#And that he does not always need to appear rigid he can be human too

[the-heaminator]

Shit kept going in and out of focus if it wasnt spinning and unfortunately both often happened at the same time, he wanted to vomit but he knew he couldn't, he had wisely avoided eating anything substantial recently, surviving mainly off crackers because eating meant he would vomit, probably during the meeting, and attract far too much pity for what he's worth.

Just had to hold it together for a bit longer, he could go dry retch in the conference hall bathrooms in about 5 minutes he just had to pull his shit together, and he managed to do so, disappearing for the bathroom as soon as he could. Right side of his head pounding like there was no tomorrow, dry heaving into the toilet, and sitting exhausted on the lid once he was done.

He knew he was not to "neglect" himself like some said he did, eating and sleeping were natural human instincts, but the governmental turmoil had given him an everlasting headache and the sheer internal anxiety of it all allowed him to stomach next to nothing.

His room was a mess, it had been for a while, but wrappers had started to pile up upon his bedside table, sweet sugary things mostly, in an attempt to keep his blood sugar just high enough to avoid tanking miserably.

He hoped no one in particular noticed his unironed suit or the lack of cufflinks he exhibited, he was too tired right now to really think of the little details.

God he just wanted to puke and curl up and sleep for a week but he knew it wasnt possible, the nausea wouldn't go anywhere and the headache wouldn't let him sleep.

Standing as unobtrusively as he could as nations milled around, waiting for the conference to officially nd so they could go sleep in their hotel rooms. Lucky bastards.

The meeting was taking place in London, and his flat wasn't too far away, he just needed to drive a bit, he was fine, he could drive, this was certainly not to be a safety hazard.

Unbeknownst to him Canada, Matthew even, stood quite near, wanting to approach his father when he found the right words to do so, Arthur hadn't been in a good state since 2008, and only seeming to get worse with the government changing in and out with the blink of an eye, another recession looming and the lonliness of it all.

Oh dear if he was thinking like that he really was too far gone.

Shaked out of his dreamy stupor by dint of Matthew poking him on the shoulder, he examined Matthew's face with what clarity he could muster, he looked concerned methinks, or worried, mayhaps both. His second son, forever a pillar of spineless love and devotion, in a way that truly scared Arthur, was concerned for him, visibly.

Oh he really had fucked up now hadn't he.

"Yes Matthew, what do you want?" Trying to dispel the concern away from him, it usually worked with most people but Matt was always far too good at figuring him out.

"Arthur...you don't look so good."

"Oh I'm fine, don't you worry." Practised nonchalance that was.

"Are you sure, you don't seem to be fine?"

"And what makes you say that?" That should get Matthew off his tail, he was spineless as previously mentioned, he wouldn't go against him.

Though Matthew intook a deep breath and said "You're slouching for one, I heard you dry heave in the bathrooms, your face is incredibly pale and you dont look like you've eaten in a while, or drank anything that wasn't alcoholic for that matter, your breath reeks of booze and tobacco." Another deep breath"

"Your eyes are unfocused and your eyebags are worse than usual. Also you've been writing in a bad mix of French and Latin for the past half hour."

Oh Matthew really was on to him, but was it that noticeable!

"You are not driving in such a condition Arthur."

"Hang on a bloody second, why is that? I am perfectly capable of driving thank you very much."

Matthew gave a terse smile with tired eyes thatt clearly conveyed he was not to be fucked with right now "No Arthur, no you are not driving and right now I'm prepared to force you into your car and get you home."

Arthur silently wondered where such strong feelings of protection directed at him came from in his children, and he certainly didn't understand why they were as strong as they were in Matthew specifically, but he was at the end if his rope for arguing, and just gave in. Which concerned Matthew even more than before, Arthur didn't just...give in, and this could barely be considered a fight.

Arthur walked out to the car park and located his car and just let Matthew sit in the drivers seat, not even commenting as Matthew bumped his head after not stooping down enough to sit in Arthur's rather small car, a thing that if doe on a good day would have warranted either a lengthy lecture or a sharp exhale, but it seemed as if he didn't even notice.

Off they went, they avoided eye contact, Matt wanting to focus as he was not particularly used to driving on the left side of the road, and Arthur seemed to silently stare out of the window, sometimes making a face to himself as if he had just eaten a lemon, before reverting to an unredable expression.

He didn't exactly know what was going on in Arthur's head, he had no way to know, but perhaps the weather and the stress had git to him, it wouldn't have been the first time for any of them,though the older nations seemed adamant in refuting this claim.

But for now it seemed like Arthur needed food, sleep and perhaps some comfort, if he would accept it of course.

[theamityelf]

In your Kamakura Wrangler Au could you rank who would be the most likely to hurt/endanger Makoto to the least likely to hurt/protective of him out of the students please?

That is a great question.

Honestly, I think his greatest protector (in terms of effectiveness) would actually be Hiro. While he's not actively protecting him or staying with him most of the time, he often does little things to set the right future in motion to protect him. In general, Hiro happens to lack the kind of hollow boredom that most Kamukuras feel; like I mentioned, his vibe toward everything is just that he is watching reruns of real life. Makoto is a recurring character he likes well enough on a show he's seen plenty of times. (The only show. The only channel. But it's not a bad one. It might even be really good, if this were his first time watching.)

Plus, Makoto's luck can occasionally surprise him. One time, Makoto trips and spills food on himself, and Hiro surprises everyone by actually laughing, because wow! A new scene for once!

Second most protective, of course, is Taka. He is vigilant about making sure none of the other Kamukuras kill this innocent and normal person. I think Kyoko and Byakuya would come around to protecting Makoto, too, but initially their vibe might be more, "You won't survive here for very long, so tell me this, before you die..." Taka is protective right away.

The only catch there is, Taka values Makoto's humanity so much that there is a non-zero chance that, if he thinks the scientists will change Makoto into one of them, he might mercy-kill him. It wouldn't be his default response. He's significantly more likely to attack the scientists or whoever else is posing a danger to Makoto than Makoto himself. But if he's identified it as impossible to protect Makoto from being Kamukurified, he would view death as the kinder, more ethical alternative. It would be very quick and painless, and he would cry for the first time, after. Makoto's ability to sway Taka's view on the humanity of the Kamukuras is so, so important to how well everything goes. Though the increasing investment of Byakuya and Kyoko would be helpful.

And Chihiro would also be a big help. They're usually hiding (and as a Kamukura, they're really good at it), so Makoto's conversations with Chihiro read like conversations with a ghost, but the arc there is that gradually Chihiro starts to become a physical presence. Eventually leading to Chihiro protecting him if and when it becomes necessary. Maybe someone thinks they've gotten Makoto alone, his allies are elsewhere, and they can attack him, but lo and behold Chihiro appears and saves him.

Mukuro initially protects Makoto only from being taken away by the scientists. Her strong sense of personal loyalty from before is now expressed as a rigid bond with the new collective, meaning she is very strict about the treatment of the Kamukuras. They have been given this resource, they have negotiated his use, so the scientists are not allowed to take him. Makoto always has Taka on one side of him, but when the scientists enter the room, Mukuro immediately stands at his other side. I think the two of them don't talk all that much, but she still grows fond of him from what few conversations they do have and how positive a force he's been for the other Kamukuras.

On the other side, of course Junko might harm or kill him just on an impulse. More likely harm than kill; despair is one thing, but she does actually need the enrichment. The thing is, the more he interacts with her, and especially the more he reminds her of the past and maybe helps some of her memories return, she might start to actively enjoy despair again, instead of just feeling the impulse toward it. And this time, she's got all the talents of a Kamukura. She would be extremely thankful to him, and killing him might be an expression of that thanks. Or she might keep him on hand as she develops into her new self, with the understanding that she'll kill him when it will hurt her most. If she actually starts to care about what's happening, she can manipulate her friends' eccentricities to get Makoto to herself. (Give or take a wild Chihiro.)

Sayaka would actually be something of a problem, not because she actively bears him ill will, but because she can't handle his attempts to be present as a friend and support for her. Her way of making sense of the trauma she underwent in the Kamukura Project, and even more so the very particular brand of demeaning that is being one of many Kamukuras, is to perceive herself as the one person who doesn't need any help, support, enrichment, or anything. She's supposed to be the one who can help everyone, and then Makoto shows up and talks to her in ways no one ever has, tells her about a past self she's not supposed to yearn for, etc. If she wants or needs it, then suddenly what she went through was just a pointless thing that harmed her and not the thing that made her what the world needs. She feels she needs to take him down several pegs. But I believe she can overcome it.

Hina is a danger, but she doesn't particularly mean to be; she's just very curious and she assigns no positive or negative moral value to any means of exploring that curiosity that pops into her mind. She'll mitigate her own more destructive thoughts because the group will have made agreements as to how to engage with Makoto, but for anything they haven't made explicit agreements about, there is no guarantee she won't hurt him. Even once she considers him a friend, it would be a separate thing for her to fully understand why suffering is a thing that people actively avoid, because she just doesn't factor suffering into her own thought process at all. (She understands suffering, functionally, and she has a full grasp on the ways in which it motivates and influences people's actions, but her own relationship with suffering colors her understanding of what it means that most people avoid it. Not to mention she's an analyst who spends a lot of time around Junko; her data is skewed.)

Celeste will become a danger if it will help her escape, but in most circumstances it won't.

Mondo will become a danger out of agitation over changes in the status quo, since they cause him to feel a lack of control. Like Sayaka and Hina, I believe he can overcome that.

Hifumi and Leon will be more into watching from the sidelines than anything. When Makoto befriends them, they still won't be too active. Sakura I think would be pretty neutral to him. And I'm going to say Toko likes him but does nothing for him.

[hauntingjasper]

What would it be like if Gumball and Marshall were swapped?

Like, vampire Gumball and candy Marshall

(love your art 💗💗💗)

Omgomgomg I've been thinking about that swapping concept and I gotta doodle it someday because I have some ideas,, ,

What I imagined if Marshall Lee and Gumball swapped species: Marshall Lee would still be a candy prince, and Gumball would be the vampire king. Royal boys wow

I think Candy Prince Marshall Lee would be pretty calmer and less chaotic than his Vampire-Demon self, kinda like Human Marshall Lee from the canon spinoff but fancier. Not being raised in hell sure does wonders to a person.

But even though he's not a troublemaker, people would be quick to assume he's doing sketchy stuff behind closed doors... And they're right but that's not the point. He'd have this unusual aura around him, which causes people to have mixed feelings about him.

I like to think he'd still have a vampire-like appearance, always dressing in black, shaping his ears and teeth to look more pointed and sharp… His kingdom would look different too. I'm thinking that he'd have something like living candy statues of Gargoyles perched over the walls of his kingdom instead of Gumball Guardians. People might get freaked out because at first glance they wouldn't know that the statues can move and then suddenly there's Gargoyles flying around their houses at night, and now they feel like they're being observed. I think Marshall would be the type to mess with stuff he shouldn't too, such as dark magic and whatnot. He's a little prince of darkness.

He's also made of marshmallow. Strawberry marshmallow.

Unlike Gumball, he “bleeds” when he gets hurt, like a strawberry jelly. You can't really tell if it's just his filling or if it's actually blood, because chances are that it's both mixed together. Sometimes the dark arts require fresh blood to be successful, and that's his way of solving it.

As for Vampire Gumball, I actually haven't put a lot of thought into him yet, so my interpretation is still a concept up to changes (⁠・⁠∀⁠・⁠)

When I think of him, I imagine a lonely and depressed king who fell from his glory after having his court and minion armies decimated. That kinda sounds like an embodiment of PG’s fears mmmmm

I think he would be less sweet than his usual self. He used to be a more authoritarian and rigid king, he doesn't tolerate reckless behavior, so sit your ass down and only seek for blood when you're actually hungry, not just because you can (he's looking at you, The Star /hj). He probably values discreet work when hunting more than outwardly imposing fear and power, for the sake of surviving longer. Some vampires don't take him as seriously as they should because of this lack of total freedom. This does not mean that he does not assert authority, however. He will smack you upside down the head if you disrespect him.

He would still have some of his original traits despite everything. He can't create life like PG can, but maybe he's still connected to it somehow. Maybe he spends more time studying humans than he kills them, paralleling PG being a nerd lol. Maybe he's kinda like the VK and likes to be around animals too, and has a fatherly streak in him.

He wasn't staked when the vampires were persecuted and no one has any idea where he is now.

Not sure how it would be if Candy Prince Marshall and Vampire King Gumball met. The vampire era would've automatically made them stand on opposite sides, with Marshall Lee looking for Gumball's footsteps and Gumball trying to stay under his radar and manage his bloodthirsty armies at the same time.

But let's say they meet when Gumball is already a fallen king and isn't as big of a threat. Marshall would try to become "allies" with him, keeping him around in case Marshall needs him and having some sort of symbiotic relationship with him, with the occasional borderline flirting on Marshall's part.

I guess Gumball wouldn't be too fond of Marshall's connection to magic and would be sketchy of his sweet-talk, at the same time he'd have a bit of a soft spot for him. “Sometimes I feel like I would have loved to have you in my court”, he might say to him.

Thank you for the compliment and the ask btw 🫶💖

[droidrights]

Girl you're so real for that last Cal post. I can just imagine a scene in an alternative Always Red where Trilla is frustratedly trying to explain to Cal that killing your allies is a big No No. And he's just. On an unhinged rant about the poetry of love as violence and violence as love and the importance of unshakable bonds wherever they're found. And she's just like. Frustrated big sister sighing wanting to throttle the idiot for missing The Point and also now they need to have a convo about fraternising with the enemy

Oh boy, anon. You've gone and done it now. Please enjoy this In Between

Inquisitor Cal Kestis / Second Sister Trilla Suduri

1926 words

Trilla and Cal have a conversation where he tries to explain the inherent romance of hunting another human being and the merits of violence as a love language.

This takes place between Chapters 1 and 2 of Always Red.

It Won't Be Easy

Within the fortress Inquisitorius the day appeared much like any other. A sterile environment so pristinely kept that there is a reflective specter looking back in every surface. Outside, the weather is surprisingly pleasant. A sun is shining over the choppy sea that is normally battering the fortress with walls of salt water with wave after wave. 

The Second Sister stands, spine erect with her hands clasped neatly behind her back in the debriefing room before the massive window with her eyes on the horizon. The Fifth Brother rattles off the happenings of his most recent mission and his misgivings concerning their sister in arms, Trilla contemplates the rays of sunshine on the horizon, one’s she never thought possible on Nur. 

“She’s too unpredictable. It is a liability to have her on mission,” he complains in his baritone voice. 

“The unexpected can be made into an advantage if you are clever. Did you come here to tell me you are not clever?” Suduri’s tone is measured but belittling. 

“Ah, no Second Sister. I only have the Empire’s interest-“

“Allow your betters to concern themselves with the Empire’s interests. You just do as you’re told.”

“Yes, Second Sister.” 

“And do not concern me with the actions of your brethren unless I ask for an update directly. Assume I am already aware of their behavior.”

“Yes Second Sister,” is all the Fifth Brother can seem to say. 

“Next time there will be consequences,” she menaces casually. 

“Yes, Sec-“ 

Just then the absurdly tall sliding doors open with a dramatic whoosh. The thirteenth Brother ushers himself in as though he was announced. 

“Inquisitor Kestis,” Trilla pretends to sound annoyed at the lack of decorum. 

“In the flesh,” Cal’s tone is casual, a mockery of the Fifth Brothers rigidness. “Here for the Zeffo debriefing. Oh hey five,” Cal tosses the greeting across the way as he seats himself at the massive obsidian table, sliding his chair in with a screech. 

His nose is swollen, offset and bruised all over in purple and blue. Cal’s delightful demeanor does not lend itself to the condition of his face. 

“We are not yet fini-“ the Fifth Brother starts, clearly irritated. 

“You are dismissed, Fifth Brother.” Trilla cuts him off tersely and stands resolute and unchallenged. 

The corners of the Fifth Brother’s mouth turn down into a deep frown but he wastes no time getting to his feet. His displeasure is made known only by the short pause he spares beside Cal’s chair to look down his nose at his fellow Inquisitor. Unbothered, Cal lifts his legs to rest his feet on the arm of the nearest chair before twittering his fingers in a childish dismissal of his compatriot. 

Fifth Brother groans audibly and tosses a last look of disapproval at his superior before striding from the room. 

Cal crosses his arms over his chest and watches Trilla move away from the window. 

“I take it your mission was a success?” She asks with a mite less crispness in her voice. “Is the Jedi dead or captured?” 

“Neither,” Cal huffs with a laugh. “She escaped actually.” 

She looms over him then, unsubtle and threatening. “Then praytell, Inquisitor Kestis, how is it you’re before me smiling like an imbecile while you deliver news of your failure. Others have lost their lives for less.” 

“Trilla, Trilla, Trilla,” Cal nudges the nearest chair with the toe of his boot, inviting his superior to take a seat, as his feet thump onto the floor. “I think I’m in love”. 

Her sigh is heavy and drawn out before she resigns herself to Cal’s antics and sits beside him. 

“You always say that,” Trilla is exhausted, run ragged by her office. Inwardly, she enjoys the Thirteenth Brother’s informal and familiar attitude albeit when there are no others around to hear how she allows him to speak with her. 

“I do not,” Cal objects mildly, smirking all the while. 

“I won’t be lied to,” Trilla skewers his fib with an abjectly pointed finger. “And I would find it absolutely unacceptable if such a thing kept you from doing your job, though surprisingly I must admit that it does not.” It is Trilla now who lifts her legs to rest her boots on the arm of Cal’s chair. 

“Up to a certain point it’s the same process. Pursuing a lover, stalking prey. No matter how you slice that cake, a hunt is a hunt. The whole thing is inherently romantic”. 

“Your love is the chase then, and not the chased.” Trilla wants to make him eat his words even when she knows to engage him this way is a downward spiral where he must prove he is right. 

“Usually, but not this time.” Cal surprises her with this admission. “Well, yeah hunting her is-“ Cal pushes to look at the ceiling as though the word he is searching for is written there, “-exhilarating. But it’s more than that. When we fight it’s like…poetry.”

Trilla pinches the bridge of her nose. “I am positive beyond reason that I will regret this but…elaborate.” 

Cal purses his lips while taking a moment to search his mind before asking with a snap of his fingers, “you ever been to Lothal?”

“Unfortunately,” The Second Sister deadpans. 

“Then maybe you’ve seen a Loth-wolf. Big predators, smart, social, Jedi love ‘em. They’re normally pretty standoffish with the farmers there, not so troublesome if you leave them alone.”

“I haven’t seen one in person though I am familiar with the beasts.”

“So their diets mostly consist of wild Nerfs. You know what those are right?” 

“I beg you to make your point,” Trilla picks an invisible speck of lint off her cuff, grown bored. 

“I’m getting there. So they keep Nerfs as livestock on Lothal too but the farmed ones don’t get as big. They’re fat and dumb y’know. And it’s like I said the Loth-wolves mostly keep to themselves except every now and then they just swoop into a settlement and they will just completely slaughter every fucking nerf in the herd. I’m talking absolute bloodbath. Just one after another until there’s none left standing.” He’s grinning now.

Trilla becomes at least mildly interested once bloodshed is mentioned, like all Inquisitors do. “Slaughter you say?” The Second Sister feigns sarcasm though her piqued interest shines through. 

“And these farms can be huge. Hundreds of cattle, maybe thousands. And the weird thing is the wolves don’t even eat the meat. So why bother, right? They just leave once every Nerf is dead or they get chased off, but they only do it with the domesticated nerfs. It’s a behavior that’s only surfaced with the spread of commercial farming,” Cal pauses, expecting Trilla to find this information as interesting as he does. She doesn’t. 

Trilla releases a tired sigh and lays a heavy look on Cal. It frustrates him that she cannot guess where he’s going with this yet. She shrugs in response to his visible disappointment. 

“Come on, Trilla! How can you not see! It’s because they don’t know how to answer! They’re just-they’re” Cal stutters while his brain moves quicker than his mouth, usually the reverse is true. “They’re dead inside. Walking around, eating and pissing and shitting but you look in their eyes and they're dead already.” 

“Center yourself, Kestis. Start speaking sensically or I’m leaving.” Their philosophical discussions have unraveled this way in the past. 

Cal huffs a calming breath through his nostrils. 

“Everytime you start a hunt. You’re asking your quarry a question. Are you worthy enough of my pursuit or my energy? It has to nourish more than my body and if you aren’t up to the task it’s just killing for killing’s sake. Which is fine, but-” Cal’s eyes are full of emotion, of passion and heart. “When I say ‘I’m coming to kill you’ what I want to hear back is …‘it won’t be easy. Otherwise it’s just a one-sided conversation.”

Trilla’s nod is small. She reluctantly cedes that this sentiment is known to her. It’s the spark Cal has been waiting for and he is spurred to continue. 

“Livestock don’t understand the question. The wolves keep asking and all they hear is static. Working their way through an entire herd without a single response. These predators ignite an ancient ritual and they’re dancing alone.” 

“Sad,” Trilla’s gaze drifts to an empty spot on the meticulously clean floor. 

“Yes! It’s so sad!” Cal is overexcited to be understood. He pops up from his seat and plops back down.

“Alright then if I understand you correctly, and I do,” she claps her hands on her knees, “you fancy yourself a Loth-wolf and this Jedi from Zeffo is a …wild nerf and she is in a… conversation with you and this woman is decidedly not dead inside.” 

“Beautiful and smart,” Cal says with a smirk, much returned to his cavalier self. 

“Indeed,” Trilla stands and pulls on the hem of her uniform, smoothing out the wrinkles, while Cal remains casually seated.

“You should see her. When she’s fighting her eyes are full of fire that screams and burns,” his gaze is lost, gone somewhere, back to Zeffo. A moment later Cal remembers himself and looks at Trilla, who has been watching him. “It won’t be easy”.   

“But worth it, perhaps,” she mutters, as agreeable as Cal’s ever heard her. 

“Did you ever feel this way, hunting someone?” Cal asks rather innocently. 

“No,” Suduri answers speedily. “They are merely objectives.” 

“You wouldn’t describe my capture as …intimate?” His yellow eyes shine playfully. 

“Not at all,” Trilla does her best to mimic his flippant nature. “Nothing personal, Kestis.”

“Not ever?” The red leather of Cal’s gloves creak as he cracks his knuckles.

Trilla holds him in an unflinching gaze before lifting one shoulder rather coquettishly in a shrug. “No”.

“Hm,” Cal’s back straightens and he tilts his head, musing. “Then I guess you won’t ever understand what she and I have.” 

This rubs Suduri the wrong way and she is about to make it known until their heads turn in unison. Abruptly, the obsidian doorway opens with a whoosh admitting the Fourth Sister who sidles up to the table in confident strides before standing at attention. 

