#looking to be a beta reader

[ronnykins-needshelp]

Looking to be a beta reader for a SVSSS fanfic!

I finally learned what a beta reader is and I’m super interested in trying it out!

Here is my profile with my examples of my writing - 🌟

I can do any type of beta reading, I just would like to know before hand what you would like for me to do!

For beta reading I’m available everyday from 2pm to 12 am with the exception of 5-7pm Cuase cooking and cleaning.

My donts on fanfics are NSFW cis swap ships [ so M/M ships only ] and Liu Qingge/Shen Qingqiu fics [ it’s not a bash to the ship, I see it but my mind only has them as siblings lol ].

Im looking to beta read one for now

If I get more than one offer I would choose the one I’m most intrigued in.

If your interested please dm me the premise of your fic, what you would like for me to do, and if you want to go to discord if I agree!

I’ll archive this post once I do :3

[veneralice]

art credit to @Qianbenshan on X ! all credit to the artist!

divider credit to @cafekitsune ! all credit to the original creator of the divider!

the ocean’s call / rafayel (m.)

rafayel just thought it would be funny to lead the fisher’s daughter astray by crowning her in water and blood - he’s killed so many of rafayel’s brethren, after all. if only he had known how hard it is to resist the desire of something you cannot have. (14.7k words)

content/content warnings: reader as the daughter of a fisher who hunts mermaids for their caviar (yum), reader and father’s relationship is not physically abusive but perhaps emotionally idk how to properly describe but i don’t want to leave it untagged, reader probably has some daddy issues (and i don’t mean that in the mocking way but in a the-author-has-daddy-issues-and-this-shit-is-not-funny-or-sexy kind of way), some body-horror detailing caviar harvesting, stealing star wars names for my background characters because i just finished andor and i’m not good at naming stuff, oral sex (male receiving), body worship (fem. receiving), switch!rafayel who seems submissive at first but in reality is just a crybaby dom, animalistic behavior (rafayel’s shark ass bites reader), some flesh-eating thoughts on rafayel’s behalf because you give him cuteness aggression, no actual cannibalism (wouldn’t that be funny) (i love yellowjackets), some overstimulation (both receiving) if you squint, idk . Idk i just kinda went crazy over this . who even wrote this

You were nine when your father took the joy out of the sea for you.

Perhaps you should start this off differently. You should remember the way it was a perfect summer’s day, and you had just finished your very first day of tutelage under the shrine maiden in Whalefall City. Your mother, whose rejection of that idea had been whittled down like a wooden arrow for the entire spring, had finally relented and allowed you to pursue a shrine maiden’s education. One day, it would be her daughter calling her to prayer and not the sneer-faced woman who currently held the title of ‘seasinger’. It wasn’t because your household was necessarily non-religious, or averse to the faith practiced in the city.

It’s just that your father spits on the holy city’s faith by partaking in the hunt of mermaids, just for sport, just for fun, just because he can.

Before that magical summer, you had never once been able to affix a picture to that. You knew your father was a talented fisher who was able to draw out even the most difficult of oceanic bounties, and he always made sure your family was fed. But you were a daughter, you see, a fact your father always had secretly mourned no matter how much it hurt your mother (“How I have groveled and suffered to deliver you to this earth!”), and thus you had never been taken with on the boat to hunt the mermaids littering the shores of Whalefall City.

You’ve seen them. It’s impossible not to. They dive in elegant curves, as whorling as the waves, a star-speckled shadow across the water before they disappear in its depth. The colors of the rainbow, the shimmer of the night-sky in their tails. More myth than real life. More dream than reality. Yet still here, sharing these waters with the citizens of the city. Lurking. Hiding. Surviving.

As per your own tradition, you bend down at the curve of the cliffpath you always took towards the sea and scoop up the wild-growing oceanvales. This was something you never once had told anyone about, and it was a daily routine you never neglected, feeling as though the day would remain incomplete if you didn't. This was not part of the religious teachings one received in the halls of the Dolphin's Hall, but it was a part of you, just as the ocean was. In the end, everything returns to salt. You throw the oceansvale into the waves and watch as the petals dissolve above the water's surface, as if sending a paper lantern off to carry your wishes.

In that moment, on the edge of you casting one last look at the horizon and in the turn of your heel to begin the climb back home, a blue-haired, child-like head bobs above the waves. You almost miss it, absentminded as you are, but you do see it: the small hand, barely differing to your own human one, furling around the petals and taking them with it as both hand and mermaid disappear. It makes you smile, almost making it worth it; as if this routine had finally been acknowledged for what it was. You wondered if mermaids and humans could be friends.

You couldn't have known how decisively crushing your father's answer would be.

The door is already open when you come home. An ominous sign, a warning for yet to come. The door was never left open, especially not on days where your father is supposed to take to the sea so he can partake in his favorite illegal dealing. There's no specific law condemning the prizing of roe out of a mermaid's womb, but it isn't looked upon with favor, either. The scriptures had always foretold of a deep unity between earth and sea, between moving plates and shaking waves, between mineral and salt. To turn your back on the ocean's creatures was to turn your back on the seasinger's preachings. That does not erase the hunger for their caviar, though, and the black market flourishes. And as long as the black market for caviar flourishes, your father refuses to cut into his own pockets, especially now, when the taxes in the city become more unforgiving and unforgiving with the preparations for the festival that is to be celebrated in just a moon's turn.

Your father is standing just beyond the door, in the dimly-lit hallway leading to the comfort of your mother's kitchen. His face is suffused with blood, red with anger, a fact that makes you duck your head in alarm, but is in vain. As soon as he sees you, your father's hand grips your frail shoulder and turns you toward him, his face the shadowed grimace of a man annoyed. "Did I not tell you to not go near that cliff time and time again?" he chastizes. For the moment, he holds himself back; your mother has drawn herself up in preparation of your defense, and her face mirrors the storm clouds you perceived in your father's grimace. But you can feel the need for him to shout rise steadily, like a tsunami beginning to swallow you whole. You lower your gaze to the ground, not knowing what to say. When you don't answer, your father finally shakes you and barks out, "Speak, girl! If it hadn't been for old Luthen pointing you out to me, I would have never found out about this, and then we'd be fishing out your bones out of that damned cove instead of a good piece of salmon for dinner!"

"Oh, leave it!" Your mother's hands shake off your father's threatening grip, and you allow yourself to breathe again. At your mother's chest, the world is safe. There are no scary men or scary bed-time stories about the unruly ocean. Instead, the scent of cinnamon and warm wood wraps you in its’ embrace, and you hide your face in the crook of your mother’s arm as she glares at your father. “She’s gonna be a seasinger, this girl is, and I won’t have you interfering with it. We all agreed to listen to her wishes. She’s not gonna be a fisher like you, Galen!”

“Well, I sure hope she won’t, because she does not heed a single warning I’ve ever taught her about it! Those mermaids don’t exactly gallop into my nets of their own free will, they’re dangerous!”

“You’ve made your point, now shove off.” Your mother glides her hand over the curve of your head. Protective, caring. Her presence is the calming lighthouse in the stormy seas, guiding you home, and although your father is still enraged, you believe the worst to be over. You are wrapped up in a childhood kingdom that is still entranced with the unknown, the beckoning of the deep, the ocean’s call. No one has taught you how to drown yet.

Not yet. But someone will, now.

Your father, your only father. You remember him tying knots in all ur robes, the way he made you laugh when swinging you up into the skies, up, up, and beyond. His fingers digging into the sides of your tummy to tickle the giggles out of you, claiming the sound was so joyous that all on earth and in the sea should rejoice in it. But you also remember the way his fingers dug into the soft of your flesh, yelling at your fingers bitten down to the quick, belittling you for your fear. The sneer on his face when he couldn’t fathom where your stupidity came from. The stormy eyes. This was the man who had never been taught better on how to love his family, and he won’t change for you, not for your mother or anyone else.

So when he encircles your wrist with his manacle-like fingers, you already know you’d been hoping for a reprieve and now the guillotine came swinging down to behead you. Your mother’s startled voice speaks up, but you cannot even begin to decipher the words, because your father is already shouting, “I don’t want to hear it, not from you, not when it’s your fault she’s turned out this soft and naive! If she wants to be a seasinger so badly, I’ll teach her what it means to sing into the sea!”

Her panicked voice is swallowed by the wind as your father begins to tug you down the pebbled path winding down from your house into the city, but you quickly turn off-path as your father begins to steer you towards the ocean. The salt is in your eyes and in your mouth, and you cannot be sure if the sharpness on your tongue is the rain, your tears or the taste of pure fear. As you angle up your head to look at the house one last time, your mother stands in the door, looking incredibly forlorn. You understand that look very well: that although your father is an incredibly hotheaded, temperamental man, the fact still remains that his little sport paints a target on the fishers’ backs.

It is time to stop romanticizing the mermaids now.

It’s the only thing you can think of as they claw the mermaid to ship. The words repeat over and over in your head, like the sharp stones thrown against the waves as the soft water makes them yield. They become round and pliant, your thoughts, running together in a string as you stare at the sight and try not to look. You don’t want to see. You don’t want to see. But they make you: Old Luthen (you’d spit on the name if you could) has his hands settled on your shoulders, keeping you turned towards the sight of your father and his shipmates heaving the gods’ dearest creation on deck. You try to see through the face, make yourself not acknowledge it, as if it could help if you pretend not to take note of her face. But she looks back at you, straight on. Her pearlescent eyes zero in on the way old Luthen has his fingers carved into your shoulders, the way he could crush and grind you down like brittle bones if you resist. And she understands: you are as trapped as she is. It is a terrible thing, this understanding that passes between the two of you, and you wish it hadn’t happened, wish she would have growled and screamed at you as she did at her captors.

The understanding flees her eyes pretty quickly when they begin to carve her out like a pig on a spit.

It’s terrible. The fear on your tongue turns into bile, and then you find yourself swallowing back vomit, not trusting yourself to throw up when your father was still intent on punishing you. The knife glides into the soft-scaled tail way too easily, giving way to a glittering, human-like nightmare. You’ve seen the way clams guard their precious pearls, the almost pretty membrane surrounding them to keep them safe. The translucency of it made it a beautiful wonder to behold, but there’s nothing beautiful about this, not when they’re clawing at the mermaid’s insides as if they were the bothersome strings of a spider’s web. The mermaid thrashes and screams, and then the bloodcurdling noise coming out of her mouth is unrecognizable, because they begin to serrate at the edges of her wound to drive into the hard scales surrounding her womb. To get everything, y’know, there’s people paying a pretty penny for their organs. S’pposed to have miracle healing properties. You swallow and swallow and swallow, but when they begin to tear at the flesh that was supposed to keep her roe safe, and the guts begin to speckle your feet, you find your way out of Luthen’s prison-hold and throw up right over the side of the ship. You can still hear her sobs, despite the sound of Luthen’s laughter - can’t stomach the fisher’s life, can she, your daughter? - and more deafeningly so, you can hear how loud the silence is in your ears when she finally quietens down, when she returns to the sea, the only burial the men give her. One last time, you’re looking at her as she bobs in the waves, her helpless arms streaked with wounds she suffered as she strained against the nets and knives. You think of those arms, and her ocean eyes, the way they had looked like a nightmare come true and yet the gaze they contained had been softer than any look your father had ever given you. Maternal, almost.

You close your eyes and think of your own mother. You guard that image of her, imprint it on the back of your eyes as your father settles his hand on the top of your head. Wanting to slip back into the role of the nurturing, caring father. Your fists clench and unclench at your sides. “It’s not a pretty thing, girl,” he says, and it’s supposed to sound soothing. Instead, it feels like he’s stabbing your ears with the same knife he used to gut her womb with. “They know what we’re capable of. They like us just as little as we like them. Your songs will help you nothing. It changes nothing.”

But something had changed. Irrevocably, unrepairingly, it had changed. As they paddle you back to the shore, all you can think about is the fact that this mermaid, this stranger, had viewed you more kindly than your own father had. And you carry that look with you as you grow into a woman, as unacknowledged and resented as the young daughter you had been.

From his hidden viewpoint, Rafayel can only glimpse the edges of your skirt. It’s a silver, diaphanous material, hugging the back of your legs like a seastar clings to the rocks. Expensive. Noteworthy. The garb the students of the shrine’s faith don as they perform their traditions, as if they don’t smile at the sea’s creations with one corner of their mouth and spit with the other. Disrespectful, your faith is, as disrespectful as your father’s nets and his arrogance as he takes to the sea. Rafayel’s sea. “Father, you forgot to take your hooks with you again,” your voice then rings out, freeing him from his hateful looks. It sounds too melodious. It should be as scratchy, as bothersome, as vile as humanity’s existence. But he is Lemurian at heart, and he cannot help himself from appreciating your lovely voice. A true seasinger, he begrudgingly thinks, but then he hastily corrects himself. A seasinger with the talent for it, but a liar nonetheless. Humanity can only deceive. “You should at least maintain the illusion that you’re hunting for something … legal. They’ve been cracking down on the black market’s dealings for a while now.”

“Only makes my prizes more precious, girl,” comes your father’s dry retort. He’s never once called you by your name in the entire time that Rafayel has begun to trail you, following your traces around town. He hears the gentle splash of your feet hitting the water, feels his senses prickle as he becomes aware of the way your body braves the spitting sea. “Just means I’ll get a better fetch for this stuff because of how rare it is. Alright, hand it over, before you catch a cold. Stupid attire you’ve got on there barely even protects you from the wind.”

“The sea warms me, father.”

“Pah!” The mockery comes easy to your father, he, whose entire business relies on his mockery of the Lemurian species. He can’t tell whether you’ve handed the bucket to your father, but he can tell when you retreat, the way your toes send up sandstorms all along the beach as you wade back to shore. “Spare me. If I wanted a sermon, I’d be sitting next to your mother in that overstuffed hall of yours. And I’ve told you countless times to avoid this cove!”

You ignore the latter part of his sentence. “The Dolphin’s Hall would have to be hit with a meteorite to ever move you to its sanctuary, father.”

“Ha! Haha!” His laughter seems biting, then becomes less striking as your father begins to paddle away. It creaks, heavy with his gear; the little rowing boat is just a distraction from the heavy vessel way out in the ocean his friends are waiting for him on. “It hasn’t taken your humor, at least. Alright, get back now. Go on!” He has to shout as the distance grows. “Gonna catch a cold, you will! And kiss your mother from me!”

The murmured answer you give him is lost on both your father and Rafayel, but it doesn’t sound very assenting. What isn’t lost on Rafayel is the realization that your father is the worst person in the world, but you are his favorite daughter, and that knowledge drags you down like an anchor rapidly descending. Keeping you in one places, weighing you down. Your footsteps become heavy as you walk up the beach, not as graceful as the way you had carried yourself in the sea. As he begins to follow you upstream, following the ocean’s arms deeper into the woods which border your village, he can still hear you angrily muttering to yourself.

He doesn’t know what to make of that. When he had suggested to his court that he’d revenge himself on the fisher and his entourage, his advisors had only given him a pained smile. Most of the elders still cling to the memory where their devotees on land would outstretch their hands in a blessed union, where their friendship made the moon wax and wane with happiness. They shake their heads in sadness with every murdered mermaid, as if that would fix anything. And yet, there are also those with a mind as murderous as his, still cautioning him, she’s not her father. If we take what is precious to them just because we can, what makes us better than them?

Morality. Rafayel scoffs to himself, sounding as resigned as you did in your trudge upward. As if that could help with anything. Had your father thought of morality when he had killed sweet Lyra right before her wedding night? Had he thought of morality when he desecrated her corpse for a handful of eggs, which could have been Rafayel’s nieces and nephews to dote on?

The ocean merges into a river he refuses to swim in, so Rafayel halts at the edge of the water to watch your slight frame disappear into the city. He doesn’t like to leave behind his tail in favor of awkward, human legs, but if he wants to keep an eye on you, he will need to. He’s getting pretty good at this, actually: Looking at you. Memorizing the way your lips curve into a smile, the shark teeth glint inside the grin you sport for when something makes you laugh. The way your light and deft fingers can tie the most powerful of sailor knots. The way your gentle hands hold a knife in the most reverent manner, as if this was an honor entrusted to you, not in the uncouth way your father points it at precious life.

You are not like him, uncomfortably so. It rankles Rafayel to see how much you are trying to escape your father’s taint.

The more he watches, the more he sees that taint poisoning you. You are a river current, slowing, slowing under the poison the human world dumps into you. It eats away at you, the way the rust claims the metal it swallows before it destroys the metal whole. The way you lower your head like a supplicant, shameful of the tales your fellow shrine maidens carry when your father sports another ‘treasure’ on the market. The way you paint on a smile when necessary, because you do not have the strength to face the naked truth. Your careful fingers, always touching in devotion. Moving to prayer. Guiding along to the sea’s chants. Hands of peace, not of war.

Of course, that only makes you an even more delicious offering. Even the gods know an innocent life is more precious than the forced sacrifice of a man already doomed for punishment.

As the sun sets on Whalefall City, people begin to flood the Dolphin’s Hall with eager chatter. Rafayel melts back into the shadows of the impressive dome, becomes one with the many murals depicting the ocean’s history. The hall itself is decorated in such an ornate manner that it makes Rafayel question whose devotion had turned into flesh here, bearing fruit to a worship so true that even Rafayel doesn’t dare think of blasphemy. Perhaps there was a time where humanity hadn’t been an accursed thing for him to ponder over. A long time ago, when words and actions still had meaning.

But then is not now. And now, everything has changed.

He watches as that change warps you, the shadow that passes over your face taking on the shape of his long lost Lyra. When you look up again to lead the group into prayer, your eyes have steeled over - as if through the entire room full of people, his thoughts have reached you. They hang above you like the clouds gathering before a storm as you begin the sermon, your voice crystal-clear, never wavering. Whatever doubts your father has stirred in your heart, they do not find their way here.

The last bell of prayer rings out at the same time as you bow to the masses. In acknowledgement, they murmur back their only line in the script - may the moon guide you through the storm - and then turn, flooding the exit like over-eager sardines squirming inside a can. Rafayel joins the stream of people, casting one last look back at you, but you’ve already risen again and turned your back on him. Your connection is broken now, a fact that Rafayel is secretly relieved, then aggrieved about.

Why does that matter to him, anyways?

On a full-moon night, Rafayel decides to cut you loose before you can confuse him further.

He’s been anticipating this for days now, anxiously looking up into the sky every time his head broke through the waves. As a seasinger, you are required to take part in monthly ablutions under the light of the full moon, returning to her domain of power before the wax and wane pulls at the seas. You’re supposed to take the maiden in training with you, but over the past few months, you’ve rejected her every time, gently but sternly relegating her to other tasks to be completed inside the Dolphin’s Hall. You want to be alone with your shame, alone with the fact that you seem to speak to the moon like she’s your only friend.

You’re not aware of the fact that Rafayel has been quietly listening on, every full moon night. As a Lemurian, he does not partake in a faith that revels in the worship of the sea. And yet, here he sat come every full moon, hiding himself in the rivers converging into the shallow pool in which you submerge yourself. He cannot keep hanging on to your every word. If he wants to revenge himself on the old fisherman, he has to do it now, before his too-humanoid-heart foils his plans and spares you. He thinks of Lyra and her kindly face, knowing she’d disapprove, but he makes himself go through the motions anyways.

He hadn’t been prepared for your reaction.

You don’t divest yourself of your clothes when you enter the pool, but Rafayel doesn’t have to imagine much to paint a picture of what is beneath, anyways. The satin hugs the shape of your body like a fervent lover, beginning to pool around you as you accept the water’s embrace. Lower and lower you sink, before you dive into the water to be fully submerged and rise again. He comes to a halt just a few feet away from you, on the periphery of your gaze. You do not see him yet. But he sees you. He sees the way the water falls in rivulets from your luminous lashes as they frame your clear eyes, sees the way the moonlight drinks in your irises. There’s a jealousy he cannot pinpoint inside his chest as the water begins to tear down your cheeks, framing your face so gently. You shudder slightly when the cold begins to settle in your bones, and your hands come to cover your exposed arms. As Rafayel realizes that he should not feel so enticed by the sight of a mere mortal being and his heart begins to tighten, you finally turn your face and realize that you aren’t alone here.

For a very long, heart-stoppingly awkward moment, no one says anything.

Rafayel stiffens up, waiting for your scream. He has planned this carefully, and he knows there is no way any help will reach you here, not when you’re in his domain. The moon may peer her gaze over these waters, but the water is his dominion, his kingdom. You are trapped inside the palm of his hand, and he is readying himself to swallow you whole.

