#(<- a place of dreams. a place to get lost in.. A thing that beckons..)

[rustingroots]

Oughhh I have something in my mind about lakes and mirrors I want to paint

[petalbcrnes]

chapter one ── welcome mat

oh, my clumsy heart: a roommate jason series.

♥︎ roommate!jason ✗ gn!reader

SYNOPSIS: A man, an expert in every unsavory action of his less-than-legal occupation, like Jason, shouldn't be so nervous about meeting a roommate. Yet here he is—his nails digging crescents into his palm as his eyes lock onto your nervous smile.

TAGS: roommate au, friends to lovers, tooth-rotting fluff, awkward flirting, mutual pining, emotional intimacy, eventual romance, AND THEY WERE ROOMMATES!! canon-typical violence.

CHAPTER SYNOPSIS: Jason follows you back down the hall, the strange tension between you both melting away. This might not be so bad after all. He could get used to this—whatever this was.

✹ ꕀ SERIES M.LIST ; NEXT ; SPOTIFY PLAYLIST

The kaleidoscopic colors of this evening dance across concrete streets. It paints a striking contrast on the canvas. Neon signs flicker and hum, beckoning you inside the markets that are tucked between towering brick apartments, their garish lights bleeding into the surrounding shadows. The air is thick with the smell of street food, rainwater mixing with exhaust fumes, and the subtle scent of asphalt. People move across the slick pavement, their hurried footsteps tapping out an almost rhythmic pattern. They slide between the occasional car like busy bees, all lost in their own heads, each one with a mission of their own deep in their determined minds.

It’s all strangely calming to see. As if Gotham itself is just a backdrop to the urgent lives of the people that live within it. If you only forget the dim alleyways beside those cozy markets—places that hide secrets not meant for curious eyes. The ones that ooze dark promises, whispering of things better left unseen.

The dichotomy of Gotham City.

Jason leans against his motorcycle, eyes tracing the chaotic beauty of it all. He’s been here long enough to know that Gotham’s pulse is erratic, its rhythm always just a little off. He runs a hand over the leather of his jacket, the material clinging uncomfortably to his skin. The heat of the jacket presses into his shoulders, far too warm for the damp night air, but it’s a comfort nonetheless. A familiar weight. The soft, persistent drizzle makes the jacket feel even heavier, and yet, it’s the only thing that grounds him in this mess of neon lights and cold streets.

With a deep breath, Jason reaches into his pocket, fingers brushing over the crumpled edges of the paper he’s been carrying for days. A small, almost ridiculous thing, but it’s his lifeline now. His thumb presses into the creases of the paper, smoothing it out just enough to read it again, even though he’s already memorized the words.

DESPERATE NEED OF ROOMMATE! $600 // East End // Thompson Apartments // 2BD!

Gender doesn't matter. Just pay rent on time. The apartment is "vintage," not old. Two bedrooms, a functioning kitchen and bathroom.

CONTACT FOR MORE: (555) 123-1443!!

Jason’s eyes linger on the number for a moment, tracing the digits with his mind. He called it a few days ago, desperate like the ad claimed. His situation demanded urgency, just like your voice on the other end of the line. The surprise in your tone when he explained why he was calling made him hesitate for just a second, but then he remembered: Gotham didn’t care about how people got by. It only cared about getting by. And he needed something in the East End, something that wasn’t going to make him stand out too much.

The whole thing was a gamble. He’d told you he was just a student, trying to save some cash, and that was the truth… at least the version of it he could afford to tell. The truth, in his world, was always a little murky. You didn’t ask questions, and maybe that was why he agreed. Maybe it was the way you sounded���genuine, in a way he wasn’t used to. The thought had stuck with him.

East End apartments weren’t the stuff of dreams, but they were affordable. They were quiet, in a way. Too quiet sometimes.

As he waits, Jason wonders—did you even believe him?

Was he really just some lost student? Or was he something else entirely? Someone you’d let into your life, someone you’d risk the quiet life of your apartment with?

His nails dig into his palm, the tightness of his grip a quiet manifestation of his nerves. There’s a strange tension in the air, but it’s not just the apartment he’s here for—it’s the uncertainty of it all. What’s the chance you think he's a serial killer? He wonders briefly.

Fifty? Thirty, if he doesn’t completely blow his first impression.

The shuffle of footsteps behind the door jolts him back to reality. He can almost picture you, wearily moving down the hallway toward him, hesitating for just a moment before reaching for the door. A brief moment of expectation passes before the door creaks open. Jason’s breath hitches, but he doesn’t let it show.

He can’t—he won’t let it show.

And then there you are, standing in the doorway. Your nervous smile hits him like a wave. The way your lips pull up just slightly, your eyes flickering with a mix of uncertainty and curiosity. You’re the kind of person who’s been worn down by Gotham, but not yet broken by it, and for a moment, Jason wonders how long that will last.

"Jason, right?" Your voice is soft, but not shy. It’s curious, but not probing. Your gaze flicks down, taking in his figure with a casual assessment, as if you’re already trying to figure out if this stranger is going to be worth the risk.

Jason stands frozen for a beat, before he finds his voice. "Yeah, that’s me." His words are a little rough around the edges, but they come out more steady than he feels. "I, uh... I called about the apartment."

For the briefest moment, your smile falters, the weight of the decision settling in your shoulders. But you push through it, stepping back from the doorway with a small gesture. "Come on in. Welcome to your new place—or at least, part of it."

And just like that, the door swings open.

You stand in front of him, blocking the way into the apartment. Jason shifts awkwardly, eyes flicking to the side, not entirely sure if he should even be here. His words tumble out in a clumsy attempt at being casual.

"Yeah," he mutters, a little too quickly, "2BD, right?"

You pause for a moment, looking at him with an amused glint in your eye. Jason mentally kicks himself for even asking. Of course it’s 2BD. The sharp click of the door opening behind him only makes his discomfort grow.

It’s quiet for a second as he waits for you to respond, but you don’t seem to mind at all. A small, genuine smile breaks out across your face, your cheeks rising slightly, your nose scrunching as you fight back a laugh. It’s the kind of smile that seems to warm the entire room, and Jason can’t help but notice how it shifts your entire demeanor. He forgets for a moment what he was even thinking.

With a soft laugh, you gesture to the open doorway. "Come in," you say, your voice light and inviting, like there’s nothing more normal than him being here. It pulls him out of his thoughts, and without thinking too much, he steps inside.

He follows you through the apartment, the faint smell of coffee and something vaguely floral lingering in the air. His eyes drift around, taking in the space: the mismatched furniture, the little trinkets scattered about that seem so personal. It’s cozy in an unexpected way. A coat rack by the door is crowded with jackets and hats—yours, he assumes. The mirror next to it reflects the two of you, and for a second, he pauses, not sure if he’s looking at the reflection of two strangers or something more familiar.

You continue talking, not missing a beat. "So, this is the living room," you explain, waving a hand to the center of the room where the couch sits. It's worn, a little tattered, but there's a kind of charm to it, like it’s seen a lot of life. " The landlord upstairs calls it 'vintage. ' I call it 'good enough to survive.'"

Jason smirks, the corners of his mouth quirking up. He can’t help but picture the landlord as some old guy with too many opinions and a wardrobe that probably includes some out-of-date tweed. "He gives you trouble?" Jason asks, his curiosity piqued more than he intends. The instinct to size up the situation—just in case—kicks in, and he mentally bristles.

You shrug as you look around the room, your hands resting on your hips. "Trouble? Probably. But we’ll share the burden." Your smirk is sly, a glint in your eye as you look over at him. "Perks of a roommate, right?"

Jason can’t help but laugh at that. It’s not a joyful laugh but one laced with sarcasm. "Yeah, perks. Just what I needed."

You quirk an eyebrow, clearly amused by his reaction. “You put up the ad just to 'share the burden,' huh?"

"Yep," you answer matter-of-factually, a hint of mischief in your voice. "I figure there’s a sea of desperate students in Gotham, all waiting for a chance to be this lucky."

Jason chuckles dryly. "And I’m the lucky winner, huh?"

He can’t tell if it’s the way you talk or the subtle shift in your tone, but something about it strikes him. The way you linger on certain words, like you're testing it, or maybe just savoring the sound. It makes him feel odd, in a way he can’t quite place. But it’s a feeling that pulls him out of his usual guarded state, just a little.

Jason falls into step behind you, still lost in thought. The way you speak, the way you carry yourself—it's not like anyone he’s ever met. It’s easy to forget how much time he’s spent alone, only surrounded by people who treat him like an object or a tool or even a bomb about to go off that they try to soothe with sickly soft words that are too soft for his liking. You act like he’s just a guy—no judgment, no pity, just a weird stranger showing up in your life, as normal as it can get. Just two very normal roommates, nothing more. He doesn't know how to feel about that yet, but it pulls at him more than it should.

“So, tell me," he says, eyes scanning the hallway now, “What's the catch here? There’s got to be one, right?”

You turn back toward him, the corners of your mouth twitching upward. "The catch?" You raise an eyebrow. "Oh, you’ll see. There’s always a catch in Gotham, Jason. Always."

Jason feels a little shiver crawl up his spine. Gotham. Yeah. He knows all too well about catches in this city.

His usual self-consciousness is creeping back up. But then he notices the way you look at the space, the way your voice flows as you explain the apartment to him, and for some reason, he feels a bit more at ease.

You give him a teasing glance, one that feels almost like a challenge. “Don’t sound so disappointed, Jason,” you reply, your voice light, almost sing-song. “Is Jason okay?”

It’s a simple question, but it catches him off guard—he's not used to people just asking. He doesn’t even realize it, but he’s been holding his breath for a second. Jason swallows, trying to brush off the sudden wave of discomfort that floods over him. It’s like you’ve peeled back a layer, even if just for a moment.

“Yeah,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair, trying to play it off. “It's fine.”

You look at him for a moment longer, studying him as though you're trying to decide if he’s being truthful or not. There’s a softness in your gaze now, a sort of warmth that feels unexpected. Finally, you nod, as though satisfied with his answer.

“Good,” you say, your voice lowering slightly. “Well, if you're going to be living here, you should probably know that the kitchen is... charming.”

Jason laughs, the sound a little more genuine this time. “Charming? What, like ‘charming’ the way Gotham is charming, or charming the way an old car is charming?”

You give him a quick, amused glance before leading him toward the kitchen. "A little of both, honestly. But if you’re expecting anything gourmet, you’re going to be sorely disappointed."

The kitchen is small but functional, with a modest fridge and a few dishes cluttered around the sink. There's an old-school stovetop, the kind that looks like it could use a little love, and a countertop covered in mismatched mugs. The place feels real. It’s not pristine or overly decorated, but there’s something oddly comforting about it.

“Let me guess,” Jason says, leaning against the door frame with a smirk, “The fridge is a disaster, right?”

You chuckle softly as you pull the door open to reveal the inside. "Only if you’re picky about food that’s almost safe to eat.

Jason peers inside, trying to stifle a grin. "Ah, looks like exactly what I expected."

The fridge is stocked with a variety of takeout containers and what Jason can only assume is a collection of leftover meals—some with more questionable smells than others. It's a far cry from any kind of organization, but it feels comfortable. Like it belongs here.

"So," Jason says, crossing his arms, "What’s the deal with this place? How long have you been here?"

You turn to face him, leaning against the counter with a casual ease that suggests you’ve been in this exact situation before. "A year," you say, shrugging. "It’s not much, but it’s home. You learn to make do with the weird stuff."

Jason nods, looking around the kitchen. "Seems like a good deal for Gotham. Nice and cheap, right?"

"Exactly. And you don’t have to worry about too much. It’s quiet, for the most part. Except for the landlord, of course," you add with a wink, "But that’s just part of the fun."

Jason chuckles, feeling a bit lighter than before. There’s something about the way you talk, something that puts him at ease. He’s used to walls—metaphorical ones—but in this moment, he feels like you’re letting him in just enough to make him comfortable.

“Guess I’ll be sticking around then,” he says, his voice lowering into something that’s more teasing than serious.

“Better get used to it,” you reply, your tone matching his as you throw him a sly grin. “We’ve got a lot more to share.”

Jason raises an eyebrow, a smirk playing on his lips. “I’ll hold you to that.”

You laugh softly, pushing off the counter as you gesture toward the living room. “Come on, I’ll show you the rest of the place. If you think this is interesting, just wait until you see the bathroom.”

Jason follows you back down the hall, the strange tension between you both melting away. This might not be so bad after all. He could get used to this—whatever this was.

© petalbcrnes | all rights reserved. even when credited, these works are not allowed to be reposted, translated, or modified.

[love-bitesx]

okay but imagine pavitr trying to play wingman for hobie to get with the reader and how funny/cute it would be

longer requests will be out this week, thank u all for the amazing support!! love you guys sm

: ̗̀➛ WINGMAN. hobie brown x reader headcanons

REQUESTS ARE OPEN

oh, he would be so annoying. in the best way.

you’d joined the spider society not long after the others, immediately clicking within the dynamic and it wasn’t uncommon for you all to just hang out in each others dimensions after a mission.

at first, hobie thought you’d simply peaked his interest because of your unspoken nature. constantly standing up for yourself and other spider people, putting people in their place if need be, just your general backbone intrigued him. you felt different to the others. that’s all he thought.

that was, until one afternoon, you were all packed into your apartment, music playing from the stereos and pavitr talking everybody’s ear off about god knows what. hobie had been silent for a while, no reason in particular, he’d been fiddling with the badges on his leather vest, in his own little world. well, until he felt a hand on his knee.

“hobie,” your voice was low, subtle, hanging just below the decibels of the melodies booming through the room, “are you alright? you’ve been quite quiet.”

“oh, uh,” he was taken aback, possibly by your hand that still lingered on his jeans, or how close he suddenly realised you were, seeing the soft details of your face and pigment in your cheeks for the first time, “yeah, no, i’m fine.” he cleared his throat.

smiling back at him, you took your hand away, moving back to get involved in the conversation again, not thinking much of it. regretfully, hobie looked up and saw pavitr staring at him, clearly having watched the ordeal and the excited smirk on his face told him that he’d definitely seen hobie flustered. he sighed.

after pavitr worked out that hobie had a thing for you, it was over for him.

he couldn’t even LOOK in your direction, without the shorter man hopping into his personal space, nudging him hard in the ribs, singing something about kissing in a tree.

constant comments about you to hobie

“y/n, i love your shirt! hobie, doesn’t it look so cool?”

“y/n! hobie told me to tell you he loves your shoes.”

“doesn’t y/n look sooo nice today! huh? hobie? what do you think?”

he was in hell, actually.

there was only so many "yeah, nice" he could say to you before he started to sound like a prick

on missions, he was insufferable

constantly making you guys work together somehow

“miguel, i think me and gwen work best as a team, don’t you think? y/n and hobie should do this one together”

swinging through the streets of whichever earth you were sent to, hearing distant yells of pavitr calling after you both “aren’t they cute together?!”

“good morning, hobie,” you grinned, sleep still evident in your voice as you wandered into the headquarters, beckoning to miguel’s very early morning mission call.

god, he was so thankful to have you alone for once. relief settled itself on his shoulders at the absence of his best friends’ watchful eye, happy to interact with you comfortably.

“mornin’,” he spoke, stretching his legs mindlessly out across the length of the desk, leaning back onto his arms, “how’d you sleep?”

“oh my god, i had the weirdest dream—” you begun, hopping up onto the adjoining surface, eyes lit up with passion as you ranted about the dream you had just resurfaced from.

he watched you the whole time, lips curling into a smile at the way you threw your hands around in the air as you spoke, reeling into every detail about your nonsensical experience. nodding every so often, he was almost enthralled by you – taking this peaceful moment as an advantage to see you properly. you were tired, sleep still evident in your eyes, hair a little chaotic in places, but the soft glow that it gave you made his heart skip.

he’d totally lost himself in speaking to you, listening to the excitement lacing your voice, that he didn’t realise other people had arrived.

well, until he felt a sharp elbow to the ribs.

“you guys are so cute together!” pavitr’s sing-song voice pierced hobie’s ears, shocked at the newcomers, “i saw the way you looked at them, loverboy.”

the nickname stuck

he’d been addressed more by “loverboy” than his own name, and his insides churned every single time

even gwen started calling him it, to which hobie would send a threatening glare

when you eventually did end up seeing each other, whether that be dating or other stuff, you both swore to keep it a secret

hobie refused to give pavitr the satisfaction of knowing he was right

so you would sneak around together, kissing in places you shouldn’t, stealing knowing glances in meetings, secret touches when no one was looking

he loved the risk of it all

but it was one afternoon, you’d both slipped away into an empty lab at the spider society headquarters, giggling to each other like kids as he dragged you into the vacant room

his hands were all over you, lips brushing whatever skin he could see, your arms slung around his neck as you kissed him

“did you lock the door?” you asked

“i thought you did.”

“OH. MY. GOD.” a third voice yelled.

you yelped, jumping away from hobie as a last ditch effort to maybe save some face

it was too late, pavitr stood there, mouth agape

hobie sighed, hanging his head

“GWEN! THEY DID IT!”

pavitr stepped back into the hallway and ran down towards where you’d both left them, his voice carrying through the metal walls

“LOVERBOY DID IT!”

you stood there, unsure whether if you just remained still, you could avoid whatever consequences you both faced

that was, until you felt hobie’s arm slide around your waist, pulling you back into him, an unintelligible look on his face

“we can’t keep it a secret anymore, i guess.” you spoke first, he let out a laugh

“i don’t think that’s such a bad thing,” he kissed you, softly.

a/n: hope this was okay!! currently got a bunch of requests in the works, so keep an eye out for more!!! also anymore headcanon ideas would be so fun!! thank u

[itsmeatballworld]

hold me close

pairing | husband!rick grimes x pregnant!wife!reader

summary | Reader is pregnant and her husband Rick Grimes is always caring and loving towards her, no matter what time of day.

wc | 1.2k

warnings | mentions of pregnancy/pregnant!reader, discomfort related to pregnancy

a/n | no plot, just soft and sweet Rick because he's a loving husband <3

Moonlight trickled through the large paned window and you were wide awake.

This was most nights; sleep would come fast but end just as quick. You exhaled, readjusting the pillow beneath your head with the hopes that would make you snug – and eventually you’d become tired.

But… nothing.

Everything was uncomfortable. The bed, the pillow. You twisted and turned, contorting your limbs around the sickly hot blankets but no angle or elevation was helping you sleep.

Opening your eyes wide, you grumbled.

“Let. Me. Sleep.” You tapped on the lowest part of your protruding belly with the hopes your unborn gremlin gets the hint. Let mommy sleep or nobody’s gonna like me tomorrow.

And so you scrunch your eyes closed with the hopes the warning was enough…but hell…not even a silly demand could make you fall asleep.

I guess I’ll start counting sheep or whatever sane people do.

First, you outlined your fuzzy slippers under the armchair and Rick’s comfy sweatpants folded neatly on the cushion. Judith’s toys were there too. Some were thrown on the floor from playing the day before. She has a habit of hiding her favorite toy in different parts of the bedroom every night when Rick brushes his teeth. It turns into a game the next morning of ‘daddy find my toy’. Rick usually shuffles around the bedroom and acts surprised when he finds it in the same spot every time: in your right slipper. Never the left, always the right one.

The soft snores from your husband beckon you to turn towards him. He was so peaceful, enjoying his dream about ‘who-knows-what’. And you wanted to be doing that too but you couldn’t and it was irritating. Every twist felt wrong and unnatural. Surely you were going stir crazy.

You groaned. With a last-ditch effort, you push your body to the left with the hopes you can relax on your side. But nothing.

Each second you lie in bed, every moment you're awake, it gives you more reasons to get up and go outside for air. If sleep was not happening, then fuck it – the day starts now.

The bed shifted before you moved. Shit, you curse.

Rick rolled over, turning his sleepy blue eyes on your contorted frame. The bedsheets slipped down to his navel and exposed his bare chest. “Hey.”

“Sorry.” You shift towards him slowly, “can’t sleep.”

“Me neither.”

“Liar,” you hummed. “You’ve been snoring for over an hour.”

He smiled lightly. “Must be hearin’ things.”

“Oh really?”

“Mhm.” There was a pause as he stretched his arms and dipped his head back into the pillows. You admired his jaw and stubble in the hazy light as Rick scratched his chin. He was sexy, even when he wasn't trying to be which made your life so much harder than it should've been. Damn. You wished you had more energy to climb on top of him.

