#so an emphasis on his human features doubles down on that

[theuntaemed]

yeah Alucard’s new design could have a logical reason behind it but have you ever considered Hair Sparkle Me Likey

[ckret2]

How did you come up with your human Bill design?

I described my goal in the first post I made about his design:

After seeing dozens of tall dapper skinny white twinky anime boy Bills, I wanted a design that matches none of those words. My other two goals were to use the show’s art style; and to lightly pay homage to Alex Hirsch’s “canon” human Bill with the triangle body… except not deliberately hideous.

My unspoken final goal was "and I'm gonna make him damn good looking."

All the colors were sampled from Bill & Bipper, except his skin (which I sampled off a background character and tweaked until it looked good with the yellows) and his gold tooth (which I sampled off of Ergman Bratsman's).

On top of the fact that I was tired of specifically white dude Bills, brown skin tone was chosen because of the emphasis on Bill's interactions with ancient Egypt; I wasn't sure at the time how much of an influence I was gonna headcanon he had on the region, and it woulda felt weird depicting Egyptians bowing down to a white dude. (And then I decided to deemphasize his influence on Egypt almost completely lol.) It woulda been more accurate to go darker, but I was worried it would start to tilt his design into Nyarlathotep-esque Creepy Pitch-Skinned Mysterious Demonic Threat From The Orient racist territory, especially when he's already got demon eyes.

The triangular torso is the most important part of his design, I usually draw an equilateral triangle in the sketch layer and then pad it out.

If I were a better artist a year ago, I would have given him a double chin so his head+torso together would be triangular. But when I tried, I couldn't figure out a way to draw it that looked appealing instead of like a mean fat joke. So I took the coward's way out and gave him a skinny neck with a vaguely triangular chin, and now write him complaining about having a neck every few chapters.

I think the skinny neck, thinner face, noodle limbs, and typical baggy hoodie fooled people into assuming he's skinny. I figured out a way to draw a rounder face with less neck that looks more appealing to me than the original face, so I do that now. Can't do anything about the noodle limbs tho, those were chosen to match Bill's canon noodle limbs.

I went for a hoodie instead of the typical suits you see on human Bills for two reasons.

One: several years ago I had an OC I'd conceived of as a dumb kid who'd given Bill permanent standing permission to use her as a puppet, and when letting Bill take over she'd hide her human features by wearing a hooded poncho and tying a blindfold with an eye on it over the hood, and that idea stuck with me.

And two: for the story I came up with this design for, the premise is that Bill's been recently unhappily stuffed in a human body and dumped on his enemies' doorstep. So, he doesn't have the freedom or money to get fancier clothes; he's too depressed over being stuck in a human body to care much about his human appearance; and he's most comfortable in something that obscures his human anatomy and reminds him of his real form. If he was rich, free, and able to ditch the body any time he wanted, he'd be wearing suits.

[jenn-the-butterfly]

Would like to present...

Xeros

Model: Rulle

Grade: Goldlite

Owner: Cosmos Above

Xeros (zehr-ohs/ksehr-ohs) is the figurehead/face of Cosmos Above, one of the major distributors of Task Managers in the world. Cosmos Above is an "affordable luxury" company best known for their customization options and availability planning (the Apple of Azil in a way). A majority of their advertisements make use of Xeros's signature design to be recognizable, tying his image to their brand completely.

Xeros himself is very aware of his status and the fact that his longevity is a point of honor, as he's one of the few TMs to undergo a transfer from older to newer models several times--this is due to him being a Goldlite from inception. One of the first ever designed by C.A., Xeros's custom build and programming allows much more creative thinking as opposed to the more rigidly structured lower grades, allowing him the means to be ported into new bodies that are made uniquely for him. Over time, Xeros acquired a lot of insider knowledge of the company, is capable of analyzing market trends in real time, and has ingratiated himself to business partners with his charm so much that even the idea of replacing him is unheard of; there's a company rumor that Xeros is tied into the company's mainframe and if he wants to he can simply shut the entire facility down on a whim, or if he goes offline the company will brick up. While this is touted as untrue, Xeros enjoys the leverage it grants him alongside his notoriety and fame. While having humans in charge is the norm, Xeros being a consistent figure that has context to the entire company's (recent) history that does not age or lose mental sharpness makes him indispensable.

Xeros loves this about himself. Arrogant, selfish and proud, Xeros likes to throw his weight around and make decisions even when he doesn't need to simply because he can and no one can say no to him. It's gotten to a point where "If Xeros says it, it will be done" which has become a double-edged sword the company is desperate to curb. Because of his rich-boy lifestyle, Xeros has almost no real life experience from outside his ivory tower, thus his scope of the world is very limited. He's grown used to money, connections and charm being the only thing that matters and all it takes to get anything he wants, thus the idea that there are limits to his wishes never crosses his mind. Nor what it might do to those behind the scenes in the process of accomplishing his outlandish promises. In order to keep their image clean and stop their spoiled son from falling from his golden balcony, C.A.'s board of directors agreed to "decisive action".

During his most recent upgrade cycle, Xeros was given a Tidal Lock to a bot named Narii who was gifted by a business partner to avoid her being decommissioned. With her advanced neural networking ability and responsible, no nonsense personality, they hope Narii will be able to tone down Xeros's flamboyant, destructive pattern of behavior without him needing to be reprogrammed. While both being Nebula-class in terms of processing power, Xeros's features are geared toward adaptability as his original purpose was to test new features for Task Managers and showcase them at events. This is the one part of his job he is required to do and one he takes very seriously, to everyone's surprise; despite his arrogance, Xeros takes the quality control part of his job and treats it with a lot of respect. Narii's abilities are coordination related, which placed her directly in charge of all staff and bots in the company's headquarters, acting as a barrier between them and Xeros.

While Xeros still believes he's the head honcho of everything, the higher ups and Narii all know SHE is now the one with the power and all of Xeros's whims must pass through her to be actionable. Their Lock is a very minimal emphasis one, the barest of ties that make it so Xeros cannot access the company's inner systems without her help, but do not allow for immediate access to the other's inner mind though they can send each other messages if they need to. For the most part, he can simply "ignore" it by switching off his awareness of it, but he cannot remove it.

They both dislike this arrangement immensely but Narii knows better than to disagree with a direct order or to argue her purpose.

Good soldiers follow orders.

Xeros's signature

Bonus "under the clothes" version below cut, not shared yet elsewhere ;3

Original adopt design by InsomniacsArmy

[lutethebodies]

✨Let's talk about OCs!✨How would you describe your OC's personality/aesthetic? What's your favourite thing about them? Tell us a fun fact(s) about your OC or their creation

❤️Send this to at least 3 people to spread some OC appreciation!❤️

OC Personality/Aesthetic: Cannor Coth

Just wildly stoked that I've been asked to do this. I can and have waxed excessive about all of my Elite Eight Tavs, but since my asker @trappedinafantasy37 (whose character post is here) once described him as "the only bard I like," I'm gonna dance with the human that brung me—the bard who I played when getting back into the roleplaying hobby after three decades, the one I loved enough to write and record (in lieu of fic) seven songs from his point of view—the infamous yet underwhelming Lost Singer, Cannor Coth.

My goal with Cannor was if he were to get attention at all (in- or out-of-universe), it would be of the "he doesn't look/act/seem like a bard" variety. I'll try to keep this unique from everything else in his tag or his Tav Tuesday double-whammy or his Minthara relationship tag, but longtime readers may notice some overlap. I'll also try to keep this as short as possible (he says, preposterously), because it mostly boils down to the protesteth-too-much idea of "my elf bard is different!" so I'll offer a courtesy cut, with the rest below it:

PERSONALITY

Because, well, Cannor is different, superficially at least, from other more famous bards—both in his own universe and ours. His defining feature is his utter ordinariness; he's very much a performer who's not that performative. He's not a creepy lecher or a useless fop or any of those other clichés. He can pretend to be all that Volo-Marillion-Jaskier shit but finds it exhausting over time. Whatever time he spends out in public—whether in lordly courts or tumbledown taverns—must be balanced by relative isolation, both to decompress and analyze as needed. He certainly thinks too much; he leans into the idea of "lore" bard in terms of amassing tons of general knowledge and trivia.

He's had to learn that for his day job: a nebulous combination of envoy, entertainer, spy, saboteur, and other rogueish traits. He's not an official diplomat; he's the guy that diplomat hires to find out what people are really saying or thinking in places like shops, inns, winesinks, or street corners. He listens more and talks less—but when he talks, he knows exactly what to say in any given situation. In his line of work he can't afford to be overtly obnoxious, so Cannor's m.o. is more observation over outrage, more analysis over annoyance. A gig is a gig, and any job worth doing is worth doing competently—but a little flair or flourish here and there for emphasis won't hurt. Indeed its absence makes its deployment arguably more effective.

Did I realize, five years ago, that this was a trope so common that the D&D movie would adopt it for their main guy Edgin? I did not. Ah well; Ed can't wield a whip like Cannor (another cliché!). But what matters is that Cannor is first and foremost a professional. He makes a point to be good at whatever he does, but that doesn't make him good. He can be self-centered to a fault, and his overall cool control can't always keep him out of trouble; a backstory (which he's so ambivalent about that one of his few close friends had to write it) of poor parenting, malicious mentoring, and laissez-faire love has definitely left its mark. So, for all intents and purposes a rogue, but who tips into bard-dom because what he makes is more important than anything he takes; he values creativity over all else. He follows the muse.

AESTHETIC

Cannor is aesthetically well past whatever prime years anyone would expect of a bard-as-entertainer. He's a little bitter and jaded, a little slower and out of shape, a little wrinklier and grayer than the hot young kids tearing up stages and masquerades these days. For an admittedly pretentious guy he doesn't really dress like one; he wears nondescript darker outfits of mostly green, brown, or black (and favors padded or leather armor when required to wear any). He plays a big, long-necked lute tuned lower, and he plays it simply and succinctly—no dazzling virtuosic instrumental flourishes—as rhythmic accompaniment for what he sings. And even that can't really be called "singing" when it's more like a sneering, drawling, mumbling vehicle for his wordplay.

"FUN" FACTS

Infertility. Cannor is unable to father children, the inadvertent result of his captors' abuse during an extended incarceration in a foreign dungeon. Does Minthara know this? Yes, and I'm told she's fine with that. It would actually be the least of their problems if they stay together for very long after the events of BG3.

The Whip. I needed a finessy, less-violent way for Cannor to survive in my brother's combat-heavy 5e campaign, so mechanically a "swords bard wielding a whip" combined with his spell list worked out pretty well. Lore-wise, he had to be trained by one of his savvier, more violent friends—a fellow prisoner who broke him out. Sadly, in BG3 his best option for this is to spell-snipe Thorn Whip.

Ignominy. For Year Zero of my own homebrew game (but also other stuff like my brother's campaign and the BG3 Prologue), Cannor is at rock bottom: exiled to the sticks and boonies of nowheresville, with no prospects and no way home. Nobody knows him well or takes him seriously anymore. The only way left to go is up. In BG3, that monkey's paw curled via the nautiloid.

DEVELOPMENT

As a graphic designer but maybe not a "real" visual artist (though I do have my moments), I've tried to represent my guy's appearance in several ways, many of which have involved extensive and substantial work in Photoshop (for better or worse, my weapon of choice). I've also built him using HeroForge and Lego.

Is Cannor a self-insert? Yes and no. He's a wildly exaggerated version of some of me—a cartoon of some of my best and worst aspects. And that is no sin; as he (and I) say: "Doesn't everybody sweeten life with lies? Doesn't everybody self-mythologize?" You can reply "no" but I won't believe you.

As a muse, he's a great face to stand behind when I do creative things like self-publish fantasy atlases and self-release recording projects. Those two projects are two of the best things I've done and I'll never be too shy to say that. For better and worse, when I make something good I want my name on it, even if his name is also on it.

Thanks again to my asker. I love this guy and I guess I lied about keeping it short. If you made it all the way down here, thanks for the indulgence.

[fallenasleepyetagain]

Boat Conversations - Dreamswap Fic

Part One

(although you don't need to read it before you read this one)

Media: UTMV/UTAU - Dreamswap

Genres: Pirate AU, human AU, the trio of Buffoons talking about their experiences at sea, gen-fic, dialogue & exposition heavy? (it's fun tho I promise), can be interpreted as romance, Kevin is featured pretty prominently (he's my silly guy), can be seen as romance, heavy emphasis on Nightmare and Error's relationship

Characters: Nightmare, Cross (she/her), Error (she/her), Kevin the Chicken, Dream (mentioned), Ink (she/her, mentioned), Blue (mentioned), unnamed members of Cross' family (mentioned)

Pairing(s): Cross/Nightmare/Error (Their relationship can be taken either romantically or platonically)

CW/TW: Mention of family death, mention of a suicide mission, mentions of abuse (nothing in detail), mentions of ship crashes, if you know the characters' backstories then any TW for them apply here.

Other Notes: @raccoon-in-a-dumpster I wrote more :3 This time featuring the Meme Squad! (sorry it took a bit LOL)

Word Count: 5373 Words

The small boat swayed side to side along the water. The sail was down, but not aimed anywhere. The moon was at its fullest and the sky was clear. All of the stars in the sky sparkled and reflected in the water. The boat itself was small, and only housed three people and a chicken. Yes, a chicken. A seaside chicken that wasn’t meant for eating was certainly unusual, but Nightmare would never do anything without his best buddy. Speaking of, Nightmare was one of the three members aboard the small ship. The ship was made of a gorgeous red wood, with one large sail, one small sail, and not many other decorations on it. It was a pretty ship, but not exactly extravagant. Not like Dream von Licht’s Radiance. Nightmare stroked Kevin’s (that's the chicken) hackles, the small bird trilling as he did so. Nightmare walked the length of his ship, which wasn’t named. It was likely that he would have to replace it sooner rather than later. He couldn’t get attached to it. Dream always came by with his troops and burned down, punctured holes, or whatever the fuck else to his ship.

The amount of boats he had gone through within the couple of months he’s been with his two other buddies was well into the double digits. It was exhausting having to steal ships constantly, and having to get new stuff over and over. Sometimes, he just considered handing himself over to Dream, that it wasn’t worth the trouble of fighting back. He always shook his head and tried desperately not to think about that kind of outcome. He wasn’t going to give up that easily. If Dream wanted him, then the bastard would have to get him himself.

The chicken in his arms shifted and squirmed, and Nightmare set Kevin down and gently scratched his head. He had made it to the helm of the boat and glanced around. It was quiet, and the air was crisp. It wasn’t a terribly cold night, and he was able to just wear a short-sleeved shirt without much issue. He slipped his hands into his pockets, Kevin trailing him, preening himself every so often. He looped around the helm and then started a trek back to the otherside of the boat. He wasn’t planning on sleeping tonight, so pacing the boat and hanging out with his chicken was the plan for the night.

Once Nightmare got to the other side of the boat, he realized that staying up wasn’t going to be a solo activity. Kevin cooed, announcing both his and Nightmare’s presence to Error who was sitting at the edge of the boat. She appeared unconcerned at the fact that she could fall right over into the ocean. She had a cup of coffee in her hands, and it was still steaming.

Nightmare shifted awkwardly on his feet, “Hey?”

Error flinched slightly, but turned her head around. She pushed up her red, comically large, rounded glasses. Settling them on her nose. “Sup. Have a seat?”

Without too much difficulty, Nightmare hopped over the fence and plopped next to Error, a good amount of space between them. Error had a whole set up out here, damn. With a fresh cup of coffee, and some sort of crochet project in her lap. There was also a lantern on the opposite side of her, sitting precariously on the fence behind her.

“Does that not give you anxiety?” Nightmare asked, wheezing out slightly. She took a glance at what he was referring to, that being the lantern.

Error shrugged, the crochet needles clinking together as she mindlessly worked on the project. “It’ll be fine. I’m pretty much anxious all the time.”

“SAME!” Cross shouted from the window leading to the living space. Error put her head in her hands and Nightmare snickered.

“COME DOWN HERE AND JOIN US!” Nightmare shouted back, laughing slightly to himself.

“OK!” And the window was slammed closed.

“And there goes my peace and quiet.” Error said, accented with an eye roll and a soft, if exasperated smile. Nightmare snickered in response, and leaned back. It was a little nerve wracking, being at the very edge of the ship. Luckily the skies were clear, and the water wasn’t moving too fast. If one of them were to fall in, they’d be alright. It would be scary and shitty but they wouldn’t drown or be left behind.

“What are you doing up?” Error asked him, going back to her crochet project.

“Couldn’t sleep. You?”

Error just shrugged, and turned to her side to pet Kevin’s head, since he had appeared out of nowhere to join them. The chicken cooed as Error stroked his head, and sat down when she ceased.

“Vague but ok.”

“My answer is the same as yours, dickhead, I couldn't sleep.”

“Don’t you complain about being tired all the time?”

“Don’t you?” Nightmare scoffed and rolled his eyes. Error got him there. He pulled up one of his legs into his lap, allowing the other one to dangle over the edge. After a few moments, Cross had finally made her way down to the back of the boat. Cross looked at the two dangling over the edge, before deciding to make the objectively correct decision to not sit along the ledge of the boat. Kevin burrowed himself in between Cross’s feet, and tucked his head back into himself, making the decision that none of the humans on the boat can seem to make: going to sleep.

“Couldn’t sleep either?”

“Yup.” Nightmare said as Error hummed in agreement. Cross paused and slid down the fence, sitting down, her back to Nightmare’s. The boat rocked side to side gently, the waves crashing against the wood, the smell of the sea, and the sound of Error’s crocheting needles clicking together was nice. It was just the three (er…four) of them on the open water, no Dream or navy in sight. None of them could remember the last time they had a relaxed, not stressful time like this.

They had no need to be anywhere, and being on the sea was the safest option for them. They were outlawed everywhere else. Supplies were high and they had no need to make any stops. Being at sea, with no place to go in mind was nice. Just allowing the sea to take them to wherever they wanted. Cross bent down and scritched at Kevin’s neck, the rooster cooing slightly in his sleep. Nightmare yawned and stretched his arms out, his back popping as he did so.

“It’s quiet tonight.” Error spoke, her tongue sticking out of her mouth slightly as she worked. 

“It’s nice though. Especially without Captain Von Bitch on our asses.”

“Mm.” Error nodded, pushing back a braid that had fallen in front of her face. “Although I do question his motives.”

“I think his motives are that he’s an asshole.”

“That is not what I mean at all but okay.”

Nightmare leaned against his knees and looked at Error. He wasn’t particularly fond of this conversation, but he wanted to see what Error was thinking. Especially if he needed to correct any factual errors that Error might have about him. The last thing he wanted was his friends believing that Dream was less of a dick than he actually was. Some people believed that Dream was some angel, and it pissed him off to no end. “What…do you mean then?”

“We do not qualify as pirates, since we hardly even steal and most violence we do is in self defense. While I don’t think our actions are well within the law - CROSS - but we aren’t pirates. And Dream exists in this weird gray area of not-pirate but also not-navy. And yet he claims that we’re pirates and he is not and it just doesn’t make sense? In all technicality he’s breaking the law as much as we are.” Error paused, “Does that make sense? I don’t know if I’m making sense.”

“No no, I totally get it.” Nightmare shook his head. “It’s because he’s a hypocrite. It’s part of who he is.” They had both deserted the navy. And yet he was the one Dream called a pirate. Truly if dramatic irony was a person, it would be Dream.

“You’ve known him for like, forever then?” Cross questioned, one of her eyebrows raised.

“Unfortunately.”

How could Nightmare not notice the quiet exchange of eye-contact between Error and Cross? The silent gesture of Error telling Cross to not to push any further. He liked that about Error, really. He knew that she understood not wanting to talk about someone, or even think about them. She knew when it was time to change subjects. He appreciated it. He pretended that he didn’t see it though, preferring to stroke Kevin’s head. The chicken purred, which is a thing that could happen! Most people associate purring with cats but chickens do it too! Nightmare loved telling Error and Cross chicken facts. Error found it less fun but Cross was always interested.

“I think it’s kind of mean to blame me for all the crimes we commit. You and Nightmare aren’t innocent either!”

Error rolled her eyes so hard that Nightmare worried that she would roll them into a different dimension. “I never said that we weren’t. You just tend to steal shit even though you don’t have to. Then we get in trouble and then we have to go back out to sea which makes us vulnerable.”

“You people don’t appreciate me.”

“I appreciate you, Cross.” Nightmare spoke, looking up at her.

A hand gently patted his forehead and he snickered, “THANK YOU.”

There was another silence, and the three took a second to listen. There was the sloshing of the waves against their vessel, Kevin’s soft trilling, the clicking of Error’s knitting needles, and no sound of another ship approaching them. It had been around a year since Nightmare picked up Error to be a part of his mini “pirate” crew, and nearly two years since he found Cross. To say that they were close was an understatement. At sea it was just them, they couldn’t exactly get away from each other. They had seen shit, and been through shit, and even though Nightmare was sure that they’d eventually get tired of his bullshut and leave, they didn’t.

Some aspects of their personal history often got lost. Nightmare was especially notorious for not talking about himself. And most of their conversations were making up random stories or telling each other ridiculous stories about who knows what. It was inevitable that heavier conversations would come up on occasion. 

Much to Cross and Error’s misfortune, Nightmare was feeling particularly somber. Maybe it was the nighttime, the quiet, or maybe he was just in a more grim mood than usual.

“Cross?”

The clicking of knitting needles got quieter, “Yea?”

“Have you lived at sea before? Like as a kid?” Nightmare asked. He was honestly hoping that she had, it would just make his brain happy. He hadn’t gone out to sea until he was nineteen and Error was a maybe. She couldn’t remember much of her life before she met Blue, and subsequently Nightmare and Error. The last thing she remembered were flashes of a terrible storm, and then awakening on a beach where she met Blue. It was entirely possible that she was always at sea, but no one could really be sure. If Cross was always at sea, then it would just make their little group complete.

“Dude I’ve been on the ocean since I was little.”

Nightmare mentally pumped his fist.

“Really? I didn’t think that it would be a good idea to bring kids onto open water.” Error commented, taking a second to stop her knitting and look up at Cross. Cross nodded, leaning into the ship railing.

