#two little drabbles? back to back?!

[fbfh]

leo valdez with a breeding kink… i’d literally give that man anything he wants 😫

OHHHHHH FUCK ME. I WANNA KISS YOU ON BOTH CHEEKS FOR THIS ONE. Leo does not realize he has a breeding kink until it hits him like a fucking semitruck. you're with some family and friends at a little get together, and you end up looking after a baby cousin to give their parents a break. you have the kiddo on your lap while you chat with your friend, and when Leo gets back with drinks he nearly drops them. Boom. Light switch on, breeding kink in full force. He doesn't even realize what's happening, not quite yet, but all he knows is that it's going to take every ounce of self control he has to wait until the party's over. after a physically painful eternity that he suspects is his eternal punishment from the gods worse than pushing a boulder or being strapped to a boulder or holding up a planet sized boulder (it's maybe an hour and a half max) you're finally on your way home. He nearly pulls an irish goodbye just to get his beautiful beautiful hands on you sooner, and Leo is NOT the type to leave without at least a dozen hugs and cheek kisses and leftovers and plans to meet up next time, so you know something must be going on with him. the only reason he doesn't fuck you in the car (and he is this fucking close) is because he knows that he wants to take his time with you. Also, he can get pretty vocal. Also so can you. (anyone would with him jfc) so he keeps his hand on your thigh while he drives. He rubs it, inches it up higher and higher, higher than he ever has outside the bedroom until he's practically fingering you in the passenger seat. Honestly you wouldn't complain if he did. The sound of your flustered, surprised giggle when he pick you up and carries you into your house over his shoulder, all unga bunga like something primal has woken up inside him. And it has. When he lays you down on your bed which is still descheveled from the fun you'd had that morning, when he kisses you like he's hungry and strips you down like he's unwrapping a christmas present, neither of you know what's gotten into him yet. But he knows one thing for damn sure.

There's no way in hell he's pulling out tonight. Or ever again, if he's being honest.

So really, you'll both find out what's gotten into him (and you) in about nine months

[waterfallofspace]

Allergic To Concepts

Is anyone else still into the M/agnus Archives? Maybe, maybe not, but I have had this fic sitting in my google docs for months, and I just finally managed to get myself to finish up the last bit, so here is part one of a possible two part fic, if I can ever manage to get myself to write the next part!

So, if anyone wants, please enjoy a little Allergic to concepts Jon. aka, Jon is so allergic to dogs that just the idea of them gets him a bit worked up~

I'll never be over this podcast, and I might start sharing small (tiny) drabbles of these guys if anyone would be interested <3 or even just to start coaxing myself back into writing~

Characters: Jon, Martin, Tim, and Sasha Word Count: 2.7k

“-so to conclude, we absolutely, most certainly, cannot do that,” Martin finishes, hands woven into his hair. Seems to happen more often nowadays; getting a job you’re not exactly qualified for tends to bring on a touch of added stress. What brings even more stress, however, are the faces staring back at him, twin smiles painted across worryingly calm canvases. Seems once a poet, always a poet, even in your own thoughts. 

Tim chuckles, mischief running through his eyes. “How do you even know that? You been stalking our new boss?” 

“W-well no, it’s just that…” Martin starts, beginning to study the floor as his rambling starts to take over. “Well there may have been an… incident, of- of sorts, with a uh… well it was, I was trying to open this door, but see I was holding files, and there was this dog, and they kinda just- well I was trying to stop it but it got in and- so I went to Jon’s office and he was just kinda… and then I-” 

“So what?” Tim interrupts, mercifully saving Martin from his own tongue. “Why should his issues stop us from havin’ a good time?” With a snap of his fingers, Tim casts Sasha a devious wink. The colour seems to drain from Martin’s face as he holds up a shaking finger, aiming somewhere behind Tim’s shoulders. 

“Ah, speak of the devil,” Sasha mutters, her smile never wavering. 

Spinning on his heel, Tim turns to greet the newest arrival to the hallway. “Fancy seeing you here, boss! Burning the midday oil?” 

Jon pauses, papers nearly spilling from his crowded arms as he fumbles with some keys. “That’s not an expression. And what are you all doing cramped in the hall? Don’t any of you have work to do?” 

Martin nearly keels over as Jon’s glare settles against him, seemingly deeming him responsible for this lapse in progress. As if! In fact, he’d been the one begging them to get back to work. Honestly, Jon should appreciate the fact that he talked them out of-

“Actually, we’re thinking of heading off for the day,” Tim cuts in, leaving Martin’s mouth nearly hanging open. Had they not just gone over why this was a horrible idea? As if to answer his unspoken question, Sasha joins in with support for Tim’s cause. Martin’s pretty sure there’s actually a gap between his lips. 

Jon, having opened the office by this point, merely stops and stares. Seconds pass, though it feels more like minutes. There appears to be some sort of staring match between the three of them. 

Finally Jon breaks the silence with a short… well, it’s hard to call it a laugh, more like a huff. His posture tightens as he attempts to pull himself to his full height, casting Tim a wary glance. “You can’t be serious.” 

“Quite serious in fact! See, me and Sasha have been thinking,” Tim pauses, gesturing to the aforementioned with a sickly sweet smile. Merely performance charm, which given the eye-roll she shoots back, Sasha’s well aware of. “All of us here need a chance to bond.” 

“Bond, you say,” Jon’s monotone voice offers no insight to how he’s taking this suggestion. As Martin’s mouth begins to dry, his hands start working their way back into his hair. 

“Indeed!” Tim continues, seemingly oblivious to Martin’s rapidly increasing heart rate. “We’ve all been stuck here together, figured we should become more of a team, you know? A team-building exercise you could call it. Something to get us more on the same page.” 

“And what is this ‘team-building exercise’ you have in mind?” 

Well, his heart may have been racing before, but it’s not anymore. In fact, he’s almost entirely convinced it’s just stopped completely. Jon’s eyes meet his own, and Martin drops his gaze fast enough to leave him dizzy. 

This time Sasha speaks up, her coy tone doing nothing to alleviate the heart attack symptoms Martin’s now convinced he’s feeling. “An animal rescue cafe. They rescue dogs and cats, the ones that need rehoming, and bring them there so you can get to know them before you adopt. One opened just down the street from here, and me and Tim have been looking into going. We figured, might as well drag you and Martin along with us.” 

Jon’s glare narrows further, a single hand coming up to rest between his eyes. The movement is completed by pushing up his glasses with a sigh. “And how exactly does drinking tea in a room full of animals qualify as team building?” 

“You can tell a lot about a person from the way they treat animals,” Tim offers. “Not to mention the fact that there’s a whole study about how psychopaths are more likely to hate cats, which is mostly due to the fact cats have willful behaviour.” 

Martin can almost taste his heartbeat at this point, a fact he’s finding quite alarming. Still rummaging through papers, Jon steps into his office. Much to Martin’s chagrin, they all seem to be following him. 

“Are you suggesting someone working in this office is a psychopath, Tim?” Jon continues, huffing out another sigh as he notices the entourage entering his office. Jon’s glare lands on Martin once more, something he’s almost gotten used to at this point. 

Laughter begins to flow from Tim, Sasha joining in with a mild chuckle. “Of course not, but hey, this job’s all about researching things that probably aren’t true. Better safe than sorry, right?” 

Seemingly the only one noticing Jon’s growing apprehension, or maybe just the only one that cares, Martin can’t peel his eyes off their boss. Unaware of the scrutiny, though perhaps expecting it nonetheless, Jon pushes up his glasses again. Martin doesn’t miss the way he lets a single finger brush against his nose during this action. Nor do his eyes skip over the light scrunch forming at the bridge of said nose. 

Oblivious as always, Tim’s still going on about the cafe. Something about which animals are available, what tea they serve, scones, and more useless information. Sasha’s typing something in her phone, apparently fact checking his current ramblings. Still, all of that fades into the background as Martin’s attention is drawn to Jon once more. 

At first, he can’t figure out why he’s watching. Jon didn’t speak, and from his posture he hasn’t made any significant gestures. There doesn’t seem to be anything specifically that should have caught his eye, and yet-  

And then it happens again. Jon’s brows tighten, his eyes begin to flutter shut, and his lips part just enough for his tongue to peek out between them. There’s a beat of silence, then a single breathy inhale, barely noticeable above Tim’s monologuing. 

“ihh-” 

Just as quickly as it began, Jon crushes it back once more, a hand roughing swiping against his nose. There’s a quiet feeling of– perverse excitement as Martin watches him. Why? No earthly idea. It’s not as if there’s anything specifically… exciting about the action. There’s no physical stimulation beginning, to phrase it politely. 

Still, there’s something… almost electrifying, about bearing witness to a moment so personal and private. As if the only person in the room is Jon, and he’s opened the door for Martin to join him in his world. Which, as you think about it, just becomes more and more– creepy as hell! Damn it! 

Pulling himself from his thoughts, Martin manages to peel his gaze away from Jon. Zoning back into Tim’s rambling, he just barely catches the tail end of a rant about different toppings on cinnamon buns. His silence was entirely unnoticed. Understandably, given only Tim had said anything in minutes. 

“Personally, I’m a fan of the regular cream cheese icing,” Martin offers, forcing himself to keep his eyes on Tim as another soft sniffle sounds behind him. The others don’t notice it, Sasha rolling her eyes as a light begins to dawn in Tim’s. 

“Well, interesting you say that Martin, they actually have those at the cafe down the street! Isn’t that such a wonderful coincidence?” Tim swirls his body towards Martin, casting a playful glance back at Jon as he continues. “Wouldn’t you like to stop by and get yourself one of those delicious buns?” 

Martin feels his face begin to pale again, and barely manages a meek, “W-well… I don’t need to… get one right now… but if you want-” 

Thankfully he’s saved from himself as a gasp sounds out from the desk. Everyone in the room turns, Martin included, just in time to see Jon duck into his wrist with a tight, “ih’nGXt–uih!” 

“Bless you!” Sasha calls, Tim and Martin echoing the sentiment. A flush begins to spread over Jon’s cheeks, but it’s brushed off as he waves a hand, continuing to scribble on some papers. Casting a glance over to Tim, Martin sighs as the mischief floods the other man's face. He’s very clearly not letting this go. 

“Was that actually a sneeze?” Tim laughs, mimicking the sound as Sasha suppresses a giggle. 

Jon keeps his head down, pen still moving across the paper in disjointed movements. “It was in fact a sneeze, yes. Happens to everyone from time to time, no need to make a big deal out of it. Now, I believe you were going to a cat and do- hiHh! rescue cafe?” 

