#drafty bits and pieces

[gothyanki]

In the spirit of paladins who are not strict and upright (or rather, who limit their strictness and uprightness to specific contexts), have the last few fic draft lines I wrote about Vin gleefully fucking around and finding out wrt inappropriate use of githyanki psionics. Totally safe for work - they're just feeling unwise/considering playing a sillygoofy mage hand prank:

The idea was unworthy. It was the sort of thing small children still under the care of a varsh did to provoke each other, right at the very earliest stage of learning they could reach beyond the limits of their own bodies. Some of the bravest among Vin’ath’s own cohort had tried it out on Varsh Qoras himself, which had always earned them a sharp pinch to the tip of the ear and a hissed “Kainyank!” Vin’ath doubted Voss would show the same level of restraint in issuing a correction.

[slater-baby]

Money Shot

Simon "Ghost" Riley x f!Reader

Tags - Squirting, voyeurism, toys, mentions of breeding

-

“Simon?” Price calls from the head of the boardroom, arms crossed in deep contemplation, “What do you think? Is it feasible?”

“Feasible? Sure,” He glances at the tactical plan with a minute shake of his head, “Advisable? Not so much. I mean, that structure is...what? Three, four meters? Unless the drop point is on the fuckin' roof, there’s no way the cunts won’t see us coming.”

“Hm,” Price grunts, running a hand through his beard. Around the boardroom, various members of the congregation shift in their seats.

“What about…” Gaz begins, and then, Simon hears it.

BZZ.

“Goddamnit,” he whispers beneath his breath, leaning forward in his chair to pull his phone out of his pocket. Just recently, he’d installed a set of cameras about the house and porch.

‘Just for extra security, love,’ he’d told you. Since you moved in with him—and what with your name now written into his will—his time away on deployment and in the office had become…a liability, to say the least. 

On a good day, Simon didn’t like to leave you by yourself. But for extended periods of time? When he couldn’t so much as pick up the phone to send you a text?

His fried nerves had all but demanded it. The cameras were his only failsafe. His only means of connecting with you, even when you were oblivious to it. In his mind, when he was deployed to some desolate war zone, slumming it in drafty safehouses, sustaining himself on MREs and cigarettes, then just seeing you quiet and content in your usual place on the sofa, flipping through a book or doing a face mask, would be enough to tide him over. 

Though, he’d failed to consider just how goddamn annoying the notifications would soon become.

Hurriedly, he glances at his phone under the table, halfheartedly listening to the meeting.

‘MASTER BEDROOM - MOVEMENT DETECTED,’ his phone so helpfully supplies him.

He scowls.

Movement detected. Yeah, right. Just like the other twenty times it’d told him that in the past hour alone. He digs his index finger into the ringer switch, but just at that moment, another notification comes.

And with it, another…And another…And another….

‘MOVEMENT DETECTED’

‘MOVEMENT DETECTED’

‘MOVEMENT DETECTED,’ it says to him yet again, as if he were an idiot too dull to even read.

“MOVEMENT DETECTED!! INTRUDER ALERT!!!” It seems to screech, “GRAB YOUR GUN, SOLDIER, THE DAY ISN’T OVER YET!!’

Annoyance climbing by the minute, Simon hurriedly flicks through his apps, all too eager to return to the meeting at hand. Within seconds, he’s staring at the grey display of your sparsely lit living room.

If anything, it’s a bit messy, but hardly remarkable. The TV is on, some soapy romance show still rolling in the background. There’s a pillow on the floor. The cat is lounging in a flickering patch of dying sunlight. Nothing out of the ordinary. 

He switches to the kitchen. Nothing but the hum of the old fridge greets him. And in the dining room, it’s a similar story. So, attention wavering with every word that Kyle speaks, he angrily flicks through the porch cameras and straight to the master bedroom. 

And that’s when he hears it.

The smallest, weakest little voice…

“God, Simon…”

At the sound—barely audible over the noise of Price’s lecture—his heart rate spikes.

Physically, he can feel his blood rushing, nerves shredding themselves to pieces as he hurriedly presses the rotate button on screen. Slowly—almost as if to taunt him—the janky camera begins to turn. And with every second longer he has to wait, darker possibilities begin to flood his synapses.

You’d fainted.

You’d fallen.

You’d broken a bone.

Or, perhaps the very worst, he’d find someone else standing over you.The exact reason he’d installed the cameras in the first place.

He waits with bated breath, practically unblinking, until he finds the source of the movement. The blankets atop the bed jostle, and he breathes a sigh of relief when he sees your familiar form swathed in pillows and fluff. Safe, warm, and most importantly, alone.

“Simon…” you say again—voice strained. Almost as if you were…crying?

Again, he glances at Price. The man is distracted, going on about the MTC once more. Surreptitiously, Simon looks back down at his phone, confused.

Were you sick? Laid up in bed with a fever?

No, somehow that didn’t feel like the right description. Last month, when you’d caught the flu, you could hardly stand to sit still. Simon practically had to chain you to the bed just to force you to get some decent rest.

Then, what could it be?

Did you miss him, perhaps?

At the thought, his chest warms. In all his years of service, Simon never had someone to miss him. He had his friends, sure, but they were his home away from home, the family he’d never known he’d find. Off service, however, before he’d met you, home wasn’t warmth. It wasn’t happiness. It wasn’t dear to his heart. Hell, it was little more than a house, with a sofa and television. 

But when you came along….

You, with your shining eyes, witty jokes, and unending support…

He’d never known that the most precious gift a man could receive is someone to come home to at night and to miss him when he leaves in the morning.

Fondly, he looks at his phone screen, hardly listening to the meeting at hand.

Within your cradle of old blankets and sheets, you shift, a whimper escaping your mouth. It echoes in the grainy speakers of his phone, and he hardly even thinks to lower the volume…

That is, until you move again, and the blankets fall down.

One of your arms pushes the blankets down, and suddenly, Simon has an eyeful of your bare tits. Naked, shining with sweat, and nipples raw from being tweaked.

Instantly, his eyes go wide, and he jolts forward to hide his phone in the shadow of the conference table. 

Not crying. Definitely not crying, his brain rambles, watching as the curve of your breasts squish into the mattress as you twist beneath the sheets. The flimsy fabric, threadbare after so many long nights together, wraps around your legs like a vice. 

And that is exactly when he sees it.

Your back arches way from the mattress and your entire body thrums with electricity, hips moving fast and hard, every roll just as desperate and jagged as when you slide into his lap during movie nights, unbuckling his belt before he can even think to open his mouth.

“Fuck!” You nearly scream—and Simon literally flinches, hurriedly whipping his head around to look at the other men.

“Simon?” Price suddenly questions, “You alright? Was that your phone again?”

“Um,” he begins tactfully, clearing his throat, “Yeah—just m’girlfriend walkin’ in front o’ the camera again.”

“Oh,” Price nods, “She doing alright? Haven’t seen ‘er recently.”

“Yeah—she’s…” he huffs, blindly rapidly down at his phone where you writhe against the sheets, fingers thrusting between your thighs.

“She’s doing…great,” he manages, swallowing thickly when you reach a hand up to squeeze your bouncing tits.

“Well, give ‘er my regards next time you talk to to ‘er.”

“‘Course, sir.”

“Now, back to what I was saying about the perimeter…”

With that, Simon holds his breath for a few torturous minutes. However, when the other men continue on as if nothing had ever happened, he surreptitiously leans back in his chair…and looks down at the phone again.

His hearing fades to nothing but a distant buzz, pulse racing in his chest, like his heart might explode at any moment. And even though he’s muted the volume, he swears he can hear your moans ringing in his ears, vibrating in his very bones.

In the black and white video, you throw your head back against the pillows, hips jumping so hard the flimsy sheet falls down to your ankles. And soon enough, he can see every part of you. The softness of your heaving stomach, the sweat against your cheeks, the delicate shine of slick between your sweet folds…

Your entire body tenses, and undoubtedly you cry out again. He already knows what you’re saying, even if it’s all but silent in his hands.

His name.

You’re there, needy and alone, a wet spot between your legs on the sheets, shouting his name like there was any hope of him actually hearing it—as if there was any hope of him finding you,  filling you up, and giving you what you truly need. 

At that thought, pride wells up in his veins, hot and bubbling. And before he knows it, his blood is rushing south at an alarming rate.

“Please,” he can imagine you begging him, “Please….Please, Simon, just a little. Just the tip…”

You’d say it with heat in your cheeks and a pout on your lips, wrapping a shaky hand around his hip so that he couldn’t pull back, so that he couldn’t tease you any longer. You’d whine and whimper, tears gathering in your eyes, as you weakly pulled him forward, just enough to wrap one of those precious hands around his leaking cock.

You’d guide him forward like that—in a way he couldn’t deny—and you’d sit there, batting your eyelashes, sliding your wet cunt over the tip of his condom-covered dick, like that might tempt him just enough to take it off…to fuck you full and hard, until he was leaking out of your fluttering pussy and into your ruined panties.

He bites his lip.

You’d begged him before. On your knees, kissing the head of his cock. On your stomach, pushing your ass up against his hips. With your face buried in the pillows, nearly sobbing for it.

“Just once, Simon. Please—I promise. Just a little bit. Just the tip,” you said every time—as if those words made the act any better.

And, god, Simon wanted it. He wanted it so, so badly. To feel the warmth of your body, the heat of your bare skin against his own…to feel your pulse thumping between your legs as he fucked his cum right into the seat of your very womb.

So far, you hadn’t manage to take him raw just yet. If not because he had the patience of a Saint, then for the fact that your doctor kept rescheduling your birth control appointment.

Yet, looking at you now…

He breathes in low and deep, watching as your legs shake, toes curling.

The sheets fall off the bed.

And with another cry, you pull the dripping dildo from between your legs, curling your thighs together in absolute ecstasy.

Jaded, he looks at the damned toy. A cheap replica of his own cock. You’d given him a mould on Valentine’s Day—mostly as a joke…until next deployment came around, and you all but begged him to do it.

He still remembers how ridiculous it felt, looking down at your satisfied smile while you licked him clean afterwards, merely as a ‘thank you’ for all his hard work.

Beneath the shadow of your dangling calves, he can see the promise of your dripping cunt tucked between your sweet thighs. Desperate, wet, and wanting…

He scowls.

Pills, doctors, and implants be damned. If Simon had it his way, you’d be filled and sated, womb swollen with his seed, evidence of all the love he had yet to give you. It’s a tempting thought—one that nearly drags him into his mind once and for all.

However, a sudden movement on the camera catches his attention.

The toy is still in your hand. Strings of slick drip off of it and onto the flat of your thigh. With your other hand, you spread your abused folds, barely able to pull them back with how wet you’ve become. Impatiently, slide two of your trembling fingers into yourself, head tossing against the pillows.

“Please,” he swears he can hear it, “Please, please, please—”

You thrust into yourself ruthlessly, flecks of slick flying just at the movement. God, the sound of it must be nothing short of obscene. He can only imagine.

Your offhand tightens around the shaft of the dildo, and this time, when you tense up, the movement is so utterly enrapturing he swears he can see drops of saliva spill over your lips. You yank your hand out of yourself. Your stomach flexes. You yell into the bare room.

And that—that is when he sees it.

Suddenly, a rush of slick squirts out of your cunt and onto the bed, hips flinching as you soak through the sheets beneath your ass. Fuck, even through the horrible quality of the film, he swears he can see the walls of your pussy clenching, opening up around every wash of rushing liquid.

It splatters over your thighs, makes your toes curl into the sheets. The fabric sticks to your skin as you continue to ride out the waves of your orgasm, and when you reach a hand down to rub over your swollen clit, little spurts of it squirt over your naked body in time with every press of your fingers.

Before he even knows it—before he can feel ashamed for it—he’s rock hard against the fly of his jeans, cock pulsing beneath the fabric as he watches you lay panting and flushed in a puddle of your own cum. 

“Yes,” he sees your mouth move, cunt still dribbling onto the bedsheets, “God, yes…”

Hands positively shaking, you lift the toy again, clumsily rubbing your ruined pussy over its shining length.

And, god, he’s helpless to imagine himself in its place. Helpless but to imagine himself between your legs, covered down to his knees in your shining spend. Fuck, it’s intoxicating, and it hits him harder than any drug he possibly could have taken.

Listlessly, he looks at your beautiful face through the film grain…

“Simon,” you whisper to yourself, lazily rubbing your cunt against head of that stupid toy, “Simon…”

Easily, he gets lost in it. 

Lost in the sound of your voice saying his name.

Lost in the heat of your expression.

Lost in the need he feels welling up inside of himself…

Lost in the feeling of his hand palming over himself, hidden by the shadows of the looming conference table.

“Simon?”

The sound of his name—and in the voice of a man no less—makes him jump in his seat. On reflex, he closes his phone.

“What?” He answers cluelessly, slapping his hands down on the surface of the table, like he hadn’t just been thrusting into his own hand mere seconds before.

“I asked you what you thought about it,” Price jammers on, oblivious.

“About what?” he says.

At that, Price raises an eyebrow.

“About the risk assessment results. Y’know…what we’ve been talking about for the last five minutes.”

“Risk assessment,” he uselessly repeats, “Yeah. Well, I…”

Price scrunches his face, glancing between his asinine powerpoint and Simon’s covered face.

“Have you been listening?” He huffs, sounding bored.

“Of course,” he clears his throat, hurriedly absorbing the information on screen, “It’s just—I had a question about that. Must’ve left me for a second there…”

“Uh-uh,” Price glances at his wrist watch.

Simon swallows, cock pulsing rapidly in his pants. He scoots his chair in closer to the table.

“If we go in via the rear entrance, then—then I think would should recruit at least one more person for overwatch. Y’know…At the height of the lower wall, I think it might be possible to put a man on the roof. As—as contingency.”

“Sounds fine to me. You think they’d have a decent shot?”

“Well…” he blinks emptily, “At that angle, I think that...”

The clock continues to tick.

Soap yawns at the other side of the table.

Price looks as if he’d rather be anywhere else than here.

And Simon…

God, his mind is still stuttering, heart racing with adrenaline.

Distracted, he’s stuck on where his phone lies innocently atop the table…and what he knows is happening just beneath the cover of its black screen.

[sea-lanterns]

BE MY MUSE

synopsis: "paint me like one of your fontaine girls..."

featuring: navia, clorinde, furina, lynette

rating: 18+ smut (men and minors dni)

warnings: artist! reader, sub! afab fem reader (navia, clorinde, furina), dom! afab fem reader (lynette), voyeurism, mast.urbation, not full on smut but it is heavily implied, cunnilingus (reader giving), fing.ering, degradation (furina), praise, teasing, sensual touching, might be ooc.

art credits: blue period

NAVIA

Navia chuckles to herself as the last piece of clothing is discarded on the floor. Her slim, feminine, body perched elegantly against the satin sheets of the cushion, basking effortlessly in the dayglow of Fontaine’s sun like the Goddess she seemed to be. You swallowed your mouth dry. Taken aback with how ethereal she looked in the moment as her golden locks framed her face like a portrait hung in your gallery.

Navia purses her lips together, a curious, yet amused smirk causing a heart to form at her mouth. She chuckled, a prick of heat burning at your insides. 

“Never seen a woman naked before?” She smiles, nude body all on display with no shame whatsoever. She was the one who had asked you to paint her, after all, of course she wouldn’t be embarrassed. It was her request…

“I have.” You quickly retorted back, gripping the stem of your brush with a tighter hand. “…Just not as exquisite as you.” 

Her cheeks pinkened at your honesty, before she quickly covered it up with a smile. 

“You flatter me, Artist,” she giggles, leaning back in her seat to leave all her assets on display. “Tell me then, does my request to paint me nude, make you nervous?”

She hugs herself to squish her breasts together, a sight that has you clearing your throat and looking away nervously. “Of course not, I’ve done commissions of all bodies. Clothed, and nude.”

Navia smirks at this. 

“Then…is it normal for the Artist to get so flustered over her muse?” 

There’s an essence of mischief in her tone. It has you clutching your paintbrush with strength similar to that of a stress ball. “I am not…flustered.” You say in a gritty tone, avoiding her bright blue eyes as you start to mark out the lines of her figure. “Let’s just move on with the painting. Please, get in a position that pleases you, my lady.”

Another smirk. That didn’t seem good. 

“Like this?” Navia taunts with pleasure, lying back against her seat and leaving everything out for you to witness. You swallowed again, eyes wandering over her smooth, supple, chest. Areolas a pretty, puffy, pink color that stiffened the more she exposed them to the drafty air. 

“Ah…that’s good.” You say with a stiff mumble. “Are you alright with staying like that for an hour or so?”

“Hm, perhaps not.” Navia tuts with fake afterthought. “I think I’ll choose a different position.” 

She suddenly spreads her legs a bit wider, a gasp catching in the back of your throat as your eyes landed on the flower that sat between Navia’s legs. It was cleanly shaven —not waxed, but you could tell she had shaved before your appointment— and soft from the way she pressed against one of the folds. She flashed you a suggestive grin, before giggling at the sight of you all enamored by her pussy.

“Are you going to start painting soon?” Navia asks in a delighted tone. “Before you begin, let me just…” She suddenly dips one of her fingers into her cunt and sighs, a breathy moan leaving her lips. “There, all done…”

If you were blushing before, you were a lava cake by now. Navia could practically see the steam coming out from your face, and she chuckles before circling her clit with her thumb. “I guess a woman has never toyed with herself in front of you, hm?” She groans, slowly rubbing circles around her clit until she’s wet enough to appear glistening. “Are you embarrassed?”

You shook your head no. Clearly enamored by the sight of the Spina di arousal president masturbating in front of you. “Was this your goal the whole time? To…taunt me with your body?” 

Navia laughs at this and shakes her head no, “Of course not, mon amour.” She uses two fingers to spread her two walls apart. “I want you to touch me.”

Almost like a song, you were drawn to where she was seated, dropping your brush to the ground and forgetting about the painting entirely. Navia smiles tenderly at the way you follow her command, pushing you down until you are kneeled by her feet like a priestess worshiping her divinity. “I was thinking the portrait could be from a different point of view,” She mutters under her breath. “It’s important for the Artist to commit it to memory…”

Combing her fingers through your hair, she slowly pushes your face into her folds and gasps, head tilted back in ecstasy, while your tongue begins to taste what heaven feels like.

“Ah…”

CLORINDE

The intimidating, Champion Duelist of Fontaine was currently lying sprawled out against your couch with her muscular body out on display. Amongst the obvious parts of her body that caught your attention, her muscles were what drew you in, as the Champion Duelist had rough, toned scars lining her chest from years of dangerous battle. 