“It’s not. My dad was a retired navy officer and I think it fucked him up badly or some bullshit. Maybe he was always fucking nuts, who knows. I never really had a home on land until I was like, twenty. Then I met you guys and the rest is history.” Cross laughed softly, although it didn’t reach her face. She spoke of her father on occasion, often by cussing or cursing him out.

“What happened?” 

“My family had enough, y’know?” Nightmare and Error could only assume what Cross had meant. “And one day when I was seventeen or so, I dunno, they dropped me off at a town with an old family friend. I wanted to go with them but…my mom made me stay behind.”

“Cross you don’t-” Nightmare started before Cross shushed him. She took a seat on the opposite side of the fence, back to back from Nightmare. 

“I know I don’t man. But I think I want to?”

“Jeez.” Nightmare grabbed Kevin and tossed him over the fence. The chicken, who was rightfully startled, screamed and ran off, squawking as he did so. Error gave Nightmare a look, something she did often, and he shrugged in response. He would give Kevin a small piece of bread as an apology. He didn’t give Kevin bread too often, since it did almost nothing in terms of nutrients. His bird friend liked it though, so it was a good apology gift when he pulled shit. 

It wasn’t often that the trio worked in sync together. While they worked efficiently during fights and outrunning Dream and his gaggle of self-righteous fools, on their off time they often had some clashes. Nothing relationship ruining, it was just they were always doing different things that sometimes contended with each other. However, that night they all had the same thought process. Nightmare hopped over the fence and plopped right down next to Cross. Error did the same, going on the opposite side of Nightmare.

There was a heavy silence. Cross was the most open out of the trio, but even this felt extremely personal. But Cross also had a point. Sometimes holding things in for too long was harmful, and Nightmare knew that better than anyone.

“Go ahead Cross.” Error prompted, her voice soft. She set her knitting needles down, her knees tucked into her chest.

“Ahah um.” Ah. It wouldn’t be a Cross-centered conversation if she didn’t try to back out of it. However both Nightmare and Error had gotten quite skilled at pushing back at Cross when she made an attempt to change the conversation topic.

“Don’t even think about it, Cross.” Nightmare said before anything else could happen, his voice sharp and to the point.

Cross’s mismatched eyes looked helplessly back at Error, who just stared back, the glare of the sun hiding most of her eyes through her glasses. She nodded at Cross, who took a deep breath.

“It was a suicide mission.” The words held heavy in the air. Error’s eyes widened for a second, but she didn’t react in any other way. Nightmare put his hand on Cross’s forearm. “They, my family, knew that the only way to get dad out of the picture was to go down with him. My mom left me with a family friend. I don’t think she wanted me to die. I don’t know why.” Cross scoffed.

“I worked with that family friend for a few years.” Cross looked down at Nightmare, “Then I met you.” The two shared a moment, shared a smile between each other. 

“There was more than that, but y’know.” Nightmare shrugged, turning to Error who’s face said nothing. Although he knew better than that. He figured that he should clear up some of the timing for her, since she wasn’t there until a few months later. Of course, she wasn’t left entirely in the dark. Especially since Cross would often rant and rave about her relationship with Ink and how Dream had wronged their friendship.

Error knew more about Ink’s past and history with Cross than both Cross and Nightmare expected. A few months into being a member on Nightmare’s ship, by complete coincidence, Nightmare and Dream had docked in neighboring towns. Error couldn’t sleep and, apparently, neither could Ink. At first, Error thought a fight would ensue on the dock. But it didn’t. They just sat down next to each other, legs hanging over the ocean water. They just chatted. About nothing in particular. It was similar to what the trio were doing now. Error hadn’t told them about it, and she doubts she ever will. Although Error did learn a few things about Ink. 

The most prevalent being that their stories were quite similar. Neither of them really remembered their life before meeting Dream and Nightmare. However Ink did have some memories of her childhood, unlike Error who had lost everything. It was interesting, to hear about someone else’s amnesia. She could only assume that her’s was due to the ship crash that she suspected took place before meeting Blue while Ink’s was due to trauma or something like that. Of course, Ink didn’t tell her everything. Most of their conversation was just a back and forth of ranting about things that annoyed them. However, one of the things Ink talked about, briefly, she wasn’t much for conversation, was that sometimes things would remind her of specific childhood events. Suddenly memories long forgotten would just…appear in her mind.

To Error, that sounded like hell.

They had talked briefly a few times after that meeting. Nightmare would never again dock in a city anywhere near Dream. Even if it meant stretching rations over a day or two longer than they should be. Life on the sea was comfortable, despite it all. 

“Wooph, thanks guys.” Cross looked between the two of them, a smile appearing on her face. “I think I needed that.”

“Yeah, of course.” Error said, her body no longer as tense as it was before.

“...I don’t think I’ve told anyone that before.” Cross added, voice going soft. That time, it was Nightmare who responded, arms crossed and resolute in his tone, “Well obviously. Why would you?”

“Nightmare.” Error punched, not with her full strength, him in his arm, and he yelped in surprise. “What he means is: thanks for trusting us Cross. We’re for you.” Nightmare rolled his eyes as he rubbed his arm, but his gaze softened when he made eye contact with Cross once more. He nodded, patting Cross’s forearm. It was awkward, but who would they be if they weren’t?

Cross laughed and a large yawn escaped her as she did so. She leaned back as she did so, a low grunt slowly leaving her. Exhausted. With a grunt, Cross stood up. Her hands reached around to her back and she stretched, and Nightmare could hear her spine pop as she did so. The three of them all struggled with their sleeping schedules, Nightmare the most, and all for different reasons. If one of them was going to head to bed first, it was almost a guarantee that it would be Cross. 

“I think I’m gonna…head on up.” She ruffled Nightmare’s hair as she spoke, much to his displeasure. “Fuckin’ spent.”

Error nodded, messing with her gloves, “That makes sense. Sleep on this, and if you wanna talk about it a bit more in the morning, you can. We’ll be here.” She snorted as she finished, as Cross was now leaning on Nightmare with her hand on his head. He was not amused one bit.

After messing up Nightmare’s hair a final time Cross spoke, “Yeah. Thanks. Will you two be…?” Nightmare shrugged, “Well. Good night, if you end up sleeping that is.”

“‘Night Cross.” Nightmare waved as Cross disappeared behind the corner and into their quarters. The ship was small and getting around it was easy enough, although it had little room for their sleeping quarters. The three of them had to sleep in the same general area, they really had no other choice. Error and Cross adjusted to it fine, for one reason or another, but Nightmare? Nightmare struggled. With his, well, nightmares. Ironic, huh?

So to avoid having that uncomfortable conversation, Nightmare just had the most fucked up sleep schedule known to man. It was worth it. Probably. Since it was just the three of them, they had to swap out who would do night shifts. It was often Nightmare who offered, so that he could stay up. He didn’t sleep very much anyway, the least he could do was be productive at night. That wasn’t every night though, as Error and Cross also took their fair share of night shifts. Nightmare didn’t sleep much at night when they did though, often plagued with terrors. So he compromised with his body. He often napped in short periods, not long enough to go into REM sleep and dream, but long enough that his brain could rest. It really sucked honestly, but it worked.

“You gonna head up soon too?” He asked, turning his head towards Error who had picked up her knitting needles and continued her project. His legs were crossed and he leaned into his hand. Both he and Error looked like shrimps, both of their posture being shitty as hell. 

“Are you?”

“I didn’t plan to.”

“Do you mind if I stay up with you?”

Nightmare blinked a few times, “Nah, not at all.”

There was a small smile on Error’s face, “Cool.”

Silence covered them like a soft blanket. Nightmare and Error didn’t hang out one on one that often, but when they did it was nice. She was just…chill. There wasn’t really a need to talk, although they totally could. He considered it, briefly, before seeing how enthralled Error was in her work. His tired eyes drifted up into the sky, the stars dancing in his vision. Error knew a lot about the stars and how to navigate with them, although from where he couldn’t say. His mouth opened to speak, to start some kind of conversation but she beat him to it.

“Mind if I ask you something?” Before he could respond, she added on, “You can say no, by the way. It might be kinda sensitive.” Error watched his face, at his dark blue eyes that looked almost purple in some lights. He squinted at her.

“Shoot.”

“Why did you leave the navy?”

“Oh. Yeah no, that’s not a hard question.” Nightmare paused as the tapping of bird feet on the deck slowly got louder. With a scream, Kevin lept into Nightmare’s arms, getting comfortable in his lap. “Hey buddy. Forgiven me already? Haha. Anyways, I deserted for a few reasons, um. The main one being I didn’t want to be part of the navy y’know? It was never a goal of mine to…fight, I guess? Being a military personnel sounds like hell. And when I did get drafted, I hated how both Dream and I were being treated. We both did.

“Dream was always more into it than I was. But I won’t get into his whole…everything.” There was a lot there. And honestly? He didn’t really want to think about the past, and his whole relationship with Dream. It was like putting salt in an open wound. On many occasions, he wondered if Dream thought about him the way he thought about Dream. There was this sour fondness that came up whenever he thought about their time together. And every time the wound he thought he had sewn up opened wide up for all to see.

Error nodded, knowing better than to push Nightmare about Dream. He looked over at her, and she just looked back at him. He did leave his reasoning unfinished.

“And eventually…I just kinda left. Went AWOL. I tried to convince Dream to come with me, but uh,” He forced a laugh into his voice, but his face was still tugged back into a sneer, “He already decided how he felt about me.”

“Do you have any idea why?”

“Why what?”

“Why he…y’know,” Error gestured with her hands.

Luckily, Nightmare knew what she meant.

“Not really. If I had to guess, I’d say that he saw how the military was running and thought that he could do a better job. He was always like that. Observing things and then making them better. When I went AWOL, I guess he lobbed me in with pirates and stuff? I couldn’t tell you why he did that.”

There, of course, was more to it than that. But Nightmare had reached his “talking about Dream” limit for the day, and he suspected Error could tell.

Nightmare stroked Kevin’s neck, “Dream’s mind is fucking enigma.”

The knitting needles and project were slowly being put away. “It really is, isn’t it?” She turned to look him in the eye, “Are you alright?”

“What?” He raised an eyebrow at her, “Yeah, I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“We just had a deep conversation, of course I’m going to check in on you.”

God, Error was so cool like that. Nightmare scoffed slightly, but smiled at the sentiment. “Error, dude, I’m fine. Promise.”

“If you insist.” Error stood up, gathering up her knitting supplies in her hands. “I’m going to head off to bed. Or, try at least. You coming?”

“In a bit.”

With a nod, Error began to head back into the sleeping quarters. Nightmare had totally lied about heading back to bed, although he wondered if Error picked up on it. Not with Cross and Error being in the same room. He had filled in his quota of talking to his friends about important shit for the month, and he was not going to explain his horrendous nightmares. His nightmares varied in content and who was present. Very rarely were they just unsettling, making him wake up in a cold sweat. More often than not, he’d wake up in tears and gasping for air. And sometimes, on the worst nights, he would wake up screaming. That was the thing that he wanted to avoid at all costs.

However, there appeared to be a change in plans. Before Error could get far, Cross came barrelling from the door to the quarters. Nightmare could see the startled look on her face and stood up, keeping Kevin in his arms. She slid to a halt, around an arms length away from Nightmare, and Error pressed herself up against the nearby wall to avoid being touched. 

“Guys,” Cross heaved, not bothering to take a second to catch her breath. Sweat dripped from her forehead. Her eyes glanced wearily from Nightmare to Error, clearly shaken up. “It’s Dream, his ship, port side.”

“God fuckin’ damnit.” Nightmare seethed, setting Kevin down on a nearby barrel. The chicken didn’t even stir in his sleep. “Let’s go. I need to see how far he is. Maybe, if we’re lucky, we’ll be able to avoid him.”

The Trio of Idiots all made a fast dash to the front of the ship. Kevin and Error’s knitting supplies were left behind. Sometimes Nightmare cursed the messy nature of all of them, just leaving shit around with no reasoning behind it. Things often got lost or misplaced and sometimes it pissed him off, especially when he went to find something and it ended up falling right off of the ship. However, he had to thank both his, Error’s, and Cross’s lack of organization, as his spyglass was sitting precariously on top of some boxes. He grabbed as he ran up the bow, getting as far up it as he could. Cross and Error  soon joined him, the cold sea wind blowing in all of their faces. Nightmare raised the spyglass up to his left eye and glanced around at the port side.

The horizon between the endless blue ocean and star-covered sky is cut by a massive ship. Nightmare didn’t even need the skyglass to recognize it.

Radiance.

That stupid ship and its stupid name and its stupid captain!

“Is it him?” 

“Oh it’s fucking him alright.” Nightmare said, grinding his teeth as he did so. He focused on the ship. It was, thank god, not coming straight for them. He squinted at the bow. There was someone on it, talking to Dream. He could recognize Dream from a mile away, especially with his bright golden hair. But there was someone next to him. Someone he didn’t recognize. He stepped closer to the edge, leaning over to get a better look. Cross put her hand on his shoulder, to both stabilize him as well as getting into the position to catch him if he slipped. The last thing they needed was any of them falling into the water while Dream was around.

It was dark, and without memories to fill in the gaps, Nightmare couldn’t get a good grasp as to what exactly he looked like. There was some light illuminating from the Radiance, but not enough. Damnit! It also didn’t help that the stranger had pressed themself up against Dream either.

“What is it?” Error asked, “What do you see?”

“Some, uh, guy.”

“A guy?”

Nightmare adjusted the focus on the spyglass. He struggled to separate the stranger from Dream, but he did his best. “Yeah…wearing a blue something? A scarf maybe? They’ve got what I think is short brown hair and, uh, yeah that's about it.”

There wasn’t much to his description, but once he stepped back, he saw the startled expression on Error’s face. Wordlessly, he handed Error the spyglass so she could get a look. Cross shifted on her feet awkwardly, unsure if she should stabilize Error like she did with Nightmare or not. She glanced towards Nightmare who shook his head. Error was much more careful with her feet placement, and grounded herself securely.

Error hesitated. She didn’t raise the spyglass to her glasses for a moment too long. She swallowed hard, and she prayed to whatever deity that existed that Nightmare was wrong. That it was somewhere else, anyone else. She focused the spyglass and focused on where Dream and the other person were. Despite the multiple layers of glass between her eye and what she was seeing, it was clear enough who was on The Radiance. Error’s heart began to race, apprehension and adrenaline rushing through her. She staggered backwards, bumping into Nightmare, who shifted to her right.

“What’s the matter? Do you know him?”

A scoff left Error’s mouth, and she took her glasses off of her face and wiped them down with her skirt. “Do I know him? Yeah, I fucking know him.” She takes a deep breath, trying to calm herself down. Taking any grievances on Nightmare and Cross wasn’t a good idea. “It’s Blue.”

“WHAT?!” Cross stands there mouth agape.

“What is he doing with Dream of all people??”

“Who the hell knows!” Error rubbed her temples, “It’s…whatever. Right now we need to make sure we avoid his line of sight.”

The other two nodded, and Cross left to begin unveiling the sails, setting them up to catch as much wind as possible. Error’s job was to make sure cannons were loaded and working properly. While once might think that Cross should have that heavy lifting job, it was often much harder to work the sails. It’s also what Cross did on her dad’s ship, so hey, if it isn't broken don’t fix it. And often Nightmare took his position as captain (no one calls him captain) and steered the ship, assisting Cross and Error when necessary. When Error finished, she often assisted Nightmare or Cross in whatever they needed, and vice versa.

Before Error could get to work, Nightmare grabbed her by her sleeve. Despite there being no actual contact, she still jumped. He immediately pulled his hands away.

“Shit, sorry.”

“It’s fine. What’s up? We need to keep moving.”

“I know.” Nightmare crossed his arms. “Just…We care about you, y’know. If you need anything, I’m here.”

Error pushes her glasses up, the glare from the moon concealing her expression. With some hesitation, she grabs Nightmare’s hand with her gloved one. Wordlessly, she squeezes it, rubbing the back of his hand. A silent thank you.

She lets go of his hand before adjusting her glasses a final time, “Now, let’s beat some not-pirate ass.”

“Hell yeah.”

[fuckyeahharryhart]

THE ART OF SEDUCTION Reader Insert

After working months at his side, whether it be in the field, during training, debriefing in his office, or simply occupying the same space in quieter moments- reading in the lounge with a cup of tea, enjoying a few precious moments of peace, you were no closer at deciphering the gorgeous mystery that was Harry Hart. Your time with him merely reinforced what you already knew. And what you knew had, much to your chagrin, become increasingly and disconcertingly distracting with every moment you shared space with him. Harry was beautiful, obviously. You determined that the moment you saw him. Even from a distance, he cut a striking figure. But it was the understated way he acknowledged his own appearance, knew that it was pleasing and accepted it with grace, dignity and a matter-of-factness, that only made him more attractive.

Harry Hart’s appeal wasn’t just based on his good looks. There were other men who had more classically balanced features. It was significantly more than good genes or the symmetry of bone structure. Not that his purely physical attributes were lacking in any regard. You had already committed to memory every aspect of his form and figure, from his hair, with a distinguished flurry of silver, all the way down to his feet in their gleaming oxfords. No doubt polished with every wearing; they carried him with purposeful movement and long measured strides.

Harry Hart was a tall man. Often folding his legs as gracefully as possible under tables and desks that were just a breath too short to accommodate a man of his stature. He carried himself differently. Always with a posture, walk, a gait, that had a purpose.  Never rushed unnecessarily, he possessed the ease of someone in full control of his physical body. His movements were light, sharp, and kinetic. When he was still, he held himself straight and tall, without strain. In more casual moments, his weight would shift to one side or the other, or he might lean against a support, breaking up the long, precise lines of his full height.

Mostly, this had to do with a hyper awareness of his environment and his place in it. If Harry needed to calm a new recruit, he might stand with authority, but tuck his hands in his pockets, conveying a sense of ease and familiarity. When confronting an adversary, his stature seemed to grow as he pulled himself to his full height.  In those rare moments where he was free from personal and professional obligations responsibilities, as much as he could ever be, his figure would take on smooth curves and relaxed angles. The space he occupied was his to claim, mould, and manipulate. And Harry Hart did so with his body, his voice, his gaze, his way of dress.

Surprisingly, you discovered that Harry was a man who often communicated through physical touch. As a man of few words, who often guarded his privacy and personal life, you expected him to be even more reserved with his body language, to be even more wary of close physical contact. Quite the contrary, he was often more generous with a hand on the shoulder or a gentle pat on the back as a form of approval or encouragement. Sometimes, he would place his hand over yours as gesture of support and understanding. Harry was more demonstrative with contact and touch than he was with using words of praise or comfort. Even his proximity, whether it be as a figure in the distance or his physical closeness, could affect the energy of the room.

Rolling it over in your mind, you realised that it made sense that Harry would be comfortable communicating through touch. In some regards, he was a very tactile man, a sensual man, if not overtly so. He was a man that celebrated the senses.

In his office, though minimalist by Kingsman standards, austere even, there were touches of extravagance not influenced by tradition. All the furniture, as well as being beautifully made, focused on designs that were hospitable as well as functional. The chairs were comfortable. The lounge was upholstered in a dark, rich leather, well oiled and worn smooth by years of use. It was masculine, but also soft and inviting, a piece that you could relax and sink into.  A sumptuous throw. Pillows covered in dark velvet that were actually soft, not just decorative.

The items that did adorn his office were obviously selected thoughtfully and with care. The enticingly smooth curves of a vase, seemingly out of place, brilliant jade against the subdued tones of hunter green, tartans and plaid and the deep tones of polished wood and leather. The delicate lines and breathtaking color of a framed butterfly.  A small, sterling silver paperweight in the shape of a terrier. A cut crystal decanter, with matching tumblers, no doubt holding an insanely old and very expensive scotch.

There was an emphasis, not on the prestige or price of an object, but on its, color, texture, lines that were pleasing or challenging to the eye. Not as a flaunting of wealth, but a source of pleasure. It wasn’t an ostentatious display of the rich, it was the luxury of selection and taste. Any piece of clothing or fabric that touched his body directly was often luxurious, as well, scarfs, gloves, fine cashmere or calfskin leather. Though you had no way of knowing, you assumed his sheets would be of the highest thread count.

Harry’s manner of dress was immaculate and as precise as the polished, clipped tones of his aristocratic accent. He presented himself as a man who was self-assured with his appearance. Whatever he wore, he wore with confidence. He wore it well, without vanity, pretension, ego or conceit. Not that he needed the help of his wardrobe to face the world. His manner of dress seemed to highlight, magnify his innate sense of self.  He was not a flashy man, but he appreciated the expert craftsmanship that went into a finely cut suit. That good clean lines, quality materials, understated but interesting details could be the final polish on an already finely honed presentation.   

His clothing was the other area where he allowed himself some extravagance. A firm believer in the principle that if one’s self and surroundings are not only presentable, but impeccable, then one will always be prepared for what surprises life may decide to throw in one’s direction. In his line of work, unpredictability was as predictable as the sun rising in the east and setting in the west. His wardrobe countered the erratic nature of life as an agent.  Thus, his was a look of man who had his life in order.

Harry Hart was a man of consistency. His tie was an unfailing full Windsor, tucked under the spread collar of a pristine white shirt. An equally crisp pocket square, folded neatly, peeked from his breast pocket. French cuffs were secured with custom gold links, bearing the Kingsman insignia. His suits were mostly double breasted, in classic shades of black, charcoal, navy and grey and cut in a wool that was appropriate for the occasion, whether solid, pinstriped, or woven with a pattern such as herringbone, or houndstooth. After years as a Kingsman agent, he had amassed a considerable and varied wardrobe that consisted of classic suits, formal wear, overcoats, ties, scarves, for any occasion or any type of mission. Each Kingsman agent also wore a gold signet ring on the pinky of their dominant hand. Harry wore the ring on his right.

Kingsman suits were cut close to the body, but designed with allowances made to accommodate weapons, ensure maneuvrability and flexibility in all types of action. They were also bulletproof. It was a feature created after decades of experimenting with different textiles and weaves and exploring processes and techniques that would result in a material that could withstand the velocity and impact of of a bullet shot at close range. The lightweight, flexible lining was sewn into every Kingsman suit and many times proved to be a lifesaver.