The hitch manages to escape from Jon’s tight grip, his posture shuddering slightly with the force of continuing the sentence. It doesn’t go unnoticed by Martin that just the word dog seems to leave him breathless. 

“A dog cafe, yeah! You’re coming too, right boss? Come see all the adorable little puppies?” Tim offers, gesturing towards the door. Apparently it didn’t go unnoticed by him either. 

An audible gasp sounds out, and all eyes turn back to the rapidly hitching boss. Jon manages to stifle the first one almost silently, only a rush of breath escaping at the end. 

“Bless you, boss.” 

Jon waves a hand, wiping away the water beginning to flood his eyes. “Was just sihh… sighing, Tim.” He finishes the statement with another stifle, this time his whole body jerks along with the rough exhale.  

“Really? Because that sounded like another sneeze,” Tim taunts, poking a finger towards Jon’s face. “And given the way your nose is twitching, you seem far from done.” 

Jon seems to consider debating, but another frantic hitch decides it for him. Giving up the ruse, he ducks into his shoulder with another, “eh’tNGxt–uh! ih’NTchhuh!”  

“Bless yo-” 

“eH’DGZSHhh –uu!”  The volume makes everyone jump, seeming to surprise even Jon. 

“Oh- mby apologies, I seeb to be… hiehh–” Jon trails off, one hand frantically searching for a tissue, nose visibly trembling behind the other. In a move of uncharacteristic pity, Tim pushes the box within reach. Jon mumbles out a thank you, before swinging his chair around for a touch of privacy. 

The silence is almost deafening, cut up only by the rustling of fabric as Jon attempts to subdue the onslaught. “eh’nGNt –oo!” And fails miserably. 

“Do- maybe do you want… well possibly we should, actually I think you might- I mean he might want–” Desperately trying to find a way to fill the space, Martin rambles on, gaze bouncing between all three of his coworkers.

“Martin,” Jon cuts him off, “just say it.” 

The annoyance Martin’s come to expect seems unaffected by the breathy quality of Jon’s words. Unless you notice the flushed nature of his ears, which… is kinda hard to miss when his nose is starting to match. 

“S-sorry! I just figured you may want a touch of uh… privacy..? You seem… itchy,” Martin offers, already beginning to back out of the room. 

Jon glares, lining up a retort before pausing as the first syllable comes out muffled with congestion. A sharp sniff and quick rub later, he continues in an easier tone. “I’m quite alright. No need for such concerns.” 

“I mean- If… if you’re sure…” 

Tim interrupts this time, draping an arm across Martin’s back. “You heard the boss, he’s fine. Now, onto that cafe?” 

Before Martin can get a word out, Jon stands from his chair, dropping the tissues in the wastebasket next to his desk. Sasha chuckles out her approval, sticking her phone into a pocket and beginning to exit the office. Tim follows suit, leaving Martin standing alone with Jon. 

There’s a beat of silence, Martin watching, horrified, as his body refuses to move an inch, silently waiting for Jon’s approval. 

“Well?” 

It’s not exactly an invitation, but it’s more than enough to send Martin scrambling for the door, muttering more sheepish apologies under his breath. If Jon heard them, he gave no indication, busy rustling through a desk drawer. A few more muffled stifles make their way through the noise, no indication given they were heard either. 

As Martin makes it into the hallway, he catches Tim waving from the door. He’s propping it open with one foot as Sasha waits outside, once again on her phone. Martin waves back his acknowledgement, before gesturing towards the kitchen. Tim simply shrugs, calling something about ‘not waiting around’, before joining Sasha in the crisp autumn air. 

Making his way back to the kitchen, Martin pauses at Jon’s door. He’s not eavesdropping, just… listening in, to see if Jon’s alright. It’s his boss after all, and he’s an assistant! He’s supposed to… assist! Perfectly natural thing to do, isn’t it? 

A harsh double pulls him from his spiralling, Jon’s voice coming through audibly in the groan that follows. Alright, enough listening in, this is starting to feel more creepy than curious. 

With what little confidence he can muster, Martin works his way through his plan. The mugs are where they always are, but the water in the kettle was a bit more cold than a proper cup of tea would allow. Flipping the switch, Martin began heating it, and hurried out of the kitchen to his desk. He picks out a fairly bland tea, Jon seems the bland type… right? 

Another few sneezes sound out from the boss’s office, and Martin almost starts to feel guilty for still being in the office. It’s obvious Jon assumes he’s alone, if not from the sneezes themselves, from the groans that come after them. Ever the stickler for a Professional Appearance, he’d never allow himself to be seen or heard in such a state willingly. 

The kettle sounding pulls Martin from his thoughts once more, and he pours the water over the tea bag. Moving carefully, as not to spill, he makes his way back to Jon’s office, knocking softly on the door. 

“Yes?” The reply is sharp, a frantic sounding shuffling occurring as Martin begins to slide open the door. 

“Hey, yeah sorry I just- you sounded like… I just thought that maybe you’d want… you might need some…” 

“Spit it out, Martin,” Jon sighs, giving his nose a subtle swipe. Unfortunately for him, this seems to have been the wrong choice. His nose twitches, eyes beginning to unfocus, and Martin finds himself pausing for the interruption. At least, until Jon gestures at him to continue. 

“Well, I just ma-” 

“ih’tNGT–uu!” 

“Bless you. I just made you some tea, it seemed you cou-” 

“hHUh’dNT–uh!” There’s a pause, Jon’s breath catching dramatically, before he swivels around in the chair and aims a harsh, “eH’dZSHH– eih’DSCHhhh–oo!” at the fistful of tissues he managed to grab. 

It wasn’t exactly quiet, and Martin finds himself flinching against the noise, but holds it together as he places the mug on Jon’s desk, hurrying through the rest of his sentence. 

“Seemed you could use some tea, bless you again by the way, anyways I’m gonna head off with Sasha and Tim, I’ll see you there I guess! Or, well- not just me, we’ll all see you there, as a group, if you choose to come that is! Which of course you don’t have to, though we’d lik-” 

“Martdin,” Jon, mercifully, cuts him off, congestion seeping through his words. With a deep sigh, he finishes his sentence. “Thagnk you. You mbay go ndow.” 

Taking the out, Martin gives one last nervous smile, sliding out into the hallway. Another desperate sneeze leaves him wincing, Jon’s vocal groan sounding out yet again. The poor guy sounds miserable, and Martin almost considers going back in and telling him not to come. If he’s this bad from just the thought… well… 

But he’s embarrassed himself enough for the day, and, albeit hesitantly, Martin heads off to meet Tim and Sasha at the cafe.

[shoot-i-messed-up]

…ngl the Ilana & Rick dynamic was more interesting before they fucked

[spotaus]

New Age AU (The King's Bed)

Hi. That title sounds super dramatic but istg it's not. here's a Drabble which I've kinda been cooking because! Guess who needs to start writing the main story! (It's me!) This happens immediately following This Drabble which begins the main plot! (There's a bit of the same scene but from a different perspective at the start, my apologies! Picking up that strat from a certain pal of mine lol!)

Hello to @ancha-aus @papiliovolens and @mutzelputz ! (if these tags ever get old lemee know, but otherwise I'll keep trying to remember to add them!

No edits or beta-readings so, as per usual, good luck!

That wasn’t normal. Whatever had happened to the king was not normal. Everything had been tilted sideways in that moment. 

Cross had just been talking to Horror. He’d known what he’d stumbled on, the king was always encouraging him to break his rhythm and he was very aware that Horror always took it easy on him when they sparred. He had great self-control and an amazing handle on his strength. Cross couldn’t even take it as an insult, because he was honestly relieved he wasn’t coming out of trainings beat to a pulp. That hadn’t ever happened here, to any of the knights, no matter how dirty they claimed to fight. It gave Cross a change to evaluate himself. Ask the others what they thought of his work. Get honest answers. Horror was always receptive to the discussions, but Cross always wanted to act fast to ask, to get it out of the way. Training could stay in the training room, for once. 

He’d just finished hanging his armor up in the designated stand, only four were ever in use, his being tucked between Killer and Horror’s, when, past Horror’s hulking form, he noticed Dust shift and duck back towards the rest of the room. Unusual, normally he’d be quick to discard the set and move off to his room. 

The surprised sound from behind him finally convinced him to quiet and turn. Just soon enough to catch the way that Killer and the king were about halfway to the exit. To catch the way the king’s tendrils seemed to be propping him off the floor, how some were writhing, slinging around Killer. To catch how the king’s cyan eyelight disappeared behind Killer’s shoulder as he stumbled and collapsed. 

Killer caught him, of course, letting the weight of their king drag him down to the ground like a safety cushion. Killer never let any harm come to their king. This, though? The king had dropped like a sack of potatoes, and even as Killer held him, he seemed disoriented. Cross felt frozen as he stood and watched what he could of the scene, most of it being of Killer’s back. The king’s tendrils lashed sluggishly against the ground, tugged and slid away from the armor of the knight holding him. He seemed to shift, pushing himself up and turning his head to look around him, ignoring the increasingly worried prompting from Killer. My lord? My lord, what’s wrong? It was still stoic, but it was obvious his hackles were raised. This wasn’t normal. 

Dust had moved beyond the pair, standing at attention, his magic wafting over the room like a miasma. Dry and crackling, enough to make Cross wince at the familiar aura. It hadn’t hurt him on purpose, not since that first day. That was just it, though. Dust was searching for a threat. Some sort of enemy. Anything that might have done this to the king. 

“He’s not responding.” Killer voiced, though Cross couldn’t tell exactly to who. The king had sun down, now. His one socket was closed and- Was he trembling? Cross thought he could see the way the king was shaking in Killer’s grip.

“He’s losing magic.” Dust asserted, not turning around. 

It was hard to tell with Dust’s magic coating the room, but Cross could feel it too. That heavy, encompassing, energy that always followed the king? It was smaller. Less imposing. It seemed… It seemed like it was fading away, rapidly draining from some unseen leak. That shouldn’t happen. That’s not how magic worked. Unless, of course, a monster was bleeding out. A dying soul would flicker and fight, until it suddenly gave in, magic rushing out all at once as they started to dust. 

“He’s what?” Horror, from beside him, seemed to break out of the same confusion that had held Cross back. Kept his feet in place. “Is he injured?” He questioned, already taking a step towards Killer. 

