back as you pick up on a familiar presence—someone has been stalking you for a while now; trying, and failing, to sneak up on you from the edges of the woods. His musky scent stands out between the many sweet and earthy smells surrounding you, and adds a headiness to it that makes your plushy tail twitch and swish behind you with anticipation and excitement.

He wants to give chase, you know it, and it makes your survival instincts flare up despite knowing better—adrenaline building in your gut and buzzing through your veins to make you flee and avoid this imaginary danger. The corner of your mouth lifts into a sly smile as you continue your walk towards the creek like nothing is out of the ordinary, though the hairs on the back of your neck are raised as much as your tail is bristling.

It’s a game of willpower between you two and you know it’s only a matter of time until Johnny caves first to pounce on you—the vivid imaginary already enough to make your tail wag and your lips part in a giddy smile.

And it happens down by the creek, when the crystal-clear water sloshing around the rocky banks drowns out his heavy footsteps and your back is turned towards the forest—his massive frame casts a shadow before a pair of muscular arms wraps around you from behind and his warm breath puffs over your exposed neck in a way that has goosebumps pebble on your skin.

Johnny buries his nose into the curve of your shoulder, inhaling obscenely deep and exhaling with a baritone growl that vibrates against your back. “Gotcha,” he chuffs playfully and tightens his embrace around you, biceps flexing while his large hands splay over your soft tummy possessively while your tail can barely react, and merely twitches happily smushed between your bodies.

“Knew you were there,” you chirp, cupping his hands with your own as you melt against his strong body.

“Mhmmm,” he hums low in his throat. “Now wha’ do Ah do with m’bonnie prey?” His hands roam up your torso; groping the swell of your breasts teasingly before cupping and squeezing them. “Ye smell s’bloody good, petal,” he rumbles, nosing along the curve of your neck before nuzzling into your hair, “–could smell ye even against the wind.”

It really is spring—mating season.

Your ears flatten against your head with a needy whine; back arching as you grind your rear against his crotch, causing him to snarl against your neck, and your pulse throbs expectantly against his nose, taunting him to sink his teeth in and finally lay claim on this pretty, wee fox in his arms.

“If you can smell me, others can too, you know,” you remark casually, stoking the embers already simmering hotly between you two. Other potential suitors, you mean, and Johnny’s grip on your breasts tightens, fingertips digging into the supple fat and making you mewl while your sensitive nipples tighten and poke against his rough palms.

“Gotta make ye smell like me soon then, petal.”

[corrupted-hands-texts]

Hello again, here I am with some more Cookie Run stuff. Inspired by @fishymom-art 's Black Mold AU. Enjoy! (AO3 post)

Implied Major Character Death, be warned!

°-°-°

"She's not here anymore."

Silverbell Cookie looked up to his ruler, despite the etiquette of remaining head low to the ground. Thankfully, Elder Faerie Cookie was focused on something else – his hands laid open on his lap – and failed to notice his subordinate briefly breaking the rules.

"Silverbell Cookie. You've seen her. She still moves, she is still alive. I cannot give up on her," the Great Faerie mumbled. The young knight could hear the faint trembles in the Guardian's voice.

"Silverbell Cookie is right," Mercurial Knight Cookie objected.

"... You are dismissed," Elder Faerie Cookie said flatly.

As always, nowadays.

Silverbell Cookie stood up, his head low.

The Great Faerie wouldn't listen to them, as he's been doing for months at this point. He was denying the obvious.

He was in denial of White Lily Cookie's dangerous, irreversible state. He was in denial that she wasn't herself anymore.

He walked out of the hall.

The warm and humid air of the woods enveloped the young faerie, and he sighed, raising his hands to his temples to massage them.

His ruler wouldn't give in to their reason, no matter what was said. He was obsessed with White Lily Cookie's "wellbeing" and it was getting really dangerous for everyone involved.

His steps lead him to the central garden. He looked around, saw no silhouette under the moonlight or in the flower beds.

Silverbell Cookie sighed again, strided heavily to the nearest bench and almost collapsed onto it.

Oh. He didn't realise he was this tired. Maybe he shouldn't stay out for too long.

But then there would be no chance to catch...

His thoughts halted at the sound of a pebble hitting another.

The young knight flipped around, scrutinized the shadows that sat under the trees in his back.

He couldn't see much in the darkness, but he scrambled on his feet nonetheless.

"Whoever you are, show yourself," he yelled, without response. "This is not funny," he continued, but remained unanswered.

His hands curled, as tension rose in his dough. He walked around the bench, trying to muster up some courage through the blanket of exhaustion that weighted on him.

Something shot out of the dark, and dug in his leg through the light fabric of his pants. He looked down at it, shrieking at the pain.

A large dart sat pinned in his dough, and suddenly his mind was racing.

Was he going to vanish too now? Was the person who shot that dart the culprit of the disappearances? He raised his head. He couldn't see them still. They remained hidden in the shadows. No, this could be a prank. An unsavoury one, but still. Or...

He stumbled forward.

No, it wasn't a prank. His leg wouldn't hurt so much otherwise.

He hit the ground, waves of searing pain shooting from the dart's contact point, and groaned.

He felt a pair of hands rest on his shoulders, but he couldn't raise his head to see who these hands belonged to.

He was screwed, wasn't he...

The hands picked him up under the armpits, flipped him over. He started to perceive heavy noise in his field of view, that moved and shot through in unison with the excruciating pain in his limbs.

He tried speaking, but his mouth wouldn't obey anymore.

Despite his condition, he somehow made out that he was being dragged around. The trees and sky above could attest to that, watching down on the helpless faerie knight.

He was being kidnapped, like the many other faeries that had mysteriously vanished over the last few months.

Well, shit.

He groaned, tried to fight against the other Cookie who pulled him deeper into the night, only to realise he was likely paralysed by whatever coated that dart.

One last attempt, and he almost moved his left arm at the cost of overwhelming pain and drowning thoughts.

Maybe he should just wait it out... No, he shouldn't. He needed to retaliate, he needed to be here for those who had gone missing. But... he was feeling too weak to even remain aware of the trees above at this point. Maybe closing his eyes wouldn't hurt...

He heard the hinges of a door lightly hiss, and then he was unceremoniously thrown past an archway. Silverbell Cookie collapsed flatly on the ground, groaning, attempting to flip himself over to no avail, when a voice shot through the thick shadows.

"Here you are, my adored. I've bought you some sustenance. I hope you enjoy my offering of tonight."

The young knight immediately recognized this voice. It was...

The door closed shut and locked, and he was now in complete darkness. Silence reigned for a bit, until something fumbled closer to the helpless knight.

The voice was Elder Faerie Cookie's. And Silverbell Cookie knew what that meant now.

Two white thin dots shone in the shadows above his face. A heavy, warm breath soon flooded around him, and he immediately knew what was going to happen.

A raspy voice broke.

"I'm... hungry..."

[sandsorghum]

Clouds & Curtains

husband!Nanami x wife!reader

wc. 1.3k

summary. Perhaps Nanami's approach to...rousing you in the mornings has changed over the years.

tags. Established relationship, Domestic bliss | Romance | Smut | Body (& Soul)Worship | Mentions of Nanami wanting to be a father

a/n: Super soft, super indulgent piece. Have your cake and eat it nanami girlies. Sometimes i just need to write him a love letter ok

Prologue

Back when you'd just begun to be intimate with each other, Nanami tended to be a little embarrassed about his subconscious (but hardly subtle) desires for you. He would rather suffer his internal, infernal dilemma than disrupt your rest. But he couldn't quite control his urges, squirming between decency and depravity, not when you'd rub up against him, so innocuous and merciless.

It was a hard habit to shake; how Nanami felt he ought to earn your every quiver against him, every whimper, however much he yearned to feel you tremble at his moans at any given moment. It was codified in him, there was a time and a place and patterns to follow, before he could permit himself the pursuit of your shared pleasures.

Of course, you'd unveil him in the evenings, the privilege of your touch stripping bare the prerogatives of his flesh. You unraveled him, his reticence, his reasoning, his very capacity for speech, by braiding your breath and fingers with his, in the friction-begetting-friction tangle of your lips and limbs together.

Yet he still thinks of these mornings, that find the two of you entwined, as an undeserved luxury. So Nanami would do his best instead to focus on your face, how sweet your peaceful expression was. It would be wicked of him not to cherish this, he'd chastise himself for wanting more, for wanting to drown in your adoring gaze, for wanting to return it with his own hungry one, body and spirit beggared by the night, by the hours not spent beheld by you.

Nanami assumed the beauty and tenderness of your countenance would quell, or could sate his appetites, would tame the primal stirrings in his belly. But nothing could be further from the truth, in fact they had the opposite, compounding effect; a lump in his throat would rise, and his desperation would thicken till he could only helplessly rut his hips against you.

And then your eyelids would flutter open, and in the crease of your knowing smile, all his definitions, his distinctions, all that distance between need and greed would collapse with a single kiss.

Years later, and your husband is so absolutely shameless about his...early head starts to the day. He pulls you into him, snug against the cleft of your ass cheeks, content to let your scent and radiance seep through the thin fabric and warm him in a way the sun, in its reluctance behind the clouds and curtains, can never hope to.

He stares at the petulance drooping off the petals of your lips, rose bud coiled tight before daybreak can coax it to unfurl for strobes of gold. Nanami is a patient man, too patient you've often thought, yet you feel his phantom touch, a tender sweep of your mouth, a zephyr whispering in the wings, billowing brocade and swelling muslin, ghost pulling you through the gauze of sleep.

You shift against Nanami to hear him sigh your name, soft and distant, thick with slumber and affection and it's this which rouses you more, not merely his growing rigidity pressed to the curves of you. Although, it helps, feeling every inch of his hunger like this, in a slow swirl and pinch at your waist, the gentlest rocking as your breasts are cradled in his palms, familiar persuasion pebbling your areola. You know he dreams of them swollen with milk, that all your memories of his teeth are girded by the desire for them to be suckled by the most innocent of mouths, baring only gums and tiny wails. Your nubs stiffen and a small smile stretches across your face at the thought that with his wish to grow a family fulfilled, he might find also a small regret, of his monopoly of your mounds contested by another, to whom he owes the genesis of your body's generosity, that sweet fullness dribbling, stolen, into your husband's mouth, enticing in its envy.