“Pardon the interruption Second Sister. I’ve compiled the report on Mapuzo that you requested.” Her raspy voice is harsh and stringent. 

“Just a moment,” Trilla says, turning her attention from the Fourth Sister to the Thirteenth Brother. She leans down over Cal gripping the armrests on either side of him, demeanor much changed. Only barely does Cal mask his amusement. “If you hunted this Jedi with half the vigor you spend waxing poetically about doing your job, it will have been done twice over. Your repeated failure does not endear you to me, Brother. Unless she is dealt with, do not return. Am I understood?” 

Cal stands slowly, causing Trilla to straighten, their eyes lock menacingly. Cal is infuriatingly calm and endlessly entertained. “Yes, Ma’am. Understood.” 

“Dismissed.” The command falls to the floor like a stone between them before Cal turns to leave. As he saunters to the door he hears the Trilla say, “Fourth Sister, if you see Inquisitor Kestis in the Fortress again without having logged a successful mission eliminate him on sight.” 

The Fourth Sister grins from ear to ear, casting a look at Cal over her shoulder. 

“Yes, Second Sister. With pleasure.” 

Cal ignores the theatrical display of authority and instead heads toward the hangar bay. Sources say that the Stinger Mantis has been sighted on Kashyyyk.

Tag List: @gabile18 @futuredisneyartist @hibernating4ever @i-am-mystic @elwethe @howlingmadlady @2badgersinatrenchcoat @trtc-745600 @teddiebuns @tinyplantinvasion @tytoowl @cafedeagua @sashyburi @jokidden @mongol55

[bunnyloafing]

૮ • ﻌ - ა 1

it wasn’t really a matter of who fell out first, it was the matter of who could tolerate longer. the answer in the end was that neither of us could tolerate each other for much longer than was required. they finished the project and i guess that’s where they both thought they’d never see each other again, thankfully. obviously life has its ways of proving us wrong time and time again and when i least expected it (and somehow most needed it), you appeared again. it was kinda like how when you don’t need something, you see it so often everywhere, but when you need it, you can’t quite seem to remember where you last left it. where did they last leave it at? probably throwing empty but sharp and cruel insults to each other. one thinks too hard and it too rigid to want to try to show that he knows basic human emotions. the other thinks with his heart instead of his head, it could be a good thing, but i just don’t see how it could help him in the long run. they both are wrong, if we’re being honest. you can live through life without acknowledging it’s beauty and wonders and you can’t life through life bare feet and without preparation for its cruel and harsh environments. balance, is what we need. but balance means tolerance, balance means peace, balance means being okay with not being okay. and god, that’s hard. so hard, in fact, that we needed to part ways in order to survive. that’s how it felt like anyway. we couldn’t stand each other, we really couldn’t. heartless and so cold that even when we were together as friends, i felt so distant. it pushes people away, you know. being like that. being me though, being so open and vulnerable around those who don’t always ask me to be, is also a form of isolation. throwing myself onto others is scary for them. but i would rather speak my fears of feeling alone to everyone than to actually be alone. now, they live in the same house, their home. it hurts to call it that because in a way, kaveh knows it’s not actually his home. it could have been, if not for the messy and deadly end between them back then. he regrets that sometimes but wouldn’t do anything differently because of his fear. his fear of what they could have been now if he didn’t explode then. what would they be now? where would they be? how funny to think his entire life could have been so different if he had just tolerated a while longer. it kills him inside at night, a wall away, but a galaxy of distance. tells himself he’ll talk to him in the morning, but never really does. it’s not worth it anyway. he assumes too much but that may be the only thing keeping him alive right now. if not for the small part of his mind that tells him to be careful, he wouldn’t be here now. he is so emotional. be careful Kaveh, it can hurt to be deceived, as you may know by now. he’s lonely but at least he’s not alone yet. his friends make life a little better, but the bitter taste in his mouth remains even after they all part ways when meeting at the tavern. it could be the alcohol, he doubts that, but he’s sure it’s jealousy coursing through his blood. why do they get to live so happily? maybe if he took tighnari’s place, even with all the stress of being so important in the community and taking care of collei and balancing everything, he would be happier. anything would be better than this. ‘this’ doesn’t truly refer to anything in specific, it’s more of like a loop of his life. wake up tired, go to work, come back, work, argue with alhaitham, stay up until the sun shows up, sleep, wake up tired and start again (to be fair, he does sneak in a drink or two whenever given the opportunity). it’s fine for now. tolerance is what kills them both, but the balance is what brings them together. kaveh wouldn’t change anything of what he did because if he would have done things differently, he’s scared of the results in doing so. would a ‘sorry’ from both of them kill them? maybe that was all he needed. but for now, he can repeat doing whatever he does forever. he will get out of this one and soon, out of haithams mind (or so he thinks).

i didn’t check this for spelling mistakes sorry

[jonathankatwhatever]

Did all that happen this morning? I was startled to see how much work was done in about an hour and 40 minutes, which included cat breaks. And now I had several astonishing physical events: a brand new level of control over the movement forms is generating the image which fits that capacity, meaning that image of the shell me, the one who is smiling at me in the reflection on the screen, who is amused by me. He used to appear in glimpses or out of the corners of my eyes or in some pathway which could never duplicate, and now he’s here almost all of the time. I look in the mirror now and almost always see only him, and that level of clarity is true in the chain of Understandings constructed.

There’s way too much to say. I saw in the mirror that I am achieving the Greek statue ideal, meaning I generate the poses in their tension, and thus the Pathways into those poses so they become forms of ideal that can then be altered under tension, meaning each change is mapped. That’s what tensioning does: it forces mapping across the structure. Build a better map, increase the detail on the map, build stronger connections on the map. Like I said, that’s also what CBD does: it maps the local limbic system to the brain’s map of the limbic system. Since humans don’t access their limbic system well, this has the potential to awaken the mapping, and that enables more Pathways, and that has two pain reducing effects, at minimum. One is that it statistically reduces the number of pain Pathways versus non-pain Pathways, which matters because grid squares is iterative and pain has amplitude. Like we grade it, so we grade it versus the amount by which it takes up space in our heads, which means Pathways.

The other is that more Pathways means less usage of the hurting ones, so they can heal. By heal there, I mean inflammation may reduce with less usage. Actually fixing may and I think typically does mean using those enabled painfree or lower pain Paths to untangle or otherwise break down or address the causes of pain, which may not be local at all. Like you’re experiencing pain referred down a chain, meaning a misalignment or injury or weakness or habit is connected here where it now hurts because that isn’t how here is meant to work.

Some of the poses were really cool. I can only do that because I now see the head on the statue. The muscle and contraction work in those takes a lot of faith, trust and effort.

I also managed to achieve lift in sock putting on. This is something that developed in Storyline because Joanie thinks about the math behind the choreography inherent in ordinary movement. So when you put on a sock, you can contract the lifting mechanism identified in ballet and yoga so the balance point transfers up the structure so it isn’t teetering at the bottom. That rigidity has to occur in a specific way, and that is something you may experience in childhood, where you sense a lightness on your feet. I doubt many do, given how few people dance, and the types of workouts people do.

I need and want to get going, but I realized that this work, with the head and the body coming together, is part of that same vertigo cure: I’m centering the iterations of myself by achieving myself. That’s an actual argument for undertaking the physical work: you actually center yourself, your reactions, your view of yourself, and that isn’t new age made up, but actual math. Think about it: as a construct, you have a rotation and that rotation can be all over, as we know is ahem true. So creating these images centers your construct.

This is also why ideas and trends and sometimes very bad ideas catch on: some people center themselves around the bad side of the Alternation mechanism. They choose violence because that is what is centered in them. Culture and everything else: it’s centered in them. Maybe the problem can be compared to a ceiling fan: it blows air down unless you stop the motor, reverse it and then it blows up. The problem is in the reverse it line because that’s I//I. And as noted, that’s also a 2Square because have H/D over grid squares, Injecting into grid squares, with the cardinal and ordinal coming together at the Bip.

I want to think about our old friends, the Continuum Hypothesis and Choice.

[slothgiirl]

the spy part 1(keith x reader)

8k. explicit content. while on medical leave reader meets the red paladin of voltron during the war against Zarkon.

The corridors are well lit. It’s like being in a brand new hospital, this ship in the rebel fleet. 

People hustle around, landing, taking off in smaller ships to distant planets. Your hand goes to your arm. The medic had given you a movement’s leave, so you were resting for now on this ever moving ship. 

Outside the widows, you spy an assortment of ships, each one’s origins clear from the design. So many planets, so many peoples banding together against Zarkon. You’d win the war. 

It was what you kept telling yourself. 

You would. 

It was just a matter of time.

You round the corner, stretching your arm across your chest, a simple form of physical therapy in deep space. You hadn’t seen earth since being deployed. The galaxy garrison seemed like a dream from another life. You had been on track for the chemistry department, long term missions to mars to analyze soil and dust, not this, not a war. You take a breath. 

And spot the Red Paladin. 

He’s one of the most recognizable people in the universe, and his grungy hair and distinctive outfit does him no favors. You’d never seen him before, not in the flesh. Sure. Voltron had saved your ass a handful of times. You wouldn’t have survived the assault on Arrakis if Voltron hadn’t rammed the shield. Trapped. Piloting a fighter craft that was closer to a mosquito irritating the Galra then pushing them back.

But you hardly knew him.

He’s gripping the railing tightly, trying to camouflage into the wall as an alien with crystalline blue skin and hair like saturated indigo leans into him. 

The line of his shoulders is taut, brittle. 

You don’t even think. 

“There you are,” you force yourself to be synthetically cheerful as you smile easily at the paladin, who you realize quickly you don’t know his name but you know what he is and that must be an awful feeling, being so recognizable without being known. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” you lied, elbowing the blue alien out of the way. You could never tell much from a single glance at themis species despite their largely humanoid appearance. 

You put your hand on his arm loosely, “come on, we’re late enough and you know how annoyed the others get.” Good, that seemed convincing enough. 

The red paladin’s eyes go wide, his mouth a grimace and it’s then that you notice the feverish flush to his skin. 

But he doesn’t pull away or argue. 

You ignore the alien and decide small talk was the way to go until you put some distance, “I’m kind of hurt you didn’t come visit me while I was healing,” you stick close to the truth, “but since it only took an hour? a varga? for me to heal I won’t hold it against you.” He’s too warm.

Maybe the space flu?

Was that even a thing?

You weren't sure. 

Mostly, you snuck into work camps and blew up strategic targets using whatever you could get your hands on to make a bomb. The chemistry came in handy. 

He sways as he walks, looking like your roommate at the garrison after a few too many hits after an exam. “Do I know you?”

You flush, embarrassed. “Sorry, I just,” you look back, but the alien’s been left a couple turns back, “you looked uncomfortable.” You take a step back, letting go of him. “Are you okay?” 

His expression furrows, mouth a pinched line as he goes from suspicious to annoyed, takes a u-turn back to suspicious as he studies you, before relaxing. “Yeah. yeah. . .who are you?”

You introduce yourself, taking on the meaningless garrison designation at the end, “technically second year member, though I’ve been with the runners mostly.” No designation more than a number. 

“You do look human,” he replies simply, moving to get a look at your ears, “not many of those out here.”

“And yet somehow the sentries always look the other way,” you muse, “not very bright. I’m almost convinced the Empire’s in it’s failing bureaucracy days.” 

He winces, before deadpanning, “eh, I don’t know how useful a lion is against the DMV.” 

You laugh. 

He takes slow deliberate breaths, steadying himself, “I’m Keith.”

“Seriously though, do you need to see a medic?” He looked in serious need of a tylenol. The ships were usually crisp, you wore a jacket most of the time to stave off the permanent chill. 

Keith shakes his head, chewing his lip before meeting your gaze with an intense concentration in his violet eyes, as if he was gauging how much titrant he could add before hitting the endpoint and if half a drop was worth the risk. “I’m just. . .going through something.”

“Anyone I can call for you?” You weren't about to abandon him here. Sure, he was a paladin and could probably look after himself. But you couldn’t in good conscience walk away. 

He swallows, looking down for a moment and you are startled to find how much you miss his attention boring into you with the loveliest eyes you’d ever seen. 

“No,” Keith replies mulishly as he jerks away from you. “I’m fine.”

Which was a total lie. It was obvious he wasn’t feeling well but you weren’t about to get on his case. You were sure he had people for that. He wasn’t some random soldier in arms with you that you watched out for and hoped not to have to watch die. 

You swallow the bitter thought away, crossing your arms over your chest.

Leaning back against the hall, you watch evenly as Keith stumbles, catching himself on the wall. His mouth is a drawn line of determination. 

You didn’t understand why. 

There was aid here. It wasn’t the same as crawling through cramped mining tunnels and swallowing back pain forcing yourself to work through it until the mission was accomplished. 

“Do you need help,” you ask.

“No.” He leans a hand against the wall.

You raise a brow, wondering if he would pass out for whatever weird space flu he had clearly caught and you could only hope it was nothing like the infections that ran rampant in the work camps, or if he would give in and accept your offer of help. The former seemed more likely. 

You don’t ditch him though, focusing your attention on the porthole to the stars. 

There was no rush: no reason to help him by force. People didn’t learn if you babied them you’d caught on quick back on earth during your tutoring hours. You had to let them fall and smash their face in sometimes. 

So you stay, watching the stars.

Keith makes no move to take another step. 

It still got you, looking out into the vastness of space and realizing this really was your life now, you were out here, further than you’d ever dreamed. Everywhere you looked, novel stars, distant planets teaming with life. You could have done without the war, but it was what it was. 

“And here I thought Mars would be the furthest I’d go,” you comment more to yourself than Keith. 

The red paladin makes a small sound of acknowledgement. 

“Earth’s, or was, at the beginning of our space age. People had barely begun to live on the research bases on Mars,” you watch him out of the corner of your eye in case he really does pass out, “so no Star Trek for me but now I’m here.” 

“There’s a war going on.”

You turn over to look at him, sort of annoyed because yeah you got that, spent enough time in the trenches without a fancy lion spaceship, but the bubbling annoyance dissipates when you see the upturned corners of his mouth. Keith was teasing you. 

Shifting your weight, you add, “yeah well, instead of being a footnote in a Mars base’s history I’ll be a footnote in this war instead.” Gallows humor. You needed a lot of that when regularly infiltrating camps and posing as a slave, as a prisoner, the bottom of the barrel that wouldn’t get a second glance from the Galra soldiers. 

He frowns. “I don't think anyone’s just a footnote.”

“I was joking.”

“Oh.” Keith looks away.

You feel bad. “It’s probably better not to be so cynical,” you muse, “but it’s like the vice president thing, no one remembers them unless the president gets assassinated.” God you couldn’t help how dark your humor could veer even when trying to be positive. 

He looks over at you, head tilted, considering. Despite being standoffish, Keith was easy to read unlike the slick space pirates you’d encountered. 

You meet his gaze head on. 

“I might need some help,” he allows. 

You bite the inside of your cheek, fighting the smile that pulled at the corners of your mouth. “If you’re sure,” you utter, regarding him carefully and unable to keep the teasing from your voice. You shouldn’t. You barely knew him and what little you’d learned made it clear he wouldn’t take well to your teasing. 

War made quick brothers out of everyone. 

But Keith held himself afar.

A questioning glance danced in his uniquely violet eyes as he tried to get a read on you. “I am.” 

You nod, stepping besides him and wrapping an arm around his waist. You were always caught by surprise by how heavy a grown adult could be. And depending on the alien. . .

He takes a step, still holding himself afar from you, barely resting any weight on you. His muscles were stiff under your touch, back rigid that matched the uncomfortable look on his chiselled features. 

You follow his lead. 

At Keith’s sedate pace, it would take quite a while before you dropped him off where you needed to go. Being personable was part of being a leader or it’d lead to mutiny. Not that you had ever gotten that far. The Galaxy Garrison had slapped the graduation badge on your uniform and sent you into space. 

You scrabble for familiar territory, earth and the garrison. The Black Paladin was a Garrison member returned from the grave. Rumor had it all the paladins were garrison deserters. 

Veronica McCain did share a familiar resemblance with the blue paladin. It was probably true. 

“I attended the Garrison campus at Guiana,” you offer. “I was hoping for Texas or Florida to be closer to home, but I didn’t test into pilot or engineer.” 

Keith makes a sound in the back of his throat. 

Even through the fabric of his uniform, he felt warm. How anybody could be warm in such cold halls was anybody’s guess. A permanent chill had sunk its way into your bones. You missed the humid heat of Guiana. 

“It was nice though. The jungle was pretty close and it was always hot,” you tell him. “I thought I wouldn’t miss the humidity, step outside and it was like having just showered but I do. These ships have to be at 15 C.” 

“Texas is hot too.” Keith utters quietly. 

“Isn’t the desert cold at night though,” you ask, already knowing the answer. It had been basic earth science. 

“Yeah. It is.” There’s longing in his voice. You wish he’d say more just to hear him speak. 

Warmth spreads, an embarrassing tell, through your cheeks. 

“I did miss the snow while there,” you continue, “it didn’t snow much up in Vancouver but it was never as hot as Guiana, and the rain was warm!” You had never gotten over that. The rain would spot and start throughout the day but the sun would keep on shining. 

“What were you,” Keith asks bluntly.

“Chemisist, more the physical and inorganic type,” you admit, “it was fun doing wet labs.” That had gotten you hooked back in regular school. “Then got shunted to command track after a few too many volunteering opportunities. Guess the lesson there’s to not try too hard.”

That gets a laugh out of him. 

“You,” you ask him as he shifts more of his weight onto you, finally accepting the help he asked for. Stubborn guy. 

“Pilot.”

You look over at him, his wild hair brushing against your cheek and the simple action shouldn’t excite you but it does. He was hot with sharp features offset by a certain enthralling earnestness but he could run a comb through his hair.

Keith didn’t seem the pilot type: arrogant, loud, generally strong personalities. 

“You any good,” you ask though you’ve heard about Voltron so he has to be pretty fucking good to be part of them. How did Voltron choose its pilots?

He smirks easily, close to a smile at the mere mention of piloting and you knew that moment he loved it: didn’t matter if he was good at it or not. You swallow hard as anticipation buzzes under your skin for no good reason. 

Get your head out of the gutter, you tell yourself. 

“I’m a pretty good pilot,” Keith answers, somehow managing to sound like he’s stating a fact instead of bragging. 

“Just pretty good?” You smile at him, letting him know you were only joking around as you both round another corner, finally making it to the transient quarters. People were always dropping in and out of mobile spaceports like these. 

He snorts. “Better than most.” Keith shrugs, smiling over at you. 

“Don’t be modest on my account,” you utter, looking away, not sure what to do about the growing heat in your body that had nothing to do with temperature controls. 

“It’s true,” he says simply. 

Honesty was a hard thing to come by. You were finding more and more reasons to like the red paladin as you reach his current room. No special treatment here. 

Or maybe it was politics and optics, making sure everyone knew Voltron was of the people and not aiming to replace Zarkon as rulers of the universe. 

Keith places a hand against the door, putting space between you both.

You swallow, glancing away, feeling some of the tension ease. 

“You sure you don’t want me to send a medic,” you ask him, looking over at his striking eyes. The heat under your skin is a live wire: you curl your toes in your shoes. People usually didn’t affect you this much. Even the smell of him was so distinct, drawing you in. 

It was an unprecedented reaction. 

He must feel it too. 

Keith studies you with an enraptured fascination shining in his wide eyes, mouth parted on the verge of answering. Both your bodies sway towards each other like branches in the wind: sunflowers orienting towards the sun. 

You shift your weight from one foot to another. 

It relieves enough tension for you to shift away. 

“No. No medic,” Keith finally answers. 

“Right then.” But you don’t make a move to leave. 

He says nothing. 

The silence is broken by the hum of the ship's engines under your feet. People move about and you can hear their footsteps echoing on the metal floors. 

Supposedly quintessence powered ships smelled like ozone. 

This one was powered by crystals and some Olkari engine. You wouldn't know the specifics, they were beyond you. And not your job. 

You look back at him, ready to leave. The space between you could so easily tilt to awkward and you weren’t sure what you were doing or why you found yourself so entranced by Keith. You barely knew him. You didn’t want to be one of the soldiers with a photograph in your pocket and a farflung hope that you’d-

He’s looking at you, cautious, movements slow and deliberate as if he’s caught between thinking and simply doing. 

Then Keith’s demeanour becomes determined: deciding to take the leap without looking down. He cups your cheeks in his hands and kisses you.

For a second you’re baffled, trying to figure out how you got to point B when this wasn’t a bar and you had no agenda, before you shrug and kiss him back. Keith was undeniably attractive. He was even a bit taller than you which was compelling, you were on the tall side for a girl. 

It’s not some unsolvable thought experiment, you kiss him back.

And a current of static electricity runs through your core. Heat pools after only just a kiss that steals your breath away. 

You can’t get enough, his hands warm against your skin, igniting a delicious sensation in your very core. You want more. You kiss him harder, your mouth against his, sucking on his bottom lip. 

Your hands clutch at the fabric of his shift.

Keith kisses you back, matching your frenzied energy, his mouth parting against yours and pulling you flush against his chest. 

It does nothing to dissolve the tension, the charged energy between you spikes. Like a fire fed by wood it grew. 

It was a heady feeling, his hands caressing your cheeks as Keith kissed you with a vigor you thought only existed in soapy dramas. Heat pools in your belly like a sinking stone: you liked his intensity. 

Keith pulls away, catching his breath, resting his forehead against yours. 

Some of the muddled list clears from your head, now completely in the gutter as you press Keith against the door to his room. 

Oh. . .were you really doing this?

Keith looks a fuckable mess, his eyes flickering from your lips to your eyes. Still, he hesitates. 

You can feel the question linger in the air, can feel it in the featherlight touch of his hands ghosting over your cheeks as he makes to pull away, to let you go if you want to turn back now. But you don’t.

You want to run your hands through his hair. You’re practically burning up wondering how Keith would look splayed on the bed between your thighs. . .how he would feel. 

Would he be just as intense in bed as he fucked you? 

“You feel it too,” he asks quietly.

You furrow your brows, thrown. There were a lot of intense emotions coursing through you all narrowed down to feeling horny as a teenager back on earth. Masturbation only went so far. 

You swallow, trying to rack your brain cells together and say something. Yeah. It was a bit. . .much. Space much. But that didn’t make any sense. You hadn’t taken any drinks from strangers. 

The connection was too strong to discount the possibility of space weirdness affecting both of you. 

“Yeah,” you reply, sounding more whiny than you’d like to. The apex of your thighs throbbed with want. Anticipation had built up and he was right there; Keith

s breath fanned over you, his forehead against yours like a touchpoint. 

Your fingers were still curled into the fabric of his shirt. 

In the hall. 

Where anyone could see. 

“So what now,” you ask, “medic?”

