#paper bird

[itstopplingdomino]

paper bird | fred weasley x reader

In which Fred Experimentalist Weasley convinces you to test his products and you, owed him a debt, reluctantly agrees. You don't get along with him but being in his debt is more irritating than his presence. Well, it's just testing products.. then he'll be out of your sight.

tags: gn!reader (usage of 'you' instead of specific pronouns), usage of pet/nicknames, strong language/cursing, potion mishaps, light angst, developing friendships.

"Ugh! What did you put in that? That tasted disgusting! " You cover your mouth, trying to suppress a gag. A moment ago you downed a bright yellow potion that is supposed to make you incapable of uttering any negative words; supposedly your subconscious will replace it with a nicer version of it.

Clearly it is not working.

"Another failure.." Fred says as he hovers over the cauldron. He takes the quill that's tucked neatly behind hIs ears and began to jot down something on his book. He mutters absentmindedly, "I wonder if I put too much Troll's snot-"

"YOU PUT WHAT?!"

You stand rigidly with your hands in fists, true disgust creeping up your spine as you watch the red-head idiot pretends he didn't just make you drink something awful.

But as he turns away, you could see his shoulder shakes.

This little shite.

He turns around wearing a shit-eating grin, taking in your red face and goosebumps along your arms with delight.

"Come on, I'll lose customers if I use ingredients like that." He says with a shrug.

You roll your eyes in chagrin. Ohh, one of these days he's going to get it.

"Whatever. Consider the debt's paid, Weasley. I've drank three potions, ate fifteen different pastries, and swallowed a pill. I am surprised I haven't vomited once the past two hours. What with your inventions tastes extremely-" You felt a hiccup coming but didn't quite release it.

Horrible.

"-unique." Huh? You try again, "I mean, tastes extremely-" Another rising hiccup that didn't pass. "-interesting."

You stand by the desk, confused, head tilted to the side as your eyebrow knits downward.

Fred looks up, eyes sparkling brighter than a muggle's fireworks. He ran to you and shakes you by the shoulder, "IT WORKS!"

Fuck. Great.

"How wonderful." You spat. Though the potion's effect makes your tone sounds sweet as if you are as happy as the creator of this potion. You shrug off his gripping hands. "How long will the effect last?"

Fred takes his book, forgotten for a moment on the floor, and flips through the pages. "Hm.. about an hour or two? Frankly I'm not sure," He shuts the book, a smug smile plastered on his face. "But that's what you're here for. I'll hang around you until the effect disappears."

"What? Not sure? It's your-" damn "-potion!" You hissed, yet again the potion's effect ensures your tone as soft as fwooper feather pillows.

"To be fair, you agreed to test it out. That includes finding out how long the effect lasts.." Fred raises his hands in surrender.

"Ugh. Fine." You say with the 'Ugh' sounding a little too close to Aww.

ꕀ ꕀ ꕀ

Gossiping has never been an interest of yours. There isn't anything worthwhile listening to anyway. All rumours bred from the same genre; romance - who's seeing whom, who had their heartbroken by whom, who's the most eligible dating partner, who's the most eligible sleeping partner, and the list goes on..

As you are stuck with the older Weasley twin, his younger twin (the one you could tolerate better) inconveniently away, you are drag into Fred Weasley's social life.

Which basically consists of bro-ly greeting between his quidditch mates, extorting money teasing the younger students and generally being friendly to everyone else.. Well, obnoxious Slytherins aside.

That's why currently you stand awkwardly behind him as he sips the latest 'dating theory', as he calls it, from three Gryffindor girls whose name you don't know - two blondes and one black-haired. Pretty sure they shares some classes as you but none of them ever exchange greetings with you and you aren't exactly the social butterfly of your year.

Obviously that title belongs to Fred Weasley.

"So.." Blonde One begins, "Who will you ask out this time..? I'm free for a night. I'm sure Andrew won't mind.."

Ah.. it's like that, huh.

Her friend, Blonde Two, lightly shove her. "You're terrible. How about me, Freddie? I learnt tricks from a scandalous muggle book. It doesn't have to be serious.."

The three of them giggles now. Quite honestly the sound is sickening. Personally what people get up to in their own time is no business of yours, like how some needs requires satisfaction, but you rather be spared from the details- and the proposition of it.

"Honoured, truly." Fred lets out a chuckle, albeit you could hear the slight waver at the end. Whether it's from nervousness at the prospect of potential three way, or the uncomfortableness of it, you can't tell. He continues, a bowing a little, feigning chivalry. "But you know I have rules; no taken ones and certainly no one my dear friend fancies."

