#i love that specific curve of the side of the ribs and spine.. or the calf..

[nikoco11]

I love the way you draw bodies sm! They're always so fluid and unique!! Do you have any tips?? (other than the super obvious look at a reference lol)

hi thank u!! rather than just looking at refs, i explained how i actually use them here in a big old post, and how i keep those poses fluid!

another tip tho, and a more recent thing i’ve been doing, is that i use a ref just to decide a general idea for a pose and then pick my favorite lines either within the reference already or i make up my own

^^ for above, i very loosely used the reference at all. it just gave me an idea to start with for a pose and then i picked dramatic curves i really wanted to do and pushed the pose to show those lines.

a lot of my fluidity comes from caring more about those lines showing in the pose than the pose or anatomy actually making sense LOL

this is a more direct reference !! i liked the angle and the point of the knees, so i started there and then exaggerated what i wanted to draw more swoopy :3

additionally helps line confidence to use as few lines as possible.

it makes a lot of organic swishes and pretty lines if u try to keep each section of a limb or whatever to just a few strokes. 2-3 if ur really wanting to push it!

[heckacentipede]

we're assuming a typical affectionate cat that at least tolerates being touched in these places, but may play attack places like the tummy

[the-iceni-bitch]

53, 65, 100 w/ Nomad Steve?

53) “Is that a tattoo?”

65) “Pull my hair!”

100) “Call me selfish, but I don’t ever want anyone else to touch you.”

Ahh, nomad!Steve with a tattoo kink and a bit of a possessive streak? With hair pulling?

Nonnie, it’s like you came up with this to torment me specifically.

Smutty smut, no minors!!

You groaned as you tried to take off your shirt, your ribs creaking and a jolt of pain shooting up your side where Sam has caught you.

This almost never happened. You were faster than Wilson, and prided yourself on your ability to dodge every strike he tried to land and turn him into a frustrated mess. You thought you could handle him and Nat at the same time but she was so fucking sneaky that her slap caught you off guard and gave Sam the chance to land a solid kick to your midsection that had sent you flying across the mat.

You could still hear him apologizing as you winced, chewing your lip as you tried to assess whether anything was broken.

“Hey Y/N... what the fuck happened to you?”

“Rogers, perfect! I can’t get out of my shirt.” You said, turning to the giant and flapping your useless arm at him as he looked at you with concern.

“Ok, what do you want me to do exactly?” He said, cocking an eyebrow at you as he watched you struggling.

“Just... just fucking rip it off.” You huffed. “I can’t move my arm.”

He grunted as he stepped forward and gripped your shirt in his hands and shredded it easily, smirking at you as you let out a relieved sigh.

“Oh god, that’s it.” You moaned, rolling your shoulder and pressing your palm to your side as you started moving to the freezer to grab an ice pack.

“Wilson finally manage to land a hit?” He asked as he gazed at you, shaking his head when you hissed at the sensation of the ice on your ribs.

“Yeah, but only because Romanoff fights dirty.” You scowled, sinking onto the bench and lying down as you did your best to take deep breaths.

“Yeah, I could’ve told you that.” He said as he sat next to you. “Is that a tattoo?”

“What?” You said before realizing he’d never seen you with this little clothing on before. “Uh, yeah it’s a tattoo.”

“It’s beautiful.” He muttered, his hand reaching out hesitantly as if he wanted to run his fingers over the skin below your breasts but stopped himself at the last second. “What is it?”

“It’s a rosemaling.” You muttered, watching him closely as his eyes raked over the intricate pattern. “Norwegian folk art.”

“Can I see the rest of it?” He asked, his eyes dark as he gazed at you, his fingers still itching to reach for your chest.

“Steve, I’d have to take my bra off.” You mumbled as you chewed on your lip.

You’d never seen him like this. Sure, you’d joked with each other and flirted with no real intention before but this heavy exchange was different. Your breath was coming in shallow little pants and you could feel arousal soaking your panties as he scooted closer to you on the bench.

“That’s fine.” He grumbled, his gaze still tracing the path of the ink where it disappeared below the fabric.

He reached out and tugged at the zipper at the front of your bra, his eyes moving to yours as he drew it down slowly, inspecting you closely for any sign of hesitation or discomfort. You just bit your bottom lip and dropped the ice pack to the floor, your injury completely forgotten as he freed your breasts.

“Jesus Christ.” He hissed, running his thumb over the swirls of ink that ran between and under your breasts, tracing the swell of your tits and making you throb with need as you arched into his hand and let out a moan. “How long did this take?”

“Five hours.” You murmured, trying to focus on his questions as the sensation of his fingers on your skin overwhelmed you.

“God, that’s amazing.” He growled before pulling you into his lap and nuzzling himself into your skin.

You gasped as his tongue flicked out to run over the tattoo, the flat of his tongue tracing the curve of your breast as he followed the pattern over your chest. He groaned as he felt the slightly raised ridges of ink against his lips, his mouth insistent against your breasts as he worshipped the art of your skin.

His arms wrapped around you, pressing you into his face as he worked you over. You tangled your fingers in his hair as his beard scratched at you and he trailed over your ink with his lips and tongue. You cried out when he suddenly laved his tongue over your nipple before sucking it between his lips and making you clench around nothing.

“Fuck, Steve! I’m gonna come!” You whined as he moved to your other nipple and repeated the same process.

His only answer was to growl against your chest and press you into his lap as you swallowed a scream, your grip on his hair growing painful as your pussy fluttered wildly and your whole body shook. He held you tightly as you came down, panting against your chest.

“You have any other ink, sweetheart?” He purred as he finally felt you relax, your breath returning to a regular rhythm while you sank into his lap and he started to press soft kisses up your chest until he was mouthing at your throat.

“Yeah.” You grinned as his teeth scraped over your jaw. “Why? You wanna see?”

“Don’t fucking tease me gorgeous.” He growled. “Where is it?”

“Right leg.” You whimpered as he pressed you against his growing erection.

He moved to cover your mouth with his as he tore your leggings off you, his tongue curling against yours in slow smooth strokes as he laid you down on the bench and ground against you. He pulled away to sit up over you, leaving you breathless and needy as he gazed at your thigh.

His breath hitched as he took in the delicate pattern of vines and flowers that covered your entire leg, disappearing under the fabric of you panties as it moved up your hip. He ripped your panties off and traced over the ink lightly with his fingertips as he ran his tongue over his lower lip.

“Beautiful.” He whispered, taking a beat to gaze at you, your spine twisted to the side as you stared up at him.

You gasped as he ran his hand over the back of your thigh, teasing his thumb over your glistening pussy where it was peeking out from between your legs.

He let out a feral growl and then ripped off his clothes in a frenzy. Your mouth started watering when you got a look at his cock, thick and veiny and you weren’t totally sure you could take all of him but damn if you weren’t gonna give it a try.

He hooked his hand under your knee and spread your legs apart, using his other hand to tease his tip against your puffy lips. You let out an obscene moan as he pushed into you, arching your back even more as he slid his tip into your warm cavern.

“Shit, Steve, keep going!” You whined as he kept pulling you down on his length, your pussy fluttering wildly around his length as he stretched you open, a slight sting accompanying the immensely full feeling af being stuffed to the brim.

He hissed through his teeth when his hips met yours and you started mewling and whimpering like an idiot as you adjusted to him.

“Jesus Christ, you’re so fucking tight.” He muttered, pulling out of you halfway before sliding back in again at a deliciously slow pace.

He pulled out of you again but this time snapped his hips forward viciously, making you scream. His hands kept running over the tattoo on your thigh as he fucked you, his gaze trained on the tattoo under your breasts as your tits bounced with each thrust of his hips. You whined when he hooked your knee over his shoulder, spreading you open even further as he bent over you and ground his pubic bone against your clit.

“Oh fuck, Steve!” You cried as he did the same thing and you started clenching around him with each push of his hips. “Pull my hair! I’m so fucking close!”

He bent over you and pressed his face to yours, his lips tugging at yours insistently until you opened up to him. His hand gripped the hair at the back of your skull and wrenched your head back as he shoved his tongue down your throat.

“Do it. I wanna feel you come all over my cock.” He murmured against your lips as you sobbed with pleasure.

You shrieked as your entire body went rigid before vibrating around his cock as you squirted all over his abs and your eyes rolled back in your skull.

“Shit.” He growled as he buried his face in your neck, his cock throbbing inside you before he filled you with thick white ropes of his cum, fucking it into you with a series of staggered thrusts as the two of you collapsed against the bench.

“So,” you panted as he smothered you under his body weight. “You like tattoos?”

“Love tattoos.” He murmured, pressing his lips to the hollow behind your ear before sitting up and giving you a sloppy grin.

“Maybe I’ll let you watch when I get my next one.” You sighed as he pulled out of you, aftershocks still coursing through your body.

“That may not be the best idea.” He chuckled darkly as he went to grab a towel, biting his lip when he got a view of his cum leaking out of your swollen pussy. “Call me selfish, but I don’t ever want anyone else to touch you.”

You rolled your eyes at him, catching the towel he tossed you in mid-air and running it over the inside of your thighs.

“Well, unless you’re gonna give me the tattoo Rogers, I don’t really see how that’s gonna be possible.” Your ribs were starting to ache again, making you wince.

He didn’t have a chance to respond before Nat came strolling into the locker room like nothing was happening, laughing lightly as Steve dove behind the line of lockers and let out a steady stream of curses.

“Goddamn it Romanoff!” He swore at her while you rolled your eyes and tossed his sweats over the lockers to him. “Ever heard of knocking?”

“Ever heard of not fucking in the shared locker room?” She said with a shrug as you wrapped a towel around yourself and gave her an apologetic shrug. “Hey Wilson! They’re finished, you can finally pee!”

——————————————————————————

A/N: Welp, this has officially killed me. I’m gonna go shower now and cool down. 🥵🥵🥵🥵

[wiypt-writes]

25 Days Of CHRIS-Mas

Day 7: Second Star To The Right

Summary: Space is a lonely place at Christmas time…

Pairing: James Mace (Sunshine) x Reader

Warnings: Bad Language, angst, smut (NSFW, 18+)

W/C: 944

Disclaimer: This is a pure work of fiction, any likeness to any persons or events in real life are purely co-incidental. I do not own any characters contained herein bar the reader and/or any original characters. I do not give consent for my work to be copied and posted/translated onto any other sites. If you see this fiction anywhere other than Tumblr, it has been taken without permission.By reading beyond this point you understand and accept the terms of this disclaimer and ALL warnings posted here.

25 Days Of Chris-mas Masterlist / Main Masterlist

 Day 6: Syd (London)

He laid in his bunk, looking at the worn photo he kept in his pocket at all times. It had been taken the Christmas before he had launched into space with his team to save the world from a catastrophic freeze.

 With a sigh he lay back on his bunk his eyes closing.

 The journey was long and there was an honest chance he'd never be back. And that killed him. The pair of you had only been married a few month before he took off. Although you’d been engaged for a while, you both wanted to do it before he left, not knowing if you get the chance otherwise. And, seeing as you were childhood sweethearts, despite your relatively young age, it just felt right.

But it made all this so damned harder. The fact you’d been in his life for so long, and even if everything went right, it was going to be years before he saw you in person again, before he could hold you in his arms, kiss you, love on you…

 Scraps of festive paper, ribbons and bows were scattered around the two of you, a brightly lit and decorated tree behind you. You sat on the floor, wrapped up in each other's arms, flannel pyjamas covering your bodies.

"Do you want another drink baby?” Mace looked at you and you turned your head to blink up at him a wicked glint in your eyes.

"No, thank you."

"Well, you clearly want something. You've got that look in your eyes I can tell. "

"Yeah, you," you smirked, your eyes dropping in that sultry way he liked, the way your orbs would find him through your long lashes. It made his spine tingle.

"Me? Okay be specific. What part of me exactly do you want? "

"I... Want... You..." you stretched your arm between the two of you and down his abs, your palm across his crotch.

He gave a little grunt in a flash you were underneath him, your back press to the plush carpet of your living room.

"Tell me, Mrs Mace, where you want it?"

You looked up at him and pressed your lips to his in a firm yet soft kiss before pulling back. "You know exactly where I want it, James. Don't play coy with me."

A wickedly, sexy smirk played at his lips before they crashed back to yours, heady and needy. He pulled back, sitting to his knees and slung that shirt off his body. His hands quickly curling around the waistband of your pyjama pants and tugging them down. He gently trailed his fingers up the outside of your thighs, up the side of your ribs, tracing your curves under your top.

His fingers were always tantalizing, touching you delicately and with such sensual ferocity. He knew it made you weak. Your back arched away from the floor and into his touch. Mace took the second to tug your shirt over your head. You led beneath him now, naked, completely at his mercy.

“God, I love you.” He whispered, dropping his face to yours.

"I love you too, so much."

He didn't talk about the mission with you, and you never pressed, knowing it was a hard faced fact for you both. Instead, he'd spend his time with you like this, making memories, making love and choosing to be in each moment rather than focused on the fact that in a few weeks’ time he would be leaving you behind.

Outside, the world was freezing more and more by the day, but in here, where it was safe and warm, you had each other.

He kissed, touched, loved on every part of your body, you begging him for more. He lay over you, both of you joined in the most intimate way you could be. His hips rocked into you, fingers tangled together where your hands were pressed either side of your head. There wasn’t an inch of space between you, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Tears dropped from beneath his lashes and he opened his eyes, the memory stopping.

Ten long months it has been since he had seen you, and it would be approximately another twenty or so before he would hold you in his arms again, if they made it that is. The first Icarus crew hadn’t.

The door to the room opened and Capa poked his head in. “You’re up, buddy. Your turn for the comms.”

In a flash, Mace was off his bunk and heading down the corridor. Settling at the control panel, he waited and then your face filled the screen. It wasn’t brilliant quality, but it was good enough. You were sat on the chair in your little study at home, where the camera was set up for your, at the moment, weekly calls.

“Hi, baby! Merry Christmas!” You beamed, a tear trickling down your cheek and he choked back his own.

“Merry Christmas, Sunshine!” He smiled, and then his eyes flickered to the little baby in your arms. Barely four weeks old, James Junior was nuzzled into your neck, his soft grunts could be heard as you gently moved and turned him gently to face the camera.

Mace smiled, wiping his eyes as he looked at his boy, the son he had never met, and had no idea if he would ever get to meet. The gift that had most certainly not been planned but was there, alive, on a planet which was dying.

Reminding him exactly why he was on this mission in the first place.

“Merry Christmas, JJ.” He sniffed, a smile curling across his face, “I love you.”

🎄🎄🎄🎄

Day 8: Harvard Hottie (The Nanny Diaries)

[magicrowiswritingstuff]

“Touch” - Din Djarin x female!reader

Tigaanur Series: Part 1 (you’re here!) | Part 2 | Part 3 | MASTERLIST

Summary: It seems so unfair that he is able to touch you and send shivers down your spine when you're not.

Warning: fluffy fluff, a bit of violence, touching? (I don’t know man if you don’t want Din touching you what’s wrong? … maybe I should say nothing in this is sexual, just fluffy hugs ... and lap sitting)

Category: fluff

Words: about 8.000

Notes: Set during season 1 but the events are drawn out over a longer period of time (but they aren’t really mentioned or important)

Note 2: I swear this was supposed to be short. I also have no explanation why this piece exists, I just felt like writing something (mostly) fluffy. I just love this show and this man too much to not write something for it/him. AND there will be definitely more Din on my blog so stay around if you are interested!

_________________________________    

“Touch” – Din Djarin x fem!reader

Mando seemed to use every opportunity he had to touch you. At first you didn't really notice it but the subtle brushes against your arms when he walked past you or the light hand pressed against the small of your back when he slid around you soon grew more frequent. Or maybe you just didn't notice them at first or didn't think about them much. You guessed that was just how he acted. That was until you realized that he avoided touching everyone else. When he needed to slide around anyone other than you, he very carefully moved as not to touch them. But with you that wasn't the case.

After a while you noticed that the subtle touches really weren't that subtle after all. And it annoyed you. You liked the way he brushed your skin, not to get you wrong, but it annoyed you how you were denied that kind of sensation, always feeling either leather or fabric. You couldn't give him the same tingle you always felt wandering down your back when he brushed your skin. You knew his armor was part of his creed, he had told you that often enough when you first got to know him. "This is the way" as he always said. And you would never do anything that would harm him and his creed that meant so much to him but the feeling of longing still stayed deep-seated in your heart. And the moment you noticed that your heart sped up whenever he was brushing you, your daily life on the Razor Crest got a lot more complicated.

_______________

You were just standing in the lower level, rocking the little one to sleep in your arms after you had played with him for quite some time. You swore he had to be tired, he was awake for some time now, but the green bean refused to settle down alone. So, you had to rock from side to side on your feet, waiting patiently for his eyes to close. After what felt like ages, the balls of your feet were surly sore, he yawned slightly, making you yawn as well, and then his eyes finally shut and stayed closed. Holding your breath, you stopped swaying for a while, waiting to make sure that he had fallen asleep at last. He didn't open his eyes again as soft snores left his mouth. With a relieved smile you put him down in his little sleeping quarters as careful as possible. Finally letting out the breath you were holding you took a step back only to bump into something, or rather someone. Startled you flinched and were barely able to clasp your hands over your mouth to hold back the yelp that threatened to escape otherwise. You would have cursed yourself if you had woken the little one up again.

With your back against his chest, you felt your body freeze up, your mind blank. Unable to turn around you just stayed still, breathing in sharply to recover from the shock. Normally you would have heard him, you grew more accustomed to notice the small noises he would make over the time you had now spent on his ship but it seemed like your tired mind had filtered them out this time. "Sorry" the Mandalorian said and stepped back. However, he stayed so close behind you that you swore you could still feel the mixture of his body warmth and the coldness of his armor springing over to you. Slowly you let your hands fall down again but stayed facing the child instead of the man behind you. Your heart was still beating violently against your chest and your face felt like it was burning from embarrassment. You heard him shuffle, and you knew instinctively that he was peeking over your shoulder to look at the child.

"He's finally asleep" you whispered after you were sure your voice wouldn't waver, knowing without him saying anything or looking at him that this was what he wanted to know. You also knew that he probably was nodding when he didn't speak up again. You stood like that in silence for a few moments, your thoughts racing. "Do you-" you started and turned your head to take a peek at the Mandalorian. He really was still standing right behind you, his head slightly lowered to look over your shoulder. Was he watching the child or was he looking at you? You couldn't tell right now, his eyes always hidden behind the dark t-shaped visor. He stood so close that you could see your reflection in the shiny metal of his helmet. "Do you want to rest?" you finished your question, knowing that he had been awake for quite some time now, your voice soft and quiet. 'Only so the child wouldn't wake up' you told yourself but you knew you were lying. His head tilted to you, so you knew he was looking at you right now, though if he was already doing that before or not, would forever stay a mystery. He nodded. You returned the gesture, now turning around fully to face him. He straightened up but still didn't take a step back, his armored chest now only a few inches away from yours. He stood so close that you had to tilt your head back to look into his eyes, or rather the visor hiding his eyes. You had no idea how they looked like and probably would never get to know that but that didn't hinder your from imagining them. You never pictured a specific color but you always imagined them as warm and with a darkness to them that made them frightening to the ones who didn't know him but welcoming to the ones that did. You noticed that you were staring for too long. "I'll be in the cockpit" you stated hesitantly, not sure how to act and walked around him before you could make an even bigger fool of yourself. The faint brush of his gloved fingers against your arm as you walked past him didn't stay unnoticed anymore, as well as the shiver running down your back.

_______________

Normally you would sit in one of the co-pilot seats, glancing at Mando when he piloted his ship from time to time, but you had decided to settle down onto the pilot seat for now. The Mandalorian didn't need it right now and that seat was definitely the more comfortable out of the three. With your legs stretched out and your arms crossed before your chest you looked out of the window, staring at all the light-streaks passing by. The autopilot was activated so you didn't have to do anything and could just relax. With a sigh you let yourself sink deeper into the seat, your spine curved and your head resting on your shoulder. After one eventful day after the other you really needed this, quiet and relaxation. You didn't mean to fall asleep right there in the pilot seat but the smooth movement of the Razor Crest slowly lulled you to sleep.

Your dreams were often plagued by the things you had experienced the days before, merged with vivid images that left you confused after waking up. You couldn't remember the last time you had a through and through pleasant dream, probably before you had decided to join the Mandalorian but that seemed so long ago now. So, whenever you were asleep a part of your mind always stayed alert. That was why you jerked awake immediately when you felt something touch your shoulder. Your body was awake in the matter of seconds, your mind following with a slight delay so you were unable to register who it was. You wanted to jump up in fear but the hand on your shoulder gently pressed you back down. Your heart hammered painfully against your ribs in panic for a few more seconds before you finally realized that it was only Mando. Your fear vanished in an instant and instead you yawned and rubbed your still sleepy eyes, trying to ignore his resting hand that had wandered closer to your nape. You failed miserably.

"How long-" "About three hours" he answered before you were able to finish your questions. "But you can get some more rest." You nodded and tried to let yourself relax back into the chair, however his hand on you made every little hair on your body stand up with anticipation. You heard the faintest rumble from Mando's helmet, which shot a tingly sensation down your back. It almost sounded like a chuckle. "I need the seat" he said and you were fairly sure you could hear the smile on his lips. "There are two perfectly fine seats left" you stated with a grin on your lips and closed your eyes, slowly growing more comfortable with his touch on you. To be honest, it was quite nice. You couldn't feel his skin on you but you felt his body heat that loosened your tense muscles bit by bit. "I need that seat" he repeated more pressing this time but still in a lightweight manner. You stayed put for a few moments more, enjoying his feather-light touch and the warmth on your skin for a few moments more before you groaned and stood up, his hand sliding from your shoulder in the process. You walked past Mando, noting how he ever so slightly moved his hand so it would brush against your own, and let yourself fall down on the seat to his right, too tired to go to your makeshift bed in the lower level. He stood beside you and glanced at you for a while, his helmet stayed slightly turned to you, you knew even after you had closed your eyes. Then you heard him shift and sit down on the pilot's seat. You crossed your arms before your chest and stretched out your legs again, trying to make the seat as comfortable as possible even without his warmth to soothe you.

"Why are you awake after only three hours?" you asked after a few minutes filled with silence, your eyes still closed. When Mando went down to sleep he never stayed asleep for long but you felt like it had a reason other than needing to be alert and looking after the ship this time. He also rarely answered right away, but you felt like he hesitated a bit more than usual. You opened one eye to see him stiff and frozen in the seat, his helmet facing the endless blackness of space. You immediately knew what was wrong, having felt the same way far too often. "Nightmares?" He didn't need to answer for you to know. "I have them, too" you continued, hoping that it would let him feel at least a bit comforted. You observed him while he busied himself with flipping switches and turning buttons for no other reason than to appear occupied. You huffed and rolled your eyes at the stoic Mandalorian. When he finally leaned back and let his arms dangle beside him stiffly you let your eyes wander to his gloved hand. Hesitating you reached for it. If he noticed what you were up to, he didn't let it show. Taking all the courage you had in you, you interlaced your fingers with his, immediately you felt his warmth again that made you relaxed. His body, however, went rigid. You waited, your eyes still trained on him, but when nothing changed you worried that you had overstepped. You withdrew your hand immediately only for him to grab it. Startled you paused, squeezing his hand as if to ask if it was okay. He squeezed back, his muscles finally relaxing under your touch.

"It's okay to have nightmares" you said, worried that he was avoiding to answer you just because he didn't want to appear weak. "You don't have to talk with me about them if you don't want to, but know that you don't have to be alone in this." You closed your eyes again after that and drifted back to sleep, not noticing how he turned his head towards your interlaced hands and then to your face, never seeing the small smile that grazed his lips underneath the helmet.

When you woke up you were prepared to no longer feel your hand in his, only to realize that they were still interlocked. Confused you paused and just stared at your intertwined fingers before looking at the Mandalorian on the pilot seat. He still sat there like before, his other arm dangling down (not as stiff as before anymore), both feet firmly planted onto the ground and his head facing the window. You couldn't tell if he was awake or not. You didn't know what to do. Should you just stay put? But if he had fallen asleep and would wake up like this it definitely would be awkward. But ... if he wasn't asleep and already awake right now, he definitely knew you were awake too and it would be even more awkward. You tugged at his hand to test the waters. He didn't react so maybe he really was still sleeping? Not taking any chances you freed yourself from his grip and stood up quietly. You needed something to drink right now, or a cold shower at best because you already felt your cheeks burning up again. With your head low you didn't see his head had turned ever so slightly into your reaction, watching you as you left to climb down the ladder.

_______________

You had no idea how to act around him after that. The touches didn't stop, he still brushed you every now and then and you hold his hand wordlessly whenever you knew he had another nightmare. But you didn't know how far you could and were allowed to go. Somehow you were afraid of scaring him away, of overstepping. But after many months of only the three of you traveling through space you got a bit touch-starved. You felt yourself lean into his touches more often than not. So, you didn't want to do anything that would lead for him to stop that.

You didn't really have much time to think about all that anyway as the child often required all your attention when you weren't fighting or hurrying back to the Razor Crest. Like you were right now. You had volunteered to go to the marketplace to get a few more provisions, Mando obviously not very happy about that but you managed to convince him to let you go. It wasn't a particular dangerous planet and you didn't intend to be gone for more than two hours anyway. Also, you definitely did not stand out that much unlike him with his distinctive armor. However, maybe you should have known that life always had other plans. After all, you had never planned to end up traveling the galaxy with a Mandalorian and his adoptive son. You were just sliding the last of your shopping money to the salesman, your two hours almost over, when you saw someone sneak towards you out of the corner of your eye. How you knew they were here because of you? Let's just say your instincts got a lot better after many months of fleeing and fighting and being constantly alert. You didn't wait for your change, grabbed your supplies, putting them into the bag that was strapped on over your shoulder and hurried into the large crowd. You tried to remember the things Mando had taught you, how to act if someone should ever be after you when he wasn't there. At first you had to try and lose the person. If that wouldn't work you had to find a more active way to get rid of them. However, what you hadn't considered was that maybe that person wasn't alone. So, when you ran into someone and they grabbed you by the shoulders you knew you were in a lot more trouble than you had thought. Before you knew it, you were trapped between three larger men. Your breath hitched in your throat when they slowly shoved you to the side of the street, away from the curious eyes.