“No, he’s not. Not that I can see.” Killer replied, though he didn’t turn to his fellow knights, his skull was trained down on Nightmare as he shook and hunkered with his eye closed. His tendrils were… His tendrils were melting. Sinking into the grouted brick of the training room and leaking away like little veins. Cross wasn’t sure Killer noticed. It made him feel sick. 

Cross watched as Horror stepped forward again a bit more quickly. 

“Let me take a look, Killer. Maybe it’s-” Horror was cut off by a quick snap from Killer.

“No. There’s no time. Go find Ccino.” It was an order. If it had been directed at him, Cross would’ve already been out of the door, but it was to Horror. Horror was a stubborn monster. A caring monster. Cross could see his expression shift as he stopped moving forward and stared at Killer’s back.

“This is bad, he needs a healer, not-”

“Horror, I told you. Go get Ccino! Now!” This time there was a bite in Killer’s words. One Cross wasn’t sure he’d ever heard from the senior knight. “ This isn’t some sort of test, I don’t know what this is. It can’t be good.” 

The burly skeleton in question grit his teeth. It was obvious to Cross he didn’t want to leave, but he shifted on his feet. His eyelight didn’t even meet Cross’ as he barrelled past him and out the door of the training room. 

That left him alone over on the other side of the room, watching things happen like a horrible accident. As Killer muttered something and Dust seemed to grow more stiff in his posture. Cross gripped the hilt of his sword nervously. What could he do? Killer didn’t want Horror’s help, he certainly wouldn’t want Cross’. He didn’t know much healing, and he couldn’t sense any threats, and-

“Shit.” Dust’s voice again. “His magic levels are dropping. Fast.” 

It was almost like a ripple of water being splashed into Cross’ system when it hit him. Just a moment after Dust’s words. That thick aura barrier dropped. Entirely. Whatever it was that made the king so imposing, so powerful, so familiar to be around. It all seemed to disappear. Cross rocked on his heels. Everything seemed too open, like he’d come up from under the surface of the water. 

“Cross, try to grab his magic.” The order rang in his ears a moment. 

Killer wanted him to do what? 

Everyone knew the king had never allowed Cross to attempt his control magic on him for long. It was supposedly for Cross’ safety, because the godlike magic was so dense and consuming. The king seemed to fear it would backfire not unlike Dust’s, only with a much more fatal result. Cross had respected the boundary placed, only gripping at the edges of the dark magic. Frankly, the king had been right, even the smallest of spells he attempted to control would require too much energy, and would slip away before he could do anything useful. This was an absurd thing for Killer to tell him to do!

“W-what! I- I shouldn’t-” Though he found, just like Horror, that Killer wasn’t looking for others opinions right now. 

“Just try. Now. Hold it in place and see if it stabilizes.” Killer demanded.

Cross knew better. This order did not make him feel good. The king was unresponsive, and technically Cross knew Killer was his superior, and he should be listening, but would the king be mad at him for trying to control his magic? Would-

“When the King and Ccino are unavailable, I’m in charge. Listen to me.” Killer sounded like he was getting frustrated. 

Cross could understand why, though. Their king lay shaking in Killer’s arms. The king lay dying. 

Cross moved closer by a few step, just close enough that he could see the king’s upper half. Killer had tucked the king’s skull into the space between his shoulder and chin, something so deeply gentle that Cross had little time to really process. Cross thrust his hands out, both sending out his wave of intent. He needed to grab tight to the source of that fast-fading magic. The one that he recognized so well and had lost track of in the air. 

Unlike usual, his magic cut through the tar-like body of his king and grasped at something settled in his ribcage. A tight, sticky, sickly orb of magic. When his magic brushed against it, the king’s magic seemed to solidify slightly, recoiling from his intrusion, and he snatched at it. 

Holding the magic looked like nothing. It felt like sticking his hands into a sopping wet puddle and trying to collect the wet dirt at the bottom, the pieces slipping through the space between his fingers, no matter how tightly he cupped beneath. So, he adjusted. Pulled his hands into a circle, entirely enclosing the magic and ensuring there was no escape. A cold feeling bit at his palms, radiating in the space, but it wasn’t as painful as he had expected. Though, he also doubted what he held was the entirety of the king’s magic. More likely, it was whatever was left after the big loss of energy, 

He was so focused on holding it in place, he had no clue how long he actually managed to hold it stable. It was still, there was a brief second where the familiar energy had returned. 

And just like that, it was gone. 

Cross still had hold of something, but it wasn’t the king’s magic. It was something else, tiny. Still familiar, sure, but the slime and gunk simply disappeared, like it had decided it had better things to do. He searched after it, but found it had gone, and there was no sign of it attached to the king’s soul. Distress filled him. Had he failed?

No time to linger on it. 

Cross jolted back a little as the king seemed to regain his senses. Cross watched as he shoved himself out of Killer’s hold… only to retch. He knew the feeling well, magic escaping in any way it knew well. His usually only did that after sustaining injury, though. As far as they knew, the king had never been hurt. Never was touched. 

Killer leaned forward, following the motion, and Cross was shell-shocked to find that the first knight refrained from touching their king as he gagged and lost more of that black goopy magic. It was dripping off of his bones now and.. Oh. What?

The king. The longer he heaved, the more of that magical substance sloughed off from his body. He wasn’t dusting. It was more like… he was shedding his skin? The goop pooled beneath him, slinking away into the crevices of the floor, and revealed bones. Bones. Pearly white, unmarred, clean bones. The king was a skeleton monster, they all knew that, but Cross had assumed he was a hybrid, maybe some sort of earth elemental in his ancestry. The monster who was crunched in on himself just inches from Killer was certainly a normal skeleton monster. 

And. he was small. It wasn’t obvious at first, but as Killer kept easing closer, Cross noticed. The king, or, he assumed the king, had a small skull. His tunic and cape nearly enveloped him. Sleeves hung baggy over his hands and his circlet had slipped over his skull to hang around his neck. Was this his true appearance? Was this their king?

It wasn’t until one socket blinked, a pale violet eyelight popping into view, that anyone spoke. 

“My king?” 

Even Killer seemed frazzled by the proceedings. Dust turned around now, and the three of them watched silent as the king lifted his skull and turned it. Slowly but surely. Until he met Killer’s gaze. Killer was looking at him so gently. The same way he looked at the kittens he’d show them in the stables. 

The king seemingly hardly noticed, because in a split second he whipped his head around to face Dust, only to lose his balance and topple over. 

“Woah, steady!” Killer was quick, and Cross was relieved to find he’d caught the king, pulling him closer and onto the steady platform of his lap again. 

He almost missed Killer asking their king a question. He almost missed the quiet squeak of a response which was promptly cut-off by the white-boned king. From this angle, Cross could see the other side of his skull. The king, before, had a cascade of magical energy obscuring the place where a second socket would have sat. Now, Cross could see the cracks of an old injury, trailing up from a dead socket into the top of his skull. An impact wound, by the looks of it. That didn’t set well.

The king still shook in Killer’s arms, but Dust seemed to have relaxed a bit. All of them could feel it, as Killer practically bundled the king up between his arms. The loss of magic had stopped. The king was stable. Weak, it felt like, but stable. A quick meeting of eyes from Cross to Dust revealed the truth of the matter. They’d need to wait for Ccino. That was all they could do. 

Killer had been right. Insanely right. 

Horror had returned with Ccino, and the poor guy had been frazzled and covered in flour, probably right in the middle of making desert for dinner. It looked like he was going to chew into someone, sounded like it too, and Cross backpedaled out of the way as the head of house made a b-line towards Killer where he was still dutifully on the floor. 

Horror stood just behind Cross, and everyone was there as witness to see Ccino’s expression entirely change. To something gentle and soft. An expression they each recognized, from brief moments of weakness, where Ccino would show them a kindness. They didn’t expect him to say the king’s name, or to see the small form of their leader scramble out of Killer’s protective hold and straight into Ccino’s awaiting arms. 

Cross almost felt uncomfortable, standing vigil to something he didn’t understand. The king, this… this boy? He curled into Ccino and began to cry. It felt like something he shouldn’t see, some private moment, some vulnerable piece of a secret he wasn’t aware of. 

The other knights, if they shared his discomfort, did nothing to show it. In fact, Dust took it upon himself to tell Ccino what had happened as they knew it. “Magic loss. A lot of it.” And Ccino just nodded and cradled the king’s skull closer into his shoulder. 

When the king passed out, it had only been a moment of distress before Ccino settled again and insisted the knights recount to him what exactly happened. Killer took the lead, he’d seen it all. 

Of course, there was a lot to worry about. Maybe he’d been in shock? Yeah, he could blame it on that. After all, their king seemed to be a child all of a sudden. But for some reason he couldn’t help but notice how the other knights were acting. Reacting. As Killer told Ccino the recap of the past few minutes, Cross noticed how Dust was tense. His white eyelights were moving subtly between their king and the rest of the room. His fists were balled at his sides, and his magic unreadable under the shadow of his hood. Meanwhile, beside him, Horror was only staring at the king with wide eyes. His good eyelight trained on the little form which would occasionally shiver against Ccino and be tucked closer into the arms holding him. And Killer. Killer was crouched exactly where he’d been, but Cross noticed that he leaned closer to Ccino, his arms a bit outstretched as though half-expecting to have the king returned to his arms. 

Cross felt awful. Standing there. 

The king’s magic had escaped him. Entirely evaded him. Maybe if he’d trained more, maybe if he’d been quicker to listen to Killer, he could’ve done something. Kept the magic in-tact. Maybe if he hadn’t reacted in the first place he wouldn’t have scared the magic off. Was this… No. No, the king had told him once. One person alone cannot be at fault for the whole. He imagined the king would be gently correcting him right about now if he were conscious. 

“Cross.” 

The soldier blinked as his name was spoken, and he realized that Ccino and Killer were both looking at him. Had they said his name sooner? Ccino’s face softened a bit. 

“Cross, go clean up. We’ll reconvene in the king’s quarters in an hour.” Ccino said.

“A-and the king?” He didn’t know why he questioned it. 

Killer rose to his feet, then. “I wasn’t planning on cleaning up anyways, I’ll be with him and Ccino. Just go about our schedule as normal. Word cannot spread until our lord wakes up and we can speak with him.” He seemed… unnerved. Cross wasn’t sure how he could tell. He just… could. 

Cross, against his better judgement, saluted and hesitantly moved away. It seemed Dust and Horror were already in motion. Had he spaced out? That was embarrassing. 

-

“Horror?” 

Cross muttered the other knight’s name. He’d cleaned up quickly, restless, and had rushed to the quarters of his bulky comrade. When he’d knocked, Horror had opened the door a bit. 

