#no betas we die as we are

[fatale-distraction]

The Lady in Black

This is an idea I’ve tossed around for a while, ever since I read The Dread Wolf Take You by Patrick Weekes in the Tevinter Nights anthology. Solas in silly disguises is such a fun idea, and such a potentially sexy one. I recently saw the AMAZING comic @mrs-gauche drew depicting the final scene in that story, and was inspired to actually get this idea down!

So here’s nearly 4,000 words of Solas in a dress.

Rating: E

You can also read it here on AO3.

Gerard Chaumet finished polishing one last ring before nestling it back in its velvet lined case and carefully checking the lock. His shop wasn’t the most established or renowned in Val Royeaux, but he did well enough and was quite proud of it. He arranged the glass case attractively on the counter, tilting it this way and that until the morning light shone through it just so.

The bell above the door jingled merrily. Gerard was sure he hadn’t unlocked just yet, and he turned around with an apologetic smile.

”I’m sorry, messer, we aren’t open just yet…” he trailed off as he took in the tall man before him. He was dressed simply but stylishly in a long, dark green tunic and hose, with tight, tall boots and a shawl draped across broad shoulders in the popular style. His mask was etched in the shape of a dragon’s maw, and his auburn hair was tied to the side with a large ribbon, curling over one shoulder.

“I’m aware,” the man’s voice was soft and had the sound of a remorseful smile. The door swung shut behind him. Gerard heard the lock turn, though the stranger’s hands remained at his sides. He looked around with a curious air. “This is a very nice shop. Very nice indeed. Your reputation is well-earned, it seems.”

”I don’t understand…” Gerard stammered, dread curling in his chest. He began to edge toward the back counter where he kept a sharp dagger for protection.

“I’m afraid I’ll need to borrow it for a few hours,” the man went on, bending to examine a display of bejeweled hair combs. He traced a long finger over one shaped like wisteria, each flower a tiny, perfect amethyst. “You will be well compensated, of course, but I’m afraid—“

Gerard’s hand closed over the handle of the dagger. He blinked, and the strange man was before him, his hand on his wrist and twisting the blade away.

“I wouldn’t,” he advised in that careful, cultured tone. “You stand to lose so much where you would gain instead by simply cooperating.”

The jeweler opened his mouth to shout and found himself unable to move or make a sound. The stranger bound his unresponsive limbs, gagged him, and dragged him through the back room and into the storage closet, grunting slightly with effort. Gerard found himself being arranged in the closet with great care, not quite comfortable, but the closest thing to it.

”As I said,” said the man, panting only slightly behind his mask. “You will be very well compensated. Now, stay there, and do behave yourself.”

Whatever magic had frozen him earlier was released. Gerard mumbled something desperately through his gag as the man turned to leave and shut the door.

”Hush now,” the man chided. “No harm will come to you or your shop, I only—what?”

Gerard mumbled again, louder this time.

”Ah, of course. My apologies.” The intruder left and returned a moment later, setting a chamber pot beside Gerard before closing the door and locking it from the outside.

Gerard heaved a deep sigh and thumped his head back against the wall.

This wasn’t even the weirdest thing that had ever happened to him.

Ellana slumped against a booth that sold nothing but fancy ribbons and gave a pointedly bored moan. Josephine ignored her just as pointedly and continued her negotiations with the ribbon-seller. She didn’t mind shopping, but between Josie and Leliana, it always took so long, and she wasn’t quite as interested in ribbons and lace as the other two.

Her older sister loitered nearby, equally bored. With Ellana’s pale, freckled skin and long red curls and Evelyn’s dark, tanned complexion and long wavy black hair, at first glance they hardly appeared to be related. But there was something about the straight-bridged noses and rose-bud lips that tied together, not to mention the twin glances of exasperation.

These glances communicated more in a moment than words ever could, and Evelyn straightened up from where she slouched with her arms crossed against a nearby pillar encircled with twisting golden ivy.

“We’re gonna head to the bookstore, ladies,” she announced, linking her arm with Ellana’s right one, her sister’s left arm hidden beneath a tactically draped velvet cloak.

Leliana let a violently magenta scrap of lace ribbon slither between her fingers. “Are you actually going to the bookstore,” she asked, arching a thin eyebrow. “Or are you just going to run away again?”

“Of course we’re actually going to the bookstore,” Evelyn assured her insincerely. “I’m offended you would even ask.”

“You’ve lied to us before,” Josephine scolded as the former Inquisitor stifled a giggle. “It’s more important than ever that we know exactly where the In--Miss Lavellan is at all times. You know this, Evelyn.”

“I won’t take my eyes off of her, I swear,” the elven mage raised her hand solemnly and the sisters hurried away before either of their chaperones could argue further.

“We’ll meet you at the bookstore, Evelyn!” Josephine shouted after the girls. Leliana gave her a disapproving frown. Now half of Orlais knew their next stop. The spymistress sighed and returned to her perusal of improbably dyed lace.

The two elven girls walked several blocks over before checking over their shoulders that the coast was clear. Assured of their escape, Evelyn dropped her little sister’s arm and pivoted in the opposite direction.

“Have fun, El!” she called, waving behind her as Ellana bolted down the street, each off to look for some fun of their own.

The former Inquisitor had every intention of actually going to the bookstore. It was definitely her favorite place in Orlais. Traveling with her clan through the wilderness, she had always cherished any book she could get her hands on, no matter how trite or boring the subject matter. Now she had the ability to step into a bookstore anywhere she went and purchase whatever she wanted and frequently took excessive advantage of this. But first, she just wanted some time to wander the city on her own. She hadn’t spent more than a moment alone in months. There was always a guard of some sort present, even standing outside the privy door.

She hadn’t known you could go so long without a moment to yourself and still manage to be so lonely.

Ellana wandered through the gilded streets of Val Royeaux, drifting between merchant stands and storefronts with their best goods out on display, sampling street food as she went. She passed by a small jewelry shop tucked away in a cul-de-sac and stopped at one of the display tables lined up outside. Prominently on display was a beautiful hair comb fashioned to look like drooping wisteria, each petal a tiny, pristine amethyst the exact color of her eyes and the curling vallaslin that covered her cheeks and forehead. It drew her in like a magpie, shimmering in the early morning sun.

Carefully, the elven woman lifted the piece from its velvet nest to admire it more closely.

“Isn’t it a lovely piece?” A deep, luxurious voice asked in a rolling Orlesian accent. Ellana turned toward the approaching shopkeeper and stared.

The woman was tall and statuesque, the wide skirts of her dress swaying with each elegant step, punctuated by the confident clack of a heeled slipper. Beneath the delicate butterfly-shaped half-mask her full lips were painted shiny, lacquered red. A high, ruffled neck concealed her jaw and chin, and a long overdress of a sheer, gossamer black shimmering with tiny crystals obscured her shape. Beneath this was a dark samite gown with a heavy drape and large mutton sleeves cinched in tight at the waist and wrists by ebony leather. Tall, metal wings swept up from her shoulders, dangling tear-drop diamonds from their tips that caught in the light. A flat, wide-brimmed hat frothed with a waterfall of black lace and ribbons down to her waist, and her hair was a jet-black curtain that fell bone-straight nearly to her knees.

The all-black ensemble was unusually dour for Orlais, but so impeccably tasteful, and clearly of the highest quality. This woman would have outshone the Empress herself in a ballroom.

Ellana was wholly intimidated by her. She blushed deeply at the attention and cast her eyes downward with a bashful laugh.

”Here,” the woman purred. “Let me.”

Her long, thin fingers brushed Ellana’s gently as she took the comb from her, the heady scent of pine and citrus wafting over her and making her knees weak. The woman scooped her hair back behind her ear and twisted the curls into a roll before securing it with the jeweled comb. She then arranged the rest of Ellana’s long hair until a few strands fell perfectly over her shoulders, drawing attention to the long column of her neck, the rest cascading down her back and brushing at the tops of her thighs.

”There,” the Orlesian woman announced when she was done, sounding quite pleased with herself. “You are a vision.”

The effect was definitely stunning. Ellana smiled at herself in the mirror, feeling suddenly pretty for the first time in years. She rubbed absently at her left elbow where it ended abruptly.

“I…don’t think it’s quite me,” she said reluctantly. Ellana reached up and loosened the comb, shaking her hair back out and handing it back to the surprised shop owner. “I don’t have much reason to wear something so flashy, anyway.”

”But, what reason does a beautiful woman need other than that it pleases her?” The other woman cried. ”Surely you must have other jewelry that you wear when you wish to impress?”

”I don’t really own much jewelry,” admitted Ellana.

This was too much for the woman. “Do you not have a lover to shower you with gifts of jewels and trinkets?” She demanded. “A lovely young woman like yourself? I shan’t believe it.”

Ellana’s polite smile fell. She cast her gaze downward again, feeling tears stinging her eyes, her throat tightening. There was an awkward silence.

”Ah…I see. It is…complicated.”

”Quite.”

The shopkeeper put her hand on Ellana’s shoulder and squeezed. “Well, then…I have just the thing.” She took her by the hand and pulled the hesitant elf into the empty shop and around the counter toward the back. She began fishing around in a drawer, muttering to herself and sweeping the impossibly long curtain of her hair over her shoulder.

Ellana stared at her hair, her hands, the strong line of her jaw exposed from this angle. It was impossible not to. The woman was so attractive, even concealed behind a mask. Her voice was so deep and lyrical it sent shivers down her spine, and her touch so soft and tender.

“Ah ha,” the shopkeeper announced and held up a small, violet jewel set in twisting silver ivy on a chain as thin as a strand of spider silk. She bustled Ellana toward another mirror and set her in front of it, draping the necklace around her from behind. Her long, immaculately buffed nails scraped enticingly across the nape of her neck as she plucked at the chain until the charm settled perfectly between the swell of Ellana’s breasts. “There! You see? It is but a simple trinket, yet not a soul could resist you.”

It was a very pretty necklace; simple, elegant, just the slightest bit risqué and tempting in its placement. It stood out against the relatively plain dove-grey silk dress she wore and made it shine like an ensemble, like she’d carefully chosen her outfit this morning instead of simply picking the easiest thing to get into on her own.

Ellana fingered the faceted jewel with a small smile. The woman’s hands cupped her shoulders and gave her an encouraging little squeeze. “You are lovely, chere,” she whispered, in that thick, rolling accent. Her warm breath stirred the wispy hairs curling around Ellana’s ears. “Anyone would be lucky to gaze upon you and know that you are theirs.”

Her heart pounded so loud she was certain the woman could hear it.

“H-how much?” She fairly squeaked.

”A gift,” the shopkeeper purred against her ear. Ellana’s knees practically went out from under her at the sensation, heat pooling in her stomach. “For a beautiful woman, to brighten her sad eyes.”

She turned and stared up at the woman over her shoulder. Dark kohl lined her eyes behind the mask, the shadows obscuring the color.

“I…Can’t accept.”

”Please do,” she urged, turning Ellana to face her fully, her hands brushing across her skin. “The Inquisition has done so much for me, I only wish to repay you for your kindness. Consider it payment for an impossible debt.”

”You know who I am,” the former Inquisitor stated. She should have felt nervous about being recognized, but the quiver in her bones was definitely due to how close this woman’s shining red lips were to hers.

”I would know you anywhere,” the shopkeeper assured her, brushing an errant curl from her forehead and tucking it behind her ear. She kept touching her ears, like she knew it drove Ellana mad. “You were the brightest star in the darkest of nights. All the world owes you a great deal, and myself in particular.”

”What do you mean?” She asked as the woman continued to stroke her hair back tenderly, staring down at her with such a sad look in her eyes.

Then those shiny red lips touched hers, so gently at first Ellana was hardly aware it was happening. And then again, and again more firmly. She held Ellana against her and brushed her tongue against her bottom lip. Ellana gasped slightly as the kiss deepened, their tongues meeting desperately. Her arm was around the woman’s neck, the woman’s knee between her legs, her fingers twisted in Ellana’s red curls. They moaned openly against each other’s mouths. Ellana’s back hit the wall behind them, the shopkeeper’s hand hooking her knee up over her hip, so much taller than her it nearly lifted her off the ground.

Ellana pulled back suddenly, gasping for air and gaping at the woman. Her brow furrowed.

“What…” She reached up tentatively and cupped the cold porcelain mask. The shopkeeper was panting and staring down at her with foggy eyes like she was the entire world. Ellana lifted the mask. “In the HELL?!”

“Solas!?” She screamed, hurling the mask across the room and pushing him away.

He was still panting, lipstick smeared and blurred from the passion of their kiss. Black kohl stained his eyelids and there were small indents on his high cheekbones from the mask. His hat had been knocked off at some point, the long, long black wig still perfectly affixed.

“You’re wearing a dress!”

”You didn’t seem to mind that a moment ago,” he gasped with a chuckle that bordered on hysteria.

”What the hell are you doing?!” Shouted Ellana, stomping her foot. “Spying on me?! Tricking me into kissing you?!”

”No!” He protested. “At least, that wasn’t the intention…I merely wished to…to check up on you.” His shoulders drooped but he straightened up and squared them again quickly. “I…I wanted to see you. To be sure you were safe.”

”I WAS safe until a madman in a dress decided to put his tongue in my mouth!”

”You would prefer without the dress?”

”The dress isn’t the problem, it’s the mad-elven-deity ex-boyfriend part I take issue with!”

He looked miserable. It didn’t make her feel good. She thought yelling at him would be more cathartic. All she’d wanted to do since he’d left was to yell at him and shake him and demand an explanation. Once she got one, she just wanted to yell and scream and shake him some more and demand he put her arm back, damnit. But seeing him now…he just looked so terribly lonely.

“This was a mistake.” Solas sighed and ran a hand through the long black curtain of hair, then jerked back in shock, as though he’d forgotten he was wearing a wig.

Ellana snorted and clapped her hand over her mouth. Solas snorted too. They both started laughing and couldn’t stop until tears streamed down their cheeks and they both ended up in a puddle on the floor. Solas’ long skirts puffed up around him, which only sent Ellana into further shrieking hysterics.

By the time the two recovered, they were both sprawled across the floor of the jewelry shop. Solas had discarded the wig in the midst of their fit, complaining through wheezing laughter that it itched terribly. Ellana’s head rested in his lap, his fingers woven through her hair.

”I am sorry about deceiving you,” he murmured to the ceiling.

“Again?”

”Point taken. I am the Dread Wolf, you know.”

”That’s not a good enough excuse,” she muttered. “You should have told me. I mean from the beginning, not…whatever the hell this was.” Ellana waved her hand to encompass the shop.

”Would you have believed me?” Asked Solas.

Ellana snorted. “Hells no. I’d have thought you were crazy. But it would have been the truth, at least.”

Solas shook his head. “I didn’t know if I could trust you. And…Ellana it’s all just so complicated, I—“

”It doesn’t have to be,” she sat up and turned to face him. “I love you. I love this world. I want more than anything to give our people the world they deserve. Don’t you think between the two of us we could figure this out? Together?”

Heaving another weary sigh, Solas pulled her down into his arms, resting his cheek against her head. “I cannot ask you to be a part of this, vhenan,” he said. “There are…considerations. This is the only way I can be sure that you’re safe from them.”

”The Evanuris?” She asked, craning her neck to look up at him. “Would they harm me?”

”Undoubtedly. And I cannot guarantee that I could stop them. Thus, you are safer as far from this all as I can possibly keep you.”

Ellana frowned. “And what about you?”

”That is inconsequential, I—“

”Not to me.”

”This isn’t about you—“

”Nothing ever bloody-well is!” Ellana fumed, rolling to one side and heaving herself up and beginning to pace, gesticulating wildly as she shouted. “I’m sick of it! A bitch saves the entire fucking world and she can’t have one single thing for herself! It isn’t fair! I’ve given up everything! My life, my identity, my arm, but the world just wants more and more and I can’t even have the ONE thing I love more than anything else! It isn’t fair!”