With your back facing a wall you let your eyes dart between the three men. One of them stood to either of your sides and the last one was standing directly in front of you. There was no way for you to escape. "We know you have him" one of them said, shoving you hard so that your back collided with the wall. You gulped, swallowing down your fear and tried to clear your thoughts. You had to stay focused. "Who? If you didn't notice I'm alone" you put on an annoyed expression and gestured around you. Maybe you could convince them that you weren't the one they were looking for. "You hid him! Where?" the one to your left snarled. "Maybe you didn't hear me the first time so I'll repeat myself: Who are you talking about?" you spat back. You couldn't let them see your fear. "The child!" the one who had shoved you spoke up again. "I don't have a child."

"We know you travel with the Mandalorian" the one to your right said, a wide grin on his lips. For some reason that made your blood run cold. "And we know who you are. But you don't seem to know the price that is written above your head." This time you couldn’t mask the shock that was showing in your wide eyes. "Price?" your voice very noticeable cracked. The man nodded. You froze, blinking quickly, not processing what they just told you. You ... you had a bounty on your head? This wasn't good, not at all. You, Mando and the Child had to leave this planet immediately. You had to get away from them. "I'm sorry, I think you have the wrong person" you said and tried to walk past them but they shoved you back against the wall, pinning you against it. The man that was pressing your shoulder against the cold wall fished a puck out of his pocket, activating it for you to see your face. You bit your tongue and gulped, before your face hardened. You had to get back to the Razor Crest.

"Don't touch me" you snarled with your fists clenched. With your mind on autopilot, you lunged at the man, punching him straight in the face. He reeled back, holding is bleeding nose. Immediately you leaped forward, trying to escape through the small gap you had created between the three men. However, the one to your right grabbed your bag, pulling you back. Spinning around you used the momentum and jumped against the man's legs that gave out beneath him with a deafening crunch. He howled in pain, letting go of you to curl around himself and protect his injury. When you turned around to try and escape again your breath was knocked out of you. You leaned forward by instinct, wrapping your arms around your side, where you've got hit by a blade. You had no time to recover or even think about the blood seeping through your fingers as the next blow hit your jaw. You let out a gargling scream, unable to hold it back, as the pain exploded in your face. By the way your vision turned dark for a split second you knew that your jaw was dislocated. The pain immediately pulsed through your whole body, leaving you strangely dizzy and nauseous and gasping for air, which only lead for the pain to get even worse. Disoriented you just stood there, hunched over with tears in your eyes. You were too unfocused on your surroundings, too consumed by the pain, to see the next hits coming. With a hard kick to your stomach, you hit the floor.

Maybe you blacked out, or maybe your brain just decided to turn itself off so you wouldn't feel the pain of the hits that followed. You knew you were repeatedly kicked into your stomach and side, against the knife wound. But you didn't really register that, you only managed to curl into yourself so at least your stomach would be protected, the hits to your side, however, didn't stop. Your mind was blank. You couldn't tell how long exactly you laid there on the floor. It could have lasted only a few seconds or an hour and you wouldn't have known the difference anymore. It felt like an eternity and only a heartbeat when it all suddenly stopped. You felt the heat hovering over your cowering form and only when you opened your blurry eyes and saw the fire above you. The two men screamed in terror as they ducked away, the jacket of one of them had caught fire. The two grabbed their friend who was also still on the floor and disappeared, leaving only the burning jacket behind. You let your body stretch out the moment the fire stopped, finally feeling safe again, though your mind was still dizzy and the pain still racing through your body, only vaguely remembering your bleeding wound. You saw a shadow leaning over you, hearing something but you couldn't match the voice to any face. Closing your eyes again you furrowed your brows as the pain got unbearable. Then you felt hands on your dislocated jaw. Your eyes snapped open one heartbeat before he forced your jaw back into its regular position. You screamed, pushing against him to get him off of you but he didn't move an inch.

"(Y/N)" a modulated voice said, as he caught your hands in his. Your screams died down and only heavy breathing was left, you had no energy left to do anything else. Your jaw still hurt but not as bad as before. "Calm down." You blinked a few times until finally realizing who was kneeling next to you, finally matching the distorted voice to the shiny helmet that was staring down at you. You opened your mouth, wanting to speak up but immediately another wave of pain shot through you. Cringing in pain you only let out a pathetic wheeze and clutched your side. "Can you stand?" You shook your head without even trying what he asked you to, knowing that your body ached too much to even move on your own. With your consciousness constantly fazing in and out you only vaguely realized that he had picked you up and began to carry you back to the Razor Crest. The mix of warmth and coldness radiating from him and the pain numbing your side eventually lulled you into a restless slumber.

When you awoke neither in the cockpit nor your improvised bed but what seemed to be a metal box, you immediately panicked. With your heart racing your first reaction was to sit up, only for your side to explode in pain. A sharp yelp escaped your lips as you let yourself fall back. Whimpering in pain you stayed still, clutching your side. "(Y/N)?" You raised your head as far as possible to see Mando standing before the only opening to the box. That was the moment you realized that you were lying in his bed and your heart slowed in relief. Before it sped up again when you realized where you were lying. "What-" you began to distract yourself from that thought, only for Mando to already guess your question and answer it. "A dislocated jaw, a knife wound and severely bruised ribs." You tried to sit up again, but this time very carefully and slowly. With a wince you managed to straighten up enough to crawl to the end of the box and face the Mandalorian standing before you. "I can feel that" you whispered with gritted teeth. You peeked up at Mando but he stayed silent. Even without seeing his face you could feel the death stare through the darkness of his visor. Lowering your head, you wrapped your arms around your middle. "I'm sorry." The Mandalorian stayed put for a few moments before a sigh left his lips. "No, I'm sorry." Confused you looked up again, raising one eyebrow. "For what?" "For not being there." You sighed and stood up, clutching your side with one hand while holding yourself upright with the other one by grabbing the corner of the box. "It's not your fault" you pressed out between clenched teeth before you froze up. Patting down your side as lightly as possible you furrowed your brows before lifting your head to meet Mando's gaze behind the helmet. "Did you bandage me up?"

You could feel him stiffen up even more as a noise similar to an embarrassed sounding cough left his mouth. "Yes." You let out a chuckle which fell short when you whimpered once more in pain. At about the same time you felt your legs tremble and give out under you. Mando reacted immediately, catching you with his hands under your armpits before you could fall anywhere near the floor. You hissed, tears sprang in your eyes right away. Slowly he sat you down on his bed again, letting his hands rest on your shoulders for a while longer as if to reassure himself that you were alright. Then he pulled them back only for you to grab one and squeeze it tightly. "Thank you" you whispered. He didn't say anything and just squeezed back for a few moments. Then he placed his other hand on top before letting go and taking a step back. "You should get some more rest" he said sounding strangely flustered. You nodded and wanted to stand up to lie down in your own small bed only for him to gently press you down with one hand on your shoulder. You looked up at him with a puzzled look in your eyes. "You can sleep in there it's ... a bit more comfortable." You felt your face heat up and eyes grow wide. "O-okay" you said and shifted awkwardly. You two stared at each other for a while before he turned to climb up the ladder, leaving you alone and flustered in his bed.

_______________

Something you had forgotten to buy on that planet was more medicine. And not wanting to use up everything Mando had, your injury needed a few more weeks to heal than maybe necessary. A few weeks in which you mostly lied in Mando's bed. It still made you flustered. Now, after over a month you were at least able to walk again, though the bruises on your side were still a dark blue and the stiches on your side formed into a scar. Which was the reason why you were climbing up the ladder to the cockpit right now. You needed Mando's help with the medicine and bandages. You gritted your teeth and forced yourself to reach for the next rung. Climbing up the ladder was a nightmare. Of course, you could have called for him but the little one had just fallen asleep and you definitely didn't want to wake him up any time soon.

"Mando?" you announced yourself when you walked to the cockpit even though he must have heard your cursing while climbing the ladder. He turned towards you. Catching your breath, you leaned against the doorway and held up the fresh bandages and ointment. "I need your help with these." He nodded and stood up, guiding you to one of the co-pilot seats in which you sat down with a hiss. "Why didn't you just call me?" he asked as you tried to get out of your shirt. "I didn't want to wake the kid" you answered before letting out a frustrated sigh because you were unable to get the shirt over your head. Your side hurt a lot again today, making you incapable of raising your arms while simultaneously grabbing your top. Without saying a word the Mandalorian grabbed the ends of your shirt tugging lightly at them to signal you to raise your arms. Hesitantly you did as he requested and without much effort, he rid you of your shirt. He had helped you a lot over the past few weeks but never had he been the one to get your shirt off. Flustered you stared at the ground, refusing to meet his visor while he continued to work wordlessly on your bandages. You tried to ignore his feather-light touches against the skin of your stomach, back and sides but you once again failed miserably. His gloved fingers left goosebumps wherever they brushed your skin. Subconsciously you felt yourself lean into him, your muscles relaxing under his warmth and care. You, however, weren't oblivious to the fact that his touches lingered a few seconds longer on your skin than necessary. When he brushed the skin inches underneath your bra your head shot almost instinctively around to face him. Your eyes wide and round, staring at him in shock and curiosity. He paused, his hands on your back and side. You swore you could hear his pulse quicken but maybe it was just yours thrumming in your ears. His helmet only slightly tilted down as he continued, keeping his eyes trained on your face. You knew this time without seeing them. When he was done with it, he helped you back into your shirt. His hands hovering over your hips for a second too long to seem only accidental. You let out a barely audible huff at that.

"Thank you, Mando." He stiffly nodded and returned to his seat in the middle of the cockpit. You stayed put on the co-pilot seat, took one of the painkillers you had brought with you before continuing to stare outside the window, your thoughts running circles in your head. "Mando?" you asked quietly after a while, your eyes heavy and constantly fluttering closed due to the pill you took. Damn, those things made you sleepy. He hummed but didn't turn around. You yawned, trying to clear the thoughts in your tired mind. Maybe you would have hesitated if you weren't so tired, normally you would have definitely never asked him the following question but your exhausted mind didn't care. "Do you like me?" Even with your eyes half closed you saw Mando freeze mid-motion.

While you sat there in the co-pilot seat, your thoughts trudging through the fog of being half asleep, the thoughts of the Mandalorian were racing, eyes wide underneath the helmet. He didn't dare to turn around, only lowered his head in perplexed shock. He cleared his throat, failing to cover it up with a cough before speaking up. "Yes ... I like you." He turned his head enough to see you out of the corner of his eyes, to catch your reaction. You hummed in response and closed your eyes as a small smile grazed your lips. "I like you, too" you mumbled, barely audible before falling asleep in the co-pilot seat.

_______________

You couldn't belief you had asked him that. You never felt so embarrassed. You had no idea how to act around him now. If you should speak with him about it or if you should just ignore that it ever happened. Luckily, the Mandalorian had decided to not ask you about it when you had woken up so you just went along, pretending it never happened.

That was now about two months ago. By now your injury was finally completely healed and you could move without hindrance again. That also meant no more lingering touches from Mando though. You tried to not be too sad about that and instead enjoyed the rare occasion of holding his hand even more than before. You felt like he enjoyed it too whenever he had a nightmare, his muscles always relaxed within seconds. Not today though. The second he walked back into the cockpit after only two hours of sleep you suspected that something wasn't right. When you intertwined your hand with his after he had sat down and he didn't relax how he normally would you knew something was definitely not right. "Mando?" you asked, scooting closer to the edge of the seat and leaning forward to look at his visor as he stoically continued to stare in front of him. "Are you alright?" He didn't respond. You jumped up abruptly, startling the Mandalorian as he span around in his chair to face you. With a soft but stern face you tugged at his hand that was still in yours until he followed your lead and stood up. You knew he was confused you could almost see him raise an eyebrow at you from behind the helmet. But all those worries of overstepping you had for so long vanished in an instant. Without saying anything you stepped forward and wrapped your arms around him, pressing the side of your face against the cold beskar on his chest. He went as rigid as when you first held is hand all those months ago. He inhaled sharply, his arms stiff and uselessly raised as if he suddenly didn't know what to do with them. You could have hugged a rock and it would have felt the same, still you didn't let go. "It's okay" you only said, not wanting to pressure him into answering anything he didn't want to. It felt like ages, the beskar slowly warmed up under your touch, when you felt movement coming from him. You didn't lift your head however, afraid he would just scold you for hugging him, thinking he was just going to tear you away from him. You hadn't expected for him to relax and slowly wrap his arms around you, too. Embarrassed you had to note that you were the one to stiffen up now. But your body soon melted against his again when you felt his hand run through your hair. You couldn't suppress the sigh that escaped over your lips. The warmth that suddenly radiated from him gave you a feeling of belonging you quickly found yourself addicted to when you tightened the hug, as if to make sure this was real, he was real. That he was hugging you was real. You couldn't believe that the Mandalorian was hugging you back.

If felt like an eternity and only a few seconds at the same time when you felt him move again. However, this time to end the hug. Already missing the warmth and feeling of belonging you reluctantly let go, your head lowered. Or at least you had wanted to stare at the ground in awkwardness again but Mando tilted your chin up with one finger. He didn't say anything when your wide eyes met his dark visor. He didn't even say anything when he brushed a strand of your hair behind your ear with such a softness that left you breathless. Your mouth fell open in shock and confusion but also surprise and longing. You wanted to reach out again, reach out to him but the intimate moment of softness ended within seconds. He took a step back and sat back down into the pilot seat, leaving you with your mouth and eyes wide open. He didn't need to say anything for you to understand that he had just thanked you. However, it left you even more confused.

_______________

You were on the lower level, playing with the Child when the Razor Crest suddenly shook violently, almost throwing you and the little one in your arms to the ground. Grabbing the rungs of the ladder leading up you managed to hold you upright. One second later a strident alarm started howling in your ears, making the little one squeak in discomfort. You hushed him, rocking him in your arm until another shockwave hit the ship. With your brows furrowed you looked up the ladder. As careful as possible since you only had one free hand you climbed up.

"What is happening?" you yelled over the shrill siren as you stumbled through the entrance to the cockpit. You only barely caught yourself by the doorway, the Child protectively pressed against your chest as the Crest rocked again. "Bounty hunter" Mando growled and flipped a few switches. The alarm finally stopped. You let out a sigh in relief and walked to the right of the Mandalorian, where the child's crib was seated on the co-pilot seat. You had just put the kid into its orb where it would be more stable and safer and wanted to walk to the other co-pilot seat when another shot hit the ship. You yelped and stumbled backwards, crashing against Mando and landing in his lap. You had no time to stand up and sit down in the other co-pilot seat, you didn't even have time to think about being flustered as he immediately wrapped one arm around your middle, pinning you in place. "Hold on" he said before immediately bringing the ship straight down. You yelped and wrapped your arms around his neck and shoulders instinctively, pressing yourself against his chest as your stomach flipped in fear. He spiraled around, trying to lose the bounty hunter who was after you but they followed his every move and turn. "I can bring you in warm or I can bring you in cold, Mando!" the bounty hunter snarled over the com, making your blood run cold as another round of hits shook the Razor Crest. You could hear the growl rising in Mando's throat, vibrating against your chest. Your face was definitely as hot as the lava rivers of Nevarro by now. The Mandalorian let go of your waist and frantically pushed some buttons before he grabbed another switch, speeding up even more. Everything you had wanted to say, every word of protest was stuck in your throat as you just clung onto him, burying your head in the crook of his neck. Then he braked so suddenly that you almost fell off of him, since he also was pulled forward by the force of the sudden stop. You were sure you let out another yelp as you tightened your arms around him, clenching your eyes shut. Something hit the ship again and when you opened one eye to take a peek you saw the ship of the bounty hunter in front of you now. "That's my line" Mando grumbled, and looked down at the aiming device that peeped before locking onto the other ship. Mando shot once, making the other ship exploded immediately.

After all that chaos and noise, the sudden silence seemed almost deafening. You stayed put on top of Mando, your arms still squeezing tightly around his shoulders. You were only able to let out a shaky breath as the stiffness of your body suddenly left you and you deflated like a sad balloon. Then you began to shake as the adrenaline left your body as well. You let out another shaky breath that almost sounded like a short, hysterical chuckle. Your heart beat so hard against your ribs you feared it would break them. You turned to face the t-shaped visor, your eyes wide and panic-stricken. "Let's not do that ever again. That was frightening!" you stuttered, burying your fingers into Mando's cape in a desperate attempt to ground you. The Mandalorian chuckled lowly, the rumble of it echoing in your chest. "I think it's quite nice" he retorted rather smug. You paused. He wasn't talking about the chase, was he? Was he ... referring to you still sitting in his lap? Bewildered, because you would have never suspected him to imply anything like that, you silently blinked at him, suddenly very aware of his arm he had sneaked around your middle again. Your heart sped up even more, if that was even possible. You could almost feel the heat of his gaze on you, or maybe your face was just warming up because of your flustered state. "Mando, I-" you started but got interrupted by the Child's squeals. Your and Mando's gaze immediately shot to him. He let go of your waist as you jumped up, cradling the little one in your arms to check if everything was okay. Luckily, he wasn't hurt, instead he much rather still seemed excited by the wild ride. You let out a relieved sigh. "Is he alright?" the Mandalorian asked and when you turned around to face him, he was staring straight forward, refusing to meet your gaze. Pretending as if he hadn't just told you he liked you on his lap.

_______________

Normally you were the one to initiate hand holding or a hug but this time you were the one to wake up in a cold sweat. You sat up straight in your makeshift bed, your hands shaking violently while your heart hammered against your ribs. With trembling legs, you stood up, glancing at the kid sleeping soundly before climbing up the ladder. You stood in the entrance to the cockpit before you knew what you were doing. But when you laid eyes onto Mando's helmet you froze, your words stuck in your throat. The Mandalorian, however, had already heard you approach and turned around to meet your teary eyes. Still shaking like a leaf in a storm you wrapped your arms around yourself and looked down. Why were you even up there? With your thoughts racing you didn't register him standing up, or coming to a halt in front of you. Only when he wrapped his arms around you did you realize what he was doing. He was pressing you against him, hugging you. Your breath hitched and for a moment you felt stiff and perplex before you melted into his touch. Also wrapping your arms around him you pressed your forehead against the cold beskar armor. You couldn't hold back the one, single sob that had caught in your throat as you buried your fingers in the fabric of his cape, craving his touch, wanting to be even closer, wanting more. He didn't say anything, just slowly stroked over your head, tracing his fingers through your hair to soothe you. You couldn’t tell how long you stood there like this but it didn't really matter anyway, eternity couldn't be long enough.

When your mind and body finally calmed down, you had one question burning in your head you needed to ask. After all those weeks of pretending there was nothing said or done you couldn't keep quiet any longer. "Mando, what is this?" The Mandalorian stayed quiet for a while, delaying his answer as per usual. "A hug." You let out a dry laugh and shook your head. "No, I mean-" you started but bit your lip. Pressing the side of your face against his chest instead of your forehead you let out a sigh. "What is this ... to you?" The Mandalorian stiffened immediately and you feared you had screwed up. The ship stayed alarmingly quiet you could only hear your heart pumping the blood through your ears. "I'm sorry, you don't have to answer" you whispered and let go of him, ready to climb back down and hide in the covers of your bed forever. But the Mandalorian's arms stayed wrapped around you even when you pressed your hands against his chest in a weak attempt to get free. "It's ... nice" he said, sounding almost frightened. Confused you tilted your head up to stare into the black visor of his helmet. "Do you like me?" he asked quietly but with a smug undertone to it. You could only imagine his proud grin underneath that helmet. "Don't mock me!" you laughed and gave him a nudge against his shoulder which only made him chuckle. The laughter stopped after a while, left the Razor Crest completely silent again while you shyly smiled up at him. "But yes, I do like you" you answered, feeling your face heat up. Mando remained almost frozen for a few seconds before he placed his head on top of yours, pressing your head gently in the crook of his neck with one hand while his other stayed on the small of your back. "I like you, too" he responded, quoting you from all those weeks ago. He chuckled lightly but you felt it rumble in your chest anyway. You closed your eyes, smiling into the crook of his neck. It felt peaceful, like home. And even though you were standing you felt yourself drift back to sleep when he unraveled one of your arms you had wrapped around his middle. Even though you were confused you stayed tugged under his head and let him continue, eyes closed in relaxation. But when he intertwined his fingers with yours, your eyes shot open. You froze, your mouth opened and closed several times without producing a sound. You pushed him away by pressing your free hand against his chest, staring at the one that was in Mando's. You didn't feel the leather of his gloves on your skin like all those times before, no, this time you felt his skin. "Mando!" you exclaimed, your eyes wide in shock before they darted to his helmet. "Is this even allowed? Oh, kriff!" You closed your eyes even though it wouldn't make a difference anymore, the image of his tan skin had already burned itself in your memories. "Your creed, I don't know-" you panicked, stumbling over your own words. However, the sound of his laughter made you pause. Opening one eye you peeked up at him. He shook his head, still chuckling, then he held up your hand with his ungloved one so you would look at them again. "It's alright" he only said. You relaxed and let yourself fall against his chest again in relief, taking in a deep breath. Lightly you traced your fingers over the back of his hand, feeling many little scars, each of them wanting to tell you their story. But surprisingly, even with all his scars and even knowing what his profession was, knowing how he was raised, they felt almost soft, strong but in a way shy. He returned your gesture, tracing the back of your hand as well. After all, this was also his first time feeling your skin. Your breath hitched, as his other hand slowly wandered from the small of your back to your waist, tracing your curves. Out of instinct you leaned into him and his touches, a soft sigh leaving your lips.

That was the exact moment you could hear the cry of the Child echo through the ship. Deflated you let out a groan, lightly slamming your forehead against his armor in frustration. "Every time" you mumbled, earning another chuckle from the Mandalorian. He squeezed your hand one last time before letting go of you. You smiled up at him silently before going down to see after the kid.

After two hours the Child had fallen asleep again after some food and much convincing. You had climbed the ladder back up and were now standing in the doorway to the cockpit again, a coy smile on your lips as you watched Mando occupied with the controls of the ship. When he was finished, he leaned back and stretched his still ungloved hand out to you, not turning to face you, but you knew he was asking you to hold it again. You chuckled and grabbed his hand immediately, ready to sit down beside him only for Mando to pull you towards him. Before you knew what happened you found yourself in his lap with your feet dangling over him and down his right side once more. Blinking confused you turned to face him. He tilted his head in question as if to ask you if it was okay. You only squeezed his hand and smiled, letting yourself fall against his chest, head resting on his shoulder. Every last bit of tensions left your muscles as you yawned, nestling your face against his neck, enjoying the comfort that his skin gave to you. The warmth and safety that radiated from the Mandalorian slowly lulled you to sleep.

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Tigaanur Series: Part 1 (you’re here!) | Part 2 | Part 3 | MASTERLIST

(Plothole: Why doesn’t the kid just heal you? Because we need that sweet, sweet content!)

[mmvalentine]

Heyy i reallyy love your writing. Could u please do an alternative inn scene (from acomaf) where rhysand asks feyre what she wants and feyre replies with 'you' instead of 'i want a distraction'?? I would very much love thatt! And also insert whatever u know u write best😉😏

OH INTERESTING okay, yeah I'll bite! Gonna just start by copy pasting a whole chunk because I quite liked the lead up but yeah let's get real divergent.

You

I murmured, "We should go to sleep."

The patter of the rain was the only sound for long moment before he said, "All right."

I crawled over the bed to the side tucked almost against the slanted ceiling and shimmied beneath the quilt. Cool, crisp sheets wrapped around me like an icy hand. But my shiver was from something else entirely as the mattress shifted, the blanket moved, and then the two candles beside the bed went out.

Darkness hit me at the same moment the warmth from his body did. It was an effort not to nudge toward it. Neither one of us moved, though.

I stared into the dark, listening to that icy rain, trying to steal the warmth from him.

"You're shivering so hard the bed is shaking," he said.

"My hair is wet," I said. It wasn't a lie.

Rhys was silent, then the mattress groaned, sinking directly behind me as his warmth poured over me. "No expectations," he said. "Just body heat." I scowled at the laughter in his voice.

But his broad hands slid under and over me: one flattening against my stomach and tugging me against the hard warmth of him, the other sliding under my ribs and arms to band around my chest, pressing his front into me. He tangled his legs with mine, and then a heavier, warmer darkness settled over us, smelling of citrus and the sea.

I lifted a hand toward that darkness, and met with a soft, silky material- his wing, cocooning and warming me. I traced my finger along it, and he shuddered, his arms tightening around me.

"Your finger... is very cold," he gritted out, the words hot on my neck.

I tried not to smile, even as I tilted my neck a bit more, hoping the heat of his breath might caress it again. I dragged my finger along his wing, the nail scraping gently against the smooth surface. Rhys tensed, his hand splaying across my stomach.

"You cruel, wicked thing," he purred, his nose grazing the exposed bit of my neck I'd arched beneath him. "Didn't anyone ever teach you manners?"

"I never knew Illyrians were such sensitive babies," I said, sliding another finger down the inside of his wing.

Something hard pushed against my behind. Heat flooded me, and I went taut and loose all at once. I stroked his wing again, two fingers now, and he twitched against my backside in time with the caress.