As an Artist, you were infatuated. Using the tip of your brush to stroke each line on her abs and highlight every curve of her legs. Which, mind you, we’re chiseled to perfection under the lamp side lighting of your room. 

“…Thank you for taking the time to…paint me.” Clorinde whispers under a husky breath. “Especially considering the…circumstances…”

She blushes slightly at her position. Rough, calloused body proving a beautiful muse for you to work on as you’ve had the honor of painting Clorinde’s body nude. (Courtesy of her request)

“It’s no problem, Captain Clorinde.” You say in a professional tone, trying to ignore the ache between your legs when you see her thigh flex its toned structure. “I have done this countless times. You are in the hands of an expert.” 

The Duelist smiles softly at your reassurance, deciding to sit up from the sofa.

“Miss Clorinde, I’m not done yet—”

“Could you come over for a moment?” She speaks in a low tone, catching you off guard with how smooth she was being. “Just for a moment. I want to see your hands.” 

“…My hands?” You chewed your lip for a moment before getting up from your seat and walking over to the couch. Clorinde leaning back and letting all her muscles move with precision. “Yes, your hands,” she murmurs ever so huskily, reaching over to cup your wrist. “I want to look at them…”

You felt the rough, battle-worn calluses of her fingertips wrap around your hand and pull you closer. An intimate, quiet moment falling between you two, as Clorinde bites her lip and examines the calluses of your own battles.

“Such soft hands, yet they hold their own roughness from your artwork,” the Captain murmurs, almost as if she were enamored by just the sight of you. (She was) 

“Captain Clorinde, please…” you laugh shyly. “You speak of me like I’m the art. I’m merely just the artist.” 

She growls a little at that statement and shakes her head no. “I may be your muse at the moment, but I can’t help but wish to see you nude in my place.”

In that moment, you find yourself seated on the lap of the very naked Champion Duelist, who has helped herself with teasing you under the leggings of your clothes. You can’t help but agree to every little thing she does, as she begins nibbling against your neck to leave her own works of art.

“I’d like to try a hand at painting myself,” she murmurs hotly into your ear, “Care to be my canvas, Artist?”

You can’t find it in yourself to say no. Shakily nodding your head as she begins to rub circles against your clit with her strong, calloused, fingers.

“That’s a good girl.”

FURINA

Furina chuckles amusingly at the sight of Fontaine’s world renown artist currently hiding behind her easel. The archon herself was used to people kneeling before her, but she found entertainment in the way the cute, bashful artist she hired to commission was too nervous to look her in the eye. “What’s wrong, young artist…” Furina chuckles wickedly, “Are you really that shocked at your archon’s pure beauty?”

She crosses one leg over the other, her nude figure perched confidently by a table as she takes a sip of tea like usual. The way she was acting around you made you think she was doing this on purpose.

“I…you are beautiful indeed, my archon,” you respond to her nervously. “I just didn’t expect for you to disrobe so quickly.”

Furina sneers at the way you fidget so anxiously, tipping her teacup down to the point you worried it might spill. “Aren’t you an artist?” She chuckles behind her hand, “An artist who specializes in nude paintings as well. Tell me, does the sight of your beloved archon all skimmed down to her nudity really bother you that much?” 

“No, of course not!” You quickly retort defensively. “It’s just quite a shocker to have your archon disrobe in front of you so…quickly.” 

You bite your lip and look away. “You got out of your clothes quicker than I could get out my paints…”

Furina laughs hysterically at your quiet little stammer before running a hand over the smoothness of her thighs. “Oh…you’re just too cute…” she sputters under her laughs. “I definitely made the right choice in choosing you…”

She leans back against the chair and bites one of her manicured nails. That stuck up, haughty smile prickling you with annoyance as your archon seemed to treat this as a game. “You should be grateful I even asked you to paint me at all,” she snickers before uncrossing her legs. “You have the blessing of seeing Focalors’ body in the flesh.”

Your throat tightened at the sight of her legs now spread wide for you to see just how wet she was beneath her clothes. According to what you saw, she had been dripping for a while, but hid it well due to how she crossed her legs while seated right in front of you.

“M-Miss Furina…I…” your cheeks burned and you couldn’t look away. 

“I…I…what?” She smirked mockingly at your stutter and teases you even more by pinching one of her nipples. The sight alone causes a burning ache between your legs, and you couldn’t help but stare entranced at the way she squeezed her own breast. “Go on, spit it out. If you say the right thing, I might just let you touch me yourself.”

“Pardon!?” 

“Oh, don’t be so modest,” she snaps her finger and beckons you over. “You think I don’t notice the way you look at me so hungrily? What a pervert you are, dear Artist…”

The way she wags her finger at you almost has you on your hands and knees, crawling towards her like you were being pulled on a leash. Furina is delighted at the sight, looking joyous as she gives you a proper show of spreading her pussy lips even wider. Her slick, dripping essence cascading down the milky white thighs of your archon, and looking like the perfect muse for you to commit to memory.

“I want to see just how lithe an Artist’s fingers are,” Furina tuts, degradingly tapping your nose before propping you up to become face to face with her cunt. “Impress me, then perhaps I can give you an extra tip for a job well done.”

“But Miss Furina, your painting…”

“Silence.” She pulls you up by the hair and sneers. “This is a much better use for your hands, hm?” 

LYNETTE

Lynette was definitely on the shyer side when she asked to become your muse. She had always admired your artwork, silently wishing that one day, she could take the place of one of your nude paintings, basking in an ethereal afterglow of your brushstrokes, as she wanted to be the center of your attention. (And only your attention)

You were surprised, needless to say, when the quiet magician’s assistant asked you after her show to become your muse. Even more surprised when she silently requested for it to be a nude drawing. Though you masked your surprise quite well, a small part of you was curious to see the beautiful body of the mysterious magician’s assistant, as she was very secretive with her personal life to the point not a lot of people knew about her.

You took up the commission, currently setting up your easel and waiting for Lynette to disrobe from her clothing. A comfortable silence falling between you two, before the sound of fabric hitting the floor caught your attention.

“…I’m ready.” Lynette spoke quietly, causing you to peek out from behind your canvas. 

The cat woman was currently perched atop your couch in her full, nude, glory. Chest perky from the way the cold air hit her nipples, along with the smooth, supple skin of her back arched beautiful against the satin cushions. Her ears flattened in slight embarrassment from being in such a provocative situation, yet you couldn’t take her eyes off her as she was just so breathtakingly beautiful.  

“Oh, how sweet…” you murmur with a smile, caught in awe with how stunning Lynette is. “Get in a comfortable position for me, will you? You’ll have to stay like that for an hour or two.”

Her ears flattened even more and she nodded, stiffly moving so that her body was sitting upright in a rather erect position. She looked quite firm and…not relaxed at all, placing her hands on her knees and sitting as if she were waiting for her appointment at the doctor’s office.

“…Oh dear,” you chuckled a bit at the way she was sitting. “That position is a bit too stiff for my liking. Here, let me help you.”

Setting your paint sets down, you walked over closer to where Lynette sat and saw her visibly tense up. You frowned a little at her discomfort and raised your hands in the air. “Don’t worry, I won’t touch you anywhere you don’t want me to. I’m just going to lightly guide your body to a more comfortable position.”

You smiled warmly at her and saw her ears twitch with acceptance. Slowly, she lets you guide her body down to lie on the couch, your eyes locked on hers and causing a small blush to adorn the cat woman’s pale cheeks. 

“…Thank you,” Lynette whispers, her voice soft as she gazes up at you with longing. “I am a bit…embarrassed, however.”

“There is no need to be embarrassed,” you chuckle comfortingly, patting her head like you would with a cat. “The human body is beautiful, and yours is just as exquisite as any of the other muses I’ve had the pleasure of painting.”

She blushes softly at the way you call her body beautiful, and Lynette lets out a soft little purr of pleasure under your pets. “Can you…help me relax a little?” She asks in a quieter voice, almost embarrassed with her request. “My body is too tense. I need my muscles to…relax…”

You smile softly at the way she paws at your hand and slowly drags it downwards. Your fingers lightly stroking down her neck, her chest, her stomach, before finally reaching the twitching ache of her walls beneath you.

“Here?” You ask with a certain tenderness, lightly pushing against her clit like a button.

“Yes…!” Lynette whimpers, grasping onto your back with her nails. “Right there…”

[sushirrrry]

FRONTLINES: COMING HOME || a part two of a harry styles x original character story.

full story, tomorrow.

summary: after being discharged from the hospital, Harry returns to Manchester haunted by the war but grounded by the letters and quiet devotion of Clare, the nurse who helped piece him back together. their relationship, born from each reunion that they hold so dear to themselves until they're able to see each other again—until their longing becomes impossible to deny, and love replaces what war tried to destroy.

READ "FRONTLINES" HERE.

_______________________________________________

May, 1943 - 3 Weeks After London - Manchester

The house had a hush to it that still startled him.

No men shouting over static radios, no bombs whistling from above or below or side to side, no engines humming like angry ghosts in the sky through clouds that wouldn’t give up. Only the sound of the kettle clicking off, the tick of the hallway clock, and his pencil scratching softly against paper in the front room as he viciously wrote.

He sat, half-curled sideways in the armchair by the window, blanket wrapped over one shoulder, letter perched on his knee. A candle flickered nearby, though the overhead light had long since been switched off. He preferred the quiet and the dim when he thought about writing to Clare.

Clare’s most recent letter rested on the arm of the chair; folded, unfolded, and folded again so many times the crease was near worn through.

Harry smiled faintly as he reread the way she’d described how her flat felt without him there — tiny, drafty, and full of too many books. Said she couldn’t look at a cup of tea lately without thinking of how he always asked for a second.

He didn’t even like tea that much. But she always brought it to him in a good mug.

He was in the middle of writing a sentence — I think about that night at the bar more than I should — when the hallway floor creaked.

His sister’s voice floated into the room like an announcement, amused and matter-of-fact: “It’s well past midnight, you know.”

Harry blinked up at her, not wanting to ignore her but always needing to get his thoughts down. Nora stood leaning in the doorway in her dressing gown, arms folded. Her dark hair, always too curly for its own good, was tied up in a loose braid against her back, and she gave him a look only older sisters could manage: part concern, part accusation, and mostly curiosity.

“Mum’s noticed,” she added, crossing her arms as she made her way over, “You’re hardly sleeping. Or when you do, it’s in that chair.”

Harry gave a low sigh, set the letter aside. “Just writing, Nor.”

“Every night?” She asked, a bit pushy in trying to get information from him. He already was quiet, but then he went to war. That changed him more than he’d like to admit; now, he was just secretive, like the one thing that he wanted for himself was just sitting between his own fingertips.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ve got time to make up for, that’s all. Mum doesn’t need to worry.”

Nora’s eyes narrowed. She stepped further into the room, picked up the letter on the arm of the chair and glanced at the handwriting.

“Clare,” she read aloud, smiling as Harry tried to grab the letter back from her; a flush over his cheeks remembers words she mentioned, really only for his eyes. “So, this is why you can’t sleep, then.”

“Don’t start now.” Harry mumbled under his breath.

“Oh, come on. You’re out here smiling at her letters like some daft schoolboy. You’ve read that one a dozen times.”

“Eleven,” Harry muttered, earning a sharp jab to the shoulder.

“I knew something was going on. You’ve been out in the garden scribbling into the wind like you’re composing poetry.”

“I’m not writing poetry,” he said, a bit defensive. “I’m writing back. And she’s not just — she’s not…”

He trailed off, unsure of how to say what he meant. He wasn’t sure how to explain that in a time where everything had been stripped down to survival, Clare had shown up and seen him — not as a soldier, not as a body to medicate and stitch up, but as a man still holding his own guilt and softness in trembling hands.

Nora softened as she handed him back the letter. “You really like her.”

Harry nodded, voice low and raspy then. “She made it bearable in there. And it was never supposed to be more than talk to pass the hours spent in that hospital bed. But—”

“But now you’re smiling at paper like a lunatic,” she teased, cutting him off. Nora sat down on the armrest beside him, “Does Mum know?”

“She’s only asked if it was a girl I was writing," Harry licked his lips, "I didn’t answer.”

“She told me she hopes she’s pretty.”

Harry huffed a soft laugh. “She is. Beautiful. In that way where you don’t see it all at once—it’s hard to describe, but she’s one of a kind, I think.”

“My God, listen to you.” Nora nudged his shoulder. “You are writing poetry.”

[madame-lentil]

Make Me a Monster~

An Ygor x reader fic

-Major smut! Minors DNI!

-5.2k words

-originally posted in AO3

Notes:

Hello, you delightful freaks!🥀

I have not written any piece of fanfiction in over three years, so I hope this turned out okay! Ignore the fact that I switch between past to present tense for the first half of the work... The hyperfixation on Ygor is just too strong for me to resist... also this is literally so freaky aaah like plz don’t judge me toooo harshly for this!

The title of the piece is based on the song "Make Me a Monster" by World's First Cinema. It's very good, so I would definitely give it a listen!

Also, a small reminder: Do not harass any of the Ygor actors at the Universal parks. They are just people doing their jobs, so please don't be weird to them! Remember, roaming actors are a privilege, so don't take their presence for granted!

All that being said, I hope you enjoy!

I packed as quickly as I could when I received Victoria Frankenstein’s urgent letter. Scrawled in ink were words sealing her doom- Darkmoore’s doom. Frantic blotches marred the fair parchment, along with sinister burns on the edges. Something was amiss. I knew it. I clamored about my abode, snatching potions and liniments off shelves and heavy occult volumes from beneath layers of dust. I packed only the essentials: wooden stakes, holy water, and silver bullets for my aging pistol. Before I opened my door to the madness awaiting me, I grabbed my cloak, letting the threadbare fabric drape across my shoulders. With a swish, I was gone. Maybe I should have looked back once more, for I had no inkling of the world I was about to enter. All I knew was the messy writing that stated,

Dracula has escaped the manor.

It was true, Dracula (amongst many other fiendish creatures of the night) had broken free of their torment rings nestled within the basement of Frankenstein Manor. Victoria explained it quickly before she ushered me up a flight of creaky stairs to a drafty guest room. Apparently, her henchman would be attending to me shortly… Now, I sit in this dimly-lit hovel, swimming in anxiety about what in Darwin’s name I should do about this conundrum. I lift my hefty bag onto the simple wooden desk I’m sitting at. Within this bag are all of my tools- both intellectual and physical- for hunting monsters. I palm a small leather-bound journal and flip through its aged pages gingerly. Ah, my mentor’s field notes. He always knew the right things to do in an emergency, so maybe I should take a leaf from the pages of Van Helsing, right? Of course, I forgot to mention that my old teacher was in fact him- famed monster hunter of Europe, and the man that brought Dracula to his knees! But, as for me, I am only a humble ex-student of his, trying as I may to carry out his legacy, even if it is daunting. Soon, my eyes land upon a page entitled Vampires: Stakes, Sunlight, and Sorcery. What Not to Do When Encountering a Nosferatu. Before I could read on, an unseen fist pounded at my door. An electric shock rippled through my body.

“God, a little bit jumpy for a monster hunter, aren’t ya?” My inner monologue chastised me.

“Coming!” I hoarsely yelled.

I opened the heavy door to a strange little man, who was standing awkwardly a few mere inches away from the threshold. He was an odd but undeniably handsome-looking fellow. Large, circular goggles obscured his eyes from view, which would have been covered by his mop of raven hair anyway. A stained leather apron draped over his lanky frame and loose-fitting (and remarkably stained, I might add) shirt. Perhaps I was ogling for too long, as his thickly accented voice broke the silence harshly.

“You are the monster hunter, yes?”

I regained my bearings. “Oh! Yes! Of course! I am (y/n). And you are?”

“I am Ygor. I tend to Victoria’s every need around the manor, and I have been assigned to help you, too, yes?” He stood up straighter as he spoke, attempting to project an air of confidence.

“It’s… a pleasure to meet you, Ygor.” I tested out the syllables of his name on my tongue. “Now I was going to ask you… Well, someone, anyone really…” I stammered, “If I could perhaps get a tour of the manor if it isn’t too much trouble, of course. And perhaps a look around Darkmoore couldn’t hurt either?” I found myself running over my own words. So much for looking like a confident monster slayer in front of Victoria’s lackey.

“Ah! Ygor will show you! No trouble! No trouble at all! Come! We mustn’t have our resident creature-killer be all jumbly-mumbly around town, can we?” Ygor started bounding down the stairs with each word. I swiftly followed, snagging my cloak on the way out.

“So you knew Van Helsing, right?” The man inquired when I breathlessly caught up to him.

“Knew him? I studied under him. He taught me everything he knew! I just hope I can fix your little problem here on my own.” I replied.

“On your own? Nah, you have Ygor to help, of course!” He nudged my shoulder like an old friend. I was flattered by his offer of help, but I could tell he didn’t exactly know what he was getting into. Without wanting to burst his bubble, I veered the subject slightly.

“So why can’t Victoria recapture the beasts herself? She seemed pretty frantic in her letter, and even when I got here. Is she…”

Before I could finish, I was cut off by Ygor.

“She is tending to the broken torment rings. Darkmoore needs her for protection. She cannot put herself in the amount of danger that you or I find ourselves in.”

“So we’re just expendables to her, then?” I state, feeling slightly offended.

“No! We are just smaller parts of a bigger plan. Ah! Here we are!” Ygor unfurls his arms in front of the hulking behemoth of a front door. “Are you ready to see the village?”

I nod, and we descend onto the cobblestoned streets of the dilapidated town called Darkmoore.

The full moon casts a milky blue light on the rain-moistened roofs of the village. The manor stands hulking and intimidating behind us, providing a mysterious backdrop to our quick jaunt. The town is remarkably quiet and still; windows are shuttered, and doors are locked. The only sound is the click of our heels on the makeshift road beneath our feet. The misty moonlight plays off of Ygor’s strong features, highlighting the angles of his jaw and cheekbones. He notices my glances at him and steals a quick one at me, sporting a lopsided grin. In this light, I would say he even looks handsome.

God, what has come over me? I scarcely even know the guy, and now I’m fantasizing about him in the moonlight?

I choose to refocus my attention to the ear-splitting silence that pervades the place. It seems even the crickets have abandoned this godforsaken settlement. Before I can comment on the hush, a rip-roaring gush of merriment comes streaming out of a nearby building. A rugged, bearded man comes stumbling out the door with a mug of ale in hand, singing some ballad in a language that has scarcely touched my ears.