This prospect of hypocrisy is to be savoured for another day, far down the road. This morning brings neither hesitation nor urgency, all syrupy light and his maple gaze, the languor of his limbs splayed around you to be treasured just as much as the gradual grind of his cock. There's a certain smugness in its slowness, as with the self-assuredness of his thumb circling a bare sliver of your skin.

A familiar motion that stirs a memory, fuchsia-tinted for the both of you. You remember your then boyfriend stammering and scarlet-tipped, matched to the rosy tips of his ears, excuses lost in the shuffle of sheets and stutter of hips.

"I-it's just-just the t-temp-ah-temperatuur," he'd slurred, the excuse as thin and transparent as the sticky film he laved across your throat, dangerously growing gossamer and feebler with every twitch and each strong buck against your body.

"Mmhmm," you'd hum, carnal ache turning you conciliatory. Such complacency. You had been the one to smirk back then, canines gleaming coy, as you offered ruin in the guise of reprieve.

"Want me to warm you up, darling?" Hands already reaching for him, mind already marveling before your fingers could be reacquainted with their hubris, his girth.

"P-please, anythin-nghing" he'd panted, all wide-eyed desperation to be devoured, sweet thing.

You'd been such a fool.

To not know not greed was a two-way street, this ravenous osmosis, this vicious ouroborous.

You think perhaps, in fact, you got the worse end of the deal, trembling against your spouse now, thighs clamped together.

"My dear," Nanami hums, a teasing timbre dripping honey as he sinks his fingers in, "always so ready for me."

You squirm, eyes screwed shut and fisting the sheets, trying to grasp the pale image of the boy who'd once writhed and blushed beneath you, a spectre all but vanquished. You miss him, sometimes.

You arch your back into Nanami, the way you know he's addicted to, just to hear him groan your name, ragged with the dregs of self-restraint or slumber, you're not sure which, but it's a close enough echo to send pleasure juddering through you, the recollection churning hot in your gut, of when he was wrapped around your finger, instead of your cunt around his.

"Sweetheart."

The tenderness of his tone pries your lids open. He doesn't have to ask, doesn't have to say anything but he does, because he knows you are too stubborn to ask for what you need to hear.

"My love."

He claims your gasp, in the crush and curl of his mouth, in the crook of his fingers.

"My girl."

Another smattering of kisses, chasing the flutters of your belly down, down, down to your creases weeping nectar. He licks a whine from you, pitching high into the air, his husky moan vibrating within you.

"My wife."

You feel the hot gust of Nanami's breath over your clit, as he pauses.

"My wife."

There's a reverence as he repeats himself, pathetic attempts to vanquish his disbelief, wonder glistening in his gold-flecked irises, staring at you in awe, searching for proof this isn't some frenzied fever dream of his.Of course, he finds it in your own unwavering eyes.

You've been such a fool.

There, in the locked gaze your shared history glimmers, that shy boy paralyzed by his worship of you, prostrate as the man before your parted legs now, offering his soul, his past, his future.

You reach for him, and he surges upwards. The collision is wave returning and rising from oceans, over and over, is starburst, is incandescence, is the fission of atoms never, ever meant to be split.

It burns away all notions of him as your acolyte or priest, any concept of deity and devotee.

"My life," he breathes into you, and you feel the throb in your ribs, the furnace of his lungs.

"My life," you repeat to your husband.

Adam. Prometheus. Kento.

This morning and many after, he lavishes you with irreverence, a ravishing of irrelevance; his goddess, his woman, his joy -all that matters is that you are his and he is yours; Together, you forge a paradise that exists for as long as the melding of your souls persist, boundless as horizons and sure as sunrises.

@houseofsolisoccasum

[callsign-datura]

John Price is the epitome of a strong, capable man. The same man you thought you had no chance with. Which is why you wonder how you ended up here, standing in his office as he appraises you from his seat at his desk. His stony blue eyes raking up and down your form as you stand and twiddle your thumbs to center your anxiety. He chuckled lowly, a gruff rasp that made your heart flutter. He takes note of your anxiety, but he makes no move to acknowledge it. Part of him enjoys the way you're standing there, staring at him with this glint in your eyes. Slowly, he rises from his chair. The legs squeak against the floor as he steps away from his desk, crossing the room towards you with an unreadable expression. He stands, inches between you two, the heat between your bodies bordering on nigh unbearable. "Mm-mm. Such a pretty thing." He says quietly, his words ringing out and making you feel like you're drowning in warm honey. He leans forward, and his lips capture yours in a searing kiss. He's hungry. Pent-up. You could say the stresses of his job are getting to him, which explains his haste. Before you even realize it, he's stripped you. The flesh of your back prickles as he lays you on his desk, hastily pushing away the papers strewn upon it before his hands find their place on your body once again. Carefully traveling up the naked skin of your legs, caressing the slopes of your body. His touch is gentle at first but quickly becomes hasty, hungry and aggressive. "Mm, a fuckin' goddess is what you are..." He whispers, his gaze immediately darting down between your thighs.

"Christ. So fuckin' pretty." He curses to himself, and your gaze flickers down to his hips, and you see the imprint of his hard cock against his beige cargo pants. You reach out, and he's one step ahead of you. Dropping his cargo pants to his knees, and his boxers follow suit. He leans forward, and his cock hits your pelvis gently, the hard length warm against the goosebump-addled skin of your body. He wraps a hand around the base, and he pulls his hips back before pushing forward, guiding his cock to sink into the plush heat of your walls. A groan that is borderline primal escapes his chest, and his head falls back. "So fuckin' wet. God, knew you'd be good," he whispers, looking down at you. His hand slides down your thigh and his thumb finds your clit with practiced ease, and his hips draw back slowly before pushing back into you. It's a foreign feeling, but it feels so damn good. Each pass of his thumb has you whining, each phrase that he utters has you squeezing on the length of his cock. "Look at you. Suckin' me in like a greedy slut." His words take a sudden degrading turn and your body thrums with approval, walls squeezing and releasing on his length repeatedly as he slowly drags himself in and out of you. He brings one hand up to your chest, palming and groping the fat of your breast in one hand, his grip releasing only so his calloused fingers can tug roughly at your pebbled nipple. His pace quickens slightly, and you're already seeing stars. Arching your back and whining as the sound of wet skin slapping gradually increases and reverberates within the room, your eyes roll back in your head. Suddenly, he's a lot more rougher when he hears your little whimpers. "Yeah, so wet... mm, so perfect for me. Yeah, you like that? Y'like it when I pound you like the whore you are?" His words are so fucking dirty, and within seconds his speed ramps up. If you were to look, the only thing you'd see is the length of his cock pulling out of you a few inches before shoving back inside. The head of his cock nudges your cervix, and hot tears sting at the corners of your eyes. His hand wraps around your throat gently, just to keep you pinned against the desk so he can pound into you at a more brutal rate. His other hand releases your tit and comes down to your hips, lifting them up so he can hit that gummy spot along your inner walls. The new position has you keening, your body responding in kind. "Captain!" You cry, your eyes fluttering shut as a tear rolls down the side of your face. "Oh-- Fuck..." Your words trail off in a whimper as he fucks the air out of your lungs, breathless groans falling from his lips. Your tits jiggle with the force of his thrusts and your body jolts with each hit of his hips, and you can't even speak. Your noises come out as garbled cries, pleas for more, even when you feel that coil in your belly tightening to completion. "Mm. Yeah, sweetheart? Can feel you clenchin' on me. C'mon, you wanna cum on your Captain's cock? Give it to me, sweet girl, I know you can..." His words send you spiraling. Your back arches and your cunt convulses around him, and his thrusts stutter. You're sobbing, stars dotting your vision as he grunts dirty, unintelligible things. You throw your head back, gasps falling from your lips as he pounds into you, fucking you through your orgasm. You find yourself shuddering from the sudden overstimulation, but before you can even register that, his hips slam into yours and he groans your name particularly loudly, his grip on your throat tightening just a bit more before he's spilling hot, thick ropes of cum into your cunt. There's a lot-- to the point you feel some dribble out of you and onto the desk underneath you. You swore you've been sent to heaven and back by the time your breathing has calmed, and his weight settles into yours. A warm and fuzzy feeling settles over the two of you, and he grunts softly into you, not bothering to withdraw his cock from your gummy walls. Not a word is shared, but you swore you felt him smile.

[dangerous-yam-fries]

Male Naga x GN!Reader - NSFW

Asks and Suggestions are open and encouraged!

Warnings: prehensile dicks, hemipenes (two dicks), kidnapping, MILD drowning???, stalking, envenomation, double dick handjob, MINORS LEAVE GET OUT OF HERE!

You had been researching a multitude of lower classifications from the Chordata phylum, eventually becoming a member of a research term for the study of Serpentes-Homo Sapiens. Snake people, Naga, whatever you want to call them. Even if you didn’t find the famed Naga, you were excited to be in a different country surrounded by foreign life, so you bore with the bugs and humidity.

You were wading through a stagnant, mucky pond in your thick plastic overalls, while sweat slicked the inside of your clothes, mud and pond scum on the outside.

At first, you were simply gathering water samples, but that quickly turned into more of a fun, exploratory session as you walked in the water. It came up to about the middle of your thigh, so it wasn’t too deep, just a little mushy under your feet. You made sure to wear water shoes, they fit comfortably, but you could still feel rocks and pebbles poking the pads of your feet as you walked slowly into the middle of the pond.

“Well, aren’t you cool…” You mumble as you inspect a larva of a diving beetle. It looks like a grub with thin back plates and stringy antenna as the water around it clears up. It quickly retreats into the depths of the pond, leaving you to wander through the water. You decided to catalog the different fauna and flora, soon getting distracted and losing track of time.

You were so enthralled with the beauty and complexity of the biome that you didn’t notice you were being watched. Stalked, even.

Hyacinth laid eyes on the first day you landed at the camp, and for some reason, he simply couldn’t take his eyes off you. You were captivating, the way your sweat glistened on your skin like morning dew, how your face flushed under the sun, making your blemishes, scars, and freckles look like stars.

But he could never look into your eyes, for you’d surely notice him then. For weeks, he was content to merely watch your fluttering figure, but he soon hungered for more. So he waited until you were utterly alone, too far away from your fellow researchers for them to help you. And here you were, far away from any human life, and utterly distracted, sneaking up on you was far too easy.