The fingers he'd spread over my stomach began to make lazy, idle strokes. He swirled one around my navel, and I inched imperceptibly closer, grinding up against him, arching a bit more to give that other hand access to my breasts.

"Greedy," he murmured, his lips hovering over my neck. "First you terrorize me with your cold hands, now you want... want is it you want, Feyre?"

More, more, more, I almost begged him as his fingers traveled down the slope of my breasts, while his other hand continued its idle stroking along my stomach, my abdomen, slowly- so slowly- heading toward the low band of my pants and the building ache beneath it.

Rhysand's teeth scraped against my neck in a lazy caress. "What is it you want, Feyre?" He nipped at my earlobe.

What did I want?

I wanted his hands lower, and all over me. I wanted to not feel guilty anymore for Tamlin. I wanted us all to be okay and to not have to worry about a war coming our way.

"What do you want?" Rhys's words rumbled against my skin and his nails scratched lightly back and forth above my waistband.

And Cauldron damn it, at the end of the day what I really wanted was to just fuck all of it off and to just be with Rhys.

I had no idea how to say that though, without it all sounding so... trite. So human. And there was Rhys, waiting with his nose under my ear and the unliftable weight of his court on his shoulders.

What did I want?

In the end, all I could say was, "you." And it was as much a relief to admit that to myself as it was admitting it to him.

Rhys's hands stopped moving and for a second, I thought I'd said the wrong thing. He went so still- then I remembered his words.

I can't breathe when I look at you.

Let me touch you.

Because I was jealous, and pissed off...

She's mine.

And I knew better.

"You want me?" Rhys echoed, low and dangerous in the curve of my ear. He started moving again, coming up and over my body like another heavy layer of darkness.

"Yes," I whispered, and he nudged my knees apart so that he could settle between my legs.

"Is that so?" Rhys leaned his forearms either side of my face, and rolled his hips against mine so that the heavy length of him ground into me just where that ache needed the friction. I bit my lip against the things that did to me, and struggled to control my breath.

Not to be out done, I reached up and smoothed my hands across his back and up the arches of his wings. The shudder this produced had him rocking into me again, and now both of us were breathing a little hard.

"You'll be the death of me, Feyre darling," Rhys said, and then he kissed me and everything went more thoroughly dark than I had ever experienced in my life.

At the time I honestly could not have said whether this was Rhys's power flaring, or whether my mind just blanked out hard as soon as he kissed me. But what I knew is that I couldn't see anything and that just left me to feel everything a hundred times over.

The weight of his body pinning me down on the mattress.

The pull of his fingers tangling into mine just above my head.

The almost bruising pressure between my legs.

And the sure but honey-slow movement of his lips against mine, one lush press sliding into another.

Rhys groaned softly against my mouth, and I felt the sound all the way down my spine. The first touch of his tongue had me leaning up off the pillow, unable to reach for him because his hands still held mine against the bed. Rhys let go of one hand to smooth down the side of my thigh, sliding under my calf to hitch it to his hip. I threaded my freed hand through his hair, but Rhys chuckled and gently pinned it down again.

"Feyre," he purred. "Feyre, Feyre you have to tell me. What do you want?" His lips moved down the column of my throat and I struggled to answer him.

"I told you," I gasped. "I want you."

"You're going to have to be more specific," Rhys murmured against my collar bone.

"I want... everything." I lifted my hips for emphasis, and loved how his flexed in response. Rhys's mouth came down on mine again, this time hungrier and less gentle. He ground his erection into me and I moved back against him eagerly. He finally let my hands go and I twisted them around his neck, pulling him closer. The taste of him was intoxicating, all sea spray and cointreau. One of Rhys's hands slid behind my head and into my hair, and the other snaked down between us and slipped between my legs.

My moan broke the kiss, and I could hear the grin in Rhysand's voice. "Is this what you wanted?" he asked me. He moved his fingers slowly, rubbing against my clit through my pants.

"More," I groaned, and with a flicker of magic my clothes vanished and his fingers were still against my bare pussy. My nails dug into his shoulders and I couldn't care enough to be embarrassed about how loud the next moan was.

"Mmm Feyre you're so wet for me," Rhys muttered. His fingers started moving again, at first just going back and forth over my clit but I moved my hips up to him.

"More," I ground out again, tilting so that his fingers were reaching further down. Rhys took the hint and pushed inside of me, swearing softly as I started to fuck myself on his hand. Rhys's other hand came up to squeeze my breast, his thumb stroking over my peaked nipple.

"Just like that?" he asked me.

"Gods yes," I struggled out.

"Still want more?" he said. I couldn't quite formulate a response because he had just added another finger. Rhys didn't wait. He ducked his head down, and while his fingers were still pumping inside me, he sucked my clit into his mouth.

"Fuck, Rhys!"

Rhysand did not respond. Just kept flicking his tongue, while my fist tightened in his hair and my climax built behind my eyelids.

"Rhys, I'm... Ohgodsfuck," I mumbled incoherently, my brain not connecting with my tongue.

What was that darling? Rhys asked without lifting his lips. I moaned. The intimacy of him speaking right into my mind was almost unbearable right now, and in the moment I had completely forgotten we could communicate like that.

Rhys... I sent back, but even non-verbally that's all I could muster.

Are you going to come? he asked me. Are you going to come on my tongue like a good girl?

Black talons scraped down the shields of my mind and they may as well have scratched straight down my belly.

Do it, he said. Come for me.

And cauldron help me, I did. I came so hard the scream hurt my throat, and then before I could fully regain consciousness Rhys was rising back up toward me and kissing me with pussy wet lips so I could taste myself on his tongue.

"Mmmm, you," Rhys said between kisses, "are absolutely, fucking delicious." I kissed him back and tried to catch my breath, but now his cock was twitching against my over-sensitive clit and my head was empty.

"What do you think?" he asked me, grinding slow circles with his hips. "Had enough pleasure for one night? Should I let you get some sleep?"

"No, please," I whimpered. "Need you so badly." My hands clawed at his chest, tried to reach down between us to touch him.

"You know, I have had a very long time to think about how and where I want you," Rhys said. The darkness lifted a little, and I could now dimly see Rhysand's face above mine. He was so beautiful I wanted to cry. "And I never thought it'd be in a tiny room where I can't even fuck you against the wall." I shivered at the suggestion.

"I don't care where we are," I breathed. "Just want you." Rhys moved his tongue the hollow of my throat.

"Do you?" he asked softly.

"Of course. I want you, I want all of you, I want..."

Rhys cut me off by kissing me, and I had to remind myself to breathe in.

"But do you know what all is?" Rhys asked hoarsely. And then I looked into his eyes and realised that there was real fear there. That for all his swagger, the reason he kept asking was because he still wasn't sure what I wanted from him. I put my hands on his face.

"Rhysand," I said. "I want every single, beautiful, terrible, wicked, brutal, lovely part of you. Okay?"

"Okay," Rhys whispered. But he just started at me for a minute.

"Don't you want me, too?"

And that got him moving again.

"Do I want you?" Rhys slid his hands under my shoulder blades and skimmed his nose across my jaw. His fingers tightened beneath me as his teeth tugged my ear lobe and his lips began working once more. "Feyre, gods. You have no idea how much I..." He cut himself off and groaned as his erection pressed insistently against me. "Feyre."

I pushed at the waistband of his trousers and he let me, kissing my lips as he removed the rest of his clothes. And then he was completely naked above me, and his bare cock on my pussy was more teasing than I could take.

"Rhys, please," I whimpered, my fingers finally touching the length of him. A snarl rumbled out from Rhys's chest, and then he was pressing into me.

Just a little. Just the head of him. But my body caught fire, and then started to tremble as the pressure built. He was big enough that he had to wait for me to adjust, and yet the need for him pulsed through me like a madness and my nails dug into his arms so hard I might have cut him.

I breathed through my nose as Rhys pulled out and came back, pushing a little further in this time with a hiss through his teeth.

"Fuck," he whipped out, half way in with the third pass. His forehead dropped to mine and I took his bottom lip between my teeth as he finally sank all the way in, eyes snapping open as we hit the hilt.

For a second, we just stared at each other. His eyes were black, and raw, and bottomless. Then he started to move and my mind slid.

In and out, painfully slow, and as my body got used to the size of him suddenly he was perfect. Suddenly something snapped into place and being with Rhys was like breathing air. I moved with him as he picked up his pace, and with every stroke I was being filled with something better than oxygen until I was brimming with it.

But somehow the more complete I felt, it appeared the more Rhys was coming undone. He buried his face in my neck, and his movements became more frenzied, more desperate. He gathered up my legs like he just needed to be deeper and couldn't get enough, and the sounds he made were like a starving man.

And all of it felt so fucking good. I went liquid under his touch and let him devour me. Rhys drew back a little to look at me, and when he made eye contact I almost came again. My eyes rolled back, but Rhys tugged at my chin.

"Don't ask me if I want you," he said when my eyes were back on his. "I will always, always want you." Rhys gripped my hip tightly as he fucked me faster. "I want you more than I've ever wanted anything." His other hand cradled the back of my skull. "I want you more than I want my next breath." And indeed his breathing was labouring now, and his movements jerked hard into me. "I want you to be mine. Mine. Mine." His hips punctuated his words, slamming into me harder and harder each time until I was out of my body and screaming and coming and trying to tell him that I already was his.

When Rhys came he shuddered and shook so hard I heard his teeth click, and maybe my shields had slipped but I swear I felt his climax rip straight through my body like it might tear me in half.

I couldn't have moved even if I wanted to.

Of course as we lay there in that tiny room, in the dark, I never wanted to move again. I wondered, and could not bring myself to ask, if it was always like this for Rhys, if this was just how good he was in bed in general, if I was just overwhelmed because I didn't have much experience with fae.

"No," Rhys said quietly. "It's never like that for me, either."

So my shields were down.

But I didn't care at all, not in this state, not when Rhys carefully pulled out and rolled me onto my side so he could pull me into his arms again, not when he cleaned us up with a breath of magic and then started stroking gently over my flank while consciousness slipped from me.

"You want me?" Rhys whispered into my hair. "You've got me, Feyre darling. You've always had me."

And that was the very last thing I heard before sleep found me.

*****

MASTERLIST

TAGLIST: @ghostlyrose2 @highladysith @stardelia @feysand-loml @tillyrubes10 @ratabrasileira @live-the-fangirl-life @maybekindasortaace @annejulianneh111 @thebonecarver @rowaelinismyotp @loosingdreams @whythefuckdoiexist @inejsarrow @swankii-art-teacher @sjmships @courtofjurdan @teddytdr @positivewitch @thalia-2-rose @darling-archeron @rapunzel1523 @fairchildjace @philosophorumaurum02 @story-scribbler @allthecolorsneverseen @asteria-of-mars @fandomstalker27

[demonsandco]

Okay okay we know with their demon forms it requires a lot of upkeep now what do you think they would do and what they need help with. Cause what comes to mind is a family grooming session 😊

I love this ask thank youuuu. I wasn't sure if you wanted their canon forms, but this is mostly based on my own personal headcanons for their demon forms! I hope you don’t mind that :) It would be much easier for them to handle their insane forms, but what's the fun in that?

Before I start, all demon horns need constant maintenance. Demon horns never actually stop growing, so routine sanding, usually with a custom shaped whetstone, is important to keep horns smooth and to keep them from getting too long. Without proper care, horns can easily become overgrown and asymmetrical, as well as gain a rough, dry and almost scaly texture, which is rather uncomfortable for the demon in question

All other forms of upkeep vary from demon to demon, depending on what features they have (ei. scales, feathers, fur, hair, etc.).

Lucifer

Lucifer's horns are rather easy to reach, curling forward along the sides of his head, so it's fairly simple for him to keep them maintained himself. It's something that he does often, especially because neglecting them could easily impact his image. After all, it's common to see him bring out his demon form to intimidate others, and he wants to make sure he looks well put together. Caring for his horns is not much different than shaving his face in the morning, nothing more than a quick and simple part of his routine.

The thing that actually gives Lucifer trouble is his wings and tail. General self care is something he can handle easily, but feathers naturally wear down and need to be replaced, which means molting. Molting leaves him feeling absolutely miserable. His entire back starts looking patchy and he feels itchy and irritated all over, but he can never seem to properly reach the areas giving him trouble himself. His pride tends to get in the way of asking for help, so he's often left to suffer through it until the new feathers finish growing in.

Lucifer would need to trust someone quite a bit in order to let them help, but it's always a huge relief to have that itchiness soothed by a caring hand. Most often, Mammon ends up being the one to help out. Not only is the second born the only other one who still has feathers, but he's also very skilled at reading Lucifer's moods and telling when he needs help. They never speak about it afterwards, but it's a much needed binding experience for both of them.

(The rest are under the cut)

Mammon

Being a model, Mammon takes very good care of his appearance. Unfortunately, no matter how many times he does it, his horns always give him an insane amount of trouble. They're very tightly coiled and rest at a slightly backwards angle, making it difficult for Mammon to reach the inside parts of his horns. It's not uncommon to see him sulking his way over to Asmodeus' room for help with those hard to reach areas, after spending hours trying to do it himself and failing.

Other than his horns, Mammon has it pretty easy. Like Lucifer, he has to deal with molting, but it never seems to last too long for him, much to the eldest's envy. His wings are also featherless, so molting is nowhere near as uncomfortable for him. The only big feathers he needs to worry about replacing are the ones on his tail. The rest are much smaller and less irritating to regrow.

His wings and other featherless areas do need extra care, though, in the form of moisturizing. Without protection from feathers, those areas get dry and cracked easily, especially if he goes flying. To deal with it, he's got a pretty big collection of scented moisturizing lotions and oils that he can pick from, most of which were gifts from Asmodeus, since they have similar wings.

Leviathan

Levi's demon form is rather unique compared to his brothers. Instead of having true horns, he has antlers. Rather than needing constant care, his horns grow to their full size, shed their outer layer of skin and then eventually fall off to start the process again. Levi often goes to the ocean to isolate himself when his horns are ready to fall. He usually lets them sink to the bottom, where they take the form of the devildom equivalent of coral, providing shelter for aquatic life.

On top of shedding his horns, he also sheds his skin. His sheds are entirely determined by his horns, happening once when the antlers are full grown and ready to lose their protective, velvety skin, and again later on when they're ready to fall. While his antlers' life cycle is reminiscent of a deer's, the shedding of his skin is very similar to a snake's shed. It's not hard to tell when Levi is close to shedding. The old skin begins to separate itself from his new scales, giving him a dull gray sheen over his body and his eyes begin to look dull and glazed over.

It's definitely not a pleasant feeling and he can't see very well through the skin either, so he tends to avoid his brothers. High humidity is also needed for him to shed properly, so if he can't go hide out at sea, Levi's going to lock himself in his room and soak miserably in his bathtub.

Satan

Satan's self care routine isn't too difficult, but it's definitely the most time consuming and he absolutely hates it. He's not the most patient demon, especially when it comes to tasks that he thinks are wasting his time. When it's time for him to maintain his more demonic features, Satan needs to put aside an entire day for it.

Satan's horns are easy enough for him to handle. The inside part of the sharp curve of them often gives him some trouble, but he's nothing if not stubborn, so he usually manages to sort it out on his own. Horns on their own are rather time-consuming to care for, but what really takes up all of Satan's time is the multiple other horn-like protrusions along his body, as well as his tail. He's got boney spikes in the areas that his bones are closer to the skin (elbows, spine, ribs, jaw, etc.) and, like regular horns, they're constantly growing.

Whether he likes it or not, he always ends up needing to ask someone for help, and that someone usually ends up being Asmo. Not only is the process tedious, but he also has a very hard time reaching the spines on his back properly, so a helping hand is very useful.

Asmodeus

Unsurprisingly, Asmo has a very in depth routine that he follows to a t. Every week, he sets aside an evening to take care of his horns and wings specifically, sanding down his horns to keep them smooth and shiny, and moisturizing his wings with oils and lotions to keep the skin supple and soft. Being related to scorpions, Asmo also has a carapace in his true form that resembles the exoskeleton of actual scorpions. It doesn't need much extra care, but he always makes sure to keep it bright and polished.

The downside to his carapace is that it can't actually heal unless Asmo molts and completely replaces it. He's not the biggest fan of molting, but he'll force himself to molt early if he gets scratched or hurt in any way. He can't stand the thought of any part of him looking dull or banged up.

Overall, though, Asmo definitely has his self care handled perfectly. He's also very particular about how things are done, so he's very hesitant to let anyone else do it for him. He does, however, love helping his brothers out with grooming and self care. Especially the ones that he knows are likely to neglect themselves without a proper push.

Beelzebub

Beel's self care leaves much to be desired. He's completely horrible at taking care of his demonic attributes, but he often forgets about it or runs out of time. It's not uncommon for his horns to be rough and chipped or for his insect-like carapace to look dull and roughed up, especially with how aggressive his sports matches can get. Between school, working out, fangol and his constant hunger, regular upkeep gets put on the backburner.

Luckily, Beel and his twin often partake in allogrooming! They both find it easier to take care of each other, rather than themselves. This is especially helpful when it comes to Beel's horns. They curve so tightly along the sides of his head that he can't actually fit his hands between the horns and his skin to smooth them out. Belphie, on the other hand, has much smaller hands and can easily reach around and sand them down, while Beel takes care of him in turn. They rarely talk during these moments, but it serves as good bonding time for the two of them.

Beel's carapace is something he can handle himself, mostly because it doesn't really require anything. Like Asmo's, the only way for his carapace to "heal" is for him to molt and replace it, which he puts off for as long as possible. It's thick and hardy and since he doesn't put much stock in looking perfectly put together, he doesn't worry about it all that much. Whenever he does feel the need to molt, it goes by pretty quickly and he's back to his regular schedule in no time.

Belphegor

Belphie is honestly the worst at taking care of himself. Not because he doesn't care, but because he has such a hard time gathering up enough motivation to even get up in the mornings, much less put in the effort to look nice. If no one steps in, he can go days at a time without brushing just the hair on his head. Even on the days that he does that much, chances are that he didn't bother brushing the rest of his fur, too. After all, if he just doesn't show off his demon form, then no one will notice right?

Luckily for him, Beel does notice when his twin hasn't been caring for himself. While the rest of the brothers only need to worry about their demon forms every other week or even just once a month, Belphie needs to do it daily because of his coat. Without proper daily care, his hair gets oily and matted together very easily, which only makes it harder to deal with later. Beel knows that that's a lot to handle and often steps to brush out his twin's coat, even if he doesn't need any help in return. It's much easier for Belphie to feel motivated enough to help groom Beel than it is to care for himself, so their joint grooming helps them both.

On a similar note, Belphie has quite a bit of trouble with his horns and he constantly puts off taking care of them until they begin causing him physical discomfort. In the past, there's been a few times where he's let them grow a couple extra curls before they started weighing him down so much that he had to take care of it. With his twin's help, and a strictly imposed schedule, his horns haven't gotten that bad in ages, but they still tend to be rather rough most of the time. He also needs to sand down his hooves in a similar fashion. Normally, they'd be maintained just by walking on rough surfaces, but Belphie definitely doesn't walk around enough for that.

If Beel's not around to help out, Belphie has no qualms with playing the baby brother card and whining until one of the others agrees to help him. He's always willing to groom them in return, though, so he usually gets his way pretty easily.

[aenaxes]

PANSLALSOKAAOOSKWOAMSNA CONGRATS ON 200 BESTIE!! YOU DESERVE ALL THE LOVE, SUPPORT, AND EVEN MORE!! YOU ARE SO TALENTED NOT ONLY WHEN IT COMES TO WRITING BUT ALSO YOUR ART TOO!!! If you wouldn't mind, I would like to request a sfw to nsfw with Hardcase? The song that makes me thing of him every damm time, I have no clue why, is Ribs by Lorde. For pronouns would be she/her and if you would like to know, I'm about 5'2" with blue eyes, mid back length half dyed hair, the colors I have dyed my hair are purple, blue, and pink!! Even if you don't do this, just know that I wouldn't mind and I'm always happy with seeing you write whatever you want because you are so talented and keep me very well fed 😌🤲💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖

we'll make it (divine)

[hardcase x f!reader] loving hardcase is something akin to falling in love all over again and again every time he knocks on your door and pulls you into his arms.

warnings: nsfw, outdoor sex, mushy gooey feelings

w/c: 3.0k

a/n: sage my darling 🥺 ily bb mwah <3 i'm going to be completely honest writing this made me fall so so so much more in love with hardcase (bless u for that)

event details here! requests will be open until july 4th!

“Hey!” Hardcase greets you with that very specific sort of glee only he knows, breathless and bright-eyed as your door slides open.

The durasteel parts to reveal him and a shiny keyring lifted eye-level to the blue ink arcing over his temple. The sparse assortment of bronze and silver speeder keys jangle against a polished leather keyfob as he shakes his fist with boyish, giddy joy. It’s one that, you might add, isn’t exactly fitting of Hardcase’s rough-and-tumble style—ergo, keys that don’t belong to him—and one that begets a few questions as you raise a pointed brow in his direction.

Hardcase only grins wider.

But before you can ask if those are—and they definitely are—the keys to Jesse’s planetside speeder, Hardcase shoots his other hand forward and wiggles his fingers between yours, tugging you into the glare of the fluorescent hallway lights and squeezing snug.

“Don’t have much time,” he nods earnestly. “You ready to go?”

“Go where?” you laugh as he stuffs the keys into the pocket of his bomber, tearing his attention away from you if only to shoot a hasty glance over his shoulder. But you’re stepping forwards anyways, crowding up against his side as your door slides shut behind you.

“Out, duh,” Hardcase says with a scrunch of his nose, the telltale twitch of his left cheek that you immediately recognize as a silent, animated, ‘isn’t it obvious?’ He punctuates his response with a quick squeeze over your hand, and his smile grows wider when you tip your head back and laugh.

“How much of a head start do you have on him?”

“I have about a hallway lead,” he says, sheepish if not for the excitement in his voice. “C’mon! He’ll beat my ass if we don’t get moving!”

You might not exactly know what’s going on, because for all the spontaneous and oftentimes questionable visits from Hardcase that you’ve come to expect as part of your regular routine, Hardcase carried with him some mischievous ingenuity to surprise you each and every time. But you can’t help but mirror the contagious delight in his grin as you squeeze his hand and take off behind him.

And it’s the natural thing to do, the ebb and flow of alternating surprises: Hardcase poking into your room well past lights out with Tup’s holo and a bootlegged movie, and you meeting him with two glasses of single malt whiskey before both promptly gagging on your first sips. It had always been like that ever since you had, quite literally, knocked heads with Hardcase in the corridors of your first jedi cruiser assignment, running a bit too fast a bit too far.

A bit of carefree joy, a bit of light, you think as you run past a loose group of shinies, the squeak of your boots blending with your stifled giggling. And when Hardcase turns his head to check if you’re still there (as if he’s not squeezing your hand tight), you see him as he is, a sturdy piton to keep your hold against war’s steep shear.

“Hurry, hurry!” he laughs as you run through the open blast doors. His voice rises above the motions of the hangar bay like the sweetest song, hoarse and free.

You open your mouth to say something along the lines of ‘I’m trying!’ but your mouth fills with the cool air of the Ansion night, sweet with the fragrance of grass, organic and good over the labored exhaust of the base. And instead of words, laughter, bright and loud, bubbles from your chest.

As soon as you’re entering the hangar bay, you already find yourself at its opposite end. Hardcase’s fingertips dig firm into the soft curve of your waist as he hurriedly but no less gently lifts you off your feet and onto the back of Jesse’s bike. With one final look over his shoulder, Hardcase clambers on after you, jamming the keys into ignition and revving the engine to life.

The low thrum of the bike drowns out Jesse’s muted yelling from across the landing as you peel away from the bay. But above Jesse’s fading shouts, above the rumble of eight durasteel cylinders underneath you, all you can hear is Hardcase’s whoops of pure joy when you wrap your arms tight around his waist and press your ear behind his beating heart.

The recycled hangar bay air gives way to something earthy and warm. You breathe deep, even with the speeder ramped up as fast as you think it could possibly go, and your lungs fill with the fading ghosts of sunlight and Hardcase’s cologne as you squeeze your arms around him and imagine the floodlights of the base blinking out behind you.

It’s only when the bike beneath you sputters to a halt and the roar of the engine gives way to the broad silence, curling over the hilltop on the rich and cool midnight winds, that you turn your head and see Hardcase without the giddy thrill of impromptu adventure.

Hardcase hops off the speeder, wobbling once on his feet with a breathless laugh as he hits solid ground. You watch from your perch on the back of the bike as he dusts off his jeans and shoves the keys into the pocket of his GAR bomber. It’s the one that fits one size too small, pulling at the edges of his shoulders as he rises to his full stature under the glow of twin moons.

But when Hardcase turns around to face you, all wind-kissed cheeks and rosy glow that reaches his eyes, the playful tease dies on your tongue.

“Your hair’s a mess,” he says softly as he tilts his head to the side to flash you a smile. He saunters forwards, eyes gleaming with starlight, and finds home between your thighs with a sigh you almost lose to the rising wind.

He shrugs off his bomber, his face scrunching up in the way that makes you both laugh when his arm catches on the tight pull of leather, and he sweeps it behind you to set it snug over your shoulders. And when you’re snug under his jacket, he lifts his hands to your temples, fingertips ghosting over your skin as he gently pushes your tousled hair behind your ears.

You let your eyelids flutter shut, relishing in the careful touch you know he only reserves for you, nothing like the playful roughhousing and loving shoves he exchanges in the barracks. It’s a slow deliberation, callused fingertips tracing over your scalp, sending shivers down your spine as he strokes from your hairline and arcs over the crown of your head, fingertips giving way to his warm palm cupping at the apex of your neck.