"Ugh, if only Lee knows when to shut up.." She sighs.

Then Fred gives them an excuse, something about meeting Professor McGonagall for transfiguration assignment; which you actually knows he had finished and submitted the hour before you two met.

So he's uncomfortable. Interesting.

Once you two are far enough from prying ears and eyes, you ask him. "Why did you lie?"

He plays pretend.

You ask him again, with a little push. "You could just reject them, you know. What, you're afraid of hurting their feelings?"

He ignores you, choosing to point out the owls that flew outside.

Another push.

"Or did you actually want to do it with them both but couldn't agree because I'm there?"

Fred stops in his track and looks at you. His lips stretches into a false grin. Fake smiles eerily settles on his face. "How low do you think of me?"

"It was never high, Weasley."

You continue to walk past him, he follows suit.

"Alright, I'll bite." He says, falling into step with you. "The only image I care about is being the best prankster Hogwarts has ever seen. Having a threesome is no-way helpful in achieving that."

You bark out a laugh. "Please, Weasley. I think you and your twin have done enough to leave a lasting imprint as mischievous-" sods "-duo."

A groan escapes you which fuels joy for Fred. "So the potion still works.."

It's been an hour, you note.

"You know, you're a good company when you don't swear as much."

"Bold of you to assume that I want to be a good company to you in the first place."

Fred stays silent for several beats, then he stops in his tracks again forcing you to shift around to look at him when he didn't continue following you.

"I've been wondering.. what exactly do you find displeasing about me? You seem to talk to George normally. I actually didn't believe him when he said you didn't curse once at him until I saw it myself."

"Are you.. sulking..?"

Fred looks away and back. "Humour me."

"I'm not one for jokes-"

He whispers your first name in a pleading tone. The tone didn't catch you off-guard, you'd seen him use it playfully during his interactions with other students, it's the fact he uses your first name - generally preferring ill-suited nicknames he deems worthy like dear, sweetheart, and crassy (usually when you throw a lot of curses at him than usual).

It is probably the first time he ever calls you that.

You sigh, "Remember third year? You and your brother pranked me."

"Yeah, we jinxed a paper bird to peck at you. And what? You hold a grudge since then..?"

"No," You say firmly, moving to close the gap. "The pecking as annoying as it is isn't the reason. It's what happen because of the prank."

Closer now.

"That paper bird attracts the attention of a stray falcon, gods knows how it was there, and dove in to hunt it. Subsequently, attacking me too."

Fred eyes widens, "I remember.. George said you got into the Hospital wing for that. But they say you were fine?"

"I don't know where you got that information but I was in the hospital wing for the entire weekend."

A beat.

"George visited twice each day. He even brought some sweets from honeydukes and all. And you? You were nowhere. Even when I saw you in the next class, you didn't apologise. Merlin were you-" heartless "-indifferent."

He stays silent.

"Whatever. I don't resent you at all, especially not for the falcon - nobody knew it'll end up that way. But the way you act like it didn't matter if a falcon pokes out my eyes were infuriating. I just couldn't help but get angry looking at your stupid face."

Fred opens his mouth to say something but the realisation of the potion's effect no longer taking place jumps into you faster than he could get the words out so you speak first, "It's gone."

You touch your lips as if you could feel the effect physically fall off. "Fuck you," You tested, smiling at the success. "Yes! Thank fuck! Right, see you never then, Weasley."

Then you turn in your heels, speeding towards your common room. Fred remain stuck his spot as if you just casted a stunning spell on him.

Gears turning in his head and instead of the usual product ideas, he's thinking of something entirely different. He hears the door behind him opens and see a couple of first years ducking into the corridor now. He moves towards the door as he recalls back.

It amuses him that you never fall for his charms. Certainly there are others that don't, too, but that usually comes from house prejudices or blood status thing and typically if he's disliked so does George. It only piques his interest further than you laugh and smile, genuinely so, around his younger twin but rarely him.

At one point he did aim to find out, and found out he did. He isn't eased at all by the discovery of your animosity towards him. The real reason hits him harder than any bludger he took during Quidditch practices and actual matches.

Guilt trickles down and slowly enveloping him.

He groans audibly, surprising the first years that are passing by.

He looks at them with a half-smile.

Fred Weasley knows many sees him as a good friend, he's been made aware more than a couple occasions. Your crassness didn't bother him then.

But now?

Now he wants you to see him as one too.

Let's start with an apology.

--- A/N: There will be part two...