…That might also be one of the reasons why you were pregnant.

“Feelin’ okay?” Rick gazed back at you with admiration.

You nod.

He yawned, slowly inching closer until his arm draped across your waist. His large hand trails across your side, down to the swell of your belly. He keeps his palm steady. “Are you lettin’ momma sleep?”

You laughed, placing your hand on top of his. “Not since last month.”

“Now, you gotta let ‘er sleep,” Rick’s sleepy southern drawl was scratchy as he hushed his words. It was like he was whispering just to the baby, lost in his own little conversation. It was cute to watch his demeanor change from ‘husband to dad’ mode in a split second, even in the middle of the night. You loved how he doted over every single one of his children – even the ones he hasn't met yet.

His fingers rubbed a bit more before that arm slid back around your waist. He pulled you a bit closer before whispering, “what can I do?” This time his eyes were on you.

“Nothing, I'm just tired.”

“Want me to rub your back?”

A smile crept across your face before yawning. “That might be nice…”

His hands drift over to your side, pushing up against your lower back when you slide closer to the edge of the bed. You moaned, relaxing against his callous hands. “Keep them there, sheriff.”

He stifled a laugh as his body met alongside yours. His hands took turns kneading and swirling your muscles in different directions. It was so calming and gentle. Every touch felt like butter melting into your skin. You might not be tired but you sure were relaxed.

“Mmm.”

“Like that?” Rick’s playful voice made you grin.

“Yes.”

“Good, I’ll keep goin’.”

“No. No, I should move.” You stretch your legs, “I’ll get up. You need to sleep.”

There was a pause as you tried to swing your legs over and prop yourself up. The momentum wasn't enough. Your weight was so disproportionate from the pregnancy that it was almost impossible to fully roll over and lift yourself up. It only took one second of struggling and that was enough for Rick to meet you halfway.

“Need help?” he asks quietly. “I’ll help you up.”

“Oh, now that’s hot,” you snickered as you pushed yourself up from the sunken mattress. As soon as gravity took hold, you felt the pressure in your bladder as the baby weighed heavy on what felt like every organ you had. Rick went to follow behind you, but he stopped when your lips pecked his forehead. “Stay. Sleep. I’ll be back soon.”

“Nah, I’ll come sit with you—”

“I’ll be right back. Okay?”

Rick wasn’t one to just give in and agree to anybody. His wife was the only exception. You cherished that he loved you so much, so much that he’d stop being stubborn and lie back into the pillows with a quick ‘alright’.

And you did plan to be back soon.

But plans get messed up sometimes. When you woke up in Judith’s room, cradling her against your body in the padded rocking chair, you saw Rick already bright eyed and dressed for the day. He slipped on one black sock as a wide grin plastered across his handsome face.

“Mornin’ beautiful.”

“Morning,” you hummed and rubbed on Judith’s back.

You remember a bit of last night. After leaving the bedroom, you made a warm drink, cleaned the kitchen, folded the laundry, and finally checked on everyone once the sky brightened. Carl was fast asleep, his sheriff hat neatly placed on the top of his dresser next to the clothes he’d wear for the day.

But when you got to Judith’s room, she was up. Dark eyes watered as she clung to the side of her crib, like she was already awake after a bad dream. So you came in, changed her into clean yellow and pink floral pajamas, and made her a bottle. You passed out some time after Judith fell back asleep in your arms.

Rick scooped his daughter up his arms. “You should get some rest before you pass out on the couch. I’ve got ‘er and Carl so go lie down.”

“No way.” You slipped off the rocking chair with one hand on your bump. “I’ve had this craving for crunchy granola and milk all night.”

“Granola?” You can hear the twang of sarcasm on his tongue which sounded funnier because of his cute accent.

You nod. “Carol snuck me an extra batch before portioning it out at the pantry.”

He was grinning, watching you waddle down the hallway and stairs as you rambled on an on about this craving. “—crunchy granola, not soggy. The baby is very specific, Rick—”

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[holy-amelie]

'You fell first but...' sfw (Sunday)

...he fell harder ˎˊ˗

·.༄࿔ characters: Sunday, you

·.༄࿔ pairing: Sunday x g/n!AE!reader

·.༄࿔ cw: no tw, fluff and hurt/comfort, non-native english author, written before 2.7, but contains spoilers/leaks, be careful! Can be ooc but this is how I see him at the moment. You are from the Astral Express here.

·.༄࿔ a/n: still need to remember how to write things properly qwq

You fell first, that's for sure.

It's even funny how quickly this young and charming Halovian found his way into your heart. It only took a polite smile at the first meeting to ignite this new, funny feeling deep inside your chest.

It seems there was a real reason people on Penacony spoke of him as the most eligible bachelor in this part of the universe.

Soft, calm, as if glowing from within. No wonder you were the one who got closest to him during the investigation. There was something special about Sunday that only attracted you more, beckoned you like a moth to a flame. Maybe it was the fact that you wanted to destroy his perfect shell, or the fact that you already saw through him.

All his little nervous habits, his quiet and a bit awkward chuckles, the way he pressed his lips together when he was unhappy with something, just to hide it all behind the facade of an all-forgiving and all-understanding host. And the way his eyes were sparkling when he was passionately talking about something important.

You saw glimpses of Sunday, not the head of the clan.

Of course, it's foolish to fall in love at first sight with someone you've just met and barely know. But you can't help your heart. Especially when his image doesn't leave your head for a minute and fills all your thoughts.

And, yes, it was even more foolish to expect him to suddenly fall in love with you in return. As the head of the clan, Sunday was always busy with more important things (even more important than it might seem at first glance). So all you had to do was quietly carry the burden of these irrational feelings inside you.

Did it get easier when Sunday revealed all his plans? No. Some things you did not agree with, some things you could understand yourself. Was it easier when he lost? Once again, no.

You seemed to be the only person from the Express willing to run after him no matter what. And you would have if Robin hadn't beaten you to it.

But... he fell harder.

For Sunday, life ended after he lost and lost everything: his position, his home, his sister.

Life is a rather ironic thing, so when he suddenly found himself on the Express, broken and lost, it felt like a cruel mockery. The people who were against him suddenly gave him a place he could consider his new home. Even if temporarily.

Among the entire crew, you remained the only person who didn't look at him with suspicion or even a kind of apprehension. Not at all. It was you and your unexpected concern for his well-being that helped him rise from the very bottom of existence.

Sunday was emotionally naked before you. He was choking back tears and begging for forgiveness, even though you had long since forgiven him. The once strong and reserved leader suddenly showed his true self - mentally tired, exhausted, so desperate for warmth.

That's when he finally realized that he craved your attention more and more. Sunday was willing to be alone with you for the rest of his life if it meant that all of his problems would finally fade into the background. He continued to live not only for the fulfillment of his and his sister's dreams, but also for you.

Aons, Sunday was willing to give up everything as long as your gentle presence continued to take away all his pain, to fill his hear with love and warmth, giving him new purpose.

No wonder your innocent and shy love finally started something new in the end.

Including his new life.

please, do not rewrite/copy/repost/translate my work without me knowing, you can always ask first, thanks

[muffinsin]

Daniela Dimitrescu NSFW 1:10

A new challenge? Hell yeah XP! This one is somewhat similar to the NSFW ABC (found HERE), though will introduce a lot of new HCs for our girl

Let's get into it ;P

Masterlists

1; Describe 1 taboo desire of theirs

Daniela likes being used. She loves when she's taken in public, when she sits at the dinner table, attempting to act subtle and keep her breathing under control while her lover sits below, head buried between her soft thighs, toying with her. She loves having to act normal while she's played with. Another scenario of this is when she has to talk to a maid coming in to wake her, completely naked beneath the blankets, her soft pussy toyed with. She secretly loves it if her lover is bold enough to tug her blankets down, beckoning the poor, flustered maid closer and making her play with her, even as this very rarely leaves the women alive by the end of it

2; Name 2 of their favorite naughty outfits

Daniela loves to play around, and she loves looking good. She is a huge fan of lingerie, but is always eager to try full outfits, too. She likes cute skirts, long enough to barely cover her ass, slutty enough to degrade her, best. She likes how easily accessible she is, how her partner can and will bend her over and toy with her easily, how it brings attention to her feminine figure, wide hips, and bubbly ass

This being said, however, after being put in and played with in a maiden's uniform, she often finds herself craving this again, too. She loves the humiliating and degrading aspect of it, loves the tight blouse popping open at her large chest, loves the tight belt and short skirt, even shorter and tighter due to her height. She feels so small and submissive in it, and often puts one on when she plays with herself, her head lost in little, naughty scenarios she likes to make up in her mind

3; List and describe 3 wild cards about them

Daniela fights to lose, usually. She can be a massive brat, acting like a greedy, spoiled princess on most days and only ever behaving well and turning into a good girl when put in her place. But it's just that which she loves. She loves the fight, loves to test limits and push boundaries. She knows when she's being a nightmare, when she causes problems, and she loves it, all to be put back in her place after, fucked silly until she has no choice but to be a good girl, mindlessly begging to cum or for a break, pliant and needy, eager and grateful for everything her partner gives her

Daniela is obsessed with- well, being obsessed. She herself becomes utterly possessive and obsessed about her lovers, but secretly she craves someone being the same way about her- at least in her fantasies, that is. She often dreams of someone deranged, obsessed and possessive when she's in a submissive mindset, wants the thought of someone marking and hurting her, even as she isn't always a fan of it in reality. Her delusions often make for especially kinky and desperate scenarios, often leading her to be with any and all who show interest in her, at least for a while, deluding herself into seeing the best version of what they could possibly be. Often, it's up to her partner to figure out what she really craves and needs

She loves a rough dom to take care of her, likes it hard and fast, long, rough enough to ruin her. But what can satisfy her on a whole other level, what can break her beautiful mind and make her completely obsessed- and far more behaved- is a different kind of lover. The doting, gentle, tender dominant kind to hold her down and caress her face, coo and kiss her while they ruin her slowly, to tell her how much they love her and to call her their princess while she's slowly fucked into a state in which she can hardly even still remember her own name

4; List 4 naughty petnames that drive them mad

There's a variety of things Daniela likes to be called, especially during sex. Usually, when she feels submissive, she enjoys a mixture of praise and degradation, which is easily reflected in the petnames she prefers

Brat, slut, toy, and most versions of those- little brat, silly slut, good toy, pretty, bratty girl and more- are a good go-to when she's in this type of mood. When in a gentler type of mood, Daniela loves sweet petnames and ones including praise such as princess, little one, good girl, sweetheart, my love, often enjoying pretty girl, my little princess, and my love best

As a top, she most commonly refers to her partners or toys as pet, though will often end up calling them my love, little one, my darling, sweet love, soulmate...

5; Dive into 5 dirty fantasies of theirs

Being in bed on her back with her long, slim legs spread and fingers rubbing at her clit while a toy stuffs her, Daniela's mind usually tends to wander to one filthy scenario after the other, often matching what toys she's using or what position she's in.

Often, she likes to think of sneaking where she shouldn't be or teasing the wrong person, believing it's all fun and games and she's untouchable until they drag and push her against a wall, scolding her while they already tug up her skirt. She usually whimpers softly to herself, sighing as she pumps a dildo in and out of her, imagining being pounded into the bed for her disobedience.

At other times, she moans softly to herself, her chest rising and falling heavily as she thinks of being overpowered and easily controlled, physically. She thinks of someone strong and tall, capable of throwing her over their shoulder and gripping her hip tightly when she's bad, carrying her like she's nothing. Often, her dirty mind will then default to being carried while cockwarming them, her hips rolling, her pussy squelching and drooling as she's held up by her thighs in her fantasy

Being seduced is one of her favorite fantasies. Often, this comes from the plenty filthy books she reads, but she far too often finds herself on her back in bed, panting, her hand by her throat as she imagines a mysterious vampire lover just like in her many books, grabbing her hair and tilting her head back, their fingers thrusting deep into her, their fangs by her throat. She likes to imagine being seduced and fingered slowly, until she's all theirs, until she's ready to take them properly. Often, she thinks of this during the day or when reading too, leading to the poor, needy thing to swarm back to her room for some much needed "relaxation"

Sometimes, she likes to thrust the dildo in from behind, face in the sheets, imagining having to take more, and more, and more. She fantasizes about squirming and crying thick crocodile tears, shaking her head, breathless, her body tingling, her pussy so wet everything slides against and into her easily. She thinks of herself, pleading, begging, insisting she can't take more, and of a partner who just keeps going, doesn't stop because they don't believe her little lies. She loves the dirty fantasy of being made to take it all, of someone seeing through her half-hearted pleas and little, fake tears, while deeply craving someone who is capable of telling them apart from real ones

Lastly, she often finds herself getting hot and bothered at the fantasy of being humiliated, taunted to cum, held or tied down and unable to escape while her whole body is used and submits to her partner. She'll squirm and blush at her own filthy thoughts, fantasizing of being degraded while tightening around something in her pussy and ass, her lips wrapped around strong fingers, her hips raising and betraying her need

6; List 6 of their favorite naughty scenarios

One of her all time favorite naughty scenarios? My, that spot is easily taken by her favorite roleplay fantasy. Daniela is kinky, eager, and loves to role play in bed, but her favorite fantasy of all is when she's dressed only in a light, beautiful dress, her hair held, fingers cupping her pussy through the dress, her partner dressed in black and whispering filthy things in her ear. Her favorite role play scenario, the one of a princess claimed by the villain. Her books are to blame, certainly. She loves when she's treated rough like this, when she's tugged and used, when she's made to serve the "evil villain" until she's fucked sore and her partner is satisfied

Another of her favorite scenarios is when she's handled by two lovers at the same time, one holding her slim hips as they take her ass or pussy from behind, the other holding the leash connecting to her collar tightly in their hand as they fuck her throat. She's far dirtier than she lets on, loves threesomes between dominant partners, and likes whenever she's spitroasted, made to take it from both sides. She especially loves when one of her partners is strong enough to lift her, leaving her completely helpless and capable of only taking the cocks or toys driving in and out of her ends

Daniela loves when she gets to be on top, really. Even as a brat, she likes this, when her hands are tied behind her back and her lover's hands are on her bare thighs on either side of their hips, her pussy squelching as she rides a large strap. She loves to ride, loves to roll her hips seductively, and loves when her partner allows her to do so. Seeing them moan and shiver below her is one of her favorite things as it comes to sex

in the very rare times she changes the formation of her flies to create a cock rather than a pussy, she loves when she's toyed with. Held or tied down or with her hands forced behind her back while in her lover's lap, their hand warm and wet around her. She'll whine, taunt, complain and cry as she moans, demanding more when her lover takes their time jerking her off, but she loves it. She also thinks it's cute when her cock is held while she's pegged, blushing as she's jerked off or when she's praised for cumming handsfree while her ass is stretched around a strap

Daniela likes to feel beautiful. As such, she loves being worshipped too, even as a submissive. She loves when she is tied up in nothing but rope, wearing nothing but tight lingerie that suits her perfectly, her partner's lips on hers, their hands greedily groping at her chest, thighs, hips, pussy, whatever is within reach. She wants to feel loved as she's toyed with, and loves being told she's beautiful over, and over, and over again

Lastly, another one of her favorite scenarios- being woken up with the tip of a strap pushed in her mouth and fingers buried inside of her. There's just something about being fucked out of sleep that makes her melt. She loves waking up to an orgasm, loves to know that she's so beautiful, her lovers just can't keep their hands off her even when she's asleep and well behaved. She likes to immediately part her lips wider, her throat bulging when the strap immediately is pushed forth more, her legs trembling and pussy milking the fingers inside of her lazily. She equally likes to wake her lovers up by lapping at their privates

7; Name 7 turn-ons for them

Daniela has plenty turn ons, being so easily convinced and so easy to seduce. Still, there are more and less effective methods of doing so.

Often it starts with nothingness, subtleties, when she's in the library reading and a particularly filthy scene pans out. She'll shift slightly, bite her lip as she reads. More and more her cheeks will heat up and her pussy will ache, her mind wandering, imagining herself in the character's shoes instead. She rarely finishes the scene, off to find someone to play with, instead

At other times, teasing her is more than enough. When in a relationship she's insatiable, bratty and spoiled, following her lover around like a lost puppy and demanding they quit their work to spend more time with her. When they eventually become tired of her complains and grab at her hair, however, tipping her head back and whispering something about taking her bratty ass over their knee, she'll already moan and whine softly, her knees weak and clit throbbing with absolute need

Dirty talk is an incredibly effective way of turning her on. She loves being dirty and will often make filthy jokes or send flirty smiles, but hearing her partner whisper what they will do to her in her ear does things to her. She'll try to turn to them, hide in their neck and breathily beg for them to make good on their words, whining and grinding against them the longer they keep their sweet torment up

When in a dominant mood, nothing turns Daniela on like devotion and fear. She can't help it, she loves to scare a cute maid and torment them, cooing about how cute they are while their little hearts race, all until she ends up turning herself on, her teeth sunken into their necks, her fingers already beneath their skirts

Often, the brat will try to tease her lover. Almost equally often does this tease her, in return. Such as when she thinks she's being a naughty little tease by not wearing panties or a bra, only to find herself getting constantly turned on by the air against her bare pussy when she swarms only lightly and the sensation of her hard dress rubbing against perky breasts and nipples. She'll come running to her lover in no time, breathing hotly against their neck, whining about needing their touch while she already tugs up her dress

Being gifted something to be used in the bedroom after is a huge turn on for her. She loves when her lover buys her beautiful lingerie, especially when she notices it being made of flimsy, easily tearing fabric she knows will be torn from her body in a short while. She'll wear it eagerly, squirming the entire time imagining her partner's reaction to it

Lastly, there's her body; doing anything to her breasts and throat in particular is an easy way to start things off. A single kiss to her throat easily turns into little nibbles capable of pulling cute, breathy moans and whines from her. A single brush against her front can turn to a full, hungry grope when out of sight, and she lives for it. She's so sensitive and easily moans softly under her breath at every little grope at her body

8; Give 8 random, naughty facts about them

Daniela loves to sleep naked, even when single, hoping there might be a cute maid to wake her in the morning and toy with her immediately, or even start playing with her in her sleep. She'll act shocked, but so long as the woman is cute enough, she'll melt easily and allow her to keep groping at her

She secretly loves more humiliating aspects of already dirty things. She loves being leashed, but loves it even more when her leash connects to the thick ring wrapped snuggly around the base of her lover's strap or cock, constantly forcing her against it. She likes being teased in her partner's lap, but loves it even more when she's bouncing on their strap while on it, or simply forced to cockwarm it while they toy with her

She gets off to the thought of being wanted and fought over

Daniela is a lot dirtier than one would think given her somewhat gentle, naive appearance. She loves being tugged into a secluded corner of the castle and feeling hands slide over her as she's kissed, loves to strip without a care of who might see

She'd love to have nipple piercings, or a clit piercing, purely for the aesthetic of it. She thinks they look beautiful and would suit her well, and given her biology making piercings near-impossible, she likes using fake ones at times to adorn her body. She especially likes tight, beautiful rings around her nipples, enough to keep her on edge all day long and have her come whining for release after no time

Daniela bites and licks and kisses especially much when she's needy. That bloodlust hardly turns off. Instead, she becomes so desperate and eager to show her love, biting at her partners unless gagged, kissing, whining and panting against their skin, licking blood, sweat and tears from them as she moans hotly

She loves to tease her partners, though can hardly handle when it's done to her, in return. She'll whine and moan fast, squirm even faster, desperate for touch

She secretly has a thing for authority, despite being such a brat. She gets so hopelessly turned on by those enjoying high ranks in the castle and is often scolded by Bela and Alcina for trying to make a move at the head maidens, or tugged away by the back of her hood by Cassandra when she's trying to flash little smiles towards those maidens in particular, for even her bloodthirsty sister knows they're off limits. In the end, Daniela usually gets to them still. She just loves how small they can make her feel, even knowing their authority is nothing compared to her own

She has the most amount of dirty dreams between her sisters, often getting riled up in her sleep. When sharing the bed with a partner, it isn't unusual for her flies and her body to react accordingly, often allowing her to wake up with an aching clit as she slowly and tiredly humps her lover's thigh. Upon awakening, she immediately decides this is not nearly enough

9; Describe 9 of their dirtiest thoughts

She often finds herself daydreaming when watching one of the maids in leading positions, her painted black, bloodied lip caught by her teeth as she thinks of them turning to her, next. Their hands on her, bending her over and stripping her dress from her soft body, clothing and underwear taken like its nothing. She yearns for it, to be devoured and commanded like it's nothing. She pouts then, her fantasy ruined when they flinch away from her in fear, not even daring to meet the poor thing's golden eyes

Daniela loves the idea of someone drinking her blood- mainly from the countless vampire erotica she's read, really. She loves the thought of being pinned down, teeth grazing her neck while a strap thrusts in and out of her, her cheek held while the teeth dig in and her blood is devoured. She often ends up fantasizing of being pounded into the mattress with bite marks all over her and to her throat when she reads

More often than not she thinks about being ruined so badly she can't walk for days, her pussy sore, her legs weak and trembling, her ass so bruised from a spanking it aches whenever she moves

Overstimulation is delicious to her, and she loves the thought of an insatiable, greedy partner using her again before she's even managed to recover. Her body unable to move or even crawl away, her legs held apart, her holes used for their pleasure while she screams and cries for mercy, her hips rolling to match their pace

Sometimes, eying her favorite collars and leashes, she thinks of being made to crawl on her hands and knees, plugged with a toy tail, gagged, collared and leashed for her owner. She gets adorably wet and sensitive from the mere thought of it, of being patted and kissed, made to serve and act like a good pet for them. Contrasting this, she loves the idea of doing this to others, too, especially if it means she gets to turn her human pet into a cute little kitty cat for herself!