And it doesn’t take wide eyes to know that when his motions stutter to a pause, when you hear him inhale through his nose, that he’s watching you with that unnameable warmth: the one that settles deep and wide in his dark eyes, fingertips hovering just close enough over your skin that you feel the heat radiating across that small breadth between you, wondering how he got so lucky, reveling in how he got so lucky.

You know the feeling. (You feel the same.)

You open your eyes, and Hardcase is there. He is there, bathed in the endless starscape above, but all he can see is you, reflected back at you in fond eyes you commit to memory each and every time.

“I think I’m in love with you,” Hardcase whispers. He lifts one hand to rub over the back of his neck and brings the other flush over the curve of your knee with the boyish shyness of twinkling eyes and starstruck joy that had roped you into his gravity the first time he’d stumbled into your path.

“You’d better be,” you snort, tugging his jacket close to your collar as he shifts his palm higher. There is playfulness, just a flash, but it soon gives way to something warm and low in your belly.

The small, slow movements of his thumb over your thigh strike a warmth that chases the midnight wind’s cold, spreading in thrumming waves over your chest. It emboldens you like a neat shot of whiskey, thrown back at once, swallowed down with raucous laughter, the noise and the lights faded away under the open sky, warm, warm, warm, and you reach up to curl your fingers over the hand at his neck, pulling him close.

You lean forwards, touching your brow to his, and just before you slide your eyes shut, you catch the look in his deep brown eyes. It reminds you of the first time you bore witness to the ghostly blue lights of a hyperspace jump, entranced in honest wonder as he stands between your thighs.

Because it’s you. It’s you, it’s you, it’s you—a warm and bright place to call home. It’s always been you. And Hardcase melts into your touch as you brush close.

“‘cause I think I’m in love with you, too.”

He laughs, and it’s a new sound in the night. It’s not quite relief, nor is it that exuberant glee from your sprint down the base halls. When you think back on it, it was understanding, your secret for two.

“I love you,” Hardcase says again, stronger, convicted, something closer to an earnest prayer than words alone as he looks up at you and greets you with the galaxy bright in his eyes. Not a soldier, not one of millions, just him; firm muscle between your thighs, breaths ghosting over your collar, fingertips pressing warmth into your ribs as he snakes his palms under your shirt and pulls you close.

Just yours.

You’re not sure who kisses who first, too full of a rapturous swell that blooms through your chest. But it doesn’t really matter. Not when Hardcase’s lips curl close against yours, wind-chapped and dry but so, so warm as he presses his fingertips into the skin of your back and pulls you close against him.

When his kiss is broken by the cold air, bitter in comparison to his touch, you let a whimper roll from your tongue. Brief as the interruption may be, it’s an interruption all the same.

Hardcase humors you with a quick peck to the corner of your mouth. But he’s quick to make up for that split second of lost time as he throws his leg over the side of the bike, his knees knocking against yours as he takes a seat before you. In his lovestruck daze, he sweeps his arms wide, letting that brief moment of giddy glee pass over his cheeks before he brings his hands over your waist and gently tugs onto his lap.

“Isn’t this Jesse’s bike?” you sigh dreamily when Hardcase thumbs over the crease of your thighs and noses up against the edge of your jaw, sending want snaking up your spine.

“He doesn’t need to know,” Hardcase says with a noise somewhere between dismissal and apathy as he shrugs and rolls his eyes.

“Oh, gross,” and you stick out your tongue as if you aren’t already aching at the thought of straddling his lap and letting him stretch you open under the starscape above.

Hardcase simply shrugs and brings his hand to his chin to offer you his best glamour face in return.

You make quick work of your slacks, kicking them off to the side while Hardcase fumbles with his fly. It’s awkward, if only by the fact that you’re balanced atop each other on the delicate wobble of the hover generator, elbows bumped close in a gentle fumbling that’s simply too genuine to be embarrassing anymore. You’ve done this too many times, shoved up in dark closets and hidden spaces of cruiser corridors, never truly satiated, never having taken your fill.

It’s not awkward—just endearing, you decide as you shift your hips forward and feel the blunt head of his cock dip up between your thighs.

As you sink down onto his lap, the speeder wobbles beneath you, and you fling your arms around him with a half-squeal half-moan, dropping down onto his cock in one smooth movement that sends a shudder through you both.

There is some solace in knowing that if the bike did tip over, that Hardcase would go down with you, his arms tight around your waist as he nuzzles into your chest and laughs. Commitment, you think as your heart bangs up against your ribs, a bit silly and very much dangerous, but commitment that warms you to your core.

“It’s all you, baby,” Hardcase whispers as you finally peel yourself away from him and lean back just enough to catch a full view of his face.

You don’t think you’ll ever get used to it. How could you? How could you assign to the mundane the sweet ease of trust sloped over his brow as he looks up at you like you’re the only thing in the midnight sky, the only thing in his universe?

“Lazyass,” you snort, and he laughs.

But clever quips and snarky remarks are forgotten for the night when you carefully lift your hips, knees quivering over the hard press of the bike, and rock back down onto his lap.

Hardcase fills you in the way only he can, toeing that fine line between easy comfort and the satisfying burn of being split open and squeezed breathless.

You sink down with a whimpering gasp, toes curling when you feel him buck up into the soft spot inside you that whites out your vision. Choking on your own moan, you let your head drop down onto his shoulder, already rendered boneless and pliant around him. You fist tight into the soft fabric of his shirt, cunt spasming around him, and you hold tighter when his hips jerk up again.

“I got you, baby. I got you,” Hardcase mumbles into your shoulder, trailing his lips to the base of your neck and kissing sweet. His arms squeeze around your waist once and anchor you close. And he is there, curled everywhere around you, holding you close as the wind rises broad and far between the grassy plains and the universe overhead.

Where else could you ever want to be?

You want to laugh when you remember Hardcase leaving the pace to you as you feel his palms knead into your hips. But it comes out as a soft sigh when he hefts you halfway off his cock and fucks you down onto him again. All you can do is wrap your arms around his neck and hold as he starts a steady pace.

You won’t last long like this—neither of you will, not when you’re bared to the open sky and yet the closest you’ve ever felt to each other in a long while.

Hardcase breaks your dreamy longing with an uneven jerk of his hips. He’s close, and like muscle memory, he immediately drags one hand over the curve of your thigh to find the soft skin where you part around him. But you’re quick to react to him, grabbing his wrist as you sink down onto him with a soft moan.

“Already feels good,” you gasp, meeting him through the blurry haze of the tears dotting your lashes. You can just make out his wide eyes, and you choke out an unsteady laugh. “Hold me, ‘Case. Just hold me.”

“Okay, yeah,” Hardcase babbles, holding you flush on his lap and coaxing a soft sob from your lips. He brings his arms around your ribs, nestling his cheek against your chest, right above your beating heart. “Anything for you, baby.”

And that’s all it takes.

You come with a whimpering cry, and pleasure, luxuriant and warm, floods through your core as you bow forward and clutch tight to Hardcase’s neck.

It’s too much but only in the best of ways. Hardcase gives you little time to breathe, shedding the last dregs of restraint to press you down hard onto his lap and fuck as deep as he can go. Feeling your own high, Hardcase takes his fill and bends you to his pleasure, fucking into you for himself. And you swear you feel it in your throat as he lifts you up to the blunt ridge of his tip and brings you back down all at once.

“I love you,” Hardcase chants, breathy and low as he spills into your pulsing cunt. Your soft moans twine with his own as a second orgasm shocks through you, pulled over the edge again by his words alone. “I love you, I love you.” And he crushes his lips against yours and swallows your honeyed confessions with his tongue.

You feel him come down from his high with you. Your breathing blends as one until you’re gasping softly against each other, having long since parted and pressed your heads close, brow-to-brow, nose-to-nose. You vaguely remember it meaning something to the good brothers of the GAR, and while you can’t quite place a finger on what it was, all you know right now is that it’s closeness beyond physicality alone. And you feel Hardcase’s breaths level out and fan over the sweat on your collar, all you find yourself able to do is press even closer.

And when the ringing in your ears subsides, when you no longer feel your chests heaving against each other, you slowly open your eyes and find Hardcase already there, dopey-eyed and blinking slowly as he meets your gaze.

“Hey,” you whisper, drawing back.

The wind rises again, cool and sharp as it curls and eddies around you.

“Hey,” he replies. Gingerly, immersed in the sudden stillness, Hardcase lifts his hand from your back and brings his knuckles to your cheek to brush soft over the sweat and bliss over your skin.

“I love you,” you say, and the words curl over your tongue, shy and true all at once, like it’s the first time all over again.

“Yeah?”

You can’t mistake the spark that alights over Hardcase’s eyes as anything but breathless joy, genuine and raw and perfect because no matter how many times you said it, the simple power remained. The vastness of a night sky, stars exploding to life, with no clear centre but him and his soft smile that puts the moonlight to shame.

You love him.

You do.

“Good,” he grins. “‘Cause I love you, too.”

[gallickingun]

PAIRING: Bakugou Katsuki x Fem!Reader RATINGS: M/E+ WARNINGS: smut WORD COUNT: 1.7k+

PROMPTS: 22: “Maybe I should leave you like this, this way anyone who wanted to use you could have a go with you. Would you like that?” 32: “I wanna fuck you right against the glass so everyone can see how good you take it.” 321: “I don’t care how good it feels, you better not cum until I tell you to.”

request from THIS prompt list - prompt fill sentences will look like this.

You swat errantly at his roaming hands, trying desperately to listen to what Izuku is saying from the podium.

“-as heroes, it’s our responsibility to…”

“Fuck that guy,” Bakugou mutters into your ear, his palms rustling your dress from where he stands behind you, “God, you look sexy in this dress.”

He’s not wrong. You bought it specifically because it’s the color he likes to see against your pretty complexion, a dropped neckline to show off your cleavage and a low plunging back so the top of your ass is just visible enough to make him go stir crazy.

Bakugou slips his hands underneath the silken fabric of the dress, the loose fabric making it easy for his fingers to continue their exploration of your ribs. He leans forward to kiss your shoulder, Deku’s voice reverberating in the training hall as the press conference continues, “I will literally fuck you right here if we don’t find somewhere to fuckin’ go.”

“Katsuki,” you turn to swat him, but your hips swiveling so you can face him gives his hand the perfect avenue to slip down between your thighs.

You quickly snatch his coat from the table, pretending to shiver as you cover your front with it. He is completely flush with your backside, and with the added protective layer of his suit jacket, his motions are concealed. His voice rumbles in your ear next, “How about we go up to my office and I’ll fuck you on my desk.”

Your throat bobs at the notion, a new wave of slick coating your core as you stutter-step forward, “Katsuki.”

“Yeah, I wanna hear you moan that,” he kisses beneath your earlobe, “now let’s get the fuck outta here.”

He doesn’t give you much option, snatching his coat from you and pulling you by the wrist towards the elevator. Luckily there are enough people milling about that it doesn’t go noticed that you’re slipping away. You’re mostly worried about Deku, given that Katsuki is his patrol partner, he really should be there for him when his speech is over.

Bakugou corners you in the elevator, despite it being completely clear glass, his mouth on your neck in an instant. He hikes your dress up, running his middle finger against the thin layer of lace separating your cunt from the fresh air. He’s growling in your ear as he feels the damp fabric, “Fuck, you’re wet. This all for me, Princess?”

“You’re a nuisance,” you shove at him, but it holds no malice. Bakugou stiffens his spine and rolls his hips into your side, tucked between you and the wall so he can ride your thigh on the long elevator ride up to his office. The bulging tent in his pants makes your eyes drop so you can take in his length. A part of you wants to drop to your knees and suck him off right here, but you can still see the tops of everyone’s heads as they listen to Deku’s speech, so you hold your tongue.

Katsuki turns your head with the rough brush of his knuckles against your jawline, “What’re you lookin’ at?”

He follows your line of sight to the downstairs are and a greedy smirk overtakes his demeanor. Bakugou has twisted you in an instant, turning your body so you are now pressed into the glass, the curves of your chest leaving hot steam on the clear surface. The sight of you like this makes Bakugou’s cock twitch within the confines of his clothes and another rumbling growl tears through his throat as he lets loose a string of cuss words.

“I wanna fuck you right against the glass, so everyone can see how good you take it.” His voice is in your ear now, his chest parallel with your shoulders as he leans closer, “And you’d take it good, wouldn’t you sweetheart?”

You’re nodding before you know what you’re doing, the people below all but forgotten as the thrum of his voice in tandem with the throb of his cock against your thigh throws your blissed-out brain into overdrive. The copious amounts of slick gathered between your thighs only gives him more reason to want to hike your dress up and fuck you until the glass shatters.

The elevator bell rings, and he’s got you hoisted into his arms before you can think. Your mouth finds his, searching and wanton, lewd smacking sounds combined with the silvery strands of saliva connecting the two of you. Neither of your hands can find purchase against the perfect patch of skin, still searching even as he fumbles into his office.

Your back is thrown against the door, slamming the wooden object shut, and Katsuki is tearing into your clothes before you can beg him for a moment to breathe. He has your dress pooled at your feet, your body bare save for the small pair of lace underwear you’d worn. The sight of you has him salivating, caging you between his arms as he forcefully reigns his mouth down on you.

He nips at your lower lip, “Take off my tie.”

You do as told, reaching up around his neck to start loosening the offending piece of clothing keeping him from taking his shirt off. Bakugou does not assist you in this process, continuing to distract you with his kisses and his hands. His warm palms immediately find your aching nipples, tugging the sensitive skin between his index and thumb, “Gonna be a good girl for me? Gonna listen?”

Nodding, you breathe out panting, whining breaths that hurt your lungs but you don’t care, “Yes, Katsuki, please, I just want-”

“Nah, baby,” Bakugou nudges his nose over your jawline, “When you decided to wear that dress, what you wanted went out the window.”

The sound of his voice sends a chill down his spine, but now you’ve got his tie undone and in a heap in your hands, offering it up to him like some sort of sacrifice. Bakugou takes the article of clothing from your hands and then proceeds to tie it around your wrists, tightening it so you have to clasp your hands together.

“How’s that?”

“A little tight,” you squeak, shifting your feet as the air conditioning kicks on, the vent above your head blowing chilling blasts of air down on top of your bare body.

Bakugou snickers before yanking the tie tighter around your wrists, “Good.”

He has his hand buried two knuckles deep within your glutinous walls before you can take another breath. You keen, dropping your head back to the door so you can stare up at the ceiling. Your eyes flutter somewhere between open and shut, unable to keep up with the pace his fingers are setting against your core. Bakugou is relentless as he circles the pad of his thumb against your clit and uses his opposing hand to build the pleasurable wash of pure ecstasy within your walls.

The hand that is not sheathed inside of your cut trails up your body tantalizingly slow, swirling his thumb around your nipple before pinching it harshly, “Such a good girl, Princess. What else did you expect when you wore that?”

You shake your head and start to mutter out a response, but it’s cut off when his thick digits wrap around your throat and he squeezes. Your cunt clenches around his hand, a whine ripped straight from your chest at the combination of all of his ministrations.

“You’re not cumming yet, do you understand?” Bakugou angles his body forward to start kissing and licking at your exposed shoulder and collarbone. He sucks harshly against the skin before tilting his head upward to bite at your earlobe, “I don’t care good it feels, you better not cum until I tell you to.”

A meager, “Yes, Katsuki,” parts your lips but it is accented by a wheezing cough. Your eyes water and you have a moment to mourn your ruined makeup before he is sucking hickeys into the skin of your throat. Your neck bobs and you push yourself up on your toes to try and chase your release despite him strictly telling you otherwise. Bakugou can sense this, the tightness of your core constricting around his three fingers.

His palm encases your jaw and he yanks you forward, mouth never disconnecting from the muscle of your shoulder, “Feels like you’re about to cum, Princess. Are you going to have to make me punish you?”

You are feeble when you answer him, pushing the words out of your teeth in a fit of desperation because you know how mean Bakugou can get when you disobey, “N-No, not cumming, promise!”

He snickers against your jugular, “Good girl.”

Bakugou’s fingers work at you for the next couple of minutes, his mouth lavishing your skin to place several pulsating marks along the column of your throat and on down your shoulders. Your hands twitch with want, only able to rest and squirm against his chest, your wrists tied tightly together.

A soft squeal parts your mouth and Bakugou’s cock stretches underneath his zipper, “C’mere,” and suddenly he’s got you turned against his desk, your arms over your head as your ass faces him, perfectly round for him to worship. He administers a few spankings, watching as the flesh ripples beneath his touch.

“Maybe I should leave you like this,” he mumbles into the skin of your shoulder, feeling your muscles twitch beneath his lips. You are already protesting, tears tracking down your cheeks as you struggle to form full sentences now that you’ve entered the subservient headspace he loves so much, “This way anyone who wanted to use you could have a go with you. Would you like that?”

You are crying out for him to stay, begging for his cock or his mouth or whatever body part of his that he can abuse your pussy with that will keep him here. You whine, dropping your forehead to the desk, “P-Please, Katsuki, I-I just want you, please, I just want…” You can’t form full syllables any longer, your throat bubbling up with emotion as you cry for him, begging incoherently for his touch.

Bakugou hums and you can faintly hear the sound of his zipper, the shuffling of feet against the hardwood making your stomach coil. He sporadically sprinkles kisses down your back, hands rubbing against the globes of your ass, “Well, I guess you better be a good girl, then. Or else you’re gonna have to find your own way home.”

-

@redbeanteax​ your ask got fucked up so i had to repost here!

[vangoghmusings]

writing session- art trade

rating: 18+ [use of drugs and sexual intercourse]

word count: 2k 

for: @melanimed​ <3

a/n: this is for an art trade sweet tay and i decided to do today!! this is a musician au and some very filthy smutty smut under the cut :)) enjoy~

“Are you sure this is a good idea?”  

“Tay, you haven’t shut up about this collaboration since the day he agreed.”  

Tay huffed, brown lashes fluttering down as she looked at her lap. Her knee bobbed in anticipation as she sat in the Uber beside her manager.  

“I know but, I’m still nervous.”  

“Just think of it as another step towards becoming the ultimate A-Lister, okay?” Her manager chirped, not once looking up from their phone, typing quickly. Tay sighed and nodded.  

As a singer who was set to perform at Madison Square Garden the next year, Tay, who went by the stage name Pisces, had made quite a name for herself in the R&B scene. So much, that Dabi, the modern-day prince of bedroom pop with R&B influence asked for her to collaborate on a song. While it seems like a simple career orientated step, Tay couldn’t believe her idol and celebrity crush knew she existed. As for Dabi, she was clueless to the fact that he was her biggest fan too. A guilty pleasure, so to speak.  

As the Uber came to a halt, Tay let out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding.  

“Relax, you won’t get any good writing done with all that damn anxiety.”  

Tay rolled her eyes, gave her manager a thank you and hopped out of the Uber, which zoomed away quickly. The sun was setting, as Dabi specifically told her the best time to write music was at nightfall.  She walked to the large building, checking the street to make sure no paparazzi were following her, and stepped inside. A worker quickly greeted her, offered her water or tea (which she declined politely), and thus led her to the studio. Tay thanked the worker as she entered the studio room. It was dimly lit, the smell of incense filling her nostrils as she stepped inside.  

Sitting at an oval shaped table sat Dabi, a joint hanging from his lips as he scrolled lazily on his phone. He turned slowly, a smile creeping on his face as he saw her.  

“Pisces,” he said, almost like a purr, nearly sending a shiver down Tay’s spine.  

“O-oh, that’s just my stage name. You can call me Tay if you’d like.”  

He nodded, standing up and setting his joint down on the ash tray set in the middle of the table.  

“Guess that you shouldn’t have to call me Dabi then. The real name is Touya.”  

He extended a lazy hand out to her, his height looming over her stature.  

She gave a shy smile, shaking his hand, his palms practically engulfing her own. 

“Shall we get started then?”  

The night was spent with sheet music scattering the table, joints being passed between the two, and light laughter and cheers whenever a lyric was completed. As time passed and smoke filled the room, twirling between weed and incense, the two artists sat closer and closer together. The only thing in between them was Dabi’s guitar which sat on his lap.  

Dabi pinched the joint between his fingers and inhaled before blowing the smoke out his nostrils and turning to Tay with a proud smile. His eyes crinkled slightly, covering up the redness that came over them.  

“I think we’ve got a pretty good base for this song. We can edit it again next time we meet but for now I think it’s all set.”  

Tay grinned and raised her arms up happily, elated to have finished successfully. Dabi set his guitar down and stood up to stretch. He elevated his arms in the air, stretching up to the ceiling, his shirt lifting slightly to give a view of his toned abs. His eyes shut gently as he let out a soft groan while reaching up.  Tay blinked, watching his stance as he lowered his arms, his abs disappearing under his shirt. 

Dabi looked down at her, a small pout forming on her face. Dabi chuckled and leaned down over her, swiftly cupping her face in one hand. Before her pout could diminish into shock, he dragged his thumb over her bottom lip, a smirk covering his face. Tay froze, her heart starting to feel like it was going to beat out of her chest as Dabi continued to run his thumb over her lip, before giving it a gentile tug. Tay let out a small whimper, the unexpected pull causing her to pinch her legs together. Dabi let out a small chuckle before letting go of her lip and standing back up.  

“Such a filthy liar.”  

Tay blinked at his remark, taken aback from his words.  

“E-excuse me?”  

Dabi ran a hand through his hair before continuing, a sadistic smirk growing on his face.  

“You always act so innocent. For the cameras and media. You’ve been trained well.”  

Dabi stood before her, his gaze hovering over her figure, taking in and analyzing every curve. Tay crossed her arms over her chest.  

“I am not innocent.”  

“Oh yeah?”  

Dabi dropped to his knees in front of her, resting his head on her thighs before hissing out, “Let me break you.”  

“What?”  

If Tay didn’t think her heart was going to break through her rib cage, she was sure it would now.  

“Let me break that innocent façade of yours, babygirl,” Dabi said, his eyes full of lust as his words came out like velvet.  

Tay couldn’t believe what was happening. She had to be dreaming, or at least way too high for her own good. But with Dabi resting his head on her thighs, massaging them with his large hands as he batted his lashes, how could anyone say no? Unable to muster any words, she simply nodded and gulped. Dabi lifted his head from her lap and grinned, licking his lips hungrily and craning open her legs, pushing her skirt back.  

“Good girl,” He growled lowly before burying his face between Tay’s thighs, causing her to gasp.  

Dabi ran his tongue against the thing fabric of her panties, his piercing gliding over it smoothly. He pulled away after a few gentle licks, then tugged the fabric and letting it slap against Tay’s increasingly wet cunt, causing her to yelp.  

“Oh, I’m going to have fun with you,” Dabi said with a smirk as he removed her panties. Once the panties dropped to the floor, he paused and sucked his teeth in concentration. “Yeah, no,” he said before picking her up with ease and setting her on the table. Tay let out a small squeak of embarrassment after he plopped her on the cool wood, gripping her thighs firmly in his hands before spreading them apart. Dabi watched in sadistic glee as Tay’s pussy pulsed at nothing, desperate for attention.  

“You’ve got such a pretty little cunt there babygirl...I’m going to fucking wreck it.”  

Tay’s eyes widened as Dabi stared at the heat between her legs hungrily, but too scared to dive in, as if the girl he’d secretly been pining over for more than a year would dissipate into thin are if he did. Tay let out needy huff, bringing Dabi back down to earth.  

“If you’re going to wreck me, then just fuck me already Touya.”  

Dabi grinned once more before stepping closer to her, standing between her spread legs that hung over the table.  

“Such a desperate little brat hm?”  

He gripped a fistful of her curls, yanking her head back and exposing her neck, causing Tay to gasp softly. Dabi smirked before running his tongue up the side of her neck, the cold of his tongue ring causing her to hiss from the unknown sensation. Swiftly, he leeched his mouth onto her neck and sucked hard, nipping and biting at the sensitive crook of her neck every so often. Tay whimpered and gripped the edge of the table in pleasure, Dabi’s sharp teeth eliciting soft moans. He ran his tongue and gently kisses the new bruises before pulling away, towering over Tay as he licked his lips. With a firm grip, he cupped her face in one hand, placing a feather-like kiss on her lips, contrasting from his harsh hold on her. He gently dropped his hands before pushing her back onto the table. Tay propped herself on her elbows, watching Dabi’s every move with lustful eyes.  

Dabi pulled his hard lengths out of his black jeans, pumping it a few times in his hand before leaning down and spitting harshly on Tay’s cunt. She gasped and writhed at the sensation, knuckles white from gripping onto the table. Dabi chuckled darkly as pushed Tay’s legs open once again, exposing her wholly to him.  

“So pretty,” He mumbled to himself. He quickly pushed his hair out of his face before gripping unto his erect length and pressing it against Tay’s wet clit. Slowly, Dabi teasingly ran circles over her needy bud with his tip, moaning softly at the feeling. If he had to be honest, he could do this for hours, watching her squirm at the feeling of his cock rubbing her wet clit.  

“Touya,” Tay whimpered, looking up at him with desperation.  

“Beg for it slut. Beg for my cock to stuff you full and prove to me you're not an innocent little girl. Beg-”  

“Touya please! Please I need your cock so bad, I know you’d fill me up so good, please, I need you so badly!” Tay cried out, exhausted and taut from squirming under the pressure of his dick on her clit.  

Dabi nodded and without hesitation, plunged his hard cock into her tight cunt. They groaned together at the feeling, as Dabi slowly pushed more and more of his length into her tightness. He paused in concern and looked down at his cock only halfway inside.  

“Are you sure you want me to-”  

“Yes, please just stuff me Touya!” Tay pleaded, reaching out to grip his shoulders.  