“That would be The Burning Blade. It got lit on fire, then poof! Everyone wants to go get drunkies at the place that didn’t burn down! Something with the villagers trying to ‘reclaim from the monsters…’ Ygor doesn’t know.” The raven-haired man gestured to the building. I noted that it has been converted from an old windmill. Strange. But I suppose if you live in a town like Darkmoore, you’ve got to use what you’re given.

“You know, Doctor Victoria saved it from burning down! But all the thanks she gets is all these stupid people blaming her for whenever someone gets disemboweled by a werewolf! Like hello! That was the lycanthrope’s fault, not her’s!” Ygor rambles. I’m starting to like the strange way in which he speaks.

“How did she stop it from burning down?” I ask, genuinely interested.

“I tell you later, yeah?” He dashes the conversation with a terse tone. Strange, it seems as though he is hiding something from me. I brush it off, however. Why worry about something so seemingly trivial?

“Well, it certainly seems like an… interesting place,” I remark.

“If it wasn’t crawling with hounds. Sad excuses for monster hunters. Not good ones, like you.”

Was that a compliment? I couldn’t exactly tell. Either way, it would be a small kindness that would not go unappreciated.

“Onward! I must show you the cemetery!” Ygor points his glove-adorned hand beyond a ring of mist hovering just before the forest tree line.

“Do you ever take those gloves off?” I playfully tug at the tips of one of his fingers. Okay. Don’t get too bold. You don’t want to get distracted. I thought to myself.

“Eh… right now is not so good. I got hurt a little,” Ygor replied sheepishly, bringing his gloved hand to his chest.

“Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to pry, I just-”

“Ygor messed up a little at his job, is all. And sometimes the doctor gets angry. It’s really only just a scratch! Not as bad as it usually is!” He cheerily cried, obviously trying to hide the fact that he was upset.

“Doctor Victoria …hurts you?” I gently took his gloved hand, careful not to disturb the marred flesh underneath it.

He shuddered, not accustomed to the gentle touch of another human being. “Only a little bit. Only when Ygor deserves it.”

“Ygor, listen to me. I don’t think anyone deserves to be hurt. And for the record, I think you’re doing a great job.” My words obviously affected him. His legs started shaking, and he threw his head back in frustration. “Now, can I remove your gloves and have a look?”

He reluctantly nodded. I gingerly slid each finger out until the rubber hit the soft ground with a whomp. His hands were indeed a mess. Not only were they covered in calluses from his toil, but his palms were mangled with red cuts that sprawled outwards in a lightning-bolt formation.

I traced his wounds gently until he hissed in discomfort.

“I’m sorry!” I recoiled my hands from his.

“No, it feels nice.” He uttered, gently brushing my fingers with his. “No one has ever been this kind to Ygor.”

I fished a spare liniment out of my satchel with my free hand.

“Here. This should help.” I rubbed a blob of it onto his palms, instantly eliciting a small groan from him.

“Th-thank you, (y/n).” He breathed.

“Don’t even mention it. Here, take this.” I pushed the salve into the front pocket of his apron. “For future use. You’ll need it more than I.”

“How can Ygor repay you?” He asked, looking like a lost puppy.

“You don’t have to repay me, silly. Now come, let’s go look at that graveyard.” I slowly reach for his hand and bring it up to my lips. Keeping eye contact with the man, I plant a small kiss on each of his knuckles. His body starts to tremble. Ygor shakily brings his hand up to cup my cheek, gaining confidence as he traces my lips with his thumb.

“(Y/n), you are so beautiful…” he breathes.

He leans in, almost connecting his lips to mine, until a harsh howl cuts through the underbrush. I stiffen. I hadn’t even grabbed a weapon before I left! I silently cursed myself for being so unprepared. I look at Ygor desperately.

“Run.”

The next moments were a blur of blackened sky and verdant greenery whizzing by as we ran for cover, only to find solace in the aforementioned cemetery. Ygor and I crouched beneath a sizable tombstone, barely letting our labored breaths escape our lips. I listened for the approach of the howling beast; however, the night was as still as can be. No crickets. No wind. No ruckus from the Burning Blade. All seemed serene and safe. But of course, I knew better. Van Helsing warned that werewolves are known to silently stalk their prey before attacking. If this creature caught a glimpse of us, we were most definitely its new meal. I glanced at Ygor beside me, his chest rising and falling erratically. He slowly turned his neck, his goggle-clad eyes landing on mine.

“Is he gone?” He half-whispers.

This was the wrong move. Suddenly, a rustle emanates from the opposite end of the graveyard.

“Nope.” I curtly reply. “Stay as still as possible.” I attempt to speak without moving my lips- Ygor gets the message. Our backs are flush against the chilly tombstone of some unlucky soul who probably died too soon or too slowly. Ygor’s trembling hand expertly finds mine in the dark. I feel a sliver of safety with his presence by my side, even if it is simply a placebo. The disturbance in the tall grass grows louder with every passing second. This beast was just moments away from tearing out both of our hearts with his cruel fangs. The full moon shone bright and blue above the stars until the hulking leviathan form of the werewolf ascended from the grass, greedily dominating my entire field of vision. With an ear-splitting howl, the monster reared on its haunches, preparing to deliver death to us both. I braced myself, silently cursing my eagerness to leave the safety of the manor. I squeezed my eyes shut and waited for the death blow… but it didn’t come. I squinted my eyes open to see none other than Ygor, lunging in front of me, putting his frail body in harm's way to protect me. The gigantic wolf took a swipe at him, which he clumsily parried with his arm. I moved to pull Ygor away from the wicked being, hooking my arms around his middle and yanking him backwards, just swift enough to avoid a claw to the mid-section. The werewolf hunkered down in the greenery, rearing to make its final pounce.

“Come away, foul vermin! We will hunt another night!” A booming, heavily accented voice echoed through the night.

The werewolf collected itself and ran off into the forest, leaving Ygor shivering in my arms, gushing blood from his arm.

“D-Dracula?” Ygor whimpered.

Ah. That’s who the voice belonged to.

“Dracula? What? He was just here?” I was flabbergasted. To be in such close proximity to two monsters that needed capturing… well, let’s just say I wasn’t doing very well at my job.

“Y-yeah. That’s the guy.” His voice trembled before he collapsed into me with a thunk.

I finally released him from my iron grasp just to gently nudge him to the side so I could catch my breath again. I noted a sizable amount of blood that had soiled my velvet dress, then I noticed what the culprit of the sanguine fluid was. Ygor’s arm had been viciously ripped open by the wolf and was losing blood at an alarming rate.

Ygor must have noticed my concerned expression when he weakly joked, “Hey, I’m used to it.” Brandishing a shaky thumbs-up.

“Let’s get you back to the manor, huh? It looks like you could use some stitches. A lot of stitches.” I pulled him up off the sacred ground, then offered my arm in assurance. He took it carefully, and we began our long stroll back to Frankenstein Manor.

Ygor spilled onto a metal gurney in the bowels of the manor. He had woozily led me down yet another set of treacherous stairs to an intimidating laboratory that housed everything one may need for an experiment. However, there would be no experiments tonight. All I had to do was fix Ygor up before he lost enough blood to be unfit for even Dracula to drain. The disheveled man was gushing blood onto the table, yet he remained incredibly collected.

“Where do you keep your thread? Do you have needles?” I frantically flitted around the room, almost pulling drawers off their hinges to find what I needed.

“Second drawer down next to that skeleton over there.” Ygor weakly directed.

I made a beeline to collect the suture-ware, along with a cloth and a bowl of clean water. I placed the goods onto a metal cart and tried to regain my composure as I wheeled it over to him- at least for Ygor’s sake. He sat stiffly upright, clutching the bloodstained fabric of his once white tunic.

“Relax. It’s okay.” I gently pushed my hand to his chest so that he reclined onto the harsh gurney. He slowly melted into my touch and obliged, “I’m going to fix you up, okay? There is really nothing to worry about…” I mused as I threaded the medical string into the eye of the needle. I gazed at his form until a realization dawned on me.

I am going to have to remove his shirt.

For medical purposes, of course.

“Ygor?” I tentatively asked.

“Yes?” He groaned.

“May I…” I gestured to his sleeve. “Remove this?”

“Oh, this? My shirt? My- yeah. Whatever you need to do, doctor.” He stammered. Maybe it was the loss of blood. Or maybe he was getting nervous.

The remaining blood that rushed in his veins rose to his cheeks, painting them a rosy red.

I cautiously grasped the front of his apron as I lifted it over his head. The shirt underneath was held together with a few mismatched buttons that had certainly been repurposed over time. I began undoing the very top one. My knuckles brushed his Adam's apple as a tremor racked his body. I move downwards carefully, expertly unraveling each piece that held the fabric together, the fabric that was shielding his visage from my gaze. I reached the lowermost buttons, although they were seemingly tucked into his trousers. I lifted my gaze to his, silently asking permission to unbuckle his pants so I could access the rest of his shirt. He gave a small nod. I worked quickly, not wanting to linger on this area for too long and make him uncomfortable. However, I felt an undeniable heat building in the pit of my stomach when I brushed the crotch of his pants. I was soon able to extract the shirt and fully unbutton it.

“Okay. I’m going to take this off for you. Let me know if anything hurts, alright?” I breathe, running my hands over his shoulders, grasping at the only threads of restraint I had left.

“You could never hurt Ygor, y/n,” he sighed, leaning closer in to nudge against my neck. “If you carved me up and beat me every day, I don’t think it would hurt. I would thank you for whatever you did to me.” His strong hand crept up my frame, finding purchase just underneath my breasts.

“Please, stitch me up so I can show you how much I care for you.” He pleaded with wide eyes (or what I can imagine was the case behind his nebulous goggles).

It didn’t take much more encouragement than that for me to begin my work. I slipped his garment off to reveal his toned chest, where the milky skin was punctuated with sprawling constellations of scars, reaching far and wide like rivers on a map.

“See? I told you I’m used to it,” Ygor joked with a half-smile. “I always get stitched back up!”

“Does it still… hurt?” I inquired as I wet the cloth and began to clean his ghastly injury.

“Of course it does. But Ygor doesn’t mind.” His tone turned dark.

I prepared the needle and thread and held it at the base of his forearm.

“Ready?” I pricked his skin as he emitted a delighted groan.

“Very much.”

Each suture seemed to elicit a pleasurable response from Ygor. The more blood that was being replenished in his body, the more electric he seemed to become. Jolts of energy coursed through him whenever the needle pierced his flesh. Just as I was about to tie my seventh or so suture, he yanked his arm away.

“Hey! I’m not finished with that!’ I griped.

“Ygor thinks you should maybe switch position. It doesn’t seem like you have the right… How would you say? Vantage point to correctly stitch me up.” Ygor mused, holding his arm just out of my reach.

“And what would you suggest would be the best ‘vantage point’ to do this?” I asked cockily.

“Just come up here.” He motioned to the gurney on which he lay astride.

“I don’t know if there’s room for us both on there.” I became bashful. Was he implying what I think he was implying?

“Just crawl onto Ygor’s lap, yes? Don’t be scared.” His tone was much huskier than what I was used to.

I obeyed, because what the hell? Who was I to refuse this monstrously handsome lab assistant who so vehemently wanted me?

I slowly slunk onto his frame, stopping at the unbuckled crotch of his pants. His breathing grew heavier as I sank down to perch atop him.

“That’s it, you delightful freak.” He praised. “Now, take your needle and thread and see how much better this is.”

“What medical book did you read this in?” I asked playfully as I resumed my stitching.

“Don’t worry about it, just focus on how Ygor feels beneath you, yes?”

Oh god, yes.

As I worked on his arm, his other hand slithered up my thigh, causing me to falter.

“Ygor…” I sighed.

“What is it, my lab rat?” He purred.

“Please, Ygor, I need you so badly.” My words tumbled out of my mouth before I could control them.

“Soon, my darling. But just focus for now.” His hand left my thigh and traveled upwards to cup my breast. My breath hitched as he started kneading the tender flesh between his lithe fingers.

I was almost done with the sutures. I just needed to hold on for a few small moments before I could give into him.

“Am I distracting you?” He breathed innocently as he located my nipple between his thumb and forefinger.

“N-no…” I trailed off.

“Well, then Ygor should do a better job, then, yeah?” He rose so his lips brushed my neck, planting gentle kisses on my sensitive flesh. I just had one more stitch to go. I could do this. Ygor held me still with the strength residing in one hand so he could access the perfect spot on my neck to defile. I sighed as I cut the final thread on his arm and pulled back.

“Finished,” I stated breathlessly.

“Good little lab rat. Now, please, let Ygor thank you for everything you’ve done for him.”

In a flash, he flipped me onto my back, my spine stinging from the cold material of the gurney. Ygor stood before me, flexing his freshly seamed arm.

“Good work.” He nodded.

He looked like Michelangelo’s David, except marred with stitches and scars galore. But his imperfections were glorious and gorgeous to me. I wanted to lap up every drop of blood that flooded the table beneath me just to taste all of him. I was yearning to consume him, both in flesh and sanguine substances. Ygor lifted his orb-like goggles from his eyes, squinting at the electric light of the lab. He sported two mismatched irises- one blue, the other green. Remarkable.

“Ygor doesn’t want these to get in the way…” He admitted, tossing the eyewear onto the stone floor.

“Ygor, please…” A small moan escaped my lips as I pressed myself into the gurney.

The man noticed my neediness and slunk onto the edge of the metal, anchoring his palms on my hips.

“Allow me?” He hooked his hands around the clasp of my belt.

“Just take it off. All of it.” God, I was so desperate.

Ygor made quick work of my belt, then allowed his fingers to roam across the crushed velvet of my bodice. He was trying to extend the moment for as long as he could handle; however, I could tell he was reaching his breaking point. He yanked the buttons of my blouse apart, causing them to bounce onto the floor in a giddy waltz.

“Ygor will replace those later.” He said hurriedly.

He then migrated down to my skirt, reverently sliding it down my thighs and leaving it in a massive pool at my ankles. I lay before him, only my brassiere and panties shielding my most intimate parts. Heat pooled at my core at the mere thought of him touching me again. Ygor palmed himself through his trousers, visibly aroused.

“You are gorgeous.” He groaned as his eyes roamed my form.

“You’re perfect,” I replied.

He shed his pants in a flash, revealing his hard cock, already leaking precum. He gave it a couple of hard strokes before allowing a strangled moan to fall from his lips.

“Do you- do you see what you do to Ygor? How hard I am for you?” He maneuvered himself to meet my lips, our noses brushing. “Let me please you. I’ll be so good for you- do whatever you want.” He rasped. So eager, so perfect.

“You’re gonna be good for me, Ygor?” I tug experimentally on the back of his raven-toned hair.

“Yes. Yes! Just tell me what to do!” He melted into my touch.

“Why don’t I show you?” A wave of boldness washed over me as I pushed him southwards so that he was hovering over my pussy.

“Why don’t you put that pretty little mouth to work?” I commanded.

He gazed up at me with those crystalline eyes, and I was done for. He ripped my undergarments off and plunged his tongue into me, working it as his nose bumped against my clit, sending me spiraling, unravelling at the hands (or tongue, I suppose) of Doctor Victoria’s strange assistant. I tangled my hands in his mop of hair, and his ministrations only intensified. I allowed a moan to rack my body, and I could feel Ygor grinning beneath me.

“G-good boy.” I could barely even form the words.

I could hear what sounded like words from Ygor, but they came out as incoherent babbles. I pushed him back just slightly, and the man was a mess. His pupils were dilated into shiny black discs, and his mouth was slick with my arousal.

“What was that? Use your words, pet.” I stroked his chin gently.

“C-can Ygor… touch himself?” He sheepishly inquired.

I marinated on this for a brief moment, until a newfound sense of dominance took hold.

“No. You cannot. Not until you make me cum. I don’t want you spent just yet.”

“Yes! Yes, of course! Thank you, ma’am.” He nuzzled against my thigh, planting a sloppy kiss on the skin. I could tell he was straining, his cock red and full. But I liked this side of Ygor, so ready to please.

He resumed his attention to my clit. I knew I wouldn’t last much longer at this rate. With a few more swipes of his tongue, I felt an orgasmic storm rain across my flesh. I clamped my thighs down on his poor head as his hands grasped at me desperately.

“F-Fuck Ygor, you make me feel so good!” I cried out.

Ygor emerged from between my legs, a dopey grin painting his slick features.

“Can I touch myself now, please?” He tentatively pleaded.

“Yes, you can. You’ve been so good for me.” I purred. He palmed himself and began to rub his fingertip over his swollen head.

“Wait!” I commanded. He immediately ceased, awaiting my next words.

Perhaps I would have a little fun with him tonight. I was on a total power trip, but that’s what he wanted, right?

“Remember when you said that you would thank me if I … cut you up and beat you?” I recalled our conversation from earlier in the night.

“Y-Yes. You could do anything to Ygor, and I would like it very much.” He replied, eager as ever.

“Then you can touch yourself, but only if I can… hurt you a little bit while you do it. Would you like that?”

“Yes. Yes, I would love that. Ygor likes it when things hurt.” He admitted, excitement seeping into his tone.

“What would you like me to use?” I scanned the lab, looking for something that could cause a little prick of pleasurable pain.

“Top cabinet on the right side. Victoria sometimes uses it on me.” Ygor muttered, a hint of shame edging into his words.

Within said cabinet was a sturdy leather riding crop. Oh. Oh.

“Ygor would never tell her that I kind of like it…”

“You want me to use this on you?” I confirmed.

“More than anything.” He gasped.

“Then be a good boy and touch yourself, then,” I commanded as I approached his trembling frame.

I slid the crop against his cheek, caressing him like a lover. He shivered into it, slowly stroking himself.

Crack!

I brought the crop down onto his back forcefully.

“Thank you!” He gulped as he increased his pace.

I dragged it down the front of his chest, tracing the lines of his scars.

“So pretty,” I praised. “So good, so eager to please me.”

“Y-yes, always. I’ll do whatever you say.” Ygor fumbled for his words as strangled moans gushed from his lips.

I cracked the riding crop against his thigh, which elicited a jolt from the man.

“Thank you!” So, he was going to thank me whenever I whipped him… interesting.

“So obedient.” I laughed as I hit him again.

He expressed his gratitude once more. His pretty dick was threatening to burst at this point, his head thrown back in ecstasy as he stroked himself into oblivion.

“Again, please. Ygor is so close…” He begged.

“You’re going to have to do a little better than that, okay?” I teased the tip of his cock with the crop.

“Puh-please Ygor needs to cum so bad! I will only cum for you. You make me feel so guh-good! Please, please, I’ll do anything!” He babbled.