But you don’t scream.

Your breath comes more shallowly, speeding as your lungs rush to fill air. He idly wonders how that feels like, the way the lungs balloon inside that easily broken chest. Despite all this, despite the circumstances, despite the fact that you are quite aware what the sight of a mermaid might mean to you, your eyes do not fill with fear. So Rafayel doesn’t move, either. He watches you and the way your chest constricts, listens how your breath stutters. And then you finally speak. “Is it you?” you whisper. “Did you hear my prayers?”

The magic of the moment is broken then, and Rafayel audibly breathes out. He almost breaks out into mocking laughter, - me, fulfilling your prayers? - but he stops himself short, not intending to waste the opportunity. If you would come willingly to meet your fate, then that would be even better. “Your prayers?” he repeats, and then, although he couldn’t make his disbelief clearer, he says, “Do you really think a being like me would bother to listen to any of your prayers? After all your kind has done to us?”

You take in his words with an austere expression. “No, I suppose not,” you murmur out, biting down on that full lower lip. No, don’t think about biting that lip for her. Don’t think about it. He chases away his own thoughts and instead begins to wonder why you’re not scared yet. Are you aware that there is nothing you can do to change this fate? “But one can hope. I couldn’t ever call myself a seasinger if I didn’t still have faith that the earth and the salt could reconcile again.”

“And whose fault is it that a reconciliation seems to be so impossible?”

You blink at him, fresh rivulets of water carding through those lashes like tears. You look like you’re crying, even though Rafayel knows you are not. “Do not take me for a hypocrite,” you tell him, sounding entirely too earnest. “I am quite aware of whose fault it is. We humans bear the sins of our fathers, after all.”

You sound bitter.

She’s not her father. If we take what is precious to them just because we can, what makes us better than them?

Rafayel hums at that. It doesn’t matter; it doesn’t change anything. He’ll kill you swiftly if he has to, give you a kind death. It’s better than anything your father’s crewmates have ever given to any mermaid they’ve stumbled upon. You won’t suffer, that he promises you, but he’s not going back on his word, not for anything. So he makes himself move closer. You still don’t scream for help as he approaches you, just muster him warily, like you’ve encountered a familiar face on the street yet cannot remember where that familiarity comes from. “And if I was your friend?” he asks, challenging your logic. “Then what? Would all be forgiven, and we’d dance in a circle throwing flowers?”

“Why don’t you find out?”

You stretch out a hand.

He should spit on it. If anything, he should claw at that hand like a man drowning and pull you into the depths. Your father does not deserve to cradle your corpse and reminisce about the day he’s held you for the first time. He deserves to suffer beyond all measure, and Rafayel intends to see to that. He schools his features into polite neutrality before he readies himself for the killing strike.

Rafayel draws in a shuddering breath. And then, like the liar he is, he takes your hand.

It is as soft as he had imagined. Too human, too weak, too frail. Every bone and sinew feels like it will give with just a squeeze, broken beyond repair. It feels like a betrayal.

He can barely make himself think a proper thought when you use the opportunity to step closer to him. He can smell you now, that distinct scent of myrrh and burnt offerings that clings to your skin. This is the scent he’s been using to track you for months. Below the too-thin garb of your seasinger attire, he can see the way your precious collarbones lift and sink in quick succession, your breath coming entirely too fast now. You’re panicking. You are deathly afraid of him. And yet you ignore that fear to squeeze his hand, as if this was just another interaction in the Dolphin’s Hall to you. In your eyes, he finds that steady faith that holds your spine rigidly straight, the look you can never give your father because of how you defer to him. “You’re much taller than I thought,” you tell him, your voice shaky. Then you give him a tentative smile. The light of your hope is reflected in that expression, and it hurts to realize that he will be responsible for diminishing that forever.

It’s okay, he tells himself. I’ll just grow closer to her so she’ll trust me, and then, when I’ve got her wrapped around my finger, I’ll kill her in front of her father’s eyes. “You look too small for a human, so I’m not certain you’re equipped to be delivering these kinds of judgements on appearances,” is all he says in response.

“Well, that is a valid observation.” You haven’t let go of his hand yet. Rafayel makes no move to free himself, either. You are locked into this situation, moved by something neither of you can understand. You let your gaze roam over the entirety of his face, the way it lingers on the sharp edges of his ears, the scales rippling down his throat. He certainly hopes you don’t see the way he squirms beneath that gaze. “But you’re my friend now, so you’ll forgive me for my deadly honesty. I fear that is just part of who I am, so you’re going to have to live with it.”

“Is that how one becomes a friend? This quickly?”

“Oh, certainly. You’ve been holding my hand for quite some time now. No,” you rush to say as he attempts to disentangle himself, fingers flashing to grip his arm. His first instinct is to strike out, to defend himself from humanity’s danger. He wrestles that instinct down until it becomes nil. He is bending at the edges, unraveling like threat inside your skilled hands. You guide him back towards you and intertwine your fingers. Your seasinger voice lulls him into a sense of security that is going to get him killed someday. She’s already bewitching you far too much for this plan to work, his inner voice cautions. The sound is growing increasingly frantic, every thought stumbling after the other until it turns into a senseless avalanche. Kill her now, before she undoes us all. Kill her now. “Will you let me prove that our friendship can work?”

No, his inner voice shouts. She’s your enemy’s daughter. SHE is your enemy. KILL HER NOW.

The warmth of your hand melts into his every bone. Sinking in like poison. “I suppose I have no choice,” he tells you, sealing his fate.

Rafayel begins to realize how fucked he is.

He was already quite aware of his awful disposition before he ever approached you, the way your mortal face charmed him the way a snake ensnares its victims. Too pretty for a human, a trap laid bare. He feels that very trap biting into his skin every time you smile at him. It draws blood every time your touch brushes him. As ridiculous as it sounded, he feels himself exploding from a second puberty, your every notion setting fire to his blood.

He struggles to maintain his murder fantasies. It’s a little bit difficult to focus on when all his dreams plague him with the image of you.

Today, you’ve asked him to accompany him to the hidden cove that he’s watched you frequent when he was still trailing you. It’s a beautiful location, the sandbank curving to accommodate the ocean’s kisses as it laps at the earth. Almost absentmindedly, your bare feet come to a halt every few meters to gather up a bundle of oceansvale, a flower you’re particularly fond of and have been ridiculed with by him. Idiot human, he had said, as if your obsession with the ocean wasn’t big enough already. You’re a seasinger, for crying out loud. Aren’t you religious enough without an obsession with the only flower that blooms near these waters?

You’d only looked at him with a steady, self-satisfied look. Are you jealous, per chance?

Yes. As if. Like he’d care what you’re obsessed with and what not. Anyways, mermaids don’t fall in love with humans. They kill them. By luring them to the sea, to be exact, so you’re halfway to the gallows already, so who’s the idiot now?

“What’s all this, then?” Rafayel wildly gesticulates around him - at the sweeping cliffs, the sand-carrying wind, the beautiful beach. The atmosphere is way more serene than he is, a calm and quiet getaway. The perfect hiding location for a forlorn daughter. “I hate using my human legs. If you were going to take me to the ocean anyways, why torture me before you do it?”

“I very much appreciate you using your human legs, Rafayel. But I am afraid the hike up to the mountain and down to this place is the point of the trip.” You give him a lopsided smile, the kind that makes him dizzy with emotions. Sickening. He clenches a hand inside the pocket of the jacket you lent him. “You know, I’m a little disappointed you don’t recognize the place. This is where I first met you. I remembered you straight away, yet you were ignorant.”

He waves away the words. “I’m a Lemurian, after all. Time passes much more differently for us than it does for your kind. What does an encounter like this mean in the grand scheme of things? ‘Tis a single star in the universe we traverse.”

The words make you frown. In fact, the frown disfigures your face entirely, your nose scrunching and your lips twitching together in an expression of dejectedness. He almost eats his words, almost hurries to tell you that of course he remembers, that he couldn’t forget the tiny human who bothered to throw the ocean flowers, even though its inhabitants were humanity’s enemies, but then you speak up again and the matter becomes irrelevant. “Then I ought to be thankful this star turned out to be brighter than it was. I’m quite thankful we got to meet again. I’ve always wanted a chance to meet a mermaid, to fight back against this enmity between our species.”

“Quite the conciliator, you are.” Rafayel follows you down unto the beach. Your feet trace a path into the sand which he follows dutifully, making sure to cover your tracks in case your father still admonishes you for coming here. “Is that what you meant when you saw me for the first time? ‘Did you hear my prayers’?”

“Yes. My mother’s always mocked me for that too, you know. She’s the only one who listens to me about this stuff, and even though she loves me a lot, she’s not above teasing me. I guess it’s kind of an inside joke in my family.”

Rafayel takes note of the way your eyes steel over. He knows you long enough now to recognize that stance. If you were a soldier, this would be the position you’d move into if you had to defend yourself against the thoughts about your father. Even when he is not present, he haunts your wellbeing. Even when it’s your mother you think about, his phantom always lurks right behind. “Your father isn’t too fond of the ocean?” he asks. The lie on his tongue tastes vile.

Like the rotting corpse of a gutted mermaid.

You shake your head. “No, he’s fond of the ocean, alright,” you correct. When you sink into the water, clothes and all, Rafayel joins you immediately. Before your eyes, his legs merge back into his trusted tail. It makes you shake with laughter. “You know, I wanted to make a joke about you being like a fish in water, but um. You are one. A fish, I mean. In water.”

“You’re too funny,” Rafayel deadpans. “Truly, I am beside myself with laughter.”

You turn away your face and laugh into the palm of your hand, as if that could hide your mirth. Not like he’s feeling every single vibration in the water that your quiet giggles send out. The sound settles in his chest, taking root there. “Note taken,” you chortle still. “I’ll work on my jokes.”

“Don’t bother. You’ll never be as funny as I am.”

“Oh yeah?” You swivel your head around to him. Whatever smart response Rafayel was cooking up dies inside his mouth, turning dry in the face of your beauty. The dimples in your cheeks make you look younger than you are, your face luminous with real happiness. This is what had been lacking from your expression inside the Dolphin’s Hall. You were living for your faith, for your duty, leaving yourself much too neglected. But you were finally growing comfortable inside your skin. Opening up to him.

Kill her, the voice still whispers. He smothers the spark of that thought before it sets his brain on fire. Rafayel swallows. “Is that all you brought me here for, then?” he sighs. “To bore me with your unfunny jokes and reminisce about the past?”

“You sure do know how to kill the moment.” The sentiment makes you snort. You finally turn your face to the horizon, and Rafayel can breathe comfortably again. Looking at you for too long makes him want to dig into you. With knifes, of course. Not with kisses. Or his fingers. Of course not. Nothing of the sort. None. “I just wanted to free my mind for a little bit. It gets incredibly loud in there, sometimes.” You tap your temples, the guardians of your thoughts. He wants to climb into that brain and see for himself how loud it is. He’d risk turning deaf to hear. “Everyone always looks to me, because I’m a seasinger, but they aren’t looking at me, not really. So I make myself entirely into that role I’ve been given. And I lose sight of who I really am. When I’m here, I don’t have to do that. I can just listen to the ocean. And she listens to me.”

You sound wishful.

In his own silent moments, when Rafayel discards his own roles, he is able to admit to himself that he wants to read your every wish from your lips and make them come true. If possible, he’d crown you in oceansvale and pearls, to show you the beauties of the watery underworld and all it has to offer. But that is something he can never allow himself to desire. So, like you, he makes himself steel over, and then asks instead: “Aren’t I listening to you?”

“Sure, but you’re just required to, aren’t you? You’re my friend.” You nudge him with your shoulder, the touch a brand of fire on his skin. You’re so, so warm. Rafayel chases that sensation as you lean away, and you let him drape himself over you, already used to his clingy behavior. You’re my friend. You’re my enemy. “The ocean doesn’t have to listen, but she does. She’s been a better parent to me than my father has. He’s always thought I wasn’t worth raising because I was of the cursed sex, anyways.”

“Does that matter? Your mother loves you.”

“But he’s my father.” And your voice breaks. As he angles another look at you, he realizes that you’ve been gazing at the sea with tears in your eyes. If you were Lemurian, you wouldn’t need him to crown you: your own pearl-teary eyes are already beginning to fill with treasure. Like tidepools, they spill over, painting your face in salt-burned tear tracks he wants to kiss until his mouth runs dry. Rafayel curls an arm around you, all thoughts of murder forgotten, and all he can think of is how to comfort you properly so you’ll never have to mourn your father again. “He’s my father,” you repeat with a muffled voice against his shoulder, as if he didn’t hear you the first time, “He should have loved me anyways. I would have become the son he wanted if he gave me the chance. But he didn’t want me. He didn’t want me.”

Rafayel doesn’t know if it’s the ocean or his blood he hears rushing in his ears. His mind has already become clouded with rage, swirling into a hurricane that tears your father apart. He rocks you back and forth, and he hopes it feels like the ocean is cradling you, carrying you far away from your sorrow.

It’s already been two full moons since Rafayel has become your ‘friend’.

Your birthday has come and gone, and you’ve scared Rafayel out of his own skin when you burst into tears as you accepted his gift. It’s just a necklace made of a shell, idiot, he had clarified, flustered. It’s not like I spent money on it or anything. It was just something I had laying around and wanted to get rid of.

Rafayel, you had said, voice shaky with teary joy. It’s everything to me.

It’s getting harder and harder to convince himself into doing what he set out to do.

Particularly today he finds himself reaching back for the memory of his bloodlust, watching you guide new devotees to the sea to be baptized, like turtles taking to water for the first time. He’s seen his fair share of baby turtles scrambling to the sea, muddling up the waves as their tiny legs fought to master them. These children are not dissimilar to the freshly born turtles. Traitors, the lot of them, he thinks to himself, but the threat feels hollow. Cursed species, they are. Liars and deceivers all. He tries to ignore the irony of that prejudice considering the nature of your relationship.

When you finally send the kids off and join him in the water, he schools his features into a childish pout he hopes will mask his hatred. “You’ve made me wait all evening,” he complains, the annoyance in his voice real. It has been quite some time since you got to unwind with him. The thought of Rafayel looking forward to seeing you again had made him panic, and he had scrambled to avoid you for a few days before his own longing drew him back to you. “I was freezing to death here.”

“As if!” Your laughter rings as jubilously as the bells inside Dolphin’s Hall call to prayer. There’s a myth as old as humanity which decrees that when the bells ring twelve times, the gates of heaven will open to flood the world entire. Only the true believers will become one with the sea, the earth finally reunited with its one true love. The planet will become a single ocean again, and it will be as if land and sea never had separated, all creatures under the moon united under one banner. “I know exactly well that wherever you live is way colder than whatever temperature these waters are. This must feel like a hot bath for you in contrast.”

Rafayel sniffles, caught in the lie. “It’s the principle that counts.”

Your smile gentles. “Rafayel,” you say. The way that name rolls of your tongue makes him want to roll his eyes back into his head: if all sermons sounded like this, he’d be the most devoted follower of the sea’s faith alive. Your voice is the single most exultant sound any living creature could create. Perhaps you were a siren in your past life. “Don’t tell me you missed me.”

I miss you all the time, he thinks. I miss you even when I fantasize about killing you. I miss you even when I should be grieving all the mermaids my brothers and sisters have lost. I miss you even more when I watch them take brides and grooms and make the kingdom of the depths a happier place in the face of adversity. You would like us, the way we cling to hope like you do. “I bet you’d like that,” he drawls out, feigning normalcy. “Any living being would want to be missed by me. I’m very beautiful, after all, and very desired.”

“Truly? Are they all vying for your attention down there?” You flick his shoulder, intending to be teasing. Even the pain is welcome. He tries to ignore the way his stomach flips. “And yet you’re here for me. What an honor, oh desirable bachelor.”

“You should be honored,” he tells you. It sounds arrogant, but why shouldn’t he be? He is beautiful after all. For once, he’s not lying. Rafayel takes pride in his appearance, and he preens at the chance of receiving a compliment from you.

You cock your head at him. It’s supposed to look threatening, but you hold all the danger of a sweet otter. “Don’t make me laugh,” you tell him, still joking, but your voice is breathy.

Maybe his looks don’t leave you as untouched as you pretend to be. Maybe he’s not the only one feigning.

Rafayel brushes his fingers over the hollow of your arms, following the veins as they reach upward. It makes you shudder. He delights in it. “I adore hearing you laugh, sweetling, but it’s not the intention I have here,” he says. He is in and out of his body at the same time. Most times, he smothers these thoughts before they reach his mouth, yet he continues to speak as if this were just another dream of you. “Go on. Say it. Tell me I’m beautiful.”

Your lips part, speechless. Behind you, the human world goes on, tickering away like a fluid mechanism. With or without you. You look like as if you realize that the ocean is beckoning. He is beckoning. If you’re not careful, he’ll drown you, bones and all. “You’re beautiful,” you whisper then, the sound of it caught up in the rushing of the waves. They cling to the sand, dragging it with the pull of the tide. He yearns to do the same.

His hand comes up to cradle your face. You fit perfectly into it, as if you were made for him. As if he was made to compliment you. Rafayel’s heart stutters in his chest, threatening to burst. “Again,” he says, his voice steady. (He doesn’t know how he does it. He feels like he’s about to explode.) “You can do better than that.”

You draw in another sharp breath, your lungs fluttering. The human body was so very fascinating. He wants to reach inside you and look at everything, feel it all. “You’re truly beautiful, Rafayel,” you try again, and this time, you pitch up your voice. Every word is clearly enunciated. You look at him straight on. “All the wonders in this world pale in comparison to you.”

Oh. Oh.

“You,” Rafayel breathes out. His fingers are shaking on your face, but they hold on. Latching on to you. If he strengthened his grip, will he be able to crush your skull? Will he be able to reach inside? His body feels heavy with desire; as he bends towards you, he finds that you’re already meeting him halfway, and this time, the soaked material of your clothes exposes the sight of your stiff nipples. He yearns to warm them up for you, to take them in his mouth and kiss you until you’re burning from the inside out. He’s always wondered what you would taste like.

You are both torn out of the fantasy at the sound of your voice in a human mouth, carried by the wind from the shore. You draw apart hastily, as if a spell had been broken, and you fumble to rearrange your clothes and fix your hair although nothing had happened. Rafayel tucks his traitorous hands behind his back.

“I,” you manage to say, your voice drowsy with the lingering desire, “I have to get back. I’ll see you?” You phrase the order like a plea, as if Rafayel wouldn’t bend over backwards for you. You miss his assenting, fervent nods as you whirl around and wade back to shore, your own hands drowning in the material of your dress as you lift it up and wring it out. The water trails behind you in his stead, leaving him behind.

He’ll totally be able to carry out his revenge, alright.

It’s getting increasingly difficult to resist you.

The more time passes, the more it feels like the sun rises and sets just for you. Your happiness is his own, your sadness his bitter grief. Every emotion you ever display resonates so deeply in his soul that he grows hazy with responsibility, wants to reshape the world in your image. Every tear you shed is carefully collected like his own well-cared for treasure, every laughter bottled in the memory palace of his mind. His mind traces each and every one in your absence, creating melodies which cannot compare to your voice. He is becoming enraptured. He is coming undone.

Even the distance is beginning to choke him. You feel so close and so far. He wishes to lap at your body like the ocean does when you perform your prayers, wants to smother you in a hug that threatens the ocean’s might when you dive down with him. In the few times where you were able to swim with him - your timetable strict, your parents suspicious - he’s allowed you to trace your hands over the scales of his tail. To you, it’s the satisfaction of a curiosity. To him, it is a so startling intimacy that he wants to weep. There is no room for justice as his heart expands to encompass you, and it grows inside his chest, breaking apart his ribcage so it can guard you from the world. There are no words. You’re in every breath, every steady push of his blood.

Although the active threat of your father’s suspicions has come between the two of you, every meeting rarer, but becoming more precious over time, it cannot erase the wish for his soul to reach for you. You doze away in your place on the stony slopes surrounding the pool you perform your ablutions in, and Rafayel is content to guard your slumber, dipping in and out of the water. He never strays away for too long. He makes sure to count every strand of those stunning lashes that had already enticed him when he first met you here, follows every vein inside your face to see where it branches into. What was hated has become dear to him now, your humanity as endearing as your very existence. He wonders what you dream about. Wonders if you dream about him, as often as he dreams about you. His brain has become very enamored with you, every fold of the thing having been etched over with memories of you.