“I knew I liked you for a reason,” Dabi smirked as he snapped his hips, stuffing her full of his thick cock. The room soon filled with moans as a rhythm was found, Dabi harshly fucking deeply into Tay’s tight cunt. A series of praise falling from his lips...

“Oh, fuck you feel so good around me babygirl.  

Such a good dirty little whore for me, hm? You just loved being stuffed full of my fat cock.  

I’m going to fill you with my cum babygirl, paint your insides completely white.”  

That last phrase was more of a promise than a statement as Tay came to realize. With her cunt clenching tightly around Dabi’s swollen dick, they were both close.  

“Please Touya please cum in me!” Tay begged, her legs shaking at the impending high that was about to crash over her. Dabi grunted, snapping his hips into her roughly, trying not to get sloppy despite how close he was. He began to pant hard as Tay’s nails dug into his back, eliciting a blissful groan to vibrate from his chest. With one final hard thrust, he shot hot ropes of thick cum into her quivering pussy. Tay cried out blissfully as she came hard, shaking under neath Dabi as he continued to slowly thrust into her as they rode out their climax’s together.  

Dabi let out a light sigh as he pulled out, watching as Tay’s pussy pulsed with cum dribbling out.  

“Well that just won't do,” He hummed as he took thumb and pushed the juiced back inside of her. “Here,” he said while pressing a soft kiss on her forehead and picking up her panties, handing them to her. “You keep that cum inside of you so when we get to my place, I can fuck it further into you, got it babygirl?”  

Tay’s eyes widened as she nodded quickly, eager to have Dabi stuffing her full once more. He chuckled and pressed a kiss to her jawline, mumbling a “good girl” against her skin.  

[welllpthisishappening]

But Once a Year (2/5)

This is a trick.

It has to be. Something Pan planned, or some nonsense only possible in Neverland, because one second Emma’s sitting outside the Echo Caves and wondering how exactly things could possibly get worse, and then the world decides to take her up on the challenge. She’s not where she was. Or when she was, either.

And the future isn’t entirely what Emma expects it to be, but that might not be entirely horrible and Christmas with a husband and a family that quite clearly loves her is only kind of messing with her head. God bless us, every one.

————

Rating: T Word Count: 9.1K which is also more than I remember writing. Which should probably be the subheadline of my life.  AN: Guys! All of you! Collectively! Separately! Thank you so much for your genuinely incredible response to this story that took on a life of its own. It’s very nice! You’re all very nice! More exclamation points! This time around we’ve got; a very discombobulated timeline, bedtime stories, peak!dad David, peak!dad Killian and f e e l i n g s. 

Also on Ao3 if that’s your jam || Or you can start from the start

————

“How did you figure it out?” He lifts his eyebrow. Only one, and exactly the same way he does in whatever part of time the real Killian Jones is lingering in, but the thought of this Killian Jones not being entirely real makes Emma’s stomach knot. Several times over. She can’t stop staring at his eyebrow. It’s off-putting. And the complete opposite of that. “Out?” Killian echoes. “Not when?” “No, no I figured you knew pretty much from the get, but—” Emma shrugs. Tries very hard not to fall off the kitchen counter. Which might actually be made of granite. 

God, maybe they’re legitimately rich. 

She can’t imagine what the mortgage on a house like this is. 

She can’t imagine there are actually mortgages in Storybrooke. 

“Were you thinking about going to get your sword? Because it seems shitty to challenge an unarmed person to a fight.” The eyebrow gets higher. Arch'ier. Pointier, even. “As you’ve already pointed out today, I am a pirate. And that’s not really an answer to my question.” “Or mine,” Emma challenges. “Are you not a pirate anymore, then?” “You know you’d make a rather atrocious spy, darling.” Sneering is decidedly juvenile and the only thing Emma is capable of doing in the moment. “You are dancing around any answer and—” “—Well, if you’re a time traveling, abysmal spy then it seems wrong to provide you with any more information than what you’ve already gleaned from your day here, doesn’t it?”

She deflates. 

Shoulders sag and exhaustion creeps up the wholly unnatural and very uncomfortable curve of Emma’s spine, fear tickling the back of her mind because Killian hasn’t actually made a single move towards the basement, but she’s only passably sure of where the basement is and the specific sort of glint in his eyes makes her even more confident that he wouldn’t mind brandishing his sword at her. 

Literally in this instance. 

“I’m not sure it’s time travel,” she mumbles, staring at a floor that is questionably clean if it does in fact belong to her. Maybe Killian cleans. “Fascinating.” “I’m not the bad guy here.” “Because I am?”

Her shoulders can’t sink any lower. They try all the same, shamed by the hitch in his breath and the tilt of his head, angled to make his hair drift across his brows and eyes that are as distracting as ever and far too easy to get swept up in and—

Emma swallows. 

Exhales. She doesn’t remember when she decided to hold her breath. 

“I don’t know,” she admits softly, barely able to move her lips and no one remembered to turn the Christmas tree off. Lights reflect off the ridiculous number of windows in the wall, painting streaks of color on paint that isn’t blue and shouldn’t remind anyone of a ball gown Emma knows she hasn’t worn yet, but it’s pretty all the same and she wonders why she wound up here. At this point. This moment. 

Killian might not be breathing either. 

“What do you know, then?” 

Emma bites her lip. Hard. “That one second I was somewhere else, and then I was—” Shaking her head does not help what is undoubtedly a migraine blooming behind her left eye, but she hasn’t fallen off the counter yet and she imagines victories are going to be few and far between, so it seems fair to cling to them as they pass by. Six of her knuckles crack when she grips the kitchen counter. “Waking up, and you were telling me we had to go get paint, and people were bowing to me.” “They don’t do that where you’re from.” “Not a question.” “No,” Killian agrees, which is a very strange way of doing that, “more like a documented point. You haven’t tried to attack anyone yet, though. So I suppose that’s at least one marker on the positive column.” “I’m not going to attack anyone!” Eyes flashing at the crack in Emma’s voice, Killian’s neck all but snaps as he glances over his shoulder. Towards a staircase, and she hasn’t spent too much time upstairs yet, but those same stairs are as empty as they were sixteen seconds earlier and the force of Killian’s exhale ruffles the ends of his hair. 

“If you wouldn’t mind being just a touch quieter,” he all but growls at her, spinning back around with far more grace than Emma thinks is entirely fair, “I’d really appreciate it. Takes her forever to fall asleep.” “Hope, you mean? Don’t I, well—don’t we or…” “I’d suggest you stop talking.”

“And you’re still avoiding my questions,” Emma accuses through clenched teeth. That only hurts her jaw. And the rest of her, really. She’s so tired, she can’t believe she’s still forming coherent sentences. Counting that as another marker in the positive column is probably a dick move. 

And the standoff that ensues over the next twenty-seven and two-thirds seconds is something in the realm of ridiculous. Clenching her jaw tight enough to crush a variety of diamonds, Emma resolutely refuses to blink, and Killian’s an ass, apparently, so he simply stares right back, while his shoulders heave on every inhale. 

She doesn’t know what to say. Has no idea what string of words will convince this relative stranger, who still feels like someone who could potentially be hers in an overwhelming sort of way, that she’s not a threat and wouldn’t do anything to hurt that kid upstairs. Not when that kid did her own bit of staring at Emma all evening, like she was the sun and the moon, and a variety of constellations and—

Killian drags a hand over his face. Leaves red streaks in his wake, twisting the skin on his cheeks and the stubble there doesn’t move because it can’t, but Emma’s admittedly starting to teeter again. In more ways than one, really. 

The crinkles around his eyes are deeper. As if he’s used to laughing and smiling, and Hope had clung to him on their walk home. 

There’s that word again. 

Doing something silly to Emma’s heart. 

“I know you’re not going to attack anyone,” he sighs, “although I don’t really know if you’re in a position to demand I tell you anything, either.”

“What if we call it a request?” His lips twitch, fighting off the smile Emma can see tugging at his mouth and it’s definitely wrong to find any confidence in that. Charming a guy who’s already married and procreating with a different version of her shouldn’t be regarded as another victory. 

She’s going to do it anyway. 

“Tell me who you are, then.” “I’m—” Grunting hurts Emma’s throat, both of her elbows threatening to damage her ribs when she flails her hands. “I’m me. Just—” “—Not mine?” “Oh, that’s decidedly possessive.” Humming, Killian’s nod is barely that. More like a quick jerk of his chin and swipe of his tongue across the front of his teeth. She’s got to stop staring at his mouth. “Aye, it might be. I am having some difficulty wrapping my head around this, though. So you’ll have to forgive me.” Emma scoffs. Nearly laughs, really — which is as surprising as it is nice, and nothing about this can be nice. On principle. Her body doesn’t seem to care, and her heart certainly cares even less, and it’s still a struggle to rationalize this version of Killian with the one she left, but there are far more similarities than her brain is able to process quite yet and that same dark and distant part is very quick to point out she’d like to. 

No matter where she might be sitting.

If she’d let herself. 

“You can feel my magic?”

Killian nods. “Usually.” “What does that mean? It doesn’t always work?” “I—” Gritting his teeth only shows off how frustratingly straight there are, and at some point she’s going to ask about that. Pirates don’t get braces, after all. “I’d rather not disrupt all of time by telling you things you don’t already know.” “I don’t know anything,” Emma argues, trying very hard not to scream the words. And only sort of succeeding. 

“Did you fall into a portal?” “Are you fucking with me?” Killian glares at her again. “I’d advise very strongly that you answer the question, Swan.”

“Or what? You’ll legitimately go get your basement sword? Why do you keep your sword in the basement, anyway? Aren’t there—I mean, a monster a week in Storybrooke, right?” His goddamn fucking tongue is going to be the death of her. Sooner or later, Emma is positive. Shifting and poking at the side of his cheek, and she can hear the gears again, trying to place the few clues she’s given him with a life he’s already lived and it is absurd that she even thought the word clues. 

“Not in quite some time,” he admits, and Emma’s mind leaps. Back to conversations and knights and realm-borders. She needs a map. Or Regina, God help her. “That’s not the point, though. It’s—” Another head shake and hair movement, and pinching the bridge of his nose only makes it ten-thousand times easier to see the ring on his finger.

There are a lot of Christmas lights in this house. 

“You’re not someone else,” Killian finishes softly. 

“Disappointing, I know.” His head moves so quickly it’s hardly more than a semi-dark blur of hair and slightly pained eyes. Both of which make Emma very glad for her spot on the counter. If she had been standing, she would have fallen over. In a rather undignified heap. 

“No,” Killian exhales as the magnets make a glorious return. He crowds into her space before she’s entirely ready for it. Although that also suggests Emma would ever be ready for the way his face has twisted and how ridiculously warm he continues to be, the hand that’s already resting on her knee threatening to burn straight through her jeans. “Strange,” he adds, clenching his fingers when Emma flinches, “and possibly a little terrifying, since—” “—Your Emma has disappeared entirely.” He grins. It’s disarming, and inching closer to the kind of flirting they’d been dancing around before and Emma’s got to get off this dancing metaphor kick. She’s not a good dancer, anyway.  “No portal, right?” “No portal,” she confirms. “And I’m not entirely convinced this isn’t a very lucid dream, so.”

It’s the wrong thing to say. 

She realizes that about halfway through the sentence. Any hint of camaraderie or déjà vu-based flirting disappears from Killian’s face and immediately shifts into the same brand of pain that came when she called him Hook. 

Biting her lip is really Emma’s only option.

“You don’t think this is real,” he whispers, another statement she doesn’t feel the need to point out. Shrugging, Emma’s vocal chords fail her again, and the step Killian takes away from her resembles a rather large chasm. 

Grand Canyon-esque. 

“We’re back to things I don’t know,” Emma says, “but um—do we have other kids? Aside from Hope, I mean? I—” Heat rises in her cheeks, the weight of the compliment threatening to burst out of her both foreign and necessary and Killian doesn’t do anything. Well, he lifts his eyebrows again, but that’s something like second nature to him and Emma refuses to count it and his fingers find the back of his hair. 

Huh. 

“Henry,” he replies.

“And you’re counting Henry? As—” Her tongue is really going to become a problem, if it’s going to remain this size in her mouth. “As your kid too?”

Strictly speaking, Emma’s not sure she actually wants an answer. Can only imagine what her emotions will do if she hears the confirmation that’s quite obviously pressing behind the seams of Killian’s mouth, but that confirmation might also prove several thousand things that have been at war in her for far longer than she’d ever be willing to admit, and he nods once. 

“In all the ways that matter,” Killian says. “And Neal is…” Shaking his head, all Emma gets is another smirk as soon as she huffs out her frustration, but the frustration is also kind of lacking when it feels like her whole body is running on overdrive and there’s no way he could fake the emotion behind those words. Even in a dream-like state. She’s not creative enough to come up with that particular voice inflection. 

“How’d you know?” she presses. “Honestly?” “Aside from your rather startling inability to act like yourself?” “Yeah. Aside from that.”

Stairs creak behind them, a not-quite ominous warning that this conversation has lasted longer than it should and there’s a kid of indeterminate age demanding to be put back to bed just out of sight. Emma should figure out how old her kid is. 

Hopefully that won’t ruin the space-time continuum, either. 

“You’ve got this lovely habit of calling me babe,” Killian drawls, leaning close enough that Emma swears she can smell him. Wishful thinking, maybe. “And I can’t remember the last time you called me Hook.”

He flashes her another grin — reminiscent of a man who is not this one, and then he’s gone, scooping up the kid and muttering promises against her hair, and Emma never knows how long she spends sitting on the kitchen counter. 

She does creep, eventually. 

Curiosity gets the better of Emma the longer she sits there, waiting without much hope for Killian to return. He’s not going to. She knows that. There’s only so many times he can come back, and this is a totally different thing than it was before, but it's also a perfect segue to the other reason she hopes off the counter. Her overall discomfort. Literally, and metaphorically. Marble, it seems, is a very fancy stone and good for the kitchen counters some alt-version of her eventually owns, but it also starts to dig into the back of her knees and those knees are bent kind of weird and in the grand scheme of where she wants to look again, inching up the stairs to peer through the barely closed door of Hope’s room is a much more appealing prospect than a basement that apparently houses weapons. 

So, Emma doesn’t spend too long thinking of the pros and cons, or how she should really be creeping towards the room of someone who might understand magic and why she’s here. Instead, she winces slightly on the creaky step halfway up the staircase and does her best to stay in the shadows, but these shadows aren’t quite as terrifying as they were in the realm she’s only just recently teleported from and that probably doesn’t mean a whole lot. 

He’s reading her a story. 

Captain Hook, terror of several storybook seas and probably a few Emma isn’t aware of, just to drive home the confusion point, sits propped up against a mess of pillows with his sock-covered feet stretched out in front of him, and curls pushed up against his side, a book balanced precariously on one thigh and she really would make the world’s worst spy. She hadn’t noticed the empty brace at the end of his arm. 

That’s never happened before. 

Honestly, she wasn’t even entirely sure it was possible, which is total asshole territory and maybe she’ll just collapse. Right here in the hallway. The carpet looks almost plush, so it might not be the worst move. 

And trying to memorize the look of it only feels like a half-dick'ish move, if only because the lack of a hook does sort of confirm the overall safety of this place, and Emma figures that outweighs whatever scene she’s interrupting. Or trying not to, as it were. 

Knotted scars line his skin, some of them looking older than others and that makes a few more of Emma’s internal organs flip. Something that feels a bit like anger rises in the back of her throat, an unexpected emotion that isn’t really directed at anyone except the people who caused those scars and that pain and he looks comfortable. 

Now, at least. 

Even slouched as he is against pillow cases that are far too frilly and remind Emma far too much of her mother. She keeps documenting. Lets her eyes trace over every inch of Killian — the way his fingers fluttering mindlessly against Hope’s back, brushing away strands of hair with the kind of ease that makes it clear this is a regular occurrence. His shoulders aren’t as taut as they were in the kitchen, but his head lolls towards the side more than once as fatigue starts to color his gaze. 

The story has princesses in it. Well, one princess. On a rather expansive adventure, if Emma’s actually keeping up with the plot. Dropped into a place she’s unfamiliar with, the princess in question naturally has a dashing love interest — although his name is Charles, so...maybe not all that dashing — and they get into several more adventures. Which include, but apparently are not limited to; taverns, a ridiculous amount of flirting, interactions with pirates, kissing as a distraction, the last of which endlessly entertains Hope, and the overall force of the little girl’s laugh makes Emma’s breath hitch, but then there’s more to the story and of course there’s a ball. More royalty, too. Obstacles are faced, only to be immediately overcome and Emma’s smile happens without any thought to the overall inappropriate nature of it. 

“And,” Killian says, shaking his head until his nose grazes Hope’s hair, “the exceptionally dashing prince took on the guards single-handedly, telling the princess to go and get the treasure they’d been looking for. While—” “—’Feating all of them, right?” Hope exclaims. As much as it’s possible to exclaim while also sounding half asleep. 

“In dramatic fashion. There was quite a lot of spinning involved. Made his jacket look all the more impressive. Fluttering tails and whatnot.”

Eyes flicker towards Emma’s garbage hiding spot, and she’s still not breathing correctly, so the odds aren’t very good he heard her, but she’s wondered more than once if he doesn’t just have a sixth sense when it comes to her and possibly them, and she pulls her lips behind her teeth. 

“What happened after that?” 

Most of Hope’s question comes out as a singular word, Killian’s soft laugh both indulgent and decidedly parental and he kisses her once before muttering, “Nuh uh, you’ve already gotten more story than you should, and you’ve got to get some rest.” “But I—”

Shaking his head once is all it takes for silence to descend on the room, although it does come with a slight pout and that’s—weird, it’s weird. Watching her own facial expressions reflect back to her from a kid she didn’t know existed a few hours earlier is more than enough to send Emma reeling. Wobbly knees shake underneath her, retreating in just enough time to not look totally suspicious as Killian mumbles something else and closes the door behind him, and she might have been right about the eye thing. 

They practically fly towards her. 

And the wall that was far closer than Emma anticipated. Hitting her head on it hurts more than it usually would, she imagines. 

“Truly,” he says, “an absolutely Gods awful spy.” “Was that supposed to be plural? On the Gods, I mean?” Tilting his head is the only response Emma gets, and she can’t blame him for that. For anything, really. “Does that happen a lot? The, uh—the stories.”

Silence. 

Relatively speaking. There’s the distinct sound of disgruntled kid on the other side of the other side of the door, what Emma figures are four flailing limbs as it appears Hope is determined to beat her half a dozen pillows into submission. 

Little sea monster makes a bit more sense now. 

“I do that too.”

Fatigue disappears. To make room for the invisible two-by-four that settles between Killian’s shoulder blades, shifting them until his spine is ramrod straight and he’s staring at Emma like that was the most obvious statement in the history of the world. 

“I’m well aware,” he says, but his voice drops, gruffer than it’s been all day. She’s going to bite both her lips in half. 

“Yeah, yeah, that’s—makes sense, I guess. I, um—” No one actually told her to take her boots off, but Emma might have assumed, and the carpet does feel soft. Through her socks, at least. While she tries to dig a hole into the ground with her toe. So she can fall into it. “Seemed like a popular story.” “Aye, it is. Big fan of sword fights.”

“Ah, well, when they’re full of dashing princes who wouldn’t be?”

It’s another thoughtless sentence. One that makes Killian’s tongue shift and then his mouth shift and Emma only stares at that for a few seconds before her eyes drop to his arm and his wrist and—

He twists his arm. Behind his back. 

Her inability to dig a hole with her foot is genuinely disappointing. 

“A question for the ages,” he says. “What are the other ones, then?” “Excuse me?” “I cannot keep telling you how badly you mask your expressions. It seems redundant. So while I also can’t imagine getting too much information will be good, you’ve obviously got questions. As do I, if we’re being honest.” “Are we being honest?”

The lack of sword belt — or actual pants — makes it all the more absurd when he leans forward, thumb hooking into the top of the sleepwear he’s got on, and Emma’s fairly proud of her ability to not linger on that particular thing. Less so in her ability to temper the butterflies in her stomach as soon as Killian leans forward. 

Directly into her space. 

He must radiate heat. 

“I’ve never been anything except entirely honest with you, love,” Killian says, and there’s no way to doubt those words or that voice and Emma hasn’t. Ever, actually. 

“Yeah, that’s true.”

“Eventually you really do believe it.” Blood hits her tongue — sharp and absolutely disgusting, threatening to make her retch in the middle of the hallway. Only marginally better than her hole idea. By some miracle, sent from an apparently merciful God, Emma manages to take a deep breath, jutting her chin out and meeting Killian’s almost cautious gaze with a determination of her own. 

The kind that sends magic shooting down her arms, and directly into the tips of her fingers. His eyes widen. 

“That’s never been the problem. It’s—” They’ve got to stop cutting themselves off. Sentences that hang without end will torment Emma for the foreseeable future, but the muscles in her neck are going to seize up if she doesn’t twist them, and Killian’s fingers tense at his side when her hair moves. Like he wants to brush it away from her face. “Where’d the tree come from?” “Anton.”

“No.” “Swan, we just proclaimed honesty and now you’re—” “—Don’t know if it was a proclamation,” Emma grumbles, but Doc did call her your highness before so maybe she wields that kind of power now. Killian’s lips tilt up. 

Finding something else to stare at should be number one on the list of things Emma needs to be doing. Desperately. 

“Aye, that usually requires your mother’s seal anyway.”

“My mom? Why would...isn’t Regina mayor of this town?”

Exhaling through his teeth is oddly attractive. “Not as such, no.” “Huh.” “That’s about the right reaction. But to get back to your original question—” Emma sticks her tongue out, Killian’s laugh soaring out of him. Directly into her. It feels that way, at least. Warmth blooms between her ribs, another pulse of magic she resolutely ignores in favor of watching his shoulders shake and his eyes crinkle and it would be very easy. All of it. Is, currently. If she’s being honest with herself.  

That’s a problem.  

“You’re a picture of maturity,” Killian murmurs. 

“Well, depending on who you ask, I either got tugged through time, or I’m being tormented in my dreams and—what?” His eyes have gone very thin. “Tormented, is it?” “That was a shitty choice of words.” Humming, Killian’s eyes move anywhere but Emma’s face, and the regret in her gut is like a black hole and dying star and several other space-based puns she does not understand at all. All she knows is what a mess this is becoming, and she’s been a mess for as long as she can remember so that’s all the excuse she needs, hands moving on a mix of want and instinct that she’ll let herself over analyze later. 

He doesn’t flinch. 

For another moment, it feels like he’s going to do something drastic. Parting his lips, Emma hears his exhale, the quick flick of his tongue making her toes curl and her fingers tighten, and she wants to run. That’s her schtick. She can’t. She’s rooted to the spot and this carpet, and there’s nowhere to go really. 

Getting back to Neverland already seems impossible. 

“He’s very happy here,” Killian says, and it takes her a second to realize they’re talking about a giant again. “Has been for years. Grows all sorts of stuff, and you didn’t see the Christmas tree your parents have, but it’s ridiculously massive. Apparently there’s some sort of giant-type gene that helps with that.”

“Well, yeah of course.”

Whatever sound he makes isn’t the laugh Emma selfishly wants it to be, but the air that finds her cheek is warm and his left arm isn’t behind his back anymore. “You can take the bed.”

“What?” “We do have a bed, love.” “Yeah, but—” “—Very gallant of me, I know,” Killian quips, stepping away from Emma and the moment and she can’t believe the moment included talk of a giant growing Christmas trees. Somehow that’s almost comforting. “But it’ll be fine, and well if you’re going to talk to Regina tomorrow—” “—You think I should talk to Regina?” “Don’t you?” Nodding hurts. Standing hurts. The whole thing’s ridiculously melodramatic. “Probably,” Emma admits. “Um, but...maybe on my own?”

She’ll never admit to wanting an objection — this isn’t her life, or her Killian, but it also feels wrong to claim any Killian, and this constant flipping between emotions is going to snap her skull in half. “Whatever you think is best,” he says. “Two doors down on the left.”

“Ok, thanks.”

Nodding again, Killian gives her a barely-there smile before moving back towards the stairs he only sort of rushes down. That one step creaks again. 

Sleeping doesn’t happen. 

Emma didn’t think it would, but it’s disappointing and frustrating all the same. Her muscles ache, practically begging her for unconsciousness, but every time she closes her eyes all she can see is Killian’s face and the space between them and she’s got to get back to Neverland. 

Soon. 

Emma’s got to fix this. 

No one’s at Regina’s house. 

Waiting until everyone left her own house is something of a massive copout, and using that particular possessive makes Emma feel like a liar, but she couldn't bring herself to get off the bed until the front door slammed shut and she wasted quite a lot of time sitting on the mattress. 

Also very comfortable, despite the distinct lack of sleep it witnessed. 

So, it shouldn’t come as much of a surprise when no one answers Emma’s rather pointed knocks. Or the few kicks she levels at Regina’s front door, just to be sure. All that does is make the wreath hanging out front wobble precariously. “God, fucking—” Snowflakes land on Emma’s face when she tilts her head up, as if the gods she’s challenging are responding. She’s still a little caught on the polytheistic. “Alright, alright, where would she go?”

“Emma?” Spinning, she doesn’t wobble at all — a testament to Regina’s salting regiment for her front steps, and the blonde twenty-something with impressively thick glasses who called her name far too easily grins far too quickly. “What are you doing out here?”

There’s no hint of confusion to her question. At least not in regards to who Emma is. She’s obviously surprised to find her standing there, though, and nothing about her is familiar. 

“I’m looking for Regina. Do you know where she might be?”

“Yeah, of course. She went into the office early this morning, said she had to deal with the knights situation and magic acting up and—” “—Magic is acting up?”

“Didn’t Uncle David tell you?”

