#what was the point if he just sprouts that shit from his spine for a cameo and barely even uses it

[cenfitto]

i miss viktor oh my god they robbed us i was nutting in my jorts when this shit came on in season 1 with the fucking framing to pose the arm over his shoulder oh my god. can you imagine up at 3am to watch this on release and here comes a direct foreshadow teaser for your fucking Boy. i am chasing that high for the rest of my life like actually. and then they DONT EVEN FOLLOW THROUGH ON IT. WHY IS HE MAGIC. FUCK. WE COULD HAVE HAD IT ALL

[p1nkcanoe]

kinktober day five: immobilized (dew x swiss)

kinktober prompt list provided by planetcoma on twitter!

summary: swiss wants to show dew his new quintessence trick and for some reason dew lets him try it warnings: inappropriate use of quintessence magick, mind control, non-con elements, forced orgasms words: 1800

click here to read on ao3 or read below:

Swiss is a ghoul of many interesting talents. He can summon a small gust of wind with a simple flick of his hand, can make the water in the sink swirl and swirl with a twist of his wrist, can snap his fingers until they crackle with smoke and the occasional golden spark… But Quintessence? Quintessence is a bitch. Out of all of the elements he's managed to channel, the elusive power of the fifth element refuses to bend to his will – always slippery, stubborn, just out of reach. Which is exactly why when he bursts into Dew’s room, breathless and determined, and insists he needs to practice harnessing the magick of the aether on him, Dew shrugs his shoulders and says yes without so much as a second thought.

And now Swiss has Dew settled in his desk chair, thumbs pressed against his temples, middle fingers resting on the sensitive ridges behind his pointed ears as he struggles to find the right positioning. Swiss’ breath is steady and calm as he focuses on reaching deep inside of himself, trying so hard to tap into the fragments of dark power woven deep within his soul. Dew, on the other hand, is anything but calm. He breathes out in short, sharp bursts, his chest rising and falling with nervous anticipation as Swiss fumbles for control over the magick he barely understands, let alone commands. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen Swiss focus more on anything in his entire existence, but that doesn’t make him any less tense. 

“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” Dew asks, eyes flicking towards Swiss’ concentrated face. “Aeth’s never put his hands there before-”

“Nope, I have no idea what I’m doing. But nobody ever told me I couldn’t, so I’m doing it.” 

The fingers on his temples shift towards his hairline and Dew grips the edges of the chair in lieu of telling him briskly to fuck off. 

“If you fry my brain I’ll come back from the dead just to incinerate you.” 

“You’re already dead,” Swiss fires back. “Now quit whining, pipsqueak.” 

Dew huffs but stays put. “You’re so annoying. I don’t know why I let you talk me into this.” 

“If I’m being completely honest, I don’t know why you would ever say yes.” 

He's just about to think of a clever retort when a sudden surge of Quintessence magic slams into the delicate tissues of his brain. It hits hard and in an instant it manages to grasp at his thoughts, seal his lips shut, and lock every muscle in his body in place. Panic bubbles up from his chest – oh shit, he can’t move. Swiss jolts in surprise, like he can’t believe it either, then lets out a nervous chuckle. 

Dew is going to murder him once he gains back the ability to move his hands. 

What in the Hells did you do to me? He shoots down the line through their connection, and Swiss looks at him like he’s just sprouted a second head, a mix of confusion and amusement flickering in his eyes, then something more mischievous. 

“Are you paralyzed?” Swiss asks, his tone half-serious, half-teasing.

Dew feels a chill run down his spine. Don’t tell me that was unintentional…

“Definitely unintentional. But don’t worry, I’ll just go grab Aether if I can’t figure out how to fix you,” Swiss continues, an easy smile on his face. “Surely he’ll know how to reverse it.”

‘Surely’ is the worst word you could use right now.

Swiss is about to say that he knows what he’s doing, but that would be the understatement of the century.

You may be the dumbest motherfucker I’ve ever been cursed to know.

Swiss gapes, then chuckles. 

“Get out of my head.”

Is that not the entire purpose of this experiment you are conducting on me?

“Touché,” he says, then cocks his head to the side, a smile on his face so wide that his fangs are showing. “Now for what I actually wanted to show you – learned how to do this just this morning.” 

Before Dew can form another thought, a slight flex of Swiss’ fingers behind his ears sends his consciousness flooding with filthy images of sex and lustful desire – a thousand scenes of himself and the multi-ghoul, in every position and setting, sucking and fucking and crying out in ecstasy as if they were the other’s personal incubus. Each perspective he experiences is starkly different, yet just as debauched as the last, and he can’t escape the relentless onslaught of Swiss’ fantasies, no matter where he redirects his attention towards. He switches from one scenario to the next, and suddenly realizes that he doesn’t recognize any of these scenes. They aren’t memories; they’re Swiss’ daydreams.

Holy shit, what is wrong with him? 

He digs deeper through the images flooding his mind, searching for a loophole or a way out, and each image he discovers feels like a betrayal of his sanity. There’s Swiss on top of him, both of them clad in fuzzy animal onesies with the crotches torn out in a desperate bid for heat. Dew’s face flushes at the sight, an involuntary mix of humiliation and unwanted desire – he could have done without seeing that one. Another image flashes through – he’s wearing his Papa’s robes, the heavy fabric pooling around him while his skin is smeared with his Papa’s black and white paint. Swiss is on his hands and knees in front of him, his hole stretched around Dew’s cock. It’s absolutely ridiculous in every way and frankly, his packmate deserves to be caged for that specific one. Then the worst of all: his own voice echoing in his mind, calling Swiss his “babygirl” while Swiss’ echoes back from somewhere beyond and calls him “mommy.” The term hangs in the air like a heavy weight, thick with mortification and he cringes, wishing he could erase that from his head forever.

Would it kill you to be a little more vanilla? Or have a little shame? Some of these are really going to affect our relationship when I get out of this fucking mind trap. 

“Where’s the fun in vanilla, Dew? Honestly, I’d love to explore your fantasies too – once I figure out how to get in there. I bet I’d be surprised what I could find.”

Fuck off.

“Besides, I can see that you’re enjoying at least some of this,” Swiss purrs, his voice wrapping around his head. “Especially with how stiff your little cock is between your thighs.” 

Right, because I love being subjected to your twisted fantasies. What a great way to strengthen our relationship, asshole. 

Swiss doesn’t reply to the jab shot down the line, choosing instead to leave Dew to the depths of his fantasies for a while. As the vivid images swirl in his mind, Dew clenches his jaw, his heart racing, cock twitching. He attempts to navigate through the inescapable maze of Swiss's daydreams, but each scene pulls him deeper into a web of twisted temptation.

He catches glimpses of himself entwined with Swiss, their bodies moving together in ways that spark heat in his core. One particularly striking vision shows them tangled in a patch of sunlight down by the lake, skin glistening with water droplets, laughter mingling with moans – a sacred moment of sheer bliss that makes his breath hitch…

Despite how much he tries to resist, the grip of arousal has him held tight and unyielding. He can’t help but feel the thrill of unexpected intimacy, the ones that feel more real than the onesies and petnames that make his skin crawl, and it’s apparent that Swiss notices it too when those begin to take over his mind instead. 

Damn it, Swiss… he mutters, and there’s a flutter in his stomach at the sight of a particularly passionate dry-humping scene. He sucks Swiss’ bottom lip between his teeth. Swiss swallows his tongue. 

Dew wants to protest, he wants to curse Swiss and wrap his hands firmly around his neck, but he can’t. He wants to escape the hold that Swiss has on his mind and forget about all of it, but then his cock throbs against the inner seam of his pants, and he feels himself begin to leak. He hates to admit that Swiss’ new Quintessence trick is beginning to work a little too well. 

They just keep coming, one after another, and Dew is helpless to stop them. He watches as daydream after daydream unfold, each one hotter than the last. He sees himself spilling across rich, dark skin, filling a pretty hole, or coating a pink tongue with his release, and Swiss’ moans resonate in his mind, deep and inviting in a symphony of pleasure that sends shivers down his spine and settles right in his hips.

Dew’s cock is painfully hard, his balls heavy with need and– oh, Satan below, he’s going to cum. The sensations wash over him in waves, drowning out his thoughts and desires to be better. Swiss pushes harder, weaving his magick deeper into Dew’s consciousness, and the heat of his arousal intensifies, turning his entire body into a live wire of dangerous tension and desire.

He tries to resist it, tries to fight against the rising tide of pleasure, but it’s inevitable. Flashes of lust and intimacy bombard him, overwhelming his senses and igniting his nerves like wildfire. Each image pushes him closer to the edge, making it impossible to think of anything but sweet, sweet release.

It builds and builds and builds, approaching like an oncoming freight train, and Dew is powerless to stop it when it finally barrels through his paralyzed form. A violent wave of pleasure that he’s only ever experienced when under the control of dark magic crashes over him, leaving him a gasping mess as his orgasm wracks his body, sending pulsing warmth coursing through his veins and rope and rope of sticky cum to paint the inside of his boxers.

He waits and begins to feel his fingers twitch as his orgasm fades, then curls his toes, arches his back. He blinks slowly, his mind clearing back to his own thoughts as he regains gradual control over the rest of body. But when he looks around his bedroom, Swiss is nowhere to be found. His room is quiet, but the door is wide open in the wake of the multi ghoul’s escape. Dew is up in an instant (well, as soon as he regains full control of his legs) and out the door, following the trail of lust that he left behind. He’s going to make sure Swiss regrets ever using his “new” magick on him… He stops in his tracks. There’s cum leaking down his thigh. He’ll make him regret it after he changes his clothes.

[bewwy]

I'll post a fic Wip here

Sumarry: Phil is haunted by a ghost long dead.

It was a warm sunny day, the kids were rough housenig in the flowers, Tallulah throwing a handfull of dirt at Chayanne, and he jumping on her as revenge.

It was a good day.

The wind ruffling the leaves, and mixing with the laughter of his kids, Phil closed his eyes to enjoy the sun.

But doing so, brought back the memories of the previous morning. It wouldn't leave his mind, the purple crystals shinning in the darkness of the main room, guiding him trough his home. In to the aquarium waters.

It sends a shiver trough his spine, and Philza shakes himself off, rising from the ground and walking to his children, black spots dancing across his vision and the chill holding steady against the sun.

The kids notice him aproach, and Phil tries to smile away the unconfortable feeling, their squeels of laughter and joy acting as a sword, cuting away the memories.

"You little shits enjoying yourselfs?" Both

covered head to toe with mud smile proudly. "I'll need to make you new clothes! Cuse those rags are gonna be sprouting weeds at this point."

"Stop with the drama papa" Tallulah rolls her eyes after the sign.

"We reuse resycle and Rihanna in this house" Signed Chayanne

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Phil weezes out a laugh. "Alright, bath time you too! Go home and get washed, I'll meet you there with some new clothes."

The kids pick themselves up, with Tallulah trowing herself in to his pants, leaving a stain shapped tallulah in it.

"Tallulah! Oh my god. Now I'll need a new pair as well! Uhg.." Philza complains lightly. "Come on both of you! Get going!"

And the kids do, Tallulah warps first, and Chayanne gives a wide grin as he teleports away trough the purple particles.

Fuck...

Fuck him.

It's actually pathetic, the simple color of the particles, brings back all the bad fellings with it. Really, it's quite impressive.

Philza closes his eyes again, trying to take a deep breth and center himself, he sees his kids, just a warp away, and hears laughter. It's not - it's not his kids laughter though.

It's mocking, amused even, as if finding the actions of a stranger perplexing, but comedic. It's so close too, it sounds like it's inside of his ears, and yet so far away, muffled by a indiscribable distance.

He opens his eyes. It's coming closer.

Phil looks across the field and sees nothing, only the overturned dirt and scattered flowers, some unfortuned crushed petals in the ground by his feet, it's pink, but the edges are burnt due to the direct sunlight.

As he looks at the crushed flowers, purple particles appears at the cornner of his eye.

How long has Phil been standing there? Is it Chayanne? Wondering why he hasn't come back yet? But he did say he was gonna do something first, didn't he?

He turns around.

There is no one there, but the laughter seems closer, less muffled.

He needs to go, Phil will let them borrow one of his shirts, but he needs his kids back. Now.

He grabs his warp stone, holds tightly in his hand, and thinks of home. Phil & Missa. Phil & Missa. Phil & Missa. Phil & Missa.

Why isn't he porting?

[mewintheflesh-2]

LMAOAOAOAOAOAOAOOAOAOAOAOAOAOOOOOOOOOO

God I love the image of that

RAMBLE BLAST!!!!!!

Fuse just trying to leave the portal but he suddenly has a whole pile of people on the brink of death thrown into his lab and he’s like “Oh shit free subjects!” And he just stares at Larry as the portal closes and he’s just like “???????? Huh. 🤨” I think he becomes curious about this strange man constantly throwing almost-dead people into his lab and he’s just like… Listen I know you give me free test subjects and bringing you/trapping you in the lab would only hurt my work but like… who the fuck???

He just kind of kidnaps him one day and does a shit ton of medical tests on him while he’s asleep (nothing too much, just getting data on him and any important medical knowledge.) He finds his poke balls on his person and goes through each one deciding of he should fuse Larry with any of them if he’s gonna fuse him at all. He finds his staraptors energy… intriguing to say the least. Almost wants to keep it for himself.

But alas he eventually fuses Larry with his Staraptor, which increases his murderous and violent tendencies beyond anything Fuse or Larry expected. Fuse sees an opportunity. In exchange for allowing Larry to live a “decent” life in the lab, and even allowing him to leave to other dimensions to hunt down prey for his lab, Larry will help him with more gruesome torture methods when he’s not in the mood for getting his hands dirty.

Larry would also work as a watch-hawk for Fuse to make sure the other subjects in the lab aren’t planning any escapes. And also just as a scare tactic as well. This man is terrifying. His eyes are just…. Eugh, sends chills down your spine to even see he’s looking at you in your peripheral vision. I feel like there’s a ton of imbalances in chemicals in Larry’s brain, to the point where at some points all he can think of is just “I need to sink my claws into something, where’s my prey I need blood, I need meat.” To the point where he can barely hear anything outside his own thoughts So he is not all there at all.

There are some more lucid moments in his time as a fusion, which, surprise, don’t mitigate his violent tendencies in the slightest, just on how he acts upon them. He has quite the set of natural weapons on his body. As you said, the staraptors beak is very sharp, excellent for torture, his talons are quite sharp as well, he can use them better as well as his dexterity with his hands/bird feet are slightly better than with his beak.

Also, I think, yes, he would absolutely be plucking his feathers from stress, kinda just looks like a naked chicken in some spots of his body, especially above his chest and below his face. I think he either has both hands and wings sprouting out of his back, or he has pseudo wings growing out of his bisceps, which do not work as wings at all. They just kind of drape down from his arms.

I do not think Larry would ever thing to be asked to be “put out of his misery” like most other subjects, because in his mind, he’s perfectly content with this. He doesn’t know if it’s because he is actually okay with how he’s living, or if it’s just because his brain will literally not even let him think there could ever be anything better than what he’s doing.

Also you accidentally guessed something about the ask blog in here correctly I’m not gonna say what but just know 👀👀👀👀

Made fanart for the Time Loop AU I made!

Context and headcanons for the new team:

(Also, if you make fanart of this depressed dude, I made a tag for him called TimeLoop!Larry.)

Staraptor: On his OG normal-type and flying-type teams. He's the old reliable being strong, swift, and savage. Staraptor is definitely his favorite. Everyone fears the crimson crest of the Death Raptor.

Dundunsparce: On his OG normal-type team. Usually used as a disruptor with its serene grace and being an unexpected Pokèmon to use. I headcanon that Dundunsparce is squishy (other than its tail) so if Larry needed to relieve some stress without committing mass murder he's got a 12-foot stress toy to hug. 🤗

Maushold: The resident spies of the team with their small size and high speed. It's a family of three instead of four because I want to make a Spy x Family reference and Larry has crazy luck.

Zangoose: A powerful and aggressive all-rounder. With its abilities immunity and toxic boost, I headcanon Zangoose to be extremely resistant to venom and, more importantly, poisons. Zangoose is the resident food tester to see if any food is tainted, you know when it's bright pink eyes dim the food is poisonous.

Pyroar: Resident Hunter, catching cooking food for the team. I know I put the make artwork for the image, but I changed my mind last minute, so pretend it is the female one. She's also extremely helpful with Arson =) 🔥

Bloodmoon Ursaluna: A very recent addition to the team and a relentless wild card. Larry found the Bloodmoon Beast while searching for Nikey who fled to Kitakami after one of their encounters, or the Bloodmoon Beast found him. He and his team of Pokèmon were attacked by the Ursaluna when unknowingly setting up camp in its territory. After a long and terrifying battle, Larry was able to capture the Bloodmoon Ursaluna and help it gain vengeance on the humans who hunted its population to extinction for all time.

Bloodmoon Ursaluna drawing by VIKworks on DeviantArt.

Other Tidbits (TW WARNING FOR INJURY/MEDICAL REFERENCES):

Larry’s robotic arm has a compass-like symbol on the hand resembling the Paldean League gloves. The arm was made for him after he was found injured, so it'd make sense the league would use their branded tech.

Larry got his bloodshot eyes from recording his misadventures and theories of the time loop on his impossibly strong computer and staring at the screen for so long.

Larry’s skin has become gray because of a rare condition called argyria. It is caused by too much silver building up in a person’s body. During the incident where he lost his arm, Larry also got severe burns from the blast so he got silver sulfadiazine (SDD) to prevent infection. The symptoms of argyria he also got are headaches, fatigue, skin irritation, and, in rare instances, seizures.

Larry is super cold all the time, half from the sky being covered in clouds and half him being naturally cold, so he wears long sleeves no matter what.

Larry would've had Tropius but they died after succumbing to the harsh weather of the covered sky. Larry still has nightmares about how he couldn't save them in time, usually with a rotting and/or freezing Tropius asking “Why” in a chilling voice.

Did I mention how sick and depressed he is?☺️

[quindolyn]

hi hi i have a req- remus and/or sirius where the reader has like bigger boobs w like stretch marks and stuff (bc theyre natural!!) and shes insecure ab them so the boy(s) make her feel better

Stripes || Wolfstar

A/N: I am not particularly fond of this piece all that much but it is what it is. I tried not to mention breast size too much because I know not everyone has big tits and I want as many people as possible to resonate with my work. Tits of all shapes and sizes can have stretch marks, they are completely natural and beautiful.

Warnings: smoking, it's not too too smutty I'd call it more fluffy smut, tit sucking, mentions of love bites, all acts are consensual and there is an established safe word

Word Count: 1,928

“We could go again,” Sirius offers as he lights his cigarette, leaning up against the headboard, guiding the fag to his lips he inhales deeply and you can’t help but be mesmerized as you watch his lips wrap around it.

Pink and soft, they're swollen from the night's previous activities, thinking about how they got that way sends a shiver down your spine, do yours look the same? Exhaling, you watch the smoke curl out his nose before dissipating into the air.

“Don’t know Pads, you think you could get it up again?” Remus stretches to reach his wand on the bedside table quickly and silently spelling you all clean.

Grey eyes flash with annoyance as he lifts the cigarette back up to his lips, though you must’ve watched him smoke hundreds of times you still can’t manage to tear your eyes away.

Maybe it's the way his fingers manipulate the small object as he plays with it absentmindedly that draws you in, the joints and muscles in his hand shifting under pale skin which looks almost as soft as it actually is.

Every now and again he’ll catch you staring at him, like now for example. His eyes flicker downwards finding your optics already fixed on him, “You want a hit Princess?” He raises his eyebrow, gesturing with the hand holding the smoke.

You nod your head, it’s not every day you’re included in their little smoke breaks post coitus, “Please.”

“Please,” Sirius mocks you as he leans down to hold the cigarette to your lips. You barely have the chance to taste the tobacco before it's being pulled away, this time to your right where Remus takes his time enjoying his smoke.

You can’t help but whine as it departs your lips and you’re met by the shit eating grin on Sirius’ face, clearly taking pleasure in teasing you so mercilessly.

“No whining Princess, smoking isn’t good for pretty girls is it?” Letting his hand cup the side of your face his thumb runs along the soft cushion of your bottom lip, applying just enough pressure to tease you.