She knows, she ought to perhaps be ashamed of this particular thought, but especially in a polyamorous setting she just loves the thought of being passed around her lovers. Hands on her constantly, straps pushing in and out of her and filling her up even when she's so sore and sensitive she cries and claws, only to have her wrists restrained and lips roughly pushing against her own, smearing her lipstick while something pushes back inside of her. Used like a toy, worshipped like a queen

While she doesn't appreciate feeling sad or bad during sex, Daniela loves the thought of fake crying, or being brough to the verge of real tears through overstimulation. She can't help but think of being kissed and fucked slowly, thick tears rolling down her adorably pink cheeks

While on the naughtier side, she can't help but think of being punished and having to watch. Bent over, a few mirrors in sight to really let her see her ass be turned a beautiful shade of pink, her cheeks jiggling with every slap to them, her soft, bubbly ass abused by her lover as she's taught to behave better. She loves it! She loves seeing herself be reduced to this, to be treated like a slut and kissed like a princess

Monsters are- perhaps unsurprisingly- more often on her mind than appropriate. She blames it all on her books, on the fantasies that come with them. Often, she can't help the ache between her thighs when fighting lycans or hunting them down for fun, reminded of the countless large, insatiable werewolves she's read about. And when her neck is bitten even slightly she moans, thinking of vampires holding her and feeding from her, from her throat and wrists and thighs, bloodied lips smashing against her own, blood shared between them- her blood

10; Name 10 kinks they have

Her obvious kinks aside, there's plenty new ones to explore! Such as her blood kink. Of course, she finds blood itself incredibly hot already. The thick substance, running down her partner's body and across hers, smudged between them, dripping from her soft lips, shared between their tongues as she kisses them...but...feeling it on their tongue after they fed from her or licked against her wounds? Her own blood in her mouth? Her own blood smeared against her pussy when she's eaten out? The thought is enough to make her blush and whine

With the right person, Daniela's voice kink can easily be triggered. She loves it, tied up, blindfolded, a ring gag stretching her mouth open as fingers or a toy are pushed inside over and over again, a strong thigh beneath and between hers, a low whisper in her ear, commanding her, telling one filthy thing after another, revealing what her partner is about to do to her

While mentioned above already, Daniela has, over the years, adapted something of a monsterfucking kink. She just loves the filthiness of it, the rawness, all the feral aspects that come with it, the humiliation and love alike

Consensual forced exhibitionism is one of her favorites, something she deeply enjoys, though only when she knows all included partners. She loves being tied up by one, naked, ready to be used or dripping after having been used already, marked up and dolled up, in front of another partner. She loves their eyes on her as she blushes and squirms, loves while her partner brags about her to the other, their hands on her, toying with her, showing her off, showing just how needy she gets for them

Pet play, another big one for her. Calling her a "little kitten", "sweet little puppy", "bunny girl", "pet", it all does things to her. Putting her on a leash, crawling for her partner, speaking only when given permission by them. She wants her mind wiped clean of even a trace of misbehavior, just instinct, obedience, and pleasure. She gets soaking wet being called a "good girl" while she begs on all fours, a collar snug around her throat

While it doesn't necessarily happen often, Daniela has a bit of a thing for having sex while drunk, or at least tipsy. She loves being all giggly while being toyed with, loves the fluttering feeling in her stomach and head at every thrust into her. She loves being fed more wine as she's fingered, loves to lick it from her partners. And while not turned on, she buzzes with love and excitement hours after, her hair held as her body trembles and struggles from the alcohol she swore she was used to after the centuries of consuming it lazily

Daniela is naughty, naughtier than most. She loves tasting herself during sex. Her favorite? Dipping her finger down after a creampie, then raising it to her lips

She's an experimentalist, and a daydreamer. With both fueling it, she has a huge costume kink, and a thing for roleplay. Whether as a maid being punished for being bad, a cute virgin taken the first time, a helpless little thing devoured, a corrupted princess, she loves it all, and she loves how good she makes each role look

While far more subtle, Daniela has a thing for...odd things. She doesn't believe in ghosts anymore, not since Bela pointed out how stupid that was back when they were younger, but she likes to believe magic exists. After all, they're all magical in their own way!, to her at least (and she loves to roll her eyes whenever her sister tries to explain that really, they are not). This being said, Daniela is immediately drawn to odd, witch-looking women she finds in the forest, often allowing them to lead her with them, curious as can be. Often, the younger, bolder ones pick up on her naive curiosity, leading her to be bent over their beds or kitchen tables. She doesn't mind that she hasn't found something truly interesting yet. She loves paying them a visit ever so often, still, convinced one of them will "slip up" and "reveal their secret" yet

Lastly, she has a thing for jealousy and possessiveness. Of course, she gets turned on from a display of it from her partner, but it goes beyond that. When particularly bratty, Daniela loves the thought of being punished for playfully flirting with others. She wants to be dragged away, pushed down, ruined, reminded who she belongs to, made to put her pretty little mouth to good use

[ghostieblr]

Another AU that lives in my head rent free about Sterek is a time travel au.

In the canon timeline (i'm not counting that movie), which picks up at the S6 finale, things unravel fast. Monroe wages war against the supernatural, and Beacon Hills is ground zero. Except, surprisingly, 80% people support the supernaturals.

So Monroe spreads the war. She learns of the 13 Nemetons from Gerard, and sets out to destroy them all. Stiles and Derek are the first to put together what she's doing based on her traveling pattern; Derek tells Stiles about the legends, and Stiles deduces what she's about to do.

They cannot save all. Beacon Hills' "dead" Nemeton is the only one saved; Beacon Hills has also become a refuge for those now hunted without mercy. At one point, the war turned into a purge. There's no limitation to killing, no law strong enough to hold anyone accountable. There is only bloodshed.

It is the apocalypse brought by Monroe's hatred and people's prejudice, and world ends not because of the monsters, but because of the humans.

Stiles and Derek have grown close over the years. Their feelings are complicated, but they're shared under the moonlight beneath the Nemeton that has slowly but steadily grown over the years; Stiles is 30 now, and Derek is about to turn 36 next week (he's forever a Christmas baby to me idc). The war as it was has been over for a couple years, and Stiles has become the leader/mayor of the town. He knows how to protect and provide, and Derek is always by his side, an Alpha of his own right, the alpha spark ignited in him by the hand of fates and his own will power. Stiles' Spark dances, the silver of thunder against the glinting, ruby jewel of Derek's own.

They've become soldiers. They're surviving together. They're the only ones left from their original pack. Even Peter is dead, and for final this time.

Scott had left in the middle of war because in his dreams he'd seen Allison, alive and beckoning him, and nobody has heard from him since. He had no regard for the war, or the people who had wanted to take guidance from the "true alpha." Even his mother's pleas had fallen on deaf ears, the allure of his first love blinding him to everything and everyone.

Point is, the world has gone to shit. It would be better to restart.

Stiles confesses to Derek, "I wish we could turn back time."

Derek huffs out a laugh, one that speaks not of how absurd the wish is, but how much he needs it. "Only if we could."

Behind them, the Nemeton hums. They both feel it. They're both on the same page, and Stiles does what he does best: impulsively invades the Nemeton's insides. He has no clue how he does it, but he does it, and inside he finds that same white room, except now there's a humanoid shape floating in it.

When he comes out of that place, Derek asks him what they have to do.

Stiles tells him, and that's how they go back: Nemeton's power, fuelled by its rage and grief at having lost the other 12, and channeled through the strongest sparks existing, A True Alpha and The Spark; they conduct a ritual, their blood soaked in the roots, and then they wake up.

Stiles was 30. He is now... 9.

Derek was almost 36. He is now almost, a week shy, of 14.

It's December of 2003. (Stiles' birthday is April 08, 1994; Derek's is December 25, 1989). This is nearly a year before Claudia dies (which is Nov of 2004) and before the romance with Paige (it happens in the summer of 2004) and before the Hale fire (January 25th, 2005, exactly a month after Derek turns 16).

And guess what? They get to change everything.

They have their memories, and their powers. The Nemetons are alive — they help these two hide their powers. They help these two whenever needed.

Claudia's condition (which i can never spell right so i'm not even attempting it) cannot be healed by the bite, but Stiles' belief, his Spark, wills it so that she doesn't get worse. So, when the Stiles and Derek find a way to make them part of the Hale Pack, Claudia becomes Talia's beta.

Derek kindles a friendship with Paige. Stiles tells Derek he can try again with her — these time they'll never let anything happen to her.

"You want me to be with her."

"Yes. If you want it. She was your first love," Stiles says, all soft and honest. "And I'm... I know you love me. But I can't ask you to wait for me."

The tension in Derek eases. "Idiot," he chastises, Stiles' small hands in his, "I might be going through puberty but I'm not a teenage asshole who thinks with the wrong head. What we have isn't about sex either. If you worry that I'll resent you for me not being able to have sex till I'm 23, then you're an idiot."

"You already said that. And you've counted how long you'll have to wait."

"I am going through puberty, Stiles."

In short. Yes, their first time will be with each other — in this new timeline. (if i didn't explain it properly: they are rewriting everything. their past timeline technically will never exist, not even as a branched timeline).

So, yeah. Paige never dies, Claudia never dies, Kate is found dead 5 states over and it looks like a suicide; Gerard is killed before he can blind Duke, so Jennifer/Julia/The Darach and The Alpha Pack are no threats; Deaton is detained by the mysterious "Red" for violating the code of Druids and executed soon after; it takes some time, but Stiles & Derek manage to locate the dread doctors and they kill them, too.

All of the threats from canon are killed by the time Stiles is 16 again and Derek is almost 22.

Except, a faction of hunters are finally able to pin point that those who killed Gerard are from Beacon Hills. They're prejudiced because of Gerard's teachings, so they target the Hale Pack.

And it is because of this attack — during which Stiles gets heavily injured while protecting his mom — that Derek roars loud and ferocious, eyes red, as Talia's own alpha eyes stare back in shock, just like the rest of the pack. Stiles' wound is deep, and Derek orders one of the others to take him to the Nemeton.

It doesn't take long for Derek to almost kill every hunter, except he's hurt now, too, and even the Nemeton can't heal this new blend of wolsbane's wound.

Stiles is healed by magic, by the Nemeton, and he feels the bond with Derek weaken by the second. At once he finds himself back at the clearing of the fight, teleported, and lashes out at the remaining hunters with a fury that raises the hair on everyone.

Then he screams and begs at Derek to not fucking die and as everyone watches, manages to save the idiot with sheer belief.

Because that's who Stiles is.

And then well... I just imagine that the two of them have to provide context to their pack, which they do, and then there's gasps of awe and sorrow; of not being there and of not realizing that they were ghosts to these kids; that Laura had (and of course Peter too) suspected something was off with Derek and Stiles but not this.

(also i love to include snippets of John being equally horrified at finding the truth out and of realizing that his baby boy is essentially tied up for eternity with Derek Hale, whomst he apparently also arrested for the murder of his favorite deputy???)

[obsessivel0v3r]

As a darling, I hope you’ll love me forever. I hope there’s no limit to your love, so that I can love you as much and as freely as possible.

As a darling, I hope I could be the reason behind the things you do. Be the one you seek comfort in and hope to adore.

As a darling, I wish you’d only ever talk to me, I don’t mind if you want to isolate me! As long as I have you, then I won’t need anyone else to spend my time with. Besides, I don’t think I’d want to spend it on someone else if I could have you all to myself.

As a darling, I wish we could be each other's only source of contact. I’d feel my heart pounding uncontrollably in my chest if you always smiled when you looked in my direction. Eyes overflowing with care and appreciation as you softly beckon me over into your lap.

As a darling, I hope you know that everything I do doesn’t feel right if it’s not me trying to look for your approval in everything I do. I desperately wish to hear you praise my actions, no matter how little.

As a darling, I can’t help but wish that you’d just take me away from everything in life. I don’t need anything but you anyways. We could always just live in a nice place where we don’t have to worry about anybody else, just us smiling as we sit cuddled up against each other under the morning sun.

As a darling, I won’t mind if you have a certain routine you’d like me to follow, I’d do anything you told me to do! You don’t even need to explain anything, I trust you wholeheartedly!

As a darling, I want to depend on you. Can you really promise you’ll be there when I open my eyes in the morning? Will you hold my hand a little tighter when I feel upset? Will you really do anything for me?

As a darling, I get anxious when you aren’t spamming my phone, I need to know you’re around! What if something happened and I had no way of knowing because you aren’t telling me all the details!! Can’t I tag along with you? I’ll follow you around like a lost puppy!

As a darling, I want you to give me everything, I’ll give you my all in return!

As a darling, I want you to always be around, please don’t leave my side, even for a moment, I get jealous and upset.

As a darling, can’t I tell you things like asking you to keep me to yourself? Promise me that you won’t ever leave? What if I told you my little dream life? Would you trust me enough and just act out of that along?

[ahqkas]

♯ TO LIKE YOU OR LOVE YOU ; theodore nott

PAIRING! theodore nott x gn!reader

SYNOPSIS! theodore nott was known to be just like an eurasian magpie — drawn by nature to snatch up and fly off with shiny things. it was no surprise the two of you found yourself in possession of a time turner (which certainly showed you an interesting image) ( based on this rq.!! )

WARNINGS / TAGS! fluff, time traveling, friends to lovers + lmk of more if found !!

WORD COUNT! 1.8k

NOTES! i love this prompt sm u have no idea how excited i was to find a request for it ☹️☹️ this is a repost bc tumblr wasn’t showing this in the tags. all the credits to the devider bellow belong to @/plutism !

© ahqkas — all rights reserved. even when credited, these works are prohibited to be reposted, translated or modified

TIME WAS THE MOST INTERESTING THING A HUMAN RACE COULD HAVE STUMBLED UPON. It was woven with infinite threads of moments, decisions, and possibilities. Each thread held the potential to shape the fabric of the future in ways unimaginable. It was both a river, flowing inevitably forward, and a maze of paths that twisted and turned, leading to dramatic outcomes. The very idea that time could be manipulated, that one could step outside its relentless march, was as terrifying as it was exhilarating.

And Theodore Nott managed to do just that.

The passage of time was like a dance between light and shadow, where the present moment was a balancing act on the razor's edge of now. Like the White Swan and the Black Swan. Memories of the past tugged at the heart, whispering tales of days gone by, while the future beckoned with a siren's call of unknown adventures and uncharted territories.

Time was both a friend and an enemy. It was a healer, softening the edges of pain and grief with its gentle touch, allowing wounds to scar over and hearts to mend. Yet, it was also a thief, stealthily stealing youth, opportunities, and moments that could never be reclaimed. It moved with a steady, unyielding pace, indifferent to the desires and pleas of those who wished to slow it down or speed it up.

And with a Time-Turner, one could do marvelous things. This delicate device, seemingly unassuming with its petite hourglass and golden frame, held within it the power to transcend the natural flow of time. It was a key to the past and the future, a tool for exploration, and a bridge to moments that had long since passed.

The Time-Turner allowed its bearer to step beyond the boundaries of the present, to revisit decisions and events with the wisdom of hindsight. It offered a chance to right wrongs, to experience lost opportunities anew, and to glimpse the world that was awaiting. Each turn of the hourglass was a dance with destiny.

But the true marvel of the Time-Turner lay not just in its ability to revisit the past, but in the taunting glimpse it offered into the future. To step beyond the present and witness what lay ahead was a privilege reserved for the brave and the curious. The future, with its infinite branches and pathways, was a place full of dreams and nightmares, where every possibility coexisted in a symphony of potential outcomes. Everything could be possible in the future.

The golden chain of the forbidden magical item hung in Theo's grasp as he presented it in front of you, showing you the new possession he managed to get his grasp on. You didn't know how and from where, and you were positive you didn't even want to know the details. The delicate hourglass within the frame shimmered with an almost ethereal glow, hinting at the ancient magic contained in its confines.

His eyes, a pretty shade of Italian skies and deep seas, gleamed with a mixture of mischief and carefulness as he looked at you through his eyelashes.

"I'm certain you're familiar with this, am I right?" he asked, the tone of his voice low and conspiratorial, as if he were sharing a treasured secret with you. And at some point, he truly was, because what the two of you were about to do was something forbidden.

You nodded slowly at his words, your gaze fixed on the delicate device between his fingers. Whispers of its powers had circulated through the halls of Hogwarts, tales of old wizards and witches who had bent time to their will, reliving moments or altering their paths. But seeing one in Theo's hands, real and touchable, was something entirely different. The Time-Turner pulsed with promising adventures beyond the ways of the present.

"How did you get one of these? They're forbidden."

"Let's just say I have my ways," a hint of smirk danced at the edge of his lips upon his answer. He was mysterious like that, the Slytherin. Working years on creating the perfect facade for his persona: the quiet and intelligent student to most of Hogwarts, the cunning and bold boy to his closest ones. You had to admit, he was really one of the smartest students in your year. No one would ever suspect him for the acts he had done. "It's about knowing the right people and being in the right place at the right time."

Raising an eyebrow at his poorly said explanation, clearly wanting to hear more, you gave him a pointed look, but Theo just chuckled softly and laced your fingers together in one, the Time-Turner now caged in your joined palms. "Don't worry about it. Just trust me."

His reassurance did little to satisfy your curiosity, but there was something about the confidence in his voice that made you want to believe him. Besides, the allure of the Time-Turner was far too great and enticing to resist.

"Okay," you breathed out in a nervous exhale. Theo swung the chain of the magical device around both your and his neck, bringing you even closer than before. His fingers set the hourglass into motion with a synchronized turn. The world around you shimmered and blurred, the magic of the Time-Turner whisking you away from the present. Your stomach ached a little at the sensation, and when the whirlwind of colours finally ceased, you found yourself standing on the exact same spot, near the edge of the Forbidden Forest.

The warm summer air was still the same, the sun casting a golden hue over the grounds of Hogwarts. Before you could fully grasp where — or when — you were, you heard voices nearby. And they sounded all too familiar.

Instinctively, you and Theo ducked behind the huge batch of Hagrid's gigantic orange pumpkins, peeking out cautiously to see who it was. What you saw made your breath hitch in the back of your throat. Just a few yards away, strolling casually along the path that led the Quidditch pitch to the castle, were two people you recognized immediately. But it wasn't just their faces that were familiar; it was everything about them.

It was you. And Theo.

Only, you both looked older — just by a year or two, but the difference was noticeable. Your older self walked slightly ahead, your hand loosely held by older Theo's as you seemed to chat so easily with each other from the distance. The sight was surreal, as if you were watching a scene from one of your friends' muggle movies full of romance and comedy.

Your older self laughed at something the older Theo had said, the sound ringing out in the stillness of the day. There was a lightness to your step, an ease in your movements that spoke of comfort and confidence. You looked happy — truly happy — in a way that filled you with a strange mix of emotions.

