#and talon would fall for it

[skunkes]

[jadetheblueartist]

I HAD TO, ITS VALENTINES DAY FJDJDJDJJDKD

Context for this is Megan isn’t sure if she’s even the same person that Talon knew and thinks things have changed too much. This is mainly just her being scared to get too close to anyone, and Talon trying not to lose her again.

TAGGING YOU FRIEND @banana-pancake5

[rraakkee]

maybe this is a hot take but i wanna see more one-sided self shipping. like you're just so in love w this character n would die for them. but maybe they only see you as a friend. maybe they barely acknowledge your existence if at all. maybe they just straight up don't like you. idk i wanna see more of that

[felidthing]

snaketail's name sucks why'd i name her that. i will think abt that

[leighsartworks216]

Trying to show dragon Sylus how humans show affection, because he's shown you how dragons show theirs; gifting you his most prized valuables, rubbing up against you, nipping your skin lightly, building you the most comfortable nest you could ever desire

Sitting across from him and he's so eager to learn, learn how to be the best mate to you. His tail swishing along the ground, curious

You pick up his hand, clawed and sharp and dangerous, and intertwine your fingers together. He tilts his head at the gesture. Can't understand why humans would enjoy such a thing, but... When he tightens his hold slightly, careful not to break your soft skin with his talons, he begins to understand. The desire to hold on and never let go, to keep you close, keep you tethered to him

With your other hand, you reach out and gently touch his cheek. This one is more in line with his own kind; he instinctively leans into your touch, seeking more, nuzzling his cheek into your palm. You giggle at the way his eyes close in relaxation, a show of intimate trust and affection. You run your thumb over his cheekbone, under his eye, and he starts to purr, a low rumble building in his chest. When you pull your hand away, he looks affronted, glaring at your hand. You trace a finger down the bridge of his nose. He watches for a moment, more uncertain about this, but it's nice, too. He likes watching you trace the features of his face more than he enjoys the sensation

You let go of his hand and reach out with both arms to wrap them around his powerful body. You squeeze him lightly, lovingly, with your head resting on his chest. It takes him a moment to realize you're waiting for it to be reciprocated. He wraps his arms around you like you have, and he feels your body ease under his touch. He can feel your breaths, your heat. Your scent is so strong this close, he can't resist burying his nose in your hair to breathe it in. This one is also close to his knowledge of affectionate displays; the only difference is the face-to-face reciprocation, rather than grabbing you from behind to hold you tightly, aligning his body with yours and circling you with his wings. Your fingers scratch gently at the base of his wings and he shudders, nuzzling deeper against you to let you know how much he enjoys it

He's reluctant to let go when you do. You hold his face again, this time with both hands, but you guide his face forward, closer to you. He's so curious when you lean forward, too, eyes cast down to his lips. Your eyes fall shut as your mouth finds his, gently caressing over his lips, sharing your breaths with him, before you pull away to see his reaction. His eyes are half-lidded, flickering to your lips, his body tense with desire. It's strange, his body reacting the way it does to this gesture, but he wants more. He leans back in, closing the distance, presses his mouth to yours in much the same way you did. He can hear your heart jump when he does, feel the hitch in your breath. You open your mouth to him and he follows, uncertain, unpracticed. Your tongue slipping out to find his forked one, licking into his mouth, brushing along his sharp teeth, sucking him into your mouth, making little sounds of pleasure, trailing your hands back into his long hair to keep him close. When you gently bring his lip between your teeth, he growls his satisfaction, his arousal, nipping at your own lip, staking his claim on you in return. He leans further over you until you're caged between him and the floor, claws curling into the stone under you as he kisses you over and over and over again, seeking, hunting, tasting all that you give him greedily

Mating rituals, on the other hand, are all too familiar to both of you

[vieramars]

I think that if a dragon were to rot it would be like a whale fall. The event is so rare that is teems with opportunist scavengers and creates a boom in the ecosystem. The flesh is uniquely rich and saturated with raw magic that will imbue the next few generations of vultures with sharper talons and bile twice as acidic. That magical energy disperses through the food web to grant small gifts to billions of different creatures. Insects are the first to find the carcass and the last to pick its flesh. Then the plants and fungi take over when there are only bones. Apothecary shelves will be overflowing for months with unique flowers, fruits, and mushrooms. Some gardeners and brewers plant trees in the exposed ribcage.

Humans also play a role in this decay, naturally. Even quite rotten, dragon meat carries no diseases or parasites. There are delicacies made from the flesh at its most rotten state, though most prefer the fresher meat. The scales, bones, teeth, and claws are valuable to jewelers, armorers, and smiths of tools and weapons. If you're lucky, it'll be your local craftsmen who get their hands on them, and you might get a nice set of bone kitchen knives for a high but reasonable price. If you're unlucky, some company will step in to strip away all the valuables from this dead angel, and the 1% will enjoy some novelties they don't appreciate the significance of. They've never seen a dragon rot, or dug through its decaying flesh with thick gloves to stave off its acidic blood.

What remains of the bones will eventually be covered in earth and lush new life. It will become a garden, perhaps tended by the humans who remember it, or perhaps only by the birds and squirrels that scatter the seeds. Someday dragons might visit this place to rear their young on its bounty, and thank the dead for what they've given back.

[scarlet-star-witch]

His Sacrifice

Summary: Aemond makes the decision to save the one he loves over his brother.

Reader is Rhaenyra's daughter and is in a secret relationship with Aemond

WC: 1.5 K

Tumblr is a piece of shit that deleted the request but to whoever sent this, hope you enjoy xx

Part 2

~~

The screams of men below were almost inaudible over the roar of her dragon. She felt powerful, she felt vindictive, a smug satisfaction washing over her as she decimated the Green army below, the traitors who dared to usurp her mother.

Yet her heart was aching. 

Her eyes scanned the skyline, nervously awaiting Vhagar’s presence, awaiting his presence. 

Her throat tightened and she blinked rapidly to stave off the tears that threatened to fall. She’d cried enough tears over him, over the divide that wedged between them, threatening to break them apart completely. She had to be done. 

A trill made her perk up, looking over her shoulder, her eyes wide, her chest aching, but as she caught sight of the smaller, gold dragon headed her way, her devastation soon turned to anger. 

Aegon. 

Her face shifted, her agony now hatred. Her teeth grit with effort as she pulled at the reins, swooping dangerously close to the soldiers below her, a smirk painting her lips at their cries of terror. 

“Vermithor… attack.”

The dragon below her roared, a mighty sound that shook the bones of those who watched from below. 

She distantly heard Aegon’s call and held onto the handles of the saddle in a white-knuckled grip as she swerved out of the way of the stream of fire Sunfyre spat at her. She winced, flinching away from the barrage of flames that met her too closely. 

The dragons fought a vicious and bloody fight, Vermithor’s talons tearing Sunfyre across her belly, her cries echoing, shaking the ground below. 

Over her dragon’s head that now had the other poor dragon’s neck in his jaws, she met Aegon’s eyes, her gaze alight with hateful glee as she noticed the fear in his eyes. 

But suddenly, his expression shifted, a smile growing as he breathed out in relief. 

Turning, she saw the enormous figure of Vhagar looming forward, like a killer stalking its prey, ready to devour her with ease. 

Her heart dropped, the grip on the reins slipping from her hands, as if she already accepted her fate. 

Swallowing against the lump in her throat that grew, she closed her eyes, refusing to see the look on her lover’s face as he ended her. 

~~

They met in the dead of night, as they always had, meeting on a nondescript island halfway between Dragonstone and King’s Landing. 

He was already waiting for her as she descended from the skies, landing Vermithor beside the hulking figure of Vhagar. 

He was approaching her before she could unsaddle herself. 

His hands were on her before her feet met the ground. 

She was brought into his arms before she could say a word. She embraced him as she always did, desperately, as if it would be their last. With the state of their families, it might just be. 

“Are you alright?” She asked worriedly as she pulled out of his arms, her eyes frantically searching for his face, finding only despair.

“You cannot go tomorrow.” He told her swiftly.

“What-”

“They commanded me to take Vhagar to Rook’s Rest.”

Her face remained impassive as she took in his words, though the storm that raged within her was devastating, shattering every ounce of hopeful excitement she’d felt when she received his raven to meet her that night.

“Aemond, I-”

“You cannot go. Please.” He begged her. 

Her gaze met his and the frantic desperation she saw in his lone eye stirred sadness within her, the divide between their families that had slowly been tearing them apart delivering another fatal blow. 

“I have to. You know I have to.” She answered quietly, mournfully, as if she was already accepting her fate. She couldn’t fight Vhagar, she couldn’t win against him. 

He cursed and took a step away from her, placing his hand over his mouth as he tried hard to rein in his anger, his fear of what would happen to her, to them, as they met on the battlefield.

They always knew it would happen eventually, but it didn’t mean they were ready for it. They had been content to live in a fantasy together, as if they could pretend they weren’t living their reality, that they could’ve lived a happy life together. 

He stepped towards her again, taking her face in his hands. 

“Please, you cannot- I cannot-” He stammered and let out a shaking breath, his tortured gaze locked on hers. “Love, please, don’t go.”

“We always knew this would happen.”

His anger flared at the resolution he heard in her voice, at how quickly she was willing to accept this, that they were to meet on the battlefield, with only one of them returning victorious. He couldn’t accept it, he wouldn’t.

He shook his head wordlessly, his brows furrowed as if in pain. Her arms wrapped around him and he was quick to return the hug, holding her to him tightly. He let out a shaking breath, his eyes squeezing shut as he held her, silently praying it wouldn’t be for the last time.

“We should’ve left while we still had the chance.” She spoke with a small laugh that held nothing but sadness. Aemond nodded, his hands gripping her firmer, his thoughts a mirage of what their life would be if he had taken her up on her offer to escape to Essos all those years ago.

He desperately wished he had agreed. 

“Whatever happens tomorrow-”

“Don’t.” He begged, his heart already aching at the thought of what they would face. 

“Whatever happens,” She repeated more sternly as she looked at him intently. “It won’t change what we have. Nothing will change how I feel about you, even if I cannot feel anything at all.”

He practically shuddered at the thought, the mere notion of losing her too much to fathom and bowed his head until his forehead met hers, their shaking breaths shared. 

“I’ll love you even after the end.” 

He couldn’t hear any more. He kissed her firmly, pouring every bit of love he had for her and had felt for her for years into every caress of his lips, every tantalizing swipe of his tongue, every heated touch that he bestowed onto her beautiful body he had worshiped in secret. 

~~

I’ll love you even after the end

The words echoed in his mind all night. As he left her side to return to King’s Landing before the sun rose, they wouldn’t leave his head, torturing him over and over again, until he felt as though he couldn’t take another breath. 

Now, as he sat atop Vhagar, eyeing the battle in the skies above with bated breath, he knew he had only one choice to make. 

A choice that came all too easily, a choice he would make again each and every time. 

He commanded Vhagar to fly, her large frame taking to the skies slowly, his eye locked onto Vermithor, his heart in his throat as he saw her small frame duck out of the way just in time before Sunfyre’s jaws locked onto her. 

He felt nothing but relief as Vermithor trapped Aegon’s dragon in his jaws, he felt nothing as his brother’s dragon cried out in pain. 

But the blinding rage he felt as he watched Sunfyre swiped her claws against Vermithor’s face, dangerously close to her, made his blood boil.

His hands clenched, his jaw tight, his lone eye dark with resolve as he soon accepted the consequences he would face, the judgment the Gods would place on him. 

But he didn’t care. He would slay his brother if it meant she lived. He would slay millions to save her, without thought. 

“Dracarys!” He yelled, his eye remaining on Aegon who tried to shield himself from the flames that descended upon him. He grunted as Vhagar crashed against Vermithor, harshly nudging the dragon out of the way, Vermithor growling menacingly at Vhagar, before jerking to the side, her command of the reins forcing her dragon not to engage. 

He watched, his heart racing, as she flew away from the scene, away from Aegon as he fell alongside Sunfyre’s broken and burning body. 

He paid little mind to anything else and followed after her. They flew for a few minutes, away from the chaos of battle, away from any prying eyes that would reveal their secret.

He descended just a second after her, landing Vhagar next to Vermithor, his hands shaking as he undid his ties, jumping down his dragon’s frame unsteadily. 

“What the fuck was that?!” She yelled as she stomped towards him, tears in her eyes, unsure of what to make of the emotions overwhelming her. “Do you know what you have just done?”

He ignored her yells and grabbed her hands, pulling her to him, his arms wrapping around her tightly. She squirmed in his grip for a moment, her adrenaline still thrumming through her veins,  before finally giving in as she felt him shaking against her. 

She let out a trembling breath, her arms coming up to wind around him. She let her eyes fall closed as his hand rested on the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her hair. 

“What did you do?” She asked wearily, her voice hoarse and weak with exhaustion.

“What I had to.”

[kabsey]

so lucanis is canonically mid-thirties, right? so at the end of the fifth blight, he was most likely a young teenager

can you imagine small romantic bean lucanis hearing about the crow from house arainai who fell in love with the hero of ferelden? of course the talons are furious. and even the older crows are annoyed (because now their targets are going to try to seduce them and they'll probably be terrible at it and it will just be embarrassing for everyone). illario calls aranai a sucker and a sap and possibly tells lucanis about the rumors that house arainai buys children from whorehouses for next to nothing and "you get what you pay for"

but while lying in bed late at night after a brutal day of training (i.e., abuse), maybe lucanis finds himself thinking about the stories and songs. arainai fell in love with a hero. he helped saved the world. he had friends. maybe he even saw a wyvern. it doesn't sound so bad to lucanis

but of course, he would never abandon a contract. he would never leave the crows. he would never turn his back on his house and leave caterina and illario behind

so imagine his surprise two decades later when he gets his chance. he falls in love with a hero. he helps save the world. he has friends. (and after the veil is guarded, rook absolutely took him out wyvern watching)

and he didn't even have to leave his old life behind. he doesn't have to live in exile away from treviso. he doesn't have to turn his back on caterina and illario and teia and viago. for once there is no price to pay or sacrifice to be made

for once he can just be happy

(all he has to do is share his body with a demon. but the demon is not so bad really. most of the time, lucanis thinks he's not any worse than illario)

[kissitbttr]

holup— ima need a moment with my thoughts 🥵🥵 miguel sending reader’s ex a photo mid-sex is so petty and so him!! he would follow up with a video of himself giving you back shots (he’ll hide your face because he’s a gentlemen (๑˃̵ᴗ˂̵)), flip the camera around to show his face with a smirk and say “lose her number” because he’s a cocky ass mf

MAAAN you’re onto something anon, cuz a waterfall just breaks down in between my legs🤤🤤

-

“hmm, you like that huh, baby?”

his lips pulls into a lazy smirk, heavy panting as he pounds you from behind. both of his hands gripping onto your hips, talons digging slightly into the skin giving you the perfect pain of pleasure,

“yes papi—fuck yes” you mewl, mouth slightly wide open as you release another moan that makes his cock twitch. “i love how deep you get inside me”

he exhales a dark chuckle as he pounds faster, “sé que te gusta. dirty, dirty fucking girl.” then he leans slightly to whisper on your ear. “only for me, hm?”

you nod, biting down onto your lower lip as you’re running out of things to say. your brain tends to fogged when you have his cock deep inside your cunt, but you wouldn’t have it any other way,

as he about to fist your hair up, he hears a ‘ding’ coming from your phone. his brows furrowed curiously, because who the fuck is hitting up your phone at this hour? couldn’t be someone from work,

“who’s that?” he asks breathlessly as he watches you pull your head back before grabbing your phone and check,

“aw fuck”

“what?” he asks again, hearing you groan. “who is it?”

“remember Jonathan?” you ask as you look over your shoulder at him

oh man, he does not need to be told twice.

his expression then slowly formed into anger and annoyance, grunting in disgust as he snatches your phone,

“i’ll teach him a fucking lesson” he says through gritted teeth, hips snapping back into yours as he continues to thrust even faster,

miguel unlocks your phone, pressing the camera before he starts to take a video of your backside. the sound of your dirty moans are filling the room as he plunges deeper, his other hand coming to give your ass a smack.

the word ‘papi’ and ‘miguel’ keeps falling off your lips like a prayer, and it just feeds his ego even more. because he knows that Jonathan will watch this video and learns that you don’t belong to that sorry excuse of a man anymore.

no. you belong to him.