“No,” Emma shakes her head, already moving because there are only so many offices in this town and it’s got to be the same one. It isn’t until she makes it back to Main Street that her mind catches up with titles, but then the woman is jogging up the stairs of town hall and swinging open doors and Emma’s jaw drops. 

At the “Regina Mills, Queen of the Combined Realms” etched in glass in front of her. 

“You coming?” this nameless person asks, jerking her head towards the office and at least the wallpaper is the same. Emma gives a jerky nod, willing herself to step forward, but it’s shaky going at best and Regina is on the phone. 

The buzzing in her ears makes it difficult to hear the conversation, but Emma picks up the gist. Magic, and knights and the sound of her dad’s vaguely frantic tone, while Regina sighs at regular intervals, rolling her eyes occasionally as well. 

“Aunt Gina,” the woman hisses, slumping into the closest chair. Sliding a small handful of bills across her desk, Regina widens her eyes meaningfully, not bothering to cover the receiver before she mutters—

“Only what was on the list, ok? Henry’s stuff is already taken care of, don’t let Doc try and swindle you.”

She gives a crisp salute, Emma’s mind practically tripping over itself because that’s like a slap to her entire being and the sanity she’s only just clinging to at this point. “I’ll sic Killian on him, if he even tries,” she promises, leaning across the desk to kiss Regina’s cheek before breezing out of the office with a quick “see you later, Emma.”

Emma doesn’t move. 

And Regina hangs up on David. 

“Well,” she says, somehow dragging the word out until it sounds like those royal decrees Killian was talking about, “here you are, then.” “Should practice your surprised face.”

Gasping as dramatically as possible, Regina widens her eyes and jerks back, making her chair squeak on its wheels. Her hand flies to her chest, and the necklace that hangs over her shirt. It looks a bit like an arrow. “How was that?” “My dad called you.” “Probably two seconds after you left the farm. So,” she props her chin on her palm, “time travel, is it? You fall in another portal?”

Blinking as quickly as she is makes it difficult for Emma to stumble into the chair only recently vacated by that girl, but she manages somehow. And doesn’t twist anything in the process. Victories, she’s claiming all of them. “How many time-altering portals are there?” “Only one that I’m aware of, but you also didn’t answer my question and I don’t think you can alter something that hasn’t happened for you yet.” “Because this is the future.”

“Frankly?” “You’re going to do it either way,” Emma grumbles, Regina’s sneer not quite as challenging as she expects it to be. 

“Nothing is ever set in stone, not really. Which is why you can appear here. We're...a possibility for you at this point. So, no—I’m not sure you can destroy yourself with knowing. With staying, for sure, but—” “—Wait, what?”

Regina’s fingers flutter against her cheek. “When did you come from?

“Not here.” “Obviously.”

Slumping further into the chair, Emma’s knees nearly slam into her chest. It’s definitely an arrow around Regina’s neck. “Neverland,” she says, “we’d just left the Echo Caves and you’d gone off with Gold somewhere.” “Rumor has it you met Ariel.” “Is that seriously who that was?” Regina nods. Emma exhales. Loudly. “Ok, ok, well—” Recounting the rest isn’t as hard as she expects it to be, details flowing out of Emma like some other water joke she’s not willing to make and Regina doesn’t interrupt. Occasionally her hand drifts back towards the necklace, but Emma chooses to ignore that as well and her mouth is only sort of dry by the time she’s done. 

And then Regina purses her lips. 

Which speaks volumes, without actually saying words. She says words too. “A giant plant. That crawled out of the ground and—” “—Ok, I never once said it was giant, just that it exploded out of the ground.” “It’s not much better.” “Killian can feel my magic here.” “Yuh huh.”

Lifting both her hands in what Emma can only hope is obvious frustration and soon-to-be-resolved confusion, Regina doesn’t look all that impressed. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Emma demands. “Is that a normal thing? I—as far as I know he can’t in Neverland.” “Well, normal is in the eye of the beholder, really, but have you ever actually asked the captain if he can feel your magic?” “Why would I—did you just call him captain? Are you and Killian friends now?” Clicking her tongue, Regina makes a noise that’s neither confirmation nor objection. “I’m not supposed to be here. This isn’t—none of this is real.” “Ah, that’s actually a little rude.” “How did this happen, then?” Another noise. More guttural that time, and Emma hopes it hurts the inside of Regina’s throat. She’s feeling a little vindictive. No one’s explained the Unified Realms concept to her yet, that’s why. “I’ve got several working theories, some people who would know far more about Neverland’s vegetation and what its capable of than I would, and the deep-burning desire to know whether or not you told Killian about the plant.”

The gods are clearly feeling particularly charitable to Emma right now. All things considered, she feels like she deserves that. 

And she doesn’t fall out of the chair. 

“Do you think he remembers this? If I disappeared in Neverland, but he still married me here...God, that’s weird to say.” “Is it, though?’ Regina challenges, scrunching her nose like this is a conversation they can have.

“Why are you also being so goddamn weird?” “Time travels a funny thing. Lots of twists and turns, and potential pitfalls. And I’m not being weird, this is who I am now.” “Huh.” “Make it sound less like an insult next time,” Regina advises. “But I do think you’re right, you need to leave this part of the timeline. It’ll fall apart otherwise.” “You say so calmly.” “I’m almost very confident in your abilities.” “Almost,” Emma echoes, fully prepared for the snark-filled grin that gets her. Flames flicker between Regina’s fluttering fingers, not the first time that’s happened, but it usually only happens in times of particularly high stress and for as even-keeled as the so-called queen is acting, Emma knows at least part of it is a facade. “What happened with the knights? Also, shouldn’t knights from Camelot be under Arthur’s rule?” “That’s a whole other story. One your husband could recount much better than me.” “He’s not my husband.” “Not yet, I suppose.” Grimacing makes it harder to pull a breath in, but Emma’s butterflies make a triumphant return and the coffee maker was still on when she got downstairs. That might not be the coincidence she wants it to be. “The knights,” Emma demands, “what’s their deal?” “Nefarious, it seems. Which isn’t usually how they operate, and is wholly against the law.” “Of your kingdom?” Maybe Regina and Killian are friends. She’s much better at arching her eyebrow now. “Something like that. Anyway, the knights are here, without the proper paperwork, because they claim magic has been acting strangely in Camelot. And they’ve tracked it to our forest. What that magic is doing that’s so strange appears to be some sort of state secret, but Snow’s got a bird on it, so maybe we’ll find out eventually.” “That keeps happening.” “The fleeting nature of a bird’s attention span?”

Emma rolls her eyes. “Is she not Mary Margaret, anymore?”

The flames disappear, Regina sitting up a little straighter like they’ve finally delved into the serious part of this conversation, and whatever’s churning in Emma’s gut is a bit like regret. “Not in the way you’re thinking.” “How am I thinking about it, then?” “As someone who still hasn’t found Henry in Neverland yet.” “Sounds like we do.” “Not something you ever should have doubted.” “I don’t,” Emma says, only kind of a lie because she still can’t really shake her worry and her fear has always been such a strong part of her; the concept of letting that go is as terrifying as anything else. The coffee had been good that morning. “Why this spot? I mean—if I was going to get tugged to any point in my timeline, Christmas in Storybrooke seems a little out of left field, don’t you think?”

Regina considers that for a moment, drumming her still-flameless fingers on her vaguely imposing desk. “Honestly? Seems like a test.” “Of what?” “You, obviously.” “Speaking English, Your Highness.” “Majesty,” Regina corrects, sliding away from the desk so she can stand up and rest her palms on it and Emma’s eyes nearly roll into the back of her head. “And you’re being obtuse on purpose. I understand, but it’s—well, it’s only going to get more annoying, for both of us. The point is, games were part of Neverland. Tricks and sleight of hand, making you believe something that wasn’t there because that belief fueled the place. Belief’s even stronger for you, Emma. Because of what you are, and what you’ve done. Or will do, I guess.” “No pressure.” “Some, but—you’re distracting me. That’s still an unconfirmed theory.” “What is the point, then?” “The point,” Regina repeats archly, “is that pulling you out of Neverland, away from a place that made you feel like the Lost Girl you believe you are, turns this into something of a Utopia. Home, and safety. When’s the last time you celebrated Christmas?” “Never?” “See, everything you’ve ever wanted all tied up and—” “—I don’t want to be married to Hook.”

Disbelief colors every inch of Regina’s face, the sound of her laugh far more evil than she’s been all morning. “You’re an awful liar, Emma Swan. No matter what you do, and all you’ve ever been able to do is make eyes at the pirate.” “I don’t make eyes.” “Don’t worry, he does too. Even now, which is romantic if you like that sort of thing.” “The point, Regina.”

She grins. “You’re being offered a choice. Here, or there. Past or possible future. It’s a dangerous option, Emma, and one you can’t give into, no matter how much you might want.”

Finding her dad is far easier than Regina. 

Emma’s feet drift down the path towards the farm, boots squelching in the snow, but none of the moisture gets to her socks and the screen door opens before she can think about knocking. 

“Would have been offended if you had,” David says, pulling her against his chest and answering a question she didn’t have a chance to ask. It’s the hand that does it though. Cupping the back of Emma’s head, there’s something inherently safe about the whole thing, her cheek scrunched and her eyes stinging with more unshed tears and the first whimper she lets out is so goddamn depressing she can’t believe it came from her. 

“It’s ok, it’s ok,” David chants. Over and over, pressing the promise into her hair and her temple, the bridge of her nose once Emma finally lifts her head, and the slight jut of her chin because she’s nothing if not consistently stubborn and falling apart feels like failure. 

“C’mon, we’re going to sit down,” David continues, already directing Emma back into the hallway. And through the hallway. Past more pictures, and this couch looks even more comfortable than the one she’d woken up on, and she’d been right about her mother’s taste in pillows. An excess of frill. 

“Was I that obvious that you had to immediately call Regina yesterday?" David shrugs, lifting his arm in unspoken invitation. Emma slings her legs over his when she moves, the flannel now under her cheek oddly comforting. As is the kiss she feels pressed to the crown of her head. “A little,” he chuckles, “but mostly it was Killian’s blatant freakout.” “He wasn’t freaking out. At least not here.” “He was. Not loudly, maybe. But obviously. And you looked at Hope like you’d never seen her. That also kind of freaked out your mom.” “How old is she?”

Emma doesn’t bother being anymore specific. She knows she doesn’t have to — not when her dad’s arm tightens around her shoulders, and she wishes she’d come here first, if only to help keep her balanced on the precarious edge of lingering sanity, and she’s got absolutely no idea where Killian went. She should ask about that too. “Four.” “Shit. That’s—shit.” Another chuckle and second kiss, and David has to shift slightly to make sure Emma’s elbow doesn’t impale his side. “Reasonable response, really. Anything else?” “About a million and two things,” Emma admits, with enough acid in her voice to do permanent damage to the atmosphere. Making science-jokes is apparently a coping device now. “Regina thinks it’s a test. Of whether or not I really will leave, when given some sort of idyllic future.” “Well you’re not a selfish asshole, so I’m sure you’ll do what you have to.” “Kinda blunt, Dad.”

It’s not the first time she’s used that word — but titles have been thrown around in enough conversations already, and Emma’s really very wobbly on her metaphorical cliff and she wants something. Solid and dependable and she refuses to acknowledge how Killian might be both. Is definitely both. 

In any version of this life. 

“Kinda,” David agrees, “but the knights showed up when you did, and I don’t know if that’s a coincidence. There have been reports coming into the station, too. Stuff feeling out of whack across the realms—” “—How many realms are there, exactly? Is Regina in charge of all of them?”

“There was something of an election.” “For a queen?” “We’re a very progressive united coalition.”

“And you’re what? Prince of that?” David makes a contrary noise, and it takes longer than Emma expects to detail the hierarchy of this realm, but she understands why her mom would need to make royal decrees now and why people keep bowing to her and— “So that makes Killian a prince,” Emma says, pleasantly surprised to realize she does not in fact die when her heart explodes. Or when she realizes that some parts of that bedtime story may actually be based in reality. 

She kind of wants to see him spin in the middle of a sword fight. 

“Tell him that,” David suggests. “I’m sure he’ll enjoy it.” “Makes me think he won’t.” “Sometimes people bow to him, just to see what he’ll do.” “Challenge them to a duel?” “Nah, that’d mean he has to get his sword and that’s a whole thing. Plus, he’s got stuff to do in the station and there’s a fair bit of sailing involved.” “He keeps his ship?” Emma asks, sharper than she intends because something’s fluttering at the back of her brain and it’s big and important and she’s got absolutely no idea why. “And did you just say station?” David hums. “Doesn’t like wearing the badge though. Which I think is an affront to the position of deputy, but—” She nearly hits his chin. Jerking her head up, Emma’s eyes widen quickly enough that they also water and her dad might be the asshole here because he doesn’t do anything except smile knowingly at her. “You’re happy here, Emma,” he says, “after everything. And there’s a lot of everything, but it ends eventually. Gets the happily ever after it deserves, that both of you deserve. Although he’s a merciless cheat in Monopoly, drives me nuts every Christmas.”

It’s not a laugh. Not really. Sagging forward, air flies out of Emma’s lungs and her very dry lips, and that second thing is because she keeps breathing out her mouth, and trying to piece together a puzzle she wasn’t all that interested in finishing before. Now it’s all she wants, desperate to see what the picture is, and it’s probably very pretty. 

A covered bridge, or an oceanscape or something. Thomas Kinkaid, maybe. And part of her hears the warning, knows all too well that she’s already failing the test, but the rest of her absolutely does not care. 

“Are you really here, or is that some kind of trick my mind came up with because you’re actually stuck in Neverland?” David kisses her nose. “Here. And for the time being, so are you. Which means you can sleep.”

“Mind reading isn't one of your talents, as far as I knew.” “I get better at it,” he promises, tugging an exceptionally soft blanket off the back of the couch and Emma doesn’t put up much of a fight before resting her head on his shoulder and promptly falling asleep. 

There are lights on in half a dozen windows when David’s new — at least as far as Emma’s concerned — truck comes to a stop in front of her absolutely massive house, and she’s got to get out. Easier said than done, particularly with trembling fingers and obviously fluttering curtains in that one bay window, and it takes no less than four tries for her to undo her seatbelt,

“It’s going to be fine” David says again, “no matter what happens.” “Even with magic being weird?” “We’re not sure that’s entirely your fault.”

Scoffing, Emma tries very hard to believe that. No one’s updated them on the location of the bird. She kind of hates this bird. Possibly all birds, really. “Sure it’s not. So, what—I’m just supposed to go back into this stupidly large mansion and—” “—Wouldn’t all mansions be large?” David interrupts. “By default?” “Did we rob a bank to pay for this?” “You’d have to ask Killian, but I don’t think so.” “He says I call him babe.”

Wincing, Emma belatedly realizes this is probably not a conversation she should be having with her father, but she hasn’t really seen her mother and she wants to talk about it to Regina even less, and she obviously can’t bring it up to Killian when she’s avoiding him so much and—

A door slams. Footsteps rush towards them, voices on the breeze and the snowflakes that have kept falling all day because it’s New England and as far as Emma knows it’s required to snow in New England on Christmas. Or in the days leading up. 

David nods towards the door she should have opened five minutes ago. 

And it takes her about one sharp inhale, two eyes that very nearly fall out of her head, and that maternal-type adrenaline she’s starting to get used to, for Emma to tumble out of the truck, sprint the few feet between them and practically launch herself into Henry’s waiting arms. Arms that are much more adult than she’s familiar with. 

Although that does also make it easier for him to tighten them around Emma’s middle, and she supposes time-traveling beggars cannot be choosers. “Hey,” Henry breathes, mostly into her hair. Wind whips around them, only kind of unnatural and a little magical and the door opens again. Emma doesn’t look up. Seeing Killian standing there, with his feet crossed at the ankles, she’s sure, will only drive her closer to a line she’s not all that willing to cross. Yet. Or ever. 

No, definitely ever. 

Everyone calling him Killian is nice. Exceptionally, so. 

“Killian said it was bad, but…” Trailing off, Henry pulls back and Emma’s crying again. Like a total, entirely incompetent ass. She’s got so many questions still. Her arms tighten, a fresh round of terror rattling around her soul, or some other ridiculous sentiment, and Henry doesn’t argue. He kisses the top of her hair too. 

He’s much taller than her now. 

“Did Killian talk to you?”

“Mom,” Henry sighs, “c’mon—even when I was a kid, that shouldn’t have surprised you.” It doesn’t, not really. But there’s a grown man in her arms, and snow flying around them, and Henry’s barked “not now, Lu” causes another kid to scamper back up the porch. Towards Killian and his ridiculous grey-streaked hair, and he picks her up without looking away from Emma. 

He’s looking at Emma. 

Still, or always, or whatever. 

“Don’t ask what kind of favors he had to pull in to get us here,” Henry adds, “but he said you’d need it, and it might help and Ella definitely wanted to leave, even if she won’t admit to it, so—”

“Stop telling lies, Henry Mills,” another voice calls from behind Killian, and Emma’s going to pass out. For a variety of reasons, least of all her lack of caloric intake today. 

Henry clicks his tongue. A family trait, apparently. “It’s not a lie, she didn’t even really want to go, but Lu gets a ridiculous present haul, so we had to and—” Several puzzle pieces fly into place. Helped along by Lu’s rather loud screech of “papa” directly into Killian’s ear, and Emma is glad she hasn’t eaten. Throwing up on Henry’s shoes is not the festive reunion it should be. “I’m really here,” Henry adds, reading Emma’s mind. Or her face. “No matter what you think might have happened in Neverland, it didn’t. I’m here, and you’re here and Killian made food, so you should probably eat.” She’d been right about the puzzle, it is a pretty picture. One that doesn’t belong to her, entirely. But pretty all the same. Desirable, maybe. 

That’s a dangerous line of thinking. 

“Hook can cook? Ignore that rhyme, please.” Henry grins, marching them back towards the house as David yells something about getting Snow from school and then there are smells and kids and that goddamn Christmas tree. And it takes Emma a few moments she thinks she deserves to realize—

“How did Henry know I’d come from Neverland?” she asks Killian, standing in the middle of the kitchen. He’s stirring something. She’ll think about that for at least two hours. 

“I told him.” “How did you know?” Leveling her with an incredulous stare, Emma once again fails at the whole no blushing thing, and they own a stand mixer. Only adults own stand mixers. “How many times should I request you give me more credit before that also becomes redundant?” “This is probably good enough.” “Generous of you, and it wasn’t very hard. Although I am still trying to pinpoint when it was, exactly. Quite a lot happened in Neverland.” “Looking awfully smug about that.” He shakes his head, offering her the spoon and there’s sauce there. Delicious sauce. This must happen a lot. “Hard to do that when you can’t look at me straight on, but—” “—Echo Caves,” Emma says, rushing to interrupt him. Killian’s eyebrows jump. 

“Huh.” “Regina doesn’t think telling me things will affect anything.” “Huh.” “Nothing to add to that?” Silence. More relative, at least. The TV is on, and a pillow fort is apparently being engineered in the living room, and everyone was very quick to leave the pair of them alone. With the sauce. “Thank you, though.”

“For?” “Getting Henry here, whatever favors you had to call in. I—well, Dad told me some of the stuff, and it’s...nice.” His lips disappear when he presses them together. Emma’s still staring, it seems. “Part of the deal, I think.” “Of?” “You really want me to answer that?” “Probably not,” Emma exhales, “but—still. It’s nice, and I...well, I appreciate it.”

“That’s not something you have to thank me for, love. Now, c’mon, I know you haven’t eaten and there are some ravenous kids out there who will mutiny if we don’t get them spaghetti soon.”

Emma nods, not able to say anything else because nice is suddenly a vast understatement, and she eats a second bowl of mostly sauce, and she never really knows how she gets back into bed, only that she fell asleep under the pillow fort with Killian’s shoulder close to hers. 

[earthfluuke]

summary: they’re the protectors of the trees, have been since they sprouted. after so much time, he’s become comfortable; too comfortable to notice when things change.

did you think i could continue the nymph!tine universe without adding ohmfong into it? impossible! the two of them (along with phuak) are based on alseids (grove nymphs) from greek mythology, but as a reminder, they are anything i imagined them to be.

this also became far longer than i intended it to be. so...oops? regardless, i hope you enjoy!

(side note: margosa trees - also called neem trees - grow in thailand.)

parts: 1 / 2 / 2.5 / 3 / 3.5 / 3.5i

From the high branches of the apple tree, lone and unique amongst the grove of margosa not far away, Fong keeps a watchful eye on the ground below. Specifically, the human boy who dares to take a step closer to Tine. One wrong move, and he will be sliding down the trunk, bark scratches and splinters be damned, to his aid. Such is the life of himself, Ohm, and Phuak, the protectors of the trees, the field, and the creatures that dwell there.

The human boy tosses a blade to the ground behind him and raises his hands to his chest, fingers spread wide in surrender. Tine braves towards him, sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong. While he relaxes, Fong only further tenses, fingers gripping the branch tighter, swirling patterns indenting into his palms. Tine is too quick to trust, leaving Fong to be the one to worry.

When he turns to the two nymphs above him, they seem to share his sentiment, if the creases to their brows and downturn of their lips are any indication. If there must be a soft spot for those they protect, they at the very least all agree to have the same one. To the three of them, that is Tine. And for him, they are attentive, subjecting themselves to a day of observation and scrutiny. But what else does one do for those that they love?

…

Humans are not so foreign to them. There are the occasional wanderers, free spirited couples who want to escape for a bit of privacy, curious explorers who collect leaves and twigs from the ground to shove into the satchels at their hips. But they are few and far between, never venturing in more than once.

Tine’s human boy, however, is an oddity. Every day without fail, he returns to the forest, walks through the trees until they part into an open meadow, and trails up the hill to the sole apple tree. Sunrise to sunset he stays, leaving with promises of a happy tomorrow.

It isn’t so much the human boy’s presence that concerns him. It instead is the light that reaches too high in Tine’s eyes. They all but glow, seeping a brightness across the fields when the sun sinks away. His cheeks push up too high, smile grows too wide, sighs become too dreamy. They are all warning signs that Fong knows better than to ignore.

Weaving between tree trunks, he follows the human boy through the grove. On the ground, he can see him closer, see a bit of what Tine must see in him. He has a handsome, angled face, sharp features that don’t quite match the softness in his eyes. Even from the tops of the trees, he can see the way they melt to enraptured fondness with merely a glance to Tine. There again comes his worry; the two of them make something so complicated so seemingly easy.

Fong is light on his feet, toes barely touching the dirt before he takes another step to keep up with the human boy’s longer legs. One with the wind, he resembles it whipping through the leaves, tearing those less fortunate from their stems, floating to the ground in a graceful dance. He is careful and calculated; a single step out of place puts him at risk.

It is a single step he takes. Misjudging the length he needs to take over a tree root, his foot catches. A pained hiss goes through his teeth, and he tumbles in perfect line with the human boy.

The first thing he notices when he regains his balance is the glint of a blade secured tightly at his waist. The second is the large, tan hand that covers it, ready to free it from its leather confines.

Fong is frozen still, eyes wide and unwavering from the gaze he has locked on the human boy. He stares back, still gripping the handle of his blade but making no move to draw it. It is as though each are waiting for the other to make a move, not daring to do so themselves. There is the perfect chance to dart away into the confines of the trees, and yet, he cannot bring himself to move nary a step.

Just as the human boy appears to want to move in closer and offer him his words, a cloud of dust huffs up between them. Feet hit the ground hard, the fall from the tree branches above kicking up twigs and rocks. Fong cannot see Ohm’s face, but it is all too obvious that he is angry. Squared back shoulders arch into long arms extended towards the ground, prepared to pull up the roots from the earth and trap the human boy within them.

He is on him before he can. It takes a series of progressively harder tugs on his hand to get Ohm to whip around and face him. Fire burns in his eyes, but it extinguishes when they meet Fong. Fear flashes through them, then grief, and then anger once more. But it is different than the first kind, more guilty than aggressive.

Before Fong can study him further, Ohm dashes through the trees, disappearing beyond the hills. The human boy is still looking at him, clearly perplexed from their exchange, but it is he who supplies an explanation with the single whisper of, “blood.”

Fingers rise to his cheek, find a wet pool that stings when touched, and when he pulls them back, they are tinted red. Somewhere between the dust and the fury, some of the kick up must have struck him.

He acknowledges the human boy with a nod before taking after his fellow nymph. From what he has seen, Tine’s human boy has far from bad intentions, considering how many chances he had to harm him, all of which he did not take. And regardless, there is something much more pressing he needs to see to.

…

It is not difficult to find where Ohm has escaped to. Just beyond Tine’s apple tree, down the far side of the hill, there sits a river. And on the banks, nestled between the cattails, he is crouched, head down, spine curved. A step closer, and Fong can see a scaled hand resting upon his cheek in comfort, webbed fingers spreading over his ashen skin.

Pear notices him almost instantaneously. She turns to look at him; the pink scales curving up towards her temples flicker gold beneath the sun, and her eyes grow soft with sympathy. He cannot make out the words she hushes to Ohm, but as she dives beneath the water, he glances over his shoulder. The flinch he gives matches the sharp pang Fong feels deep in his chest, just beyond his ribs, when he sees the remorse growing in his eyes, grief fading in just behind.

Two long glides, and Fong is on him, warming the cheek that Pear had left to grow cold. Thumb grazing over the indents of the vine that outlines his cheekbone, he forces a smile, hoping to rid the sorrow from his eyes; it hurts more than any cut ever could.

Those eyes – usually so big, so bright, full of mischief and unspoken plans between himself and Phuak – fixate on where the tree branch struck. Trembling fingers brave a graze so light he could have imagined it, and then his hand rests just beneath it, a hold mirroring the very one Fong has on him. More pain grows in from his pupils, spreading towards the edges of his dark brown irises until they are encompassed in a sadness too deep for Fong to bear.