That was certainly good enough. I cracked the flat side of the crop against his weeping manhood as he came with enough force to knock him to the ground. He lay squirming there for a few moments, his ejaculation painting his stomach a milky white color. I approached him and knelt down to his level, petting his hair.

“You did so well for me. Are you okay?” I cooed.

“Better than ever.” Ygor rasped.

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” I stated.

“Thank you.” He allowed his brilliant eyes to close and his tongue to loll out of his pretty lips.

I crawled so that I was facing his cum-stained stomach, and experimentally dragged my tongue across one of his more prominent scars, licking it clean. His eyes shot open in shock.

“You really don’t have to do that, if you don’t want to…” He added.

“I want to. I just want to taste you, Ygor. That’s all. I want to make you feel good.” I resumed cleaning him with my tongue.

“God, where have you been all my life?” He gibbered as his eyes fluttered closed once more.

I didn’t answer, because I didn’t truly have one. All I knew was that I was with him now, and that was all that mattered. The ridges of his sutures from injuries past were a unique texture on my taste buds, so I continued to clean him- to worship his flesh that had been so cruelly ripped apart time and again. I finished and licked my lips with a smack. I curled up next to him on the unforgiving floor of the laboratory. Hunting the monsters could wait, at least until tomorrow. I had all I needed here.

“I hope I didn’t hurt you too badly,” I muttered as I carded my hand through his hair.

“Like I said, you could cut me all the way up, and I’d thank you for it.” Ygor sighed contentedly as he wrapped his lovingly sutured arm around me.

[rendy-a]

I llove your self aware twt au can I request for a part two of dorm magical? If it's okay to you!

There was never an idea so appealing to the cast of TWST as the idea of having a slumber party in the famed Ramshackle Dorm.  You’d get to actually sleep in that place blessed with so much of the Player’s attention.  When Crowley surprisingly agrees to allow it as a motivational tool for students, the cast rejoices!  Only, what sort of activities do you do at a slumber party in a magical dorm?

Choosing a bed

Everyone knows that there must be a room in Ramshackle that is THE BEST and everyone wants to choose that room.

Only, it isn’t quite clear what makes a room the best.  Clearly, they want the room the Player prefers but how can they determine which room that is?

Each student ends up in a different room.  Each choice is based on some trivial factor, like a board squeaking when they walked into the room, but that was clearly a sign from the Player to sleep there!  In the end, everyone is satisfied that they have secretly been chosen by the Player to stay in their FAVORITE room.

Azul hurries from room to room, understanding the need to quickly assess the value of each and make his choice ahead of the competition.  He goes quickly but still each other student he passes in the halls fills him with worry.  What if he doesn’t find the Player’s favorite room?  No one really understands what the great Player thinks, and you are unable to voice those thoughts directly. 

The anxiety blooms even deeper each time he hears a (hasty and negligent) student yell that they’ve claimed their room.  Why, Azul has barely been through half the rooms.  There is no way some slacker like Ace has been able to divine the Player’s preference faster than him after all his research into your Greatness!  “Give me a sign, please…” he mutters in desperation as he throws open the next door and enters a drafty room with a slight hole in the roof over the bed. 

It was damp and cold inside.  The bed was so waterlogged you might wonder if it was better to sleep on the floor.  Azul lets his eyes sweep over several dust-covered furniture pieces, searching for that hint of presence that would lead him to what he desires.  Suddenly a shutter on the broken window slams into the side of the house.  Azul jumps and tumbles into the soggy bed.  The chill and damp immediately surround him, but he is overjoyed by this turn of events.  “Ha ha!” he laughs joyfully, the anxiety leaving him, “You are so right, Player!  This is the perfect room for a mer from the Coral Sea.”  He flushes just a tiny bit as he mutters under his breath, “You know me so well…”  Then he shouts out to claim his room (the BEST ROOM)!

Making snacks

Everything tastes better when its burnt, right?  They want you to help so bad but you are a house and there isn’t really much you can do about it.  So maybe letting you be the one to decide when the popcorn was done wasn’t the best idea.

Strangely enough, everything does taste better when its been burnt…by the Player!  There are other snacks laid out, but everyone chooses one the Player ‘helped’ with.  It’s the taste of love?

The microwave dings and a cloud of black smoke comes rolling out when Trey opens it.  Riddle tentatively opens the bag of popcorn and pours it into the waiting bowl.  Or at least he tries too.  The burnt mass takes a little coaxing from the two Heartslabyul students to detach itself from its charred coffin.  A cabinet door swings open with a squeaky moan.  Riddle and Trey meet eyes and then Riddle nods.  “Right,” he says as he reaches into the bowl and pops a handful of charred popcorn into his mouth.

Riddle crunches the over-done popcorn in his mouth with a curious look on his face.  After a moment, having been unable to decipher the expression, Trey asks, “How does it taste?”  Instead of answering, Riddle passes Trey the bowl and the vice-dorm leader takes a sample of his own.  The same curious expression crosses his face, as though not exactly sure how the popcorn does taste.  After a silent moment where the crunching of popcorn is the only sound to be heard, Riddle swallows with some effort and gives a small cough into one gloved hand.  Then he offers slowly, “Like love?”  Trey chokes down his mouthful and nods in agreement, “I think you are onto something.  Great job, Player.”  Then he carefully sets a single kernel of burnt popcorn in the open cabinet (for the Player) before gently closing the cabinet door. 

Then they both went in for another mouthful.  It was actually good when you ignored the taste entirely and remembered it was made by the Player.  Quite good.

Games

Finding a game to plan can be a bit challenging.  No one is interested in playing any games that don’t include the Player…who is temporarily a house.  So all games must somehow include the dorm itself.

When Epel suggests 7 Minutes in Heaven, everyone is immediately onboard.  A search is put on to find just the right closet that has that “Player” feeling. 

When the bottle is spun, some lucky student then gets the privilege of sitting alone…in the closet.  But, it’s the Player’s closet!

Ruggie sits down carefully and gives Jack a thumbs up as the door closes, which earns him a deep frown from his junior.  “Keep it decent in there!” Jack admonishes as the darkness settles in.  “Sure thing, shishishishi!” Ruggie calls out.  Then his eyes narrow slowly, he was finally alone with the Player. 

He sits for a moment, unsure of how to continue.  Then, he decides a little conversation might be in order.  “So, you come here often?” he says before cringing.  “Of course you come here all the time.  It’s your house.  Forget I said that.”  When there is no mocking laughter in response, Ruggie sighs in relief.  “Thanks, Player, I knew you’d understand.”  Then he gently runs his hand over the dusty floorboards, feeling their cold smoothness.  Then he stills his hand, placing it possessively over a swirl in the woodgrain that catches his eye.  “Hey, Player,” he says quietly, “Mind if I tell you something a little secret?”  He rubs the floorboard softly, “I think you are pretty great.  I’ve always wanted to tell you that.”

The old floorboards squeak when he lays down, “Yeah, I feel it too.”  Then in a bit of a fluster he sputters, “Say, I don’t want to mess up the moment or anything but…oh damn, I don’t know how to say it but…can I…I mean…well, I’m going to kiss you now.”  When there is no objection from the closet, Ruggie flushes deep crimson and tips his head until his pursed lips make contact with the floor.  Then he smiles triumphantly and laughs in joy.  “That was perfect, Player.  So perfect,” he drapes an arm over his eyes but it does nothing to block out his enormous smile. 

A beep of an alarm is heard thought the muffled door and it is immediately thrown open by a disgruntled Sebek, “YOU THERE!  WHY ARE YOU MAKING THAT FACE?  I DEMAND TO KNOW WHAT YOU’VE BEEN UP TO IN THIS CLOSET!”

Hide and seek (until morning)

As the night goes on, it’s harder and harder to find games that include the Player.  Even though it is a childish game, the cast agrees to Hide and Seek just because it gives you time alone in the dorm to bond with the Player.

They draw lots to decide on who is “it” for the game.  Silver gets the short stick and ends up being the first “seeker.”

This proves to be a bad decision as Silver finds no one before succumbing to sleep. 

No one cares as each student is perfectly content to lay in their hiding spot thinking about the Player until sleep claims them too.

Malleus wanders quietly in the gardens below Ramshackle dorm.  He hadn’t been invited to the great sleepover (of course), but he didn’t truly care.  Wandering in the moonlight with the Ramshackle dorm (and the Player) looming over him was far more enjoyable anyway.  The wind blew wildly across the field creating a series of creaks and groans from the old dorm.  Malleus supposes this is some form of language you share only with him.  He can’t yet decode it, but he would wander alone for hours to hear you talk so sweetly. 

A single light illuminates the halls of Ramshackle.  Perhaps the students have gone to bed?  He’d certainly not have given up such a precious opportunity so easily.  Malleus stands in the night contemplating the dorm and finally, his curiosity gets the better of him.  He glides carefully to the illuminated window and peers inside.  The main room of Ramshackle stands empty, the signs of earlier activities scattered about haphazardly.  A flickering light draws the fae’s eyes.  Cater lays behind a sofa smiling happily in his dream as his phone continues to play a video where it has fallen, still gripped loosely in hand. 

But where are his retainers?  The thought crosses his mind and takes hold enough for him to choose to seek them out.  Levitating gently to the second story, Malleus peers into a window to see Silver slumped over on a bed.  Some sheets are still clutched in his hand as though he was in the act of pulling them back when he was overtaken by slumber.  Although not in any conventional sort of sleeping form, the way he was nestled on the bed seemed rather cozy.  Feeling a gaze upon him, Malleus lets his eyes drift up to where he can make out Lilia expertly perched on the beams of the ceiling.  Lilia gives him a sleepy smile and a little wave before closing his eyes again, seemingly content to remain where he is. 

One last dormmate for him to check on.  High up in the tower of Ramshackle, nestled in behind a rather regal gargoyle (if Malleus does say so himself) he finds Sebek.  He clutches the gargoyle and mutters in his sleep.  “…Player…hmmm…Malleus-sama!....mmm”  A curious dream, Malleus supposes.  He does understand though.  Being here, where the Player’s presence is strongest, it makes one give in to flights of fancy.  He smiles softly and caresses an old beam.  Goodnight Player, watching over them all.  Goodnight students, dreaming warm in the Player’s embrace.  Goodnight all.

[boba-pearl-writes]

August 9th - jumper - 1195 words - T - @rosekillermicrofic

Evan liked to keep little pieces of his friends.

A small bracelet from Pandora she’d only half finished and never worn. A broken ring that Reg had just never bothered to mend. A muggle watch from Cas that had stopped working.

It wasn’t like he really needed these things. He just liked to remind himself they were there.

He didn’t have many things from Barty, which he found quite strange. For a really chaotic person, it was rather strange that he wasn’t as forgetful or left out his stuff as much as the others.

After they started dating, he started to find this more and more annoying.

He would always search around the common room for any stuff his friends might have left behind. He usually went to bed a bit later than them on some days, just for that. 

As a child, he would actively steal from other people, especially his parents. Not very big things, but still, they’d never appreciate that very much when they noticed. So he learned to be quiet and good in front of them - and then look around after dark just to stop that itching in him to keep some part of them.

Just to remind himself that they were there.

It was one day like this that he found that Barty had left his quill on the desk he was working on. He immediately wanted to pocket it because it was Barty’s and he wanted to look at it and inspect it and maybe see if he’d left his fingerprints - everything about Barty was fascinating to him. But, before he did, he checked to see if it was expensive or something Barty would miss.

It seemed to just be a regular quill, one Barty had said he’d had for a year or two, so Evan didn’t feel too bad about taking it. He pocketed it and, before he slid under his covers where Barty had somehow already fallen asleep, he made sure to put it in the box he stored everything he took in.

A few days after that, he noticed that Barty had left something else. This time it was the back off of one of his earrings. 

The next day, Barty mentioned that he wanted a new beanie, since he’d lost his old one.

Just two days later, there was a beanie. This one, Evan was a bit more hesitant to take. What if Barty wanted it back? He didn’t want to take something that might be of use to someone.

He wasn’t a thief.

He picked up the beanie, and resolved to buy a new one for Barty when they went to Hogsmeade. 

He had to wait a week for the next Hogsmeade visit, and by then the weather was so sodding drafty. Right when he stepped outside the somehow always warm interior of the castle, a gust of freezing cold wind blew against his face. And he’d forgotten his sodding jumper.

Barty, the one who he was going to buy winter clothes for, hummed as he stepped in time with the beat, the height difference forcing Evan to quicken his steps just slightly. The worst thing was, Barty looked completely unaffected by the cold weather.

Probably because he’d remembered his jumper.

So they walked along the streets of Hogsmeade. At some point, Barty’s hand had found its way into Evan’s and they walked, hand in hand, down the street. As cold as it was, Evan felt his heart warm. After so long yearning for his best friend, it felt like a dream for him to be Evan’s.

The shop wasn’t too hard to find, and Evan wouldn’t forget the look on his boyfriend’s face as he handed him the beanie. Evan had pulled him into the shop on impulse after seeing a beanie in the window that would look so good on Barty.

It did.

Oh, did it ever. All bundled up in his knitted winter wear, Barty looked like an angel, with the tips of his dyed- green hair poking out of the black beanie. The jumper fit on him perfectly, the green of it complementing his eyes. Evan wasn’t sure when he’d become such a sucker for clothes and style, but he couldn’t - and wouldn’t - deny that Barty looked heavenly. He pressed a soft, close mouthed kiss to his lips and, before Barty could react, dragged him out of the store, back onto the street.

They fell into step with each other once more, hands swinging between them- and Evan was once more reminded of the obscenely cold weather outside. He tried to stop his shivering but honestly, the sodding English weather made it so hard. He wasn’t surprised when he turned his head and saw Barty observing him, head cocked, in that uncanny way of his, that felt almost like you were being scrutinized. Evan loved it.

After a moment of what looked like deliberation on Barty’s part, he took off his jumper and thrust it at Evan. Evan protested that he didn’t really need it, but Barty silenced him with a pointed look, and Evan realized there probably was some truth to his thinking.

And so Evan ended up with Barty’s jumper, almost nesting into it with relief at the warmth. Technically, he knew they could’ve just cast a spell. And Barty did, which seemed a bit counterintuitive, but Evan could care less; wearing Barty’s jumper felt like being in his arms- warm, comforted, safe.

After he’d put it on, Barty looked him over in a way which made his cheeks heat up. Then, he smirked.

“You can keep that one, too, if you want.”

At this, Evan glanced up at Barty, processing his words. They clicked a millisecond later.

“How did you…? You know?”

“Yeah,” Barty said, smiling at him in a way that would’ve made Evan melt inside if it weren’t for the current conversation they were having. “It really wasn’t that hard to figure out.” Evan furrowed his brow, thinking.

“You don’t hate me?”

Now it was Barty’s turn to frown. “Why would I hate you? I mean, I get it.”

“You do?”

“You want to feel closer to people… yeah, I really do get it.”

“And… you’re not freaked out?” At this Barty smiled, mildly too sharp teeth showing, almost unnerving. Evan hesitantly smiled back, close lipped and tentative.

“I would do anything for you, Ev. I would kill for you.” A hand on his shoulder. “I would die for you, Rosie.” A hand on his waist.

Barty leaned closer to him and Evan’s heart raced as he gripped Barty’s shirt. However long they had been together, this never got old.

“Let’s hope you don’t have to.” Barty’s laugh tickled his cheek

Barty leaned in for a kiss but missed, his lips landing on the corner of Evan’s mouth. He went in again for Evan’s cheek. Evan huffed out a breath, realizing what he was doing. 

“You tease.”

He yanked Barty closer to him by his shirt.

Yeah, Evan liked to collect parts of his friends. But having them, knowing them, whole? Especially Barty?

Barty was like a drug he was addicted to.

He was everything.

[deviantlair24]

From the Shadows

You lay unsuspecting in your bed, your breathing even as you dream of something perfectly mundane. 

Unbeknownst to you a shadow, not cast by any light but with a mind of its own begins to creep across the room, slowly it makes its way up the bed, up your legs. 

You shift but the shadow remains, ever so slowly it begins to pull down the blanket covering you, it’s the middle of spring so the room isn’t too cold and you don’t notice anything in your sleep, not even shifting as the blanket slowly gets pulled down your chest. 

Your dreams remain undisturbed as the shadow begins running over the now exposed skin of your arms, growing bolder and moving to your neck and shoulders. 

The shadows then continued pulling the blanket down over your hips then your legs until the blanket lay pooled by your feet. 

The shadows then began moving on to the next piece of fabric keeping you hidden, it hated when you were hidden. It liked the occasional times you would walk around the house bare, but those were fleeting in such a drafty old house, especially once winter came. 

Now it was spring and the shadows hoped the heat might make you sleep with fewer layers. All you wore to bed tonight was a large T-shirt that belonged to an ex and a pair of panties. 

The shadows began pulling the shirt up, exposing your panties and bare stomach to the night air and its whims. 

In your sleep your dreams began to take on a different note, feeling the soft touches running over your body. 

Suddenly your dreams went from walking through the halls of your old high school to hiding in a broom closet with your old Gym Coach that you had a major crush on that looked like an off-brand Jason Mamoa. 

Your breath was coming out quicker as your arousal grew, the touches you were feeling in the real world translating to your dream. 

Had you been awake to see what looked like shadowy vines running over your body you probably would have screamed and fought but for now you were actually enjoying yourself. 

When you had moved into the house you inherited from your estranged great uncle you had been slightly creeped out. 

The house was old and run down, it had drafts and was filled with antiques and old furniture that made it all feel a bit too gothic for your tastes. Especially since it wasn’t cool, it was just creepy and made your hair stand on end whenever you were alone. 

But given the house needed work and you couldn’t afford to pay rent at your old apartment and the property taxes you moved in to hopefully fix the place up and then sell it for as much as you could get. You had student loans to pay off and no amount of creepy would keep you from paying them off quickly. 

Unbeknownst to you the shadow entity didn’t like the idea of you leaving very much, it quite liked you. 

At first it was determined to chase you off but soon its plans changed, now it wanted to keep you all to itself, you are delicious. 

The shadow creature very much liked the idea of you being his and was determined to win you over, in the meantime it would do what it could to have you. 

It didn’t like feeding from you so it only took enough to stay alive and your desire was the emotion it loved the most, as your dreams took on a steamer note and its touches grew bolder it began to feed but once it was content it continued to enjoy itself. 

It loved the feeling of your body and unbeknownst to you your body loved the sensation of the shadows pinching your nipples lightly and running over the recesses of your skin. 

You began to clench your legs together as your dreams and the sensation of the shadows on your skin were driving your need higher and higher. 

But the shadows grew bolder, its vines began to creep between your legs to run over your panties causing you to whimper and shift in your sleep rolling over on your front, your knee high up while the other remained straight, leaving your holed exposed. 