In your peripheral vision you catch the cig being handed over your head, exchanging between the two boys as you nod your head once more.

“Good girl,” He coos, before taking another hit.

As the smoke leaves his nostrils he’s dipping down to find your lips. He tastes of smoke and something about it coming from his lips makes it all the more sweet, it’s probably better than the real thing.

It’s intensified as his tongue delves into your mouth, you can practically feel the smoke in your lungs, you’ve never been a match for him and simply let your tongue be manipulated by his before he pulls back, connecting the two of you with a strand of saliva that when it breaks falls onto the side of your face.

“Messy girl,” He murmurs, smug smirk on his lips, as he wipes away the mess, in reality his efforts only work to smear the spit on your cheek rather than clean it up.

“So what do you think baby?” Remus asks, sitting up and pulling you with him so you’re both upright, “You wanna try and go again?”

“I don’t know Rem, you think Siri can get it back up or is my wrist gonna cramp trying to get him hard?”

“You two are cruel,” No matter how hard he tries to hide it you can see the slight smile pulling upwards at his lips, “You’re even hiding your titties from me, mean.”

He gestures towards your chest, he’s right, you’d subconsciously clutched the sheet to your chest, crossing your arms to keep it in place and your breasts covered.

Heat rushes to your cheeks as the realization dawns upon you, it wasn’t that you were intentionally guarding them from either boy but you realize that that is how it looks.

“No it's not that Siri I just, I usually keep them covered. They’re… they’re… “ You stumble over your words, only increasing your embarrassment.

“They’re what puppy?” Remus asks, lightly brushing your hair behind your ear so that he has access to your temple, smearing his lips across the soft skin.

“I don’t know,” As you grow shy your voice drops to a mere mumble, “They’ve got all sorts of marks on them.”

This proves worrisome enough for Sirius to set down his fag, letting it sit in the ashtray on the nightstand.

“You mean stretch marks Princess?”

You try your best not to cringe at those words, stretch marks. It's not a dirty word, somewhere inside you, you know that but that has never stopped you from being insecure by them. Deliberately choosing tops that side the ones that sprout from the tops, near your under arm before traveling down the curvature of your tit. Making sure your lingerie always has some sort of extra covering where they’re most visible.

You feel Remus’ hold on you tighten from behind at your pained silence, it's telling enough.

“Just don’t like them.”

Your words have Sirius climbing closer to you, throwing your legs around his hips so the two of you can sit face to face while Remus holds you from behind.

“May we see them, Puppy?” Remus’ elegant fingertips dance along the top of the sheet which resides just a few inches below your collarbone. You shiver at his dainty touch, his fingers are light as feathers, slowly coaxing you into trusting them with this.

“It’s okay,” Sirius’ hand delicately grasps your knee over the soft sheet, “Wanna see our pretty girls but it's alright if you need a moment puppy.”

“No, s’okay.”

Sirius gives you a small smile that only grows as you drop the sheet, letting it pool at your waist.

He spares you a glance before slowly extending his arm, giving you time to tell him to stop or pull the sheet back up, and even though you want to do both those things and more you love Siri. You love Rem. And you know that they’ll be gentle and patient with you.

So instead you steel yourself for his touch relaxing as you feel Remus’ sizable hands wrap around your waist, resting on your tummy.

Your shoulders bunch back up as the tips of Sirius’ fingers,  nails having been painted black just a few hours ago. His touch is steady as he finds a particularly predominant mark tracing along the curve of your tit.

“You’re so fucking gorgeous (Y/N), can’t believe I get to touch you.”

“You’re silly Siri.”

“Not silly, you’re just fucking breathtaking. You got the nicest tits.”

“Just all marked up,” You shrug your shoulders, Remus takes the opportunity to smooth his chapped lips along your joint.

“No,” Remus contradicts, “They’re marked up when we sink our teeth into them and leave pretty bruises all over them,” His hands travel from your waist to explore your tit before stopping on the top of your left one where he remembers having sucked rather fervently just an hour before, “Like right here.”

His pressing down on the flesh pulls a squeak from you as a shock of pain shoots up your spine, leaving your body tingly and the specific spot where his fingers rest pulsing.

“These,” He continues, dragging his fingers over the small indents in your skin, “Are your stripes.”

Sirius leans down, capturing your nipple in his mouth as his hands go to support the weight of your breast. The angle’s a bit awkward but it seems to do little, if anything, to discourage him.

Gently capturing your nipple with his teeth he sucks harder, nuzzling at your chest as he does so. The pleasure that you derive from such a simple act has your head falling back onto the solidity of Remus’ shoulder, pulling whimpers from your throat as you jutt your chest out.

“So fucking good,” Sirius growls as he regretably lets go of your titty, “Pretty nipples,” He accentuates his point by twisting them each between his fingers, “Pretty stripes.”

Leaning down he drags his tongue along one of your stretch marks, beginning in the valley between your breasts before extending upwards.

“They’re completely natural, Puppy,” Remus’ voice is subdued as he runs his hands up and down your waist, “Lots of people have them on their tits, Siri and I have them in other places too.”

“S different on you , Remmy,” You try to explain, “You two are perfect.”

“Does it bother you when we see them during sex baby?” He asks with genuine curiosity in his voice, the thought of making you uncomfortable when you’re so open and vulnerable leaving his stomach twisting.

“Not always, no,” He remains silent, urging you to continue, “You make me feel beautiful Rem, both of you, I just can’t help but not like them, don’t like the way they look, or the way they feel.”

You hear him suck in a deep breath and you can practically hear the gears in his mind turning as he contemplates just what to say.

His hands move to hold both sides of your face in his palms as his forehead falls to rest against yours.

“Let us show you how beautiful your tits are, will you let us do that?”

“You don’t have to-”

Sirius cuts you off, releasing your tit from his mouth, “We want to (Y/N), let us,” He dips his head back down, delicately kissing the top of one of your breasts, “Please.”

He murmurs the simple, one syllable, word against your skin, the sensation sending shivers through your body. He rolls your hardened nipples between his fingers, it's nearly enough to have you mewling as you kneel at his feet. Maybe another time.

Before you can register what’s happening, strong hands are softly pushing you back so that you’re laying down on the bed.

You feel the steady weight of your breasts bouncing on your chest before they’re being grasped by hands that just by touch you recognize as Remus’. His thumbs run along the insides of your breasts where more faded lines reside, creating swirling patterns that Remus seems to thoroughly enjoy.

“You know why you got these right?” Sirius questions, raising his brow.

You shake your head.

“Because you got big fucking tits Princess, look at them!” Smoothly he replaces Remus’ hands with his own, letting their weight settle in his hands, “Bigger than my hands, bigger than Rem’s, they’re fucking gorgeous.”

He drops onto his bum as he reaches over you to pick up his fag, raising it to his lips as his eyes fixate on your bare tits, a wicked smirk on his lips. Instead of feeling uncomfortable under his eyes the feeling is something equivalent to the sun’s rays shining on you, warming you all the way down to your core.

You can’t help but smile at the sincerity in his voice, the absolution with which he speaks pulling at your heart strings. How did you get so lucky as to deserve his love? Though he’s not as chatty you know Remus believes every word out of Sirius’ mouth, tenderly he takes your hand in his, absentmindedly playing with your fingers while your two hands rest in his lap.

“It’s just hard to believe you guys sometimes, m’your girlfriend, you gotta be nice to me.”

Gently Remus guides your hand to his crotch, you’re met by his aching cock which you’re just now realizing is standing fully erect, aching, weeping red tip smearing precum against his lean belly.

“Believe us now?”

tag list: @randomoutsiders @weasleyposts @amourtentiaa @kittykylax @superbturtlemakerathlete @oliviashea05 @pinkandblueblurbs @dracofknmalfoy @itsmentalillness @zzzfour @gubleryum @advictedtohim @marauderswhore07 @st0nesnglitter @priii @miraclesoflove @shadesofvelma @ashlovesthemarauders @artemis1orion @skaratjung @ava-brooke-blog1 @fairyprettygirly @padfootswife @roonilwazlibswhore @swearingsolemnly @jamespotterslover @lolooo22 @adrianscumslut @jeannelupinblack @wh0reforthemarauders @myalupinblack @ashesandstars @remugoodgirl @planet-wolfstar @saintlike78 @i-love-scott-mccall @cedricisnotdead @pretty-pop-princess-hs  @sunshinexweasley  @saggyb1lls @trashyvicks @sprucewoodlover @slut4drvc0 @1-800-amortentia

[nat-cat31]

Obikin Drabble — Amnesia

It was taking too long.

Anakin paced the entrance of the healers ward with growing distress, his long strides taking up the small alcove with increasing agitation.

The wound Obi-Wan received seemed simple enough- a small but efficient blunt force trauma in the head, from the blaster of a droid during close combat. He had kept fighting even when the blood overflowed into his eyes, and remained standing long enough to give Anakin a brush in the force before promptly collapsing, giving his commander a fright in his haste to catch him.

The trip back to the healers had been, in a word, nerve wracking. Anakin’s worry knew no bounds, as people close to him would acclaim. Obi-Wan’s vitals had remained stable, but his inability to stay conscious was concerning. Anakin was only thankful that their mission had been nearby to the temple, and not deep in the outer rim with little supplies and even less options of treatment. He would have the best care here.

Still. He hadn’t woken up yet.

Anakin’s pacing was interrupted by a healer poking their head out, gesturing him in. He needed no further prompting, nearly tripping over himself trying to get in quicker.

Obi-Wan was sitting up, a bandage around his head and an IV coming from his arm. Another healer was asking him questions and getting Obi-Wan to test his reflexes. Anakin felt his joy bubbling up like a raging reek, seeing his master’s eyes coming to rest on him.

“Oh, aren’t you pretty?”

Anakin felt everything stop, complete silence filing the halls as he tried to understand…

What had his master just called him?

“Uh…um…”

Obi-Wan cooed at Anakin’s stunted expression, his force presence spilling out between them like a soft blanket. “Humor me, would you?” He gestured him closer, and the healer took a few steps back to allow Anakin to stumble forward. He grabbed the headboard of the cot, trying to understand what was going on-

Obi-Wan’s calloused hand reaching out to cup Anakin’s cheek was certainly not helping.

“Darling, am I one with the force? I don’t…I don’t think I would be able to see someone like you here with me in any mortal world…”

Anakin could feel his eyes popping out of his skull, a croak sound coming out of him unbidden. “Master- what in karking hells are you talking about?! I- are you okay?”

Obi-Wan gave him a wistful smile, the hand on Anakin’s face trailing down to cup between his jaw and neck, driving a shiver down Anakin’s spine as Obi-Wan thumbed at his pulse point. He couldn’t help but let his eyes shutter closed. He had been so worried, he was just glad to feel Obi-Wan with him, no matter what bantha shit he was sprouting.

“Oh, I’ve never been better, precious one. Having you here distracts me from anything I have to fear.” His gaze seemed to flit from the hand at Anakin’s pulse and back to his fluttering eyelashes, pupils expanding as the air thickened between them.

Anakin frowned, utterly confounded. “Seriously, Obi-Wan, I think you hit your head way too hard. Do you know who I am?”

Obi-Wan tilted his head with a polite smile. “My own beautiful angel come to keep me company?”

Anakin groaned, stepping away from Obi-Wan’s hand to hide his face from view, feeling as if he was burning from the inside out. What was this? Where was Obi-Wan’s normal, tight lipped behavior and huffiness to be forced to stay in bed? He looked utterly content, staring at Anakin like it was all he could see.

Anakin knew Obi-Wan couldn’t mean these insipid things. He was a natural flirt. His memory would come back once the wooziness of his wound wore off, and he would be disgusted to remember flirting with his former padawan.

Distantly, as if from behind a closed door, Anakin realized Obi-Wan was speaking to him softly, carving out room on the cot that Anakin had sat down on.

“-sweet boy, I hate seeing you upset, you deserve to look happy always. Come now, look at me? Ah, there’s my beautiful boy, don’t worry, now that I’ve met you I’ll make sure you stay safe with me.”

Anakin felt his throat closing up, trying to understand why Obi-Wan looked so tender and open, when he was always faced with something closed off; a courteous gaze replaced with something raw.

“I- thank you, master, but I think you should go back to sleep. The healers will watch you. I’m…I’m sorry, I know you can’t remember me right now, but I’m really glad you’re okay, master.” Anakin tried to be as earnest as he could, biting his lip and toying with his gloved hand.

Anakin could hear Obi-Wan’s inhale of breath, as though he was about to speak, but the healer stepped forward again and Anakin took it as his way out. He stood up and gave Obi-Wan and the healer a polite bow, trying not to focus on the disappointed tightening of the bond the further he fled from the halls of healing.

Obi-Wan could never mean any…any of that.

[nagipops]

hi!! i think the ask box is open right now but what about a fem! reader that was kinda adopted by all the hashiras when she was small, and on her first mission, she gets turned into a demon? and like they're all conflicted but it's kinda sad how the reader wants to die because she was turned :( if you can't write it it's okay! i love ur works sm <3

SWEET NOTHINGS, BITTER ENDINGS PART I.

SUMMARY: in which your overwhelming tenacity leads you to suffer a demonic fate.

WARNINGS: blood, profanity

A/N: thank you darling! this got a bit long so i’ve split it into two parts— the second part will be posted very shortly! link to part two

“(Y/N)!” Giyuu barked. “Get back!”

You steadily held your nichirin blade in front of you with both hands, staring down the towering demon in front of you. Three veiny arms sprouted out from each side of its body, taunting your group as its flaring yellow eyes locked onto yours.

Clutching the handle of your blade tighter, you panted heavily to control your breathing, clenching your teeth. “I’ve got this!” you hollered back, your knuckles turning white.

You heard a clink of metal and the whirling of a sword as a short purple-haired hashira stepped in front of you. “It’s too dangerous.” Her typical honey-sweet voice was darkened with concern and anger. “Please, (Y/N).”

You were shaking with anger, and... envy? All you wanted was to be strong. To bring home a kill on your first mission. To not be seen as a child anymore by the nine pillars who had taken you under your wing when you were just a baby.

I’m not a kid anymore, you wanted to scream. I want to show you what I can do.

“Go,” Giyuu commanded, casting a glance at Shinobu before briefly locking eyes with you. “We’ll handle this.”

Biting your tongue, you glared at the demon for a moment longer before turning on your heel and retreating to the rest of your squad.

“(Y/N)-chan!” Mitsuri wailed, throwing her arms around you. Over her shoulder, you spotted a fuming Obanai glaring daggers at you; whether he was jealous of the pink-haired girl draped over you or angry at your reckless actions, you couldn’t tell. “We were so worried about you!”

“No, we weren’t,” Obanai hissed. “What you did was idiotic and careless. You were putting everyone in danger.”

“Iguro-kun, always so protective!” Mitsuri giggled, patting you on the head before releasing you from her surprisingly tight hold, her expression growing serious. “Tomioka and Shinobu might need our assistance. (Y/N), go find Sanemi and see if he needs help. Iguro, come with me!” She quickly flounced off with a seething Obanai in tow.

Huffing a sigh, you entered the mass of trees behind you to search for the white-haired hashira.

Lofty, swaying pines loomed over you as the sounds of battle crashed throughout the forest. A flock of crows frantically flapped out from the canopy, shooting into the sky as their noisy caws rang through the air. Frigid winds whipped all around you as you hunted down the wind pillar.

A piercing clink of metal, not unlike the noise of a nichirin blade, sounded from your left. Sanemi? Cautiously drawing your sword from its sheath on your hip, you slowly made your way to the source of the noise.

As you neared a small clearing, the sound grew louder and louder, but you still could not locate any hashira or any demons for that matter. You spotted a thick tree to your right and fled over to hide behind it while you scouted out the area.

The clinking continued, and as you listened more closely, it seemed to be coming from...

Above?

Your heart went cold as you realized you didn’t hear any human voices around you.

At all.

You slowly slid your gaze upwards, not daring to move a single muscle.

And there it was. With a rotting arm clutching a chipped, bloodied blade, carving out the remains of a tattered corpse, three feral red eyes piercing through the dark shade and locking onto yours...

A demon.

Fear pooled instantly in your stomach as you felt bile rise in your throat. The putrid stench of rotten flesh and blood nearly made you hurl on the spot, yet your horror kept your nausea at bay.

Were you going to die here?

You felt your terrified breaths grow shallow as the demon above you licked its lips, tossing the corpse down in front of you with a thud.

“N-nemi?” you whispered in fear, praying, praying to the gods that this wasn’t one of your brothers. You quickly studied the corpse and your surroundings, searching for any sign that this bloodied body wasn’t him. You searched for his sword hilt, his white hair, his signature haori, but the darkness of the deep night made any hint or clue futile.

Glaring at the bloodthirsty demon above you, you were petrified with fear. Your heavy feet were locked into place. Your thumping heart nearly burst out of your chest. But you stared the beast down with all your might, slowly reaching your blade out to the corpse in front of you in attempt to retrieve the scrappy remains of what was left of it.

Inch by inch, your gaze unwavering with the demon’s bloodshot eyes, you dragged the body closer and closer to you until it was just within arm’s reach. Steeling yourself, you swiftly grabbed the body and darted away.

You had no time to check whose body you were holding. All you knew was that you had to—

“Kff!”

All of a sudden, your back hit the ground. Hard. With the wind knocked out of your lungs, all you could see was black. You felt your blade slip out of your grasp as your spine seared with red-hot pain. Once you regained your senses, you opened your eyes...

Oh, shit.

Impossibly sharp fangs loomed over you, dripping with foul saliva that oozed onto your heaving chest. Crazed yellow eyes speckled with pumping red veins latched onto yours, a rotting jade-colored head thrashing back and forth as its piercing claws pinned you to the ground. Its breath was the most vile scent you’ve ever smelled in your entire life, reeking of blood and flesh and who knows what else.

And it was just mere inches away from your face.

Stifling a wave of nausea, you swiftly pulled your knees up to your chest and pushed, kicking the demon backwards by its torso as hard as your body would let you.

Darting over to your blade which had fallen to the ground just a few feet away from you, you picked it up and pointed it at the snarling demon who was picking its burly body off of the forest floor.

“You!” you shouted, wiping your slimy face on the sleeve of your uniform. “I’m not scared of you!”

The demon responded with a warbling noise, something that sounded like... laughing?

Your nerves set on fire. Oh, that’s it. You would end this vile monster right here, right now.

“Leaf Breathing, Second Form: Whirlwind of Fronds!” Exhaling sharply through clenched teeth, you felt cool winds start to whip around you, picking up speed as leaves and needles rapidly gravitated towards you as though you were a magnet.

Now!

Growling with fury, you charged at the gremlin with all your might, the swirling flurry of foliage honing in on the center of its chest. Each leaf transformed into sharp, miniature daggers, piercing through the demon’s grayish skin and buying you just enough time to move in close. Wielding your blade with both hands, you raised it above your head before forcefully slicing downwards with a roar, aiming for the neck.

But your opponent was nimble, and it barely dodged its head out of the way, landing you a clean shot down its shoulder to its flank. Shit, the arm can just regenerate itself, you cursed, quickly angling your sword laterally for a slice through the neck as the demon howled in pain.

You slashed your sword as hard as you could, but instead of cutting through soft flesh, you were met with thick, gnarly bone. The demon had raised its other arm in defense, keeping your lethal blade at bay. Struggling to push back against the sturdy bone, you gritted your teeth as you attempted to release your sword from its muscle.

But the demon had already beaten you to it and whipped its hefty arm outwards to shake you off, hurling you across the clearing.

“Hkk!” You landed straight on your back once again with a heavy thud, but you noticed that your blade was still lodged into the creature’s arm. Perfect. Even though single nerve in your body was screaming in pain, even as your limbs trembled as you shakily picked yourself up off the ground, you would never back down from a fight. “Hey, ugly! Let’s finish this!”

The demon howled furiously, clamoring to rip your blade out of its arm.

“Third Form: Drill of Needles!”

Hundreds of thousands of pine needles descended from the midnight sky at your command, whirling into a tight cone while speeding towards the neck of the monster. You heard the earsplitting drilling of flesh and wood followed by a deafening groan and huffed in triumph as the pent-up exhaustion began to release throughout your body.

You nearly hit the ground for the third time when you caught some movement out of the corner of your eye.