You were suddenly pulled under the water, it wasn’t deep, but it was certainly enough to drown in. You held your breath as you kicked and struggled against whatever was trying to kill you, but it was no use. Opening your mouth, you felt water fill your throat and spill into your lungs, your eyes stung and your body felt like it was on fire. The muddy water soon turned black as you lost all consciousness.

Hyacinth was absolutely smitten with you by the time he made it to his home, he relished in forcing the water out of your lungs, it only gave him an excuse to kiss you. After multiple hours entrapped in Hyacinth’s warm tail you coughed and sputtered awake.

“Mmm pet~” Your body jolted awake at the sound of a person’s voice, your heart beating rapidly when you lay your eyes upon the owner of said voice. You choke when you see him. A real, live Naga, the very creature you had been searching so hard for.

“Awake, are we?” He smiles and you see a flicker of his tongue dart out of his mouth and caress your cheek. “Don’t be scared, pet. I won’t hurt you.” His face is right up against yours, and you find yourself staring straight into his eyes.

“Beautiful…” You hadn’t even remembered the events that transpired prior to your fainting as you swooned at his eyes. The scleras were reminiscent of opal, with purples, pinks and greens wrinkled together in the shiny orb. His pupils were two black slits as sharp as glass.

He found himself blushing at that, you thought he was beautiful! A joyous pure erupts in his throat as his forked tongue flicks over your lips. “W-who are you? Uh… I’m (Name), I, I think?” You mumbled, suddenly out of breath with your mind going a mile a minute.

“Hyacinth…” His tongue licked at your lips, his eyes not breaking from yours, even when they started to water. Your eyes were even more dazzling than he thought they would be. They looked as bright as the sun, practically glowing, or maybe that was the light of the fire… “I am Hyacinth”

“Hyacinth… like the flower?” You inquired, your breath hitching for no apparent reason. Your mind didn’t even register the intimate proximity, or his tongue gliding upon your lips, occasionally licking at your tongue and probing into your mouth.

“Like the flower.” He smiled, he was so happy to have you here, in his arms, wrapped in his tail, and so very receptive to his… courting. You glanced around you, breaking eye contact with Hyacinth to gaze at his tail. It was so purple, with scales like fuchsia petals, shining in the fires light like fireflies. He really looked so beautiful. His skin was a handsome tan, painted with freckles and scars and burns, like cartography on a worn map.

“M-may I, touch you?” You hesitantly reached your dominant hand out, just barely ghosting over his shoulder.

He trilled at this, taking your hands and placing them on his chest, cupping his sinewy breasts. “You may touch anywhere you please, (Name).” He drawled out your name, savoring the sound on his tongue.

You shivered, and squeezed his chest slightly, blushing at the way he flushed underneath you. Your hands slid to his shoulders, rubbing the freckles and scars on the rosy brown skin, your heart was pounding out of your rib cage by the time you laid your hands on his tail.

Your breath hitched, eyes widening when you touch the very end of his tail, the coil of scales coming to a bumpy end. “You’re so beautiful… Hyacinth.” You gulped, and caressed the tip, rubbing the scaly tail with your fingers, stopping when you heard him let out a strangled sound. “Is everything alright?” You ask worriedly, but still not letting go of his tail.

Hyacinth’s breath is labored, his eyes narrow, but not in malice. “J-just a little, sensitive there, pet.” He still manages a smile, glistening fangs shining in his mouth. Your face goes red as you become aware of a wet mess beneath you, two pinkish-purple tips peeking out of a glistening genital slit.

“O-oh, I’m, I’m sorry.” You gulp, and after a moment of self reflection, your mind hazy with scientific desire, you ask a confirming question. “I, I may touch, anywhere, right?” You practically drool at the sight of his twitching sex as your fingers run along his slit and spread it, letting loose his two cocks.

“Not waiting for an answer…” He said, less of a question and more of an observation as your fingers glide along the length of his dick, tracing the lithe veins as they curl around your hand. “They’re prehensile…” He gets bolder, rocking into your touch, his hands making quick work of your own clothes.

You don’t say anything as you play with them, gripping the bases and letting them wrap around your hands, thrusting in and out of them. Hyacinth moans and shudders just inches away from your face, muttering lewd phrases and dirty words, giving you quite a show.

“A little tighter, pet~ Your hands are so warm, I’m sure your insides are warmer~” He twitches and sighs as your hands clasp around his dicks even tighter, becoming slippery with slick and precum as you pump your hands slightly. “So, so good. More, faster, pet, please.” His voice is broken up and shaky, like music to your ears as he pants and moans. You comply, rubbing your hands on his prehensile cocks even faster, tighter, still pumping his lengths even after he paints your hands with cum.

“Ahhh~ p-pet, too much, slow down for me!” You try to stop but your hands move on their own, eyes tearing up with his as his nails dig into your bare waist. You stop your hands, not realizing how close he is to another orgasm as he bites into your shoulder, gasps racking his body.

Your tears fall as your eyes roll back, your body being pumped full of his venom. Choking, you can’t breathe, your throat seizing up, noticing this, Hyacinth kisses you roughly, forcing air down your lungs. Your brain activity is slowed, so you don’t even notice your body being lifted above his cocks and genital slit.

“It won’t hurt, pet.” He takes his lips away from yours, but only for a second as he continues helping you to breathe. Your hole tingles as he rubs his dicks against it, lathering it with his cum and slick before plunging a prehensile penis inside. “You are warm, pet~” His lips meet yours again, resuming the kiss.

One of his dicks thrusts in and out of your hole, curling against your most pleasurable parts, flaring at the entrance, giving your hole a good stretch. He drools and slobbers on your lips, his saliva dripping down your chin and his as he thrusts even faster. His other cock moves to caress your sex, rubbing it up and down and getting it wet with cum. It curls around your tip, squeezing and rubbing it mercilessly.

His cocks bully your sex, your body shaking from overstimulation even with the effects of his venom. It feels like you’re on fire, but unlike in the pond, it’s a pleasant burn, one that lights the fires of passion and lust as your insides constrict and tighten around his prehensile dick.

Your insides squeeze around him, your sex twitching against his dick as he ruts against it even faster, determined to deliver you a mind-shattering orgasm. You cum hard, getting the both of you even wetter, his dick squelching its cum inside of you as he reaches his own orgasm. He moans into your mouth, eyes locked with yours as he continues to hump your insides, eating up your sobs as overstimulation racks your brain.

You’ll have plenty of time to study him, especially his mating process. After all, the first session can take up to 75 hours. And he would make sure your hole milked him dry, daring not to spill a drop.

[m1ckeyb3rry]

── 𝐑𝐎𝐀𝐃𝐊𝐈𝐋𝐋 // 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄

Series Synopsis: You were once a spoiled duchess-to-be, set to inherit a city on the brink of a war you knew nothing about — that is, until the war came to your doorstep and the aftermath of a brutal accident bound your fate to Seishiro Nagi’s forever.

Chapter Synopsis: Nagi comes bearing news. // Your father makes an announcement about the new family in Maradine.

Series Masterlist

Pairing(s): Nagi x Reader, Yukimiya x Reader

Chapter Word Count: 2.3k

Content Warnings: death, killing, ptsd, reader is not a good person, actually nobody really is??, they all make mistakes as is to be expected, war is mentioned and the build-up/aftermath is discussed heavily but the actual conflict not so much, non-linear narrative, like HEAVILY non-linear there are two timelines for each chapter (pre and post war), probably ooc, angst, nagi is endgame sorry y’all, alternate universe (early 1900s-ish vibe but not in our world because f historical accuracy), original characters (probably…idrk yet but it’s me so)

A/N: hey guys…so here i am…with the prologue to a new story instead of an update to anything i already have out BYE I’M FLEEING FROM SHAME i’ve been wanting to do something a bit more serious for a while though so i’m excited to give this a try!! some more elaboration on the tags/summary: this is like vaguely historical-ish but not completely, and it’s kind of like two stories being told concurrently?? one being reader’s life as an adult post war and the other her life as a child/teen pre war. every time there’s a ‘break’ in the chapter that indicates a timeline switch!! hopefully it’s kinda obvious which is which especially as we go along…anyways hope you all enjoy

“Kenyu Yukimiya is dead,” Nagi said. Medals sparkled against his breast, the gold a harsh contrast to the dark wool of his coat, and his arms were folded behind his back, which he kept ramrod straight, so unlike the slouch you once associated with him. “They thought it would be best if I were the one to inform you.”

He waited for you to say something, looking much like a mannequin all the while, his pale hair lifeless, his driftwood eyes dull and blank. His careful mouth was pursed into a plain expression which might be considered a frown on another person, but not on him.  Never on him. After all, Nagi did not frown. Nagi did not smile. Nagi did nothing.

“It should’ve been you,” you said.

“Yes,” he said, as prompt and detached as always. “It should’ve.”

Barlezia was a sweeping country, and perhaps you were biased in saying so, but there were none in the world that could claim to be its equal. In the north there were towering mountains which scraped at icy skies, a heavy blue-grey fog settled over their peaks, and to the south there was a vast sea, warm and aquamarine, which led to Drieji in the east and Abraria in the west.

It was on this sea, the Canonora, that the shining city of Maradine was located. Far enough from the northern capital of the nation to have taken on its own character, its own wealth, Maradine was the jewel of Barlezia, a place full of men with horses and women with parasols. Built upon a slate cliff, with houses lining the roads winding down to the pebbly sand, it jutted so far out into the water that some people spent their entire lives on their boats, only venturing onto land for the rare storms that might otherwise drown them.

Near the top of the cliff, where the marble government buildings were sequestered away from the rest of the city, there was a villa. It was the largest of its kind, the walls a deep red terracotta trimmed with white, the floors all glazed porcelain, the many colors and shapes painted onto the tiles making up larger designs of flowers, animals, and other such wonders. The villa overlooked the ocean and a canopy of trees, and it was widely regarded in all of Maradine as the most beautiful in that most beautiful of places, the filigree on an already intricate crown, the diamond in a choker of gold.

This was the villa where you were born, and this was the villa where you would, you presumed, die. Some forefather of yours had constructed it in a time where such art had been celebrated, where Barlezia had ruled the world, and it remained as a remnant of that age, a stronghold against modernity, even though your country had long ago bowed in deference to the ideals and traditions of those in the west.

“Child! Get down from there!” 