“tell me, baby” he adjusts the camera to the back of your head, making sure that your face isn’t in it. “who’s pussy is this?”

“yours” you say without any hesitation, knuckles turning white from gripping the sheets far too hard. “and no one else’s”

“good girl” he then flips the camera to show his face. his expression is dead serious, eyes locked into the screen as if he’s staring Jonathan in person. and for the icing on a cake, his fangs make a tiny bit appearance just to creep him off.

“lose her number, tú hijo de puta. or i’ll kill you” with that he sends it to your ex, throwing your phone to the side. “now he fucking knows to not text you anymore ”

hearing that makes you flush as you giggle. miguel’s hand slowly glide down against you back and pressing you onto the mattress so he can lay his body down completely on top. “my woman” he whispers lowly into your ear,

“hm, maybe next time if he does it again, you should take a picture of me sucking your cock, right papi?” you suggest with a sly smirk,

he groans at that, his hand coming up to choke you as the other supporting his weight beside your torso.

“ay, that’s why you’re my everything, mami”

[batsandbirdbrains]

Istg if tumblr deletes this one again im actually gonna throw a fit. It’s not as detailed bc im mad and can’t remember a lot of it but here’s the general gist of it:

The one where Dick knew he was supposed to become a Talon

But like imagine if it wasn’t a secret that Haly’s Cricus was a training ground for the Court of Owls, at least among the main troupe. It was a goal, an aspiration, something to achieve. And Dick knew for as long as he could remember that he was training to become a Talon, just like his great-grandfather. His parents trained him, the other members of the circus trained him, it was his biggest goal in life to become the next Talon. He worked at it tirelessly.

Dick couldn’t remember ever being in Gotham, but he knew he’d been there before - when he was a toddler, he’d first met his great-grandfather. That’s what his parents told him. That his great-grandfather called him the prophesied Gray Son. Dick’s father tells him stories of his great-grandfather, the head Talon, and Dick is mesmerized.

And when he was eight, they were going back to Gotham again. It would be his first real test for the Court. If he did well, it would be his first real step to becoming a Talon.

And he was so nervous. He wanted to do well, he wanted to make his parents proud, he wanted to impress his great-grandfather. He was nervous and excited and anxious all at once, but it was exhilarating.

Until his parents were killed, and he was convinced it was part of the test. And in a split second, he decided he no longer wanted anything to do with the Court. He didn’t even mind juvie, even though he knew his social worker’s excuse of there being no available foster homes was bullshit. He figured maybe the detention center was safer than a random foster home.

Then he was taken in by Bruce Wayne, and he was terrified he was about to be handed over to the Court. He didn’t know much about how they worked, but he knew they were made up of Gotham’s elite. How could a billionaire not be part of it?

But a couple weeks later, he finds out Bruce is Batman, and he suddenly feels safer than he had since his parents fell. Batman was safe. Batman was a good guy.

Dick didn’t tell him anything about the Court, though. He was terrified that Bruce wouldn’t want him anymore if he knew what Dick had trained to be, if he knew what Dick had wanted to be for his whole life. He was scared Bruce would hand him back over to the Court, disgusted by what Dick’s life has been up until then.

But it’s why Dick is so well trained, why he’s so capable of being out with Batman after only a few weeks. He becomes Robin. And even though it makes Dick said to think that the nickname his mother gave him no doubt had a connection to the Court, he thinks that this will maybe be a positive thing. Robin can be good now. Robin can do good.

And when Dick tells Bruce he never wants to go back to the circus, he assumes it’s a trauma response. That the circus makes him remember his parents’ fall, that he doesn’t want to be constantly reminded of the family he used to have. Bruce doesn’t fight him or question him when he insists he wants nothing to do with the circus anymore, he just makes sure Dick is alright, that he’s doing everything he can to make sure Dick feels safe and comfortable in his new home.

Years pass, and even though Bruce has since found out about the Court and how Dick and circus were connected to it, he still doesn’t know that Dick already knew. He tries to comfort him once it’s all over, telling him that his parents must not have known, that they wouldn’t have wanted that kind of life for their son. Dick doesn’t correct him.

Then Nightwing gets de-aged by a magician on patrol one night, and he’s suddenly eight years old again, from before his parents died. The others rush him back to the batcave, and once things have settled, Dick just sort of watches them, sitting eerily still.

“You’re in Gotham,” Bruce tells him after explaining what happened with the de-aging.

Dick tilts his head, and they all are a bit surprised at how he perks up.

“Oh! Is this the Court?” He’s looking around the room, taking in every detail. “It doesn’t look like how Pa described it.”

“The Court?” Tim asks.

“The Court of Owls!” Dick nods his head. “I’m gonna be a Talon when I grow up. Just like my great-grandfather!”

No one says anything, all of them baffled, but Dick continues looking around, kicking his feet on the edge of the exam table.

“Pa said my first test would be in Gotham soon, but I won’t leave the circus full time ‘til I’m sixteen. Then I’ll be made a real Talon when I’m eighteen.”

Bruce stands there frozen, the reality hitting him that Dick knew all along that he was supposed to be a Talon. That he never told Bruce. That this little boy who becomes his son was once training to become an assassin, and he seems so excited about it.

“You said I’m s’posed to be older, right?” He holds his hands up to his face, looking at the veins on his wrists. “Am I immortal now like great-grandfather? Pa said my veins would be black, but they still look normal.”

Dick looks up, and he finally notices their horror and shock. And he starts to shrink in on himself, his shoulders hunching, and he looks terrified. Bruce snaps out of his own shock quickly, and he explains as gently as he can that Dick has lived here since he was young, that he’s been a vigilante this whole time. That he doesn’t work for the Court of Owls.

He comforts his son. His son who’s currently a child and scared and anxious and worried and ripped away from everything he thought he knew. He doesn’t tell him that the Court is bad, not yet. He doesn’t tell him the horrible way his great-grandfather treated him once they did eventually meet when Dick was a teenager. He just holds him, and tells him how amazing he was as Robin, how fantastic he is as Nightwing, and how proud he is of him.

And maybe that’s why Dick was so close with Damian, why he sometimes seems like the only person who understands Damian. Because he does understand. He knows ha it’s like to grow up training to be an assassin, what the expectations are like, and how hard it is to turn some of that training off once you’ve decided to be a good guy.

Maybe Damian is extra protective of him while he’s de-aged, because he realizes this quickly. And Dick tells him stories about his own training, and Damian tells him stories back, and Damian lets him know that he understands the way Dick must be feeling so conflicted now.

[salem-s]

CONFESSIONS UNDER SHEETS THAT SMELL OF YOU ── RAFE CAMERON ONE SHOT

SYNOPSIS you’re drunk. Rafe’s drunk. after spending the entire night stealing glances across the room whilst the other isn’t looking, it’s time to go to bed. and you simply can’t say no when he, your best friend, asks you to stay the night.

WARNINGS language, fluff, suggestive content but no actual smut. hope you enjoy. another jock!rafe au bc i can.

WORD COUNT 5.2k.

SONG OF THE CHAPTER goodnight n go by ariana grande

Rafe's tongue burns once again after a tequila shot, his fifth? Eighth? He's lost count.

But who cares? Certainly not him.

All that matters is that he's finally letting loose, having fun, forgetting his troubles for just one night so he can spend quality time with his friends.

Well, all of his friends plus you.

(His favorite person, no doubt.)

Granted, he's been trying to go up to you all night and sling his signature arm over your shoulder as normal, but he tends to be the life of the party on every occasion and alcohol seems to make him a social butterfly.

Rafe's the guy all the girls want to linger on, who latch a talon around his bicep and make their indented mark on his smooth skin. He's the guy that's always down for a round of shots, or the guy who's eager to participate in drinking games (and the guy who wins them all, for some reason that the other people cannot fathom, especially you, who refuses to play against him in beer pong anymore after you kept betting away your Saturdays to accompany him for whatever event he wanted you at that day).

Sure, each drink he consumes piles onto his list of problems he's going to have to deal with tomorrow, but the wavy feel of the rhythmic bass, the moody lights hovering over him and sweaty bodies cheering and singing quite poorly, Rafe can't help but say fuck it and keep going. 

Life at university has been quite the trip for him. Luckily, all of his friends managed to snag a spot at the same college, all majoring in separate topics and studying concepts that run circles in his head, but he could care less about how much he understands their fields of study and rather focuses on the fact that all of them are here. With him.

Especially you.

Because if you had gone somewhere far?

Well, Rafe would've had to follow you. Just to keep a close eye on you. 

So, with his closest people by his side, every night is a goddamned trip. Especially whenever they all congregate in his apartment almost all the time, which seems to be the ultimate magnet for parties. Not that he or his roommate, John B, mind that much. 

With a drink in hand, Rafe roams the confinements of his living room, making small talk with his basketball friends, with girls eyeing him from across the room, hoping to be the one who ends up with him at the end of the night.

Yet, contrary to popular belief, Rafe isn't into hookups that much anymore.

Hookups with anybody that aren't you, that is. 

You. The pretty girl with cherry chapstick stained lips who's smiling so bright at something Kiara said in the kitchen, a sight he wishes he was close enough to really see. But it's a smile that makes Rafe fall in love with you all over again, the kind of smile that's reserved for your close friends only, (and a smile that often comes out when you're piss drunk, because despite the reserved and mysterious persona you put on is nearly a facade for your incredible sarcasm and sense of humor, and frequent blithe personality).

Rafe doesn't understand how he didn't fall for you sooner, especially when you dress straight out of one of his dreams.

You. You. You.

You who could genuinely wear anything and it would have him utterly speechless regardless. You who love to peer up at him with those doting eyes of yours whenever you're trying to get something from him, whether it be another coffee or the mug on the top shelf or to binge another show he could care less about but will indulge in as long as he can make you happy. You who are the only thing on his mind nearly all the time, easing in and out of his consciousness like a fog he can see and feel but can't quite catch.

There's nothing to prohibit his feelings. He's tried so damn hard to forget you, to try and ignore the pull you have on him without even realizing, to accept the fact that you'll only ever be friends.

Even when you always find each other by the end of the night after stealing glances through the kaleidoscope of fog the party lights provide. Even when your hand slips into his as if it's molded to fit. Even when his heart thumps exceptionally loud whenever you're near, or when he smells your signature perfume before he even sees you.

Even when he's been wondering what it'd be like to be yours for years upon end.

Rafe pines from across the room, blinking out of his trance to see which girl wants a selfie with him this time.

Being a star basketball player and all has it's perks (who's he kidding? He's on the club team, but he likes to think he's a celebrity at times). He grins widely in his well known charming-persona, and knows to expect his face over a few Snapchat stories that he'll find in the morning (or afternoon, given how much more he drinks from here on out). 

All these girls pining over him and the only person he wants is uninterested. Truly a shame. Rafe-0, Universe-a million and counting.

Though he lets it slide because having you as a friend is better than having you as nothing.

He values your relationship for what it is and it would hurt like hell if Rafe somehow managed to ruin that. Knowing his abysmal track record of infinite fuck ups, he wouldn't be surprised if he ended up doing something to jeopardize you.

Despite being a relatively smart person, Rafe can be pretty dumb when it comes to other people's feelings. He's the type to wear his heart on his sleeve, and he's never had a problem with confronting people about his feelings (i.e. letting girls down easy, standing up to his father when he lashes out at his sisters, that sort of thing), but for some reason he bites his tongue when it comes to you. 

Who cares about Rafe's sulky feelings when there's a party to host?

He shakes his head at himself, getting back into the zone of the room and taking a generous swig from his solo cup, the liquor burning his throat and coating his eyes with water, and nonetheless he grins and shouts to the music.

Rafe spares another glance at you, taking in all your pretty before downing the rest of his drink.

You watch Rafe from across the room, thanking the higher beings that Kiara's gotten drunk enough to not see straight, so she can't relentlessly bully you into oblivion. 

The two of you are in the kitchen along with a few other classmates who make pretty good small talk that even you join in, surprising people that you're actually pretty friendly behind the stoic expression you normally wear around strangers. You manage to laugh and tell a few anecdotes and let people see slivers of the real you, although you can't help that your gaze flickers to the six foot something life of the party who lingers on the opposite corner of the apartment.

His smile is so fucking pretty that it hurts to not be on the receiving end of it.

You really try to pay attention to your friend's story. By the way the rest of the group is laughing, you're sure it's comical enough to be worth listening to.

But the only consistent thing in the back of your mind is Rafe in that fucking black t-shirt with his hair falling over his forehead in messy nonchalance, contrasting his normal pristine look. 

You force yourself to look away.

You also decide that whatever is in your drink needs to be stronger, because the sight of Rafe taking selfies with girls and genuinely enjoying it just sets a fiery pit in your stomach, which you know is abhorrently irrational given that:

A. You aren't even dating, for starters.

B. Rafe's friendliness never dies down, even if it's to people he doesn't know all that well.

Annoyingly, you can't blame him for paying attention to girls and giving them the time of day. Rafe deserves the attention. He does, truly. You just wish some of that attention could be for you, and only you. 

Oh well, you think pitifully. It'll never happen so might as well drink even more than planned. 

It seems that whenever Rafe's looking at you, you're not paying attention.

And when you're looking at Rafe, Rafe is off talking or doing something else. 

Sarah's nearly going to kick everyone out, push you two in a room and lock you in.

This absurdity has been going on for years and it's honestly exhausting watching you dance around each other so timidly. Everyone in the group knows it, hell, everyone in the goddamned world knows it, except for the two of you.

If stupid and oblivious were people, it would be you and Rafe, rightfully so. 

For Christ sake, the two of you fall asleep next to each other every single movie night, heads leaning on the other, and other times it'll be your head on Rafe's lap or vice versa. Sarah can't count how many times you've ended up with limbs entangled on numerous couches, chairs meant for one person, or even once a beanbag.

You sometimes walk into the apartment just to take a nap in Rafe's bed, regardless if he's home or not, and if Rafe is home he just lets it happen. Sometimes he joins you.

Most nights, Rafe and you will spontaneously leave in the middle of the night to take a stroll around campus or get 24 hour cookies from the bakery on the other side of campus. You stay up late in Rafe's room watching WWE Smackdown every Monday night while eating popcorn and commentating like you're literally twelve years old. Sometimes you reenact fight sequences that almost always end up with you pinned to the ground.

One time Rafe planned a whole day to take you to the museum and dinner after you mentioned you wanted to see a specific piece of art once. You bought 37 packages of beef jerky for Rafe after he talked about a crave for it once. 

As if it means nothing.

Like Sarah says: Idiots. 

With John B's arm hanging over her shoulder, she darts her gaze between the two of you standing at opposite sides of the apartment, noticing Rafe's warm gaze on you that immediately gets interrupted by someone wanting to talk to him, and then cue you sneaking a glance at him with almost pitiful eyes.

She rolls hers, knowing your pining is based on hidden feelings while Rafe's is based on uncertainty. Sarah genuinely wants to smack both of you silly. You're so goddamned stupid.

"So do you think tonight's the night?" says John B quite loudly even though the music's too blaring for anyone to hear. Her ear tickles from his hot breath. 

Sarah sighs, watching her brother talk to his basketball friends. "I fucking hope so. Twenty bucks it happens tonight."

John B scoffs playfully. "I doubt that's gonna happen. You're on."

Rafe is almost upset that he's such a heavy weight because it takes drink after drink after drink for him to feel buzzed. It's a blessing and a curse at the same time.

It's a blessing for times when he wants to have fun and remember the night, or when he has serious shit to do the next day but still wants to get drunk. Sometimes he likes to sugar coat it so you'll tend to him in the mornings, although you've always been the one person to always see through his bullshit and call him out.

(You still dote on him, anyway.)

It's a curse for times where Rafe's in his feels and just wants to be drunk enough for forget his own name. Or your name, since you're the pinnacle for his mopey personality.

Tonight, he's grateful for being a heavy weight, especially since he has to write an important paper tomorrow. The fact that he's already heavily buzzed which means he's on the right track. 