[kaibacorpintern]

graveyard shift

summary: jounouchi’s last day as a domino daily paperboy.

word count: 1.7k | rating: T

a/n: happy birthday jounouchi. let’s call this a tone poem. huge thank you to @danieco who has made me flex my previously unused jounouchi muscle more than i ever have before. anyway i love that jounouchi is a paperboy so i’m taking it away? oops. post-canon, pre-DSOD.

***

DOMINO DAILY TO BE SOLD TO KAIBA CORPORATION

The Domino Newsgroup agreed Friday to sell its flagship newspaper to Kaiba Corporation, ending the Yamato family’s stewardship of Domino's leading news organization after seven generations. In a statement by Kaiba Corporation's chief executive officer, Kaiba Seto…

Jounouchi stopped reading after that part. That was four weeks ago.

Sometime around 3 AM every morning, Domino went down like a boxer in the fourth round with secret instructions to throw the fight: taking one terrific punch and staggering backwards, toppling onto the mat with a resounding thud. All the snarling, seething bluster and frothing muscle came to a cold, dead stop. Really selling it. No doubt about it. This guy’s not getting back up, and all the money goes into all the right pockets.

Well, of course he does, later, to fight and lose another day, but that wasn’t the point. The point was that Jounouchi’s alarm went off at 3 AM, less than halfway through his dad’s graveyard shift at the 24-hour parking garage, and by 3:30 he was at the printing warehouse, teeth chattering, and by 3:41 he was on his route, zipping through the limp, massive body of the city on his bike with the basket full of rolled-up newspapers, and by 3:58, Jounouchi felt like he was the only person in the world, his face washed and cold.

Yuugi was at home, asleep. Honda was at home, asleep. Anzu was at home, asleep. His dad was at work, awake. Who the fuck cared where Hirutani and the other Rintama guys were. Passed out in a karaoke room, probably. Everyone was right where they belonged. It was a nice feeling. The streetlights watched him pass without really seeing him, like big, blind, unblinking eyes, and the only dents he made in the world were the thumps of his good aim and the relentless tikatikatik static of his spoke card. 

It used to be the king of hearts from one of his dad’s decks of cards. Now it was a spare Scapegoat. Once he got home he was going to throw it out, probably. It was too battered to be used in a duel. Or he’d just stick it in his wallet and throw it down when the check came, for a laugh. 

Jounouchi finished his first neighborhood and flew down the freeway underpass to his second neighborhood, feeling like a dark little bird, swooping down streets and rollercoastering around corners like he had wings instead of wheels. It felt cooler and sleeker without the dorky-ass helmet, but Honda had bought it for him and thunked it on his head when he tried to turn it down, thumping his fist pointedly on the hard white plastic. I don’t wanna scoop your brains off the sidewalk, you moron! So he wore it.

The route kept getting shorter and faster. People kept canceling their subscriptions or moving to online-only, and then Kaiba Corporation had swept in, made an assessment of all the costs and assets and stuff, and said no more paperboys, especially paperboys getting paid under the table because you’re not eighteen yet (but we’ll take you anyway because it’s a good, wholesome job for good, wholesome boys. Keeps you off the streets or whatever. Right.) And that was the end of this.

Jounouchi doubted Kaiba had anything to do with the decision. He was that far gone from normal people life. Like, he’d probably told some guy wearing a tie to buy the paper (the whole paper), who told some other guy also wearing a tie to figure out where all the dead weight was, and that guy told a THIRD guy, no tie this time, to let go of all the paperboys. And then it was the warehouse manager who did the dirty work. We’re switching to a more efficient distribution model, yaaaadda yadda yadda. Did Kaiba even know newspapers still had paperboys? Fucker. What the hell was Jounouchi supposed to do now? 

He didn’t even listen to music on his route. All the music felt fake compared to the perfect silence of Domino right before dawn, like the songs knew they couldn’t compete with the mountainous silence, so they didn’t even try. All the hot, sweating rock ballads and squealing guitar riffs and growling canine basslines just fizzled out of his tinny headphones and died. To be fair: his headphones sucked ass. But honestly, there was nothing wrong with spending some time alone with your thoughts at 5 AM, sweating under your jacket and kissing up to the broken vending machine in the alley so that it popped out a Gatorade, on the house just for you, handsome. 

At this dark blue hour, there was no need to throw elbows on the dance floor. He didn’t have to prove he was good enough to hang. He could just be, awake and alone, set free and swift on the street, thinking about Atem. 

And everyone else, of course.

But Atem, a lot of the time. 