Oh, hell no.

There was the same demon, its bright yellow eyes even more furious now, perched high up in a tree.

“B-but...” your mind and vision grew hazy as you noticed the gaping hole in the demon’s chest, with its neck still intact. I missed? You cursed sharply at the sight of your chipped blade thrown carelessly on the ground a great distance away from you.

What do I do? Giyuu, Shinobu, what do I do? Mitsuri? Obanai? Is anyone there?

Your felt your body begin to admit defeat, your legs shaking as they threatened to give out from underneath you, your heaving lungs burning and aching for rest.

The corpse.

Where was the corpse? The same one that got you into this mess?

Sanemi?

You struggled to keep your vision trained on the demon high above as your body started to wobble in exhaustion. “Hey,” you slurred. “Come out here! We’re not— kff! We’re not done yet!”

A snarl sounded from over your shoulder as the familiar stench of rotting flesh flooded your nose once again.

This time, you plummeted to the ground face-first, hearing your nose crack in the process. But your body was too drained for you to properly register the pain.

You were so numb.

Groaning, you slowly rolled onto your back and gazed into the eyes of the demon hovering above you hungrily. Its arm that you had sliced off had already fully recovered, while the other arm choked your neck with an iron grip.

Your vision was nearly white now, your oxygen supply running low as blood trickled out of your neck where the demon’s claw had pierced the skin.

Die. Die. You were going to die. On your first mission. Without a single kill under your belt.

Forcing a smirk onto your face, you squeezed your eyes shut as you endured the pain as best you could. “Hey, now— hck... If there’s anything that Sanemi taught me... it’s that humans... always get the last laugh...” You cracked open one eye, staring straight into the demon’s yellow orbs.

“Noxious... nectar...” you gasped out one last command, watching the bloody pinpricks dotted all around the demon’s greying skin transform into purple specks of poison. The monster thrashed around, violently clutching its head at the pain seeping through its entire body. You watched as your first and last kill take place right in front of you as your vision began to fade.

But not before the demon’s deadly blood dripped into your open wounds.

link to part two.

if you enjoyed this post, likes and reblogs are much appreciated :) feel free to request here, and make sure to read the rules first! have a lovely day everyone <3

[unbridgeabledistances]

ian + mickeys neck (was thinking of the drunk ian fic and wondered if you would be interested in pursuing this idea further?) <3

anon i am CRYING thank u so much for this!!!! i have been feeling like i need to make my contribution to the “mickey’s neck” discourse for a while lmao and this is my opportunity (esp bc ian holding mickey in the 11x12 stills wrecked me)

in the spirit of following up 11x10 i decided to write this based on an amazing post @mickey-millagher made/a prompt that @pombby sent me about ian teaching mickey to swim at a public pool during lockdown at some point early s11- i hope u enjoy<3

(this is the tiniest notch steamier than what i usually write but it isn’t smutty fyi- tw for descriptions of choking😌)

--

There was no one at the park— the air hung heavy and humid over the empty picnic tables and wooden benches that punctuated the fields of dying grass. As much as people on the Southside were definitely not taking any part of this lockdown shit seriously, it didn’t surprise Ian how silent the public park was— there was still a scarcer number of people out on their stoops or lounging on street corners this summer. Ian guessed that the few people who didn’t think that this was a hoax realized that this COVID shit was serious enough that they couldn’t afford healthcare if they got it, or whatever— but regardless, that meant that this Southside summer was weirdly stagnant somehow, and felt different from the noisy and crowded rhythms of summers past.

It was the late morning, just as the air started heat like a convection oven as the sun rose over the skyline— and Ian had his heart set on teaching Mickey to swim today. The conversation had come up last night at dinnertime, when Debbie was complaining about the heat wave— and they had all started reminiscing about the rickety, tin-sided pool they used to put up in the backyard years ago until Carl had taken a hatchet to it when he was 11 when he was trying to tear it down. Sitting next to Mickey at the kitchen table, thighs pressed where their chairs were scooted close together, Ian had suddenly remembered his words from their road trip to the border, years ago now:

“You could try swimming across the border.”

“I never learned how, man.”

And he’d immediately opened his mouth, not catching the words before they moved from his brain to his mouth, and asked Mickey in the middle of the dinnertime chatter: “Hey Mick, did you ever actually learn to swim?”

It was funny, and arbitrary, and stupid; they were married now, but for some reason this small fact about Mickey, the fact that he used to not know how to swim and by now he might have learned without Ian’s knowledge, made something warm pool in Ian’s stomach. He’d known Mickey, and had been itching to be closer and closer to him, for a full decade—and there were still so many things that he didn’t know. And this was proof, this question that Ian still didn’t have the answer to about some weirdly fundamental aspect of Mickey’s identity— he was always going to want to keep asking things about Mickey. And he was always going to get to.

Mickey had looked him with daggers in his eyes, then flickered a defensive glance at all the smirks growing on Ian’s siblings’ faces. “Fuck you. I was doing plenty of other shit in Mexico, didn’t really get the chance to lounge on the fucking beach.”

Ian had reached under the table and placed a hand on Mickey’s knee—a peace offering, an apology for whatever Mickey-can’t-swim quips Carl and Lip would inevitably think up as a low blow the next time they all butted heads at breakfast time— but as the chatter about backyard pools and heat waves continued at the dinner table, Ian felt an idea stirring.

Which is why the next morning he’d woken his husband up by pressing a tender kiss to his jawbone, both of their skin damp and clammy from the heat in the stuffy bedroom, and whispered into his neck:

“I wanna try something today.”

Mickey’s mind had immediately veered in… other directions, his eyebrows raising in vaguely disappointed disbelief when Ian had explained his idea to go to the public pool and teach Mickey to swim with an exuberant grin on his face; but after some very enticing morning persuasion that had a lot to do with the fact that Mickey was still half asleep while Ian had pressed kisses down his spine and dragged him out of bed and handed him a pair of swim trunks, now they were at the public pool in the nearest park at midday, with Ian leading the way and Mickey dubiously and sleepily straggling behind him.

Ian slid open the lock on the chain-link fence that surrounded the pool, the same pool that was usually crawling with groups of teenagers smoking weed and toddlers in floaties who were sticky with melted ice cream on a summer day like today. And maybe he was just all hopped up on nostalgia, but Ian was feeling cheerful— there was a lightness to the blinding summer sunshine, radiating through him as it pooled on his skin, that made him feel weirdly exhilarated and giddy about teaching Mickey to swim in this grimy Southside pool, just because he could.

“I still can’t believe you never learned how to swim.” Ian said it over his shoulder as he strode through the gate, holding it open for Mickey.

Mickey just flipped him off, following behind him and setting down two towels and the 6-pack of beers he’d grabbed from the fridge as they’d shuffled out the door minutes before. Ian grinned. He knew the beers would be warm and syrupy in minutes—the air was muggy and humid, without any hint of a breeze for relief. Ian could already feel the sweat dripping down the back of his t-shirt; he peeled it off as he walked over the sunwarmed concrete towards the pool’s edge, crumpling the shirt and throwing it on top of the pile with the beers and the towels. Mickey was hesitant, not following Ian to the border of the water just yet.

“Seriously. I can’t count the number of times I was shoved into our bacteria-infested backyard pool when I was a kid. I’m pretty sure that Frank tried to drown me in there at one point.”

Mickey just shrugged noncommittally, his fingers slack around the bottom hem of his shirt and his eyes zeroing in on the pool of water. Ian thought Mickey would say something in reply— but the only sound in the air was the faint shouting of kids playing a basketball game the street over.

Holy shit. Ian had been so buoyant and excited about his nostalgia-fueled idea of going to the public pool on a summer day and teaching his husband to swim, dragging Mickey out of the house without a second thought, that he hadn’t realized it until now— Mickey was scared.

Ian swallowed down the grin that was threatening to overtake his face— one he knew that Mickey would immediately notice and hate, because he it drove him crazy when people gave him shit in vulnerable moments like this, when Mickey couldn’t do something. So instead Ian kept talking, hoping his chatter would loosen some of Mickey’s nerves.

“Didn’t you and your brothers ever go down to the other pool over on Trumbull?”

Mickey met Ian’s eyes then, raising an annoyed eyebrow. “Clearly not.”

And, okay. This was understandably bringing up some childhood shit. Ian tried to snap Mickey out of his head— he strode over to where Mickey was standing, a good six feet from the poolside, and snaked a hand onto the back of his neck, squeezing gently in what he hoped was a grounding and comforting touch that would drain the trepidation from Mickey’s defensive stance.

“One summer Debbie was so afraid of getting drowned at the public pool that she learned how to hold her breath for 4 minutes.” Ian grinned at the memory of Debbie dunking her head in a tub of water in the kitchen, making him and Lip time her. “Honestly, it was probably for the best you never went to the public pool. It was a shit show.”

Mickey scoffed, but the lightness was back in his eyes. “If I knew how to swim back in the day I probably woulda been the one doing the drowning.”

Ian barked out a laugh— and why did he immediately turn back into his 15-year-old self, with a god-awful crush on Mickey Milkovich, whenever Mick said shit like that? He pressed his lips into a smile, squeezing Mickey’s shoulder once more for good measure.

“Yeah, yeah. Okay, king of the Southside. You ready to get in the water?” Ian’s hand trailed down from its grasp on Mickey’s shoulderblades, dropping to encircle Mickey’s wrist and guide him towards the water.

Mickey immediately recoiled, yanking his hand from Ian’s hold and taking a step back, squinting and holding up a hand to block the bright rays of sun out of his eyes now that he wasn’t standing in Ian’s shadow.

“Fuck d’you mean? I’m not just gonna fucking hop in there and drown. You gotta show me what to do.”

Ian grinned again, without being able to hold it back. He knew what Mickey was like when he was afraid of something— defensive and grumbly and avoidant to touch. He rolled his eyes. “Can’t really teach you to swim when we’re not in the water, Mick. C’mon.”

Ian walked over to sit on the edge, then slid his torso down into the pool. The water was lukewarm and tepid, barely providing any relief from the sticky air— but it felt nice. Ian let out a little breath of relief from the heat as he waded over to the shallow end. Mickey was still standing by the mound of the towels the ground, watching him warily. Ian raised his eyebrows.

“You coming?”

Rolling his eyes, Mickey aggravatedly pulled off his shirt, tossing it behind him— sunrays bounced off of Mickey’s pale skin, owing mostly to the fact that Mickey had barely left the house in the last few weeks because of their prolonged “honeymoon.” He slowly walked to the very edge of the pool and, in a movement that made Ian’s heart grow ten sizes, hesitantly dipped a toe into the water like a cat trying to paw at something. A corner of Mickey’s mouth flickered downwards almost imperceptibly, a worry line sprouting on his forehead.

“I don’t know, man.”

Ian breathed out a laugh. Leave it to Mickey Milkovich, shit-talking king of the Southside, to be afraid of the shallow end of a public pool. Ian reached out a hand in what he hoped was a comforting gesture, still smiling like a sappy motherfucker at his painfully endearing husband.

“C’mon Mick, just stand here with me first.” Ian was waist-deep in the shallow end, the water pressing against his upper thighs— he knew that at this height the water would be at Mickey’s waist, right where his swim trunks met his hipbones.

Mickey’s brows furrowed from where he was still perched on the concrete lip of the pool ledge, his two feet firmly rooted. “Explain what I gotta do first. To swim, or whatever.”

Ian blew out a breath, still grinning like an idiot. “It’s not that hard, Mick. You just gotta circle your arms and circle your legs. But you have to get in the water first.”

Ian treaded over, pushing through the water to where he could rest his upper arms on the edge of the pool beside where Mickey was standing, staring up at him with what he hoped was a convincingly pleading face. Mickey’s eyes were still fixated on the water, lapping at the pool’s edge from where Ian had rippled through it. And suddenly Ian had an idea.

With a teasing grin, he reached a wet hand out from the water and encircled it around Mickey’s ankle, splattering the concrete with drops of water. Mickey immediately jerked like an electric shock had jolted through his body.

“You gonna come in, or do I have to make you?”

Mickey tried to shake his ankle out of Ian’s grasp, but Ian had hold of him with an iron fist. Mickey leaned over and tried to swat at Ian’s arm without losing his balance on the pool’s edge.

“Cut that shit out right now, Gallagher.”

Ian just grinned, squeezing Mickey’s ankle like he was about to tug him in. “Come on, Mick.”

Mickey’s eyes widened and, just as Ian had imagined he would— he started to freak the fuck out.  

“Ian stop that shit right now, I swear to god I will fucking murder you if you—”

They were at the 6-foot marker in the pool, right where it was deep enough for Mickey to stand on the very tips of his toes; and with this knowledge, Ian tugged at Mickey’s calf— causing him to falter, his arms circling like a cartoon character before he lost his balance and crashed into the water on his side.

Ian immediately placed his hands on Mickey’s hips, standing him upright before his head even fell under the water— but Mickey was still sputtering and splashing, like the drama queen that he was. Once Mickey regained his composure and realized he was easily standing on the bottom of the pool, his head bobbing just above the water, he swiftly splashed healthy burst of water into Ian’s face, the chlorine stinging his eyes and nose.

“Fuck you, Gallagher!”

Ian coughed at the water that had shot up his nose, but immediately splashed Mickey back—and then, because there wasn’t any way this whole pool situation was going to go anyways, he and Mickey were immediately engaged in a life-and-death splash battle, circling each other in the middle section of the pool.

Ian was laughing so hard he felt a stitch in his side— and Mickey was finally grinning again, water dripping down his cheeks and clinging to his hair. After a few minutes Ian threw his hands in the air in surrender, the water cresting at his shoulders.

“Truce!”

Mickey splashed one more surge of water at Ian’s chest for good measure, grinning like a kid in a candy store— then he took a step closer to Ian, eyebrows raised.

“Truce.”

Ian beamed down at him, pressing a quick peck to the top of his damp hair. “Sorry for throwing you in the pool.”

Mickey rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah.”

“But in my defense, it had to happen eventually.”

Mickey shoved him squarely in the chest, taking a step back. “You ruined the fucking truce.”

Ian gave a smug smirk. “Do you wanna learn how to swim, or not?”

Mickey flicked another burst of water at him, just enough to cast a slew of droplets onto Ian’s cheeks. “Alright. Get coaching, Michael Phelps.”

Ian hadn’t really considered how he was actually going to teach Mickey to swim— but it couldn’t be that hard, right? He tried to think back to when Lip had taught him how to tread water, on an equally as sweltering day in the backyard pool, when the yard was packed with lawn chairs and drunk neighbors and smelled of ashy barbeque smoke.

“Okay. So you’ve gotta move your arms in circles, kinda, to stay floating. And your legs too.”

Ian swam over to the deeper end of the pool, just an arm’s length away from where he and Mickey’s feet could touch, and tried to demonstrate how to tread water. “I feel like the easiest way for you to learn is just by doing it. C’mere.”

Mickey looked at him reluctantly, brows furrowed again in an outward display of his bundled nerves. “No fucking way.”

Ian sighed in exasperation. “C’mon, Mick. I’ve got you. I’m not gonna let you drown, you can hold on to me the whole time.”

Mickey raised an eyebrow— but then hesitantly took a step towards Ian, the water reaching up to the bottom of his chin.

“Alright, good. Now step where you can’t reach and try to tread water like I did.”

Mickey stepped forward again, then started to circle his arms under the water— and he was doing great, for a second, before he seemed to get too in his head about the mechanics and started to grit his teeth.

“Little help here, Gallagher?”

Ian grinned and stepped forward. “Here, you can hang onto me.” He stood where Mickey could reach and grab onto his shoulders if he needed to— but Mickey seemed to regain his confidence, and was starting to steadily, if a little bit clumsily, tread water.

He kept it up for a while, until Ian could see that he was overexerting himself— waving his arms under the water with a little too much gusto, brows furrowed and his teeth digging into his lower lip in concentration.

“Mick, you’ve got it. Chill out for a sec.”

Ian reached an arm out, a branch for Mickey to grab on to— because he had been joking before, yes, but he really didn’t want Mickey to fucking drown— and when Mickey grasped onto it, Ian pulled Mickey towards him in the water, kicking backwards so they were suspended in the deeper end of the pool with Mickey clinging to Ian’s neck.

Mickey looked nervous as Ian veered them towards deeper waters, his eyes darting from side to side where they were floating, his fingers digging into the back of Ian’s neck— and Ian smirked at how freaked out he seemed, standing only a few feet from where they could both confidently stand on the tiled pool bottom. But Mickey didn’t resist, or try to propel himself back into the shallower waters— he let himself cling on to Ian, fingers interlaced behind the tops of Ian’s shoulders, as he kept them afloat. Ian laughed softly in a warm, wet gust across Mickey’s cheek. “You okay?”

He could feel the heat radiating off of Mickey’s body, squeezing up close against him— and Ian couldn’t help it, the wave of fondness that came over him as he looked down at where Mickey was pressed against his chest; trusting Ian to keep them above the water, trusting Ian enough to go along with his stupid plan to teach him to swim in a public pool on a random morning just because Ian wanted to. Ian couldn’t help but feel warmth in his stomach at this simple moment, at the two of them bobbing in the pool— at teaching his husband to swim, something Mickey’d never gotten to do as a kid but something that they had the rest of their lives to do together.

“Maybe we could teach Franny to swim next summer. If we have our own place.”

As he said it, Ian hoped that Mickey could see the flood of hopes that he had for them in his eyes— that he wanted a place with a pool, and a balcony, maybe a backyard, and maybe even a fucking garden—he’d always wanted to grow tomatoes. More than anything he wanted to build something sturdy, that could stand up to whatever ground would inevitably shift beneath them in the years to come— he’d been thinking about that a lot these days, especially with all of the pandemic shit that had pulled a rug out from under this entire neighborhood.

Mickey’s gaze flickered up from where it had been boring a panicky hole in Ian’s sternum, meeting Ian’s eyes at the phrase “our own place”— and Ian instantly knew that he got it, that he could see the dreams that Ian was building for the two of them right in front of their eyes. That after months and years of obstacles and chaos and other voices infiltrating their heads, now it was just them— now it was just Ian and Mickey, clinging to each other and drifting through the calm, chlorinated waters.

And maybe it was their proximity, or the intensity Ian knew he was pouring out in his gaze, but instantly the air between them shifted as Mickey looked up— starting to hang heavy like the press of the humidity in the air. Their faces were centimeters apart— and Mickey’s lips parted slightly, his eyes now cast downward at Ian’s lips. Ian could smell the sweet, warm beer on Mickey’s breath, mingling with his own; he looked at Mickey, whose arms were still wrapped around his neck, water dripping down his face from the hair that was fanning over his forehead—and Ian just had to pull him in, had to place a hand in the damp hair at the nape of Mickey’s neck and tug him closer, backing them against the tiled wall of the pool.

Ian could taste the faintest bitterness of chlorine on Mickey’s lips, from the water droplets lingering there, as he took Mickey’s bottom lip between his teeth. Mickey’s hands were still limply wrapped around Ian’s neck, keeping himself afloat— even though Ian had backed them against a wall in the shallow end of the pool again, and Mickey could probably touch his toes to the ground if he wanted to.

Ian raised his hand from under the water, wanting Mickey closer— he pressed a hand to the side of Mickey’s neck, slick with water, and slid a thumb over Mickey’s collarbone, pressing down with the pad of his fingers.

And Mickey gave a little involuntary noise from the back of his throat, sending a jolt down Ian’s spine.

Ian’s hands circling Mickey’s neck was definitely not a foreign concept while they were kissing—  it was something they did a lot these days, especially as their hours in bed had taken a turn from the crazed, I-missed-your-body-so-fucking-much sex they were having in the beginning days of being in prison together and those early months after Mickey had gotten released— but both in prison and during this fucking quarantine, they’d gotten a bit more experimental, and a bit more reckless—especially before Ian had gotten his warehouse job and they were still on their structureless “honeymoon,” spending entire days lounging in bed.

It was those days of lazy, languid kisses, after years and years of already knowing each other, that Ian realized that he was maybe a little bit obsessed with Mickey’s neck. He’d always joked about liking Mickey’s legs, and that was true too (if he was being honest, there wasn’t a part of Mickey’s body that didn’t make his blood run hotter)— but the first time Mickey had grabbed Ian’s hand and put it up to his neck while they were tangled together, pressing down until Ian’s hand covered most of his throat, Ian knew that they’d opened Pandora’s fucking box.