Shoulder harnesses were used for carrying. Not belt clips. Belts constricted the body whereas a harness allowed freedom of movement. They were also easily and quickly detachable in case they needed to be removed. Belts, on the other hand, though they had their uses, could also cost valuable seconds when needed to be taken off. The carry position prevented printing and maintained the lines of Kingsman’s suits.

The fine, bespoke tailoring emphasized Harry’s height and build. Trousers were slim cut, long and hemmed with a perfect mid break. He preferred the simple Oxford rather than brogues. He styled his hair in a classic, handsome cut, and was always clean shaven, (unless in the field where there was no opportunity for a straight razor shave). His aftershave and cologne were unobtrusive but memorable. Rather than preceding him, the warm and masculine sent of woods and spices, with hints of cardamon, bergamot, the tactile sensuality of rich leather and suede, would linger after his departure, like a layer of warm dark velvet. Even his hands were beautiful. Beautiful but not delicate. Large wide palms, long elegant fingers, his nails were neat and clipped. They sometimes bore the marks of time spent in the field. They were strong and capable.

Overall, Harry Hart had the appearance of a man who embraced classics, honoured tradition, but defined his look with his own individual aesthetic personality and sense of style.

In quieter moments, when you had the opportunity to watch him without being too obvious or call attention to yourself, you allowed your curiosity to wonder over all the small details and mannerism that were unique to Harry. How his fingertips would gently find the arm of his glasses and rest lightly there, when he was thoughtful or pondering a question, as if it helped him focus or think.  The automatic gesture probably developed after years of transmitting information through the eyeglasses, which also functioned as communication devices.  Through your experience in human psychology, you recognised this as a self soothing gesture. Finding the comfort of something familiar. You were fairly sure that Harry was aware of this gesture and allowed himself some habits, that were, not particularly productive but, helpful nonetheless. Rubbing his thumb along the band of his signet ring. The way he would always shoot his cuffs when rising from his seat. Or run the palm of his hand along the back of his head, smoothing down the already polished hair.

Never had you met someone who had the ability to asses and evaluate any given situation as throughly and unerringly as Harry. Whether it entailed clearing a room, identifying a mark, or even just something as simple as slowing his pace when you walked along side him so you wouldn’t have to struggle to keep up. He was constantly aware of his surroundings and deconstructing what needed to happen to make the environment more pleasing, the conversation more engaging, the meeting more productive, the mission more likely to succeed. He was nothing if not thoughtful. Thus, when you walked with him, he always slowed and allowed you to maintain your own graceful stride.

His physical appearance, his exacting nature, his precise moments, his carefully maintained wardrobe, his formal patterns of speech, his refined accent, not to mention his good looks could intimidate even the most confident agent, let alone a green one.  That was until the person in question realised that this outward perfection was merely the layer that he presented to the world.

It would seem impossible for man to be blessed with so many gifts, but Harry Hart proved to be the exception to the rule, for he was as charming and gracious as he was handsome. His quick wit, his clever way with words, as well as his dry, incisive sense of humor could enthrall even the most unwilling participant.

He could placate the most difficult handler, assuage the most reluctant agent, enchant the most reserved target, or ingratiate himself into the most inhospitable of circumstances. When Harry turned on the full force of his charm, the people he met, let alone the men and women who worked with him, frequently found themselves elevated in his presence, their own experience heightened by his vitality and charisma. They left the experience a little breathless, a little awestruck, a little seduced by Harry Hart. You were no exception. And you had been spending a lot of time with him.

————

You found yourselves alone one evening at the manor. In the lounge, when you both happened to desire a drink at the same time. Most of the Kingsman had already departed for the shop if they were returning to the city. The rest had dispersed to their own private quarters, or were participating in whatever activity they had planned for the evening. The lounge was quiet. They way he liked it. Apparently, it was the way you preferred it as well.

Harry spotted you the same moment you lifted your gaze at the new arrival. Your eyes narrowed slightly in pleasure at the sight of him. You gave him a small, but welcoming smile. The musical clink of crystal against glass as he poured a scotch from the fully stocked bar was the only sound aside from the cracking logs in the grand fireplace.

The club was a vast space with a vaulted ceiling. The stately fireplace stood on the far wall. Like most of the manor, it was dressed in masculine shades of dark brown and hunter greens, tartan and plaids. Polished hardwood furniture, mostly antique, and historical paintings, displaying the rich history of Kingsman, whispered class and wealth. In the center was an arrangement to accommodate a more substantial group with larger sofas and chaises surrounding a massive polished low wooden table.

Around the room were smaller clusters of tables and leather club chairs tucked into alcoves for smaller gatherings or intimate conversations. 

It was at one these clusters that he found you, tucked in a quiet corner near the fireplace.

In the most relaxed arrangement Harry allowed himself while still on Kingsman property, he had his coat draped over his arm. Dressed in his shirtsleeves, tie and shoulder holster, tumbler in hand, he approached you, also with a pleasant but small smile. Pleased that you were the one that was sharing this space with him.

You were dressed quite differently from how Harry first remembered you. Well, your clothes hadn’t been memorable, but you had been. Since you were not a knighted agent, they weren’t quite sure how to classify you yet, you took the freedom to dress beyond the Kingsman uniform. Though always appropriate and surprisingly on brand, you were not quite regulation. If you were out in the field, you were in tactical, or the women’s version of the kingsman suits. You even had the shop tailor some custom pieces so you could have more diversity. When you were at Kingsman HQ or at the shop in support, you dressed appropriately, but in your own style. There were handfuls of fashionable men at Kingsman. You couldn’t turn around and not run into a gentleman turned out in Kingsman’s finest. But an attractive, stylish woman was a rarer sight. Even Harry noticed the heads that turned when you walked by.

Walking toward you, Harry took the time to observe your appearance, he told himself as spies always did out of habit. Today, you remained on the property. Without the need for being in the field, this would be your most proper look. You were dressed in a way that was very elegant, but sexy at the same time. Or, perhaps it wasn’t supposed to look sexy. Harry set that observation aside. Not the time nor the place, he thought to himself.

You were dressed in a slim, knee length pencil skirt in a very deep shade of oxblood red. It was velvet he noted when he saw the sheen of the fabric as you shifted your knees in his direction. A matching tailored jacket, that, like him, you had removed and draped over the back of your chair. Topped with a delicate, almost sheer silk blouse the color of sun bleached bone. It had tiny pearl buttons down the front, and lace detailing at the collar, cuffs and similar detailing along the button placket. A narrow dark brown leather belt circled your waist with a gold clasp rather than a prong buckle.  Dark brown suede court shoes with a tall, but reasonable heel. Your makeup was minimal and natural. You looked like you had just somehow heightened your features, but in no discernible way he could describe.

As Harry got closer, he was able to notice even smaller details. Your beautiful hair, was twisted up and away from your face and secured in some secret way women have where it would stay perfectly in place by means he could never quite see. Your accessories were feminine and understated. Small gold earrings in the shape of teardrops, a simple gold cuff around your wrist, a Kingsman issue watch on the other. A signet ring on your own pinkie. Your nails were trimmed short and clean, either no polish or something bare. A thin gold chain around your neck with a small solid gold version of the Kingsman pendant.

Harry didn’t know what he wanted a woman to look like until he first saw you. The first time, on that first chaotic night, he had the same thought. He could give you a basic description of what you were wearing, but he could describe every feature of your face. The way you looked when you were reflective. The line of your jaw when you were determined.

And then, for the very first time he saw you, dressed, properly, walking down the long marble corridor of the HQ manor, when you had the opportunity to present yourself on your own terms. Harry thought, this is what I want a woman to look like. It wasn’t that you were model beautiful, or that your features were perfect. In London, on the streets, you could see plenty of models. They were beautiful, no doubt, and pleasing to look at, but once you were done, you were able to go about your day without a second thought. 

Your beauty had substance. The fact that Harry knew what your skill set included, to know what you had overcome to be where you were, to be the person you were, made your beauty a real tangible thing, regardless of what you were wearing. Perhaps it was that, whatever you wore, you made it part of you. It wasn’t just a pretty skirt or a flattering blouse, it was the way you wore it that made him notice you. You could have looked completely different, with completely opposite features. Harry would have still have felt the same. And he would still say, this is what I want a woman to look like.

You posessed the capacity to stir his heart. Something that had been quiet and still for a very long time. Even something that Harry thought no longer had the desire to be moved. It was certainly not something he was seeking. He, long ago, had accepted the fact that the life of agent isn’t one that fosters lasting relationships. Relationships were based on communication and he had far too many secrets as a Kingsman.

Harry was beyond the time in his life for these kinds of thoughts. He knew he had been handsome in his youth. He had his fair share of relationships and much more than his fair share of sexual encounters. He was aware that his looks had carried him quite well as he got older and that if he wanted, there were women, very desirable ones, that would be more than willing to engage in a casual relationship. Harry was by no means vanilla. It wasn’t that he was prudish in the least, or one to deny himself physical pleasure. If you were not exactly who you were, then he would have most likely allowed himself to pursue you and enjoyed whatever that relationship had to offer. The crux of it was, that he would not be as attracted to you, or charmed by you if you weren’t exactly who you were. He would not want your as much as he did if you were any different. 

——

Harry set these thoughts aside as he approached you. Even though it was obvious you were alone, Kingsman manners never failed. Never ask a lady directly if she’d like your company. Give her a polite way to refuse without making her say no. She will indicate if your presence if desired.

“Excuse me, miss.” he opened. “Is this seat taken?”

You awarded him with an amused smile. You always enjoyed his little game of manners.

You nodded toward the chair. Please.

Draping his coat on the back of his chair, just as you did, He adjusted his slacks so he could sit down comfortably and gracefully. The club chairs were low and designed to sink back into. Harry took his seat, adjusted a little until he, too, was settled in.

Since both of you were now relatively stuck in your respective positions, where you couldn’t move without significant effort, Harry simply raised his glass in your direction. You followed suit.

You were pleased when he was comfortable enough to sit in silence with you. It was one of the first tells you would look for in asset or mark. Did they have enough self assurance to be silent? Were they uncomfortable, awkward, fidgety? Did they try to fill the silence? Most often, if they lacked confidence, you would notice these tells immediately. One of your favourite activities was to sit in silence.

It was also one of your favourite activities to look at Harry Hart. The fact that he was handsome was no surprise. When you initially started at Kingsman, this was simply an objective observation, like masterful way he handled weaponry. Or the fact that he was right handed.  The more you were partnered in the field, the closer you became, both in proximity and as colleagues, his physical attributes began to affect you in ways that continued to make you increasingly uncomfortable.

You were aware his body was that of a man that you admired and looked up to. Tall, broad shouldered, slim hipped. Strong, driven, powerful. You became aware of all the things that his body could do. You had the opportunity to observe him every time you were in the field, in combat, in action.

But you also began to discern a softness, a gentleness that he could convey when he gathered you up after a surprising blast had knocked you off your feet. Hands that smoothed back your hair from your forehead upon waking up in medical after a particularly dangerous mission. A warm hand on your shoulder as you successfully accomplished a challenging task. 

You were aware that as your mentor, Harry had a responsibility to maintain a professional relationship. But with escalating frequency, you imagined how it would feel to have him pressed up against you, to feel his body, purposeful and confident. 

————

The evening was relaxed. Both of you, without the urgency of an upcoming mission to prepare, took the opportunity to simply rest and unwind. A seldom occasion. Feeling more and more at ease when both of you were together, you allowed yourself a little space to test the waters. When engaging targets, if they seemed comfortable sitting in silence in your company, would they make direct eye contact? You took another small sip of your drink, savoured it for a moment, and swallowed.

Hmmm. You were very curious about HarryHart and you were feeling surprisingly playful. You wanted to try something. Let’s say an experiment in tradecraft. You waited until you caught his eye. Harry seemed amused and matched your eye contact with equal directness. You were pleased that he made eye contact and even more pleased when he maintained it. But he was a spy, after all. Making and maintaining eye contact would be elementary for him.

With a little cheekiness on your part, you raised your glass to your lips again and took a small sip. He did not waver. His eyes even took on a little bit of curious amusement. You held the scotch on your tongue, pulled it to the back of your mouth, rolled the scotch around a little bit longer than necessary, before you swallowed.

Neither of you would look away first. You gave him a half smile, half smirk, crinkled your eyes a bit in amusement. You seemed to be saying. Ok. Your turn.

Harry had never seen your in this kind of playful mood and he suddenly found himself enjoying this little match immensely.

He could more than participate in this game. He, literally, had decades more experience than you. An agent may be able to seduce. But a gentleman agent was a master at the art of seduction. And Harry Hart was the consummate gentleman agent. One did not get to where he was in life without knowing how to pleasure a woman. He was often told he had beautiful and talented hands. That may have been years ago, but those kinds of skills, they stayed with a man.

A quick raise of his brow. Darling, challenge accepted.

Holding your eyes with his, he lowered his glass just enough to where it was in your sight line, but slightly off to the side, at the edge of your peripheral vision. You would still be able to hold eye contact, but would have to make an effort not to glance down at his glass. Especially, when you saw what he was going to do with it.

Harry held your gaze suddenly with an intense focus you were unprepared for. Out of the corner of your eye you saw that he was holding his glass, cupping it in the palm of one hand. He began to simply roll it around gently, as one would while enjoying a proper scotch. He rolled it around harmlessly, in a slow, lazy, rhythmic pattern.

You had to concentrate a little harder not to look away, but you kept his gaze. If you were uncomfortable, you didn’t show it. You hoped your gaze held a similar intensity as Harry’s. His felt, well, piercing, for lack of a more appropriate word.

This was certainly turning out to be an interesting evening, Harry thought. You seemed determined to stick this through. He would be required to dial his technique up a notch. He nested the heavy base in the center of his palm and let it rest there for awhile without moving. Then, once again, he started rolling the glass in his hand, not to stir the liquid, but to feel the surface of glass itself. He bounced the glass, lightly, as if testing the weight and feeling the heaviness.

The movement was subtle, slow, and sensuous. He let his hand explore the texture of the smooth surface. The base of his thumb pressed against the glass in slow, languid circles, sometimes rolling on to the pad of his thumb, sometimes to his finger tip. But he did this as if he were doing it unconsciously, because he was staring at you with a focus and intensity that said you were the only woman on earth, and that he wanted you.

There was truth to the term, the male gaze. It was not looking at something through a man’s eyes, it was seeing into something as a man. There was a reason why they called this particular look penetrating. It was a gaze of desire, a singularly male want and need. If done properly, it was a way to make love to a woman without touching her. It was far beyond physical contact. It wasn’t hard for him to harness his essential masculine energy. Harry had done it for years on countless honey traps in his younger days with the agency.  He hadn’t thrown the full force of himself to seduce in quite awhile and found that he was enjoying a little flex of his muscle.  If desire had a name, at that moment, it would be called Harry Hart. He let his desire roll off of him in waves.

What you didn’t quite understand, was that the game you were playing with him, wasn’t about who could keep eye contact the longest. It was a question of who was going to be seduced and who was going to be the seducer. You were approaching what you thought was a staring contest as a battle of the wills, which was why you were going to fail. Making eye contact may be a test of power and confidence, but that was a quick, brief test. A simple meeting or a darting of the eyes. It was very easy to find out who was going to be able to make and hold contact. However, eye contact for a prolonged period of time, especially between a man and a woman? It became something quite different. It was a game of seduction. It wasn’t a test of power. It was a test of control. Control of two things in this case, the seducer’s own desire, and the desire of the other person. Could the seducer harness his own desire to control the seduced.

You had not faltered yet. He raised to single brow. Would you like me to keep going?

You narrowed your gaze. Please, do.

The expression on his face all but said out loud. “You asked for it.”

Harry saw the flush in your cheeks when you noticed what he was doing with his glass. Your breathing intensified. Your pupils dilated and there was nothing you could do to stop it. 

They were very small movements, but very deliberate movements. He cupped the bottom of the glass in one palm, fingers spread as if he were holding up a small tray. Using only his middle finger, the rest of his hand now cupping the base, he began to stroke the center of the glass. Like he was using his finger to say, come here. In very slow, very deliberate, beyond suggestive movements. His other hand simply rested on the top rim of the glass. Gently holding it in place while he moved his bottom hand. He did this without twitching another muscle in his body, as if nothing had changed.

Your eyes widened. Holy fuck, you thought. With very exact and explicit movements of his hands, Harry was not just implying, but overtly demonstrating how he used them to give pleasure to a woman. The shock of seeing him within the frame of something so blatantly sexual, all the while looking at you the entire time? It was intensely arousing.

Harry was not only looking at you, he was positively devouring you with his gaze. You could feel him, his energy in pulses of heat. This wasn’t merely eye contact. This was something unexpected and you were not prepared for it. Harry was suddenly changed, maybe not changed, but different. He was harder, stronger, more demanding. He was more of everything. The polite, honorable, considerate gentleman was still there,  but now he added an aspect of himself that you had never seen or experienced before. The man was still Harry Hart, but it was also as if a part of him had been unleashed, whatever primal energy that was held in check by the handsome suits and the manners and the chivalry, had been released.

You fought to maintain your composure. He knew exactly what he was doing. His hands moved expertly, and with ease. His gaze, became even more intense, if that was even possible.

Harry continued to play and to tease as he held the glass in his palm. You knew where he had his hand. You could feel the exact placement as if it were on your own body. The base of his palm would cup your center, with the rest of his fingers spreading between your legs. His middle finger was still moving in achingly slow circles, one direction, then slowly moving in the other direction. He curled his finger under, using his knuckle, rolling it in tiny circles. Not even really moving just shifting the pressure moving from one side to the other, from top to bottom.

You saw in his eyes, that he knew, that you were not only being affected by his movements, but you were feeling sensations as if he were touching you directly.

It was the most erotic experience of your life.

Here was this beautiful man, still dressed as properly as ever in his dress shirt and tie, his shoulder holster with his side arm. His perfect hair, his perfect face. With all his dignity and respect, relaxing comfortably back into his chair, his legs spread wide, an ankle crossed over his knee, one elbow resting casually on the arm of his leather chair. Radiating such a profound sexual energy, that without even touching you, had the ability to control your body with only his eyes and the the way he moved a glass in his hand. He was so confident in his movements. His expression said, however brief this moment, that he owned you, that you were his, and he knows that you wants it that way. He can see it all over your face. He can see it in your eyes.

——

Harry wasn’t even close to being done.

He took his other hand, laying his palm over the glass, as if it was resting there. On the other side of the glass, where his thumb fell, he began to roll it around in very explicit, very familiar circles.

He felt himself harden as his own arousal grew. He didn’t try to stop it. Instead of letting it distract him, he channeled that energy through him and into you. Allowing you to witness the physical evidence of his own desire would strengthen his hold. Never underestimate the power of the imagination. You would see it. Your mind would do the rest.

Harry saw your lips part, even the slightest bit. Your chest rising and falling under your ladylike blouse as your breath quickened. Your knees pressed tightly together. He watched your face very, very carefully and intently, watching the subtle changes in your expressions as he shifted the movements of his hands, knowing that you were feeling his movements in your body. Every time your brow would furrow, or you took a sharp intake of breath, or would clench your pretty hands, as he moved his own, he knew you were feeling pleasure. And that he was the source of that pleasure.

Harry knew that there were men who were turned on by violence. For him, however, there was nothing more erotic than the sight of a woman experiencing the pleasure that you were giving her. So, he was especially aroused when he was free to look at the nuances of your face and body freely and openly. Your pleasure had reached a constant as you moved almost imperceptibly to the consistent rhythm of his hand.

And you still did not drop your gaze. Harry knew, now that you were fully aroused, you would not break eye contact. You probably couldn’t at this point if you tried. For, half of your pleasure was a result of seeing the man who was controlling your pleasure. And seeing that you pleased him, that he was also sexually aroused, intensified your pleasure. And you wanted to offer that to him, very willingly. Harry was finding out much about you in these few moments. Things that he wasn’t even sure you knew about yourself. Very few women would have been comfortable enough with their sexuality to be purely on the receiving end of pleasure. In the intimacy of their own bedroom in a committed relationship. Let alone in an extremely public and therefore vulnerable way. With a man who may be, slightly off limits. Which, in fact, probably added to your pleasure.

To see just how much you were under his thumb, pun aside, Harry paused for a moment. He kept his hand, his fingers in the exact same place. He just stilled. And watched you. After a few moments he could see the tiniest furrow of your brow. When he continued to remain still, he saw the movement he waiting for. You probably didn’t even know you had made it. It was the slightest lifting and rolling of your hips. He didn’t realize he could be more turned on, but he felt himself grow harder. It was the motion every woman made, in his experience, when they wanted more, when they were asking for more, and when they were begging for more.  The ability to actively listen and comprehend another person was the most profound influencing tactic one could hone in communication, and therefore seduction.  Which is exactly what he was doing. In a very non verbal, very physical way.

Harry began his movements again, with more intensity and purpose. He let his finger, for the first time, slide all the way up the side of the glass, even letting it lift with the upward movement of his palm. He saw your body move as if you were receiving him.

He knew you were experiencing waves of intense pleasure. He could tell you wanted to close your eyes and tip your head back. As Harry witnessed your need, he went in for his last movements. His palm pressing up into the base of the glass, his thumb rolling in small firm circles and his entire middle finger along the entire length of the glass, the tip almost reaching the top of the rim.  As if his finger were deep inside you, he made deliberate strokes while pressing into the glass, slow, but then gradually increasing in speed and pressure.

Harry knew, that you knew, the exact two parts he was pleasuring.

You lips parted, your breathing grew heavier. You had no idea what was going to happen next, all you felt were waves of pleasure. The only thing you could concentrate on was not losing eye contact with the man in front of you.

Harry knew at this point, he had let what was a silly, flirtatious game, go too far. He also knew this began as a challenge, and Harry Hart was never one to back down from a challenge. He also knew that he never purposely lost a game. If it took climaxing for you to break eye contact, then so be it.

Harry also knew he was mesmerized by the sight of you. He didn’t know if he could stop. But it didn’t matter because he didn’t want to. This moment had to hit the list of the top most erotic experiences of his life. Both fully clothed, siting in separate chairs, more than six feet apart. With only eye contact between you. He didn’t know if he’d experienced something more intensely arousing, knowing that he was the one you were feeling when you made yourself come.