Your father is already hounding you. Your newfound happiness hasn’t gone unnoticed. It should please Rafayel, how your friendship has changed your life for the better. You are standing up straight, opening up to the world. When you laugh, it finally sounds like your vocal cords are singing in true harmony, never again pushing for the falsity you used to employ to wave away concerns.

If anyone were to discover you were sneaking away with a mermaid, they’d be dumbfounded. Perhaps they’d mock you for it. But if your father were to discover you two, then it wouldn’t take much until Rafayel would find himself face to face with the same knife he used to kill Lyra.

I’ll have to tell her the truth, Rafayel thinks then, stricken. If I really love her, then I have to let her go. He closes his eyes, losing himself to the sharp sting of grief inside his chest. That’s what Lyra would have said, anyways. She was always so enthusiastic about fairy tales and happy endings and true love. He mourns for the way his childhood had been shaped with the loss of her, and the loss of all the mermaids that had ever died an unjust death. But it has taken on a new meaning. He looks into your face and cannot find it himself to justify the means to the end he had intended for you. There was nothing vengeful or freeing about this. If anything, he’d push himself off to his own metaphoric end, because Rafayel has reached the ends of his wits and he’s finally accepted that there is no you without me. He stretches out a hand to card his fingers through your dry hair before it can fall into the water. What a blessing it is to do at least this, to be cherished by you.

He begins to ask himself how he is supposed to leave you.

As Rafayel’s thoughts take a turn for the worse, you open your sleep-drowsy eyes. They are still blurred over with the dreams you’ve been chasing, just slowly becoming clear and taking in your surroundings. “Raf?” you whisper, and he tries not to melt at the nickname. No one’s ever thought up a nickname for him. So many things you’ve given him that he will never be able to repay you with. So much light you’ve brought into his dark, dark life. The bottom of the ocean, despite all its magic, had never been as bright as this. “I’m here,” he tells you, the sentence literal, but he means it with every ounce of his soul.

You blink away the last traces of unconsciousness, your pretty lips stretching open to release a yawn. “I was afraid you’d left,” you tell him. Also so literal. But in the way you look at him and your tone turns up with hope, he finds himself recognizing the underlying meaning, just as you had discerned his.

He’s told you so many lies already. What’s one more? “I’d never leave you,” he tells you, and he tries to mean it. In another universe, he would be able to mean it. Rafayel swims closer so he can throw an arm over your frame as you lie back down, and he angles himself up so he can cage you in-between his hands. As he arranges himself, he abandons the scales and tail in favor of his awkward human legs, caging your delicate waist inbetween his knees. He’s balancing himself on top of you now, not caring if the drops of water pearling off his skin splash on you.

You don’t look like you care, either. You stare at him as if there’s nothing else in the world, just the two of you for all eternity. The thought fills him with happiness.

Slowly, very slowly, as if asking for permission, you lay your hands on his naked chest. The tips of your fingers are even softer than the palms of your hands, a testament to your nature. Not a toiler, not a warmonger. Something more peaceful and calmful, that brings his own soul rest. “I dreamt about you,” you tell him, honest as a Lemurian. He smiles at the inadvertent way you had answered the question he’d been thinking of while you were sleeping. “What was your dream about?” he asks, anchoring his weight on one hand so he can use the other to curl around the side of your throat. He can feel the pocket inside it traveling as you swallow to gather your bravery.

“A little bit like this situation right now.”

“I’m afraid you’re going to have to elaborate, friend.” Rafayel’s fingers dig into the supple flesh of your shoulder as they move, then gently claw at your skin as he follows the curve of your arm. He’s always been fascinated with your human skin, the way it seems entirely different from Lemurians although they look so similar. The smallest of things could break it. Bruises bloom like flowers with the lightest force. It makes him want to cage you inside his chest, where he can keep you safe from harm and make sure no one will ever hurt you again. It’s irrational, and unnecessary. But he just can’t help himself.

You narrow your eyes at him playfully, blissfully unaware of his thoughts. “Are you enjoying this?”

Now Rafayel begins to smile as well. It is entirely genuine, and only reserved for you. He is yours, heart and soul. “Of course I am,” he confesses, feeling as exposed as a newborn babe. “You always act so unbothered by me, you know. I was beginning to worry whether I was the only one caring about this … friendship.”

Your own hands have begun to wander. You place them directly on his cheeks, directing his gaze at you, as if you weren’t already the single fixed point around which his entire existence was centered around “Rafayel,” you say. “I don’t want to be just your friend.”

His breath catches. He searches your eyes for a joke, for the mockery, but you are serious. And for once, his own mind blanks at the possibility that his feelings might be reciprocated. “Do you… mean it?” he whispers, afraid. Vulnerable. She’s human, she’s a liar, she’ll lie to you, watch. This isn’t possible. This is a trick.

“Shall I prove it to you?”

Rafayel’s heart stops.

(God, he always knew you’d be responsible for his death.)

The answering smile you give at the sight of his eagerness makes his insides melt into the same constitution as a jellyfish. There is a fire at the core of his existence, and you have come to kindle it. He feels the blood rush; in his cheeks, in his body, down his abdomen. He is alight with emotion, bursting at the seams. As you flatten your palm and curve it around the shape of his chest, he chokes out a, “Yes. Please.”

Your touch is hesitant, but your eyes are determined. “I love you, Rafayel,” you finally tell him, the magical words that crack open his chest like a volcanic crater exploding into the water. He collapses against you, crushing his lips against yours, and then he can’t tell where you start and he ends because of how you meld against him. Every inch of his body comes alive with the sensation of you against him, and you fit into every curve inside his body. Your lips carefully trace the shape of his own, moving against his tenderly, carefully. He can’t bring himself to entertain the same restraint as you do: as he digs his hand into the curls of your hair, he angles your head appropriately and then delves inside to finally taste that sinful mouth he’s been dreaming about for so long.

Your answering whimper is smothered almost immediately by his beckoning tongue. Greedily, selfishly, Rafayel kisses you as if his life depends on it; like he might die without ever getting lost on your tongue, dissolving like sugar. He groans into your mouth when you carefully tangle your tongue with his own, not used to this kind of kiss. When he tries to pull back to grant you a reprieve, your heavenly lips wrap around the tip of his tongue, sucking on it in the mock-fashion of a blowjob.

He almost comes then and there, that’s how embarrassingly obsessed he is with you. Only you.

You chase him as he disentangles himself, but Rafayel quickly busies himself with your throat, littering those veins he’d been staring at like a vampire starved with kisses. “You have no idea,” he whimpers into the skin there, speaking directly into your soul, “how you make me feel. No idea. You’re dangerous.”

You don’t mock him for once. Instead, Rafayel is gently pushed to the side. Before he can worry about being rejected, you straddle his lap and sit down like a queen crowned on her throne, and the sight makes him so breathless that Rafayel finds himself falling back against the wet ground without complaint. Your lips are kiss-swollen and smiling, a sight he mentally declares to be his favorite sight in the world. “I’ll find out soon, enough,” you promise, the words as delicious as your kisses. “For example, how does this feel?”

And you grind down, your clothed core sliding over his exposed cock in a perfect glide.

Rafayel throws his head back, cussing in Lemurian. He doesn’t even realize the crack of pain as his head hits the ground, his entire nervous system too caught up with the sensation of you rubbing against the most sensitive spot of his body. There’s a sound he doesn’t immediately recognize, a quiet giggle that shakes your entire body, and then the feeling of the weight on top of him shifting as you bend down to kiss your way down this body. “My Rafayel,” you murmur against his abdomen, lips shaping the words against his hipbones. He almost trills in happiness at the sound of that. Yours. “You’re so, so, so beautiful.”

If it was possible to dissolve in extreme happiness, Rafayel would be seafoam on the water surface right now.

He digs his fingers into the hard stone, unyielding as it is, as your lips seem to vanish off his skin right before reaching his already erect dick. He catches the look of your eyes, the slight surprise at his size - he can’t lie, it makes him want to puff up in pride - but then you begin to sport a scary smile, the kind that makes Rafayel realize that you’re going to suck the life out of him, and he’s already on the brink of death from the possibility of this happening alone. “My love…” he begins to caution, but then he chokes off as each and every one of your fingers wraps itself around the shaft of his cock, and there is no consciousness to form thoughts, no thoughts at all.

You kiss the tip of the head, tongue peaking out to catch the first beads of pre-cum. “Gonna make you feel good, I promise, Raf.”

He wants to answer, he swears he does. There is just no way he can. Rafayel’s entire body arches off the ground as you take him in your mouth, and he’s barely aware of the way you slightly choke on the size of it - his hands go to your head, are you alright, are you okay, love? - yet that doesn’t stop you; the slide of his cock on your tongue continues and continues and continues, and then he feels himself hit the back of your throat and he cries out in pleasure, feeling like a star that’s exploded.

“Fuuuuuuuck.”

You sound like you want to laugh; your mouth shakes and shudders around him, and that makes him tug at your hair, unwillingly, instinctively. He’s about to apologize, but your own tugged out moan makes him hold himself back. He hates hurting you, but you seem to enjoy it, so he tangles his fingers into your hair and gently begins to guide you up and down, up and down. He hisses at the sensation, of the clenching around his dick, the gentle swipes your tongue makes when you get to. “You’re so good to me,” he tells you, watches the way your eyes light up with the praise. He’s never even thought about how lovely and romantic sex could be. Love-making. “So good.”

You hum, and Rafayel hisses; it’s a delicious kind of vibration, both torturous and pleasing. “Please,” he pleads with you, his fingers shaking. Not aware of what he’s asking. But you seem to understand, you speak the language of his soul; you hollow your checks and suck, and then his eyes do roll back so far into his own head that he thinks he can finally see his brain and all the images of you he imprinted on it. As your fingers begin to stroke in time with your tongue, he begins to feel like he’s shaking out of existence, both here and not. Both bound and untied. The coil in his abdomen begins to tighten, his toes curling at the way you drag your tongue around the tip, suckling, teasing. Your lips pop as you remove your mouth, pumping him quicker and quicker, watching him. A predator devouring its prey. “Beautiful,” you say again. “The prettiest, my Rafayel. Look at you taking it so well.”

He keens at that, hands sliding down to claw at your arms, not sure if he wants you to stop or keep going. He’a never experienced an orgasm building up like this, a literal supernova beginning to build at the edges of his perception. “I,” he gasps out, looking for words, finding none, but you help him out of his predicament by kissing him messily, the taste of his own pre-cum lacing his tongue. Your hand, every caress growing in pressure, continues to pump his cock even when he cries out against your mouth, even as his teeth find your shoulder and latch onto it to bite it. You don’t push him away, not even when he explodes into your hand, his release beginning to pearl over your hand as you continue to fuck him through the orgasm. When he begins to sob against your collarbone, pushing at your dangerous hands, he finally understands how deadly a single human being can be.

You’ve ruined him, and he couldn’t be happier about it.

The second you remove your hand, Rafayel flips you onto your back and begins to lick your fingers clean, pleased at the way your mouth drops into that cute little shocked ‘o’. Intertwining your fingers, he drags his tongue over every inch of your palm, taking note of the way your eyes zero in on the length of it. His chest rumbles, pleased; he wants to be as desirable, as perfect to you as you are to him. You are an absolute miracle, a wonder to behold. “Your turn,” he tells you, and your eyes darken.

But you shake your head. “Raf,” you say. Your voice is deadly serious. “If you don’t fuck me right now, I’m going to explode into a thousand pieces and you’ll never see me again.”

Despite the sensuality of the situation, Rafayel finds himself bursting into laughter. Your own obscene, reddened lips curl into a matching grin, and for the moment, you are both innocent again, youthfully in love. Love-making, he thinks again. I want to make love to you for the rest of my life, for all eternity. “I love you,” he says out loud. “And I don’t want you to explode. But I want to show you how much I love you, as well. I want to worship you from head to toe.”

Your eyes widen in the most adorable way. As someone who’s always lowered herself as a supplicant, you find yourself entranced by the idea of being an object of worship. “You do?” you ask, unsure.

Rafayel raises your still sticky hand to his face, not caring about the mess. He wants to be messy with you. He wants to be part of you. “There’s nothing else in this world,” he begins, kissing the inside of your wrist, nuzzling the skin there. “I adore as much as you. I already worship you. Your hands, your face, your waist, your entire body. All of it is holy to me, holier than any faith I’ve ever believed in my entire life. And if that is a sin, then I will die the happiest sinner to have ever graced this earth.”

The way you blush at his words make him want to eat you whole. He’s never once considered partaking in human flesh, and although he isn’t too fond of what could possibly be considered cannibalism, his desire borders on the urge of devouring you entire. You are just too sweet.

“I’m going to eat you,” he actually tells you. Your answering laughter only makes his chest constrict in pure, unbridled joy.

He backs the words up with another gentle nip to your fingers, his sharp teeth only stopping short of breaking the skin; he finds himself back at your throat, lapping up the thin stream of blood and listening in to the way your laughter turns into a strangled moan. “Oh,” you yelp. “I thought that was a joke.” That makes Rafayel grin; with the taste of your salt on his tongue, he begins to kiss the space inbetween your chest, his fingers gently rolling your nipples through the thin dress you’re wearing. You sigh in please, your back arching just so slightly at the feeling of his fingers on you. “Adore this chest,” he tells you, trying to stay true to his word, but he’s already getting lost in the delicious sight of you surrendering to your pleasure. Following an urge that’s been haunting him ever since that almost-kiss on the beach, he wraps his lips around the rose-bud like nub and suckles it into his mouth, the sound of your sharp outcry like music in his ears. He groans against your chest and hopes you can hear the sound inside your heart; he wants to crawl inside and live there, reside under your skin. As he kisses the nipple with the same fervor he did your mouth, his other hand gently fondles the neglected nipple until you begin to whine for him to stop, the gentle torture not enough for you.

He abandons your chest in favor of your soft, soft stomach - he smushes his cheek against it like a cat, reveling in the way it feels. “God, I love you,” he says, hands cupping your waist. You don’t answer him, too lost in the sensation of his knees beginning to grind against your exposed core for some friction: your dress has ridden up, revealing the lack of underwear. His mouth runs dry, sparing only a moment of pondering where he asks himself whether the seasinger’s attire just doesn’t include underwear; you don’t leave him any more time to think as your fingers claw their way down his back, the pain as erotic as your lewd moans. “Please,” you beg him, grinding up your hips against his. He’s rock-hard again, straining to be inside you. “Please, I need you so bad. Fuck me, Raf.”

“You’ve got a filthy mouth,” he grits out. It’s not a reprimand, more an articulation of how crazy you drive him. Rafayel’s hands glide to the small of your back, lifting you up to receive him, readying you. You’re staring straight into his eyes, panting heavily, and he wonders whether you’re actually seeing him or staring into his soul. “I love you,” you say in response, clinging to the words like a lifeline. His heart jumps and jumps and jumps in chest, struggling to break out of its cage to join hands with yours. The head of his cock nudges against your labia, opening you up, and you fold open like a pond lily, more beautiful than even the oceansvale you adore. “I love you so much.”

“But I,” he tells you, voice strained, “love you more.”

And he pushes inside.

For a second, it feels like all kingdom come. It’s blasphemous and religious all at once; Rafayel feels whole, feels like you’ve become one person as he stretches you open. You feel so perfect around him, so, so perfect. “Oh, gods,” you whisper, the only time you take the name of your articles of faith in vain, a fact that he’s arrogantly proud of, and then Rafayel draws back and curls back inside again, the head of his dick nuzzling against something spongy that makes you wail like a woman stabbed. He almost pulls out, if not for the way you kiss him like this is the last time you ever will, your tongue inside his mouth before he can register, and then the hunger you illicit in him is too much to tolerate and Rafayel begins to fuck into you.

“Full,” you whimper, the words drawling together on your tongue as if you don’t even have the peace of mind to formulate the thoughts properly. Rafayel drags his cock back, pulling out almost entirely before he snaps it back inside; you bare your teeth at him in the same manner as he had done before he had bitten you, which would have made him smile at the way his behavior’s rubbing off on you. But there’s no space to do anything, no controls inside his mind. He’s become prisoner to your gummy walls, the way your warmth swallows his whole, every clench of your pussy around him like a shooting star frying his nervous system alive. “So perfect,” he whines, letting his instincts take over, and your fingers shakily hold on to his shoulder as he begins to piston in out of you. The slapping of flesh meeting skin is so loud it makes you screw your eyes shut in embarrassment, yet you offer up your body all the same. Your legs interlock behind his back as he continues to grind into you, in and out, in and out, in and out. “God, you take me like you were made for me. You’re a dream come true. You are. You are.”

“Rafayel,” comes your pitiful answer, but he’s not paying attention to you right now, not when his body is so hyperfixated on the way you make him feel and the way your own pleasure becomes the forefront of his mind. “S’too much. Slow down.” Your pussy flutters around him, dragging him back in every time he tries to pull out, and his solution is to pump into you quicker, harder, deeper. There is no sound, none that could be described when his cockhead begins to kiss your cervix, and now Rafayel’s chasing after your climax, desperate to get you there before he comes again. There are tears pooling at the edges of your eyes, tears which he licks up with the same delicacy he would use to gorge on you, lose himself in the taste of your cunt. His own tears blur his sight, dripping onto your face, searing into the skin there. “I can’t,” he bawls, sounding entirely too heartbroken for the way he fucks you, the way he folds your body into position to take him better, take him deeper. The bloody trails your nails leave on him don’t even make an impression on him anymore. He sobs into the curve of your throat, chasing, chasing. He ruts into you like a man possessed.

Even in your fucked out state, your shaky hands brush away the tears from his face. He hisses into the palm of your hand, swallowing his sobs, ignoring the hiccups. His own hand finds its way down your body until he’s sure he’s found your clitoris, finding the confirmation in your stuttered out “Fu-u-uck,”, and the hasty circles he draws have your thighs shaking in time with the constant snapping of his own hips, meeting him halfway as he chases your climax, pounding you into the ground. “Gonna come, gonna come, gonnacomegonnacomecomeRaf.” The last of your sentence becomes unintelligible as your orgasm hits you like a tidal wave, and he holds you close to his chest and continues to fuck you through it as his own begins to spill inside you, no stop to it seemingly in sight, up until the heartbreaking sob that falls out of your mouth breaks him out his trance and snaps him awake. His hips come to a stuttering halt, the picture of a stumbling drunk, then stop completely, and Rafayel slumps, still inside you. He can feel his semen dripping outside, running down his thighs, pooling on the ground. He’s dimly fascinated by the fact that he even has this much cum, but the majority of his consciousness focusses on the way you kiss his forehead, his head, everything you can reach.

“Don’t expect me to move anytime soon,” he mumbles from where his face is smushed against your boobs, and your laughter makes his head shake like the oceanvale bobs in the wind. “Well, darling. You’ve certainly showed me how much you love me.”

“Oh, I haven’t even gotten started, Raf.”

This time, it’s he who laughs. He hides his face in your chest and laughs, loud and free, in a way that he’s never been able to ever since he’s been a child. He feels your fingers comb through his blue-pink hair and feels like he’s finally home.

When you wake up from another nightmare in the night, crying for Rafayel like he’s abandoned you, he kisses every tear away until he’s positively certain you’ll never remember the way that dream felt again. You are safe in his arms, joined to his hip, bonded to his soul.

Caught up in so much luck, Rafayel forgot the looming threat.

He forgot how perfectly capable your father was of stealing away Rafayel’s happiness

The memory of Lyra drifted away from him as steadily as his craving for revenge did. She had raised him like her own in his dead mother’s stead: they’d been best friends once, and she became his only connection the mother that had labored and labored to give birth to him. Lyra had always warned him to take good care of his long hair, as it looked exactly the same as his mother’s, and she’d spent all her free time brushing the tangles out. It wasn’t Rafayel she was seeing, not really. But if she was chasing the after-image of her best friend in her son, then there really wasn’t anything he was going to do about it, not when he looked into her face and could only see his mother. They had been united in their loss, and then loss had divided them again.

It’s mother’s long hair, and Lyra’s plea for him to maintain it, that ends up being weaponized against him. Someone is tearing at his hair like a leash, pulling him from the safety of the pool. “Father, no!” You shout. You’ve never raised your voice in anger, not once. “Let go of him!”

“I’ve told you countless times!” Your father’s voice overpowers your own easily, as loud as the thunder before the lightning, as loud as the bells inside Dolphin’s Hall. Rafayel had always guessed you’d been trying to drown out the sound of your father’s shouting, the way he’d done your entire life. “They’re not to be trusted! Ask him! Ask the bastard why he’s entertaining you in the first place!”