Keith snorts, “No. I just-do you want to come inside?”

You smirk. Everyone knew what that meant. There were so many variations with the same outcome. 

“Yeah. Okay.” You put a pin in any alien space nonsense and slip inside Keith’s assigned quarters for however long Voltron was here for.

The lights are off. You don’t bother to study the room when Keith crushes his mouth against yours. You stumble around in the dark, feeling emboldened now that he’d voiced an invitation, he wanted this as much as you did, and run your hands up his chest. He was lean and lithe. Keith leans into your touch, a shiver running down his spine when you run your fingers through his hair and run your tongue over his bottom lip. 

Keith moans, the sound scratchy from the back of his throat excites you. 

It was thrilling to know you could elicit such a response from someone. You liked feeling hot and sexy. And from a guy like Keith who you were vibing with. . .

He finds the jagged hem of your cut tank top, which had doubled as a bandage, and slides his hands under your shirt. His fingers are calloused, skin hot against yours and there was always something so carnal about skin on skin touch. Keith clutches at your sides and leads you backwards. 

You trust that he knows the layout.

Your mind has boiled down to simple desires. 

“Keith,” you mumble against his mouth as he guides your hips against his and you feel his cock beneath the fabric. It goes straight to your ego: straight to your pussy. 

More heat. It’s unbearable how much your body throbs and you moan against him, against his lips, your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling.

“Mhm,” he asks, just as overcome with lust as you were. Keith tilts his head up, and you kiss his jaw, kiss the side of his throat, nipping at the flesh and enjoying the breathy moans he makes as your knees hit the bed. 

You want more. 

You move your hands to his shoulders, “let's get this off,” you utter softly, pushing at his jacket. 

“Okay,” he replies, crowding you against his bed until you have no choice but to sit down. Keith discards his jacket, and pulls his shirt over his head. 

Your breath hitches in your throat. It’s dark. You can’t see him well. You still react like a charged electron. 

“Now you,” Keith states simply, not exactly a command. It was nice, the lack of mind games and subterfuge. 

You scoot up further on the bed, shrugging your bomber jacket off. 

He’s watching. 

Awkwardness creeps up on you. There was no sexy way to take off a sports bra. 

You pull your shirt over your head, tossing it aside carelessly. Then you peel off your sports bra. The elastic worked too well. 

Keith’s sitting up on his knees.

“You’re beautiful,” he states.

“Come here,” you utter, inviting him closer. 

He complies readily, cupping your cheek and kissing your mouth eagerly, closer to a lover than a random encounter. 

You grab his other hand, guiding him up to your chest, to your breast. Keith runs his thumb over your nipple, gooseflesh rises on your skin. He trails bruising kisses down your throat. 

Your breath catches in your throat. You wrap your arms around his shoulders, pulling him flush against you, savoring the feel of his chest against yours. 

“Fuck,” you groan as Keith bites down hard at the crook of your neck, harder than you’d expected. 

He stills. “I’m-I,” making to pull away.

“No,” you reach for him, tilting his head up as you move to straddle his waist, “it’s okay. I just didn’t expect it.”

“I won’t do it again,” he stammers out. 

“I didn't say I didn't like it.” You push him down against the bed, topping him. “Just warn a girl.”

Keith wraps his hands around your hips, tugging at the waistband of your trousers. “These are kind of in the way.”

Laughing, you reply, “could say the same to you.” Your hands pop the button of his jeans. 

It’s a fumble to pull your trousers down. Neither of you care, eager to get on with it. He shoves his jeans down his legs along with his boxers. 

You straddle Keith, completely naked and lean down to capture his lips against yours. His cock twitches against your thigh and your toes curl up. His tongue runs over your top lip, you part your mouth, letting him in. 

You cup his cheeks between your hands, your hips rolling against his. 

He thrusts feverishly against you. His fingers dig into your bare hips, skin against skin. 

“Come here,” Keith utters hoarsely, “I wanna fuck you.” 

“Think I’d rather ride you,” you reply back breathlessly.

“You can do that after,” he whines, a rumble emanating from his chest but your head is too fucked up to make sense of it. 

You sit up, hands on his chest. “That’s presumptuous of you.” 

Keith grins, wrapping his hands around your wrists, and rolls you over so he’s on top. “Is it,” he asks rhetorically as his hand reaches between your thighs, ghosting over the wetness of your pussy, “when you’re this wet?”

You moan, canting your hips, cashing the feel of his hand, wanting relief. It was a mounting pressure in your belly, a forest fire under your skin and you needed Keith. “Okay. yeah,” you nod, closing your eyes when Keith bent his head and licked a stripe from your nipple to your collarbone. You whimper, lost in the sensation. 

“Tell me what you want,” Keith asks. 

“Fuck me. Please fuck me,” you utter, you hands clutchinf at his shoulders, bringing him flush agaisnt you. 

Keith aquieses. 

You bend your knees, spreading your legs as he positions his cock. 

“Oh fuck,” Keith mutters as he pushes into you. 

Fuck indeed. You moan his name without thought, closing your eyes and laying your head back against the bed. His cock fills you up, sliding into your pussy with ease given how turned on you were. 

Your fingers dig into his shoulders as he stretches you out. 

“God, yes,” you utter dazed. 

Keith moves his hips. You roll your hips up to meet him. He nips at your collarbone as he thrusts into you with favour. 

As promised he fucks you.

Keith captures your mouth in a kiss that catches the moans you make as he reaches between you and runs his thumb over your clit. His pace, the way he was kissing you madly. . .the heat that had been building since you’d met him comes crashing down. 

You come. 

Leaving you boneless. 

“Keith,” you whimper.

“Sh,” he tells you, kissing the shell of your ear, “let me make you feel good.”

“You..sort of already did,” you utter completely fucked out. 

“Turn over.” Keith says even as he’s already helping you move, his arms supporting your weight. He presses his lips on the back of your neck, as he grabs a pillow and sets it under you. 

You bring up your knees, laying on your legs, “thought I was going to go next,” you tease, reaching up to card your fingers through his hair. 

He stills, “if you. . .”

“No. No,” you shrug, “I did ask you to fuck me.”

Keith runs his hands over your shoulders, sliding down your sides. He squeezes your ass with his hands. 

“Best two out of three,” you offer, half joking half serious because while you were still blissed out from having just orgasmed, you could already feel your pussy clench with anticipation. Seriously, the effect he had on you-

You can feel his smile against your skin, “If you think you can handle it.”

“I’ll hold you to it,” you reply, arching your back into him, titling your head back, and pulling his hair so you could kiss him. It was sloppy, and the angle was awkward, but none of it mattered when Keith stroked your pussy with his fingers, dipping into your wet folds. 

Already stimulated, you shudder with pleasure. 

Your tongue strokes his in an open mouthed kiss. He tastes as good as he smells, Keith filling up your senses like an incense stick wafting through a room. 

He wraps an arm around your chest, his hand caressing your breast, pulling you against his chest, both of you melding together. Keith thrusts his cock into you again. 

You squeeze your eyes shut, hand fisting the sheets of his bed, moaning into his mouth. 

It was a combination of his cock in you, his thumb rolling your nipple in his hand, that set you aflame. 

You couldn’t get enough, your hips jerking back, up to meet his. Keith fucks you against the bed. 

He palms your breast in his hand, pulling you up to him, keeping you close as he plants a kiss at the juncture of your ear and jaw, on the side of your neck whilst nipping the skin and you moan, his cock hitting just the right spot as he slams into you. 

First he grows comfortable, pulling almost entirely out before thrusting hard as he finds a pace that leaves you both a mess. 

“Right there, right there,” you utter. 

“Tell me how good I make you feel.”

He punctuates his words with a roll of his hips, his fingers draw a circle around your clit without giving you the satisfaction you desperately seek, already building up to another climax. 

You nod jerkily. “So fucking good Keith. Your cock feels so fucking good,” you manage to reply.

He speeds up, faster, deeper, at your words. The bedframe, bolted down into the floor, creaks. 

“Just like that.” You moan wantonly. “Right there.”

He responds to your words, pulling out to the head of his cock, teasing your entrance just so before slamming back in.

You shut your eyes and whimper, over sensitive to your very marrow. It was too much. Keith was trailing kisses down your spine, his breath warm, his cock twitching inside your filling every inch of your pussy up. 

With a shudder, you come, stars behind your eyelids and short circuiting. You never knew sex could be this amazing. Not in real life. 

You got what people meant about the right partner. 

The right sexual energy to match. 

You collapse, a puppet with its strings cut. Keith’s hand across your chest is the only thing keeping you from melding into the mattress like a blob. His hips thrust against your ass mindlessly, chasing his own climax.

With another couple of thrusts, his hips snapping against you, Keith moans your name and comes undone behind you. 

He comes inside you, hot and sticky.

His hand grasps the back of your neck, holding you in place as he comes inside you. It’s unexpectedly hot. You didn’t know you could like this in bed. 

You didn’t know how much you liked an obstinate expression with wide eyes until you met Keith. He had the type of soulful eyes you could drown in. 

He had drawn out something in you that you hadn’t even been aware of. 

Your thoughts center on him as he finishes inside you. 

“You take my dick so good,” he says with a surprising amount of softness for what amounts to a one night stand and a pang strikes your chest, wishing you had met him under better circumstances where there might be-

Keith gets off you, slumping next to you on the bed. 

There’s a thrum of satisfaction running through you as you look at his face in profile. The insane idea that you might just stay and cuddle plants itself. 

That was impossible.

It was time to cut and run.

Sure, he’d fucked you. But he was also still half a stranger. No matter how jumbled your thoughts were, you refused to give into the pull he had on you. 

You wanted to lay there with him. 

Keith blinks slowly, looking as blissed out as you feel, reaching out a hand towards you, but stopping himself halfway. 

You feel a little disappointed, but say nothing. It was just a one off thing you remind yourself, no matter how you felt. 

Now that you can think a little more clearly, though the sensation remains like a lump in your throat that starts there no matter how much you swallow, you glance around the dark room. Only the barest red lights on the floor illuminate enough to cast shadows. 

Keith’s own eyes reflect the light like a cat. Just a glimmer of traffic sign yellow. 

But you’re too tired to think, so you file it away in your head under the nebulous details you’ve learned about the red paladin.  

You blink, grimancing as Keith’s come runs down your thigh onto the sheets. At least they weren’t yours. 

He closes his eyes. 

“I’d say sorry about the mess,” you break the easy silence lulling you into staying there, “but it's your fault,” you tease way too familiarly. 

Keith sounds embarrassed when he utters, “sorry about that. I can get carried away.”

You smile softly, tracing over his shadowed form with your eyes but resisting the urge to reach out. That part was over. “It was good.”

“You did mention.” 

So he could joke. 

You giggle in the darkness that envelopes the room. You were good at being friendly and taking charge but you understood the hesitancy to open up to people you just met. 

Keith’s chest makes a rumbling sound akin to a cheetah purring. 

You try and hold onto the thought, sure it means something, but the sound draws you in and you lose the battle against yourself, curling up into his side. 

He takes this as the permission it is, and tangles his limbs with yours. 

A thrum of warmth surges where Keith’s skin touches you and you’re not sure if its his running warm or if it's all in your head or-

your eyes drift closed. 

He’s purring.

You know Keith would be embarrassed if you pointed it out. 

So you say nothing. 

Everything seemed so intangible anyhow. The world had been turned down a notch. The post orgasm glow remained unrivalled. 

Even a hit from a bong didn’t measure up. 

Your first time had been a real embarrassment (you hadn’t managed to get the boy’s cock in you), this was just a weird quirk of his, and it was soothing. 

You close your eyes. 

Keith’s breathing is deep and steady, you wonder if he’s fallen asleep, but don’t feel pressured to check. 

It was nice, not scurrying off, not being more than a little drunk. War was exhausting. Earth had only been in it for less than three years. No wonder some aliens were in such shit moods. 

You exhale. 

There’s no way to mark the passage of time. 

The bed shifts under you. Keith runs the back of his hand gently over your shoulder.

Your eyes flutter open.

“So would this be round two or three,” you ask lightly.

Keith smiles lightly, “you did say…”

“I did,” you laugh easily, blushing, the flush creeping from your cheeks to the tips of your ears. 

You swing a leg over his waist, straddling him, but not without feeling the start of a soreness in your legs. It doesn’t deter you. 

Keith lays back, watching you through his lashes as you sit up. He looks lovely. 

You lean down and kiss his mouth, reaching for his cock with your hands. He was already half hard when you wrap your hand around his shaft. 

His breath hitches in his throat as you move your hand. It’s been a moment since you’d jerk anyone, but it’s not rocket science. You press kisses down his throat, moving your hand firmly up and down his length until he’s completely hard. You nip at his collarbone, marking him the way he’d left bruising kiss all over you. 

His cock twitches in your hand, Keith’s hips thrusting up into you. 

Anticipation builds in your belly, but you want to set the pace, stay in charge. So you still your movements.

Keith whines under you, his hands holding your waist.

“Be a good boy for me,” you tell him. “Can you do that?”

“Mm.”

“Use your words.”

“Yeah,” he manages hoarsely, “I can be good.”

You smile, lining him up against your entrance. You shift your hips, teasing his cock against your wet folds, closing your eyes as you moan at the feeling. 

Keith thrusts up, trying to get more friction.

You still wanting to drag it out. Though your thighs ached and your pussy throbbed and you wondering if you should just-

You rub his cockhead against your pussy, “oooOH,” you moan. Your nails scratch his chest lightly, trying to steady yourself. Your heart raced, back arching down to him.

“Come here,” Keith groans, his fingers trailing up, asking for more, his hand on the small of your back. 

You give in, sinking down onto his cock. 

He moans your name, shutting his eyes. 

It’s pornographic, the way Keith rises up to meet you, hips bucking against yours, the expanse of his pale throat. 

You roll your hips slowly, fucking yourself on his cock. At this angle, the way he filled you- 

“Fuck,” Keith moans, “you feel so good.”

“I could say the same,” you reply, sliding against his hips, picking up speed. You hold yourself up, hand on his chest.

You suck in a breath as his cock thrusts into you. Static filled your head as you chased your pleasure, grinding against him. You tilt your head back, moaning his name, everything but Keith becoming background noise. 

He palms your breast.

Your breath hitches when he rolls your nipple between his thumb and finger.

“Ah,” you sigh. 

Your stomach was taunt. 

He doesn’t go further. You sort of wish he would. You trusted Keith not to hurt you. . .too badly. 

The idea excites you, as he wraps his hand around your throat. 

You match him, curling your fingers in his hair and pulling hard, “look at me,” you try and order but your voice is a whine. You’re too hot and heavy to think. 

His cock twitches inside you, filling you up and fuck it felt good to be streched out. 

Keith’s thumb strokes the side of your throat, his grip firm. “Do you like this,” he asks, his gaze heavy on you. He was entirely concentrated on you. It was like being worshipped. 

It sent a wave of pleasure coursing through your veins. 

“I wouldn’t mind if you got rougher,” you admit, finding it easy to trust him.

He looks away. 

You falter. Had you read things wrong? 

Keith bucks his hips up against you and you let the thought go, sinking onto his cock and groaning, “Keith…” 

It was easy to let go when it felt this good. His hand around your throat, fingers digging into your hips, you were sure there’d be bruises tomorrow. Not that anyone would be able to tell from over your uniform. 

A shudder runs down your spine, you squirm on his cock mindlessly, thinking about bruises in the shape of his hands, about the marks on your neck you could already feel blooming on your skin. Heat surges in your chest, something primal as your thoughts linger there. 

You nails run down his chest, leaving shallow scratches as you try and get a better hold, desperately grinding against Keith, down on the bed, his cock ramming into you. “Fuck,” you think, “fuck. . .Keith. . .”

You can’t stand it. 

The pressure in your stomach, the heat scorching your pussy, the sound of Keith’s whines and moans, your name tumbling out of his mouth like a hymn that raised your heart beat, blood pounding in your ears. 

Keith squeezes your neck, your throat bobs under his fingers and fuck-

You come. 

Your legs tremble, unable to support you any longer as you collapse, a quivering mess on Keith. His hands move down to grip your thighs, pulling you down flush against him, down to the hilt of his cock as he comes, moaning erotically. 

The thread of heat doesn’t dissipate entirely as you rest on his chest, boneless and sticky with sweat, but it relaxes and you breath the scent of him in instead of pulling away entirely. 

Keith strokes a hand down your spine, an afterthought, “that was. . .” 

“Yeah.” You’re exhausted. 

You close your eyes, listening to the inhuman rumble of Keith’s chest as it rises and falls with every breath you take. 

You end up slipping out. The halls are in the light cycle, but no one bothers you as you walk. 

Getting up the next morning is hell. 

Your legs are sore, and that’s not even mentioning how much your pussy hurts when you take a step. You take a dose of painkillers still remaining from your injury and check your messages. 

Nothing from earth. 

That was expected. 

The meager universal communications were taken up by the war effort. You still sent your family messages, even if it was just one way. It was a way to keep in touch. It felt like watching starlight and knowing it was millions of years old, a form of time travel. 

You shower. 

Keith’s come was a mess on the inside of your thighs and the thought is not as gross as it should be, your skin warming up, zapped by static. You run your fingers over your clit and fuck yourself in the shower thinking of the red paladin and his come.

You get out, brushing your hair out, not looking in the mirror at the purple hickies spread out like a constellation on your chest, and realize how weird you were being. 

Come was gross. 

You hated swallowing so you never did. The tentative relationships at the garrison had been short, you had all been teenagers, and now anything that happened was a one off thing sometimes involving aliens. 

You swallow, gripping the counter of your sink. You were horny again. 

No. 

Not going there. 

No space weirdness this morning. 

Because you’re on leave for the space equivalent of 6 or 5 days, you don’t have much to do. You get food. It had taken getting used to, and figuring out which brightly colored pastel goo thing was good, but there was a variety. You still had no clue what was plants or animals up in space. 

The more liberated planets, the more supplies trickled in. Pirates loved to take a cut. 

You eat as soldiers stop by to refuel, fill up on supplies. Despite the stress, you missed being out on the front. Being out of the action sucked. 

Sitting around on a spaceship was boring. 

It wasn’t like they had shops or movie theaters. Walking around too much ended up with you being in the way. 

You clench your jaw, feeling feverish. 

And you had just been getting better. . .

You shove the thought away. 

You end up watching space TV: reality TV shows like Galra Ninja Warrior and nature docu series on plants, some you’ve been on, before finally sliding your hand under the waistband of your trousers and rubbing your clit. 

It takes the edge off, but the heat’s still there, pressed up in the pit of your stomach, cheeks flushes and you sigh, unsatisfied as you click to something other than the marine biomes of Kmeolsuahr. For aliens larger than a schoolbus, they were peaceful creatures. Since they were filter feeders, agriculture had never developed a hold on their planet, but water generators were plentiful. 

Yet another show starring Galra. It was the most common type of show in the Empire. Hijacking communications had given this traveling spaceship TV. You were glad for it now. 

You curl up, the communicator snug around your wrist translating everything instantaneously. It was the part in the soap where there has to be a duel for honor. What a load of crap. 

The two Galra circle each other, close ups of their face like a mexican stand-off. Through TV you got to know the Glara in the empire as more than just soldiers. Spending time in the camps taught you that even Galra citizens could be arrested for treasonous statements against Zarkon. 

They make growling alien sounds, something between a jaguar and a sound not found on earth, an underlying clicking that raises the hairs on the back of your neck. 

You connect the dots. 

The glowing eyes, the purrs and rumbles, and whatever weird alien thing was going on: the red paladin was part Galra. 

Only that made no sense. 

He was from Earth. 

First contact had been what, when the paladins had disappeared? When the Kerberos mission had been abducted, and boy had that made fringe conspiracy theorists happy. . .how could he be part Galra? 

Was it even your problem?

Surely this would go away. . .

You were leaving in a little over five days. 

You curl up and watch TV until you fall asleep, determined to enjoy the rest while it lasted and your weren’t trudging through waist deep mud. 

“Read through the debrief,” a commander with a nebulous rank above you asks. In your line of work, so much was redacted. Information gathering was a fancy way of saying spy. It was why you worked so closely with the rebels. 

You don’t even blink at the slight pale easter egg yellow alien, ears that resembled hair, long and droopy like a rabbit: there were four of them. You’d met stranger. “Yeah. Long mission.”

You were not looking forward to being on a planet with an inhospitable surface. A sun close enough that set the surface on fire with it’s rays, no thanks. 

Still, it was your assignment. 

“It is vital.”

They always said that. 

It seemed to be extracting some key players. Who they were remained unknown until you had to know. It was a lot of flying blind to keep information from leaking to the wrong ears. Loose lips sink ships and all that jazz. 

“I’ll treat it that way,” you nod, pressing your tongue to the roof of your mouth. It would be fun flying a hijacked Galra fighter ship. The planet was pretty deep in Empire controlled space. 

“And,” the alien looks you up and down like a Garrison RA finding a stain on your uniform during morning inspection, “get rid of that scent.”

“What,” you ask plainly, “scent.”

The alien raises a hairless muscle over its eye. The gesture is human enough. “Voltron has docked here.” 

It was subterfuge. Both of you were in the same line of work, you could do this dance in your sleep. “As far as I know, yes.” You are careful to keep your expression neutral, feeling stupid for not having used negating get. It wasn’t even rationed, but used pretty widely. There were many aliens who relied primarily on scent, and those whose sense of smell was far sharper than yours. 

“Mm.”

You hold their gaze. 

You weren’t one to waver.

“Any further questions?”

“None.”

“Good.”

You walk blithely back to your room, intending to shower, again, and probably take care of the warmth in your gut. The heat was like an uncomfortable itch under your skin that stubbornly remained no matter how much you ignored it. 

How was it even possible that Keith was any part alien let alone Galra? You were pretty sure the entire planet would have known if the Galra arrived on the planet. 

It was intriguing. 

Your mind drew up the details you knew, trying to make them fit. It was half mental exercise, half the urge to actually get to the bottom of this. Keith didn’t look half Glara like Prince Lotor and his gang of misfits. . .quarter, one sixteenth. . .

Occam's Razor. 

The mystery occupied your mind as you made it back to your quarters. 

Keith is pacing outside your door. 

How did he even know where your quarters were?

“Did you sniff your way here,” you ask, genuinely curious. Maybe the traits might not be apparent. . .just how Galra was the red paladin. You were reminded again how little you actually knew him. 

Understanding fills his eyes; he knew you knew. Keith looks over at you for a second before ducking his head dejectedly, a straw dog expecting to be run off. 

Your heart ached. 

How a paladin of Voltron could be so self conscious despite going toe to toe with the Empire on a daily basis. . .you didn’t know. They were only flesh and blood after all. 

You take pity on him, “so is this going to be a thing,” the corners of your mouth lift into a small smile. You were still a little sore. You wouldn’t mind going another few rounds. . .