By this point, Ian’s hand was pretty much always on Mickey’s neck at some point while they were fucking or even just making out— if he was being totally honest, Ian’s hand was on Mickey’s neck more often than not in lots of contexts these days, once they realized how much they both loved it. But there was something about this current moment, of Mickey wantonly desiring a point of contact there, right now, while they were very randomly and decidedly making out while floating in a public pool on a lazy weekday afternoon, that made Ian’s blood run hotter than usual, and rush quicker through his veins.

Ian let the pads of his fingers creep up the velvet skin of the side of Mickey’s neck, pressing a little deeper, a prelude— he could feel the vibration of Mickey’s heartbeat starting to flutter from where Mickey was still pressed against his chest, still clinging to his neck in the water.

They’d already extensively discussed limits and everything, Mickey would tap his wrist twice if shit got too intense— but even with that in mind, Ian pulled apart from Mickey for a second, trailing ghosts of kisses up the side of his neck and nipping at the underside of Mickey’s jaw. Mickey stretched his neck back and gave a little involuntary sputter of a moan, bubbling out of his mouth before he could stop it. He fisted a hand in Ian’s hair, at the nape of his neck, and leaned forward again to press their lips together with more fervor.

Ian pulled back again, his upper back resting against the concrete lip of the pool. Mickey looked disheveled and wrecked, half-dry chlorine-crusted hair sticking up from where Ian’s other hand had been cradling the back of his head, his blue eyes gleaming and catching the over-bright summer light. Mickey was still clinging his arms around Ian’s neck, holding on— they were in a fucking pool, and Mickey still couldn’t really fucking swim yet— and even though they were standing in a place where Mickey’s toes could certainly touch the ground, the whole thing felt weirdly insular and intimate, like they had to cling to each other.

Mickey raised his eyebrows at Ian, like he was daring him to keep going.  

Ian leaned forward, breathing heavily into Mickey’s mouth, but not pressing their lips together yet—and he reached a hand up again, against Mickey’s tender skin. Mickey’s legs were wrapped around Ian’s hips now, locked like a vice to keep himself upright in the water— and he pressed a little harder, gently pulsing at the sides of Mickey’s neck, in tandem with their lips pressing together over and over again as the warm waters surrounded them—the whole thing, the whole combination, made Ian feel indescribably floaty and weird and warm and blissed out; his skin stinging like ice and fire at every point of contact, electricity  zapping his nerve endings wherever his fingertips met Mickey’s skin. Mickey fisted his hand harder at the back of Ian’s hair, nodding slightly—and they were definitely not going to fuck here, in the filth of a Southside public pool, but this insular closeness, the knowing what they both wanted to right now, was equally as thrilling and fulfilling to Ian in the moment. He could almost feel his own heart beating, reverberating as it pressed against Mickey’s chest, vibrating straight through Mickey and back to him as they clung to each other in the water.

Mickey’s body was thrumming, letting out little gasps of breath between kisses and touches—and Ian pulled back and dragged his lips down the side of Mickey’s neck, inhaling the sunwarmed skin. Fuck. He was never, never going to get enough of this.

**

Later, they’d dragged their water-heavy limbs back through the still summer streets to the Gallagher house, their skin pink and their bodies exhausted from soaking up the sun— and they’d collapsed into bed, feeling the dried chlorine coating their skin.

Ian reached a hand up, rubbing a thumb over Mickey’s cheek, their bodies pliant and fatigued— and pressed a kiss to his forehead.

“Thanks for letting me teach you how to swim.”

Mickey had smirked. “Yup, that was definitely the only highlight of today. Swimming.”

[mergeman]

My New Ride

Five more months, that’s all I have left as Jack.  He’s been such a delicious host; his spectral energy has sated me for the last four years. Now what was once a spectrum has diluted into muted primary colors that no longer satisfy my hunger.  Don’t get me wrong I also give something back, not all the energy I consume is used; the shit leftover can be used to physically influence the host.  

Take Jacky boy here, when I first met him, he was a senior in college.  Just another average evangelical, toss a penny anywhere south of the Mason-Dixon line and it will hit one.  To the outsider Jacky presented as a timid, underweight, nerd, but I saw the kaleidoscope of energies that infused his being.  So, I took him, fed on those scrumptious auroras, then used the waste to build his body.  The consumption of his empathy, patience and humility causes massive changes to the psyche. Now Jack is a narcissistic but charming asshole willing to screw anyone over just to advance his lot.

I couldn’t be any prouder of the man I created, but all good things must end.  If I corrupt his essence any further, it will intertwine with mine causing us to become one.  So, to keep living I started to scope out my options.  Unfortunately, not much is available in the business world, the humans here are naturally corrupt themselves without any undue influence. As a passenger searching was difficult, Jack only hung out with petty sycophants who boosted his already enormous ego.  I was getting despondent with each passing day, every person Jack encountered was woefully inept and would not be able to sustain me for long.  I was so depressed that I almost missed the new neighbor that bought a condo in the same building as my penthouse.  He was perfect!  A full prism of colors radiated off this specimen, and to top it off he was easy on the mortal eyes as well.  

 Starvation was overwhelming me; I hadn’t fed in seven weeks and I knew that this new subject would be my next host.  My hunger even affected Jack; he had become infatuated with this new tenant to the point of stalking him.  Jack used his influence to dig up information on the new tenant, soon he had his name (Xylon), age (32), career (Charity Organizer), and even which gym he frequented. With this material he started to integrate himself into Xylon’s life, first ‘casually’ meeting him at the gym and becoming buddies, then later he got Xylon a contract to work with the charity division of his firm.  My time with Jack was soon to expire, to make the jump both subjects should be naked and ideally in physical contact.  The one big hurdle was that Xylon came with a long-term boyfriend, Jack though was not deterred by this, he wanted Xylon, and Jack always gets his way.  After pulling a few strings, Xylon showed up at our penthouse bemoaning that he had found evidence of his boyfriends’ infidelity. I could feel Jack’s malicious glee that the anonymous texts had worked.  Seizing the unexpected opportunity, he invited Xylon inside and offered him a drink, then another, then another.  Jack was taken aback when Xylon looked into his eyes and started to kiss him deeply without any prompting.  

Sexual energy infused Jack as Xlyon’s hand unbuckled his pants, slipped past his underwear to grab Jack’s hardening cock.  Clothing became a burden to both men as they stumbled to the master suit.  Xylon took dominance of Jack as he flipped the smaller man on his back, I could feel the steel like appendage enter through my hosts ass.  I began the unpleasant process of unlinking my essence and prepping the transference.  Slowly I send a tendril of myself to Xylon reaching for his nourishing spectrum. The tendril developed tiny barbs so I could hook into my newest host.  My anticipation had so overwhelmed me that I didn’t notice the other presence.

Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!

Both I and Them quickly tried to retreat into our original hosts.   Only it was to late, our energies had already stared to intermingle.  Memories from my counterpart were bombarding me, I could feel myself loose definition as They and I were becoming one entity.  I didn’t want to cease, I wanted to live, I wanted to feed, I wanted my new host.  A rush of power came upon me and I channeled it into separating us. I could feel them also trying to retreat, our molecules started to unbind one by one as they and I went back to the safety of our original hosts.  I was almost completely free when a new horror presented itself, in my panic I had consumed more of Jack’s corrupted soul, but I had taken to much. I was out of time with nowhere to go, Jack’s spectrum was now consuming me, and in my lapsed attention the linking to my counterpart regained strength.  

Xylon was still pounding Jack’s ass, both were consumed with orgasmic bliss that they didn’t notice the physical ramifications of the internal struggle.  It started at the feet where each man’s ankles were touching, the skin liquefied and started to swirl together.  Sinew and cartilage detached as bones broke apart two masses of distorted flesh now supported the unaware men.  The tissue started to twist and bloat as broken pieces of bone fused together to create a new more powerful appendage.  The process crept up their legs, the fibers of the calves weaving together into a more robust muscle.  

As the knee joint disintegrated and the nerves laid bare, They and I were using the last of our conscious effort to take our host’s excruciating pain and turn it towards pleasure.  Neither man had yet to notice that from the thigh down they were one.  More flesh melted as their pelvises were pulverized, Xylon’s cock pushed through the molten tissue and into Jack’s cock, stretching the sensitive gland like an overused condom.  With each thrust of their fused hips the cock grew longer and girthier until the swollen, purple, mushroom head burst forth from the newly created foreskin.

A line of angry pink skin arose on Xylon, starting just above his merged cock and traveled upwards to the base of his neck.  The flesh started to part opening wider as his abs and pectorals were bisected.  Knowing the panic that the sight would cause We/They/I increased Xylon’s pleasure centers while simultaneously turning off his ocular nerve.  The chest split through the sternum and the rib bones could be seen, as the cavity opened up like a giant maw.  Jack’s arms were supporting him on the bed as the jaw like flesh wrapped around his torso enclosing them together.  The internal organs made sickening squelching noises as each one found its companion.  Jack’s spine detached itself wormed its way around the confusion of biofluids until it found its other half.  Vertebrae unlinked with the sound of breaking branches as the two exposed nervous clusters found each other and became one.  A singular spine reforged stronger and longer than what came before.  

Where the shoulders met a bubbling mass of epidermis, muscle tissue and bone were coalescing into broad boulders that could support any weight.  Four hands found the newly created cock and started to tug in tandem as the biceps and triceps lacerated and rejoined their strength.  Fingers and thumbs melted into one another, the liquid state not lasting as new sturdier digits replaced them.  Lastly their heads became like viscous slime becoming featureless as they flowed into one another.  I could feel the moment that their minds touched, Jack and Xylon were suddenly thrust back into the reality of the situation.  Awareness of I/They/We flooded them as they realized that these were the last few moments.  I could feel Jack’s Anger/Regret/Sadness as recognition of what I had done invaded his mind.  I also felt Xylon’s innate Hostility/Sorrow/Grief as what They had taken dawned on him.  In their last precious moments both men were having identity crises as the WE pulled us all into ONE.

 My first sensation was that of my hands gently stroking the giant shaft between my legs.  Opening my eyes, I surveyed the damage, unused blood, bone, and strips of flesh covered the bedroom. Not perturbed at the grizzly sight I kept pleasuring myself with one hand while the other inspected my new nipples by giving each a slight pinch.  A deep moan escaped my lips, sexual energy coursed through my new body.  Abs tensed and my cock shuddered before releasing a torrent of cum that merged with the other fluids staining the room.

Satiated for the moment I became aware of a chime that indicated someone was at the door.  I grabbed a towel to clean myself off then headed down the hall.  Looking through the peephole I saw Xylon’s boyfriend Fitz standing there with a worried expression. Slightly annoyed I decided to open the door before Fitz could ring again.  The poor twink of man started to say something but stopped as he took in the sight of my naked visage.  I was shocked as well, for without the glass impediment I was able to see Fitz’s spectrum.  A deep need filled me, not the hunger of the entities but something just as primal.  Acting on instinct I grabbed the slack jawed younger man and pulled him into my lair.  He started to protest but my mouth sealed him shut, picking him up I shoved him face first against the wall with one hand while the other pulled down his pants and underwear.  My cock was hard and leaking pre as I began to spread his cheeks.  With one swift movement I lifted the slight man up and impaled him on my throbbing member.  I grunted as my cock took on most of his weight thrusting him up and down.  I could hear him whimper as his face scraped against the wall, anything Xylon had felt had died with him, now all I wanted was fulfill this gnawing need.  My balls churned and tensed, and I let out an animalistic roar as my seed shot out of me and flooded his intestines.  

Lowering the hapless simpering man to the ground I could see a dark spot of corruption sprout within his spectrum.  The darkness branched out touching each color while the living semen inside of Fritz entered his blood stream and spread throughout his body.  The metaphysical and physical corruption reached his head at the same time, it was like a new room opened inside my mind.  Suddenly I was connected to Fitz and he to me, he became an extension of myself. I looked into his eyes and found myself staring back in wonder.  He/me slowly got to his feet only for another surprise to become apparent.  My seed had not only connected us but had upgraded his body type from “twink” to twunk.  The newly minted man approached me as He/I started to worship my body, Fitz/me asked only one question.

“What should I call you?”

“In public call me Jaxon. In private call me Master”

[yeojaa]

( VELVETEEN RABBIT. )

What do you get when you mix Thumper and Bambi?  Answer:  Jeon Jungkook.

pairing.  french lop bunny!jjk x ragdoll cat f!reader.

genre + rating.   hybrid!au set in college.  super fluffy, a little angsty, with a dash of smut to balance it all out.  explicit towards the end because i just can’t help myself.  oops.

tags / warnings.  honestly, this jungkook should just come with his own warning.  but more realistically, mentions of kook using a scrunchie, kook being cute, kook railing his date after using the world’s worst puns...  the usual.

wc.  4.4k

beta reader(s).  @hobi-gif​ as always become, c’mon.  i’m me.  she’s her.  

author note.  this was written as part of @thebtswritersclub​‘s a hybrid fest and is gloriously late (i’m so sorry @ditttiii​​).  i’ve never written anything hybrid-related before so hopefully you enjoy.  feedback goes a long way!  xoxo

He orders the same thing every time he’s in.  Iced Americano, no room for cream, and a single almond croissant.  (Every once in a while, he switches it up for matcha but that’s exceedingly rare.)  He always pays with a tap of his wrist - a sleek black AppleWatch with rubber band - and flashes his trademark slightly too-big smile.  All the girls swoon.  So do the guys.  Everyone except for you.

He’s unnervingly handsome, with long dark ears that sometimes hang in front of his eyes.  You’ve caught him with them pulled back Lola Bunny-style, knotted with a loose silk scrunchie that looks nearly as soft as his fur.  His hair’s usually unkempt, tossed into a little sprout of a bun, overly long fringe falling all over his big round eyes.  He wears butterfly clips sometimes, though that’s usually on days where he isn’t freshly sweaty and carrying his gym bag.  They appear in his hair when it’s damp from a shower, the smell of papaya and honey clinging to every inch of him.  You know, because you have a great nose - one that’s sensitive to every smell under the sun but especially his.  (You try not to think about it much.)  

It’s a Wednesday morning when you notice the change.  It doesn’t register at first, acknowledgement coming in a curious sniff at the air.  Weird. 

“Thanks,” he says like clockwork, a well-oiled polite machine, deceptively slender hands receiving the exceedingly hot cup without a care in the world. He’s got his usual bag over his shoulder - overly big, black, almost tactical - and a pair of comfortable looking pants on that seem more like they belong on your beloved grandmother.  Somehow, he rocks it (but he always does).  “Have a nice day.”

Because of course he says that.  Of course he steals the words right out of your mouth, turns them back on you as easy as he makes your heart rattle around in your chest like it’s a Friday night bingo ball. 

He moves toward the bar - he only ever grabs three napkins, tucks them into the slot on the left side of his bag - but pauses halfway there.  Rooted to the same spot as always, sleek ears following the imposing line of his shoulders.  

One, two—

The thumping starts, so quiet it’s almost negligible.  But you catch it, because you always do and because you’re the reason for it. 

He turns then, levels you with a look from the corner of those pretty, pretty eyes and you can’t help but laugh, openly, unashamedly, with the back of your hand plastered to your mouth. A true ojou-sama. 

His mouth quirks - does that funny thing where he sucks in his cheek then rolls it back out with his tongue - and you think he might finally say something.  Call you out for writing his name wrong for the past five weeks, finding more and more creative ways to do so every time.  Even occasionally using nicknames - silly things you’d come up with while on the walk home, or during lunch, or in bed.

“Good one,”  he states, laugh lines threading over his face, prominent around his eyes.  His nose wiggles with the sound - another of his traits that comes out to play often.  Your favourite of them all, if you’re being honest.

“Anytime.”  

You don’t realise it’s him until it’s too late, until you’re practically running into him, bouncing off the broad expanse of his back with a startled squeak.  Lucky for you, you’re quick on your feet, catching yourself before your skull can become too well-acquainted with the red brick wall to your right.

“You okay?”  Though he asks, you have a sneaking suspicion he knows you’re not and an even stronger suspicion that he’d been waiting for you, hovering past the entrance of the cafe with his big university hoodie on.

“Barely,”  you manage around a laugh, straightening the backpack slung over your shoulders, packed to the brim with goodies you got to bring home at the end of the night and two of your textbooks.

“Should watch where you’re going.”  

This is the most conversation you’ve had - ever.  But it’s fun, easy, organic and natural.  You wonder why that is. 

“You should watch where you’re standing, actually.”

He’s so much bigger than you, imposingly tall (especially being part of the Leporidae family) and wide in the chest.  Not bulky by any means, but big.  Strong.  Threaded with a strength you don’t normally see in hybrids of his kind.  It probably has to do with how often you see him covered in sweat and panting, basketball hooked under his arm, soccer cleats tied to his bag.

When he speaks again, it’s full of mirth, squeezing his round eyes near shut.  “Got a problem with me standing here?”  

You nod, solemn as ever (which is really never, but that’s besides the point).  “It’s dangerous to block entryways, didn’t you know?”  You’re gesturing to the awning, the dark interior just past the window of the shop.  “You’re loitering, Jungkook.”

“So you do know my name.”  You can tell he’s not surprised - that he’s hamming it up for dramatics, softly pink lips rounded in a little ‘O’.  He’s cute like this, you think.  Playful in a way you’ve never seen before.  

“I do?” 

There’s that cheek thing again.  It’s even more attractive up close, the shape of his jaw thrown into prominent relief when he sucks in a breath.  

“You just said it.”

You nod, thoughtful, finger tapping upon your chin.  “I guess I did.”

“Say it again,”  he states, expression inscrutable, eyes bright.  They’re so glossy even under the dimmed streetlights, impossibly big and undeniable.  So easy to get lost in - if your attention weren’t caught by something else.

“What is that?”  

You’d noticed it earlier in the day, caught the scent in passing sometime during the early hours.  You’d been unable to place it then, too distracted by freshly ground coffee, a girl’s three too many spritzes of Daisy by Marc Jacobs, and baking banana loaves.

It’s heady, masculine.  A strong musk that sinks into your nose and makes it twitch, ears rotating as if that’ll help pin the smell down.  

“What’s what?”  You hadn’t realised how close you’d become, your face five seconds from planting directly into his chest.  (It’d probably be nice - you know how soft your school’s merchandise is.)  “Are you okay?”  He asks because you’re now, actually, planting your face right against the worn navy cotton.  It’s terribly nice, silk upon your cheek.  

You answer more to his clothes than to him, nosing into the fabric. “You smell different.”

You feel more than hear his laughter, the sound barreling past his teeth seconds later.  The vibrations running along his spine jostle you from your position face first upon him but you don’t mind.  It doesn’t send you far, dark eyes peering up into the face of the bunny hybrid.  True to his kind, his nose is twitching, puffs of laughter expanding his cheeks when he meets your stare. 

“No I don’t.”

“You do.”  Tone firm, a finger lands upon the neatly embroidered N on his hoodie.  The white stitching stands in stark contrast to your baby blue nails.  “You smell… off.”

Whether Jungkook’s offended or not, you can’t tell.  He’s got that same strange expression on his face - the one from this morning when he’d received his coffee.  It’s made up of too many moving parts:  the flutter of his lashes, the coil of his jaw, the minute tick of the corner of his mouth.  You can’t read him for shit, somehow more confused now than in your 300-level art history class.  (You’d taken it as one of your optional electives assuming it’d be an easy A.  You were wrong.)

“Sorry you think so,”  he hums, looking down at you.  You’ve seemed to fully forget the meaning of personal space, edged up beside him as if you’re best friends and not just two ships passing in the night. 

“It’s not bad.”  Really, it isn’t.  It’s strong and sensual, vegetal in a way, calming in another.  But it isn’t unwelcome. 

In fact, you think you might like this scent a little more - less sweet than what normally clings to his skin, natural honeycomb rather than processed sugar.  It zings across your teeth, pieces broken up and scattered behind your molars.  You can practically taste it.  Him.

“Is that so?”  

“Yep.”