He leans forward until their foreheads touch and their noses ever so carefully tuck into each other. He can feel Ohm’s breath feather onto his skin, rapid and staggered. Fingers stroke out towards his ear to say I’m okay while his thumb brushes just under his lashes to plead please don’t be so angry with yourself.

Ohm turns, forehead bumping his temple and rubbing against it. Each nuzzle presses an apology into his skin, gentle but not enough to go unnoticed. Fong feels it clearly, how much he means it, how badly he needs Fong to know it. And though he knew from the moment he saw the heaviness in his eyes, he stays still, not daring a move until Ohm feels he’s done enough.

It isn’t much, not for Ohm. For him, it’s always been different. Phuak has always been as close as a friend can be, a better one than Fong ever believed he deserved. Tine is the one he protects with a fierceness strong enough to topple trees and flood oceans. But Ohm…he doesn’t believe there’s a word to describe just what he is.

He is beside him before Fong knows he needs him. He follows in his steps or creates a path for Fong to follow. There is more said between them in single glances and lingering smiles than could ever be expressed through words. Where Ohm is, there is understanding, endless joy, a comfort that emerged one day and never left.

What one titles that, Fong hasn’t a clue. All he knows is that Ohm is forever, and staying like this, for as long as he needs, is nothing (and everything) in the grand scheme of things.

…

The next time the human boy visits, it’s with a string instrument in hand and a few more hearts to his eyes. Each moment passes by with his skilled strums, the birds drawn to the sound tuning their songs to match his melody. Tine’s attempts follow, unexperienced and clumsy and yet still met with soft praise. The back and forth floats to the treetops, to where Fong is perched with a hand pressed firmly into his lower back.

No longer red and stark, the scratch on his cheek should not be as offensive to Ohm as it once was. There is nothing to scream blame at him, no physical remnant of what he so wholeheartedly believes is his personal act of sin. And still, everywhere Fong goes, each turn he takes, a hand follows. Sometimes it hovers, a quiet whisper of protection. And other times, such as this, it is obvious, noticeable to an almost absurd degree.

He is not glass, has never been treated as such. He is resourceful, wise beyond his years, quick to a plan before others can so much as ponder the situation at hand. Proven himself for as long as the margosa grove has stood, he refuses to play weak for anyone.

But Ohm is not anyone, and anyone is not Ohm. And furthermore, does it make one weak to do what is right for your one’s – your only’s – peace of mind? Because regardless of his actions, Ohm’s trust in Fong’s strength has not wavered. It has instead pushed itself to the back of his mind in favor of guilt taking over the forefront, hazing his judgement with a desperate need for remedy. Perhaps it is not Fong at all, but Ohm feeling burdened by the wrong he believes he has done and this – the hovering, the following, the hands – is his way of making things right.

Regardless of reason, Fong has made his choice. If the price to pay for Ohm trusting himself again is a constant weight on his back and eyes on his cheek, then he will pay it proudly. There is strength in helping the ones you love. And as the human boy’s song plays on and Fong looks to Ohm – and Ohm looks to him, as he has been doing without fail – he cannot help but think of what little there is that he will not do if it is for him. It is as simple as breathing.

…

They came into this world on a sprout, grew along with it until it breached the skyline and was no longer lonely, surrounded by a collection of other trees that would become their home. The roots grew through their bodies, wound up around their arms and rose to their cheeks, tinting them the green of the margosa leaves. And from that very beginning, Ohm had been a beacon of light.

Brighter than the sun, the stars, and the moon combined, he brings warmth to every creature he meets. It bleeds out from his smile and into their chests, engulfing their hearts and melting it deeper into them until they ache with swelled emotion. Fong finds it so fitting that when the day breaks and the sun hits his skin, he shines a golden yellow as a symbol of all that is right and good in the small world they’ve created around them.

So when Tine shows off the flower crown he has woven for his human boy and that light within Ohm dims, Fong cannot help but recognize how wrong it feels. There is a hollowness to his eyes, empty and cold enough to send a shiver through Fong’s spine.

For a meadow nymph like Tine, this crown is special; to gift someone an object of his own creation, made from the flowers he bloomed from the very tips of his fingers, is no small feat. There is an unmeasurable amount of trust in a gesture that big, and for a moment, Fong believes that to be why Ohm has extinguished. They are protectors, and to him, Tine’s human boy must still be a threat. He is worried, Fong thinks as the skin around Ohm’s jaw tightens. He does not want to see him get hurt.

But no matter the worry or fear they may have over his decisions, Tine’s happiness is what holds most importance to them. However, when Tine lifts his creation, proud smile on his lips and hope squeezing his eyes to crescents, Ohm turns on his heel, showing his back to them before stalking out of the meadow and back towards the grove.

It is then that Fong realizes that none of this has to do with the human boy. Even more troubling is that he hasn’t a clue of what it does. He and Phuak are quick to reassure Tine with returned smiles and pats to his head. In between it all, they manage shared glances, each holding the same sentiment. Pray tell this is just a flicker, and he has not burned out entirely.

…

Starlight kisses his skin, patterns of the spaces between the leaves dancing across his cheeks and reflecting up into his eyes. There are just some moments in life that do not feel real, even when they are seen in person, and Fong believes this to be one of those.

Ohm has always been a familiar kind of beautiful, one that makes him feel safe. Crouched upon a branch of one of the margosa trees, the soft curve of his jaw stretches to get a better look at the sky, lips spreading slowly into a content smile. Under the light, he is still golden, but this kind is fainter, brighter, more ethereal. While he is entranced by the stars, Fong is entranced by him, because what could they possibly hold to this picture he wishes to etch into his memory for however long he has?

When he does take notice of him – because he always does, as if there is a sixth sense that only registers as Fong within him – his lips stretch further as he reaches his hand out to him. It is familiar, too familiar, and only when Fong takes hold does realization catch up to him, a swarm of memories flooding back to his mind.

The hands that he’d believed to be a phase of heightened worry that would slowly fade as his cut did are here; his cut is not. And his eyes dazzle into him, unwavering from the gaze he before had on his cheek and now has through his eyes and into his soul. That too should have gone when he healed, and yet, they both stay. Or is it that they never left in the first place?

Or could it be they had been there the entire time?

Pasts of fingers circling his wrist as he crossed the river on unsteady stones and palms brushing tears from his cheeks when Phuak removed a splinter from his foot. Histories of pinpricked pupils narrowing in on him when the first human to explore their grove came and crinkled eye-smiles first thing in the morning, saved only for him. Memory after memory, too many to count, so many he has overlooked. Always, Ohm has been there, looking at him the same, holding him the same, and he has never noticed. Because that is Ohm; it has always been Ohm. Fong has just gotten too comfortable with what they are – what they always have been – that he has been blind to things becoming so much more.

And now, he cannot focus on anything but. Every touch, every look, it is, it has, it will always be, their normal. What does it mean? What has it meant? Must it mean anything at all? It must, with the rate his heart quickens and the slight shake to his knees.

Thoughts consume him, and it’s all too much. It’s dizzying, how fast one’s mind can work. He clutches to Ohm’s bicep, hugs it close to keep his balance on the branch. Surely, he has done so before, subconsciously with far less concern. It is all he can do. That, and look at the stars; all he can see in them is Ohm.

…

After that night beneath the stars, Fong needs time to think. Realization hit him square in the chest and knocked all of the wind out of him. His nights are filled with those hands, those eyes, and something more. Breath on his neck, lips fitting against his own, arms catch around his lower back as he spins and spins and spins until he wakes to the only nymph to blame for this mess.

It is the day he uses as an escape, a time to distract himself in hopes of it bringing clarity. And the universe has blessed him with the perfect opportunity.

He was created to protect his tree grove and the creatures around it, and the stream just beyond Tine’s apple tree is no exception. Another human appears one day, a girl this time, and she does not stray from the place she’s made for herself on the water’s banks. She creates colors with her hands, a magic Fong was unaware humans possessed, and every so often, she looks up as though she’s expecting something. Every time she looks down, the hope in her eyes fades just a bit more.

It is not so difficult to decipher just what (who) she’s looking for, but it becomes even easier when he finds Pear at the mouth of her river – farther up on a shallow overhang of cliffs – staring down at the human girl with interest and hesitation. It is as though her body wants to go to her, but her mind shouts wait.

And she does, in a way. Each day the human girl comes, Pear inches that littlest bit closer, just to watch her, as though she’s trying to figure out everything there could be to know about her. Where she goes, Fong follows. She provides the sort of silence he needs when his mind is too loud.

On the third day, they’ve traveled far enough down the river to where he can see Tine’s apple tree as well as the two figures situated in the branches. While he’s gone off with Pear, someone has to look after Tine. Or in this case, someones. Ohm could have followed him, and if this were any other time, he would have. But he knows this is something Fong needs to do on his own, because he always knows. And that’s what makes this ever so hard.

It is odd to be apart. He discovers so on the fifth day when he sees Ohm’s shoulders bounce in what he can only assume to be laughter. An emptiness grows in the center of his chest, sinking his heart to the very pits of his stomach. They’ve never strayed far from each other, and this. This must be why. Has he felt a pain like this before? Has anything hurt him so terribly that he could feel it course through his roots and squeeze him tight?

Only one thing has. Seven days gone, and Pear has taken her leap. It is more of a tip toe to the human girl’s side, one that startles her when Pear reaches for her magic colors. But it is not long before they fall into one another. Shoulders brush, wrists cross. Pear smiles, and the human girl’s cheeks flush the same shade of pink as the magic color on the tips of Pear’s fingers.

The closeness they share is the same kind that Tine and his human boy have. It is something that Fong should envy but never has. The question of why is followed quickly by you know.

A glance to the tree tops is all he needs. He need not be jealous for he has a closeness of his own, has for far more than his mind has ever let him remember. Long before human boys and human girls, there were nymphs. Some with shimmering scales, others with blossoms at their fingertips. But there has only ever been one for Fong, something he had not understood until his cheek was gashed and he felt an ice-cold ache, more painful than any other he’d felt before, from eyes filled with irrefutable guilt.

…

Pear’s human girl presents her with a water lily. Fingers part back her hair to tuck it behind her ear where it sits proudly against her temple. Its soft gradient from white to purple radiates Pear perfectly, dainty with a striking, breathless kind of beauty that cannot be ignored. It is an altogether excellent choice, if the kiss the human girl receives is any indication.

Feeling as though he is intruding on a far too intimate moment, he turns and finds himself upon Ohm. His eyes dart away as well, but rather than out of respect, it appears he does so out of disdain. His expression carries the same anger it did when Tine showed off the flower crown he’d crafted for his human boy, the one he and Phuak could not comprehend.

A blink for clarity, he looks closer, really looks, and sees the sadness in the creases between his brows and the sharp bite he has on his lower lip. He’ll draw blood, Fong is sure, but he pulls back before he can surge forward. Just as he cannot break into Pear and her human girl’s private moments, he cannot do so to Ohm’s either; he is not entitled to that, regardless of the personal revelations he’s had within these last few days.

All he can do is shift back onto his hands and stare up to the sky, wondering what it is about humans and flowers that makes Ohm so heartbroken.

…

Fong is greeted back to the meadow with music and laughter. Tine is on his feet, each step leaving clusters of pink peonies; he dances around his human boy as he strums his strings and tries to catch him into a kiss. Pear and her human girl have joined them, spinning each other around and dissolving into fits of giggles when they are right way around again. There is not necessarily a reason for such festivities other than the thrill of being alive, but he supposes that is good enough reason as any.

Celebration circles through the air so thick that Fong can feel it. It warms his toes and melts his lips to a smile, but a chill passes over his shoulders from farther away. At the outskirts of the margosa grove, Ohm stands, leant against a tree trunk. His eyes, as they always seem to be, are locked onto him.

They are sad, though not in the same way as they were the day Pear’s human girl gifted her the water lily. This kind is a lonely kind of sadness, the kind that whispers I’ve missed you only loud enough for Fong, and Fong alone, to hear.

It drives him forward. That, and the notion that so many days have passed since they’ve been in each other’s presence. He hates it. He had to sort himself out, but he detests that it has caused this. His sunshine should always be bright, not this cloudy overcast with the chance of tears.

Standing in front of him, the closest he’s come to him in what feels like a millennium, he near breaks. But for Ohm, on the brink of shattering himself, he holds himself together and does for him what he’s done so many times for Fong; he reaches forward, palm up and ready to be taken. Every memory he’s recollected has Ohm taking hold of him and not letting go. This time, the first he plans of so many, he’ll hold him.

Fingers grip between his, squeezing tight enough to bruise. For all of the confusion Fong has had, Ohm has only experienced fear. That he would not return, that he was gone without a goodbye. And that, he has to rectify.

Pulling him forward, Fong manages to take back his hand and slip it around Ohm’s shoulders. The other finds the back of his head and presses his face to the bend of his collarbone. With strokes over his hair, nails catching over tangles and smoothing them out, he buries his nose into curve of his ear and inhales deep.

Grass, tree bark, apples, and something warm. It’s Ohm, it’s home, and Fong promises himself that never again can he stray for as long as he has. Here, cradling sunshine in his arms, is the only place he belongs, the only place he wants to be. It is an honor to hold up the sun, keep the light alive and burning, and it is not a privilege he plans to forget.

Ohm grasps at the back of his tunic, bunching the fabric up in his hands as though it will disappear if he is not strong enough. His breath is staggered, finally exhaling after days of not allowing himself to. And that’s a thought, isn’t it? By taking himself away, he’s taken away the very thing that allows Ohm to live. A day longer, and Fong would have found him beneath the tree he grew from, the two of them withered and alone.

Lips brush over the shell of his ear, gentle kisses unspoken promises of the forever Fong has always thought him to be. He’s never imagined a future where Ohm is not beside him, but it is more than that; he sees that now. Without Ohm, there simply is no future for him. When Ohm goes, so will he, their lives intertwined from beginning to end.

The music continues to play, but their own celebration continues in the privacy of the trees. Here, with Ohm in his arms, is not where their forever starts. No, that begun long ago. It is where it continues, with the promise that it will be as near to perfect as the universe allows.

…

Soft weight falls upon his head. His eyes roll up, hoping for a glimpse. Met with only rounded shadows, he reaches up, and his fingers find velvet, delicate to the touch. Taking it in both hands, he lowers it carefully to find a wreath of sunflowers, adorned with margosa leaves.

Unwavering, unconditional love with personal touches of the past woven in between. It’s so light, but it’s meaning is heavy, keeps him holding on tighter lest something tragic happen to it.

Just past where it rests in his hands, shifting from foot to foot, is Ohm. Not meeting his eyes, he waits for what Fong is unsure of. Perhaps for him to shove it back at him in rejection or stomp it into the dirt in disgust. It is within these nerves that Fong finds familiarity: a tight jaw and sad eyes.

He’s seen it before, with Tine’s flower crown and Pear’s water lily. It is not quite jealousy, nor is it resentment. It is instead a crushed desire, a hope he does not allow himself to have. It is the unexplainable want to be those humans. To have and to hold some part of the one they love; to give part of themselves to the one they trust most to take care of it.

That’s what this is. It’s unmistakable. Golden petals match the reflect across Ohm’s cheeks, in his smile, through the brown of his irises that shine just that slightest bit warmer. For so long, Ohm has yearned to give himself to him. And finally, he feels as though he can.

Situating it back onto his head, he takes Ohm’s hands into his. They are as warm as they should be. Ohm dares a glimpse, and the joy that bursts through him makes Fong smile. It’s a bit of a dance, the way Ohm pulls on his arms and catches him around the waist when he falls against his chest, but it is one he’d do a thousand times over if it keeps his sunshine hanging high in the sky, bright and brilliant, as he should be.

An honor, he thinks as Ohm leans down, captures his lips with his own. It is an honor to hold a piece of him, to be trusted this much. He is meant to care for every creature in the grove, in the meadow, in the river and forest beyond. Ohm has always been included in that; he was the very first after all.

[davidlynchschreibner]

A long while ago an anon asked me for Davenzi touch headcanons and as happened previously it spiraled out of control into a snapshot-style fic. I left it a long time but with other angsty projects in the works I think it is high time for a fluff break. I hope you enjoy!

A Love Song In The Language Of Hands

With a mother whose arms had always been open for him to crawl into, a boisterous extended family during summer holidays, and friends who drape limbs over each other with thoughtless ease, Matteo has never had any real cause to be touch-starved. Yet, he finds that he has become most spoiled by the ready availability. He asks for nothing but observes how his bones ache and muscles cramp if he goes too long without physical contact. It sates that twinging discomfort to feel a hand on his back, passing over his hair, flicking the round tip of his nose. As he submerges in the warmth he realizes how much he had missed letting it soak in. Readily he gives back, reaching with his hands as once his heart could not, and revels in the care he can exchange. But while the affections of his family both blood and chosen quench his thirst, David is a pitcher of water drawn from an abundant well and the shady cool of a shelter to drink it in. Matteo feels quickly parched for want of the warm press of his body and chapped lips sliding over any available skin. Where the hugs of his friends soothe an ache David’s touch is a euphoric pleasure. So he’s always groping around for it in daylight, artificial light, and darkness. They are teased for their relentless displays of affection but any potential embarrassment rebounds off him without even leaving a scuff mark. Matteo isn’t particular about the method or the mood of their touches but he always craves them. Even a playful slap is good if its David’s hand that’s connecting. He doesn’t have a reason to need like this. But every day he does.

They have equally restless hands. David is an artist and through his eyes Matteo is the first masterpiece he can touch. Not like the stylized saints or marble heroes which awe viewers in museums. Nor the beautiful street art that spills over high city walls and the crumbling innards of abandoned buildings. Matteo is low to the ground, spindly, undecorated when he peels off his many patterned layers. David finds him a perfect canvas that begs for sweeps of paint and ink. The smooth hills of Matteo’s shoulderblades and the sharp mountain range of his spine make a small world to populate with myriad creations. Matteo loves David’s art with oceanic depth and power; he is eager to be part of it. It begins with a bird, a question, and a pen. They both find David’s little portrait on Matteo’s shoulder immensely satisfying. Later, Matteo volunteers to trial a design David is debating for a character and all frustration evaporates as he works. David admires the design after, blows air across the non-toxic paint to dry it, and says only ‘perfect’. With this in mind, Matteo discovers an excellent way to vent stress. When the feelings inside make David feel his skin is stretched too thin Matteo offers for David to communicate in the way he does best--- with art. He works so delicately and diligently, unspooling all the tangled cares of his day and putting them where they are felt, acknowledged, and later washed away by the shower. Matteo lies still for however long it takes, occasionally humming a gentle query or a contented encouragement, until David is almost as relaxed as the puddle of boy beneath him. With an admiring eye the artist observes his work and the way Matteo shows through in the spaces between lines. He smoothes his hands over the fresh ink, uncaring of the way it smudges in places, and presses a kiss to the top of Matteo’s tawny head.

It didn’t take long for Matteo to learn he loves the springy curls of David’s hair beneath his fingers. In quiet moments he strokes tender touches over the pleasantly textured strands, meditating with abstract appreciation how beautiful his boyfriend is. David never lets anyone else touch his hair (would understandably bristle if they tried) but he allows even the most provocative of ruffles because this is Matteo’s love language. His hands are not mean when they tug, not dehumanizing when they reach, not careless when they accidentally get tangled. They can give in their turn the softest admiration and comfort that cards away all worry. The underlying love can be felt no matter what the particular delivery method is. It would be a lie to say that Matteo doesn’t take advantage of his unique permission. Whether it is a playful mussing, sliding his hands into the tight whorls in order to push away or bring closer the face he loves so well, or reverent strokes reserved for private moments, it’s a treasured indulgence. David has grown to enjoy lying pliant under gentle attentions. When they’re curled together in bed or on the living room sofa with a film playing on the television he becomes so relaxed beneath the steady passes over his scalp that he’s fallen asleep on more than one occasion. Matteo buries his fingers in the thickness of the top, rubs over the shaved sides, traces the fine wisps that frame David’s hairline. He loves every hair on David’s head and what he can say with the ways hands move over them.

It’s not a feature most people give thought to but David thinks Matteo’s forehead is particularly well suited to kisses. It’s one of his favourite spots made all the more attractive for being usually covered by tangled ribbons of hair. They tumble into his eyes and move across in unpredictable patterns that shift the slivers of skin between with every movement. Matteo’s forehead isn’t seen in full often but David never forgets the warm plane and the way it curves around his eyebrows. There is a variety of ways to kiss it, each one a silent message that David’s intuitive boyfriend is an expert at interpreting. A slow press still humid with the shared moisture of many kisses says a silent ‘I love you’. A hard smack planted while Matteo tries to dodge teases ‘you’re my favourite idiot’. A feathery brush is an acknowledgment of connection when it feels like there is not enough time in the world. The lingering kiss that rests long and is eventually replaced by David’s cheek murmurs ‘there’s nowhere and no one better than you’. There’s a short peck reserved for praise which makes Matteo’s cheeks dimple and glow more than any flattering words. Sometimes his brow is wrinkled with the swells of his stressors and David traces his lips over the lines until they relax back into smoothness. When David is otherwise occupied with the demands of school, work, and his activities for the student group he volunteers with he apologizes for not being his best self with a firm kiss to Matteo’s temple. They’re still discovering the endless vocabulary of forehead kisses. And they have all the time in the world.

For all that David once fashioned himself a vampire it’s really more Matteo that has an interest in necks. David’s pointedly and specifically. It has always been this way even in the swaddled months of winter, back when they were both hiding in too many layers of clothes and anxiety and David first stood in the WG’s kitchen stripped down to a low-necked shirt. Matteo is quite enthralled with the long lean line his boyfriend displays when he turns his head. His eyes trace the curve from a distance, track the way it bobs when David swallows, shine with contentment when they come indoors from the cold and he watches David unwind his scarf. It’s Matteo’s special place to lavish kisses of both the tender and excited variety. A butterfly-soft contact to reassure, a passionate mouthing in the heat of the moment, a slow press in place of those three precious words. It makes his skin tingle and tighten pleasantly when he runs his lips over David’s throat in the early morning and a patch of stubble pricks him. Sometimes he buries his face there, just presses into the curve of David’s throat and breathes him in. It presses safety into his nerves, the shape slim but solid like the trunk of a young tree, and fragrant with his favourite person’s scent. Despite the strength of it this is such a vulnerable location and they both know it. The skin is thin over blood and bone and he sometimes revels in the fact David is completely at ease beneath his touch. Never shies, never tenses, instead tilts his head in invitation and wraps Matteo up in the warmth of his arms and sunbeam smile.

It’s a very common occurrence to find Matteo lying against David in lazy cat-like fashion and this sight is the one which readily comes to mind. But this is not always the case. It’s fact that David takes immense pleasure in curling his arms around the relaxed borders of the person that embodies home. He would do so until they both surrender to inevitable eternity. But the times where he curls into Matteo and lays his head down are also plentiful. They instinctively relax each other and find the grooves where they can fit together. Sometimes David releases the mindful control with which he guides his life and lets himself dissolve. With a contented puff of air he rests the head so heavy with thoughts in all the dips and bends of Matteo’s body. They cradle him with wordless patience and support. Whether it’s the soft bellows of Matteo’s belly, the sinuous hammock of his shoulder, or the firm plate of his chest, David feels the weight of his skull absorbed as easily as an empty eggshell. Other times, he is thinking of nothing serious at all and feels anchored to the world by the grounding pressure against his head. He turns his cheek into the divots between ribs and listens to the metronome of Matteo’s breath. Or Matteo does something annoying and David lets his head lift and thump back in fond rebuke. Or gently, so as not to jostle their brains, David slots his head just beneath Matteo’s and feels them rest like stacked stones. David can always rest his head on Matteo and the same is true in reverse.  

Matteo is fascinated by David’s hands. They are useful in ways he loves to count and he thrills at what they can do. Yet they are not big or heavy with those abilities. The slim lengths of his brown fingers slide between Matteo’s pale digits like the tumblers of a lock clicking into place. Their palms are exactly the same size as he idly measured the first time they pressed together. Beautiful hands, he thinks, capable of both labor and the softest of touches. Long ago Matteo’s hands felt cold with emptiness that longed for another to enfold. It seemed perhaps he would never have that--- especially not from a boy. But David is always eager. In bed or on the street his fingers spread invitingly and prove ready to hook around Matteo’s. He loves those generous hands and how well they care for him. David knows when Matteo is anxious by the way his fingers twitch with the urge to fidget. The calloused pad of David’s thumb rubs soothingly over the nearest knuckle. If Matteo’s hand clenches suddenly tight he’s reaching his snapping point and David quickly places himself between whatever the trigger is and his boyfriend. When Matteo is wilting with the exhaustion of prolonged social engagement he slots their fingers together like a seamless mechanism, squeezes weakly, and David squeezes back in agreement. Then the former gets towed by the hand to an available space where things are less hectic. He’s tugged to lying his weary body against the strong support of David’s with their hands still intertwined. Their palms and fingers speak to each other with a language no one else understands.