You draw back from the accusation, the word ‘entertaining’ like a slap to the face. “He loves me,” you defend him, but your voice has become meek, small. As Rafayel thrashes in your father’s and a second man’s hold, he catches sight of your pale face, the way it’s stained with fear. For his life? Or because of an anticipated betrayal?

“Bullshit.” The unknown man spits at the ground.

“I love her,” Rafayel manages to stay. There’s a punch thrown at him that bites the taste of blood back into his mouth, foreign, not as welcome the way your blood had been. His teeth have cut into the insides of his cheek. “Which I can say with more certainty than you can, you bastard. Yes, I’ve entered her life under a guise. You murdered the woman who raised me. You’ve killed countless of my siblings. But I saw the way you starved your daughter of love and affection, and I vowed I’d never do that to her.”

“Do not play hero with me,” your father says, the hatred in his voice like the lash of a whip. Your own small hand spins out, and for a moment, Rafayel scared he’s lost you, that it’s him you’re going to strike. But your fingers wrap around your father’s wrist, as i you can do anything, as if this wasn’t the hand controlling your entire life. “Let him go, or I swear I’ll tell everyone,” you vow. The threat inside your voice is as venomous as the enmity your father’s had contained. “I’ll tell them where that caviar you so adore comes from, I swear it. Let him go or kill us both. Or maybe I’ll kill you.”

Your father halts in his shock. Rafayel can’t tell what is happening, his head still lowered to the ground by the hand pinning him there, tearing at his hair. It loosens then, and he’s kicked aside, like some stray dog that was a bother and is then forgotten. When he looks up, he sees you locked in a stare-off with your father - your father, whose looking at you as if he’s never once seen you in his entire life.

Perhaps he hasn’t.

“Walk,” is the only thing your father says then. “Walk before I forget myself.”

Rafayel struggles to sit up, to defend you as you had defended him, but you shake your head at him, the dismissal clear enough.

He watches as you leave him behind. How ironic, for you to have feared abandonment, when here he sits being abandoned now. Lost and alone.

In the following days, you don’t turn up. When Rafayel comes to search your human house, despite the fact that your father had threatened to kill him, the building is empty, stripped of all its belongings. None of the vendors in the city know about what has happened, giving only absentminded shrugs and I-do-not-cares. You’ve turned into an actual dream, a fantasy conjured by his love-sick brain, a haunting nightmare. He finds himself clenching his chest as if the heart contained inside was going to give out, broken apart like an empty shell by a mere mortal’s love.

He fears he’s going to die like this.

Alone, and unmourned, and forgotten.

When his desperation mounts in impulsiveness, he either decides to flee Whalefall City or look for you one last time. He can’t remain here, not when he looks everywhere for you, in the strange faces of this place or the gentle tosses of the waves in the harbor, in the sound of a melodious seasinger calling to prayer. It’s driving him insane. He turns up on the steps of Dolphin’s Hall, half-crazed from the loss of you.

It’s there where he witnesses the miracle of the Gods.

It’s not you, sadly; but your shrine maiden, freshly appointed as the new seasinger, hurries thorugh the throng of hall-going attendees. “It’s you!” she exclaims, a haunting echo of the very first words you addressed at him.

That makes him wary. “How do you know who I am?”

She blinks as if Rafayel was the one acting suspicious. “Well, because she’s told me, of course. And your description doesn’t really fit to any of the people here. In a city like this, it’s easy to recognize a new face.” The girl - no, woman - unfolds a letter, revealing a penmanship that he’s never seen, but which he recognizes with his heart.

Rafayel, the very first word on the paper shapes, in elegant loops, written in the soft scribbles of love.

He’s gone to meet you before the letter can hit the ground. Your successor, shaking her head, watches him go.

You’re right where you said where you would be, sitting in the surf like a mermaid would, your human legs anchored in the sand as the ocean drinks the earth. Your arms are crossed over your chest, over clothing he’s never seen before: garment from below the sea. His heart pounds inside his chest.

When you turn your head to face him, the smile on your face is entirely real.

Rafayel hurries to meet you, and then you are embracing each other like one soul being knit together; there was a physical pain in being separated from you that had strangled him for every second that you had been gone, drowning on land like a beached fish. He swipes your windswept hair out of your face, behind your ears, holding your head in his hands. You fit there, as always, like a missing puzzle piece. “I thought … you wouldn’t want to see me again,” he chokes out, the words a struggle. His tongue is heavy with sorrow, weighed down by his betrayal. “I mean, I wanted to tell you the truth. Long before I ever wanted to confess my feelings. I was going to do this properly. But I didn’t expect you.”

You snort, as if amused. “I could see that.”

His thumb strokes your cheekbone, as gentle as a clam reaches to embrace its pearl. “No, you don’t understand,” he tells you, and his chest unlocks in the same way it had when he had allowed himself to be vulnerable with you. “From the very beginning, I hadn’t expected you. I came to you with a heart heavy with hatred, blind with pain. I was so sure of myself, so sure of what was going to happen. But you reached inside me and changed everything. I’ve never even realized how painful it was to be me. Not until you administered the cure.” Rafayel leans his forehead against yours, tasting his tears. Crying, for the first time in so long. Only you. Only you. “Say something. Please.”

“Rafayel.” Your voice is wondrous. When Rafayel looks into your eyes, he only sees pure and unadulterated love, the kind of love that had drawn him off the edge of self-destruction and right into your safe arms. “Don’t you realize you’ve done the exact same thing with me? You’ve come into my life and filled it to the brim with a kind of joy I’ve never thought would be possible for me. I had resigned myself to my fate, to always be under the thumb of my father, and then you came, with all your unbridled anger and pompousness and unconditional love. If it hadn’t been for you, I might never have been able to shake off my parents’ expectations and build a life for myself with you.”

“With me?” Rafayel speaks the world gingerly. As if he can’t let himself believe it. As if he can’t let himself believe that the kinds of happy endings Lyra had always lectured him about were possible, after all.

If you witness true love, hold on to it.

Your fingers are reverent on his face, your smile so all-encompassingly loving. “How else are we going to heal this deep rift between mermaids and humans? I promised to show you, after all.”

Rafayel bursts into laughter. It’s an unexpected reaction, as unexpected as the miracle in his life that had been you, love of his life you. “That doesn’t sound too bad,” he admits, and instead of taking your hand as he had done so long ago under the secretive gaze of the moon, Rafayel finally gets to kiss you in the light of day, claiming you in front of the whole world.

[lazylittledragon]

i just went on a 4 hour writing frenzy and i don't know where i am anymore but everyone was very nice last time so have some more Stuff

[lilithschosen]

hey, me, why don't you try to write something x reader finally?

oh hey me! yeah, for sure. early happy birthday, idiot!

LOST DOG (ao3 link) words: 7303 ships: agatha harkness x rio vidal x reader rating: E (NSFW) tags: strap ons, packing, daddy kink, cunnilingus, threesome, ideal eiffel tower ya feel me?

Your beloved couch potato of a dog is lost. You don't even understand how he got out let alone wandered away to the point of being lost. He's an older dog, a black lab with more white hairs on his muzzle than you care to count. So stating that he ran off is a little unsettling. 

You print out fliers with the most recent picture on your smartphone and write all of his names, nicknames, anything you've ever called him on the fliers. As well as your phone number and the most important thing: REWARD. 

You have a modest job, nothing too flashy but something you can afford little luxuries here and there. However, those luxuries would be few and far between if he was found because you would pay through the nose to make sure that hound is happy and safe. 

The thought of trudging through every street in Westview to put up the fliers was a bit daunting, though. You were almost discouraged by doing it until you thought to drop them off at the police station. 

You head down to the station, thick stack of freshly printed fliers in hand, and stand in the lobby. A mustached man sipping coffee gives you a nod as he walks past you, leaving you a bit confused than anything else. 

No one approaches you. 

You chew on the inside of your mouth, still waiting awkwardly in the lobby of the precinct and pat the stack of papers against your palm to calm yourself. 

“Can I help you?” 

You turn on your heels to look at who spoke to you. A woman with dark hair tied into a bun on the back of her head, wearing a white button-up shirt with a leather gun holster under each arm and black slacks. She has her hands clasped behind her back, leaning in towards you with an inquisitive, small smile. Her eyes rake over your body, sizing you up but not maliciously. 

“Oh, h-hi!” You suddenly stammer, having expected some dude cop and not her. You snap out of it and begin kickstarting the speech you've been practicing all day, “I lost my dog and I have some fliers I thought I’d give the Westview PD?” 

You lift the stack up and the woman's eyes never leave yours. She nods, holding her hands out in front of her now. 

“Oh no,” she tuts, shaking her head solemnly, “Come with me, I'll have to take down some information for your file before we proceed.” 

She extends an arm to you, turning to the side to have you walk past her. You do, feeling better now that you didn't have to pitch it like you were expecting. The woman rests her hand on your lower back and guides you further into the police station. 

She directs you into an office with the shades half drawn all around and closes the door behind you. Another woman sits with her feet up and arms across her chest, looking at you with her brows furrowed. 

“I'm Agent Rio Vidal,” the woman, Rio, starts with her hand to her chest. She walks around you and approaches the woman at the desk. She nudges her boots off the desk and clears her throat. “This is Detective Agatha Harkness. We're here to help you.”

Agatha huffs once her boots hit the floor, sitting up in her chair as she pulls at her blue flannel shirt. “So what happened? Boyfriend stole your shit?” 

You blush and look between the two women. Rio sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. “No. She lost her dog, hence the fliers in her hand.” 

Rio waves you forward, and you do, setting the stack of papers on the desk. Agatha turns her head to look up at Rio while reaching forward to snipe a flier from the stack. She sits back in the chair, pulling the paper with her, and smacks her lips together. 

“Fido is lost, huh?” Agatha asks, looking at you over the top of the flier, “Have you tried looking for him? He's only seven, he couldn't have gotten far.”

“Well, yes,” you begin, taken aback by the bluntness of the woman, “His name is Joxer, actually. But yeah, he got out the other day, and I’ve been looking for him endlessly. My apartment is so empty without him.” 

Agatha laughs with an exhalation through her nose when you mention your dog's name. “Joxer. Cute name. Familiar one, some pop culture reference?” 

You nod, eyes lighting up that someone understood it. “Yeah, it's from Xena. He was the goofy friend, arguably a third wheel to Xena and Gabrielle.” 

Agatha’s eyes lift back up to Rio and the two share a knowing look before Rio claps her hands together, smiling at you.

“We'll hold on to these,” she scoops up the stack of fliers while Agatha folds hers into a square and shoves it into her breast pocket, “and we’ll get back to you if and when we get any information.” 

Rio offers her hand, and you take it without hesitation, grabbing onto it with both of yours, and shake it gratefully. 

“Thank you so much Agent Vidal,” she nods at you, head lowered. You look at Agatha and flash a smile. “Thank you Detective Harkness.” 

Agatha waves at you with a brief two fingers off her forehead. She crosses her arms over her chest again, running her tongue against her canine tooth while she watches you. You can't help but feel like she's drinking you in, and it makes your face hot. 

Rio squeezes your hand, bringing your attention back to her. You take your hands back sheepishly, and she chuckles at you. 

“Joxer is a fitting name for such a handsome boy,” she points to the picture of your dog on the papers on Agatha’s desk, “I bet he's a good cuddle buddy too.” 

You nod, beaming at the thought of your dog. “God, he really is! I live alone since my ex and I broke up. He's gone through so much with me so it's nice to not be completely alone after it all.” 

You run a hand through your hair at the realization you started babbling. Rio takes a flier from the pile and holds it out, frowning. 

“I'm so sorry to hear that,” Rio studies the flier and all the information earnestly before looking back at you, “Off the record too, your ex doesn't know what he's missing out on.” 

“Yeah, she sucked so.” 

You give a brief shrug and tight-lipped smile, not knowing how else to react. The wounds were still fresh, but you were healing. Joxer helps with that. 

Rio and Agatha both react the same way with widened eyes in surprise. Agatha coughs to break the tension. 

“Right!” Rio walks back to the door, opening it for you. “We'll be in contact.” 

You nod again at the both of them in your thanks and wave your goodbyes. As you leave, Rio secures the door once more. Firmly ending the encounter between the three of you. 

You make your way out of the precinct entirely and head back to your apartment which is a short walk away. 

You busy yourself with research on what to do if your dog goes missing. You opt to toss the blanket from your couch on the front steps with Joxer’s food dish and a couple pieces of his kibble, in case he's in the area. You try to keep music on in your apartment by syncing your phone to the speaker system you have for your television. 

Bopping along the rest of the evening, tidying up where you can to keep your mind off Joxer, your phone starts ringing, and the music cuts off. You run over to grab it and notice the number is one you don't recognize. 

You answer, holding the phone to your ear. “Hello?” 

“Hey!” Rio says on the other line, “I think I have a lead on Joxer, if you wanna head over here? It’s easier to discuss in person.” 

You jolt to the dish holding your keys, “Yeah of course, I’ll be over.” 

Rio gives you her address, and you jump down the front steps two at a time until you're on the sidewalk outside your apartment. You hurry to your car, starting it, and peel off down the street faster than ever. 

She didn't live far, and your heavy foot on the pedal definitely cut that drive even shorter. You pull up to Rio’s house, opting to park along the sidewalk than in her driveway, and shut off your car. 

You see Rio standing on the front porch in an oversized shirt and bare legs. You blush at the appearance of the agent, but step out of the car and give her a wave. 

“Oh, you got here fast,” Rio says more so to herself than to you, “Anyway, we handed out those fliers and made some calls earlier. He was last seen around your place.”

Rio smiles at you, a warm one that makes the corners of her eyes wrinkle, but you pause for a moment. What did Rio mean by “we”? 

It was getting dark, the streetlights were on and there was no way you should go knocking on doors tonight. You sigh, leaning against your car. 

“Well, I guess I’ll start asking around tomorrow.”

It sucks to have almost had your dog back, but since he's in the area and not in a pound somewhere in the big city you feel a little bit better.

You open your driver side door, defeated, but Rio calls out. 

“You could stay for a bit, maybe someone will call? I handed out a ton of fliers.” she asks with a hopeful tone, “Besides, when was the last time you had company that wasn't just a dog?”

You shut the door, keys clanging against the metal frame of the door. “I guess, sure.” 

Rio grins, biting down on the tip of her short nails as you make your way over toward her. She gives you a once over and flicks her tongue into her cheek. 

“You look comfy.”

You're standing on her front porch in a t-shirt and shorts with rain boots on since they were the only thing close to you when she called earlier. You laugh at your own appearance, scuffing your rain boots on the concrete of the front porch. 

“Well,” you pinch the hem of your shirt and waggle it against your body, “I didn't think I was going anywhere tonight.” 

Rio smirks, “I like it. Come on.” 

She pushes the front door open, revealing soft lights and a cozy living room. Something lived in and loved. Something your apartment lacked, truthfully. 

You step in and kick your rain boots off, leaving them to the side of the front door. A TV is mounted on the other side of the room, paused on the opening frame of a movie. 

“Did you want butter on the popcorn or are you gonna complain I didn't make it right again?” 

Agatha tosses a piece of popcorn into her mouth, crunching happily. She gives a head nod in acknowledgement to you, not even blinking at you in the house as well. 

“Oh, I didn't realize you two lived together,” you say. Agatha plops down on the couch in her dedicated spot, you assume, and holds the popcorn in her lap. “I don't mean to intrude, Rio thought I should stay a while in case someone calls about Joxer.” 

Agatha laughs into her palm, covering her mouth as she continues to eat. Rio shoots her a glare and moves into your space. “Yeah, no worries. Fridays are normally date nights, but we weren't going anywhere.” 

Date nights. 

The two were together. 

You blush harder, embarrassed from your ogling of Rio moments ago. Rio brushes past you and sits on the opposite side of the couch, curling her legs underneath her. She pats the cushion between her and Agatha, looking at you with expectantly. 

“You guys don't mind?” 

Rio shakes her head while Agatha shrugs with indifference. “You can be like Joxer was for Gabrielle and Xena.” 

Agatha winks at you, cutting the tension between the two of you. You roll your eyes at her and settle in between the two women. Agatha offers you popcorn, but you decline and she sets it in front of you all on the coffee table. She rubs her hands against her pajama pants and grabs the remote, starting the movie. 

“What'd I interrupt?” you joke, “Hopefully nothing too good.” 

Agatha spreads her legs apart, sinking further into the couch with a relieved groan. “Some shitty horror movie Rio insisted on.” 

Rio swats at Agatha over you, leaning with one hand on your thigh. As she moves back to sit down, she runs her hand against your leg and pats it. 

“Hope that's not an issue. I love horror movies, Aggie over there thinks they're cheesy.” 

You remain still, staring down at your leg until Rio removes her hand from you. You stammer for a second before responding. “I'm a complete wuss when it comes to scary stuff.” 

Rio holds her shoulder against yours, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Well if you get too scared, I'm right here. Or you can hide by her, but she might not appreciate it.” 

“I do appreciate it,” Agatha scoffs, pulling at the inside of her thigh and shaking her leg as if something was pinching her where it shouldn't. She raises her arm behind the back of the couch behind you. Her fingertips just barely graze at the back of your head. “I just always have to be the safety blanket.”

You cross your legs at the ankle, unsure what to do with yourself. The movie plays on, introducing the main characters as well as setting up the villain. It's a little cheesy, but some of the easily noticed jump scares still get you. 

“God, you weren't kidding,” Rio chirps at you, turning herself toward you on the couch. She rests her arm against the back of the cushion and props her head up with a fist under her jaw. “You really are a wuss.” 

You blush, twisting at your knuckles. “I did warn you.” 

Agatha snorts a laugh, pulling her hand off the back of the couch to pat you on the thigh. “Don't worry, this one sucks. It should be over soon.” 

It was encouraging to some degree, but not as much as you'd rather. You all tune back into the movie during a suspenseful scene. The main character walks slowly down a narrow hallway, only being illuminated by lightning strikes. Just as they make it to the end of the hallway, Rio shouts and grabs you by the shoulders causing you to scream. 

Rio wraps her arms around your shoulder while she wheezes with laughter. Your heart pounds in your ears from the scare, reaching up to grab her forearm across your chest. 

“Sorry, baby,” Rio says through her laughter, squeezing you in her arms, “I couldn't help myself.” 

You laugh along with her for a beat before your brain recognizes she called you baby. Your laughter dies off as you turn your head to look at her. 

She's closer than before. Her body pressing against yours, faces nearly touching. Her eyes flicker between holding your gaze and looking down at your lips. It was almost like she was about to kiss you. 

You turn your head away, focusing on the movie again. Rio sighs, “Thought we had something there.”

She pulls your chin back toward her with a lone finger, booping you on the nose. You fidget more with your hands, swallowing down the lump in your throat. 

“Is this a thing for you guys?”

Agatha shakes her head, knocking her knee against yours. “Normally, no. We don't share.” 

“But, we could share you,” Rio’s breath is hot across your face, lips hovering just in front of yours. “Only if you agree, of course.” 

It's all too much, but you can't find yourself saying no. Agatha’s turned toward you too, but not in your space like Rio. Instead, she's back against the arm of the couch, her legs still spread apart, but watching. 

Rio waits, studying your face before she closes in and kisses you. Gentle. Her plush lips are warm against yours, and you feel butterflies in your stomach.

She breaks the kiss slowly, smiling at you through hooded eyes before she takes your lips again. She opens her mouth against yours and you follow her. Her arms drop from your shoulders, allowing her hands to settle just above your chest with her fingertips hooking around your collarbones. 

Her tongue licks into your mouth, claiming you while her wife watches. It makes your skin itch against the fabric of your clothes. Like you're too hot with Agatha’s gaze and Rio's body against yours.

You feel Agatha shift next to you. Her thigh tenses as she lifts her backside up from the couch then sits back down. You want to turn and look, but Rio keeps kissing you passionately and fast. 

Rio moans into your mouth while her hand descends onto your chest. She takes a handful of each breast, feeling your pebbled nipples against her palm. She bites down on your bottom lip, making you gasp. 

“You're addictive to kiss,” Rio breathlessly states, stealing another kiss. She swirls a finger around your nipple before pinching it through your shirt. “And, fuck, your noises, they're so pretty.” 

You whimper as she continues playing with your nipple. The thoughts in your brain are jumbled and you barely are able to string them together, not with the constant stimulation of Rio Vidal all over you. A brief blip of clarity strikes you, remembering Agatha. You finally pull your eyes from Rio to look at Agatha and your breath catches in your throat. 