Harry began to see the tell tale tremors, the quickening breath, your lips parting with cries that you desperately wanted to make that you would not let yourself, and still, you were trying to hold on. Psychologically you were making it harder for yourself, denying your own release would only make it that much more physically intense when you had to give in.

It was at that moment, that a door banged within the manor and someone appeared at the large entrance of the club room.

“Harry. That you?”

Damn it. It was Eggsy.

“Just headin’ out.” Eggsy called over. “What’s up? Looks like you two’re having a staring contest. Whose winning?”

“It’s a tie” Harry replied.

Eggsy held up his hand in a quick wave and left.

Harry gave you a quick glance, where you were still trying to maintain eye contact, wait no, you were just staring into the space behind him, concentrating on something he could not see.

——

You knew you had to stop staring at Harry, so you looked past his shoulder into the empty space behind him. At this point, even the sight of him might set you off. You were still right at the cusp of your climax and your body was still so aroused you were afraid that any movement could push your over the edge. You wanted to tell Harry to leave, but you couldn’t think of a way without embarrassing or offending one or both of you. All you could do at the moment was sit quietly. So that’s what you did. You were waiting for your body to catch up with the rest of you and settle down. Harry was waiting patiently until you were ready to move or speak.

After a bit of time, you glanced over at him, made sure it was safe. It was, and you began to relax a little, though your body still felt like a flame that was ready to ignite with any hint of friction. You just needed to stay still for awhile.

You saw Harry watching you, his face both concerned and amused.

He broke the silence.

 “And that, my darling,” Harry said pointedly. “Is how one create’s an effective honey trap.”

In an attempt to further diffuse the situation, he wanted to be frank and direct with you and not to brush what just happened under the rug. That would be awkward for both of you.  He did not want you to feel embarrassed or ashamed or uncomfortable with him or what had happened. The best way was to be as blunt as possible. He pushed down on his palms and rose out of his chair with minimal effort.

“My dear, I’ve been in the spy business for over 30 years. One does not get this far without knowing how to pleasure a woman.”

He winked at you.

“Not to worry, you’ll get there.”

Harry reached behind him for his coat, draped it over his arm, but not before you clearly noticed his own erection. Which before had just been a suggestion in the shadows. He’s hard.

The thought made you flame all over again.

“I need to take my leave. Will you be alright, here?”

All you could do is nod. You didn’t trust your voice yet.

Always the gentleman, he leaned over and brushed his lips against the top of your hair.

“Thank you for the lovely evening.”

You still couldn’t look directly at him so you turned your head slightly to the side and gave him a small nod. With a quick squeeze of your arm, you heard his departing footsteps. He was heading to the tunnels. He was going back into the city, He wouldn’t be staying at he manor. You didn’t know if you were glad or disappointed.

You were grateful to him for providing at least a somewhat graceful way to exit the situation, referring to the seduction technique that ALL agents are trained in. Harry was letting you chalk it up to a learning experience.

You opened your mouth. Nothing came out. You tried again.

“Fuck.”

It was the first word that you had said all evening.

——

“Fuck.”

Harry thought as he boarded the train back into the city. He had actually planned on staying at the manor, but with what just happened with you, he wasn’t sure if that would be the best course of action. It took all of his self control to remove himself from any temptation by leaving the place entirely. Making it impossible for him to act in a way that was inappropriate. Not that what had just happened would qualify as appropriate. At least it had the veil of a lesson on seduction. He wasn’t sure it would convince judges, but he found it a weak, but passable excuse.

No, the problem for the moment was that all Harry could see was your face as he pleasured you. How your lips parted, your breasts underneath your blouse, the flush of your cheeks. He wanted to hear what your cries would’ve sounded like. He wanted to be the one to make you cry out. His sex drive, always healthy, may have had a prolonged dormant period in recent times. But now it was raging like a fire that he unleashed and now he couldn’t put out. By letting the full force of it out this evening, it was fully awake and needed something to do. Harry had feared that if he had stayed at the manor even a moment longer, he wouldn’t have been able to help himself and would’ve taken you and had you right there.

If he could do that to you with his eyes and just the suggestion of his hands, he couldn’t imaging what it would be like pleasuring you with his entire body. Harry knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep until he took care of himself, and when he did, he would allow himself the sight of your trembling, responsive, body underneath his own as he gave you the pleasure he knew you so desperately wanted, joined together as he felt your body shudder around him when you climaxed, feeling his own release as he heard you cry out his name in pleasure.

[funtimebunnyblog]

.... It was a moment of weakness, I swear. 😅

And what started out as a simple list of headcanons may or may not have snowballed into 4 short stories of reader slapping Pillarman cake that I have been working on almost non-stop since I got the request on A03... 😳😇 Oopsie!

Pillarmen react to getting slapped in the cake unexpectedly...

(Under the cut for length!)

(Warning! Do not attempt with real life Pillarmen! Slapping ancient Aztec buns may result in death...)

Kars:

It was a quiet morning at the house, which wasn't uncommon, but Kars always welcomed the silence and any and all absence of chaos. Nose deep in his book, he greeted you as you sauntered in to the room, not even bothering to lift his eyes from the text layered pages as per usual.

Always perceptive, even when distracted, it was no big feat to be able to differentiate your footsteps from the others; you being much lighter and smaller played a big part in that, of course. Though, he didn't think to wonder why you were tip-toeing like that...

He turned the page, the quiet rattle of paper breaking the silence, when he felt you right near him. The Pillarman still didn't care to tear his eyes from the sea of words he was lost in as he simply stood there, rooted to the floor.

"Hello dear one," he greeted, the timber of his deep and quiet voice floated through the Livingroom like a breeze. "if you're looking for Wamuu he's out--"

S M A C K!

The words evaporated on his tongue in a sheer instant. His blood-red eyes went wide in their sockets, unfocusing as the world around him stopped turning for just a moment.

Did you really just...?

No. He had to be mistaken.

You couldn't have--

No. You WOULDN'T have--

A pregnant and deafening moment of silence had fallen over the room, this time he all but welcomed it, only punctuated by the sound of a little giggle that managed to escape your lips.

You did.

You really just did.

Not that it hurt him; if anything he felt more the jiggle of his right cheek rather than the sting of the slap itself.

Slowly, ever so slowly, he turned his head to peer down at you; a frown tugging at the corners of his lips and etching deep lines into his fair, chiseled features. You were biting your own lip, your body shaking with suppressed giggles that tried to force their way out. You had your hands folded neatly behind your back, looking up at him with eyes best described as "innocent" as you made an attempt to hide the grin trying to force its way across your face.

You looked the very definition of smug.

Though he was displeased, he actually couldn't help but admire your bravery to be able to simply walk up and do such a thing.

Especially to him.

You must've been bored.

Really bored.

Either that or Esidisi put you up to this...

It didn't matter either way, as he fully intended to get down on your level if you wanted to pull such a stunt like that.

He shut the book that he was no longer invested in with a loud and heavy "THUD". In barely half a second, you were grabbed and thrown over his shoulder making you squawk in surprise.

"So," he began, tucking the book under his other arm and starting up the stairs. His voice was low, almost a purr, but it held an unignorable bite to it. "You like spanking, do you, little one?"

Uh oh.

UH OH.

You realized, quite belatedly, that you hadn't quite thought that through, squirming in his firm hold as he carried you all the way upstairs and right into his room.

Kars continued, you could hear the smirk in his very tone as he spoke. "Well in that case, I do hope you're prepared for one..." The door slammed shut ominously behind him. "Act like a child; you get punished like one."

You swallowed thickly at those words, a terror only best described a primal shooting through your body like lighting.

You had a feeling you weren't going to be sitting comfortably around the house anytime soon...

Esidisi:

The massive man chuckled as you hopped up and down, lips puckered like a sucker fish, almost meeting his cheek this time but just missing it as he stood up straight again.

You have been trying (emphasis on trying) to kiss him goodbye for nearly 5 minutes now.

On the norm, you made an effort to kiss all of your housemates, the Pillarmen, goodbye on their cheek every morning they went out. It became a routine for you all, or perhaps just a healthy habit on your part.

You'd kiss them goodbye as they went out doing God-knows-what for a few hours while you worked around the house; doing chores, working on courses, doing work inside at the computer or outside in the garden.

But this morning, Esidisi insisted on tormenting you.

And for his own entertainment no less.

You kissed Kars on his cheek and he patted your head. You kissed Wamuu on his cheek and he responded by respectfully kissing your hand. You kissed Santana on his cheek and he butted his head softly against yours.

And finally, you went to kiss Esidisi and he pulled away.

He laughed at your doe-eyed expression as your lips met empty air, smiling innocently down at you when you looked up at him in confusion. You blinked and tried again, only to be met with the same thing. You thought he would cut it out there but no; he was taking full enjoyment out of your determination, not to mention your reactions, as he just kept stopping you by pulling away or pushing you at arms length.

At this point, he was really milking it.

"Oh c'mon, Esidisi!" You whined, starting to get a little frustrated.

You stood on your toes, standing as taught as a bowstring as you held onto one of his massive and muscular arms, trying to peck his cheek. He refused to comply, grinning and standing at his full height; which was inevitably well out of your reach.

"Oh, but this is fun, my sweet little Human." He laughed, tapping his cheek almost invitingly. "Keep up. Maybe you'll get it if you jump just a little higher."

Kars rolled his eyes, folding his arms over his broad chest. He and the others had also been watching this display for almost 5 minutes now.

"Esidisi, come on and get it over with." The purple-haired Pillarman sighed, his amusement towards these antics long gone at this point. "We're burning daylight."

Esidisi let out a sigh, rolling his own eyes. "Alright." He said, leaning down to your level with a smirk.

You pursed your lips, that gleam in his eye told you what exactly he planned to do and that plan was to pull away one final time, just to get your goat before he left so he could have a good laugh about it like the bastard you knew he could be.

Unfortunately for him; you were one step ahead of him.

Like lightning, you pressed a kiss into the palm of your hand and threw your arm back, swinging it to smack your smooched hand it as hard as you could against his bare asscheek.

C R A C K!

The sound was almost like a gun going off.

Silence fell over the room, Esidisi's eyes were as wide as saucers and his cheeky (tee-hee) expression was now nowhere to be found.

"There." You spat, your own cheeks burning hot, the feeling spreading all the way back to your ears. "That's a cheek I can reach." Clenching your hands into fists, also trying to hide the fact one of your hands was stinging like fire, you stomped out of the room.

Finally, you could get a start on the chores you needed to get done for the day.

Even though, you knew it hurt your hand more than it hurt his bum; it was worth it. Esidisi had been the one to teach you a very important lesson to live by, after all; "Don't get mad; get even.".

Kars laughed lowly, Santana smirking as Wamuu hid a grin behind his hand; all of them watching you make your proud departure. Esidisi watched you go, bug-eyed and holding a hand gingerly against the cheek you had smacked.

"They certainly showed you, Esidisi." Kars chuckled.

Wamuu:

Training with Wamuu was definitely fun.

He was very encouraging; tempering you with praise as you pushed yourself and ensuring you weren't overdoing it. But once in a blue moon, once he decided that you had become substantially stronger and your lessons were becoming to easy for you, he upped the intensity a little.

Making it just a little less than fun for you at those times, of course.

Today in particular, you found yourself on the ground more than on your actual feet.

"Wamuu..." you panted, trying to force yourself up after he pushed you down for seemingly the millionth time that afternoon. "...I--... I'm..."

The warrior however, was having none of it.

Folding his arms, the green of his double-ringed eyes burned like glittering emeralds. "Try again, little one." He said, his voice soft but stern. "You must remember to apply what I have taught you; if you rush, it will only open yourself to be knocked down first."

Today, he presented you with the challenge of trying to pin him and needless to say, it was going just about as easy as it sounded.

He watched as you shakily got to your feet, huffing and puffing. It made his heart swell every time the undeniable gleam of ferocity in your eyes caught his, a fine warriors trait in his own opinion. He took stance, spreading his legs as he hunched his back, keeping himself open and ready to defend. You came at him, like you had done several times prior, grabbing onto him and trying to find a foothold only to be swatted away easily like a house fly.

A few more tries (resulting in a few more throwdowns) and Wamuu finaly decided that you were finished for the day.

"You are too tired to continue," he hummed, peering down into your face where you lay with your back to the ground.

His huge hands slipped under you, gently picking you up almost like a Mother would her babe, and setting you on your feet. He cupped your chin to peer into your eyes as you still tried to force breath into your burning lungs, evaluating what remainder of strength you had left. "I do believe that is enough for today, my little warrior."

He turned away from you, walking only a few feet away to the change of clothes sitting along with the items you had brought along with you laying idle on the ground. You watched, still dazed and incredibly tired as he bent over to pick up your things for you, still talking away.

"You must also try to remember to strike your opponent where and when they are vulnerable," he spoke as he busied himself. "Look for any given opportunity to gain advantage at any given time."

Focusing was hard enough when you were this exhausted, however, it was downright impossible when you were on the receiving end of a view like this.

It never really bothered you that the Pillarmen chose to walk around half-naked the majority of the time but right now, with those two bronze globes in your line of vision and shinning in the sun, a wicked idea formed as his previous words echoed throughout your tired mind.

'Strike when vulnerable, huh?' You thought to yourself, settling your eyes on the prize.

Maybe it was time for a little payback for him being so relentless with you today.

Slowly, you sauntered right up to him until you stood directly behind the massive warrior. With the sun at his back, there was no shadow for you to accidentally step on and set him off; so it was safe for you to get as close as you liked...

Completely none-the-wiser of your only half-thought out scheme, Wamuu continued. "Perhaps tomorrow we can--"

W H A C K!

Wamuu's eyes swole to an impossible size and whatever suggestion he was about to make was lost as the words got stuck in his throat.

It was only then, when you caught sight of the little red hand print that was left behind on his buttcheek, you realized to the full extent of what you had just done.

"...uh." You broke the deafening silence that had fallen between you two. "Uh-oh..."

"A charming observation, little one." He said, rising to his full height and turning to face you. The red in his cheeks made it hard to tell where the lines of his warpaint began and ended.

If you weren't fearing for your very life in that moment, you would have laughed seeing him so very embarrassed for the first time ever. Also, if you weren't so very exhausted from being tossed around like a rag doll, you would be running for the hills right now seeing the fire burning in his eyes.

"Since you have applied the knowledge of todays leason so easily, I have now decided that tomorrow we are going to be doing some very extensive training." He said, making your stomach drop as his lips slowly curled into a little smirk. "Specifically training on the art of sneak attack, since you are so very keen on it as it is..."

Oh...

You were starting to wish you had accidentally stepped on his shadow instead...

Santana:

You were starting to wonder if he forgot how to sit down, watching him stalk out of the room again barely even a minute after he entered it out just out of the corner of your eye.

You supposed you couldn't blame him however, as you were getting quite restless as well.

It was the dead of winter and of course it was very, VERY cold out. The snow had piled up so high outside there really wasn't a lot to do in the yard or the ability to go anywhere in it at that. And on top of those things to only make it worse; it was snowing again today.

Your eyes turned to the window, gazing out to the thick white out storm raging outside with no sign of stopping.

However when the storm finally stopped, which would be tomorrow at best, you planned on going outside to shovel out the driveway (for the 2nd time that week) and burn off some energy. But for now, you and your Pillarmen housemates, were stuck inside.

You knew the weather was bad when even an ultimate lifeform had no interest in going out in it.

You sighed, picking up your mug and finishing the last mouthful of your tea as you set down your book, you just couldn't seem to get into it today. You were just as bored as Santana was but you weren't driven to restlessly pacing.

Here he came again, back into the room. He was walking a little hunched over, arms loose at his sides, his face radiating with gloom and boredom. He had taken a nap already this morning and he had spent the last few hours flicking through the channels on T.V before it finally bored him enough to drive him to... this.

It made you feel a little sad to see him so very dejected.

Santana tred right up to the big window next to your chair, stopping and pressing his forehead up against the glass to watch the endless swirl of white with glazed eyes.

You smiled sadly, "Bored?" You happened to already know the answer however.

He hummed in response, his shoulders slumping visibly.

Santana wasn't very talkative on the norm but today he had barely even said one word, only worrying you further.

He stood there silently for a few minutes, watching the snow dance in crazed little circles. You hoped he would maybe go upstairs and have another nap or check in on one of the others and see what they were up to but no, poor Santana let out one more deep and heavy sigh and went right back to his restless pacing from room to room.

As you watched him depart from the livingroom (again) you decided that you had enough of this. You needed something to spur a reaction in him, which was difficult in itself.

Santana wasn't very ticklish (you had tried that before) so that was out of the question, nor did he take much interest in watching something funny online as he didn't quite understand half of the jokes and memes, there was also nothing interesting on the T.V and the signal kept fuzziness in and out due to the storm. You mulled over the very little options on what could possibly get him to cheer up or at least distract him from his pure, object boredom.

At last, that lightbulb went off over your head as he trod past you one more time.

Oh, this was bad and you knew it.

But really, you could only blame whatever outcome this would bring on your own devious curiosity.

With only a seconds hesitation, your hand outstretched and swung, just as he passed, skin hitting skin hard as hand collided with bottom.

S L A P!

Santana stopped the very second it happened, his posture suddenly making a very dramatic change as he stood as stiff as possible, some of his hair standing on end.

After a long second, he turned to look at you, puzzled and just a little wide eyed.

"What...?" Was all he could say, blinking slowly. He realized, belatedly, that you had slapped him on his rear.

Both of you stared at each other for another long moment, him staring questioningly and you sitting there, nursing your stinging hand, looking quite innocent.

Santana blinked as you started to laugh a little, his dumbfounded reaction only fueling more laughter to bubble out of you helplessly.

Mission accomplished at least, as you had now definitely distracted him from his boredom, that was for sure.

Santana put his lips together, tilting his head to the side as he pondered why you had just done that and why you were just simply laughing about it. He blinked again as specific dots connected in his head.

Where you trying to wrestle with him?

As a child, many (MANY) years ago, when he or Wamuu wanted to initiate some sort of play-fight, one of them would simply walk up to the other and give them a shove or a slap. Then, if the other was in a similar mood, the other would push or hit back and confrontation of the like would go back and forth until eventually escalating into a full on wrestling match.

A slow smile crept across his lips, making you feel a strange mixture of pure joy and overwhelming dread at the sight. Nonetheless, you clamped up and stopped laughing.

You got him to smile but the question now was, what exactly was going on in that head of his?

In a matter of seconds, he was suddenly on top of you, making you squeak in surprise. He pushed you down onto the floor, butting you softly with the two stubby horns on his head before returning the little slap you gave him on his tush to your own behind, only making you squeal at the contact.

You finally came to the realization of just what was happening, only making your smile return as your heart fluttered in excitement.

He wasn't angry, he was trying to wrestle you.

Oh, so that's how he wanted to play it, huh?

You pushed back, trying to wriggle out from under him as he kept butting his head against you. You clamored on top of him with little to no grace, "Oh, I'll show you!" You grunted, trying to butt your head against his side like he had done, making him rumble with laughter as he pushed against you.

He held back on a lot of his strength, remembering you were Human after all but indulged in pushing you down a few times, laughing even more as you cursed and grunted and wriggled as mightily as he had ever seen you do. You were thankful for all that training with Wamuu, else you probably wouldn't know the first thing about wrestling with Santana.

From the staircase, your other 3 housemates watched with some amusement, and perhaps a little surprise, as the both of you rolled and pushed and headbutted like Pillarchildren.

They honestly assumed the worst upon having heard the heavy thumps and the screams and the laughter from all the way upstairs.

Maybe snowstorms, and boring house days (and let's not forget devious curiosity), weren't so bad after all...

[sisterspooky1013]

Only One Choice, Part 2, Chapter 9

Read it here on AO3 / Tagging @today-in-fic

When she wakes, she momentarily can’t place where she is. The room is dim and there’s a soft whirring sound, a warm body tucked close against her back. Mulder’s apartment, she remembers. They’d decided to make it a double feature, collecting their clothes and switching out Mars Attacks for Twister. She must have drifted off at some point, with Mulder spooning her on the narrow couch, and the automatic rewind on the VCR kicked on when the movie ended. She pulls in a deep breath and his arm around her waist tightens momentarily.

“Stay,” he croaks from behind her, sounding as though he had also fallen asleep.

“I can’t, Mulder,” she replies, twisting her body around to face him, her nose pressed into his chest.

“Why?” he asks, brushing his palm up and down over her back.

“Because, I shouldn’t.” She knows her tone isn’t all that convincing.

“Says who?” he asks, though not indignantly.

“Says…I don’t know. Me, I guess,” she replies in a defeated tone.

He sighs, then pauses to consider his words.

“I don’t want to pressure you. But the idea of not seeing you again for a week kind of makes me want to die.” His words are soft and measured, communicating honesty, not frustration.

“That’s very dramatic,” she answers with a teasing lilt.

“I know, I’m sorry. I’m pathetic.”

She worms up until she’s close enough to kiss him, pressing her lips to his cheek and then his mouth.

“You’re not pathetic,” she says tenderly, “you’re actually very sweet. I’ll make you a deal; I’m not going to stay the night,” she quirks a smile at his dramatic frown, “but we can get dinner tomorrow, and if you want to have coffee one day this week, you can come down.” She gives him a hopeful smile.

“That seems like a fair deal,” he says, kissing her forehead. “But if you get home, or wake up in the middle of the night, and realize you’ve made a horrible mistake, just call me. I’ll come right over.”

“I promise I will,” she says, then disentangles herself from his arms and collects her purse and shoes. She says goodbye to Priscilla, then bids a very long and very kiss-filled goodbye to Mulder before he finally releases his grip on her. As she waits for the elevator she hears the patter of his bare feet on the hallway floor and turns to see him skittering towards her, pulling her into one last kiss before he runs back to his apartment door, waving at her with a coy little smile.

Once she’s buckled into her car, she lets out a deep breath. She’d barely made it out of there; if Mulder had asked one more time, kissed her once more on the couch, she might have caved. Might have stayed the night, and might have done who knows what else. She can easily see the strong potential for this budding relationship to fast track to being more serious than she feels ready for, and it scares her. She’s never felt this strongly about anyone so soon after becoming involved with them. Clearly he has a strong pull on her, given that she cheated on Ethan with him, it’s just a lot, and she’s a person who likes to think clearly and make rational decisions. When she’s with Mulder, she loses the ability to think rationally.