The woman that took care of you in lieu of your parents, who were often busy — your father with his politics, your mother with her parties — was slender and frail and too old for keeping up with anyone with any measure of youth. Her hair was entirely grey, and her face was perpetually lined, with sun, with shade, with age and wisdom and worry. You knew her simply as Nanny, and as she was the only one who ever had the courage to chastise you, you found you disliked her very much.

“My tenth birthday is approaching, so you ought not to call me a child any longer,” you said, your legs swinging from your perch in the boughs of a fig tree, the collar of your neatly-pressed dress splotched dark with the juice of the fruit you held in your hands.

“If you continue to behave like this, I certainly will!” she said, her hands on her hips. “Shall I call the manservant?”

The manservant was willful and rough; you doubted he would have any qualms about dragging you to the ground with his bare hands, were he so inclined. Taking one last bite out of the fig, you threw it to the ground, where it burst at Nanny’s feet, and then you clambered out of the tree with as much grace as you could muster.

“You horrid creature,” she hissed at you when you smiled at her, your skirt wrinkled and torn at the hem, your fingers sticky and purple. “How am I to present you to your father and mother in this state?”

“How you always present me, I expect,” you said, batting your eyelashes at her, skipping lightly towards the door. “With more fuss than required.”

She grabbed you by the ear before you could get very far, yanking it sternly, earning a howl out of you. Stomping your foot, you glared at her and waited for her to let go, which she only did when she was assured you would not flee again.

“I will send along a message that you will be late to breakfast. To your room, missy, I won’t have it thought that the young duchess is some mannerless, ill-behaved ruffian,” she said, ushering you towards your quarters as if you were a sordid secret.

“Maybe you need to be better about watching me, and then my manners will improve,” you said, and because you were not doing anything untoward, only saying it, the most she could respond with was an exaggerated sigh.

She bathed you for the second time that morning, quicker than the first, and then she dressed you in something without pattern or finery. Certainly it must’ve pained her, for the ruined dress balled up and thrown into a wastebasket had been much prettier than this one, but there was nothing she could do about it, bar glaring at you as she yanked it over your head.

Nanny wasn’t always so foul-tempered; it was only when you tried her patience, as you did today, that she got to be in such a mood. Else she was a tolerable woman, if not a kind one, and generally softer with her motions. She had mentioned to you a long time ago that she had children of her own, two daughters and a son, the youngest of whom was closer to your mother’s age than your own. You supposed it meant she had some experience with child-rearing, hence why your parents had chosen her amongst the many applicants, and you sometimes wondered if she had treated her own progeny the way she treated you.

Once, you had asked her. She had told you, with a click of her tongue, that she was far stricter with them; however, as you could not fathom anything more chafing than her treatment of you, you found it hard to believe.

Although you were older now — nearly ten years of age, as you liked to remind everyone — you were still not considered enough of an adult to eat with your parents and the rest of adults at meals. Instead you would sit in your room and make faces if the food was not to your liking, discreetly glancing at Nanny out of the corner of your eye and throwing away what you couldn’t stand when you were sure she was not looking. The exception was meals which were meant to be occasions or announcements, wherein your presence was absolutely and unquestionably required.

Today was an announcement, not an occasion, or at least that was what Nanny told you. You did not know the nature of the announcement, only that she was more nervous than usual as the two of you walked to the breakfast room, where your parents would be waiting for you. Up until then, you had been convinced that she had only had two modes of being — fed-up and obedient — so the discovery of this third intrigued you far more than whatever news you might be given.

“Nanny,” your father said. “Y/N. Good morning.”

He did not comment on your tardiness, and neither did he have to; his disapproval was the silent type, which radiated into the air and shimmered like steam, cowing in its intangibility. Your mother offered you a half-smile, as trained and perfect as yours one day would be, and you smiled back at her, your entire focus going into ensuring it was not crooked.

“Good morning, father, mother,” you said, settling into the large chair at your mother’s right, your feet just barely brushing the floor when you were settled with your spine to the cushioned back. “I apologize for the delay.”

“It is inconsequential,” your father said, which was as much of a reprimand as you’d ever get out of him. “We have more important matters to discuss now that you are finally here.”

“There is to be a party,” your mother said. This was nothing out of the ordinary, for your mother, as the Duchess of Maradine, was invited to every party that could be reached from the villa in less than a day. What was strange was that both she and your father thought that you needed to be informed of this occurrence.

“I see,” you said.

“It’s that family from Aprissari,” your father said, sneering at the mention of Barlezia’s capital, the city nestled in the mountains to the north of the country, which may have been the center of your nation’s power but was nowhere near as prosperous as Maradine, never had been and never would be. “The Yukimiyas. The wife is an opera singer and the husband is far more involved in foreign affairs than he has any right to be.”

“And they are rich,” your mother said, patiently and coolly. “Richer than mere commoners. Rich enough to be considered members of the nobility, if we are not careful.”

“We must build proper relations. An alliance, so to speak, but also a reminder that they are no longer in Aprissari,” your father said. “It must be clear to them and to everyone that in Maradine, their money is meaningless if they do not have the approval of the L/N family.”

“Their son is only a little older than you,” your mother continued, perhaps noticing that you no longer held much interest in the conversation, which had diverted to topics of which you had little understanding and even less interest. “The party is being held in honor of his twelfth birthday, and you are to befriend him as best you can.”

“It won’t be difficult,” your father said, and the reluctance of his conviction was the first clue you had that the arrival of these Yukimiyas meant something more to your family than you could possibly know. “You are Y/N L/N; there’s not a child this side of the country that wouldn’t want to be your friend. But you must do it.”

If Nanny or the manservant or anyone else in the L/Ns’ employ told you something so harshly, you would’ve protested or found some way around it, but this was not anyone else. This was your father, Duke L/N himself, and so it was as much a royal command as it was a request from someone who loved you. Perhaps it was even more the former than it was the latter; based on the wideness of your father’s eyes and the lowering of your mother’s lashes, you wouldn’t be surprised if it was the case.

“Yes, father,” you said. “I shall do as you say.”

“Good,” he said. “Finish eating and then attend your lessons as usual. We shall leave once the sun sets.”

You ate at a record pace. Your parents were exchanging looks that said they wanted to speak to one another alone, and it was only your presence which was hindering them, so you endeavored to make yourself scarce as fast as you could without seeming rude. 

Excusing yourself quietly, your head bowed until you left the room, you followed Nanny towards your chambers, deep in thought, turning over the directive your parents had left you with. Befriending the son of the Yukimiyas. For you, who had never had a friend your own age, it was more difficult of a task than your parents must’ve anticipated, so with a tug on the end of Nanny’s apron, you halted in your tracks.

“You heard my father, right, Nanny?” you said. “I have to befriend that boy.”

“That you do,” Nanny said, and then there was a fourth aspect to her which you unlocked: sympathy, glimmering in her irises like a sunrise on the crest of a wave. 

“I don’t know how to do that,” you said. She patted you on the head, brusque and perfunctory, like she was dusting flour off of her hands, yet somehow affectionate, in her way.

“You’ll have to learn, missy,” she said. “Ties with the Yukimiyas may be invaluable in the years to come.”

“Whatever do you mean?” you said. She placed one hand against the wall, her thumb tracing an idle circle over it as she contemplated something or another.

“There are as many ideas of what’ll happen to the continent as there are fish in the Canonora Sea,” she said. “Whether by will or force, Barlezia shall, like every other nation, choose which they back. If they choose wrong, then Maradine will bear the brunt of the consequences. That is all.”

“But what do the Yukimiyas have to do with it?” you insisted.

“Nothing and everything, child! You will understand when you are older. Now hush and go to your lessons,” she said, breaking from her trance and pushing you into your room, where one or another of your tutors would, invariably, be waiting for you.

You wanted to rail at her, to tell her that you weren’t too young, that you deserved to know as well as she did what might yet happen to your own city. Before you could say anything more, however, she shut the door behind you, leaving you standing alone by the wastebasket, where a rusty stain the color of fig juice continued to spread down the sleeve of your crumpled dress.

[sevenop]

Billie Eilish x Fem!reader: There's nothing you could do or say

A/n: I just want to shove a revolver down my throat and pull the trigger with some indescribable pleasure of primacy. It would break my heart to see you die slowly, fade away and become a ghost of the past.

Inspired by 'i love you,' Billie's point of view. The person this is meant for, I hope you especially like this text. Let me know, dude!

Caution: mention of illness. I apologize if this offends you in any way.

There are only three hours left before the night flight to Berlin, and I still haven't seen you all day: waking up in the same bed together doesn't really count, because I'm always so short of you, you know that. I overslept godlessly, jumped out of bed in one merged impulse, like a Hellhound, and you just smiled, reminding with your calmness the mistress of the underworld - Persephone. You helped me get ready as quickly as possible, reducing my small gap in the schedule to almost zero, even though you just got up.: with slightly swollen and reddened eyes, battered, so homely in my clothes, which I always throw under your palms on purpose. In my clothes, you look so ethereal, protected, so... mine.

For you, I am a hasty whirlwind of branded clothes with a fabulous price tag and my own defenseless nakedness, demolishing everything in my path except you. I hurriedly screw up an awkward, such an unequal to your care "thank you", while my head is quickly filled to the brim with lines-schedules with the time of events for today. The usual madness.

"'Merci', we're still in France," you correct jokingly, perched on the edge of the bed and smile, with the very corners of your lips. Your pale cheek is imprinted with the silhouette of a pillow after sleep, and that smile on your lips is pure fissure.

Your hands twitch a little as you daintily dig your aristocratically skinny fingers into the fabric and take turns holding out the clothes you'd prepared for me while I was in the bathroom. You chalk it up to your over-indulgence in coffee these days, and give me the traditional neat kiss goodbye while I'm so reluctant to let you out of the protection of my palms, which look so good on your waist. You smile again, and again your smile is an immaculate fracture, your eyes a deafening abyss for the first time, unreadable to me.

"How are you feeling, my heart?" - I run my hand over your cheek. You're still too pale even by my standards, and you're also unusually cold. My own heart falls down a little, like a balloon under a weight.

"It's okay, Eilish." - You croak softly in my ear, and it feels so good, it gives me goosebumps. I bite playfully on your lobe, unable to contain myself, and close my fingers around your waist a little tighter. - I'll pack our bags, run or you'll be really late."