Older Theo, too, looked different. He seemed more relaxed, his usual guarded expression softened into something more open, more at peace. The way he looked at you — like you hung the stars on the night sky just for him — was something you'd never seen before, at least not from this Theo, your Theo, standing beside you now. The affection between your future selves was a sight to see, and you wondered in what universe was this really happening. Could it be your very own?

The two of them stopped walking near the entrance to the castle, close enough to feel the homely feeling Hogwarts provided and far enough to stray from any onlookers. Older Theo pulled the older you gently toward him until you were standing close, his hand lifting to brush a strand of hair behind your ear. The gesture was so intimate, so familiar, that it made your heart ache with a longing you hadn't fully acknowledged until now. Your older self leaned into his touch, smiling up at him in a way that made it clear how much you openly cared for him.

And then, in a moment that made you widen your eyes from the unexpected gesture, older Theo dipped his head and kissed the older you, his lips meeting yours in a tender, lingering kiss. Watching it was like seeing a secret version of your future — a future where you and Theo were more than just friends, where you were something much deeper, something lasting.

Beside you, the present-day Theo was silent, the look in your eyes matching yours as he took in the scene before him. You could feel the tension radiating off him, the way his hand gripped yours just a little too tightly. This was as much a revelation for him as it was for you — a glimpse into a future neither of you had dared to dream about.

When your older selves ended the kiss, your older self smiled softly at the boy, leaning into his touch when his lips met your forehead. They stood like that for a moment, wrapped up in their own little world, before older Theo spoke, his voice carrying on the wind just enough for you to hear.

"Did you see the look on Malfoy's face when he missed that last shot?" a smirk formed on your, apparently, boyfriend's face as he intertwined his fingers with yours and began to lead the way towards to castle yet again. "I thought he was going to hex his broom out of sheer frustration."

"I'm surprised he didn't. You know how he's with Quidditch — he treats every practice like it's the World Cup final."

The words echoed in the silence around you, sinking into your mind and heart like a promise — a promise of what could be, if you both were brave enough to act upon it.

Before either of you could process what you'd just witnessed, the familiar pull of the Time-Turner gripped you again, the world dissolving into a blur of colors and sounds. When you landed back in your own time, the warm summer day had been replaced by the cool shadows of the evening, and the grounds of Hogwarts were once again quiet.

Theo's hand was still in yours, his grip firm as if he feared letting go would make the memory of what you'd just seen slip away. You turned to look at him, your eyes meeting his in a shared surprise. The future you'd just witnessed was no longer some distant, abstract concept — it was real, and it was possible. The only thing standing in the way was the courage to take that first step.

Theo's expression was a mixture of shock and something deeper, something more profound. He looked at you as if seeing you for the first time, really seeing you, and in that moment, you realized that the future wasn't just something that happened to you. It was something you created, moment by moment, choice by choice.

And in that instant, you knew that whatever came next, you wanted it to be with him.

[sugar-coat-it]

Do you wanna wake up to me every morning?

Little something I wrote for my lovely friend, this takes place right after Touch Tank

Contains: Aftercare, very sappy fluff, possibly corny??, soft Matty, braiding Matty’s hair, taking off his makeup, takeout and relaxing in bed, L word

WC: 1,500

Peace. That's the only word you can use to describe this feeling. He's your peace. You breathe him in deeply: sweat, his cologne, and something distinctly Matty. 

You lean down and bury your face in his muss of dark curls, not caring one bit about the slight dampness against your nose. He hums happily, the sound rumbling in his chest as he stays with his cheek pressed over your heartbeat, feeling the gentle thrum, listening to your lifeline.

“You wanna get cleaned up?” you ask softly, running your hands up and down his spine, your fingertips ghosting over each bone. 

He turns his cheek, pressing little kisses to the swell of your breast, his lips warm against your skin. You feel goosebumps rise on your arms at the sensation. Matty still looks slightly dazed from how overwhelmed he was by the sight of you perched on top of him. 

“What about your girl’s night thing?” he mumbles, lazily mouthing over your chest. 

You’d almost completely forgotten about the girl's night if you were being honest, your plans long lost in the haze of earlier that evening. And if you were really honest, they had been forgotten the moment he’d kneeled to undo your shoes, pleading with you to stay. 

“Not going,” you whisper. 

Honey-colored eyes rimmed with rich, shimmery blue flicker to meet yours. 

“No?” 

“No.”

He can’t lie, he’s pleased. Very pleased. Instead of saying so, he just presses another kiss to your skin, lingering a little longer this time, exhaling slowly against your skin. You feel his lips curve into a smile. 

You thread your fingers into his unruly hair and ruffle it, gazing down at him with tenderness, admiring how he keens into your palm when you touch his hair. Matty’s lashes flutter at the feeling, shifting on top of you to try and get impossibly closer. If he had it his way, you’d be attached like this all of the time.

“Don’t wanna get up yet,” he grumbles, looking up at you with pouty lips, still smeared with the residue of pink lipstick. 

“I know. But you can’t stay like this, baby.” 

He clicks his tongue, knowing he can’t argue with you there, the mess in his pants starting to dry uncomfortably on his thigh. Matty sighs softly, melting as your nails scratch over his scalp just how he likes it, holding you a little tighter. He always gets clingy after letting you take the lead. 

“Let me take care of you, then we can come back to bed,” you whisper, your eyes searching his with fondness. 

He’s still for a moment, listening to your heartbeat, gazing at you with unadulterated affection. Matty nods before pursing his lips. You know exactly what he wants. Affectionately rolling your eyes, you cup his warm cheeks, pressing your lips to his with a peck, just long enough to make butterflies riot in your stomach. Matty grins against your mouth, letting out a happy hum. He’s hardly able to kiss you with how wide his dorky smile is. He always wins. 

You linger together a little longer, basking in what feels like a dream until eventually, you both slide out from your sheet’s grasp despite the way they cling to you, beckoning you to stay. With one last kiss, Matty goes into the bathroom, allowing you to dote on him and gather some clean clothes from his closet. He knows fully well that he could get them himself, but you both get a little kick out of you looking after him, so who was he to deny you?

It’s not long before he’d had a warm washcloth run over his thighs and he’s comfortably sat on the bathroom counter in baggy sweatpants. He toys with a loose thread on his shirt while staring down at his phone to order takeout. 

“What do you feel like?” he murmurs, glancing up at you as you approach, standing between his legs. 

You hum thoughtfully, sliding your hands into his thick hair. The makeup you’d used earlier is still set out on the counter, the remnants of it smudged all over your boyfriend’s pretty face. 

“Sushi?” you suggest. He nods, already tapping away. 

You push his hair away from his face, gathering it into sections to begin tucking the tendrils into a braid. He sacrifices the convenience of having both hands to type so he can place one on your waist, appreciatively thumbing over your hip bone through the fabric of your dress. Carefully, you put strands over strands, weaving them until a neat braid sits atop his head, tied off near the base of his neck. You admire your handiwork, running your fingers over the path of his interwoven hair from his roots to the few stray strands at his nape. 

“Good?” he asks, interrupting your little haze. 

He holds up his phone to you, your favorite roll already customized to your liking and added to the order. He knows your usual by heart. It’s a small thing, some might even say inconsequential, but to you, it’s a different way to say: “I care about you enough to know this”.

“Yeah,” you whisper, leaning in to kiss his forehead. 

With the order placed, he puts his phone face down on the counter, sighing dreamily as he places both hands on your hips now, his fingers tracing little swirls and patterns. You reach for your makeup wipes, pulling one out of the packaging before tilting his chin upward with two gentle fingers. A little cheeky smile pulls at his lips as you begin to wipe away the makeup that had melted down his cheeks, a mixture of blue glitter and black mascara streaking over the wipe. He still squirms a little despite his best efforts to stay still. 

“Bein’ so good to me. You’re spoiling me,” he whispers, closing his eyes before you begin to wipe at his eyelids. 

“You deserve a little spoiling, don’t you think?” 

“Mmm… maybe.” 

“No. You do. I’m telling you you do.” 

He chuckles, raising his hands in playful surrender. 

“Okay. I won’t argue with you, darling. Spoil away.”

You finish with one eye, beginning to carefully repeat the process on the other, watching him tense just slightly at the first touch of the cool wipe. You clean every trace of the night’s passion, leaving you with only the memories of his perfect face graced with streaks of shimmery blue. 

“I’m going to miss looking so foxy,” he sighs, blinking his eyes open again. 

You shoot him an amused look as you toss the used makeup wipes in the trash, finding your place between his legs again so naturally, your hands resting on top of his thighs. 

“Maybe you have to wear makeup more often, then.”

“But I can’t do it as good as you!” he whines, leaning his forehead against yours. 

“Then I’ll do it for you!” 

He giggles at that, a little unfiltered, gasping sound of amusement that’s reserved for you and only you. Your heart swells at his laughter, warmth blooming in your chest. 

As promised, once the food arrives it’s shared cozily in bed, his back to your chest, you idly running your fingers over his braid between bites as you watch a movie, Matty occasionally interjecting with some kind of fact or criticism about how it was filmed. You can’t help but just stare a bit, appreciating him. The spattering of freckles and beauty marks on his face, the curve of his pretty nose, the gentleness of his eyes. He catches your gaze, a slow smile spreading across his lips at the realization that you’re staring. 

“What?” he prompts.

“Nothing. You’re pretty.” 

“Mmm. Tell me more,” he grins, tilting his head back against your shoulder. 

You laugh softly, running your finger up the bridge of his nose, back and forth. His lashes flutter with bliss.

“You’re so pretty, Matty. Prettier than most girls, you know that? Nice lips,” you pause, tracing your thumb over his plush bottom lip, “soft skin…” 

You continue to list some of your personal favorite features of his, as it’s far too difficult to pick just one or two. You run your fingers over each as you mention them, fingertips gently running over his face. Matty’s heart flutters at the sincerity of your words, giggling and squirming a little as your fingers ghost over a ticklish spot on his neck, his eyes never leaving yours. He’s never felt so soft before. 

As you gently brush a stray strand of hair away from his eyes, he looks like he might just fall asleep. He’s lovelier than words can describe. 

“Love you,” he murmurs, “you make me feel so much.” 

“I love you too.” 

He pauses, his sleepy eyes drooping slightly as he looks up at you, raising one hand slowly to caress your cheek.

“I think I’ve waited my whole life for you. For this. Every little piece coming together,” he says softly, feeling his heart thrum against his ribs, reminding him that he’s alive, he hasn’t gone to heaven in your arms.

“That’s sweet. Sweet boy.”

He grins lazily at the pet name, blinking slowly as he runs his hand down the side of your face with such tenderness that you think you could burst. 

“You should sit on my face again as soon as fucking possible.” 

“Oh my god, Matty.”

———————————————————————

We’re both kind of obsessed with when Matty’s hair got braided during that one interview so

Yay for touch tank Matty revival, I love him so dearly

[choccy-zefirka]

Either way, what bliss

When the Rogue Trader Lumen von Valancius had just returned from Commorragh, she was too frazzled and disoriented, still believing that she was being tortured by xenos. The only thing that brought her back to reality was a bold move by her Seneschal, the ever-reliable Abelard Werserian — who kissed her passionately and, in so many words, admitted that he had developed feelings for her.

The only reason Abelard would ever dare do that was, of course, that he had not slept in days, too preoccupied by searching the galaxy for his Lord Captain. Now that he has rested, however, he is morfitied by his insubordinate behavior. He heads to the Rogue Trader's chambers to explain himself. But instead, he ends up helping her shave her head, as the Drukhari torture has done irreparable damage to her hair... And also kissing her again. And again. And a little bit more.

Knock. Knock. Knock. Knockknockknockknock.

The sound ruptures his dreams’ soft, floating cushion like gunfire. Abelard shoots upright in bed, and for a few moments — which ooze slowly out of time and place, like sap that then solidifies into amber — he is a teenage cadet again. Shamefully late to the prayer that always precedes the day's training. But then he blinks once, twice, and the amber encasing him shatters. The centuries come rushing back, making him dizzy.

He runs his hand through his hair — longer and greyer than he envisioned it just a second ago — and remembers.

All of it.

The endless weeks of circling the void, looking for any signs of the Lord Captain, and finding only black, leering nothingness; only silence, which lacerated his tired old heart deeper than any screams of agony would.

The urgent summons from Janus: the Lord Captain's expedition had resurfaced from the Webway gate, found at last, at last, praise the Emperor!

And the reunion — when he forgot all propriety. When he forgot everything except how much he'd ached for her, in that uncaring empty space: not merely for her presence at the helm, her clever plans to guide the dynasty to glory... But for her voice. The spring sweetness of her perfume. The unmistakable beat of her elegant little heels against the ground — enough to make Abelard stand at attention long before she'd come into view. The glint in her golden-brown eyes when she stared down some pompous fool and commanded her faithful Seneschal to introduce her. The hint of almost-touch over a data slate, her gilded fingernails a hair's breadth from tapping against his hand.

When he saw her again, when the Emperor brought her back, like He'd never brought back his dear Quatharina — Abelard, regrettably, let all those memories consume him. He should not have been allowed to touch her, after he had failed so spectacularly to keep her safe in the first place. Yet he had the audacity to hold her to his chest: his Lord Captain, his cosmic liege, the woman he'd sworn to serve, body and soul. Tortured by the xenos scum, worn down to a shadow, but alive, here, in the flesh, with her breath so warm, her lips so soft against his...

Throne preserve him. He — he kissed his Lord Captain.

And not only that. He admitted to being... infatuated with her.

He violated every conceivable rule and oath. He gave in to the filthy thoughts that would press against his skull during the voidship's search for the lost Lord Captain. With every warp jump, the whispers of his base desires, laid bare in her absence, would get more and more relentless. Damn it, by the end of those... who knows how many days without sleep, he was ready to chase through the ship's darkened passageways after a woman's shadow.

It would start beckoning him whenever he'd pause his restless pacing around the Astropathic Chapel. Whenever he’d stop demanding that the useless sing-song twats scry the void harder. Whenever he'd slow down enough to let his thoughts wander. He resisted, of course, but the vision still remained, hovering in the corner of his eye. Waiting for his awareness to lapse again.

Whether it was an actual phantom born of Chaos, some vague, elusive shimmer at the fraying edges of reality, or just a waking dream he'd slip into when recaf stopped working, he could never tell. The figure was always blurred, rippling in every shade of the rainbow, like prometheum spilled in water. Sometimes, it would look like Quatharina, sometimes like Lady Theodora, but most often of all, like his current mistress. She who was taken from him, brought back to him, and has now been sullied by his lips' abhorrent greed.

He wishes that kiss on the Janusian coast was part of his visions too. Just another trick of his mind. He had, after all, been scraping desperately for the last ounce of his fortitude, straining to remain at least somewhat lucid after so many warp jumps. Running on a cargo hold's worth of stim syringes, stacks upon stacks of recaf cups, and a single lho stick that Idira had unceremoniously rammed into his teeth out of some misplaced pity; for his own good, she told him — to help him "wind down".

But no. That was no flash in the warp. He distinctly remembers carrying the Lord Captain in his arms, away from the beach where she'd wandered to in her distress, and back to the safety of her Janusian residence. Then, he must have sent her off to the master bedroom, urging her to rest, before he himself nearly collapsed into a bed in one of the guest chambers.

Now, in broad daylight, he can see that his coat has been folded on a bedside chair. Not the way he usually does it, but the way he has seen the Lord Captain put away her own belongings in preparation for a long trek on some unexplored planet. It is his job to take note of every minute detail... At least in this respect, he is not a complete disgrace as a Seneschal.

The knocking on his door resumes.

He winces.

"What?!"

Someone on the other side whimpers a little at the sound of his barking voice. Abelard thinks he can recognize one of the voidsmen he'd hastily grabbed along on the shuttle to Janus. A young, jittery lad, with no stomach for much except for running errands. Which he is apparently doing right now.

"Lord Seneschal, sir, I am dreadful sorry to bother you, but we keep getting vox calls from the ship... The people would very much like to see Her Ladyship aboard again, but she has given us no updates since you brought her to the palace and she retired to bed... Which was fifteen standard hours ago."

Fifteen — fifteen hours?! Has he been asleep for fifteen whole hours?! And with most of his uniform still on?!

Even small babes, who know not their place in the world and their duties to the Emperor, do not sleep for that long uninterrupted. Clementia — the last of Abelard's kin that he personally helped nurse — certainly did not. She was a very strict child that demanded her milk at impeccably measured intervals, always knitting her tiny eyebrows and staring intently at her surroundings before she deduced it might be time to cry.

So. He has less discipline than a newborn. Another appalling transgression to add to the list.

Abelard stretches, shaping himself, with a few pops and crackles, from a groggy blob into a man that can at least pretend to be dignified in front of his subordinates. Having flung himself out of bed like a rock from a catapult, he splashes the entire wash bowl over his face, with the ferocity of tossing a grenade into a throng of heretics; throws his coat over his shoulders — to hide how disastrously crumpled the rest of his clothes are, if nothing else — and marches towards the door.

"Clearly, the Lord Captain does not wish to be disturbed by the rank and file," he snaps into the hapless errand boy's face.

As far as the lad is concerned, the door has just flown open to reveal the same stern Seneschal — not a traitor to his code that, fifteen hours ago, sank to unspeakable depths.

A few tense moments pass by. The errand boy stands wound tight as a string, holding his breath while sweat begins to dew over his round, crimson face.

Abelard sighs.

"But I shall see for myself if she has any orders."

And beg for forgiveness for what I did.

"Dismissed."

"Sir yes sir!"

The errand boy shambles off, and Abelard sighs again, bracing himself for the inevitable judgment.

He finds his mistress' door slightly ajar; perhaps she was too tired last night to lock it (but not too tired to neatly fold Abelard's coat?).

Before disrupting her peace with a knock of his own, he lingers by that gap.

Out of hesitation? Or... Or if he started playing the part of an old lecher, might as well go in?

He is afraid how he might answer that. And before he can even try, he meets her gaze.

She is sitting in front of the massive ornate dresser that once belonged to the former governor... To think that Vistenza must have once used it to get ready for her vile Slaanesh worshipper rituals..! But who is Abelard to cast stones, given what depravities are cycling through his head right now? Like... Like coming up to the Lord Captain from behind and pressing his lips over that delicate curve where her neck meets her shoulder. Or helping her fasten the clasp of any jewelry she might choose to wear today.

Even though her back is turned to the door, she catches a glimpse of him in her mirror — and he of her. Her Ladyship looks well-rested, Emperor be praised. Almost back to the assertive, spirited woman he remembers. But her once-lustrous golden hair is still matted and uneven: the xenos must have ripped some of it out, to mock her beauty, to bring His anointed low. And her forehead, which Abelard has never seen bared, is stripped of the Aquila half-mask, revealing a net of deep, swollen scars, which branch out like cracks in glass, stapled together here and there with small metal plates.

She stares at his reflection for a short while: frozen in place, clutching at the razor that she has raised to her temple (she must have intended to get rid of her curls' mangled remnants, but the razor's machine spirit has not awakened yet).

They both break the silence at the same time, voices mingling and turning into a garbled mess.

"Lord Captain, apologies! I — "

"Why don't you continue staring at me inside the room, dear Seneschal?"

Abelard claps his mouth shut so abruptly, he nearly bites off the tip of his tongue. The Lord Captain did not sound... particularly disgusted with him. Though he dare not hope for her mercy.

He steps through the door and shuts it behind him, quietly but firmly. The Lord Captain swerves around in her chair, her scars now in full view. Her bare shoulders rise and fall in a quiet shudder; criminally, outrageously, Abelard wants to hold her again.

"So," she says, with her practiced nonchalant smile — which never reaches her eyes. "You have seen me at my most undressed, darling. Consider that a sign of great trust."

Abelard bows.

It is true that Her Ladyship had the half-mask on even during the... ablutions incident, when she stood amid the swirling sea of screaming, panicking enforcers, drenched head to toe in mutant blood.

She held herself with such admirable grace back then. She remained calm, cheerful even, and found it in her to tease Abelard for his "primal side coming out" when he growled out orders to find and destroy the Rogue Trader's would-be assassins. Oh, if he were not already crimson with righteous fury, he'd have blushed for much less appropriate reasons.

Now, though, the Lord Captain just looks tired. And the urge to hold her grows ever more.

"My skull fractured during my sanctioning," she explains quietly. "But I pieced it back together right then and there — with telekinesis."