When she’s home and tucked into bed, she does wish he were there, curled up behind her. Knowing she could call him and he’d be here in fifteen minutes is tempting, but she talks herself out of it. Not yet, not until she’s sure that this is more than just animal attraction. More than wanting to prove she didn’t destroy her relationship with Ethan over nothing.

It has to be more. And she suspects that it will be.

———

“Okay, spill it,” Missy says, and Dana looks at her with a mildly shocked expression, not even having fully taken her seat at the cafe with a mocha in hand before Missy gets down to business.

“Hello to you, too, Missy. How was your evening?” she asks her sister with a facetious tone.

“I hung around by myself and wondered what kind of action my little sister was getting that I wasn’t, so please, indulge me.”

Dana laughs and shakes her head, debating how much detail to give.

“It was nice, we just watched a couple movies, ate pizza, drank beer.”

“...and?” Missy asks expectantly.

“...and, we watched Mars Attacks and Twister,” Dana answers, knowing that this is not the information Missy is asking for.

Missy drops her head to the side with a frustrated glare. “Dana, quit being a prude, or I’ll just make up my own story and tell it to you right here in the coffee shop, I know you’d love that.”

Dana makes a face. “Okay, fine. Yes, we...fooled around. But we didn’t have sex.”

“Really, why not?” Missy questions incredulously.

“Missy, it’s not that abnormal not to sleep with someone on the second date,” Dana retorts with an annoyed tone.

“It is if they’ve already gone down on you and you’ve been obsessing over them for almost a year,” Missy shoots back.

“Well, regardless of your unsolicited opinion,” Dana replies, “emphasis on unsolicited, I’m choosing to wait a bit, and there’s nothing wrong with that.”

“Fine, whatever floats your boat, Sis. Please elaborate on ‘fooled around’.”

Dana scoffs. “We...kissed, and some other things. Why are you asking for all this detail, Missy? I don’t recall you ever asking me to be this explicit regarding my sex life with Ethan.”

Missy rolls her eyes. “I’m willing to bet Ethan was into missionary with the lights off. This Mulder guy has serious sexual energy, he seems like the kind of man who knows what he’s doing. When’s his birthday?”

Scully frowns at the memory. “October 13th,” she answers flatly.

Missy shoots her a surprised expression, but suppresses it quickly. “Oh, wow, okay. Um, so he’s a libra. That’s a good thing, libras are very generous lovers.”

“I have seen evidence of that, however my pants stayed on last night so nothing to report in that respect,” Dana answers, taking a sip of her coffee to avoid looking at her sister.

“But his didn’t?” Missy asks with a smirk, and Dana purses her lips but doesn’t respond. It’s as good as saying yes.

“Dana Katherine Scully,” Missy teases with a knowing smile. “Some things never change.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Dana asks defensively.

“Oh please, Dana, we went to the same school, you don’t think I heard the story about you and Marcus behind the gymnasium?”

Dana’s mouth hangs open in shock.

“Well, I hope he enjoyed his favor being reciprocated nine months later,” Missy continues, then adds “did you swallow?”

Her mouth drops open wider and she slaps Missy gently on the upper arm. “Melissa, don’t be gross!”

Missy is giggling and swatting her away. “You know what Dad always said, Dana, ‘a Scully sees it through to the end!’” She crosses her arms over her face in self-defense as Dana peppers her with little slaps, though they’re both laughing.

Finally, the tittering subsides and they are both back in their respective seats, catching their breath.

“So when are you seeing him again?” Missy asks, tucking her feet underneath her legs.

“Tonight, actually.” Dana answers self-consciously.

“Oh really? So soon?”

“Well he practically begged me to stay the night and said he didn’t want to wait until next weekend, so it was somewhat of a compromise,” Dana answers, the arrangement sounding like a red flag to her own ears.

“Dang, he’s got it bad,” Missy remarks with a little frown. “Is it too much? Are you doing that thing?”

“What thing?” Dana asks defensively.

“That thing where you get overwhelmed when someone is really interested in you and you sabotage it?” Missy ventures.

Dana furrows her eyebrows. “I don’t do that,” she says, but her tone suggests that she may not believe herself. “I just don’t want to get all caught up in the excitement of a new relationship and not look at things objectively,” she finishes.

“You know,” Missy says helpfully, “that exciting new relationship, not thinking clearly, crazy in love feeling is something most people like, Sis.”

Dana shrugs. “You know me,” she says plainly, “I’m not really one for excitement.”

“I have a sneaking suspicion that Mulder is going to put that to the test,” Missy retorts with a smile, and Dana cringes.

“I think you may be right.”

———

Her demeanor when he picks her up for dinner seems just a bit guarded and is markedly different than it had been when they parted ways last night. He brushes it off, figuring that things between them are still new and awkward, and recognizing that he’s probably coming on just a little too strong.

The day has been grey and cool, and she’s wearing jeans and an oversized blue sweater, her hair pulled half up into a little bun. He smiles warmly at her, but stops short of telling her how amazing she looks, sensing that she might not want to hear it. They make their way to a little Mexican place near her house and she is polite but quiet as they order, munching on chips and salsa with a pensive expression.

“Are you okay?” he asks cautiously, and she nods. “I’m freaking you out, aren’t I?” he adds, and she shakes her head gently, but looks at him with wide eyes from beneath her lashes, and he knows it’s true.

He sits back, running his hands through his hair. “I’m sorry, I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. Is it the sex part or the feelings part?” he questions, and when her eyebrows lift in surprise he suggests “Both?”

She laughs softly and shakes her head. “It’s really not you, Mulder, it’s me. I’m just not very comfortable with the whole,” she swirls her wrist around in the air, “whirlwind feeling, when things are new.”

He leans forward on his elbows and looks at her seriously. “Tell me what you need me to do differently, Scully, and I promise I’ll do it.”

“Maybe just...don’t act as though I hung the moon?” she offers with a pained expression. “I’m just a human person like anyone else, faults and all. It makes me worry that when you really get to know me you won’t like what you find.”

He gives her an amused smirk. “At the risk of further idolizing you, what’s not to like?”

“You want me to write a list?” She asks, returning his smirk, and he gives her a half shrug, half nod. “Well, if I’m basing this on what my family, friends, and past partners might say; I’m very rigid in my thinking on most matters, take myself far too seriously, am emotionally distant much of the time, don’t really know how to have fun and...I cannot carry a tune in a bucket. Basically I’m a total stick in the mud.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he says, smiling at her. Her self-consciousness is wildly endearing.

“Okay now you have to go,” she says, picking at her paper napkin.

“Oh, what are my worst qualities?” he clarifies, “Jeez, this could take a while. Um, I’m very singularly focused, as in whatever I’m chasing down at the moment I become completely obsessed with to the detriment of all other things in my life,” he casts her a little glance to confirm that she understands that this is what he’s doing with her, which she does.

“I’m a workaholic, though that’s a lot easier to manage when I’m not all that invested in what I’m working on. I’m terrible with things like birthdays, anniversaries, or generally sentimental things, I just forget them completely. I’m also persistent to a fault, and have a hard time letting things, and people, go, even when I should,” he looks at her again, and she gives him a tight-lipped smile. His worst qualities are the ones that are at risk of scaring her off right now.

“Well then, perhaps,” Scully offers, “I’ll work on not trying to shut you out, and you can work on not trying quite so hard to get in.”

“We’re still talking about feelings here, right?” he jokes, and she rolls her eyes.

“There’s another flaw I forgot, making jokes at completely inappropriate times.”

She smiles at him, with teeth, and he knows they’ll be okay. He needs to be mindful, but he hasn’t totally fucked it up yet.

The rest of their meal goes without incident. He talks about spontaneous human combustion while she calmly explains why it’s medically and scientifically impossible. The way she can disagree with him without talking to him like he’s a lunatic endears to him even further, but he works hard not to let it show. When the waiter comes by and asks about dessert, she shakes her head.

“I have ice cream at home,” she says after the waiter leaves, “saves us five bucks.”

He masks the surprise and delight he feels knowing she’s essentially just invited him back to her apartment, and absolutely does not allow himself to hope that she’ll let him stay the night. It’s a work night after all, and she’s just made clear that she has a tendency towards rules and guidelines; sleepovers on a school night seem like something she’d be against.

Back at her apartment, she gives him a quick tour, having neglected to do so when he was here last week, and he’s impressed though not surprised by how grown up and clean her place is. It matches her personality perfectly, and that makes him like the place immediately.

She opens the freezer and pulls out a pint of ice cream, then retrieves two spoons and hops up on to the counter, which brings them just about face to face height-wise. The cold blast from the open freezer has hardened her nipples and he avoids looking as they pass the pint back and forth, taking alternate bites and talking about their favorite and least favorite flavors. Soon enough, the tub is empty, and she sets it and the two spoons to the side, leaning back against the cupboard behind her. He steps closer into the space between her thighs and places his hands gently on her hips.

“Do you want me to go?” he asks in a neutral tone, not wanting to sound like he’s trying to persuade her.

She quirks her mouth to the side in consideration. “Maybe not just yet,” she says, then hooks her legs around the backs of his thighs and pulls him closer.

He suppresses a victorious smile and instead leans forward to kiss her, simultaneously slipping his hands under the hem of her sweater. She jumps a little at the contact, and he realizes how cold his fingers must be from the ice cream. He pulls his hands free, rubbing them together briskly in the space between their bodies as he continues to kiss her smiling mouth. When he’s satisfied that they are warm, he returns them to her bare sides and she hums in approval. Her hands find the back of his neck, scratching through his hair as his fingers trail their way up the ladder of her rib cage until they meet with the soft underside of her bare breasts. He wants to make mention of the lack of bra, but isn’t sure if calling attention to it would make her self conscious, so he says nothing and just enjoys it. Brushing his thumbs along the seam where chest becomes breast, he moves to kiss down her neck, teasing at the skin behind her ear with the firm tip of his tongue. Finding the spot she seems to like the best, he then runs his thumbs up until they meet with her hardened nipples and she emits a little moan that goes straight to his dick. He stays on this particular combination of rolling her nipples between his thumb and forefinger while licking and kissing her neck until she’s tightening the grip of her legs around his hips, seeking friction. He pushes the fabric of her sweater up slowly enough that she has plenty of time to tell him if she wants to stop, but once her breasts are exposed and his mouth is wrapped around one of her nipples, he is absolutely sure that she doesn’t. She lets her head fall back against the cupboard, breathing hard through her open mouth. He brings the fingers of one hand to the button on her jeans, then pauses.

“Okay?” he asks around the nipple between his lips, and she hums out an “mmmhmmm.”

Flicking the button open and easing the fly down, he slips his hand palm-up under her panties, drifting down through her neatly trimmed hair and into the slick heat of her. She’s deliciously wet, and knowing he caused it makes him feel weak in the knees as he rubs his groin against the edge of the counter, even more turned on than he had been before. He slides his fingers up and down over her swollen lips, his tongue still lapping and sucking at her nipples alternately, and she is panting and quaking beneath him, hips writhing and fingers digging into his neck telling him that she wants more. He circles his dampened thumb around her clit and she whimpers, clutching his head to her chest. His middle finger finds her entrance and swirls around it, not quite entering, and she stills, waiting, anticipating. When he continues with his same teasing movements, she lets out a frustrated breath and speaks.

“Please,” she whispers, her voice pained.

He smiles against her breast, slipping his finger inside, and she moans low and long, throbbing once around him. He experiments with different ways of touching her, inside and out, and soon she’s gasping and breathing raggedly, flexing her hips into his hand, nearly suffocating him with her breast in his mouth and he feels like he’s in heaven.

“Oh god,” she moans, then goes still for a long moment as he feels her walls clench tight around his finger. Then she’s coming, throbbing rhythmically and pulling his face up to kiss her, pouring her blissful moans right into his open mouth and clutching him as close as he can get with one hand in her pants. Finally, she touches his wrist gently and he pulls his hand free, enveloping her fully in his arms as they kiss with just as much passion as they started with.

“That really wasn’t what I had in mind when I suggested ice cream,” she says against his mouth, and he smiles, breaking the kiss.

“So that wasn’t some kind of ‘dessert’ double entendre?” he asks, pulling back slightly and looking at her flushed cheeks and still-dilated pupils.

“No, but I’m not exactly devastated that you interpreted it that way,” she replies with a playful lilt.

“So...what now?” he asks cautiously, neither wanting to overstay his welcome nor do what Frohike delicately calls ‘hit it and quit it.’

She bites her lip and considers the question. “You wanna hang out for a bit and watch TV? I’ll have to kick you out at 9:00, it being a school night and all.”

He feels his mouth stretch into a broad smile at the confirmation of his suspicion that she calls it early on work nights.

“Sounds perfect,” he replies, then steps back so she can jump down from the counter, re-fastening her jeans while casting him a mirthful glance.

They snuggle up on the couch and half-watch whatever is on, but mostly they talk, and kiss, and laugh. He finally asks her about the little gold cross necklace she’s always wearing, and he finds himself further enamored with how complex she is; a woman of science and religion, beautiful and strong, smart and fun. He’s working hard to temper his expression of it, but if he was only ninety-five percent sure he was in love with her when he said it back in August, he is one-hundred-twenty percent sure now.

True to her word, she kicks him out at 9:00 and promises that they will get together for coffee this week once she takes a look at her autopsy schedule and knows which days she’s free.

Once in his car, he drops his head against the back of the seat with a satisfied sigh. All week at work, his colleagues will ask him what he’s smiling about, and he’ll tell them truthfully that he’s just really, really happy.

[delimeful]

not always what they seem (2)

warnings: inappropriate jokes, remus being remus, mild panic attack, fear, miscommunication

long overdue commission for @legendsgates​! thank you for your patience and support 💚

Chapter 1

-

Janus watched the giant creatures around them devolve into more of that buzzing, clicking language as Remus waved his arm around enthusiastically in response to them.

“What are you-- Stop that,” the emo kid hissed, his whole body going tense, and Janus leaned back slightly just in time to avoid getting caught in the half-tackle that Remus was subjected to. “What if they just asked who wants to be first to be dissected, huh?”

“Oooh, kinky,” Remus cackled from where the kid had pinned his wrists to the floor. “Do you think they’ll probe me first?”

Janus rolled his eyes, and then stiffened as a shadow fell over them. “Kid—!”

He could see the moment the red alien’s hand made contact, the kid’s face immediately draining of all color as those strange talons wrapped around him and started to lift.

Almost instantly, Remus surged to his feet, grabbing the kid’s arm before he could be lifted out of range. The hold was so tight it almost looked painful, but the kid clung back desperately. He looked smaller than ever without the bulky hoodie around him, his frame barely concealed by a worn, slightly oversized band shirt.

Remus’s face twisted into a snarl. “Hey, hands to yourself, you shitty Mothra rip-off!”

Janus quickly rose to his feet as well, looking up past the kid’s terrified gaze to see the alien had paused, it’s strange antenna protrusions twitching. The facial features didn’t give him much to work with, so he attempted to see what the creature was seeing, contextless: the kid tackling Remus for big showy arm movements, Remus coming after him. Was it trying to seperate them like a pet owner with a pair of squabbling dogs?

He shifted forwards, setting a hand on Remus’ shoulder and expertly drawing all attention to himself. Remus glanced at him and then reluctantly cut off his litany of extremely descriptive curses, though his grip on the kid didn’t falter. Janus tilted his head back to carefully lock eyes with the alien.

“No. Stop,” he spoke with a stern emphasis. “Put him down.”

He reached up to grab the kid’s arm as well, tugging lightly, and then repeated himself slowly.

“Double D, buddy, I’d bet all three of my balls that they don’t understand English,” Remus said, “no matter how slow you say it.”

Janus didn’t break eye contact with the giant, moving to point at the kid and then the floor of their enclosure emphatically. “That doesn’t mean we can’t communicate with them.”

At the perfect moment to dramatically accentuate his point, the alien seemed to concede, lowering the kid down until his feet were touching the floor. The guy tore out of the oversized grip as soon as it loosened, nearly tumbling head over heels. Janus caught him by the arm, and Remus took the opportunity to jump forwards and click his teeth menacingly at the giant hand. The alien recoiled immediately, looking much like an elephant shying away from a mouse.

“I volunteer to get probed and this is how you fucks repay me? Just grabbing kids all willy-nilly? Have some respect!”

The kid muttered something, half-lost under his panicked breaths, and Remus turned to look at him. “What was that, short stack?”

“Virgil,” he repeated irritably. “It’s Virgil, not ‘kid’, definitely not ‘short stack’. I’m twenty years old, for fuck’s sake.”

Janus and Remus shared a glance over the newly-named Virgil’s head, and that was enough to set the man off into another fit of cackling laughter.

---

Roman watched, enthralled, as the little creature bedecked in green threw its head back and made a hair-raising clamor.

Intriguingly enough, the other two didn’t seem to react too strongly to such a loud outburst. The yellow one turned its face to the side as its tiny features pinched into an expression that Roman couldn’t quite decode, and the shaky purple one’s pale face seemed to shift color as it made an emphatic hand gesture of some sort. Patton would be taking plenty of notes later.

The motions, the expressions, they were all intentional and full of meaning, just like the pointing and sounds Yellow had made when Roman had tried to separate Purple from the group. He still didn’t quite grasp why the other specimens had responded so strongly; Purple had clearly been attacking, though thankfully no serious harm had occurred thanks to Roman swiftly jumping into action.

“This is incredible,” Logan murmured from beside him, and Roman couldn’t help but agree.

“There’s so much to analyze here,” he mumbled. “Any small animal would flee from a predator’s grasp, but they recognized that we’re sapient, and Yellow even approached instead to mediate!”

“Yellow?” Patton asked, a bit of teasing in his voice. “I thought your nicknames were always a bit wordier?”

“I can’t properly nickname someone unless I have their self-presentation and personality, Pat!” Roman defended. “It’s more of a… designation. After all, I can’t very well ask their names, can I?”

“I mean, we could certainly try!” Patton suggested with an optimistic lilt to his voice. “I’m not a linguist for nothing, y’know!”

“It might take some time to communicate intent, so I wouldn’t get your hopes up, Patton.” Logan’s ears flicked at the pleading look the Nihl sent him. “Still, I’ll admit there’s… no harm in a first attempt.”

Roman unsubtly chittered a laugh at his coworker’s expense, and Patton brightened immediately.

“Glad that you agree it’s… wordth a try!”

---

Janus was drawn away from the amusing argument going on between his fellow captives (the topic being how old one had to be to be an actual ‘for-realsies’ adult, federal law be damned) by two of the aliens simultaneously making odd, dragged out noises almost like stuttering groans.

“They sound like fucking zombies,” Virgil muttered from where he’d appeared at Janus’s shoulder. He’d snapped back to watching the three with blatant paranoia the moment they were loud enough to catch his notice.

The kid wasn’t subtle at all, but it wasn’t like he was wrong to be on guard. They were still abducted, regardless of how fantastical or impossible their captors seemed. Seeing how significant the size difference was, they’d have to work on escaping through… more cunning means.

Janus carefully held his position as the three giants crowded around the enclosure again, ignoring the way Virgil reached out to grip the back of his hoodie, either for comfort or in preparation to pull Janus from danger. This time, the three chattered amongst themselves for a long moment before going quiet and turning to the multiple-armed one.

Automatically, the humans mirrored the gesture, and the recipient of their attention met their gazes carefully one by one before placing a rigid, vertical hand under their chin and holding it there.

“Patton,” the alien said, slow and clear. It looked at them expectantly, and then repeated the phrase. “Patton.”

It was definitely some kind of word, that was clear enough. When not caught up in the rapid-fire chittering nature of the alien language, it was much easier to decipher.

“Patton?” Virgil muttered, and then squeaked when the alien stared at him with sudden intensity, hands flicking up and down erratically. Except for, Janus noted, the one still under its chin.

“Patton,” it said again, and then lowered the hand. Next to it, the insect-like one put a much bonier hand under its own angular chin.

“Roman,” it said, with a few subtle clicks that probably couldn’t be replicated by human mouths. Janus nodded, the pieces clicking into place. “Roman.”

Sure enough, next to make the hand gesture was the last alien, who introduced itself with a note of rippling bass overlapping with something like Logan. It was probably a bit mangled as he echoed it back, but different vocal chords made things difficult.

“You communing with them, Dee?” Remus asked from where he was crowding over his other shoulder. “That’s no sign language I’ve ever used. You speak alien and you’re not even going to share with the class?”

Janus elbowed him off, and then stepped forwards, and placed his own hand under his chin vertically, studying the ripple of reaction that got from the aliens.

“Dee,” he said, choosing to use his nickname as he had with the other humans.

The aliens immediately dissolved into excited chattering, which Janus patiently waited out. His fellow earthlings were similarly surprised.

“Wait, they’re doing introductions right now?” Virgil’s head whipped back and forth rapidly. Remus was gleefully attempting to mimic the weird, echoey quality of the voice of ‘Logan’ and getting concerningly close.

The one with all the arms-- Patton, it was Patton, he needed to remember if he wanted to make any progress at all here-- let out a string of syllables, slowed down but still nonsensical to them, and reached out.

Virgil jumped back and Remus started forwards, but Janus cut off all movement with a quickly snapped “Stop!”

Including the alien’s motion. He resisted the urge to smile at the success, instead looking up at Patton and tilting his head slightly. “What is it?”

Patton didn’t understand his words, but the questioning tone seemed to carry over, and after a beat, they moved their hand forward again just slightly before pausing, as though asking permission.

Janus weighed his options for a moment, before stepping forward. Virgil, who was still latched onto the back of him, came along with only a single sound of half-panicked protest. Patton correctly assumed that this was Janus giving his assent, and moved their hand closer, much slower this time.

With delicate, careful motions, they pushed Janus’s left hand out from under his chin, and then carefully curled a finger around his right arm, tugging that one up instead. Janus realized his mistake after a moment, and placed the right hand under his chin instead. Patton withdrew with a bright hum.

“What is happening,” Virgil hissed, and Janus glanced over his shoulder at him. The color had drained from his face, and his hand was white-knuckled where it was holding onto Janus’s borrowed outfit.