Something is really wrong, and I don't have time to ask: the phone in the pocket of my shorts is literally bursting with the trill of a dozen calls, and I'm really far behind schedule. So this "something" is sluggishly drowned out in the noise of my mind as I listen to the manager's plans, drive with my mom and brother from place to place, sit through several consecutive interviews, answering semi-automatically, albeit diligently sincere. Thoughts about you are silenced, resembling furniture still untouched by the hungry tongues of flame, on which the burning roof of the house immediately collapses: it is only necessary to "dive" me back into the car, bypassing the noisy and curious crowd, to not meet the usually extremely warm, understanding and peaceful lakes in mom's eyes - this lingering "something" clicks loudly, again burdening not only the head, but also the whole heart. Blinding sparks of worry gleam in her gaze, like lake pebbles catching the light of the sun through the thickness of the waters. Are there secrets again?

"Mom, is something wrong?" - the sliding door slams shut with a bang as soon as several managers and Finn deftly run into the salon, who is almost dragging the setting sun behind him, like a gel ball on a string: his shaggy red hair playfully winking golden lights in the light. The stocky guard taps the side of the van several times with a massive fist, announcing readiness, and And mom is twitching, as if someone fired a cannon - "Mom?"

"I... I don't think I'm at liberty to tell you just yet, dear." - She self-effacing, wanting to look away, but she doesn't let herself, just catches Finneas's gaze for a second, turning back to me.

"What do you mean?" - I frown, leisurely glancing over her: a little hunched over in her unnaturally, stiff, confused. Not at all like her. His heart began to rattle, climbing up his ribs and all the way to his throat, to lodge there in a lump of excitement and foreboding. Finneas coughs awkwardly, drawing attention to himself, as ungainly as our mother, except that his eyes are cold icebergs of concentration and utter seriousness, and his hands are resting on his knees in a tight grip, as if he's on the scariest attraction of his life. The blood in my arteries boils from the pressurization, from mine own blunt ignorance. - "Tell me, I want to know."

"Y/n hasn't told you yet?" - his voice sounds disproportionately ingratiating in the noise of people's shouts of adoration and the soft rustle of wheels gradually gaining momentum. The van moves smoothly back toward the hotel and It's not long before we'll be leave, all that's left is to pick you up, the rest of the faithful crew and a couple of our suitcases. Except to cut that anger-inducing Gordian knot of misunderstandings that has been wagging since I woke up.

"What the hell are you talking about?!" - the words come out like bright, rustling confetti from a naughty firecracker. I still couldn't help myself.

They look at each other in silence, almost shouting a heartfelt epitaph in the harmony of their voices. Finneas touches my shoulder gently with his palm, and mother takes my hands in her warm palms, and I feel a slight tremor creep through her. I feel that now I find myself along with them on this unknown attraction, that twists nerves and veins on its mechanism, being driven by fear.

"About her leukemia, Bils."

And the world immediately collapses to the size of an atom, ceasing to exist and sound at all. Boom! A shot from a shotgun at point-blank range, what smearing my bloody remains, the remnants of my mind on the darkened glass and the entire cabin. From the floor to the roof.

"What?..." - Like the four pearls clicked quietly on the stone tiles of the floor, as my the letters bounced lightly off the silence of the salon, echoing them. Even the small bunch of managers shut up instantly, looking in our direction with a kind of pity, as soon as this harbinger of doom reaches their ears. Leukemia.

"We don't know if it's really true, because the first symptoms could be conjugated by their similarity to simple severe overexertion, and the resulting diagnosis is a likely paperwork error," - Mom closes her gently fingers on my palms tighter, but my blood is already cold and I can't feel anything, as if I've ducked under the thickest of ice, - "We all just hoping that the new test show it's really true, but..."

"But she asked to be ready." - Finn's voice trembles, but he heroically finishes. - "Just in case."

"What?..." - like a wind-up puppet I scatter these long-suffering four letters again, and I don't have enough for more. In an elusive mind, a puzzle flimsily develops, answering a question that has been stuck into my head since the morning, and I see that smile of yours before my eyes - a delicate pink stroke protecting me from the catastrophe of Vesuvius: "It's okay, Eilish...". And immediately so wants seeing the world blurred, drowning in stinging salt from tears.

And I remember jumping out of the van, remember flying into the elevator, hitting the floor button a hundred thousand times in a few seconds just to get to the top faster, remember how kicking the door to our hotelroom with my whole body, catching you off guard. All of this is completely unimportant, a merged sequence that is so treacherously imprinted on my brain while being completely insignificant. You're sitting near the entrance, perched upright on your large suitcase: your sharp shoulders are outlined by my ridiculously colored T-shirt, and your long legs in baggy jeans are stretched out while you tap your converses socks against each other. You jumping up with a startle, like the devil out of a snuffbox under the force of a steel spring, when the door meets the wall with a distinctive slam. The unreadable morning abysses in your eyes are fathomlessly sad now, while I am devoid of words, all the letters of the alphabet, every possible sound. And you understand just so, without any of those empty air vibrations stealing up the already precious now time. You understand what they told me.

"It's not true," - I kneel down, not even closing the door behind me, I don't care. Wrap both palms around your face, but you just stare at me with a look of worldwide sorrow, cuddling up to me like a beaten kitten. - "Tell me I've been lied to..."

"I'm sorry, Eilish," - your soft whisper that hits me exactly in the solar plexus, - "It's true."

It's true. It feels like my guts have been left somewhere in an elevator office, a bloody trail leading right here to you. I was completely blown away.

"Billie, I-"

"Okey, listen, I'll help! I'll pay whatever it takes, I'll give them everything!" - My ligaments were tearing with excitement, turning my own measured whisper into a pathetic whimper.

"There's nothing you could do or say." - You raking me up into your arms, and without a second thought, I burst into tears: the world in front of me was starting to blur and my eyes stinging. Why? Why you? All you do is stroke my head like a whiny little baby while I crumple the fabric of your t-shirt with my hands, choking on my own despair. - "All we have to do for now is wait. We'll find out in Berlin."

"W-why didn't you tell me this morning?"

"I knew you wouldn't go anywhere after that, I didn't want to cause trouble." - You chuckle softly, and I just press myself into you tighter, my wet nose against your neck, my arms wrapped around you. Suddenly, if I let go now, you're gone forever? - "I'm sorry, I know I should have told you sooner. I just..."

"Please don't leave!" - The tears and nerves are starting to make me shake. The feeling of coldness behind my back mixes with a small flame of hope as your hands stroke my shoulder blades. - "Please, please, please..."

"I won't leave, Eilish," - your hand touches my chin, lifting my head to touch my lips with yours, and I gasp, memorizing absolutely every crack on them as if for the last time. - "I won't leave."

I don't remember how much I was hysterical, but the life-giving warmth of your hands lingered in my memory, which spread down my back, giving me like demonic wings, behind which I so want to hide you from everyone and everything. I remember how I collected your tears with my lips, resembling transparent snakes, as two worried heads appeared in the doorway - a copper-red and a light sandy one, it's mom with Finn. We leave the hotel, and I don't let go of your hand for a second: not when you're carrying a heavy suitcase that I'm trying so hard to take away, not when you jump into the car with me, not when we're sitting in line for a flight. Mom tries to defuse the situation, from time to time timidly and tenderly asking about how you feels, Finneas and dad offer all kinds of help here and there, and you just laugh it off, hiding behind this cunning, and even now beautiful in its falsity fracture playing on your lips. You squeeze my hand tighter, stoically swallowing your own excitement, devouring from the inside.

After a while, we are already climbing the airplane ramp, surrounded by the dense darkness of the night, and you are smiling again, when I look at you anxiously again: the smile that you gave me, even when you felt like dying. An old line, personally composed and now my personal nightmare in an instant, become much stronger than before. What else can I do but wait endlessly? Up all night on another red-eye I stared at you just as endlessly, when fatigue took over and you dozed off, trustingly resting your head on my shoulder. I silently memorizing absolutely every feature of your face to plug the abyss in my head. It's all infinity multiplied by infinity.

The porthole is gradually being colored in light blue tones. We have arrived in Berlin.

×××

A ragged breath bounces off the tiled walls, mixing with a loud splash: I emerge from under the thickness of the already almost cooled water, just to hang limply in the wide bathtub. There is an absolute emptiness in my head, shackle me with it's coolness, like this water around my body. So perfectly. I hear a light knock on the bathroom door, so sonorous, as if you are touching the wood with your very knuckles: they are slightly reddish, beautiful. Yes, I think I was too loud. When you don't hear an answer, you press down on the door handle and walk softly through to carefully sit on the side of the bathad. Excitement spreads in your eyes, like rainbow spots of gasoline on the surface of a puddle.

"Billie, are you okay?"

No, are you? It's so ironic that it's being asked by the person who is now in pathological danger more than anyone else. I'm supposed to be strong for you, but somehow I've suddenly broken down on my own, staring so blankly at that spotless white-washed ceiling for half an hour. Worthlessness. The water splashes again, makeshift waves rising slightly over the tub's rims, leaking onto the tile floor as I assume a sitting position and stare at you after all, eye to eye. Naked and insignificant. I can't do nothing with everything I have, I just want to shove a revolver down my throat and pull the trigger with some indescribable pleasure of primacy. It would break my heart if I see how you die slowly, fade away and become a ghost of the past.

"Yes." - My own hoarse echo, covering weakness.

"Your water's cold, a klutz," - you touch your fingertips to the cold surface and shiver. - "and you're also lying."

We stare at each other in silence, and then I break again like a branch of a flowering tree: rustling and crunching. You and the bathroom start to shake, so I cover my eyes to hold back the hailstones of tears.

"I'm sorry."

"Crying isn't like you," your hot palms touch my cheeks with indescribable care, brushing away the droplets of tears and wiping away the clear paths of sadness. - "Never been the type to let someone see right through."

You speak in my own lines, either from the fact that your thoughts are so close to my soul lyrics, or just to cheer me up. You know how much I enjoy it, how much it amuses me. But right now it's not funny, it hurts. You catch my gaze and your lips quickly fold into a sincere "sorry" before kissing my water-damp forehead.

"What will I do without you if this turns out to be true?" - I grab your wrists, pulling you closer, and you smile for the thousandth time in these two days, while the irises of your beautiful eyes reflect my praying glaciers, which melt in despondency, creating new salty rivers that flow between your slender fingers. You never let go of my face. - "What should I do, Y/n?"