She shapes her lips into another smile, while an unspoken bitterness darkens her golden eyes.

"The pain was... close to what they did to us in Commorragh, but I did not lose even a dollop of brain matter!"

She straightens up and places an elegant hand between her exposed collarbones. Abelard inhales, quick and abrupt, as the gesture makes his mouth run dry.

"Which is why I am the brilliant and charming Rogue Trader you know today," Her Ladyship concludes, her carefree tone now almost flawlessly convincing. "If a touch more hideous than known to the general public."

Abelard's heart, suddenly a pulsing clot of sickly pain, pushes its way up his throat. In an instant, all fifteen hours he's wasted on sleep are undone, and he is back to the half-delirious mess he was when he kissed his Lord Captain.

Before he himself knows it, he's kneeling beside her again, clasping her hand and pressing his mouth against her knuckles. Thank the Throne the razor she is holding is dormant still; because she is so startled she drops it into her lap.

He should have been more careful. Damn it all, he came here to reassure her nothing like this will ever happen again!

But the words are out of his mouth before he can restrain himself.

"Hideous is the last word I would use to describe you, Lord Captain. And if any worthless worm insinuates otherwise, they shall — "

"Die by your chainsword? How thoughtful of you, dear Abelard!" she finishes the sentence for him, with a soft peal of laughter... Which, at last, sounds sincere.

"But a lady must still be presentable. Especially in front of the subjects that waited for her for so long. These unsightly bald spots just scream 'This is where the Drukhari amused themselves by ripping out bits of my scalp'. Does not quite inspire confidence among the people, does it?"

Abelard clenches his jaw. Next time they cross paths with one of those prowling xenos ships, he will fire every cannon personally.

"I spent the whole morning searching the closets of the unfortunate Mistress Wyatt for a fitting wig, and I think this one will do."

The Lord Captain nods towards the featureless mannequin head on the countertop, crowned with an elaborate tower of little bows and blond curls, close enough to her natural hair color that it might fool the adoring masses.

"But first, the rest of... this," she waves her free hand in a circle around her head. "...Must go."

"Allow me," Abelard says — nearly pleads — looking up at her.

His hand reaches for the discarded razor, which is lost somewhere among the glossy folds of the Lord Captain's dress... But before he can grasp at it, she catches his wrist and guides his fingers slowly over her knee and up her thigh.

"Oh my darling Seneschal," she breathes out, "I will allow you to do anything."

Abelard starts.

No more ignoring the lacerax in the room.

"Lord Captain," he begins stiffly, withdrawing his hand once he has found the razor. Once he gets to his feet — not without effort; at his age he should really think twice before throwing himself on his knees, even if it’s before Her Ladyship — he takes a couple steps back, maintaining a respectful distance.

"I was not myself yesterday. I may have said and done things that were insulting to your dignity. I assure you I did not intend — "

"I was not myself either," the Lord Captain cuts him off, brow furrowed. With a cold pang, he realizes he has never seen her frown, not with the Aquila wings obscuring everything above her eyes.

"But it was your kiss that returned me to my senses. Whatever you intend or... or do not intend..."

Here, her lip quivers, as if Abelard's words have wounded her. And it is not the affected, theatrical lip quiver she will sometimes use for persuasion purposes, either. Could that mean —

"I will, of course, respect that, but... Please know that I..."

The Lord Captain gathers her skirt up in her hands, clawing at the fabric. Not once, has she been so agitated around Abelard — certainly not during all the times when she'd tease him, tossing around flirtatious quips like she tosses coins at a grateful crowd.

Turning people's heads comes as naturally to her as breathing. But now, stripped of her golden mask, she is struggling for air as much as Abelard himself.

"I have come to care for you... in a way I doubted I ever could again... Not after my last lovers betrayed me... But you — you..."

She gets up and makes a small gesture, reaching for him.

"For all these months, ever since Kunrad landed me into this... mess… No-one has made me feel as safe as you did. I am not used to that kind of luxury. And like it always happens with me and luxury... I want more."

This time, her searching hands do reach him after all. Just like during Abelard's slip into insanity on the beach, his coat envelops them both, and he can no longer tell whether he kisses her first, or she him. But the bliss once promised by the iridescent ghosts that bled through his mind, becomes reality at last.

He goes further, drinks deeper, than he did yesterday. Soon, his kisses turn to bites, at her lower lip, down her throat, over her collarbone. She moans under his touch, and one of her low-cut sleeves slides even further down, exposing a dark-pink, hardened nipple. Abelards cups her breast in his hand, while his mouth locks with hers again. Her breathing quickens. Her eyes flutter shut, while her knee, freed very purposefully from under her hiked-up frilly petticoats, slides, just as purposefully, between Abelard's legs, rubbing ever so slightly against the underside of his increasingly tight crotch. A practiced motion from someone used to caressing women; Abelard himself used to employ it, quite tactically, countless years ago. In this instance, though, with positions reversed, any sudden jolt of the Lord Captain's knee might send him keeling over in pain... Yet he does not mind in the slightest.

...Until a sobering realization hits. In the hand that's not caressing his Lord Captain, he is still holding the razor.

In fact, a low, satisfied growl rises at the back of his throat, as keeping his eyes focused becomes a struggle. There's some force guiding him, dragging him in its wake like a cosmic tide: some feral instinct, which has been lying dormant since those feverish nights when he was an officer on planet leave, eager to come home to his wife, eager to create his fourth child.

"Your... Your hair..." he croaks, breaking away from her.

"Ah! Of course!"

In a daze, she sinks back into her chair and turns to face the mirror, throwing her head back. Once again, entrusting herself fully to her Seneschal.

Abelard breathes in and out to cool himself off. He needs a steady hand for this.

Fortunately, the little machine spirit does not seem to have been too deeply insulted by having to witness debauched mortals indulge in frivolous pleasures of the flesh. Upon Abelard's half-whispered request, it graciously sends the blades spinning.

He sets to work, methodically slicing off the old, uncombable knots and cutting away the few locks that yet remained intact. With not a single tremor in his fingers, he must say to his credit — despite the bouts of nausea that overcome him, relentless as warp ghosts, whenever he imagines what his Lord Captain must have endured... When he was not there.

Once more, they meet each other's eyes in the mirror. The Lord Captain — Lumen, he tentatively calls her, in his innermost thoughts, holding her name close to his heart like a fragile flower bud — still unmasked; with her scars even more on display now, free of overhanging bangs; and with her head shaved like Abelard's once was, when he was first called to service in the Navis Imperialis. And himself, her Seneschal, standing behind her back, hand firm on her shoulder. No longer here to seek out the soft hidden parts of her and caress them in a drunken, spinning dance of hungry bodies. Here to anchor and to shield. Like he could not shield Quatharina, or Theodora... This might be the last chance allotted to him by the Emperor, and he will do anything, he will kill, he will die, to protect the woman he —

The Lord Captain — Lumen, Lumen, his Lumen — raises her hand to weave her fingers through Abelard's.

"Well," she says resolutely. "This will take some getting used to. But I did get used to my scars."

She glances up at him.

"Hand me that wig, will you, my darling? Time to fly the shuttle home. Once Vigdis and the others bring me up to speed, I expect you in my quarters. You have been so good to me, and deserve a reward."

Abelard leans down to seal the promise with a long, tender kiss on the top of her head.

"I am forever at your service."

[yeyinde]

WILLOW TREE MARCH

John Price x Reader | Fae!AU

"They'll give you gifts," your gran says, shaking her head. "Things from their realm. Little trinkets and gems—" geodes, sapphires and diamonds, raw gold and coral; "—and you must never accept them," a whittled deer made of sequoia under your pillow; crow bones buried in the garden."Because if you do, if you do, they'll never let you go."  "Why?" You asked, blinking at her.  "Because it's a courting ritual, and to accept means… well," her mouth twists in wry disdain. "Just don't." 

—WARNINGS: 18+ | SMUT fae shenanigans, mythological nonsense; unsafe sex, smut in random places, slight exhibition kink if you squint; Dom-ish Price, soft Price, pining Price; fae trickery (dubious consent on account of the trickery but not really); unreliable narrator; ahhhhhh, body horror (??????????) —TAGS: Fluff, AU, mythology —WORD COUNT: 8,5k —Based on this ask

There's a thick forest at the edge of your town. It curves along the coastline, breaching the yawning maw of the inlet—the last safe haven before the open ocean—and can be found almost nowhere else in the entire world. A unique ecosystem comprising vaguely familiar flora and fauna. Brown and Black bears. Wolves. Sitka-black-tailed deer. Ravens. The waters that crest through the forest are full of salmon, steelhead, and river otters. On the coast of the inlet, you can find whales, sea lions, seals, orcas, and porpoises swimming offshore. 

It's protected, in large part, by its sheer vastitude. Spanning a massive chunk of your home, it stretches far north with curling fingers cutting through the granite of the crumbling coast, and as deep south as its knobby knees can reach. 

From above, it looks like a child curled on its side, knees tucked to its chest. It's this pose alone that makes others revere it as some sacred being, slumbering mindlessly until the day it cracks open its eyes, and awakens to the new world. A child god made of conifers, red cedar, spruce, fir, pine, birch, and hemlock. Mossy caves of granite and limestone. Thick colonies of moss, liverworts, plume moss, and common haircap. 

The forest is linked to your town only by a small strip of land that juts out from a raging ravine with currents too dangerous, too deadly, to try and traverse. An archipelago all on its own, untouched by greedy, human, hands because of its placement. 

It's insulated by the vast ocean on its front, and a series of insidious looking mountains ready to swallow wandering mountaineers whole if they get too close to the sleeping child. Protected and safe by anyone who might try to harm it. 

You used to dream about the forest. A nightmare dredged up about whispers and calls. Lured close to the edge of the river where a man would hand you his heart—sap-stained, and charred; a brittle piece of Bristlecone pine that felt fragile and worn—and told you to come back for him. To wait for him. 

You'd wake in a cold sweat each time, heart pounding so fast that it almost felt like you were dying.

(Maybe you were. Maybe you did.)

You don't know if you believe the stories told about people wandering into the gaping chasm of the forest and never coming out. It's not uncommon for people to get lost, after all. But it feels distinct and archaic. Old. Something about the way the wind howls sounds different from the other woodlands scattered around your home. 

It sounds like a beckoning call. A mother calling their child home for dinner. Come to me, the Chinook bellows. Come home now, dear. 

You never venture too close. You know all too well what happens to children who do.

His name is—was now, you suppose—Kyle, but no one called him that. To everyone in town, he was simply known as Gaz. 

Newcomers to the isolated archipelago are a rarity—so much so that news of the new family's arrival sent waves through the community, making Gaz an instant star overnight, all without him even setting foot on the shores. 

None of that mattered, though. He fit in with an ease that seems almost preternatural when you think about it, as if he was meant to be there. And maybe he was. Maybe the soft rolling valleys were destined to be his home where flowers bloomed in the spring, and Arctic tern trilled from the branches. 

Gaz was unique, different. 

He picked dandelions with the same intensity that picked fights with the bullies in the neighbouring town, the ones who tried to pick on the smaller kids in the community. 

With his fists always covered in dandelion oil and bruises, face caught between a grimace and a grin, like he was never sure if he wanted to spit at their feet or tell a joke, he stood against the onslaught with an anger that seemed to crackle in the air like fireworks. Ready for battle. Thirsty for blood. 

His anger never waned even when he turned back to the group, eyes cresting in satisfaction, and body trembling with adrenaline, and you could scent the rage in his smile, hear it in the soft words he muttered to the kids, telling them everything would be alright. 

Gaz was everyone's friend. The person you told your deepest secrets to, the one you planned adventures with. He was a rock—always armed with snappy jokes to make you smile, and advice when you needed it. 

He was everyone's friend—yours especially—but you can't remember if anyone was his best friend. He was polite. Distant. 

It started in the summer. His hands were always cold, and he kept them shoved deep in his pockets, clenched tight around the latchkey his parents gave him. 

He started to seem almost liquid then. Temporal. You'd reach for him, brushing your hands against his arms or shoulders just to assure yourself that he was really there.

You noticed that his eyes would list sideways, head tilted, slanting toward the forest. It looked to you as if he was listening to something. To some unheard noise or call that only he could hear. 

When you asked about it, he'd always blink, surprised, as if you'd woken him up from a dream quite suddenly. Then, he'd smile, and shake his head. 

"Don't worry about it," he'd say, shrugging. "Just the wind."

He'd bend down and pick a dandelion for you, holding it out between pudgy fingers with a grin that seemed to mimic the cresting moon. 

"For you."

He picked them for three springs before he, too, became another victim of the endless forest. Another empty tomb in the overcrowded graveyard.

Missing, they said, but not forgotten. 

You think about him often. 

(Even more so when you, too, begin to hear your name echoing through the forest.)

Beware the woods, your grandma says. Especially when it calls your name. 

(You never understood why something that sounds so comforting, so sweet, could ever be dangerous. It sounds like an old friend calling you over to play. 

"Never go," she snaps, her hands lashing out to grip your arms tight. You feel her knobby fingers digging into your bones. "Never listen, and stay away—"

"You're hurting me, gran—"

Her rheumy eyes burn into yours. "Stay away—!"

(You wisely never speak about the whispers in your head, keeping them to yourself. A secret just for you.)

You leave town when you're old enough, when the hisses in your head grow too loud to ignore, and it feels as though they're scratching at your skull. 

(Clawing at the walls.)

"Crazy weather, eh?" The first mate mutters nervously, eyes tilted upward as the sky darkens into an angry grey. "Came outta nowhere." 

You leave, and you don't look back. 

(But oh, how the forest screams.)

She calls you back several years later with a phone call. Your gran has passed. 

You think you should mourn, but it's been so long since you thought of home, that you don't remember what she looks like anymore. The sound of her voice is a whisper in your head—the cadence gone, the tone flat. 

But you don't cry, and you don't grieve—she's been dead for a long time now, after all. Ever since your mum went missing all those years ago, she's always seemed more of a ghost than a person. Living as if her body hadn't realised her heart was long dead. 

You go back only because you think your mum would have wanted you to. 

(And pretend it isn't because the silence in your head is suffocating. Without the whispers, it feels as if you're missing something. A part of yourself forever lost in the forest.

You wonder if anyone has found it by now.)

Nothing has changed since you turned your back on the town that raised you, the forest that stole from you. 

It's the same buildings. The same market. The same roads. The same houses. 

The people, too, seem largely unchanged by the years that have passed. 

The friends from your childhood who stayed meet you at the graveyard, eyes filled with sympathy as they ask how you're doing. 

She'll be missed, they lie sweetly to you. Everyone loved her. 

She was a hermit, you want to scream. A woman driven mad by ghosts and fairytales and terror. 

You nod, instead, and let them lead you around the town on a grand tour as if anything about this beautiful, haunting place had changed since you ran away. 

It gets easier to force a smile when they ask if you're okay. 

"Fine," you murmur and wonder if your voice even carries over the whispers. "Just—yeah. Fine."

North of the town is where the river separating the lonely forest carves a path, not at all dissimilar to an idyllic trough, through bedrock and sand, and flows into the sea. 

The estuary is dangerous in high tide when the rapid ascent of water on the sandy shores hides the rip current that is known to form when the two bodies of water meet. 

It's a dangerous place to get caught in. 

This beach was impressed upon you as deadly from a young age, almost in equal—if not greater—measure than the rapacious forest across the river. You know the dangers of standing on the slippery bedrock. 

But as the sun glows a burnt orange in the distance, and the endless ocean before you darkens into an almost unfathomable black, you can't help but find the view from the cliff's edge to be the most mesmerising thing you've ever seen. 

It looks like a painting. A brush stroke of tigers eye in the centre of the cresting sun that gradually fades out into xanthous, and rings of hazy peach; the light of diminishing star smears coruscating rings of persimmons into the indigo water. The gradual fade into gradients as the waves lap closer to the shore is reminiscent of liquid sapphire and smelting amethyst. 

The picturesque view is more befitting of a pastel postcard, an ethereal pastiche of the Ninth Wave—a moment of life imitating art, or—perhaps—the same view Ivan Aivazovsky stumbled upon when he set out to render the haunting beauty of the ocean in oil. 

The cresting waves arch into curled petals of white before setting upon the sloping beach with frenzy. It's the roar of those hungry waves that seem to, if only for a moment, drown out everything in your head. 

There are no whispers. No songs. No screams. Vengeful hissing can't climb to a higher decibel than the frothing waters slamming against jagged bedrock. 

All is quiet—except the sea. 

You lean into it. The closer you get to that precipice, the quieter everything in your head goes. Sounded sucked into the vacuum of the ocean. The endless song of the sea. 

Another step. Another. 

For a moment, you're free. 

The forest doesn't scream for you. Your grandmother doesn't dig her teeth into your gyri, hands clawing at the space behind your eyes. You don't think of her, or your mother, or Gaz, or anyone else unfortunate enough to get consumed by this damnable place where fairy tales split the seams apart, and merge with reality. 

It's peaceful. 

You take another step—

A hand curls over your shoulder, tugging you back. 

Anger pools, thick and acidic, on your tongue, but the flash of your ire, your vexation, is dashed by the sound the waves make when it slams into the spot you were just standing. 

It slashes across the concrete as the stranger pulls you into his broad chest, heat nearly liquifying your spine. 

He sucks in a breath. You feel his chest expand with it. When he breathes out, you taste gunpowder on your tongue. 

"Gotta be more careful n'that, love." 

You've had near-misses before. Flirted with the reaper. Ripped yourself from the jowls of death himself. 

This isn't anything new.

And yet—

Your eyes drag up, meeting flat black boring down at you. His hood is pulled over his forehead, casting shadows down to his jaw. 

"You—"

Your teeth sink into your tongue. Emotions lash through you like the flick of a bullwhip, shredding your skin until it's raw and oozing. The tail pulls away whenever you try to wrap your fingers around one of them—relief: you're not dead; embarrassment: how could you be so stupid; shame: saved by a stranger; and—

Visceral terror. Panic. 

It bludgeons its fist down your throat, barbed knuckles clawing at the soft tissue of your esophagus until you taste blood on your tongue. 

Panic tastes of ozone and leaks, thick and warm like molasse, down your throat. 

"Hey," he murmurs, and the sound of his voice, his low timbre, is porous, calcined. The rough scratch scours through the haze of fear threading through your sternum. "C'mon on, now. Gotta breathe, yeah?" 

It's his hands on your shoulder—hotter than grenade fire—and the thick scent of musk, of stale smoke and kerosene sweat, that break through the gossamer of your acrid panic. He spins you around to face him, eyes fixed on your face. 

"That's it," he says, soft, soothing. "Keep breathin'. You ain't dead yet." 

You come to yourself in pieces. The world bleeds with startling clarity around the blurred edges. Home, you think. Maybe.

Once upon a time. 

You blink. Blink again. 

The hand still on you—heavier, you find, than an anvil—lifts, his thumb brushing over the curve of your jaw, swiping over the sweat-stained skin.

You can't see his eyes through the shadows cast over his face. A stranger. You've never seen him before. 

They didn't say anyone new moved to town. 

"Who are you—?"

"You don't know?" 

And then his hand is gone, taking all the heat in your body with him. 

It lifts to his vest, thick fingers, gloved in yellow, curling over the butt of his cigar. 

You must make a face. A grimace. A whisper of bemusement. Whatever it is, it makes his lips twitch under the shorn burnt umber of his beard. 

"I'd share," he mutters, teething sinking into the hilt as he pats himself down for a lighter. "But I ain't got the time."

"Shouldn't be smoking in a provincial park, anyway." 

The words are dragged out of you. Numbed, gritty. 

It makes him snort. "Maybe—;" he cups his hand around the end, thumb striking the ignition of the lighter. He inhales, and the red circle at the tip illuminates the cerulean blue tucked away into the folds of his hood. The plume of smoke curls over him like a shroud. "But I doubt a cigar is gonna bring the whole forest down, mm? 'sides, we all have our vices, don't we?"

With that, he leaves you standing in the tendrils of smoke that billow out from his caustic mouth. No goodbye. No name. Nothing except the hum of his touch buzzing through your veins. 

Your head is numb. Thoughts congealing into hardened clay. 

Yeah, you think sluggishly, eyes dropping to the drenched pavement where the ocean narrowly missed you. Swallowed you whole. We do. 

(Yours is bad decisions that reek of napalm. 

Men who scour your hands raw when you touch their coarse surface.)