By day it was embarrassing to feel so cut up about it. Excusing yourself from math class to go have a quiet little moment by yourself on the roof and then Mr. Takenaka finds you and you’re just standing there sniffling and nose-dripping for no reason you can explain without sounding insane, staring at your sneakers while he’s like, “don’t you have any pride? Aren’t you too old to be cutting class?” And you really wish you could tell him to fuck off, can’t a guy have a quiet little moment by himself once in a while? Can’t I take a break from being the toughest guy around? But you don’t, and when you get back to your seat Honda and Anzu both give you the look, the concerned look, and Yuugi is still staring out the window, just like he was when you got up and left. Clouds drifting across his eyes.

By night it was easier. Jounouchi threw a newspaper. It hit the door - thump - and bounced to the front step - thump number two. It was just easier to feel sad at night. It just flowed through him like a river. But just before dawn, specifically - which was still part of night, but wasn’t sunset, or midnight, or 2 AM, which all had their own special flavors, adrenaline and bravado and anxiety, all of which Jounouchi had tasted before - it was also easier to feel hopeful, less dragged down by all of your dad’s bullshit. And everyone else’s bullshit, but mostly his. Atem had left, but Atem had gone home. And it was nice to know that when everything was over, and you don’t have any more games left, you just went home, and everyone who ever thought you were something special is there, waiting for you with open arms. That also made it easier.

He’d never feel like that on the bus, or the arcade, or in class, with a million other distractions pelting him from all sides. It only happened at this hour, when he had space to think about it, and the hour was ending. Morning was close at hand. The sky was glowing with distant light and the street lights were starting to turn off, one by one. Jounouchi threw another newspaper, the thick forest of newspapers in his basket cut down to half a dozen tilting trunks, tied up in rubber bands in a rainbow of colors. 

When his basket was empty, he went east and then north, instead of just north, and took the scenic route along the waterfront, pedaling without hands, just because he could. The trees in the parks still held darkness like a sponge, thick and laden with it. Nothing had shadows yet. The streets were starting to leak cars, drip by drip. He usually got home before it all started to gush.

But not today. Jounouchi stopped on the bridge over the river where it met the ocean, a structure like a hollowed-out mountain range, its cables and suspenders making sharp peaks that swooped away to the riverbanks. A blue cloudbank sat atop the ocean horizon, softer and fluffier than merengue, and atop that sat a luminous, wispy peach sky. He ferreted his pack out of his jacket pocket, tapped out a slim, crisp cigarette, and lit his first and only smoke of the day, taking a slow, indulgent drag. The hit shivered through him, hot and minty at the same time, and he slouched over the railing, watching the river run backwards. The tide was coming in. 

He could keep waking up early, probably. Roll out of bed at ass o’clock in the morning for a bike ride through Domino. Keep the hour secret, like a penny in his pocket, something to rub for extra luck. But then it really wouldn’t work that great as an excuse anymore, and his dad read the newspapers too, and he knew he was losing the job. Sorry Dad, can’t do it, I’m going to bed, I gotta wake up in six hours - what the hell for? Just to fuck around? No dice. 

The cigarette burned a bright cherry red, brighter and hotter than anything else in sight: the parks, the ocean, asphalt. He flicked the butt. A clump of ash burst off the tip of the cigarette, flaking away. He tried to follow the ashes as long as he could but the vastness of the air absorbed them in seconds, tiny white flakes vanishing and winking away to nothing over the shallow, shining waters. Smoking was more just something to do with his hands than anything else. Another excuse to steal a moment from the day and think. He knew he had to stop, though.

Fuck! He was running out of excuses. 

He wanted to bring someone else out here to enjoy this with him, maybe - Honda or Anzu. Yuugi, probably. Coax a smile out of that distant, dreamy look. Check it out! Isn’t this nice? Don’t you feel refreshed? Alive? Like anything could happen today?

He sighed, smoke feathering in the brisk air.

“Hope you’re getting good sunrises in paradise, buddy,” he said. “Can’t be better than this one, though.”

The light kept rising. 

He smoked through the rest of the cigarette, cut the taste with the rest of the Gatorade. Not the best combo. But also not the worst.

Then he got back on his bike and went home, for one more hour of sleep before school. No one was waiting for him with open arms - he knew that already. But everything wasn’t over yet. The day was only just starting.

[thiswasinevitableid]

if you're in the mood for requests i would absolutely LOVE something from the hidebehind au? (maybe including blindfold sex??)

Here you go! I decided to do this for monster march. We’ll figure this counts as prompt 18: claws.

All things considered, Duck is lucky. He’s employed which, given when the newspapers are calling the great depression raging across the country, is a blessing. His days are spent among the mighty trees of the Pacific Coast, he has a small cabin all to himself, and a cat to keep the mice away. 