"First off, get out of the cold bath so you don't get sick." - you coo, hiding mutual shards of sharp pain in a gaze that's as variable in its spectrum of light as a gothic stained glass window. - "And we'll decide the rest in a warm bed, okay?"

I climb out of the tub, stepping barefoot onto the bare tile, and you deftly throw a huge, soft towel over me and hold out another, smaller one for my hair.

"I'll be waiting, Eilish." - You kiss my lips, and I don't want to pull away, just hang on to your neck with both arms. The soft towel immediately falls to the floor, once again exposing the pale curves of my body, which you look at fleetingly, shyly.

"Stay with me, don't go, please."

And you stay, leaning patiently on the sink built into the nightstand, waiting for me to run a soft towel over the alabaster skin, collecting all the moisture, waiting for me to put on clean clothes. Silently staring, so attentive, as if memorizing.

"You're so beautiful, O'Connell." - You catch me off guard with your words just as I bend over to open the stopper in the tub. The water immediately swirls into a small spiral vortex, dancing over the drain, and your words make it an order of magnitude harder to breathe. - "My insanity.

We go back to the bedroom: I pull you with me, accompanying you confidently between the coffee table and other furnishings in the dark, and you follow obediently, understanding without any words. We lie down on the bed, and I immediately cling to you in a hug like a baby koala and you cover us with a heavy blanket and I exhale for the first time in two days as if nothing had happened. It would be so nice if it were true.

"You need to rest, Bils." - you gently pull me closer to you, though it feels like it's getting no closer, as I lavish light kisses on your face, -"You're tired."

"You still haven't answered my question."

You sigh heavily, as if your lungs are in a vise and your thoughts are trapped in a snare of fears and your own fear of choosing the wrong words. You look away, but I immediately stroke your face, bringing you back to me. I try to look warmly, even though I'm as scared as you are.

"Let's hope? And if it still don't, then... forget me, please."

I covered my eyes to collect my thoughts, but the same picture was in front of them: tourniquet, needles, thick syringe. I watch from the couch as your dark scarlet blood first spreads moderately along the transparent walls of the cylinder, and then quickly runs upwards, following the piston of the pressurized syringe. I fold my hands in front of me between my apart knees, and I can see them trembling with excitement. You told me not to go, and I just couldn't do it, I'm too worried about you. It's only when the thin needle catches a glimmer in the light, darting out of your vein, that I exhale, diligently watching the shiver. My head wants to twitch in a tic, but I don't let it. For your sake I coped then, I need to cope with the words now.

"Do you want to leave?" - The voice twitches so stupidly, echoing the heart that's throbbing behind my sternum. - "What about your promise?"

"I don't want to, but I love you," - and you don't smile anymore, just pull the corners of your lips down, exposing your own weariness. - "And I don't want you to get hurt even when just looking at me."

"Maybe won't you take it back? Say you were tryingna make me laugh." - I bump my nose against your collarbone, sending goosebumps through your body with my hot breath. - "It'll hurt me even more when I know you'll be alone, that I won't be able to be there for you when I can help in any way, Y/n."

"But now you feel weak and insignificant, I can see that, Eilish! And it's all my fault!" - You furies on, and I deftly catch your lips with mine for a soothing kiss. You exhale stunned, but immediately calm down, becoming so soft and supple in my arms. Only now do I realize how much you've broken yourself under the strain of waiting, realize I can't let go.

"I can't escape the way I love you..." - softly humming just one line, and the embers of hope are already kindling in your eyes.

"I can't escape the way I love you." - you whisper repeat confidently, quieting my restless seas in response.

And we touch each other's lips an infinite number of times, without any words or oppressive thoughts, because they are not necessary now. The excited exhalations, looks, and sensations mean so much more now. You drift off to sleep unnoticed by exhaustion, not breaking the safe warmth of the embrace, sniffle amusedly into my shoulder, and I finally smile with more than a serene smile before I drift off into the realm of Morpheus after you, gulping down a thousand hopes.

It's just over ten hours to the rubicon crossing.

×××

Finneas awkwardly grips the long fingerboard of the bass guitar, touching the thick strings with his fingers, not so much testing as seeking reassurance in the sound. He looks at me, and I shudder as I lean on the microphone stand. The stage lights flared up in one loud click, blinding me, making me frown.

"Are you ready?" - From afar, somewhere in the darkness, the cameraman's cheerful voice is heard.

"One second!" - Mom shrieks from backstage as I almost nod. Synchronously, my brother and I turn our heads in the direction of the shout, and this action also recurs by the rest of the studio staff. Mom is glowing brighter than any spotlight, Dad is almost dancing with a mixture of emotions, and you're standing backstage with them, clutching a folded sheet of paper in your hands. And you smile. At last, without a fracture, so sincerely.

Finn jumps up from his seat like a rocket, and I keep up: flying into your arms with the microphone in hand, making you stagger, but with light laugh.

"Negative." - you whisper gently in my ear, and I'm ready to burst into millions of brightest fireworks. - "The hospital really just mixed up the paperwork back then."

And when the rest of the family joins the hug with joyful hooting, and we all jump together like a football team that won a world match, the heart finally finds peace, getting into the precisely designed groove between the ribs.

You're all right.

[darklydeliciousdesires]

Blazing Lust - An Aemond Targaryen/Reader/Daemon Targaryen One Shot Story.

Is it pure sinfully hot, totally indulgent, far removed from canon, porn without a plot? Yes. Is it exactly what I needed to write because of my hormonal duress? Also yes. Be warned, it's pretty filthy. Will there be a part two? Maybe. ;)

Words - 1,405

Warnings - Smut (but not any TargCest, they're both just here for you) below the cut. Minors DNI!

It streaks through you, like a hail of comets, a celestial starshine of pleasure, light rushing over your nerves. It’s always like this with them, the masters of mindless pleasure, the two men ravage your senses so thoroughly, it is almost as if they exist solely for that purpose.  

The furnace of your desire is stoked to roaring flame, two mouths full of indulgent hunger and filthy promise gliding over you, one settling between your legs, the other sucking at your nipples until they stand pebbled.  

The crush of teeth has little pricks of pain skipping down your spine, puddling at your cunt, the heat of a tongue lapping it away with a ravenous grunt. Your silver haired, violet eyed lovers; how easily they have you toppling like an ancient tower under the pressure of their touch.  

And yet, they’ve scarcely even begun. 

You never contemplated that perhaps it might be too much to withstand, but they are nothing if not apt at forcing your regular reconsideration. Could such a thing as too good ever exist?  

With them, it is entirely possible. With them, it's never anything less than blazing lust.

Your sweet, breathy moans flutter through the air, adding to the orchestra of sin that is two deeper voices both groaning with desire. Your little sexual soprano is only muted when Aemond moves his mouth to yours, his kisses all hot yearning as he fucks slowly into the lubed grasp of your hand around his cock.  

While your tongues dance together, the heat within the candlelit room burning to tempest, Daemon licks at the soaking velvet of your cunt so thoroughly, you know the touch of his mouth will never truly leave you. Gods be good, he’s divine.  

The sound of it is filthily sultry, sucking on your pearl as Aemond’s teeth move back to your nipple, the bite going straight to your apex, a connection tingling from the dual stimulus, meeting in a glide of pleasure like satin being dragged over your nerves.  

Aemond’s tongue laves over the red indentations from his bite, a slow, long lick gliding up your chest and over your throat, his rumbled groan flowing like wine from his mouth to yours. You drink it back, feeling his cock jerk in your hand as you grip the silky steel of him, your grasp tugging upwards and fingers teasing the head, slowly sliding back to the base once more. You know well by now how to render him mindless by your prowess. 

“Fuck,” he grunts, teeth crushing against your lower lip, his reaction warming your insides further, watching dark violet fire dance in his beautiful eye. “Do that again, my little vixen.”  

You oblige his gravelled request, your mouths locked, your thighs writhing against Daemon’s face, soft skin meeting the rough prickle of a hint of silver stubble as his tongue draws a delicious circle over your bud, your walls clenched hard around the thick of his fingers. A little crook has you spasming, that nudge so precise, you’re mindless for a moment, panting against Aemond’s mouth as Daemon ruins your sanity with his.  

Your hips quake almost violently as he draws it from you, Daemon beating his tongue rapidly over your bud. “That’s it, beautiful temptress,” he encourages, voice all smoke and grit. “Come nice and hard for me.”  

It blazes like a beacon through the ink of the darkest night, your lover smiling against your soaking folds, sucking on your bud as you flood his mouth with the honey of your release.  

“Gods above,” he smirks, kissing your petals, looking thoroughly satisfied with himself. “You all but drowned me.” 

A quick trade of places gives you time to cool down, before the intensity Aemond kissed you with is matched as he begins to eat you thirstily, sucking on your slit until you swell against the hard beat of his tongue, Daemon moving astride your chest, a hand beneath your head raising it up, his cock pushing between your lips. 

“Be a good girl for me, yes, fuck. That’s it.” He groans, watching his thick cock sinking into your mouth inch by inch.   

The pleasure invoked is razor edged yet kitten soft, your hands touring the ridges of Daemon’s chiselled hips and abs as he slowly pumps into the wet grip of your mouth, the pressure of your tongue perfect against the underside of his shaft.  

His hands wind through your hair, fisting tight, each deep groan more a predatory rumble as your mouth stretches around him, your eyes meeting his as he watches himself vanish right into your throat.   

“You look so very pretty when I fuck your mouth, temptress.” 

Your heart skips a beat at his praise while your cunt flutters in spasm as Aemond’s tongue breaches your opening, his nose sliding over the pearl of your sex until his licks return to it, the vibration of his moan searing through you.  

His hands stroke scorching paths of heat over your thighs as he makes you melt over his tongue, his groans so rumbling and delicious, you feel weak to your very marrow. They impose such thrilling pleasure on you, your body host to tumbling glimmers, bliss streaking your spine as you feel Aemond move, kneeling before you, his hardness meeting your folds.  

It sends a strong shiver through you, your hips bucking, desperate to feel him spear you. “Insatiable little vixen,” he chuckles, the head of his cock sliding over your bud. “I see it, how much this needy little hole aches for my cock.”  

The thick head catches at your entrance, the slick drag of him rubbing himself over your slit having you whimpering with the need to be filled, finally stretched wide when he arrows into you. Just that first thrust is a delicious satiation for your ache, Aemond muttering cusses at the divinity that is the wet heat of you clasped around him.  