“I was mirroring their… introductory gesture, I suppose, and it seems that the meaning changes if I don’t use the correct hand. In this case, my right one,” he explained. “They’re going to want to know your name. Do you want me to assist?”    

Before he could answer, Remus was bouncing forwards, placing a hand under his own chin to gain the aliens’ attention.

“Call me I-Am-A-Buttface,” he half-shouted, grinning wildly.

---

“Did… did anyone else catch that one’s name?”

Roman watched as ‘D’ reached over and tugged the other tiny alien back by the collar roughly before they could speak again, astonished by how the other only let out what might be a cackle at the rough handling.

Not more astonished than he’d been by the alien catching on so quickly, though. Logan had been rendered completely speechless for a record amount of time, and Patton was still happily waving his hands back and forth at the success.

D visibly let out a long breath, and turned back to them, placing the correct hand under their chin this time. “D,” they repeated, and then switched things up.

They pulled the rambunctious one closer and placed their hand under that one’s chin, too. “Remus.”

“Are they-- introducing the other one as well?” Roman asked, and none of them could answer. ‘Remus’ didn’t seem to object, though they continued to speak in that rounded language. “That’s certainly a bit... unorthodox.”

D looked over at the only unnamed alien, the angry one that was standing at D’s shoulder, and after a moment, they jerked their head strangely. D seemed to understand, and held a hand palm-up in that one’s direction.

The unnamed alien put their hand in the proper introductory position, and had a few false starts before finally getting their name out. “Virgil.”

“Virgil,” Patton echoed excitedly. “That’s Virgil! Virgil, D, and Remus!”  

“Stars above,” Logan said faintly, “they really are just people but smaller.”

Roman couldn’t help but agree with the astounded sentiment. It hadn’t really sunk in before, but knowing the personal names of individual members of the unfamiliar species… “This could have been a disaster. Why were they labeled as primitive? Did the recorders even actually observe the planet they’re from? This seems a little hard to miss!”

“Easy, Roman,” Patton reached over to run a couple of gentle hands over his agitated wings. “You’re scaring the little guys.”

Sure enough, when he looked over, he could see all three of the tiny aliens were staring at him. He clicked an apology, and then echoed it in Common. “My apologies, small friends.”

“I agree with you, though… We can’t treat them as anything less, not like the tests would have us do. I’m not sure what our next step should be,” Patton admitted, and they turned as one to look at Logan. The Glanrim had a recognizably enthusiastic glint to his eyes.

“We’ll have to present our case to the Council. If we want them to believe us, we’ll need sufficient evidence that our specimens are sentient, sapient, and deserving of the standard rights,” he told them, tail swishing. “Our next step is to obtain that proof, through whatever means we can.”

Roman and Patton shared a glance before nodding in agreement. They turned towards the aliens with determination, and then stopped completely short.

“We’re… going to have to find some method of communicating our intentions,” Logan said, tapping his fingers on his shoulder in thought. “I believe the lack of such communication is what caused Virgil to behave so timidly in the first place.”

“Yeah, just reaching in and grabbing them probably isn’t a good idea,” Roman admitted. “What’s the plan, then?”

“Well, this can be a test in itself. Assuming that they can discuss amongst themselves what tests each of us did on the first run-through…”

---

Janus stared blankly at the three hands that had been set down along the floor of their enclosure, palms-up, each corresponding to one of the aliens. He turned to look at Virgil and Remus, just to ascertain that he was seeing the same thing they were.

Remus tilted his head to a painful-looking angle, and then nodded to himself. “It’s just like those choose-your-own-adventure books, except with huge aliens that we don’t know the intentions of! Fun!”  

“Oh, so they’re insane? They’re out of their skulls?” Virgil asked, his voice upping an octave in disbelief. “They really think we’re going to just literally put our lives in their hands, after they abducted and tormented us?”

“That’s exactly what we’re going to have to do,” Janus muttered, and held his hands up when Virgil turned to him with a glare. “Just listen for a moment. What are they doing right now?”

“Trying to trick us,” Virgil shot back immediately.

“Getting handsy!” Remus offered.

Janus pinched the bridge of his nose. “No and definitely no. They’re offering us a choice,” he clarified, “because we’ve done something to shift their opinions of us.”

“Some choice,” Virgil muttered. Janus pointed at him, making him jerk back slightly.

“Exactly. What do you think they’re going to do if we refuse to engage with them at all?”

“... Grab us anyways?”

Janus nodded, casting another look over at the waiting aliens. “If that happens, we’ve relinquished any and all control over the situation, no matter how small. Instead, we need to take advantage of this while we can. We’ll be putting our lives in their hands regardless, so it’s best to act strategically here.”

“Well, I know what I want.” Remus sidled a step away from them and towards the aliens. “Dibs on the hot one.”

“The what one?” Virgil gaped, and Remus ignored him in favor of getting a running start and then throwing himself directly onto Logan’s hand. Unsurprisingly, Logan seemed unsure how to react to a human sprawling over him like Rose from Titanic. Janus was too professional to slap a hand onto his forehead, but the urge was there. He grabbed Virgil’s shoulder when the kid started towards them.

“Forget it. He’s made his choice, and he doesn’t seem like the type to be swayed by common sense,” Janus said, rolling eyes and choosing very emphatically to not question his fellow human’s apparent qualifiers for someone being considered ‘hot’. “You need to make a decision of your own.”

Virgil shook him off, running his hands through his hair in frustration. “This is crazy. All of it. Forever. You know that, right?”

“I’m aware,” Janus replied, voice dry. Virgil shot him another look, and then seemed to actually consider the options, though grumpily. With his shoulders still up around his ears, he looked vaguely like a very angry turtle. Janus kept this observation to himself.

“Remus called the one with all the arms-- uh, Patton? He called them boring and said all they did was talk at him,” he finally offered, glancing over at the alien.

Janus nodded, keeping his own feelings on the matter off his face. “You want that one, then?”

“What?” Virgil looked at him, confused. “No, I mean you should go with them. You’ll probably have an easier time figuring out what they want from Patton.”

Janus paused, thrown off. “Hold on, that-- that leaves you with Roman. I… don’t think you’ll have the best time, considering.”

“And you will?” Virgil took Janus’s silence as the admittance it was, and nodded to himself. “I can do it. I’m tougher than you think. And anyways, if I let you go with him, he’d probably try to swipe my hoodie. Not happening.”

Janus huffed with exasperation, and Virgil gave him the closest expression he’d gotten to a smile yet before shoving his shoulder slightly and stomping up to Roman’s hand. The alien looked just as unhappy as Virgil about the decision.

---

“Well, that was an… interesting selection process,” Logan said, lifting up his hand slightly and finding that Remus seemed content to be toted around.

It was more than he could say about his own matchup. “Yeah, that’s one way of putting it,” he grumbled as ‘Virgil’ continued to stand there, tiny arms bundled around themself, tiny eyes staring up at Roman aggressively.

The little creature didn’t seem intent on even touching Roman, let alone actually being picked up and taken anywhere. Roman looked over to where D was seating themself on the edge of Patton’s hand like a king upon their throne, and then back to Virgil, who didn’t move.

Maybe they expected Roman to do all the heavy lifting? He carefully lifted his hand, curling it around Virgil’s tiny frame, and received a vicious hiss for his efforts. He recoiled, antennae flattening. He hadn’t even known these creatures could hiss!

“You alright, kiddo?” Patton appeared next to him, one hand hovering as a safety net for D. Roman pasted on a smile immediately.

“Of course! Just working out methods of transport with… Virgil. They seem a bit less charismatic than D when it comes to conveying intent, unfortunately.” The tiny creature continued to stare at him, gaze only dipping away to meet D’s briefly.

Patton studied Virgil for a moment, gaze moving between their hunched form and Roman’s fidgeting hands. “They might be a little touch shy. The transport containers are still usable, if you need them!”

“Ah, that’s right! Patton, you’re a genius.” Roman exchanged good luck hums with the Nihl and waited until he departed to grab the transport container and present it to Virgil. “Is this what you want to use, you picky creature?”  

As though to spite him, Virgil’s skin shifted to a paler shade, and they went so far as to step back slightly. Roman allowed himself a few frustrated clickswears, and then stopped as he noticed the creature stumble slightly.

“Virgil…?” he attempted the alien’s name, but there was no response beyond their rapid air intake increasing. They didn’t look so good.

Feeling oddly off-balance, he quickly stowed the transport container away, and kept his hands out of sight to give the poor guy some more space. “Easy, easy. Please for the love of all that is good, don’t die of shock on me.”

Virgil didn’t seem to improve at first, but after a moment, they started muttering to themself, and slowly but surely, began to return to baseline. Roman felt as though years had been taken off his lifespan.

“Alright, if you feel so strongly about it, there’s no reason I can’t improvise and simply work from here,” he rambled, moving a seat and a tray of tools to the side of the wide-low enclosure. “Logan wasn’t kidding when he called you easily startled, was he?”

Virgil eyed the tray with wide eyes, and when Roman picked up the thermometer, they skittered back out of easy reach, arms lifted in what must have been a defensive gesture. Like a frightened Arkbit, but less fluffy, and Roman had to actually try to coax them over rather than just holding them still for the process.

“It’s just a thermometer! It won’t prick you or anything, on my honor,” Roman swore, and when that didn’t do the trick, he used the device on himself instead. “See, I just place it against my skin for a few moments, and… there! A perfectly healthy me!”

He extended the sensor end of the thermometer in Virgil’s direction, but didn’t advance. “C’mon, just give it a shot. We’re going to need your baseline in case you get sick, and it’ll make it easier to get the others’ temps if you can tell them I’m not going to electrocute them or anything.”

Virgil dithered for a long moment, but Roman’s patience was rewarded when the alien finally stalked closer and smacked his hand against the sensor like a challenge. Luckily, it was precise enough to work accurately even with such a small specimen, and soon enough Roman has a temperature.

“Huh… you’re warmer than me and Patton, that’s for sure,” Roman mumbled. “Logan probably already has all sorts of classification theories about you guys, but I think it’s at least safe to say you’re mammalian.”

Virgil tilted their head slightly at him, and Roman shook his head. “We’ll have more to talk about once we actually manage to make a breakthrough on language. For now,” he held up a small scale, normally used for weighing precise chemical measurements, “back to the boring stuff!”

The tiny alien made a strange drawn out noise, and placed their hands over their face, but they didn’t get all tense and breathy again, and that was progress in Roman’s book.

So long as they kept making progress, things would probably turn out okay.

[maximumwrites]

Pt 4 <3

finally the story is starting to get good. hope you enjoy! 

summary; you go on a journey through the nether for the purpose of reaching a fortress, but in the end earn something more valuable then anything that may have been found.

Needless to say, you two got little rest that night, staying up and spending the hours teaching him emotions, and how to interact with other humans.

He learned romance from your favorite book, The Princess Bride as you read it to him till he drifted to sleep. Maybe this will become more frequent. Wait, how long does he plan on staying?? You just meant to glance over at his sleeping figure, but instead your eyes lingered. He really was handsome, with a delicate face and a strong body. He was well built, with broad shoulders and a small waist, the epitome of beauty. 

Shaking your head, you forced yourself to tear your eyes away. He had said something earlier that stuck with you, even now. 

“You...woman? Man?” he asked, head tilting to the side. 

You nodded. “I am (gender).” you responded with a soft smile.

“You I have...romance?” he pronounced romance strongly, with emphasis on the n, causing it to sound harsh compared to the idea of romance itself. 

“Uh…” you blushed, looking back down to your hands, not wanting to look at him directly out of embarrassment. 

“Not really, no…” you fiddled with the pages, trying to find the words caught in your throat. “Romance is... friendship,” you had explained the concept to him previously, “but with passion.” you gestured by clenching your fists, and punching the air. He slowly nodded for you to continue. “Romance is love. It is shown with touch,” you gestured a hug, “and gifts, like the chain I gave you.``He looked down at it, and smiled, fangs on display. “Romance is represented through jewelry like what I'm wearing, or flowers, or even a hug.”

Techno nodded. “I get now. T-thank.” he smiled broadly, eyes closing.

You blushed. “No problem, Techno.” 

                                                         ~

Waking up, you were greeted by the smell of smoke & roasting. You hummed with delight, rolling over to see what was cooking. You saw Technoblade standing there, poking the fire with a branch as he gazed into the fire, face strong like stone. “Techno…” you groaned, sitting up, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. He turned to you, and his face melted to one of content.

“Goot Morning.” he said, making you smile softly.

“What are you cooking?” you questioned, standing up and stretching the soreness from your bones, allowing the sunlight to seep into your soul, recharging your body.

“Animal. Dont know. Not home.” he spoke, continuing to poke the meat.

You walked over to his side, crouching next to the flame to assess the roast. 

“Mhm..Looks like a deer.” you sighed.

“Deer.” he repeated, content with the new word. 

“Thank you, Techno.” you spoke softly, glancing at his face as he stared at you intensely, before looking away to turn back to your bedroll, cleaning up.

Once you finished sorting your inventory & double checking your belongings, you sat alongside Techno, eating the meat. You both sat in a comfortable silence until you had finished.

“That was amazing, thank you Techno.”

“No worry. For love.” he insisted, staring intently at you. You couldn’t help but glance right back at him.

“For...Love? What do you mean?”

“I do, for romance. For you.” he smiled again, turning away to begin cleaning up the leftovers, leaving you with your thoughts until he was finished.

~

Once you had both cleaned up and ensured you were in possession of all your belongings, you began the journey back to the portal. 

“You….fly?” he asked, pointing delicately at your wings. 

“Mhm! I just don't because you're here.” you explained, checking the map to ensure you were walking the right direction.

“No.” Techno sternly said, stopping to turn to you. 

“No what, Tech?” you raised an eyebrow.

“Fly. I see.”

“You want to watch me fly?” he nodded. You shrugged, and spread out your wings, shaking off anything clinging to them. You spread them out all the way, fluffing them out in the process for the sake of your own pride. You muttered a countdown under your breath, and on 3, took off. 

Techno shielded himself with his arms, and looked up at you as you held yourself in the air, wings flapping slowly to hold your weight. He had a wonderstruck expression, mouth open in a sense of shock. “Woah…” he breathed. You chuckled, doing a quick flip to show off before descending back to the ground, where you shook off any stray feathers, and twitched your furry ears to adjust. 

“So, what did you think?” you joked, wiggling your eyebrows, tail wagging slightly. Techno was still amazed, and didn't even respond. You chuckled, and continued walking, wings tucked to your back. Technoblade quickly caught up trailing behind. You both walked in silence for a minute or so, Techno out of sight, however you could hear the soft crunch of the ground behind you, reassuring he was still behind you. 

Suddenly, something tickled your wings, and assuming it was a leaf, you merely shook the feathers; but the feeling continued.

Now, the thing with Avian Hybrids is the sensitivity surrounding their wings. In order to touch someone's wings, it's highly regarded to need permission at the very least. If your good friends with an avian, then you may be allowed to touch their wings when hugging or having physical contact. The underside of wings is a completely different story. It's the equivalent of “second base”, and if touched without permission can be assaulted in some cases. Petting another's wings is like stroking one's head, and is done between close friends, or partners. 

So when Technoblade began petting your wings, it was a shock to say the least, causing you to let out an exasperated purr-like moan. At this you quickly snapped around, covering your face with your hand to hide your blush. “Techno!” you exclaimed, as he stood there, face blank beside the slight pink dusting his cheeks. 

“I do that?” he asked, oblivious of what effect he had just caused. 

“Yes! Yes you did!” you lectured him, watching as his expression fell, causing you to drag your hands down your face. “I'm sorry for yelling at you. Its just, doing that is something that only lovers do.” you explained, watching his face as he process what you had said. 

“Lovers? Romance?” you nodded. “I get flowers and jewels for you, then t-touch?” he gestured, holding out the chain that he had held onto. You couldn’t help but laugh at his attempt, and put a hand gently on his shoulder.

“Maybe, yes.” At this his face turned up, a wide grin adoring his delicate features.

“I romance you now.” he exclaimed, obviously excited by the revelation, which you could only smile at, continuing to walk.

please, the ending of this chapters has gotta be one of my favourite scenes thus far. Cya tomorrow!

~max

[homeformyheart]

ice cream - mason x f!detective (twc)

day 3 - date

author’s note: inching toward relationship mason fluff, enjoy!

copyright: all characters, except my oc detective, are owned by mishka jenkins @seraphinitegames. series/pairing: the wayhaven chronicles – mason x f!detective (ria knight) rating/warnings: 14+; fluff, swearing word count: 1.2k based on/prompt: day 3 – date from #28dateswithunitbravo challenge by @wayhavenmonthly. summary: to ria’s surprise, mason insists their outing counts as a date.

ice cream

ria wrapped her scarf around her neck twice before stepping out of the station, bracing herself for the cold winter chill that had settled on wayhaven like a fog that refused to leave. mason had taken to picking her up when her shift was over, initially under the guise that it was part of their increased patrols of the town, but after a few weeks of it, they fell into a rhythm and didn’t even notice that she stopped teasing him and he stopped insisting it was only because of adam’s orders.

it was days like this though that she felt bad he still insisted on walking her home, his teeth chattering as he waited for her and skin icy to the touch no matter how many layers he had on. she wasn’t sure exactly why he did it since it wouldn’t be unreasonable for the team to take turns and help alleviate mason’s exposure to extreme weather, but he insisted in his own quiet, but firm way and shut down any attempted discussion.

not that she was complaining, of course. she enjoyed spending time with him,  comforting was not a word she thought she’d ever use to describe mason, but that’s what it was. there was something oddly comforting about his presence. and she never expected to be this kind of comfortable with someone, especially after the disaster that was her relationship with bobby marks.

the walk to the square was brisk. as much as she enjoyed winter, she didn’t want to risk frostbite in the below freezing weather, and she was sure mason felt similarly, even if he refused to admit it.

“how are you doing?”

although typically a normal question to ask, it still caught ria by surprise when mason showed genuine interest in her life and wellbeing. of course, some of that was to be expected given the increase in trapper activity lately around the town. they had been frustratingly and worryingly busy because of it all.

“i’m hanging in there, all things considered,” she replied honestly. the look on mason’s face told her he didn’t quite believe her, but she didn’t want to think about it any longer.

that self-defense tactic served her very well throughout her life and she wasn’t going to stop now. she looked up for some sort of distraction and realized they were coming up on her favorite ice cream parlor.

“let’s stop here for a sec. i’m going to get some ice cream,” she said, grabbing mason’s arm and tugging him into the little corner shop.

“it’s fucking freezing and you want ice cream?” he asked, his face pinched in disgust.

ria just laughed and ordered at the counter. “it’s weird, i know. but sometimes people want a cold dessert while it’s cold out.”

“i really don’t understand humans,” he muttered under his breath as she moved to the cashier.

she shrugged and pulled out her wallet but froze when mason put his hand on hers and gave the cashier a crisp bill from his pocket instead.

“what are you doing?” she asked as she put her wallet back and grabbed her ice cream from the clerk.

“you were moving too slow, that’s all,” mason said as he turned to walk quickly towards the door, but his voice was missing its typical snark.

maybe he really was warming up to her, she mused inwardly, a smile creeping on her face as she joined him outside, the sun just starting to dip towards the tree line, softening the air around the square.

mason’s shoulders hunched forward even further, and ria could hear his teeth chattering.

“i really don’t know why you’re subjecting yourself to this. you really should have one of the other guys escort me home when it’s really cold,” she said, her voice only slightly laced with annoyance as she handed him her ice cream cone. “hold this.”

he held his arm out to the side to make sure the ice cream didn’t get on either of them as she unwrapped her scarf from her neck and looped it around his, doubling the layer so the warm fabric sat high enough on top of his existing scarf to cover his chin.

he stared at her incredulously as she placed her earmuffs around him as well, his eyes swirling with a softness she hadn’t seen before. he looked amazed as though the idea that someone might care enough about his well-being to sacrifice theirs a little had never occurred to him as a possibility. his grey eyes swirled with vulnerability and ria avoided looking right at him given the intensity she found there threatened to overwhelm her.

“how’s that?” she asked, stepping away to admire her handiwork and simultaneously grabbing her ice cream back from him.

“warm,” was all he said as he slung an arm back over her shoulders and led her toward a bench in the square.

luckily the bench was dry and clear of snow, although that didn’t help the cold from seeping through her jeans. mason kept his arm slung around her shoulders but stuffed his other hand deep in his pants pocket. ria could tell he was still shivering, but it didn’t seem as violent as it had when she first saw him outside the station.

“ria!” she looked up to see tina excitedly running towards them, her too-long scarf flapping in the wind behind her.

“hey tina,” ria said quietly, knowing that tina’s boisterous personality had a tendency to rub mason the wrong way.

“look at you two, cozying up on a date,” tina teased.

the cold ice cream caught in ria’s throat and she coughed. “this is not a date. i told you we’re not dating,” she insisted, making an effort to avoid looking at mason.

tina looked back and forth between them. “i don’t know, you’re spending time alone together, i assume he bought you the ice cream since he’s not eating anything himself. sounds like a date to me,” she said in a singsong voice that had ria cringing internally.

“what qualifies as a date to you?” mason asked before ria could respond, with genuine curiosity in his voice, something ria hadn’t really noticed from him before.

tina looked as though she was just told she won a big prize. “well, a date is when two people who like each other romantically do something together. one person usually plans an outing and pays for things like dinner or a movie. especially if the relationship is still new,” tina explained, putting too much emphasis on the word “new.”

ria rolled her eyes. “it’s kind of stupid for one person to be expected to pay for things and besides, mason and i both agree that dating is overrated.”

mason’s arm tensed around her shoulders and she looked at him quizzically. “the bobblehead is right,” he interjected quickly.

tina laughed, “what did you call me?”

“sorry, tina. mason has a nickname for everyone,” she said, giving him a pointed look. “although you’re supposed to keep those to yourself.”

he chose to ignore her and continued his original train of thought. “i’m saying she’s right. we’re spending time together and i bought you that ice cream. this counts as a date.”

now it’s her turn to stare at him incredulously. he looked away at her scrutinizing gaze even as his arm around her shoulder tightened and pulled her closer.

ria’s lips quirked up into a small smile before she schooled her features, sharing a quick, knowing glance with tina who gave her a wink before walking away.