But you needed to clear some things up first. 

Just how much of this between you was space Galra funkiness? 

Keith snorts, looking up, meeting your searching gaze. His shoulders were still tense, unsure that you weren’t about to tell him to shove off. Not the loner type entirely by choice then, his innate awkwardness must have made it hard to connect. 

It wasn’t a problem you’d ever had, rushing into everything headfirst, taking charge. 

“Not like there’s a lot of humans to choose from up here,” he says self-deprecatingly. 

You bite the inside of your cheek. “I’m down for some alien funkiness,” you answer evenly, taking a step towards him. He inhales sharply, looking away again, this time in thought. 

The lines of his face increase, clearly uncomfortable, frowning. 

“I can’t usually,” Keith admits in a tense voice, “smell this well. . .though I can smell better than Shiro.”

“Shiro?”

“The black paladin,” he explains, surprised he has to explain at all. 

You answer his unvoiced question, “everyone tends to focus on the color of the lion rather than the pilot inside.”

“Oh. That’s dumb.” He looks a little relieved at the anonymity that grants. 

“Is it just me then,” you ask, getting to the bottom of things. 

He nods, meeting your gaze. “I don’t know why but I can’t stop thinking of fucking you,” he says without ceremony. 

You find yourself blushing. The connection went both ways, the very alien connection. “Don’t hate me but I think we should go to the medic.” 

Keith frowns. “Or we could just fuck.”

“That horny,” you tease, raising a brow, “or was I just that good?”

Keith cusps a hand against your cheek, his thumb running over your lips. 

Your mouth parts, the tip of your tongue grazing his thumb. 

“So you don’t want to fuck,” Keith asks, a playful smirk on his lips. 

You swallow, the urge to say yes right there as his touch on you entranced you, sending desire cascading through your body down to your toes. “This isn’t just alien weirdness is it?” You wanted it to be more. 

“No,” he shakes his head, his breath mingling with yours. “That’s-I’m not that impulsive.”

“Good,” you mutter, pressing your body against his, and opening the door to your room.

[zensharks]

genshin boys - how they hug you

summary: how six of the genshin men would give hugs ^^

characters: diluc, childe, albedo, kaeya, zhongli, venti

a/n: veeery happy with this one!! especially kaeya and venti ehe

warnings: swearing, maybe a little angst for zhongli if you squint a little

wc: 1.5k

diluc 

before diluc can consider himself close with someone, any physical touch is very stiff and regulated; he’s known for his rigid, pat-on-the-back hugs

he’ll furrow his brow in an attempt to remain composed, despite how uncomfortable physical affection is with most people

when diluc is close with you, though, expect the warmest hugs ^^

he’ll practically envelop you in his arms, one wrapped around the middle of your back and the other holding the back of your head near his neck, combing his hands through your hair

he keeps you held tight into his chest so you can feel his breathing slow as you relax into his touch

if the quiet allows for it you may be able to hear his heartbeat; it’s a comforting sound, a very slow rhythm with a deep sort of tone to it

diluc’s hugs are tight but never suffocating, he always holds you with a sort of gentle nature about him

he also lingers slightly - very rarely in an overly persistent manner - you can often feel his fingertips lightly brush against you when you pull away from him

he also tolerates cuddles (okay maybe more than tolerates)

most of the time, diluc prefers to be the big spoon

you can feel the heat from his chest as he holds your back pressed against his chest, one arm resting on top of yours as he strokes the back of your hand with his thumb

with his face laying on the pillow just behind yours, you swear you can feel the corners of his mouth turning up as his eyes fall closed

(very soft smiles when your eyes are turned away from him ehe)

he loves to feel you near him, the fact that he can physically know your closeness makes diluc feel safe with you

childe 

enthusiastic.

he pulls you in so quickly that before you can take a second to think, childe already has you tight up against him

he hugs you with his arms hooked under your shoulders and his hands resting on your shoulder blades, maybe one reaching up to hold the back of your neck right where your hairline ends

he’ll often shoot you some snide remark like “glad to see you’re finally back, you sure took your time” with a smirk hiding at the corner of his mouth, but he continues to hold you as if, in his arms, you are right where you belong

his hugs are tight. i mean very tight

sometimes to the extent that you have to remind childe that, yes, you will in fact need to breathe at some point

he also hugs you from behind ,, like all the time

you can be doing anything - cleaning, looking for something on a shelf, doing the dishes, even just walking from one spot to another when you feel a pair of arms snake around you

he’s got you in his grasp hehehhehe >:)

his back hugs are more gentle, but his brazenness is still very much obvious in the way that he brings his head down to where his nose slightly brushes against the corner of your jaw and softly whispers next to your ear

(“hm, do tell, where were you going just now?”)

there’s that mf smirk again.

albedo 

albedo still struggles to master the formula to hugs, hopeless little alchemist </3

he often finds himself stuck between too gentle and too rigid

(as in he either holds you as if you are a thin sheet of glass, or as if his joints had suddenly become locked in place)

he was wary at first, not knowing the appropriate times for a hug let alone if he was doing it right; over time though, he learned from you and you came to find that he’s very gentle in his affections

he’s the type to let his arms rest under yours, wrapped around the middle of your back, often nestling his head into the crook of your neck

he lets his breathing relax a little when he realizes that you aren’t pulling away

pet his hair ……..

comb your hands through his hair or even just rest your hand on the back of his head to hold him closer, he’ll melt

as he became more comfortable with you, albedo realized that maybe, just maybe he can stand a hug or two :)

however.

in public, don’t expect much - any pda, if not nonexistent, is very chaste

he hugs you so quickly that it almost seems like he sets a time limit - if you blink you’ll miss it

if the room is empty, though, albedo will let you rest your head on his shoulder as he works, sometimes holding you closer to him with an arm around your back while still keeping his eyes fixed on the materials in front of him

(he’ll also often try to explain his process to you if he sees your expression turn slightly confused, doing his best to help you understand)

in short, albedo appears quite distant, but gaining his trust opens up a new side of him that he keeps away from most others

kaeya 

in a comparable manner to childe, kaeya is very clingy

depending on the day, he either falls apart under your touch, or he decides to be the one to make you fall

in the first case, he’ll keep himself pressed close against you with his arms under yours and wrapped around your middle, his hands placed just above the small of your back to keep himself as near to you as possible

he keeps his face settled into the crook of your neck, and if you were to brush a hand through his hair or trace your thumb along the nape of his neck he would simply melt ^^

no. more. cryo!! 

in the latter situation though, kaeya becomes very forward and bold in his actions

he’d still have one hand at the small of your back, but the other would be holding the back of your neck or resting on the side of your face, softly tracing your jawline

contrary to the prior, kaeya often wants to be able to see you directly in moments like this

he’ll tip your face up so your eyes meet his, letting out a slight chuckle at your expression

“do you always look at me like that?”

get that mf smile off your face kaeya

despite his brash attitude he’ll still shower you with affection, placing soft kisses at your temple to your cheekbone, down your jawline and neck, and finally to your lips

of course, he has to follow it up with some sort of remark - “oh? was that not enough?”

i said stop smirkING U DUMBASS

tl;dr: either way, kaeya gets what he wants

zhongli

at first, zhongli kept up a very professional and respectful nature in your company

it took a lot of time to break through his layer of formality, starting slowly with smaller gestures of affection

over time, as he became more comfortable, he grew to appreciate being able to hold you so close to him

zhongli’s touch is very gentle, almost reverent

his movements are slow - not calculated but rather gentle

his hugs are heavy but soft; you can feel one hand resting on the back of your shoulder opposite it and the weight of the other pressed flat into the middle of your back, keeping you tight to his chest with your arms wrapped around his torso

he’ll most likely be the last to let go 

his touch always lingers; zhongli, more than most, understands the fleeting nature of human life, so he is sure to make his moments with you last

after you try to pull away, he would pull you back up against him with his hands at your waist before placing a chaste kiss on your forehead and smoothing his hand over your hair

every touch lasts slightly longer than the one before, but zhongli still feels a pang of loss when he can no longer feel you near

he tries to distract himself from the thought that keeps pushing through, the thought that someday he won’t be able to hold you as he does now, but when you leave his reach it often persists

venti

puuuuuure adoration for you from this man

venti definitely gives the over-the-shoulders type of hugs, crossing his arms up by your neck and resting his chin near the crook of your neck

(reaching slightly, if necessary lmaooo)

as an almost involuntary reaction, his eyes drift closed and he lightens a little under your touch

venti, like zhongli, makes his moments with you last

his hugs are long and drawn out, looking at you with pleading eyes when you say that you need to go

“pleeeeeeease? a little longer?”

venti is very gentle and is never forceful with you, always having a very light touch 

he’ll often pull his head away from yours just to meet your eyes, a wide smile spreading across his face and an expression brimming with admiration and warmth

“what…?” you would ask, quizzically, not sure why the bard can’t seem to take his eyes away from you

expect some straight mf poetry as this man’s reply. he gets all sappy when you hold him ^^

you’d laugh and pull him back against you, the smile not leaving his face

basically just a sucker for physical affection, he loves to feel wrapped up in your arms like a blanket

[inkykeiji]

you’re like a drug to me, a luxury, my sugar and gold

character: gojou satoru

genre: smut with a sprinkle of fluff at the end

notes: aaaaah first jjk fic ever!!!! uhhh this is honestly just pure smut and punishment, satoru is a Bad Daddy, and it’s set in a curseless AU | title cred: handclap by fitz and the tantrums

warnings: 18+ minors dni, dubcon/noncon, slight size difference/size kink, belly bulge, spanking with a belt, rough sex, minimal prep, minimal aftercare (at first), toxic and unhealthy relationship (satoru is mean n a bad daddy!), daddy kink/slightly implied ddlg dynamics, praise kink, dacryphilia

words: 3.1k

synopsis:

And although you can—and do—get away with a lot, you can’t get away with everything. A little brattiness he can handle, a little brattiness he thinks is cute. But on the days when you’re really misbehaving, purposefully (or not) breaking every rule, acting out and refusing to listen, rejecting any bargain or compromise with him at all—well, he’s only human.

And he snaps.

Gojou Satoru is a bad Daddy.

He’s a sweet Daddy, a silly Daddy, a Daddy who’s almost incapable of saying no. He’s a Daddy with a massive sweet tooth, a Daddy who frequently allows both of you to have dessert before dinner—sometimes dessert for dinner—and a Daddy who gives his princess nearly everything she desires, weak to your pretty pout and puppy-dog eyes and please, Daddy?’s. He hates to deny you, aches at the thought of you being even just a teensy bit displeased, because he wants his baby happy, always.

It’s his fault, really, you’re saying, insisting, when he calls you a spoiled brat. Because, honestly, it is; Satoru is entitled—he always has been, born with a not silver, not gold, but platinum spoon in his mouth—and his little princess is entitled, too.

Because he gives you anything and everything you ask for the moment the demand leaves your mouth, dotes on you hand and foot, absolutely adores you, lavishing you in the finest silks and prettiest lace, always indulging you just as much as he indulges himself—as much as he has always been indulged, growing up filthy rich.

Because you weren’t always like this; or, at least, you weren’t always this brash about it.

But years of getting exactly what you want, exactly when you want it, has forced your attitude to change, to shift.

You haven’t changed, Satoru tells you one day, a tub full of melty ice cream in his lap as he shovels another spoonful into your mouth, waning sun bathing the penthouse terrace in translucent gold and coral, brilliant colours reflected in his crystal eyes. “I didn’t do anything—I simply revealed your true nature,” A devious little smirk spreads across his lips, eyes glinting in an almost ominous nature, and you shiver. “You’ve always been a selfish materialistic brat, haven’t you?”

Well, you guess he has a point.

And although you can—and do—get away with a lot, you can’t get away with everything. A little brattiness he can handle, a little brattiness he thinks is cute. But on the days when you’re really misbehaving, purposefully (or not) breaking every rule, acting out and refusing to listen, rejecting any bargain or compromise with him at all—well, he’s only human.

And he snaps.

It’s always something little, after a day full of disobedience, that does it, that finally lights the fuse and forces an explosion. Something that would normally be inconsequential, something he’d usually laugh off with a coo and a loving pat to your head.

Because you fought him on bedtime last night, then fought him on going to university this morning. You demanded pancakes for breakfast and when he denied them to you, because he’s got an important meeting in the afternoon and thus hasn’t the time to make them, you refused to eat anything at all—only to whine and bitch and complain about how starved you were for the entire duration of his conference. And yet, throughout it all, he was the perfect picture of patience, endlessly cool and nonchalant in his responses to your multiple tantrums.

Until you rushed into the kitchen in a famished frenzy, diving straight for the cookie jar and shoving three in your mouth.

“Sweets are not an appropriate dinner, baby,”

The words are sighed out in pure exasperation, his thumb and his forefinger pinching the bridge of his nose, lids shut tightly.

Eyebrows furrowing, you tilt your head in confusion, speaking around your mouthful. “Since when?”

His eyes snap open, blazing azure glaring at you with such an intensity it makes you flinch, cookie crumbs turning to ash in your mouth.

“Since forever,” he seethes, mask of impassivity finally beginning to break.

“What?” you laugh around the word, but it trembles. “What are you talking about? You rarely enforce that rule—especially since you don’t even follow it yourself!”

“It doesn’t matter,” he snaps, nostrils flaring with a particularly harsh exhale. “I am the boss, and what I say goes,”

“Daddy!” A sock-clad foot stomps against the marble floor as you whine out the word, arms crossing tightly over your chest. “That isn’t fair! You can’t just—”

“Enough with this attitude!” he snarls, moving like a crack of lighting as he lunges at you, lithe arms embracing you in an iron grip. “I can, and I will,”

And then he’s hauling you over his shoulder, one strong arm wrapped around you and pinning you draped over his body, delivering swift, harsh slaps to your ass every time you kick your feet or beat your fists against his back, while every whine and complaint earns you another spank in his mind, mentally tallying them up and vocalizing the thought a moment later.

“You’re being a meanie,”

“That’s twelve,” he growls.

“I don’t care!”

“Thirteen.”

“So what?”

“Fourteen.”

“That’s nothing,”

“Twenty-five.”

And that—that gets you to pause, but not to halt, not to stop, potent brattiness mixing with fury as it boils in your chest, the need to defy, to disobey, burning through your veins.

“I-I can handle that,”

“Thirty,” his voice is calm—serene, almost—and ice cold. There’s an underlying challenge sown into it, daring you to try him again, to utter another word. He’ll go higher, you can almost hear his apathetic voice floating through your mind; he’ll go as high as he needs to in order to teach such an ungrateful little brat a lesson.

Thirty it is.

The buckle of his favourite belt jingles as he undoes it, that dainty clink! forcing shivers to pebble across your naked skin, pressing your chest further into the foot of his bed, fingers curling in cashmere.

You’ve developed a love-hate relationship with that belt; it’s so fun when you get to undo it yourself, gentle fingers tugging and toying as you squirm eagerly in his lap, yet the clank and clattering of that heavy buckle as nimble fingers skillfully unfasten it and pull it from the loops of expensive trousers is almost menacing, carrying with it portentous threats it fully intends to see through.

He never warns you when the first strike is coming, reveling in the way your muscles are coiled in tension, in foreboding anticipation; basking in the surprised yelp that bubbles up in your throat.

“Relax,” he tells you with a callous chuckle, leather squealing between large, smooth hands as he folds it. “And count,”

It’s his usual response, predictable and scripted by this point, but he never seems to tire of it, notes of delight lacing his voice.

And that first blow never counts.

Gojou Satoru may be a bad Daddy by most standards, but his punishments are harsh, brutal, and cruel, and they happen to be one of the only things he takes seriously in life.

There’s rules to each of his punishments—so many rules he’s made you write them out multiple times, until your hand ached and fingers cramped and the heel of your palm was swollen, so they’d stick in that pretty empty little head of yours, so you never forget—and his spankings are no different.

You are not to move until he tells you to. You are not to speak unless spoken to. You are to count each lash, loud and clear before the next strike lands. Each mistake, each misstep and slip-up and refusal to comply, will earn you one extra slap. The tool is to be decided based on the severity of the offence.  

The belt, all rigid rawhide and sharp edges, cuts into the supple flesh of your ass with each easy, nonchalant flick of his wrist, abrasively snapping against you.

Each collision of leather against flesh sears a tingly sting into your skin, biting rapidly rising welts into your ass and sending spiky jolts of agonizing pain bolting up your spine, the pain fading to a dull throb for just a moment before another blow is delivered.

“Gorgeous,” Satoru murmurs to himself halfway through your punishment, the word nothing more than a little huff of breath. You don’t dare respond, simply crying out the next number as he lands another harsh blow to your abused skin. He doesn’t think he’s ever heard a more beautiful sound, he continues, voice appearing faint and far away, mingling with the combined symphony of the crack of leather and pathetic whimpers muffled by sheets.

“It’s incredible,” he says, louder this time, voice dripping with wonderment, as if he can’t believe he’s created such a magnificent piece—the streaks of blood staining once perfect, unblemished skin; the high-pitched whines and sharp cries of each subsequent number; the resounding slap of the belt against your bare ass that evokes it all.

The whole thing sends a surge of intense power rushing through his veins, the tingling buzz it leaves behind enthralling and invigorating. You don’t need to look at him to know this, don’t need to see the way his eyes shine with it, the way his chest heaves with it, the way his entire body trembles with it—you can feel it in the atmosphere surrounding you, can feel the shift as his ego saturates the air, as his pure superiority bleeds into it, dense and suffocating, stimulating and revitalizing.

It infects your body, seeping in through your skin and flooding your veins, re-instills the need to be submissive, the ache to be good, providing you with the strength to endure.

The punishment lasts for forty-five excruciating minutes, accumulating a total of thirty three spanks—the extra three tacked onto your original punishment of thirty, one for each time you broke a rule. He’s on you in less than a second the moment it’s over, belt dropping to the rug-covered floor with a distinct thump as soft, eager palms roam your sweaty body, lips crushed against yours, still trembling as they spill pitiful whimpers into his mouth.

The luxurious bedroom—all cream and gold and drenched in sunlight—is blanketed by backhanded praises, warning you not to be a brat and just take what he gives. He’s sadistic when he gets in moods such as these, a feral glint in crystal eyes as large hands hastily flip you over—so fast it knocks a gasp of his name from your chest—seemingly unconcerned about the fresh blood oozing from the thin swollen welts that embellish your ass staining his thousand dollar sheets.

“Daddy needs you now,” he growls when you try to protest, breathing erratic as fingers flex on your hips, squeezing and kneading before pressing down hard, a silent order to stay fucking put. “And you’re going to be a good little girl for your Daddy now, aren’t you?”

Of course. Of course, because you are a good little girl, his good little girl.

But he’s a bad Daddy.

And, like a bad Daddy, he defers aftercare—it can wait, he practically snarls as he drags you to the edge of the bed, folding your legs up on either side of your body, knees nearly nudging your jaw; and foregoes prep almost entirely—two slender fingers slipping between your slick folds, prodding your hole and deeming you wet enough to take him.

And you’d be lying if you said you didn’t absolutely love it when he gets like this, when that façade of indifference finally shatters to pieces, replaced with desperation, with urgency, with neediness.

Your head lifts from the plush mattress, neck straining a little as you watch him push his trousers down his thighs through bleary eyes, residual dewdrops of tears clinging to spidery lashes. His cock bobs a little as he kicks the pants off, and it’s just as pretty as he is, smooth and symmetrical and perfect in every way.

“This would be part of your punishment,” he pants out, speaking over your cry of discomfort as he begins to shove his cock into you, little cunt aching as it attempts to accommodate the sudden intrusion. “If you didn’t love it so much, fucking slut,”

“Daddy!” The pet name claws its way up your throat in a yelp, hands scrabbling against his shoulders, nails digging into his flesh through his Armani button-up in an effort to steady yourself, eyes squeezing shut against the severe burn that accompanies the stretch. “Gonna—Gonna tear me in half,”

“You’d think you’d be used to this by now,” Satoru muses, voice already returning to its apathetic playful lilt now that he’s half buried in your cunt, breathing already calmed. A malicious little smirk decorates his lips and he observes you as if awestruck, one of his hands moving to trace the curve of your cheek, cold fingertips soft against your scalding skin.

“So beautiful like this,” he whispers as he finally bottoms out, hips pressed flush against the back of your thighs.

And you are, fresh tears that glitter the way his eyes do in the waning sun streaming down your cheeks, leaving the prettiest streaks of salt staining your flesh; lips swollen from merciless teeth sinking into them, an attempt to silence yourself, to keep those whines and complaints of Stop, Daddy! and Hurts, Daddy! safely stored in your throat.

Your little hole flutters around him, still struggling to adjust to his girth, and his head droops forward, long tongue unfurling from his mouth to lap at the bitter water adorning your face, slow languid strokes from your jaw to your bottom lashes, replacing shimmering tears with viscous saliva.

Saccharine sugar stings your nose, sticky toffee bathed in decadent chocolate and garnished with a touch of vanilla enveloping you in a sickly sweet embrace.

Such a scent—his scent—starkly opposes the vicious snapping of his hips, setting a merciless pace from the very start, blunt nails biting deep half-crescents into your flesh as they hold you in place.

But the pain only heightens the pleasure, contradicting sensations clashing together with every one of his brutal thrusts, cashmere feeling as rough as sandpaper against your raw, wounded ass. Thorns of pain pierce through your abdomen and shoot up your spine, back arching off the bed, and the muscles in your thighs flex and clench with every slam of his cockhead against your cervix.

It’s potent and intoxicating, a heady exhilaration clouding your brain and flooding your veins, and soon there are tears leaking from your eyes again, dribbling into your mouth and mixing with strings of drool that coat the words you’re babbling out.

Blood rushes in your ears, procuring a deafening ring, and you’re not even sure what you’re saying anymore, voice vibrating indistinctly in your chest as saliva soaked mewls ooze from your mouth. Your Daddy’s staring down at you, condescension etched into his pretty features, eyes morphing from dainty crystal to the navy of a tumultuous sea, framed by strands of cream and ivory dripping with sweat.

And he’s so big, too big, stuffing you full to the hilt with each ruthless piston of his hips, mattress trembling beneath you from the sheer strength; and it’s so much, too much, you swear you can feel him in your tummy, can see the way your lower abdomen cutely bulges in synchronization with every pounding thrust.

You must say it in some way, in some shape or some form, because the patronization varnishing his features melts away, sharp smirk dissolving into a genuine grin, blue eyes lightening with pure adoration.

“Such a good girl,” you think he’s saying, through it’s hard to tell when your eyelids keep drooping, hard to hear when a symphony of broken moans and hitched whimpers and the sharp slapping of skin against skin blanket the room, reverberating off the walls of your skull. “You’re such a good, good girl for me,”

Yes, Daddy, you want to say, such a good girl for you, only for you.