The Shadows debated for a moment before throwing caution to the wind and using its limbs to softly move your panties to the side and begin softly touching your folds. Running it’s tentacle up and down your slit, grazing your clit for a moment before running back down and circling your dripping little hold, it was so tempting.  

When you unconsciously ground back against the feeling the creature loses its resolve and the shadows sink inside your pussy, stretching it around a solidified shadow tentacle. 

The shadow creature began to pump the tentacle in and out of you, enjoying the feeling of your walls and creating textures that brought little sounds from you as it worked you over, wanting to feel you tighten around it. 

Your noises grew louder and its movements boulder, finding your g-spot and giving it extra attention, the sensation is what pushed you over the edge but also brought you back to reality. 

You groaned at the feeling of an orgasm washing over you, slowly blinking your eyes open, still feeling the effects of your dream, you furrow your eyebrows and look down but can’t see clearly in the darkness as you feel something shifting on your bed. 

You shake your head, surprised you had a wet dream but it wasn’t the first time, but something moving in the corner of your eye makes you reach over to turn on your bed sight light. 

The shadows quickly retreat, only a flash of them in the corner of your eye as you turn on your lamp. 

You look around the room with narrowed eyes before you shake your head “I gotta stop watching horror movies while living in this creepy ass house” You grumble as you lay back down, leaving the light on and keeping the shadows away...For now.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I'm gonna risk the Tumbler god's wrath with this one since Patreon while allowing parents to sell pornographic pictures of their kids draws the line at some shadow creature tentacle porn.

[startrekfangirl2233-writes]

Part III

We Don’t Fit in Well (‘Cause We Are Just Ourselves)

James T. Kirk (AOS) x Reader

Description: It feels like you're finally breaking down some walls with James. He isn't the same cocksure person he was before everything. Neither are you. It feels like the more time you spend trapped in the snow with him, the more you understand about him. But it doesn't hide the mission Starfleet has given you. It doesn't gloss over the pain and horror of those few moments in space. Nothing ever will.

Warnings: Arguments, Mentions of Drunken Behavior, Injuries, Rough language, Smut, Angst

These will change from chapter-to-chapter. I will do my best to denote all happening as faithfully as I can. If any of these items bothers you, please do not read. One chapter of this fic includes non-graphic descriptions of Torture. All trigger warnings will be clearly demarcated in this fic.

Author’s Note: 

Hiya lovelies! Sorry I went MIA on you all! I've been kind of in a weird mental headspace where writing was concerned and a lot of that goes to how toxic Tumblr has been to my mental space. I'm not on Tumblr very much anymore, so it took me a while to come back to this story on here. I've had it fully written, I just wasn't sure if my words were reaching any of you or if you even cared this story was still in progress.

The bold and italicized sections come straight from Star Trek 2009 and are the words said by Captain Christopher Pike when he drags Jim off the bar floor at the beginning of the movie.

Also this is the chapter where we get a little bit of smut, because apparently I can't write angsty moments without some spice to move them along.

I of course have to thank my faithful beta readers (and biggest cheerleaders) @desert-fern, @horseshoegirl and @sarahsmi13s for reading bits and pieces of this fic and making sure I was doing it justice. I also want to thank @a-reader-and-a-writer! Vee sent me this ask around then and nearly a year and a half later, we have this fic!

This is going to be a multi-part story. Please let me know if you’d like to be tagged!

Word Count: 3982

AO3: Cross-posted here!

My Masterlist

Previous Part | Series Masterlist | Next Part

You wake up alone for the second time in your acquaintance with James Tiberius Kirk. The throw, something knit which is impossibly soft and warm, is tucked around your shoulders and covers you from your neck to your toes. It's so tightly tucked in fact, you have to fight to free yourself of it. The fire has long since burned down to gray ashes and the floor is unpleasantly cold when you place your feet on it. 

It should drive you to a rage rather like the one you felt in San Francisco all those months ago when he left you without even a note. But you can hear music spilling out of the kitchen and the sounds of singing. You peek around the kitchen doorway, cocking your hip against the doorframe as you curl your arms around yourself. It's cold in this drafty old farmhouse. The clouds of your breath fog out in a fine mist with every exhale. The winter sun is just rising over the fields, and everything seems to sparkle.

The pale sunlight glances off his hair, setting the pale gold alight until it looks like an angel has stepped into the kitchen and decided to make you breakfast.

“You like what you see, Sweetheart?”

You shrug, letting him tug you into an impromptu jig across the floor. It’s discordant and a little jarring, completely at odds with the swing-style tune pouring out of the speaker, but it feels right. The whole time you keep your eyes on his face, drinking in the sight of his eyes, blue beneath the chunky frames of his glasses, how the bags under his eyes are smaller, lighter. When he spins you into one of the chairs at the table, you’re breathless, cheeks hot from relentless laughter, stomach aching from the constant giggles.

You watch him, pillowing your head on your arms as he dances through the kitchen, even when you’re not in his arms. You drink in the long planes of his torso, still blessedly bare, counting the ridges of his ribs and his enviable abs as he beats eggs and hums tunelessly. It should be easy. It should be light, seeing him dance in his kitchen with a huge smile on his face. But it’s not. Because what you’re here to do weighs on you. It’s a constant litany in the back of your mind. 

Bring Captain James T. Kirk back to San Francisco.

Two days haven’t been long enough to delve into his psyche to broach the topic of Starfleet. It hasn’t been long enough to broach the topic of you and him.

“You look awfully serious for someone who was laughing just a little bit ago, sweetheart.”

You smile sheepishly, accepting your plate and coffee from him.

“I’m just thinking.”

He winks at you, blue eyes sparkling.

“I know, sweetheart. Eat before it gets cold.”

You find yourself enraptured by the way he eats, how his big hands dwarf the cutlery, and the smile on his face at each satisfying mouthful making your toes curl. You eat when his eyes float up to your face, hiding your staring with mouthfuls of your own. It’s a simple meal, hearty and hot. You clear the plates away when your appetite is sated, soaping the pots and pans while watching how his broad shoulders relax as he lingers over his coffee.

“Why’d you join Starfleet, Jay?”

You’re unsure why the question spills out of your lips so suddenly. It’s one step forward, two steps back with him, you think, seeing his shoulders climb back up towards his ears, the ease draining out of his frame.

“You don’t pull your punches, do you, sweetheart?”

You turn the water off, twisting the kitchen towel between your palms meticulously as you dry each digit. 

“Wasn’t aware I was hitting anything.” 

It’s almost an apology. There’s something contemplative in his face as you step closer, a tremor shaking his shoulders as you rest your hands, still a little damp from the dishwater, on his skin.

“I joined Starfleet on a dare.” His laugh as he buries his head into your stomach is mirthless. His hair feels like silk against your fingers, and he groans when you massage his scalp.

“Captain Pike picked me up when I was lying dazed and bleeding on the floor of that dive bar outside of the shipyard. I was drunk off my ass and lost, so lost, sweetheart. I wasn’t sure what I was doing in Riverside. I was buried in the bowels of the Enterprise, with a wrench and grease splattered all over me all day and drunk all night. I didn’t have the purpose you were talking about last night.”

He’s so warm as he wraps an arm around your waist.

“I can still remember what he said.”

 “You can settle for less than an ordinary life. Or do you feel like you were meant for something better? Something special? Enlist in Starfleet.”

“You know, your father was Captain of a starship for twelve minutes. He saved eight hundred lives, including your mother's. And yours. I dare you to do better.”

“I dare you to do better.”

He’s laughing again, something strung out and painful.

“He dared me, sweetheart, and I took that dare like I was an addict at a craps table in a seedy casino. So, I applied myself for what had to be the first time in my life. And I made it through the Academy in three years.”

You tip his head up, fingers tender as they smooth away the wrinkle in his brow and trace over his cheeks.

“That’s amazing, Jay.” 

You’re not lying when you say it, either. Not many people, unless they are Vulcan, could graduate from Starfleet Academy a year early. You certainly couldn’t have. Just finishing the academy in four years nearly killed you. You can’t count how many all-nighters you’ve pulled in the engineering bays working on some project or the papers you wrote while half delirious with jittering hands from all the coffee and energy drinks you’d been mainlining. From what you remember of seeing Jim on campus as well, he was always carrying a stack of PADDs in his arms and running around.

“Yeah, sweetheart, you could say that.”

He nuzzles your stomach and you can feel goosebumps at the tender touch.

“But that’s just academics. Once you’re on a ship, your intellect is only half as important as other things. Vulcan, and the Narada, they both showed me how vital it is, what Starfleet does. We managed to save the world this one time, sweetheart. But one decision differently, one choice made too late, and we would have lost everything. And it would have been my fault.”

Your heart breaks at the despondence in his voice.

“It wasn’t your fault, Jay. It wouldn’t have been your fault. There were hundreds of people on the Enterprise. Thousands of people in Starfleet that morning. Their decisions affected what happened in the skies above Vulcan just as much as yours. Captain Pike made hundreds of decisions when we were in warp to Vulcan. Each of those decisions could have affected the outcome of that harrowing day as much as yours did.”

You sit down in his lap, ignoring his wide-eyed gaze and soft gasp as you straddle his thighs. Something tells you this particular message will be better received if you and he are seeing eye to eye.

“Here’s the facts as I see them. Fact: We were both on the Enterprise as it came out of warp and to Vulcan.”

It makes your pulse jump just to think of the events of the day Vulcan was destroyed. 

You remember the steady timber of Captain Pike's voice as he'd stated, “Shields up, Red Alert,” and the whoop of the siren whipping past your ears as you bolted for Engineering, where you were stationed. You remember being thrown to your knees, the ache of the bruises on them, when the ship is ricocheted out of warp. But more than anything, you remember staring wide-eyed and uncomprehending out one of the windows at the shards of starships floating past.

Your memories feel overwhelming, and your eyes are brimming with tears when you look into Jim's.

“Fact: The Enterprise was 2.74 seconds behind the rest of the fleet jumping to warp.”

His face twists, as does yours, and for one breathless second, you feel like you're seeing starship hulls before your eyes, people in uniform, frozen, gone, floating past the Enterprise as the ship reaches Vulcan.

“It saved our lives.”

His hands are warm as they cup your cheeks, fingers coming away wet with tears. You're not sure when you started to cry.

“Fact: Captain Pike sent you and Sulu and Chief Engineer Olson diving onto the drill platform so we had a chance to save Vulcan. It was only a chance - a slim chance, a slight one. But it's a chance nonetheless. It's a chance we wouldn't have had if he hadn't given himself up.”

You can see the shock on his face, how his brow creases and his lips purse like he's trying to disagree with you. You kiss him then, just a soft press of your lips to his, brushing your tear-stained skin against his own.

“Stop. Jay, let me get this out.”

“Fact:” At this point, your voice breaks, heart thudding a fatalistic tattoo in your chest. “We lost Vulcan. Billions of people. Gone in an instant. Old. Young. Nero didn't care. He wanted vengeance for a perceived crime Vulcan committed on Romulus in a different universe a hundred years from now. He succeeded in his goals.”

Jim’s hands are warm through the thin fabric of your shirt as they bracket your waist.

“Fact: Nero set his sights on Earth, our planet, our home. As acting Captain, Spock decided to reroute us to rendezvous with the remainder of the fleet in the Laurentian system.”

You grimace a little, thinking of Len’s vehement hatred of the Vulcan man for his actions.

“Fact: You spoke out against his decision and were marooned on Delta Vega. I don’t know what happened there,” you wink, “it's over my clearance level. But I was in Engineering when you and Scotty beamed aboard. I followed you up to the bridge and saw you wrest control of the ship from Spock.”

Your hands fly to his throat, ringing them gently, a mockery of the bruises he’d gained during the altercation with Spock.

“Your actions on the bridge saved Earth. You won the hearts of the crew that day, Jim. You did that. None of the captains in the Laurentian System could have made it to Earth in time to save the planet. You pushed the Enterprise, pushed her crew, pushed yourself to the point of breaking down.”

He scoffs, turning his head to press a kiss against the inside of your wrist.

“And what did that buy us? The universe is a mess, sweetheart. That was one day. One frantic, nightmare-inducing day. It almost feels like the hard work is still ahead of us. Work for Starfleet, rebuild, renew, re-engage. There’s no time to breathe - no time to grieve.”

A tear slips down his cheek.

“Am I supposed to forget all the people who we lost? My dad. Gaila. All the people we went to class with, partnered on assignments with, who we weren’t necessarily close to, but miss nonetheless?”

“I can’t forget them, sweetheart.” 

His eyes are fierce, burning into you as he stands, setting you down on the tiles.

“I won’t forget them.”

His hands are gentle as they cradle your jaw, fingers firm as they splay over your cheeks.

“The Admiralty wants to reduce the people we lost to a statistic. They want me - they want all of us - to go out there and rep Starfleet, gloss over the senseless pain of Nero’s actions, and pretend it didn’t happen. That’s not something I think I can do.”

His words echo in your ears long after he leaves the kitchen. He’s right. The Admirals only care about rebuilding Starfleet. Sure, there had been memorials and funerals - so many funerals you’d worn black for two weeks straight. The world had been in shock, mourning for the loss of Vulcan, for the deaths of billions of people. But it seems like the mourning only went on for a few weeks before time started to move again. Everyone else seems to have moved on. The Vulcans scouted for a new planet to settle on, focusing on rebuilding their civilization's tattered remnants. Starfleet is doing much the same. But you haven’t. You can see the pain, the grief, on Len’s shoulders, Nyota’s, and everyone you’ve come to know. The Enterprise crew feels like boulders jutting above fast-moving waters, holding fast to the silty ground, fearing being washed away.

You mull it over as the hours pass, curled up on the kitchen chair Jim sat in over breakfast, vacantly tracking the sun as it rises overhead. You answer your communicator on muscle memory when it rings.

“Lieutenant,” Your title shocks you out of your thoughts. “What is the progress of your mission to Riverside?”

You can feel the frown on Admiral Barnett’s face as you detail the progress or lack thereof, you’ve made over the past few days.

“I understand you’ve faced some challenges, Lieutenant, but you have to be back by the New Year. We’re shipping the Enterprise out. Either your captain is here to accept his orders for the shakedown cruise, or we’re discharging him from Starfleet.”

“A lot is hinging on the success of this cruise, Lieutenant. If this mission isn’t a success, none of you will be leaving with the Enterprise on future missions. We’ll stall all of your careers if we have to.”

You hang up with a yawning pit at the bottom of your stomach. It’s not every day a Lieutenant gets a call from an Admiral, forget an Admiral bearing ultimatums like stalling the careers of everyone on a starship. You feel dazed as you walk up the stairs.

“Hey, Jim?” Your voice is quiet and rough as you lean against the door. “Can I come in?”

It feels like you’re constantly stuck behind a door with James Tiberius Kirk, like there will always be an obstacle between you and him. You’re holding your breath when you try the doorknob, surprised to feel the give as it turns in your hand.

“Hey, sweetheart.”

He’s sitting against the window, a book open in his lap.

“What’s up?”

“Didn’t want to be alone anymore.” You murmur, tugging the book out of his hands, stuffing a stray sheet of paper between the open pages.

“So what do you want?” His eyes are so blue behind the frames of his glasses, icy in color, but so warm as you crawl into his lap, burrowing into his skin like you’re trying to chase away your problems.

“You.”

There’s a smirk on his face when you kiss him, mouth pliant under your hungry lips as he steadies you with his hands, bracketing your waist. You shiver, back arching as he tugs you closer, arms locking around his neck as his lips leave yours.

“Jay,”

You’re babbling his name, fingers carding his soft hair into unruly peaks as he trails kisses over your pulse. His blunt teeth drag over your pulse, sinking bruises into the delicate skin. His hands are hot against your hips as you grind down, chasing your high like a woman possessed.

“Slow down, sweetheart.” He’s laughing as he tugs your shirt off, pressing kisses against every inch of your newly bare skin until you’re bare and completely naked in front of him.

“We have time.” He murmurs the words onto every inch of your skin he can reach, and you relish in every moment in which he steals your ability to string together words with his talented tongue. His fingers are a blunt kind of torture as they press between your folds, each slow thrust making your heart stutter. 

You know you don’t have quite as much time as you think you do. The deadline is ticking ever faster in your mind, mirrored by the hummingbird pace of your heart as Jim makes your head spin and your heart dizzy.

“I’ve got you, beautiful.” He groans the words out against your pulse. He’s so warm hovering over you (god, when did that happen), skin flushed with heat, salty with exertion. You wrap your legs around his waist, bracing your heels against the firm muscles of his ass, aching to drive his fingers even further into you. They’re thicker than yours, but they’re still not enough.

“Need you, Jay.” You sob, desperate, all composure floating away as the persistent itch of arousal builds on your skin.

“You’ve got me, beautiful.” His eyes are fever-bright as he tugs the soft flannel pants he is wearing down just far enough to expose himself. It’s an exquisite bite of pain-pleasure as he presses into you, and you see stars more perfect than any you’ve ever seen on a starship.

You’re never getting over this. If one night with Jim Kirk was unforgettable, this second encounter will embed him so far into your skin, you’ll never get over him. You feel yourself on the cusp of falling, falling irrevocably in love with him, with the sharp gasps he presses into your skin, the drugging kisses, the sweet grins. How do you give this up? How do you give him up?

There are goosebumps on your back when you come back to yourself. Your hair is a mess, tangled all too easily by Jim's hands. There's a pleasant ache in your muscles and between your thighs.

“What're you running from, Sweetheart?”

Jim's lying on his side facing you, his palm warm against the bare expanse of your back. His lips are kiss-bitten, and his hair is just as messy as yours. He's trailing his fingers lightly up and down your spine as you melt into the mattress.

“I mean, you don't have to run from something to have sex with me.”

You grin at him from behind your hair, curious to see where he’s going with his babbling.

“I like doing this with you.”

His brow furrows as he snuggles down under the blanket with you.

“But, sweetheart, you’re not the running away type. I am… but well, we both know that.” 

He manhandles you until you’re lying on his chest, the blanket pulled up over your shoulders. You’re both completely naked and yet, you’ve never felt more at ease.

“What’s bothering you, sweetheart?”

The rumble of his voice in his chest weakens your resolve. So you let the entire mess spill out of your lips, starting from the Admirals sending you to Riverside, culminating in Admiral Barnett's ultimatum to you today. You almost wish you could claw the words back into your mouth when you finish. Jim is tense, all of the languid ease of multiple orgasms drained out of his body.

“So what now, sweetheart? Where do we go from here?”