“Yeah? Come in.” Horror answered from somewhere inside.

Cross did just that, slipping through the doorway and shutting the door behind him. 

The inside of Horror’s room was warm. Cozy. Cross wasn’t sure how he kept it so warm, but he thought he’d heard something about magic-weaving from Ccino when he’d mentioned the warmth of a lent blanket. He hadn’t ever realized the comfort magic could bring in that capacity. Inside Horror’s room it was also very dark. Only a few scattered candles lit the space, and the soft orange glow was just enough to illuminate the furniture,a few cushioned chairs, a couch, a table, the wardrobe, and the large bed. The window had a curtain drawn over it, banishing outside light. 

Near the wardrobe, Cross spotted the shifting weight of his fellow knight, and the glow of his eyelight briefly came into view before bouncing away again. Cross drew toward the chairs and leaned his side against the high, sturdy back of one. 

“Something wrong?” Horror asked calmly. Seemed like he was rummaging through his clothes, and Cross noticed that the mass of fur which usually sat over his shoulders was absent. The tunic was missing too, his ribcage exposed. Cross tried not to pay it any mind. 

Something wrong. Of course something was wrong! 

“Our king, Horror. That- that doesn’t happen to normal monsters! Have you seen something like that before?” He whispered it, quietly. No one aside from them should’ve been in their wing of the castle, but then again, their king really shouldn’t have peeled like a banana either, so who knew what could happen next? 

Horror glanced back at Cross. It was a little bit of silence as Horror was seemingly formulating an answer. Cross was always willing to give him as much time as he needed to think, because he had good things to say. It was his own fault that his heel tapped against the floor, only muffled by the thick rug beneath his boots. 

“Mm. No, I haven’t.” He answered simply. “Then again, the king’s not like anything I ever knew. Just one more odd thing on the list.” 

Horror tugged a fresh tunic out of his wardrobe and tugged it over his shoulders, moving to ever-so-carefully clasp it in place around his front. Cross was quiet for a few breaths. Sometimes Horror would have more to say, but this time it seemed like he’d said his peace. He finished with his tunic and looked back to where Cross was stood. 

“It just doesn’t seem right. He was so small, and even Killer didn’t know what was going on! None of us could do anything!” He whispered again. 

At this, Horror turned and walked toward his bed. There at the foot, resting atop a chest, was his fur cape. He lifted it and shook it in the air a bit. Cross could see a bit of dust fly off in the low-light, but it was just as quickly clasped around Horror’s shoulders. 

“Killer hasn’t been here the longest. Ccino was here before all of us, remember?” Horror suggested. “He seems like he knows what he’s doing. We all look to him for a reason. I’m sure you’ll get answers when he wakes up.” 

This wasn’t what Cross wanted to hear! He was hoping for some wisdom, or insight into a secret previously barred from him. Horror had seemed all too calm when he saw the king in his state, Cross had figured he’d known something! Anything! 

“This is… weird. We’ll be fine, though. Promise.” Horror said finally. 

Cross sighed. No matter how desperately he was hoping this was all some sort of big practical joke, or that what he’d seen would make any sense to him at a reasonable pace, he knew that wasn’t the case now. His answers lay with the unconscious king and his most trusted follower, the head of the house. He guessed he’d just have to be patient. No matter how agonizing the wait for answers would be. 

-

The hour passed by rather quickly. 

Cross had made the choice to stay with Horror until they were meant to meet, and he hadn’t regretted the choice. He definitely preferred to have someone else nearby, it helped to keep him from spiralling.. Wondering what he did wrong. 

As usual, the wing was empty aside from them, and it wasn’t far to reach the private room of their king. The door was large and carved with the image of a tree, something Cross had grown very used to seeing ever since arriving here. Horror had knocked, and it was Killer who opened the door to let the both of them inside. 

The king’s room was large, though not much larger than the knights, and was decorated all in shades of cyan with that familiar red-ish wood that seemed to trail all the furniture of the royalty. The big desk in the king’s study was the same shade. The room was brighter than Horror’s, but darker than the torch-lit hall beyond. Sunlight beamed into the room through the two large windows and the balcony doors, providing the only light and casting heavy shadows on the far wall. 

To the left, where Horror started to move towards and Cross followed, was the king’s bed. It was large, it felt like it could probably fit half the council on its surface. Or, maybe it just felt so big because of its occupants. 

Near to the edge sat Ccino. His clothes seemed to have been loosely dusted off from the flour previously coating his front, but it seemed he hadn’t been able to do much else. He was sat with his back against the headboard and his legs partially covered by the heavy comforter of the royal bed. Plastered to his side, though, was the form of a young skeleton monster. The king. He still seemed unconscious as far as Cross could tell, but he was partially curled onto Ccino’s lap. His too-big cloak was wrapped around his sides, comforter tugged up as far as it would go without smothering him, and his skull exposed. Ccino was using one hand to press a cloth to the king’s forehead, while the other draped over the king’s back. The two of them seemed so small in the bed made for a god. 

Ccino didn’t acknowledge them, and Horror stopped a few paces short from the edge of the bed. Cross followed his example and stood tense and awaiting. Answers? Orders? He wasn’t exactly sure. 

It only took a few more minutes before Dust appeared in the door. Killer had been pacing circles into the floor at the foot of the bed, and Horror was seemingly entranced by the little monster the head of house was keeping close to his side. 

“It’s clear. Nobody.” Dust reported in a mutter, and Killer seemed to sigh in relief. He planted a hand on Dust’s shoulder, which the other didn’t shrug away. 

The both of them moved closer to the edge of the bed, and Killer was the one to round to Horror’s other side, closest to Ccino and the king. Only when they were all still was there any reaction from Ccino.

“Thank you, Dust.” Was what he said first. Dust must’ve been searching for hidden foes, saboteurs, assassins. Part of Cross worried that Ink might’ve been around, before he realized how irrational that idea really was. Dream would do a lot, but he wouldn’t risk Ink like that. Dust didn’t give any response.

“I am aware that this is a sudden change and I thank all four of your for your quick action to protect our king, on his behalf.” Ccino voiced then, his eyelights lingering on the small skeleton plastered to his side. Cross caught the way his thumb curved along the king’s forehead in a comforting motion. “It would be unfair and unwise to leave you in the dark about his state, so I’ll trust that our king was correct in appointing you as his most loyal and explain best I can.” 

It was only then that Ccino seemed to peel his eyes away from the small king and up to the surrounding knights. 

Cross realized, as Ccino skimmed over each of them, that. Well. He wasn’t technically a knight at all. A trainee a best, but no knight. He didn’t have a mask and had never been knighted. Was this a conversation not meant for him? 

The head of house’s eyelights lingered on Killer for a moment longer than the rest of them before he spoke. 

“Our king, Nightmare. This is the form he had on his thirteenth birthday, just over seven years ago when he attended his twin’s coronation. It’s the form he lost when he completed the ritual and became king as you all knew him, god-like and powerful.” Ccino’s voice was small. “I’m not sure how, but it seems that the magic which made him that way is gone, lost, and now he’s back to the way he was all those years ago.” 

There was a resounding silence in the aftermath of Ccino’s words.

“He never mentioned the possibility of something like this happening, I’m not sure it ever has.” Ccino said. “Despite that, on his behalf I request that we keep news of this change within this circle. I have no doubt that this is still our king and he will still perform his duties as needed when he adjusts to the change.” 

Cross was stunned. Their king… 

“You… said he’s only about 13?” Horror asked from beside Cross. He jumped a bit in surprise at the noise. 

Ccino gave a nod of agreement. Cross was pretty sure none of them missed how Ccino’s hold around the king’s back tightened. Just a bit. Protectively. 

“Young king.” Horror established what they were all thinking. “Is he wounded? I thought I saw…” Horror trailed off, but he gestured to his skull. He pointed to his uninjured side of his head, just above his empty socket. Right, that crack along the small king’s skull. Cross had caught a glimpse of it too when Killer was holding him. 

Ccino seemed all too tense at Horror’s question. That was when Cross noticed all of them had, at some point, gotten a bit closer. It seemed like they were looming. 

“You may take a look if you like, Horror. It doesn’t look like it’s harming him, but I believe it was a result of a blow to the head he took just after his coronation.” Ccino relented, and Horror stepped forward.

Ccino was gentle and honestly seemed practiced at gently shifting and nudging the king. Where he had been tucked into Ccino’s side and mostly hidden, Ccino managed, with a few small hums and leading of limbs, to twist the king so his skull was a bit more exposed and he lay instead with his back to Ccino, an arm now wrapped at his front. Horror waited patiently beside the bed, and only when Ccino had Nightmare in front of himself, practically fully in his lap, did he pull down the now oversized hood for Horror to see the wound. The king seemed to wince in his sleep at the loss of cover. 

It was as Horror looked, ever-so carefully pressing on the edges of the crack, and seeing the sleeping flinch of their ruler, that Cross realized just how much trust Ccino was putting into them. 

This room was full of killers, soldiers, ones who had chosen to follow a god-on-land. It was full of potential threats to the life of a wounded king. 

For just a moment, he was brought back to Ritten. The coup his brother had worked for years and years and years to bring to fruition. If XGaster had ever shown nearly an ounce of the vulnerability that the king was showing now, he would’ve been slaughtered on the spot. Many wanted his head, and now Cross realized, it was for good reason. Now, here, the king frail and asleep, only guarded by a single servant. This, if ever, would be the time to strike. To destroy the crown and claim the land as their own. No one in Orchard rivaled the strength of the knights. 

“It’s raw.” Horror’s report snapped Cross back to the present. The burly knight leaned away from Ccino and the king, but spoke to Ccino still. “Need to clean it, but it’ll hurt. Might want to wait till he wakes up.” He paused. “You said seven years ago? The wound?” 

Horror was always the gentlest of the knights, at least from what Cross had gleaned since arriving. Killer was full of sharp edges and had the same energy as a stray animal. Dust was always so closed off, and Cross knew better than anyone that he was skilled and attacked ruthlessly. Horror seemed so baffled by the wound. 

Ccino nodded in agreement with Horror’s question, and seemed put at ease as the other took another step back to stand tall again. 

“That’s. Someone struck him while he had the magic? Hard enough to hit bone?” Dust questioned quietly from his other side. He too sounded awestruck. 

Cross was aware that none of the knights were ever able to strike him during training, neither had Cross, but he assumed that was because the king had adapted to their fighting styles. Did this imply that the king had never been hit by any of their attacks dead-on? 