It’s slow and rolling for all of a few seconds before the desire flickering through him demands greater ignition, his sparks roaring into flame as his hips gain power, driving into you deeply, your nails grazing Daemon’s back as you swallow his cock whole.   

Your muted moans rend sharply into the air, your body quaking as the dark lust of it sizzles through your veins, lights you up, their hardness heavy within you as they make your theirs. The hot silk of your arousal bathes Aemond thickly, and you wish you could see him in all of his beauty as he fucks you, but watching the intensity of Daemon’s gaze keeps you transfixed, his cusses of how amazing you feel, how you’re his good girl, how well you take him adding to it.   

Such praise is mirrored by Aemond, exclaiming at your wetness as his cock glides through it, his nails dug hard into your hips as the thick head of him pounds you deep, sends sparks skittering through you, pleasure spiking hard over every nerve ending inside you.   

Both of them become boundless within you, their groans sinfully erotic, deep gritted and full bodied, their cocks dragging at you with more speed as they race towards it. Aemond’s thumb working in slick strokes on your bud keeps you simmering until you bubble over with him, your body keening against his as he fucks waves of white hot into your soaking core, Daemon’s hands clenching in your hair tightly as his release trickles down your throat.   

The aftermath is soft, Aemond returning his mouth to you, pressing kisses over your hip, thumb languidly stroking through the mess of your folds, Daemon moving to your side, kissing your neck, his deft fingertips chasing the beads of sweat that roll slowly down your breasts.   

“Happy?” he asks, clasping your jaw in a strong grip, turning your head. You receive his mouth in a languid, lustful kiss, your stomach fluttering pleasantly. You might be spent, but these men of yours, gods. How they know how to reignite you rapidly.  

“For now,” you purr, your fingers stroking over his wide chest. “I will be even more so when I have both of you inside me, though.” 

He arches an eyebrow. “You just did.” 

“Not like that,” you whisper, softly biting his cheek. “You know well what I want.” 

While Daemon chuckles deeply, Aemond runs his tongue up your thigh, fingers returning to the soaking chasm of your cunt. “I think that can be arranged.” 

A/N - Did you enjoy this story? If so, please be kind and leave a little comment/reblog. Thanks!

[when-nothing-goes-as-planned]

It's amazing just how much you're willing to do for someone when you like them.

In the romantic sense, I mean.

When you platonically like someone you'd do anything for them, as long as you're able to handle it.

When you romantically like someone, though? That's a whole different level we're talking about.

When you romantically like someone, you'd do anything for them, even if it's sometimes beyond your capabilities.

You might be drowning in your own sorrows, but their suffering always feels like a greater loss. So much so that you feel as though you'd bear their pains on top of your own, just so that they wouldn't have to.

You might find yourself terribly busy, but you always manage to make time for them. You might not know anything related to their interests, so despite being behind on just about everything else, you still somehow manage to learn about them.

Granted, all this is applicable to platonic love as well, but somehow, you felt that romantic love had a certain magical feel to it.

Maybe it was the influence of too many Disney movies, but who cares.

But in the same way, it was also amazing just how much you're not willing to do for someone who you don't like.

Again, in the romantic sense.

See, this is what you meant about the difference between platonic and romantic love. As far as life has worked out for you, when you romantically like someone, you'd find a way to give them the moon and when you just platonically like someone, you'd barely be willing to give them a polished pebble.

Or maybe, you just have shitty friends.

Correction, shitty friend.

You'd do anything for him, even it meant your own doom, but God forbid if the same applied to you.

Their messages were read as soon as they were delivered. Yours was left on delivered for a while.

They ask him for a favour, he'd do it. Granted, it would take a bit of convincing. But for you? Yeah, dream on.

Situations arose where you'd be partnered together. And more than half the time, you know he'd rather be paired with someone else. A certain someone else.

Unless your help was necessary, that is.

Somehow, you had the solutions for everyone's problems.

The advisor, the helper, the mother, the tutor, the therapist, the mentor.

It also sucked that you were an enigma for the rest. You somehow managed to stay on the top of your game despite taking on more and more.

But few knew of your disastrous tendency to procrastinate. Pair it with your perfectionistic attitude and it was a recipe for a disaster, the result being an extremely stressed, sleep deprived and caffeine high you.

You still pushed through, though.

Out of sheer spite and willpower, but still.

The fact was, that you were a busy person. And it's a universal truth that busy people are always stressed.

When you were a busy person with a stupid crush on a guy you know you've got zero chance with, it made your stress ten times worse.

It was as though the universe was against you.

The perfect guy, one who actually wasn't your type, but ended up redefining your idea of your ideal type to fit himself in.

The one guy who you knew, was not necessarily a bad match for you, personality wise anyways. Lord knows if there's anything else lurking beneath.

The one guy who managed to make your tough attitude melt into absolute nothing.

The one guy who managed to make you, who dreamt of lazy rainy evenings and warm tea , end up dreaming about the mushy stuff. Stuff you wouldn't normally dream about, not with a clear cut idea anyway, like your dates, hugs, talks, and even your marriage.

Especially your marriage.

The one guy who managed to break down a lot of your walls, the one guy you felt safe with, the one guy you knew you could trust openly, and you couldn't have him.

For reasons out of your control, you just weren't what he was looking for.

You were good enough to help him.

You were good enough to listen to his troubles.

You were good enough to be used as an excuse for when crap went sideways, because after all, you were trusted.

You were kind, after all. His words, not yours.

It's kind of embarassing, just how much you were willing to do for his sake, and just how little you expected him to do for you.

What you wanted were your thoughts, emotions and actions returned. What you received, was an entirely different matter.

He cared about her,worried about her, and for better or for worse, cried for her. To the extent that you sometimes wished you could stab yourself rather than to witness the scenes unfold.

If he was so capable of such emotions, so capable of freely expressing them, then why was it that he never even gave an ounce of it your way?

Were you worthy of the bare minimum effort? The bare minimum care?

Were you worth so little?

Was that it?

Was that why you were always, always one of the lowest of his priorities?

Maybe it was a you problem, maybe it had nothing to do with him.

But was it really?

Was it really your fault that he chose her over you, every single time?

Was it really your fault, when he made the choice to prioritise her needs over his own, and then come crying to you?

Was it really your fault, when he decided to play a dangerous game of chase with her, willingly allowing you to be the first hand witness to their game?

Was it really your fault, when despite you being there to help him out of his messes, especially regarding hers, he still went running to her for comfort?

They created the messes that you had to clean up.

They were the ones who made bad life choices and come running to you for advice.

They were the ones who were involved in the god forsaken game of cat and mouse, somehow dragging you into the middle of the mess.

They were the ones who forced you into a corner sometimes, with you being needed to cover for them, in the face of a lot of people.

They were the ones who had to be careful in their so-called games, but you were the one forced to enforce the said caution.

In their point of view, you were the villain in their story.

Always poking around, ruining a part of their fun.

But they also know that they were the ones who forced you into the role. That someone was needed to possess the common sense that they lacked. Of course, whether they listened to the said common sense was another matter entirely.

Granted, sometimes you enjoyed putting them in their places a bit too much.

Despite his devil may care attitude when it came to anyone other than her, you knew that he did care for you. You knew that he did consider you to be a friend. After all, you did spend a lot of time together for you to just be named an acquaintance.

It was just that his efforts towards you paled in comparison to those directed towards her.

It also didn't help that he trusted you enough that he knew you'd not betray him, or his feelings that even he himself was kind of oblivious about. It was obvious to you both that he had certain questionable feelings, definitely not of the platonic type, towards her but you knew him well enough to know he'd rather ignore them for the sake of his sanity. At the cost of your own, you admit.

You were the one he cried to about things related to her, you were the one who knew that he was actually completely whipped for her. Not that he was good at hiding it, just about everyone could see it. It was just that you were the only one who was aware of the extent of it.

Sometimes you were sick of playing the adult. Sometimes you wanted to shake him out of this stupid mess he called his feelings. Sometimes you wanted to scream at him, of how you wanted out.

Out of everything that you never wanted to get yourself into.

Sometimes, you wanted him to just get over himself and confess, after all, atleast then you didn't have to see him pine around for someone else.

The rest of the time you were content about being there for him, regardless of the toll it took on your emotions.

Something is better than nothing, right?

And while you were torturing yourself with their roundabout pining, you'd rather be the first to find out if they ever decided to commit. At least you could get the time to prepare your poor, poor heart for when you'd have to break the reality to it.

The same heart, that despite the torturous wait, still hoped that he'd look your way. That he'd find that what he was looking for all this while, was actually right next to him.

That your efforts would be rewarded.

They had to be, right?

No deity was cruel enough to let all those efforts, those feelings, those thoughts, those tears, be for nothing, right?

Your mind said otherwise, but your foolish heart stubbornly kept on believing.

You knew, heartbreak was the only outcome of this stupid situation that you'd gotten yourself into.

You just hoped that when the time came, they would be kind enough to break it cleanly into two, rather than shatter it completely into tiny pieces.

At least it would be easier to put it back together.

Hopefully, anyways.

[cupid-ghoul]

Buckle up and hold onto your belongings - I have ghoul swimming headcanons ✨

Water ghouls can swim DUH. It doesn't matter if they're in glamour or not, some might need to get used to not having fins and gills. What does matter is where they're from in the pit; ghouls used to warmer waters might get a little shivery when playing in topside lakes for too long. It can happen that a water ghoul will go missing for a few days, they're probably in the lake doing lucifer knows what.

Fire ghouls can technically swim but many choose not to, it's cold and wet. So if you see a fire ghoul swimming, there might be some danger ahead. If the water is warm tho they might take a dip. I also hc that dewdrop specifically really enjoys swimming. He can't do it for long since he gets cold easily, but he still likes to have some fun. It reminds him of the time he spent as a water ghoul.

Earth ghouls sink. That's it. They can't really swim but luckily most are tall enough to just not drown (RIP pebble ig). Mountain can walk to the deepest part of the lake and just stand there, horns barely making it past the surface. Their element doesn't make them very buoyant but they have big lungs, so it's easy to just hold their breath under water.