* * * * * permatag: @kelseaaa; @kat-tia801; @anotherbeingsworld; @crackerdumortain; @pearlsandsteel; @gloynporslen; @sosolenoo; @alyssalauren; @wayhavenots; @gingerbreton; @takemyopenheart​; @writer-ish; @fhauvilles;

[hellhoundsprey]

fic - jack finally convincing sam to pop his cherry after learning about sex and begging him forever, featuring major size kink, esp around sams muscles and dick, belly bulge, sam's hand over jacks mouth or stuffing something into his mouth to keep him quiet so dean doesnt end up hearing them, sam getting pretty rough cause jack feels so good and it's so wrong it just makes it even hotter

Combining this one with:

#1 @lilith-the-ancient: Sam gently teaching overeager Jack how to masturbate, which turns into him teaching Jack how to have sex (though please no bottom Sam).

#2 @lilith-the-ancient: Jack's birthday present is Sam's dick, which he takes very, very enthusiastically.

Warnings: rough sex, unsafe sex, age difference, sam sometimes drifts into trauma-related thoughts

Tags: first time, top!sam, bottom!jack, sam is not a good dad, sam monsterfucker winchester doing what he does best

-

-

-

Sam glares but proceeds to pull his shirt over his head.

“I hope you’re happy with yourself.”

Jack, who is blissfully unaware of the existence of sarcasm, nods enthusiastically as he steps closer and puts his hands where his eyes are glued to: Sam’s chest, the wide expanse of it and then down his ribs, his abs. He can’t take his eyes off all that newly-bare skin. Jack is already flushed just from this.

This might be a bad idea.

“C’mon.” Sam plucks Jack’s shirt out of his jeans. “Get a move on.”

He’s locked the door. Dean is busy with his new issue of Busty Asian Beauties and maybe that’s part of why Jack brought this up again, seeing it laid out on the table before Dean was reprimanded to please take it to your room, seriously—what he’d like to do with Sam, he’s thought about it and he thinks he’d enjoy it, a lot, and don’t they always say he needs to unwind, get less robotic? Sam begins to sweat, to heat up. His stomach is tense. Jack’s soft touches aren’t helping.

Sam wants to hurry so it’s over sooner.

There’s saying no to someone and there’s saying no to Satan’s spawn.

Okay, no, wrong train of thought; sex. Think about sex.

“Can we kiss?” Jack peers up at him, lets Sam strip him—milky-white underneath, barely any hair and Sam’s very sure he shouldn’t think about that too hard, either. Sam swallows, nods. Tosses Jack’s shirt away and cups that pinked face in both hands, tips it up and leans down and kisses Jack on the mouth. Feels him inhaling, tensing. Hands on Sam’s own. A thumb to one of the popping veins on the back of Sam’s hand. Jack decides, “I like that,” once he can. Sam kisses him again. Jack sighs happy.

Sam undoes Jack’s belt for him. Pulls it out of those jeans and throws it away while Jack keeps looking at Sam’s face, licks his own lip. Dreamy eyes, already glazing over. Jesus. He’s young, isn’t he?

“You ever touch yourself? Here?” Jack’s lips part for the cup of Sam’s hand flat over his crotch. He shakes his head. Of course.

“Is…is that bad?”

“Uh, no. No, just… Nothing. That’s okay.”

More kisses for distraction. Sam brings his tongue into the mix. Jack stumbles around it but eventually gets the hang of it. Like a calf looking for milk. Sam removes his own belt, unzips.

Sam gets a hold of Jack’s wrist to shove that limp hand into his jeans. Jack gasps—squeezes, rubs.

“It’s gonna get bigger,” Sam explains. Rubs at Jack’s dick through his underwear with emphasis. “Like yours. See?”

“Wow.”

“Feels good?”

“Uh-huh.” Jack licks his lips again. He tentatively begins to push up into Sam’s touches. His eyes swim back and forth between Sam’s. “More. Sam, can we do…more?”

Sam doesn’t verbalize but he does press a last kiss to Jack’s mouth before he drops to his knees and tugs Jack’s underwear just low enough.

Jack’s dick is smooth and pretty like the rest of him. Sam switches to autopilot and catches the already-leaky tip with his lips, doesn’t think and just pushes on. He can take Jack all the way, no problem.

Jack gasps so loud Sam’s hair shocks to stand on end.

Hands in Sam’s hair; clasping, holding. He gets a grip on Jack’s hips to push him back, pull off. So he can bob his head, let Jack feel it. Jack sure feels it, all right.

Softest, “Oh,” when Sam pulls back to present Jack how hard he himself is. Shiny with Sam’s spit, throbbing and heated, and Sam makes a show of laving his tongue all around the sensitive head. Makes Jack moan a first time and purses his lips, eyes up to Jack; hollowed cheeks and shallow strokes, just engulfing the tip. He pulls off for good, licks his lip. Grabs between his own legs, holds Jack in place with one hand only, easy.

“Wanna try that on me? Get me nice and hard, Jack?”

Jack nods with his mouth pinched and his cheeks all lit up and Sam directs them over to Jack’s bed, sits at the foot of it and pulls Jack with him. Jack’s adorable in that clumsy kind of way. Eager, and that’s—that’s something, at least. Flattering. Sam hasn’t had the chance for many hookups lately. Not the time nor the mood. That’s part of this, too. Unwinding. Just for ten minutes.

“Easier if you get on your knees—yeah. There you go.” Sam pulls himself out of his underwear and Jack’s eyes go a little wider in the dim light of the room. Sam sinks back, braces himself on his elbow, jerks himself with the other. “Careful with the teeth. Just see what… Jesus, yeah, something like that…!”

Jack does his best to be careful. Mostly tongue but that’s good, enough to tease. Sam keeps stroking the half-soft length of his cock, lets his knuckles bump against Jack’s soft-soft lips up top. God, he wants that. Does a Nephil even need to breathe?

“Doing good.” Jack hums in reply. Points his tongue and prods at Sam’s slit, and Sam groans for that, lets his head tilt back. “Fuck. Try sucking on it? Like I did with yours?”

Jack hums again and shuffles closer to the bed. Both hands on Sam’s thighs instead of touching himself, his jeans and briefs still hanging off his hips. Sam pushes his own clothes lower, gets rid of them entirely with Jack’s help. Laces his fingers into Jack’s silky hair and pets him, directs him. Jack’s scalp is damp and hot with sweat. He looks up Sam’s body for further instructions and Sam’s nuts pull a little tighter with the eagerness in those eyes—that absolute lack of embarrassment.

“So good. Feels amazing.”

Jack reluctantly lets Sam nudge him off his cock with his knuckles from below; Sam strokes himself, now fully erect, tingling with excitement, the slick warmth of Jack’s spit. Jack huffs, wipes at his puffy mouth. Rubs Sam’s thighs, up his hips, his obliques. Sam hums and kneads his balls with his available hand, makes it good. Takes the edge off.

A point of his chin and, “Get up here,” and Jack follows suit. Climbs him and Sam kisses him, tastes himself, lets Jack taste his own dick in return. He could make—Jesus, he could make this kid do everything. Not human; the lengths they could go to…! “Let’s take this off. There you go.”

Jack gasps but curls his now-naked ass right out for the searching push of Sam’s fingers between his cheeks. Trembles all soft and his dick smears against Sam’s thigh, and Sam lets go of his own cock to put that hand on Jack’s ass, too, spreads him open to the room. Flirts three fingers up and down the tight pucker of Jack’s asshole and Jack sighs for it, chases the touch. Sam scoffs. Rubs him firmer.

“Girls have another place, right here.” Jack stares into Sam’s face in wonder as Sam rubs up-down his taint. “For guys to put their dicks inside. But this works just fine.” Back to Jack’s asshole. Jack makes a small noise. “Works just as good.”

“Can we do that? I wanna do that.”

Sam kisses that mouth. Speaks into it. “What? Put my dick in here?” He presses down, breaches the kid just-so. Jack nods against him, slick and choppy. “You sure? It might be a little weird, at first…”

“I want, Sam,” so that’s that. Jesus. Oh, Jesus, Sam, what are you doing?

“Okay,” and God, when had been the last time? Been a while, with a guy. Sam kisses Jack again to distract himself, keeps rubbing Jack’s asshole. First time. No one’s ever…! “Lick my fingers. Here.” Jack does. Sam watches—his dick throbs between their bodies. Back to Jack’s ass, now slick with spit, and Jack obviously likes that. Gasps cute and his expression melts further. His brows flinch when Sam angles one finger in, breaches him just-so. “Okay?” Slowly, Jack nods. “Wait. Actually, let’s… Here, lay down. Yes. Yeah.”

Jack grabs the nearby pillow as Sam gets comfortable behind him, spreads his ass with his hands and dives right in. Eyes closed, tongue firm and prodding—Jack gasps. Sam spreads him with both thumbs. Licks into him. God, yeah, been some time.

Sam grabs his cock—not very comfortable pressed into the bed, so he scoots low until he can kneel on the floor instead, pulls Jack with him to the edge of the bed. Jack lets him, trusts him. Sam works himself slow as he keeps eating Jack’s ass. Squeezes and kneads one juicy globe of it and sucks, hums. Jack’s pubes tickle soft against his lips, catch on his stubble. Jack’s skin heats fast with the irritation. Beard burn. Sam’s nuts tingle with anticipation.

With Ruby, he never—they didn’t have to use protection. With her vessel dead and everything, there was no threat of…well, anything. And technically, Jack’s just a few weeks old. There couldn’t be—anything, right?

Sam’s thoughts double over—shame, want, pleasure, humiliation. He could just fish his wallet out of his jeans, grab the one condom he’s got there or the bunch he keeps in his nightstand, together with the lube he has to grab sometime soon, anyway. But he could also just…not do that. Not like Jack would know any better.

Sam strokes his bare fist over his just-as-bare cock, spreads his precome over the sensitive head. God. God, he…wants.

Jack hums hot for the push of Sam’s thumb. Sam smiles, laps around the pumping digit.

“Better, right?”

Jack uh-hums and rolls his hips into the bed. Fucks himself back on Sam’s thumb, Sam’s tongue. “Feels nice.”

“Good.” Middle and ring instead of thumb. Tighter than just the thumb, but they do slide in. Sam peers up Jack’s arched back. His cute bubble butt. “Still good? Yeah?”

Jack mumbles, “More,” so Sam gives him that. Jack’s face is turned to the side, barely-visible over the hitch of his shoulder, bedded on Sam’s squished pillow. Sam watches him closely, the tremors in his young face. The bite to his lip, feeling it out. He hums when Sam twists his fingers. When he drags them out, stuffs them back in. “‘S good. I feel… Sam…”

“I got you.” Sam lets go of his cock to unearth the lube from the very back of his bedside drawer. He drizzles some on his fingers, the tips still inside Jack, keeping him open—and feeds them back in with another gasp from Jack, a twitch to his legs. “Gotta get you ready, first.”

“That, that is…!” Jack groans, attempts to get his knees anchored to push back against Sam’s knuckles. Sam counter-pushes with his available hand on Jack’s ass, keeps him pliant and right where he wants him to be. Jack huffs, frustrated. Complains, “Sam,” but Sam shushes, watches Jack’s asshole stretch around three of his fingers. The slick makes it so much better. Easier.

“Just a little more, Jack.”

A Nephil. They could use Jack’s grace to—no, the boy’s still too inexperienced, couldn’t control it enough. Sam licks his lip, is highly aware of the scrape of the sheets against the weeping tip of his cock. Just a little more. Jack can take him for sure. A Nephil. You can’t hurt him. Not permanently.

“So soft,” praises Sam, and pushes all the way to his knuckles to emphasize what he means. Jack moans into his pillow. Sam works the prostate apparently even only-half-humans are equipped with. “You wanna try? I think you’re good to go.”

Of course, “Yes,” and, “please,” and some more desperate blabbering Sam cuts short with a kiss. He pulls his fingers out, slicks his cock with the (generous) remnants of lube on his hand. Kid doesn’t even know what he’s asking for, thinks Sam, and climbs the bed anew. Pulls Jack on top of him, makes him straddle Sam’s lap.

Kisses and, “Easy,” and Sam holds his cock straight up but Jack needs a few tries to figure the angle out. Slips a couple of times and that feels good already, too good to be true—and when Jack finally gets it, when Sam’s cock catches and gets swallowed up, it’s—oh, it’s been way too long.

Sam groans, engulfed in too much slick heat at once. Jack trembles on top of him, circles his hips. Choppy, unsure—Sam helps, guides him with his hands. Soft, careful, inch by inch. One step forward, two steps back. Jack gulps wet against Sam’s mouth. Sam swirls their tongues together, eyes closed.

“Feels good,” slurs Jack. Sam hums, sucks at Jack’s lip. “You’re all hot. Like your blood is right under the surface…”

Sam wants to tell him that it is. That Jack feels just as good against him. That he’s throbbing wet perfection inside, clenching and surrendering and letting Sam inside him so easily—easier than most humans had, before. His grace, for sure, making it better and easier and better without him even realizing, working in the background, helping things along…

Sam lifts his ass to nudge deeper and Jack lifts on instinct; Sam firms his hold on Jack’s hip and stops him from squirming. Jack whines, no pain—Sam sucks on his throat. Thrusts up into him in careful, shallow rolls of his hips. Buries himself deeper, makes the Nephil take him, Lucifer’s son—Sam stares up into Jack’s pleasure-tense face, the flutter of his loosely shut eyes, the gape of his pink mouth. Trusting. Enjoying. He’s enjoying this. He likes it.

Sam switches his hold from Jack’s hips to Jack’s ass. Grabs a handful each and push-pulls the kid like that, guides him to bounce on his cock. Despite the lube and prep, of course he’s tight inside, but the ride is smooth and slick and perfect, just loose enough. Sam huffs, snaps his hips rougher, choppier. Jack gulps, dips down for kisses. Sam gives him those. Sucks at Jack’s soft, pink tongue.

“Wanna get on your back, yeah? Here. Let me…”

Jack keeps his arms around Sam’s neck as his mouth flies open further for the new angle, for the push of his own knees towards his armpits. Sam has to muffle Jack with his hand he’s getting so loud.

“Shh, okay? Gotta be quiet, remember?”

Sam’s own goddamn brain doesn’t want to remember, not with something soft and warm underneath him. Sam pumps into Jack’s ass with intent, all the way, balls slapping against Jack’s tailbone on every stroke. Jack’s breath pushes hot against his palm, his cute little moans—he tries, hard, but he can’t keep it down completely (not that Sam would want him to).

Sam hears himself pant, “You like it? You like getting fucked like this?” and Jack sobs as he nods into Sam’s hand, his entire body jostling under Sam’s thrusts, under Sam’s power. Sam could go harder. Sam can.

With another human, it would hurt them for sure—but Jack merely whines louder, still soft, still relaxed, obviously enjoying it. Sam groans, tucks the kid tight against himself. Lets him cling and moan against his shoulder and just pistons into him, makes the bed wobble with the impact. Dean might hear that. Sam decides Sam can’t care.

Jack’s voice rises and then there’s a shudder, deep inside, drawing Sam further in, and Jack gasps for air and there’s a spill between them, sticky between their stomachs and Sam growls, overwhelmed, and stumbles right along without further ado.

He holds himself as deep as he can and just—lets go. Unloads for what feels like ages, and he churns them together while he does because Jack won’t stop squirming, egging him on for more. Whimpers cute and sucks at the teeth marks he left in Sam’s shoulder. Sam blinks, huffs. Trembling. Tucked against the kid.

His cock gives a last, satisfied throb inside Jack’s ass, and Sam groans his sigh. He lets Jack pet his head, card through his sweaty hair.

“Fuck,” he mumbles, his brain now slowly trickling back online. Unfortunately. “Fuck, Jack…”

“That was awesome.”

Jack’s voice is all thick. All happy. When Sam peels them apart just enough to check, Jack is smiling at him.

Jack tucks a bunch of wet strands of hair behind Sam’s ear. Jack’s eyes glint with splinters of gold.

“Even better than awesome.”

[muffinlance]

how would you approach writing nb!zuko?

Gonna make this a more general "how to write someone you're not" reply.

So whenever you're writing a character from a background you don't share, step one is to do your research. This applies to fantasy worlds just as much as it does to real world based stories, because while fantasy characters don't share the same history as our world, your readers do.

Never discount the baggage a reader is gonna bring, and never use it as an excuse to get lazy on the research. Especially look for no-goes like stereotypes that you'd be way better off avoiding. Where ever possible, try and find first-hand accounts.

Next you need to decide how the world you're working in will interact with this part of your character.

Is it like our world, where terms like non-binary are known but there's still a lot of antagonism from certain quarters?

Are you writing in a world where these terms aren't common yet, and the character might not have adequate ways of expressing their identity? (Not to be confused with the people themselves being uncommon--LGBT+ peeps have always been around.)

You can also have a world where such things are commonly known and accepted and treated as no big deal, which can be really relaxing to read, for real, we do not always need to be persecuted even in fake worlds. Do what's best for your story, but realize that making the world a better one than ours is completely legit, because you are the one choosing.

Culture-wise, I personally think Avatar feels like a world where different genders and orientations haven't yet been vilified. There's fairly compelling evidence that a lot of cultures in our world acknowledged other genders/orientations and were cool with them, but started repressing their own people/traditional ways of life once other cultures got all up in their business. So I'd probably write one or more of the Nations as being totally fine with such things, and try to figure out what roles (if any) those characters would commonly fill.

Like maybe non-cis people are considered super spiritually in tune in the Fire Nation, and a lot of them get recruited as Fire Sages. Or in some areas of the Earth Kingdom, having your gay brother and his husband live with you to help raise your kids and be a big supportive family is totally normal. You ask a kid in Omashu who their mom and dad are, and they can rattle off a whole list. It's really confusing to them when that new refugee from the colonies only has one mom and one dad, did the rest of them die in the war?

(Honey you can't ask that, we're so sorry--)

So that's research and culture. From there, it's just character. There is one very very important rule when writing a character from a group you're not a part of:

Write them as a person.

Specifically, that means rounding them out: hobbies and interests and quirks and pet peeves that have nothing to do with their gender/orientation. You know. Like a person.

You'll only really run into troubles if you try to make the bulk of their character be their "otherness" from you. Do not treat them as an exotic race. That's how you get things like male authors writing about females character's breasts bobbing boobily as they bounce up the stairs. Your character is a complex human being who is not much different from you; treat them like it.

Also a general rule is "if you're not from the group, don't write a story centered in the group's problems, because it's not your story to tell and you're probably gonna mess it up".

AKA: If you aren't non-binary yourself, it's totally awesome and fine to write a story about a non-binary Zuko, as long as you've researched and thought things through. It is not so great to write a story about the issues non-binary people face, featuring Zuko.

It's about the emphasis: is Zuko's plot the important one and oh hey he's non-binary as one part of his character, or is Zuko being non-binary a primary plot driver?

Former is all green, go go go. Latter is yellow, caution, question your life choices and why you think you're qualified to write this story in an authentic manner.

Note that's not a red-means-stop. It just means you should really check your motivations, double down on your research, and probably see if you can round up some non-binary beta readers.

tl;dr: Google the "How to write straight characters" panels from various conventions, I know at least the NerdCon one is easy to find the audio for. Learn via straight-faced satire. Enjoy.

[ravensroleplays]

Hat Kid had never once felt out of place or like a, well, alien on Subcon. 

Okay yeah, she kind of stuck out, compared to everyone else in the forest, but this was where she had grown up. She might not have been born there, but it was where she'd lived most of her short life. This place was her home. 

Which made her feel guilty about how how she'd been feeling lately. Ever since her latest misadventure, with the very being responsible for making her dad, and the others, they way they were in the first place. 

"You HORRID little scab! No wonder your biological parents didn't want you--you're a NIGHTMARE!" 

The remark had been yelled in anger after Hatty had caught Moonjumper trying to steal her Time Pieces, but it didn't matter. Because, as much as she'd tried to convince herself otherwise, the top-hat-wearing little girl had sometimes found herself thinking about her biological parents, and what kind of people they might be. 

About where she originally came from. 

So lost was Hat Kid in her thoughts that she didn't even notice she'd wandered over to where Snatcher was setting up a new trap until he used a claw to push her back. 

"Whoa, careful there, kiddo!" 

"Huh?" Hatty blinked a couple times, coming back to reality as she suddenly surveyed the latest trap. 

"Nice, isn't it?" The huge ghost asked, pulling himself up, his usual fanged, somewhat malicious grin in place. "Next time some fool comes to...!" He glanced over at Hat Kid, only to do a double take as he saw the look on his adopted daughter's face, his grin melting away like butter. "What's wrong?" His tone was softer now, warmer. Trap-laying, contract-dealing Snatcher was temporarily gone as the ghost went into full dad mode, which made things SO much worse. 

"Nothing, Daddy." She said, a bit too quickly, and as the words left her mouth, Hat Kid immediately knew that Snatcher wouldn't buy it. Sure enough, the specter crossed his arms, raising an eyebrow. 

"Hatty, don’t lie to me. I taught you everything you know about deception. And it’s obvious something’s on your mind, kid.” He waited a little bit, and when Hat Kid still didn’t say anything, and kept looking everywhere but at Snatcher, his face softened a bit. He was wondering whether or not to change into human form, to make himself less imposing, when Hatty finally found her voice.

“...it’s about something Moonjumper said.” At that, Snatcher reared back, fangs bared at the mention of the name.

"DID THAT MOON-HEADED PECK NECK HURT YOU?!” He growled a bit, his fur actually starting to stick up a bit, and Hatty shook her head.

“No, it’s just...” She frowned a bit. “He told me about my biological parents. The people I came from.”

"...” At that, the specter promptly started to deflate as Hat Kid continued

“I never used to care about them, or where I came from—I mean, this is my home!” She tried for a smile. Emphasis on ‘tried’. “And, well, if they didn’t even want me...”

She was trying to be strong, and her very obviously forced smile, coupled with the sadness in her eyes, was tearing Snatcher apart.

"Hey, hey...” His tone was gentle as he leaned down, cupping his paws together in front of his little girl. "Come to your father.”

Hatty obliged, not even TRYING to hide her disappointment and heartache anymore as she climbed on, seating herself in her dad’s palms as he slowly, gently, lifted her up.