“Y-Yours,” you manage instead, locking your arms around his neck and clinging to him.

“Mine,” he growls, possessiveness lacquering his eyes, brilliant and bright and shining with devotion. “That’s right, mine,”

It only takes another three thrusts before you’re gushing all over his cock, the intense spasming of your cute little cunt drawing the prettiest whines from the back of his throat as he rams into you.

“Beg for it,” he demands, and although it’s an order, it comes out more like a plead, desperation sown into his voice. “Beg for Daddy’s cum,”

You obey immediately, words spilling from your lips without a second thought, automatic and instinctual. Please, Daddy, gimme your cum? Please, please, pretty please, want your cum, Daddy, fill my belly with it, Daddy, I need it, need it so bad, please?

He gives you what you want only a moment later, cock throbbing almost violently as he fills you with thick, scalding cream—so much that you’re sure it’s dribbling out of you, trickling down your ass and onto his pristine sheets—and you roll your hips up, attempting to milk him for more.

“G-Greedy,” he pants out, but there’s a dazzling smile slapped across his face, and so much love in his eyes it’s nearly overwhelming, a fresh wave of tears casting a gleaming shield across your own.

He notices immediately, both of you wincing a little as he pulls out, a wrecked little whine escaping your mouth.

“My poor little princess,” he’s saying as he untangles his briefs—Balenciaga, this time—from his trousers, abandoned in a heap on the hardwood.

“Daddy,” you rasp, a frown marring his face, fingers encircling your ankles as he helps you unfold your stiff legs.

“I know, I know,” he’s murmuring as gentle hands pull the soft clothing up your silky thighs. “It hurts, I know baby, Daddy’s gonna make it feel better now,”

A shiver courses through your body, and he tuts, nimble fingers making quick work of the buttons on his shirt, shrugging it off before he hoists you up and drapes it over your shoulders, tenderly threading your arms through the sleeves.

It’s cozy, and warm, infused with his scent—melted sugar and expensive cologne—and you snuggle into it, weak arms pulling the material tighter around your body, swathing it in comfort. Tears prick your eyes again, blearily blinking them clear as you glance up to find him backing away. A noise of indignance sounds in the back of your throat, eyebrows knitting together as you make grabby hands for him.

“I’ll be right back, princess,” he reassures you as he laces your fingers together and allows you to pull him back towards you, voice soothing like a lullaby. Fingers trail along the curve of your cheek then trace the line of your jaw, palms smoothing hair back from your face. “Daddy’s just going to go get the first aid kit so he can clean you up, okay?”

“‘N then food?”

He coos with a little chuckle, cupping your head as he tilts it up towards him, eyes overflowing with fondness.

“Yeah, baby, and then food. Whatever you want, it’s yours,”

Gojou Satoru may be a bad Daddy, but he is also your Daddy, and that makes him the best Daddy.

[mossy-rainfrog]

[Image ID: A digital drawing of Martin and Jon in season 1 of the Magnus Archives. Martin is seen out in the archives hallway, through the doorway to Jon’s office. Martin a fat Black man with short coily hair, round glasses, and snake bite lip piercings. He wears a blue sweater over a white collared shirt, and carries a brown satchel with him. Martin is looking over his shoulder with interest as he walks into work, and in a smaller panel to the side, we see Jon watching him with wide eyes. Jon is a thin Persian person with long greying hair tied back in a low bun, and rectangular glasses. He wears a red button down underneath a brown jacket, and is seated at the desk in his office. He stares out at Martin, looking flustered. There are small lines by Martin’s mouth indicating the piercings, and there are exclamation marks by Jon’s head indicating his reaction. End ID.]

I found an old fic in my notes about Martin dressing alt/punk outside of work and accidentally leaving on a small indicator of his usual fashion when he comes into the archives and I just. had to bring it back. Also, because I am still fond of it, please enjoy the aforementioned fic🥰:

Jon is having a difficult morning, to say the least. He had believed that coming into work an entire hour early would provide him with ample time to get a head start on today’s organizing, but that has decidedly not been case. He’s already had to take the statements of two utterly ridiculous liars who could barely keep the grins off of their faces as they recounted their ludicrous tale, and then listen to Elias subsequently dress down his so-called ‘attitude towards patrons’ for nearly half an hour, and suffice it to say, he would really like to get started on something that is actually worth his time.

He dislikes settling down with the more... difficult statements before all of his colleagues arrive, an attempt to keep them from interrupting his recordings to greet him, so once he’s finished his other menial tasks, he finds himself simply sitting and waiting for the ensemble of his assistants to arrive.

Tim and Sasha are the first - entering together as usual after having stopped for coffee on the way in - but Martin is slow to follow, taking nearly another fifteen minutes to arrive. It’s nearly ten past seven at that point, and once Jon hears Martin’s steps coming towards his office, he has half a mind to give the man yet another lecture on punctuality and work ethic. He gets as far enough as bracing his hands on the table to stand up, and then Martin appears in the doorway to his office, and he realizes something strikingly different about his appearance.

That is to say, Jon’s whole world narrows down very suddenly to the little black studs decorating the space underneath his bottom lip.

He’s staring, he knows he is, but Martin is busy looking down the hall for the moment, so Jon doesn’t force himself to tear his eyes away just yet. How long has he had his lip pierced, Jon wonders? Has it been there the whole time he’s known him? Has he only recently gotten it done? How? Why?

It’s hard to imagine Martin - soft, unassuming Martin who is far too large for the amount of space he crams himself into, always slouching, always pulling himself inwards as if he can make himself disappear - dressing in any way other than soft sweaters and slacks, but if Jon’s honest, he’s never actually seen the man outside of work. He has no idea how Martin chooses to dress himself when out from under the Institute’s rigid dress code, and this tiny window he’s been provided with is making him maddeningly curious.

He’s not... he doesn’t have feelings for Martin, aside from a general annoyance, occasionally marked with curiosity. He’s a professional, for God’s sake, not to mention that Martin’s very existence as a given is like a grain of sand in his eye, rubbing and irritating. Now he cuts clean through without even noticing. Jon itches to know more.

“Jon?” Martin’s voice tears him from his thoughts. “Is something wrong?”

Oh, shit. Jon can feel his gaze heat up as if he’s done something horribly wrong - how embarrassing that he can’t even keep a blush off of his face - but he still forces himself to open his mouth and stutter out an excuse. He means to remark on one of Martin’s missing reports, or the fact that he’s coming in nine minutes late, but what ends up leaving his mouth is; “Your lip is pierced.”

Just a sentence, not a question. He thinks he’s positively beet red. Martin freezes, the tips of his ears darkening visibly against his brown skin as his hand shoots to his mouth and his eyes widen.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry, I must have forgotten to take them out,” the poor man looks like he’s about to panic as he whips his gaze around as if to see if anyone else has noticed. “Don’t tell Elias, please, I’ve seen how he gets after Tim for the dress code, and there is no way, I mean no way—”

“Oh, n-no, it’s- I- it’s fine, really,” Jon raises his hands in defense as Martin rambles, for some reason inclined to reassure the man. “I won’t- I’m not- I’m not going to tell him.”

Martin hesitates, wringing his hands, apologies visible on every pore of his face. “I- Thank you. I’ll- I’ll go take it off. Christ, that’s embarrassing.”

“Only if you want,” Jon shrugs, which is definitely not the correct thing for him to say as a boss, and it definitely comes out a little gentler than he intends it to, and Jon is three seconds from screaming if he can’t figure out how to make himself react normally to this. It’s a non-traditional piercing in an academic institute of research; it’s against the rules, however dated they may be, and further than that, there is no reason for it to completely undo his composure the way that it has. He tries to get a hold of himself. “I-I mean, that’s likely for the best.”

Martin is giving him a funny look - probably a response to seeing the whole spectrum of human emotions flash across Jon’s face in a millisecond - but he still nods and says: “Sorry again. Thank you,” and then disappears down the corridor.

Jon immediately buries his face in his hands and sighs.

What is wrong with him? For God’s sake, he’s just seen Martin with a lip piercing, it’s not like he’s witnessed the man undressed. Besides, he works in an archive where he has to read statements about the intricacies of monsters that rip off people’s skin and suchlike every day, he should know how to keep his composure better than this. He should just move on with his day and focus without a problem, just like he does every morning.

Except, his mind keeps wandering back to it; the way the little studs had followed the shape of his mouth, the way they had quirked up when he flashed one of his nervous smiles, the way Jon is still desperately curious about what brought him to get them done, and also what it might feel like to brush a thumb, or perhaps even his lips over them.

Jon sits up so fast his head actually smacks against an open filing cabinet behind him. His mind is too busy reeling to notice the ache that fills his head, and he stares straight ahead with wide eyes and utterly scorching cheeks. Absolutely not. He absolutely did not just think about kissing Martin Blackwood. that was- that would be...

He blinks hard, clears his throat. It doesn’t matter what that was. He’s decidedly not interested in Martin Blackwood romantically, or in any other capacity given his truly ridiculous academic competence and his obnoxious habit of interrupting seemingly every stable thing Jon has in his life. He crushes the feeling down hard, locks it up in a box, stuffs it down under his lowest two ribs, and resolves himself never to open it again.

He is not going to keep thinking about this all day. He has work to do, and if something as simple as a pair of metal studs can distract him this badly, then he needs to make absolutely certain it doesn’t happen again.

He tells himself he’s not disappointed when he sees Martin without the piercings later that day.

[iovelore]

❝ MORTAL TALES ❞ ( O1 )

summary and word count: a certain fae can’t help but find amusement in the youngest elfhame’s prince‘s frustration. wc — 1493

pairings: the cruel prince!cardan greenbriar x fem!reader

contents and warnings: jealousy, hinting of threesome, mentions of knife (nothing extreme), suggestive content, mutual pining-ish, fluffy?

a/n: i used tcp cardan because i couldn’t see any context of y/n being used in a fic in the other books (i also need it for the next part </3). i tried my best to include the tail bit since it didn‘t come out right, ill add it in either part 2/3. cardan is a bit ooc (i made him a bit idk how to put it besides: sub?man whore. because i believe that’s what he is 😁). and y/n resembles jude just a little bit with the blade thing, but only a little because jude is neither very flirty or open up about her sexuality (more so in the first book) and that’s what i made y/n like.

also, since this was more in y/n’s perspective, next part will be more so cardans <3

Y/N's legs crossed as she leaned her head on locke's shoulder, while Poppy, a half-faerie: who Locke has shown great interest in— for all the wrong reasons — sat before them and told them of the mortal tales her father would recite to her every night or the ones she gathered on her own from her adventures back where the humans lived.

Y/N found them odd: how they all were almost nothing compared to the people here; they were fragile, but she found similar enjoyment in them all nonetheless — and perhaps she had the eldest duarte to blame for her obsession with all things mortal, and Poppy's tales weren't helping either — which has unfortunately gained her the harsh scowls from the youngest prince of Elfhame.

Though that was no surprise. The boy had never been kind enough for her to realise that his treatment towards her was almost cruel — not that it had mattered, because to Y/N it was a show; she knew where his feelings lay, and it was nothing but amusing. To everyone with eye sight as clear as day, he'd never liked her, but when in class, when he believes her to be ignorant of his stare or his wagging tail; she has a classmate whisper every move his body makes, and it fuelled her heart all too much.

"It's not quite normal there, unlike here, if anyone decided to walk around with it they'd get humiliated till they're six feet under," Poppy snorted, covering her mouth with the back of her palms.

Locke turned to stare behind him, catching sight of the prince and Nicasia — both pouting miserably (one much too obvious than the other), and at that, he smiled. "Oh you’re right, tails are quite odd aren’t they? More so on a prince,"

Y/N shrugged at that, "It's alright, I do think Cardan makes it quite, charming? He’s always wagging it around like some...was it a cat you called it?"

"Yes a cat," Poppy shook her head positively, "though don't say that out loud, I doubt he's as clueless on mortal knowledge as we think he is."

Locke hummed, a smirk growing on his lips as he kept his eyes trained on his friend, Y/N following suite of his gaze and sultry grinning at the boy from afar, ignoring Nicasia — causing his eyes to widen momentarily, before the scowl found home on his face once more.

"He's never quite liked you has he?" His words were soft against her ear, his lips landing gently beneath her ear-lobes, kissing it tenderly as he kept his eyes trained on his flaring friend — who if one squinted, could perhaps see smoke escape his ears, if they ignored the immense swinging of his tail.

Y/N smiled, a small amount of malice lacing her intentions, "hatred I'd say, though he doesn't think I'm that foolish does he?"

Poppy, who now stared at her feet, hands tugging the grass with a blush coating her tanned features, "he's looked like he wanted to murder Locke."

Y/N snickered, a sickeningly sweet one at that, as she lowly muttered, "it’s all working then, sweetness."

Later on, when Y/N was left with no one to keep her company — as Locke found himself adorning Poppy and Nicasia's presence, alone — she took notice of the emptiness of Locke's home. It was beautiful, nothing as extravagant as Hollow Hall, yet she found herself admiring the interior all the same.

And as her hands traced the designs etched on the walls, as if it were a reminiscence of her first time staring upon them, a deep, and rather annoyed cough fleed her from her thoughts.

she stayed in position, her back facing Cardan and only gripping the knife resting on her waist, "now what would the prince need at a time like this? Should he not be in his humble abode by now?"

"Should you not be with your lover boy? Or is it that you enjoy using people like he does?" His tone was hostile as he spat his words, however the light softness that rippled around it was evident and Y/N couldn't help her lips tugging upwards.

She turned around, staring at him — where he leaned cooly against one of the walls — with squinted eyes, faux contempt present in her stare, and he shifted in his spot at her gaze.

She swiftly walked, her steps careful as to not trip on her dress. And when she reached him, she, boldly, placed her hands on his chest, dragging it downwards firmly — and his thumping heart beneath his rib cage could be faintly heard from the short proximity between them.

Y/N titled her head when he clenched his fists, but found a smile etching on her lips when his eyes were lightly fluttering. "Do I really threaten you that much that your hatred towards me is the only thing that keeps you going? It's pathetic truly, especially for a prince."

Cardan gulped, mind hazy at the contact and his body was supported by his tail, that was wrapped roughly around one of his legs. He could not utter the next words without stroking her ego, and it was then he'd wished — though he'd never admit out loud — that he were mortal, because he needed to lie if not keep his mouth shut.

More so with her trapping him, her knees coming forward and slightly spreading his legs, so that the entirety of his body leaned upon the wall. And despite him towering over her due to one of her legs bending in-front of the other, he could not move, catching sight of the shiny blade securely placed on her hips and her rigid grasp on them.

She had been around a certain mortal for too long, he thought, and at that his sneer was present again.

Y/N gently bit her tongue to stifle the giggle from escaping her, "what, cat's got your tongue?"

His lips were tightly sealed, and though he already knew the effects she displayed were affecting him, greatly, he refused to acknowledge her — especially that any movement could cause his legs to move slightly forward and brush . . .

She shook her head with a light hearted laugh that had his heart beating just a little bit faster, just a little bit. Her hands releasing the grip she had on her blade, before placing it on his cheek and patting him smoothly.

"You're quite humorous you know, would be a shame if you wasted all that energy on 'hating' me when it could be used for something else, you decide, my prince." she said, her tone sensual and low, before gradually stepping away allowing room (only a small amount at that) for the boy before her to breathe, she let one of her fingers crawl delicately on his hollow cheek bones, that though looked sharp, were as soft as anything could be.

Cardan's eyes widened ever so slightly, now registering her words, "are you flirting with me?" He asked. The space between them now slightly obvious, and he hated it — almost as much as he pretends to loathe her.

Y/N raised her brows, crossing her arms in an unlikely childish manner before nodding, "you're quite oblivious you know? Yes."

"Well," the confirmation enabled a smirk to appear on his face, only to be dismissed by her voice, again.

"Well? Is that all? Because I have things to do, and if my offer does not interest you then I'll gladly leave and find another willing volunteer," she purred, ignoring the way his brows harshly and quickly furrowed, creating a crease, "how about Locke? We are reasonably close, and he does not have a tail — which looks a bit foolish, don't you think?"

He was blushing crimson now, red sparklings littering his pale cheeks, but then his lips curled up — however, he does not look as frighting as he's expecting to be, he knew that, especially with her knees still resting between his thighs (which is all he's trying to drift his mind from at the moment).

"I don't see anything off with it, I've been told it makes one interesting. You've spent too much time with mortals and those alike." Cardan's jaw clenched and his chest was rising a lot more than it was a few minutes before.

Y/N pursed her lips, "Well then, show me how interesting one can get." She leaned forward, her breath fanning atop his lips and he found his own hitching.

His eyes were wandering from her eyes, which he secretly adored, to her lips, and he subconsciously nodded, leaning forward.

Only then, her hands rested on his chest, pushing him away slightly and his head came in contact with the wall yet again, and he had to bite his bottom lips in hopes that she had no idea how much he’d needed her, all of her.

Y/N stepped backwards, finally standing straight. Her hands on her side once more and she gave the prince an alluring smile, "I'll see you later, cardan."

He glared at the spot she had been standing in once she’d left, and he knew that it was a silly game she’s playing.

And what is a game if it involves one player?

[pascalpanic]

hi i love ur writing so much!! can i request something with mutual pining, denial of feelings, idiots-to-lovers, hurt/comfort/angst , maybe some jealousy and fluff and smut if you want i just need something really angsty with javier peña, frankie m or din djarin?? tysmm!!!!!

The Bantha (Din Djarin x f!Reader)

Summary: Being an animal lover does not work well with the plans the Tuskens and Mos Pelgo citizens have to kill the krayt dragon. A retelling of S2E1 of the Mandalorian: The Marshal.

W/C: 4.4K

Warnings: talk of animals being harmed/dying, lots of arguing and angst, Vanth kind of is gross bc I hate his character aha, we respect the Tuskens in this house and use proper terminology for them, language, tiniest mentions of alcohol

A/N: Not gonna lie, the idea for this fic came to me pretty quickly but it took me a long time to properly figure it out. Lots of drafting and editing so THANK YOU to my beta readers, you’re all the best ever!! Anon, I’m so sorry this took so long but I hope it’s worth it!

Of all the dilemmas you’d expected to face as you traveled the galaxy with a tiny, Force-sensitive, 50-year-old toddler and a Mandalorian with the emotional capacity of the earlier-mentioned child, the last one you’d ever predicted you’d face had to be the challenge of ridding a tiny desert town of a giant sand beast that eats their banthas.

“You are so fucking dense,” you groan as you and Din settle on a speeder bike, the little green child tucked in a wrap on your chest. “You’re a Mandalorian, a battle-worn bounty hunter with a kill streak probably in the thousands, and some random man asks for your help and not only do you fucking freely give it, you decide to help them kill the sand dragon terrorizing their town.” You groan to him, rubbing your temples.

Din nods and starts up the speeder bike. “You don’t need to summarize what we just lived through,” he grunts and you wrap an arm around him.

“I do, because I need to clarify that your dumb ass would do that. Sometimes I really do think you don’t have a brain under that beskar bucket,” you shake your head, trying to keep the anger that you’re feeling. If you’re not careful, it’ll turn to adoration and love.

You’ve been battling your feelings for Din for a while now, trying to force the giddiness bubbling in your chest deep down inside. The man is everything you look for in a partner: strong, committed, tall, protective. He’s good with the child, adorably cuddly and loving. He’s even funny sometimes, making dry-humored remarks around the ship.

“Excuse me for caring,” the man grumbles through the modulator. He’s strong and warm beneath your arms, the Tatooine heat making the beskar warm like your bunk in the morning when you don’t want to get up. Stop it, stop it you remind yourself. This is not the time to be enraptured by the Mandalorian man’s body.

That’s yet another trait you love about him- how caring he is. He’s a bounty hunter, a warrior by oath who never shows his face and probably knows millions of ways to kill someone with his bare hands. Yet he cares. He raises the child well; he even raised him alone before you came into the picture. He puts himself in harm’s way for innocent people on the daily, all because he simply thinks it’s right.

You take a sip from your water canteen and hand it to the baby on your chest so he can drink too. “No, I will not excuse you for caring when you’re doing stupid shit, Din,” you scowl and cap the canteen as two three-fingered green hands give it back to you. “You came here- we came here, our family did, to find Mandalorians. There are none.”

“This man will give me his beskar if we help,” Din hisses, revving the engine of the speeder, non-verbally telling Vanth to get moving. The man is dawdling along, a few meters away, as he packs his bike up.

“What do you need it for, huh?” You ask him, throwing your arms up in exasperation. “I’m not a Mandalorian. This little shit doesn’t need beskar. You have a full set of armor already.”

“Beskar belongs to me, to my people, by my Creed,” he says, articulating himself with his hands too. It’s a habit he’s picked up from you. “You wouldn’t ask a Tatooinian to deprive themselves of the moisture they farm.”

You put your face in your hands and groan. “No, you’re right, because they fucking need water to live. You do not need beskar to survive, Din!” You shout, getting off the speeder bike. “And please, forget I called us a family. We’re clearly just a bounty hunter and his… assistant, whatever the fuck I am, and some little kid we picked up for the ride.” You stalk off towards the building.

“Where are you going?” He asks as you turn.

Cobb is standing to the side somewhere, and you approach him. “You got another speeder? I don’t want to put up with him for the ride.”

The man chuckles and claps your shoulder. “Sure thing, pretty thing.” He wanders off and returns about a minute later with another speeder. Din watches the two of you in annoyance, visible from his rigid body language. “Hop on. You know how to drive?” You nod once and he heads to his own speeder. “I’ll lead. You two follow.”

-

The ride is uneventful at first. Cobb Vanth tells the two of you the story of how he came to be the town marshal, and Din nods his silent comprehension when the man in beskar looks over at him. Most of the stories are aimed at you, desperate to crack your stony anger. It doesn’t work. You stare straight ahead, daring to break your frown into a neutral expression when the little green baby coos excitedly at the wind in his ears.

There are valleys and caverns to navigate through, nimbly ducking and weaving on your speeder bike. The kid loves it, squealing happily when you fly over a bump or turn a sharp corner. It’s a joyride to him.

When Din and Vanth suddenly stop your ride, you panic, holding the child close against your chest. From your holster, you grab your weapon and stand next to the two men. The growling noises are revealed to be massiffs, huge dog-like lizards. You squeal in delight, immediately dropping to your knees and summoning the beast in Tusken.

“What in the hell is she doin’?” Vanth mutters to Din as the big animal comes bounding toward you.

“She’s always like this with animals. Thinks they’re all big puppies,” Din rolls his eyes but can’t help himself: he smiles beneath his helmet as the beast licks your face and you scratch its sides.

You’re such a wonderful person, Din sighs, even though he’s mad at you. You’ve always been amazing with other species, like massiffs and the little green child strapped to your chest. You’re so intelligent too: speaking seemingly endless languages.