You kiss the rounded muscle of his shoulder before standing, searching for your clothes scattered everywhere in his enthusiasm.

“I - I don't know.” Your voice is quiet, maybe a little too quiet, as you speak from within the fabric of your shirt. “I want you back in San Francisco. I want you back in Starfleet.”

Maybe it's a little selfish, but you feel Jim Kirk needs to hear this.

“The Enterprise needs you back, Jay. The Admirals are waiting to break us up. It all hinges on the outcome of the shakedown cruise. There's chatter that they'd rather split us all onto different ships and restaff the flagship than put us all together on a ship without you. You're our lynchpin. Our captain. We can’t do this without you.”

When you stand in the doorway, his face is stripped bare of masks, confused and so sad. The afternoon light is dimming by the minute, and soon, you know, all you'll be able to see is the white sheen of his teeth and the twinkling of his eyes.

“I think the Admirals are afraid that if they appointed someone else her Captain, the crew would mutiny in favor of you. I think there's a chance they still might split us up, even if you come back, even if the shakedown cruise goes well.”

It doesn't escape you, the reality of how easy it had been to dismiss your physical connection with Jim in favor of your mission. You want nothing more than to crawl into his arms, kiss him, and tell him you'll be his forever - if he'll have you. But you can’t. Because this whole messy, awkward situation - a situation you've overcomplicated twice over with sex - isn't half as important as making sure Jim is set on the right path.

You know it is the right path for him. James T. Kirk was made to be in Starfleet. You've known it ever since you'd wandered into your beginning Xenolinguistics class on the first day of your second year at the Academy and saw him standing in the TA's spot in his cadet reds. You've never seen anyone else with his ease, his wit, his joy and his fascination with everything Starfleet holds dear. He was made to command a ship - made to command the Enterprise.

Your thoughts chase each other round and round in circles as you sit in the bathtub, hot water nearly sloshing out with each movement. But you can’t think of a way out of this situation. Only two roads are branching from here. On the first, you're both left with broken hearts - yours a different kind of heartbreak from his. On the second, you're ecstatic, possibly in love, but Jim's unhappy. You’re not sure which is worse. Both seem equally bad to you. 

It shouldn’t surprise you when you walk out of the bathroom in just a towel, your dirty clothes in a bundle under your arm, to see Jim sitting on your bed.

“So the Admirals want me back, or they're going to kick me out?”

You nod mutely.

“And they’re threatening to destroy your career, and Spock’s, Sulu’s, Chekov’s, Bones’, Uhura’s, everyone’s on the Enterprise?”

There’s rage in his voice, barely withheld and viciously sharp.

“How are we going to fix this, sweetheart?” Your head jerks up so fast it nearly hurts, the towel slipping from the loose grip you’re using to hold it around your body, falling to the floor with a wet thwap.

“Y-you want to come back to Starfleet?”

“Yeah,” His eyes glow as they take in your damp skin. “Got a sweetheart in Starfleet, you know? Might just kill me if I have to stay planetside while she's further away than I can bear it.”

You kiss him then, fighting your pleased grin. But you stop him when he tries to kiss you again, covering his lips with your fingers.

“You have to make this decision for yourself, Jim. Not for me. We would be great together. The sex is proof.” 

You smile crookedly when he gently bites the pad of your thumb.

“If returning to Starfleet will make you miserable, then we’ll figure something out. I don’t want you to regret coming back. I don’t want you to hate me if you come back. We can get over a lot of things, but hating each other isn’t one of those things, Jay.”

You squeak when he rolls you over, the heat in his eyes making heat rise on your skin.

“I promise I’ll decide with a clear mind, sweetheart.”

A part of you doesn’t believe him, but you think you have to. So you let yourself be distracted, letting James Tiberius Kirk chase the thoughts out of your mind the way only he can.

I DO NOT CONSENT TO HAVE MY WORK POSTED, TRANSLATED, OR PUBLISHED ON ANY SITES OTHER THAN HERE OR ON AO3 BY ME. IF YOU SEE MY WORKS ANYWHERE OTHER THAN HERE OR AO3, THEN THEY HAVE BEEN POSTED WITHOUT MY PERMISSION AND I WILL BE WORKING TO TAKE THEM DOWN.

Taglist:

@a-reader-and-a-writer @kmc1989 @originalbluefoundations @temptest13 @sophiejayne-illustrations713 @ask-me-about-tiktaalik

[perseidlion]

How the Cat King Got His Groove Back (Ongoing, soft E)

The sky over Port Townsend was slate gray as it often was for weeks on end in the winter. The air was damp and heavy, with the ocean breeze cutting right through even the warmest jackets. Winter was usually free of snow in the Pacific Northwest, but the endless stretch of gray and drizzle was just as depressing as any deep blanket of snow. Perhaps moreso, because at least in snowy climes, the sun occasionally came out to play. 

The Cat King’s cannery was drafty and cold. Even his loyal subjects had abandoned him for spots beneath houses and under staircases where they huddled together for warmth.

It had been about a month since the Dead Boy Detectives had come to town and stirred up everything like a whirlwind. Cat had felt more energized than he had in decades, and not just because one of said detectives was curiously handsome and fascinating. 

But in their wake, they’d left an eerie calm. Their time in town had been short, but they had a reputation for a reason. They’d solved nearly a dozen cases, small and large in their short time. Some of the cases had been outstanding for decades. They’d also vanquished Esther Finch, the powerful and vain witch who had been causing trouble in town longer than the Cat King had ruled. 

Esther was a scourge who crossed lines even some of the darkest creatures would not. Plus, she’d beaten him to death with her cane, taking one of his precious lives in the process. Which was just…so rude.  Cat would be lying if he said he didn’t miss her a little - if only for the chaos she brought. She was a piece of shit, but she was a piece of shit who kept life interesting. 

And things were just so…quiet without her particular brand of chaos. 

And without him.

Cat stretched his toes out and off the edge of the stack of palettes that served as his throne. He was draped in a heavy black fur coat to try and hold back the chill. When he exhaled a deep-chested sigh, his breath condensed like cigarette smoke. 

He felt numb. He knew he should get up and at least use his magic to kindle a fire in an oil drum or envelop himself in a protective haze of magic. But the cold that pricked his skin and the draft that trickled between the fur of his coat at least let him feel something. He’d been considering the possibility of moving for a good long while, but couldn’t will his limbs to do more than shift a bit to make sure his body was covered by his coat. 

Cat would swear up and down that he was an independent creature, one who went where he pleased and made love to whoever he liked. But the truth was, he was a profoundly lonely creature who covered up that loneliness with tricks and flirtations. 

He wasn’t fully a cat. When he transformed into his feline form to join the feral colony of Port Townsend, they all knew it was him. They treated him with deference and respect, but they also othered him. He could be human whenever he wanted, which set him apart even more than his position.

Cat wasn’t fully human, either. To the residents of Port Townsend, he was known as the town’s slutty weirdo who was always followed by feral cats. They were used to him by now, but just because they didn’t hassle him didn’t mean he was one of them. His dual form meant he was trapped between two worlds, only really at home with other creatures who had a foot in both worlds. And most of them, he’d already alienated or had some sort of beef with - or were just not creatures whose company he found entertaining. The result was, he didn’t really have any friends in town to speak of, which only added to his loneliness. 

Finally, Cat got up the energy to drag himself to his feet. He took a series of lazy, heavy steps down off the platform, his fur coat dragging along the dirty ground. As he walked aimlessly through the warehouse, he chased echoes of memories. 

First, he passed the stain of blood on the ground where his previous body had been beaten to death by Esther. The reminder of that pain made him wince involuntarily. But then he saw echoes of Edwin when he caught the first hints of lust in his eyes, followed by the indignant British snark of him protesting his punishment. He closed his eyes and remembered what a pair of ghostly lips brushing his cheeks felt like when Edwin came to say goodbye. 

Cat turned and caught his reflection in an old, half-broken mirror propped against one wall and partially covered by a dropcloth. Slowly, he turned to face the mirror head-on. He lifted a hand to summon his magic, paused, rethinking it for half a moment, then he swirled his wrist.

The purple fog that accompanied his transformations with an affectation - a magician’s trick to make the whole thing seem more impressive. His magic in its natural state was subtle and quiet, as befitted a creature of stealth. The shift to his body happened in a blink. 

Edwin’s reflection stared back at him from the mirror, one hand still held delicately in the air, clad in a brown leather glove that matched his brown overcoat. He was a perfect copy, save golden, slitted eyes. He stepped up to the mirror and swept the gloved hand across the surface to clear it of some of the dust. Then he tugged off his glove and caressed his own cheek. He closed his eyes and let his fingertips creep over his lips. He nuzzled his own palm and exhaled warm breath against his fingertips.

When Cat opened his eyes, it was Edwin’s green eyes gazing back at him. Edwin’s face full of sadness and longing. Edwin’s face aching with loneliness. He pulled off the other glove and held his own hand, tracing knuckles and fingertips. He held his own hand and squeezed it. 

Keep reading on Ao3

(This fic was originally a short called Ennui that just consisted of the first chapter. Now it's an ongoing fic with shapeshifting shenanigans and some light Catcrow elements, though the shapeshifting/identity swap stuff is the focus over the ship.)

[strixamans]

Hello! I’m here for details on Fucking your Friends, please.

The WIP…in case that wasn’t clear.😈

cc: @vakariansyndrome because she asked, too. Also cc: @dramaticchimpmunk because this is the F/F/M strixstarion smut piece I was hinting at before I conceived of the other AA one.

So, "Fucking Your Friends" will (hopefully) be a probably two chapter, post-Hunting Creatures (in that canon) smut piece, inspired by the delightful experience of letting the Loviatar priest flog you with both Shadowheart and Astarion in the room. Also: because Strix is a lowkey exhibitionist, Shadowheart is a kinky little voyeur, and Astarion is always here for a good time.

The concept is this: the gang (except for Lae'zel, who is almost done defeating Vlaakith) is back in Baldur's Gate for Wyll and Karlach's wedding, and have rented out that whole floor of the Elfsong for the duration of the festivities. So, on the first night, we're having a little party upstairs at the Elfsong.

Spoiler alert: Shadowheart and Lae'zel were secretly fucking for at least all of Act 3 (Astarion was so right about that, he feels so vindicated right now). Feelings may have been caught, just a little. Of course, things were put on hold when Lae'zel went off to fight Vlaakith. But, as Shadowheart tells Strix and Astarion, with Vlaakith nearly defeated, Lae'zel's about to return to Faerun, and she and Shadowheart are gonna see where things go from there.

As we know, Lae'zel can be a little possessive of her romantic partner. And while Shadowheart is willing to give monogamy a shot once Lae'zel gets back, she may or may not be enjoying what some might call a "slut phase" in the meantime. Good for her, I say!

Anyway, the drinks are flowing upstairs at the Elfsong. At some point, Shadowheart starts teasing Strix about the whole Loviatar priest thing, which Astarion is all too happy to join in on. Naturally, this turns into a reenactment for the entertainment of all gathered. Tee-hee, what fun! And now, our friends Strix, Astarion, and Shadowheart are lounging on a daybed at the party, drinking wine and chatting, maybe just a little bit hornier than before. Excerpt after the break (I actually just wrote all of this today because I was sad I didn't having anything to share, so it's definitely drafty):

“What’s the worst line he’s ever used on you?” Shadowheart asks, with an impish little smile.

“Oh, for—”

I don’t have to look to see Astarion rolling his eyes behind me.

“You know, that’s a good question,” I reply—giggling, as I take a moment to consider it. Only a moment, though. “It has to be, ‘here’s my little treat with her cheeks all flushed…’”

Shadowheart bursts into laughter, while Astarion scoffs, “Oh, darling, you are so full of shit!”

“Me?!” I twist around in his lap, all mock indignation.

“Yes, you!” Astarion replies. His lips twitch—he starts to smirk. “And would you care to tell our friend what you were doing within hours of that little exchange, my dear?” 

Fair enough. A sheepish grin spreads across my face, as I glance between Astarion and a delighted Shadowheart.

“No…” Her mouth falls open. “You mean that actually worked?! Really, Strix?!”

“Oops…”

“Of course it worked!” Astarion takes a very smug sip of wine. “You harpies can laugh all you like, but the evidence remains solidly on my side.”

Now Shadowheart’s the one rolling her eyes. “Please. Strix may not have a leg to stand on here, but it’s not like any of your lines ever worked on me. What was it…” She taps her glass a few times, and starts to giggle. “Beautiful flower?”

I giggle, too. “Gods, I’d forgotten about that…”

But Astarion remains unperturbed. “Perhaps not, but they would have worked eventually—had I not been so distracted,” he says. And while I take a drink of wine, he goes on, “You might not be quite so delightfully—well, easy as my darling, but with time—”

I nearly spit out my wine before I swallow it. “Easy?!”

“I said what I said,” he replies, nonchalant, sipping his wine.

At first, I just glare. Then, leaning back, I murmur, “I should slap you for that, shouldn’t I?”

“Mmmm... Probably...”

As I know well, it isn't an especially effective way to get him to stop doing something.

But my attention returns to Shadowheart when she speaks. “It may not be too late for you after all, Astarion. Nothing wrong with fucking your friends...”

“Oh?” I glance between Shadowheart—raising her glass to her lips, coquettishly—and Astarion—watching her, intrigued—before I say, “I happen to agree…”

A few seconds of silence. Then, Astarion clears his throat. “Well, I may have been stuck with the rake’s reputation, but trust that this one’s just as bad,” he says, giving me a bump with his hips.

Shadowheart eyes me curiously. “Is she, now?”

“Easily,” Astarion replies. “You wouldn’t believe the nasty things she used to tell me about in camp, back in the day. In fact…” He takes another drink, going on, “There was once I asked her whose blood in camp she’d most like to taste, and without a moment’s hesitation, she said yours.”

Shadowheart grins. “Is that the sort of thing the two of you were always whispering about? Why am I not surprised…”

“I mean…” Before I can say more, though, Shadowheart goes on.

“And do you still want to drink my blood, Strix?” she teases.

Narrowing my eyes, I reply with a coy, “Maybe…” while Shadowheart leans closer, tilting her head to the side. And when I lunge at her, snapping my teeth, she lets out a yelp of surprise, nearling spilling her wine. All three of us erupt into laughter.

“Careful, darling!” Astarion chides through his giggles, pulling me back against his body. “She will do it…”

“Oh, I have no doubt,” Shadowheart replies. And then, once the three of us settle down again after a minute, she looks at me—entirely coy, asking, “What’s it like?”

“Well…” I can’t quite think of what to say—the sudden intensity of her gaze is a little distracting, as is the slight pressure I start to feel against my ass. Twisting to glance at Astarion, he just gives me a tiny shrug, with his very roguish smile. And when I turn back to face Shadowheart, he brings his lips to the crook of my shoulder. 

I gasp—shivering slightly at the erotic, tickling sensation. The pressure of his bulge grows. He starts to work his way up my neck, one languid kiss at a time, while I keep my eyes on Shadowheart. Watching us intently, her lips part, too.

So, on a whim, I suggest, “Perhaps it would be easier to show you?” And while her smiling lips part further, Astarion chuckles. “Oh, darling,” he purrs, just loud enough for Shadowheart to hear. “You know she likes to watch…”

[yatzstar]

How Can One Keep Warm Alone?

Even after living with her brothers for a while, Omega still struggles with being cold all the time. Familiar with her plight, Tech sets out to remedy that.

-

A fic for the amazing @merefis18, based on her super cool TBB modern AU visions are seldom all they seem, specifically as a follow up to Laundry Duty.

Omega woke up at the crack of dawn as usual. She didn’t need to now that she lived with her brothers, and they had insisted as much, but it was a habit from living with her mother that she had not yet overcome. However, she had finally overcome the impulse to rush out of bed immediately after waking, instead allowing herself to lie peacefully amidst her warm bedding. Her brothers had gone to great lengths to ensure her attic bedroom was not drafty in any way, but she was always cold when she got up, a symptom of the perpetual chill that lingered on her. Mother’s house had always been cold, and it seemed that it had followed her into her new life with her brothers, though she hardly noticed it anymore.

After taking a minute to wake up a bit more, Omega got out of bed. She shivered as the cooler air hit her, quickly slipping on a pair of socks before going downstairs. The rest of the house had not yet come to life; her brothers did not rise as strictly as she did, but she could always count on one of them being up by the time she made it to the kitchen. This morning, Wrecker was the first one, already busy preparing breakfast for himself.

“Mornin’, kiddo,” Wrecker called over his shoulder as she shuffled in, his usually boisterous tone muted by the rough edges of sleep. “How’d you sleep?”

“Pretty well,�� Omega replied. “I only woke up once or twice.”

“Good. Want some toast? We still have plenty of strawberry jam.” Wrecker gestured to the stack of toast he had already prepared. He could eat more than she thought any one person would be capable of, but she had never met anyone as big as him.

“Yes, please.” Omega accepted his offer eagerly. She had come to learn that strawberries were a favorite of hers, and strawberry jam on toast was no exception.

Wrecker grabbed a couple of pieces off his stack, plopping them on a plate and handing it off to her. “Here you go.”

“Thank you.” Omega had given up on trying to insist she could make her own breakfast, letting Wrecker and the others supply her with food when they offered it. She took her plate to the kitchen table, grabbing the strawberry jam from the refrigerator as she went. As she sat down at her place and slathered the toast with jam, the floorboards creaked on the floor above, a signal that someone else would be down soon.

Taking her first bite of fruity goodness, she nabbed the newspaper waiting on the table. It had become a habit of hers to read the newspaper while she ate, since it provided her a window into the larger world that she had been separated from for most of her life. She also enjoyed attempting the crossword puzzles, which she was quite good at if her brothers were to be believed.

She was halfway through her first piece of toast when Tech came into the kitchen. Someone had beaten him to the bathroom, if the unkempt state of his hair was anything to go off of, but she kept a straight face as she greeted him, and he returned the greeting with a gentle smile. She refocused on the newspaper, starting to peruse the crossword section.

“Omega, are you cold?”

Omega looked up at Tech, who now stood beside her, surprised by the unexpected question. “Huh?”

“Are you cold?” he repeated patiently. “You’re shivering.”

Omega became aware that she was, in fact, shivering slightly, something so common that she didn’t notice it. “A little.”

Tech was clearly unconvinced, resting a pleasantly warm hand atop her own. “More than a little, I’d say. Your fingers are ice cold.”

Wrecker distracted her from any embarrassment. “Here, you can have my jacket if you’re cold.”

Before she could think of a reply, he had already shimmied out of his enormous hoodie and handed it off to her. It was wonderfully warm, and she immediately put it on, the bottom fringe almost reaching her knees.