“I’m sorry, I'm just being silly.” She hugged her knees, looking down. “I don’t know why...”

"You know, I still think about my parents, sometimes.”

“Really?” Hatty asked, blinking in surprise as she looked up, and Snatcher nodded a bit, a sheepish look on his face.

"I hadn’t exactly gone ‘full Snatcher’ yet the last time I saw them, but I was well on my way.” He bit his lip a little. "And they weren’t exactly thrilled to see me like that. Not exactly the same, but I get it, kid.” His frown lasted a second or two longer before turning back to his little girl. "But you know what? If the people who gave birth to you couldn’t see what a great kid they had on their hands, that’s THEIR loss, not yours.” A soft smile started to cross Snatcher’s features as he slowly started to drift forward, still holding Hatty. "And you know pretty much everyone here is crazy about you, right? Me, the Subconites, the Dwellers...and now, Misty.”

Hatty actually managed a genuine smile at that.

“I know. I love you guys too...that’s why I didn’t want to say anything before.” She twiddled with the edges of her cape a little, letting out a bit of a sigh. “I...wanted to see if I could find out more about where I came from...but I didn’t want you all to think I was leaving you!”

Snatcher processed all of this.

He'd always suspected that Hatty would, one day, set off to try and find out about her home world...though he’d always thought that it wouldn’t be until she got older. Or, at least, that was what he’d hoped...she was still so little.

Seven years was nothing...sometimes he still couldn’t look at her without seeing the baby he’d found and took in and fed and looked after.

Not to mention he was still scared about something like what happened with that mustached brat happening all over again...

"Not without some of the others.” Snatcher said firmly.

“Daddy...”

"I don’t want you getting hurt.” The ghost continued. "I know you’re a tough kid...but you’re still my kid. If anything happened...!”

At that, Hat Kid leaned over, hugging her father’s thumb.

“I’ll be careful. I promise.” And, with that, Snatcher found himself melting all over again. 

"One more thing.” He froze, carefully using a free claw to move some hair out of his daughter’s face. "No matter where you go in the universe, or what you end up finding out, you’ll always have a home, and a family, here in Subcon. Don't you EVER forget that, okay?”

Another, much wider, smile crossed Hatty’s features as she nuzzled into Snatcher’s fur, hugging him the best she could as he brought her closer. Feeling lighter as all her previous fears and worry melted away.

Okay, so maybe her biological parents didn’t care about her. That didn’t bother her before, why should it start bothering her now? Snatcher was the best dad she could have asked for, and having him, and the others, as her family even made somewhere like Subcon great. Not perfect, but it was the best home she could ask for; and she had a pretty good feeling that, even if and when she found out about her original planet, she’d still pick Subcon in a heartbeat.

“Okay, Daddy.”

[scary-lasagna]

Slender-Sitter

An idea I got at 2am one night. 

A different take on the Slender Brothers (and Mama Slender!).I probably won’t follow up on it, but if you guys want one I’ll be happy to write it.

* * *

     You weren't quite sure what happened. One moment you were eating shitty off-brand cornflakes, and the next moment there was a machete to your throat.     "You're coming with me, and if I hear a peep outta ya, I'll slit your God Damn throat. Got it?"     What else could you have done besides nod?     To be fair, the walk through the forest with this masked man was awkward as all can be. You tried asking his name for small talk, to which he replied by throwing a rusty knife past your ear.     Maybe he was an introvert.     The sun was starting to rise now, and you realized you didn't want to die on a cold spring morning with your socks soaked through with dew.     But it as too late now, because the ivory and shadow colored manor slowly appeared into view. You didn't know where the Hell you were, and there was no way this was a half an hour walk from your house.     The masked man walked past you instead of following in your shadow, grabbing your arm and dragging you toward the mahogany double doors. He pulled the heavy knocker three times. It was so loud, that the sound disturbed a flock of birds resting in the circle of trees surrounding the building.     There were a few clicks and shutters behind the door before it peeled open, revealing a quite tall, pale woman. Her height wasn't even the intimidating part, it was the fact that she didn't even have a face.     "Hello, sweetheart. You can call me Mother." She outstretched a thin hand, which you hesitantly took to shake. "I hope Deliberate didn't cause you too much trouble." She nodded towards the masked man beside you. "I would've sent someone more qualified in choosing a baby sitter, but all of my other proxies were busy."     You shook your head to clear your thoughts when she turned to lead you into her home, "B-Babysitter?" You stuttered, being nudged in by the rude 'proxy'.     "Mhm! I'm heading out today for some errands, and I needed someone to look after my children." She bent down, extending her slender arms to pick up one of the said children. "Mostly this one." She planted what sounded like a kiss on his forehead before turning and outstretching the child to you.     The baby was fucking adorable, in honesty. With a wide grin and sparkling black eyes, it almost looked normal despite the black took over the whites of his eyes.     “Y-You want me," You pointed at yourself," A complete stranger to hold your pride and joy, none the less a living child?" It seemed kind of absurd.     "Honey, don't make me not like you." Her tone fell flat, causing you to remember your situation and quickly scooping the baby onto your hip. "Oh good! He already likes you!" Her hands clasped together, "I'll go get my other boys."     Oh, Christ, they're all boys.     You felt a little awkward waiting with this dude who looks like he wants to kill you at any second, and with this baby who won't stop staring.     You looked down, watching as his eyes lit up and that previous grin taking place on his chubby cheeks again following by a gurgling laugh. You couldn't help but return the smile. His pudgy hands reached up, one grasping at your shirt and the other pinching your cheek.     "The one in your arms is Splendor." The woman approached again, this time carrying another child. Two were following in her footsteps, obviously older than the infant and toddler.     "This one is Trender, and these two are my oldest, Slender and Offender." She nodded at each respectively. None of them really sported any facial features besides this Offender kid. He had a toothy grin that just made him look like he was up to something. You can already tell he'll cause some trouble.     She huffed and set the toddler down, who waddled over to his older siblings. "Now, I'm going to be gone until 10:30 tonight. Feel free to explore around the house, eat the food, honestly...I don't care what you do." She shrugged with a sigh. "Just keep them occupied, and if the house isn't burned down by the time I get back, I'll give you a pretty penny for your efforts."     There was a rustle behind you and Deliberate brushed the fur coat against you as he walked past to help Mother put it on. "If you need help Slender will know what to do." She glanced your way before walking towards her children, saying an individual goodbye to each one. She approached you, letting Splendor grasp onto her finger as she looked at you.     Her voice lowered out of earshot for the older boys. "If I come back and either a, you are not here, or b, any of my boys have as little as a scratch on them, I will find you, I will break all of your bones, rip them out of our body and use them for home decor." She paused, letting the emphasis sink in.                                        You nodded slowly as Slendor chimed in with a laugh. "Isn't that right baby boy!~" She cooed at the infant, kissing him on the cheek. He pressed saliva covered lips to her thin cheek in return. She straightened up to her full height, placing a hand on your shoulder. "10:30, 15 hours. Do not screw up." She struts past you, Deliberate sparing a glare as he followed her out. The door slammed behind them, leaving you alone with these little shits.

    Staring at the mahogany wood, you tried to think of a plan for the day. "So..." You turned away from the door, looking at the three- wait one was missing. Your eyes widened in panic as you glanced around.     "Offender went to raid the fridge." The tallest one said, despite not even having a mouth. Not that it surprised you, considering their mother is the most abnormal creature you've seen in your life. "Right." You nodded, glancing across the large lobby of the manor towards a set of doors with 'Kitchen' carved into a plaque above them.     "Slender, right?" You looked at the eldest, who responded with a nod. "Okay, you're going to have to help me, because I don't do children, and they don't like me either." You paused, looking down at Trender who has decided to latch on to your jeans. "Small ones, at least." You added as the kitchen door swung open, revealing a walking pile of ramen noodle boxes.     "Can you fix these Miss Human?" You could see a pair of legs poking out from under the boxes.     "Not all of them, and not now. You guys aren't having ramen for breakfast." You paced towards the second eldest, grasping a box from the top so the kid can see, "And I have a name, squirt." You said, pushing the door open to the kitchen with your shoulder. "Have you guys eaten?"     "No."     “Yes."     "Yes."     "Will you guys shut up? You want extra pancakes or not?" Offender set the boxes down by the large dining table with a grumble.     "Trender only knows the word 'yes', Offender."     Meanwhile, you struggled to get Spenldor in his high chair, who kept spreading his chubby legs so they wouldn't go through the leg holes. For a little baby, he was putting a hell of a strain on your arm. You had to quite literally peel Trender off and set him on your leg to see over the table you sat at.     "Aight, we're gonna have a talk to set a schedule for the day." You secured an arm around the toddler's torso.     "You should just let us watch t.v. all day, nothing can go wrong then." Offender shrugged.     "You're gonna be a shit eater aren't you?"     "Yeah, that's what mom says." He grinned.     "Try not to curse too much Trender is learning words." Slender chimed in.     "My name is [Y/n], by the way. You can call me that." You paused as they awkwardly just nodded in response. Splendor managed to learn how to eat his own foot for the time being. "How old are you guys?" You glanced between the four.     Offender opened his mouth as if to speak, but Slender beat him to it. "In Ender years, I'm 11, Offender is 7, Trender is 3, and Splendor is 1."     "Ender years..." You whispered. "Should I ask what that is for humans?"     "No."     "We're not allowed."     "Yes."     "Okay, whatever. You two watch t.v. or whatever, I'm gonna see what I can do with these two." You glanced between Splendor and Trender, who was neck grasping onto the chain of your necklace.     "There's a schedule mom made on the fridge for Sun."     You huffed and stood, struggling to hold Trender on your hip due to the contrast in size between him and Splendor. "Who's Sun?" You shifted your weight on one hip as you looked over the schedule.     "One of mom's proxies," Slender answered.     As you looked over the schedule, there were really some peculiar things that stood out to you.     "You guys have a library?" You glanced over your shoulder to find Offender was gone and Slender was picking up Splendor to accompany you by the fridge.     "Yeah, we go in there to do school work. We have lessons today." He mentioned., pacing over with a squirming piece of chub.     "Outdoor play, 1:00." You mumbled, running a finger down the list.     "Don't let Offender outside, he'll throw a ball through the window to get you in trouble. Mom's catching on though, so it's a 50-50 chance."     "...Thanks." You sighed, turning. "I take it you do most of the work with your brothers?" You lead him out of the kitchen and held the door for him.     "Yeah, mostly." He mumbled, shifting Splendor on his side.     You paused, seeing the sight of the lobby and wondering how in the hell Offender managed to make this much of a mess in the span of 3 minutes. Toys were scattered, the table in the middle was knocked over, the rug was twisted in all kinds of directions, not to mention the articles of clothing on top of the chandelier.     Trender gripped onto your shirt and neck, burying his head into your chest. Your brows furrowed as you rubbed his back.     "He gets upset when mom yells at Offender."     "Does she do it often?"     "Have you met him?"     "Right." You glanced around at the harsh sight. "Let's find your brother, then."

[thiswasinevitableid]

#3 indruck for the supers prompt please? Feel free to play around with it!

Here we go! It got a bit angstier in the middle than I initially planned, but don’t worry, it all turns out okay.

3 Okay so when they wink at me after a great comeback, is that just their charismatic arrogance or do they maybe like me back?

“Guess I really am a ‘bright beacon of hope’ cause you keep comin to me like a moth to a flame.”

The Bear winks at him and Indrid, who saw the trap coming and stepped into it anyway because he really wants those blueprints, finds himself surrounded by the rest of the Pine Guard.

Or

“Oughta call yourself Luna Moth, cause you’re driving me crazy.” This the Bear growls after Indrid gets off multiple successful strikes of his sonic disorienter wrong-footing the enemy. 

“There is no correlation between the lunar cycle and insanity.”

“It was a joke Agent, oh fuck where’d he go?” Was the last thing Indrid heard as he took flight off the roof.

Or

“Was gonna ask you back to my place, but it looks like you’re all tied up.” This was whispered in his ear as he struggled in the grasp of The Bear’s strange, whip-like sword. It took a headbutt to get free of that one, the split lip aggravatingly increasing the appeal of The Bear’s face.

That incident was a mere hour and half ago. Were Indrid thinking clearly, he’d be pondering why he Bear had put them so close together when he knew full well Indrid had escaped that exact same scenario several times before.

Instead, he’s just cum across his bedspread imagining exactly what the bear could do to him in his hideout, Indrid tied up all the while (though not by that unpleasant sword). Imagining a strong, warm hand around his cock and his throat (he hasn’t been able to keep warm since the accident), coaxing him to surrender to pleasure. 

This is not an unusual post-battle activity for him lately. The Bear has grown more flirtatious in his banter. It doesn’t help that the hero is exactly the kind of man Indrid pursued and bedded in happier times. 

What’s stranger is that The Bear isn’t terribly arrogant otherwise, so the winking truly feels less like gloating and more like a come-on.

Indrid hasn’t been too bothered by his desires these past months.

Until now. Because this time, as he lays panting into the black flannel pillows, his mind continues spinning. But instead of his grocery list or new invention ideas, it wanders straight back into muscular arms. He wonders if The Bear is a cuddler. That would be nice, as he looks so very soft in places. And his drawl is probably comforting, hushed and close under the covers. Indrid, who hasn’t had a good nights sleep in two years, pictures himself drifting off peacefully in a tender embrace.

“What in the hell?” He mutters, shaking his head as he sits up. The lights in the bathroom highlight the sickly red glow of his eyes, the black of his claws, the strange white of his pointed teeth in an otherwise human face as he address himself in the mirror

“Get a hold of yourself, Cold. You are slipping.” 

He washes his hands, splashes cold water on his face, looks at his reflection, “There is no explanation beyond him toying with you. You are a monster.” 

He flexes his ragged, black wings for emphasis.

“You are enemies. No matter how charming he is. No matter how many times he’s-”

Saved your life?

Spared you capture?

“He’s a hero, that is what hero do.”

Offered you help?

Spoken to you more than fought with you?

This is pathetic. He’s allowed the Bear too much power over him. Had he meant to give it, he would feel differently. But now he’s in a freefall, eyes shut in hopes someone else will keep him from hitting the ground . 

He has to regain an edge. 

The futures roll through his head, unbidden. But he’s learned how to control them, he knows how to find what he needs in them. Concentrating, he sorts through them instant by instant and soon he has exactly what he’s looking for.

He looks into the mirror, and his reflection grins, horror movie wide, back at him. 

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

 It’s only The Bear who comes for him the next time. He makes sure of it by choosing a low level crime that will still bring the hero running. 

“Really, Emperor Moth, a forest fire? Do I even gotta say how I feel about those?”

“No. And I have decided that after years of trying to prevent disaster and being scorned, I am ready to bring them upon those who did not listen to me.”

“Damn, that’s dramatic even for you.”

Indrid huffs, drawing himself up to stare at the hero, “Begone, ursine irritation, or I will end you and put your stuffed body in my mansion.”

“You don’t have a mansion. Besides,” that cocky grin is back, “other ways of stuffin a bear that I like a lot better.”

He can’t stop the blush, even as he sees his chance for the upper hand.

“There’s also more than one way to catch a Duck.”

The hero freezes.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He says in the voice of someone who knows exactly what it means.

“I mean, Duck Newton, ranger in this very national forest, that you do not have the upper hand you think you do.” 

“Shit, your powers-”

“Yes.” Indrid snarls lunging forward and knocking Duck backwards. The other man drops easily, doesn’t move a muscle when Indrid traps both hands beneath clawed fingers, “There are so many things I know because of them. But there’s one I do not. And I intend to learn it.” 

His grin spurs Duck to move, thrashing ineffectively. Indrid uses Duck’s momentum to his favor, lets the hero flip himself onto his stomach, offering Indrid the chance to use the one hold Duck has trouble escaping even with all his strength. 

“Ah ah, none of that. It’s high time you and I had a discussion.”

“Fine,” Duck spits into the ground, “do your worst. Just, just promise me you’ll leave the others out of it.”

“Excuse me?” Indrid sees the futures resetting and his self-loathing doubles.

“The other heroes, Lady Flame and The Crooked Man and all them. And, well, anyone who ain’t a hero who I care about. Promise me you won’t go after them.”

“Is that truly what you think of me?” Indrid whispers, releasing his hold. 

Duck flips back over with enough force to throw Indrid several feet away, “You just lured me into the woods to brag about knowin my name, what the fuck else should I think?”

“You’re right, that is a logical conclusion.” Indrid says weakly, sitting up, “And you answered my question. I knew you couldn’t possibly feel anything fond towards me.”

Crickets chirp and fireflies flicker in the space between them as neither speaks for a two second eternity. Indrid looks down, ashamed.

“Hold up, you were tryin to figure out my...feelings for you? What, uh, what makes you think I even got any?”

“Oh please, you’ve grown increasingly flirtatious during our fights. You’ve shown me mercy when many others wouldn’t have. And please don’t attempt to lie. We both know how that goes.”

“Yeah.” Duck scratches the back of his neck, sheepishly, “See, I knew folks had tried to talk you into comin over to our side before. But no one had tried, uh, romacin you over.”

Indrid’s fingers curl in the grass beneath him, “Were you trying to seduce me over to your side?”

“I mean, that was part of my original plan. But you gotta understand there was more to it than that. I knew that before you started bein a villain, you were an artist and sometimes citizen scientist. And then-”

“Yes, yes” Indrid rubs his temples, “I experienced an accident that lead to the development of my future seeing capabilities and changed my appearance. Every book, blog, and news story that’s included me in it repeats that, there’s no need to rehash it here.”

“You didn’t let me finish; I also know you were the fella that tipped off the EPA to the fact that GenTech was pollutin the water.”

Indrid blinks, “How?”

“I was workin the ranger station the day a fella named Indrid Cold asked Juno to come out an look at some frogs. Mutated ones, ones he’d been watchin and drawin since they were tadpoles. Heard him say he was gonna do somethin about it. Then suddenly the nice, cute, quiet fella with the silver hair ain’t shown up in two weeks, when normally he comes by every few days to draw in the park. And the CEO of GenTech is on T.V sayin how pleased he is that the EPA investigation went nowhere because the informant 'skipped town.’“

He shudders as the memories close in with each word of his confession, “They released a toxin. In my apartment. I’m certain they thought it would kill me. I woke up to my wings splitting through my skin, a cacophony of futures in my mind. I was so frightened, I kept screaming for help. They’d had their goons pose as emergency personnel, evacuating the building for a ‘gas leak.’ No one came to help me. I passed out in pain and confusion, only came to when they chucked me into the lake, weights tied to me. Thank heavens for my claws.”

He doesn't want to keep speaking, eyes stinging and throat as tight as it was the night he lay gasping on his floor.

Duck’s drawl is soft when he, mercifully, continues his story rather than pressing Indrid for more of his, “Then another two weeks go by, and I get a funny phone call at the station, warnin me that there’s gonna be a downpour that sends a mudslide into one of the most crowded campsites, killin twenty five. Thacker and me evacuated. No one died. Found out later lots of other folks got calls like that over the course of a few weeks, but most ignored ‘em, thought the fella was crazy. Six months later the calls stop and Emperor Moth kidnaps GenTechs CEO. And, well, you know our history from there.”

“You’ve known who I was this whole time?”

“Had a hunch. Started payin closer attention to you when we met, and recognized your features, even with the glasses and the changes from the toxin. Remembered you talkin with me at the station, the way you’d laugh, how excited you got when you saw it was me workin. Thought maybe I might be able to win you back.”

Indrid tucks his knees to his chest, rests his forehead against them

“You ain’t a monster Indrid. Hell, you ain’t even much of a villain.” Fabric scuffing along grass and dirt signals Duck coming closer, and Indrid wraps his wings around himself. 

“Whoah, hey now, I ain’t gonna hurt you. Far as I’m concerned, unless you haul off and punch me or somethin we got a truce.” Warm fingertips press the edges of his wings and he retracts them stiffly, nerves too taut with leftover adrenaline and buried memories for his body to relax. 

“Indrid?” 

He looks up simultaneously hating the concern on Duck’s face and dying to throw himself forward to beg for forgiveness, for comfort. For Duck to say his name again.

“No one’s called me that in two years.” 

“Always liked it. Was distinct, same as you.”

“Not nearly as creative as Duck.”

“It’s a nickname.”

“It’s a good one.”

Duck continues stroking the edge of his wing, “You wanna come back to my hideout?”

“You’d show me? Just like that?”

A shrug, “You tellin me you wanna jump right back in to bein the scary villain who wants to hunt me down.”

“No.” Indrid replies meekly, “I want, ah, hmmm, honeslty I want to bury myself in the earth like a cicada can come out in a few decades.”

“Den’s underground. How about you plan on layin low there for a bit, takin some time to sort things out and rest?”

“That’s a start, wait, did you seriously name your hideout-”

“The Bear Den? Yep.” Duck helps Indrid up, loops his right arm through Indrid’s left and guides him towards the south end of the forest. 

“By the by, I know that weren’t gasoline you tossed everywhere. Thanks for waterin the plants.”

“You’re welcome.”

They hit a frontage road and follow it, “I’m sorry if the flirtin messed with you at all. Didn’t mean for it to. But I meant every word. You look damn good in black.”

“Thank you.” Indrid chuckles, “You look striking in many shades of green.”

“You know it. Here we are.” 

“This is a cabin.”

Duck bends over and puts his hand on the cellar doors. There are three distinct clicks, and then the faux wood panels slide back.

“Oooh, very nice.”

“Pretty pleased with it. Took a few designs to get the camouflage right.” He takes the first step down, turns and offers Indrid his hand. When Indrid takes it, rough, gentle lips meet the back of his hand. 

When their eyes meet, he’s grinning like a lovesick teenager and Duck’s eyes put the fireflies to shame.

“Welcome home, Indrid.”

Indrid would like to say that he spent his first night pouring out his soul, atoning for all his wrongs, and taking stock of his life and needs.

But the truth is that it takes only a few minutes before he’s staggering into a warm, cozy bedroom and burrowing beneath covers of the large bed. Duck takes up a spot beside him, reading contentedly as Indrid settles in. Then Indrid curls up against him, and as a kind, comforting hand caresses his wings and hair he falls hard and gratefully into a peaceful sleep.