Agatha has her pants around her mid-thighs, holding a purple dildo in her hand that was fastened to a black harness around her hips. She's working her hand up and down the length of the toy slowly, but once you notice what she's doing, she bucks into her closed fist. 

“Keep going, baby,” she rasps, hips rocking into her hand, “Daddy's just fine right here for now, keep playing with her.” 

Rio nips at your throat, more with her lips than her teeth. The noises you make only encourage her, swapping to bite down your neck until she reaches your collarbones with her mouth.

“Can I take this off?” 

Her hand has left your chest and now holds the hem of your shirt. You nod, unable to take your eyes off Agatha. Rio tugs your shirt up, slowly exposing your stomach. She lowers her head down to kiss the uncovered soft skin, following the fabric with a drag of her lips until your breasts are freed from the shirt. 

Agatha watches with rapt attention, peeling her hand off of the toy and raising her palm to her mouth. She spits into it and wraps her fingers around the tip of the toy again, spreading her saliva down the length in a painfully arousing way that makes you feel like you're starving for it. Your mouth waters as your tongue slips past your lips to wet them. 

Rio immediately latches onto a nipple, holding the shirt up with one hand while she cups underneath your breast with the other. She snaps you out of the hypnosis of Agatha jerking herself off with a moan that vibrates into your ribcage. You cry out louder and Agatha snaps her hips up into her hand, grunting from your sounds. 

“Fuck, baby,” she groans, “I might need you to quiet down or else Rio won't ever let it go.” 

Rio’s tongue curls around your stiff nipple, and you have to clench your thighs together to hold back from trying to touch yourself. 

Another shot of clarity hits as your mind jumps back to what you came here for: Joxer.

Rio bites on your nipple, rolling it between her teeth, and you sputter out another moan for her. Your hand grips on the back of Rio’s head, holding her to your breast, and lift your hips up to grind against nothing. 

“Oh, is she needy?” Agatha asks, hand stilling on her toy while she runs her tongue against the back of her teeth and grins. “Why don't you tell daddy what you need?”

You pout, “I need- ah. I need to be touched.”

Agatha smirks. “Isn't that what Rio's doing?” 

Rio looks up at you with her big, brown, doe eyes, and sucks more of your breast into her mouth. You gasp at the sensation, hips lifting again to grind into the air and you whine. 

“You gotta be more specific, hon.” 

You hiss through your teeth, “Need you to fuck me.” 

Rio lets your breast fall from her mouth with a pop and she pushes you back on the couch. She settles on her knees between your legs, hands gripping at the waistband of your pants. Positively dying to get you naked and have her way with you. You throb at the look on her face, dark eyes staring between your legs at her prize. 

“Whoa,” Agatha holds up a hand between Rio’s face and you, palming at her wife’s cheek, “I think she said she needed me to fuck her, not you.” 

Rio rolls her eyes, sneering. She slides Agatha’s hand from her face. “Well, you snooze you lose.”

She shoves your shorts off, moaning with elation at the sight of your clearly soaked through underwear. Agatha grabs at her shoulder and moves her away. She nudges her further with her foot before replacing her between your legs. 

“There she is,” Agatha coos, “You need daddy to fuck you, huh?”

You nod, staring at the toy fastened to Agatha’s hips. She grips it, holding it steady. 

“You want daddy's cock?” You nod again. “Ask nicely and maybe she'll give you it.” 

It’s bigger than you’ve used before, but not by much. Thicker, longer, and the tip was definitely more bulbous than what you have back home.

Your shirt drops below your tits and she clicks her tongue. She bunches it in her hands and carefully draws it up over your head. She sighs happily, taking both of your tits in each hand. Her thumb runs over your hardened nipples, and you gasp at how rough the pads of her fingers were.

“That's not asking, baby.”

You try to press your thighs together, try to get any sort of friction to your aching clit, but nothing helps. You ache, throbbing for her to sink that toy she was playing with earlier inside of you. 

Rio trails a hand up your forearm innocently, knowing full well Agatha would be annoyed. “Don't you wanna be our good girl?” 

“Daddy,” you mumble, eyes pinching closed to try and get your words out clearly. “I want your cock. Please, daddy.”

Agatha tweaks both of your nipples at the same time. “Doesn't sound believable to me.” 

Rio nods in agreement. She brushes the hair out of your face, tucking it behind your ear and presses a kiss to your cheek. 

“I bet you'd look so good riding her,” she trails off in a groan at the thought. “Ask nicer.” 

“I need-,” you try to say until Agatha licks her thumb and rubs her saliva against your nipple, and it fully clears your brain. “Oh, fuck.” 

Rio frowns, settling back in her spot on the couch. She sneaks one of her legs behind you, leaning back on the arm of the couch so you're now between her legs while Agatha is still between yours. 

She pulls her shirt up to reveal her black, cotton shorts. You turn your head and see she has them off now, balling the fabric into her hands before she tosses them at Agatha. 

They knock into Agatha's neck, and she rolls her eyes and grumbles under her breath. 

“If you don't want her dick, I'll take it.” 

Your eyes snap open as you feel Rio sitting back up, “No-no please! I need it, please. Fuck me, daddy. God, please!”

Agatha grins, removing her hand from your chest to grab onto her toy again. She pulls you forward on the couch, tugging your ruined underwear down your legs with a swift motion, and lines the toy up with your cunt. 

She runs her other hand down between your legs, feeling the goosebumps form up the inside of your thigh before settling her hand at your pubic bone. Agatha rubs her thumb through your folds and you whimper quietly, moving your hips back in hopes she’d touch your clit. She spreads you instead, whistling low at the sight in front of her.

“You think I’ll fit, baby? I might split you in two. I think I want to.” her voice is raspy, dangerous. She means it. She drags the tip of the toy through your folds now, replacing her hand with it and she shivers, “All of this, and it's all mine.” 

Rio scoffs. “And mine.” 

Agatha’s eyes move from between your thighs to meet Rio's. She raises a brow in question and sinks the tip of her silicone cock inside your slick heat. 

You cry out, hands gripping onto the couch cushion underneath you for stability. Agatha and Rio stare at each other, neither wanting to break the stare they hold. 

“More,” you beg shamelessly, “Fill me, daddy.” 

Agatha’s gaze falls back to you, watching as your tight, perfect cunt greedily takes each inch of her cock. Her lower lip trembles as she bottoms out inside of you. 

“Stretched out for me,” Agatha pants, forcing her hips further to you and making sure you have every last bit of her sheathed inside, “I can't believe you can take all of me. Such a good girl, made for my cock.” 

Your head rolls back, turning to look at Rio. After she took her shorts off, you never realized she wasn't wearing underwear. Her pussy was on display and you drool at the sight. Rio giggles, hand extending out to swipe the bit that dribbled out of the corner of your mouth. 

“Want a taste?” Rio asks, taking her hand out to spread your drool between her folds. Her cunt glistens from the light of the television screen with her arousal, from what she's done to you. “I bet Daddy would love to watch you eat me while she fucks you. Wouldn't you, Aggie?” 

Agatha can only grunt in response, silicone cock still sheathed inside of you. She rocks into you and clenches her jaw, knowing and practically feeling the tip of the toy was pushing into your cervix.

Slowly, she slips the toy out of you entirely and you miss the constant presence of her.

“Get on all fours,” Agatha orders, voice wavering for a moment before settling back at the deeper tone she’s used since you started, “It’s one way to keep you both under control.”

You follow along, kneeling where you initially sat, and drop to your elbows. You tuck your arms under Rio’s knees and situate them over your shoulders, hands gripping her thighs. She exhales with a breathy chuckle, and you grin up at her with the most excited and equally confused smile. 

Agatha grabs you by your hips, positioning your ass in the air before she palms at it. You rock back, the flesh of your ass cheek pressing back into Agatha's hand and she squeezes. 

“Oh, there's that cheeky personality I knew you had,” Agatha drums at your ass with her fingers, “I just needed your face nearly in my wife’s pussy for you to really come out to play.” 

Wife?

They're married?

Her toy was still soaked from your arousal, easily sinking it back into your core with a swift thrust in. You lurch forward at the sudden feeling of the thick toy inside of you and your nose nudges against Rio’s cunt. She yelps at the contact and grips you by the hair to keep you there. All thoughts of the two being married melt away. 

“Need more,” she whines, “I need that mouth on me, baby. Just focus on me and not her, I promise I’ll make it worth your while.” 

You look up at Rio and press a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss to her clit. You kiss again, rubbing your nose into her trimmed patch of pubic hair and Rio groans in approval.

You stick your tongue out and press it flat at her entrance and drag it up to her clit. You flick at the swollen bundle of nerves with the tip of your tongue before repeating your strokes. 

Rio moans, fingers still holding your head in place. Agatha’s lip twitches at how you were paying more attention to Rio than her. 

She claps your ass cheek hard, causing you to gasp and lift away from Rio’s cunt as much as you could. Rio growls in annoyance, holding your head still as she starts to buck against it. 

Agatha smacks your ass again, thrusting in and out of you with measured snaps of her hips. She pulls the toy out until just the tip remains, forcing your walls to clench and hold it tight before fucking it back into you. 

“I feel it,” you grunt, teeth bared against Rio’s folds, “You're in my stomach, daddy. You're so deep.” 

The term falls from your lips so easily, never having called anyone daddy before. It was so effortless, so authentically something to call Agatha. 

Agatha lies on top of your back, hand running from your hip to under your navel. She thrusts the toy in again and hums in delight at feeling herself through your skin. 

“I told you I’d split you in half, hon.” She kisses your spine, fingers pushing down against the silicone, “You love it too, don't you?” 

You can barely comprehend it. Having your face in Rio’s hot, wet cunt while Agatha fucks you from behind. It's so much but so good. 

Agatha holds down her fingers against the bulge in your stomach as she continues to rail you. Enamored by your body and how well you take her, as well as fascinated by feeling herself. 

Rio keeps bucking up and your face, growing more desperate for your attention. She mewls out, heels digging into your shoulder blades. “Keep going, baby. Wanna cover your face with me.”

You try to continue, and you ache to, but with the way your body continues to bounce against Agatha’s strap, it was like you were only able to do this. That you were supposed to always be fucked by Agatha. 

You feel your orgasm swelling just beneath Agatha’s fingertips, digging your knees into the couch while you pant through your teeth. The combination of your drool and Rio’s arousal shoot out with each quick exhale of breath, leaving a spittle trail between Rio’s legs. 

Agatha smirks through her own movements once she notices Rio’s frustration and how she was losing. She leans back and fucks you deeper, as deep as she can. Her hips slam against your bare ass, and she growls at the feeling of your wetness spilling out from around the toy. 

“Bet I can make you cum before Rio can.”

Rio’s eyes widen, “Don’t you fucking dare.”

Agatha winks, sliding her hand from the bulge of her toy down to your clit. She starts rubbing quick, tight circles around it as you scream. Your sensitive nipples drag against the couch, throwing gasoline on the overwhelming fire of your desire. 

Rio keeps fucking your face as best as she can, smearing herself all around your mouth and chin. She clenches her jaw, feeling her own orgasm building but not as fast as yours. The hand in your hair tightens painfully to hold your head steady while she chases her pleasure. 

Your brain goes blank as your eyes roll into the back of your head with a choked sob, and you are thrown into the absolute hurricane of your orgasm. You clench as hard as you can around the toy, but Agatha keeps fucking you through it with a wild cackle. 

“Good girl,” she praises, scratching angry, red lines down your lower back and onto your ass cheeks with both hands, “Milk my cock, take it. Tell me who owns this pussy, who is making you feel this fucking good.”

You start to call out her name, the vowel beginning with a loud “ah” before Rio smothers the words with her center to silence you. 

Agatha’s lip curls in a snarl, rubbing your clit harder and faster with her fingers held tightly together. Rio’s breaths grow shallow, whimpering as she pinches her own nipple and grinds into your opened mouth. 

“Gonna- oh,” she inhales sharp and then grunts, her head falling back, “I’m so close, baby. So, so close.”

Your eyes blink separately, one at a time. You roll your tongue through Rio’s folds and tuck it inside of her as best as you can before a second orgasm has your knees shaking. Your hips drop, internal muscles holding onto Agatha’s strap so tightly that you take her with you. 

Rio chirps in elation as she cums. Her juices gush out and into your mouth. You sputter a choke, brain delayed from everything and manage to swallow what you can solely to not drown between the agent’s thighs. 

Agatha curses under her breath, bent awkwardly now with you fully lying on the couch while she's buried inside of you. You turn your head away from Rio’s cunt, gasping for air. Agatha rubs at your ass cheek with a thumb, looking over both you and Rio in front of her. 

Her heart thuds harder in her chest for a beat, a smile pulling at either corner of her mouth until she catches herself and she clears her throat. 

Rio’s eyes open, lazily smiling up at her wife while she scratches at your scalp with her fingernails. She sits up from the arm of the couch, eyeing you. You’re quiet, lying still between her legs with your head on her thigh. 

Asleep.

Rio settles back down and continues scratching at your scalp, her eyes closing once more. The credits of the movie roll, a fast-paced rock song playing over the white script of names. It startles you awake but both of the women shush you gently. 

“Hey there,” Rio chuckles, removing her hand from your hair and places it on your shoulder blade, “Took a little nap?”

You lick your lips, tasting nothing but Rio’s cum as you try to rehydrate your mouth. You blink hard, pushing up to move away, but your arms tremble, and you fall back against Rio’s thigh.

“Don’t move too much, hon,” Agatha’s hands are on your hips, holding you steady, “I’m gonna pull out and get you more comfortable.”

She starts to slip out of you, only halfway out before you grumble. “Don’t.”

Agatha’s heart thuds again, and she bites her lower lip, eyes immediately looking down between your joined bodies. Your slick has the purple toy shimmering deliciously, making her fight every ounce of being from filling you once more. 

“I need to, baby. We can all go cuddle after we get cleaned up.”

You pout, lower lip jutting forward into the flesh of Rio’s thigh. Rio laughs under her breath, moving your hair out of your face. “She’s right, love.”

You relax again and let Agatha pull out of you entirely while still pouting the entire time. The emptiness makes you want to cry, sniffling impulsively. Agatha rubs at your thigh, leaning down to press a kiss against your lower back. 

“I’ll be right back.”

She stands from the couch and you listen to her footfalls against the hardwood floors grow further and further away. Rio situates you further on the couch, tucking her leg up on the couch next to you. You open your eyes, having them unfocus for a moment until everything comes into clear view. 

You didn’t take in their house much when you arrived, and certainly didn’t have time to once the movie started. It was a normal, neat little house. It was clear what was Rio’s and what was Agatha’s. The stark contrast of greenery and floral paintings as well as plants versus sport team items on the shelves and fishing baubles with pictures of the two women around the living room. 

Your brain is partially rebooted, now becoming painfully aware of what just happened and with whom. You freeze at the sound of Agatha approaching. 

“I’ve got a warm wash cloth and some water,” she sets the water on the table by Rio and holds the wash cloth in her hand, “I’m going to clean you up, okay?”

You nod, trying to hide your immediate panic at the moment. Agatha gently and delicately swipes between your legs, and you feel the throb of overuse from your clit. The friction of the warm wash cloth has you gasping, rolling your hips away from it. 

Agatha hums, thumb pressing underneath your ass cheek as she continues to clean you up. “We’ll talk in a second, baby. Just relax.”

You do as you’re told, easily able to succumb to the warmth and care of the older woman despite your anxiety. She takes her time and when she’s done, she guides you to sit up and offers the wash cloth to Rio. 

“I’m good,” she winks at you, waving the offer away, “I’ll take a kiss, though.”

The two women exchange a kiss, and you turn away to give them their moment. You feel a hand on your knee, but you don’t look. 

They break their kiss, Agatha touches her forehead against Rio’s with a smile, and she tosses the wash cloth to the floor. Rio sits up, pulling her legs up with one underneath her bare backside and the other bending at the knee to rest her arm on. Agatha settles in on the other side of you, mirroring the same spots you were all sat in earlier. 

She brushes her shoulder against yours, and she reaches out to cup your cheek. You look up at her slowly, still spent from everything. Agatha smiles at you, stroking your face with her thumb. 

She leans in and takes your lips against hers in a way that was almost uncharacteristic of her. It was gentle, reassuring. No need, no heat, just a comfort you want to wrap around yourself and sink into. Your eyes flutter close, melting into her. 

When she pulls away, she smiles even bigger. Agatha pecks at your lips one last time before moving back to her spot on the couch fully, giving you your space back.

“So,” Rio begins. You immediately blush, “Are you okay?”

You nod, swallowing hard with your hands in your lap. Being completely naked between the two women was intimidating. 

“I mean,” you start, running a hand through your hair as your cheeks puff out with an exhale, “I wasn't expecting any of this. Not that I'm complaining, mind you.”

Agatha and Rio laugh at that. You awkwardly start to laugh too, but stop just as quickly as you started. Agatha throws an arm around your shoulders, squeezing you toward her. 

“We wanted you, you didn’t impose or anything. I promise this wasn’t some weird way to fix our marriage or anything, we’re both very happy with each other.”

She sounds sincere. The way Rio and Agatha were still loving towards one another after it all was proof enough. 

“So you really just, wanted me?” you find yourself asking, “I’ve never been in a threesome before. Never knew I wanted to, truth be told.”

Agatha presses a kiss to the side of your head, smiling into your hair. The stark contrast of the detective in the throes of passion and after were two completely different people. You find yourself wanting more of both.

“We just had a friendly wager, per se,” Rio adds, scooting over to wrap her arms around your torso. She rests her head on your shoulder, looking around you at her wife. “We wanted to see who could make you loudest. Couldn’t figure it out, though.”

Agatha huffs in annoyance, “Would’ve been me if you didn’t cheat.”

Rio sticks her tongue out at Agatha, laughing again. You enjoy the warmth of their bodies sandwiching yours, finding yourself laughing as well but with a comfort instead of panic. 

The three of you fall into a silence as the TV picks up with another movie. You all stay together, held together in a post-coital bliss until your phone loudly interrupts the serenity. Rio clicks her tongue at it, but reaches for your shorts on the ground and tosses your phone to you.

You answer it without reading the caller ID. 

“Hey!” you recognize the voice, it’s your neighbor. “I’ve had Joxer here all day, even had one of the Westview PD guys come check for him, but I forgot to call earlier.”

You hear your goofy dog panting in the background and you grin. “Oh, that’s great! I can come get him if he’s being a pest.”

Agatha’s arm around your shoulder slackens in disappointment, but you don’t move to get up. 

“Nah,” your neighbor says, “I’ll hold him for the night. I think you need some rest, you sound beat.”

Rio’s tongue pokes out to swipe at the corner of her mouth, holding herself back from laughing at the words. Agatha’s arm tightens around you again, and you clench at the ache where her strap was. 

“If you don’t mind, then sure! I’ll get him in the morning.”

Your neighbor agrees, ending the call with a bark from Joxer on the other line before you drop your phone to your lap. 

“My dog was at their house all day.”

You turn to look at Rio, eyes narrowing. 

“You never told me who had him.”

Rio pinches an eye closed, holding her hands up in front of her. “Okay, guilty. But! I didn't lie. Started knocking on doors and actually met him on a walk, by I’m assuming your neighbor. I asked for him by name and the big lug nearly knocked me over.”

“We just wanted a reason to talk to you again,” Agatha rasps, nuzzling your head with her nose, “I couldn’t get you out of my head, and neither could Rio. We did do our jobs, though.”

You breathe a sigh of relief at the whole endeavor being over with your dog just on a brief little vacation. You shake your head at it all, though. The detectives you met earlier today, the ones you were trying to get to help you find your dog, ended up seducing you instead while your dog was a couple doors down the whole time. 

You grab Rio, pulling her in to a hug while leaning into Agatha’s side. “You’re both fucking crazy, you know that right?”

“Yes,” Rio responds, voice thick with amusement, “But you like it.”

The weight has been lifted from your shoulders, and you can finally feel yourself dropping from the heightened state of stress over it all. Rio kisses your cheek, booping your nose with her finger before doing the same to Agatha. 

“Well since he’s having a sleep-over,” Rio says, “Maybe we can too?”

Agatha nudges you with her bicep to your back, “That sound like a plan, superstar?”

You snort at the nickname, making Agatha smirk. 

“I guess,” you try to come off nonchalant, but both of the women grin at you and your poorly crafted facade crumbles. “I hope your bed’s big enough. I hog the blankets.”