“Think that’ll do the trick?” Wrecker asked, clearly amused.

“Yeah,” Omega replied, pulling the massive sleeves back to free her hands. “Are you sure you don’t need it?”

Wrecker waved her question away. “Nah. I’m glad to give it, ‘cause I’ve had my stuff stolen by the rest of these guys all my life.”

“I never did any such thing,” Tech protested.

“Somebody got engine grease on my sweater, and it definitely wasn’t me…”

Crosshair slunk into the kitchen, his eyes flickering over everyone lazily. His lips curled up when he saw her. “Where’s the kid? All I see is Wrecker’s hoodie come to life.” Try as she might, Omega could not stop her smile, which he caught immediately. “See, Hunter was wrong. I can have a sense of humor.”

Omega tried to hide her amusement in the oversized collar. “That’s not funny.”

“Keep laughing, then.”

Omega snorted, the lingering cold dissipating as she began eating her second piece of toast. Tech sat down at the table with his coffee a minute later, giving her an appraising look. “I suspect you are feeling better now.”

“Mm-hm.” Omega swallowed a mouthful of food. “Wrecker’s really warm.”

“Trust me, you are far from the first one to take advantage of that,” Tech said, giving her an assuring smile. “Crosshair and I both have a predisposition towards being cold.”

Omega considered the similarity. “We’re related, so I guess that makes sense.”

“To that end, you are more than welcome to seek out ways to avoid the cold, even if it means taking Wrecker’s jacket again.”

Omega nodded, but her attention was swiftly diverted from the topic as the crossword puzzles caught her eye again. “Do you want to help me with the crosswords?”

Tech raised an eyebrow. “I thought we agreed that it would be more beneficial for you to try them alone.”

“You don’t have to help me with every one!” Omega replied, more eager for his presence rather than his assistance. “Just the hard ones!”

Crosshair shuffled by, elbowing Tech in the shoulder. “Good luck with self restraint.”

Tech glared at him before meeting Omega’s beseeching gaze with a sigh. “Alright, only the hard ones.”

-

Tech started observing Omega’s comfort with the temperature more closely after that morning in the kitchen. As the week progressed, he picked up clear indications that Omega was often cold, though she never said so out loud unless prompted. It made sense in an infuriating way; their mother had cared little about their physical wellbeing outside of the basest necessities, and Omega had obviously suffered the same treatment judging by her lack of complaints.

He felt a little foolish for not picking up on the issue before, since it hit so close to home. He ran cold as well, but at least he had Hunter, Wrecker, and Crosshair to keep the chill away in their childhood. Omega had nobody fall back on, not until she had found them. It became an unspoken mission of his to do everything he could to make sure she stayed warm, from dryer-fresh bedsheets to changing the thermostat no matter how much his brothers complained.

Omega, however, resisted his efforts, albeit unconsciously. She was small and slender naturally, attributes which were pronounced by years of questionable nutrition. It would take a while for her to reach a healthier disposition, but even so, her overall stature did not lend itself to maintaining warmth.

Tech wanted to get her something that would not only keep her warm, but would provide reassurance that her quieter struggles were not unseen and she was not alone in them. However, it was definitely a case of something being easier said than done. He was not good at coming up with gifts for his brothers unaided, much less the sister who had landed in their lives so recently. Girls were a different realm, one he was largely unfamiliar with, but he was determined to learn.

And so, after a week or two of pondering the matter, Tech descended into one of his “rabbit holes” as his brothers liked to call them, where he pursued an issue or an inquiry until he found a solution. He spent every bit of free time he had browsing websites for a worthy gift for Omega, and though he intended to keep the pursuit self-contained, it only took a couple of days for someone to take notice.

“Tech, are you ignoring me on purpose?”

Tech was jerked from the depths of his mind when a hand grabbed his shoulder and shook forcefully. He leaned back in his seat, frowning at Crosshair. “No, I was not ignoring you on purpose.”

“I’ve called you five times,” Crosshair said, looking unimpressed. “I was about to use your real name.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Tech huffed. “What do you want?”

“That muffin has been sitting there as long as you have. Are you going to eat it or what?”

Tech glanced at the woefully abandoned pastry next to his laptop. It was a large, fruity thing from a package Wrecker had bought on impulse when it was his turn to do the grocery shopping. He had sat down with every intention of eating it, but as was his habit, he had gotten too immersed in his research. “I suppose you can have it.”

Crosshair swiped the muffin without hesitation, eyeing him critically as he took a bite. “So what’s got your attention so much that you’re forgetting to eat?”

Tech briefly considered a fabrication to ward him away, but it wasn’t worth the trouble. Crosshair was shrewd enough to figure things out for himself if he wanted to, but he could also be trusted with confidentiality. “I assume you’ve noticed Omega has an issue with keeping warm.”

“Of course I’ve noticed.” Crosshair almost sounded offended. “She’s too small.”

“That, and she seems to share our disposition towards the cold. With that in mind, I’ve been trying to find something that would help her, but I haven’t had much success.”

“It’s not rocket science, Tech. Just get her a sweater or some socks.”

“She has plenty of those, both her own and ones she got from us. I’m looking for something different.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. I’m not sure what a girl like her would want or enjoy.”

Crosshair scoffed. “You’re the one with a girlfriend. Just ask her.”

“Omega is ours now, and I want to learn how to approach these things myself.”

Crosshair rolled his eyes but grabbed an extra chair, pulling it up beside him. “I guess I’ll try to help you, then.”

Tech frowned at him. “I wasn’t necessarily asking…”

“The fact that you admitted you don’t know was more than enough.” Crosshair sighed, propping his elbows on the desk. “And I want to make her forget how cold that house was just as much as you do.”

Tech allowed Crosshair to join his search, which proved to be beneficial, since he now had someone to bounce ideas off of. Being of a slimmer stature, Crosshair had suffered from the cold even more than he had in their childhood, and the steely resolve in his eyes revealed the strength behind his words: he wanted that coldness gone from Omega in body and mind.

They spent their free time together over the next couple of evenings searching for the right gift. As Tech had already discovered, it was not as simple as the concept implied. They went through several websites looking for something, but could not settle on anything they found. She already had a winter coat, which would not provide the indoor comfort she needed, and accessories like gloves and hats fell into the same category. The amount of sweaters she owned was rapidly growing, and there was already a massive stash of blankets on her bed and around her room.

On the third night, they left off with the possibility of a patterned pair of pants that appeared to be warm and soft, two attributes Omega liked. But even as Tech got ready to sleep, he was still thinking through the problem, not quite satisfied with that resolution. As he settled into bed, he tried to put the issue from his mind, grabbing the worn Bible from the bedside table and opening it to where he had stopped the previous night. He succeeded in reading ten verses, until one phrase caught his eye.

‘Then they were each given a white robe and told to rest a little longer…’

“That’s it!” Tech flew out of bed, now sure of what he wanted to give Omega. He went to rouse Crosshair, who was already fully in bed, shaking him none too gently. “Crosshair, I’ve got it!”

“Got what?” Crosshair mumbled, shifting just enough to glare at him from underneath his blanket.

“I know what to get Omega,” Tech urged.

“Why can’t you ever figure things out at a normal hour?” Despite his complaints, Crosshair got up and shuffled after Tech as they returned to his computer.

Now that Tech knew what he was looking for, his search became far more focused and efficient. Within a few minutes, he had landed on a robe that checked every box in his mind, made of thick, soft material that would undoubtedly be warm and comfortable for Omega to wear. Everything proceeded smoothly until he was faced with a new quandary: colors.

“I must admit I do not know what to choose,” Tech admitted, staring down the massive color palette of options.

Crosshair, half asleep in his seat, squinted at the screen. “Red.”

Tech gave him a sideways glance. “Really? Why?”

Crosshair tipped his head back against the chair, shutting his eyes. “I just have a hunch.”

Tech scowled. He greatly disliked vague answers to his questions, but he followed the suggestion anyway. The shade of red was not unattractive, a darker hue that was very close to the colors they had favored in their military days…and perhaps that was Crosshair’s logic.

Omega had not spoken much about her personal preferences, perhaps because she had never been allowed to have any, but a not insignificant amount of the items she had picked out herself were in various shades of red. Whether that was her own preference or one manifested by being around them, he did not know, but he had little else to go off of. The logic seemed sound enough, so he finally made up his mind, ordering one a couple of sizes too big in the hope that she would grow into it.

When he hit the order button, he sat back in his seat, breathing a silent thanks towards the ceiling for the inspiration. Beside him, Crosshair snored quietly, and he scoffed. Now that the gift was chosen, he realized he was faced with an equally challenging task: getting everyone to keep a secret.

-

“You did a good job. I think you’re going to be great with some practice.”

Omega flushed at Hunter’s compliment, unused to such praise, fiddling with her seatbelt. “But I didn’t even come close to hitting the bullseye.”

“I didn’t expect you to. Even Crosshair had to practice to become such a good shot,” Hunter said as he turned the car onto their street. “In time, you might end up giving him some competition.”

Omega smiled to herself. Hunter had taken her to the shooting range a couple of times, where she had discovered she liked archery, and she had been more than happy to take him up on his offer when he unexpectedly brought it up yesterday. It wasn’t the best day for it with an overcast sky and brisk temperatures, but she had enjoyed herself nonetheless, and she hoped Crosshair could go with them next time.

As Hunter pulled into their driveway, he said, “When you get inside, you should check your room. There might be something waiting for you.”

“What is it?” Omega asked, surprised.

Hunter smiled and shrugged as he got out of the car. “I don’t know.”

Omega was pretty sure he did know, but there was no point in pressing him further when she could see for herself. Her curiosity piqued, she hurried inside and up to her room.

True to Hunter’s word, there was something waiting. A simple box sat on Omega’s bed, relatively thin but wide. She tried to imagine what could be inside, but there was nothing she could come up with, which only kindled her eagerness to find out for sure.

A soft gasp left her when she lifted the lid. The color of the neatly folded garment struck her first; a deep red almost exactly the same as the shade her brothers favored. Her wonder increased when she touched the material, so soft it was almost unbelievable to her. After marveling for several moments, she lifted the clothing from the box, revealing the robe in its entirety. It was long enough to reach her feet, complete long sleeves, pockets, and a robe string to secure it around her waist.

“I hope this is a good surprise.”

It took a large amount of effort for Omega to tear her eyes away and look at Hunter, who had entered the room unnoticed. “Is…is this for me?”

Hunter’s smile grew. “Of course it is.”

Omega looked between him and the unexpected gift, mystified. “But why?”

“It was Tech’s idea. He noticed you get cold a lot and wanted to try and help.”

Emotion swelled in Omega’s chest. She had never expected a gesture like this to come of Tech’s observation.

Hunter gave her an encouraging nod. “Do you want to try it on?”

Omega tried to gather herself, carefully slipping the robe on, and the fabric somehow felt even softer as it engulfed her from the shoulders down. The sleeves and bottom hem were oversized on her, but she found she preferred it that way as she submerged her fingers and they began to warm. She brought the sleeves to her face, pressing them against her cheeks and continuing to marvel at the softness.

“What do you think?” Hunter asked.

“I love it,” Omega whispered, unable to think of anything better to say. She didn’t realize how much she was smiling until her cheeks began to ache. “Thank you so much.”

“Of course, kid.” Hunter squeezed her shoulder. “But like I said, it was Tech’s idea to begin with. I didn’t even know about it until he had already bought it.” He looked back down the stairs with a frown. “I thought he was going to be around when we got back. Want to see if we can find him?”

Omega agreed eagerly, wrapping her new treasure around herself, warmed by it and by the love it contained.

-

Tech hadn’t meant to fall asleep on the couch, but lack of sleep had gotten the best of him. The robe had arrived two days prior, and since then he had spent a large amount of time agonizing over how to present it to Omega. He wasn’t inclined to make a big deal about it, but neither did he want the gesture to appear begrudging or without care, and he had thought about it so much that it kept him up at night.

As usual, his brothers turned what he thought was complicated into something painfully simple. Hunter offered to take Omega out for a couple of hours to give him and Crosshair an opportunity to figure out where they wanted to put the gift, and they eventually settled on her bed. Once that was done, he had settled on the couch, having no intention of sleeping with the worries of Omega’s approval invading his thoughts, but his body had conquered his mind for once.

The next thing he knew, he heard Crosshair announcing somewhere close by, “You’ve got incoming.”

Old training compelled Tech to wake quickly, jerking him into consciousness. He opened his eyes, barely registering that he had fallen asleep before his arms were full of Omega.

“Thank you, Tech!” she cried as she collided with him.

“What?” he wheezed, the force of her tackle driving the air from his lungs.

Her smiling face appeared before him, accompanied by bony arms wrapping around his shoulders. “The robe, thank you!”

Tech finally got his thoughts together enough to notice what she was wearing, which was followed by the realization that he had slept too long. He craned his neck to scowl at Crosshair. “You shouldn’t have let me fall asleep.”

Crosshair smirked back unapologetically, in the process of stashing away his phone which likely had several freshly-taken pictures of him and Omega. “There’s no fun in that, and you were tired anyway.”

Omega’s smile wavered. “Did I do something wrong?”

“Not at all, my dear,” Tech said, carefully returning her embrace. “I merely intended to be awake, but that matters little so long as you like your robe.”

“I love it,” Omega breathed, her eyes shining with so much happiness that it took him aback. “I’ve never had anything like this. It’s so soft and warm.”

The sheer adoration Tech was faced with made his heart swell and his response slow. “…Well, that was what I hoped.”

“What about the color?” Crosshair asked.

Omega’s grin only widened, if that was possible. “I love that, too. It’s perfect.”

“Told you,” Crosshair said, and Tech could hear the satisfied smirk in his tone.

“I knew she would like it.” Hunter spoke from somewhere behind the couch.

“I do,” Omega agreed, but then she sat back slightly, her face flushing as she looked down at her hands. “You didn’t have to do this, though.”

“Perhaps not, but I wanted to,” Tech said gently. “I know the cold you’ve felt, and I wanted you to be free of it.”

“We all do,” Hunter added.

Omega looked between Tech and his brothers, but he could not guess what she might be thinking until she quietly asked, “Does this mean I can’t use you guys to stay warm too?”

“No.” All three of them answered, nearly in unison.

“We would be more than happy to keep you warm, and vice versa,” Tech said. “I am certainly not immune to the cold now.”

“So long as both of you keep your cold feet on Wrecker,” Crosshair grumbled.

Omega laughed then looked back at Tech quizzically. “If you get cold, why don’t you get one for yourself?”

Tech paused, considering the suggestion. He had been so focused on her that he had never thought about one for himself. “Well…I see no reason why not. Maybe you can help me find one?”

As Omega happily agreed and leaned against Tech, he knew no robe would ever match the warmth of her presence.

[thewriterisme1987]

Clean Slate

A little Hayffie goodness for a sweet weekend ❤️

Read on AO3 HERE or Below

Clean slate.

Haymitch leaned his weight into the last hay bale, grunting as it thudded into place beside the others stacked neatly along the drafty walls of the old goose barn. The wind bit through the wooden slats like teeth, the kind that warned of a brutal winter on its way. The geese would be moved in tonight, tucked safe inside this rustic shelter while snow buried District 12 inch by inch.

“Last one,” he said, wiping his hands on his coat and turning toward her.

Effie, cheeks rosy from the cold and the work, tucked a windswept curl behind her ear, leaving a faint smudge of hay dust across her forehead. She looked utterly out of place and perfectly at home all at once, a Capitol rose blooming stubbornly through the soil of District 12.

She had never stayed this late in the year before. Her annual visits usually fell in high summer, when the meadows were bursting with color and the Mellark children had endless days of freedom to enjoy their beloved “Aunty Effie.”

Those weeks were always bright, structured, filled with laughter and a comforting sense of predictability. But this summer… had quietly stretched into autumn and soon to be winter.

Her Capitol duties had grown more flexible in recent years, with most of her work now done remotely. So she busied herself with it in the early evenings, after dinner, retreating to a little study space that Peeta had created for her in his bakery’s unused office. The rest of her days were spent outdoors, learning the rhythms of farm life, feeding animals, foraging in the woods, and listening to Peeta explain the language of herbs. She was, to her own surprise, good at it. Gentle with the goats, patient with the geese. The animals responded to her calm nature.

And then there was Haymitch.

He’d made fewer trips to 13 this year, the farm kept him rooted, and perhaps… so did she. When Peeta was swamped at the bakery, Haymitch always seemed to have a chore that needed an extra set of hands, fixing a fence that wasn’t really broken, hauling wood that could’ve waited. Some days, Effie suspected, he invented tasks just to keep her near.

They laughed a lot. The kind of laughter that came easy with shared history, retelling Capitol absurdities and reaping day disasters from years gone by. They didn’t touch on the deeper things. Not out loud. But underneath the banter was something softer, something steadily growing. Over time, a new kind of closeness had settled between them, no longer forged in trauma, but in quiet moments and familiar glances.

Something kept making her stay longer than she intended.

And something kept making him look at her like that, as if her chatter was the only sound in the world he wanted to get lost in.

He reached out without thinking, gently sliding a piece of straw from her hair. His fingers lingered.

Their eyes caught, blue on blue, and the world, for just a breath, paused.

“You remind me of her sometimes,” Haymitch said quietly, the words out before he could stop them.

Effie’s smile widened, warm and easy, completely unaware of the minefield she was stepping into. “Who?”

“Lenore.”

The name hung there, frozen in the air like snow that hadn’t yet fallen.

Effie didn’t move. Not at first. Her face stayed soft, but something inside her stilled. The warmth in her expression faded, replaced by a tight, unreadable tension. She stepped back slowly, brushing hay from her skirt with mechanical precision.

“Oh,” she said. A polite, poised syllable — far too practiced to be real.

“Effie, I didn’t mean…”

Her lips pulled into a smile, but it was brittle and foreign, the kind she used to greet Capitol officials she despised. The real Effie, the one who laughed in the orchard and cried at dusk when the birds sang just like they did in District 12, was gone in an instant.

“I think it’s time I said my farewells,” she said, voice crisp and detached. “I’ve overstayed my welcome as it is. Capitol work doesn’t stop, not even for winter.”

She turned toward the door, her movements brisk, controlled, but he reached for her, gently wrapping his hand around hers before she could leave.

“Wait. Effie, you don’t have to go. You’ve been working from here all season. Just… stay.”

She wouldn’t meet his eyes.

“I can’t,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Peeta and Katniss deserve their privacy.”

“Then…stay with me.” The words escaped him, reckless but sincere.

She pulled her hand away like he’d burned her. Her jaw clenched, trembling for just a moment before she smoothed it out.