Ccino nodded almost sadly. “Tensions were high and both princes were distressed. Prince Dream lashed out and our king did not expect it.” 

Dream? That might’ve been the first time that Cross had heard utterance of the Prince’s name since he had arrived to the castle. He certainly hadn’t been forgotten, his traces still lingering about the place, but Cross felt like a bolt of ice slid down his spine at the mention of the one who had recklessly sent him here. 

Dream had told him the basics. How at the coronation his brother rushed in and took their mother’s soul from his hand. How Nightmare, the king, had eaten it in his place and been transformed into a beast unfamiliar. Had sent him away. For some reason, Cross had dismissed it as rumor, another piece of propaganda that Dream was telling to the hopeless saps that stumbled his way. But… This sounded like it would fit. A second half he didn’t readily share with the world, one where he was outraged at his twin and struck him. 

His mind wandered back to the tapestry. Nightmare’s image had just the same, round, perfectly childlike expression as the crown prince. No injury in sight. Did that imply there was a time where Nightmare had two eyelights? That the way his face had formed and obscured half his face was not a choice, but the result of a wound from his twin? Now that Cross thought about it, this young king did share the boyish features fading from Prince Dream’s face with age-

“That rat.” Killer spat all of a sudden. “I’d do worse than send my brother away if he bashed me over the skull like that.” He voiced. Ccino didn’t react to the comment, only gently shifting the cloth over the king’s skull. The king was looking a bit flushed, maybe from the magic loss? “Good thing you guys know better.” 

There was a scoff from Dust.

“So, our lord is alright. Just a bit… under the weather, we’ll say.” Killer continued, “Ccino and I discussed a little while you guys were cleaning up. Until he wakes up to give us new orders, we’re going to act business as usual. Training and rounds again tomorrow, tonight we’ll trade off guard shifts to keep watch and make sure there’s no one out to get our king or Ccino. Sound good?” 

He sounded jovial as he usually did, but Cross could see the tension held in the way he stood. Like he was waiting for an attack to go flying or to have to start running. Much like before when he had pulled rank, it wasn’t exactly a question. 

Horror nodded beside him. Dust, on his other side, shifted a bit. 

“No problems. Just.” He paused a moment to think. “If Ccino stays.” He gestured to the door. Right , of course, Ccino was the head of house. It would be suspicious if the king fell ill and his servant when missing. Along with that, he was pretty sure Ccino kept this castle running practically by himself. All the servants and guards would probably be lost without his coordination. 

“Don’t worry about that.” Ccino spoke up, “I trust the staff to be capable in my absence, and if I’m really needed I’ll ensure our king is in safe hands before handling any troubles.” 

Dust nodded then, seemingly satisfied. 

The focus then, he realized, fell to him. 

Cross stared blankly at Killer for a moment, before jolting a little. 

“Oh! I-” He stammered for a second before his mouth snapped shut. For some reason, in this exact moment, the past months he’d spent in the presence of these people all left his mind. Was he meant to be speaking? Did this apply to him? He hadn’t even realized he was part of the assembled group for a moment. Maybe it was all the years of simply standing around during important conversations, invisible and ignored. Maybe he was just spooked by Killer’s intense gaze. The weight of a choice. “I… Didn’t realize you were asking me, too.” He answered dumbly.

Killer blinked once. “Of course I am. If our king didn’t trust you to be included in conversations like this you would’ve been out of the castle months ago. So?” 

Cross glanced back to the king. He was still resting. He’d shifted so his face fell towards Ccino’s chest and the head of house had tugged the comforter up and around his lap as far as it would go. 

This was not like last time. There is no evil tyrant. There is no worthy resistance. This was not blind devotion. 

“Then yes. That sounds like the most logical plan. I will partake in whatever ways I can.” 

Cross felt pride well up in his chest with his agreement, an oath if only to himself that he would see this through of his own volition. Killer seemed much less excited by the news and gave an easy nod before looking to Ccino again. 

“Well then what are our plans for tonight, O' mighty Head of House?” Killer questioned. 

The tone shift seemed jarring to Cross, but the others didn’t bat an eye. 

Ccino took a deep breath before speaking. Four knights all awaiting his instructions. “Your first move should be to eat. I was done with all of dinner aside from the dessert, I’ll have to ask for your forgiveness on that front.” He said, “I’d like one of you to remain here with the king, have one of the servants bring a meal for whoever stays and one for the prince. The rest of you focus on maintaining normalcy. In the morning, I will go about rescheduling meetings and arranging for visits to be delayed.” His voice seemed to peter out the longer he went on, until silence followed in his wake. 

“Dust, you should stay for first shift.” Killer suggested, and the other knight nodded in agreement. “I’ll go clean up and bring food your way. I can take the shift into the morning so that Horror and Cross can get some rest.” 

Cross glanced to Killer at the mention of his name, but the knight was un-subtly watching the royal bed. Ccino with their king tucked tight against him still. For a second, Cross wondered how that must’ve been for him. The king suddenly growing small in his arms? Killer had been quick to cradle him after all.

Horror hummed at his side, and Cross noticed him back away. As much as a part of him desperately wanted to stay, to keep watch, to know anything more… Killer had spoken. Dust moved forward, hoisting himself up a bit to sit on a chest towards the foot of the bed. His vigil. Meanwhile Killer dragged his gaze away from the party on the bed and focused in on Cross and Horror, nearly ushering them out himself. 

This was a whirlwind, but Cross was not the victim. Just someone swept along. It’d be fine. The first hurdle would be dinner, and he could do dinner. 

-

Are you eating with the others? That trainee still had a little while to go before he’d be a knight, Killer was sure of it. Not that he didn’t have amazing skills, he just… needed to be a little more observant. 

No, save my seat still. I just know Ccino forgets to eat when he’s working on a project. He can’t go running on empty. Killer had shot back in the confines of the little personal kitchen that Ccino always used for the king’s meals. True to word their food was complete, minus some dough that had gone a bit flat and shapeless on the far counter, surrounded by flour powder. Normally they’d be served by the man himself, but they were all adults, they knew how to serve their own food. 

Killer had kicked the door open with his foot, moving through the doorway with ease and navigating into the halls. Balanced on his arms were three plates of nice warm chicken and various vegetables. Were those carrots? Sick.

He didn’t think much of it as he passed by servants and guards. They all knew better than to ask him what he was doing, and he knew that none of them were threats. Dust would’ve sniffed out a rat in the first minute of his search, let alone the hour Killer had given him. No threats were left inside if there ever was one in the first place.

He came to the ornate door and kicked his heel against it three times. It swung open revealing his shorter fellow-knight. His hood was still up, though Killer could see his eyelights were calm and white. No danger, no harm, but also probably no developments either. 

“I bring gifts! In the form of a warm meal I didn’t make!” He jokingly announced in a stage-whisper as he slipped in past Dust. 

Just as he expected, Nightmare was still curled up into Ccino’s side, though he’d once again been moved to lay more on the mattress than on Ccino’s dirty uniform and chest. Now, Ccino’s one hand was pinned by the sleeping king, gripped in his own, little, boney hands. 

Somewhere behind him the door closed, and Dust slipped past him with a quiet ‘thanks’. With his shape went one of the plates, taken seamlessly from his bicep where he’d carefully been keeping it steady. Dust didn’t bother with much else, taking up his position on the chest once again. If Killer didn’t know better, he would’ve joked about how he could totally fit Dust inside it. …He was saving that one for later. 

For now, he moved towards the bed again. Ccino watched him approach with a hesitancy, but it was not the same awkward and reluctantly docile stare he’d grown to know over the years. Ccino had never really wanted Killer here, he was a criminal and the king fresh to his rule, but he had welcomed Killer when he realized that Killer was sticking around. Ccino might not have known it, but Killer wanted nothing more than to bridge the gap imposed between them. He tried not to get his hopes up that this might have been another of many other little baby steps they’d taken over the years. 

Killer moved closer and set one of the meals on the bedside table just near Ccino’s side. “He’s still out cold, then?” Killer asked the obvious, and Ccino hummed in agreement. His free hand gently caressed Nightmare’s skull, and the pearl-white bones shifted comfortably under the contact. 

Something about this felt all too familiar. Those first days, back when Killer had arrived. When he’d spot the king crumble under his own weight and bare a weakness. It had always been to Ccino. In the nights he couldn’t sleep, he’d sometimes find the king lingering in his study, Ccino not far off on a couch. And then, of course, the documents. Ccino had cared for the king since he was a babybones. 13 years worth of helping and watching him grow. If it hadn’t been obvious to Killer before, it had to be now. How easily Nightmare slept at Ccino’s side, how Ccino had been so receptive to the change. How he had dropped everything to care for this now young king. 

“Are you eating with us after all?” Ccino questioned. Hopefully he hadn’t been staring, that would be awkward. He’d embarrassed himself enough times in front of the other that it probably wouldn’t matter, but he had to keep his composure now of all times. 

He glanced to the plate still in his hand. He scoffed. “As much as I’d love to, four’s a crowd.” He claimed, “This is for you. I figured I’d take up the sacred duty of making sure you remember to eat for yourself, too. At least until our Lord is awake enough to tempt you himself.” 

He gracefully bowed and firmly pressed the plate into Ccino’s open lap. A playful look revealed that Ccino was staring at the food a bit baffled. He opened his mouth to say something, probably to tell him off, but apparently decided against it.

Ccino shifted the plate to his right thigh, probably so he didn’t risk getting any on a sleeping Nightmare. He stared at it a second, before he nodded very subtly to himself.

“Thank you, Killer.” Was all he said. 

Killer grinned wide and nodded.

His spin back to the door left him double-glancing at Dust, but the other gave him a thumb’s up. “Enjoy the meal you guys, I heard the best cook this side of the sea made it.” He teased and slipped out before he could be scolded for the bad joke. 

He would stay, he would love to stay, but it wouldn’t be good. Dust was a lot more attuned to the magic in the air. He could sense threats and react a lot more quickly. Besides, Killer didn’t want to make Ccino uncomfortable. Sure, they were overcoming differences, but Ccino had always been the king’s left-hand man while Killer was his right. Ccino made sure he was calm, and happy, and feeling alright and taking care of himself. Killer was handling his dirty business, warding off harm and threats, acting as his voice. In a room where Nightmare commanded all, they could work like they had for the past seven years. A well oiled machine that had its own parts. This? This was emotional work. Killer hadn’t missed how the king had been shaking and trembling in his arms, tense and worried. The king had ripped away from him the moment Ccino had spoken. Of course, Killer couldn’t really blame him for that, if Ccino said his name like that he might go running too. Point was, Killer knew better than to cross that line. He’d defended Nightmare. Now it was time to give Ccino some time to himself… figuratively. 