Solas surged to his feet, floundering in the ocean of his pleated skirts and caught her by the shoulders, pulling her into his arms and holding her tightly.

“I know,” he said in a choked whisper, voice muffled against the nape of her neck. “I know, it isn’t fair at all. But this is how it must be.”

Ellana bit down on a sob that wracked her whole body. She clung to him, breathing deeply the scent of pine and bergamot as she cried. His tears dripped down her shoulders, staining the silk dress. Solas sought her lips again, and they kissed as though starved, each swallowing the other’s moans and gasps. He was hard against her thigh, hips pressing into hers.

”Promise me one thing,” she gasped, fumbling at both their skirts. Solas braced himself against the counter with both hands and boosted himself up onto it, pulling her after him. “Promise that you’ll survive this and come back to me when it’s all over, and I’ll forgive everything.”

”I can’t,” he gasped as she straddled him, shoving yards of fabric out of the way. “I can’t make that promise.”

”Then lie,” demanded Ellana tearfully.

His fingers dug into her waist as he gazed up into her watery violet eyes, his mouth open and needy, still blurry red from the remnants of lipstick. “I promise,” he vowed.

She sank down over him and his eyes rolled back in his head, a groan ripping from his throat. He worked her hips against his faster and harder until they were a sweaty, writhing, screaming mess. Ellana buried her face in his chest, her agonized, staccato cries muffled as he thrust up into her, fucking her through each clenching orgasm until she was begging, for what the gods only knew, but she begged. His body seized and he buried a strangled cry in her soft hair, clutching her to him tightly.

”Solas,” murmured Ellana as they came down again, the air filled with their panting breaths. Her cheek was smushed against his chest. “Are you…Are you wearing false breasts?”

”Yes?” He responded, wheezing a bit. “It’s part of the disguise.”

Ellana snorted and covered her face.

“You didn’t seem to be complaining a moment ago,” he admonished. “That seems to be a theme today.”

”Tall women are very attractive,” she replied lightly.

Solas laughed and dragged the inside of his wrist under his eyes as fresh tears of mirth rolled down his cheeks. His kohl smeared even further and Ellana started up laughing all over again.

Ellana rested her cheek on her fist as she stared out the window of the carriage, watching the world jostle by as they rode back to their rented villa. The amethyst charm bounced against her chest with each turn of the wheels. Her sister Evelyn sat next to her, staring out the other window in the same manner, but with a hopelessly bored expression instead of a wistful one.

“Our agents weren’t able to find much,” Leliana was explaining apologetically across from them. “The building was cleaned out down to the last speck of dust, and the owner is nowhere to be found.”

”Dead?” asked Ellana with trepidation.

Thankfully, her spymistress shook her head. “No, apparently he was paid extremely well to relocate. We lost his trail, and I have a feeling he’s made it very difficult to pick it back up again.”

The former Inquisitor let out a relieved breath.

“The only thing my people found was the costume, abandoned several streets over. There wasn’t much to go on, but Charter did find this, sewn into his petticoat.” Leliana handed over a slim volume of elven poetry.

Ellana took it into her hand and awkwardly flipped through a few pages. “You’ve already examined it, I’m sure,” she said.

Leliana nodded. “Of course. But none of my people could make any sense of it. If it were anyone else, I would assume it was nonsense, meant to throw us off the trail.”

Each page had several letters circled in red ink. The margins of other pages contained individual elvhen characters, seemingly written at random. Ellana’s eyes skimmed quickly through, already picking out a distinct pattern. Of course Leliana’s people couldn’t decode it. Aside from the writer himself, there were only two other people in all of Thedas who could read it, and they both sat in this carriage. Ellana nudged her sister and handed the book over. Evelyn yawned widely and began looking through the book with disinterest.

”You know what this means, don’t you?” asked Leliana with a sympathetic look toward the Inquisitor.

”Yeah,” muttered Evelyn, a look of horror emerging on her face as she flicked a page over. “It means Solas is running around Orlais naked.”

”No,” said Leliana.

[xeniums]

very very wise words from zagreus there

[flamingpudding]

Jail Buddies

Once a month, Jason makes an effort to meet Dick on purpose. Sometimes even more. After all, he was a good little brother checking in with his brother. Though he had a rather uncontroversial way of doing so. One that involved getting led into a jail cell of your local police department and loudly demanding to speak to Officer Grayson.

Okay, maybe it wasn't like that it was an effort to check on his brother and just one of his many listed dumb moments of recklessness he got caught for. And he was maybe using his brother to get out without having to call Cass, Steph, Duke, Tim, Damian, Alfred or Bruce, in that order depending who was willing to bail him out every time Dick had his 'Little Wing you won't learn if I keep bailing you out.'-Phases again. Or if Dick was being petty because of a recent prank war.

Either way, while Jason was waiting for Dick to make his entrance in his cell he noticed the teen boy sharing the cell with him staring at him wide eyed. He arched an eyebrow, and decided on a whim to make friendly conversation.

"So what got you here kid?"

The teen blinked as if just realizing Jason had addressed him before grinning a bit feral, his blue eyes having an unnatural glow. "Vandalism."

Jason's eyebrow rose again, but the teen continued.

"Trashed mu place and gave my guardian's car a pretty paint job and some other stuff."

"You vandalized your own place? And got arrested."

"Fruitloop decided an overnight stay was a better punishment then leaving me unattended."

The teen shrugged and Jason couldn't help but feel like he just had heard a red flag. He opened his mouth to question the kid more but than his brother finally made his entrance.

"Little Wing! What did you do this time!?" Jason could see that Dick was out to start a rant but changed tunes when he noticed the teen.

"Danny or Dan? You are here again? When did they bring you in? Trouble at home?" Dick asked, and Jason clearly saw the telltale signs of information fishing bat style.

"Danny and the usual." Danny, as Jason now learned the kid's name was, shrugged nonchalantly like this wasn't the first time he and Dick had had that exchange.

"Seriously buddy? I had a rebellious phase as teen too but to regularly trash your home to the point that someone calls the police or vandalize your guardian's cars, buildings, advertisements or anything that has to do with him is not a solution kid." Jason arched an eyebrow at Dicks tone, feeling slightly reminded of whenever Dick lectured one of them.

"Oh I know. But it's a nice stress reliever, plus you guys are nice here. I get pizza as dinner whenever I stay the night." The kid grinned and Jason couldn't help the snort that earned him a little glare from Dick.

Instead of arguing further his brother let out a suffering sigh and let Jason out of the cell, waving him towards the exit and following him shortly after giving the kid one more look that looked like a mix between stern and pleading to stop being a rebellious teen.

Once out of earshot, Jason then chose to ask. "So what's the kid's deal?"

"Nothing, just a rebellious teen reminds me of Damian when he first appeared. He has a twin and a little sister as far as I know, both of them also known here. Their guardian is an upstanding man, though." Jason heard the hidden but.

"Did someone look into it?" He hummed more as a cover.

"Higher ups don't know, but i am running an investigation." Translation Bruce is unaware, but Dick was using Bat resources for looking into the kid's residence.

"Nice kid, didn't think he was a regular." He only commented.

"Nice and polite, you wouldn't think he did some of the things he was brought in for. Distrustful though, despite his friendly nature."

Jason nodded as Dick went through the papers to bail him out, a thought popping up in his head. Clearly, something was up with the kid that had his brother worried, and it looked like he was stuck on just doing his investigation. So, being the thoughtful little brother he was, Jason decided to help his brother.

In his uncontroversial ways, of course.

"Yo Danny, also here?" Jason grinned as he was led into the same cell the teen was in a week later.

[kalims]

⋆ too drunk to recognize your boyfriend

feat. third years of diasomnia

malleus

"I.. have a boyfriend,"

to an extent. the guarded, suspicious look on your face would have concerned malleus to no belief, to others. he wouldn't have bat an eye whatsoever, but it's you so the feeling crawls up his spine and clouds his heat. he can't help the slight nudge of offense clouding his face cause you definitely shouldn't have any reason to make such a face to his.

the more his arm reaches out towards you—to ground your swaying form perhaps, the more you seem to be inching away from him. which shouldn't make sense at all! "child of man?" he murmurs. dropping the attempt to console you, to which you squint at him. back pressed against the front door to his dorm.

"who are you?!" you point at him, and he blinks. mortification spreads in his head. you've.. accumulated amnesia?!

malleus' fingers clench around the fabric on his chest, just after he had retracted the outstretched limb in fear of frightening you even more. there's a certain stiffness to his hand that illicit a drop of sweat from his forehead. him? he's your mal?

if he had the nerve to cry, he would.

but of course, you remain a priority. you exhibit unnatural behavior. no one just forgets important details in a day! you especially, won't forget about him! and he won't let you, ever.

you sway. your eyes darting around, and squinting like you're struggling to focus on one subject of your attention, a factor that might affect it is the fact you keep looking around instead on settling on something, preferably him. and, malleus is torn between steadying you, or him.

he chooses you.

despite your half hearted protest that audibly makes him sulk more, he twists the door to the dorm open and ushers you inside. not too much of a struggle, if anything, you seem lighter, and he almost actually hauled you around with minimal effort.

"must be a good night," a voice purrs, malleus doesn't have to glance at the source to know that it's lilia. years spent with the man does wonder with familiarity. it took him a couple of decades to get used to him. strangely enough he feels like he's known you longer, despite not.

the statement makes the taller male frown. lilia though, keeps the tiny smile, now tickled with a hint of amusement as the rubies shift from your blubbering form to malleus' face. oh? he's upset now. lilia muses. it's easy to ascertain his boy's move, like a sixth sense.

so lilia decides to probe further. "no? your face tells me otherwise."

malleus huffs a little. one of the habits he never seemed to grow out of ever since he learned to keep his... more draconic traits at bay. "you are less than accurate with your assumption," his eye twitches, either torn between distressed or irritation. despite the conflicting behavior, he still manages to treat you with a gentle hand while leading you towards the couch.

"it is a very terrible day." malleus continues. sad enough to complain, but fond of you enough to take the hint from your apparent cautious behavior towards him. lilia almost laughs when he spies him gloomy, sitting on the far end, away from you.

the lightning strikes just as the clouds roll in. lilia peers behind the curtains, chuckling a little at the weather.

well! he just hadn't seen malleus moping around this much since, what? when that gold trinket wouldn't fit in his tower anymore? "why so, my dear?" lilia coos, positively charmed by the 'adorable' disposition.

of course, he already knows. he'd heard your exchange moments ago.

lilia retains the easy look. "the child of man has forgotten about me," malleus explains. looking more stressed by the second. "whoever has done this, will pay." from a sad, faraway look to rage suddenly. "I beg of you, please return them." then switches back...?

he has half the mind to pretend like you're never gonna return normal but decides against it.

"of course!" lilia chirps. "they'll be well by tomorrow."

and, malleus looks like he had been holding the world by his shoulders seconds ago, a sigh of relief.

the next day, you're not sure why malleus is introducing himself in concerning detail. do you really need to know what color his assigned blanket was when he was given birth to...?

lilia

if anything, he's really the one who enabled your behavior.

"just one more." , "oh my, need another?" , "you look like you need it, come on now, don't be shy, you only live once~"

concerned, silver steadied you as you wobble on your feet. babbling about some nonsense under your breath which only illicits the boy to cast a disapproving glance at lilia (who only wears an amused smile).

"seems like they had quite the night." a cheery comment from the latter, and silver makes no move to resist when he moved closer with silent steps, then pries you to his side inside with a gentleness that would prove that he isn't.. actually the reason for your state, but not really.

lilia cooed, like he'd coddled them before. silver thinks but it is so distinct from the way he used to coax them into bed. "time for bed."

you peel your eyes open, squinting with a crease between your brows. you tug at your arm, of which doesn't really budge but lilia decides to humor the struggle so he lets go and raises his brows. "I'm not a kid!" you say, then turn your head to the side—like a kid.

oh, so adorable. lilia croons, swooning inside his head for a bit. how he'd like to simply hold you for hours end...

the romantic monolog of his daydreams though, is interrupted by you once more. ironic since you were the one he was just day dreaming about.

"oh, my. is that so? how lucky of me." he chooses to say instead.

silver sweatdrops. glancing between your hazy... anger maybe? it's not really anger in all honesty, just bordering. then to the lax demeanor his father exhibited. a glance would find normality in it, but he hasn't seen him pick on someone so...

he doesn't know the word for it, perhaps insisting on bothering a singular person as much as he can?

you gasp, snapping your head to silver. cause apparently you recognize him, but seemed scandalized by lilia's presence. "silver! protect me!"

amused, lilia watches you scurry back behind the boy.

"there's nothing to protect you from..."

"there's a man!"

"I'm a man too..."

"there's a bad man!"

your head peeks out from silver's confused frame, lilia's head follows the action. tilting to the side as you eye him hilariously warily. hmmm.. so very cute. "I'm an innocent, only wishing to steal my beloved." he replies, with a usual lightness. though the usual relaxation you had around him is replaced with irritation.

"you can't steal me away, my boyfriend and his children will strangle you."

lilia shares a look with silver. where did they get the idea of... such violence?

silver shrugs. not a clue, he seems to reply back, committed to just remaining a bystander even if he's technically in the middle.

"is that so?"

you nod vehemently, a more open vulnerability clear on your face than before. you point to lilia (well, technically you don't actually know its him! or maybe you're just playing with him?) squinting, accusing at all with him at the end of your pointer finger. the male only raises his brow, and flashes you a cheeky smile.

lilia contemplates playing with you. as in, replying 'why don't you guess?' because knowing you, even in this state you'd probably tell him: "how would I know?" then proceed to guess anyway.

you would have a cute expression, perhaps. but he isn't so cruel to the point where he would waste time—time you could be using to rest instead, preferably get sober, remember him when you wake up, and return to your lovey dovey self.

alright. maybe not lovey dovey on some days but he would definitely prefer that than you using his son as a shield against him, like the boy could actually hold him back.

well, it is technically his fault... but lilia had all the intentions to care for you if you ever got too drunk, he'd hold you up if you were too unsteady, guide you away from possible fiends, and make sure you recovered well the following morning.

but, this definitely didn't enter his area of expectations.

"yup!" you cry. "he might be short, but he can kick butt." for someone who's heard many arrogant words, he's never seen one who says one thing—a threat in your case, then you proceeded to cower behind the nonchalant silver.

you nudge silver.

silver blinks. "um... that's correct."

you glance back at lilia. as if to say I told you!

"so... he will kick my... butt?" lilia hums, indulging in using the world. goodness, good thing sebek is not here. that boy definitely would've kicked you out for endorsing such foul language.

he feigns a look of horror, to his amusement you seem to brighten.

simply adorable...

long story short. you seem to believe you've truly scared him off when he disappears.

concerned even more, silver watches you welcome lilia back with a dreamy sigh. like... you actually recognize him as your lilia, and not the guy you were just... threatening to bite the curb.

this is absurd... I should just rest... silver sighs.

lilia only beams at the showering affection.

[suzieloveships]

Words can't express my love for the ao3 writers

[dolibeauti]

nsfw mdni

LOSER ! tomura shigaraki hates your guts (or so he says). but you always roll your eyes when he says it because you know he’s lying

you know he’s lying because when he begs you to give him a blowjob under his desk when he plays his silly games, his moans leave behind little ‘fuck, i love you’s which makes you more giddy to suck him dry. and when you try to confront him about it, he scoffs and forces your head to his crotch once more.

LOSER ! tomura shigaraki loves wearing DESPICABLE (me) shirts that make you squeal in embarrassment. like you ever seen someone wearing those gosh awful hentai shirts? i hope you haven’t but he lounges around in them at home and occasionally risks it and wear it under his baggy hoodie in public.

you know what also makes you squeal? when he forces you to cockwarm him when he’s on a call with his friends while playing multiplayer horror games. he isn’t immune to a little scare so he flinches every once in a while that forces you to jerk on his cock. his mic is right beside your head so you have to cover your mouth with a hand to stop from making a noise. don’t worry, though, he always fucks you real good if you stay silent.