After two in the morning people gradually weed themselves out of the apartment. Of course, the core group pledges to stay behind and emotionally support Rafe and John B tomorrow morning when they elect themselves to clean up the mess they made the night before. You usually end up making breakfast while everyone is scrubbing counters or cleaning sticky alcohol off the floor. One time, the group let JJ attempt the cooking and the house smelt like burnt toast for days, so now it’s solely you who take the reins in the kitchen.

It’s typical for everyone to crash at John B and Rafe’s apartment after a hangout, so it’s nothing out of the ordinary when Kiara or you or JJ crash in Rafe's room, sometimes all four of you are squished in his queen bed. It's a tight squeeze but comfortable, nonetheless. 

Soon enough, it's just the core group with the exception of a hand full of friends on the couch, and it's finally become that time of night where the upbeat EDM is replaced with something softer, slower, more intimate that’s reserved just for them. Kiara's passed out on the carpet while Pope props her on her side to make sure she doesn't throw up (if she ever were to, Kie's held the record for longest amount of time without puking). Cleo and JJ have been drunkenly debating the semantics of Hobbit feet for the past hour. John B and Sarah are snuggled on the couch, the girl forcing her boyfriend to massage the knots in her shoulders.

However, the only two people not in the huddle of friends in the living room are you and Rafe, leaning a little too closely together against the counter, watching the scene in front of you with lingering smiles.

You're slightly swaying, humming to the song while Rafe just dreamily stares at your friends, and then drops his head on your shoulder while he gazes. 

"I missed you tonight, Snaps," Rafe murmurs softly, compassionately, genuinely heart felt.

Despite the lurch in your heart at the nickname he's been using for years (you choke on a ginger snap one time), you manage a small laugh. "I've been here the whole time?"

He doesn't take that for an answer. "Didn't talk to you, though."

"Talking to you now, actually."

All Rafe does is hum in response, feeling warm in his embrace and caged in but in the best way. His cologne has probably imprinted on your scent at this point, given how your life always seems to smell like him, even when he's not around.

There's a moment where you think he's going to say something else, something deeper, based on the way his breath evens and how his hand that has been tracing the fabric of the end of your shirt slows down, as if in calculation.

Your breath hitches.

But he lets out a drunken laugh. "Re-remember when Sarah tripped in the parking lot yesterday and-and-and John B's drink went flying because he screamed so loud?"

You match his drunken laugh, shoulders slightly bouncing from it to mask the thumping of your heart. "And then we nearly pissed ourselves laughing while Kie complained she couldn't picture it herself because she wasn't looking."

As if it's second nature, you find his hand and trace your fingertips over his calloused knuckles, mapping the ridges and grooves you've grown to memorize. At this point, you could create a constellation map based on the markings on his body alone.

Rafe snorts, taking the last swig of his drink before throwing it over his shoulder, the cup landed hazardously in the trash-warzone of a kitchen.

"That was a good day, Snaps. Good...good day."

Rafe's lean is a little too strong to the point where you have to steady yourself just to keep the both of you upright, your hands stabilizing him on his chest and lower back. You take this as the normal cue that he's ready to start getting ready for bed, or else he goes on a drinking rampage until dawn or goes missing.

(That happened once and it wasn't very fun for anyone, except for Rafe who had the time of his life at the 24 hour karaoke machine at Jimmy's down the road). 

"Alright, Rafe," you say with a knowing smile, "you're done for the night." And before he can whine and protest, you add, "You have your engineering paper tomorrow and it's Jen's birthday, so you can't be too hungover or missing."

Rafe slumps in your grasp, gutting his lower lip to emphasize his reluctance even though his eyelids are all of a sudden growing heavier and heavier-

"Fine. But you have to come with me."

"That was the plan."

You shoot Sarah a look, gesturing to her brother (who's nearly asleep and limp in your grasp) and she nods back at you, but not without a wink and a thumbs up from John B.

Thank god it's dark in the room or else you'd never hear the end of the heat that you feel rising to your face, no doubt flushing your features.

Despite your hot cheeks and slightly fogged vision, you lead Rafe to his room, the last door on the left at the end of the hallway.

His room has scattered clothes and school supplies (???) all over the floor and you feel like Indiana Jones trying to avoid them as if they're boobie traps. You don't have time to admire the movie and TV show posters coating Rafe's walls, especially the wall of photos of the people who are important to him.

You always felt flattered that your picture is up there more than once. More than that, maybe try almost all of them. But you're just friends.

Good friends.

You gently let Rafe down on the bed and his bleary eyes nearly make you melt on the spot, and it takes a lot of self restraint to not kiss him right then and there. His blue eyes are dull and dilated when he looks up at you, but also warm and inviting. It doesn't help that his grin is sleepy and charming at the same time, or that he's waiting for you to curl up right next to him in your designated spot. 

You slip off Rafe’s sneakers and socks before stripping your own shoes, socks, and jeans (not before snagging a pair of his boxers) before turning on his LED lights, the automatic setting set to the color red.

Great.

You ignore the mood behind the color and climb over Rafe to get in your designated spot, making sure there's nothing under the sheets like his laptop or a chicken wing (which you found once, and nearly yelled his ear off about how disgusting it was. Rafe, who was drunk, ended up crying and you had no choice but to hug him and tell him it was okay, even though it was really gross). 

Settling into your spot on the bed, it feels more spacious without Kiara or JJ squeezing in next to you, resulting in you and Rafe being smushed together almost every time, not that either of you essentially minded.

But now there's more room and it feels almost empty without so many people in it.

Oh, how you wish Rafe would move closer to you, perhaps lay his head on your chest or-

Rafe says your name quietly, eyes trained on the ceiling.

"Rafe."

"I have a question for you," he slurs.

Your heart skips a beat, but nonetheless respond quietly with an: "Okay."

Rafe turns to face you and you now realize that the bed isn't that spacious after all, and your faces are mere inches away from each other. His blue eyes look grey in the red light and the shadow casted upon his face nearly sends electricity through your veins, but perhaps that's just the alcohol buzzing through you or the few hits of a joint you had earlier. Either way, you don’t want to admit that you’re feeling so anxious because of six stupid words that can lead to anything.

What if he asks you about your feelings? What would you say, and what is Rafe going to remember the next morning? Just so many uncertainties with-

"Do you think Mongo has feelings?"

Wh- Mongo? John B’s cat?

You nearly burst out laughing right in his face, but take note of the serious undertones of his gaze, blue eyes slightly etched in something teetering before curiosity and worry, as if this question is the deciding factor of his mood for the rest of the night — or morning, that is.

Furrowing your brow, you can’t help but answer with a slanted smile.

"I think he does. I mean, he gets happy when you pet him and sad when you don't feel him at exactly five in the afternoon," you explain, voice hoarse from all the singing and yelling.

Listening to yourself in such a quieter environment is almost shocking, even though you can feel the vibrations of the music from down the hall.

Despite your inner turmoil, Rafe almost looks relieved, sighing. "Oh good. I was worrying about that."

“For how long?”

“Like, three hours,” he answers quietly, intently. “At least. It was really bothering me.”

Now you can’t help but laugh.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” You ask, refraining from brushing away the hair on his forehead. “You could’ve saved yourself all the anxiety if you just asked.”

Rafe only shrugs as much as his horizontal position will allow him, his gaze returning to the ceiling in sudden seriousness.

“I have a lot of things I wanna ask but can’t.”

The words send a shiver down your spine, how casually they roll off his tongue as if they don’t carry such a tumultuous backbone to it.

He’s drunk, you think.

And you are too. Nothing can be taken to heart right now.

You push the implications down and manage a small smile. “Well, it’s funny you say that because I’m the all-knowing higher god trapped in a woman’s body for the next, er, ten minutes.”

Rafe lulls his head to the side to look at you, a smirk ghosting his lips. “Only ten minutes?”

“Yeah, so ask away.”

And then he pauses. "So, twenty questions, you and me?”

"I thought it was twenty one questions?"

"What? I mean, if you want to know more about my life, Snaps, then you should've just said so. No shame in wanting to know all about the Rafe Cameron experience."

"Okay, I’m taking it all back."

Rafe laughs drunkenly and you drunkenly grin. The soft R&B echos through the hallway and causes a low bass thrum in your eardrum. Yet all you can really focus on is him.

"Okay, okay," he says, adjusting himself so he can fully face you, hiccuping twice. "You start."

“Wh— I’m the all-knowing one here. You’re supposed to be the one asking the questions.”

“Well, what if I want a higher being trapped in my body, too?”

With an eye roll, you decide to indulge and mimic his movements, facing him the exact same way, wondering if the heat in your cheeks is from your close proximity or the alcohol buzzing through your body.

You want to believe the latter but it's utterly obvious that that's not the case. You can't help it - Rafe’s hot, especially when he looks like this: dazed and unguarded and almost in love.

"Alright," you start, "uh, would you rather live only in the sky or only in the ocean?"

"Yes. Are you into anyone?"

Your eyes widen and so do Rafe’s, you both not really expecting those words to come out just like that, so blatantly.

He places a hand over his mouth to suppress his nervous laughter or more drunken words that'll get him in more trouble, while you stupidly blink back at him, hoping both your inebriated natures will be able to mask the truth in the morning.

Fuck it, you’re both going to lose memory of the night anyway, so why not add fuel to the fire? You aren’t very logical, but you’ve got the spirit. 

"Just one guy, in particular," you respond slowly, watching his unchanging expression. 

Rafe removes his hand from his mouth and curses. "It's that tool from your chemistry lab, isn't it?”

Wh—?

You go to respond, to dispute that obscene theory, but he continues.

“I mean, I don't blame you, the guy's hot, but he won't shave that godforsaken-"

Blinking stupidly at him, all you can do is tune out his conjectures and stare at him as if he suddenly started speaking a different language. Does he really have no idea? No postulate? Are you really that subtle in the way you love on him?

"-Not that it should matter, but I guess it makes sense that-"

You roll your eyes at his rambling and don’t think twice before pushing yourself forward and pressing his lips to his.

It immediately halts his words and stupid conspiracies, and after a moment of holy shit is this happening, Rafe finally understands and kisses you back, a little hesitantly, but still passionate. 

But the kiss comes and goes when you pull away and slowly open your eyes to see a very, very shocked and confused Rafe Cameron ogling back at you as if you've grown three heads.

Can't take it back now, you think.

"I'll understand if you don't feel the same way, and I won't mention it ever again and we can go back to normal," you assure with a small smile even though every bit of you is shattering inside. "But I just... I had to."

You start to think about what therapy ice cream to purchase this time, and how much to indulge yourself in to pretend to get rid of the crippling depression of getting rejected by the guy you've been pining over for several years now. Based on the befuddled look on his face that hasn't gone away, he's either trying to come up with how to let you down gently or still computing the past minute of his life.

All he does is blink, darting his gaze between your eyes and back down to your slightly puffed lips, offering no words or confirmation after your declaration.

Thank god for tequila so you can blame your lack of inhibitions in the morning when this blows up.

"Say something," you urge quietly.

Eventually, after another agonizing moment, he does.

"Wait," says Rafe, scrunching his eyebrows in confusion and looking like someone just told him the most complicated math equation to exist, "you like me?"

You roll your eyes. "You're so fucking stupid, Rafe."

"I'm the guy you're into?"

"Yes."

Rafe immediately brightens, grinning so wide that his cheeks make those dimples that you love and so wide until it physically hurts for him to stretch even further. Despite the lighting, he feels a massive blush coating his cheeks and a warmth in his heart that is reserved for the pretty girl laying right here with him. 

"Holy shit," he exhales breathlessly. "This is the best day of my life."

You roll your eyes at how he states that like it's a fucking fact.

"Oh, shut up."

"No, I'm not kidding." Rafe can't stop grinning. "Do you have any idea how long I've been waiting for this?"

Your stomach flips at the thought of him wanting you, too. Too. Mutual.

"You have?" Your voice is smaller than you would like, tentative, unsure if he's just saying this to indulge you or if he's actually telling the truth.

But Rafe gives you no indication that he's messing around, instead peering at you with such certainty that it makes your head spin.

"I have since freshman year. I thought everyone knew that."

Your mouth drops. "Wh- You- I didn't know that. You mean this could've been done sooner?"

Rafe contemplates that for a moment, understanding that he could've been with you much much much earlier than right now, but then shrugs, concluding that it's important you found each other in the end despite all those years of what felt like useless pining. He likes to think everything happens for a reason, and maybe all this time has just been a sign to further progress your feelings. 

"It's being done now," he murmurs, bringing his hand to your soft cheek and gently soothing your cheekbone, "that's what matters."

This time, Rafe's the one who leans in to kiss you, a soft and reassuring kiss that doesn't last very long but still means so much to you.

Your hand meets Rafe's warm skin, pulling his waist just slightly closer to yourself (to which he reciprocates). He pulls away because he can't stop grinning into your lips, which doesn't really help when he's trying to kiss you, still not over the fact that you literally confessed and made the first move after Rafe had been so adamant that you weren't into him like that.

"So, are you my girlfriend now or what?" he asks quietly, breath fanning over yours.

You tilt your head to the side as if Rafe just said something absolutely ludicrous. "Uhm, maybe —stop grinning — take me out to dinner first and we'll see about that."

"Baby, I'll get you anything in the world if I get to call you mine."

The saccharine words automatically make your eyes roll, a teasing smile hinting your lips at you pull back, watching him lean forward to essentially chase them.

You almost laugh at the way he nearly pouts, but it dies in your throat when you feel his hand smoothing over the cool skin of your waist and eventually snaking over the bare skin of your spine. You're no stranger to his touches, but now it implies a deeper meaning, a possessive one, that has you nearly losing your breath.

He's so close. You can make out the beauty marks on his skin and the faint scar on his lip from when he busted it as a kid. His eyes never leave yours, shamelessly staring and taking in your features as if he hasn't done it a thousand times before.

It feels like eons before Rafe moves, leaning in slowly to test out the waters and see if you'll tease and pull back again. But you don't. You lie still, ready for him and blinking at him with your doting eyes, and he doesn't waste another second before he's kissing you once more, pulling you impossibly taut to his body as if it was molded to be there.

Your hands brace themselves on his toned chest, gingerly feeling the ridges and grooves of his body as you'd feel the topography of a map, nearly sighing into his mouth when his other hand comes up to cradle your jaw.

In an instant, his lips move to your neck and one of your hands nestles in his hair, stomach flipping at the sensation of him sucking and kissing the soft skin, no doubt hard enough to leave a mark. Not that you really mind, anyway.

You let out a quiet sigh and Rafe groans against your neck.

"You can't- Don't make that noise."

You snort.

He hums. "Yeah, that one's fine. Make that one."

"Rafe."

He continues sucking and peppering kisses on your skin, offering another low hum of nonchalance, as if he has all the time in the world to be right here, to do what he's doing, to be unbridled to your beck and call.

And you stay like that for a while.

After a few more kisses and conversations of disbelief about how this hasn't been done sooner, Rafe passes out in your arms, sleeping soundly and deeply with a permanent hint of a smile ghosting his (swollen) lips. His arm is tightly wound across your stomach with his head on your chest, the lull of your heart beat dragging him to sleep. 

You hold him more tightly than other nights, because you did it, you're finally his person after years of dreaming of this.

Sure, you've held Rafe plenty of other nights, but those nights haunted by the fog of fear instilled in your head about the fact that it could be just platonic to him. It could mean nothing.

And now it's...you're sure that he feels the same, even though he's drunk, you just know. Sarah's wink makes sense, John B's thumbs up makes sense. All the hand holding and late night adventures make sense.

Everything Rafe's done for you, it makes sense.

He claims he doesn't care about your dating life but will make you text him once an hour as a proof of life. He massages your back and shoulders without you asking him to after you've had a long day sitting in front of your computer. He'll randomly drop by with your favorite snack or flowers or craft because he was simply in the area. Once he stayed up all night with you so you didn't have to binge the last season of your favorite show alone.

Selfless. Careful. Doting.