“They are big puppies!” You coo and press a kiss to the forehead of one massiff. Another finds Din, who also bends down to give it scratches and attention. “Green bean, look!” You tell the child and put out his hand for the massiff to lick. “See? They’re our friends,” you tell him, admiring the way the little green child giggles at the scaly skin.

From around a corner, a Tusken appears, then several. You stand and lower your weapon, speaking to them first in their native language. “We mean no harm. You have beautiful massiffs,” you tell them then turn to Din and Vanth. “Drop the weapons.”

“Are you crazy?” Vanth shouts.

“We are here to put an end to the krayt dragon,” you explain to them in their language. “Your assistance and knowledge would certainly help us. You want it gone too, yes?”

They affirm you that it’s a yes, and you nod back at the men. You know Din understands. “They’re willing to help if you’ll stop being a douchebag.” Vanth starts to talk but you hold up a hand and cut him off. “I know, I know. We can strike a deal. Are you willing?”

Din’s heart is nearly exploding. In any other timeline, he’d be the one conducting negotiations, using his threat as a Mandalorian to run the show. But here you are, with your gentle nature, making deals and completing them through cooperation and kindness. It’s hard to speak in a soft tone when speaking Tusken, yet you can do it. All with a baby strapped to your chest. Maker, Din thinks, he might be in love with you.

Vanth sighs a few moments later. “Why the hell not?”

-

Din talks with the Tuskens for a while at the camp, planning and negotiating as night falls and the air starts to get cold. To entertain the child, you spend time with the banthas, brushing their fur and letting the baby get exposed to the animals.

The kid loves them. He coos happily as he strokes their thick fur, giggling as one of them gives him a kiss and covers him in slime. You wash him off and return, quietly talking with the Tuskens caring for the creatures.

You’ve taken a liking to them. They’re gentle and soft, like big lumbering puppies, really. They moo when you brush their fur just right, let their eyes slip shut when you scratch them between the eyes. You’ve always had a soft spot for animals, like Din said earlier.

Cobb likes you. That much is clear from the way he finds you when he’s not working with Din and the Tuskens, bringing you food and water as you and the child mind your business. He’s overly flirtatious, to the point of annoyance. He’s rude and crude about the Tuskens, calling them words you’d never use to describe a human.

Politely excusing yourself, you allow the child to run with some of the other Tuskens’ children and spot a silver-plated man sitting by the fire.

“Vanth is such a goddamn xenophobe,” you grumble as you sit down next to the fire with Din, the child off playing with some Tusken children. He’d ranted about the Tuskens as you rode with them, luckily in Basic so that the people couldn’t understand him.

“Thought you liked him,” Din says and cocks his head. “He certainly likes you.”

You roll your eyes and sip the canteen of water, looking at the crackling fire. “Those things are not mutually exclusive,” you chuckle, looking over at him. “What, are you jealous, tin can?” You tease and knock on his beskar pauldron.

“In your dreams, cyar’ika,” he teases. It’s clear to him that whatever tension had been between the two of you earlier has dissipated, enough for him to steal the water flask from your hand and pass it to the child as he toddles past.

“I was drinking that, you fucking bantha,” you laugh and smack him on an unarmored part of his arm. The Tatooinian desert gets cold at night, you find, and you pull into yourself a little more from the cold.

Din unclips his cape and drapes it over your shoulders, tucking it in beneath where your arms press against your ribs so that it wraps tight to your body. “Hm. You do have a heart under there,” you tease and sigh, naturally leaning against Din and resting your head on his shoulder pauldron.

“So it’s been said,” he nods and even dares to rest his head on top of yours. Through the bare spots in his beskar, he can feel the way your body radiates warmth into the chilly night. You spot a little green head toddling past again, much slower than the other children thanks to his tiny legs, and Din scoops him up.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur quietly, the roar of the Tuskens’ conversations creating a soft hum around you. “For what I said, when I yelled at you. You’re right. You really are just caring for them.”

He nods. “You don’t have to apologize.”

“I’m more sorry for saying we aren’t a family. I mean, we are, right? Not that we’re like, a couple or anything,” you say hurriedly, your voice low as you stumble over your words. “But you and this little womp rat…” you muse as you scratch the baby’s little green head. “You are my family. That much is clear to me.”

Din nods once more. “I agree.”

You smile up at him. “What’s going on under that bucket, huh?”

He turns, looking off. “Just going over the plans for how we’re going to get that krayt dragon.”

“Ooh, share,” you ask, taking one of his hands and lacing through his glove-covered fingers. “I didn’t mean it when we said all of this for some banthas, you know. I’ve really fallen in love with them lately.”

Din is quiet for a moment. He doesn’t answer. “Din?”

He knows you’re going to hate him for this. Your big heart, your animal-loving, sweet talking kindness is not going be okay with this, but he has to tell you the truth. “We’re going to have to sacrifice some of the banthas for this mission to work.”

“What?” You exclaim, dropping his hand. “You can’t possibly do that.”

“We have to. We need to lure the dragon.”

“Do it some other way!” You frown, looking over at the big soft desert cows. “Seriously, please, Din.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he shakes his head. “They’re not sentient.”

“But they can feel!” You exclaim again, standing. “Fuck this. Why don’t you sacrifice yourself to the krayt dragon and see how that feels?” You shout, storming off. You’re aware it’s childish, but you stomp to your tent and lie down. You close your eyes and hope Din doesn’t come to find you.

-

Of course you didn’t mean it. Of course you didn’t want Din to sacrifice himself to the krayt dragon. So why is he doing it? Why are you on your knees, screaming to the sky that he did exactly what you said?

You’d been avoiding him since that night, since you showed vulnerability and subsequently returned to anger towards the man. You’d wanted to apologize, but you couldn’t get over the sacrificing of the animals for the cause. You just couldn’t.

Din had flown straight into the sand dragon’s mouth, just seconds ago, and is now deep inside its bowels, you’re sure. You clutch the baby to your chest and wail, agonized and terrified. Vanth stands at your side, a hand resting on your shoulder as you wheeze and sob.

But this is Din. He must have a plan.  He has to have a plan; he’s a battle-worn warrior and you’ve never seen him lose a fight. You’d stormed off before you could hear the rest of his plans the other night- maybe this was part of it. But the way Vanth stares at the dragon in terror makes you think that maybe it isn’t. Maybe Din just really fucked it up. You set the little green kid in his cradle and stand, sniffling and clinging to the metal sphere as if it’s your last lifeline to Din.

Suddenly, there’s a burst of green goo and out flies a shining silver rocket: it’s Din. “Oh thank the fucking Maker,” you shout as he lands not far from your small group, the wailing and dying sand beast behind him.

He’s covered in slime, but you’ve never been so happy to see the man. You rush to him and throw your arms around him, not giving a single fuck as you jump on him. “Please, never fucking do that again,” you wheeze into his cape, getting yourself covered in slime.

The hug is not comfortable. Din is all beskar where you want to feel his strong body, but it’s all worth it when he wraps his arms around you too. You’re crying, he knows it, and he knows just why. “I didn’t do it because you said it. You know that, right?”

You let go of him, sniffling and wiping your eyes. “Yeah. I was just so scared- oh Maker, Din, I can’t fucking lose you,” you admit, freely crying now. “I love you, I really do, and I can’t-“

“How?”

You look at him in confusion.

“How do you love me?”

This damn man. He’s full of surprises, just getting literally eaten alive by a krayt dragon, and now he’s asking you for a full emotional confession. You’re still reeling from the shock, but the fact that he’s there is enough. You don’t care that Cobb is definitely listening over your shoulder. “Every way. All of them. Romantic, friendship, family. You feel like my home and I want to be with you.” No better time than now, you suppose, to admit this all.

Din walks a step closer. “Romantic. Huh.”

“I hate that fucking helmet,” you admit, trying to deflect the emotion between the two of you. “I can never see your face. Can’t know what you’re thinking, your tone, your-“

Din cuts you off. “We ride back to the village and clean up. Meet me in the home as the suns set.”

What that means, you have no clue, but you nod. “I’m so glad you’re safe,” you murmur, putting a hand on the cut-out cheek of his helmet.

-

The town rejoices when you come back, shouting and celebrating over the dragon’s death and the plentiful meat that came with the creature. You’d joined in the reverie, taking a shot of spotchka and chanting along to a Tatooinian call-and-response they’d started. It was wonderful, really, and you and the little green thing were the stars. They admired the little green thing, cooing over him. You were proud to stand there as his mother.

The party died as the suns set. Din was notably absent from the hubbub, preferring to be alone as usual. You and the kid talked with the villagers, but as the suns started to sink, you excused yourself and found your way to the spare home you and Din each had rooms in.

Vanth and the women had taken the baby when you told them you were going to talk with Din. Not that it was hard: they all loved the little beast, showered him with affection. It was practically a competition over who got to play with him most.

The building has a warm glow as you wander over to it, wrapping your arms around yourself. The night has become cold now that the two harsh suns have sunk below the horizon, and it’s a relief to open the door to the home and feel the warmth radiating from a fireplace inside.

You find Din staring out of a window on the back, watching the endless wind sweep across the sand dunes, a dark sky contrasting the golden ground. Just his silhouette is visible, black against the deep blue. “Hi,” you say quietly as you walk in, the worn floorboards creaking beneath your feet no matter how deliberately you step. “Glad to see you got cleaned up.”

The man tilts his head in an obvious eye roll, even through the helmet. The slime was disgusting, although Din’s adoptive son had seemed to enjoy the gooey texture, as little ones are prone to. “I almost died and you’re already back to the sarcasm.”

“It’s called a coping mechanism,” you laugh gently and place a hand on his shoulder. There’s no beskar there, just soft fabric warmed by his body. It makes you shiver; even in the safety of the Crest, Din never takes off the armor. You wonder why it’s gone. Maybe to clean it?

Din’s quiet for a moment, enjoying the feeling of your fingers splayed over his shoulder in such an affectionate gesture. “You know how much I trust you, don’t you?” He asks and the black visor turns toward you, admiring what’s visible of your face in the moonlight. Your eyes glimmer and he admires them, the color he’s always loved.

You nod and smile just a little, cheeks growing rounder with the movement. “Of course.” He’s trusted you with his son, the most important thing to him in the galaxy. There’s one clear gesture even now: the absence of the beskar from his form. Maker, he’s broad, shoulders just as wide as with the metal.

He nods and shuts the window’s shutters, allowing even less light in before turning to you. There’s just a soft glow in the room, outlining the shape of the helmet and his shoulders. You can’t see any detail, just the shape. He walks over towards the long comfortable seating in the middle of the room and you instinctively follow, standing in front of it and stopping when he stops, facing him. His hands find your shoulders and his fingertips brush down your arms until they find yours. “Take off my helmet.”

“What? No,” you exclaim, frowning even though he can’t see it.

“Can you see anything?” He asks, a hand gesturing, an even darker shadow through the already murky visibility.

“No.”

“My Creed says you cannot see my face. Not that I can’t remove the helmet.”

You gulp hard, your fingers lacing through his. They’re bare. You’ve never felt them before. Often you’ve wondered if they’re calloused and tough from his work, soft from being hidden beneath the soft leather for all those years, or somewhere in between. They do fall into that in between, but they’re warm and strong and large, even without the leather casing them.

“I can’t do that to you,” you shudder, squeezing his fingers. “It’s the very thing about you, that you can’t take it off,” you start to ramble. You want to, desperately, but there’s no turning back now. If you feel his face, if you’re even so lucky as to kiss him, you’ll never be able to get enough of it. You’ll be subjected to an eternity of longing, even more than you’re yearning now.

“I want you to,” he breathes, his beskar-covered forehead falling against yours. “Please, cyare.”

“Why don’t you hate me?” You ask, your voice straining. You need to keep stalling, need to keep pushing it off or you’re actually going to do it. “I’m so mean to you. All the time,” you point out to him. You do it to keep him away, but he’s persistent. He never seems to care. “All we do is argue.”

“I may not be able to use the Force like the kid,” he mumbles, bringing one hand up to cup your face. “But I can sense your feelings. You don’t hide them well.”

“Din,” you plead, biting your lip and closing your eyes to prevent the tears that are threatening to well in them. “You can’t do this.”

“I can, and I want to.”

“Why are you so fucking patient with me when I’m only ever a bitch to you?” You practically wail, half annoyed and half honored. “You’re such a good man, Din. You don’t deserve someone shitty like me. I’ve got no hunting skills, I’m too stubborn, I’m mean and-”

He stops you by lifting your hands, setting them on either side of his helmet. “You can’t see me, so it doesn’t break the Creed. I want you to do this, because I want you.” He’s eternally blunt, but in this moment you can’t tell if it’s breaking your heart or warming it. “I love you too. Please. Take it off.”

“This is your last fucking chance, Djarin,” you tell him with a wavering voice.

“Cyare.”

“Okay,” you nod and take a deep breath. Din unlatches the little bit at the bottom that keeps it sealed against his head, and there’s a soft rush of air. Your hands grip either side and you slowly lift it off. Din takes it once it’s gone and rests it on the plush seat.

Your hands are drawn to his face like you’re being pulled on a string, your skin prickling as you feel the stubble along his chin and jaw. Your fingers trace his face for a few moments, exploring the new terrain. His cheeks feel hot, and his lips make you shiver again with how soft they are. Swallowing hard, you dare to look at his silhouette, noticing his hair is mostly matted down from the helmet. “What color are your eyes, Din?”

“Brown.”

You smile at that, and you rest your head against his shoulder, your hands dropping to your sides. His arms encircle you and it feels perfect, like you were meant to be like this for all of eternity and it took you long enough. “Of course they are.”

He chuckles at that and presses a kiss into your head, his hands finding your waist. “I did take this off for a reason.”

You lift your head, looking at his just-visible shape. “Really? I don’t know what you mean,” you flirt.

He’s silent. You’re sure he’s rolling his eyes, absolutely certain. “May I kiss you?”

The words are ever blunt, just like Din. “Yes, you bantha,” you tease, but the laughter is gone as his hands find your face again.

Just like that, his lips are on yours, radiating heat and love and it immediately tops the feeling of his arms around you. You gasp, not expecting him to do it so quickly, but your lips quickly meld to his and you sigh in content.

You stay like that for a while, hands traveling each other’s heads and necks and shoulders and sides as you kiss. He’s so warm and strong, his muscles just as sculpted as the indestructible metal that covers him. He’s so human.

After a bit, Din breaks away and presses his forehead to yours once more. He doesn’t speak, just rests there, his hands on your waist. His breath mingles with yours. For once, you’re speechless, unsure of what you can say back. The sarcasm has been stripped from your body like the beskar from Din’s.

“I better put the helmet back on,” he murmurs.

“Please don’t,” you whisper, tucking your face into the curve of his neck. You sit on the couch and he follows, desperate not to lose your touch. “Just… we’ll stay like this.”

He nods. He can’t say no when you kiss his neck feather-lightly, when your skin is pressed to his like this. He hasn’t had contact like this in years. He’ll prolong it as long as he can.

You do stay like that, relaxed and curled into each other. His arm wraps around you and you curl into a ball, nestled into his side. It’s been a long day for Din, you know, but the depth of it occurs to you as his breathing slows and his muscles relax.

He’s fallen asleep in your arms. You press a soft kiss to his neck and set a timer on the wrist-comm you’re wearing, so that you’ll both wake while it’s still dark in the room. For now, he deserves his rest. His face nuzzles into your hair, and he gives a soft sigh in his sleep. Yes, this is exactly what the beskar warrior needed: rest and you.

-

taglist:

@remmysbounty @mishasminion360 @blo0dangel @binarydanvvers  @sleep-tight1 @apascalrascal @randomness501 @spideysimpossiblegirl @notabotiswear @pedro-pastel @sanchosammy @lv7867 @greeneyedblondie44 @hunnambabe @astoryisaloveaffair @emesispo @pedritobalmando @magikfanatic @a-court-of-feysand-and-elorcan @princess76179 @starless-eyes-remain @tacticalsparkles

[imkylotrash]

Golden

Pairing: Sky x reader

Requests: The reader is Stella’s sister but Sky is secretly in love with her and he confesses. Anonymous

and

Could you write where sky is with a princess of solaria (Stellas sister) and they attempt to keep it secret from Stella and set before the summer of the events on the fate the winx saga is set.

A/N I paired these request because they were so similar and would have the exact same plot line. Will be doing this to a couple of the requests since they’re so similar. 

“Free at last!” you exclaim as you walk out the doors of Alfea with Sky in tow. You’ve finally finished your last exam and now it’s time to just enjoy the summer. 

“So, what’s your plans then?” Sky asks propping his arm around your shoulders. There’s nothing new in this but you still get butterflies. At this point, it’s just a given whenever he touches you. 

“Oh, you know. Travelling through the realms, visiting all my rich friends. I may even buy a yacht just to pass the time.” It’s a bit of an inside joke between you and Sky. He knows you’ll have to return to Solaria and face the dragon. 

“What about you? Will you be alright?” You’re a little worried about leaving him here. Stella had decided to dump him just days before the exams once again proving that the girl had no regard for other people. Needless to say, you weren’t the biggest fan of your sister. She always tried to live up to your mother’s expectations and acted more than royally around school whereas you had decided that the disappointed frown your mother wore every time you saw her actually suited her face. 

“Yeah,” he says shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans, “I’ll be fine. I have Silva.” It’s right then and there you decide that there’s a greater need for you here than hiding away back in Solaria. 

“You know, my mother is already profoundly disappointed in me. I don’t think it would make much of a difference if I were to stay.” Sky’s smile is brighter than the sun when he realises you’ll be staying right here with him. 

“Thank you,” he says hugging you tightly. He’s never been one to share him emotions easily but over the years you’ve learned to decipher his many facial expressions and there was just no way you would leave him right now. Your mother is as delighted as you expected when you tell her of your plans for the summer but you figure she’ll forgive you at some point. The way you see it, there’s a throne waiting for you back at Solaria and you want to enjoy freedom as long as you possibly can. Sometimes, you catch yourself wishing that Stella was the older sister. She’d be much more suited for the royal life but there’s a strict code of conduct when it comes to heirs and you’re the first born so the crown will eventually be placed on your head.  

“You won’t be returning with me?” Stella asks as she’s packing up her suitcase. Her tone in stern already setting you off. 

“I’ll be spending enough time there once I graduate.”

“Oh yes. The ever-repeating speech on how this is your moment of freedom and you won’t give it up for anything,” Stella mocks clearly upset to be facing mother alone. You feel a pang of guilt knowing what you’re sending Stella back to but the two of you have never been able to see eye to eye especially when it came to mother’s expectations of her daughters. 

“You’re welcome to stay here at Alfea if you’d like.” It’s an offer made to be polite because you know she’ll never accept it. 

“Please. Someone has to be responsible and return home. Our people look to the royal family for support. We can’t all pretend to be someone else.” 

“I’m not pretending, Stella. If I could give you the crown, I gladly would. If I had my way, I’d be just another fairy attending Alfea.” It’s a discussion you’ve had more than once and it’s always the same outcome. You don’t want the crown and Stella does but your mother would never allow the two of you to switch. Stella doesn’t say goodbye when she leaves and you’re okay with that. Instead you head out to find Sky. 

“Ready for the summer of your life?” you ask him and he smiles. It passes by too fast. The picnics out on the field, Silva training with you, walks in the forest at night. It’s nothing grand but it becomes the perfect summer on the final day when Sky pulls you aside as all the students start to arrive. 

“I have to tell you something. I’ve been wanting to all summer but I was scared I might ruin it.” Your heart skips a beat but you tell yourself that it’s probably not what you think it is. Rather than making assumptions, you stay quiet waiting for him to speak. 

“When this summer started, I thought I’d spend it alone and heartbroken over Stella but then you stayed. And I know it seems insane since you’re Stella’s sister, but I just can’t help but feel the way I do around you,” he smiles. It’s too good to be true. There has to be some kind of catch or problem in your way but right now everything feels perfect. You carefully take his hand and intertwine your fingers with his and Sky’s cheeks turn red. He’s always so gentle and kind so you know you’ll have to make the first move. As you stare into his eyes, you notice little specks of green mixed with the blue. You finally close your eyes, lean in and kiss him. Something you’ve wanted to do since you laid eyes on him the first time. You pull away with a huge smile plastered on your face thinking this moment is perfect and then you spot her. 

“Stella.” Thankfully, she hasn’t seen you but it’s only a matter of time before she’ll spot the two of you. Hand in his, you drag him with you behind a tree keeping you out of sight. 

“Of all the things I imagined you’d say after our first kiss, Stella wasn’t one of them.” He’s teasing you but you feel horrible. Despite your many differences, you do care about Stella and it would kill her to know that you’re dating her ex-boyfriend. You’re not even sure if she’s properly done with him or not and just thinking about her finding out about the two of you is enough to make your skin crawl. 

“She can’t know,” you plead looking into his eyes. He has to understand the importance of it. She’s not strong enough mentally to handle this. 

“Hey, relax,” he says cupping your cheeks, “how about we keep it to ourselves until we know what this is?” You know you don’t want to give him up but you don’t want to hurt Stella. His offer gives you him and keeps Stella blissfully unaware of the relationship which is good enough for you. 

“Okay. Just you and me, no one else can know.” 

“Please just kiss me,” he whispers leaning in and you don’t know how you could ever refuse him. Over the next few weeks, you and Sky have stolen moments between classes and nights spent wrapped in each other’s arms. You know you shouldn’t but you love him. One night you whisper it when you think he’s sleeping and he almost gives you a heart attack when he whispers it back. 

“I thought you were sleeping,” you whisper-yell trying to hide your face in his chest. 

“You’ve been turning around every two seconds. It’s impossible to fall asleep,” he chuckles wrapping his arms tightly around you. 

“I’m sorry, I have a lot on my mind,” you sigh. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks turning on the lamp by his bedside table. It showers Sky in a golden light making him look more angelic than human. It’s not fair how some people look so beautiful without even trying. 

“Yes. No. Maybe. I don’t know where to start,” you reply sitting up and leaning your back against the wall. You want to tell Stella so you can be done with sneaking around. As much fun as it’s been, you’re getting tired of watching Stella try to flirt with him because she decided he was good enough after all. Of course, he’s been turning her down but it just doesn’t seem to click with her. But you also know it’s a risk telling her since she’s not likely to congratulate you. 

“I guess I’m just tired of sneaking around,” you finally say. He signals for you to lay down with him again and you have no reservation as you crawl into his arms. 

“I’m ready for it when you are. Frankly, I just want to tell everyone you’re mine so the boys leave you alone.” 

“Please, you literally have a whole fan club waiting for you at every corner giggling and blushing if you even look in their direction.” Sky has become very popular now that he appears single and you can’t blame them. He is ridiculously handsome and more importantly, he’s kind and patient and warm. Right about now, he’s your favourite person in the whole world. 