He just wishes he wasn’t working for a fucking logging company hundreds of miles away from anyone he’s ever known. 

Winthrop Logging needed someone with an arborist or botanists training to make sure the woods stayed healthy before they were chopped down. So they pay Duck a fine sum to make sure diseases or pests don’t send their prospects toppling like dominos. As he traverses his usual route between the trees, he wonders if there will ever be a way to convince them to preserve some of the land rather than profit from it. 

He stops, studying a pine. There it is again, the feeling that someone, or something, is behind him. Watching. Waiting. 

It started three weeks ago, when he was deeper in the woods than usual, humming to himself and occasionally talking to the trees. The skin on his neck prickled, all his senses forcing him from his thoughts and into the present moment; something was there, tracking him as he moved. Not a bear, our a cougar, as the birds still called and the insects chorused. Whatever it was stood directly behind him, yet when he turned to look, there was nothing but the path. 

For the first few days he tried to spot it, never got more than a flicker in the corner of his eye. He came home exhausted, the day spent on high alert as the primal part of his mind demanded he remain on guard for the moment his hunter decided to strike. 

The moment hasn’t come, and Duck is growing used to the gaze crawling up his spine. He decided to ignore it, pretend it was just his imagination and some days that worked. 

Today, there’s no getting around the fact that something is peering over his shoulder. Twice now he’s felt fingers millimeters from his neck. When he feels them again, he reaches his arm back, eyes firmly on his notes, and grabs hold of his stalker.

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

Humans are not known for their speed. Indrid’s foresight showed this one as no exception, so when the man is fast enough to grab his leg, he chirps in surprise. 

“Fuckin knew it, there is someone back there.” Warm fingers smooth across the short down of his leg.

Indrid appreciates being called a someone instead of a thing, but not the position of Duck’s hand. 

“Please let go. That is my thigh you are grabbing. My upper thigh.”

The hand stays put, “Anyone ever tell you it’s mighty rude to stand right behind a fella when he’s tryin to work?”

“I cannot stand anywhere else, though the proximity is due to-”

“Uh huh, sure, just like you can’t help but play and hide and seek whenever I try to figure out what’s goin on. Lemme guess, you’re one of the other fellas from the loggin camp playin tricks on the new guy?”

“I am nothing of the kind.” Indrid contemplates moving the hand himself, but it feels so very nice.

“One of the locals then? I keep tellin you, I’m a country boy, I’m not gonna get scared by campfire tales or weird noises in the woods. Try that government fella instead.”

“What about the part of me you are touching suggests I am human?”

“Probably a left-over monkey suit or somethin’ from Halloween.”

“I am not a costume, I am a Hidebehind.”

The human pauses, then shakes his head, “No such thing.”

“You are literally touching one.” Indrid stamps his foot, frustrated by the turn this is taking and the fact that futures do not show the human believing him any time soon. 

“Don’t believe I am.” The human turns his head. Indrid’s body whips sideways, keeping him from view. The human holds on, tries again from the opposite direction, only for Indrid to be wrenched back the way he came. 

“Stop movin!”

“Stop trying to look at me!” He’s twisted to the side once more, wrenching the humans arm in the process. 

“Ow!” The grip on him tightens, “quit this fuckin game right now. You don’t lemme see you, I’ll drag you right back to camp with me.”

“I can’t!” Indrid chirps, panicked, the noise continuing into a wail of alarm at what might happen if he’s surrounded with nowhere to hide. 

His fear must register as genuine, as the human releases him with a sigh. After a moment he removes his hat, running his fingers through his hair but not turning around. 

“You still there?” 

“Yes.”

“Why are you even followin me in the first place?”

A peek at the futures says the truth will be most effective, though almost all timelines end with the human telling him to “get gone.”

“I find you intriguing. You do not chop or hack at my home, you study it. You speak to the trees when you think you are alone. You look soft to touch, especially the fur on your head. I like looking at you and being near you. That was why I stood so close.”

“...You been followin me because you’re sweet on me?” The drawl, as soothing as movement of water through plant limbs, seems confused. 

“I do not find you sweet. I could only do that if I ate you. Which I do not want to do.

A chuckle, “Not quite what I meant. You been hangin around me because you think I’m swell and wanna get to know me. Guess I can’t fault you for that, I'm a decent fella to know if I do say so myself.  You got a name?”

“Indrid.” This is an unexpected turn of the timelines. 

“Nice to meet you, Indrid. I’m-”

“-Duck” Indrid says along with him, “apologies, I can see the future and am thus a bit ahead in conversations.”