You sleep soundly, entangled within a mess of Rafe and not even bothering to set an alarm, to let yourself enjoy the moment for as long as you can. Because you normally rise before him anyway. You usually leave the room whenever you sleep in the same bed just to avoid the early morning pillow talk that you really aren't a fan of.

But now you don't need to worry about that. None of it.

Because you know you'll wake up and still be his.

"They're not up yet, do you think they're dead?"

"John B, they're not dead just probably asleep."

"Or worse. Someone's ass will be in the air."

"Kiara!"

"I'm not judging. They're both freaks anyw-"

"I- Oh fuck it, I'm opening the door. Shut up."

Sarah gently twists the knob of Rafe's door open, all three eagerly peeping their heads in to get a good look at what's happening and if she really owes John B (another) twenty bucks. She's been losing a lot of money because of her brother, but this morning is already raising alarm bells because you aren't up yet making breakfast for everyone as you normally do.

And as she peers in, she understands why: you're still in bed with Rafe, both sound asleep and tangled in each other.

The sight is so natural these days, so it barely fazes any of them. Usually where Rafe is sleeping, you're there with him. Usually where either of you are missing in any scenario, the other is accompanying. You're like yin and yang. Rum and coke. Plant and dirt. Hard to coexist without the other.

That's why your friends don't think twice about your otherwise compromising position.

"Typical," Kiara mutters.

"Should we wake her?" John B says quietly, darting his gaze between you and his girlfriend eagerly. "I'm starving."

Sarah rolls her eyes and slaps his chest with the back of her hand. "C'mon, let her sleep. This is probably the latest she's slept in in months."

"It's barely ten?"

"John B, make your own damn food if you're that hungry."

He goes to plead again, but Sarah scoffs at his selfishness, nearly ready to slam his head in the door to get him to shut up.

"Zip it," she says. "We'll give them thirty minutes, and if they're not up yet, then you can wake her up, okay?"

That seems to relatively satisfy him, as John B begrudgingly nods (not that he was ever going to win that debacle, anyway).

Sarah hums in contentment, slowly starting to shut the door and takes one last fleeting glance at you and her brother, sleeping soundly. "So, now we just-"

Her words immediately halt notices something that makes her heart drop.

"Is that a hickey?"

John B's eyes widen. "What?" he whisper shouts eagerly, eyes rapidly searching and pushing the door open more. "Where?"

Sarah breaks out in a mile long grin, eyes wide as she finally wins her twenty bucks back. She faces her boyfriend triumphantly and he groans silently, tipping his head back as he shoves a hand in his pocket and hands over a crumpled up twenty dollar bill.

He shakes his head and takes another fleeting look at his two friends. "I'd say I'm upset to be out of my fast food money, but holy shit, what'd that take, three years?"

"Four, more like."

"Goddamn," he mutters under his breath, then sighs in relief. "I almost don't want to wake them now-"

"I do," Kiara deadpans. Then, she screams. "HEY!"

Practically immediately, Rafe springs awake, nearly falling out of bed with a yelp. His eyes are wide yet bleary and coated with sleep while you just peek your eyes open, turning towards the noise and rubbing your eyes calmly.

Once you regain your vision, you see your three friends eagerly watching you in the doorway and can't help but suppress a grin as Rafe gets his shit together, trying to calm down from the abrupt wake up call.

"Good morning," you say nonchalantly, yawning and reaching your arms to stretch, almost cat-like. "Is it time for me to make breakfast?"

"Fuck," Rafe whines, rubbing his temples while completely draped over your body. "Fuck, Kie, you're a terrible alarm clock."

John B is about to answer your question with enthusiasm (because he is very hungry) but Sarah jabs him in the ribs and puts on a smile for you two.

"As much as we love your cooking, I think we'll go out this morning." She ignores her boyfriend's frown and looks to you. "You have your makeup here, right?"

Confused, you nod. "Yeah, why?"

Sarah's gaze flickers to something below your eyes. "Good. I'd use it in case you want to leave the house at all today."

Rafe grimaces at his headache but also tilts his head in confusion, while your eyes widen just slightly before your cheeks burn, gingerly brushing your fingers over your neck, remembering the events of last night.

You can't find your voice, instead offering a tight lipped smile and shrinking into the mattress as much as you can.

"By the way," Sarah jabs with a whisper, "I totally called it. Okay, bye."

Sarah closes the door with a knowing smile, while you can hear John B's protest of your lack of cooking while Kiara just ponders all the obscenities aloud, listing potential positions you could've been in and making lewd comments that shamefully reach your ears.

All you and Rafe can do is laugh. 

Last night hadn't been a mistake or some drunken mishap, but rather a renaissance of feelings that can finally be told.

Rafe settles back in bed next to you, feeling almost shy (and irritated at his pounding headache, god), but that feeling almost instantly goes away when you brush some of his hair out of his face gingerly, a small smile lingering on his lips as your eyes don't leave his. 

"Hi," you whisper, barely audible.

"Hi."

Rafe melts into your touch, feeling himself lure his mind back to sleep (as it seems pretty early, to which you can confirm since his friends are normally early risers), and he hums softly and shuts his eyes in content, loving the way your hands were always warm but not hot, welcoming but not sweaty.

Everything is just right and he cannot be bothered to do anything else with his day besides this. 

“Jus’ wanna stay here,” he mumbles, his baritone voice giving you goosebumps. “C’mere.”

You chuckle sweetly. “I’m already here.”

Rafe utters something incoherent, eyes already threatening to flutter shut. For a moment, you believe he’s fallen back asleep given his prolonged stillness. But there’s a flicker of hope, his fingers twitching against the hem of your top.

You’re about to say something else, but Rafe’s palm butterfly splays against your spine and pulls you practically on top of him.

You oomf against his chest, bracing your hands on his tummy and shoulder to reposition yourself to something resembling comfort. But there’s not much moving you can do because his hand holds you down, pressing you impossibly closer to him. Eventually, you cave and lay limp, burying your face in the crook of his neck and shamelessly inhaling his scent.

His chest jerks when he snorts. “Baby, d’you just smell me?”

“I have to breathe through my nose sometimes, too.”

“You totally just sniffed me.”

You — very gently — playfully bite the vocal cord on his neck, nearly smirking when he tenses underneath you.

“And now I just bit you.”

His cool hand feels like ice against your hot spine, especially how his fingers are feather light, almost ghosting your skin, teasing up so achingly slow.

“Easy, Snaps,” he says low, voice still gravely with sleep but more drawled out, almost in warning. “Don’t start something you can’t finish.”

You grin. “I plan on finishing. I’d like to. That really depends on you.”

The laugh that Rafe lets out is nothing nice. It teeters between disbelief and offense.

“How’s three sound?” His other hand ventures low, well beneath your spine, groping what’s rightfully his now. “Fuck you right back to sleep, yeah?”

You — somehow — press yourself closer to him, letting one of your hands trail gently on his shoulder, down his bicep, and soon lacing your fingers sweetly with his.

“As long as you’ll stay,” you say gently.

He squeezes back, once, twice, three times, then brings the back of your hand to his mouth, pressing a kiss against the soft skin of your knuckle. You find the courage to tilt your head up to look at him, his grin lazy and his eyes soft, peering down at you like he’s seeing you for the first time. Really seeing you.

Not as a friend. Not as his best friend.

Something beyond that.

“Always,” he mumbles against your hand. “Never leaving your side, actually.”

“That so?”

“Mhm. ‘M obsessed with you.”

“Are you now?”

Rafe hums again, eyes flickering down to your lips. “Been for a while, believe it or not.”

Your breath hitches at the intensity of his gaze, especially at the way he looks so sure of himself, of his words, of his intentions, as if they’re set in stone regardless of any shroud of doubt you may still have lingering in the back of your mind.

There are so many things you want to say right now to him, wishing you have an ounce of the ferocity you had last night when you let confessions spill under sheets that smell of him, but with the anticipation of his touch roaming all over your body, it’s almost impossible to form a coherent thought right now.

You figure your questions, qualms, and curiosities can wait.

“Let me show you, yeah?”

Yeah, they can wait.

© salem-s do not copy or replicate work without permission. mdni.

notes writing loverboy!rafe is actually so much fun because it's the furthest thing from canon and it's awesome. also thank you for 700 followers????? that's actually insane????

[zynhttyd]

Hi! Your stories are very cute so far ❤️ I was wondering if I could request something for Hiccup? I was thinking a reader who’s scared of dragons and Hiccup helps her by having toothless spend time with them, and because they take it slow they spend a lot of time together. I think it would be very cute if the pair of them were helping the reader overcome her fear while Hiccup is also falling for her. Thank you! xx

BRAVER THAN YESTERDAY

pairings « hiccup haddock x f! reader »

✎ Being afraid of dragons while living on an island where they’re treated like family isn’t exactly an ideal combination. But no amount of rational thinking could quiet the fear lodged in her chest---That is but until one patient boy and his curious Night Fury begin to change everything.

【warnings; fear/anxiety themes [no major warnings] 】

notes: this took longer than expected, I was too focused on my art pieces and enrolling. sorry if I kept you waiting. I also used too many similes in this which I really hate

It has been a long six years since the last attack of dragons, leaving the people of Berk with a sense of peace. The war, with all its hardships and sacrifices, was over and done with. Berk was no longer a battlefield where courageous men went up against furious fire-spewing beasts who could be defeated only with incredible strength and brutality where steel met scale and fire meant death. There were no longer cries for help, suffering and torment of men and dragons alike. 

But that didn’t mean you had changed with it.

The fear wasn’t logical. You knew that. The feeling that one experiences in respect to dragons flying in the air cannot be rationalized at all because it is practical. At all times, it is just impossible to miss the performance of dragons in the air. Eagles flaunt their ability to fly among the wind, but this bunch of aerial showstoppers leave all the birds amazed at their incredible aerial dramatics, it’s as if they had sails on them so that they could rent the wind. You have seen children climb on their backs, it is common to see them either flying free with glee or riding on the backs of dragons like huge Kites and getting an absolute thrill of joy by the accompanying rush of wind as they soared, which should have reassured you. You recalled Gobber's jesting reference that Toothless was as cuddly as a big tongue-laden cat.

None of it helped.

When dragons flew overhead, your shoulders still tensed. When they landed, your hands clenched unconsciously around the nearest object. And when one looked at you — those sharp, fierce eyes finding yours — your chest would tighten with something cold and sour, like a reminder of the past, triggering a primal response that made your heart race and your vocals would scream to flee from the nonexistent danger.

You told yourself it was instinct. A natural reaction to something that once meant danger, fire, and loss. No one blamed a soldier for ducking at the sound of thunder after a war. But still, when they passed overhead with their mighty wings stirring the sky, everyone else looked up in awe.

You didn’t.

You hated it. 

You hated how your feet trembled at the sight of an infant dragos.

You hated how fearful you were.

There had been a time—brief, humiliating, and burned into your memory—when Astrid tried to help you ease into it. She meant well. Always had. It was one of those late afternoons when the skies were pale and full of salt, and the fish baskets were heavy with glistening mackerels, tails still twitching. Astrid had insisted it would help, said Stormfly was the most polite Deadly Nadder this side of Berk. That she wouldn’t bite unless you wore fish perfume or insulted her tail feathers.

You remembered gripping the bucket with both hands, knuckles pale against the cold tin. Stormfly had strutted up, talons clicking on the stone like she was walking a runway, head tilting with eerie grace. Then she opened her jaws.

A clean row of daggers—gleaming, serrated, too white to belong to something that could be trained. You dropped the bucket. Fish spilled across the dirt in a splash of silver. And then the world tipped sideways.

Astrid had caught you before your head hit the post, yelling your name loud enough to wake every dragon in the cove. You didn’t remember much else, except waking up with a wet rag on your forehead and Toothless sniffing your boots with the worried intensity of a mother hen.

She’d said something like, “Okay… maybe we’ll try again next week.” But there hadn’t been a next time. You’d avoided the stables for a month after that.

Then there was Gobber. Gobber, who thought everything was hilarious if it involved mild trauma and a dragon-sized punchline.

“Don’t worry about Grump,” he’d once hollered from across the forge, elbow-deep in smelted iron. “Too lazy to maul ya. By the time he decides to eat ya, you’ll be bones!”

You had laughed politely—because that’s what you were supposed to do—but your hands had been slick with nervous sweat the entire time. Grump had blinked at you from his mossy corner, half-asleep and chewing something that might’ve been a saddle or a very unfortunate stool leg.

Ruffnut and Tuffnut weren’t much help either—especially not when Snotlout was involved. The twins, with their wild hair and endless barrage of reckless jokes, were like a storm you couldn’t escape. Their loud laughter bounced off the rocky cliffs, often drawing unwanted attention from dragons or riders alike. You’d need to prepare for Loki day.

Snotlout, for his part, was the kind of presence that filled the air with bravado and bluster. He swaggered around, arms crossed, chest puffed out like a rooster, always ready with a challenge or a boast that made your skin crawl. When he caught sight of you, it was never a quiet greeting—more like a spotlight thrown on all your insecurities.

Then there was Fishlegs. Unlike the others, he meant well, truly. He’d shuffle up nervously, clutching a deck of his meticulously illustrated cards—dragons, their stats, facts about their habits. His fingers trembled slightly as he held them out.

“Maybe these will help,” he’d say softly, voice barely above the wind rustling the leaves.

But even the bright, colorful images—dragons drawn with playful accuracy—made your throat close up. The mere sight of those printed scales, the painted teeth, sent a shiver crawling down your spine. You’d swallow hard, nod politely, forcing a smile that didn’t reach your eyes.

Then there’s Hiccup.

Hiccup didn’t say anything, but you knew he noticed. He always noticed. And sometimes he’d speak gently to them in their strange, melodic tongue—words full of reassurance, not for the dragons, but for you. You hated how much that helped.

He never called you out in public. Never asked awkward questions or gave you that look others did — pity, mostly, or irritation. He was quieter than that. He simply started showing up more. You thought it was mockery, having someone titled as the Master of Dragons look out for you.

First at the market, unassuming. He’d appear beside the stall as you were weighing vegetables, casually asking about saddle buckles or spare ink like he hadn’t deliberately wandered over. Toothless, of course, waited obediently at a distance—eyes sharp focused on Hiccup and you, but manner gentle, letting you get used to the idea of company again. Hiccup never lingered too long. He’d talk just enough to ease the silence, then offer a crooked smile and let you go, no strings pulled, no explanations demanded. Though you were constantly shaking at the sight of a dark scaled dragon just a few feet away from your ground, even if its rider was just in front of you being friendly.

Then came the shoreline where he would pause sketching sea charts when he noticed you walking alone, letting his pencil fall slack in his hand while he waited. If you ever catch a glimpse of him, sometimes you’d nod. Sometimes not. He never seemed to mind either way.

And yet… Hiccup never asked you to be more than you were. Not once.

Eventually, he found you where you least expected: the old sheep pen near the forge,long since overgrown with weeds and ivy, repurposed as a training area for the younger dragons. Most people avoided it now—it smelled like scorched earth and singed fur, and the soil was too torn up to grow anything decent. The fencing was warped, the posts weathered, the soil uneven and pockmarked by old hoofprints. You liked it because it was quiet, untouched by the bustle of the main academy grounds. 

No one thought to look for you there. But he did.

You were there scrubbing soot from the posts, the acrid smell of charred wood rising with every pass of your rag. A chore you took on that no one had asked you to do, and no one would’ve noticed if you hadn’t. But it rendered you useful and busy. Kept your back turned to the beasts.

Your sleeves were rolled past your elbows, fingers already tarnished black, when you sensed movement behind you. No claws, no wings—just a soft boot and the sound of metal, passing through the cement.

Hiccup.

“I, uh… I thought this place was off-limits,” he said with a sheepish grin.

You stayed silent. He was too, for a few wind passes.

"You, uh, always come here alone?” he said finally, voice casual, like he was commenting on the weather.

You glanced over your shoulder. “It’s quieter in the mornings.”

Hiccup ran his fingers along the edge of the rail, picking up a bit of ash. “You know, Gobber's been saying the same thing for days now. About the soot buildup, I mean. Just… no one’s bothered to actually fix it.” He glanced sideways, a smile tugging faintly at his mouth. “Until you.”