He figured Dust would be invested and alert, but unlike Killer he wouldn’t be hovering, and fidgeting, and tossing his knife in the air, or pacing circles into the floor. He wouldn’t be internally cooing over the king’s soft baby features or trying to sneak closer just to see him. Make sure he was really, truly alright. 

Killer needed time to cool off. To come to terms with the current state of things. When he came back for his morning shift he was sure he’d be in a better state. Not worrying so much over how wrong it felt when Nightmare had shuddered and gone limp. Yeah. He could be normal about that. He just had to give it a few hours.

[patfr8]

“Hair holds memories”

He remembers who he was. His friends, the ones he called his family. The land that adopted him when he was a cursed outsider. But every time he looked at himself in the mirror, he didn’t see that teen that loved adventuring, he didn’t see that kid with terrible luck, he didn’t see the baby that was abandoned so he could have a better chance at life. No, he only saw what everyone called him. He saw a god. Not a teen, a kid, or a baby.

Bennett had been gone for so long he didn’t remember. He had lost everything. His friends, his family. His homeland. Now, he was slave to the people of fire and war. He had to give them a better live. His mother counted on him.

He was still blonde, but his tips faded to red. He had green eyes, but every time he used his power, they turned red. He had a Pyro Vision, but it was fake. He had two Mondstadt Visions, but they were blank. He was alone.

He was no longer a child. He had died many times, and he had been reborn from the ashes the same amount. Others would compare him to a fenix, but those were powerful and perfect creatures. He was born from fire, war and death. He was far from perfect. He wasn’t a fenix, he was a Quetzalcoatl, a dragon of feathers and power. He was the last one too, which didn’t help. He was useless.

His name was Eligos, God of Death, Pyro Archon and Emperor of Natlan. But all those titles meant nothing if he was alone. What a shame.

“Just because I’m the God of Death doesn’t mean I do the killing. I just make sure the dead stay like that, dead”

They had told him hair holds memories. He never cut it. Maybe his mind was losing those moments, but at least some part of him would still have them. Death waits for no one, and its god is far too tired to care anymore. He used to be a happy boy. Now he’s just the shell of who he thinks he was.

Eligos had killed Bennett and he will never know if it was worth it.

[sisterdivinium]

All her life had she been selfish, placing her needs and whims above all else; all her life had she defied an institution whose entire foundation was built upon the branches of a tree whose fruit was forbidden for its flavour of knowledge.

Still could Jillian not force her to stay — she barely recalled how she had gotten her into her bed to begin with.

Come morning, she always relinquished Suzanne to her habit, to her prayers; she would watch her don the veil Jillian herself had pulled off and rush out for service.

And, somehow, selfless, she let her.

[starglossie]

devotion is found in the cracks of orange peels. 

word count: 1k+

“suguru.”

“yes, satoru.”

suguru responds by muscle memory rather than actual thought. the way satoru says his name (in a tenor pitched with mischief. doused in a certainty only those born of godhood could wave around without sounding pompous) speaks volumes. he wants something. suguru only needs to wait to hear what that something is. 

satoru extends his closed fist to suguru’s face. smoke lazily crawls from the withering end of suguru’s cigarette he bummed (read: stole) from shoko. “hah?” he drawls, looking at satoru’s slender fingers and immaculate nails. he lazily glances over at suguru, who looks at him with his glasses dropped down the slope of his nose and a wild, toothy grin. 

“peel this for me,” he opens his hands and out pops an orange resting in his palm.

suguru is not dumbfounded by this turn of events. satoru is a man of whimsy. what he wants, he gets. what he wishes, he doesn’t seek for. rather, he makes it happen. not by demand-but by a stitched into his flesh expectation that his desires would always manifest themselves before him.

in other words: he’s spoiled. 

satoru bats his eyelashes at him as if he hadn’t asked the most childish request known to mankind. suguru knows satoru is aware of how much he can get away with him. 

there’s a split second where suguru considers not fulfilling the request. after all, satoru has ten fingers that are all working perfectly fine as the gods intended them to do. it’s not as if satoru didn’t know to peel an orange with his fingers. he couldn’t feign ignorance with this one-not like the other week when he insisted he couldn’t take the subway because he didn’t know how to read the lines (he knew damn well how to read them, he simply refused to take the subway when ichiji was available). 

“suuuuguru.”

“saaatoru.” suguru mimics the whining pitch of satoru’s not subtle whining. satoru frowns. 

“you know i can’t peel oranges.”

“can’t? or won’t?”

“semantics, i hate that game. let’s play a new one: suguru-peels-this-orange-for me-game!” he waves his hands around like he’s announcing a new game show. suguru stares at him with his best, unimpressed gaze. satoru’s face falls flat. he huffs. “what sort of best friend are you? unwilling to help in my time of need? distress? dismay?”

suguru takes his cigarette out and grinds the butt onto the ashtray beside him. he rolls his eyes but takes the orange out of suguru’s hand. “one who likes to see his best friend learn a thing or two about taking care of himself,” he playfully nags but his fingers begin to work along the orange peel. it’s methodical work. his nails dig into the skin, just enough to make a crescent-shape dent. and then he pulls back the flesh, disrobing the orange to its barest parts. 

as he works, the cicadas hum. it’s a humid summer this time around. june’s sun is unforgiving so after their last mission, the two boys chose to rest at the inn they planned to spend a night at-paid by the school, of course. suguru’s sleeves are rolled up to his elbows and satoru’s pants are rolled up past his ankles. suguru kept his hair in a tight bun so his neck wouldn’t get hot.

despite the heat, and the many ways they’ve tried to keep themselves cool and out of the sun’s unforgiving scorch, satoru presses against suguru as he works and rests his head against suguru’s shoulder. 

“you’d make a great housewife one day,” satoru muses after a beat of silence. 

suguru ignores the erratic rhythm his heart takes at that sentence. “you gonna marry me?” he jokes, wishing he could bite his tongue off and never speak again. the orange is nearly finished. a gentle act that suguru probably took more time getting right than he needed to. than he should have. 

he damns himself by peering down to see satoru’s reaction. there’s a redness on satoru’s cheeks that suguru’s mind quickly associates to the summer heat. and nothing more. because more is a gateway to hell. while suguru believes he is already destined for the fire, he doesn’t want to make his inevitable descent come any faster. 

but satoru grins at him. cheeky, as if there’s a secret between his lips that he’s daring suguru to come and taste. satoru hums, closing his eyes shut. “sure. how about next summer? after we graduate? i can buy you a ring later today.”

the summer burns; but satoru incinerates suguru down to ashes. 

the orange is peeled. six slices to be eaten. suguru puts the skin of the orange beside the ash tray and hands the slices back to satoru. who takes the orange with a “thank you!” and plucks one out. he pops the rest of the slices into his mouth one by one and sucks on his finger to clean up any excess juice. suguru doesn’t watch for long. he finds a tree off in the distance and bores his holes into the bark, finding that more fascinating than satoru next to him. 

“this is the best orange i’ve ever had.”

“you’re ridiculous,” suguru snorts, still not looking at satoru. of course, their conversation about marriage and weddings and next year and promises goes off into the wind. spoken between them yet the weight never settles. never takes root. but it doesn’t have to. they’d be together next year, and the year after that, and the years to follow. there was no need to really talk about it when both of them knew their endpoint: one another. 

satoru crosses his ankles and leans back against the wooden floorboard of the porch. he closes his eyes. “i’m serious, suguru. you know they say oranges taste better when they’re peeled with care? when they’re taken apart with love?” he opens one eye. a piercing, endless blue that has suguru forgetting to breathe. “it was delicious, suguru. now? i can nap in peace.” and he shuts his eye. his chest rises and falls. and soon, satoru is asleep. just like that.

suguru stares at satoru with his mouth agape. of course he’d fall asleep after saying something so - so “unbelievable,” suguru’s ears burn and his cheeks are a wildfire. he cups his face with his hands and stares off into the distance of the garden. he smells the faint scent of orange on his fingers and scowls. “i need another cigarette.” 

he stands up to find shoko. but he’d return once he finished his cigarette. 

[llondonfog]

🦇

[flurry-of-stars]

"You had been waiting for this moment for two years. You had always respected Sigma’s want to wait until marriage to go the whole way but now that it was almost time… You felt…nervous." ⋆⁺｡˚⋆˙‧₊☽♡☾₊‧˙⋆˚｡⁺⋆ New fic soon ദ്ദി ˉ͈̀꒳ˉ͈́ )✧

[flfverse]

i love promising things and not following up. it’s awesome. superrrrr cool. anyway, little life/fic update for you all. it’s 4am, please bear with me.

i wanted to wait to do this until i had more work done so i could drop snippets and have an actual date for the hiatus to end, but you know.

to be honest, the brain? is not great. where’s the halloween meme. mental is hocus. health not pocus. etc etc. and the thing is i have a support system of sorts, therapy, all that good stuff. i also have, like, four or five mental illnesses. and because of the logistics of College, none of my support system is actually physically nearby most of the time. so. that kinda sucks. <3 i miss people. horrified to discover i might actually be an extrovert and just anxious.

but you know, ups and downs. this week, or at least this weekend, we’re on an up, which is good. the shitty part is, this time last year i coped by writing so, so much fanfiction. truly, look at my ao3 september-december 2022. wild.

and i just. can’t really write these days, for whatever reason. not easily. and it sucks! because i love this story! i want to tell it so bad! but the initial hyperfixation has worn off and my motivation to do anything at all is a bit….how do you say….nonexistent. so like. halfhearted cheers. sorry.

the best timeline i can give right now is this: i have a fandom trumps hate auction due december 31st. it’s about half done. that is obvs first priority (after silly things like school and work) because there are actual material consequences if i don’t finish. i am also launching something original in january, if i can get myself together enough to do so. i think i will. i’m mostly ready (and hey, my main is in my pinned if queer fantasy pirates sounds up your alley?).

and also, there’s FLFverse. i would really like to get back to posting before the year is up, but :/ not sure. definitely want to by january. i’m not sure if i’ll be able to keep up with two chapters a month or if i’ll have to drop to one or something even more sporadic than that.

hey, be honest, would you rather wait longer for me to build a backlog for regular updates, or get the ball rolling sooner but with no schedule?

we have a poll now i guess. it’s seriously 4am and i’m about to go back to making paper mache bones on the floor, mkay. don’t ask me to be normal.

so anyway. that’s the update. i wish it was more positive. if you made it all the way to the end and want to toss an ask, a little prompt, a question, whatever, that would be very cool. i think i have a chill week coming up and i miss this ‘verse a ton, wouldn’t mind some dopamine.