You share a look - one that says more than all the words you’ve ever spoken, that threads together all the silly laughter, narrowed stares, (written) flirtations.  It settles between the two of you, filling the spaces with something akin to cotton, light and airy and soft.

The desire to speak lingers, hidden just beyond the cotton candy dusting.  Should you?  Shouldn’t you?  You still have no idea what he’s doing here, a street urchin making his rounds on the campus village.  

He beats you to it.  “Can I walk you back to your dorm?”  

You don’t think you could want anything more.  “Sure.”

Silence falls again but it’s comfortable, a caress rather than a crutch.  The grounds are surprisingly quiet - wayward students on their way to the library or heading home from lectures.  There are no picnic blankets spread across the grass, no gaggles of girls dressed in school colours.  It feels like the first day of fall, change sitting heavy in the air. 

“So—”  You start.

He finishes,  “do you wanna go on a date with me?” 

That’s surprising.  (Or is it?  You’re not really sure.)  You nearly trip over your own two feet in your haste to look at him, entire body swivelling on the spot because apparently you can’t just turn your head like a normal person.  Something something all or nothing. 

“What?”  

“Do.  You.  Want.  To—”  He’s being insufferable for the hell of it.  You can see it in his eyes, glossy things shining down at you like he’s got the entire fucking nightsky hung in them.  

“Not if you keep that up,”  you retort, though you both know you’re lying.  You’ve been waiting - wishing, wanting - for this moment since the day you laid eyes on him.  Since Yuri had elbowed you so hard in the ribs you’d thought you’d be bruised for days, since Jae had rambled on and on for his entire shift about the cute new bunny who’d come in that morning.  Since that very first wrongly spelt name on his plastic cup and every visit since.  

“Is that a challenge?”  

“You won’t get it in.”  

He scoffs, loud and drawn out, cheek rounding with disbelief at your disbelief.  How can you possibly doubt him - school basketball star and all-around athletic freak of nature? 

“What do I get if I do?”  The ball rests in his palm, poised to be shot through the hoop, sunk without making contact with the rim.  He’s confident - he’s done it a million times.  

“A pat on the back?”  As much as you tease him - loop mockery around nearly every syllable you speak, you’re endlessly supportive, already carrying the fruits of his labour under your arms.  A Pikachu shoved haphazardly into the purse slung across your body, a Snorlax tucked under your arm at an awkward angle that crushes his poor head, a Sylveon tucked into the side pocket of his joggers.  (The arcade was really into Pokemon, apparently.)  “Me saying thank you?”

“Not good enough.”  He leans in close - those big galaxy eyes practically swallowing you whole - and taps a single finger upon your nose.  It makes your nostrils flare, an itch blooming under his touch.  “Gotta sweeten the deal.”

You must look hilarious because Jungkook’s biting back a smile, smirking down at you.  Then, all at once, without breaking eye contact, he’s extending his arm, flicking his wrist, and— swish!  

In goes the ball, leaving him with a perfect score.  

“I want you to stay the night.”

You think he’s joking.  He must be joking.  This is your third date.  

But he’s staring at you like he’s completely serious, gaze expectant, lips pursed around something that reads like a smile but has your heart doing a strange little one-two step in your chest.  It soars for a moment, high above the clouds like the string orchestra of a choral work - Beethoven’s Ninth in D minor. 

“Are you propositioning me, Jeon Jungkook?”  It’s the same reaction he always has when you say his name: a twitch of his ear, the corner of his bottom lip quirking and then resetting, eyes so sparkly it’s almost absurd.

“No.  I’m just telling you what I want.”

“Huh.”  You should say no.  Guys like him - with charm that oozes out of every pore, whose offhanded smiles break more hearts than you ever have - are almost always bad news.  Too sweet, too funny, simply too much for your feeble heart to take.  

“Is that a yes?”  He’s got you in his clutches - a viper rather than a hare, with a smile so dangerous you’re paralysed by just the sight of it.  (Who needs venom?)

Your words catch in your throat, stick to one another like the deformed gummies at the bottom of the movie theatre bag.  What comes out isn’t what you expect.  “Okay.”

Damn you.  Damn him.  Damn how good he smells and the big dumb grin that spreads over his lips, sunshine in human form, undeniable and warm and cute enough to start a war over.  (That’s probably what’s happening - a vicious battle between your head and your heart.)  

Damn his stupid thumping foot that you can make out over the sound of the video games, the boisterous din.  It’s so cute you can’t help yourself from smiling, mouth pulling and pursing around the delight that begs to be freed.  

“Cool,”  he says, and you almost think that’s not very cool.  He’s so nonchalant, cavalier about it as if it means nothing.  You’d be bothered if you felt like you didn’t know him so well - hadn’t learnt his idiosyncrasies over the last two months.  

How he looks when he laughs really hard, his slightly too-big front teeth taking up all the real estate in his mouth.  How he sounds when he’s tired (groggy, with a lisp that rarely sees the light of day otherwise) or when he’s told he’s wrong (pouty, with his bottom lip jutted out so cutely you want to scream).  How he runs every morning, hits the gym every night, and eats double your protein because fitness, bro!  How his cheat meal of choice is soy garlic fried chicken from the place off-campus and he hates tangy, tart desserts (your lemonade lip gloss not included, he insists).  How he can’t sleep if he’s too hot - which he often is - and he spends way too long combing through his ears with a specialty brush he doesn’t let anyone touch.  How he’s secretly raindrops and gummy bears and hand holding in the car, so much more than his high school superlative of most likely to grace the cover of GQ.

You wonder, because you know those things, does that make you special?  Does it make you immune to the heartbreak that you swear you imagine whenever your mood drops (not often, but often enough)?  

You hope so.

“Let’s go shoot guns?”  He’s tearing you from your reverie, planting an open-mouthed kiss to your temple.  It’s sloppy and not very refined, much less suave than what you’d expect from your school’s soccer captain (and basketball small forward and swim team stand-in).  You suppose that’s why you like him so much - because he’s always surprising you, keeping you on your toes. 

“Let’s.”  You agree, letting your date drag you toward the Time Crisis machine.  It’s blissfully unoccupied, allowing the two of you to slide into place.  He takes the blue gun, you the red.  

He squeezes your hip when you take up position, one eye squeezed shut as you look down the barrel of the plastic weapon.  “Better not let me die.”

“Better not get shot,”  you return.  

He doesn’t listen - failing halfway through the helicopter scene, his shot missing and resulting in some sad miserable death in the form of Continue? blinking across the screen.  Neither of you mind that much though.  He occupies himself on his phone, free hand tucked into the back pocket of your jeans.  You play better when he’s not shouting terrible call-outs, nearly crashing into you because he gets so into it.

(How he’s never got a concussion on the basketball/soccer/etc. field before, you’re not sure.)

By the time you’re done - a good five minutes later, you think - Jungkook’s growing restless, tugging at your belt loops enough that you stumble with every shot, nearly knocking yourself out when you have to steady yourself on the centre console.  

“Kook!”  Your glare is barely that, too affectionate to dissuade him from his childish antics.  

He pulls you forward, traps you between his thick thighs, tattooed hands settling comfortably on your hips.  “Let’s go home.”

“Someone’s in a hurry.”

Of course, he doesn’t deny that.

It’s not the first time you’ve been over.  Not even your second or third.  You’ve met up with him before his games, thrown his jersey overtop and helped him wrap his fingers before hitting the court.  You’d even had to grab his cleats for him once, running across campus as he did drills in his socks as punishment.

This time feels different.  You know why but it doesn’t make it an easier pill to swallow.  It lodges somewhere in your throat, makes it hard to breathe when you kick off your shoes and tuck them neatly beside Jungkook’s.  

“Are you hungry?”  He’s already in the small kitchen, glancing over his shoulder at you as you linger in the adjoining hallway, bag halfway over your head.  

“I’m good.”  You are, really.  You’d eaten one donut too many at the arcade, indulged in a little too much disgusting nacho cheese goodness.  You don’t really understand how your date’s still hungry, a cucumber crunching between his teeth when he turns back to you. 

Standing there, vegetable devoured in quick, decisive bites, he looks every inch the French lop bunny he is.

You reach him in the same instant he finishes his midnight snack.  Arms fold around you like there’s nothing else he’d rather be doing, head dropping to rest comfortably upon yours.  Like this, his ears tickle your cheek - velveteen fur lost to the silk of your hair.  “Are you tired?”  

Another no comes - spoken into the fuzzy fabric of his sweater - and he hums above you, whole frame rattling with the noise.  

“No bed then?”  

At least he’s transparent, you think.

“One track mind much?”  You’re only teasing.  A part of you looks forward to… whatever it is that sits over the horizon, lost past the creaky bedroom door and somewhere beneath his surprisingly soft sheets.  (You’d asked about them once - he’d told you his mother liked to send him housewares to remind him of home.  He was a real mama’s boy that way.)

The monster only laughs, snuggles into your hair like it’s home.  “Can you blame me?”  

You can’t do much of anything when he’s like this - so utterly adorable and enticing and good for your heart that it feels as if you’ve taken a straight dose of morphine.

“Let’s go to bed, Wookie.”  Another nickname, recently coined after you’d spent an evening watching Star Wars for the first time.

“Yes, ma’am.”

You whack him on the way to his bedroom, smack a hand over the arm curled around your shoulders.  He pretends like it hurts, howls in a way he he thinks resembles a wounded animal but really just sounds stupid.  “Not a ma’am.”

“Sir?”  He asks, just to make you laugh. 

“If you don’t shut up—”  

He pushes you through the door of his bedroom while giggling to himself, sound puffing out of his cheeks.  “Don’t be mad, kitten.”  The two of you drop to the bed, a tangle of limbs and silken fur and squeaking laughter.  “You’re so purr-ty when you’re annoyed.”

He’s doing it again.  Dropping those stupid cat puns that make your nose wrinkle, ink-tipped ears folding back against your head.   

“I think I’m hiss-terical, don’t you?”  

Face adamantly buried into his sheets, you don’t give him the time of day.  You don’t even care that your mascara is probably rubbing off against the charcoal fabric, lipstick tint doing potentially irreversible damage.  He knows how unfunny you find these jokes, how you’ve heard them your whole life and roll your eyes so hard your optic nerve might sever every time you face another.  

What’s the point of sharing your pet peeves with him when all he does is lean into them?  Use them against you like it’s the cool thing to do.  Make you wonder what you’d seen in him when he was just another customer, another boy in Seoul National indigo and bedhead so dishevelled it begged to be managed.  

(You’re not sure why you’re so irritated suddenly, caught in the clutches of a moodswing as you curl into your side and ignore his bad jokes.)

Stupid Jeon Jungkook.  Annoying, silly, too-cool-for-his-own-good Jeon Jungkook.  

Jeon Jungkook who makes you second guess your choices, leaves you breathless and confused with just one dumb look.  Who has convinced you into his bed and teases you mercilessly, snickering to himself as his foot bounces against the floorboards because he finds himself that funny.

“Baby?”  The pet name comes, presses itself past your curtain of hair and invades your thoughts.  

You say nothing, adamantly faced away.

He doesn’t like that, sneaking his hands around you and cradling you into his chest as if that’ll lighten the mood.  (It does, a little bit, but you don’t tell him that.)  “Don’t ignore me,”  he mumbles, warmth breath tickling your ears, fingers dancing over the rungs of your ribs as if they’re ivory and not bone, playing a tune only he can hear.

“Stop with the shitty jokes,”  you retort.  You’re being difficult - can feel the vinegar turning your blood even as he tries to will it all away.

You feel the intake, the rise and fall of his broad chest.  You can only imagine how hard he’s biting his tongue, careful to keep his next errant pun at bay.  People don’t tell him no - only you.  Maybe that’s why you do it, to remind him you’re not just like everyone else.  

“Sorry.”  

You don’t tell him to show you how sorry— but he does anyway.

You’re astounded by him, utterly entranced by the way he moves.  How power runs the length of his frame, manoeuvres each of his limbs and turns your own to jelly.  

He’s got you face down, ass up, hands cradling your hips like they’re his home and he can’t bear to let go.  Every upward stroke feels like heaven - feels like a million lifetimes of pleasure you can barely wrap your thoughts around.  He’s impossibly big, thick and long.  The first thought you’d had when he’d stripped his black Calvin Kleins was pretty.  

You realise now there’s nothing pretty about him.  He’s filthy - the devil come to collect as he fucks you across his bed, nearly loses you to the pillows at the head with each snap of his hips.  (What they said about rabbits was true, you think.)

“B-Bunny,”  you sob, scratch over cotton that’s worn soft and smells exactly like your favourite sweater of his.  The linens are defenseless, tangled up and wrinkled with each flex of your fingers, bunched up within your palms every time he buries himself like he’s looking for the answer to life, thinks he might find it within the fluttering walls of your pussy.

“Not my name.”  When he sounds like this, he’s more predator than prey, a thousand volts of electricity shooting up your spine.  He’s demanding and unrelenting.  It makes your head spin.

“Wook—”  

“Not.”  Bunny teeth are just as painful as a feline’s, doing their job as they dig into the flushed skin over your back, marking his territory with two prominent indents right between your neck and shoulder.  “A.”  He ruts into you as if he’s got something to prove, snaps his hips to a beat you can’t keep up with.  “Wookie.”  Grips you so tight you might snap, red blooming beneath his hands.

You sob under him, drool against the pillows because you can’t seem to keep your mouth shut.  (You feel like Jungkook post-win, spewing nonsense as he prattles on about game winning plays with his teammates.)

“K-Kookie.”  It’s what he wants to hear - hits him right in the chest, a bull’s eye to the thing that beats wildly and in tandem with your own.  

His rhythm stutters.  The bed is shaking and not because he’s practically breaking the weak wooden frame.  No, his foot’s thumping, bouncing across the sheets even as he tries to regulate the roll of his hips, return it to the assured, teeth-numbingly good tempo it’d been at.  

It doesn’t work.  You love it anyway.  Like it more, because it means he’s just as affected by you as you are him. Your heart sings, leaps out of your chest on hummingbird wings, and dances around your head.  You’re a goddamn cartoon - Pepé Le Pew in ragdoll form - animated pink shapes circling like a crown.

You don’t care.  You can’t.  Not when he plasters himself to your back and asks you to say it again, begs you to tell him how good he is, tells you how he wants to make you his.  

Who cares if it’s three dates in, if your meeting was cliched and silly and he’s the campus heartthrob?  

You don’t - because he’s yours and when he flips you onto your back and you curl your fingers into his hair, it’s your name he stutters out.  It’s you who has him coming apart beneath your hands, the feel of his ears like velvet, the little whines he huffs growing louder each time you tug at the base.  It’s you who knows what he sounds like as he falls to pieces, throws himself against you as if gravity demands it.  It’s you who holds him to sleep, whose skin acts as a canvas for the doodles he traces as he drifts off.  

It’s you and it’s him and that’s enough.

tag list.  @neverthefirstchoice​ @youwannabelostandnotbefound​ @snackhobi​ @codeinebelle​​

[comfyswitcherblanketfort]

Hello, sweetheart! I have a prompt for you ❤️ Geralt has chronic pains since the mutations. Sometimes he can't get up, because everything hurts so much. Sometimes he does not eat for days (weeks...), because he cannot go out hunting. As the years have passed, he has managed to mask the pain on his face. Nobody needs to know. His brothers have already looked for a cure, but the potions only ease the pain for a few hours. +

+ When Jaskier started following the witcher on the path, whenever the pain became unbearable, Geralt told him that he had picked up a contract. A contract that would perhaps take days. And then he went into the forest as far away as possible, so that no one would be able to hear his cries of pain.+

+Jaskier knew he was lying. But he just didn't know what he was lying about. Until one day, tired of this situation (he's his best friend, for God's sake!), Jaskier decides to go after Geralt and find out what's going on. You can change anything you want ❤️

BAAAAAAABBBBEEEE 

listen I lived the chronic pain life for a while and if someone would have just told me to shut the fuck up and confront the problem things would have been WAY easier lmao 

Warnings: Lots of swearing. ye ole self-depreciation. chronic pain.

__________

His back had ached for the last six decades; this sort of twisting torment was nothing new. His second round of trials had induced horrible spasms and, according to Vessimir, Geralt had broken the restraints usually used for young witchers and damn near writhed off the table before the sorcerers had restrained him. He hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in sixty years because of it.

Eskel and Lambert had sourced out different potions and spells over the years, sometimes putting him under Axi just so he can sleep despite his body, but with the extra mutations came heightened adaptability. If he took any potion too frequently it stopped working, used any spell too often it would barely touch him. While this made his job much easier, and much safer, he was in a never-ending nightmare of shooting and radiating stabbing pain emanating from various points in his spine. It was worse than any stab wound or monster bite he’d ever endured on the bad days, a dull throb on the good days. 

Traveling with Jaskier was surprisingly helpful in this aspect. He made it easier to get rooms with real beds and didn’t care that Geralt’s limbs draped over him in the only comfortable sleeping position he could find most nights. He insisted on getting Geralt hot baths he would never be offered on his own and once blackmailed someone into letting Geralt into a sauna. Of course, Geralt had never told him, there was no point, but having an advocate when he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, defend himself was nice. 

However, as with most things in Geralt’s life, things eventually went to shit. A fall off a two-story roof chasing a vampire the week before had depleted the few potions Eskel had scrounged up for him last they spoke and, bed or no bed, there was no way Geralt could stay with the bard and pretend he was fine. The longer he tried the more explosive his behavior, and well that wasn’t fair was it?

He had gotten up early, before the pain had time to settle in the pit of his stomach and make him nauseous, to head off to the foothills. Giving Jaskier a lie about a contract a town over and meeting up later, he headed to collect Roach and disappear. 

Mounting was a miserable affair, even with a hay bail to help him up. His leg nearly gave out from what felt like one of Yennefer’s electric shocks running the length of the limb before he had the bulk of his weight over the saddle. But once he was on, he was relatively fine. Not trotting fine, but comfortable enough to go at a steady pace out of town without groaning or screwing up his face in agony. It wouldn’t do to scare the townsfolk if he wanted to come back and collect his bard. 

He let Roach meander as far as she wanted off the road running parallel to a stream, letting her choose where they’d be camping for the night once they were far enough from civilization. 

He hated doing this, letting his guard down and in the wilderness no less, but he was holding himself upright on the pommel by the time Roach found a sandy bank next to the stream. He practically fell out of the saddle, unbuckling the girth and giving its bulk just enough of a tug to let it fall off the mare’s back. Even the little effort put into untacking was agony, but he needed his bedroll off the saddle and Roach needed a break. He collected the wood he would need for a fire before he let himself rest, knowing that as soon as he stopped moving the muscles would tighten and cramp up, making it impossible to move until morning. 

He was peeling his shirt off ever so gingerly when he heard a twig snap. Dropping the garment back over his shoulders he gingerly turned to peer into the woods in the sound’s direction. If something or someone came upon him now he was at their mercy unless he could muster enough energy for a sign. 

“A contract, huh?” Jaskier stepped out of the treeline with his arms crossed and a surprisingly parental look of disappointment on his face.

Geralt relaxed a little, plastering the mask of calm on his face as he got back to tugging his shirt over his head, “You followed me?”

Jaskier deflated, dropping his bag and lute next to Roach’s tack as he moved to help Geralt out of his clothes, “I knew you were hiding something from me, but this? Geralt? How long have you been injured?”

The witcher laughed, wincing at the dull ache through his entire torso from the previous effort of keeping himself in the saddle, “Half a century? Give or take.”

“What?” Jaskier sounded offended, why was he offended?

Geralt just grunted, clenching his jaw to keep from yelling as he stood and waded into the stream of snowmelt. All the air left his lungs when he lowered himself into the freezing water, but as it lapped over his back and sometimes even his shoulders he felt a small bit of relief. Being able to lean back a bit and be supported by the current was almost intoxicating after all his muscles had nearly turned to stone over the course of the week.

Jaskier was now standing at the bank with his arms crossed and a look of fury on his face, “I’m your best fucking friend- don’t look at me like that we’re using the ‘f’ word today- and you tried to hide a debilitating long-term injury? Geralt what the fuck?”

“I didn’t want to bother you.” Geralt huffed, doing his best not to get angry. He hurt and he was vulnerable and Jaskier was using the ‘f’ word and getting his hopes up.