You kept your eyes on the fence, but your shoulders tensed slightly. “I like things that don’t talk back.”

His smile faded—not in offense, but with quiet understanding. He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he leaned more of his weight onto his arms, exhaling slowly as he looked across the field. Dragons lazed in the sun or sparred gently with one another under watchful eyes. Even Toothless, stretched out near the edge of the pen, kept a wary but nonchalant eye on you both.

“You know,” Hiccup said after a beat, “Toothless used to be like that. Kept to himself. Didn’t trust anyone. Especially me.” He tilted his head slightly, the wind brushing his hair back from his brow. “It took a long time before he let me close. And even longer before I stopped being afraid I’d ruin it.”

“I guess,” he continued, “sometimes the best connections start with silence. And some patience.”

You turned toward him, eyes narrowed in faint suspicion. “Was that supposed to be advice?”

He gave you a crooked grin. “Only if it sounded smart.”

From the leather pouch tied at his belt, he pulled something small. Not a fish, as you expected, but what looked like a bundle of herbs—dried roots and sprigs of lavender tied together with twine, the kind Gobber used to keep Grump calm during storms.

“This helps Toothless relax,” Hiccup said, gently setting the bundle down in the grass, fingers lingering on the twine as if the shape of it meant something. “Sometimes the other dragons get nervous when the wind changes. They pick up things we don’t. Sounds. Smells. Fear.”

Your breath caught. You weren’t sure if he meant you—or them.

He didn’t look up. Instead, he brushed a hand through the long stalks of grass, letting the scent from the herbs mingle with the air. “I used to think being brave meant doing the thing that scared you. Charging in. But now… I think it’s more about staying. Standing still, even when everything in you wants to run.”

You stood up slowly, brushing your palms together, the fine grit of soot and dry wood scraping away beneath your fingers. 

“I was wondering,” he said, keeping his eyes on the ground, “if you might help me.”

“With…?”

“Toothless has been a bit… bored. I think he misses new faces. But I don’t want to force him on anyone.”

You turned fully, slowly. Your heart kicked against your ribs. Toothless was watching you — not with hunger, not even with interest. Just quiet, unblinking patience. You hadn’t even noticed him being in the same place as you. Hiccup was still talking—his voice gentle, meandering, as if testing the words aloud rather than delivering them with certainty. But to you, it sounded less like a heartfelt pep talk and more like one of Gobber’s forge-side lectures, the kind where he’d yell at you to “quit waddling like a duck that sat on an axe” while waving a hammer the size of your head.

“You know I don’t know anything about dragons,” you murmured.

“But I can help y—”

“You don’t get it.” The words slipped out sharp, but not angry—more tired than anything. You lowered your voice, unsure if you even wanted him to hear the rest. “I don’t get it.” It came quieter, frayed around the edges. “You all… you ride them. You trust them like it’s second nature. Like they’re just big, scaly friends. But when I look at them—when I really look at them—my body just… doesn’t listen. My chest locks up. My legs want to run.”

You laughed, if it could be called that. It had no warmth—just air and irony. “And I know they’re not monsters. I know that. But try telling that to whatever part of my brain starts screaming every time I see teeth. Or when I hear that low, guttural growl they make—like the ground itself is warning me.”

Hiccup’s posture hauled, subtly. He wasn’t fidgeting, not like usual. His shoulders had lowered, the corners of his mouth drawn not in confusion or pity, but in something closer to understanding. He didn’t speak—not right away. And you were grateful. He never rushed to fill silence for the sake of it. 

“[Name], I—uhm…” His voice was soft. Cautious. “I’m sorry if I was rushing things. I just… thought maybe if I stuck close, I could make it easier. But I didn’t ask what you needed.”

He scratched the back of his neck, eyes dropping for a breath.

“I should’ve.”

Why are you so afraid of dragons?

You still remember your first encounter with a dragon—no older than five, wandering the woods with wild curiosity and a basket too small for your eager hands. It was a baby Nadder, trembling and bright-eyed, alone beneath the tangled canopy. Gobber had warned you—never wander off alone. But you wanted to bring a gift: a bounty of mushrooms, handpicked and hopeful.

The Nadder’s mother was hidden behind a massive boulder, her breath hitching in the quiet forest air. When she saw you, so small and bold, playing with her daughter, something inside her snapped. Fire erupted, roaring and sudden, scorching through the branches like a vengeful storm.

Your hair caught first, flames licking and burning until it was nothing but a ragged, singed memory. Heart pounding, you fled, leaving behind the tiny mushrooms and your woven basket, You had been doing fine—more or less. Your hands were steady, your breath measured, your thoughts arranged like fragile glass figurines on a shelf. A little cracked, maybe, but intact.

That was, until Toothless started showing movements.

It was unnoticeable at first—a swish of his tail, the soft thud of a paw shifting against the cement. But it was enough. Your eyes snapped toward him. Your entire body went stiff. Every muscle locked down like armor trying to hold itself in place. You hadn’t even realized you’d taken a step back until the cool grass whispered beneath your heels.

“Hey—hey, it’s okay,” came Hiccup’s voice. Gentle. He didn’t raise it above a hush, as if speaking too loudly might cause everything—your composure, the moment, even Toothless himself—to shatter. “He’s not gonna come closer. Not unless you want him to.”

“I obviously don’t want him to!” you snapped, your voice breaking with rising terror. Your heels scuffed against the overgrown cement as you stumbled backward, heart galloping against your ribs. “Then why is he getting closer?”

Toothless paused. His head tilted—just slightly, curiously, like he couldn’t quite understand why you were retreating, why your scent had changed to something sour with fear. His nostrils flared once.

And still he moved.

“Hiccup!” you choked, voice high, raw. You could hear it—the thin edge of hysteria bleeding into your words—but you couldn’t help it. It was too close. He was too close.

Hiccup moved quickly now, slipping between you and the Night Fury in a heartbeat. “Toothless,” he murmured, his tone lower now, threaded with something softer than command—something more like understanding. “Back off, bud.”

“You okay?” he asked, even though the answer was painfully, absurdly obvious.

“NO!”

And then you fell—not dramatically, not with grace—just folded in on yourself, collapsing to your knees as if your body had finally given up the pretense of holding it all in. Your arms wrapped tightly around your middle, and you tucked your chin down, curling in as if your very shape could somehow make you smaller. Safer.

The ground was cold beneath you, the scent of wet grass and old stone clinging to your boots and sleeves. Your breaths came in short, stuttering pulls, and your chest felt tight, like there wasn’t enough space inside you for the storm gathering there.

You didn’t cry, not exactly. But your throat burned with the threat of it.

You were scared. Very scared. And you hated how Hiccup tried to help—hated it in the way people hate warm hands when they’re still shivering. Because no help could clear the nightmares in your mind. No amount of soft words or thoughtful gestures could undo the things you’d seen, the images stitched so tightly into the back of your eyes that even blinking brought them forward again.

He didn’t understand that. Or maybe he did—too well. Which somehow made it worse.

He tries.

Sometimes, he would leave things for you. Small things. A fire-baked hand warmer wrapped in cloth during colder mornings, left beside the bench where you sharpened your tools. A folded sketch of a dragon’s wing anatomy—clearly labeled, clean, detailed—placed just under your door with no name attached. One time, it was a sprig of lavender tied with twine, fresh from Gothi’s garden. You didn’t know if that had been for calm or comfort, but it stayed tucked in your coat pocket for weeks.

You hated how much those things mattered. How they wormed their way into the cracks you’d worked so hard to seal.

But he did it with Toothless nearby. 

A dragon.

“Please, try to calm down, [Name]. You know Toothless won’t hurt you.”

Hiccup crouched in front of you, his voice spoken with the kind of steadiness that didn’t need to be loud to be heard. His right hand rested gently on your shoulder, steadying you. The other moved with deliberate care, reaching for your arm, gently guiding it down from where you’d raised it over your head, your body still tense from shock.

He extended his hand out, palms facing the Night Fury, fingers spread wide in a gesture of open trust. He’s inviting—not just Toothless, but you—to see. To really see.

Toothless sat a short distance away, his wings tucked, head tilted with that curious look he wore when he didn’t understand but wanted to. 

“I want to help.”

You wanted help.

But you didn’t know how to ask.

You hesitated, eyes darting from him to the ground, unsure where to anchor yourself. The dirt beneath your boots was damp, soft from the morning drizzle, and speckled with fallen pine needles. You focused on those, counting the flecks of brown and green, willing your breath to pace slowly, to settle into something steady.

 You did not want to look at his eyes—those green eyes—the same green that Toothless has.

You felt his gaze before you looked up. Hiccup didn’t speak. He rarely did when you needed silence more than answers. He just stood there—awkward, steady, concerned—his hands began to carefully tuck behind his back, as though even the way he breathed might startle you if he wasn’t careful.

“It’s not that I don’t want to try,” you said at last, your voice low, like the words might break if you pushed too hard. “It’s just—sometimes I feel like everyone’s already ten steps ahead. They get it. They’re fearless. I blink and they’re already flying.”

Silence.

It was quiet. “Sorry. I’m not trying to be difficult.”

“You’re not,” Hiccup said immediately, and the softness in his tone made you flinch more than if he’d yelled. “It’s okay to be afraid.”

You blinked, caught off-guard by how gently he said it—like fear was just another thing you could admit to and still be whole. You weren’t used to that. Not here.

He shifted his stance slightly, brushing his hand along Toothless’ side absentmindedly. The dragon purred low, a sound like thunder muted in velvet.

“They’re not perfect,” he went on, his voice barely above the wind. “They’re wild. Powerful. Sometimes unpredictable. But they’re also... more than that. You don’t have to love them. Just let them exist beside you.”

You looked up at him then, really looked—not at the Chief, not the dragon rider, but Hiccup. The boy who built things with his hands and still got grease on his sleeves. The boy who smiled at dragons like they were misunderstood friends instead of fearsome beasts. The boy who, for reasons unknown, chose to stand beside you when no one else did.

“…I’m trying,” you said finally.

He nodded once, a small, genuine thing. “I know.”

Hiccup had suggested that you and Toothless spend some time together, that maybe it would help you get over your fear of dragons. “Familiarity takes the teeth out of fear,” he’d said, half-joking, though his eyes had been serious

It was never easy.

Of course, you still flinched when Toothless moved too fast or got too close. Even the gentle sway of his tail or the soft thud of his padded feet could send a ripple of unease crawling up your spine. Your chest would tighten, and your lungs would burn with that frantic, invisible panic—like someone was pressing down on your ribs, making air feel scarce and heavy all at once, like you were breathing in fire instead of air.

But Hiccup never pushed. He was always nearby, not even patronizing, just close enough that if you stumbled, you wouldn’t fall far. He didn’t scold or sigh or give you that tired, disappointed look others did when you couldn’t keep up. He just kept bringing Toothless by, at quieter hours, when no one else was around. Sometimes they didn’t come close at all. Hiccup would sit a few paces away, scribbling into one of his notebooks while Toothless dozed in the grass, sun-bathing as if he were some oversized cat.

He gave Toothless simple tasks: to sit, to stay, to blink slowly at you like a feline signaling peace. And somehow, Toothless listened. Not just obeyed, but listened, as if he could sense the tremor in your bones and knew not to cross that unseen line. The dragon wanted a new friend, and that friend must be you.

Hiccup had started spending more time guiding you than he did at the forge. The clang of metal on metal had grown less frequent in the afternoons, replaced by the quiet murmur of his voice as he stood beside you, coaxing you through dragon behaviors, flight patterns, or simply hanging out with you.

He probably didn’t even notice it—the shift. But others did.

Vikings weren’t the most subtle people, and Berk was a place where whispers traveled faster than the wind. You caught the sideways glances in the market, the knowing smiles exchanged between older villagers. Even the children had begun to nudge each other whenever Hiccup’s shadow fell beside yours, wide-eyed and grinning like they were in on some grand secret.

Just murmurs… soft observations exchanged over stew pots and fire pits.

"How can a great leader be so oblivious of himself?" they would say, shaking their heads with fond disbelief. "He can tame a wild dragon with a glance, calm a storm with his words, but he can’t see what’s right in front of him."

They saw it—the spark. Something brighter than the flame of a Monstrous Nightmare, more enduring than even the North Star. It flickered in the way he stood a little closer when you were nervous, how his voice lowered when he spoke to you, gentler than he was with anyone else. It gleamed in the small, unspoken gestures: the way his brow furrowed when you flinched, how his hand hovered just near enough to catch you, but never touched unless you reached first.

Toothless seemed to notice too, often smiling when you and his rider are near to each other.

And you…?

You pretended not to notice.

Because if you noticed, you’d have to acknowledge what it meant. That this wasn’t just about your fear anymore. 

Other times, Hiccup would talk—not about dragons, necessarily, but about other things. His thoughts. Old stories. Questions he had no answers to but liked to ask anyway. His voice was calm, always a little dry at the edges with humor, and something about it began to carve out space around you that didn’t feel so tight. So full of panic.

“I don’t really know if I’d make a good chief,” Hiccup said as he crouched beside the old training post, fingers idly plucking at a sprig of dry grass. The horizon was soft with the fading blush of dusk, and the only sounds were the distant calls of gulls and the rhythmic hush of waves against the cliffside.

“You won’t,” you replied without hesitation.

He turned sharply, a half-offended glare thrown your way, but before he could even open his mouth—

“You’ll make a great chief.”

That earned you a look. 

You didn’t smile, but your eyes held steady. “I meant what I said.”

He blinked, as if caught off guard. Then, he sat back, letting his arms rest on his knees as he looked toward the horizon. “You know, most people just say what they think I want to hear.”

“I don’t do that.”

“Yeah… I’ve noticed.”

He enjoyed talking with you. He liked talking to you. He loves hearing you speak. You didn’t dance around things. You didn’t stare at him like he was still trying to fill a space his father had left behind. You spoke plainly, but there was a kindness in it—even when your words stung a little. He found himself waiting for your opinions. For your dry honesty. For your voice.

He loved hearing you speak, even if it wasn’t much. Especially when it wasn’t much.

Because when you did say something, it mattered.

“You can do this,” he’d told you once, when you were standing five feet from Toothless and barely breathing. “You’ll be braver than yesterday.”

And you had tried. Because he’d asked, because he believed you could, and maybe because some part of you—buried beneath all that panic—wanted to believe it too.

While other dragons were still wary of you, Toothless never pushed, as his rider did. Never came close unless you let him. He had this uncanny ability to read you, to sense when your muscles locked with fear or when your foot began inching back. He would stop mid-step, blinking those massive green eyes at you with a quiet intelligence that somehow softened the pounding in your ears.

He’d wait.

—--------

You sat a few feet away, knees drawn up, laughing softly as Toothless nudged your elbow with his snout. The dragon had grown patient with you over the past few weeks, almost unusually gentle, as if sensing that your fear wasn’t something to be conquered with force, but unraveled with care. Hiccup had expected you to give up by now—to walk away like so many others had when the reality of dragons became more than they could handle. But you didn’t. You stayed. Even through the trembling hands, the stiff posture, the wide eyes. You stayed.

And now, here you were, your fingertips hesitantly brushing the side of Toothless’s jaw.The dragon blinked slowly in response and let out a low, pleased hum that vibrated through the ground beneath them both.

Hiccup should have been focused on the saddle sketches or the list of repairs Gobber was probably waiting on. Instead, he found himself watching the way your hair caught the evening light, every movement slow and unsure, but not fragile. You were trying—for yourself, for Toothless, maybe for him too. And that realization caught him off guard.

He noticed how you bit your lip when you were nervous. How your laugh faltered when you were uncertain, but you laughed anyway. How you sat beside Toothless now, not quite touching, but not shrinking away either. You met fear with a kind of stubborn dignity that reminded him of something… maybe someone… but it wasn’t Astrid. It wasn’t anyone else.

It was just you.

He felt it in the way something in his chest tightened every time you smiled at him, like it wasn’t used to being looked at that way. He felt it in the way he started looking for your face first whenever he entered a room. And he felt it, most of all, in the moment your eyes met his and you gave him that small, uncertain smile—the one that said I’m trying, for you too.