[devondespresso]

i finally understand the too-many-ideas syndrome

[midnightwind]

I wish I wasn't so eugh about writing characters I didn't make because oh the snippets of interactions my brain is crafting between my drow Tav and Astarion that will never see the light of day....

[two-toned-heart]

Marry You

Peter stands outside Y/N’s room as he holds his secret in his pocket, an engagement ring in a box.

He takes a breath, knocking on their bedroom door. Lucy was out for the night at Vio’s, her…. ‘friends with benefits’.

Y/N opens the door, their head tilting to the side a little bit as they spoke, “…… Hey? What’re you doing in here this late a-and why do you smell like booze?”

Peter laughs happily, having drunk a little before to give himself a bit more confidence as he gets on one knee and digs around in for the little box that means as much to him as you do.

He opens it, revealing the treasure he purchased over the internet on the low.

“…… Y/N, will you marry me? Don’t say no, no, no. Just say yeah, yeah, yeah….. It’s a beautiful night and you’re as gorgeous as it, please tell me your answer”, Peter asks as he looks at them with his big blue eyes.

They shuffled around a little bit, pulling up the sleep shirt that they were wearing. They barely know Peter but something about him makes them want to take the plunge, subtly nodding a bit nervously.

The tall man smiles wide, standing up suddenly to bring Y/N into his arms and hugs them closely. He smells their hair, almost passing out from their scent.

(-The End-)

[shreksflamingknob69]

i do think he’d call him “my love” or “my dear” in very special moments.

also i’m convinced cas would google pet names once they start dating because he saw people call each other pet names in a movie, and then they’d be like:

cas: *casually calls dean babe in a conversation*

dean: wot 🤨

cas: it’s a pet name. for couples. i googled it. *takes out a handwritten list of 50 romantic nicknames* do you not like it? *frowns and tilts head*

d: no, uh, it’s fine. it’s nice, i like it… babe :)

c: okay. good *patented castiel smile that he only gives dean*

d: yeah, good. hm :)

I see a lot of people say Dean would be all "baby, honey, sweetie" with Cas if they were dating but I choose to believe he would absolutely marry that man and still call him "dude, buddy, guy"

[tojisglazer]

Follow-up to this drabble….

NSFW

Toji Fushiguro would be the type to get hard from a single kiss, then follow you around repeating, “One more, ma.” “Jus’ a lil peck, baby.” “Cmere, doll.”

Toji Fushiguro would be the type to turn a small kiss into an aggressive make-out session because he’s just that greedy.

Toji Fushiguro would be the type to give you a little chase around the house. Although he’d always catch you in the end, it turns him on even more when run away giggling, pre-cum oozing out of his throbbing cock.

Toji Fushiguro would be the type to dry hump you while you two are watching a movie on your shared bed, begging you to let him experience the real thing.

“Please, ma? Pleaseeee..”

“Mmh—pretty please baby?”

“C-Come on pretty, d-don’t ya want me too..?”

Toji Fushiguro would be the type to cum just from you rubbing or sucking on his sensitive nipples.

Toji Fushiguro would be the type to hide his face behind his forearm whenever you ride him.

Toji Fushiguro would be the type to whine and groan when you rub his thighs while you’re sucking his cock.

“F-Fuck—jus’ like that mama—a-ah shit—”

“Sss—shittt—y’r killing me, ma—”

“Babyyy—mmmh—so—so fuckin’ closeee”

Toji Fushiguro would be the type to fist himself in your shared bedroom as soon as you leave for a girls trip, wearing that beautiful tight black dress that defines your curves perfectly.

Toji Fushiguro would be the type to fuck your brains out when you come back from said girls trip, hiking your dress up and bending you over on the kitchen counter.

Toji Fushiguro would be the type to eat you like he’s starving, sucking and slurping until your cum mixed with his saliva is dripping down his chin, and even then he’s not stopping until you’re passed out.

Toji Fushiguro would be the type to leave your body covered in love bites, letting the world know who you belong to.

Masterlist

[wttcsms]

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖࣪ match my freak !!

ᝰ.ᐟ the two of you are private not secret, but when the media starts to speculate that the two of you are no longer together, neither of you are too happy. the best way to get everyone to stop with the breakup rumors? posting something a little bit nasty to the feed to satiate everyone's curiosity. (fem!reader)

featuring tobio kageyama, atsumu miya, tetsurou kuroo, wakatoshi ushijima, tooru oikawa, rintarou suna content contains breeding kink (atsumu, wakatoshi), pregnant reader (wakatoshi), famous!reader (changes depending on scenario), creampie (tetsurou), hatefucking (not really, you + kuroo just like to antagonize each other but the attraction is there), scratches on his back (tobio), hickeys (tooru), wet n messy (rintarou), possessive!character x possessive!reader (the two of you are obsessed with each other ok), social media references lol author's notes i'm definitely doing a blue lock version, i'm just seeing if this is a popular premise lol <3 based off this original concept !! these are just silly little drabbles for me to warm up to the idea of writing again haha

౨ৎ TOBIO KAGEYAMA

your fans are speculating: that you and kageyama have broken up. fans are recording footage from you on your latest tour and claim that you're "clearly disassociating" and "somewhere else mentally" when it comes to singing your iconic love songs. you and kageyama have always kept your relationship private because he's not a very open person to begin with, and you don't want to give the media more material to misconstrue. you know that kageyama hates when some random person will annotate your verses on genius lyrics and try to make the claim that your innocent metaphor is you wanting to jump ship and leave kageyama. and you hate how it's your own fans who are making wild accusations of you no longer being with the man all your love songs are about.

you posted: kageyama, with his back turned to the camera so all that fills your camera is the surprisingly broad expanse of his muscular back and shoulders. he's not even flexing, and it's obvious that he's a world-class athlete. he's facing the closet, trying to find a shirt to put on, and it would be a semi-innocent photo, the pinterest-perfect photo inspo for every private not secret relationship out there, except for the fact that there are clearly faint, red lines — scratches — running down his back. you caption the photo with a "monday morning 🤍" (your insane fans spam the comment section to exclaim how they knew you two were still a thing... and to speculate that this photo is somehow an easter egg for an upcoming song/album. well, they're right: you two will always be a thing, and tobio dicked you down so good last night that you could write him a whole album.)

ᯓ ᡣ𐭩

"fuck," the word slips through his gritted teeth, and you can tell that your tobio is still upset about how your fans seem divided. half of them claim no one could ever make them hate tobio (you find those fans to be absolutely adorable), and the other half...

well, the other half are making slideshow posts to audios that go "some boys take a beautiful girl and hide her away from the rest of the world" and the ones that seem to go viral are always the ones that feature you and tobio.

"not hidin' you away." he mutters, never slowing down his thrusts. he admires the expression on your face as he fucks into you, his ego pleased with how receptive you are to his every movement. he has you speared on his cock, your tight little cunt full of him, your eyes getting so adorably teared-up because he's just a little bit too much for you to handle. tobio isn't good with words; he thinks you're the most beautiful girl to exist, but he can't verbalize it. so he just takes in your sweet, fucked-out face, the reaction only he's capable of drawing from you, and it all gets so overwhelming for him.

he has to bury his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling the sweet scent of your body wash as he continues to bully his cock into your soaked pussy. "why's it bad if i want to keep you all to myself?" he's practically whining, and you think this would be so cute if only you weren't currently chasing after your release. or rather, tobio's forcing you to cum, whether you want to or not. it's not like you can stop him; tobio devotes himself to always ensuring that you finish before him. he likes the satisfaction of knowing only he can take care of you, and he especially likes the way his cock looks with you creaming all over it.

when he gets like this, all you can do is cling to him, your arms wrapped around his muscular build. when he gets rough with his thrusts, when his body gets just the slightest bit sweaty from the exertion (evidence of just how much work he puts into fucking you), you have to dig your manicured nails (the set he paid for) into the skin of his toned back. otherwise, you'd lose your grip, and your hands would slip off.

tobio relishes the slight stinging pain of your nails scratching down his skin. but the scratches aren't enough. he needs to make you cum. when you get so caught up in your climax, you start clawing at him as you lose control. he loves the scratches you leave on him; it's proof that he's yours just as much as you are his.

౨ৎ ATSUMU MIYA

haters are saying: that you're just using atsumu for content. you're a gold digger. you're not genuine. you're not "wifey material." spectators are claiming that atsumu is playing worse than before because he's too "pussywhipped" for you. well, he likes to cheekily admit to you that he is addicted to your pussy, but they're wrong about everything else. obviously. however, the haters are feeling very vindicated whenever they see atsumu hasn't been posting you as much. (you're traveling for a new vlog series on your page, but no one knows.)

he posted: a mirror selfie. which isn't breaking news. atsumu miya always breaks the internet when he posts a mirror selfie because the only thing worse than a hot guy is a hot guy who knows he's hot. no one is a stranger to the sight of a post-workout, sweaty, shirtless atsumu, who flaunts his tight abs and muscular thighs with a steamy mirror selfie. but this photo? this one is going triple platinum. it's going down in history. this selfie is taken in dim lighting; the curtains in the background are drawn shut, he's got one hand gripping his phone (making the phone look tiny in his big hand), and he's got one arm wrapped around you. it's not an innocent hug, though. he's cupping your ass, and the phone in front of his face does nothing to shield his satisfied smirk. you're clad in nothing but lacy lingerie from a designer who loves to sponsor you, and you're clinging to his side, almost like you can't even stand without his support. it's clear that the two of you definitely were... appreciating the work your favorite designer put in when they created that lacy set.

ᯓ ᡣ𐭩

"what do you think?" you're smiling at him, knowing damn well what he's thinking.

atsumu looks up at you, reflexively licking his lips as he takes in the sight of you wearing a new set of lingerie that you just got delivered. it leaves little room for imagination, and the material looks so delicate, atsumu is already thinking about how he'll have to apologize to the designer for ripping it off of you.

"i think I'm the luckiest man alive right now." atsumu is shameless in the way he's admiring you, the way the setting sun still peeks through the curtains, enveloping your body in a delicious golden glow as you inch closer and closer to him.

in a matter of seconds, he's pulling you on top of him, placing wet, sloppy kisses over any centimeter of your skin he can reach. when you make a move to slip off the panties, he protests.