LOSER ! tomura shigaraki makes you play the MOST horrifying games he can get his hands on. i’m talking ones that make you let out a blood-curdling scream.

he also asks you to watch porn with him (≧◡≦)! the type of videos he watches aren’t like crazy but they aren’t much tame either. (ex. choking kink, probs bdsm, etc.) AND LIKE I SAIDD he loves hands. especially his so he loves choking you while watching (´▽`). ++++ quirk au… he scares you - in a hot way.

LOSER ! tomura shigaraki honestly does nothing all day. he’s on his ass in baggy clothing watching tv, on his phone, or playing a game!

but he’s lowkey a sex addict so his “most productive” thing he does is | 1. eating your cunt. he eats it like there no tomorrow but he’s lazy and sloppy and he may or may not unintentionally edge you until you’re a mess and your soul is sucked out. | 2. watch tv while you give him a hand job. he loves seeing and feeling your hand squeeze his length, simple as that!

LOSER ! tomura shigaraki hates to admit it but he loves you in so many different ways.

of course, he loves you! but he also loves plunging his fat dick into your cunt until you’re screaming. absolutely drilling it into you with no end. but he also loves using you up to your sexual limits.

[hurlingdown]

TRICKLE — TOP MALE READER X TRAFALGAR LAW

synopsis. you wake up to your horny, needy, pregnant mate in bed. he doesn't care if you're barely awake — he wants this cock and he will have it forcibly if he has to. wc. 1.7k

tags. cockslut omega! law, alpha! reader. pregnant sex, lactation kink, squirting, breeding kink, stomach bulge, mating, knotting, crying, bit of somnophilia, law has a pussy, vaginal sex, wet and messy asf!

“Hnngh, mn, y/n-ya…” 

You can barely register the dense weight settling low on your hips as you slowly blink yourself awake—choking on a moan as the sweet scent of riled-up omega immediately permeates your senses. 

Law doesn’t seem to notice that you’re awake. He’s biting his lip, struggling to stifle his noises, one hand rubbing his clit as he rides you slow and meaningful, the other hand pressed over the bulge on his belly. It’s not nearly enough to sate him, and he whines, sobbing out a profanity when a particular grind forces the tip of your cock against his sweet spot. 

“F-fuck, y/n-ya…! Hnn, please, wake up already…” 

You take a few moments to appreciate the beauty that is your mate—tummy swollen and plump with his fourth month, tears rolling down his flushed cheeks in frustrated pleasure, holding back the noises that he so desperately wants to make. What did you even do in your past life to deserve him? 

He lets out a yelp as you grip his waist, cunt clenching in surprise as he gushes all over your cock. “H-hi,” he whispers, biting back a smile. 

“Hi,” you whisper back. You’re barely awake, but it’s warm, and so fucking tight, the sting of heat and want in the air already making you heady with desire. You buck your hips and he struggles to grab onto your shoulders, shuddering. 

“C’mon, alpha, fuck me already,” he whines. “Don’t you wanna make your mate feel good?” 

“Yeah, but, Law, you—” 

“Don’t care,” he groans, leaning back so that your cock slides out from his pussy, slick and cum dripping out. He plugs two fingers in and spreads them, whining, showing you how good he felt just from riding you. Rubs his folds against you, smearing creamy white all over your length. “I want it, come on.” 

“Okay, okay.” You gently push him down onto the mattress so that you’re the one on top, but he hurries to roll over so that he’s settling on his chest and elbows, hips lifted and thighs spread to present his leaking cunt to you. Tilts his head to bare his neck to you, wanting to mate already. 

You growl, leaning down to graze your teeth on the exposed mating bite, pride temporarily surging through you because he chose you. Let you mark him up, put a baby inside him. Out of all the alphas in the world, you. That was enough to send a croon rumbling through your chest, before your mate pushes his hips against you with an impatient whine. 

“H-hurry—wanna, wanna be full of you already.” 

Knees caging his thighs to mount him properly, you pulled him closer while rutting forward, your length sliding against his wet cunt one, two times, before it finally catches on the third. You heave in a breath as you push inside him, the slide dirty and messy with the squelch of so much fucking slick. Law shudders and whines as you pull back to thrust into him again, desperately clawing at the sheets. “Faster,” he begs, arching his back to cant his hips at you, trying his best to be a good omega. “I can take it.” 

“You sure?” 

Law swears he’s going to fucking kill you, slice off your dick, and use it like his personal toy. But all protests get cut off when you grip his hips tight, slamming into him just the way he likes it. He starts to babble incoherently, whining and drooling all over the sheets as you grab the back of his neck for leverage, forcing his face into the mattress. 

“Oh g-god,” he whimpers, a strange sensation pulling at his chest. He fights the urge to roll his eyes to the back of his head, letting out an embarrassingly loud whine when one of your hands starts to knead his belly, muttering into his ear about how plump and beautiful he looked, so full of your spawn. “So good, y/n-ya, don’t stop, please, please—” 

Fuck it, one pup wasn’t enough. You were going to breed him full of your babies. By the time you were done with him, his tummy would be so tight and full with love and sin that he was going to have trouble even standing up. You would carry him around, then, showcase your product to the world. Your mate, and the pups you bred inside him. 

“Y/n-ya!” 

Law cries out in frustration as you hook an arm under his thigh to flip him over, the action making your cock slip out from his hole. Wrecked and confused, he mindlessly tries to push himself back onto your cock, letting out a sob when nothing happened. He sniffles, tears streaming down his face, mumbling something about how mean you were, how he was so close to coming. 

“Sorry,” you murmur, lining yourself up to fill his pussy again, and he lets out a hiccuping moan, pouting as he pulls you down for a compensating kiss. You grin, tilting your head to deepen the kiss, hot and wet and messy. He hoops his arms around your neck as you begin to build rhythm again, the loud thwop of your hips against his making him whine. 

Two thumbs find their way on his tits, rubbing and rolling the buds—but there’s an unexpected wetness there that almost makes you pause. “Law,” you pant out, shuddering. There’s no way. “Law, you’re—” 

“Yeah, f-found out yesterday,” he moans, struggling to form words. “Wanted to tell you, but—”

He grabs your hands, rubbing his chest against them, encouraging you to play with his nipples—they’re swollen and beading milk, a delicious creamy colour, and you want to do nothing more but just latch on and suck. 

“Do it,” he says, whining. “Feels good when it, ah, when it comes out.” 

You lean down, making sure to lick up the spilt drops before finally wrapping your lips around one and sucking hard, and he cries out, wanting more. It’s sweet and rich, the liquid thick and heavy on your tongue, and you guzzle it up greedily, making a mess. You start kneading his other pec with your palm, squeezing and fondling, trying to pump out more for when you’re done with this one. 

He’s all yours until the pups are born. 

You unlatch with a wet smack, licking your lips before moving on to the next pec, giving it a little pinch just to see it drool. 

It’s too much, too good. 

Law doesn’t think he has ever been this wet before. He’s crying again, the side of his face is stained with drool, his chest is leaking uncontrollably, and slick dribbles out from his stuffed pussy in small spurts, pooling on the sheets below. He spreads his thighs wider, whines a little, wants his alpha to pay attention to both his chest and cunt. 

You take the hint, gripping his waist before starting to roughly thrust him back onto your cock, and he wails out, overwhelmed. 

“I’m gunna,” he sobs, “gunna cum.” 

“Yeah, please,” you mutter, feeling your knot start to swell. Your hands go back to gently kneading his stomach, and Law keens, the intimate gesture sending jolts of pleasure through him. “Gonna take real good care of you and our pups, gonna be the best father ever.” 

Something like warmth and need soaks through his chest, and he hiccups, dragging you down for a messy kiss. He’s leaking again and he knows it, milk dripping down his chest in unison as his arousal peaks. You break the kiss to lick him up, sneaking a hand down to rub at his clit at the same time, making him shudder and clench with overstimulation. 

“T-too much,” he gasps, desperate whines slipping from kiss-bitten lips as his eyes fall lidded, lost in a world of pleasure. “Please, alpha, I’m so so close—” 

“I got you, baby,” you whisper into his ear, pushing until the blunt head of your cock bumps against his cervix. “I got you, so do it, come on my cock.” 

He suddenly arches off the bed with a shout as his orgasm slams into him and empties everything in a series of mere seconds, crying out some poor semblance of your name. His cunt feels tight, so unbearably full, like he’s bursting at the seams—and before he knows it, he’s squirting all over your cock, crying and making a mess. 

“F-fuuuuck,” he sobs, shuddering as you continue to knotfuck him meanly for a few more thrusts, burying yourself to the hilt and finally letting it catch. Your cock’s still dribbling cum but then he starts writhing around, so you pinch his clit and he ends up squirting a second time. He wails desperately, his body twitching and trembling as the liquid gushes out from around your knot, dribbling down his legs and onto the soaked mattress. 

“So full,” he babbles incoherently, rubbing over the bulge of his stomach. “Y’can’t, can’t knock me up a second time…” 

You bite down a smile as your mate lectures you on how a second litter of pups would make his life so difficult if the first was already this troublesome, almost drunk on the afterglow. It was something you had gotten used to ever since he had gotten pregnant and excessively hormonal, especially during and after sex. 

You didn’t mind it. Not when he looked so adorable, cheeks flushed and a pout forming on his lips, not understanding why you were smiling at him. 

“It’s nothing.” You lean down to kiss him softly, placing your hands over his. “You okay?” 

“Mhmm.” Despite his previous words, he wraps his legs around your waist, tugging you close so that your knot’s forced in deeper, wanting to keep your cum inside him. He sighs, pleased. “Are you?” 

“Yeah.” You grin, lacing your fingers together, over the swell of life that is his, and yours. You’ve never felt better.  masterlist! # could be considered a sequel to this; i tried to write about the womb tat but then i lost focus and it became this

[shankss-magnificent-ass]

Imagine helping Crocodile discover a new way to use his devil fruit

Before the cross guild's morning meeting

You: [watching Crocodile repeatedly thumbing the spark wheel of his sputtering lighter, attempting to light up a cigar] I have a question.

Crocodile: [cocks an eyebrow over at you for your audacity, lips still stubbornly clasped around the cigar]

You: Using your sand, how fast can you get your sand particles to move?

Crocodile: [uses his hand to show you he can move them faster than your eye can see]

Mihawk: [stops reading the newspaper to look up at you]

Buggy, the one who invited you: [looking nervously between you and Crocodile]

You: can you do that while compressing the particles?

Crocodile: [shrugs]

Mihawk: [mildly suspicious of you] Why?

You: [looks between the three men, to realize you might have fucked up, so you start back-pedaling] Oh, no, uh, I just figured if he compressed his sand while trying to circulate it rapidly, the friction would create enough kinetic energy to produce heat that was hot enough to light his cigar. I wasn't, like, meaning to offend.

Crocodile: [lifts his finger in front of him and tries what you just said, and gets it to glow red with heat]

Buggy: UHH?

Mihawk: ( = _ =)?

Crocodile: [lifts his cigar to the glowing whirl of sand pulls off the cigar, and chuckles, swirling smoke escaping his nostrils] Oh this will bring so many more possibilities to me.

Buggy: great, nice going jackass, now he's even more powerful.

You: You probably could use it to cook someone.

Crocodile: excuse me?

Mihawk: shut up, little bird, stop giving him ideas.

Crocodile: [Cages you against the couch with his arms and leans in close] Keep talking, I want to know what fucked up thing is floating around in that little head of yours.

You: [pulls away from him and averts your gaze]

Crocodile: [uses his hook to pull your chin towards him to make you look at him] Look at me when I'm talking to you.

Mihawk: [sighs loudly and leans back in his chair] Leave them alone, Crocodile.

Crocodile: [ignores them] tell me

You: if you have enough sand to encase someone, you could cook them alive.

Buggy: That's kind of scary, kid.

Mihawk: [runs his hand over his face] What the fuck.

Crocodile: [laughs and ruffles your hair after he processes your words] I like this kid, good job Buggy for finding this one.

List of Up-and-coming works || Master list || Twitter| Kofi || Patreon

[maxipad33]

in brazil we went hunting

it was hard finding time to draw while i was in korea but i finally finished this beast on the plane! max verstappen brazil 2024 you are so special to me

also feel free to use as a wallpaper!

alt versions under the cut

[moondirti]

𝐂𝐀𝐁𝐈𝐍 𝐅𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑, 𝐈𝐈 [18+]

familiar! ghost × witch! reader

you are a witch trapped at home by a devastating blizzard. ghost is the demon that answers your call. ( 2 of 3 /PREV )

DEAD DOVE. RATED E. HORROR EROTICA. 9K. – AO3 heed the warnings below and proceed at your own discretion.

warnings: NONCON. graphic depictions of gore. injury. cannibalism. blood licking. slaughtering + ingesting animals. violence. degradation. body horror. hypothermia. isolation. manipulation. corruption kink. religious imagery. dark!ghost. female reader. i know i said 2 parts total but now it's a 3er.

additional tags: groping. tit fondling. rough oral (male receiving). face-fucking. cum guzzling + eating. it’s all a little disgusting and not in the good way i fear.

𝐈𝐈.𝐈

The cottage is halfway buried under snow when you run out of firewood. 

It should come as no surprise, though you stare down your emptied closet like the ground opened up and swallowed your remaining reserve. Out of body, you fail to confront the cold reality that has already seeped into your walls, freezing the splintered wood of your floors, instead standing stock-still as your mind sharpens its critical edge. 

Only there is no one to direct your reproach to but yourself. Weeks ago, your rune casts had predicted a crippling whiteout, thus you set out to collect enough fuel to last you the season. Yet as night waxed on the third day of your efforts, and your hands started tearing bloody from splitting hardwood all on your own, that resolve debilitated rather quickly. Like sugar steeped in tea; your will to live was already in a decrepit state, and indeed, eagerly unravelled at the first sign of adversity. Suicidal, with hindsight. A passive play at death of which you were too fearful to try and seek for yourself. 

It did not seem like that at the time, of course. Rather, you justified the fatuous decision to stop (after cutting down a mere three trees) by concocting an estimate of how long it would be before you could venture out for more. Based on absolutely nothing but a desperation to curl back on your couch, sore but sheltered, you gave it one month. One month until the storm would abate. Of restlessness, fermenting in a prison you call home. To your distorted sense, four-hundred pieces of firewood seemed plenty enough to get you through it, despite admittedly lacking even a basic working knowledge of wood arithmetic.

Counting the days now, you’re almost tempted to laugh. Almost. The shroud of horror that newly accompanies death since Ghost’s lesson triumphs, after all. You are more terrified than you would have been a week ago. Still, you were not wrong – the firewood had lasted a month – only the weather does not seem to be looking up, and you’re trapped inside a quickly cooling cottage with no source of heat to get you to the thaw. The possibility of fatal hypothermia looms closer, more dangerous. Eerily relevant–

(Just a year ago, you watched a man die from the warmth of your ancestral home, face down in fresh snow outside the parlour room window. Your ageing mother had invited the pastor’s son over to help repair the stairs left unattended since your father’s death, and the man had called your fascination with the corpse morbid, nail between two teeth as he hammered down a wooden plank. 

No use starin’ at a dead man, lass. Not for a bonnie thin’ like you.

But you could not tear your eyes away from his mottled skin, the blue-black ends of his fingers. Even at his burial several days later, his face displayed the same, blank expression, perpetually cast by that winter’s frigid storm.) 