[littleplantfreak]

TL;DR

Umemiya Hajime x Reader

wc: <900

Sfw

In more words than I can make a title out of, you read to your boyfriend Umemiya after he breaks his glasses.

“…Plants form flower buds only when they contain reserve food. This is true of plants grown for flowers or fruits. Rapidly growing plants, such, for example as Dahlias that have been too heavily fertilized and grown on rich soil, will produce prolific plants, stems and foliage, but few flowers…Hajime? Are you snoring?” you ask, though by now in your relationship, you can tell the slow heavy breaths that come with your boyfriend mean he's dozing as he holds you, rather than listening to you reading it.

“…mmh, sounds good Pumpkin,” he mumbles, half asleep as you look up at him with a sigh.

“Did you hear anything I just read?” you ask, not mad, but certainly exhausted from the monotony of the book. Audels Gardeners and Growers guide volume 4 was not for the casual gardener, nor was it something you yourself were interested in.

Two days ago during a maybe too enthusiastic make out session in his room, Umemiya managed to fully crush his glasses, frames and all with his elbow, though neither of you noticed until you got up the next morning with one of the lenses having pasted itself to your thigh as you slept before uncerimoniously falling on the floor with a small tink as you got out of bed.

It wasn’t too big a deal; he barely used them unless he was reading...except for the fact that he reads. A lot. Much more than you’d think a retired gang leader would at least, and although it was cute for the first few minutes, him holding his book out as he tried to squint-read the words had become a problem. The squinting was giving him migraine that even he couldn't brush off as nothing.

“I’ll just read it to you until you get your glasses back from the eye doctor's. It's partially my fault they're broken anyways.”

“Really?! You're gonna read to me?” he’d asked, and you're sure if it were possible, he'd have stars in his eyes. That was when he drug out blankets from the closet and made mugs of tea for you both before settling you to sit between his legs in the recliner, having you lean back against his broad chest. The blankets over you were icing on the cake, leaving you both more than comfortable for this.

Cracking open the book, you began where he'd left off on the page, but the more you read, the less sounds and comments he'd make, until finally, painfully, you read to where you're at now, stuck on this chapter about plant fertilization.

"Hajime, your tomatoes are escaping," you say, testing just how far gone he is.

“Huh? Catch them,” he breathes, and you know for sure that he’s listening but definitely not listening.

He only really starts to wake up when you shake him awake with your laughter, his continued nonsensical answers cracking you up. You lost it when you told him he had to bounce on it.

"Bounce on it?

"Crazy style," you nod solemnly, doing your best Nosferatu impression before you bark with laughter. Your laugh dies down as his arm tightens around you, the haze of sleep finally clearing.

"What's so funny?"

"Oh, just that I both managed to convince you that your tomatoes were taking a vacation to Costa Rica, and that my middle name is William. You said it was beautiful," you snicker, feeling him chuckle as he leans forward to blow a raspberry right on your cheek.

"Wha- A sneak attack?"

"That's what you get for bullying me in my sleep." You can recall a few times he's bullied you in your sleep and it wasn't anything as innocent as this.

"That's what you get for falling asleep while I was reading to you."

"It's not my fault your voice is soothing. I don't think I've ever slept better. Maybe you're a siren? Hypnotizing and tempting me into sleep infested waters," he teases, closing his eyes and pressing his lips to the crown of your head. He definitely been reading too many bedtime stories to his siblings again.

“You’re lucky you’re cute, because you are also insanely cheesy,” you laugh, dog-earring the page in the book. While this wasn't productive for reading, you can't say it wasn't at least relaxing to a point.

“I’m lucky you’re mine,” he smiles, leaning back in the recliner further to curl you up closer in his arms. “Will you read to me again sometime? I can’t promise I won’t fall asleep, but I really do love hearing your voice.”

It’s a bit embarrassing to hear, because you know it’s true. He’ll call you any time you’re free, saying that he just really missed hearing you. Looking on his phone, he’s saved every voice message you’ve ever sent. He’s absolutely shameless about you and you can’t bring yourself to be anything but shameless about him too.

“Mm…I guess this siren can spare a little of my voice for you.”

[hoshizor4a]

18+ MDNI | afab! reader | masterlist

virgin! gojo pt.2 | pt.1 here

virgin! gojo who will probably snap and give in over some stupid but oddly intimate thing, probably just you in one of his shirts, sleeping peacefully on his couch waiting for him to come back from a mission after not seeing each other for a couple of days, just the usual really, but for some reason this time was a bit different

while it's true that he had been a bit needier these last few days, especially after what had happened last time right before he had left for his mission, and what with the insistent thoughts of you (and the messages and pictures shared between you while he was on a mission away from you)

to be honest, part of him did also kind of feel like he was leading you on, promising you things he couldn't actually deliver

so it really didn't take much for him to finally convince himself that it was time (definitely did it for you and NOT bcs he's a horny idiot)

after gently waking you up on that exact same couch he had managed to cage you against it and himself, one leg over you while the other still supported him from the ground

he not so gently had shoved his over excited tongue between your sweet lips battling with your somewhat slower own, and while you couldn't be happier to be treated like this by him right after waking up it had seemed a bit unlike him so ofc you managed to tease the truth out of him

while he tried to play it off cool while it wasn't all that big of a deal but also subtly trying to apologize and make up for all the lies, you honestly couldn't care less, bcs what's better than an overly cocky gojo who thinks he's all that?

a gojo basically caught red handed, a gojo who is lightly blushing, a few drops of sweat coating his skin, those bright blue eyes of his that are looking anywhere but you, a gojo that is actually a virgin and so ready and willing to be destroyed by you

bcs let's be honest that's exactly what was going to happen no matter what

so when you ended up on his lap, his tongue once again in your mouth and his dick between your hands, it was game over for him

teasing him over that leaky tip of his that you had wanted to see, to touch, to taste – for months now, gojo a heaving twitching mess below you

sure you would make this – his first time, as enjoyable and memorable as you could, but that didn't mean you couldn't torture him a bit first

let's just say that edging him a few times was his punishment for all those months of lying to you (which you would have to reassure him once again that you actually didn't mind)

even after all that, the stamina monster that is (horny) gojo would still want to do things properly for you, too, so after switching your positions once again he would put that mouth to proper use instead of babbling abt random things like he had done in an attempt to keep his composure while you had jerked him off for what felt like forever in his opinion lol

while he would listen to your instructions on how to properly eat you out or finger you, he would eventually get fed up and just do it himself and ofc bcs this is gojo ofc he would be so unbelievably good at eating pussy

so messy and unforgiving (pay back to your pay back this bitch refuses to be the looser) he would try all kinds of things and find all the spots that did it for you basically instantly

with long fingers that reached to places you could never and a tongue that never stopped moving, either against you or to spill absolute filth abt how good you tasted, how he could and wanted to do this everyday from now on (that's a promise) how he couldn't wait to feel himself wrapped around you

and once he did, well not to anyone's surprise at all, he came right away

the feeling of your tight wet walls that had barely even wrapped around the tip of his cock had been all that was needed to make him tip over that edge you had brought him close to and then robbed him of so many times

and not even a few seconds, not even rly waiting to catch his breath, he would start thrusting against you again and again, rubbing his lithe fingers over your clit making as much a mess of you as he was

his whole body shaking, pleasured shivers running all over him, he couldn't understand why anybody wouldn't want to spend the rest of their lives like this

wrapped around you like this, he felt a different type of peace he couldn't find anywhere else, or with anyone else

so he really couldn't be happier to do this with you, and now virgin! gojo would be a thing of the past long forgotten considering all the sex he would have with you after this lol (or well at least until he gave you a reason to bring it up again oops)

[late-night-secrets]

It was impossible to not at least fall a little for Gojo Satoru, the strongest sorcerer in the world – and your colleague. Both of you started working as teachers at Jujutsu High at the same time. Back then, you had heard of him, of course, but with you graduating from the Kyoto branch, you had only met him a few short times, even less had talked to him.

He was just like everyone said: Loud, cocky and extremely powerful. His whole presence had pissed you of at first, but just after a few weeks and one or two very mature moments of self-reflection you had realized it was admiration. Admiration and envy. Because he was the strongest and infuriatingly good at everything he did, and why on earth did he have to start teaching at the same time as you?! People would compare the two of you, naturally, and there was no chance against him. It was outrageous.

And the worst of it all: He noticed you (How could he not when he had arrived terribly late at your initiation and you and Principal Yaga had waited for over an hour?), he knew you (How could he not when he grew bored within the first five minutes of Yaga’s speech of the school’s principles, had asked for your name and used it ever since when he was greeting you?), he seemed to like you (… How could he?).

To be fair, it’s Gojo Satoru. He smiled almost all the time and seemed to be endlessly excited about everything and everyone. If he disliked someone, he had no problem with showing and saying so, and at some point, you noticed, he had never said he disliked you. No, quite the contrary, when he was bored, he was looking for you bothering you while you had work to do; nagging, poking, invading your personal space, whining about a lack of attention right in front of your class to a point where you had to kick him out. When you were getting lunch, he joined you without being invited to or asking to be; as if it had always been like this. He chatted with you about everything and anything at all, and you chatted back. Because you had realized Gojo Satoru might be a nuisance, but he was good and kind, and that was nice company to hang out with, you thought.

One day in winter you went into the teacher’s lounge in between classes to grab a quick cup of coffee and found him… existing there for whatever reason. You just gave him a short greeting, not paying attention to what he was doing, and immediately went for the coffee machine. Instead for a greeting in return, you were met with silence first, and then a: “Are these yours?”

You looked up to see him holding one of your gloves. It looked incredibly small in his large hands.

“Yeah, why?”

When he turned to you, you couldn’t see his eyes, but you imagined they were wide open with surprise. At least that was what his hanging jaw indicated. “Are your hands that small?”

You raised your eyebrows in offense. “I find them perfectly fine.” To prove your point, you raised your hand, palm facing him.

Without hesitation he put his against yours to compare the size of your hands. His infinity was off, and skin touched against skin. “Woah, they really are small!” He put his hand and your glove down and made his way to the door. “Anyway, gotta teach. See you.” And just like that he left.

And you were left standing there, your palm still tingling from the contact of his warm hand and your heart pounding a tad bit too much. A part of you wanted to react with humor, throwing an exaggeratingly desperate “What are we?” after him which he would have definitely heard. But you couldn’t because your voice left you for a minute or two. Why was your heart still pounding? And why were you frozen in place repeating these few seconds again and again in your head?

Retrospectively, that palm-on-palm encounter was most likely where it all started. You began second-guessing all of his interactions with you, everything he said. For a first, you realized that he was very touchy with you, seeking your proximity: His fingers brushing against your arms nearly every time he was talking to you. As if he wanted to pull you closer. Or your fingers always touching when handing him something. Walking unnecessarily close to you, or shifting after you sat done, so there was merely an inch left between your arms or legs. Perhaps it all happened by accident, but your heightened attention caused you finding it more significant than that; and it occurred too frequent to call them accidents at some point.

Another thing you noticed was the staring. More than once you felt a tingling sensation at the back of your neck, and when you turned your head, you would find him looking at you. It was a bit difficult to distinguish whether he had actually been observing you or something lying in the same direction, with his blindfold and all. But most times when being caught he would either smile or quickly turn away.

And lastly, and most importantly, the way he spoke to you. It created butterflies in your stomach. He wasn’t particularly flirty, not more to you than to anyone else, but he seemed so carefree when he was talking to you. There was all this nonsense and his jokes, of course, no one got spared, but with you he seemed to relax in a way that sometimes made him turning a conversation to more serious matters to which he not only contributed cold facts but also his very own thoughts and concerns; his opinion and worry on certain topics, he shared them with you. The moment you realized he didn’t do that with everyone, your heart fluttered, somewhat prideful of the fact that you were someone Gojo Satoru confided in. You felt special.

It made you think of him outside of work; about interactions with him, involuntarily reading into them. That one time the teachers of the Tokyo and Kyoto branch had to group themselves into pairs of two for a field day activity for the students, and Gojo pretty obviously used his Six Eyes during drawing lots to get paired up with you? Yes, he wanted to be teamed up with you, but why? Because you had more patience with him than Urahime or Nanami? Or because he enjoyed spending time with you, liked that you laughed about each other’s jokes? Because he liked you? Or that one or two times when he pinched you out of sheer boredom in one of the meetings and then snickered at the way you squeaked and slapped him on his shoulder as a punishment? Or that time around Christmas when there was decoration all around the city and you and him were on a mission and he had spotted a heart-shaped Christmas ball that he wanted to hang on your uniform?

You tried to think about it rationally. Despite hanging out with him so often, you barely knew him. You had no idea where he was born, if his parents were still alive, what his favorite color was, which kind of music he enjoyed listening to, whether he had a partner. It would make sense, that last part, because this was Gojo Satoru, the strongest, the most handsome, the wittiest of them all. How could he still be single?

On the other hand, wouldn’t he have mentioned them at some point at least? Hm, not necessarily; he was the strongest which also meant he had lots of enemies. He probably didn’t want to put anyone in danger who was dear to him.

Okay, then: Would he act towards you like he did when he was already happily taken? Maybe? Maybe not? Probably not. Right?

It drove you mad. You could hardly concentrate on your work which affected your results, and that drove you even more mad. It was ridiculous. You were a grown adult and felt like a teenager with your funny, little feelings for that dashing colleague of yours. Surprisingly, every time you spoke to or ate or worked with him, you found yourself maturely nonchalant considering the turmoil he caused within you. Quite the opposite even: When you saw him, you felt at ease and the storm inside your head calmed down.

You fell for him.

It was maddening.

You decided to tell a friend – that you were crushing on your coworker, not who said coworker was exactly – and they managed to give you enough courage to ask him out. “He will say ‘No’ if he’s not interested. Or if he has a partner, I guess,” they said. It would be the first time for Gojo and you to meet privately. After pondering for hours you texted him whether he wanted to grab a coffee sometime this week.

He took an awfully long time reply but after six hours full of agony you received an answer: “Yeeeeees, sounds like fun! ^^ But I’m not in the city this week :(“

You texted him back, suggesting a day next week. Once more, many, many hours passed. He’s a highly demanded sorcerer, you reasoned, he’ll be busy.

He replied that he couldn’t say for sure whether he’d be in Tokyo next week but not to worry, you guys would manage somehow.

His words were encouraging but at the same time you felt a little Pang in your chest that it didn’t work out as planned. But, rationally speaking, it was going well; he agreed on meeting you and that gave you hope.

When he didn’t text you at the end of next week and you hadn’t seen him at school either, you dropped another message asking about his whereabouts. His answer came the next day, that he was fine but also very busy.

You suggested another time for the coffee, and this time he agreed.

All of a sudden, you became nervous. It wasn’t as if you two had never met before, or if you had never spent time alone with him. But for some reason, this felt different. Nonetheless, you were excited when you were getting ready. Sometime on your way to the café, he dropped you a message that he would be sitting inside the café waiting for you. With excitement you noticed that he was actually on time for your… meeting (you didn’t dare to call it a date). And when you spotted him sitting inside, wearing his sunglasses rather than his blindfold, your heart skipped a happy beat.

The greeting was warm and full of smiles; it had been quite a while since you two had last seen each other with missions and all. You got your drinks and started chatting about what you had done in the last couple of weeks. You were talking about your classes, about that especially annoying curse you had had to take care of on your supposedly free day, and some family business you had had to attend to.

After that, he told you about his super top-secret mission – abroad even! – he had been sent to, about how he had finished it with so much ease (of course) that he had been able to return back to Japan earlier than expected “… and thanks to that I spent a few days in Kyoto, that’s where my girlfriend lives.”

He continued on, talking about some new sweets he had tried, or was it about some old colleague he had met? Either way, you couldn’t pay attention. It sounded so cliché, but you were quite positive about hearing your heart shatter after he had said that last sentence. Your mind stopped working for a good minute before you snapped back and feared that he realized.

Was it just your imagination or had he gazed at you a bit more intensely than usual when he had said “girlfriend”? You didn’t know and you couldn’t skip back and replay that moment.

You wished you could. You wished you could stop everything right before he said that awful sentence. You wished he was joking but he hadn’t been using his teasing tone. You wished you would wake up and realize that you just had one of those horrible nightmares that hit a bit too close to real life scenarios.

But nothing like that happened. And just like that, within a second, your heart was broken; unintentionally even, you thought so at least. Gojo wasn’t the type to lead someone on. He’d be a bit flirty with everyone, yes, but he wouldn’t want someone properly fall for him when there wasn’t a chance. He wasn’t cruel to people he liked.

And yet there you were. The meeting was very nice; lasted for hours because the two of you had lost track of time. That was even worse. If it would have been awful, you thought you could eventually live with the fact that the two of you clicked at work but nowhere else, but that didn’t appear to be the case. Just like usually, you guys could easily joke around, talk about stuff related to work but also to some more private matters; teasingly banter about your favorite dishes being the whole opposite of each other but agreeing on the problems of the Jujutsu society.

Only when you were alone at home, you allowed yourself to let the fact sink in that Gojo Satoru had never been romantically interested in you. That all of his acts and words were nothing but platonic. Perhaps even an expression of mutuality that you mistook for romantic affection. And maybe that was the reason why you fell for him at the first place, because he interacted with you without any ulterior motives.

During the hours you spent with him at the café, he hadn’t mentioned his girlfriend a second time although there had been some possibilities. You also hadn’t dared to ask; either because you had feared to cross his borders, or because a part of you wanted to pretend she didn’t exist which meant you knew nothing about her except for that she lived in Kyoto.

You wished you had known beforehand because then you might have never properly fallen for him. But what had happened, had happened.

And all you knew was that you had to work with him while trying to make your stupid, little feelings fade away. You had no idea whether you would manage.

**********

masterlist

[traumawhomst]

The Songbird

Yandere Adoptive Fae King Dad & Child Reader

Part One

King Solaris was in a foul mood, today marked three years since his youngest daughter left to go study with the Northern Sea Witch and he missed her terribly. While three years is not much long to a fae, for a father it seemed an eternity. His court was as it always was, laughter and screams, dancing and bleeding, the same faces, the same smells and he was bored of it all.

“Father,” said his eldest son, watching his father’s tail lash back and forth as he sat on his throne, “might I suggest that you might go for a walk? How long has it been since you’ve been in the crossroads? Surely better to patrol them then stay to stew in your restlessness?”

The King sighed heavily, his flame orange cape draped over the left side of the throne. “Your sister hasn’t written yet,” he said, eyes still on the writhing mass of his court in front of him. His hand moved from propping up his chin to covering his heart, “I should go and see her.”

“Father,” said the eldest son, struggling not to implore the sky herself, “She has not missed a single day of letters, we both know that it will come. Stop sitting like a house cat and find something to take your mind off it until it comes.”

The King sighed even more loudly because he knew his son was right, with a flick of his wrist his cape turned into an emerald green hunter’s jacket standing up. He turned to face his son, seeing the crowd in the reflection of his eyes. His son was taller than him now and it brought a great pride to him. “I leave you to watch til I return my son,” he said with a slight head bow.

His son fully bowed his head, laurel green curls falling past sharp black horns, his hand over his heart, “Thank you for the honor father,” he said.

Solaris couldn’t stop a soft smile thinking of the same boy he brought home all those years ago. He reached out ruffling his sons hair, laughing at the slightly annoyed look his son gave as he stood up height again.

“See you soon father,” said Callan, a touch more dry than before. The King laughed again, turning and completely disappearing from the court.

It had been a while since he’d been in the cross-lands where human and fae territory overlapped. The human area changed from time to time, no one knew where the crossroads would be, and when that would change. When he reached the other side, he found it to be in he same place it had been about fifty years, he counted the years in a tree nearby. It was an early summer day where all the birds and insects were singing together but they knew well enough that the King was not in a fair mood and so went silent in respect.

The King stalked forward hands in his pockets as his mind wandered over the state of the forest, feeling how much closer the humans had settled nearby. He could smell them, even this far away and it irked him more with each passing second. It was odd for the boarder to stay for so long, usually half the time it had been here. He hadn’t cursed a town in quite a while. It might be a good way to bring back respect the humans seemed prone to do.

He was brought out of his thoughts by the sound of a thin reedy but full hearted singing. He clicked his tongue out loud, listening closer to realize it was a human whelp that was singing.

A child should know better than to be loud when the forest is silent. Where is it’s guardian to keep it safe? Or do the humans think we so weak to not show our teeth?

It was an easy task, show himself and play with them a bit, see if they were smarter than their parents. Maybe he’d turn them to a songbird since they seemed to love their voice. A lesson to neglectful parents about teaching your child to walk around the forest alone, as if they owned it.