"leave 'em on f'me, baby. please?"

he fucks you with you still wearing the lingerie set. your breasts are spilling out of the bra, and all he did was move your panties to the side so he could stretch you out with his cock.

"fuckin' idiots, tellin' me you're not good enough to marry. i'll show 'em what a good girl you are, right? gonna put a ring on your finger, and make you my wife." he's fucking his cock into you, making sure that your cute cunt knows who it belongs to. "gonna fuck a baby into you, sweetheart. no one's gonna say shit about our family, huh? 'cause i won't let 'em."

your cunt clenches up so nicely with every comment he makes that atsumu knows he has to make all those pussydrunk promises come true.

౨ৎ TETSUROU KUROO

the tabloids are posting: paparazzi photos of you — the socialite daughter of the man who owns the msby black jackals, and jva's promotion division's golden boy, tetsurou kuroo. it's late at night, and the two of you are clearly leaving a party celebrating the success of another eventful volleyball season. you're wearing the iconic ysl heels with a black mini-dress that honestly should be called a micro-dress. your hair is a mess, you're walking like your knees are struggling not to wobble, and walking three steps behind you despite his longer stride is kuroo; his tie is crooked, his cheeks are flushed, and he has a grin that says something like i just fucked one of the richest bratty heiresses in japan, and i left her wanting more. the amount of blind items that are allegedly alluding to you and kuroo are being spread all over tiktok. one reads, "this sports club heiress was seen exiting a party with this semi-known marketing mastermind who works in the sports industry. apparently, they couldn't keep their hands off each other, and no one can recall seeing them together during the party; everyone only caught glimpses of them running away from the festivities together."

you posted: a photo slideshow on instagram of your absolutely iconic outfit from the party, only these photos were clearly taken before the party. your hair is done, your makeup is perfect, and your caption states don't believe everything you read. the last slide is a screenshot of an online headline speculating about your "new man" with a photo of a grinning kuroo from that night. the reason why this makes everyone go insane is because you're no stranger to a scandal — this is, however, the first time you've ever addressed a headline.

ᯓ ᡣ𐭩

"hurry up," you hiss, your eyes darting from left to right as you make sure no one is nowhere near the secluded corridor kuroo somehow managed to find.

"y'know, i thought girls were supposed to like guys who don't blow their loads prematurely." even when he's bullying his cock into your slicked up cunt, savoring the way your sensitive walls are clenching around his dick, tetsurou has a very annoying habit of still sounding entirely in control. for someone who can't keep his hands to himself when it comes to you, he's irritatingly great at playing nonchalant.

but he's just a man, after all. he might tower over you, his large body shielding you from any prying eyes, and he might know your body so well that he can bring you to completion twice (once with his fingers curling against that special spot of yours, and another one so rudely wrung out from you when he slid his cock in your orgasm-recovering, overly sensitive pussy) in just the fifteen minutes he's been toying with you tonight, but you know that he must be feeling something. you saw him shift his pants the moment his eyes met yours from across the room, when his eyes travelled down your body and followed the way your dress emphasized the curvatures of your body.

"if you don't finish right now, i'm not going to let you cum inside." you threaten him, trying to steady your voice as you bite back a moan. it'd be a major issue if the two of you got caught, with the volleyball association's golden boy being buried balls-deep inside a sports team owner's bratty daughter.

with every sharp snap of his hips, kuroo is only forcing more slick to come gushing out of your pussy. he can't even take the time to admire the white ring you left around his cock; he's too focused on chasing after his release because he didn't get to where he's at by not being opportunistic.

"if i cum inside, you have to keep it in your panties the whole night. you wouldn't want that, would you?" he sounds a little breathless now, his pace quickening as his thrusts get sloppier. he's smiling at you, that damn annoying smile that makes you want to roll your eyes or insult him. but your body betrays you. his grin only widens when your pussy tightens up at the idea of having his cum soaking in your panties while you interact with people at this party. a dirty little secret shared only between you two.

he lets out a breathy chuckle at your body's betrayal. "okay, princess. since you want it so badly, i guess i better give it to you."

you could practically cum again the minute you feel the warmth of him finishing inside of you. you're a spoiled brat who gets what she wants, and while you refuse to admit it, you want him. all of him.

and he's going to give it to you.

౨ৎ WAKATOSHI USHIJIMA

the media is going crazy over: the fact that ushijima is the type of person who doesn't clarify anything because he just assumes that everyone can read his mind. he's blunt, sure, but he's not really the type who does much explaining. after the first game of the season, an interviewer asks him if he enjoyed spending the off-season with you, his girlfriend and one of the most beloved, fan-favorite WAGs of all time. ushijima stares straight into the camera as he states in his usual deep, flat rumble of a voice, "the off-season was successful, but she isn't my girlfriend anymore. thank you." and then he just walks off, like he didn't just drop the most insane piece of information ever?

he posted: a photo of an ultrasound that was clearly taken out of his wallet since it's thrown on the table in the background. he's holding it in his left hand, and the overhead lighting is reflected from the silver wedding band he's wearing. now that he's off the court, he's able to wear it. in typical ushijima fashion, there is no caption, but a picture is worth a thousand words. you're not his girlfriend. you're his wife, and soon to be mother of his child.

ᯓ ᡣ𐭩

"mmph — 'toshi!" you squeal out, your calves burning from the stretch as your beloved wakatoshi has your legs bent and spread for him. he's just so big that you'd never be able to handle all of him, and yet, here you are, bent into a mating press every night since the two of you have gotten married. you try to beg him to slow down, but words escape you as he buries himself into your pussy, letting out a deep, guttural groan as the warmth of your cunt coats his cock. there's no better feeling than this.

even if you could request for him to slow down, it wouldn't have mattered or made much of a difference. your husband has a one-track mind. when wakatoshi is set on a goal, it's hard to break his focus until he sees it to the end. and right now, wakatoshi's goal is to fuck a baby into you, to see you round with life because of the seeds he planted.

he's hunched over you, abs tightening and flexing with every sharp inhale of breath he takes. he's gonna fuck himself empty, going to keep filling your cunt with his seed 'til he's shooting blanks. his eyes glance at the ring he put on your finger before returning to admire your blissful expression and the way your body seems to have gone boneless from all the fucking he's had you endure.

"just a little bit longer." he manages to say, before forcing his cock in even deeper. "just have to make sure it takes."

౨ৎ TOORU OIKAWA

everyone is claiming: long distance relationships never last. when oikawa makes the shocking announcement that he is no longer a japanese citizen, everyone immediately wondered what that meant for the future of your relationship. does that mean it's over? officially? if oikawa is leaving behind his hometown, then by default, is he leaving you behind too?

he posted: a photo slideshow, only most of the images were clearly taken by you. the first one is of him driving; the two of you are in his convertible, and he's wearing a white button down with most of the buttons undone. on the stark white of the shirt are kiss marks; the imprint of your lips lined with cherry-red lipstick are all over the material of his shirt and on his freshly-tanned skin. the other photos are of what you two ate for dinner, the sunset from the beach, and a selfie of you two looking more in love than ever. fans are quick to point out the massive hickey on your neck, and tooru tags you in a reply to the top comment that points it out, and he's saying "you missed a spot babe." you reply back, "i ran out of concealer because you gave me too many to cover"

ᯓ ᡣ𐭩

"i missed you," your boyfriend mumbles into your soft skin. tooru can get so clingy when he goes long periods without seeing you, and you indulge him because he's tooru. he's got his face buried in the space between your shoulder and neck, and his breath is warm against your skin as he speaks.

"everyone is saying i'm abandoning you, but that's not true." he whines.

"i know, baby. i don't care." you laugh softly, absentmindedly playing with the soft strands of his hair. he settles into you, and it's almost sweet, until he starts nipping at your skin.

"tooru, what are you doing?" you can't find it in yourself to chastise him too harshly, but you do have to restrain yourself from pulling back.

"jus' want to show everyone that you're still my girl." he peers up at you, licking his lips. "you'll let me do that, won't you?"

tooru bites and sucks at your skin, sharp canines grazing your soft flesh. he sucks at your most sensitive areas while he works his fingers in and out of your gushing cunt. when he pulls his fingers out and holds them up, so the sunlight can shine and really highlight how much of your juices is coating his digits, he smiles. his girl gets this wet just from him marking you up?

as he sucks on his fingers, relishing in the way you taste, he can't help but be happy to know that no matter how far away the two of you are from each other (for now), you're still his girl.

౨ৎ RINTAROU SUNA

your fans are telling you: suna doesn't care about you. suna doesn't put forth any effort into your relationship. suna literally streams on twitch during the off-season yet he can't seem to ever post you?? suna doesn't deserve you. suna—

suna is a lot of things, but nothing like the deadbeat, ashamed boyfriend allegations. in fact, all your well-meaning fans are so far off on how he treats you that you and him get a good laugh from the outrageous conclusions they've jumped to.

you posted: a photo of rintarou with his head on your lap, and you've got your fingers playing with his hair. it's a sweet photo, really. except for the fact that you decided to pair it with an audio that's a snippet of a song that goes "he's so pretty when he goes down on me" and a caption that reads this song is so relatable 🤍

ᯓ ᡣ𐭩

anyone who thinks rintarou is a selfish lover, a lazy lover, someone who merely tolerates you or is ashamed to be with you... they clearly don't know either of you very well.

because even when he's exhausted from practice, rintarou comes home craving you. craving your sweetness, your warmth, your love — and your pussy. he's obsessed. rintarou suna loves to eat you out, and he does it with such passion, such enthusiasm, that it's hard to refuse him, even if he's been going at it for the past hour.

your juices are leaving a stain on the bedsheets, and your slick is coating your inner thighs. it doesn't help that rintarou is messy with his technique. he needs your legs spread for him, granting him easy access for him to just dig in. he's still in his practice jersey, and when he feels your grip loosening from the strands of hair you're tugging at, he'll slow down his pace, calming down to just tiny kitten licks while he peers up at you.

your head is thrown back in pleasure, and your hips have a mind of their own as they still jut forward, as if trying to bring your cunt impossibly closer to him. no need for that, really, seeing as how he craves to bury himself in your warmth, to suck on your cute little clit and have you humming all over his tongue.

"rinnie." you whine out, still subconsciously bucking up your hips. he smiles before resuming his original ministrations, gluttonous and greedy with how sloppy and hungry he is with you. if you're still capable of talking, then you're not too fucked out to not allow him to get his fill.