You imagine yourself passing in a similar vein. It will take longer, you think. You’ll be dying for weeks as your blood courses slower through you, iced by the winds that howl down your chimney. Protected, but not enough, by these walls you have been banished to live within. Unable to get even a glimpse of sunlight before shutting your eyes for the last time, the snow packed up to your windows effectively burying you without ceremony. A forgotten tomb. 

You wonder if Ghost would intervene, yet your speculation is brief. His words echo like he uttered them only moments ago. Fight or die. He has long established the volitional aspects of your relationship – he owes you nothing unless you ask, and if you do, then you would rather wish you were dead in lieu of what he asks for in return. No. He will merely watch as you take your last breath, satisfied that he was right, then scavenge your carcass for his next meal. Fated to wet his mouth like the picked off crow. A long-awaited feast.

Curling in on yourself, it is all you can do to bury yourself in clothes. Your vulnerability is often a fickle thing, you find, ebbing and flowing like seawater tides gradually gorging on their shore. There are periods you feel invincible; a being made of eternal magic, unmoved by the shifts in nature bid by time. Some sequoia, whose roots pierce deep into the earth and drink from freshwater wells unacquainted with human touch. A thing truly deserving of the title witch. 

Other times – these times being of increasing occurrence since the arrival of your familiar – you cannot help but to shrink back into a girl again. Raw and tender and emotionally volatile. Naked, sore lungs, as you’re pulled from your mother’s womb and forced to embrace the harsh cut of air. Ghost watches from his usual corner, a spectre practically pulsing with this voyeuristic game he likes to play. You know he’s figured out the predicament you’ve put yourself in, can feel yourself quailing at the discredit his judgement affords. The layers serve a dual purpose, then – for warmth, and to grant brief reprieve from his gaze on your shivering form. 

Three pairs of socks. A tunic, a fleece, a cardigan, and a coat. Skirts over your trousers. Gloves and a woollen hat. 

By the end, you have a hard time moving at all. Certainly not enough to cook, or to try tunnelling a way out of the window. No point in reading if you can’t practise your magic, either; so you mutter a quiet ignition spell over the charred firewood from last night, hoping it lasts even half as long, before collapsing on the couch and willing yourself to sleep. 

Only sleep does not come. 

Or, it might. Yet your mind is so occupied with your condition that it does not allow you to fully lose consciousness. You’re attuned to every particle around you, overstimulated in the worst sense, still subjected to an unsettling sequence of half-dreams. Brain flickering through pale mirages of dead crows, ice floes, of capsized rafts in arctic waters, their hulls resembling slabs of marbled meat. As you drown, you shout for help and pique at the sound of it echoing in real life, tangible enough that it shakes you awake. You nearly strangle yourself trying to wind your quilt tighter around your shoulders afterward, burying your nose in a pillow and cupping your cheeks with frigid hands. 

Eventually, time joins the distortion, and you have a hard time discerning whether it’s been hours or meagre minutes. The only indication is the way in which your body starts to ache with a pain so profound, it is as though you’ve been beaten. If you weren’t frustratingly cognizant of your surroundings the whole night, your first bet would have been to blame Ghost, or at least the threadbare couch you’ve been using as a bed erring too long now. Unfortunately, the true cause of your affliction is hard to misdiagnose; a violent, merciless shivering, your muscles made to tremble as if compelled to by electric shock. The teeth chattering kind – and it is exactly the rattle of ivory against ivory that serves as a makeshift timekeeper. 

Click. Click. Clickclick. Click. 

It must be two hours later when you bite your tongue and jolt completely awake from the pain, swathed in your quilt like the nesting doll that sat on your windowsill back home. Though the appendage bleeds, spreading metallic bitterness onto your teeth, you wonder for a brief moment whether you are alive at all. Foggy vision. Taut skin drawing lines down your cheeks from either corner of your eyes. When you squint, it tugs tighter, and you realise at one point you had started crying. It’s hard to tell without your nose hot and runny, or your lips swollen like overripe berries. Instead, you’re rendered to a shrivelled reflection of yourself, dried tear tracks setting the image in stone. The shadow looming above you seems to agree. 

“Not dead yet. But only just.”

You wish you could say his voice is any softer than standard. That the stars aligned, or that this is an ideal world where the antediluvian creature occupying your home has tapped into his small pool of pity. But he nudges your knee with all the detached amusement he prescribes to most things, like he can’t understand why you’re so easily affected by the cold. 

“Ghost?” 

“Almost exclusively.” He mocks.

The couch dips near your feet. You do not register why until he scoops an arm into your quilt, pulling you from warm refuge and onto his lap instead. It isn’t in you to fight, merely mewling like a feverish cat as you reach a hand out to the cushion where you once lay. Wiggling your fingers, kicking your heels. 

He swats your arm until it flops back to your side. 

“If only y’could see yourself like this. Bloody pathetic, pet.” 

“I’m c-cold.” 

“Not doin’ yourself any favours, then. This,” He tugs at the coat barely hugging your shoulders, stretched taut over your bulky layers. “off.” 

When you fail to listen, he takes the initiative for you, pulling it down your arms and towards some distant corner. You don’t miss it, necessarily – it hardly did anything to keep you warm – but you protest the loss as you would have done anything else; noisily, sniffing to suppress the fresh bout of tears spooling over your vision. 

“Think you exhausted every option, hm? All you can do is curl over and cry?” With his hands now at your cardigan, thumbs hooked under the lapel, you search his eyes for indication of what he intends to do. Ghost is difficult to appreciate even on the best of days, but now, without the handy glow of fire or direct stream of sunlight, he’s practically impossible. Like two mountains stood tall with no valley in between them, no line of logic exists that can explain his actuality. 

(And you’ve never been the logical type – there is no precise science to why goat fat and cumin work together to lure someone into love, or why you knew to stay away from the pastor who kept your mother company. Some things exist solely in magical proportions; limiting yourself to rational thought would be doing a great disservice to what they have to offer.

But confronting Ghost on a plane where he has the upper hand is a daunting task, so you stick to what rationale can place.) 

“What are you–you doing?” 

“Shut it.” He folds the cardigan around your hips, clasping a colossal palm onto the back of your neck. Though you’re used to being scruffed when he’s less than pleased with you, the purpose of this is far from dissatisfaction. You know it immediately. His skin, flesh, is warmer than anything you’ve felt in a long time. A quality of comfortable, penetrating heat that sinks into your nape and slowly works to defrost your marrow, your limbs, the icy film clinging to your brain. Your eyes roll shut almost instantaneously, body slumping forward to sink into his chest. Somewhere in the recesses of your mind, where the relief of warmth has not yet reached, you worry that he’ll push you off. 

He does not. 

Instead, his other hand slips under your fleece and tunic, smoothing over the knots of your spine to reach between your shoulder blades. There, his heat sinks to swathe your chest, and the weakly heart somehow managing to do its job, pumping blood that tickles your toes and fingertips. It drips down to your tummy too, where it weighs heavy like a tangible mass, and brings your pulse to the bud between your legs.

His touch there doesn’t last long; he pulls away only moments later, a tightness newly lifted off your sternum. One hand still kneads your nape, effectively keeping your face against his broad shoulder, but the other moves to collect your slack wrists together. It strikes you as unusual, sure, yet you’ve since surrendered your inhibitions for sake of survival. A cavewoman tradeoff. Your body purrs at the satisfaction of your baser instincts, happy to resort to this primitive state of impartiality, if only it means you’ll stay snug throughout the winter. 

Yes. If anyone were to ask you right then, you would have seen it as not only plausible but entirely necessary to stay like this for the months to come. Sated and secure and just a hint impassioned, content to doze off on the lap of your tormentor. Already halfway there, lashes fluttering as you battle complete oblivion. 

Only that isn’t what Ghost has in store, and he seems eager to break the illusion you hold in such high regard. 

He releases your neck, guiding you to sit upright upon his tree-trunk thighs. When you object by reaching for his hands again, you find that your own are securely fixed behind your back. Completely immobilised. 

Sensation slowly trickles back to you. Once numb, your skin now comes alive with frayed nerve endings, crackling, hair standing on its ends. What you find, alarmingly, is your place within a twisted example of the lesson Ghost has been attempting to teach. The lightness on your sternum not as metaphorical as you had assumed – rather, the bandages binding your breasts have been unwrapped to treacherously hitch your wrists together. The rough fabric excoriates the surface of your forearms. 

Your breathing accelerates. If you’d been freezing before, you’re thoroughly iced now. Shock races through your system and persecutes everything that lulled you into this position. Stupid, stupid, stu–

“Ghost.” You hiss. “Ghost. This is-isn’t funny.”

He doesn’t respond, rolling your top to reveal the soft stretch of your navel. It involuntarily retracts when he flits over your belly button, dodging the unwelcome spread of his fingers. Your body's way of protesting, for all you lean into his touch. Too tempting not to, really. Something in him burns; perhaps a furnace in place of his heart, or a piece of hell he takes with him wherever he goes. 

That primitive voice grows louder, whispering deceptively in your ear that it’s fine, let him touch you. So long as you stay warm. 

You shake your head as if to jerk the instinct off your crown. Lips pursed tight now, the hand on your belly slowly climbing up. Up. 

“Stop it. Stop this, I d-don’t want it.” 

“I know.” He says, pressing his thumb into your waist. It digs until it hits a rib, tenderising muscle. You’re a lamb on a spit, spun slowly, roasted over an open flame. How silly of you to lean into the burn. Short-sighted to decide that it’s better than the cruel press of winter. You’ll be eaten like this. 

“Then g-get the fuck off me!” You yelp, swaying on your haunches in a bid to knock yourself off his lap. Your arms are useless, but that does not mean you cannot fight. “I order you!”

That pulls a laugh from him. Or, what sounds like a laugh. As with everything, it’s his estimate of a human one, like the cicada mimics the bird; not as melodic, rather striking you with disgust so potent you feel your nausea reawakening. You might just hurl.

“And wha’ will I be granted in return? Nothin’ you have that’ll convince me to unhand you, pet.” Ghost rucks your tunic to your shoulders at last, exposing your bare breasts to bitter air. Though he gives them no time to pebble up, large paws enveloping both mounds and squeezing until your breath syphons from your lungs. “Haven’ seen a pair of tits in decades. Suppose you humans do have somethin’ going for you.” 

Your words startle in your throat. Nothing about it is pleasurable, nor does he intend for it to be. His fingers take your nipples; rolling, tugging, pinching. Nails dig crescent cuts into the darkened skin there, perhaps searching for blood. He certainly treats it as though blood is the aim, and you wonder whether you’re to be hung from your bust to drain onto his waiting tongue. Just as one might press olives, no care for their pulpy bodies but only the rich oil they produce. Grease to slick their pans, to moisten their mouths. 

You’ll be eaten like this.

“Stop, please.” 

“Wonder what y’would look like plump with milk. Nursing my litter, rounded out with another dozen.” He sucks his teeth, contemplative. “Body wouldn’t handle it, f’you ask me. Stronger women than you ‘ave tried.”

Have. It hurts to think about. Hurts more when the insult of his words truly resonates. Stronger women. That is to say you have been exiled for nothing. That with a year of solitude and occult practice, you are just as feeble as before. Is this why he ate your crow? To prove to you that he could? 

The tide pushes back out. In a great swell of loam and brine, your hatred crashes vengefully onshore. You muster all of it, dipping pails into the water and letting it weigh heavy on your shoulders. It is almost negligible, you find. You scarcely feel its burden when fuelled by a focused point to your antipathy. Your teeth stop chattering. You glare daggers. 

“Let me go.” 

Your final plea rolls over him like all the ones before it. “But you’re a witch, aren’t ya? Brew up a little elixir to pull yourself through the whelping. Maybe then you’ll realise how much you long to stay alive.” 

Your neck snaps back. Before you can think it through, you thrust your head towards his face. There’s a crunch, a dizzying moment of choked silence, then a hot burst of moisture down your face. For a naive moment, you think you must have struck gold. You imagine drawing back to find his mask sticky with blood, or tar, or whatever demons have thrumming through their veins. A raw testament to your resolve, if he should ever underestimate it again. 

But the mirage is as naive as your mother. Eventually the pain catches up to you. You realise the iron-tang at the back of your throat is not the dreg of satisfaction. The tears slipping past your lashes no longer wrought from misery. Everything, rather, an immediate response to the sore condition of your nose. Misshapen and swelling already.

Ghost hums. You hoped to see him grovelling in pain by now. The battered expectation somehow makes his condescension worse. 

“Good to see y’find your spirit,” His head tilts, bullying yours into remaining still, fingers knitted firmly in your hair. “but it’s misplaced.” 

Given his derision, you know not to rejoice when his other hand leaves your chest. Your shirt slumps lamely back over your figure as he lifts the edges of his mask, folding it over his mouth. In the dark, it’s difficult to map the nuances of his exposed jowls. There’s a pale curve there, a disfigured line here. Your sinuses twinge when your stare narrows, cutting through murk to place the shape of his lips. 

It’s futile. You have no way to jam the gaps; no way of knowing whether he’s all man, all demon, or a foul mix of the two. 

The one thing that glimmers with definition is the string of spit when he unlatches his jaw, long tongue striking like a wound-tight cobra. You would flinch if you could, eyes pruning shut, but his grip keeps you steady in place as he laves a forceful path up your chin. Tasting the metallic leak of blood, all the way up to its source. 

You see it coming. Still, you can’t help but scream when he works his tongue around your nose. Loosed bones shift under your skin, steadiness fractured, cartilage support dipping inwards against the assault. He groans, and in spite of your impaired sense of smell, you get a whiff of rot-hot breath. It must all be a terrible dream, you think. The hardened muscle pressing against your inner thighs, the viscous web of saliva stretched across your face. It’s cold and you’re sweaty, and everything about the past month – the past year – seems like it has been especially curated to torment you. You would wake from this any second.

He gathers the salty drips off your eyes, the blood, every grief coating your skin. Agony blinds you – so profound it takes shape, colour. You squirm in your binds, ragged shrieks ripping from your throat. 

It echoes even after he breaks away. If it weren’t for the sudden coolness of spit drying within your cupid’s bow, you would think he was still making a feast of you. 

“Tha’ got you to settle, hm?” 

You shake your head, exhausted. “You said–” 

“I said fight, or die.” He huffs. You let silence swathe your lips, pursing them as thin as you can manage without exacerbating your injury. “Yer fighting to die, pet.”

“I just want to be left alone.” 

“‘N’ what d’you think will come of that?” 

“It shouldn’t m-matter.” Your conviction sound hollow when spoken aloud. If he hears it, he uses it as an incentive to strip your top back over your chest. Like a hot wire pushed through your ribcage, his warm hands toast you from the outside in. It is in your best interest not to shiver in delight; though you are still dreadfully cold, and your injury makes it difficult to pigeonhole any alleviation to your pain. “You can’t-t-t defile me on the grounds of greater good.” 

Ghost laughs again. “Ain’ pretending this is for the greater good, pet. The world will thank me if one more witch freezes to ‘er death.” You’re yanked further up his lap. “I let you go, you’ve got four, five hours tops ‘till your heart fails. You wan’ to live?”

You shake your head, fervent tremors batting your pout. A nonanswer seems the only manner of resistance, now. “Not like this.” 

“Clever. Tha’ still tells me you do.” He pinches the knotted peaks of your breasts, twisting until you buck wretchedly onto his pelvis. “And I wan’ to spend my evenin’ playing with your tits. A fair compromise, then.” 

What sort of familiar makes the demands? You contemplate berating him out loud, lunging for the dirty insult to beat at his status like he did yours. With no room for taking the high ground, you will do anything so long as you can later say you bared your claws. So you do not wonder, for countless sleepless nights, if there was something more you should have done. You will be mean. You will go low. You will condemn him to a fate of eternal dissatisfaction, so that no matter how much he eats or kills or takes, he will always feel his stomach a gnawing pit. 