You find him again in some desolate pub on the fringes of town a few days later. It looks like it's one strong gust of wind away from blowing down. Dilapidated. Rusted from the harsh salt of the ocean to the north. 

He lifts his head when you slide into the empty chair on the left, but says nothing about your unexpected company. 

Instead, his lips curl over the cigar sawed between his teeth. A grin, you think. 

You wonder if he was expecting you. 

(Wonder, then, with a touch of something warm gnarling in your belly, if you surprised him.)

The barkeep wanders past, brows lifting at you in question. 

"Um, a vodka soda—"

The man, Price you learned from the locals with a great of digging, snorts. 

"Ain't got none of that here, love. Two scotches. Neat." He leans over, thick fingers grasping the middle of the cigar, an inch away from the bristles on his upper lip, and pulls it away, ashing it in the tray in front of him. "And a bottle of spring water." 

"Scotch?" You echo, leaning your elbow on the sticky counter. He reeks of smoke. Sweat. Blood. Gunpowder. You veer closer, soaking in the astringent tang of him. Everyone on this island smells of daffodils and cotton; clean and neat and innocent. He reeks of danger. Everything inside of you screams to stay away. "I don't drink scotch."

The cigar burns in the tray. He pulls back, shifting in the chair. His elbow rests on the counter, the other arm is slung over the back of his seat. The picture of appeasement, of a satiated tiger eying a little mouse sniffing past it. There's no immediate danger, and his posture is relaxed. Open. But his eyes—

Price turns to you, then. His legs are spread, knees notched apart, taking up more space than you offer him. A looming presence. Dominating. Confident. He's not doing it on purpose, you don't think, he's just—

Big. 

His legs are too long. Thighs are too thick. 

Something gnarls behind your ribs when you take in his bare face. It's different, smaller, without the bulky black hood thrown low on his brow. His hands bare, leaving him in only casual clothes that stretch taut around his broad body. 

The beanie on his head, pulled low on his forehead, makes him look roguish, rough. The picturesque presentation of a bad boy down to the pelt-brown leather Levi jacket stretched taut around his broad shoulders. 

He looks older, somehow, without the tenebrous of night shading him in dark indigo. Aged like a fine whisky. All burnt umber and ivory. 

The charcoal colouring brightens the heavy blue of his eyes—crushed bluebonnets and powdered graphite; a black hole centre—and the frame of his brown lashes dusting over his clean cheeks makes something pool in your lower belly. 

(You wonder if he'd taste of whisky sour.)

"Well," he murmurs, brow lifting. It makes the skin on his forehead crinkle. He has laugh lines cresting around the corners of his eyes. They stand out to you, now. Void of the shadows you're used to. "You do when I'm paying."

The scotch, the cigar, the dingy pub that reeks of stale cigarettes and is perfumed in a dusting of nicotine that films every surface coalesces into incipient vice. 

His hand moves from where it's loosely curled around his glass, and rests, heavy and warm, on your thigh. 

When he leans in, you taste calcine on his breath. 

The acrid tang is a balm to the blisters in your raw esophagus. You meet him in the middle, smaller hands curling over the wool lapels of his jacket, tugging him into you. 

"Never thanked you for saving me," you murmur, his beard grazing your lips. A tickle. A brush. 

Price sucks in a deep breath, eyes liquifying into an intense azure. "No need to thank me, love. As much as I love the ocean, you don't belong there, do you? No," he adds, decisively. Sure. "You belong on land. The earth. You're wild, like the forest, aren't you?"

It's an out. An escape. An option to flee from the cosm that folds around you like a nebulous cloud. 

You could take it. Back up, away. Walk out of this dingy pub on the wrong side of town, and forget the man who reeks of nicotine, smoke; who leaves ashes behind on your skin when he touches you. 

The only one who stares at you from the unfathomable black of his eyes, lashes shrouded in tenebrous, and makes you falter. Makes your heart lurch, jumping to sit at the bottom of your throat.

You should pull away. Stay away from the man who leaks ethanol and nitroglycerine. From the man who smells of acrid smoke. Gunfire. 

You should. 

But your fingers tighten in the lapels of his jacket, pulling him closer. Closer. 

The bridge of his nose is warm when it presses against your own. 

His eyes spark, wildfires. A blazing forest. 

"You said something about vices." His chest rumbles in response to your hushed words. 

"So I did." 

Smoke singes your nose when you brush your lips over his. Warm. Chapped. Dry. You taste ash. Humus. The bitter tang of dandelion oil. 

"Got some time tonight?" 

"Thought you said I shouldn't be smoking."

"We're not in a park, near flammable trees," your hand falls to his chest. His heart thuds beneath your palm. Thick, full. Your eyes lift to his, lidded and heavy. You gaze at him from under your lashes, coy. Demure. You wonder if he can see how eager you are beneath the sly cut of your lids. "Are we, Price?"

The use of his name makes his lips quirk. A small, secretive thing that you can't read. 

"No, we're not." His hand slides down, curling over your knee. "Don't know what you're gettin' into, love." 

"Oh, no?" You taunt, breathless. Even through all your layers, you still feel his searing heat on your skin. His eyes drop when your tongue lashes out, wetting your lower lip. "And what's that?" 

A frisson shudders over his face. Lashes fluttering. He leans forward, resting the rim of his beanie on your forehead. 

When his eyes slide open, all you see is arsenic white pooled around Prussian blue. "More than you could ever dream of." 

Your trembling fingers curl into the lapels of his jacket. For leverage, maybe; or to hide the quiver in your joints from his widening eyes. 

And so, you kiss him. 

A messy punch to the mouth with your sun-blistered lips. 

His mouth parts, wry curls flutter when he inhales sharply. And then—

He devours you. 

It's messy. More sealed lips glueing together than it ever could be considered a proper kiss, but it feels more like a homecoming than stepping off the boat, and you tuck that inside your pounding chest. 

(The whispers in your head seem to sing when his lips touch yours.)

You taste bark on your tongue when it slips over his. Loam. Moss. Something earthy and rich. His beard scratches your chin, your lips, but you pull him closer, hungry for more—for the taste of wilderness on his tongue, for the respite from the whispers, the screams. Like the ocean, he, too, is a vacuum, swallowing everything whole until just you remain, stripped down to nothing but sensation and want. Bare, raw. 

Your teeth ache when you pull away, fingers curling into the coarse hair along his chin. The whips of his wry curls scratch your palm. 

You never want to let go. 

Price's eyes are noctilucent clouds; a storm over a rainforest. He'll ruin you. Devour. Destroy. Take, and take, and take until there is nothing left. 

Your lips tremble when you speak, words tremulous with your desire, your eagerness, when they slip past your bruised mouth. 

"I can think of a few that are better than smoking." 

Price shudders. 

"Where did you go?" Your friend asks, eyes swinging from the cards spread out in front of him—the Idiot, Solitaire—to you. They burn into the side of your face, the same place Price touched with bare knuckles, and said you belong to the forest, don't you? "Missed dinner."

You ate Doro Wat in a small shop after Price fucked you stupid in the dingy bathroom of the pub, face scraping against the waterlogged wallpaper that chipped with each brutal thrust of his hips. 

Like that, hmm? Can barely take me, love, but you're so fuckin' greedy for it, ain't you? 

You're sure the barkeep heard your moans as they bounced off the jaundiced walls. 

(You still hear him hissing in your ear. Still feel him splitting you apart.)

You try not to shiver. 

"Ate already," you shrug, bundling your sleep clothes tight in your trembling hands. When you stand, his eyes follow you. "So. Um—"

"You okay?" 

"Yeah," you say, shifting on the balls of your feet. "I've—" You think of his eyes, gyre white, and wonder if this is what it feels like to get swallowed by the sea. "I've never been better."

"Good," he says, smiling. "I worry about you, you know?"

You nod. "Yeah," you say. "Me, too."

You break apart in the shower, falling into pieces as you make yourself finish, thinking about nothing but the phantom stretch of his cock seated deep inside of you, the taste of his come pooling on your tongue.

It balms the residual burn in your esophagus, and you know, then, when you throb, still wanting his touch on your skin, that you've always been terrible at telling yourself no. 

It can't happen. It can't.  

There's a strange magnetism about him—an uncanny sense of mystery and familiarity sutured together. 

It feels a little bit like staring at the looming maw, the event horizon, of a black hole. Unfathomable black. No way out. 

There's something that feels a bit like forewarning inside your chest when he brushes against you, and presses his lips on the skin behind your ear—a secret place only he knows, where only his fingerprints have ever been. You feel his touch even when he's gone. Haunted by the memory of his rough hands and rasping tenor. 

Running would make sense, you think, watching the ferries come and go. You have enough money for a ticket, and you've yet to even unpack your bag. 

You don't know who he is, but you've given him everything. All of it. There's nothing left inside of you to hand over, but he keeps looking at you as if he's waiting for more. 

"Waiting for a ride?" 

You glance back at the operator with a divot between your brow and cotton inside your ears. 

You want to say yes, but you shake your head instead. 

"No." I can't leave. "Just enjoying the view."

You find birch branches stripped of leaves, juniper berries, maple leaves, spindles of dogwood, bushels of fir, and bouquets of bog rosemary, northern bluebell, fireweed, and wintergreen on your doorstep each morning, laid gently against the old welcome mat. 

You should toss them out, and throw them away. How does he know where you live, anyway? It would make the most sense; be the wisest decision. 

Instead, you tuck them inside your notebook, pressing them against the pages where they'll be safe. 

(You try not to think too much about why they never die.)

It happens again. And again. Again—

It becomes a ritual for the few months you're back in town. The leaves, twigs, petals, pines, and seeds all show up at your door each morning and come nightfall, you're drawn to him like a moth to a flame. 

He finds the nastiest looking pub in the city, and you find him there after dark. 

He sits, smokes a cigar. Orders two scotches, and a bottle of spring water. Teaches you how to drink it properly—none of that sugary cocktail shite; just pure whisky, love, as it should be—and lets you puff on the damp end of his cigar, eyes gleaming in the soft yellow light above as he takes in the way your lips curl over the wet tip.

He stares at you like he's indulging you. 

Like he knows. 

And maybe, he does. 

Maybe he sees the way your jaw works, tongue lashing over the tip just to chase his taste. The heat in your cheeks, your eyes, as you gaze at him, open and raw and wanting. The way you list toward him. Eager for it. For him. His touch, his smell. 

He must, you think, but he's a right bastard. 

He doesn't give it until the end of the evening, when everyone has gone home. When it's just you and him and the barkeep that glowers at you something ugly when you stand on shaky legs, and whisper you're going to the washroom. 

Your fingers curl over the chipped porcelain, back arched as you stare at the face in the mirror. 

You can't remember if it's you. 

Whisky has polluted your synapses. The thick scent of smoke, the tobacco from the cigar, has congealed into resin over that little bundle of axons and nerves that control your impulse, logic. 

Stupid. 

You stare at the thing in the mirror, and wonder if the basal want on your face was so apparent to him as it is to you. If he saw the dark gleam of hunger, greed, impatience, swimming in your ink-smudged depths. 

The door rattles. Clicks. 

The squeak of the hinges is the only warning you get before Price is there, liquified in the doorway and clouded in smoke. 

His hand curls over the worn, peeling frame. Eyes dance with the same hunger, same want, as the ones that flicker across the surface of the mirror. 

"Couldn't wait for me, eh, love?" He breathes, his chest expands with his exhale. Scenting you, you think. You wonder if he can smell the slick pooling in your panties. The desperation brimming in your veins. "Wanted it that bad, huh?"

He moves. A mountain of a man now filling up the entirety of your gaze until all you see is him. 

You used to want to climb mountains. In training, they always warned of summit fever. Of that little part of your head that just wanted it to be over, to reach the very top of the precipice. Impatient, it couldn't wait. It made you spring up, and climb higher and higher before you were ready, prepared. 

You think of it now when your hands lift, curling over his broad shoulders. 

("Summit fever will get you killed," they say.)

"Just shut up and fuck me, Price." 

His eyes flash. "Greedy little thing, aren't you?"

You are. Painfully so. 

It etches in your ribs like a sickness, festering in your mouldering bones. Rotting you from the inside out. 

A crutch in the searing heat of skin, sweat, and sin. The feeling of him taking you apart, breaking you down into atoms and molecules that bubble in the lining of your head becomes so commonplace, so often forget who you are when you're pushed up against a wall, being filled to the brim by him.

He leaves madness behind when he goes, and the world that divides fantasy from reality begins to crack, to splinter. 

You hear his voice in your head late at night when the wind blows through the window, carrying the scent of the forest.

"Come home," he rasps in your ear. 

The scratch of his beard seems to scrape against the little thread keeping you tied down to reality. It's frayed and worn by his hands. You wonder when he'll sink his teeth in the silk, and snap the line. Untethering you from your binds.

Come home to me. Come back to where you belong—

Price takes you out to dinner three months after this—whatever it is—starts. After your house becomes more of a garden, writ with the wild remnants of the forest, after each passing day. Full of bushes, and branches. Twigs and precious gems. He gives you raw gold, and open geodes full of amethyst, and sapphire. Canopy leaves, and bark from the trees. 

He leaves a whittled deer made from the red wood of a giant sequoia, and the likeness of the little fawn makes you believe that one day, it'll come to life in your living room.

(You leave a dish of water near the doorway—just in case—and wonder if you're becoming just as mad as your gran.)

He shows up at your doorstep, the bleached antlers of a great pronghorn in his hands. It's decorated with vines and moss weaved over the ivory in intricate braids and knots that you can't even begin to unravel. You marvel at the gift as he tells you he's taking you out for dinner. 

There is no discussion. He doesn't ask, he just—

Does. 

"Found a spot," he says, arms crossed over his broad chest. The cable-knit sweater pulls, stretched taut over his bulk. "Think you'd like it."

You don't know what to say. The antlers feel heavier in your hands, and warm to the touch. You try not to shiver when you set it down beside the little fawn.

"Oh," you say, but know you've never turned him down yet. It's all—

So much. 

Your home is slowly becoming one with nature, with vines growing on the walls in great blooms of wisteria and lilac; the old floor boards under your feet shudder and creak as little saplings sprout through the cracks. You wake up at night and taste earth in your throat, feel the grass beneath your fingers. The breeze in your hair. The call of an arctic tern. 

You dream of running through the forest. Of being chased. You breathe and feel the little seeds inside of your lungs start to take root. Soon you'll bloom with dandelions.

"Okay," you say, and wonder if the madness rummaging around your head will turn into a beautiful sequoia in the end. "Let's go."

The tavern is busy on a weeknight, crowded with a swell of mainlanders who'd ventured out for a camping trip over the long weekend. 

You sit with your back straight, and listen to him talk about a hike he wants to take with you in the morning. Through the woods, he says, and you don't ask which one. You know. You know. 

(It's time. It's time.)

There are alarm bells ringing in your head, but they're drowned out by the crooning whispers. 

But the line is only frayed and worn, and despite the lure in his voice, the itch in your head to say yes, you hesitate. Falter. 

The woods are dangerous. 

You don't want to go. 

He seems to sense it. His brows knot together. 

"You want to, don't you?" 

You fiddle with your napkin and try not to meet his arsenic stare. "It's… dangerous."

"I'll keep you safe."

"It's probably time for me to leave, anyway." 

The air in the room turns frigid all at once. You think you can see white plumes of condensation when you shakily breathe out, teeth chattering. 

"Price—"

"Didn't wanna do this, love," he says, voice hushed. Barely a whisper. His eyes are lavascapes. "But you ain't givin' me much of a choice, are you?"

"What—?"

The words die on your tongue when movement flashes in the corner of your eye. A man weaves, liquid, through the mindless crowd, cutting a path like the parting red sea. 

His eyes are honeycombs. In his hand, he holds a limp dandelion. 

It takes you a moment to make out the strange man who looms in the background. A splash of colour among sfumato. 

It's Gaz.

The childish swell of his cheeks has sunken into angled, sharp bone. Slender fingers twirl the flower around, around, around—

It's hypnotic. You stare, horrified and awed—a strange amalgam of emotions that slip down your spine: worry, elation, panic, comfort—as his pink lips part into an easy, familiar grin. The cresting sun breaching the horizon. Eyes slanting in playful derision. 

He looks like he's torn between telling a joke and spitting vitriol. Making you laugh, and then making you cry. 

It buzzes in the air, electrified fingers dancing down your spine, and then just as quickly as the boy who disappeared reemerges into the land of the living, into this bastardised reality, he gives one last sharp, fanged grin, a mordant wink, and then he's gone.

He slips through the door, and without hesitating, you give chase. 

Price says nothing when you go. Or maybe he does, but you can't hear anything except the rustling of leaves in your head. 

Gaz, it whispers. Gaz, Gaz, Gaz.

(It's time for the lost little boy to come home.)

The rocks sit in a zigzag pattern through the frothing waters, a deceptive bridge that connects the valley to the coast. You feel the tremulous rattle of the water slicing against the hollow cavern beneath your feet. A ledge chiselled from the blunt erosion of the rapid currents below. One day, they say, the granite shelf will give and a massive hole filled with howling water will fill it. 

Try not to be the idiot standing on the ledge. 

You feel the power of the currents even on the peat-covered edge. 

The water in front of you is deceptive. A calm, rolling surface at the shoreline almost seems to beckon you inside. Come take a dip in the cool waters. Grow fins and gills and chase the river otters through the currents. Feast on the wily salmon, and see if your feet can touch the sandy streambed. 

But the river's fatality is nearly assured. No one has survived a dip in these waters that act as a serrated knife, carving chasms and channels through the granite below. The currents will rip into you, pulling you until your body is crushed against the wall, or into an unsearchable cave. 

One slip, you think. Just one. 

But—

The man in the bar flickers through your mind. His honeycomb eyes, fanged grin. Ethereal in his beauty like a painting of a god in oil and raw canvas. Carved likeness of a Stygian prince. 

It was Kyle. It was Gaz. You know it. Know it deep within your bones, your marrow.

Taking the first step to the jutting slate that peaks just a few precious inches from the raging waters is easier, then, when you think of the boy who plucked a dandelion from the earth, and tucked it behind your ear. It makes the risk less daunting when it's for him. 

For his parents who sunk into themselves, into the crater his absence left behind. A deep depression into the earth that swallowed them whole.

They moved last year after laying down a bouquet of flowers at the mouth of the forest. 

You toe your shoes off, leaving them at the embankment, and then you leap. The perch is slick with waterlogged moss, slimy. It wobbles under you, but you catch yourself, stabilising. Steady. You huff. One down, four more to go. 

Up close, they look so far apart. A chasm between each rock. An endless abyss that will rip you into pieces. 

Still. Still. You have to find him. Have to. 

You step, toes sliding in the algae. The rock beneath is stained green. It wobbles again when you bring your other foot down on top of it. The loud clack of rock scraping against rock is heard, unmuffled by the roaring water that tugs on the stone. You feel the push against your feet. 

Two more. Two more. 

You take another step, and then—

You fall—

The world drips into focus, a steady trickle of cognisance that paints the world in shades of greens and browns. An eagle soars above the canopy, their shadow swooping through the thick tangle of conifers reaching to the heavens.

The bed of moss beneath you is damp—lush with dew and softer than your mattress at home. You sink into the ground when you breathe, caught in an embrace. The vines curl over your wrists, your ankles, as if refusing to let go. 

It should scare you—and maybe it does—but there's something against your head, fingers digging into your temples, and you feel nothing except a warm serenity leaking in. Thought spool into liquid gold, threads that weave together in a knotted clump. Indistinguishable from each other, and unreachable when they slip deeper into the honeyed-thick fog that curls around your mind. A temper from logic, from fear. Anything that isn't pure, artificial comfort is filtered through and cast aside. 

You don't know why you're here. 

One moment, you felt the coils of the raging currents sinking its claws into your flesh, pulling you under the deep waters, and then—

Heat on your face. The sun's desperate attempt to filter through the corded canopy and touch the forest floor. The shrill call of an eagle on the prowl. The tender caress of the moss below cushions your body. 

You should be underwater. Pressed tight against the side of the rocks until you were swept downstream and spat out in the inlet, waterlogged and dead. 

You draw humid air into your lungs until it swells against your ribcage. The steady thud of your heart tells you that somehow, somehow, you're alive. An empty brag—thud, thud; thud, thud—that seems to call out to the birds in the emergent layer, the ones nestled in their branches as they watch your feeble attempt to reconcile how you survived. 