“Oh shove it up your arse. You make everything else my problem, why not this?” Jaskier was on the verge of yelling and Geralt still couldn’t figure out why. 

Geralt stared forward in silence, calmly noting his hands shaking from the cold, or maybe it was the pain, he didn’t really know. 

Jaskier swore and turned to rummage through their things, arranging and rearranging things as he waited for Geralt to get out. 

However, Geralt didn’t want to get out. He wanted to be left alone to be miserable in peace. He wanted to have one fucking day where he didn’t have shooting pain running through most of his body. Long ago he’d given up hope of a day free of pain, now he just wished for an aching sensation rather than this bullshit. He also found he was liking the water. It wasn't as cold as it first was and his breath was coming easier. 

Jaskier rolled up his trousers and waded out to the middle of the stream where he sat, “C’mon Geralt, you can’t stay here all night. You’ll die.”

Geralt frowned up at him, “I like it in here. Hurts less.”

“Dumb Fuck, you’re turning blue. Out. Now.” Jaskier held a hand out and Geralt found raising his arm was nearly impossible. He got it about halfway to the bard’s palm before he stalled out, shaking and staring at his hand in horror. 

“I- Jask I can’t-”

Jaskier sighed, “You’re damn near hypothermic, here.” He reached down and hauled the witcher out of the stream, ignoring his grunts of pain as he walked him back to the fire he’d started. Jaskier went about stripping his soaked pants off, toweling him off with his old shirt, and redressing him all while glaring at him. Jaskier made him sip some boiled water before he bundled the both of them in one bedroll, wrapping himself around the still shivering witcher as completely as possible.

“Th-thank you.” Geralt gasped as Jaskier angrily shoved his arm beneath Geralt’s lower back, the warmth alone was lovely but something about the way his spine laid over the extra bulk was even better.

“You’re welcome.” Jaskier growled, head tucked into Geralt’s chest, “I’m still furious with you. It’s been over a decade and you didn’t think to tell me?” 

Geralt swallowed back tears as he felt some of the tension ease in his back, “No one else really cares…”

Jaskier tilted his chin up to look at the witcher like he was sprouting a horn out of his forehead, “The fuck do you think I’m doing here? You think I enjoy being run out of towns and almost dying every other day? Shit, Geralt, you’re smart but sometimes you’re fucking thick.”

If it wouldn’t have hurt Geralt would have playfully smacked his shoulder, but moving any part of his body was a risk at the moment, “Thought you liked the adventure.”

“No, dumbass. I care about you. A lot.” Jaskier settled his head back down over Geralt’s chest, “In the morning I’m taking you to a healer. Or a sorcerer or mage or anyone who will give us answers.”

“Julek…”

“Shut the fuck up and sleep. Cute nicknames won’t get you out of this one. I’m still furious.”

[sinisterlyhan]

02. bang chan / 3883 words

dom!chan who is both hard and soft, a tinge of fluff, daddy kink, a little size kink + corruption kink, oral (m receiving), the smallest amount of cumplay at the end, female reader

a/n: i am probably going to write a part two for this.

chan stopped seeing you as a younger sibling sometime ago.

you used to just be minho's little sister. the girl who occasionally appeared in the living room when he had sleepovers at the house, the girl he only talked to when it was under minho's presence, the girl he never felt any form of sexual attraction towards.

but then times changed. he grew older, taller, and bigger while you... well, you definitely did grow older. not so much taller, though. it felt as if only him and minho managed to sprout some height after puberty while yours went completely neglected in your genes. and definitely not bigger—actually, yes. some part of you grew bigger, in a very arousing and distracting way if chan could admit. but you were still quite small compared to his much broader shoulders.

chan never thought too much of it. he had made too many petty jokes about you staying as small and weak as a midget for years, his mindset was stuck at that childish thought. it was only until christmas gathering last year when he joined your family for the holiday did he finally realize how much more attractive you have grown.

you have always been pretty. chan would not expect anything less as you are lee minho's little sister, and minho was one hell of a good-looking man. the big doe eyes with the perfect nose bridge, and of course pretty pink lips that makes a pretty smile—you were always pretty. chan never verbally acknowledged it but he never verbally denied it either.

over time, your beauty has matured. you innocent eyes learned how to act tough in front of strangers and your pretty smile knew to come to the rescue in awkward situation. you have grown to learn how to benefit yourself in a society that, unfortunately, ran on a system that relied heavily on appearances.

but chan hasn't seen your tactics be used on him before. when he arrived at your house last year, you looked at him the same way you had always looked at him—a little distant but still with faint fondness, a gaze that screamed friendly and comfortable.

in terms of expressions and attitude, you were small when it came to him. and something about that special treatment (which wasn't exactly special) made his insides churn.

what made it even worse was the night of christmas dinner, when you three decided to sit down in his room to hang out while the adults gathered in the living room to chat the night away.

you had stolen minho's hoodie, that chan knew because it was one size too big on minho and therefore two sizes too big on you. you wore a pair of polyester shorts that only faintly peeked out the hem of the cuddly hoodie, and your tiny feet was covered by a pair of ugly, green fuzzy socks.

but what stung him the most was how careless you acted around him, as if he was your brother as well.

you had been eating chips at that time, happily smacking your lips away as you ate up the family portioned chip bag on your own. and chan could not care less about you never sharing the snacks at that time. he just knew you were sucking on your fingers a little too hard and moaning at the taste a little too loudly for him to concentrate on his phone.

and the way your legs flaunted around on minho's bed as you munched on the food, spreading them in a comfortable position but not spreading enough for him to catch a glimpse into the gaps of your shorts. and you looked so small with your legs thrown over the pile of dirty laundry on the edge of your brother's bed, your back against the mattress and your breasts perking up at the cursed angle.

chan was going insane, he had to snap his head away when minho threw a random pillow at you, scolding you to sit up properly.

he was told—threatened—later by minho to stop having perverted ideas about you. but chan didn't listen, obviously. for the rest of that night, all he had thought about was shoving his fingers down your throat and fucking you in your brother's hoodie. he could imagine all the ways you would whimper and moan under his weight when he's got your legs thrown over his shoulder, and the thought alone made his chest burn.

chan was unable to see you the same, platonic way ever again since that christmas.

"bang chan!"

your irritated voice snapped him out of his thoughts and he quickly looked away from the dark corner he was staring at. you were frowning at him by the television set, your hands rested in a box of movie cds.

chan's eyes casually scanned your figure, as if it wasn't all he thought about after you walked downstairs, drowned that oversized shirt and pajama shorts he took a generous peek at as your shirt rode up your ass upon you reaching upward.

"yeah, what's wrong?" he asked, sitting up from the couch and leaning his elbows on his knees to look at you with an arched brow.

you felt slightly intimidated by his change of stance; he was just sulking at the corner of the sofa looking exhausted and small, how did he manage to change his aura with just a change of position?

and his duality was always so damn hot to you for some reason! the way he could smile at you one second and glare at an uncomfortable stranger the next was none other than seducing.

"are you kidding me–do you want to watch a movie or not, chan?" you asked as you pulled your hands out of the box, preparing to put it back into the shelf and let it gather dust there until the next holiday when minho didn't get called up to spend the night with his girlfriend instead. "i am actually okay with just being on our phones, we don't have to watch a movie."

chan blinked at you, surprised by your fed-up tone even though he had done nothing but sit on the couch after dinner. perhaps you were mad at minho for ditching you both? but why would you be mad about that unless you didn't want to spend alone time with him? maybe you just had an argument with your parents, that was why you felt extra grumpy.

as chan drowned in his thoughts and assumptions, he had not realized you plopping down on the couch across from him. you breathed out a heavy sigh as you unlocked your phone, sliding against the cushion and throwing your extended legs on top of his lap.

oh, there you were with the carelessness again. twisting your legs and only barely brushing across his groin each time you swung your feet his way. and if he saw clearly, you weren't wearing a bra as well, you little brat.

chan glanced down at your bare feet then, and something about your slim ankles in comparison to his much bigger hand fueled the hotness in his abdomen. he could just grab them and pull you to him, spreading your legs wide for him. and what could you do? he was so much stronger than you.

manhandling you would be both an effortless and pleasurable experience.

you huffed out a sigh, distracting him once again. he turned to find you frowning at the ceiling, your arm dangling to the side with your phone gripped tightly in your hand.

chan gulped down his lustful mind and asked, hoping to start a normal conversation. "you've been acting grumpy all day. what happened to you, hmm?"

you peered down at him, your chest heaving and, unbeknownst to you, nipples protruding through the thin fabric of your shirt. "i met this guy on campus last month. he was helping out with some fraternity shit and i was walking past, and then he stopped me to get my number," you said. "we have been texting a lot, and recently he asked me out. we planned to hang out sometime this week, actually, since it is the holiday and all."

chan furrowed his brows. the word fraternity definitely did not stick well with him and he had not taken you for someone who would be obsessed over attractive and irresponsible frat boys. turning to you, he asked, "is it not working out?"

you groaned under your breath. "no, it is for now," you muttered, glancing to the side shyly when you realized what you were about to say. "it's just... i'm not sure if it will be fine after the date."

"why?" he pressed on, finding the reddening of your cheeks very amusing.

"it's just... he said he is going to make a move on me and he told me to prepare for it..." you replied quietly, finding the once arousing words to be sappy and cringey once you repeated them. "but i have never had... i've–i haven't done anything before, like i don't even know the first thing about sucking someone off."

chan clenched his jaw. he was just slightly angered at the idea that some stupid boy would have the privilege of having your mouth wrapped around his useless dick when all he has ever gotten were temptations and imaginations. your big, innocent eyes looking up at him in confirmation and waiting for him to guide you through it all—fuck, he could cum just thinking about it.

"i can teach you," he suddenly suggested, shooting his shot and taking his chances. he looked over at you, eyes burning holes at your head. "if you want to, i can teach you. right here, right now."

his voice went an octave lower, the metallic hotness of it sending shivers down your spine. how would you fend if he whispered next to your ear, just inches apart with his hot breath blowing against your skin? you squeezed your thighs together at the thought, knowing very well he noticed how squirmish you were becoming because his was smirking with a devil laced on his lips.

"h–how?" you stuttered out.

chan poked his tongue to the corner of his lips. what a desperate bitch, you were willing to suck another man's dick to make sure the real deal would be mind-blowing. something about that was thrilling to him, the fact that he was the first one to take it from you instead of that ill-promising boy in your phone.

"on the floor, kneel," he beckoned you to him by pointing at the space before him.

you quickly dropped onto the ground and scurried over to kneel between his legs, your heart pounding in your chest as you watched him move his sweats down by a little. his cock sprung out upon release, standing long and thick against his tummy due to how hard he was. you bit back a gasp but your widened eyes told him everything, and your fascination only fueled his dominance impeccably.

fuck, you looked so breakable like this.

"i'm sure you have seen a dick before so i am going to spare you the details," he said as he gave his dick a few pumps. then, he leaned forward slightly and grabbed you by your chin, tilting your head up to look at him.

his eyes grew soft for a moment and he rubbed his fingers at your skin comfortingly. "you can stop this anytime you want, okay, (name)?" he said, smiling faintly at you.

you sent him a timid nod, your lips pursed adorably and your eyes sparkling up at him. frankly, you were too occupied with lusting over thing massive thing in front of your face for you to really process your thoughts, but what does it matter?

if you were thinking about it so much then you knew you wanted it.

upon your agreement, chan's eyes switched to something different. they were cold now, hooded with a sea storm of lust, overwhelmingly icy yet he seemed to be melting at the sight of you succumbing to hits authority. it was a gaze that made you feel both inferior but anticipated somehow.

"you're gonna suck me off well, baby girl?" he asked, but it sounded more like a demand. it sounded as if he expects nothing less than worshipping his cock from you, that you will suck him off good because that was all you're here for.

"i... i don't know how..." you muttered.

chan exhaled through his nose, his lips still quirked up. he gripped your chin just a tad bit tighter, causing you to look at him with wide eyes.

"don't worry, you will get to hang of it," he mused before lowering his voice. "but daddy's gonna need you to speak a little louder than that next time, got it?"

a blush crept up your cheeks, the heat in your core magnifying when chan just manifested a guilty pleasure of yours in real life. you have only heard it in porn and read it in fanfiction, perhaps you also did imagine yourself saying it once or twice in a sexual context, but imagination could never be associated with the truth. what if you sounded awkward saying it? that would be horrible.

"baby girl?" chan tugged at your chin, faint impatience laced in his voice as he peered down at your. "were you daydreaming?"

"no, daddy–" you clamped your mouth shut at how easy the word flew out of your lips.

chan held back a groan. how perfect you were, calling him such an endearment that has been tainted with filth. he would not wait to hear you gag around his cock, your voice unable to punch out any words because your mouth was stuffed.

"well? do you want to start now or do i have to tell you to lick?" he gave you a welcoming gesture, leaning back against the couch and waiting.

you gulped down a nervous breath and reached out tentatively to grab his dick in your hands. it was hard, with a surprisingly soft but veiny surface. bringing it over to your lips whilst leaning in, you let the tip stop at the entrance of your mouth and you looked up at chan, as if asking for permission.

"go on," he urged you. "try and make daddy feel good."

he said that like it would be a challenge for you, but he had lost from the start when you agreed to do this. a hiss left his lips when you experimented with licking his tip. and when you realize it was not as rough as you thought it would feel, you continued with it, your tongue pressing flat against the surface as you dragged it down and around the sensitive bub.

this was a different kind of sexy. chan has been used to sloppy and fast blowjobs all his life because the few people he had had sex with were all much more experienced than you were. they were good, he had to admit, they had been good.

but you—oh, you. you were just especially and irresistibly hot. there was something about the way you kneeled in front of him, your careful hands wrapped around the base of his cock like a bottle too big for your hands to hold as your tongue flicked along his tip and his shaft with calculations, aiming to do nothing but pleasure him.

you were slow and sensual with it due to how uncertain you were with what to do. and god, was that painfully seductive. the way you were taking your sweet time giving his cock your undivided attention, forcing him to feel everything and ink down all of your movements in his head—the hotness of your tongue as you curved around his shape, the infuriating fire he felt when your tongue traced up his veins and leave once you were close to his tip, the egoistic dominance you were making him feel when you looked up at him with those big, obedient eyes.

it was like you couldn't live without his validation. and you were willing to sit in front of him for hours with his dick in your mouth, pleasuring him just to get a hint of approval. and it kept reminding him that he was in charge here, that you have to wait for him to tell you what to do and when to do it.

when you were finally getting a bit braver, watching the way chan bit his lips and how his chest heaved, you decided to hollow your cheeks to suck at him for the first time.

and chan groaned—a borderline growl—when you took more of him in your mouth to pull at his dick, your tongue stuck over your bottom lip and flapping against his shaft. as you released him from your mouth, you pressed a tight kiss to his tip and spit your saliva down to make it look like cum, then you lathered his length with the filthy wetness, still sucking on him like you would a popsicle or a lollipop.

and god, he was trying too hard. he was trying so damn hard not to grab you by your hair and just fuck your throat like a fleslight. he still wanted to give you the chance to do whatever felt comes to mind, and so far you have really been doing phenomenal things to him.

"fuck, baby girl," he grumbled through clenched teeth, feeling pleasure override his senses. "that was good, keep doing that."

your eyes lit up at the compliment, a mini giggle falling out your lips and sending vibration down his skin. chan moaned at the feeling as you went just a tad bit faster in your repetition, mixing the rough sucks with baby licks and creating a symphonic contrast that soon pushed him close to the edge.

the knot at his swollen tip was building and chan could not resist anymore. he needed you to go at his pace, something faster and rougher. with a groan, he let his hands move the back of your head before he pushed you down on his cock, a breathy moan leaving him when you squealed in surprise.

you could not breathe, his length was too big for your little mouth. the feeling of his tip touching your throat was overwhelmingly unsatisfactory, but somewhere deep within you, you knew you wanted it. because chan's voice has never sounded better all breathy and feral like this, and it was all because you put your stupid mouth to good use for once.

your hands gripped his flexed thighs in support while chan, for a second, forgot you were a breathing human being and just snapped his hips up at you like you could take it all with no trouble. he was going fast, pushing your head down and thrusting up to meet your throat while he threw his head back at the heavenly vibration you sent him through letting out struggling noises.

fuck, your mouth felt so good. the feeling stuck at the tip of his cock released when a certain suck pushed him over the edge and burst his control. he shot his heavy load down your throat and coating up your inner cheeks before pushing your head away with a pop and slumping against the couch.

his chest was panting, you could see. and when he peered down at you, he arched a brow and smirked at you.

you waited from him to regain his energy. when he did, he leaned forward to your face and hummed in thoughts, as if accessing what other ways he could possibly wreck you up. you widened your eyes when he reached out to touch his thumb to your lips, his fingers tilting your chin up to face him.

"open up," he ordered, and you did with your tongue sticking out slightly for show. he almost laughed; you learned that from watching porn, didn't you?

his cum was still on your tongue, he wondered if you were reluctant to swallow them. he could deal with you not doing that, you have already given him such a mind-blowing blowjob despite it being your first time. however, even then, he still wanted to see something he had always wanted to try.

reaching his thumb into your mouth, he gathered up some of his cum and slowly, plastered them over your lips like he was applying your lipstick. when he was done, he let his thumb stay in your mouth and he gestured to you.

knowing what he was asking for, you first grazed your teeth over his skin before you sucked on it like a binky. his cum smacked together and left trails all over his hand and your lips, messy but so fucking hot at the same time.

and then he pulled out of you, removing his hand and going back to himself. he stared at you for a moment, once again contemplating. and when he reached over for you again, instead of another round of shoving and pulling, his hand moved to the back of your head and he rubbed the spot he just yanked at. then he gave your head a gentle pat.

he smiled at you softly. "you did so great, baby girl."

you wanted to smile at his compliment, but something about him speaking as if this was the end of it made disappointment settle in your chest. chan could sense your dismay through the pout, and his heart jumped slightly at the knowledge that you might want more than just sucking him off.

"why are you pouting, hmm?" he asked then, squeezing your cheek and looking directly at you. "do you want daddy to do something?"

his finger was trailing an alluring line down your cheek and your neck now. he knew what he was doing, and you knew you had to be the one to say it in order for him to keep going down to where you wanted him the most, the heated pool right between your legs.

"yes, please," you said, still shy about doing a minimal amount of dirty talk.

"hmm?" he raised his brows in amusement. "what is it that you want me to do, baby girl?"

oh, there were so many things you wanted him to do to you. but one of which took up the most space in your desires was to have him fuck you raw and open on whatever surface he so pleases. you would give anything to feel him inside of you.

"i..." you sucked in a breath, your cheeks reddening uncontrollably at the thought of having to verbalize your filthy fantasies. "i–i want daddy to make me feel good."

chan smirked, his finger that is was once trailing down your neck finally made its way to the center. his hand palmed over the area of your collarbones before he raised the position of his hand a little. he squeezed the base of your neck, loving the bobbing of the breathy throat.

oh, you pretty, little thing.

he's gonna fuck you so hard you won't even remember the boy who made you do this in the first place.

[writesowhatnext]

does it ever drive you crazy? // george weasley

Summary: lovers // you didn’t know when exactly it got hard to be friends with george weasley

Request: nee

A/N: so this is the last part!!!!! Very much hope you like and much thank to Erica ( @ickle-ronniekins ) for being excited about this bc if she wasn’t, I almost definitely wouldn’t have written this ALSO ok but scepticism is such a weird word

Reader: female, Slytherin

Warnings: swearing

enemies // friends // lovers // epilogue

It didn’t take a genius to know where Hermione would be, you thought as you searched around the library for her huddled figure. You grinned as you approached her, the book in your hand heavy as you got closer. She smiled when she saw you, watching you with curiosity as you dragged the chair opposite her out and sat down.

She looked at you expectantly as you pulled out the book from behind your back and presented it to her.

“A first edition Moby Dick?” she whispered; her eyes glued to the cover. “How on Earth-“

“My parents. It’s for you.”

Her head shot up so fast you would’ve thought she got whiplash.

“I couldn’t accept-“ she said quickly. “Why?”

“I heard you decked Malfoy last year,” you said with a smirk, leaning your chin on your hand, pleased to see her so happy about your gift.

“Oh.”

“I just wanted to support any efforts you had to repeat the incident.”