Love can be expressed with roughness, David has discovered. He grins when Matteo shoves him across the couch, glares without real ire when teeth nip him, enjoys the way he can’t properly pin his boyfriend down because he fights dirty. The burn in his muscles when they wrestle is like a joyful flush. No matter how tenderly he’s cared for Matteo is still untamed. But that’s perfect--- David wants to be challenged and played with. Matteo pokes him in the side when he’s trying to focus and he slaps at the offending finger to make it go away, but it’s already been retracted in favor of an expectant expression that’s difficult to resist. If he wants to linger in bed (as happens every now and then) but Matteo wants to make breakfast he will seize David by the ankle and try to drag him off the mattress and even across the room should it come to that. They race each other and Matteo cheats to get ahead, but then David tackles him to the ground and they’re both yelling and laughing too much to go on. One day they are talking about something tedious and Matteo starts hitting him repeatedly with a pillow. With a frustrated growl David rips it from him and squashes the soft stuffing into Matteo’s face until he signals that he needs a breath. Even when David swallows it back because really he is irritated there’s always a sound of delight vibrating inside him. The other boy is a complete menace but it’s invigorating, lights him up inside, and is somehow more charming than good manners. His stomach jumps and then explodes upwards into butterflies when he’s given that devilish grin presaging some mischief. It’s not a delicate declaration of ardor but they are not fragile.

Their feet tangle and press when they lie together. Sometimes in the heat of summer cuddling is too sticky and they sleep sole to sole like sets of palms in prayer. Matteo loves thick socks, the fluffier the better, so the bottoms of his feet are kept smooth as silk. David began life running barefoot outdoors and his feet are calloused with years of pounding the ground, jumping, twisting inside his trainers so that the soles of his feet scrape. Matteo traces the arch of David’s foot with his toes and marvels at how the other boy is not at all ticklish. In the slanting light of another afternoon David balances a book at an awkward angle because their legs are wound together like a trailing plant and Matteo is cuddled under his other arm. Sometimes when they wrestle David seizes his boyfriend’s leg between both of his and holds tight against the wriggling and kicking as Matteo struggles to gain the upper hand. Eventually they declare a stalemate and lie panting with their limbs still twined. As their breathing quiets into sleepy softness Matteo burrows his foot beneath the edge of David’s trouser leg and runs his toes up the curve of the calf inside it, shivering as rough hairs brush against his skin. In winter Matteo’s feet are consistently freezing but David’s are always warm. They snuggle into the pile of blankets like two birds in the nest. Without being asked David stretches across the cool bedsheets and folds Matteo’s icy feet between the pleasant heat of his own. Like their hands, their feet are often holding each other.

The ways in which they affirm their love through touch are many and ever expanding. It’s impossible to count every expression and location and occasion. There are, David thinks, as many types of touch as there are words in the dictionary. Every one is listened to and remembered. Some spoken sharply, softly, slow and slurred, a burst of sound, an entire speech, staccato. They whisper in the dreamy dark and shout so suddenly it’s startling. Matteo has always been slow to find his words but he writes David beautiful sonnets with his fingers. David sometimes doesn’t know how to say what he is thinking but he can explain with the way he fits his body to Matteo’s. This language is foreign to some. But it is complex, evolving, equal, and most importantly theirs. They’ve had to learn it but it feels as comfortable as a mother tongue. When Matteo can barely lift his exhausted head let alone open his mouth he knows David will listen with his arms. On days that David can’t explain the feelings that throb inside his skin Matteo hears those thoughts through the head tucked beneath his chin. Sometimes they use words, sometimes they use touch, but they tell each other how much the other is loved twenty times a day. With their bodies they can talk, and talk, and talk.

[border-spam]

NSFW late COV era Troy HCs pt:2

I write him in this AU as pan sexually and fem leaning romantically, these are all specific to a strong but hidden relationship with a very trusted fem partner late COV era. 

Too young? Don’t click. 

Not your thing? No clicky. 

Part:1 is here

As much as he enjoys submission and handing control over to a smaller, weaker partner he can trust completely to not judge or ridicule him when he's begging for her touch, he loves physically dominating her as long as he knows she wants him to. That's the entire chase for him. Knowing someone wants him to do it.

Regardless of how underweight or slight he is, he's still a huge man and intensely physically strong. He can easily hold a smaller person down with one arm, or lift them, or restrain them... he'd never hurt someone he cares about, the trust factor is of major importance. That kindness never extended to the followers he’d sleep with before her.

Praise kink? Holy shit. Praise kink. Doesn't know he has one till he cums seconds after being told how perfect and beautiful he is while she strokes him and kisses along his damaged shoulder joint, realising she means every word. Spends the rest of the night an apologetic, embarrassed mess.

Shyly asks for it again later.

Rarely takes initiative and prefers to shower her with physical affection and whiny neediness when in private. If he's got a moments peace in private and out of the limelight, he won't waste it if she's there. Will follow her around the quarters if he has to just so he can keep in physical contact.

The constant neediness can get a little irritating. Dragging in for kisses, a hand under her shirt collar or hem, constantly likes to touch. Also wants to make very clear it's because he wants physical affection with her, not just sex. 100% horny all the time and responds to the slightest hint of interest. Will straight up try and crawl onto a lap if she sits still long enough and there is enough room next to her to try and squash his bulk against her.

His health problems mean he can get exhausted easily, so he prefers giving oral and foreplay until he can’t hold back anymore rather than immediately going for more tiring options.

Same goes for positions, and he has no problem at all with letting her top for as long as she likes, at least until he decides he wants to take control..

Has zero concern over nudity. None. Tends to not put anything on till absolutely needed, if he’s coming back to bed with breakfast or laying in for a few hours watching shit on his echofeed, he won’t be dressed. Deal with it. Or join in. All Good.

Prefers to not show much physical affection in public for a multitude of reasons, but when he needs to, he does, and it can be overwhelming.

He catches someone else paying more attention to her than he likes? He feels the pricks of jealousy along his spine? That won’t do. His entire physical demeanor changes. Eyes narrowed, muscle tight, moves closer to her.

They usually pick up on it and back off, it's impossible not to when that monstrous silhouette is towering behind the person you are trying to flirt with.

If they don’t, and he’s in public and has the God King persona to uphold, the speed he can switch from physical intimidation to violence is terrifying, and only had to happen in relatively public eye once for people to get the idea and back off a lot quicker in the future.

Once he’s confident his position has been made clear, if he can get her out of sight for even just a handful of minutes, he'll have her hoisted against a wall with her legs over his shoulders and his hand over her mouth to muffle the moans as he ravenously eats her out.

She's his. She knows that, he knows that, even if they have to act professional, like she’s some kind of subordinate to Father Troy. Even if she has to humor others in his presence, even if no one else can know.

He needs to remind her who she belongs to and how much she's wanted. He needs to be able to taste her for the next few hours while acting out his normal façade in front of the screeching masses and cameras.

He’s too big for oral comfortably, but absolutely loves when the effort is made. If she chokes on him she won't be able to wipe the smirk off his face for hours. He takes it as such a confidence boost.

Lazy, soft, morning sex? Open and gentle? Vulnerable and close? Slow, passionate open mouthed kisses before the dawn breaks and starts to filter light into his Sanctum? His absolute favorite time to be with her. Do not tell anyone holy shit do NOT he has a REPUTATION TO UPHOLD OK??

While he’s attracted to a similar body shape on men, he has barely any softness to his physique and finds he goes apeshit over any soft parts on a woman's. Bum? Thighs? Lower belly? Breasts? Hickey marks. Everywhere. Bites if she'll allow em.

Bending over near him is a long term injoke she knows runs the risk of either getting a grope or a slap in private. If she does it back some point later, he will not be responsible for wether she will be able to walk or not the next morning.

Has a trigger for curves in general. Form fitting clothing? Business attire or shape hugging gala dress while in public with him? Will watch her like she's prey. Like he's going to eat her alive if she gets close enough to grab. Eyes won't leave her outline for the entire event regardless of who's trying to get his attention.

He’ll pull her into a room and huskily rasp into her ear that “Your King needs you now.” as he hitches her skirt up and backs her towards anything he can bend her over or sit her on.

The need to keep this secretive means quick, heavy rutting, either from behind or lifted onto something to give him the right leverage. He’s desperate and sloppy, but will make sure she comes before he does. He's an expert at managing his appearance and moods publicly but.. well.. some things can still crumble that façade. Her, specifically.

Extremely sensitive skin due to low body fat. Has a lot of areas that stroking will leave him a whimpering mess. Sides and nape of his neck, his throat, collar bone, ribs, socket scar, abdomen, pelvic ridge, hip bones. 

Can easily make him fall asleep just by fluttering fingers over his skin most nights. Fantastic when she needs 5 minutes of NOT HAVING HIM CONSTANTLY MOANING FOR ATTENTION.

A combo of predatory urges and a deep seated mommy kink means he’s never really sure if he wants to bite into her flesh, or suckle her and whine. 

This can lead to worrying accidents in the heat of the moment with sharp teeth he forgets he’s modded. His health issues means a very well stocked medical kit is always in arms reach on his ship and he's worryingly well versed in managing minor wounds, but he apologises profusely even if it barely hurt.

Has a huge weak point for nursing, and finally feels safe enough with a close partner to indulge, usually in the afterglow as they begin to drift to sleep together. Tends to nuzzle into her chest while asleep most nights, arm usually pressed against her back holding her tightly in place.

Generally pretty shameless about kinks, but has big problems opening up about any vulnerable ones like this. Trusts her completely, but the idea of it getting out still makes him anxious sometimes.

Will open mouthedly beg against her lips when close to finishing, panting desperately as he pleads to be allowed cum inside her. Embarrassed by it afterwards but he needs to. He needs to. He doesn't know why. 

If they aren't safe then he'll pull out and pump across her stomach, but his fingers will trail through it after and press into her mouth. It's all part of the ritual. He wants every part of her, please, please, please want him. Please. Want him. He loves so hard.

Asks are open!

ps I’m not actually sure where this screenshot came from but I think it might have been circiva.tumblr.com! Give them a check out!

[littlebarchie07]

Midnight Moments

[AO3]

Summary:  Betty has been sneaking over to Archie’s in the middle of the night for quite some time, but they know it needs to stop. Unspoken words exchanged and something shifts, and they both know that they need to make their last night count for something more.

AN:  Inspired by the song “Daylight” by Maroon 5. Italics are lyrics from the song. Not really sure on the time frame to be honest. It’s pretty AU.

We knew this day would come, we knew it all along / How did it come so fast?

She couldn’t exactly remember the first time she had found herself in his bed, pressed up against his body. After everything that had happened to her, to him, to Riverdale – there wasn’t a pivotal moment that she could pinpoint when it began. It had started with a midnight text after a particularly hard day, that much she remembered. And then, every night thereafter, only when they were alone, a midnight text came and she would throw on a hoody and pad barefoot the few metres across the way, into what she could only really describe as her second home. They would talk, and cuddle and fall blissfully asleep. There was nothing more to it. She just felt safe and comfortable in his arms. Enough to drown out the darkness in her mind.

The more it happened, the more she knew. It couldn’t continue, but she also knew that nothing could ever make her feel so safe, so warm and so loved. That of which, could never be a bad thing, right?

Her tired eyes burned as she tossed and turned. There was no way her brain was ready to shut off, and sleep was not going to come easy tonight. She pushed herself up and threw the duvet off herself. She made her way to the window, creating a shift in the fabric as her eyes peered out across the way. She was holding a breath; she wasn’t sure what she was expecting. The lights were out and nothing but darkness met her gaze. Letting the curtain fall back into place, she moved back to her bed, sitting on the edge, letting out a heavy sigh.

Without warning, her phone vibrated against the bedside table causing Betty to jump slightly before a thin smile lined her face.

Picking up her phone, her eyes struggled to accommodate the bright light. Squinting slightly, she swiped across and read the text.

‘You up?’ – Archie, 1:15

Her fingers danced across the keyboard as she typed her reply, hitting send immediately.

‘Yes. Can’t sleep...’ Betty -  1:15

Betty waited. The moving grey dots told her he was typing a reply, but then they stopped, and she frowned. A few moments passed, but then her phone buzzed against her palm.

‘Back door is on the latch x’ – Archie 1:17

Without hesitation Betty moved across her room, grabbing the baggy jumper that was thrown across the back of her desk chair. Draping it over her slender frame, she pulled her bedroom door open. It creaked, causing the silent hallway to echo the sound. Nothing would wake he mother, that much Betty knew. She’d been sneaking out of the house for years, and Alice had never caught on.

Tip toeing across the landing, she grabbed the banister before flying down the stairs.

The back door closed softly to her house, and her bare feet met the cold dewy grass of the November night. She took a sharp breath as the chill of the midnight air hit her, and she made a beeline for next door. She slipped around the corner, pushing the familiar gate open.

Once safety inside the house, she unlatched the door and closed it slowly. Her eyes scanned the kitchen and the familiar smell of her childhood made her heart flutter. It was weird that a home held a specific scent, one that in an instant could calm any fear. Breaking out of the moment, she moved herself away from the kitchen and up the stairs.

The duvet was thrown to the side and he was sat up in his bed waiting for her, when she pushed open the door. He smiled warmly at her as he put his phone down. As soon as she crossed the threshold into his room, all of her anxieties fell away.

“Hey.” He breathed in a hushed, throaty voice, it rang of sleep and Betty wondered if he had woken to text her.

Betty removed her oversized jumper, her long legs on display from her pyjama shorts. Archie’s eyes danced over her quickly, before he felt himself flush. The room was only illuminated by the soft orange glow of the streetlight outside and she obviously didn’t notice the reddening of his cheeks. He then felt her clamber into the bed next to him. The cold radiated off her body, and he instinctively pulled one of his pyjama clad legs over hers.

“You’re freezing!” He breathed, as she snuggled into him. Her head automatically fell to his chest, her ear met with the soft rhythm of his heartbeat beneath his rib cage.

She smiled as her eyes closed and the buzz in her head stilled for a moment. “Sorry.”

He shifted slightly to pull the duvet up. “There.” He said, tucking the sides around her curved body. “A Betty and Archie Burrito.”

He let out a soft laugh. She smiled up at him, moving her head so she caught his face in the pale light.

“My favourite burrito.” She replied, her eyes closing slightly as sleep rang heavy in her voice.

Here I am staring at your perfection / In my arms, so beautiful

They stayed like that for a few moments, time passing in a comfortable silence. Betty’s head fell back to Archie’s chest, and his fingers began to play with her blonde locks. His eyes flickered to her face and his breath caught. She was so beautiful. His lips instinctively pressed softly against her forehead and a small smile graced her face before her mouth opened a little and she let out a sigh of utter contentment.

She felt his lips smile against her skin at her sound, and she buried into him a little more. “This is nice.”

Archie nodded, his warm cheek resting against her. “It is. But it’s late.” His eyes darted to his clock, the red digits flashing 1:35. “We should sleep.” The words sounded forced and strange.

Her eyes flashed open as he spoke, and she moved away from him briefly. Their eyes met, and there was an unspoken conversation that happened between them in the silence of the night.

For in that look, he knew that at 6:45 when the sun slowly rose, she would slip away; and she knew that at 6:45, the sun would rise, she would go home and she wouldn’t come back in the night again.

This was the last time.

She swallowed, her eyes skimming his face, taking in his sleep-filled eyes, the softness of his smile, the strong chisel of his jaw. His tongue darted out and he licked his lips. For some strange reason, she wanted to cry. She tore her gaze away from him, trying to avoid his eyes any longer.

His hand pulled her face towards his, and he cupped the curve of her chin in the palm of his hand.

She let out a shallow breath, and smiled up at him. “Go to sleep.” He whispered, as his arms came around her.

She wasn’t thinking about anything other than him in that moment, and as his arms came around her, she felt herself shift and she clambered on top of him. She pressed herself against him, her hair tickling his face as she buried her own head into the pillow.

The air shifted around them, and Archie felt an instinctual desire to move his hands down the small of her back. He adjusted himself, and watched as she rose from the pillow. She was now straddling him, and he was having trouble controlling his thoughts. That innocent look had been dimmed by something bright.

“Betty -” he whispered so softly.  It was a warning of sorts. He knew that if something happened, he wouldn’t be able to stop himself.

She was going to stop coming after tonight. His desire for her outweighed everything else at this point.

Cause I know, when the sun comes up / I will leave, this is my last glance

He didn’t want to risk their friendship but the intimacy growing between them in these stolen midnight moments was getting increasingly hard to ignore, and as she was here, on top of him, staring down at him in the pale streetlight with hunger in her eyes. What kind of man would he be if he lied about his attraction to her. Betty Cooper. The girl next door. His best friend.

There was no doubt about it. Something had always been there, but they were both so good at pretending, at pushing it away.

But right here, in these stolen moments, when the world was silent and everyone was asleep, it was just the two of them. It was like a dream.

Archie’s eyes traveled over her face and he watched as she bit down on her lip tentatively.

Brown eyes flashed. His strong hands reached up her back, and as he pushed her forward, he moved himself upwards and they met in the middle, lips crashing together in haste.

Betty’s mind went into overdrive as she felt Archie’s hands begin to wander over her skin; she let out a gasp as the warmth of his palm grazed against her bare shoulder. His fingers sent shivers down her spine and goosebumps appeared on her skin as he moved the strap of her flimsy cami pyjama top. His lips over hers feverishly, he wanted to taste all off her.

Tiredness fell away from both of them, and suddenly they were wide awake. If this was going to be the last time Betty ended the night in Archie’s bed, they were going to make it count.

Everything was going to change after this, and neither of them was prepared to deal with the aftermath, but as the clock flicked to 2:05, The sun would slowly rise in a little more than 3 hours. They both knew. They had to make these final hours count.

'Cause in the daylight we'll be on our own / But tonight I need to hold you so close

[beerecordings]

Just a quick sweet one-shot about fae Jameson comforting Henrik. I got to thinking about JJ’s dog forms after that ask and how they’d probably need like a fake service dog harness to get him into places when he doesn’t want to be human, and then I was like “well it’s not really that inaccurate, because he would protect and keep them steady like that through panic attacks or anything like that” and then I typed this up real quick. it’s got all the myth boys in it but it’s mostly about Henrik and Jamie looking out for each other.

Trigger warnings for mentions of imprisonment, stalking, blood, and animal attacks.

The long nails of his black paws clack cold on the linoleum floor of the doctor’s clinic.

“It’s coming, it’s coming, it’s coming!”

He lifts his small snout in the air, but he knows every scent already – bubblegum shampoo and a well-worn red sweatshirt that smells like nothing else, the salty ocean sting that never stops clinging to Chase’s skin, the clean heat burn of the star spirit in love with humanity.

Nothing is coming.

“It’s going to drag me away!” screams the human healer on the wall behind him. “No, no, no!”

The human can howl like a wolf left to die. The black dog bears fangs and holds still as hot fleshy human hands dig deep into the thick curls of his fur.

How long, he wonders, was the human pursued, chased across mountains and rivers and country lines, away from his family and all that he knew? Jameson can see him now, thin and pale on the seat of one of those speeding metal slugs that run along railed teeth, stinking of oil.

Train, his brain offers, something Marvin taught him in his frank, self-satisfied way, happy with himself for remembering a human thing, happier now to pass the knowledge along to Jameson. When he said it, Jameson realized he had known the word already, but the excitement of watching the humans build and build and build, faster and bigger and blacker every day, has long since left him.

The plastic rims of the human’s glasses shove into his side. Still he does not move.

Wet salt and broken hiccuping sobs pant against his fur. Soft hands stroke down his spine, tugging at him, scraping at him, dragging tears across his body.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” wails Henrik. “I’m sorry, don’t leave me alone.”

He bows his small dark head, motionless. Tonight he does not move. Tonight the man can touch him. In the whole world, only two men are allowed to do so, two men and a star and a sealboy.

After all, Henrik would do the same for him. Henrik was the one what stitched him up on the night he was dying and didn’t want to live anyway. He bit and snapped at his hands and trembled like a wild animal, and the human must have seen the memory of his old hunter flickering on the surface of Jameson’s body, but still he did not turn him away, just took deep breaths and held him down and stitched him back together, his hands slicked in fae blood, saving his life in silence but for the sound of his hand brushing along Jameson’s heaving flank.

He turns slightly, so his body guards Henrik where he huddles in the corner, grasping at his fur.

Nothing is coming.

Henrik presses his face to his fur, crying.

Nothing is coming.

“You don’t know how big it was… how it would stare at me… great golden eyes, the heady horrible face of the bull… or the wolf’s teeth pricking at my throat, draining out blood I never asked for. I never asked to be lucky. Never asked to be hunted just because I have six big brothers and six big uncles and more vision in my eyes than I know what to do with.”

Nothing is coming.

He puts his paw on Henrik’s knee.

The human breathes, shaking, snotty and crimson-faced, his glasses askew on his nose and his shirt stained with sweat. Jameson doesn’t care. When he was very small he didn’t understand why humans cry, but he does now. He has now. It’s okay. Nothing is coming. Henrik scratches his chest. He is a curly black sheepdog. Sturdy and small. If anything ever came after him he would tear its ankles to shreds and then turn into a bear.

Nothing will harm him.

For hours they’ve been curled up on the floor of the clinic, hiding from the others. Henrik doesn’t like for anyone to see him like this. All he had to do was step into the mudroom where Jameson sometimes chooses to stay, the fake service dog harness they bought illegally clutched in his shaking hands, and Jameson got up and lead him to the safety of his secluded little clinic.

Everything’s okay. Nothing is coming.

“I’m sorry I’m such a coward,” Henrik whispers, listing against his side. “I’m sorry I – I’m sorry I… I’m so tired of being scared all the time, for nothing, for nothing. It’s gone, and still, it never stops haunting me…”

Jameson stares dead ahead, still beneath Henrik’s hands. He remembers the cold iron bars of an abandoned, unrusting cage, the tiny onyx body of a kitten shaking against the sting of it, feeling his essence turn molten, eaten alive for a hundred years, until at last the golden hands of the star and the heavy red gloves of the man came for his emancipation. And yet he feels himself constantly surrounded by the cold white wrath of the cage that bound him.

Tonight, though, there are no bars. There are just the human’s hands, hot and grasping, brushing slowly down his back, and the steadying sound of his quiet breath.

Henrik leans heavier on him. That’s okay. He makes himself grow. A bigger sheepdog now. Henrik slumps against his back. He makes himself a big black husky. Henrik is asleep. It’s okay. He can be a bear-hunting dog. Big and black, with a human laid across his back, exhausted. He can be anything Henrik needs him to be. It’s a good thing he took the harness off already.

The little rectangle of metal in Henrik’s coat begins vibrating. Jameson stares at it, his dark eyes blinking, his soft dog’s chin laid out on his paws and Henrik laid out on his strong ribs and spine. The voicemail tone sounds and Jameson closes his eyes, listening to the familiar voice of the sealboy frizzling through the speakers.

“Uh, hey, Schneep, just calling to check in. I was going to see if you wanted to watch something, but you’re, uh, not in your room. Hope everything’s okay? You know if you need anything you can call me, okay? I – ”

“Amata!” Marvin’s voice is eager and bright. Always. Jameson’s ear twitches warmly. “Is that my doctor? Henrik! I love you! Where is he, let’s play a game! No, wait, let's watch a show!”

“Marv, he didn’t pick up. I’m just leaving – ”

“Didn’t pick up!” A third voice, immediately worried. “Why didn’t he pick up?”

“Come on, Jackie, I’m sure he’s just – ”

“Schneep, when I said nobody was allowed to disappear without telling me why after what you pulled last month, I wasn’t joking. Where are my sneakers, Chaser? We're going to the clinic.”

“Yay! Jackie, carry me!”

“Aw, come on, man. Don’t you think you’re being just a little overprotective?”

There’s an indignant spluttering just loud enough to be comical and then the beep of the voicemail ending. Jameson sighs, low and warm, and turns just enough that he can lick the back of his human’s hand, making Henrik shift just a little, rubbing his face into his fur.

Nothing is coming. Nothing is coming. Nothing holds him. Nothing will steal them away. They’re free. They’re free. Nothing is coming.

Except, of course, one worried superhero, one exasperated shapeshifter, and one very cheerful star spirit in the shape of a happy white cat, curled up in Jackie’s arms, excited to be going for a late night walk to his favorite doctor’s clinic.

“Schneep!” Jackie’s voice is a ringing bell twenty minutes later and Henrik jolts anxiously, a gasp shuddering on his mouth, only to calm again when he feels his fingers curling around Jamie’s fur.

“Hm, what?” he calls, pushing his glasses back into place. “Who?”

“Schneep, you nerd, didn’t you hear? Missing movie night is no longer an option in our household! Mister Mother Hen here can’t let you out of his sight for ten minutes without throwing a fit, now, can you, Jackie?”

A cat yowls a delighted greeting and Chase goes “yowch!” as Jackie’s fist connects with his shoulder, sending him into whining protest and Jackie into big, chest-shaking laughter, their footsteps moving towards the back of the secret little clinic where they have been saved and healed a hundred times.

Henrik sits up straight, trying to put himself together, relieved to find that he can, for the first time in hours, breathe deeply when he tries. He remembers what Jameson is with a sudden clarity and pulls his hands away, hoping he hasn’t offended him, but Jameson only turns and looks at his open hand, setting his chin down inside the curve of his scarred white palm. Henrik chuckles wearily and reaches down to scratch between his ears, his heartbeat settling. The stomping of feet down the stairs sends one burn of anxiety rising through his chest, but Jameson does not bark or growl, and he knows that he is safe.

“What are you doing down here, bud?” asks Jackie, worried, appearing before him, big and safe and holding a warm friend, Chase smiling a reassurance before him.

“Ah, don’t worry about it,” sighs Henrik, closing his eyes. “Just trying to avoid Marvin’s pick of movie.”

A mournful cat wail fills up the stairway, Marvin flopping dramatically back into Jackie’s arms as though struck dead, and rich free laughter like a wave of sunlit water warms the shining curly fur along the back of the great black dog.

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

Taken from my Mythology AU - Chase is a Selkie, Marvin’s a star spirit, Jameson’s fae but likes to look like a little black dog, Henrik’s the seventh son of a seventh son, and Jackie is Jackie! While I do not have current plans to continue this AU and work on it as the inspiration takes me, you can send prompts or specific scenes in this universe the next time I open requests.