“Huh. Well, I gotta head back to town. If you wanna talk again, I won’t mind. Just tell me you want to instead of lurkin, you hear?”

Indrid grins, “Yes. I hear you perfectly.”

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

“Fuck” Duck picks himself up from the dirt where he fell, brushing pine needles from his coat. He’d been angling for a better look at a set of roots and tripped over a different set in the process. 

“Are you alright?” A now familiar voice asks from behind a tree to his left. 

“Depends. You see me make a fool of myself by fallin on my face?”

“Yes.”

“Then my body is fine but my dignity is real wounded.”

A laugh like spring breeze through new leaves, “I suspect it will recover. You do have quite a deal of leaves in your hair. May I help you with them?”

Duck nods. Slender fingers pluck at his hair.

“Ohhh, it is just as soft as I thought it would be.” Indrid murmurs, “does it feel nice?”

“Don’t feel like much--oh, uh, fuck, that does though. Feels damn good.” Duck groans as claws scritch his scalp. The first time he felt them on his shoulder when Indrid was talking, he tensed; The hidebehind isn’t small, and the claws suggest he could shred Duck to bits and scatter him across the woods. But after weeks of keeping him company, Duck knows the worst Indrid might do to him is steal too much of his lunch. 

The hidebehind, endlessly fascinated by Duck’s job, will sit out of sight as he works. Duck asked him if he only watched Duck the entire time. It turns out the creature draws as well, and Duck now recognizes the sound of a pencil under the rustle of leaves and calls of wildlife. Indrid also spares Duck dangerous climbs into the trees, offering to look at marks or discoloration and describe them if they’re too high for the human to see. 

Turns out he also gives a mean rubdown, his claws moving from Duck’s head to his neck, banishing the knot that’s been bothering him all morning. 

“I like touching you.” Indrid chirps. Duck hasn’t forgotten their first meeting; if a man had come to him with such flattering shyness in his voice and an interest in Ducks body, he’d have been in Duck’s bed by the end of the night. 

He’s not ready to take a hidebehind home, but he’s ready to tease one.

“Seems mighty unfair that you get to touch and I don’t.”

“You would have to close your eyes to so much as shake my hand. My form does not care how little of me you would see, it will pull me into hiding regardless.”

“Then I’ll close my eyes.” Duck does just that, tips his head back so Indrid can see it’s safe. One hand continues massaging his head, while a spindly arm reaches around his chest.

“Bring your arms up, towards you a bit more, yes, there we are.” 

Duck runs his hands over the limb; it reminds him of Manzanita bark he saw in the Sierra Nevadas, smooth but unmistakably of the woods. Towards the elbow the texture changes to soft, short feathers, like the ones on Indrids leg. 

The hidebehind tightens his hold, pulling Duck to his torso. More feathers prickle the back of his neck and the creature shudders. 

“You alright back there?”

“I...it has been so very long since anyone or anything touched me. I foresaw my body being sensitive to it but the intensity is, is-” he lets go so suddenly Duck stumbles, “I am sorry, it was too much and yet I wanted, wanted more.”

Images of Indrid surrounding him, chirping and purring as Duck touches him all over, flood his mind. The embarrassment in his voice keeps the arborist from acting on them. 

“You, uh, gonna show me that Saw-Whet Owl nest?”

“Of course, sweet human. Take the right fork of that deer trail just ahead, and we shall go from there.”

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

“I have something for you. Close your eyes.” 

Duck, still perching on the stump he was using as a lunch chair, does as instructed. Indrid sets a piece of paper in his right hand. 

“You may now look.”

An illustration fills the entire page. It shows a being with stick-like arms and legs leading to a narrow body covered in short, leaf shaped feathers in mottled browns and greens. The face is angular, shaded to suggest it’s dusted with fuzz, and leads to several stick-shaped horns. The eyes are wide and black, the claws long, and there are short, triangular shapes behind its shoulders. 

“Holy fuck, you’ve got wings?”

“Indeed. I do not use them much. I believe they help my kind migrate when our habitats dwindle.”

Duck traces the face on the paper, “How long did it take you to make this?”

“Two days, as the lakes I use to study my reflection tend to attract townspeople and loggers looking to take a break from their toil.”

“You did all this just ‘cause I said I wished I knew what you looked like.”

“Not solely. I...I wanted to show you it as well. So you might know the face of the one who, ah, whose days you brighten.”

Carefully, Duck folds the portrait and tucks it into the inside pocket of his coat, “Find I like my work even better with your company too, ‘Drid. Would you, uh, be okay if I tried to match what you showed me to what I can feel?”