She grinned widely, looking back at the book in her hands, hugging it to her chest slightly.

“Thank you-“

“Don’t mention it, Granger,” you insisted, shooting her a smile before turning to leave, only to be interrupted by George, who was crouching behind the bookshelf next to you.

“Why are you being so nice?” he asked gruffly, frowning. “You’re never nice; isn’t it against some super-secret Slytherin code to be nice?”

You scoffed, crossing your arms as you stared at him.

“Perhaps,” you said. “But, I’m nice to you.”

“Right,” he snorted, tilting his head to the side before looking behind you for something, or someone. “Sure, you are.”

You narrowed your eyes at him suspiciously. “I could be if I wanted to be… I just don’t want to be.”

“Now, that’s a lie.”

“Oh, really?” you asked, raising your eyebrows as he stared past you. “I think that not telling Pince that you’re pulling a prank in the library is quite nice of me.”

His wide eyes shot to yours in panic, not at all relieved by your smug expression. You didn’t say anything else as you left though, and as he watched you saunter out, he frowned. Had your lips always looked like that when you bit them? Why had he noticed?

“Ready, Georgie?” Fred asked, his eyebrows drawn downwards as he looked between your disappearing figure and George’s confused face.

“Yeah, yeah, course.”

After spending the day with them at Hogsmeade, you started spending more and more time with the Weasley twins. You were more surprised than anyone at how much you were enjoying yourself. The new year changed nothing and so, as sixth year rolled around, you found yourself on quite friendly terms with the idiots you’d actually come to enjoy being around, even when they had a tendency to ambush you in corridors.

“What you up to, Y/N?” George asked, scaring the shit out of you as you walked down the hallway. His presence at your side was looming and you tensed at the proximity. Fred appeared over your other shoulder, gifting you with matching shadows.

“Causing trouble?” Fred said conspiratorially.

“Could I ever with you two prats around?” you said, only just noticing their massive grins. “No doubt whatever you’re about to pull will backfire astronomically.”

“Y/N,” Fred gasped, placing his hand on his chest. “Ye of little faith! Do you not trust us?”

You hummed as they stopped outside the Great Hall which was seemingly always full nowadays with people trying to enter their names for the Triwizard Tournament.

“Not particularly, no,” you said, eyebrows raised.

“Oh!” George exclaimed, clapping his palm against his chest exactly as his brother had done. “Dear Y/N, you wound us with your scepticism!”

You shot him a dry look, frowning lightly at the way your stomach twisted as he grinned at you. You leant in the doorway as they rushed inside; their entrance met with a chorus of cheers. Watching them talk to Hermione, you let your head rest on the stone archway. They were such idiots, you thought as you regarded them, your eyes lingering on George’s face, animated as ever.

When they moved closer towards the goblet, you were caught off guard by Hermione’s pointed stare, a smirk playing on her lips. You frowned in confusion and she only shrugged; a very irritating, very knowing shrug. Annoyance coursed through you as she avoided your eyes and you were in half a mind to walk over to her before Fred and George were all but ejected from the cup’s perimeter, soaring backwards as grey hair sprouted all over their faces.

A laugh of disbelief escaped your lips and your hand flew to your mouth as they began to scrap on the floor, rolling around like children even though they looked more like OAPs than reckless tweens. You snorted at them, not at all aware of Hermione’s eyes on you, a curious smile on her lips.

The Triwizard Tournament was the talk of the school and despite the undeniable rush that gossip and competition provided, you found yourself avoiding the whole business entirely. You didn’t know Cedric Diggory too well and you didn’t care all that much for Krum or Fleur Delacour; Harry was another matter, though, and whilst you cared about whether he lived or died, you didn’t think you’d be having sleepovers anytime soon. 

And so, you just kept to your studies. Regardless of how crass it sounded, life still went on and whilst the champions were battling dragons, you still had essays to write and tests to revise for. With that said, you did enjoy destroying those stupid badges that had swept through Hogwarts like the plague.

In your spare time, you found great joy in hitting them mercilessly with your quidditch bat, pummelling them until they turned black and stopped with that ridiculous “Potter stinks” slogan. Sure, magic would’ve done the trick, but it was nowhere near as much fun. You were on your fourteenth badge when a presence behind you startled you.

“What’re you doing?” George asked, his tone curious as he stood next to you with his arms crossed.

“Target practice,” you said, not pausing to chat as you threw another badge in the air and sent it slamming into the stone wall opposite.

George didn’t say anything for a moment; he just watched you with a small smile.

“You know, your heart isn’t as ice-cold as you want people to believe,” he said slowly, frowning as he examined your features.

“Is that right?” you asked, your voice deliberately devoid of emotion. “Anything more you’d like to tell me about myself?”

You could feel his eyes on you as you spoke and you cursed the part of your brain that wanted so desperately to blush under the weight of his stare. You swallowed, adjusting your grip on the bat. You could’ve sworn that he didn’t have this effect on you the day before, but your mind wandered back to the strange incident in the hallway outside of Snape’s class and you missed the badge you’d just pitched yourself.

Things with George had gotten weird. You couldn’t place when exactly, but the easy banter you’d developed hardened and you found yourself avoiding him more often than not. It wasn’t easy, though, given the fact that you were supposed to be friends and given the fact that you looked for him around corners, almost disappointed when he wasn’t there. 

On some occasions, it was much harder to avoid him than others and despite how much you’d have liked to, you could hardly move when they sat opposite you in silent revision. That would just be rude. You ignored them for a while, acutely aware of their presence when George started muttering to Fred, his voice growing louder and louder.

“Oi, pea-brain,” you hissed, clicking your fingers to get their attention, a strange feeling climbing up your spine as George’s eyes fell on you. “Shut up.”

Fred rocked his head from side to side, imitating you and earning himself a hard kick in the shin under the table.

They managed silence for a whole nine minutes before Fred started poking you with his quill.

“Psst,” he said loudly, prodding you with his finger this time. “Hey-“

“What?” you snapped, scowling at Fred’s pleased grin, not unaware of George’s gaze also on you.

“Did you see the first task?”

“Of course, I did,” you said, returning back to your parchment.

“And?” he pressed, leaning forward.

“And, what?”

“What did you think?”

You paused, looking up from your paper to meet Fred’s eyes. You’d known him well enough long enough to notice when he was up to something. You glanced at George to see if he had the same devilish glint only to see him looking down, though it was obvious he wasn’t doing much with his stationary quill. With your eyebrows drawn down, you looked back at Fred, watching as he raised his eyebrows pointedly.

“Cedric was great, wasn’t he?”

“Yeah, I suppose…”

You leant back slightly, confused as to why Fred was pushing the topic so much. Then, though, you realised. It was the way George’s brow furrowed at Cedric’s name that sparked your interest and as you glanced back at Fred, you raised an eyebrow. Was George jealous? Fred nodded.

“He was brilliant, actually,” you said conversationally, rolling your shoulders back. “The transfiguration of the rock into that dog? Quite ingenious to distract the dragon like that.”

“Anyone can do transfiguration,” George muttered under his breath.

A smile quirked at the corner of your lips as you turned to Fred, only growing as he made an upwards motion with his hands, urging you to amp it up a bit.

“And Krum’s conjunctivitis curse? Sort of brilliant for such a meat-head…”

“Sort of brilliant,” George scoffed, shaking his head as his grip on his quill tightened. You considered your interest piqued as you watching him closely this time, gauging his reaction.

“And, well, Harry’s always been an excellent flier, hasn’t he?”

As George rolled his eyes, you snickered, looking to Fred in disbelief.

“George, are you jealous?”

His head shot up quickly as his wide eyes met yours. “Me? What?” he spluttered unconvincingly. “Why would I be jealous?”

His question, to his credit, stumped you. Why would he be jealous? You supposed that an attention seeker like him would love the fame of being a Triwizard champion, but Fred and George still managed to be the names on everyone’s lips with their betting service. It had to be that, though, right? There was no other reason why he’d be jealous.

“No reason,” you said shortly, turning back to your essay.

This time they managed seventeen minutes in silence before George started asking Fred about Potions, a subject Fred knew very little about given his partner was Angelina Johnson. To say he was distracted in those lessons would be a gross understatement.

“I don’t know, mate,” Fred said apologetically, frowning when George groaned. You told yourself not to, but the words were already spilling out of your mouth before you had a chance to stop yourself.

“I can help,” you offered, sealing your mouth shut. When you did you get so bloody helpful?

“Really?” George said, his eyes so earnest a lump formed in your throat. You could only nod.

“Brilliant,” he grinned, sliding over his parchment. “What the bloody hell does this mean?”

For all his faults, George, you had to admit, was smarter than he looked.

“So, you add horned slugs if-“ he cut himself off when Seamus Finnigan sat down next to him, immediately and easily drawing his attention away from his work. You couldn’t contain your eyeroll and you didn’t try to.

“Those Beauxbatons girls…” Seamus mused, shaking his head. “They’re grand, aren’t they?”

“I’ll say,” George agreed, lighting up. “There was this one the other day that me and Fred bumped into and blimey she was-“

“Maybe she could help you with potions,” you said, your tone more venomous than intended as you leant back. You recognised the prangs of jealousy in your gut and clenched your jaw at the feeling.

“Are you jealous?” George asked, barely able to fight the smile on his lips.

“Am I-“ you rushed, tutting. “Of course, not. Why would I be jealous?”

George narrowed his eyes but left well enough alone when Seamus once again garnered his attention and you were left asking yourself the same question over and over again. Why would you be jealous? 

You didn’t have an answer when Hermione stalked over to you in the corridor with a determined look on her face and an armful of textbooks.

“You like George,” she said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. You hoped it wasn’t.

“I’ve been accused of many things, Granger,” you said, walking away as she followed. “But never something as awful as that.”

She scoffed, much to your dismay.

“Right, but I’ve seen the way you look at him.”

You swallowed. “With contempt and thinly veiled hatred?” you suggested, though your tone was far from credible.

“Like you’re in love.”

That, of all the things she could have said, very quickly broke your composure.

“Give off, Hermione,” you said harshly, partially thankful for being able to so honestly and full-heartedly deny something.

“Fine, fine, alright,” she said, raising her eyebrows as you stopped before a staircase. “But at least admit you like him.”

“Maybe I like like him,” you replied childishly, trying unsuccessfully to avoid thinking about it.

She shot you a dry look.

“We both know you do,” she said matter-of-factly, disappearing back the way you came and leaving you to stew on her words as you stomped up the staircase.

You couldn’t like George, right? He was George. He was stupid and irritating and reckless and the year before you’d hated his guts. Things couldn’t change that fast, could they? Could they?

What you didn’t know was that George had been asking himself the same thing.

“Shut up, Fred, I do not-“

“Right, sure. You definitely do not fancy Y/N. Gotcha!”

“I’m serious, Freddie,” George said lowly, throwing a scrunched-up ball of paper at his brother across the Gryffindor common room.

“So am I, Georgie,” Fred said, sitting up. “Anyone with half a brain-cell could tell you’re mad for her.”

“Mad for who?” Harry asked, strolling through the portrait hole with Ron hot on his heels.

“Y/N,” Fred replied, smiling at George’s sigh.

“Oh, right,” Harry said, sitting in one of the armchairs.

“What the bloody hell do you mean ‘Oh, right’?” George said, his tone exasperated.

“Well, it’s kind of obvious,” Ron said, shrugging. “You guys hated each other a few months ago and now you’re making googly eyes at each other all the bloody time.”

“Oh, piss off, Ron,” George groaned, rubbing his face with his hands. “You don’t know anything about girls.”

“Oi!”

“He’s right though,” Fred insisted, kicking at George with his foot. “Why do you think you were so jealous when she was chatting about Cedric and Krum?”

George, as a rule, hated it when Fred was right. He hated it even more when Ron was right and so, as he walked down to the dungeon to find you, he was not in love with the whole situation. It was annoying, really, that they thought they knew so much. It was more annoying that they did know so much. Even a broken clock, though, he figured, was right twice a day. 

As he slipped through the Slytherin common room charms, he was taken aback by the memory of him doing exactly the same thing not two years ago and a strange feeling clenched at his chest.

Seeing George Weasley in your common room was never a good sign, and as you noticed him by the doors, you knew that he would have to leave very soon before he got hexed or worse, before Malfoy started to talk to him.

“Oi, Y/N,” he said, finally spotting you as you walked towards him, already fully aware of his presence.

“George,” you replied, nervousness brewing inside your stomach. It was the first time you’d been alone with him in a very long time.

“Do you-“ he began, swallowing as he looked down at you. Your words lodged in your throat at the serious look in his eyes. “Do you fancy going to the Yule Ball, by any chance?”

You raised your eyebrows, your eavesdropping audience long forgotten as you stared at him.

“With me?” he added, frowning.

“With you?” you repeated, trying to ignore the echo of your heartbeat in your ears.

“Yes.”

You both stared at each other for a moment.

“Are you asking me out?”

“I think so, yeah.”

Your mouth twitched at his uneasy tone, finding his nerves quite endearing.

“Alright.” You said, nodding, a small smile growing on your lips.

“Yeah?” he asked, his whole face lighting up in surprise.

“Yeah,” you repeated, biting your lip as you grinned at him.

“Brilliant,” he breathed, his cheeks hurting as he beamed. His confidence seemed to flood back to him as he looked at you again, standing taller than he had been. “I mean, we could just skip the ball and just make-“

“Don’t push it, Weasley,” you said, raising an eyebrow. You wetted your lips, fully aware of his eyes on them. He glanced up to meet your gaze, pleased to see the same mischievous twinkle he knew so well.

harry potter tag list:

@creator-appreciator​

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@loveisblindness​

@xinyourdreamsx​

@brainlesspasta​

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[mymoonagedaydream]

Part 5

Summary: Keeping your feelings for Bucky under control until you knew you could trust him again was so much more difficult than you expected

Pairing: College/Biker!Bucky x y/n

Word Count: 2.4k

Warnings: Language

Author’s Note: This one took me so fucking long to piece together man I really need to start planning ahead more

---

You intentionally arrived at Bucky’s lecture a few minutes early, so you could have your pick of the seats.

Your plan was to do as much as you could to keep yourself hidden. Sequester yourself at the very back, slouch down so far that your spine gets folded in half and just hope that a series of extremely tall people take the row in front of you.

You were just there to observe, to make sure he was alright. If the whole lecture could pass without him becoming aware of your presence, that’d be great.

Five minutes went by, then ten. No sign of Bucky.

A few people started filtering out and a low hum of irritated mumbling spread across the room. You eventually gave up on him too, slight concern rising in the back of your mind as you started to gather your things.

Just as you were about to stand up, the door swung open, and he lumbered in.

Jesus, he looked fucking terrible.

His usual stubble had sprouted into the beginnings of a full unkempt beard, his t-shirt looked like it’d been found in a dumpster and, from the way he was staggering, you were pretty sure he was nursing the mother of all hangovers.

He threw his bag on the desk and muttered some kind of apology, apathetically keying his details into the computer. As it started to load up, he collapsed into his chair, turning to unenthusiastically scan the room.

You winced as his gaze travelled closer, shifting nervously in your seat and praying for some kind of miracle, but entirely unable to stop his eyes eventually landing on you.

Your reflex was to give him a pitying smile, but that just seemed to take the wind out of his sails even more, making him sink further into his seat and rub his hands across his face.

At some point in his absolute trainwreck of a lecture, you came to the decision that you’d have to have a talk with him, figure out what the fuck was going on. Steve seemed to be under the impression that you could help somehow, so you had to give it a shot.

At the very least, you could try being a friend to him.

He spotted you approaching once everyone else had filed out, quickly doing all he could to avoid meeting your gaze.  

You stopped a few feet away. ‘You look like shit.’

‘I feel like it too.’

You’d never heard him sound so miserable. Burying your hands in your pockets, you tried adopting a slightly more playful tone.

‘Well I would feel sorry for you Bucko, but you kinda deserve it.’

‘I know.’

The words came out completely flat, almost like it was an automated response.

You were quiet for a second, really struggling to marry the brazen, flirtatious Bucky you’d met a few weeks ago with the seemingly hopeless, ghost of a man standing in front of you.

He took a laboured breath and finally met your eyes. ‘I tried to call you.’

‘That makes a change.’

His face fell and he turned away, starting to shove things back into his bag. Shit, just as you were getting somewhere you went and slapped the sad puppy again.

‘My phone’s been off. I just needed some space.’

‘That’s fair.’

You looked him up and down before moving a few steps closer, making an effort to position yourself in front of him and softening your voice.

‘You really can’t be showing up like this Buck, you’re gonna get yourself fired.’ You placed a hand lightly on his shoulder. ‘What the hell happened?’

He froze for a second, you could see him trying to piece together his response.

‘After the bar, I started thinking, I-’ He faltered slightly as his eyes met yours. ‘I just can’t believe it took hurting someone I care about for me to finally realise that I need to change.’

You just stared back at him, speechless, trying to wrap your head around what he’d just said.

He was being completely genuine, that much you could gather. You believed that he was sorry and that he wanted to change. 

‘I forgive you, Buck.’ He squeezed his eyes shut and let out a heavy breath. ‘But this whole thing has gotten so crazy. I really think we need to cool things down, maybe just be friends for a while.’

He actually looked pleasantly surprised. ‘You still want to be around me?’

‘Yeah. I mean, you can be a prize-winning dickhead and my life would be a whole lot easier at the moment if we’d never met, but for some reason I do still really enjoy your company.’

He finally cracked a smile, nodding slightly and throwing his bag over his shoulder. Seeing him happy again sent a wave of relief over you. 

You pulled him into a hug, closing your eyes when you felt his chin come to rest on your shoulder and his arms wrap tight around your waist. Even after everything, being close to him like this still ignited some kind of spark in you, something you’d never felt with anyone else before or since.

You eventually pulled away, giving him a firm pat on the shoulder.

‘Sort yourself out, yeah?’

‘I’ll do my best.’ You gave him a wide smile and started to walk away, stopping abruptly when he called after you. ‘When you turn your phone back on, you might have a few voicemails from me. You can just delete them.’

‘Did you drunk dial me?’ He winced slightly, giving a reluctant nod. ‘That is fucking brilliant. I’ll let you know which one is my favourite.’

---

You burst through the door of your apartment, spotting Nat on the couch and making a beeline towards her. You vaulted into the spot next to her, making her bounce off the cushion slightly, and grabbed the remote to click off the TV.

‘Hey, what the hell? I was watching that.’

‘Trust me, I have something much better.’ She raised an eyebrow at you, entirely unconvinced. ‘Six drunk voicemails from Bucky.’

‘No way. What about?’

‘No idea, haven't listened to them yet.’ You excitedly yanked your phone out of your pocket.

The first one was normal and sober, he just apologised for acting like a macho asshole at the bar and asked you to call him. Fair enough.

Then he really went downhill.

There was only an hour or so gap, but it sounded like he’d used that time to plough through litres of hard liquor.

Hey, I just read James Buchanan’s whole Wikipedia page. The dude fucking sucked, why couldn’t you just let me stay oblivious. Man, I hate you. No I don’t, I don’t know why I said that.

Your stomach was aching by the time you’d listened to the first five. His nonsensical, slurred rants had you and Nat sprawled out on the sofa in fits of laughter.

Halfway through one of them he just seemed to forget that he was on the phone, and he proceeded to have a ten minute argument with Steve over who left a clump of hair in the shower drain.

Once the two of you had managed to collect yourselves a little, you played the last one.

Fuck, I really miss you. I just want to be around you. You deserve better than me, but I can be better. I will be. I think-

You stopped it.

You couldn’t listen to anymore of that, especially not with Nat.

‘Shit.’ She was staring at you, frozen in shock.

You closed your eyes for a second. Hearing what he had to say back in the lecture theatre was difficult enough, but this was a whole different ball game.

This was him pouring his heart out with absolutely no inhibitions holding him back, and you weren’t ready to hear it, especially not right after beating down your feelings and asking him to just be friends.

You buried your face in your hands. ‘Why can't I just meet a nice, normal guy Nat?’

‘Oh, come on.’ Her firm tone pretty swiftly snapped you out of your pity party. ‘I've known you long enough to know that you don't want a nice, normal guy.’

You flopped sideways, resting your head in her lap and whimpering slightly.

‘Help me out here.’