Though something tells you he will not succumb to scrutiny against his honour. There is no code for creatures like him, who floss their teeth with crow meat and pluck the nipples of girls who grant them shelter. Nothing to hold them to expect the conditions of their summons.

Perhaps that’s just it.

You stir. It feels much like magic, when an incantation rolls off the tongue just right and the air shifts to accommodate it. Your heart vibrates behind your sternum, power bloating your veins, ricocheting within your skin. If Ghost feels it, he doesn’t falter.

“Be sure, demon.” You rasp, drawing your intent taut in your chest like a bowstring. He hums but does not stop, kneading your flesh to conform to the creases and calluses of his hands. “Be sure that’s what you want. I could give in without further fuss and be like a docile rabbit on your lap. That way, you will have taken two things from me tonight.” 

The liquid of his eyes shifts quick. You catch its gleam in the little light, and it pleases you enough to deliver the rest of your covenant.  

“By the spell that brought you here, you are bound to do what I sacrifice for.” You pause a moment. “In exchange for the blood you have ingested off my face, you will dig this house out of the snow. And for my virtue, this one evening allowance of which you have already taken upon yourself, you will collect my firewood until the season clears.” 

Ghost makes an indiscernible noise from underneath. You can not tell if he is peeved or pleased, and the ambiguity shakes you. You expected some sort of acknowledgment or counter to your trick. Instead, he does not speak on it. No pitch or complaint, protest or taunt. 

He just sits there, pawing at your chest like a satiated dog. 

(And come morning, when your breasts are raw and tender to the touch, he tunnels the snow around your cottage and returns hours later with a hundred cedar logs for the kindling.)

𝐈𝐈.𝐈𝐈

She prefers him in the daylight

Sun floods her little home when it rises and keeps it bright until it sets. Whereas the dark plays tricks on mortal eyes, oil lamps flickering, casting shadows that always resemble something else. She likes training an eye on what he does in his usual corner; but come night, she can’t trust what she sees. Thus, her confidence strains. She flinches at every sound. Any movement will have her tucking deeper under her quilt. His empty-eyed stare glows more sinister, if anything is to be assumed by the way she will crack her grimoire open and mouth protective spells like prayers.

Perhaps she’s afraid she caused offence, that he mulls over a punishment to teach her not to make a fool of him again. Perhaps it plagues her that she cannot stop him if that is the case. He does not tell her that, already, the worst possible thing that can confront her has. Though of course she isn’t privy to it, it’s been a month since he decided against making a meal of her. Everything he does now is moderate in comparison. He’s being good. 

Good, yes. In the evenings, he will venture out to do her bidding. The timing grants her a few hours rest, then, and him an opportunity to hunt for his dinner. 

Good, because he waits until he’s a mile out to transform to his truer self. It is easier to strip trees of their branches and snap their spines when he stands over two metres tall. Not so easy to mend the fragile tolerance she’s gained for him, which is sure to shatter if she catches sight of his monstrosity. He eludes the possibility entirely, then. 

Good, because Ghost refrains from agitating her more than he already has. And his intention in doing so does not change that decency. 

That is to say, he hasn’t grown a heart. He does not care for the girl. But the passivity that necessitated his savagery has since come to pass. She’s grown claws. She fights for her say and punches through life with guile. Any more and he would be faulting her for it, like burning the meat he tumbled through mud to slaughter. It is down to him to take it off the roast, now, to revel in the succulent bite. He’s got her right where he wants her.  

With some brief tampering on his part – laying out the temptation like a breadcrumb trail into the woods – she broke her invisible vow not to ask him for anything. Has it not made her life that much simpler? Her hearth burns bright and warm everyday; she does not have to worry about keeping it lit for the remnants of winter. He picks cedar for its aroma, it's even char, and she would not have access to that if it weren’t for his ability to tackle the sturdy tree. All it took was her debauchment, the vitiating of character to match his. 

(And really, how debauched was it if she only endured his groping for one night?)

It isn’t too much to want, he thinks. 

She thinks so too. Or otherwise decides it's worth the risk. 

It is late into the evening and his dinner sits fresh in his belly, fire chewing away at the split logs he emptied into the pit earlier. The air is thick with cloying cedar and the mephitic scent of potion-brewing, his pet crouched over a bubbling pot. She has been at it for hours, the same nightly routine since she broke her nose. Tadpoles and feverfew and sage, chanterelle and wishbone and sand. Stirred, brought to a boil, thickened with spit. Then scooped out and smothered over her sore face. A modest poultice, turned cast, to help her mend correctly over weeks.

He wonders if she considered bothering him to heal her. He certainly can. But it appears as though she enjoys keeping her hands busy. Toiling through time, grinding away like water does the earth. In the aeons he’s been around, he’s seen mountains chipped away, rocks change shape, rivers bend over time – and it is always the same eternal petulance. Stubborn mediocrity built into something larger. Endurance over brute force. He doesn’t pretend to understand it, but he can recognise a reflection of it in her craft. 

But she is not eternal. Every mortal has their limits. 

Ghost sees the iron grow filigree in her eyes, calculations imprinting onto her resolve. When she stands and turns to him, he almost expects it. The past quarter hour has built up to this ambitious ask, whatever it may be, and he’s mapped every battle she’s held within herself over the course of it. She does not want like he does. It is only extraneous circumstance that would lead her to his service. 

“I started it later than I usually do.” She mumbles, lips twisting like maggots. The hollows under her eyes are prominent, both exhaustion and hunger trimming her down to a sorry state. “I need sleep, but this can’t be heated beyond a boil.”

His cock chubs up in his trousers, aching as an array of possibilities occur to him in that second. Would he split her cunt on his fingers? Would he make her set it down atop his tongue? Her skirt leaves much to the imagination, but he imagines it bright and faithful in his head. Darker on the outside than in, glazed with pellucid slick, and shrouded in a matting of hair. The thought alone funnels salivate to the underside of his tongue. 

He meets her eye, shoulders curving inward, poised to pounce. 

Then, her brow spasms, and the wolfish instinct unravels as fast as it materialises. 

No. He cannot push it too far, not when she asks for something so little. It took all her energy to come to him now. She will never consider it again if he exploits that beyond equal measure. 

So, Ghost stands, stalking over to the cauldron and his pet. He often forgets how small she is until she cranes her neck to look up at him, all owlish blinks and delicate fingers latticed together, anxious for his response. 

“I’ll wake you.” He says. The tension in her forehead ebbs immediately, eyelids sagging now that he confirmed her ingredients will not waste. Though she doesn’t move, and he makes her stand there until he determines on an appropriate return. 

Moments later, he wraps an arm around her. His hand finds the jut in her skirt, where it protrudes to lap over her arse, and squeezes around the fat of one cheek. Even with the layers separating them, she is supple like softened butter. She makes a sound like a trapped mouse, jumping to the balls of her feet. The noise doesn’t deter him; he holds it there until he’s satisfied his grip will bruise. 

“There we are.” When he releases her, she stumbles backwards to find her bearings against the cool press of the wall. Puts a safe distance between them. Yet her stunned silence is intoxicating, and he has to actively suppress the gluttonous urge for more. Nothing is sacred when he gets like this. “That’s us even, then.” 

She nods. It is a wonder she manages to sleep at all.

(Unfortunate that the potion to heal her broken nose steals stock from her kitchen shelves. Day by day, he’s watched her sacrifice her fungi and herbs to the cauldron, prioritising recovery over sustenance. Unfortunate that she is still unable to go out for more. The winter whips cruel and merciless winds for anyone who dares step out into its storm.

Unfortunate. But not moving enough. 

It is intentional silence on his part, then. For the day will come where she opens her cupboards to eat and finds them lined with dust.

And on that day, he will be there.) 

𝐈𝐈.𝐈𝐈𝐈

Ghost takes his meals outside. 

That is, when he comes back lugging a dead beast and a tree behind him. You’ll watch from the window as he places the latter to the side, sinking to his knees to feast on whatever he caught that day. It always varies: hares, owls, rodents. An elk if he’s lucky. Today, it is a fox. 

Your heart knots with pity, mourning for the mammal who cannot grieve itself. Eyes blank and jaw swung open. Its fur, which typically strikes as a vivid red, can only look dull when set by the blood it leaves in its trail, tangled in the entrails bursting from its belly. The demon never minds the hair, nor the carnage. He balances on his haunches and pulls his mask up, sinking his teeth into the softest parts of his spoils. 

Though no one holds you to the frosted glass – chanting look, you have to look – you insist on bearing witness. The gore never grows easier to behold; everytime, it is the same revulsion that stews nausea at the sight. But you sit and suffer it anyway. If anyone were to ask you why, you would be hard-pressed to find an answer. 

Perhaps it is to build a tolerance for nature’s brutality. Ghost’s lesson with your crow has carved an irreplicable torment within you, revealing the jeopardy you face should you continue down your meek path. Exposure therapy is good justification, then, when your personal improvement thus far has only wrought merit. Your magic begets greater effect. You feel your self-possession flourish your spirit. Even your familiar has staved off the trouble, and you can not ask for a greater success.  

But that does not capture the core of the matter. Perhaps that is to be found in him, instead.

Because when Ghost eats, his visage will fluctuate. You do not think it is something he’s mindful of. None of it looks intentional – he does not bid whetted talons or teeth, features that would aid him in gutting the fox. Rather, they appear like fish beneath a rippling brook. Swift, transient flashes of another form. 

He sucks down an intestine, and his burly legs stretch so the joints are equidistant. They snap backwards, digitigrade heels extending, before you blink and they’re human once more.

He laps at a puddle of blood, and his mask parts to reveal two ivory prongs that steadily grow from his head. They curl, winding around his temples as ram horns do, only to disappear as your arid eyes burn. 

He tears into cartilage, and his exposed skin flakes like charred wood. The liver; his torso extends and thins. The brain; his breath condenses to black ash, as yours would ghostly vapour in cold air. None of it permanent. All of it haunting. 

The first time you saw it, you chalked it up to phantasm. Lack of sleep, insufficient nutrition. Searching for monstrosity that would better connect to the horror unfurling before you. So you set out to observe. Incessantly. Again and again and again – validating what you saw, though you received confirmation upon the second instance long ago. Sure enough, each day he reveals different parts to a whole. Excrescent spines and lofty feet. Things that have been urging for a spot in the sun, pressing under his skin. 

It’s the nesting doll all over again. Little matryoshka faces, each opening to reveal a smaller version of itself within. If you are the innermost one, then Ghost is the sisyphean effort to close them over each other in descending order. Unfeasible. Too large to comfortably remain within his confines. The wood will eventually snap in your struggle, and all the painted pieces will scatter across the floor. 

(You remember him just then. Craggy charm and blue eyes. Crafty hand – the same to restore your mother’s staircase – whittling the doll when you suggested he couldn’t. He wore a cross no matter the day, a habit of his father’s doing, and the silver pendant would sway with the paring motion of his hands. Lustrous against tanned skin. No doubt forged by him, too.

He used to call you macabre. Though it was footling fun at the time, you can’t help but grasp at what he meant as you track the steaming slaughter outside.)

“Do you like it?”

Water rushes into a tin basin, its metallic clang a forceful, echoing percussion. The noise is insufferable, grating on your ears, but you would rather it than have Ghost tow the pungent smell of death into your home. With his back turned to you, he washes his hands and mouth of dinner’s remnants, faucet spitting frigid reserves into the kitchen sink. 

His head twists a fraction, pupils coasting to assess you in his peripheral. Small talk is not commonplace. In the weeks you have coexisted, you can count your conversations on both hands. They always seem to prefer the path of internal dissection instead, judgments flung at one another through glares and body language and not much else. 

“Be more specific.” He grunts, facing his task again. From your place on the couch, you can see the way he picks his nails for stubborn shreds of fat. 

“Fox.”

A sliver of pale skin, bared where his mask ends at his nape, twitches. “No.” 

“Why not?” 

“Ammonic. Greasy. Tough all ‘round. Slippery little fucks, too.” His voice is softer when he isn’t being caustic. Skipping over enunciations, the typical rumble in his chest quieted to a hum. “There are easier, more rewardin’ meals.” 

You imagine what he may be referring to. Of every creature on this earth, only one does not have the benefit of evasion. Predators are sheltered by hierarchical canopies, demons like Ghost so powerful that they do not have to watch their backs. Birds of prey have their wings, fish their slippery scales. Even deer – slender and pregnable – are granted fleet-footed instincts rivalled only by the Pantheon’s messenger himself. It is only you, human, that is condemned to spindling, slow inelegance. Perhaps it is why so many are intellectuals, worshipers, terrors – why you yourself are a witch, sapping nature for her wares of which you do not come by naturally. That is the way things turn. Assuming the offensive to offset one’s shortcomings.

And turn back again; your effort has only imperilled you further. There is a cannibal, a monster, a man inside of your home. And you beckoned him here. 

Even as the revelation occurs to you, you can’t stave your ambition. Of course you do not parley with Ghost for the sake of it. There is nothing this new knowledge grants. But since he left to do his day’s errands, your stomach has made its presence known. Opening up like an early grave, emptiness gnarled beneath a soil bed as with roots of a tombstone tree. Every moment, every word, you are reminded of its cavity. Too long, it says, you’ve ignored the pangs of hunger that seized this trench in an iron fist. Priorities, you would reply, as you surrendered food to brew your poultice. And so your nose is healed, great, but your shelves are empty and your head is faint. Hunger surplants the cold as your imminent killer.

“My mum taught me how to fix a good stew.” You begin, rolling your sticky tongue and tucking both hands beneath your bottom, cautious not to set this mousetrap off yourself. The pressure is grounding, at least; you match your breathing to the pulse you feel in your fingertips. “I trust it would be better than raw meat.”

A pause. Ghost’s spine straightens. Then, a panic. You’re thrown off your conviction when your chest flutters and you feel it in your brain. Where is that wily being? The woman who cheated her familiar into a season’s worth of labour? You feel as though you have regressed; screeching infant, lungs flaring with a rush of new air. You cannot face this, you think, but you’re already halfway out into the world. The sink squeaks off. 

You just pray your stomach doesn’t make noise in the new silence. 

“Is tha’ so?” He says, though does not turn to look at you just yet. 

“I could try.” The words bubble like bile in your throat. It is in your best interest to stay quiet. Say no more. He’s being ambiguous so you will reveal too much in turn. The game is transparent. You can see the water-worn rocks on the river bed, so clear it’s like they’re clasped between your hands instead. Yet– “If I had the ingredients for it, ‘course.” 

There. The lip of the cliff. How odd of you to see it only as you plummet towards a frothy scree. Ghost snaps, live lightning in heated air, or otherwise like the rocks that impale you on landing. In two strides, you’re cornered by a creature with scorn harrowing the space between its brows. You were stupid not to plan an escape route, stupid to arm yourself with nothing but flimsy subtlety. There was always the risk of it coming to this, you knew that. 

“You think y’can rummage for loopholes, hm?” He leers, eyes searing holes into yours. “A trick is only charmin’ on the first go, pet. More than once and y’start to stink of stale piss.” 

“I don’t–” 

He snatches your jaw, thumb and ring fingers digging an aching grip onto either side. Your protest warbles pathetically, dies, chokes you with its rot. It’s difficult, no– impossible to decipher what he's mad at. A small, fresh part of you actually hoped he’d see your cunning as artful. But it seems your station has come back to haunt you; another mortal whose brain cannot keep up with her heart. Even if one is in the right place, you will go about chasing it in the wrong direction. Artful is too shiny of a laurel, then. Trick, too, is being charitable 

“Do not play coy with me, girl. I do not take kindly to underhand deals.” Snarled right above you, spit spattering across your face. Your mandible squeaks, bone-deep pain flaring where he tightens the pressure around your face. Fox blood flavours his breath. There is a ringing in your head – shrill, like water in the tin sink. “If you need something from me, you will admit it and cope with the terms I have in turn.”