He did admit that the child did have a rather sweet voice, and he had thoughts of shaping them something into more than just a simple songbird, maybe one that could also speak and mimic. Something he could put in a glass birdcage and listen to when he was bored.

The child was bent over in the dirt, singing some old folk song, hair loosely back dirty and sweaty. Who knows when they last had a bath, the King scoffed internally. Their clothes not much better much too big, covered in a thick layer of dirt. It all only strengthened his resolve to turn them to a songbird they would be treated much better than they were currently.

He stepped into the forest clearing, the air around them both growing thick and wild, a smell of hot summer grass hung like a cloud. The King watched motionless with a smile as the hunched figure froze in place, smart child to know when they were outmatched, no grand heroics or disrespect. The child lifted their face, and the King was oddly pleased, it was cleaner than their hair and he could that the child had spent most of their life facing towards the sun. Their eyes looked the same as a fawn caught in the sight line of a wolf, but their mouth was turned into a hesitant smile.

The King cocked his head to the side at the child’s smile, before he could say a word the child spoke.

“Hello,” they said, their voice soft with a slight tremor but a distinct note of hope, “what’s your name?”

With those simple four words, the Solaris knew that this was to be his third child. A neglected songbird, but with a quick wit and curiosity that spoke of greater things than their tiny village. He wanted to scoop them up, and tell of all the great things they would see and do. But this was not his first time bringing a child of his own. So he smiled as he knelt to be closer to the eye-line. of the child.

“You, songbird, may call me, Solaris, may I know what you to call you songbird?”

When the child’s face brightened, any hesitation was gone, this child was his and he couldn’t wait to bring them home.

[moopiter]

When It's Over - Chapter 1

2.2k | Homelander x gn!Reader | Angst, Pre-established character death and such discussions. Kinda Slow Burn-ish As always, cross posted to Ao3

The greatest superhero to ever live supposedly gave his life six months ago in a blaze of glory. But you swear you caught a glimpse of his cape in the halls of Vought tower your first day. You're left with nothing but questions. Is there even a body in that casket they put in the ground?

Authors note: Hey look at me, I'm not dead. Trying to get to drafts. This will be multi-chapter and I'm planning on having fun with it! Divider credit

It’s pouring rain over Manhattan, just like the forecast said.

For once, you can’t blame the clouds. You’ve felt like rain a while too.

The piles of undone laundry and dishes in your apartment that you've been putting off attest to it. But you've put yourself together for a big day. Rain be damned.

The puddles of rain are pooling in the cracks of the concrete under your boots. It's silly, but years ago you might’ve splashed and played in them, back when the world wasn’t such a big place. You try not to think about it too long, but you do. Just like how you’ve already overthought every interaction that’ll follow after you step foot through Vought’s doors.

You're always worried about the 'afters' of things. Repercussions and worries keep your mind occupied. It's a bad habit really, overthinking.

The wind undoes everything you’ve meticulously styled in the mirror this morning, but you keep your head up and simply persist. There’s a sea of new opportunity waiting for you after all. For once in a long time, you're determined.

The interview was the hard part, and that’s over. It leaves nothing to worry about. Worst of it's past.

When you graduated college, Digital Marketing Specialist wasn’t really what you imagined to be your future career. But an opportunity at Vought was a one in a million. Maybe one in a thousand. They were willing, after all. You hopped on it.

You catch wind of a conversation you'd rather not hear, meandering around the puddles. One that you've heard all too often before.

"He can't really be gone. I'm waiting for them to make it a stunt."

"Yeah, he's like the strongest dude alive. He wouldn't just up and die."

Every time you think you've forgotten, you're reminded. Homelander's dead. You're not going to work under your childhood hero. Vought's posterchild, the best of the best for as long as you can remember. A perfect superhero—no, the perfect superhero, or so everyone thought. Until it all was over.

Funny, ever since his funeral, seems like all Vought wants is more and more new employees.

They've been making frequent changes to their staff. Creating a new image for the company and rebranding the Seven must be a lot of work, if you had to guess. He was their shining star after all. You don't dwindle there long. Maybe this would be a steppingstone on a bigger journey, or maybe you’d climb the ladder. The hazy fog hiding your future is just a little lighter today, and you can daydream. It carries you through those first few steps through the door.

You take the new employee orientation in stride. Surely, there are only so many NDAs to sign right off the bat because you’re working with social media and marketing. It’s just something you shove to the back of your mind. Especially as you give your first overly zealous handshake to your new supervisor. But no matter what you do, it feels like you'll never have that energy you can't put a name to.

Nothing to worry about, you remind yourself. But she has sharp eyes that notice one of your buttons has come undone.

She leads you along your new office first, as you diligently follow behind and try to fix yourself. Appearance-wise, the space it occupies is nothing compared to the marble and accents throughout the rest of the building. It's dreary and bland. The repeating greyscale only occasionally broken by splashes of color from sticky notes and desk décor.

You catch glimpses of the posters that adorn the three walls that aren’t windows. All different members of the Seven advertising who knows what.

It's hard not to notice Homelander’s posters rolled up beside the trash can when you walk past. He was always your favorite.

He was always everyone's favorite.

And people still talk about him.

They probably always will, given what happened. Ultimate sacrifice and all. It’s easy to wear that smile he used to and try to look on the bright side. At least this place is more detached from the rest of the building. Bigwigs don't cast sideways glances here. It feels detached, like its own little world hidden in a maze of cubicles and computers.

You’re happy to hide in it, make it cozy. Forget about things.

With a generic introduction, you’re finally acquainted with your new office family. Not many disengage from their work to look up from their cubicles. But you wave and say hi anyway. It’s awkward, sure.

You're terrified someone will take note of how terrible you look compared to everyone else. Dressed in second-hand business attire, just trying to do your best.

But overall, it’s not half bad. Nobody notices, somehow.

You're happy to be shown around, to see the inside of a place everyone always wants to see. The marble clacks underneath your feet as you follow your new supervisor around the floor and take in the sights, trying your best and failing miserably to maintain direction.

It’ll take some time to get adjusted to. Just like the robust cafeteria and lavish break room you have access to now.

Not to mention the elaborate coffee bar too luxurious to even imagine relaxing in. That's all everybody drinks here is coffee, all hours of the day.

Maybe just this once you can convince yourself you deserve these finer things. As intimidating as it all may be. You made it after all. You work for Vought. Nothing to worry about, right?

It’s something you try to internalize as you walk in tandem with your new supervisor, making your way back to the elevator. Walking past corridors and offices, traversing the endless maze you’re bound to be lost in later despite her best efforts of a tour. Her skirt barely accommodates her rushed wide strides you're barely able to keep up with.

“There are certain floors off-limits. Without even looking at you, she explains that the underground levels and the medical wing are off-limits.

You nod along and give a quick, “Yes, ma’am,” and try to keep from falling behind.

“And 99. Unless you’re given special permission, that floor is off-limits for lower-level employees.”

That’s all I am? You think, your attempts at staying on the bright side faltering.

But something catches your eye before you can respond.

It’s the blue you see first, out of the corner of your line of sight, down the last corridor. There just long enough for you to dart your eyes left and watch as it disappears around a corner.

Deep blue followed by unmistakable red and white. Stripes, too long for a regular flag. You even catch a glimpse of gold for the split second it graces your vision. But in the millisecond it takes to turn your head, it's gone.

If you weren’t wiser, you’d think it was Homelander’s cape. The Homelander.

It wasn’t a regular flag. Couldn't of been. It flowed too languidly, just like how it used to be carried on his shoulders, strong enough to carry the weight of the world.

But Vought wouldn’t do that to him. They wouldn’t let someone else wear his suit, right?

Wouldn’t it be wrong?

“Hey, earth to newbie.”

Your eyes shoot back to your supervisor, now standing facing you with her hands on her hips. She taps her foot against the ground in displeasure, her once friendly eyes turning judgmental as she looks you over again.  “Are you just going to stand there and waste more time? Come on,” she sighs, turning on her heel to leave as she beckons you along behind her.

You burn bright red with embarrassment, following behind and trying to push the sight out of your mind.

You attribute it to your nerves, and nothing more.

Beyond the raindrops coating the glass outside, the sun starts to peek through. So you muse over that instead and let your thoughts carry you somewhere else.

The cubicle they allot to you is nice, and the chair is comfortable. At the very least, it’ll keep you sane during the long shifts staring at the screen in front of you. Writing and researching. A dozen other specialists and analysts work through the day, keeping the coffee bar busy as you sign digital forms and click through endless new employee trainings. Occasionally, you think back to that unexplainable sight earlier.

There are no publicity stunts planned, no specials, and no memorial photoshoots. You can’t help but scavenge through the schedules you have access to now, looking for a reason.

Despite all your efforts, you can’t find any rationality as to why someone would be parading around in one of his suits. He had to have had multiple, couldn't of been the suit.

You catch yourself wondering if he was buried in that red, white, and blue or in something more modest. Only his family got the privilege of seeing him one last time.

Everyone wanted to see him again. Who wouldn’t? But rumor has it, there wasn't much left of him anyway.

His folks were too heartbroken to speak publicly. They were, like the rest of the country, immersed in the day of mourning. But now that you think about it, you’re not sure if you’ve ever seen anything about his family. Just the origin movies with terrible actors.

For a moment, you wonder if maybe—just maybe—you’d actually caught a glimpse of him. If all those Reddit theorists questioning his death might be onto something. But it’s just wishful thinking you shrug off.

The long hand of the clock barely graces 5, and the department slowly files out the door without you noticing. Too preoccupied. Being the determined person you are, you stay behind to finish the training early. It gives you more time to muse about what you saw.

Hopefully it'll get a genuine smile out of your supervisor when tomorrow rolls around, and you'll make up for today.

Over your shoulder, the shorthand of the clock ticks by 5, trudges past 5:30, and crawls over 6. Unaware, you finish the final module of the information safety training and sigh. When you stretch your back, your chair creaks, the only sound in the office. It's palpable, the satisfaction of completing a task.

Nothing to worry about. That is, until you become aware of the silence surrounding you. Your smile falters then.

There’s no incessant tap of keyboard keys or overheard phone calls. Suddenly, you’re all too aware of the time that you let slip past as you peek above the walls of your cubicle.

Not only is the social media department absent of the hum and chatter, so are the adjoining offices.

Oops.

Somewhere along the line, the rain stopped falling. Now the sun’s climbing down out of the sky. At the very least, you won’t have to catch a taxi in the rain; just trudge through the puddles again. It’s muggy past the windows, the clouds still looming, and the humidity fogging your view of the city.

But it’s a lovely sunset past it all. Despite everything.

You mull it over as you pull your jacket over your shoulders and grab your bag, damning yourself for staying so late. There’s something to be said about hard work and dedication, but no one would be around to hear it anyway. So you log off and slip out.

It’s a short trip from your office and down the hall to the elevator. But the sound of your footsteps echoing off the marble as you go makes it feel like a mile. You swear there isn't a single thing in the building alive, besides you. All you can hear is your own heartbeat.

It’s honestly the slightest bit unsettling.

Everyone on this floor abandoned the place hours ago, leaving you behind. Far below you, various security and analytics departments work around the clock. You're sure of it. Far above you, the Seven go about their lives in their penthouse apartments. But from where you walk, it’s like being the only soul here.

You keep your head on a swivel, instincts on high alert as you walk.

But nothing decides to dance in the corners of your vision this time.

A sigh escapes your lungs as you step on the elevator. Embraced by the slightest bit of comfort, knowing you’ll be downstairs with other people again as you slip past security on the ground floor. But something feels off as you lean forward and press the button to head down. The air isn’t sitting right.

The bright yellow button for the 99th floor is lit, the place you’d specifically been told to not go.

Your brow creases as the button for the ground floor presses underneath your finger. Without really thinking, you assume whoever it was changed their mind and got off below you, so you press the button for the 99th down. Hoping it goes off.

It stays illuminated underneath your fingertip regardless.

You press it again once, then twice.

And it still stays lit.

There would be something wrong with the elevator as soon as you step inside, wouldn’t that be your luck? What would you say if anyone caught you up on the Seven’s floor? The most you can do is hope and pray once it reaches the top, it’ll let you go back down.

You close your eyes. If you’re lucky, there won’t be any witnesses to the cardinal sin you’re committing.

Accepting fate, you open them and gaze down the hallway as the metal elevator doors slide closed in front of you, sealing you inside. But the second they close fully and the elevator begins to move, you freeze.

It’s not just your reflection staring.

You can distinguish the unmistakable silhouette of patriot blue, draped by red and white behind you in the reflection of the hazy metal. Artificial light even bounces off the golden eagles on his shoulders as if he’s right there with you.

Menacingly staring straight past you is none other than Homelander himself. It has to be.

For just a second, those hopeful theories pop into your mind again. Maybe he's not dead! Maybe it was all just a hoax, and your favorite hero is here. Alive and well.

But then you remember you got on the elevator alone. Empty.

He doesn't move, doesn't blink. Doesn't even breathe.

Maybe there is one thing to worry about.

[hyperfixiation-station]

Welcome Home

Based off this post by @simon-rileys :))

Pairing: GhostxReader

Summary: Picking Ghost up from the airport after 3 month long mission with your 4-year-old daughter. What could possibly go wrong?

I did write this on my phone, so please please please let me know if there are any errors. And, as always, no beta!

"Layla!" You say sternly, "stop running around, you're going to get hurt." Your 4-year-old daughter completely ignores you, just giggles and keeps running in circles around the baggage claim.

You sigh and shake your head, grinning ruefully. You can't blame her for her excitement. After all, she's going to see her dad after 3 longs months away. You'd be running around too if your body could manage it. Your heart rate quickens in anticipation at the thought, and you bounce up and down for a moment before getting winded and going back to monitoring Layla.

You watch her little braids with pink bows at the end flop up and down as she runs, zig zagging every which way. Oh well. As long as she is in your sights you can't get too upset. You shake your head as she squeals again, barely dodging an old man as she makes another lap, her chubby little legs never running out of energy

Where she gets it from, you'll never know. You certainly don't have that much energy. Especially not now. You laugh to yourself, looking down at where the small but obvious bulge in your stomach is, the sign of life that you have so carefully hidden with one of Simon's hoodies. Your hand strays to your pocket to touch the ultrasound photos, the ones you got a week ago when you went to find out the gender. You run your finger nervously along the edge of the photos, equal parts excited and anxious to tell Simon you are pregnant again.

You still remember telling him when you were pregnant with Layla. He'd been home at the time, and you had been absolutely terrified. You weren't even married at the time, and had never spoken about wanting kids. You almost had a breakdown when you handed him the positive pregnancy test and he just stared at it in silence. That was, until he looked up at you with a genuine smile and tears in his eyes and asked you to marry him. He didn't even have a ring.

Distantly you hear your daughter shriek, snapping you out of the memory. Your head shoots up, eyes wide and searching for her little form. You rake your eyes over the room, but you see no sign of a brunette in a little pink dress.

"Layla!" You cry, hurrying towards where you heard her voice, at the junction where the wrong terminal meets the baggage claim, "Layla, stay where I can see you!" She doesn't respond, and your heart rate picks up as you start to list off the worst-case scenarios.

"Layla!"

Ghost steps off the escalator, lips twitching under his mask. He had gone the roundabout way, take an extra 15 minutes to walk all the way to the other terminal, just so he could surprise his girls.

Gods he can't wait to see them. Yes, 3 months was really not that long compared to some of his other deployments, but to him, anytime spent away from his family felt like torture.

He never thought he would end up like this, a wife and a kid and a figurative white picket fence. It had always been in the cards for him to die alone. Or at least, he thought it was. And then you forced your way into his life, gave him something to fight for, gave him something worth living for. And gods how he loved you.

He hears a familiar giggle and freezes, snapping out of his reverie. He trains his eyes on the end of the hall, watching the crowd for you and Layla. Sure enough, a little pink ball of destruction comes hurtling around the corner, running full-speed for him. He drops his duffle bag to the ground, and waits for you to show, brow furrowing when you don't follow behind her.

He doesn't have time to dwell on it though, as his daughter appears before him in all her pink, glittery glory.

"Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!" She shrieks, launching herself at him. He wraps his arms around her, and hold her tight to his chest inhaling deeply. He can feel her small shoulders shaking, can hear her sniffing, can feel her tears on his neck. Guilt overwhelms him for a moment, self-hatred overpowering him for making her cry. Its gone in an instant, his frown vanishing as Layla places a sloppy kiss on his eyebrow, his cheeks are still covered by a mask.

"Daddy!" She squeals again, burrowing her face in his chest. "I mithed you!" Tears prick his eyes at the sound of her voice. He forgot how much he missed her adorable little lisp.

"I missed y' too, baby girl." He presses his forhead to hers for a moment before looking up, his eyes scanning the hallway for you, frowning again when your still not in sight. "Wh're's y'r mother?"

"She was being thlow tho I lef' her." She informs him, grinning happily as she plays with his dog tags, her head resting against his shoulder. He grins, closing his eyes for a moment as he savors the feeling of his daughter in his arms.

"She's slow, huh?" Ghost huffs, shaking his head at his daughter's antics, "well then le's go meet 'er."

Layla grabs at his face, shaking her head rapidly, looking a serious as an over-excited 4-year-old can manage.

"She has an 'uprise for you." She informs him solemnly. He tries nto to laugh, knowing shes trying to be very serious, but fails. She frowns, squeezing his face with her chubby little hands.

"I'th no' funny." She says crossly, " Mommy 'as an 'uprise for you."

"A surprise?"

"Yeth." She looks around, eyeing the strangers in the terminal before leaning next to his ear, "I'm not appothed t' thay nothin', but-" she breaks off into peals of laughter as Ghost covers her mouth with his free hand.

"If mommy says you're not supposed t', then y'r not sup-" He pauses, hearing your frantic voice echoing from around the corner, "y' didn't tell y'r mother where y' were goin', did ya now baby girl?"

She at least has the decency to look ashamed, hiding her face in his jacket as she shakes her head. He laughs softly and shifts, bending to pick up his duffle bag with his free arm. His daughter clings to his neck, her head buried in his chest as he moves down the hallway, heading toward your panicky voice.

"Layla where did yo-"

"I've got 'er luv, dontcha worry." You freeze in your tracks as Simon rounds the corner, your daughter in his arms. You stare at him wide-eyed, drinking in the sight of him af6er so many months apart. He's in a hoodie and jeans, a black mask covering the lower portion of his face. His dogs tags are out, Layla twirling them in her fingers. He looks exhausted and scruffy, his clothes dirty and torn, but you could care less. Just the sight of him alive and well is enough to make you cry.

He drops his bag to the ground and kicks it out of the way, opening his free arm to you. Tears well in your eyes as you launch yourself at him, wrapping you arms around him and Layla. His arm wraps around you and yoi feel him lean bacm, pulling you slightly off the ground, gently swinging you side to side before setting you down.

You stand in his embrace for a minute, face pressed into his side, savoring the feeling of being in his arms again. Your shoulders begin to shake, tears slipping from your eyes as you inhale deeply, the scent of him like manna to your soul. You let out a small sob and tighten your grip, digging your fingers into his side. You stand like that for a few minutes, a little family reunion in the middle fo the hallway, you sobbing silently while Simon rests his chin on your head, Layla's heel digging into your ribs. You pull back a moment later, rubbing a hand across your eyes as you inhale shakily.

"I missed you Si'." You laugh wetly, looking up at him. He doesn't say anything, just grabs you and pulls you in again, your head resting on his chest. Your daughter's chubby hand moves to rest on your head, her fingers twisting your hair into painful knots. You don't notice, to focused on trying not to cry again.

"I missed y' too luv." He murmurs after a minute, his chest rumbling beneath your forehead. He holds you for a few more seconds before stepping back, his eyes suspiciously shiny. "Now Layla says y' have a surprise f'r me?"

"That I do, dove." You sniff, rubbing your nose with the the back of your hand. You look down, biting your lip nervously as you take another step back. You slip your hand into your pocket, fingers closing around the little bundle of photos.

"Y'gonna expla-" His voice trails off as you pull the pictures from your pocket, handing them out to him. You watch as he gently sets Layla down and takes a slow step forward, his movements almost reverent. He takes the photos from your waiting hand, his eyes growing wet as he studies the photos of the 4 month old baby you have growing inside you. He can't read them, but he knows what they represent. After all, he has one of Layla's ultrasound photos in the pocket of his vest.

"Is this-are you…"

"Yes." You laugh, your voice thick, "we're having a baby boy. In April."