An intrigued chirr floats through the air as Duck shuts his eyes and waves to the ground in front of him. A scuff and rustle of dirt and leaves, and then he feels Indrid in front of him. Cool hands guide his own onto the multicolored feathers.

“Shoulders?”

“Correct.” Indrid moves their joined hands upwards, stopping on velvet-dusted cheeks, “oh, oh goodness, I have always wanted to be held like this.”

“Yeah?” Duck’s heartbeat is in his fingertips, “what else have you always wanted?”

“To, to be touched, to be known, toMMMphohh” a rough tongue laps at his lips as he pulls Indrid into an awkward, bowed kiss. 

“How’s that, darlin?” Duck kisses along what he thinks is Indrids’ jaw, “that the kind of knowin’ you in the mood for?”

“Yes, oh my sweet human you spoil me, oh” claws grab his shoulders, “I, do you really wish this, with me? This was in so few timelines I assumedAH” he squirms adorably as Duck gropes the feathers of his chest.

“You better believe it, sugar. It’s the weirdest goddamn thing I ever wanted and I want it, want you, more than I’ve wanted anything in a long fuckin time.” Curious and eager to fill every one of his senses with Indrid, he buries his face against his upper chest, finds skin beneath all the camouflage and bites down. The hidebehind keens, pulling Duck from his seat into his lap. Duck laughs, bites down once more and gets a nose full of fluff. 

“AhCHOO!” His eyes pop open on reflex after he sneezes, sending the hidebehind out of view and Duck flat on the ground. 

“Blasted physiology” Indrid chirrs, frustrated. 

Duck sits up, Indrid’s cries of pleasure ringing in his ears and giving him all kinds of reckless ideas. 

“Don’t worry, darlin. If my hidebehind wants to romancin’, that’s what I’m gonna do.”

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

He takes to wearing a kerchief around his neck at work. The loggers and company pencil pushers assume it’s an affectation, not a tool for covering his eyes for some uninterrupted kisses while deep in the woods.  Today, he’s not sure kisses will be enough. 

Duck woke up hard, dream of Indrid looming above him in bed fading into the morning sun. His hidebehind has yet to show himself, so the humans mind has nothing but his fantasies to distract him on his trek through the woods. 

He’s ahead on his tasks for the day. He’s five miles deep in the woods. And he’s got an idea. 

After rinsing his hands with water from his canteen, he leans back against a tree and undoes his suspenders, followed by his fly. Closing his eyes, he slips his fingers into his underwear, teasing himself and sending soft moans into the air. It doesn’t take long before he’s wet enough to push two up into himself with ease.

“‘Drid” he gasps, letting his head loll back, “‘Drid, fuck, that feels so fuckin good.”

A single leaf crunches in front of him, and his kerchief slowly slides up his face to shield his eyes. 

“It is about to feel much better, dear one.” Indrid kisses the top of his head, “Shall I take this shameless display as evidence that you wish for me to, ah, fuck you?”

“That it does. And I’ll have you know I got plenty of shaAAmeWHoah.” Duck flails as his pants fall down and his body flies up in one smooth motion. Indrids claws prick his thighs as he spreads them open, holding him against the trunk with ease. 

“So very polite of my sweet one to prepare himself for me. It makes this all the easier.” A round, bumpy cock teases his folds, pressing in with a stretch that makes Duck twist in his lovers hold. 

“Fuck, fuck, that’s so fucking good but holy fuck, are you packin a fuckin pine tree down thereOH, ohfuckdarlin, that’s, that’s as far as it’s gonna go.”

“Half of it? My, who knew my human could take so much? Wait, it is not too much, correct?”

“N-nope, just the right amount” the bumps rub every inch inside him, one on the shaft catching his cock as Indrid thrusts and wiggles his hips. 

“Wonderful” Indrid purrs, “I have dreamed of this all dayAHnnncareful” he chides after Duck bites the part of his arm he’s able to reach, “or I shall take you so roughly your back will wear imprints of bark for days.”

Duck whimpers excitedly, very aware of thick pre-cum dripping into him, “Yeah lets do that.”

He can hear the grin.

“If you insist.”

“FUCKohfuckohfuck” his hands scrabble at the tree and at Indrid’s arms, “that’s it darlin, that’s it, fuck, gonna give you the best goddamn rub-down after this, touch you until your body forgets what it’s like to be without my fuckin hands on it.” Leaves scatter in his hair and down the back of his shirt as Indrids fucking turns frantic. 