“I-I’m sorr-eeeee.” Your apology wheezes thin when he thrashes your head in place. It is either that or the relentless force on your jaw that tears a new world of pain down your neck. The tears are reactionary, then. Hot and foggy and not at all a sign of fear. “Ah- I’m sorry! I won’t– I didn’t mean to offend y-you.” 

“S’too fuckin’ late for that. You’ll follow through, before I take wha’ I want anyway.” He shakes his head. “Ask nicely for what y’need then, pet. Go on.” 

“Nothing! Nothing anymore, please. Jus’ let me go, Ghost.” Perhaps the universe disdains your insincerity, because in a hand dealt by its inexorable irony, your stomach buckles and purls a foul sound. Like it heard your words and protests the withdrawal, gurgling out loud to whoever will address it instead. 

And he does. He does. 

“You’re hungry, hm? That it?” He shoves your limp body onto the floor, dismissive of the pleas you now regulate to your feet, thrashed wildly to strike at his shin. Everything he does is callous, mean, agitated like the sulphur and magma that run thick beneath the earth’s crust. And though it is not your first encounter with a creature of that ilk – you have had your run-ins with over-excited men – the intentionality behind it has never been more flagrant. Ghost does it to hurt you. “Yeah, been neglecting you, haven’ I? Forgot pets couldn’ feed themselves.”  

“I’w scrounge somefing up mysef.” You struggle, speech impeded as he crushes your cheeks inwards. Pearl dust flakes your gums. 

“Should ‘ave thought of tha’ before. Even if I end up breakin’ every bone in that fine skull of yours, I won’t let up. Say it, then, you daft thing.” 

The scaling of your options is instantaneous. Even as your immediate conscious lags behind, activity lights the back of your head and cracks its way out of your mouth before you can catch it. It took weeks for your nose to heal, much less your skull. You’re consuming fuel quicker than you can replenish, running on a backlog of quick-burning fat. And all of it can be taken care of if you just give in, to what will likely only be a few hours of degradation. 

(Cavewoman. Primordial. Primitive impartiality, or survival of the fittest. The world has only come so far since then, and even within its concentrated civilizations, there is no aegis but for those who come up on top. You cannot expect your liberties to be met anywhere. That, you know too well.

But here, in this feral forest, at least you can use the violation to your benefit. At the very least, you will not be exiled, cast as witch for taboo of saying the greater word. 

You are already macerated on rock bottom. And at the barren abyss of all leasts, Ghost will not hang a cross pendant above you as he stomps it in.)

He must see the surrender wet your eyes, for the grip on your jaw lessens. 

“I am hungry.” You cry, finally, lashes fluttering shut so as to guard your tears. “I am hungry. This winter has dashed my garden and I do not know how to hunt. The cushions jab into my ribs when I sleep. I feel as though my stomach will consume me from the inside out, and I’m desperate. I am desperate, and I am so, so hungry. And I am asking for your help. Please.” 

If there was any part of you that still believed he would choose pity, it is muffled and killed. You hear the scratch of fabric as he undoes his pants. Final, failing. Rustled hand behind confines, stench of musk stiffening the air. For a few seconds, you opt to remain blissfully ignorant – keep your eyes closed and imagine that the presence before your face is something different. A purifying flame, tender cut of meat, a smiling face before things fell downhill. It all sounds too good to be true, and they are. Sooner or later, you tell yourself, you have to face the misery. 

So, you force yourself to behold it before he takes that upon himself. 

His cock is heavy. Fat and oversized, length not having suffered for its breadth. Ruddy where the head peaks from an uncut tip, hard already, but bowed under the weight of itself. If you had anything to expel, you would’ve done so by now. A thicket of hair fledges his groyne – a shade of dark that pales his scarred skin in comparison – and it reeks of sweat and miasma. 

He taps it on your cheek, prespend sticky and warm. You flinch as though you have been beaten. 

“Just one thing af’er the other with you, pet. Think this’ll give y’something to fix yourself on.” 

“I don’t– I’ve never–” His thumb hooks over your bottom teeth, prying your trap as wide as it can go. Drool slicks the cracked hinges of your lips. “Don’ know how.”

“Not what I’m lookin’ for.” He purrs, cruel humour gracing his tone. Somehow, it is not a reassurance as much as it is a snub. “Jus’ keep your teeth out of the way.” Humiliation washes your neck and ears, rush of blood like white river rapids behind your ears. It is the final swatch, trumpet to armageddon, before your ruin. You suck in a breath and bring your mouth to him.

Ghost meets you halfway, treating the crown of your head as an anchor to thrust forward. Immediately, you let slip his only rule, teeth snapping reflexively at the intrusion. You expect to be backhanded, have your hair ripped from your scalp in relation, or worse. It is a relief, then, when the only force you receive is a knock against your jaw. The rapping shakes your cotton-lined skull, snaps you out of your stupefaction, and you slack all muscles to accommodate his demand.

The mass feeding down your throat vibrates, an appreciative hum coursing through his body. “There you are, little jezebel. Look a’ you takin’ my cock so well.” 

You make no effort to glide your tongue along his veins. To make this pleasurable for him beyond what he takes for himself. True to his word, your familiar does not punish you for it. He knots his hands around your head and fucks your face, careless, cock rearranging the anatomy of your neck as it bludgeons a straight path down. You sway, ragdoll with the motions, knees rubbing abrasively across the floor as he slides you back and forth over it. 

Hypoxia spots your vision, lungs clenching furiously at the obstructed flow of oxygen. You would fasten it all shut, close yourself off from the world, but your eyes bulge a little at the edges, stagnant blood keeping them arid and open. It’s hard to dissociate. Hard to pretend that the steel-wool friction at the tip of your nose, the pendulum-consistent slaps on your chin, are not his pubic hair and balls searing unmistakable marks on your skin. And your series of gags are sloppy, lewd out in the confined air of your home. How could they be anything but damnation? There is no deluding the Maker. 

(No matter how fervently he tried. Marry me, proposed down on both knees. It’ll set this whole fankle right. We’ll hold hands an’ seek penance at the kirk before th’ceremony. My pa will officiate. Yer ma will be thrilled.)

Snot bubbles from your nose, cheeks slick with tears and wayward spit. When he batters forward, it amalgamates in the soft palate beneath your spasming tongue. When he draws out, he takes it with him, viscous strings of saliva bridging the gap. It streams down to your neck, glosses your lips, webs your lashes together. You feel buried beneath its stifling coat, set down into your grave at last. Maggots worm their way into the soft matter of your brain, eat away at the tissue until there’s nothing left but suffocation. Death. Throttling void. 

Your hands flail out, seeking an end to it, but all you find is Ghost.

He slows down once he nears his end. 

The bruising pace he set stutters, balls tightening against your submental. It catches you off guard because, for the past ten minutes, you accustomed yourself to the patterns of his push and pull. For every plunge, there is a retreat, where you will greedily feast on fresh air before being choked back down on his cock. It is a break of tide, an opportunity to paddle your way above water to clear sea-salt from your hollows. A bay to hold onto so you do not drown.

Until now; his forearms twitch and you’re kept in place, forehead squashed onto his mons. You panic, hold on your breath breaking. The heady scent of sweat sweeps over you, laced with the tart products of your mouth – saliva and blood from where your canine pierced your cheek. Prespend, too. The undiluted stink of him. Hair tickles your lips. Your cunt flares, sudden, slickening the chafe of your thighs, but the unwelcome arousal does nothing for you. 

He holds your head down and spurts his load into your gullet. 

There is no room to swallow. It goes in the wrong direction, then – upward – and out your nose. You squeeze your eyes shut, disgusted scream gargling around his throbbing appendage. Distress bloats your head, temples feverish and sweating, nails digging deep impressions into your palms. It’s futile. Useless. Nothing thwarts him but the last dregs of semen spitting out onto your tonsils, pumping himself dry until finally, finally–

Ghost pulls out. You collapse onto the carpet and hack up cum until your throat bleeds. 

The silence afterwards is mortifying, tension palpable enough to writhe up against. Drained, you’ve since pressed your cheek into the puddle of filth, urging pearlescent spend to seep into the fibres below. It'll be a nightmare to clean later, you process slowly. Perhaps you’ll use the bleach, and take the same sponge to your lips.

The monster above you tuts at the display, crouching to your level when you exhibit no interest in rising to his.  

“C’mon, sweet. Wouldn’t want to waste your dinner now.” 

But you’re too weak to lift your head. So Ghost gathers your hair, puppeteering – in a manner rather gentle for your assailant – until you can lap his essence off the floor. 

It tastes like raw venison. You snivel your thanks, and imagine it is exactly that.

i do not have a taglist. to be alerted when i update, please follow @moondirti-archive and turn on post notifs.

[therabbitthatpostthings]

“Kento.”

“Yes?”

“We should get married.”

He was too out of it to really process what you were insinuating, especially at a time like this. He carefully shifted to look up at you. You let him rest in your lap as you tried to stop the bleeding. You had wrapped what was left of your jacket around his wounds. Carefully he spoke, “Why would we get married right now?”

“That’s been your dream right? A happy marriage. A family? Now’s a great time to consider it.” You stated. Kento felt like he was being sold something instead of a proper proposal.

“I know I’m not marriage material but I’ve admired you for years now so I wanted to say it.” That boldness you had suddenly faded as you idly traced shapes into his shoulder.

Kento reached to grab your hand and intertwine it with his. His other free arm caressed your cheek gently, “I couldn’t ask for anyone more perfect than you.”

A loud rumble shook the station as little bits of dust and debris spindled from the ceiling. Kento watched the worry and fear wash over you. “Hey, come lay here with me. Let’s plan the wedding.”

You laid against his non-bandaged side and he pulled you in closer. “Where do you want to go?”

“Let’s have a beach wedding.” You smiled cuddling up to him. “In Malaysia.”

You both stared up at the ceiling, knowing it would eventually collapsed. Even if it didn’t, you’d both probably bleed out. Nanami smiled, “I’ll get us a nice house on the beaches for the honeymoon.”

“Only the best from my husband.” You joked as another impact sent a deep rumble through the train station.

“I’ll buy you a proper ring.” He gently caressed your knuckles. He could feel the cold, slow, teardrops land on his shoulder. He pulled you in closer.

“Let’s rest now love.”

[moominsuki]

✎ᝰ BAKUGOU KATSUKI ; — 11:36 AM OR when you’re needy and he’s ready to help you. doesn’t mean he won’t have some of his own fun while doing it. (birthday special)

࿄ ! warnings - major nsfw. squirting. f!reader. kind of dubcon but not really. / note. hey… how y’all doing! i have no excuses this time lol. i also can’t promise i will be back! i couldn’t let this brew in my drafts forever, esp. on his birthday. but enjoy :} minors& blank blogs dni.

you: hey kats i miss you :(

you: katsuki? i need you

you sent those texts at around 11:36 am and it’s now almost an hour later, with katsuki being in a very important heroes’ meeting of some sort. now, katsuki never takes time or leave off of work only on the condition he’s practically spilling his guts onto the floor - and even so, he’d come in with his hands wrapped round his lower abdomen if he wasn’t chastised for showing up half dead.

this wasn’t out of the ordinary for you - you know, to text him all needy and sad. don’t get it all wrong, it makes katsuki’s heart clench to have to leave you to your lonesome when he’s busy and you’re not. he knows how you get when you get off your period and mixed when you’re also feeling poorly comes a combination of you feeling melancholic, sweet and also very needy. by the way, did he mention needy yet?

katsuki: what’s up with you? you ok?

his phone vibrates almost as fast as he tried to stuff it in his pocket and he inconspicuously looks down.

you: no… i need you :((

katsuki sighs looking at your texts, excusing himself from the meeting and giving what he’d consider sympathetic eyes to his friends before dialling up your number.

“you okay, princess?” katsuki frowns, “i know you ‘aven’t been feeling well these past few days but ‘m busy-”

“katsukiii,” you all but whine into the phone, mewling and he straightens up immediately at your voice, ears turning a cute shade of pink. oh. he knows this tone. he knows it all too well amongst the linen sheets of his bed.

“i know i shouldn’t be calling while you’re busy but, fuck, i need you, need you so much,” you gasp on the other side of the line, practically swimming in his bed, wearing only your cotton panties and a barely there tank top.

katsuki bites his fist, standing behind the conference room door, groaning quietly. “yeah?”

“mhmmm, i really do,” you simper, “you looked really good this morning an-and you smelt so good and… ‘m just really, really needy right now.”

katsuki should tell you to get a grip, dash some cold water on your face and put your fingers to good use but the way you’re moaning and whining across the phone is making all his blood cells rush from the rational parts of his body down to the irrational parts of his body.

“where r’you right now?”

“in your bed… just like how you left me,” you sigh, a pathetic and wanton lilt to your words. “all alone in this big and cold bed wishing my big, strong man would come home and give me what i deserve.”

your flushed face boyfriend all but snarls, teeth bared over the phone. “yeah? what d’you deserve, then, for interrupting me at work and and then begging me to come home and fuck you? cos that’s what you want, right? for me t’drop everythin’ and come running to you?”

“yup,” you hum, popping the ‘p’ and some rustling can be heard in the background. “well, ‘s your choice, really. i just… really need you, baby.”

you can hear katsuki’s deep breathing over the phone and you’re so certain you can hear the cogs in his skull turning, clicking as he mulls over this decision. he clears his throat, lamenting with a big sigh as if this is all one big inconvenience for him.

just at that moment, deku comes through the door.

“everything okay, kacch- dynamight? if you’re busy we can discuss this with you another time.”

“…‘m gonna have to head home for a little while… something’s come up. don’ wait up. i’ll be back as quick as i can.”

katsuki wants to bite you when he can make out the smile over your exhale through the receiver but you’re quick to hang up as deku reassures his friend in his naïveté, unknowing to the true purpose of his mid day return home.

when katsuki returns within 10 minutes since your call (usually it’s a 16 minute drive from the agency to home - pedal to the metal), you’re already on the couch, and your tank top does nothing to hide the hardness of your nipples and katsuki can see the shape of your cunt lips through your barely there panties.

no words are passed as you smile sweetly at your boyfriend, who kicks off his shoes and whose hands already at his belt as he stalks over to your seated body.

“how d’ya want it, huh?” you’re already moving back across the couch, legs spread.

“just fuck me please,” you whimper, “wan’ you to stretch me out with your cock.” you paw at his hips, at the waistline of his trousers that situate themselves in front of your face.

“you don’ want me to stretch you out first?” he muses, dropping down to his knees in front of your scantily clad pussy, thick fingers pressing on your covered clit and you hum, shaking your head.

“i can take it right now,” you gasp, and two fingers slip into your pants despite your protests at how you “don’t need to be prepped,” and that you “can take him right now.” alas, you shut up effective immediately when his fingers skim through your panties and straight to rubbing your hardened nub and you can’t find it in yourself to get annoyed when two digits slip inside you, curling up only for a mere second and jolting your body along with it.

katsuki pulls his dampened fingers out, effectively taking off your panties with him. “your decision. don’t get pissy with me later when it’s sore, because ‘m not gonna have it.”

you shake your head defiantly, utterances of “i won’t” and “just please fuck me,” meshing into a slurry of words.

he grabs your face to look at you. “you promise?”

you nod and he frowns, smushing your cheeks slightly. “you better speak up and fast, because i ain’t got all day, princess.”

“i promish! i promishh.” the words come out muffled against the grip of his hand. your boyfriend takes the answer anyhow, because he gets up from off his knees to impatiently throw off his blazer, then down his trousers and pants in one swoop.

there’s a smug look on your face and katsuki can tell you’re trying to hide a triumphant smile. he wants to wipe it off your face so badly.

“face down, ass up, pretty lady.”

you throw yourself around without a second to spare and katsuki stuffs a pillow under your hips, slapping your ass in the process. at any other time, you would’ve scolded him for leaving a print. instead you moan and arch your back, clenching cunt on display for his hungry eyes.