“I do not,” he protests but even he knows it is the truth. His face is serious when he says: “Maybe we should tell her. I know you wanted to protect her but we can’t hide it forever. You’re expected to marry at some point and so am I.” 

“I know. I know. I just feel like a horrible sister.” This feeling of guilt comes as a surprise. You’ve never been that close but you don’t want to be the reason she’s hurting. 

“You’re not a horrible sister. Everything you’ve done these past few weeks has been to make sure she didn’t get hurt. It’s not selfish to want to be happy, Y/N.” But that’s just it. You’re already far too aware of your own happiness. It’s the reason you always stay away from Solaria and the expectations of the crown. It’s why you’re lying in bed with Sky right now. You've always put your own happiness first and you’ve never had a problem with it until now. 

“I’ll talk to her first thing in the morning then.” He kisses you one last time before you both fall asleep. You wake up to a note from him informing you that Silva had added a morning practice which meant you had no reason not to march into Stella’s room right now and tell her about you and Sky. 

“Can I talk to you?” you ask entering Stella’s bedroom. 

“If you must,” she replies not even bothering to look at you. 

“I don’t know how to say this so I’m just going to say it. I’m dating Sky,” you force yourself to keep going even as she goes completely rigid, “and I have been for a while now. I’ve kept it a secret because I never meant for this to happen and I didn’t want to hurt you. But it’s getting serious now and I needed you to know. I promise I’d never ever go for him if I didn’t have feelings for him.” She’s quiet for so long you’re worried she might just never speak to you again. 

“I’m not happy you kept it from me but I suppose if he has to date someone else, it wouldn’t be horrible if it was you.” Relief floods your body as you realise that she’s not breaking and she doesn’t hate you. 

“Thank you.” This is about as heartfelt as it’ll ever be between you and Stella. You share a moment locking eyes with each other before she turns her back to you. 

“I’m going to go then,” you say slowly backing towards the door. Stella doesn’t say anymore but the fact that you’re still breathing is a much better reaction than you’d dared hope for. Immediately after you head to the training grounds to find Sky. Once you spot him, you run right into his arms and he lifts you from the ground. 

“I love you,” you say kissing him in front of everyone. It’s so freeing to know that the secret is out. 

“I love you too.”

[embrassemoi]

Surrounded by the Moon and Stars ✷ 26

Pairings: Sirius B, Remus L, [F]Reader   CW: Language, prejudice against MB, blood/injury, sexism A/N: as always, unbeta'd

【 Masterlist: Previous Chapter | Next Chapter 】

Chapter 26: Human Anatomy 

━━━━━━━━━༻✩༺━━━━━━━━━

May 4th, 1976

Following the Mary incident, there were two Death Eater attacks in Birmingham plastered all over the Daily prophet now clutched in everyone’s hand. Y/N watched from the sidelines as Lily gripped her copy so strongly that it began to tear where her fingernails were.

Distantly, she could hear Marlene and Dorcas attempting to distract them by fighting over the last Chocolate Frog. Y/N ignored them, her mood dampened from the news and played with her food idly. That was until she felt Sirius nudge her underneath the table, quietly placing the now stolen Chocolate Frog into her hand.

It was clear that she and Sirius reached a standstill. Ever since his outburst, he hadn’t been avoiding her — they still snuck around — but his witty and snarky comments were gone. He’d become more reclusive, shy, even, and couldn’t keep eye contact for too long. A few times, she even caught him entertaining other women and it caused her to stiffen up, laugh bitterly and chip away at any logic, reason — manifesting in irritation and resentment.

It was clear that she and Sirius reached a standstill. Ever since his outburst, he hadn’t been avoiding her — they still snuck around — but his witty and snarky comments were gone. He’d become more reclusive, shy, even, and couldn’t keep eye contact for too long. A few times, she even caught him entertaining other women and it caused her to stiffen up, laugh bitterly and chip away at any logic, reason — manifesting in irritation and resentment.

It was a game of cat and mouse and Y/N was the cat. So the gesture was surprising. She took it from him, smiling as she ripped open the package and split it into two, giving him the larger half. He gave a reticent smirk and went back to his desert.

Sirius Black was confusing.

She saw Remus had put down his copy of the prophet, who pressed his lips together to hide his amusement as he looked between the two. His brow rose; she looked anywhere but him.

It was nearing the end of dinner when James finally joined, just coming from his career consultation. He went over to Ravenclaw’s table first, talking admittedly with Emmeline before making his way over. He was uncharacteristically nervous as he sat down beside Y/N.

“Saved you a plate,” Peter greeted. A large plate of spaghetti hovered in front of him. Normally James would’ve dug in within seconds, but instead prodded at a meatball with his fork. Everyone noticed but ignored it.

“What took you so long?”

Sirius grinned. “I bet McGonagall was listing off the Quidditch teams that want him. Which one is it? Appleby? Puddlemere?”

“I call Ballycastle,” Marlene warned, “I want their spot!”

James remained quiet.

“Don’t tell us you’re going to live off your trust fund,” teased Remus, but it had a questioning tone.

James’s gaze flittered to Lily’s paper before he spoke.“They all reached out.”

Everyone gave a loud round of applause and cheers; Y/N ruffled his hair while Peter conjured one of the floating candles to explode into confetti.

“That’s amazing! Congratulations, Prongs! You deserve —” “I’m turning them down, for now.”

Everyone went still, smiles fading and utensils dropping.

Remus was the first to speak. His eyes glossed cautiously around the table before leaning in. “Want to go somewhere a little more private? To talk?”

James took a deep inhale, peering over to Mary’s empty seat. Still shaken up, Mary had been hiding away in her dorm. As Marlene liked to say, she was pulling a sickie, and nobody could blame her. Then James’ eyes strayed towards Y/N.

“I told McGonagall that I’m enlisting once school’s done.”

Peter placed a tentative hand on him, “What did you say?”

“Er… after everything that’s happened…” He took a deep breath, “I’ve been thinking… I don’t want to live in a world where the people I care about are judged — innocent people are being… slaughtered... I can’t — I can’t just sit here and let it happen! And the war won’t end — not unless people are there to fight.”

Lily ripped her newspaper as she snapped, “This isn’t the time for jokes, Potter. You can’t just say that and —”

“I’m not joking,” James states calmly yet firmly. “Quidditch can wait until the wizarding world is safe.”

Nobody spoke until Dumbledore dismissed dinner.

“I said the same to McGonagall,” Sirius added. Everyone’s head whipped towards him.

“Is this a sick plan you two haven’t told me about?” Remus scolded. His voice was laced in something Y/N couldn’t place but teetered on the edge of indignation.

Sirius shook his head. “No. Never mentioned it to him. It’s just… I want to fight people like… my… family.”

The phrase echoed in her head: my family… What did that mean?

“Then that’s what I’ll do too.” Marlene states.

Dorcas whipped her head towards her. “No, you won’t.”

“Potter’s got a point,” Marlene says. “What good will my influence — power and position I’ve got as a Pureblood do if I don’t put it to use? Besides, my brothers have all enlisted already. They help with the Ministry and Dumbledore.”

Y/N and Lily stayed quiet, both shared a look — the first time either made direct eye contact since their fight. It communicated worry and pure dread.

━━━━━━━━━༻✩༺━━━━━━━━━

May 14, 1976

“You pincushion. You’re going to break if you aren’t careful!” She’d been waiting outside the hospital wing for Remus who hobbled his way out with a pink flush.

The Marauders and girls were taking ‘partnering up’ seriously. The Marauders escorted any Muggleborns around the castle at night; James, Peter and Sirius using their blood status while Remus used his height and prefect title as leverage. Even Marlene made sure every first or second year was escorted safely too.

In particular, ever since the mention of enlisting and Mary’s attack, James and Sirius were ruthless — merciless to anyone that showed even the slightest allegiance to the other side. More hexes, jinxs and pranks ensued.

Remus tilted his head as his body shook with quiet laughter. “Just a tumble.”

“Clumsy giant.”

He ignored her, going to take her bag off her shoulder to carry.

“Now you’ve lost it — give it.”

“I’m fine,” he grunted, going to dangle the bag so she wouldn’t be able to take it. But Remus staggered forward a bit, having to stop walking and balance himself out. Y/N noticed, sighing as she linked her arm with Remus’, letting him lean against her for support as they walked.

He did seem peaky, she worried, he waved it off. The Marauders did say he’s ill…

“Are we picking up Butterbeer?”

“Mary and Marlene are getting it.”

“Oh… Mary… How is she?”

Y/N sighed as they turned and left through a secret passageway and into the yard. Today was the last Quidditch game of the year. “I’m not sure… we’re not exactly close and Marlene refuses to spill.”

“I’m glad she’s… okay — out and about. What about you?”

“Me?” She turned to Remus.

“No one has tried to hurt you, have they?”

“Nope.” Best to lie.

Remus loosen up at that. His head tilted to hear her clearer, body hunched over as if he’s trying to get closer.

His soft messy curls were strewn messily around like he just rolled out of bed. “Do tell if someone does. I know you can defend yourself but we all need to be there for each other.”

“Of course. You too?” He hummed.

The hot sun beat down against them as sweat began to form on her forehead. Remus wore a light sweater — just by looking at him, he made her feel uncomfortably warm.

“You’re not hot?” Y/N asked.

He dropped his head a bit and a sudden far-away look filled his eyes. “Erm — not really. I just prefer it.”

She instantly felt bad from his reaction. “Well, at least you look dashing.”

He nodded, smiling before making grabby hands. Y/N glanced sideways, already fishing out her cassette player from her pocket.

“All you do is use me for this thing.” “Hush.”

They walked together down the path, arm in arm, over bumps and dips. Both laughing at the other before Y/N noticed a fairly large ball of black trailing on the edge of the Forbidden Forest. It was as tall as Flitwick and as long as Marlene’s broom.

Y/N felt herself stop, pulling away from Remus who was about to open his mouth. A rush of excitement filled her. “Is that a dog?!” She already let go of Remus, motioning him over as she dashed off into its direction.

The dog must’ve heard her footsteps before she came to a stop in front of it. Now, slowly walking up, her hand stuck out and waited for the dog to approach.

“Hi there, buddy!” She smiled largely as the dog sniffed her. There was the slightest hesitation before its head rubbed against her hand, moving happily as its tail wagged. Its head bowed, presenting its neck as a sign of submission. It even nudged her. She rubbed the side of the dog’s body. Its fur was shaggy, matted with a bit of dirt which had her nose wrinkled.

Remus eventually appears, watching them but once the dog notices him, it goes rigid, pulling away from Y/N, even going as far to growl at her. Although it’s weak, she still rips her hands away as the dog keeps its gaze on Remus.

“No! Please come back?”

The dog stopped growling, letting her pet him again but bared its teeth to Remus. Remus doesn’t seem to care as he watches the scene intently, a smirk crosses.

“I didn’t know Hogwarts had a dog!” Y/N scratches behind its ears. “You must be Kettleburn’s, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, he’s been around,” said Remus.

“Oh yeah? You seem like such a good boy!” Y/N then stands, picking up a stick before waving it, throwing it far. The dog bolts to retrieve it. “Why didn’t you tell me there was a dog?”

“I’m more of a cat person.”

The dog comes dashing back, stick in mouth as it runs circles around her. She goes to bend down, fingers gliding through its matted fur before getting caught. “You’re kind of disgusting.”

The dog looks at her, its eyes adjusting to open wider while Remus bursts out laughing. Y/N glances at him, questioning his unusual behaviour before reaching to grab the stick from its mouth. She transfigured it into a dog brush and went to work.

"... Kettleburn has really been neglecting you."

Remus’ hands go up to wipe his happy tears before dropping down to sit beside her. She can even feel his body shake with laughter. “You sure you don’t want to leave this mutt be?”

The dog growls at him, Y/N giggles.

“I don’t think he likes you much.”

His face level with the dog. “Don’t like him either.” The dog barks and Remus practically howls.

“So…” he has a sly smirk that tells her he’s up to no good. The light catches onto his eyes, glinting with golden specs like they were infused in him. “You and Padfoot have been chummy lately.”

The wagging tail halts and Y/N stops combing as they both stare at him. The dog pulls away from her grasp and growls at Remus. This time, it’s guttural and deep, sounding like a warning and losing its playful tone.

“I — ugh —” She falters, mentally slapping herself. “We’ve been getting along since Oats. Studying, spending time together… I got tired of fighting.”

“Mmm, I bet.” His voice is condescending. “I heard you want to be a Healer.”

“Yeah?”

“Say then, do you guys study —” The dog goes and bites down on his jeans, tugging harshly, drawing her attention but Remus continues to study her.

“Look at me, not at him,’” he says cockily. He leans in a challenging manner that has her flustered. He repeats, “Do you guys study… I don’t know… human anatomy?”

The dog barks madly — so loud that they’re getting stares from passing students. Y/N swore she could’ve died there while Remus bellows with laughter: his question answered. She bolted up, remaining silent and marched away from him who hobbled behind her, yelling out false apologies.

━━━━━━━━━༻✩༺━━━━━━━━━

Gryffindor, unsurprisingly, had another amazing win against Ravenclaw. James had improved as Captain drastically — confident with his position and team. Marlene improved too, she was almost as fast as the Snitch itself and never let a single Bludger slip past her while James scored goal after goal.

She and Remus still stuck by each other, walking down the rickety wooden stands as they observed the sea of red robes swarming the pitch. James pulled Emmeline into a kiss before he was holstered up by the Gryffindor team. Sirius was cheering him on while Peter was missing, having to leave right after the match for detention.

James then glanced back, along with Marlene, who waved while the two students grinned widely, sticking their thumbs up, fist-pumping in the air as a sign of congratulations.

But it wasn’t long until trouble came their way. Y/N wasn’t sure how Remus knew, but he suddenly went mute, his head perked up and swivelled around. In a fluid motion, he grabbed her wrist, pulling her flush against him; his hand wrapped around her protectively as he shifted his body to cover her and then bucked down; just before a Bludger came barreling their way.

Remus whipped his wand out, pointing at the Bludger that was hurling back, turning it into a balloon.

“The fuck?” Remus breathed out.

From where they stood, they were obscured by the shadows and wooden stands. The crowd couldn’t see them and the Gryffindor team was too occupied to notice. Cackling sounded from one of the exits. It was Crabble, Snape and two other Slytherin’s she didn’t know the names of.

“How cute! Ickle Lupin protecting his Muggle bitch!” Crabble said, flashing a dark smile.

“What did you call me!” Y/N shrieked, still in Remus’ hold before he finally let go.

“Watch what you’re saying,” Remus cautioned, voice dropping low. He stood tall as waves of authority emitted from him while he held his wand tightly, stepping in front of her. His broad shoulders squared. “Thirty points from Slytherin. You don’t want detention, do you?”

“That’s all you got? House points?” Snape taunted. “Loopy Lupin — acting tough in front of his girl.”

“Heard she’s fucking Potter,” the Slytherin said. He had blue eyes and dirty-blond hair.

“I heard differently,” the other nameless Slytherin blurted. He licked his lips in a snake-like motion. “Have you seen the way she and Black are around each other so much now? A Mudblood and a whore!”

She drew her wand.

“Aw, trembling itty, bitty baby!”

“That’s enough, Barty,” drawled Snape. Barty held his wand, toying with it before he lifted his wand, ready to cast a spell.

“Expelliarmus!” Remus shouted at him. Barty’s wand flew from his grasp but wasn’t lucky before the unnamed boy shouted, “Levicorpus!”

Instantly, Remus was grabbed by the ankle, hauled up into the air. Y/N saw him wince, all his belongings thudding to the grass.

“Aw, Rosier,” Snape said coolly. He took a few steps in a twitchy manner, “Stop playing with the poor mutt!”

But before the Slytherins had an opportunity, Y/N shot a spell at Remus, floating him down gently while Snape and Crabble directed a spell at her.

“Protego!” She cried as an invisible shield expanded between her, Remus and the Slytherins. The barrier was so powerful that they all stumbled as Remus went to retrieve his wand.

“Lupin can’t even protect himself! You had to let a girl do it too!” Crabble shouted.

“A Mudblood and a Half-breed! A match made in heaven.”

Angrily, Remus stood, a black ball of light shot out from the tip of his wand at the feet of the Slytherins. A small boom rumbled the ground, sparks of fire emitting but not enough to start a fire. They jumped back and Snape threw another spell.

“Ad sectis!”

Y/N barely had time to block it as a gust of wind knocked them back. It wasn’t a spell she knew of. Remus sent another hex at them but was blocked.

“Dangerous bloke, that Loopy Lupin,” Snape jeered, directing his words at Y/N while the Slytherins laughed. “You ought to be careful who you run around with. Let alone your boyfriend.”

“Shut up!” Remus shouted. “Shut the fuck up!”

“Where do you think he goes every month?” Snape taunted before backing up from them, rejoining the other Slytherins who left, all bellowing, “AHH-WOOOO!”

The reverberation from Remus’ spell drew the Marauder’s attention as they arrived. James saw them, marching up side by side with Emmeline and Sirius. He wore a large smile as he pressed several kisses to the side of Emmeline’s head. “Whiskers! Moony! Did you see that score!”

Remus and Y/N breathed in deeply, dazed and shocked. Remus stumbled over but she clutched his arm to keep him upright.

“Don’t listen to anything they said,” implored Remus.

“Wait… James,” Emmeline said, “I don’t think somethings right.”

“Moony, you’re awfully pale…”

“Shit! Are you guys bleeding?”

Y/N’s eye travelled to a large slash that travelled up Remus’ jaw and leg, blood seeping out at an alarming rate but the cut was shallow. Y/N in turn only then realized the damp liquid was now travelling down her arm. Her arm was also slashed, not deep, but the amount of blood was concerning.

All their voices began chatting over the other as the girls arrived by now; Dorcas rushed up to Y/N, prying Remus off of her as James and Sirius took Remus and sat them on a nearby bench.

“— happened?”

“— Y/N — Remus —”

“Lift your leg —”

“— get to the wing —”

“Merlin’s beard!” Lily shouted. “Give them some space!” Her eyes were on Remus but shifted to Y/N. Hesitantly, Lily walked up to her and bent down in front of her but still kept her distance.

“Okay, we need to get you patched up.” James stood, looping an arm around Remus and stood up.

Marlene rubbed her shoulder while Lily spoke, both James and Sirius doing the same for Remus. “Would you like us to come?”

She shook her head as the girls reluctantly left, but clutched Lily’s wrist as she stood. In a small voice, she asked, “Stay?”

Lily nodded her head and bid her goodbyes with the girls.

“Right, okay. I’ll see you later?” James said to Emmeline who pressed another quick peck to her cheek. Instead of the hospital wing, Remus asked, and was very adamant, about being brought to his dorm where they hauled in Y/N and Lily.

Sirius managed to get the bleeding to stop and worked on Remus before going to patch up Y/N who sat in James’ bed. The curtains were drawn just close enough for them not to be seen while Lily and James feverishly spoke to Remus.

“Ah!” She hissed as Sirius wrapped her arm carefully. Her free hand went to grip on his arm and he looked up at her apologetically.

“M’sorry — and we’re done.” Sirius tosses a quick smile, “You did amazing.” Sirius placed his material to the side and went to hold her hand gently. “What happened? Don’t you dare tell me a lie because this is serious.”

“I thought you were Sirius.” That joke never got old

Sirius broke out into a grin before it quickly vanished again. “Who did this?” He urged voice hardening yet kind. “Please, trust me.”

And she did.

Y/N reluctantly retold the story. Sirius went stiff. She grabbed his arm to bring his attention back to her. “Don’t do something that’ll make it worse. Don't you dare go looking for revenge. Promise me.”

He nodded his head but looked conflicted. At the same time, James pulled back the curtains; Y/N ripped away.

She looked around the room. “Where’s Lily?” “I told her to leave,” Remus cuts in. “I didn’t think that she would’ve liked to hear about the Snape part.”

Her eyes locked with James who wore the same expression as Sirius; he knew. And so she repeated herself, enunciating every word to the boys. “Don't. You. Dare go looking for revenge.”

[haus-seeblick]

Suptober Day 3: Rainbows

Title: We’ve Got Your Back, Jack

Rating: General Audiences

Word Count: 1,660

Tags: Mild (brief) Angst, Dean Winchester and Castiel are parents, De-aged Jack Kline (he did it to himself), Jack Kline is twelve, Fingernail painting as therapy, Claire is an excellent big sister, Established Castiel/Dean Winchester, Canon Divergence from 15x18 (twelve years later), Jack has a guinea pig named Nougat

Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Claire Novak/Kaia Nieves, Background Sam Winchester/Eileen Leahy

On AO3 Here

When Jack is teased at school for wearing his favorite rainbow jacket, his family comes together to help build him back up.

“Sunshine, you gotta calm down.” He moves to stand behind Cas where he’s sitting at the kitchen table and squeezes his shoulders reassuringly. There’s hardly any give; Cas is a single ball of tension.

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

Dean sets a steaming mug of tea in front of Cas, who glares at it with such intensity that Dean’s surprised it doesn’t shatter on the spot.

“I can’t calm down,” Cas growls. “He was bullied. The sweetest boy in the world, and they made him feel small. How are you calm, Dean?”

Dean sighs and pulls up a chair. “He seemed fine, Cas. I mean, he is God. He was already talking about changes he wants to make once he comes back into power.”

Cas grips his mug and takes an abrupt, angry sip. “I wish he could make them now.”

“Me too, buddy. But he’s learning. Every shitty person he deals with, he learns something. That’s why he’s doing this whole human thing, remember?”

The kitchen’s quiet for a moment while Cas contemplates. He cups his hand over the tea, steam escaping between his fingers in lazy tendrils. “It’s just my instinct to shield him from cruelty.”

Dean nods. He scoots closer, sliding an arm around Cas’ warm, solid waist. “I know.”

Some of the rigidity in Cas’ posture softens and he leans into Dean’s side. Dean presses a kiss to his temple.

“What can we do?” Cas asks quietly. “For now. I want him to feel happy at school.”

Dean hums thoughtfully. “Not sure. The school already talked to the other kid's parents, so that part’s taken care of, and Jack said it was just the one boy. I think we just gotta be there for him. Remind him he’s awesome.”

“I just want to wear my rainbow coat.”

Dean and Cas turn around to see Jack standing in the doorway, rubbing his eye. He’s wearing the bee-patterned pajamas Cas got him for his twelfth birthday in the spring, and is cradling his guinea pig, Nougat, in one arm.

Cas immediately stands up and beckons Jack over. “You couldn’t sleep?”

Jack shakes his head, as earnest and deliberate as he does everything. He pads across the kitchen and hands Nougat to Dean before sitting down in Cas’ empty chair. It took Dean a while to get used to the guinea pig, to her sharp nails and shrill squeaks, but now he likes having her warm little body against his chest.