He ducked his head quickly, pretending to fix a line on his paper, as if the way his throat suddenly went dry wasn’t obvious. But his hand froze halfway through the motion, the charcoal catching on the parchment as he glanced back up.

You were still looking at him.

And you didn’t look afraid anymore.

Not of Toothless.

Not of him.

He blinked, heart thudding once, heavy in his chest. Toothless made a soft grumbling noise beside you, casting Hiccup a knowing glance that made his ears burn.

Maybe the dragon knew before he did.

Maybe you did too.

But Hiccup only smiled, soft and barely there, and let himself look at you a second longer than he probably should have.

Just one more moment. Then another.

He was falling.

Falling….for you!

He loves you.

[otkuhotgirl]

─── 𝐃𝐎𝐂𝐓𝐎𝐑’𝐒 𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐒

# with trafalgar water d. law.

it was said that those trapped inside his sphere were then nothing but a helpless patient on his operating table. law made sure you, too, would experience it.

⎰ & KINKTOBER, day three. medical play. glove kink. smut (mdni)! fingering (reader!receiving). freaky law. use of devil-fruit. double penetration. afab!reader.

WC: 2.5k

it was an agreement that the captain of a crew was the most valuable asset. law had matured into such a position with natural ease — powerful and intelligent; responsible and menacing — yet, his most arduous and important role relied neither on his battle skills nor on his plans. law was crucial to the lives of crew due to his extensive anatomical knowledge and the devil-fruit whose power could heal whatever ill. he was reliable, organized, logical. shame had no place within the walls of the infirmary, for law cared not for the cause of the disease or the placement of a pimple — instead, he all but strived to get rid of it.

the gratefulness and cheerful compliments thereafter were fuel to his ego, the confirmation that he had fulfilled his duties as a captain. law drew pleasure from the fact that he was one to execute a role unique amidst his crew. he had taught them concepts of medicine and surgery — to have a set of aiding hands, at least — but none of those with whom he shared the submarine were fit to nurse themselves to health. that diligent performance, more often than not, brought him a greater sense of power than the one granted by victorious battles.

it was an achievement; a task; his father’s legacy. law treated his patients with utmost professionalism, the character of their shared dynamic long forgotten if one had to be examined. it was a neutral space; undiscriminating. his ethics were thorough, his examination was immaculate. the mere thought of law losing focus during such instances was inconceivable. that was, of course, until you were the subject whose back pressed against the examination table.

the prelude itself had been virtuous. your limbs were sore during the aftermath of an arduous battle, minuscules cuts adorning your skin due to the offensive character of your opponent. law had insisted on treating you, regardless of how minor were the gashes. the memories were a vivid talon that had claimed his mind: your knee pressed against your chest as he stretched your muscles; the perspective from being atop your figure; your mellow breaths of relief whenever his fingers succeeded in undoing a tense knot. law had grown hot, then, forced to hasteness for the sudden tightness of his pants would be sure to denounce the perverted thoughts.

the second time was one of prolonged misery. a mosquito bite from a foreign island had left you bedridden; feverish. a frailer state of mind and manners, hazed by the consequences of a higher temperature. from soothing massages to the press of ice-cold thermal bags — your comfort became his most favored goal. the pain, however, proved to be overbearing, and the product of such given relieves came in the form of multiple moans. a press of his hand had you sighing; the cool, metal touch of his stethoscope against your burning skin made you beg for longer contact. whenever law dared to place a damp towel above your forehead, you’d lean into his touch and plead for him to stay.

yet, the occurrence that snapped the strained thread of his mind had been during a routine checkup. your mouth was open wide; law had a thin, small, wooden-stick on your tongue, striving to check on the health of your throat. he teased your gag-reflex, a gloved thumb pressed against your lower lip. law had lost his senses at the sight of your tears, the wild rise-and-fall of your chest, a context much too similar to that of a blowjob. the examination was cut short, and law had spent an entire hour in the shower right thereafter, fisting his cock; chasing a fleeting orgasm that had refused him, for your touch was its demand.

the infirmary shifted into a somewhat sinful ambience. the metal table was but a surface on which you could be ravaged. the stethoscope an instrument he could use to listen to the pace of your heartbeat, its increase gradual to his thrusts on your pussy. and the gloves. rubber moistened with your cum and spit; the act of stretching it near you, for it would then strike at the growing-sensible flesh. law wanted to witness the middle in which pain and pleasure converged — and you had been the chosen subject.

fleeting touches; warm breath hovering above your earlobe; the caress of your leg, under the table, with the point of his shoe. the guaranteeing of your restlessness coated in faux aloofness. when the teasing, at last, conquered its desired effect, law had the infirmary far more than prepared to receive your storm. his nape had burned under your gaze throughout the later hours of the afternoon, and when law stepped inside the maddening room, he was well-aware that you would be soon to follow.

he hid amidst the shadows, reveling in your confused-etched expression as you walked through the infirmary’s door. when you reached the center, law locked it, the force of its shutting enough to produce a loud, startling noise; echoing through the metal hallways of the submarine. you jumped, glancing at his frame placed by the door. law’s eyes drowned in the sight of you, thoughts swirling to the fantasies whose realization was of absurd importance.

“is something wrong, captain?” you inquired, arms crossed.

law’s steps were slow; calculated. he approached you as though a leopard surrounding its prey. you grew wary, retreating without forethought until your hip-bone collided with the examination table.

“how are you feeling tonight?” law grinned at the sight of your confusion, the increasing nervousness all but exciting him further.

the sound of his palms slamming on metal had you shrieking, yet law did not seem apologetic. he all but devoured your trapped figure, cursing the chaste knitting of the jumpsuit — though the sight of his crew’s symbol above your chest sent him a jolt of uncontrollable possessiveness.

“i’m fine,” you stuttered, clearing your throat and clinging to the fabric of your garment. “better than ever.”

“is that so?” law mused, pressing the back of his hand against your forehead. his fingers were but a hook on your chin; curled and unyielding. “you’re a bit pale, wouldn’t you agree?”

“captain, i don’t—”

“doctor,” he corrected through rough intonation, forcing the angle of your face to match his own.

“doctor,” you echoed. while the grunt of lust at the sound had been contained, the same could not be said about his member — a gradual erection, borderline painful.

he sighed in faux disappointment, allowing his hand to wander; to hover above your chest. “you leave me no choice but to examine you.”

you were left out of words, mouth agape as your mind struggled to wrap itself around that turn of events.

“sit. you know the drill,” he commanded, and once you had done as such, law turned on his back, striding towards the locked drawer whose contents were the ones adjusted to fulfill the standards of what he meant on doing. his movements were languid, patient. at the absence of sound on your part, law tsked, angling his head so as to glare at you. “strip.”

your spontaneous gasp of bewilderment had a smirk etching on his face. “captain, i— what?”

“doctor. and i don’t plan on repeating myself,” he scolded, fishing the stethoscope from its previous spot. “i taught you the proper way to listen to one’s heartbeat. forgot it already?”

“oh,” you breathed out sheepishly, tugging down the zipper of your jumpsuit. law at last understood the root of your hesitation, for you wore nothing but a bra underneath. his mouth dried up, and he dared not readjust his gaze. “i thought, well, nothing. it was silly.”

“no, please, enlighten me,” he requested, positioning the stethoscope around his neck.

the growth of tension escaped past your pores as though a leaking faucet. “just, with the touches and the glances, i figured you were in search of another thing entirely.”

“and what would that be?”

your movements ceased midway, the upper half of the jumpsuit a dangling fabric at your sides. you hid your face from his glance, though his focus remained on the inviting sight of your cleavage.

“you know—”

“i do not,” law detached his figure from its previous support spot on the table’s edge, languid steps guiding him to you. “and a decent patient does not keep secrets from their doctor.”

you were caged, forced to lean back as law angled himself forward. the sudden exchange of energy, due to the temperature divergence between your spine and the metal, made you hiss. your back arched out of instinct; your chest pressed against his own as a consequence. mere inches separated his face from yours, his breath fluttering your eyelashes. your pupils dilated when law tossed his blue coat aside, the half-unbuttoned shirt he wore doing nothing to shelter his bare abdomen and chest from your lustful eyes.

you gulped; wild rise-and-fall of chest. “sex.”

he hummed, putting on the stethoscope’s ear pieces. its chest piece teased the warmth of your skin, movements too erratic to catch the proper pace of your heartbeat. “i can’t hear you, say it louder.”

you were aghast, stuttering as he smirked with malice. sentences sounded muffled; chaotic breathing hindering the performance of the tool. law placed the stethoscope aside, feigning dissatisfaction.

“it seems i’ll have to scan it closer on,” he stated, a twist of his wrist enough to teleport your heart to the palm of his hand.

it was a beating wonder; a rampant pace. the source of your life secured in between his teasing fingers. clutching it would have you howling in pain, stabbing it would reap your soul; an unfathomable, despising, thought. when it came to the negative consequences to a severe act of violence committed to one’s heart, law was well-versed. the soothing touches, however, were unprecedented territory — for now.

law drew your heart closer to his mouth, ever-so-tender. he blew a careful gust of air over the delicate flesh, and the kiss thereafter tore a devastating moan from your lips. droplets of sweat bubbled from your pores; your pupils buried the tone of your irises; your limbs all but trembled. law failed to contain a groan, losing balance at the blood flowing through his aching cock. he was desperate to witness that reaction yet again.

“take it all off,” he instructed, voice coming out strained due to the effort to keep himself from crumbling.

he laid your entire body on the examination table, struggling to ignore your whimpers as the fabric slid down your legs. law sliced the rubber gloves, discarding the pieces meant for the palms.

“room,” law detached his fingers, guiding them to the glove holes; covering them in rubber. he returned to you, breath catching at the sight of your body, bare and trembling, a marvel bestowed upon him. “the doctor will see you now.”

“please, doctor,” you mewled. “heal me.”

without further ado, granted the privilege of his devil-fruit, law guided his floating fingers to your cunt. a gloved thumb teased your clit through circular movements, two fingers parting your folds. he was aghast at the amount of lubrification caused by the mere press of his lips on your heart. law shoved his middle-finger into your cunt, coating the rubber with your essence. a loud whimper had his cock aching, and law grew worried, much too selfish to share your sounds with the external environment.

“silent,” he rasped, latching his lips to your heart, leaving a trail of kisses on the flesh. your back arched, a muted moan tearing through your throat.

he witnessed the squirming of your body; the violent trembling of your legs. his ring finger accompanied his middle one, scissoring your cunt as his thumb maintained a stable eight-pattern on your clit. law’s warm tongue teased your heart, and the shout of pleasure whose sound the barrier had silenced was his latest straw. law undid it, shoving his index and minor finger into your mouth.

“suck it,” law commanded, having your spit coat the rubber. his mouth dried, a wet patch visible on the fabric of his pants.

the swirling of your tongue around his fingers had his cock twitching, yet law had no hands available to unbutton the belt. he clicked his tongue, and the fingers inside your holes had switched, activating his devil-fruit regardless of the detachment.

“shambles,” his pants and underwear teleported to a meaningless spot.

law detached his cock and removed the pair of fingers from your cunt, for the particular warmth and wetness were meant to be claimed by his cum.

“doctor,” you babbled, voice muffled by his fingers, tears rolling down your cheeks as he applied pressure to the entrance of your ass. “it’s too—ngh much.”

“you’re still sick,” he cooed, teasing your folds with the tip of his member. “and i must treat it. can we proceed with it?”

you nodded, gagging when he shoved his fingers deeper — unrestrained by the confines of his tendons.

“speak,” he insisted, neglecting your inability to produce proper words.

“yes,” you cried out, sending vibrations through his fingers.

“yes what?” law snapped, teasing your entrance with the tip of his middle-finger.

“yes, doctor,” you coaxed in sheer desperation, trembling with need.

law hummed with satisfaction, careful during the insertion on your butthole. the rubber had enough of your essence to serve as a form of lubricant, yet he wished not for you to feel pain. his tongue licked strips on your heart, and your throat produced but an orchestra of boisterous moans, half its sound muffled. a never-ending pace of kisses to your wildly beating heart served as decent distraction, and when law slid his middle and ring fingers into your ass, you barely ever felt it.

your high was a powerful force, drowning his floating cock in your cum. law trembled, rutting his hips out of instinct, the movement itself useless as his member was no longer attached to his body. law marveled at the sight of you, covered in sweat and spit; squirting all over the examination table. he was drawn closer as though a senseless sailor to a siren’s aria, lost in your contorting features, the pleasure written all over.

your eyes met his, wet with past tears. “can i treat you, still?”

law feared that he had crossed a line, far gone in his bliss to remind himself that, although there were no limits to what he was willing to give you, the same could not be said about how much you were capable of receiving.

yet, after a minute, your breathing stabilized and your cheeks briefly hollowed, tongue swirling around his fingers. he removed them, if only to facilitate your speaking.

your voice was meek; hoarse. “treat me ‘til the end, doctor.”

he groaned when your lips parted, head weakly moving to accommodate his fingers. law’s member started to stretch you out, making itself at home within the walls of your cunt. you trembled, sensitive, and law moaned as his cock was coated with the essence from the previous squirting. he paid attention to your expression, fingers scissoring inside your butthole as he matched the pace with that established by his cock.

law caressed your heart, busying his mouth with the press of soothing kisses on your face. he shoved his cock past what was humanly possible, brushing the tip on your cervix; returning it to your entrance and ramming it inside yet again. your moans were the most entrancing melody he had heard, and law caught himself comfortable enough to produce similar sounds.

you tightened around both his fingers and cock; cunt and ass giving in to the overbearing tides of pleasure. your voice failed you, and law had his fingers removed from your mouth in order to listen to the sound of your bliss without restraints. the veins of his members twitched; he felt the knot close to its undoing. yet, it was the bulge of his tip visible through your stomach that had his vision covered in dark spots.

his grip left your heart — out of safety — as his orgasm washed over him, converging with your cum. he rode his high, careful as to observe your face and retrieve once the stimulation became too much. you were left limp on the table, a brief vocal command of his devil-fruit returning the detached limbs to his body. he threw the damp gloves on the trash can, and helped you sit, holding your heart in order to return it to your chest.

when you kissed it — shuddering at your own touch — and observed him through your eyelashes, law, however, became more than willing to ruin the infirmary further.

— 🐈‍⬛ : dear lord this was nasty. i love kinktober.

[eunuchve]

tags: mdni, smut, dragon!morax, MONSTERFUCKING, rut/mating cycles, predator/prey, double dragon cocks, double penetration, CERVIX FUCKING, size kink, mentioning pregnancy, mating, bro has a worship kink, breeding kink hints (he's in a rut dont hold it against him) a.n: (what have i done) this is the first porn with plot I've written and I gotta say; it is damn long.... happy valentines my dears, enjoy! pairings: zhongli x afab!reader

Lord Morax is a god; but he is more than that, he is an adeptus. illuminated beast. this fact needs no introduction, everyone knows. 

so when he took leave to a remote part of liyue somewhere, unknown to even his retainers, no one dared to bat an eye. the rain has fallen heavy, the season has become damp, and the scheduled time is near; Rex Lapis will have his rut.

it didn't take long for people to figure out the reasons for his absence; not when the lord became increasingly unfocused during stately meetings a week prior or when his eyes would turn to slits with a whiff of a woman's perfume for a month’s time.

You, the lone herb picker of a local pharmacy, didn't know any better when you stumbled upon a large hollowed-out cave that wasn't supposed to be there. you are familiar with the terrains, hell, you know it like the back of your hand -- so imagine your surprise when you find a nesting dragon inside, heaving, grunting alone; its horns glowing with a bright amber before its head snapped to your directly, eyes instantly turning to slits.

at first, you stumble backwards, watching as the figure slowly but surely towers over your frame; your neck cranes to meet its molten bronze eyes. it didn't take you long to realise whose privacy you had so ungraciously barged into; your mouth dries and you dropped your basket full of violetgrass, your heart beating out of your chest before your feet finally got some sense and took running to the woods. 