“fucking minx,” katsuki grumbles, settling behind you and letting the weight of his mostly hard cock tap against your pussy, delving between your puffy lips and rubbing against your hardened clit.

you try to be good, try not to say anything that might make him want to punish you but you’re growing restless at what feels like hours of torture (hours being mere seconds that is) and you sniffle out a weak “katsuki, please…”

his heart clenches at your tone and even when he’s trying to tease you, he can’t help but feed out the palm of your hand. he also can’t help that his dick pulsates in his grip at the pathetic tone of your voice.

“don’t rush me or i’ll leave you like this,” he grumbles, and you both know he wouldn’t dare, and you’re about to protest, turn your head to spit defiantly at him but it’s much too late for that. he sinks in, weighty and thick and it knocks the breath out of you. you practically face plant into the armrest of the couch and your teeth bites into the cashmere fabric.

there’s something about not being prepped before that makes this so much more intimate and sexy for the both of you, but the impending realisation that you will be sore tomorrow dawns on you as you feel the heft of his balls press on you. he’s right to the hilt and you’re full to the brim, gasping.

neither of you can get a word out edgeways or sideways - katsuki leans down to wrap a thick arm around your neck and though he can barely see your face, he can feel the salty tears dribbling down his forearm and he can most definitely hear the wordless cries coming from out your agape mouth.

“this is what you wanted,” he hisses, nose in your hair, his wide body trapping you to the couch, “don’t you fuckin’ complain later- fuckin’, shittt,” he groans, pulling back out slightly and getting sucked in by your silken walls. the living room has gotten 100 degrees hotter and he wants to blame you so badly, but you moan out his name wantonly, one hand around his own that’s slightly bruising against your neck and he’s putty.

“hurts so good,” you finally get out, toes curling when the tip of his cock hits against that honeyed spot. “jus’- jus’ like that,” you slur, legs shaking and thrashing when you feel katsuki’s hand slip between your bodies.

all he can focus on is how fast you got sloppy for him, the conjoining of your bodies, if only fleeting, is getting to him, if the clench of his balls has anything to say about it. his hand finds your throbbing pearl and a straying pointer fingers rubs on it firmly in broad, confident circles, and you choke, eyes crossing.

your body stiffens and you’re not even sure you’re speaking a coherent language at this point, but you garble out something along the lines of “i love you,” and “i can’t take it,” and a contradicting “like that, katsuki.”

behind you, he’s thrusting even harder and rubbing faster at your clit, pressing down with ferocity and you’re not even sure what you’re begging for anymore, the tension in your bladder rising. even in the midst of a second, impending orgasm do you turn and try to kiss him, which he gladly accepts, tongue delving into your mouth and he inevitably hunches, grunting and huffing, red faced and shooting ropes of thick cum inside of you.

that’s when your second one hits, and it’s even heavier than the last, sprays of liquid hitting your boyfriend’s lower abdomen and you squeal, hips gyrating and katsuki doesn’t slow until you’re basically limp, collapsed against the softness of his sofa.

he kisses your head, pulling out and you gasp at the exit. no words are shared as he brandishes a damp cloth from somewhere - he must’ve gotten up in your daze, you didn’t even know he had left from behind you at all, and it makes you sigh, cheeks resting against the armrest.

katsuki cleans you up in typical, sweetheart fashion, passing you a blanket and your clothes like he always does after a romp, and it’s only when he makes you sit up so you can eat a banana and drink a glass of cold, fresh water do you say something.

“so i take that you’re not going back into work?”

katsuki’s eyebrows shoot up into his hairline, and he looks away from you, pouting. you think he’s not going to say anything till he scoffs a short moment later, “…’s not like i had much to do today anyway… i’ll catch up with those idiots later.”

you don’t bite back your smile this time and he pulls you into his chest. “you better wipe that shit eating grin off ya face.”

“or what? you threatening me with a good time?” you giggle, wiggling your brows and he opens his mouth to bark back until you move your hips slightly and hiss.

“what was that?” he questions and you ignore him. he groans, swiping a hand across his face,“…y/n, i-”

“‘m not complaining!… but i would be lying if i said it’s not a little sore- hey!”

katsuki wraps you up in his arms, blanket strewn.

“what are you-”

“since ‘m taking the rest of the day off, might as well go clean up and have a bath… remind me to never listen to you again.”

“hey! it’s not my fault you’re such a brute,” you laugh as he kisses your face, walking up the stairs.

“not so hard!” you hiss in pain, “‘m sore!”

yeah. remind katsuki to never listen to you when you’re horny.

࿄ ! — all rights reserved © MOOMINSUKI 2024. please do not copy, translate, repost nor recommend my work outside of tumblr. this is strictly prohibited

[mit0bee]

𝕀𝕋𝕊 𝕊ℍ𝕆𝕎𝕋𝕀𝕄𝔼!

Twisted Wonderland boys with an idol!reader

warnings: fem!reader, written with yuu in mind but not explicitly stated. Fluff/crack

Characters: Leona Kingscholar, Azul Ashengrotto, Idia Shroud, Malleus Draconia

[flamingpudding]

(Un)fortunate Courting (Request)

Requested by @silverblueglitter

Original Prompt Post this is based on by @diabolichare

A/N: Thank you for the request! I hope this will not disappoint. I am slowly getting back into the grove of writing and out of my block. Also on a side note I am not posting / writing as much right now because work is currently keeping me busy.

Danny was very sure he was doing everything right in regards to ghost culture. Clockwork and Pandora had been educating him very well on that. Sure they did it with some ominous explanation in regards to his future but Danny had shrugged that off. Clockwork had always had a way with words that didn't make sense but somehow did too. Now as he had learned if a ghost wants to cross through another ghosts haunt an offering needs to be made. Ideally the offering is in regards to something the other ghosts likes.

So if he would need, for example, cross through Embers haunt, he would offer her something like guitar strings or something other music related stuff that could be useful to her obsession. With that logic, Danny knew that if he wanted to use the short cut to his collage through Red Hoods haunt he would need to offer the other something. Like he had offered something to Lady Gotham for his stay in Gotham for his collage education. The thing was he would have to offer Red Hood something every time he needed to go through the others haunt, unlike with Lady Gotham who had just accepted a single offer since he wasn't constantly going in and out of her haunt.

But that also left him with what to get the other Halfa as offering.

He had contemplated offering something Red Hood might need for his duty. You know? Maybe some self engineered bullets he could use against ghosts, though Danny knew that was probably unnecessary considering Gotham's protector spirit, Lady Gotham, had a pretty good handle on everything here. Which good, because that meant Danny could fully focused on his studies for once.

That was until Danny realized how much the core of that other Halfa was malnourished. Which gave Danny the perfect chance to catch two ghosts with one thermos, okay bad joke. But seriously, that gave Danny an idea of what to offer for his right of passage through the others haunt. So he made simple care packages that would help the other Halfa. He had thought about supplying some Ecto-Dejecto directly but that felt a little to on the nose and someone who didn't know his family would probably think Danny insane, as if there weren't enough people in his collage thinking that already. Besides he was in Gotham and with villains like Scarecrow and Joker he didn't think a syringe with glowing green contents would be a trustworthy offering.

Anyway, Danny decided to be a bit more discreet, infusing ectoplasm into simple foods, that most importantly, COULD NOT COME ALIVE. So Danny's care packaged ended up consisting of chocolates, snacks and other sweets that would NOT start fighting back. He also figured out how to mix ectoplasm into drinks so it wouldn't taste to overwhelming.

Danny did not anticipate the side effect offerings like that would have or realise what his offerings looked like to someone who did not know about ghost culture.

Jason was torn as he found the n-ed little present box during his patrol route with a little card stating it was for him. He eyed the box having gotten familiar with these boxes over the past month. He lifted the lid and yep.... chocolates.

"Again?" his distorted voice came through his voice modulator as he eyed the chocolates suspiciously. Either he had a very insistent admirer or one of his enemies cooked up a new idea to make him paranoid. Not like his brothers didn't joke about him getting Bruce's paranoia when he had run the sixth box of chocolates through the substance tester to figure out if someone was trying to poison him.

Turned out poison was not in the chocolates but something else. An unknown substance but in small dosages. Jason was currently allowing Tim to run wild in figuring out what was mixed into the chocolates. Also the seasoned vigilante had to admit, that there was something tempting about these sweets. Like something inside him really urged him to eat them. It was only his self-restraint and discipline that helped him resist the urge to taste test some of these chocolates.

Also sometimes there were drink in these packages too. Yes, Jason had run them through the tester too and got the same results like with the sweets and chocolates. No poison but that other strange substance. At first Jason didn't really want to bother with it but these boxes appeared every damn night when he was on patrol, but strangle not on weekend or holidays.

"Oh got another little present, Little Wing!" Jason barely turned around as his older brother dropped onto the roof next to him. "Chocolates this time! How cute! They must really love you!"

Sometimes Jason wished his helmet could portray emotions better as he gave Dick a deadpan stare. "More like wanting to poison me." He muttered his voice changer doing nothing to support the sarcasm in his voice.

"You have to admit it is kind of cute! You have a little fan or admirer! And look these chocolates are even heart shaped! Oh and pralines are in there too!" Dick gushed on about Jason's admirer, while Jason rolled his eyes under his helmet. It would be cute if there wasn't an unknown substance mixed into the stuff left for him. Though he had to admit, whoever left that stuff was getting creative. From what Jason saw they rarely used the same brand of chocolates or sweets to give to him twice. Like they were trying to figure out what he liked. For a brief moment that made Jason wonder, if he actually ate one of these for once, would his admirer present him with the same brand again the next night?

He shock that thought off, no way was he going to eat something with an unknown substance in it. So instead he shoved the box at Dick. "Take that to the cave Dickibird. Gives Pretender more materials to test with."

Dick, to his credit stopped gushing for at that and chuckled. "Can do, but seriously though, what did Oracle say. Did she catch your little admirer on the security cameras at least."

Shaking his head Jason let out a sigh. "No, its like these boxes appear out of nowhere."

"Well at least they are harmless."

"For now." He grunted in response. While they didn't pose a danger, Jason didn't like the implications behind their appearances. For one no matter how much he changed up his patrol routes, these boxes would still appear. There is no video proof of someone placing the boxes. They just appear out of thin air or roofs or his path right when he comes by. If he could believe that the videos that Barbara had showed him weren't manipulated then they just appeared like a couple of seconds before he would find them.

It was suspicious and Jason was determined to find out who leaves them.

Danny hummed his latest earworm song, which happed to be Embers newest hit in the Ghost Zone, as he prepared his next offering to Red Hood. He had thought about leaving these boxes by Red Hoods Safe house during the day on his way to collage but he figured with his own history of being a hero. Secret identities were important and should not be revealed against the others wish.

This time he had gotten the expensive brand of pralines. He hoped Hood would actually like them and eat them hopefully. Danny threaded the moment he would have to try infusing ectoplasm into something other than safe sweets, chocolates and snacks that won't come alive if he didn't find something Hood would eat soon.

The Halfa was so focused on his task of infusing the pralines with ectoplasm that he did not notice the arrival of three of his old ghost rogues, until he got grapped by the collar and throw across his own appartment.

"OW! What the...?!"

"Long Time not seen Pelt." Danny blinked as Skulker stood over him, Ember and Wulf a bit further behind. Wulfs presence explained how the other two managed to show up in his place.

"What are you guys doing here?" He was so not up for a round of ghost body that could potentially destroy his flat.

"Fixing your love life." Ember grinned down at him with Wulf nodding.

"My love life...." Something was definitely wrong. Danny does not remember currently dating anyone. He also didn't have crush, well not a obvious one he thought at least. He was distinctively pushing way that fleeting image of Red Hood out of his mind.

"Yeas your love life Baby Boop." Ember reaffirmed. "Didn't the old ghosts teach you anything. You don't use the human of giving presents when you court a ghost!"

"I... what?" Danny's brain currently really had trouble catching up with what was going on.

"Pelt you need to assert yourself, fight your damn object of attention to proof your worth." Skulker added arms crossed.

"Don't worry we will help you! So you wont fail!" Ember added.

Before Danny could answer or ask what the hell they were going on about though Skulker grabbed him by the back of his collar again and promptly dragged Danny long with him flying out of his flat to who knows where. Distinctive Danny swore he heard laughing that sounded suspiciously like Lady Gotham.

"WAIT SKULKER!" The shout escaped him as his brain finally caught up but before he could go ghost and actually do something he was thrown against someone. Whoever he landed on let out a deep 'oof' that sounded distorted and Danny had a sinking feeling as he hurriedly sat up and came face to face with Red Hood.

"Aw shit...." Danny muttered instantly choosing to turn invisible and hoping that Red Hood had nod seen him long enough to get recognised, worst of all Skulker had dragged him all the way to Hoods haunt when Danny didn't even have an offering! Now he owned Hood two offerings!

"What are you doing Pelt! You are supposed to challenge for the right of courtship first! The courtship presents come later!" Skulker shouted at Danny to which while still invisible Danny choose to flip the other ghost off. Something he would have never done as teen but now that he had come to some sort of understanding with his former rogues was not rare happening, as long as Jazz wasn't there to witness it.

Meanwhile Jason was sitting utterly confused on the roof now, just a moment ago a twig of a man had landed on him and he had seen the other guy for a brief moment before he had disappeared out of nowhere again. He grumbled muttered curses and knew he would have to go though the video footage of his helmet to get a clearer picture of what or rather who had knocked him over.

But he had a feeling it was related to the boxes of sweets and chocolates.

[kenobers]

magic hands | Jason Todd x Sionis!Reader

but first free palestine !! Your regularly scheduled hook-up session with Jason Todd is rudely interrupted by the arrival of your period. As tragedy strikes, you have to ask Jason to buy you pads, perhaps throwing a curveball in your still emerging relationship. this installment comes before this one; you don't know jason is red hood in this one (not that it really matters to this particular story) tw: periods, mentions of drugging, reader having issues with acts of service, afab readera/n: i'm writing additions to this story completely out of order because i can. don't worry - you're gonna be the one comforting jason soon, just stay tuned. and if you're following me for the obi-wan content, i promise you'll also be fed soon. the sionis!reader concept was inspired by this ask on gilverrwrites' blog! In hindsight, it might've been kinda weird of me, but i couldn't get the concept out of my head. thank you to gilverr and anon! please check out their blog!

Yo

You cringe a little at your choice of words, wishing you'd thought harder before sending the text. Well actually, you cringe at the entire situation. You despise having to ask for help, but you're a little desperate.

Would you-

Too entitled.

Would you mind-

Passive aggressive.

Will-

Your phone buzzes before you can finish typing.

yo.

That was fast.

You take a deep breath. Jason was coming over anyway and it wasn't like you were in any position to have sex like you were planning to. And this constitutes as a bit of an emergency, considering you're currently sitting on a wad of toilet paper.

Can you pick me up some pads?

You hit send and drop your phone on your bed. This is so embarrassing for no reason. Jason's a good guy, he isn't going to judge you for being on your period of all things. He's not going to hold it against you if you can't have sex either.

It was just that you weren't sure your relationship was...like that. Acts of service and all that. A month ago, you wouldn't have even considered asking him to do this. But you'd been a lot more personal with one another lately. Making dinner, staying the night, being physically affectionate while your clothes were still on.

Your phone vibrates and you frantically feel for the purple case in the grey and white sheets. You'll deal with that giddy feeling later.

i don't know, can i?

Fucker, you think, glaring at your screen. You start furiously forming a response about how you aren't in the fucking mood for this when your phone buzzes again.

yeah, of course i can. need anything else? painkillers? chocolate?

You eye the empty bottle on your nightstand. Your stomach cramps painfully.