It's strange, you think, but the soporific warmth coursing through your veins does not let you panic. 

You are—

"Foolish." 

The warmth turns molten. You try to sit up, but the vines tighten around your limbs. If you weren't so vulnerable, you think it would almost feel like a hug. 

The soft crunch of the moss tells you the voice—the man—is moving forward, toward you. You want to scream, but your tongue is thick, and your mouth is numb. 

"What you did there was stupid," he says, and the forest around you seems to come alive in his anger. Pulsing. The branches sway and the leaves rattle without any wind. The trees bend down, coming inward. You hear the scream of a fox in the distance. The chuff of an agitated brown bear. 

Primordial signs tell you to run.

But you're trapped. 

Price steps closer, falling to his knees beside you. You can see him now, and suddenly you wish you'd been swallowed by the waves. 

His face is writ with anger, brows tightening together in displeasure. 

He seems imbued with the forest. One with the lush green that swells around you. Burnt umber and icy blue. Ethereal, unnatural. Something in your hindbrain tells you to run from that man that looks as if he could swallow you whole.

"Tryin' t'die on me, hmm?" 

His hand lifts, and you feel his warm knuckles graze your temple. Soft, gentle, despite the ire in his eyes, and the irritation clenched in his jaw. 

"Gonna hav'ta try harder than that, love." 

You weren't trying very hard at all, you think, dazed, dizzy. You weren't trying at all. 

"You're mine," his eyes flash, and you feel the press of gravity against your skin, pulling you down to the soft earth. Your fingers twitch. The fog inside your head clears. 

Blinking up at him, you catch the scattering supernovae echoing in the corners of his eyes; galaxies of pine and cedar, humus and tussock. They bloom from the black hole in the centre, surrounded by sapphire blue. He's not human, you think, but it doesn't surprise you because you already knew. Have known, really—ever since you asked around for his name and watched the same strange fog seep into their eyes as they struggled to remember a man they claimed to know. 

Ever since you found bushels of figs on your doorstep. 

A crown of pine needles and crow feathers. 

Price leans over you, brows knotted together like the gnarled, weaving trunk of a Great Basin Bristlecone Pine. 

There's a forest fire in his eyes. "You're mine, aren't you?" 

You think about the trinkets left on your doorstep. The whispers, the screams. 

"Did you ever give me a choice?" 

The tension in his brow snaps taut. Agony frissons through the spaced canyons; whet from ire and slick from sorrow. He bends down, and shakes his head. 

"I've always given you a choice," his words are smouldering logs, crackling with his pain. "I've always told you to go, but you couldn't stay away, could you?"

Price takes you on the mossy forest floor, fingers digging into the peat as you sink, down, down, down—

His hand under your head, cradling the back of your skull, keeps you from getting swallowed by the grass knoll that breathes and trill against your spine. 

Fire licks in the crevasses of his eyes, molten desperation you can't ignore. He rages above you, quivering in the fading glow of the sunset struggling to slip through the canopy. No longer a man but a myth. He hangs over you with his canines bared, and flashes of anger and sorrow scorch the path his teeth leave behind on your skin. 

You're becoming unmoored. Each touch, and brush; each sweep of his tongue soothing the indents of his razor-sharp teeth all seem to loosen the ties that thread through your soul, anchoring you to the world that stands in full bloom before you. 

The forest shudders with his frantic pace; each piston of his hips leaks his fervent anguish and makes the trees croon, and creak as they bow their foliage in sorrow. His pain lashes through their roots, and rent the air in two. A fox mourns his loss in the distance. A wolf yowls in agony. His brethren lifting their muzzle to the sleepy moon, and howling out the melody of their despair. 

It's too much, too much, and you fall into pieces in his hands, shivering beneath him as the woods around you tremble and quake. It's a mesmerising dance. 

He finishes with a grunt that makes the world shudder anew, spending himself as deep inside of you as he can, as if he could overwrite your empty spaces with himself. Fill you to the brim until you are bursting with him, with life. Tulips for your eyes. Furze for veins. Moss for hair. Peat soil for blood. 

When he speaks, the world falls silent. 

"You don't know it yet, but you will. You've always been mine. Always belonged to the forest, to the earth. To me."

Despite his words, he lets you go. 

And you run, run, run—

Your toes dig into the wet soil near the stream. The desperate catapult across the ravine halted at the very last moment, leaving you winded and shaking. Hands clenched into tight balls by your side. Quivering with fear, with the adrenaline rush still roaring in your veins. 

You don't know what you're doing. 

The whispers in your head go silent. 

The absence of sound makes you mourn, and you think about his agony. The pain when he took you, the resignation when he let you go. 

You think of him, and you know. 

I've always told you to go, but you couldn't stay away, could you?

You scent napalm in the air, cloying despite the acrid burn that scalds your lungs when you breathe in deep, holding it there. 

You think of the chest inside your closet. The pieces of yourself you left behind. The way he fits you like a puzzle, like he was made for you. Designed with your rough edges in mind. Softening your hard lines; scouring your gritty surface it was smooth and shiny like fire Opal and precious gems. 

Ever since you felt his hand on your shoulder, you haven't been able to let go. 

(You don't even think you ever really tried.)

Come to me, the forest says, honey in your ears. It sounds like the rapid beat of a million birds' wings, ready to take flight. Pulsing and alive and full of wonder, childish glee. 

The earth blooms in your chest. You feel the soft, tender caress of the leaves against your skin, the moss sinking between your toes. Clinging to your flesh, desperate to get inside, and take refuge in your heart. Come home to us.

Your grandmother warned you to stay out of the forest, that it was dangerous. Deadly. Wrong. But how can it ever harm you when it touches you so sweetly? 

The branches curl around your ankles as you walk, leading you, guiding you, to the place where you belong. The forest opens around you, spreads apart and makes room for you to pass, touching you as you go, taking little pieces of you. Strands of your hair, the salt from your tears. Pieces of clothes. Parts of your soul. 

You pluck your heart out of your chest, and leave it beneath a gnarled sequoia. She will protect it forever. 

Moss grows inside of the empty space. A tern makes a nest inside of it, filling it with a bed of pine needles, and twigs from the junipers. You feel a mouse make a home in your rib cage, burrowing between your bones. You place your hand over your side, and feel her nuzzle against your palm. 

"You're safe now," you say. "We're almost home."

It's Gaz who greets you with a crown made of sugi. When he cups your face, you feel raging rivers and streams in his palms, and now that you are home. 

"Missed you, dandelion," he breathes, and his voice turns into a Chinook that crests over the mountains. "But there's someone who wants to see you."

His hands slide down to your wrists, and you feel the sun grazing your skin when he spins you around, around, around—

"Now," he leans down, pressing his lips to the shell of your ear. You hear the Falcons nesting in his chest, and smell pine in his breath. "He's been an impatient bastard, you know? Just moping about ever since you left—"

A scoff. You lift your head and feel the swell of the earth beneath your feet. Dizzying. Wanting. 

He waits for you in the thicket, eyes made of sapphire and stone. When he breathes, the forest swells with his breath, and you taste loam when you swallow. 

"A sorry sap, thinkin' you were runnin' away, and all. But you won't, will you?" Gaz pushes you forward, and his laughter rings in your ears. "Not anymore."

Price meets you in the middle, his eyes sparkling embers. A baptism in fire. You feel the heat on your skin, and shiver. 

You used to be afraid of forest fires, but you know, now, that sometimes trees need to burn before they can truly grow. 

Lodgepole roots bud under his skin, rippling veins across a ravine. He rests his hand against your cheek, thumb brushing the dawn redwood needles that bloom under your skin. 

"Welcome home."

"They'll give you gifts," your gran says, shaking her head. "Things from their realm. Little trinkets and gems—" geodes, sapphires and diamonds, raw gold and coral; "—and you must never accept them," a whittled deer made of sequoia under your pillow; crow bones buried in the garden."Because if you do, if you do, they'll never let you go." 

"Why?" You asked, blinking at her. 

"Because it's a courting ritual, and to accept means… well," her mouth twists in wry disdain. "Just don't." 

You don't tell her that you already have. You don't mention the sticks and precious stones that always ended up on your windowsill. The whispers of the forest calling your name. 

You nod sagely instead, fingers tightening around the sap stained heart chiselled from Bristlecone Pine. The charred ends are warm in your palm. You feel it pulse. 

Will you accept this? My heart? Will you keep it safe for me? 

"I will."

This was meant to be light and fluffy and smutty but now it's. This. And um. Oops. I hope you enjoyed it!

JOHN PRICE MASTERLIST | NAVIGATION PART THREE OF COD X MYTHOLOGY ⁞ SOAP ● DRAGON PRICE

[letsgetrowdy43]

From Eden (Rowan’s Version)—

Quinn Hughes x Honey Hughes

I tried a new style of writing, it's a bit more creative writing than normal so tell me if you like it!!

Ro's 1000 follower celly

Au Masterlist!!

"Babe, there's something tragic about you, something so magic about you. Don't you agree? Babe, there's something lonesome about you, something so wholesome about you. Get closer to me?"

Quinn’s draft day had been nerve-racking up until the moment his name was called, relief filling his lungs as the Canuck’s general manager called his name.

Seventh overall, it was a great day to be Quinn Hughes.

As their gazes collided, he was abruptly enveloped in his mother's arms. Yet, the impression of Honey's stare lingered in the back of his mind.

Something about this moment mixed with the way his best friend stared at him with such pride and love had him foggy-brained as he hugged Luke and then Jack quickly.

He made his way through his family members, thanking them and hugging them for everything before he found himself placed in front of her. She stood so prettily in a blue long-sleeve dress that matched his tie, something that Ellen had orchestrated to make their day more special.

A soft blush adorned her cheeks as she chewed on the inside of her plump lips, uncertainty filled her as she searched for the perfect words but was met with a silent cry of happiness as he pulled her into his chest. It was the perfect moment in his eyes. Every important person in his life at his side and the girl he loved most whispered short affirmations of her pride in him into his ear.

In the tender hug that followed, a sigh of pure contentment escaped her lips as his face found comfort nestled in the crook of her neck. "I'm so proud of you, Q," she whispered. Quinn, overwhelmed by the weight of unspoken feelings, could only manage a subtle nod, his voice lost to the emotions building up within him.

Instead, he expressed his gratitude with a kiss pressed against her blushing cheek before slipping his jacket from his shoulders and gently draping it across hers—a silent testament to the warmth that existed not only in fabric but in the shared moments of vulnerability and pride.

Jack looked at her knowingly as she fixed the jacket that sat on her shoulders, his arm wrapping around her shoulder as they along with the rest of the Hughes family and friends watched the oldest walking up to the stage to shake hands with the members of the organization.

Loud cheers erupted through the arena as he slipped the blue and green jersey over his head and onto his frame. A smile found its place on his face as he looked to the photographer in front of him taking his photo before exiting the stage. But not before looking back at the crowd, finding his family, and giving his best friend a little wave before heading toward the media booths.

★★★★

"No tired sighs, no rolling eyes, no irony. No 'who cares', no vacant stares, no time for me."

Honey ran her fingers through her tangled wet hair, the salt water causing the ends to curl. In the radiant embrace of summer, Honey blossomed into a picture of beauty. Quinn thought she was the most beautiful thing to walk this earth.

His heart stammered in his chest as her fingers stopped playing with her hair and moved to his, her fingers fixing the mess of damp hair that sat atop his head. Breath got caught in his throat as her fingers stopped playing with his hair and moved down to fix the dainty gold chain that hung from his neck, a draft gift from Honey's family, that he had yet to take off since she put it on him in late June.

It was now August, meaning that decisions were being made, and Quinn was being pressed into either returning back for his sophomore year at Michigan or moving across the continent to British Columbia to fulfil his dreams.

Quinn found himself standing at a crossroads, where the lines of destiny branched into two possibilities. One path beckoned him toward the path of his future, whispering promises of a professional athletic career. The other held the allure of youth, freedom, and the silent melody of unspoken confessions that he had yet to complete.

Summer's gentle touch adorned her, the radiance of her smile, lingered for mere seconds before a frown wove its way onto her expression. "Have you made a decision yet, about school?" she whispered, the words carrying both curiosity and an awareness of the timing.

She understood that the weight of such a decision wasn't something he wished to face at this moment, yet the curiosity that danced in her eyes revealed the undeniable urge to be in the know.

"I think I'm gonna wait another year, they said it was up to me, and I just think another year would be better for me," he watched as she tried to contain the excitement that was clearly written on her face. "Makes sense," she said in a sad attempt at being straight-faced, which he immediately read through as her grin got the best of her.

"Not that I don't want you to go fulfill your dreams, but I want you by my side for at least one more year, I'm selfish," she said repositioning herself so her head could rest against his shoulder, "I don't know what I would do without you Q" "You'll be just fine Hun, I'm never really gone, just a quick call away," he smiled as she moved momentarily to press a kiss to his sunburnt shoulder.

The awareness stayed in the space between them– Quinn would always be a simple phone call away from a decision that could alter the course of their lives. The potential of the forthcoming adult world loomed, yet there remained a precious promise of one more year. One more year to soak up the unbreakable bond that made them inseparable.

Honey and Quinn adopted a silent vow to make this final year, their sophomore year, an era of memories

★★★★

"Honey, you're familiar like my mirror years ago, idealism sits in prison, and chivalry fell on its sword. Innocence died screaming, Honey, ask me I should know. I slithered here from Eden just to sit outside your door"

In the warmth of his dorm room, Quinn found himself mesmerized by the allure of Honey's kisses. Since the moment their lips first connected, an insatiable hunger had taken residence within him, fueled by her intoxicating adoration.

"I think I'm in love with you," he confessed, the words a tender murmur as Honey laid her head against his bare chest. Soft breaths escaped her lips, creating a gentle rhythm with the beat of their hearts. In the quiet intimacy of their entangled limbs and sheets, she smiled against his skin, a silent acknowledgment of the emotions that words could only begin to express.

Her fingers traced circles on his skin, and she sat up, her gaze meeting his with a soft intensity. "I know I'm in love with you," she declared, her words carrying the weight of certainty, she leaned in to press a less gentle, more passionate kiss to his chapped lips.

★★★★

"Babe, there's something wretched about this, something so precious about this. Where to begin? Babe, there's something broken about this, but I might be hoping about this. Oh, what a sin"

There was something so tragic about being in love with someone who lived so far away.

The ache of longing manifested in her final kiss, a sweet torment as tears welled in her eyes. She desired relief in his arms, her face buried in the curve of his neck as she mumbled about calling whenever he felt. "I swear Quinn, you call whenever you need to talk, even if you think it's something dumb wanna hear about it all," she mumbled as he smiled into the crown of her head. "Thank you, Hun," and with that her fingers gripped the soft cotton of his sweater, and his hands traced comforting patterns across her shoulder blade, a silent reassurance echoing through the tender touch, as they swayed back and forth.

With a heartfelt whisper, words of her adoration for him were followed by sad murmurs about how she would miss him. As he pulled away, the lingering warmth of his lips on her cheek, oblivious to his brothers' groans, left an unforgettable mark. "Thank you for everything Hun," he smiled a genuine expression of love on his face.

With one last squeeze, he began to make his rounds of goodbyes to his family, leaving Honey with a promise. "Go have a good rest of the semester, I'll see you in a few weeks, and then we have all summer together," he affirmed.

As he hugged his little brothers, Honey stood, both anchored and adrift, in the thought of their shared moments, eagerly awaiting the summer.

★★★★

"To the strand a picnic plan for you and me, a rope in hand for your other man to hang from a tree"

"Date night?" Quinn nodded to his brother as he stole a quilt from the hall closet and draped it over his arm, "You're so in love, it's unbecoming," the comment earned Jack a glare as Quinn shoved the blanket into a bag. "That's a really big word for you J," he poked back which gained a laugh from Jack. "I'm just saying, you are fulfilling your dreams and you get the girl, it sounds like it's gonna be your year," Jack teased, savouring the chance to poke fun at his older brother, but instead of pressing any more he left to go and bother Luke instead.

As Jack retreated, Quinn stood there, quilt in hand, fully aware that this was in fact his year.

Honey got his car, the engine humming with potential, a cooler bag of dinner nestled by her feet, as she leaned over the center console, planting a kiss on his cheek.

"Where are we going?" "I don't know," Quinn admitted honestly, his eyes reflecting the spontaneity of the evening, "we could go to the park, or that little clearing outside of town."

His gaze lingered on the girl beside him, her hair woven into loose braids and the bridge of her nose adorned with freckles and a hint of sunburn.

The words "outside of town" escaped her lips like a secret shared between the couple, "It's more private," Honey's whisper hung in the air. Leaning in, she sealed the idea with a passionate kiss, leaving Quinn momentarily breathless.

Quinn, hand now on the wheel, felt a combination of excitement and dizziness. His other hand found its way to her thigh as they set forth on the road to the outskirts of Plymouth.

It was Quinn's year, and he was sooo in love.

★★★★

"Honey, you're familiar like my mirror years ago. Idealism sits in prison, and chivalry fell on its sword. Innocence died screaming, Honey, ask me I should know. I slithered here from Eden just to sit outside your door"

In the quiet embrace of nostalgia, Quinn found himself lost in his old Instagram posts, scrolling through the old captured memories that he hadn't looked through in years. The images that appeared on the screen told tales of life, their life together. Each photo was a snapshot of a chapter he had lived alongside her and were the moments that had sculpted him into the person he would become today.

With baby Maeve cradled in his arms, a symbol of the present and the future, Quinn's heart warmed at the stark contrast between then and now. Fifteen years had woven into a prosperous life of experiences, and as he looked up from his phone, he saw the picture-perfect scene unfolding before him. His wife, snug on the couch, sharing a bowl of popcorn and M&M's with their other two children as they watched old Disney movies

In this snapshot of domestic bliss, Quinn realized just how full of love his life had been. Quinn's heart swelled with an appreciation for the present— Honey and their babies were his everything, and in that quiet living room, surrounded by their shared history, Quinn cherished the beauty of his life.

-

-

-

[rems-writing]

The rulers of Hearts

Pairing: WooGi × Lost Girl!reader (mainly Mingi × reader)

Summary: After choosing your suit, you're wondering if you chose the right one or if you regret your decision

Warning(s): bigdick!Mingi (mf hung like a horse lol), ass smacking, finger riding, boob play, backshots, hair pulling

Genre: Smut with plot

Nets: @mirohs-aurora-society

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

“Let’s go visit… the rulers of Hearts.” 

Seonghwa and Yeosang nodded before they finished their food and beckoned you to come with them so the three of you could get changed for the meeting. Yeosang picked out some clothes for you and when you held them up, you gulped nervously. “Um… why exactly do I have to wear this?”

The clothes Yeosang set out for you was a red bodycon dress. The fabric was made out of the finest red silk and when it flared down, diamond cutouts were shown. You looked at what they were wearing. Yeosang changed back into the suit he wore when you first met him and Seonghwa wore a similar suit, only instead of a blazer, he wore a long red trench coat. Seonghwa saw the worried look on your face and he patted your head, smoothing out the hair that was sticking out all over the place. “We couldn’t find any suits your size plus your arrival was last minute so we didn’t have time to get a suit tailored for you. Our apologies.” 

Your heart soared when Seonghwa said this. You didn’t mind that you wore a dress.You were just a bit afraid of not pulling it off like Seonghwa did with his dress. As if he read your mind, Seonghwa leaned down and kissed your forehead. “Go put it on. We want to see for ourselves how you look.”  

You nodded and quickly rushed to the bathroom to go change. The dress wasn’t particularly long yet you felt like a fawn trying to walk for the first time. You almost tripped and landed on your face when Yeosang grabbed your waist and held you upright. You thanked him and smoothed out your dress before noticing that the two of them couldn’t stop staring at you. Feeling insecure, you tried to cover yourself. Or rather your shoulders and collarbone since those were the only body parts exposed. Yeosang gently grabbed your wrists and pulled your arms away before taking another look at you. “You look marvelous, angel. Would you like something to top off the dress?” Yeosang asked and patted his own neck, indicating that he’s asking you if you want to accessorize your neck. 

“Maybe not a necklace, but perhaps a shawl? I’ve never had my skin exposed like this before.”

Yeosang nodded and quickly fetched something from his closet before walking back to you and draping the shawl over your shoulders and collarbone. “Is this ok?” 