'fuck fuck fuck.'

you are going to die- you are so sure you are going to die. when your feet stumble and trip over branches and air, when you can hear him gliding through the sky; undoubtedly searching for you. The sounds of his scaled body burst through the leaves of the ginkgo trees, or of his deep, rough growls that echo through the forest. With every heavy step you take, you can feel him getting closer and closer. The thrill and fear mix inside of you, your body stirs with blood coursing through you. Weirdly amid the fear you feel-- somehow excitement came into the mix; something about your life being in the mercy of a chase?

Why is he there again? Rut? So will he fuck you or will he kill you? You certainly prefer one to the other. 

Your legs continue to run, even as you trip and fall, or when you stumble upon a rock or two; searching for an exit to a nearby village or open path; but no matter how far you run you can't seem to find the correct way. Your eyes scanned all directions before your body was suddenly pinned down under a sudden force and unmoving weight.

The paws of a creature so large that it covers your entire back, its talons digging into your back. The smell of freshly dug earth and exotic spices violates your nostrils and your heart can't help but thump against your chest just a little faster. You turned your neck, finding the dragon’s face mere inches from yours; his hot breath grazing the exposed skin of your neck. 

“Please don’t kill me.” god your voice sounds so desperate; with a hint of a broken whimper- even you are embarrassed by that fact. but your god didn't seem disturbed, instead he let out a low grunt, before hissing back a reply.

"don't beg."

"...huh?"

"don't." he spat the word, seeming holding something back. "beg."

"b-but--"

he didn't let you finish, picking you up by the scruff of your neck before throwing you to his back. he flew you back somewhere, you didn't care to notice since most of the flight back you are scrambling for something to hold on to; whether it is the golden spines or his actual body.

by the time you both arrive at the entrance of the familiar cave, he has waited for you to get off his back. you inclined, of course, shakily getting a feel of the ground below, catching your breath whilst adrenaline courses through you. once you get a feel yourself, your eyes travel to him, catching his large form walking slowly to the back of the cave.

"you won't kill me?" you find yourself asking; his head then slowly turns to you before, a visible look of confusion etched on it.

"Why would I?" his deep rough voice replies. he is definitely holding something back, the way his lips parted a bit to let steam out of his mouth, the sharp teeth that are visible from them make you gulp the pooling saliva in your mouth.

"Because... cave..."

weak reasoning, you'd have to admit, but if he won't kill you then you'd have to be sure of the other possibility. "then would you fuck me?"

the look on his face deepened before his head hung low, and a soft whisper came to you for a reply. "what makes you think of that?"

"It's your- Rex Lapis it's your time of..."

embarrassed, incredibly embarrassed; that's the feeling you felt, with the heat of blood rushing to your cheek and thumping heart against your chest only enforcing the fact.

"it is time for my rut, yes," he confirmed, his gaze thrown to the floor, avoiding your figure, "but I am not one with lost senses; sleep, it is night, it will be safer to leave in the morning."

you nod weakly, shuffling your way to the walls and plopping down on the dirt before curling up. the heat in your cheeks refuses to prevail as you watch him walk back, his long tail moves with each step he takes, the tuff at the end resembling that of golden clouds.

"My lord why are you moving so far away?" you asked, instantly biting your lip the moment that question escaped your mind, realising how desperate you sounded with that pretence.

"your arousal," he states matter of factly. "you. I can smell it."

you look at him wide-eyed, your face now comparable in its heat to the sun, your lips agape.

"it's safer for you this way," he continues.

"do you not want to?" archons you are greedy aren't you. "your rut- I can.. help..."

"I doubt it." his voice is precise, he says it like it's a fact, not even letting you have a space to express your desire. "they are the size of your thigh and their length..."

"I can try." bold- now you are being too bold. the size of your thigh he said? now you can feel your ears getting heated up from the shame. your thigh now pressed together as you imagine him inside of you; a second pass and your arms no longer placed nicely on your lap, instead instinctively protecting your chest.

his gaze looms over you, his snout now only a hairsbreadth away from your neck; a long deep breath he takes is audible before he groans out a reply.

"Do not test me human," something inside of him is threatening undone, you know it, "I will breed you till your womb is full and your consciousness lost-- if that is not what you desire then stay quiet and sleep; I shall bring you the village in the morning but until then speak not of this."

you gulp, now your lips parted before you crane your neck and place a shaky kiss on his scaled cheek, the heat of his body contrasting the cold of your flesh. "... that is what I desire--"

with that your clothes are torn apart; the valuable silk you spend months of your wage on is gone and your naked skin is exposed. the cold air hardened your nipples and he took notice, his head travelling down, his long forked tongue lapping sweetly onto them, earning your strangle out a moan.

"getting aroused from a chase," he breathes out, almost teasing you; hot breath contrasts that of the cooling saliva on your perked buds, sending vibrations down your spine. "thinking you can take a dragon's cocks, wanting to be the mother of my offsprings -- what bold actions you possessed."

you let out a whine, his tongue now travelling down, ever so subtly closing down to your cunt. you pressed your thighs together; embarrassed, already feeling your arousal seeping out of you before his claws forced them wide open, earning your moan.

"you are pooling my dear," he almost chuckled, his eyes narrowed as he licked his lips, his breath now grazing your quivering folds, unexpected whimper broken out of you.

"please?"

with that word you can feel the air snap hotter, his eyes now meeting yours; his form towering over you before he chuckle, training down kisses, his tongue now making sure you are covered in his scent.

"didn't I tell you not to beg?" his claws hold your thigh open and he took a lap of your cunt, almost smiling at your taste. "do you know why my dear?"

"n-no--"

your moans escape, feeling his tongue entering you, fucking you, stimulating your walls, not letting you escape. you arched your back, biting your lips as another whimper persisted. you feel his hand moving, now pressing his claws to your other hole, expecting you to open up; and you let him, your holes now stuffed full of him before you feel his tongue slip out of you, your whine tells him as much about what you want.

"Because if you beg..." he now moves his hands to your ankles, folding you in half and you watch helplessly, his two golden cocks decorated with geometric lines and veins on either side, one on top of the other- he does not lie, the size of those things are comparable to your thigh, its length will most likely penetrate your womb- "I will answer."

he chuckles subtly, aligning his cocks to both of your holes, its weight now pressing down on you, precum leaks out of them, lubricating you further.

"i am a god, my dear; I always answer."

with that he presses his cock head to your holes, hoping both of them will ease up. you moan his title out, causing him to snap his head to you, making him greedy.

Your little groan and hiss only help you muster up the strength to let loose, feeling your holes easing up before they let his cockheads in, making your chest heave.

he grunts against your neck; and you feel his teeth subtly tracing your shoulder, little nips that satiate his hunger, burying his head in its crook.

"Celestia." the way you feel around the tip of his cock is incomparable; the dragon finds himself clenching down his jaw, controlling his urges to slam you down to its hilt. "you are made for me my dear."

he grabs a hold of your hips, and you feel him sliding you down. you let out a low moan, your back still arched as you feel him inside of you more and more. the burn from the stretch doesn't scare you, even if you feel like you are being split in two- you only know the pleasure that waits for you not so out of reach.

not even halfway and you already feel him brushing against your cervix, your broken moan coupled with the way you rolled your hips almost makes him snap. his other cock too now deep inside of you- almost too deep; you feel the pressure against your throat, feeling his cocks twitch, almost making you jolt, your hand searching from his arm, nails now digging into his scales.

he looks at you, his parted lips letting out steam before his uneven breathing stops to let him speak. "I shall move now."

you look at him, biting your lips and nod firmly, affirming your readiness. you feel him trying to go out of you, your cunt and hole tightening around him, almost hungry before he slams into you, earning your cry of pleasure.

it persists; he goes out of you before he slips inside, messaging your walls before they tightened around him again, hungrily seeking him, your face now fucked out with pleasure, feeling him abuse your holes.

"I'm not even all the way in my dear." he almost smirks, you can see it. before you know it, you suddenly feel him picking you up, your walls being freed from his cocks, suddenly empty and you whine; letting him flip you to your stomach and holding your ass up in the air.

he marvels at the sight, seeing both of your holes gape yet clench down on nothing, it almost made him giddy.

"my beautiful follower," he mused, his claws now digging into your flesh before you feel his cocks lining up with your holes again; embarrassingly you can feel your cunt relaxing, ready to take him in once more. "will you be my mate now darling?"

"yes!" your desperation stays, you want him inside you so bad, "please Rex Lapis please!"

you didn't know what did, but you certainly awaken something in him. he brings you up in the air before slamming you down on his cocks, your walls now taking him fully, your stomach bulging out with his shape. your breath knocks out of you; you can feel him all the way in your womb, your hand can't help but trace the raised flesh, your spine almost shivering from the sensation.

"keep begging."

that sounds like an order; even your now fucked out brain knows that. so like the good follower you are you follow that order.

"Please make me your mate," you choke out, his slow rhythms that know your breath slowly but surely going faster, brushing up against all your pleasure spots, making you roll your eyes to the back of your head. "please please please please I wanna- I want--"

he chuckles, the way you mewl your pleas, the way your warm flesh tightens around him; he can even feel your walls hungrily sucking him in so nicely. in his mind he is thanking Celestia; because fuck, you are a masterpiece.

"a human could die from this," he grunts out, going in and out of you with an inhuman pace, your cunt and hole loosening with his movements. "not you my dear; you are made for me."

you whine from his statement, the bludge he created only drives you to the edge, feeling something inside of you tightening, your nails digging into his scaled flesh, your face supported by his nose. "R-rex Lapis i- my-- i'm--"

"you want to cum my dear?" he almost teases you with the question, his cock brushing, bullying your g spot, making you dig your nails further, your head could only nod desperately at his question. "hold it, you could only cum when I do."

you whine out with his order, and he lets out a subtle groaning with it, chuckling at your reaction. his hand moves down, large talons brushing against your hard clit, teasing the nub; knowing exactly what it will make you do.

you wrapped your arm around his neck, his golden mane brushing against your flesh so softly; and your tug your face on them, muffling out your long moan and desperate cries.

"fuck- please lord mo- morax- r-rex lapis please- i want- i wanna- please please please-"

he kept his word, his face moving and kissing your neck, feeling you move your pelvis to fit him better, your inside hungrily brushing against his shaft. his brow knits, he feels himself almost coming undone.

"now."

with a final thrust, he fills both of your holes with white ropes of cum, you yourself arching your back, feeling your orgasm hits you harder than ever before. he hear your pants before he coils around you, closing gaps between the two of your while still being inside of you, wrapped up by your own warmth.

"i shall make the wedding preparation after the season's over," he breath out; your mind finally able to join the sentence together before you move your head, repeating the most important word again.

"wedding..."

"of course my dear," he kisses you, his snout pressed against your jaw before he tugs his head onto your collar bone. his hand travels to your stomach, rubbing the visible buldge that only grows with his cum, almost making look pregnant.

"the little ones will be coming soon."

[yandere-wishes]

Alice in Marvel-land

𐙚Yandere! Deadpool (Wade Wilson) x Reader x Yandere Wolverine (Logan Howlett)

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ In some worlds, you were Logan's little darling. In others, you were Wade's starry-eyed lover. But here in the void, there is only one of you and two of them.

⁀➷ GORE, yandere behavior, kidnapping, Deadpool being Deadpool.

⁺₊𝄞₊⁺ IDK, probs the Deadpool and Wolverine soundtrack

Logan feels the world slipping away.

Piece by piece, atom by atom.

In a blink, he's falling down darkness.

An endless rabbit hole.

What was the name of that fairy tale you liked so much?

The one with the girl who gets lost in splendor?

The dust is kicking up, framing the sunset portrait along the horizon.

The envoys are nearly home, this time they've brought someone back. The cage balls chime along the unsteady road. If you squint just far enough you can almost make out vibrant specks of red and yellow.

Strange, the void tends to wash out bright colors. Well, it tends to wash out just about everything.

You scrape your nails along the skeleton's sockets. Leave crescents in the decaying cartilage. "They're almost here" you call out awaiting Cassandra's next move. You watch dolefully as she's transfixed on a portal. The sparky thing unfurled like a fresh wound, strewing salt on persistent lacerations. She watches her brother, or well some variation of her brother. Surrounded by his new family, surrounded by those he loves. He's forgotten her, or maybe never even knew her. You think that the latter would hurt the most.

"Cassandra" Your voice rises in octave, this time getting her attention. "They're here".

"Coming" She sings, voice so chip it almost sounds like unshed tears. You send a final glare at the portal before it collapses on itself.

If you tried hard enough, maybe you could bring yourself to understand her pain. Those pesky notions of desperation for someone to love. But it

doesn't matter now everyone you've ever loved is dead anyway. And unlike Cassandra, you've long since given up on the childish dreams of being rescued by someone who would offer up love so freely.

"Maybe shut up now"

Logan's nerves are frying. Thin strings snapping with every syllable that leaves the red merc's mouth. He's starting to appreciate Stryker in a way he didn't even know he could. The man was a psychotic sadist but at least he knew when to sew someone's mouth shut. Maybe he can convince this Cassadra chick to do the same.

Logan's eyes are almost at 90 degrees of a roll when they stop. He stops, frozen. In the gaping mouth of the rotting skull, something all too familiar stands.

Or rather someone.

Someone he knew.

Someone he loved.

Your name tastes bitter on his tongue. All death and whisky.

Maybe cause it's been so long since the attack. Since he walked off for the night and left his family to die. Cause the last time he saw you, you were a mangled corpse laying in an open grave. Deadweight as he cradled you in his arms.

You walk closer. Face painted in too many shades of confusion.

Curiouser and curiouser.

Damn, he's started quoting that stupid book again.

"How do you know my name" You ask. You look just as beautiful as he remembers. Spine carved straight in pride with perfect lips, perfect eyes. His talons itch to glide across your soft skin, to feel you so intimately once more.

"LOOOGAN did you see what the bald chick just- HEY!!"

It takes too much effort to pull his gaze away. To stare at red and black and be reminded of cruel realities. But Wade has a tendency to be a persistent ache, some unwelcomed anchor to every problem he's ever had.

Only this time when he actually looks at him. Looks at the jittery body that's stilled abruptly. He can't help but be glad that he did. A bitter laugh bubbles in his throat. Maybe Wade's shut up for good this time.

He always knew you were special but this is truly a miracle.

"IT'S YOU!!"

Nope, didn't work. He knew he couldn't be that lucky.

Wade whispers your name, a forgotten prayer. Logan didn't even know the loudmouth knew how to pray. But he seems to almost soften when he sees you. That feral, cheeky killer, looks so so soft when he stares into your doe-eyes. Reaching out zealously to twirl a lock of your hair around his blood-soaked finger.

He can almost feel Wade choking on your essence, heart erratic, like a child finding a lost toy. He's drowning in ecstasy, and Logan is almost tempted to join him. You're here, a breath away. So close it's taking every ounce of self-control not to pull you to his chest and keep you locked between his arms until he finally dies too.

"Penunt look that's my girl!!"

"Your girl!?"

He had taken you for granted as he tends to do with most peaceful things. The realization had occurred a little too late. Right as he had been emptying a round into the target of the week's head.

He lands.

Arms high like an Olympian pleasing the crowd.

He wonders if he can make you cheer for him.

Clap and shout his name as he twirls around the mess he's made.

He wants to feel loved, although he'll never say it out loud. He's only ever been good with words when they're laced with sarcasm and profanity.

And maybe 'I love you' is just about the most obscene thing he can ever say to someone as sweet as you.

Wade plays the white rabbit, fluffy coat stained red from every kill. Tricking poor Alice into following him down cruel rabbit holes. Making you chase him through labyrinths then leaving you at every turn. He leads you to every kill, makes you watch as he dances in slaughter. He can even feel your eyes right now. Starlight slicing him open to quench vulgar interests.  

Alice always follows the rabbit.

He stalks closer, white eyes fixated on your deliciously bewildered expression. Precious thing caught in a warzone. He can almost taste you on his tongue, the sharp tip of a star slivering the inside of his mouth, soft hands painting crescent moons along the back of his neck. He needs to carve his essence across your lips, to pour the after-kill adrenaline into your soul. He needs you.

Only this time...

This time he'd been too distracted. So caught up in claiming you as his victory prize that he didn't notice the grizzled man clinging to life...

And a pistole.

The bullet punctures his shoulder. An afterthought.

But the lead keeps going.