Cas flips the kettle back on to make Jack a cup of tea, too. “Did that boy’s teasing start with your coat?”

Jack plays with the strings on his pajama pants and nods. “I don’t understand. When he said those mean things and laughed, he felt—” Jack pauses, blinking thoughtfully at the ceiling. “He felt afraid, like he was cornered. Defensive.”

“His emotions must have been strong for you to sense them,” Cas says gently, pouring the steaming water into Jack’s favorite mug, a blue one with a big sun on the side. Dean slowly strokes a finger over Nougat’s soft brown head. His chest feels tight.

“Yes, they were. I feel bad that he’s scared,” Jack continues. “And I’m going to work on helping people like that when Amara gives me my powers again. But I also just want to wear my coat.”

He’s twelve, Dean thinks. He’s God, and he’s twelve.

“You’re gonna wear your coat, kiddo,” he says, bumping Jack’s foot with his own. “That other kid, it sucks that he’s hearing shitty stuff at home. And it’s not your fault that he took it out on you. Trust me. If you wanna go to school decked out in rainbows, we’ve got your back.”

Cas nods and crouches down next to Jack, handing him his mug. “Dean is right. Our priority is helping you be yourself and be happy during your time as a human.”

Jack shuffles his feet a little. He cups his hand over the mug just as Cas had done. “Um, in that case, can I ask something?”

“Yes, of course,” Cas says.

“Well, my friend Mallary likes painting her nails. They look so cool. But she said boys don’t usually do that.”

“And you’d like to,” Cas prompts. His eyes meet Dean’s for a moment.

Jack nods. “Rainbow.”

Dean stands up, cradling Nougat snug against his chest as the guinea pig emits a startled squeak. “Well, then, you’re gonna have rainbow nails. I know just who to call.”

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

Claire sweeps into the house the next morning — Sunday — in a whirlwind of hair and shopping bags. Even though they heard her coming all the way up the driveway, swearing and dropping things, it’s always a shock when she bursts through the door. Kaia follows quietly, with a fondly exasperated smile on her face. She rolls her eyes at Dean and he stifles a laugh.

Claire stomps into the living room and dumps her mountain of bags onto the couch. “Hi, old men. Where’s my brother?”

“Hello, Claire,” Cas says, lips quirking. “I see you’ve come quite prepared.” He’s leaning in the doorway to the living room, arms crossed, an old t-shirt of Dean’s stretched over his broad shoulders. From his perch on the couch, Dean lets his eyes roam appreciatively; Cas has been ageing ever since he returned from the Empty a human, and the years look good on him. He even has a bit of silver in his wild hair. Twelve years together, and Dean still can't believe his luck.

“Yeah, well, Dean calls me saying my baby bro needs a confidence boost, I’m gonna go all out.” Claire starts emptying the bags onto the coffee table. “I brought every color I could find.”

As if on cue, Jack appears in the doorway next to Cas. His hair is still rumpled from sleep but his eyes are shining, taking in the rows of nail polish that Claire is lining up on the table.

“Wow, is that all for me?” He practically bounces into the room and sits cross-legged on the floor, picking up a blue bottle.

Claire ruffles his hair, disheveling it even more, and sits down next to him. “Hell yeah. And for your dads, too.”

Dean blinks. “Uh— you want us to— yeah, that idea was for Jack, actually.”

This time it’s Kaia’s turn to stifle a laugh, and Dean shoots her a dirty look. Cas chuckles and pushes off the doorframe to join Dean on the couch. He takes Dean’s hand in his own and lifts it up, lightly stroking one finger at a time as he looks at the short, blunt nails. Dean may work hard at the garage, but he’s hygienic and doesn’t bring any grease home, under his nails or otherwise.

Now, he blushes a little as Cas brushes a kiss onto his knuckles. “Dean will look beautiful. Just like Jack.”

Jack whoops and shoots Dean a dazzling smile. Dean can’t really say no to that face.

It’s decided that Kaia will paint Jack’s nails rainbow, a different color on each nail (Jack insists that some should have polka dots, too), and that Claire will do Cas’ and Dean’s. Dean tries to ask for just black, like Baby, but gets shouted down by everyone in the room and grudgingly agrees to a dark green. When Claire is done wiping down his nails and applies the first brush of color to his thumb, he has to admit it looks nice.

Jack keeps exclaiming in delight every time Kaia starts on a new color, and nearly loses it when she reveals that she got some tiny glittery stars to sprinkle on the drying polish.

“It looks like a galaxy,” he breathes, eyes wide, moving his fingers gingerly in the light from the window. Dean glances at Cas, who’s getting his nails painted a holographic blue, and is surprised to see a bright sheen in Cas’ eyes as he watches Jack. He’s smiling softly. Dean reaches over (careful of his own drying nails) and lays a hand on his shoulder. Together they watch their kid — sort of God, sort of not — reclaim his happiness one sparkly fingernail at a time.

Once everyone’s clear coat polish is dry (Dean had no idea there were so many steps involved), they take a bunch of pictures to send to Sam and Eileen. Dean almost considers hiding his own hands, but Jack’s gazing at him so excitedly that he splays them on the table next to Cas’ without a second thought.

They do look cool. Sam even says so in his text, after a string of heart-eye emojis.

Claire and Kaia head out after lunch (Cas quietly packs up about half of the nail polish they brought, pressing it into Kaia’s hands to take back home with them). Jack spends the rest of the afternoon picking out a suitably colorful outfit to match his nails at school tomorrow.

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

“This was a wonderful idea, Dean. Thank you,” Cas says that evening as they’re back at the kitchen table, Cas nursing his usual mug of tea and Dean packing Jack’s lunches for the week. “He was so happy. I hope he’ll be okay tomorrow.”

Dean slides the last sandwich into the fridge and lays his hands back on Cas’ shoulders. They’re warm and pliant tonight. He digs his fingers in, leaning down to kiss Cas’ cheek.

“He’ll be okay. He knows we’ve got his back.” He’s quiet for a moment and runs a hand through Cas’ thick hair, following a silver strand with his shiny-green thumb. “That counts for a hell of a lot.”

Cas twists around, covering Dean’s hand still on his shoulder with his own and gazing up at him. “You are a good man, Dean Winchester. A good man and an excellent father.”

Dean sucks in a big breath. “All right, sunshine. That’s about all the feelings I can handle today.” He grins down at Cas, though, just to assure him he’s fine.

And he is.

[oinkz]

bound to you

— you share an umbrella with your ex, oikawa. (gn!reader)

— angst, harassment (not by oikawa or the reader), light fluff, 3.5k words, very experimental so i apologize if it’s a bit.. messy

A dark cloud from outside the classroom window stretches across the canvas of the sky, its presence mighty and foreboding. Any minute now, it could start pouring, and that known fact is making it more and more difficult to focus on your calculus test as time lets on.

Just one more question. That’s it. And then, you can finally speed home, tend to your aching head, and take a nap, even. After the awfully long day you’ve had, you think you deserve it.

It was a cliche sort of day, not completely terrible, but it still rendered you exhausted nonetheless. You had woken late, skipped breakfast, ran into someone who was holding an iced coffee in their hand, and then strutted the school parameters in a very obviously stained uniform. (In the end, you’re just glad that the coffee wasn’t scorching hot.)

You had wanted to return home immediately after the last bell rang, but you needed to make up a test you were absent for last week. This brings you to now, in the midst of the very last question. 

With whatever wisdom and knowledge you can muster, you power through, tapping through your calculator and recalling that god-forsaken unit circle.

What even is a unit circle? You wouldn’t know, you’re merely doing enough to pass.

All you know is that one, this test wasn’t as bad as you thought it’d be (thank goodness for that) and two, you didn’t have enough time to check the weather this morning. Of course, the one day you failed to check is the day the weather gods decide to hurl you with a storm.

You had forgotten your umbrella. And once you complete this math problem, you’ll have to end your school day in the most cliche way possible - with the walking through pouring rain after a particularly hard day. You see it all the time in movies and books. 

‘Life imitates art,’ they say. And it sure does.

You don’t take long before you can input your final answer to the calculator and write it down on your paper. You even box the number in, making it nice and pretty for the teacher to read through your messy work. Maybe it’s to be generous for the sake of being generous - you know, to make your teacher’s job a little easier. Or maybe it’s to lend some good karma your way, in hopes of postponing the upcoming storm for another thirty minutes. You’re a little desperate, to say the least.

“Done?” 

Speak of the devil. Your head shoots upward to find said teacher.

You merely nod, handing her the paper.

Then, you’re on your own for the remaining minutes in school. You wish your teacher a good evening, and then wander through the empty halls to find your locker.

5pm is a quiet hour for Aoba Johsai. At this point, most students have made their way home - even the ones with extracurriculars. It was a little unsettling when you first stayed late, but you’ve grown used to it.

Long were the days when you would stay in the gym till late evening to help the boys in the volleyball club. They’re memories you wish you could look at bitterly, but you simply can’t. Because in the end of the day, you were happy. So happy.

But just because it was happy, doesn’t mean it was meant to be.

You take a sharp breath inwards, hoping to put an end to this - this reminiscing. You’ve moved on now, and you’re okay. Everything is just dandy without them. Without the supposed love of your life.

You’re taking books out of your locker when you hear it - the small roar of thunder and heavy pitter patter of pouring rain. For the tenth time today, a sigh falls from your mouth. Certainly, you’re not surprised, but it still sucks nonetheless.

You just want one good thing to happen today. One.

Now, you stand at the school entrance, a low frown weighing down the corners of your lips.

There’s no avoiding it - you have to get home somehow... but still. Mother Nature can be so, so cruel. Was it not enough that you walked around school with a dark coffee stain on your blouse?

You’re so busy moping that you don’t see the painfully familiar presence quietly making his way beside you, a subtle, yet adoring smile on his lips.

“What are you waiting for?” He wonders, staring at the sky alongside with you, eyes genuinely curious.

Your heart stops for what feels like minutes.

Because you know that voice. Everyone does, but especially you.

It’s the same voice that lulled you to sleep when insomnia was eating you away. The one you’ve heard sing far too many times thanks to those long gone karaoke nights. The one that whispered ‘I love you’s into your ear when you felt completely, and utterly alone.

That voice.

“It’s raining,” you reply bluntly, wanting to end this conversation as soon as possible. It’s not because you hate him per se - in fact, it’s quite the opposite. But you would rather not be anywhere close to him. 

“Where’s your umbrella?” He asks. It’s a simple question, but it’s so perceptive. Just like him. 

Of course he remembers how you always check the weather every morning. Of course he remembers how you had always - without fail - remembered to bring an umbrella. 

You hate the hope that swells up in your stomach. And you so badly want to hate him, too.

“I—“ You start, shakily. “It’s been a long day.” 

He hums. Whether it’s in agreement, or to say he can tell, you’re not sure.

“C’mon then.”

Dumbfounded, you’re not sure what “c’mon, then” even means. You hope he’s not implying...?

Reluctantly, you look over to him, and he’s waving an umbrella in his hand.

Oh, no. You can’t.

You shake your head rapidly. “It’s okay, really—“

“Please?” his voice is painfully quiet.

He’s practically begging for you to look him in the eye.

And who were you to resist? He’s always been difficult to say no to. 

You know that more than anyone.

So, when Oikawa makes his way outside, opens his umbrella, and gestures for you to get under...

You do, despite the pure melancholy that swallows you whole.

One year ago.

You don’t remember how it got to this point. Had you known that dating someone would have so many consequences, you would’ve been a little more careful with your feelings.

Falling for Tooru was easy, but terribly dangerous. You learnt this the hard way.

What started out with cute little love notes adorned all over your locker ended with handwritten threats telling you to.....

You can’t even think about it because it had brought tears to your eyes the first time. You’d think one insulting note about your appearance was enough, but it had worsened - even when you were trying hard to stay optimistic. Soon enough, you had to take jabs about your skills, your mannerisms, and little by little, they became daily reminders of how every single thing about you will always fall short compared to your beloved, Tooru.

“.... I can’t do this anymore,” You say, your voice barely above a breath.

Oikawa’s limbs immediately lock in place. He looks up and sees the sad look in your eyes, the way they glisten with tears. No, no, no...

“Surely, you don’t mean...?” He can’t even finish his own sentence, because the thought is too scary.

But somehow, you finish for him. Just like you’ve always finished each other’s sentences, you’ve managed to finish this one, too. Except it doesn’t make him laugh and kiss your lips in utter adoration. This time, it’s gut-wrenching.

“Yes, I want to break up, Tooru.” Your words are firm and sure, but you... you are anything but.

Tooru has to prevent this somehow, but he’s not sure how. 

How do you tell someone to stay?

When staying risks their safety?

When staying puts them in pain?

As out-of-worldly as his skills may be, Oikawa Tooru is only human. You have brought him too much joy for it just to end like this.... With some nobody who can’t keep their jealousy to themselves. And despite the pain you’re going through, he wants you to stay.

So, he brings his hands up to your cheeks, taking you in in your entirety.

“Y/n...” He pleads with his eyes, and it’s the most desperate you’ve seen him. Perhaps it’s because deep down, he knows he’s being selfish.

You swallow the lump in your throat, unable to form the right words in your mouth. Silently, you wrap your arms around his waist, so painfully slow, as if it was the last time you were going to hold him. As if to say sorry.

Sorry for what? You never did anything wrong.

He doesn’t bother to hug you back, because if he does, he’ll lose. Hugging you back will mean he’s also saying goodbye, and he’s not. He’s only just getting started with you. “We can’t...”

“We have to,” You force out, and he hates how absolutely rigid your words come out to be.

He shakes his head in denial. “No, we don’t.”

Your patience is running thin at this point. Because in truth, you tried. You always had, for him.

When the first note came, you didn’t tell him until weeks later. For months and months, you had put on a front to save his feelings and yours. At the time, pretending seemed like the best option.

But it wasn’t, because little did you know, pretending was a gateway to even more issues you had no idea was taking root in you. At this point, you’re not sure if you even know yourself anymore.

If you can’t understand yourself, does Tooru? Does he really love you, or does he just love the facade you put on?

Whatever the answer is, it doesn’t matter, because either way, you’re tired and in dire need of some healing. As terribly cruel as it may be, breaking up and focusing on yourself is truly the only way to be okay again. You may not be okay right now - if anything, the pain is excruciating - but the time will come. You have that much hope, at least.

“Yes, we do, Tooru,” you push onwards, pulling away from your embrace with a deep and sad frown tainting your features. “I love you - I really do - but I can’t keep pretending everything is okay. Those notes hurt, but that’s just the least of it... I just... need to be alone.”

“I’m sorry,” you finish with a sigh. He can’t even bring himself to ask why, because next thing he knew, you were out the door, making your way back home.

But what even was home at that point? Tooru was yours. Yet somehow, the foundation of love and passion wasn’t enough to keep it afloat.

Now.

“How are you?”

These are the first words that are spoken after ten long minutes of silence. Tooru - no, Oikawa is uncharacteristically awkward as he says them.

You’re not sure how to respond.

Had it been anyone else, you would’ve bluntly replied with a “fine”, but the question catches you off guard. When was the last time Oikawa Tooru asked you how you were?

So, so long ago.

It was never ‘how are you’ with him, but rather, ‘do you think aliens are real’ or ‘would you ever date an alien’. Or even, ‘do you know how much I love you’ or ‘what kind of house do you want to live in in the future’.

How did someone so near and dear to you become such a stranger?

You huff out a sigh, stopping your train of thought before it wanders off to somewhere it shouldn’t be.

“I’m okay,” you answer, holding back your tongue. You don’t even bother to ask ‘how are you’ back, because if you did, he’d probably answer with something so blunt and distant, you wouldn’t know how to react.

Yet, somehow, he doesn’t. Instead, he prods further, practically forcing a conversation on you. You’re not sure whether your thankful for it, or if it bothers you. No one likes an awkward silence, anyway.

“Do you still take the same way home?” He asks curiously, but his eyes are far-off, trained on the droplets of water that surround you two.

You furrow your eyebrows. What kind of question is that? “Yes. Why wouldn’t I?”

He shrugs. “I dunno. I found a shortcut one day.”

He did?

How did he just find a shortcut? Out of nowhere, too?

“I know what you’re thinking.” He sighs, but it’s not out of irritation - at least, not towards you. “But I just.... one day, I was just walking around town and at the time, I was still hung up on you.”

“... So you found a shortcut to my house while that happened?”

“Yeah, basically,” he laughs at how foolish he sounds. Why is he even saying this?

“You can’t just tell me that,” you say, a little too coldly for his liking. “We broke up.”

“You broke up with me,” he argues, and you swear, somehow, the rain gets louder. “I wanted nothing to do with it. Y’know, I would’ve heard you out if you just talked to me. We were best friends, y/n.”

“I’m sorry, okay? Is that what you want to say?” You stop in your tracks completely. “I know that at the time, I should’ve let you speak, but rationality doesn’t matter when you get daily notes telling you how ugly you are. I just needed it to end, somehow.”

Oikawa stops in his tracks, too. You’re no longer under the umbrella with him, instead you’re willingly getting soaked by the rain. From afar, this scene probably looks straight out of a drama.

He turns to face you in all your glory. Hair wet,  eyes glassy, and makeup-stained cheeks. It’s a beautiful, tragic mess.

“Did you believe anything they said about you?” He questions, so softly he’s not sure you can hear.

But you do. You always do.

“Sometimes,” you answer. It’s the first time you’ve been honest with him in a while. “Can you blame me?”

He frowns. “No, y/n.... I could never blame you, you know that?”

Did you?

To be fair, your sense of judgement back then was quite clouded. You didn’t know what to feel about yourself, and Tooru... you had just came to the conclusion that he deserved someone better. Someone who could take meaningless insults better.

You should’ve tried harder.

“I— it doesn’t matter anymore...” you reply. “It’s been a year, Tooru.”

You don’t even mean to say his first name, it just slips out naturally.

After a long pause, he sighs. 

“C’mere. You’re gonna get sick.”

You wrap your arms around yourself, walking forward into the shade of the umbrella. 

The next few minutes are a bit conflicting, to say the least. There are unspoken words hanging in the air that no one wants to say, nor think about. 

Oikawa’s grip around the umbrella is so unknowingly tight that he doesn’t even recognize the ache in his muscles. What good would it do to rekindle a fire that never really went out in the first place?

After the breakup, he never really... moved on. He watches, observes you from a distance, and when he works up the courage to approach you, you’re gone. As difficult as it was to find you again, he still notices things that give him hope.

 He notices how your gaze unknowingly lingers as he walks past the halls. How a small smile creeps up your lips when you hear that the boys’ volleyball club had won a match. 

You still care, he knows that much.

But is it worth trying to be close to you again?

“You don’t have to ever talk to me again after this if that makes you comfortable,” he tells you, his expression weirdly unreadable. “But let me just say this.”

He pauses his walking and turns to face you. His gaze on you is so intense, it practically compels you to meet his eyes. 

You don’t like where this is going. At all. Once you get too comfortable and stare too hard, you’ll fall into the same rabbit hole you got yourself into a year ago. Being in his mere presence is dangerous, and that’s why you were so adamant about avoiding him so much in the first place.

But he’s hypnotizing and so, so tempting. One second turns to five when you stare at his face.

“I miss you. Not even just in a romantic way, but you were my friend first,” he confesses, and the sincerity that follows his words shatters your heart. “I’m sorry it turned out like this.”

A lump forms in your throat but you’re too frozen in place to swallow it. Because you see him - the little freckles on his nose, the flush in his cheeks, the dreamy look in his eyes. They hold remnants of your second year in high school, when love was what it was supposed to be - exhilarating, healthy, and freeing. 

You see him on TV, hear his name in the halls, dream of tasting his lips when you’re asleep. There was never an escape even when you desperately tried to avoid him, and now that he’s right here in front of you, you actually have a chance to touch him. To kiss him.

And you want to. So, so badly. His lips look so terribly cold and lonely. 

But who were you to relieve that?

Good god, did you miss him.

“I miss you too,” you breathe out, weak in the knees at the force of his gaze. “I wish I didn’t take those notes so personally. Wish it didn’t come between us.”

He smiles. “So hard on yourself as always, y/n,” he says, a ghost of a chuckle leaving his lips. “Anyone would’ve lost their minds. I would’ve.”

“Yeah... But I should’ve told you earlier,” you argue. “Maybe then we would’ve resolved it—“

“You are not at fault for us falling apart,” He sounds confident - as if it was a truth. 

You don’t know why he keeps insisting it wasn’t your fault. It was. 

Your only argument back is, “... Was too.”

Tooru squints his eyes. Two can play this game.

“Was not.”

“Was too.”

“Was not.”

“Was too.”

“Was not.”

“Was not.”

“Was too— oh, fuck off.” Your expression fades to a glare. 

Oh, how he missed this.

“But seriously, I never ever blamed you for what happened,” he prods firmly, making sure you get the idea into your pretty little head. The idea that he doesn’t hate you - never has, never will. “I just miss us. Do you think you could ever....?”

You tilt your head to the side. “Ever... what?”

A full on blush blooms across his cheeks. “Date me... again..?”

Now, it’s your turn to chuckle. “Seriously, you still want to? After all that shit?”

“Of course I want to, are you kidding me?” Tooru quips back, not wasting a second. “I’m crazy over you, y/n.”

That’s it.

You don’t even know what comes over you for what happens next. Before you could get a hold of your senses, your lips are on his. The taste is one you’ve had on your tongue countless of times, but this time, it’s so strange, so new.

Whatever unsaid apologies you never worked the courage to tell him take the form of this - your perfect lips, and your wandering hands. You two don’t even notice how the umbrella is long gone, allowing the rain to kiss you all over. 

He’s close, so close. His chest is pressed against yours and you can practically feel his bare skin through the thin, wet fabric of his uniform. It’s so intoxicating, you could pass out, right here and right now.

How did you ever give this up?

“I love you,” he whispers after pulling away, his hands cupping your cheeks and gazing at your face in its entirety. “I love you, I love you, I love you. I’ve been wanting to kiss you for so long.”

He doesn’t stop there, though. He nuzzles his nose into yours, then kisses your forehead, then your cheeks, then plays with your hair.

You want to cry.

“You still... want me?” You ask, your voice painfully small. 

“Yeah, I still want you.” The grin on his lips don’t allow any room for question. “Do you still want me?”

“Yeah... Sadly,” you send him a cheeky smile back.

He flicks the back of your head, and soon enough, you two are kissing in the rain again.

Perhaps this is a sign that Oikawa Tooru is bound to you. He wants you endlessly, kisses like an absolute god, and unknowingly lives through all your worst days with you.

You wouldn’t mind if fate just so happened to like the look of you two together. Shitty, handwritten notes or not.

You like the look of Tooru with you, too.