You nodded and Yeosang smiled before he kissed your forehead and grabbed your hand so you, him, and Seonghwa can get going on this journey to the Heart castle. As you entered the carriage, you looked out the window and saw many creatures running about over the grassy plains of Wonderland. You yawned all of a sudden and both men looked at you in concern. “Lay your head on my shoulder and get some rest, dear. It’ll take almost an hour and a half to get to the Hearts castle. We’ll wake you up.” 

You looked up at Seonghwa and nodded slowly before leaning your head on his shoulder. His arm wrapped around your waist and he looked at you with an unfamiliar look on his face. 

“Sweet dreams… my good girl.” 

—-------------------------------------------------

The first thing you felt as you arrived at the Hearts castle was fear. 

Sure, Cora was long gone but that didn’t settle the anxiety bubbling in your stomach. Sensing your apprehension once more, Seonghwa brought you into a warm hug and made you look at him. His bright pink eyes stared down at you with so much care as he spoke.  “Unlike Cora, the King of Hearts is actually kind to his citizens and would never crush their hearts. Literally. Same with the Jack of Hearts. They are both sweethearts.” 

“Menaces, but sweethearts.” 

You giggled at Yeosang’s comment and the other man found his own heart beating rapidly upon hearing the sound. Once the carriage stopped, the three of you exited the horse drawn vehicle and walked towards the entrance. You were greeted by card soldiers and walked down the long hallway to the meeting room, where the King and Jack of Hearts were seated. 

A high pitched scream was emitted from one of them. 

You saw the Jack of Hearts rush over to the three of you and capture both Seonghwa and Yeosang in a bone crushing hug. You found the sight endearing as the two men playfully rejected the Jack’s boisterous affection. The Jack soon turned to you and tilted his head curiously as he strided over towards you. “Hi. Are you nervous?” His once loud voice turned quiet as he stared at you tentatively while he spoke. You shyly waved and a big smile was on his face before he extended his hand.  

“I’m the Jack of Hearts, but you can call me Wooyoung. You’re not from here huh?”

As you shook his hand, you noticed that his eyes were a dark brown, almost black, color and you saw the outline of a heart in his pupils. He literally had heart eyes!

“I originally came from Neverland…”

The smile disappeared from Wooyoung’s face and you slowly regretted saying that. To your surprise, he grabbed your wrist and pulled you into a hug. He was caressing your hair and checking for anything that might’ve indicated you were hurt in that dying realm. 

“Have you been struck with dreamshade?”

“No.” 

“Have the Lost Boys hurt you either physically or mentally? I highly doubt those teenagers care about emotions.”

“No.”

“Has Peter Pan himself -”

“No! Rather, he simply told me to toughen up and walk it off.”

Wooyoung growled and he was about to say something else when a deep voice rang out in the meeting room. 

“That’s enough, Woo. We’ll take care of Neverland once the Savior finishes her job and we finish this meeting with Seonghwa and Yeosang.” 

At the mention of Emma’s name, you peered over Wooyoung’s shoulder to see who that deep voice belonged to. Your knees almost gave out. 

Standing behind the three men was the King of Hearts. 

He was definitely taller than all three men combined and he had sharp eyes like that of a wolf. He looked down at you and smirked before beckoning you to come closer to him. You gulped nervously and walked closer to him, squeaking in surprise when his large hands grabbed your waist and pulled you closer to him. His eye color was a pale yellow and the rest of his facial features looked absolutely divine. His long silver hair was styled specifically to show off his mullet and his hands were adorned with many silver rings that had heart shaped rubies topped off. As he was observing you, he licked his lips and had one of his hands caress your face. 

“Sit with us. Tell us everything that happened to you in Neverland. We’ll take good care of you.”

—-------------------------------------------------

The meeting lasted for three hours. Even though talking about your time in Neverland was painful, you felt at ease knowing these four men would protect you. After you finished speaking, the King and Wooyoung drafted up plans on how to invade Neverland and ultimately destroy it so you’d truly be free of that realm. Once the drafts were written up, all five of you stood up from the table. You were about to bid your goodbyes when a clap of thunder could be heard from outside the castle walls and lightning flashed through the windows. You shrieked and hid your face in Seonghwa’s chest. The King chuckled deeply and patted your head. “Aww. Baby girl is afraid of a little storm?” He teased and Seonghwa scolded him. 

“Quiet you. She told us how Pan would make her sleep in a horrible downpour as punishment for her misbehavior.”

“I fucking know, ok? Rumple should kill him faster. The hell is the Savior going to do?”

“Just help me comfort her, Mingi.” 

Mingi sighed and pulled you away from Seonghwa so you could hide in his chest. “Relax, babe. Pan’s not here. You’re safe with us.” You nodded and Mingi lifted your face up so you could look at him. He wiped your tears away and pressed a soft kiss to your cheek. “Have Seonghwa and Yeosang’s rooms prepared for tonight! I’m taking little Y/N with me.” 

“Don’t hurt her.”

“Mingi won’t. Unless she asks.” 

Yeosang elbowed Wooyoung and the Jack simply giggled while you were confused as to what he meant by that. 

“I bid you goodnight, gentlemen. Hopefully, this storm clears up by tomorrow.” 

He lifted you up and carried you bridal style before stomping over to his room. 

Once the two of you arrived, Mingi set you down but he didn’t let go of you yet. Instead, he pressed you against the wall. 

“Tell me something, Y/N. Did you have any needs met when you were in that stupid realm?”

“No… I was told that if I needed something, I should just work for it, just like every other Lost Boy had to. If Pan treated me differently, he’d have to treat everyone the same way.” 

“Right… as to be expected. So none of them took care of you properly.” 

“No…” 

“Well in that case… allow me.” 

You didn’t have the chance to speak as he kissed you hungrily and passionately. You didn’t know what to do since the only other person that kissed you was Pan himself. And it wasn’t even on the lips! Only the hand, occasionally the cheek if you behaved well. When Mingi pulled away, he rubbed your bottom lip with his thumb. 

“Was that your first kiss, baby girl?”

You noddedly shyly and Mingi cooed quietly at your bashful demeanour. He bent down  and grabbed your legs before lifting you and pressing your body against his. You felt something large poking you from underneath and you blushed. Even though that was your first kiss, this definitely wasn’t the first time you had sex. Again. The only other person that you initially did the deed with was Pan himself. Sex with him was rare and if you had to be honest, you were glad it was rare. Sex with Peter Pan was rushed and sloppy. It felt like he didn’t know what he was doing. After he finished first, he just left you to clean up. The worst part of it all?

He never kissed you. 

Mingi saw you deep in thought and he connected his forehead with yours. “We don’t have to do this if you’re uncomfortable. I’m sorry if I just jumped the gun on that.”

His voice was soft and he looked at you like you were a precious gem he cared for. As he caressed your face, you leaned into his touch. 

“It’s ok. Just give me a moment before we continue.”

“Continue? So you actually want to go through with this?”

“Peter Pan is a boy. He only cares about himself and his needs.” 

“You’re absolutely right, babe. You don’t need him. You need a man. And I can definitely be that man for you. I’ll treat you like the queen you’re supposed to be.” 

As he leaned down and planted kisses on your neck, your hand found its way to his hair and tugged it slightly, feeling the soft locks in between your fingers. He lifted his head and stared at you with a newfound lust in his eyes. “I’ll take care of you.”

With that, he took you to his bed and laid you down gently before slowly peeling off the dress you had on. 

You were in a for a long night

—-------------------------------------------------

You didn’t know how long you were in this position for and quite frankly, you didn’t care. His huge cock pulled out and slammed right back in at a brutal pace while his hands gripped your hips so tight that you were sure they would leave bruises. Speaking of his hands, let’s just say that you discovered some new kinks along the way. 

One, you liked getting your ass smacked. The harder the slaps, the tighter you clenched around him. He groaned at the way your pussy practically sucked his cock in and he reveled in it. Two, you could ride his fingers for hours and never get tired of it. To be fair though, he only fingered you as a means to prep you for his cock. However, with the way you happily sucked his fingers beforehand, he figured he could get to cum a few times from his fingers before he whipped out his dick. Three, you loved the way his huge hands fondled and played with your breasts. 

He stopped for a moment to worship you a bit by planting soft kisses along your backside. He rubbed your hips and whispered sweet yet dirty words in your ear.

“Seonghwa was right. You’re such a good girl. Fuck, I wish I could ruin you. Make you mine.” 

“Mingi~” You mewled quietly and he chuckled deeply. 

“Yeah that’s right. Say my name, baby girl. In fact, scream it. Scream my name as I continue hitting it from the back. God you love my backshots huh? Wish you could let me pound this pretty pussy for hours on end? Hmm? I bet you’d like that.” 

You moaned in response to his words and he laughed before picking up where he left off. As his cock ran deep inside you, your back arched and you threw your head back, which allowed him the opportunity to grab a fistful of your hair and yank on it harshly. You screamed his name so loud that you were sure anyone that was still awake in the castle would’ve heard you by now. Mingi soon pulled your body upright so your back was to his sweaty chest. 

Did I mention how good he looked naked? 

Mingi was a bit more lean than Yeosang yet his biceps were bigger. His waist was tiny, his legs, specifically his thighs, were strong & firm, and his cock. Good Lord his cock was big and you loved taking every single inch of it. At this point, your pussy was shaped just to take his dick and his dick alone. 

As he continued hitting it from the back, his arm wrapped around your waist to keep you close to him while his other hand snaked down to your clit and rubbed it in slow circles. You craned your neck to position your head to face him before pushing his own head forehead so your lips can meet in a sloppy kiss. Teeth clashed here and there but you were so far gone in the pleasure to notice. 

“MINGI, I’M CLOSE! LET ME CUM! PLEASE~” 

“Fuck, baby. Me too. We’re cumming together.” 

After a few more thrusts, he came inside you while you squirted all over his dick. Breathing heavily, you fell face first into the bed, your legs feeling like mush after being in those compromising positions for so long. You cringed at the way you felt empty when he slipped out of you as you fell forward. He chuckled and got up to rush to the bathroom. He soon came back with a warm wet rag and turned your body over gently before spreading your legs once more to clean in between them. After you were fully cleaned up, he threw the rag aside and helped you get under the covers before pulling you close to him so you could hear his heartbeat as you laid on his chest. 

“I’m keeping my promise to destroy Neverland. I’m making Peter Pan and his stupid Lost Boys pay for making you suffer alone.” 

The gutteral growl sent a shiver down your spine yet you knew that anger wasn’t directed towards you. He kept you close for the rest of the night as you both slept soundly. 

—-------------------------------------------------

The next morning, Yeosang and Wooyoung were chatting away while Mingi had to go somewhere to finalize the plans of Neverlands’ destruction. You made smalltalk with Seonghwa and the queen teased you about your session with Mingi.

I’m guessing you were loud as hell. 

After Mingi joined the four of you shortly, you continued eating breakfast until you were all full to your hearts’ content. You soon got up but Seonghwa made you stay behind, leaving you confused. You then looked down at what he was looking at and blushed after he held up a mirror for you to look into.

There were a shit ton of hickies Mingi left behind on your neck. 

You were about to ask what Seonghwa will do or say when the queen simply waved his hand slowly over your neck. You realized he probably had a bit of magic in him as you saw the hickies slowly disappear from your skin. Once he was done, he seemed proud of his work. He grinned lightly and kissed your forehead. 

“We wouldn’t want the rest of the rulers here to see evidence of your time with Mingi. Speaking of which, who do you want to visit next?”

That was a good question indeed. 

[jammed-out]

Hypnovember Day 16 - Dream

(CW: first person, dream state trance, uncontrolled actions, public sex, unassuming subject)

You were asleep, it had to have been a dream of course, because you would never actually do any of what you dreamt, no matter how good it felt.

You went to bed, climbing under the covers and going to sleep like any other night. You dozed off, your head rested on the pillow, your body, tucked away soundly. Slowly fading off into sleep.

But then you felt your eyes open, staring blankly into your room, darkness surrounding you. Slowly you removed yourself from the bed, making your way into the bathroom. You fixed your hair and put on makeup. Then you dug under your bed for a box, a plain brown box that you had never seen before. Opening it up you pulled out a long black trenchcoat and slipped it on. Beneath it was a single paper, the words on it blurry and unfocused which made sense in the dream. But you knew deep down what they said even if you couldn't remember.

You stood up and tightened the trenchocat around your naked body before stepping outside of your apartment. The only thing keeping anyone from knowing what you were up to was the thin layer of black fabric wrapped tightly around you. As you left your apartment you noticed the large black car parked out front. Without hesitation you walked up to it, opening the door. You climbed inside closing it behind you. You sat there, motionless, frozen, waiting, staring straight ahead as the car began to move. The driver did not acknowledge you in any way, just driving forward into the night.

The city lights blurred around you as the car moved forward. You had no sense of time or place as it traveled, lost within the dream. Slowly it pulled to a stop in front of a nondescript brick building. There was a line out front, people waiting, their faces hidden from view. As the car stopped alongside three others just like it, you slowly opened the door, stepping out into the night air.

You walked over to the building, slipping past the line of people with ease, stepping past the doorman who let you pass with ease. Inside the music pulsed loudly, thrumming through the air. You pushed through the crowd of people dancing, making your way to the back. A rich purple curtain invited you closer, drawing you in. As you made your way through it the vibe changed. The hallway stretched on, sounds and smells of sex filled the air. You slipped deeper down the hallway, through another curtain into your room. You didn't know how it was yours, but you knew it belonged to you.

The room was bare except for a singular bed in the middle of the room. The rich purple sheets beckoned you to them. You removed your coat, hanging it on the wall and climbed onto the bed. The sheets were soft, silky to the touch. You curled up within them, your body safe and serene. You slid a hand over your naked body, toying with yourself in anticipation. It only took moments for you to realize you weren't alone any longer. The bodies in the doorway blocked the outside. You could feel them eye you hungrily, eager to use you, to taste you, to touch you.

You didn't hesitate, inviting the first one in with a crook of your finger. You spread your legs, pulling them back over your head, something you could never do when you were awake. They wasted no time in burying their head between your legs. You savored the feeling of their tongue buried inside of you. They wasted no time in pulling down their pants. You could hear them hit the floor and their body shift. It didn't take long for them to slide inside of you. You could see the others waiting in the doorway touching themselves. Hands grabbing crotches, chests, eachother, anticipating their moment to get a hold of your body.

They thrusted inside of you, quickly, wildly, with an animalistic hunger. You let them use you, be satisfied with you. Slowly the others got tired of waiting and began to make their way in. A throbbing cock was presented to your mouth. You eagerly began to suck it as hands grabbed your legs, pulling them further back behind you. You could feel cum begin to flood into your body, you moaned in satisfaction as quickly one cock replaced another. Lips latched onto your arms and neck, tasting the sweat that was building. You gripped their heads, holding them tightly against you, making sure to satisfy each person however they wanted.

One by one they came for hours. Your body shook, trembling, covered in sweat, in lipstick, in cum. It leaked out of your holes soaking the bed. You tangled inside of the wet sheets, riding the waves of pleasure that you could only experience at the end of the night. All the others had left, satisfied in ways that only you could. Your legs shook in delight as you bit into the skin of your hand, stifling your whimpers of pleasure.

Slowly, after you were satisfied, you picked yourself up, moving to the bathroom on the far side of the room, cleaning yourself thoroughly. You washed the lipstick marks from your body, the cum from your hair until all that remained was the memory of what had happened. Slowly you grabbed your coat, redressing yourself. You made your way through the empty dancefloor, past the empty doorway and out to the car where it had remained since you arrived.

There were others like you, each one clad in black coats, each one satisfied in their service. Each one climbed into a car silently, disappearing. You returned home, placing the coat back into the box carefully, neatly folded, sliding it back under the bed. You climbed into the bed, falling back into a deep sleep.

You woke in the morning to the pleasurable memory of the dream that you had every night. If you had paid attention, you might have noticed the bite mark shaped bruise on your hand, the cum stain on your sheets. But you didn't pay much attention to anything involving your dreams.

[simp-ly-writes]

Space Cat

─────── · · A Doctor Who Story (pt.3)

Pairing: 10th Doctor & Cat-Hybrid!Reader, Donna Noble & Cat-Hybrid!Reader

─ · · SUMMARY: You are a cat hybrid. How? You have no idea- just like you have no idea how you ended up in what is defiantly not a police station.

─ · · WARNINGS: silliness, bickering and possible non-canon behaviours. eventual x reader

─ · · MASTERLIST | TAGLIST REQUEST | WORDCOUNT: 894

─ · · A/N: so now I am kinda obsessed with these dynamics.

─────── · ·

You roll over with laughter, wiggling on your spine as your tail lightly waves side to side. Your teeth are popping out as you peer down at the Doctor who offers you an eye roll before giving your head a scratch and picks himself back off the floor.

The console hums underneath you and after all the action of the day, the growing trust of those around you, and of course, the air conditioned space. You feel your eyes closing in fluttering moments as their voices quiet down. Your legs go limp next with exhaustion as you let out one last meow before welcoming yourself back into the dream world.

─────── · ·

Your ears twitch at random, your paws running yet your body lays stagnant. The Doctor peers down at you, eyes holding concern as he looks you over yet his voice tells otherwise. "What on earth are they doing?" He questions, walking closer to you before being gently guided away with a light scolding.

"They are happily dreaming, Doctor. Best let the little thing rest after the day its had," Donna explains in a hushed whisper. The Doctor looks back over his shoulder and then back at Donna before allowing her to lead him towards the living quarters.

"How much longer till we arrive?"

"Not too long now, best you get some rest as well," the Doctor states rather than asks before looking around the space as if discovering it for the first time. He becomes lost in his mind again, walking in circles around the room- seemingly in conversation with himself before he exits the room once more to find something to amuse himself with.

─────── · ·

You don't end up being able to fall asleep for long as the hard surface you lay upon chips at your sore bones. Stretching with a few small cracks sounding, you hop down to the floor and circle around the platform debating which hall to walk down.

As if the room can hear your inner conflict, small lights on the floor beckon you towards a dimly light hall as you begin your parade. With every step you take, your curiosity grows tenfold to the seemingly never ending doors that flank either side of you.

You knock your head against them, forcing them to open as you take in various work spaces to supply rooms. Walk-in wardrobes from every era of humanity and even some costumes you had never seen before alongside a botanical garden.

You press a claw into your leg in an effort to pinch yourself out of whatever dream you still found yourself in yet reality came crashing down at the sudden voice that had you jumping up and back into their arms.

"You do know, curiosity killed the cat, little thing," the Doctor chuckles out to you. You can tell he is mostly joking but as you peer up into his eyes, they hold a degree of unspoken grief from within them that has you wishing you had your human tongue back to ask.

You both stand there quietly for a second before he is leading you further into the green space. He doesn't explain anything in the room nor where these exotic and quite possibly out-of-this-world fauna has came from but he carries you to a corner of the room where a small swinging bench sits underneath a tree.

Taking in the space, you swear to feel the faintest of breezes take a turn around the room as you snuggle into the cushion you had been placed onto. The Doctor kicks back, allowing the seating to rock back in forth in gentle waves as he opens a book and produces a cup of tea from god knows where.

You are chirping again in laughter as your head finds one of the few pillows displayed and in that moment you take a view of the outside world or in better words, endless space. You stand up abruptly, yelling out in shock that has the Doctor spilling his drink all over him with soft curses as he snaps his gaze towards the empty space before you both.

"What do you see?" He asks you expectantly yet you fail to answer, jumping of the bench and racing towards the glass wall. It is cold to your nose as you make smudge marks in it. The Doctor copies you, pushing his face against the glass in an effort to see what you do.

His calmness to the situation has the fur on your back raising in concern and a mixture of fear. You peer cautiously back up at what you believe to be the man before you as he crouches down to pat your head as you swat his hand away with a harrowing hiss.

The Doctor raises his hands in surrender, "Some creature you are, and heres to think we were starting to get along with one another..." His voice trails off looking back into the void of starts.

You don't know how much time passes before a series of footsteps emerge from down the hall. You turn your head to see the familiar red-haired woman making her way towards the both of you, coffee cup in hand as she clinks it with the Doctors empty one on the bench.

"So, whats for breakfast today, space man and cat?"

─────── · ·

(pt.1) (pt.2) (pt.3) (pt.4) (pt.5) ... (pt.6) (pt.7) you are here