“Goodbye, Haymitch,” she said, stepping past him.

Astrid entered the barn just in time to catch the end of the exchange. “Hi, Effie. I just made some sweet tea if you both…”

“Thank you, Astrid, but I really must… It was lovely to see you.” Effie’s voice cracked, ever so slightly, and then she was gone, rushing toward the house, toward her bags, toward escape.

Astrid watched her go, eyes narrowing. Then she turned on Haymitch.

“What did you do?”

—

Haymitch slouched at the kitchen table, his mug of tea cooling in his hands. He’d played the scene over and over in his head, the hay, the touch, the look in her eyes when he said the name.

“You said that?” Astrid exclaimed, eyes wide. She dropped her forehead into her palm. “Haymitch.”

“I didn’t think. It just came out.” He rubbed his face. “I don’t get why it was such a big deal.”

Astrid sighed and refilled his cup. “Okay. I’m going to be real with you now.”

“I don’t like that tone.”

“Well, tough shit,” she snapped. He blinked, he’d never heard Katniss’s mother curse in the years he’d known her.

“Lenore was… lovely,” she continued, her voice softer now. “And what happened to her was cruel and unfair. But it was also a very, very long time ago.”

He said nothing.

“Effie? That woman has been here for years, Haymitch. Through the drunk, the damaged, the downright unbearable, she’s been the one scraping you off the floor and gluing the pieces back together.”

“She was doing her job,” he muttered.

“No.” Astrid’s voice sharpened. “She was not. No one asked her to come to 12. No Capitol escort ever chose District 12, they used to assign it as punishment. But Effie? She asked to come back, year after year. She stayed through the worst of you, not for the charming scenery, I’ll tell you that much.”

He stared down at his cup, his reflection rippling with every tremble of his fingers.

“I asked her to stay.”

“After comparing her to the ghost of the only woman you swore to ever love?” Astrid arched an eyebrow. “Yeah. Real smooth, Abernathy.”

He let out a slow breath, the realisation dawning like a storm. “Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh.” She squeezed his hand. “The train doesn’t leave for ten more minutes. If you care about her, and I know you do, then go bring her home.”

—

The platform was almost empty, save for one lone figure huddled on the bench. Effie sat with her coat wrapped tight around her, a suitcase beside her feet. Her eyes stared blankly at the tracks until the sound of approaching footsteps made her stiffen.

She turned, her face unreadable, until she saw him.

“Haymitch…” she began, standing quickly, voice already tumbling with emotion. “I’m sorry. I was rude, the way I left. What you said… it was kind. It just caught me off guard. I know about Lenore, and how much she meant to you. And it hit me, that I’d been silly. I stayed here too long. I let myself pretend.”

She swallowed hard.

“I thought maybe, I don’t know, that there was a chance. We’ve gotten so close these last few months and I was happy, Haymitch, really happy. And I started to believe maybe you were, too. But you’ve never said anything. You’ve never looked at me that way. So when you said her name, I realised I’d been living in a fantasy and I had to leave before I made things worse, for both of us.”

She tried to catch her breath, eyes shiny with unshed tears.

“It’s not your fault. I just… I should have known better. I’m sorry.”

He didn’t answer. Not with words.

Instead, he stepped forward and kissed her, soft, certain, no hesitation. His hands cupped her face, drawing her close like she was the only warm thing in a world turning to ice.

When they finally pulled apart, their foreheads remained pressed together, breath mingling in the cold.

“I wasn’t comparing you to Lenore,” he murmured. “When I said you reminded me of her, I meant the way she made me feel. Something I thought I’d buried a long time ago.”

He brushed his thumb over her cheek. “But you brought it back. You brought me back.”

Her lip trembled. “Haymitch…”

“I’m in love with you, Effie Trinket,” he said. “Not the way I loved before, but something deeper. Truer. I want you to stay. Not just for the winter. For good.”

She let out a shaky laugh, tears falling freely now. Her arms slipped around his neck, drawing him close again.

“Well,” she whispered, “one can’t argue with that.”

They kissed again as the snow began to fall, blanketing the world around them in white, as if, just maybe, it was offering them a clean slate.

[fattummyt]

Jet Black/Black Woman Reader - "Rookie Season" - Chapter 2 - Autumn

A series of seasonal Jet Black/Black Woman Reader drabbles.

Summary: It wasn't long before Jet started working the graveyard shift. He saw it coming, being a rookie and all, he was bound to get the shit end of the stick for a few years before another lower rank personnel joined the unit.

Jet had grown to love chatting it up with the neighborhood crowd. Stopping in at cookouts on his days off, helping clear the sidewalks for the older folks. Save for a few night owls, the neighborhood was fairly quiet at night and the streets of the city found themselves calling his name more often than you were.

That was until one night, you did.

Tags: Eventual Romance, Neighbors, Flirting, Strangers to Friends to Lovers, Drabble Collection, Young Cop Jet Black AU

Warnings: Mature

Author's Notes: Y/N - Your name.

Chapter 1 | Read it on AO3 here!

"Thanks again for the ride, Officer Black." "It's no problem. In the meantime, if you find yourself on the street in this cold weather, I'm more than happy to give you a lift. I just hope you know this isn't a taxi service." "I would never pay for this kind of service." You both laughed.

Jet listened to nondescript chatter on his police radio as he dragged quietly on his cigarette. He barely heard your voice over the gusts that whistled through the drafty windows.

"Officer Black!" A voice called out. Jet glanced at his driver's side mirror to see you huddled on the sidewalk, a string of grocery bags on each arm and nothing but a jacket, a skirt, and a pair of sneakers.

He pulled his cruiser around, hopping out to grab some bags from your hands.

"Miss Y/N." He started. "What're you doing carrying groceries in this cold?"

"My car stalled up the road, so I called a tow truck. I figured I could make it the rest of the way on foot, then I saw you."

"Here, you can throw your bags in the back."

He silenced his radio, squishing out his cigarette against the dashboard.

"Didn't take you for the kind of man that smokes."

He shrugged shyly. "Nasty habit I picked up from the job."

"I see they have you working the rookie hours."

"Sure am. Can't complain too much though, the overnight shift is quieter. Plus, the Fall weather has been keeping plenty of would be criminals inside." He chuckled. "Well... except for you."

"Guess I picked the wrong night to dress like the summertime, huh?"

He laughed quietly, trying to ignore it, yet ever aware of your rather underdressed state. Your thin windbreaker did little to hide the deep, revealing collar of your top, (not that you were trying to hide it). He didn't peg you as the skirt type, you looked more like a leather pants with a zipper up the leg kind of gal.

"Woof, I'll save that thought for another more convenient time." Jet thought to himself.

"How's the car?" He blurted, eager to discuss another subject.

"Tow service told me I might need some new spark plugs."

"Spark plugs? That's not too bad. Auto mechanic could have you in and out in 2 or 3 hours, easy."

You scoffed, "Oh, so you know a little bit about cars, huh?"

"Well I am pretty handy, if I do say so myself. I actually fix up old cars in my free time."

"You'll like my old piece of junk then." You laughed.

He pulled up to your house like he'd been there a dozen times.

He helped you carry your bags to your home, waiting patiently as you unlocked your front door.

"Thanks again for the ride, Officer Black."

"It's no problem. In the meantime, if you find yourself on the street in this cold weather, I'm more than happy to give you a lift. I just hope you know this isn't a taxi service."

"I would never pay for this kind of service." You both laughed.

You took the bags from his hands, pausing expectantly for a moment. "Why don't you come in for some warm tea really quick?"

The inside of your home looked much better than the windy outside right now, the warmth that radiated from it wasn't lost on him.

"I appreciate the offer but I'm on duty. That wouldn't be appropriate, Miss Y/N." He started. "But hey, maybe I'll stop by on my next day off and take you up on that offer. It'll give me a chance to check out that clunker of yours."

"Maybe then." You chuckled. "Have a safe night, Officer Black."

Jet didn't pull off till the door shut and your lights turned off.

He thought about that night for some time before he bumped into you again.

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[blackcataugury]

Candle Magic, Part 2 - Candle Care & Upkeep 🕯

Greetings, friends! ✨

I wanted to write a little follow up to my Candle Magic post because I know how important candles are to witches and candle-fanatics, everywhere. I wanted to offer some helpful tips and tricks on candle maintenance and upkeep that can help prolong the lives of your candles, thus ensuring that you make the most out of the money that was spent on them.  

At first, I know it might sound silly to imply that there’s more to candle maintenance besides “Light it and make sure to blow it out when you’re done with it to avoid burning your house down.” But in actuality, there are so many little things that we can do in order to help our candles burn cleaner and extend the lives of our candles.

The First Burn?

A candle’s first burn on a new wick can decide the overall life of your candle, and if you aren’t careful, you can actually ruin a candle right off the bat if you aren’t paying attention to it. For a candle’s first burn, you want to make sure that it burns long enough to evenly melt the wax along the entire surface of the candle. This prevents your next few burns from melting and drying the wax unevenly, causing inward tunneling of the wax—thus decreasing your candle’s overall lifespan. Too much tunneling will make it so that the wicks refuse to stay lit, no matter how much you try to burn away the wax that surrounds it. I’ve had a few candles that were ruined almost immediately by this, and it’s so disappointing. It’s often recommended to avoid lighting your new candles until you can dedicate a good chunk of time to allow the whole surface to melt for this exact reason; usually an hour will do the trick to ensure that the wax melts evenly across the entire candle surface.

Other Tips?

As another more obvious pro-tip, you want to make sure that you keep the wax clean from wick trimmings, hair, dust, match sticks that you might use to light the candle, or other unwanted debris that didn’t come embedded in the wax. Many of these fragments are dangerous and can catch fire if the flame hits any of it.

Extinguishing your candle also takes a bit of finesse. It is recommended that a lid or proper candle flame snuffer be used to put the flame out, rather than blowing it out. In doing so, you prevent an unwanted extra smoking or hot wax from splattering up into your face or all over the lip of the jar. It also prevents wax from being moved around to potentially dry and settle unevenly, which can eventually lead to tunneling through more burn/dry cycles. Keep your candles in a safe space at room temperature that avoids direct sunlight when not in use to avoid the candle naturally melting and cooling. Avoid windy or drafty spaces when burning candles, as these two things can decrease your candle’s burn time, cause the wax to melt unevenly (leads to tunneling), and diminish the throw of the candle’s scent if it is a scented one.

Wick trimming is another piece of maintenance you can do to help prolong your candle’s life. You should always trim the wick with either a proper wick trimmer or a pair of sturdy scissors between candle lightings. Keeping the wick approximately 6 millimeters from the wax can help prevent unwanted soot buildup around the lip of the jar, as well as unpleasant “mushrooming” of the wick. “Mushrooming” is when the wick gets too charred and bends over to touch itself or the wax that it is embedded in. Once this happens, it’s incredibly difficult to salvage, as the wick often refuses to light or stay lit for extended periods of time again.

Examine the Flame

You can tell a lot about your candle’s health and overall lifespan just by examining the flame that gets produced upon lighting. A candle that burns cleanly and efficiently has a flame that doesn’t flicker too much and sits more upright. If your flame flickers too much or just won’t stay upright despite there being no drafts or wind present, you should snuff out the flame and allow for some time to cool before trimming the wick. Once trimmed, you can relight and reexamine the flame to see if it looks better.

The End of a Candle’s Life?

One of the most important tips that I learned the hard way after startling myself several times - don’t burn the candle all the way down. Tempting as it may be to use every last drop of wax that you physically can, you want to leave about 10 millimeters of wax before finally calling it quits on a candle, especially if your candle comes in a glass jar. Reason being that you don’t want the flame getting too close to the candle jar’s base and overheating it. Glass will shatter, and other materials may get dangerously hot and melt or split. I’ve had jars straight-up explode unexpectedly from this because I wasn’t paying attention and wanted to use up all the wax. Leftover wax still got everywhere even after the jar exploded, and I had to wait for it all to dry so it could be scraped up and cleaned appropriately. Don’t be like the old negligent me—don’t burn your candles all the way down. 🤡

I will likely write a part 3 post for this series on Candle Magic dedicated to making your candles, for those that feel so inclined to try crafting their own candles, like some of my fall candles shown above. It’s rewarding and relaxing, and I’ll have tips to help make things more affordable, as well as for recycling and refurbishing candle jars for your manufacturing process. Until next time, friends. <3

[adelha-mathilde]

Sunshine and Kilts (Obey Me!) fanfic

A bliss filled sigh escaped the lips of Diavolo. Noting upon waking the warming touch of the sun. A thing he was unused to enjoying from living in the Devildom's constant night. yet he savored the heated tickling over his bare skin. So he tugged down the bedsheets to really let the sunshine through the windows soak into his frame. Until his body was barren of coverings to just be kissed by sunshine.

Diavolo felt wonderful. A smile stretching his lips as he turned in the bed. A hum of pure delight echoing in his throat. This felt like indulgence. A thing he would gladly savor during this escape to the Human World and Adelha's island sanctuary. The sounds of birds singing outside mixed with the happy barks of Adelha's puppies. Which meant the lady dragon would most likely be up and awake. Diavolo chuckled at himself and his thoughts to notice the barks were circling the cabin manor house. Meaning the puppies were having a race. Which meant there would be chaos outside.

The demon shifted to stretch fully in the bed and let the sunshine soak into his frame. Toes curling as the breeze wafted in. But he knew he would not get to stay in the comfy bed and bask in the sunshine. Since a knock upon the door meant he would have to get up. So he sighed to just heft himself out of the bed and onto one foot. Barbatos opening the door to enter the room with a smile. Said smile stretching as Diavolo flexed his wings and fingers. The butler not looking the least bit offended that the demon prince had no sleeping clothes upon his frame. Barbatos simply placed a hand to his chin to muse at his master. "My. Someone wanted to sunbathe in bed. I am sorry to say you will have to postpone such ideas. Our hostess deserves for you to arrive on time for brunch." Diavolo chuckled to not look bothered by such musings. Yet he did ask, "Is there a dress code for this brunch I should be aware of?"

Barbatos tilted his head slightly to look amused at the given question. Soon nodding his head to place a hand to his middle. "There was a rather charming suggestion brought up by myself and our lady dragon. That being you might wish to wear the more traditional garb of the region. That being a kilt." Diavolo paused in his stretching to blink a few times. Soon looking to Barbatos with a mixture of surprise and confusion. But the butler simply smiled to hold out a piece of immaculately tailored cloth. Done in various shades of red and orange to be a kilt. Diavolo soon snickering in evident amusement. "So that's it. Just my customary loincloth and that fabric between myself and the rest of the world?" Barbatos would get a glint in his gaze to note, "Whether you wear anything under the kilt is up to your personal discretion. But I would suggest wearing something underneath. It might get drafty."

Diavolo burst out laughing to put a hand to his middle. Tears pricking his eyes as he nodded in agreement. "Hah! I see! Very well then! I will don the traditional garb my hostess has provided! If only because the weather may prove to be too hot for anything else." Barbatos let his tail sway as he helped Diavolo don the kilt properly. Ensuring it stayed in place with a few minor spells to then bow once Diavolo was properly dressed in his only item of clothing. But Diavolo turned to the mirror to grin. Looking quite pleased at how the red and orange colors of the fabric matched his skin tone and hair. "Wonderful. I might just wear this for the rest of our stay. If I didn't know better, I might think this was part of a ploy to see me wed to our hostess."

The silence was telling in that moment. But Barbatos chose to huff a laugh and look completely calm over the suggestion. "Dear me. I hadn't considered you might say such, young master. Yet the idea has appeal to it." Diavolo turned his gaze for his mood to shift to playful curiosity. Asking with warmth, "Ah. So you admit the idea has come up before. That I should court the Fae woman of dragons and vampires to be my chosen bride. The entire Devildom would be turned and shaken like a maraca. Despite the Lady Mathilde being a Countess and of noble enough birth. Yet you wouldn't oppose such?" Barbatos closed his eyes to really think on the question presented by his ward and much beloved prince. Soon opening those eyes to smile and hum his favor. "Margaret Joanna Adelha Mathilde. A woman of tender compassion and humble countenance. While also holding ferocity for protecting loved ones and a wit of sharpest edge. She is a marvel, indeed. No other woman compares. But most of all, the two of you make each other smile and laugh from the heart. She delights in your presence as you do so in turn. What more might one ask for when it comes to falling in love?"

Diavolo let those truths sink in for him to really consider their weight. A smile still upon his lips as he mused aloud. "Indeed. A tilting thing. To fall in love with another. Let alone have them do so back. I wondered in my youth what that might be like. If my father and mother ever had that blessing happen to them." Barbatos nodded to then take a step closer. Placing both hands onto Diavolo's shoulders as his tail gently tapped Diavolo's thigh. "They found the best in each other to have such shine like stars. Something I see now when you are with Margaret. As one who cherishes you, I would be glad to see you wed the lady dragon for love. Knowing full well she will give you unending bliss and fight beside you against all adversities." Diavolo placed his hands to Barbatos at his elbows to note with a sly chuckle, "Quite literally. That dragon knows how to use both sword and spell to maximum effectiveness. I've seen the matches you two hold during her sword practice." Barbatos smiled to then give Diavolo the expected hug. The two holding tight to one they call family. Until a wayward bark has the door creak slightly open for a fuzzy puppy to scamper into the bedroom. A yip soon followed by the pup sliding on the polished wood floor to then spin and bump right into Diavolo's foot. Making the puppy flinch and grumble at not using proper brakes for Diavolo to burst out laughing. The demon prince soon scooping up the pup to give him a grin as the puppy wiggled and gave Diavolo good morning face licks. "Silly of you to enter before knocking, little one. Must have been far too eager to ask me to play. All right then, Wesson. Enough loitering."

Barbatos turned when a knock did sound at the door for Adelha to be there looking amused. Her long green dress swishing with every movement as her hair fell in cascading waves over and against her shoulders. Those striking azure blue eyes holding mirth and warmth as she chuckled rich sounds of delight. "My apologies. Wesson didn't want to wait any longer to see you. Good day to you, Diavolo. I see you chose to wear the offered kilt?" Diavolo nodded to keep Wesson against his bare chest with one arm. The other hand outstretched for Adelha to come into the room. While Barbatos saw to tidying the room proper as Adelha walked over. Diavolo looking pleased to state with pure delight, "Why wouldn't I choose such a wonderful surprise. I must say you have a keen eye for matching colors, Addy. But I do wonder if I have to wear any shoes or evil socks." Adelha shook her head to smile. "Not if you wish to skip them and trounce around this island barefoot. Who am I to say no when I tend to do so myself."