“I, I shall hold you to that AHhnn, sweet one, you are so tight, so deliciously slick and inviting, I, I am not going to last long, you are too perfect, just touching you makes me burn like wildfire” His thrusts sharpen, never pushing too deep but making Duck feel like a log split beneath an axe of ecstasy, “Duck, sweetheart, yes, yesyesyes” Indrid spills into him, cum running out of Ducks body and back down his shaft. 

For a minute, Duck is nothing more than a pinned specimen, spread eagle on the tree as Indrid shudders, purrs, and drags fuzzy kisses along his throat. Then his shirt rides up as he slips down the tree, but Indrid doesn’t put him down. Instead, a rough tongue glides up one thigh and then the other. The human gasps, gripping Indrid’s horns for balance as Indrid buries his face between his legs.

“Ohhhhhh, oh I do so love tasting how we mingle together.” Indrid’s breath is ragged and hot against his dick, “I am going to do this every day.”

“Please” Duck squeezes his horns, his orgasm painfully close, “please ‘Drid, wanna cum on your tongue, want you holdin me up while I, I-ohfuck.” His legs kick weakly as Indrid sucks him off, tongue lavishing his cock with so much friction he goes hoarse from moaning. The fact he cannot see makes it all the better, makes his world nothing more than Indrids mouth, his claws, his desire that wraps around Duck like vines. 

He cums, arching his hips into the “thank yous” Indrid presses to his legs. 

When his boots touch the ground, deft claws begin pulling his clothes into order, Indrid kissing and caressing him as he does. 

“Y’know, I can get my own britches up.” Duck ruffles a nearby patch of feathers. 

“I know, but I wish to take care of you. Hidebehinds are attentive to our mates, and while I cannot build you a nest, and I can least clean you up after you let me do something so wonderful with you.”

Duck wraps his arms around the cryptid, resting his cheek against him, “Would you wanna do this, uh, wonderful somethin again?”

“Of course.”

The human smiles, reaches his hand up to stroke Indrids cheek. This means he feels the hidebehind smile when Duck says, “Glad to hear it. But I’ll have you know, one of these days I’m gonna expect a nest.”

[k1ngtok1]

For the 2 sentence thing :) Roman Sanders loved watching the sunset from the tallest cliff in the imagination. An array of colours lighting his subjects beautifully as they went on with their peaceful lives; What he wouldn't give to be as peaceful as they were.

The wind rustled his hair as if it were an older sibling, the birds chirped lullabies he had long forgotten, once from the lips of those he held close, of the ones he loved. He saw their faces in the setting sun, the blue and purple atmosphere behind him, shining with stars. He felt them in the soft earth beneath his feet and the grass that moved to tickle his thighs as he sat cross-legged on that hill.

He couldn’t escape them, not even here.

The imagination used to be his safe place. It’s where he went when he was overwhelmed or insecure, when everyone hated him but just wouldn’t say it. He was always in control here, the earth and the stars bent to his will, swirling into new kingdoms to rule over and constellations to gaze at. Here, everything was peaceful. He should know, he made it that way.

Too bad he couldn’t remold himself like he could the soft peaks of the golden clouds. He couldn’t rebuild his pride like he could spiraling towers, tall enough to break through the stratosphere (he listened to Logan’s rants most of the time, despite how it may seem).

No, if he rebuilt, he crumpled and fell apart like sand at the beach, being pounded by the waves. If he stood back up, he would only fall. Who cared when he did, it didn’t matter. Sooner or later he would topple like the dominoes in someone else’s game. Roman was only a stepping stone, a welcome mat, pushed to the ground and told to stay there for others to wipe their shoes on.

Fine then. He didn’t need them, not after how they treated him in the last episode (at least, that’s what he told himself). He’d get back up despite everything they did to hold him down. He could change, and for the better. Ink could blead the paper black and red, just as his ornate toga did now. Beautiful things like he came with a price if you didn’t take care of them. Even roses grew thorns.

And right now? Roman was a bleeding rose, with thorns dancing beneath his skin. He was changing, but was it really for the better?

Who was he kidding, it didn’t matter if it was for the better. If it was, good for him. If not, he was just getting what was coming to him.

White flowed into inky black and red turned to crimson blood. His gold grew rusty despite its composition. Black tears streamed down his face, and the grass below him withered when it came into contact with them. Black clouds rolled in, booming thunder and the promise of disaster to come.

He didn’t need to be the hero anymore. Roman stood up, gripping his sword with a snarl as he glared down at the peaceful villiage. He didn’t need to protect the innocent, to destroy the evil. And that was okay.

Everyone still loves a villain.

((Send me two sentences and I’ll continue writing it into a story!))