He laughs, a rare, genuine one, and sweeps you up in his arms, spinning you around in a circle. He sets you back down but doesn't let go. His hands slide down to your waist as he leans forward, pressing his forehead against yours. His eyes close as your arms wrap around his neck, and he exhales shakily, the warm air making your eyes flutter. You stand like that for what feels like ages, forehead-to-forehead, just breathing in the other's presence.

"Mommy!" You are brought back to the real world by your daughter, who is standing with her hand on her hips and glaring at you, "Th'op hogging daddy to yourthelf! I wanna turn!"

You chortle softly, stepping back from Simon. He huffs and shakes his head, giving you a very 'she gets this from you' type look. He scoops her up as she squeals, positioning her on his hip. He crouches and grabs his bag, hoisting it on his shoulder before grabbing your hand amd interlacing fingers. You step forward, tugging him behind you as you lead him out of the airport and back home.

"Was it a good surprise?" You murmur as you walk to the car.

"Very, luv."

"I'm glad. How would you feel if I tell you we're having twins?"

So here it is, a month later than promised @simon-rileys @dwkfan , sorry 'bout that

Lemme know what you think :)

[walmart-miku]

This panel progression is killing me but I think that it'd actually kill me if yoo joonghyuk and lee seolhwa don't get in here (pls I need a full kimcom panel)

[vestadragon]

I get so emotional when I remember how kind Jojo and Maria were to their hedgehogs.

Because these two little girls

really encountered a lonely and beaten up alien hedgehog and choose to be kind. Jojo's mom was screaming her lungs out about calling the government and yet Jojo looked at Sonic's beaten up shoes filled with holes and listened to her aunt lament how beat up his feet were, went up to her room, grabbed those shoes (ignoring her mother all the way) and gifted them to Sonic. So his feet wouldn't hurt anymore T.T

And Maria? You cannot tell me that when she found Shadow, immediately someone probs came around and warned her not to get close bc he was "dangerous" or "unstable" or some bullshit like that, and she still choose to break all the rules and disobey her grandfather to hang out with Shadow and be his friend until the end.

Anyway, I am so emotional and this is the reason I am writing a whole series to have them meet :3 Gonna really go in for the bonding between Jojo and Sonic (and later on Tails and Knuckles) and the time Maria and Shadow spent together before the accident. AND THEN the epic adventure of Jojo and Maria is gonna happen. I am so excited!

Fun fact, I went looking for Jojo's age casually for my timeline (i choose to ignore how the 3 movies are supposed to only be in like a 2 year period bleh) and found out she is 10 in the first movie, and by the third, which I am setting in its release year 2024, she is 14. Can anyone guess how old Maria is when we see her flashbacks with Shadow? Yep! She is also 14! I was sure she was at least 13 but couldn't be older, and I was right! It was like a lightbulb went off in my head when I realized. And 6 fics planned later, here we are! As a little tease, I'm putting the summary here for that big fic, but it's number 4 so if you are interested, you are gonna have to wait!

At the location of the (former) ARK Lab in Idaho, Jojo finds Maria Robotnik, who is suddenly 50 years in the future with unstable chaos energy powers. Together, they become runaways of GUN as they embark on a journey to Green Hills in search of the Wachowski's. In London, Maddie has been arrested for her "involvement" at the attack to GUN HQ and is confined to Tom's hospital room. By accident, Stone finds them and for his own personal objectives, helps her send Tom back home while she remains to try to contact her missing children using Eggman's tech. Somewhere in China, Sonic, Tails and Knuckles have no way to get back home, having used the last ring in the atmosphere escaping the Eclipse Canon. Not only that, but the Chaos Emeralds are lost and GUN is after them. Due to their usage of the emeralds while trying to stop the canon, Sonic has a bond to Shadow. This guides Team Sonic to the dark hedgehog, hoping they find him before GUN. Alliances are formed, friendships new and old are tested, and all roads lead to Green Hills as two girls hold the key to Rockwell's plans to secure GUN the strongest object in the Universe: the Master Emerald.

[fumifooms]

"Marchil? I guess I can see it on Chilchuck’s end, but what about Marcille’s? What makes you think she could develop feelings for him?" I’m glad you asked!

The first thing to note is that she does think highly of him

In the page on the right, literally defending his virtues and literally comparing him to Dalclan. And oh…

She does love a brooding mysterious guy who closes himself to love. But surely, Chilchuck isn’t her type at all, right? He’s not princely or knightly at all. In apperances certainly not, both looks wise and demeanor wise, but then that’s why she seeks to know him on a deeper level, to not only look shallowly.

And hmm. Chilchuck really is quite selfless isn’t he? Always looking out for others, and saving specifically her often, always making sure himself and, staying in or even running towards danger for her sometimes. Modesty is often considered heroic…

And can we talk about that drowning one… You can definitely frame the special attention as him knowing she tends to hesitate or be clumsy, and then his insistance on pulling her out of danger that she’s the healer aka the most important to keep alive, but. From the one who says that he just keeps his ass out of fights and won’t help this is a lot of risk to take, and he does die trying to pull her to safety in the dungeon rabbits chapter. And the drowning bit??? That’s when the dungeon collapses. The only reason they DON’T die of drowning here is that the water then gives way to outside. There was NO hope of pulling her to safety here and resurrections would likely not work either, he truly preferred to die with her than try to survive himself.

Sit your ass back DOWN you are in no state, self-sacrifical hero much damn

And Marcille definitely noticed this imo, after all she loves learning all she can about him, remembering things like how he hates waiting on people too. She pays attention to him and what he does and what he says. This to say that it’s notable, whatever reason for it you may think (though we know by this point at least she was already aware he was an adult though it wasn’t internalized), out of everyone it’s Chilchuck’s bed that she wants to sleep in during the Golden Kingdom stay. He’s safe and comforting to her: dependable, the defining trait in her view of him as is shown by the relationship chart in the Adventurer’s Bible.

^ Lending handkerchiefs is a romance trope btw and handkerchiefs have irl history of being used for courting. Especially in old English literature and plays like Shakespeare’s Othello, and personally I do see a lot of Shakespeare in Dalclan (nobility political drama with some romance). There’s how his cowl is a dearly beloved souvenir from his family too, there’s a lot of aesthetic tropes you can apply to him.

All this to say you can 100% romanticize Chilchuck into a princely noble guy if you try and that’s exactly what Marcille does with the wife roleplay. She doesn’t need much in the first place, she latches onto crumbs and makes aesthetic narratives out of details, give her an inch she’ll take a mile.

But what’s interesting about the shift throughout the arc of her and his relationship is that she starts out idealizing him into a little angel of a kid (shapeshifter), and she ends it idealizing him as a virtuous husband and family man instead.

And what’s doubly interesting is that in the former, she’s actively warping who he is personality and demeanor wise to fit the aesthetic, he doesn’t have that bitter pride of not asking for help and the edges have been smoothened. But what she does during the wife roleplay is something else, she acknowledges the flaws and just… Accepts them, rolls with them. She’s aware of his flaws and implements them into the narrative, but the reason why his wife left doesn’t capitalize on them even, rather Chil is chilblivious and his wife loves him very much still, she’s just testing him after having had a night of feeling out of place at his side.

And this is what separates the idealization vs romanticization, she’s not twisting him into someone else she’s just uplifting what he is and focusing on the good sides.

Marcille: "he has a shitty personality sometimes but if he was my husband I’d still cherish him" "If I were your wife I’d be overjoyed to go out with you and would get myself prettied up while you complain about me taking a long time, your friends would tell me that I’m nice and that’d make me happy, but I’d also be sad because you wouldn’t tell me that you love me enough"

He’s angry and his wife left him, he’s *flawed*, but he’s still worth hyping up, still worth having his own romance story, still has a shot of winning back his beloved. She sees him for what he is, human and real and not a carefully scripted character that fits an aesthetic, and she thinks it’s still worthy of love and admiration and fighting for

And what’s funny too is that you might expect her to cool down on him once she learns more about him but actually she only gets increasingly into his business. You tell her your age and next thing you know you promise to introduce her to your family. Give her an inch she takes a mile. And too the thing is, Senshi is equally mysterious but she doesn’t pester him like at all, asks him ONCE about his succubus and he doesn’t even answer and that’s like… It. With Chilchuck it starts off innocently enough with her wanting to know his age, hometown, the stuff she mentions having asked pre-canon. But it just keeps and keeps going and escalating. Think she’ll be satisfied now knowing you have a wife and kids, maybe she’s disillusioned now? Wrong! She wants to know their names and ages and occupations and hey how did you propose to your wife? Do you think she’ll stop after meeting them? What’s next? What will she want to know next????

She’s… Like it’s not a reach that Marcille is all over him. Like it doesn’t mean it’s romantic but she just is. She is not normal about him idk. Can you not ask him about what tongue technique he used when first kissing his wife, give the man breathing room

Marcille could literally go "if I was Chilchuck’s wife" having deeply pondered and thought out the hypothetical and people would still ask where anyone sees any romantic potential between them. Oh wait

There’s a platonic explanation for everything (almost?) in Dungeon Meshi don’t say I’m saying otherwise, but it’s definitely not like there’s nothing here to read into lol

Going off a bit more under read bc it’s my fave topic

Marcille has a whole theme with the charming prince trope with her idealization and storybook motif and Chil is kinda the "Well someone perfect like that isn’t very realistic and romance is usually more complex and that’s ok and good and flawed people can still be ✨virtuous✨" catalyst

Do you see do you see she starts canon thinking the most romantic thing is a prince charming but her arc in the end has her romanticizing an average, flawed, real and realistic family man, who’s on the poorer side and is on the verge of divorce. And that’s what he needed, too, seeing the positive of himself and the situation instead of focusing on the negative is explicitly what inspires him to hope that he might be able to reconcile with his wife, gives him the courage and self-esteem to shoot his shot.

He IS a prince figure instead that now it’s not about idealizing the grand and overt it’s about romanticizing the small things in real life!! About finding joy and beauty in things that seem normal or mundane and uplifting them to make the world feel kinder!!!!

He’s the devoted virtuous man that she wantsss not the storybook prince that’s unrealistic and could crumble like a script at any time. He’s the perfect example of a flawed realistic but virtuous & devoted & loving man. Far from a prince charming, but not fully detached from it either. Something worth fighting for despite the flawed cracks. Like literally, flawed romance being worth fighting for is literally the finale of Chilchuck and Marcille’s arc on the matter, where their separate arcs and issues intersect at the most crucial moment.

Marcille is important to Chil’s arc not only because of her optimism, but also because of her interest and knowledge in romance & matters of the heart, and that’s what he needs to both open his heart up to hope and to try to reconcile with his wife, like idk sounds gay

Their arc together is literally learning to 1) see each other for how they are and not undermining their qualities capacities etc etc while still not leaving flaws unchecked either and 2) opening up to people. Marcille LITERALLY makes Chil open his heart up to hope like idk man. What do you want from me. He’s literally the guy helping her through deconstructing novels and fantasy and rose tinted glasses and like. Deconstructing the prince charming figure into something more real but still romantically beautiful like KUI KUI STOOOOP STOP I’M ALREADY HOOKED I’M ALREADY-

 Ok fine that’s me reading into the tropes too much forgive me for being storybook brained but like. Speaking his heart out to a lone woman on a balcony, Romeo and Juliette shit, asking if she, too, doesn’t want to meet his family, madly blushing. And like she’s learned with Chilchuck it’s all in the little things, all the implications he cannot speak aloud. She does reciprocate, does blush madly back, and the first thing she does is shower him in flowers and jewelry and what in her heart is coded as romantic gifts

A lady, stashed away in a high tower by her lonesome, waiting for someone to call out to her from below… Romeo courting type shit with an offer, a heartfelt spiel, implicit confession from underneath her balcony. Offering him flowers because he succeeded in calling out to her heart…….. And they have to climb to her too…. Crazy

Doesn’t it sound like a proposal. One that’s both so storybook-like and not, contrastedly real and grounded, all about the implications rather than in your face grand gestures, "Don’t you want to meet my family?". They literally have an arc about the topic of romance and this is the climax/pinnacle of it like god?? This is @ the woman who said "Chilchuck is a shy/bashful man so I know he wouldn’t tell me he loves me, but…" btw

To quote a friend, truly the shiny secret unlockable dating sim capture target : THE DUNGEON LORD BIT WAS SO FUNNY BECAUSE HE KNEW SHE'D TAKE IT HOOK LINE AND SINKER HES THE ONE WHO GOT HER TO TURN AROUND COMPLETELY SHES LIKE. WIDE EYED FLAG RAISED???? FLAG RAISED WITH CHILCHUCK 👀👀👀‼️👀👀‼️👀

And the way that this is the culmination of their arc together… Like people are not ready for the ‘Chil calling out to dunlord Marcille on the balcony has Romeo and Juliette romance novels imagery’ take. Or the ‘their arc is about growing to see beauty even in the non-idealized, in the flawed and in the real’ take which makes it so so perfect if she were to lower her ideal from a charming elven prince to a virtuous halfling man (which she does end up romanticizing)

So there, you got to witness in real time what happens when I think about marchil for longer than 2 minutes, there are so many layers it’s a deranged rabbithole. I saw the necronomicon of subtext and it’s driving me to madness with forbidden knowledge that no one else sees

……. Like what if I told you she implicitly picked Chilchuck over a "unrealistic prince charming who’s actually disingenuous" much earlier in the story already. If she was given the choice to think through going with a guy that seems perfect and chivalrous like her succubus she’d pick Chilchuck over the other actually. If I sound insane rn tune in for my full analysis on them coming this month hopefully thank youu. Interwoven arcs of fantasy vs reality and idealization vs pessimism I love youuu

So now you know the general thesis of my planned analysis about the importance of the prince charming figure in Marcille and Chilchuck’s arc, where she romanticizes things to a sometimes worrying degree or idealize people into something easy and digestible and poetic (like Chil being a kid, and then him being a virtuous ✨✨✨husband), and how she needs to value aesthetics less and actual acts and facts more, be more grounded (like seeing people for what they are flaws and all, and accepting that people need money and not pulling through on principles of honor or unity shouldn’t get Namari shamed) and a part of that is accepting that Chilchuck is BOTH flawed and virtuous, a loving husband that still has shitty moods and fumbled his marriage so bad etc etc. So it’s like, her image of perfect prince charming that will whisk you away on an ethereal romance -> realistic flawed middle aged dad with personality issues and a failing marriage but he still is worthy of love and having his cute grand romance story and his happy ending. Ik I keep repeating the same point through this but I need it to be burned into everyone’s brains it has its grip on me I can’t do this. They are so special……

[animentality]

special announcement time

alright everyone.

at long last, i have finished polishing my latest writing project, a horror romcom fantasy novel (94k words), and am looking for beta readers to tell me what they think of it.

but not only that...

i am also interested in beta swapping.

sooooooooo.

if you got an ongoing fanfic, if you've got a novel of your own...or any other kind of big writing project, or web comic even, that you want eyes on...dm me or send me an ask (or reply to this post, I'll reach out).

i have turned on dms and replies for this purpose.

it can be pretty much any length and any genre, about anything. i don't mind any experience level either, whether you've never written anything at all, or have been doing it for years. i can help aspiring authors (trad or indie), fanfic authors who want to participate in fan events/post to AO3, people who don't want to share their work with the public...

i'll read sci fi, fantasy, horror, historical, contemporary, romance. porn. any genre, with any audience (YA, MG, adult, whatever).

but also, you know. we don't have to swap. if you just wanna read it, that's perfectly alright too. summary here, so you can see if you'd be interested.

Warnings: Graphic violence, child death (death of an infant), self-harm (because their powers are blood-based, and they need to self harm in order to use them), implied sexual assault/incest (not graphic), animal death (a lot of it), and oh yeah, sex scenes. this is an adult romantasy. adult.

anyway.

here:

In a world ravaged by war between the old gods and the new, demigods sow chaos and discord wherever they go, destined to be either legendary heroes or fearsome villains. But Marrow is not like other demigods. They are the child of the god of blood and slaughter, born with only one purpose: to kill in their savage father’s name, and bleed the entire world dry. The one problem? 

The only living creature they want to kill is their father.

But Marrow has been imprisoned within their temple for their entire life, unable to realize that dream…until now. A deal with a devil allows them to escape, making their way into a hostile world they know little about- and matters are not helped by the fact that their father can use their eyes to see what they're seeing at any time. To keep him from seeing their location, Marrow must remained blindfolded. But Marrow, an eternal optimist, won’t let their lack of vision stop them from fulfilling their lifelong dream. 

The demigod hunter might, however. Arlo Ren is a member of the Razor Watch, a religious order dedicated to the goddess of the hunt. He is clever, but impulsive, eager to prove himself to his goddess by capturing powerful prey. Soon after meeting Marrow by chance, and discovering what they are, he sees his opportunity and refuses to let it go. Literally. The demigod hunter handcuffs the demigod to his side, and swears to sacrifice them in his god’s name. Luckily for him, Marrow is an inexperienced, blind pacifist, who needs him to guide them through a dangerous, unknown world. They fully intend to escape him eventually. But perhaps a demigod and a demigod hunter have more in common than they might think. Perhaps they might even need each other...but they will, at the very least, need to learn how to live, work, and fight together as they are relentlessly chased by Marrow’s powerful demigod siblings, all hoping to kill their youngest sibling and please the god they abandoned. 

So yeaaaah. DM or replied or whatever if interested. We can chat some more in discord or on Tumblr (but I'm faster on discord).

[lemondropicedtea]

Rawdogging an un-edited section of my fic. I'm going to start just posting little snippets because some scenes I just love so much this is gonna be like a 300k+ word fic and I only want to post it on ao3 when she's done done. This is a flashback to when Viktor actually first met Jayce at the academy. And he felt something immediately because they're literally connected canonically at every level I'm going to start CRYING TW: Un-edited first pass shit Enjoy...

Viktor looked up and time seemed to stand still for a moment. The boy, maybe a year younger than him with short dark hair, tanned skin and a round baby-face looked at him as he walked past. He had papers and scrolls piled between his arms as he walked past him.

Their eyes made contact and Viktor felt a strange feeling in his gut, like he was forgetting something important. Just as soon as the feeling started, it faded and the boy looked back ahead and kept walking down the hall, his long legs making his pace faster than others. 

Viktor stopped and turned to watch him as the began to turn the corner, only to catch his foot on a small table against the wall and fall forward with a yip. Papers flew all over. Viktor held a snort in his throat and watched as the boy’s ears went red and looked around at a few passing students who watched him, amused. 

“Viktor!”

Viktor jolted as Dmitri appeared at his side, hand on his waist in a way that made Viktor groan internally. Damn this man thinking he had a right to touch him any time he saw them just because they were fucking. 

“I was hoping I’d catch you after your class… oh.” Dmitri looked up to where the boy was shaking his head, regaining his composure after his fall. “Damn, that guy is such an awkward clutz.” he said with a snort. 

“You know him?” Viktor asked, looking over at where the boy was desperately picking up the papers that had fallen from his arms, ears growing redder at a group of three years giggling at him from behind their hands.

“Yeah. That’s Jayce Talis. Lower house, his family runs a tool making business.” he said. “He’s another of Kirammin’s patrons. For how long, who knows. She picked him up because of his surprisingly incredible marks more than anything. He’s pretty smart, but he’s not… how should I put it nicely…” Dmitri rubbed the back of his neck. “...impressive. I think she was hoping he'd be a good investment, but so far he hasn’t really produced anything noteworthy. Funny considering he always looks busy with something.” 

“Something?” Viktor asked. Jayce finally got his bearings and looked over to them. Viktor saw Dmitri raise his hand in greeting in the corner of his eye. Jayce pinched his face, but nodded to him and scurried off. 

“He’s not much of a people person.” Dmitri said with a shrug. “He barely goes to events and when he does he looks like he’s itching to hole himself back up in his workshop. He’s a recluse. But Cassandra must see something in  him.”

“And you say he’s from a tool-making house?” Viktor asked, brow raised. Dmitri huffed at him.

“You seem pretty interested in him. Do I need to feel jealous?” he asked with a teasing grin, moving his arm from Viktor's waist up to his shoulders. Viktor rolled his eyes at him in exasperation. “He’s not worth your time, trust me.” Dmitri said a bit too confidently.

[dangerouscoffeetheorist]

I've been rewatching Teen Wolf - does anyone want a 15k Thaim, Theo finding a family with Melissa and Chris, pack fluff fic because I have thoughts and an obsession 😅😅

Does anyone still care about teen wolf?

Anyone want to read it I'm having major doubts about it