Air ghouls can swim but much like fire ghouls they don't really see the point of it. They are very light and breezy anyway so the feeling of weightlessness isn't exactly new to them. Their fur is also really hard to dry, as it has a special texture to keep them warm in colder climates with thinner air. If given the chance they enjoy swimming in glamour because it's less of a hassle for them, plus who doesn't like seeing their pack in swimwear.

Quintessence ghouls love water almost as much as water ghouls do. The feeling of floating and the sensations under water remind them of the magic flowing through them. Many enjoy swimming when stressed to get a feeling of peace and quiet. They do prefer warmer waters tho, it's closer to the pit.

For multi ghouls it really depends on what their elemental make up is. An earth water multi might have a difficult time trying to figure out how to balance their elemental drives and traits, while a fire quint will gladly spend some time soaking in some warm water. Luckily there's still the option of swimming while glamoured, which equals the playing field a little.

And not to my favourite hc of all of these ...

ALL ghouls (besides water) are required upon summoning to take swimming lessons in their glamours. It's mainly for safety (can't have a ghoul fall into the water while glamoured and drown), but also to give them the option of experiencing the water with reduced influence of their elements.

They're given pool noodles and all the typical stuff to help them get accustomed to the water first until they are able to swim on their own. There is no band practice during the time of swimming lessons since it usually evolves into utter chaos and no one wants to deal with even more ghoul shenanigans.

(I also like to imagine phantom during his swimming lessons - equipped with arm floats and a floating tire - just dog paddling around and still almost drowning bcs little man overestimated his skills of staying afloat)

[multifandomworldsposts]

omggg I know he lost in the poll but your HAVEEE to do ponyboy for kinktober🙏🏽🙏🏽🙏🏽

Day 23 of Kinktober: Running Away With Ponyboy Curtis

Pairing: Ponyboy Curtis x fem!reader

Warning: sexual harassment, fighting, unprotected sex,

Y/N’s POV

Ponyboy’s life has been hard since his parents accident, his older brother accusing him in shit that doesn’t involve him, struggling with bills, and the socs.

I’m a soc but I hate a lot of the people who are in the socs, Cherry’s boyfriend Bob, he’s such an asshole to me and of course, the greasers. Some socs are sweet except for some.

One night, Dally, Pony, Johnny, and I went to the drive-in. We go to the seats and I see Cherry with Marcia and I sit next to them. Dallas starts to flirt with Cherry, Johnny, Pony, and I kept on telling Dallas to stop harassing her and of course Dallas ignores us. Eventually Dallas leaves, so Ponyboy and Johnny sits next to us. I feel safe around Pony but a lot of docs say that the greasers are dangerous, I know them some are dangerous but some aren’t and that the gang I know. Dallas comes back with food and drinks, he gives Cherry throws her drink at him and things get heated, Dallas tries to harass her again, Johnny tells him to stop, Dallas gets pissed off and he looked like he was about to beat something or someone but he walked away.

Eventually, the girls, Ponyboy, Two-bit, Johnny and I leave the drive-in and the socs came to us to start trouble.

“Y/N!? What are doing?” Randy says.

“Being with someone who isn’t you guys.” I said.

Bob and Randy look so pissed but Cherry stops them, Cherry tells us we can leave so we leave. Ponyboy takes me home, of course my parents are pissed that I missed my curfew, which it’s fucking stupid.

3 AM

I hear pebbles on my window so I go check who it is and it’s Ponyboy looking upset. I unlock my window and see what’s going on.

“Pony what’s the matter?” I whisper.

“Darry, he hit me. Run away with me.” He says.

“But, what about my parents?” I look behind me.

“I can’t go anywhere without you Y/N/N, please run away with me.” He says.

I look at him, I’m sorry mom and dad, I love you but, Ponyboy needs me. I grab a jacket and Pony catches me from the window and we ran to a park and I see a mustang in the distance, I hope to god it’s not the socs.

I see Bob, Randy, and the other guys I forgot their names walking towards us. Ponyboy protects me from them, shit goes down by Pony almost getting drowned and I almost get sexually assaulted. I get crazy by grabbing a knife and stabbed Bob, I stabbed my best friend’s boyfriend. Pony wakes up and he looks at me with some blood on me and he looks to see Bob dead.

“Y/N, what happened?” Pony asked.

“He tried to kill you and he tried to sexually harass me, so I killed him, I’ve never done this before.” I shakily said.

“We need to get out of here.” He said.

“But where?” I ask.

“I know where to go.” He says.

I believe him. We go to the bar where Dally lives and we tell him everything on what happened a couple hours ago. Dally takes us to his bedroom and he gives us clothes which surprisingly felt so warm. Dal tells us where to go to an abandoned church, so we go to where he said where to go. While we were in the train car, I almost fell asleep in Pony’s arms. He woke me up to tell me we’re at the location where the church is at. I made Pony ask a farmer where the church is and finally got to it. To be honest, I love abandoned places, but I hope we don’t get caught but we’re in the middle of nowhere.

“I’m glad that we’re finally alone.” I say looking around.

“I’ve been wanting to be alone with you for a long time.” He wraps his arms around my waist.

I look at his face and I see those doe eyes, I love him but my parents and the socs think he’s dangerous because of who he’s hanging out with but some of them are so sweet. Pony kisses me, I kiss him back, I turn my body to face him, he holds me tight to make us lay on the floor to make out, we were like this for hours, him giving me hickeys, me moaning, him kissing my body, and me tugging his hair.

While we were there, we dyed our hair, I turned mine into black color and I turned his hair blonde, which he looks cute in blonde without greasy hair.

Dallas visits us and gives Pony a letter from Soda. Dallas tells me that there’s missing posters of me everywhere in town, I can’t believe that’s happening. Dallas takes us to Dairy Queen which I really miss the food. We go back to the church which is on fire. Pony and I save the kids.

We go to the hospital and Pony and I are at the waiting room and Darrel and Sodapop come in so Pony ran to them. My parents come in and they look disgusted on what they’re seeing, my changed hair and seeing Ponyboy looking beat up.

My parents kick me out so the Curtis’ said it’s okay for me to live in with them. Again I’m happy that I’m with Ponyboy, he just makes me so happy and he makes me feel safe.

[chanterelle-clan]

Moon 1

Next -

Chanterelle clan tries to heal from the incident. Hickory takes chickadee to see the medicine cat, and learns he has brain damage and may never walk correctly. Meanwhile, the clan mediator Pebblepelt is becoming susceptible (+1)

Hickoryhaze sat in the medicine den, tail flicking back and forth from his nerves. Despite the warm air, he still felt like he couldn’t stop his legs from trembling. This was just a checkup, why is he so afraid? Bristleweb padded forward with a weak smile that he could tell was forced. Chickadeekit laid in between them, tiny body wiggling and sniffing around.

“How..how is he?” Hickory began, trying to calm the shakiness in his voice. Bristle’s smile seemed to waver, and it looked sad. She lowered her voice, ear flicking as she looked to the brown Tom. “It’s..normal for not all kits to start walking yet. But chickadee just- doesn’t have balance. It’s like he doesn’t have a tail but it’s right there.” She placed a paw behind chickadee and gently nudged him up. The orange and white kitten barely even sat their head up before they toppled over with a squeak, body unsteady.

Bristle sighed, staring at Hickory’s frightened eyes. “He was…he went without air for a long time hickory. You must understand his brain may not-“ hickory interjected, tone snapping. “Are you saying he’s mousebrained? There’s nothing wrong with him!” Bristle didn’t flinch from the Tom’s anger, and sighed, waving a paw to lower his tone and nervously glancing at the Kit, who was staring over in confusion.

Hickory looked away in shame, mumbling a soft apology to the Kit before turning back to the medicine cat. “Is..will he be okay?” The white she cat looked away and at her herbs stacked on the den wall. “We may need to do some therapy, to teach him to try and learn to balance enough to walk. But he will be a long process. I promise hickory, we will all try to help chickadee as best as we can. He can still be a warrior-“

Her words were cut off as hickory held up a paw. His gaze was no longer angry, but threatening tears. “I dont care if he’s a warrior or not. I just want him to be happy. I can’t..I can’t fail this one.” Bristleweb let her ears lay down as she gently leaned against the Tom, mumbling comfort as he broke down in tears. Chickadee however, was laying on the moss staring in confusion. Was papa upset because he wasn’t up yet? He just gotta try harder! Surely!

It’s okay.

It’s alright.

We’ll get through this.

The words repeated over and over like a sickening mantra to any cat that graced her den entrance seeking comfort, guidance, anything to free them from their troubles. Pebblepelt found herself having to sit and listen to everyone wail or sob or vent about what happened. It was natural of course, loosing not just two cats but kits too, and in such a tragic way.

The list felt so long, everyone had different ways of coping.

Hazelstar feels guilty, he should have continued looking throughout the night. Maybe they would have found button sooner? He isn’t eating.

Bristleweb feels overwhelming guilt. She couldn’t save button OR wren or the kits, how can she call herself a medicine cat?! She wept in pebbles den for so long…

Warmhoney feels sadness, wren was her best freind, it hurts to see this happen to them and their family. They drowned themself in patrols.

Mothcatcher feels horrible. He was one of the Gaurds to see button, and has been around pebble a lot to vent. He’s not doing well, having nightmares.

Stormpaw saw button and was the one to get the medicine cat. She says she’s okay and she’s trying to be brave, but it frightened her. Is there more traps? Is Button testing easily? She’s so anxious.

Bugpaw was one of the cats to find wren. He tried his hardest to revive one of the kits and had to be pulled away sobbing when someone said they were gone. He has to be watched now, and told to eat. He cries that he’s a failure.

Silverbelly …isn’t talking. He mourns in his own way.

And then there was pebble. Pebble, who was the shoulder to cry on, the rock in the storm, the blanket for comfort. She was not doing well at all. She had no one to turn to, why would she? SHES the mediator, she’s the one who fixes emotions! Even as she sat in her den, crying weakly, she felt terrible for wanting comfort.

How dare she want comfort when everyone else is hurting? Why doesn’t she do her job better? She can’t, no, she won’t let herself mourn now. The others need help, she’s not a priority. Pebblepelt sucked in a weak sob, biting back tears as she heard a voice call from outside her den.

“Pebble? Can, can we talk? I need someone to-“ the cats voices was cut off as pebble forced her signature chipper tone. “Of course! Gimme a minute, I’ll be with you in a second!” And she began to repeat mentally.

It’s okay.

It’s alright.

We’ll get through this.