I'm out of ibuprofen

Then you consider for a moment. With a sigh, you bite back your pride. Well, if he's offering.

...and maybe some ice cream.

you got it babe.

Babe. Heat rushes to your cheeks as the corners of your mouth twitch upwards.

Ten minutes later his name flashes on your screen again, along with a photo of a wall of pads.

which kind

Damn, he was kind of good at this. A flare of jealousy burns through you at the thought of Jason doing this for some other girl. Another feeling you'll deal with later. You circled your preferred brand and send it back.

check. headed your way shawty.

After another ten minutes, the rumbling of a motorcycle echoes through your street. Nine minutes and 45 seconds later, the sound of your living room window sliding open lures you from your bed.

You fight back a goofy grin at the sight of Jason's large-than-life frame slipping through the window, two plastic bags balanced in one gloved hand. Leaning against your kitchen island, you allow yourself a second to admire the curve of his ass in those joggers.

"Hey," you greet, shivering as a gust of wind followed the man. He gives you a toothy grin, sliding the window shut. With a dramatic flourish of his arm, he presents the drugstore bag to you.

"Your essentials, m'lady."

"Oh, my hero," you giggle, taking the bag gratefully. You eye the second bag suspiciously, although the telltale red thank you print and the smell of fried rice give the contents away. "Chinese?"

"Chinese," he confirms. "And before you say anything, I was already picking it up when you texted."

You purse your lips. He was starting to know you too well. You would've said something, would've lied about how you weren't hungry. The idea that he'd already thought to do something nice for you before he even knew about your situation makes your stomach twist.

Jason takes a step closer, trapping you between him and the island. He reaches behind you to set the food on the counter, green eyes trained on your face. It's hard not to shrink below his quizzical gaze. Goosebumps cover your bicep as the leather of his jacket rubs against your bare arm.

Bastard.

"That okay, pretty girl?"

Fuck, he's handsome. He knows it too, know to flick his dark hair just so. Knows how to look at you so that any "oh, you shouldn't have" argument you can conjure up falters before it can reach your tongue. It certainly doesn't help that he's flexing the arm reaching behind you just so.

"Perfect, even," you purr, uncrossing your arms to play with his jacket zipper. "How much do I owe you?"

"Don't worry about it." You try not to roll your eyes at him, reminding yourself that you were opting to be nicer to him tonight. He is your hero after all. His hands fall to your hips, his thumbs running along the bone. "How you feeling?"

You shrug, suppressing another shiver as his pinkie pokes below the length of your shorts.

"Shitty. Like everything hurts," you answer honestly. Your lip twitches and you abandon his jacket zipper in favor of the strings of his sweatshirt.

"'m sorry we can't, y'know, do what we planned." The apology floods abruptly from your lips. "I would offer to do it anyways, but I just, I-I can't with these cramps." Your hips twinge with pain to emphasize your point. "But, I mean, I can blow you if you really want-"

"Hey."

Two fingers tilt your chin up, tough leather juxtaposing soft skin. You hadn't even realized you'd stopped looking at his face. He's smiling at you.

"Don't worry about it," he says for the second time. "Lemme make you feel better. It'll piss Roman off just as much."

You both look pointedly at the bookshelf you're fairly certain your father had hidden some sort of recording device.

"Besides," he continues with a wolfish smirk. "I've become accustomed to a certain level of performance from you and I'm not sure if I'd receive that if you're not at your peak."

"Fine, only because you insisted," you sigh. "And I'm gonna do you a favor and ignore that last part." You turn away from him, fishing the package of pads and the ibuprofen out of the drugstore bag. "I'm gonna go...yeah."

You wave the package in the air as you head for the bathroom. With your back turned, you don't catch Jason saluting you.

When you return, you notice one of the books on the shelf has been inconspicuously placed over a Wonder Woman knick knack. Part of you is relieved to know your father can't spy on you tonight. Another part of you feels a pang of anxiety knowing that means tonight is just for the two of you to enjoy each other's company. As people. Not fuckbuddies.

This is still casual. Professional, you tell yourself. It's not like he's my boyfriend.

You turn to the kitchen, where Jason is pulling plates out of a cupboard, and ignoring the smaller voice that wouldn't mind him being your boyfriend.

He hands the plates to you, letting you dish the both of you up.

Jason sidles up behind you, pressing his chest to your back. You lean into him, letting him support your weight.

"Chinese was a good call," you say. He hums in response, dipping his hands under your shirt to rub your sides. You yelp in alarm as something wet hits your skin.

"Dude! What the fuck!"

Jason backs up, holding two cream covered hands in the air. He looks apologetic enough, but still smirks at the way you glowered at him over your shoulder. It's an awful cute look when it isn't coming from behind an ugly ass skull mask.

"It's just CBD."

You spin around, pointing your spoon straight at his heart.

"CBD- what, are you trying to get me high?"

It's all Jason can do not to double over laughing. He'd take a picture if he wasn't certain you would find a way to lodge that spoon in a major artery.

His laughter has you fidgeting nervously, trying to maintain your hard stare.

"Don't laugh at me."

To his credit, he stops almost immediately. He straightens his posture and gestures to a small round container on the counter.

"It's just a lotion. Helps with joint pain, I use it all the time. I thought it might help with cramps."

You blink. That was...incredibly thoughtful of him.

"Oh."

You turn back to the food, continuing your task sheepishly. All you ever do in front of this man is embarrass yourself. And orgasm.

He creeps back to his spot cautiously. You glance over your shoulder, briefly meeting his eyes.

"You can...continue," you tell him, your tone much softer now. He presses a kiss to the exposed junction of your neck and slides his hands back under your shirt.

It does feel nice to have him massage the cool lotion into your aching body. His fingers seem to know exactly where to go, undoing the built up tension and leaving a light buzz in its place.

"I'm sorry I snapped like that," you whisper. "I overheard some of my dad's idiots talking about some kind of lube that's infused with LSD or something. Apparently it's becoming a popular method for people to get what they want so...little on edge."

After a moment, Jason speaks again, "I wouldn't drug you like that, you know."

"What, topically?" You scoff, dividing the orange chicken equally.

"Without your consent."

You pause. You suppose you hadn't given much thought to how much Jason respected you in that regard. To be fair, you'd never really been around men that respected you at all.

"Well, that's good to know." It's not the most sensitive response, but you're sudden determined to move on from the conversation before you start oversharing. "Let's eat, big guy."

After dinner, Jason applies the lotion again. This time, you're sat on the couch between his legs as he drives the stuff into a knot on your hip. The TV drones with some black comedy series the two of you have been watching at the recommendation of one of his brothers.

"Do you get a lot of joint pain?" You ask suddenly, looking back at him. He doesn't tear his eyes away from the screen.

"Huh?"

"You said you use it a lot on your joints. Do you get a lot of joint pain?" Now he looks at you, one slit eyebrow raised. For a moment you watch him try to remember when he told you that. Then he smirks, a silly view from upside down.

"I do whenever you get through with me," he says, his chest vibrating under you. You give him a look. "Sometimes after the gym, yeah."

You're not quite sure you believe him, but you let it slide, turning back to the TV in time to see your least favorite character earn a smack to the face.

"It was nice of you to bring it."

"'s helping?"

"Mmh," You sigh as he works a particularly tough spot. Your relief is short lived however as the small of your back cramps up. A small gasp escapes you and you squirm and swear in Jason's arms.

He pauses his work on your hips.

"Where's it hurt?"

"Back," you whimper, turning over so he can get to it. He obliges immediately, rubbing the butt of his palm into the sore spot. You groan into his chest, melting beneath his magic hands. "The fuck did I ever manage this shit before you."

He snorts, "very bravely, I'm sure."

You smile at his answer. Clever boy. You reward him with a kiss, pleased when he returns it in kind. His hand doesn't stop its work on your back as his soft lips move gently with your own.

"You sure you don't want a blowjob?" you murmur against his mouth.

Jason nods, giving you another chaste kiss before pulling away. "You're in pain, sweetheart. Let yourself rest."

He moves his lips to your ear, lowering his voice.

"Now, how about that ice cream, hm?"

Absolute professional.

[dumbkid4ever]

It's Not Your Fault

Kinich x reader! In which:

Your boyfriend comes home from work and the first sentence he told you was "somebody kissed me today."

1,747 words 9,461 characters

It was almost midnight, the time your boyfriend told you he'd come home. Like many other times when he had to work till late, you sat on the couch with a lamp illuminating the book in your hands so that you can tell the letters apart. The plot wasn't particularly interesting, but the characters were relatable and pretty well written.

Just as you were getting to the climax of the story, you heard the sound of the door unlocking. Without hesitation, you put down your book (after placing a bookmark betweent the pages of course) and leaped towards the front entrance to welcome your beloved home. Barely did the door open when you had already thrown yourself at the figure before you.

"Honey! Welcome home," you grinned, nuzzling your cheek into the crook of his neck. Usually he would've greeted you back by now, but all you got was an arm weakly patting against your back. Noticing this, you stepped back to see what was up.

"Kinich? You alright?" you asked worriedly. His face was a few shades paler than you remember, his eyes didn't meet yours and he kept opening and closing his mouth. Something was clearly wrong.

After a while of silence, he seemed to have found his words again. Monotonously, he uttered the following words.

"Somebody kissed me today."

In an instant, it felt as if a cold bucket of water was dumped onto you, rendering you speechless for a moment. However, it wouldn't have mattered if you could speak or not, for he was not done yet.

"I made it clear that I had a lover already, but she didn't listen and while I was occupied with something else she just did it," he explained calmly and shortly. If you had not been with him for so long, you might've misunderstood his calm as apathy, his sparse amount of words as him trying to brush it off as nothing and his unwillingness to look at you as disrespect.

But you had been with him for this long. You knew that rather than being calm, it was him struggling to express his emotions, instead of trying to downplay the situation he was just being extra blunt under stress and it wasn't that he doesn't think you're not important enough to be looked at while talking, he just didn't know how to look at you anymore.

"I- I thought I'd tell you before any misunderstanding happens. I'm pretty sure there were no witnesses but just in case someone tries to tell you anything I wanted to tell you and well I... I..."

The panic he felt was evident to you. It's hard not to see with his eyes frantically darting from furniture to furniture, his hands clenching and unclenching again, his breath going in and out at a faster pace than the one that had the power to lull you to sleep. There came a point where you couldn't bear seeing him like this anymore.

"Kinich," you called out. He stopped every movement, so did his heart for a second. "Kinich, look at me."

Only then did he finally meet your gaze. Vibrant yellows, greens and a bit of orange. How you adored his eyes, even now as his pupils dilated and tears threatening to roll down his pretty face. Slowly, as to not scare him, you opened your arms invitingly.

Immediately he moved into the safety of your embrace, wrapping around you and burying his face into your shoulder. Not long after, you felt his body quiver as soft sniffles sounded next to your ear.

"It's alright. It's not your fault, so don't you worry. It's all gonna be fine," you whispered soothingly, hoping to relieve him of the burden as much as you can, even though you yourself weren't so thrilled to hear about it.

"But I-," he was interrupted by a rather quiet hiccup, a skill he mastered at 5, "I could've stopped it. It would've been so easy."

"Don't put the blame on yourself, you were doing something else, weren't you? She exploited that and did something you have made clear was taboo. You can't be at fault for this."

Although your words made sense to him logically, and he himself already knew this on his way back home, he couldn't convince his feelings that you were speaking the truth. They kept telling him that you were only saying this so that he'd calm down and let his guard down, so that you could leave while he was in a faux sense of safety. The mixture of shame, guilt and fear was crushing him.

He hated everything about the current situation, even the heat radiating off of you. He hated how weak he felt, how his emotions were so overwhelming, how his mind won't just accept the logical truth, how he dared to doubt your words, how he had the audacity to seek comfort in your embrace despite said doubts and what he had done.

Why were you being so lenient, why were you being gentle with him when he had betrayed you? What will be the price for this? Both the betrayal from his side and the leniency you showed meant that he was now indebted to you, by a lot in fact. How will this debt be payed? There was only one possibility in his mind and the thought of it sent whatever was left of his rationale went flying out the window.

The hold he had on you tightened. His fingers dug into the side of your arms, making you wince a bit but you didn't let go of him. Memories flashed before him, terror had his heart in a grip like it's trying to suffocate him and fear flooded his mind, drowning out all thoughts.

"Please, oh please don't..."

He let out a shaky breath.

"Please, don't leave me, I'll do whatever it takes to make up for it but please, I beg of you and I promise I'll be enough, I'll do enough, just please don't go away, I'll be good, really..."

The boy's rambling continued, repeating words like a prayer, but it was so quiet you barely heard him, despite your ear being right beside him. The speed at which the words spilled out of his mouth made the words even more intelligible, but you realized where his mind was at as soon as you understood "leave."

"Hey, hey, no. I'm not gonna leave you, you don't have to pay me anything. One only has to pay when they gain something in return, but you didn't gain anything from that kiss, right?"

Your voice cracked a bit at the end, the thought of Kinich liking the kiss of someone else stinged like a needle. To your slight reassurance, he nodded into your shoulder.

"Then you don't have to pay for anything. See? I'll stay, there's nowhere else I'd want to be more than with you, I'm not going anywhere."

"But I broke our promise and hurt your trust, I should compensate for it, I have to," he continued to argue, as if trying hard to not let you convince him.

"Nonsense, you didn't do anything to me, it was that... person, who did you wrong." As an attempt to ground him back into reality, you tangled your fingers into his hair and rubbed his scalp softly. That always calmed him down, and though this time was no exception, the effect was less than usual.

"The fact that I told you already counts as hurting you. I know you're hurt by this," he retorted, now less hysteric, and you knew that he wasn't all that wrong. But still, you continued talking him out of his worries.

"A misunderstanding would've done more damage to me, telling me right away was the safest option and the one with the least damage potential. You made the choice that has the least cons for me."

Finally, he had nothing to argue with and the room fell still. Talking about pros and cons of choices may seem odd, and you would've found it very odd, had you heard this conversation a few years ago, but throughout your time together you had learnt that this was just the way Kinich was able to receive comfort. He couldn't accept simple, genuine things in relationships without paying something back, that was just what he had learnt from his childhood. Nothing comes without a price, so when someone claims something to be free, he can only face it with suspicion and disbelief.

"I won't leave you, ever. You're the only I love, the only one I trust so much and I know you only have my best interests in mind. Just your existence is enough and what you do for me, well it's more than I could ever hope to receive from a person," you spoke with a hushed tone and stepped away from the hug. The corners of his eyes were reddened and a bit of snot ran down his nose, but he looked as beautiful as ever. Delicately, you took both his hands and entertwined his slender digits in your own.

"There are more reasons to stay with you than I can count on both our fingers, you know? In contrast, I see none why I should leave. Well, aside from Ajaw, he's the only thing tainting my time with you. On the other hand though, I must say, seeing you bicker is quite entertaining," you laughed light-heartedly. To that, he smiled a little.

"Thank you," he murmured and leaned in for a kiss, one you gently returned. It didn't last very long, nor was it particularly passionate, but it expressed everything he wanted to tell you and you understood everything that he said.

"Should we go to sleep now? I'm sure you're tired from all the work. Come on, go get yourself ready for bed, I'll be waiting," you urged him, getting a hum of agreement in return. Content with that, you went to fetch your book, that was still on the couch, and stepped towards your shared bedroom.

Not long after, Kinich entered the room as well, still rubbing his hair with a towel. You were already under the blanket, watching him change into his pajamas and eventually lay down beside you. Wordlessly, he slid his limbs around your midrift and you cradled his head, which was pressed up against your chest. Your legs tangled together until neither of you knew where he started and where you ended. At last you peacefully drifted to sleep, aware that the other is always beside you.

Legit woke up in the middle of the night to write this, knowing full well I had school the next day, all because the idea came to me. Well anyways hope you enjoyed and have a pleasant day or night.