‘Look, I don’t blame you for not wanting to admit it to yourself, but it’s pretty clear that you want Bucky.’

You bit your lip and huffed. ‘I don’t know if I do, though. I still don’t trust him.’

‘If you didn’t want him, you wouldn’t have asked him to be your friend.’ You furrowed your brows at her, a little puzzled. ‘Look, it might not have been your intention, but what you’ve done is basically given him a chance to prove himself. Now you can just wait, see if he really meant everything he said’

Perceptive bitch. The extent to which Nat knew you better than you knew yourself never failed to amaze.

‘Why do you always have to be right?’

She stroked your hair and gave you a warm smile. ‘S'what I'm here for.’

You ended up deleting the voicemail without listening to the end of it, instead just spending the rest of the evening trying to get everything straight in your head.

You’d drawn a line under Sam, that much was for sure. Guy’s a cunt. You’d given him a second chance and it was one too many.

Any rational person would have told you to draw a line under Bucky too, but you just couldn’t.

Nat was right. Despite everything, you still wanted him. 

So, your only real option was to just soldier on with this whole friend thing you’d set up, hoping that he could somehow convince you to trust him again.

Yeesh, how fucking complicated. Would be much easier to just let him be your boyfriend, on the condition that he had to be hooked up to a whiskey IV at all times and get that emotional honesty pumped straight into his veins. 

---

It was just over a week after the lecture when Nat informed you that Steve and Bucky had invited you both over for dinner.

You hadn’t spoken to Bucky at all, figuring it was best to give him a little space to sort himself out, but now you were more than ready to see him again and try out out this whole new friendship thing.

Perfect circumstances too, cause Nat and Steve would inevitably get super horny and leave the two of you alone for most of the evening.

Steve opened the door and you two followed him through to the kitchen, Nat grabbing a bottle of wine from the fridge and you hopping up to sit on the counter.

You heard heavy footsteps thud down the stairs, and a second later Bucky waltzed into the room, looking pretty much back to his old self. His mouth curled into a wide smile when he saw you.

‘You look much better.’ You grinned as he came to lean against the counter next to you.

‘I know, right? I even took a shower.’ You gave him an proud nod and pressed your thumb into his forehead, getting a completely bewildered look in response. ‘What the hell was that?’

‘You get a gold star for personal growth. Don’t look in the mirror, there's definitely one there.’

He chuckled, standing back up straight and sliding his hands into his back pockets, looking a little on edge.

‘So, did you, uh- did you listen to any of my voicemails?’

Nat shot you a nervous look. You could tell Bucky was concerned, but trying his best to sound as casual as possible, which made you wonder if maybe he wasn’t too drunk to remember everything he’d said after all. Interesting.

‘Nope. Deleted them, like you said.’ 

He just nodded. He really didn’t look as relieved as you expected, he actually looked a little disappointed.

You were so tired of trying to read that boy, it was like trying to read all the different languages in an IKEA instruction booklet simultaneously.

The four of you chatted for a while but, as expected, Steve and Nat eventually vacated upstairs, leaving you alone with Bucky the FJÄLKINGE bookcase and absolutely no tools to assemble him with.

Thankfully, there turned out to be very little awkwardness.

It was actually really nice just feeling like you could relax in his company again, it’d been ages since the two of you had just hung out.

That was, until you were sat watching TV and he decided to open his big, stupid mouth.

‘So, friends...’ You raised your eyebrows at him, dreading where he was headed. ‘We should probably get to know each other better then. Ask me anything.’

‘What makes you think I want to know more about you?’

‘Oh, there’s definitely some stuff you’ll want to know.’ He looked at you as though there was some kind of big hint you were supposed to be picking up on. You just narrowed your eyes, very confused. ‘Like what I’ve been up to, or not been up to, recently. Y’know.’

A smirk danced on his lips, you had to admit you’d kind of missed that smirk.

 From the provocative way he was wiggling his eyebrows at you, you got the impression that he was prompting you to ask about his sex life, but you really weren’t sure if you wanted to know.

‘Fine, I’ll bite.’ You sighed reluctantly, pulling a leg up onto the sofa and turning towards him. ‘Cause I’m obviously dying to know who the last person you slept with was.’

‘You.’

‘Horseshit.’

‘I swear to god.’

You raised an eyebrow and sucked your teeth, really struggling to bring yourself to believe him.

‘Alright then, last person you kissed?’

‘You.’

You rolled your eyes and turned back to face the TV. ‘There's no point playing if you're going to lie.’

‘I'm not lying. You can even ask Steve, I tell him everything.’ You shook your head again, completely unconvinced. ‘Hey, I thought we were friends. Don’t you trust me?’

Your eyes darted over to meet his. You bit your lip, the amusement slowly falling from your face. 

‘No. I don’t.’

His mischievous smirk dropped instantly when he realised you were being serious. 

‘Well, is there anything I can do to change that?’

‘I really hope so Buck.’

---

Part 6

---

@shawnie--jo @all-art-is-quite-useless @maevemarethyu @tcc-gizmachine @amazonianbeauty @connie326 @inactivewhore @nnuree @broco8 @release-your-sweets @navegandoaciegas @iheartsebastianstan @alrightlosangeles-afi @thesewaywardskies @abbysdogcollar @pinknerdpanda @passwordterm1

Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist

---

[angstyaches]

Hey flick! Just read your last fic with poor el and I was just thinking about a potential dynamic between Elliot and Charlie, where Elliot is sick from maybe going through vamp transition stuff and Charlie is around somehow (maybe visiting Shane, or if you can’t figure it out you could just swap him with Shane lol). I could see if Elliot was just mildly sick that Charlie would know to back off and give him some space, but if it was more serious I feel like his deep and intense drive to mother the everloving shit out of people might be too much for him to resist trying to take care of the poor grumpy boi. And besides, Elliot is Shane’s family, so like he feels like he’s GOTTA help even more😂 meanwhile Elliot is annoyed at first but slowly warms up because a) he’s sick as hell and could really use someone to make sure he doesn’t die, and b) Shane trusts Charlie and that’s gotta mean something, right?

I hope this is okay!! My brain has NOT been cooperating with me lately so it's a little messy. This sort of focuses on Charlie’s issues with Elliott.

CW: emeto, blood mention (drank), fear, mistrust

___

"Shit," Shayne sighed as he stared into the boot of Elliott's car, where he and Charlie had just shoved their luggage for the weekend.

"What?" Charlie asked, twisting on the back seat to look back at him.

"I forgot to pack my Docs. Can I get the keys?"

"Lovely, it's 25 degrees all weekend," Charlie laughed, pushing open the car door to lean out and talk to Shayne properly. "Do you really think you'll need them?"

Shayne curled his lip in an exaggerated pout and put out his hand. Charlie dug the house keys out of his pocket and relinquished them, finding himself rewarded with a dark-eyed wink.

"I'll only be a sec," Shayne promised.

"Mmhmm, take your time," Charlie grinned. He shut his door again and watched Shayne jog back towards the house. That was when his gaze fell on the back of Elliott's head, and then on the vampire's hand, which was draped over the top of the steering wheel while his fingers drummed rapidly against the dash.

"Sorry," Charlie chuckled anxiously, wondering when he'd started feeling the need to apologise for Shayne. He tilted his head to try to meet Elliott's gaze in the rear-view mirror, with little success thanks to his dark aviator sunglasses.

"It's fine," Elliott murmured.

"Thanks again for driving us."

Charlie's heart sank when seconds ticked by and Elliott didn't reply again. He really couldn't tell if Elliott was mad or if he was just this closed-off.

Shouldn't have told Shayne to take his time. Should have told him to hurry the fuck up.

Charlie sat back in his seat and put on his seatbelt, taking his time and smoothing out the strap over his shoulder. The awkwardness in the car was as much his own fault as it was Elliott's. He still got shivers down his spine when he recalled that day in the park, and the fear and panic that had taken hold of Shayne when he'd realised Elliott was spying on them; he just couldn't shake the mistrust that had planted itself in him.

Not just that, but on the drive home that same day, Elliott had refused to pull over when his own boyfriend claimed to be carsick, resulting in the poor boy throwing up all over himself.

Plus, Elliott was way too conventionally attractive for Charlie to trust him.

Asshole.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Elliott asked lazily, presumably meeting his eye through his sunglasses in the mirror now.

“I – I, my what?” Charlie stammered, shifting in his seat. For a horrible second, he was worried that Charlie Two’s thoughts had slipped out through his mouth. “Nothing. I have no thoughts.”

“Right,” Elliott mumbled, and he might have burped quietly into his fist just then, but Charlie couldn’t be sure. He could have been clearing his throat. “I’m sure you’ve got absolutely no thoughts on any subject.”

Charlie shook his head and turned his head to look out the opposite window. The wind was brushing across the edges of the trees.

Sarcastic asshole, Charlie Two pointed out from inside his head.

Shayne is also sarcastic.

Yes, but he’s our sarcastic asshole.

Stop saying ‘asshole’!

There was a harsh click as Elliott pushed open the drivers’ side door. He was huffing deeply, as far as Charlie could make out.

Shit. Charlie cleared his throat.

Shit, indeed. Was it something you said?

“Elliott?” Charlie called out, throwing open his own door when Elliott slammed his shut. “Is everything okay?”

“Yes, just excuse me a minute.”

“Oh, okay.” Charlie sank a little further down in his seat, stomach sinking. Had he really said something? Did Elliott now think he’d muttered ‘asshole’ under his breath, referring to him? He knew he should go after him and explain, but the idea of facing Elliott when he was mad at him made Charlie’s guts turn to water.

His car door was still open and he could hear Elliott’s shoes crunching on the gravel. The sound halted abruptly when the vampire was a few more feet away, and then there was a harsh retch that made Charlie’s hair stand on end.

“Oh, god...” Charlie fumbled to release himself from the seatbelt he was still strapped in with. As soon as he was out of the car, he spotted where Elliott had stopped to hunch over, hands planted on his knees and his ponytail flopping over the top of his head.

Elliott looked up at the sound of the gravel crunching, and Charlie almost physically recoiled at the sight of the blood and bile clinging to his lips and chin. Charlie took a deep breath, feeling endlessly thankful that he hadn’t had any breakfast yet.

“Are you okay?” he asked, as steadily as he could.

“Don’t come any fuckin’ closer.”

“Right. Sorry.” Charlie’s feet rooted themselves dutifully to the spot, but his heart still twisted with sympathy at how frail Elliott suddenly looked when at the mercy of his own rebelling stomach. “Do – do you need something?”

“No!” Elliott yelled, though as he did, he doubled over again, jaw wrenched apart as another gag ripped through him. Nothing seemed to come up but a deep, nauseated belch, but it still made Charlie shudder and swallow thickly.

Another belch brought up a splash of liquid, and Charlie had to turn away. He was feeling hot and squirmy. Without thinking too much, he decided to be productive despite Elliott’s resistance; after all, it wasn’t exactly his first time dealing with a sick person who didn’t want to be taken care of. It was almost “his thing” at this point.

Charlie paced back to Elliott’s car and turned out the contents of the glove box until he found a pocket-sized packet of tissues. He also remembered that he had a bottle of water in his backpack, so he grabbed that from the back seat.

Luckily, by the time he crossed the gravel again, Elliott’s body seemed to have finished purging itself. He was standing upright at least, and had pushed his aviators up into his hair. He only gave a mild glare as Charlie approached him.

“Here,” Charlie said softly.

“Do not touch me,” Elliott growled as he took the tissues. He did a double-glance towards Charlie as he pulled one out of the packet. “Thank you.”

“Mmhmm.” Charlie smiled tightly and looked away as Elliott mopped his face. To his relief, the front door of the house opened just then and Shayne stepped out, glancing over at the two of them before locking it behind him. Charlie gave him a listless wave.

“Water?” Elliott rasped next to Charlie, making him jump.

“Right! Sorry. Here you go.” Charlie turned to hand it to him, that pained smile still plastered across his face. He seriously couldn't shake the fact that this guy could sprout massive fangs and rip the side out of his neck with no effort at all.

Elliott’s eyes were so golden they almost glistened in the low sunshine, yet without the sunglasses, Charlie could see the dark circles they cast. His eyebrows were furrowed and flecked with sweat, and yet the vampire managed a half-smile as he unscrewed the cap on Charlie’s water bottle.

“Thanks, Charlie.”

“You’re welcome,” Charlie replied, and although it felt a little stiff, it wasn’t quite as stiff as it could have been.

"Everything okay?" Shayne asked, crunching his way across the gravel towards them, his Docs hanging from one hand and the house keys dangling from the other.

After filling his mouth with water, Elliott spat the liquid back out again, making a queasy face. "Much better now."

"Yeah," Charlie breathed, grabbing the keys from Shayne and taking his hand while he was at it. "Better now."

[shini--chan]

Yandere England HCs

I remember somewhere around here in my inbox somebody requested yandere England hcs. If I recall correctly, there handle was @hehehhewaitwhat  Sadly, the ask has vanished from the box, but I still recall receiving it! So here you go:  

Yandere England

Arthur would be one of the yanderes that would play it cool at first. No cool isn’t the right word – it is cold. He would believe in keeping a tight control on his emotions, least they take over him and he is no longer his own master. All in all, a very good idea, it is just the matter of execution that matters – Arthur would be doing this in a very unhealthy way. He’d bottle up his feeling on a large part, refusing to analysis them and locate the source, not to mention expressing his emotions in healthy ways. And here would be where the yandere tendencies start to blossom.

It would result in all his ignored and unacknowledged feelings for you start to seep through in the most eery ways, ways that would be borderline toxic. What could have potentially been love would become twisted and wrapped, some of Arthur’s other issues just amplifying this. In the end, he wouldn’t be able to prevent himself from either manipulating you into his web, or outright kidnapping you.

The insistent burning in his veins never ceased, rather it grew even worse when you weren’t close to him. It was magma rolling in his veins, eradicating even more of his rational thoughts the longer he attempted to ignore it.

In an attempt to remedy it, Arthur turned the water in the shower to ice-cold. A mistake on his part. It had gave a sharp contrast and thus made the concoction of emotions stand out all the sharper. It made him wonder if the only cure would be to give into them and let nature take its course.

Yet that was something he couldn’t allow. Emotions were the leftovers of a primordial past – notions that didn’t follow any logic or decency. If they weren’t controlled, then they would control.

He turned his face up to the stream of water, as if it could wash away all the sinful thoughts about you that had begun to haunt him. That was a tragedy on its own – he never could be rid of you. You would come to haunt his dreams uninvited, invade his thoughts unwelcomed. He remembered when his interest in you had just been a mere sapling. Now it was a field of weeds, a contagion that was completely out of his control and still demanded his attention.

He shouldn’t have ignored his love when it had started to sprout, for now it had turned into obsession.

Of course, he’ll try the former way first before anything else – he would know that you wouldn’t really appreciate it if he abducted you. England would turn the charm on and boy, can he be charming when he wants to be. It wouldn’t be in grand, over the top gestures – that is for amateurs. It would come in small, effective gestures that would become bigger over time – freshly picked flowers from his garden, biscuits he made himself and then he would go over to bigger presents like a dinner in a fancy restaurant. His aim would be to have you completely smittened before he would start to cut you off from the rest of the world and to mould you into what constitutes for a perfect person.

It was a fine day; the sun painting the sky in a kaleidoscope of warm colours and caused the green of the hills to become so saturated. Or maybe it was because you were in love that the world was all the more vivid, that the air smelled sweeter and the arm that was curled around your waist felt so right.

Arthur was being charming, a good-natured smile making his sharp features softer. He had taken you out to dinner tonight, a brief affair at a rustic inn out in a no-name little village. Yet the simple meal had been the best you had had in a long time.

So, with a full stomach in satisfaction in your heart, Arthur was accompanying you back home on this summer’s evening.

“My dear, that was a very wonderful day with you”, he remarked warmly, echoing your thoughts.

“Yes, it was. You couldn’t have picked a better place to go out. I would like to do such a thing again.”

He chuckled lowly at your affirmation. “Oh, love. I wouldn’t mind doing that every day with you for the rest of our lives.”

Under other circumstances, if you weren’t so smittened with him, you would realise that what he had said couldn’t be right. Good days can’t be copy-pasted on the future forever, happiness can’t be played constantly on repeat. It has to be experienced, the cause ever varied and reinvented so that it doesn’t become dull.

Yet you weren’t not in love with him. You were neither alarmed by the clinginess the statement implied or by how sappy it was. And that was exactly what Arthur wanted.

To be clear, he wouldn’t want a weak, stupid lover. There would be nothing more off-putting to him than a whiny, spineless idiot who can’t do anything on their own. In that way, you could say he’d have high standards. He’d want somebody who is a challenge, you’d be tactful in their conduct and somebody who’d have wit to match his. Arthur has a sharp tongue and even with you he wouldn’t shy away from dispensing chidings and sharp remarks. He’d also demand you have a spine of steel, that you wouldn’t simply cave in the face of danger. If you wouldn’t have these qualities, then you’d have to adopt them, and he would be never uncompromising about that.

Ironically, while he would manipulate you into having these qualities, he wouldn’t tolerate you having them to the extent would make your relationship impossible. He wouldn’t want to be taken care of in the terms of you being the breadwinner, doing business and all that. He would want to fulfil that roles for you, whether you’re a woman or a man. It would be a chronic need to provide for you, to be the dominate one in the relationship.

You sighed for the untempt time this afternoon. No matter how much you read the page of the book, the meaning of the passages eluded you. At this point, you only had a gist of what was going on and it frustrated you to no end.

Carefully, you placed a bookmark on the page that you had been busy with and closed the hard-cover novel quietly. You knew all to well that one of the easiest ways to get Arthur in a hissy fit was to maltreat one of his books. He claimed that books had to be treated with respect, because somebody had once put a lot of effort and time into writing it. A disrespect to the book was therefore an indirect disrespect to the author.

You leaned back in your chair and stared up at the decorations of the room. Arthur of course had to live in a mansion that seemingly was a time capsule for the age of Empire. Talk about being attracted to the glorious old days.

Carding your fingers through your hair, you cursed yourself. When did you get the brilliant idea to study the classics? Oh yes, it was when Arthur mentioned the benefits of higher literature while the two you had been cleaning. He had claimed that the complex characters made the reader better at socializing, at understanding that even the most despicable characters had softer sides. That it made a person for eloquent and at understanding the nuances of reality.

And of course, since you were constantly seeking to improve yourself, you had asked him if you could peruse his library. Arthur had whole-heartedly encouraged you and you knew that he would be extremely disappointed if you abandoned this chance to grow.

So, you opened the book again and reassumed the torture.

The need for dominance would be a manifestation for Arthur’s addiction to be in control. He is sort of the opinion that power is best left in his hands, and that nobody except him can properly wield it. And if he’d have the feeling that his control over would be slipping, then he would lash out. The most physical he’d get with his punishments would be caning. All in all, punishments would always be along the lines of what detention looked like in the old public schools during the Empire.

He would also have a certain image of what intelligent would look like. That would mean restrictions in your activities: no comics, no cartoons, no fizzy drinks, god have mercy on you is you have an addiction because he would have none, he says which parties you’re allowed to go to (that would be more in the beginning of the relationship), no sleeping in, no being lazy. And if you wouldn’t conform, then he’d manipulate you into doing so.

Arthur is a man who would quickly become jealous. He’d be scared if you’d be plotting to leave him, or worse, rope other’s in into helping you plunge a knife in his back. So, he would be quick to convincing you to cut of contact with people that he wouldn’t like. This would be a win-win situation for him because the less social contact you’d have beside him, the deeper your bond with him would become. Further on in your relationship, he’d convince you to rely solely on him and that other people wouldn’t be trustworthy. That he’d be the only person that would ever truly understand you, that would have your best interests at heart, that would help you grow into the best person you could be. That the world is a shit place and that you should be grateful that he is there to shield you from it. In order to encourage that last one, he would allow you to watch the news, extensively.

If wooing you into being with him wouldn’t work, then he would coerce you into a relationship. However, he wouldn’t do anything drastic such as threatening your loved ones, rather the threats would be hidden, or he would present himself as the best option of getting you out a ditch (such as financial issues). He’d try his best to construct the situation so that you would be inclined to trick yourself into thinking you wanted it. Kidnapping would be a last resort for him.