Penetrating the air until it lands bunglingly between your eyes.

You fall into his arms.

Deadweight.

Did the white rabbit ever miss Alice?

Did he ever realize how truly special such a curious girl made him feel?

He doubts it.

Doubts that a stupid rodent would have better emotional stability than him.

He's been given a second chance. A whole plethora of them actually. He's been deemed holy, righteous. And aren't gifts of marvel bestowed upon the truly blessed? What better blessing than the sight of you standing amongst the sand and skulls?

Good to see your affinity for dainty dresses spans across all universes...

He lets the blood trickle down his claws.

What else is there to do but dream of you?

It's the fourth day of his massacre and he's lost count of how many humans he's killed. Maybe cause after the first hundred the faces tend to blur.

He leaves your pleasants in between the rotting carcasses and broken glass. Only taking the torturous parts of you. The things that can hurt him. The sharp edges that he can slit his pulse point on, the vague memory of your glare before you cried. The soft skin of your neck between his jagged teeth.

Enough to keep the hate burning.

He wonders if the creatures of Wonderland wept after Alice left. He wonders if Wonderland lost its wonder.

But now you're standing here.

Alive.

And he wants so badly to remember the sweet taste of your lips. The soft push against his chapped lips as he swallows you whole. Even desperate rabbits can go a little feral. His eyes take in every breath, every scowl.

Alive.

Alive.

Alive.

Good to see your affinity for dainty dresses spans across all universes...

Aliath skids forward, mystified in lightning and smoke. You feel your bones collapsing under the rugged man's, Logan's, vice grip. You thrash and scream trying to break free but he only barks out orders to his friend before they take off running.

"Your safe, don't worry we got you." There's a comedic cadence to every word Wade says. You can almost fool yourself into enjoying it if the two weren't actively attempting to defy Cassandra, to defy Aliath, to defy deities and absolutes. To ripe you away from the only semblance of opulence you've come to know.

"Let me go, you custome-wearing freaks." His gripe tenses. "Don't struggle so much, we said you're safe, now hold still" Logan's anger ripples through you. It's almost muscle memory to still, to obey.

Did you know him? Know them?

In some past life too out of reach?

The ground shutters to a jagged rhythm. You're flying up, escaping the misty horrors of the ground. Your head pounds with the force, air slapping across your body as you taste the cotton of the clouds between your teeth.

Is this how Alice felt as her head hit the roof?

Wade mutters about the stars and educated wishes. About people who live and matter. Logan slices through his thigh, the mercenary's optimism making his body ring with phantom pains.

No one matters.

And when they start to, they die.

There are cruel absolutes in this world. He's tasted them all. Let them slice his tongue and heart and danced to every tune they've sung. He rips his claws out and digs them into Wade's chest.

Again

And again.  

Wade savors the salty tang of blood inside his mouth.

Licks his teeth and runs his tongue over the gaping holes.

He's sitting in the front seat head rolled back.

High off the blood and adrenaline and the thought of having you so close.

"I take it all back, the Honda odysseys fucks hard"

Bones crack, interrupted mid-heal as Logan turns his head to glare. "Shut up" he rasps and Wade almost, almost, hears approval.

There's a low moan reverberating across the broken car. Late night sleepy mumble that's half 'I love you' and half 'I need you'. Neither one has heard it in such a long time.

"Finally awake sleeping beauty? Kinda surprised you could sleep through all of that" Wade shimmies to the back, only to be greeted by your foot smashing into his face, cracking his nose open, and sending a fresh wave of blood into his mouth. He pins your knee to the seat and wiggles himself between you. caging you with his elbows as he stares down at your pretty face. "Miss me, angel baby?"

"Wrong fairy tale" Logan turns around in his seat, claws out running them across your cheek "Please stop, just let me go" you've never begged before, never fallen so low. But these two things, mutants, mutates, or whatever they are, scare you. Reckless, suicidal, dangerous. You feel so helpless in their presence. Never knowing you're to be kissed or killed.

"You're as lovely as I remember" The melancholy colors him in a monochrome of sympathy. Here is a man who's gone through every horror and still gets out of bed. Or maybe he has to, maybe he can't quite die and can't quite reach heaven. So he gulps down his immortality with black coffee to at least pretend he's being buried six feet deep. "Even after all this time I still love you" You almost melt in his brown eyes. So lonely, so desperate.

Kill or kiss

You want him to do both. Want to kiss extinction on his lips while being impaled by the claws. Kill or kiss.

Both, both, both.

"You know~" Wade pushes himself up, "I think your dress should be red...and black. To match your favorite man."

"Who the hell said you were the favorite?" Wade leans forward, in a blink he's gripped Logan's wrist and lunged the Wolvarine's claws into your abdomen.

You writhe, the bones and metal feel almost heavenly inside of you. When he retracts the claws you moan out, it's too saccharine to hold back. Everything feels so much lighter, colorful. You feel your essence slipping out, gushing over the back seat.

Red waterfall, so pretty.

Dress stained red.

"Told ya so!"

Wade pulls you roughly by the shoulders and smashes his lips against yours. He's so cute, fickle Cheshire cat, tongue dancing across your mouth, slitting itself on your peaked teeth, and filling your mouth with thick red caterpillar smoke. "What the hell is wrong with you? You really are God's perfect idiot" Logan's anger is tangible, sweet, and bitter like hatter tea at midnight.

"S'okay Logan, it feels nice" Your words slur, slipping gauche from your tongue as you giggle profusely. You feel like Alice cracking open Wonderland's ribs, crawling inside, and smearing the wonder across your face.

"When I used to read fairy tales, I fancied that kind of thing never happened, and now here I am in the middle of one" You've heard these words before, Alice's words. she's right. Your fairy tale is painted red with pretty, crazy, princes who think that slicing open a princess is easier than kissing her. You reach out for Logan, desperate for a kiss. "eat me" you mutter, and Logan's face morphs into pure terror "Wade what the hell have you done to her?".

"What? It's better this way trust me"

"I hate you"

Logan bends, meeting you halfway. He kisses you with all the wary of a dead man walking. All teeth and heart and bitter memories left to rot three lifetimes ago. He pushes himself between your bones, trying to carve out his ethos in your body. He'd burn the world so long as he gets to keep you.

You squeeze your thighs around Wade's muscular thighs and hips unlocking a gibby giggle from the man. His mask is half pulled up as he trails sloppy fervorous kisses across your neck and chest. The nostalgia slithering under your skin has you squirming, you've been through this all before. In a past life somewhere where storm monsters and voids don't exist. "Remember how good this feels?" Wade mumbles as his fingers dig into your puncture wounds, drawing slow, desperate moans from your puffy lips. You don't dare answer you don't know what would be worst admitting to liking the loudmouth ministrations or admitting there were other versions of you out there, other happy versions.

"Oh for hell's sake," Logan reclines the front seat and shuffles closer. Pulling down the back of your dress. His kisses are bite marks in disguise rabid and feral, the two things the man will never escape. His name rolls across your tongue, you let it slip in an airy moan. "No fair " Wade complains "I want you to say my name too." He pulls out his baby knife and etches the skin of your thighs. Scribbling doodles of stars and half hearts and the little symbol he wears on his belt. "W-wade" you gasp never knowing whether to scream in pain or giggle in bliss.

Logan laughs into your neck. You didn't even know he was capable of such a gentle thing. You bite his lip playfully. Dragging your fingers across his muscular arms. Your thumb pushes into the space between his knuckles asking for the claws. For the most macabre parts of him. You glide your tongue across the parish where flesh meets metal. Kissing the metal and bones and lapping at the blood. Watch curiously as he draws out a long airy sigh. "Good girl" he mumbles voice marred with ecstasy and you almost see the ghost of a smile smear across his pretty lips.

Wade's thumb gently rubs against your hips. Softly usering you into peace, tranquility. Your eyes get heavy, the car gets blurry. The grotesque realignment of their bones steering you into a deep, content sleep.

"Hey Peanut, you think Alice in Wonderland here would mind if we keep going? "  

"Shut it, moron "

"Oh, how I wish I could shut up like a telescope! I think I could, if only I knew how to begin.”

🎀Bonus

Deadpool: "Do you think the author's going to write about us again? Or is she planning to finally write that Dune fic she keeps talking about?

Wolverine: "I have no fucking idea what the hell you're even talking about.

🪐@yandere-romanticaa @bad4amficideas @sugarplumz100 @oscarissac2099 @facelessfionna @siphite @tocotuesday69 @linoleunm @mei-simp @shamelessdarkprince @gabriqllas @lovely-liliacs @shiroi-asashin17 @failinguniversity

[docdudo]

Hybrid 141 As Parents - Foster Human Child!Reader (Part 10)

"Did you make the water too hot?" Kyle asked as soon as you stepped out of the bathroom, clean and dressed in fresh clothes after sweating all over yourself and Johnny. His eyes dilated briefly as he took in your softened appearance after the shower, his wings and talons twitching subtly, but he remained still.

"No...? I think... just warm...?" You mumble, shruging quietly.

"Okay, okay, good... can't be turning the water on too hot when you have a fever now, can we?" He rumbles, rounding your smaller body for a bit.

"It's not... it's really not that high of a fever..." You mumble shyly, keeping your eyes anywhere but on the Harpy.

"Nonsense." He croons quietly, his wing gently pushing you forward. "Are you still hungry, baby?"

"N-No..., no, thanks, I'm full...."

Which, you actually were. Sure, you didn't eat barely enough for hybrid standards, but you're human, and you're small... it was enough for you. Besides, John's bean and bacon soup was really good. You're pretty sure you ate even more than usual (even if it was mostly liquid).

"Good. But really, if you need anything, just tell us, yeah?" He smiles with that gentle tone of voice, like he couldn't hurt a fly, and....

Yeah, this guy was weird. Not that you would call Kyle outright fake, but... the wolf in sheep's clothing thing is very real.

You heard how he talks to his mates when you're 'not around'. But with you? It's just those weird, bird-like, cooey noises mixed with his gentle voice.

"Kyle, come 'ere." Simon's gruff tone came from behind you, the Wraith approaching you both with a raised brow and analytical eyes. "What's up with your wings?"

Kyle's face immediatly dropped, eyes squinting in annoyance as he turned to stare at his mate. That gave you the opportunity to see his wings for yourself, and... yeah, they looked a little messy, kinda.

"Nothing, hun. Why do you ask?"

Oh... oh, this sarcastic and sassy tone, accompanied by this fake, sweet smile, was definetly more up to Kyle's alley. So much, in fact, that Simon barely reacted besides a small impavient grunt.

"All unkept. Not like ya, bird." Then, his eyes fall on you, making you tense up a little in attetion. "Sick chick causing you stress?"

"Ugh, Si..." Kyle grumbles, frowning in displeasure. "I'm busy right now, so-"

"No, none of that." The wraith interrupts, walking over to the two of you before easily picking you up on his arms, a small squeak leaving your lips in surprise. "Go take care of them. Some nice an' good preaning, yeah? Call Price to help. Can't have you like this now, can we, bird?"

He drawls his words so slowly and paciently, it makes you think this man really have experience with children. It makes you want to do anything he says too, but this is probably just your feelings since Kyle's expression was pretty much one of displeasure, uncertainty and annoyance.

"The chick-"

"The chick's with me. And she's going to stay with me the whole time. No need to worry. I'll keep 'er safe an' healthy."

You flush slightly as he press your cheek against his, the slight stubble on his cheek scratching against your smooth one. Tho, you do calm down a bit as you feel his cool skin against your warm face.

"Hmm.... it's not worse. Actually, it feels like it has gone down a bit. You can go, Kyle."

It's not the tone, but his words seem almost... harsh. Not that Kyle seemed to mind. He just sighed in defeat with a small nod of his head as he retreated to the bathroom.

You watched as he went, eyes fixed on his wings. It was mostly curiosity that made you want to know more about Harpies, but you can't deny they were so freaking impressive. Big and beautiful wings, a tail that matched the pretty feathers on the wings. The shiny, black talons were just as pretty as they were intimidating.

"His wings are pretty, ain' they?"

You startle a little at Simon's voice, turning to stare at him properly as he carried you through the hallway.

"Harpies pride themselves in having those pretty and polished feathers.... Actually, their lives are their wings, really. They are always making sure they are in perfect state, both in health and in apperance..." He sides eye you carefully before speaking again. "Unless, something more important is taking their time."

"I-important...??" You question immediatly, flustered and surprised. "I... no..."

"Yes, kid. You're important to him. To us. You're our kid now, you know that."

"I'm... I'm just a foster... not really a..." You struggled to say more, not quite brave enough to outright disagree with your foster parent, but not really agreeing with his exaggerated words.

"But you're part of our pack now, kid. Even if you're a foster for now."

You just sigh slightly at his words, seeing this is taking you no where. Maybe that's just how it is with hybrids...

Wait, what did he say?

"W-wha... what do you mean, for no-"

"The point is, Harpies are a very parental species." He says easily, ignoring your small, indignated words as he keeps talking. You, of course, immediatly shut up despite your surprise. "So Kyle can get pretty stressed when there's a new addition to the nest."

He stops to analyze you for a second before ressuming his walk once again.

"Such a small, defenseless little thing too..." He grunts, his buff arms tightening around you a little more. "No wonder it's messin' with everyone's intincts. You're sleepin' in the pack's nest tonight."

Your eyes widen immediatly, caught off guard. Simon has managed to throw you for a loop at least four times since this conversation began.

"Pack's nest...?" You try to question quietly, clearly alarmed, but not wanting to sound disrespectful or rude.

God knows sounding or looking rude to your foster parents never end up in good things. Even your small act of not unpacking your backpack has caused comotion in an old foster house you used to stay at.

"Yes, kid. Pack's nest. Gonna be sleepin' with us, where we can keep an eye on ya and be there if you need help."

"B-because I'm sick...?"

He nods calmly, finally reaching the door to his room and pushing it open for you to look inside. It’s the room closest to yours—the master bedroom. You remember thinking it should have been where your room was. After all, what kind of house puts the children’s bedroom at the very end of the hallway?

Still, their bedroom was stunning. Spacious, with a massive nest carved into the ground at its center. The mattress inside looked both sturdy and soft, layered with neatly arranged blankets and pillows. Unlike your pastel-toned room, it wasn’t bursting with color, but it wasn’t dull either. The decor featured earthy and beige tones mingled with blacks and reds, visible in the furniture.

Very... modern and stylish.

"This is where ya'll sleep."

You nodded a little, brows still slightly furred. Maybe in worry, maybe a bit in fear. You weren't used to all of this.

"Right..., sleep... with you four...?"

"Yeah, kid." He nods, rubbing your back carefully to try and confort you. "What do you take us for? Neglectful parents? To leave our baby away from us when they're sick and weak?"

Okay, now he sounded more offended than calm.

"It's... normal, isn't it...?" You mumble, a little confused. "Otherwise... you could get sick too... sometimes..."

He scoffed at your words, shaking his head.

"Us? Getting sick from a human virus? If our immune system was that weak, we’d have died long ago eating those mystery rations during the Outpost Beta mission."

You raise a brow at his deadpan words, expression pinching in confusion and worry as the silence stretches between you two for a few heavy seconds.

"That was a joke."

"Uhum..." You hummed lightly, expression not changing much.

"What I mean is, we’re not getting sick, don’t worry, kid. And maybe it’s normal in human households to leave their children on their own when they’re sick, but that’s not how we do things here."

You quickly notice faint wisps of shadow curling from his gloved hands and masked face, the white of his eyes darkening to an ominous shade. A literal chill runs down your spine as the temperature around you drops. It makes you freeze in uncertainty in his arms, eyes wide as you stare into those shadowy, unrecognizable eyes.

Thankfully, it doesn’t take long for him to recompose himself. You’re not sure what triggered this, but he seems to calm down relatively quickly. The shadowy wisps started to dissipate, and his eyes gradually returned to their normal color too.

"Well, come on now. John wants to check on your condition." He says calmly, like he didn't just lose control for a few seconds there, turning to walk all the way back and down the stairs with you still on his arms.

You really should learn more about them. Like, quickly, cuz all these surprises are making you light-headed.

Part 9 / Part 11