#Fragrant Beast

[mimanimum]

Fragrant Beast - Ameshiro

(U) Yousuke-chan x (S) Naruichi

[satans-knitwear]

Sabine is deeply unimpressed with my shernanigans.

Tried to give her a bubble beard again but she still just kept eating the bubbles 🤷

[euesworld]

"The hunger is real, like a beast in the night.. my libido shrieks dreams into sight. Dripping with your wetness, no, you aren't tasteless.. you have a sweet fragrance, so fragrant, hands all up your legs with a tongue dripping pure love and I'm getting restless."

I want you, I crave you, I need you - eUë

[lodish]

how come these are the 2 best scents god has ever created and put onto earth

[werecreature-addicted]

been thinking about incubi lately and been thinking about a gentleman incubus and a down on her luck reader with the dating scene. she's best friends with the incubus and he appreciates that he's not seen as a living sex toy but as a genuine person but gets frustrated that his one sided crush isn't noticed after some time. He invites her to dinner at his place to relax and things heat up after he gets tired of hearing her whine about if she's the problem b/c no she's not the issue she just hasn't noticed him is all. she's chasing after boys when there's a perfect man-or beast if she prefers- waiting to ravish her like a queen 🌹

He wonders how oblivious one human can be. do you really think all incubi lay around naked in other people's homes? He sees the way your eyes drop to his half-hard cock, come on don't be shy just take him already.

He's a master of seduction, of course, he is, he's seduction given physical form, and he knows all the little tricks of the trade and ways to make humans crumble, although if he's honest, this is the first time he's had so much trouble. Most humans would be on their hands and knees begging to suck his cock by now, but not you, stubborn thing you are.

He would be fine just being your friend if that's what you really wanted, He can smell your desire for him, and taste your eagerness in the air. Your lust is so fragrant it's almost painful. It kills him to watch you go on those disappointing dates with human men when he's right here begging to satisfy your needs.

If nothing else, it's a new problem. Normally he has the opposite issue, of people assuming they have a right to his body just because he's a sex demon, it is nice that you see him for more than that. but he craves more. he wants intimacy, a relationship, and yes, sex. and He knows you feel the same way. but he can wait. he's nothing if not persistent

[darkficlord69]

Cregan Stark x Targ!Reader

Warnings: smut, 18+, unprotected sex, 18+ language, death, character death, angst, sadness, not proofread

Cregan Stark was indubitably a wolf: ever since he sprang up from his mother's northern womb he had a savage attitude kept in place by his house's sterling reputation for personal integrity. But when his gaze locked onto yours, all semblance of restraint evaporated from his big muscled body like a snowflake slowly melting under the hot sun. When he met you, he felt like a starved animal ready to pounce, to hunt, to eat something so positively delicious that it would satisfy him to no end...

Despite having lived your whole pampered life on Dragonstone, under your mother's constant and loving supervision, you felt at home in the snow covered Winterfell. And when you descended from your mauve scaly beast with a wingspan bigger than the tallest watchtower in Deepwood Motte, you shivered although you were drowning in thick layers of fur and wool. That is, because you met Cregan. He looked at you with an intesity that was at odds with the iciness of the climate and you could do little but avert your gaze to avoid losing yourself in those stormy grey eyes that twinkled with desire.

"My lord, it is an honor," you curtsied clumsily due to your heavy attire but Cregan quickly put a hand on yours to help stabilize you and prevent you from falling face-first in the snow.

"The honor is all mine, my princess," he replied in a husky voice that almost brought tears to ths corners of your eyes. Whatever passed between you was a dangerous thing, hotter than fire, yet fickler than a shard of thin ice.

"I hope your journey was pleasant," he said.

"Oh, definitely, my lord of Winterfell. Now, I believe the politics and scheming can wait for the morrow, but riding Kocsaryon has made my belly rumble in hunger. A feast is in order, if it please you."

Cregan gave a curt nod and led you to the Main Hall, where a feast had already been laid out. The long wooden tables groaned under the weight of hearty soups for each heart, each dish more decadent than the last, the aromas mingling in the air like a seductive promise of indulgence.

At the center of the hall stood a massive boar, its skin crisp and golden, crackling with fat that had been painstakingly rendered over hours of slow roasting. It was stuffed with onions, apples, and a medley of herbs that filled the air with their heady scent. The juices ran clear as it was carved, pooling on the thick wooden platters beneath, where hunks of dark meat were passed around to eager hands.

Beside it, platters of venison, seasoned with juniper and garlic, had been seared to perfection, the meat tender and pink within, the crust dark and fragrant. Roasted root vegetables, earthy and sweet, nestled alongside them, their edges caramelized to a rich mahogany.

A serving girl approached Cregan to clear away a platter of untouched meat and your eyes darkened when her hair brushed against Stark's shoulder.

You stuffed yourself until your belly groaned and then you chanced a glance again at Cregan who was watching as you cleaned your fingers by putting them in your mouth and slowly sucking in a suggestive gesture that was meant as a provocative invitation. Lord Stark's eyes hardened with unmistakable lust and he rose abruptly, mumbling excuses to confused guests. He promptly grabbed your hand and led you outside.

"If you will follow me, my lady. I have something to show you."

By the time you left the warmth of the Great Keep, you were wholly intrigued by this escapade. Cregan knelt before the weirwood tree that seemed to weep blood as you joined him in prayer.

"So, are going to..." No sooner had you started to ask your question, than Cregan's lips were on yours, kissing you with a ferocious intensity that went beyond mere words. His expert tongue left a trail of saliva down the column of your neck, your jaw... He licked and sucked like a newborn wolf pup, but his groans were the howl of a fully grown member of the pack.

"Oh, gods!" you yelled, uncaring of who may hear.

He quickly disrobed you, your smallclothes thrown far, far away and then you were naked beneath his lord's piercing gaze, trembling with anticipation as heat pooled between your legs.

"Cregan, pleaaase!"

The night beneath the godswood was a symphony of passion and primal need. The ancient trees stood silent witness as you and Cregan came together, your bodies intertwining with an intensity that left you both breathless. The air was cold, biting even, but the heat in your lower stomach was enough to ward off the chill for a time.

He kissed you with a fervor that spoke of years of restraint finally unleashed. His hands, rough and calloused from a lifetime of wielding swords and axes, were surprisingly gentle as they roamed your body, tracing every curve and dip as if committing you to memory. You shivered beneath his touch, but it wasn't from the cold. It was from the raw power and the undeniable hunger in his eyes, the kind that made you feel like the only thing in the world that mattered.

As the night deepened, the cold crept closer, seeping into your bones. But you were too lost in him, too lost in the way he made you feel alive in a way you had never experienced before. You clung to him, seeking warmth and comfort in the strength of his embrace, in the heat of his body pressed against yours.

But the North was unforgiving. The warmth of passion was no match for the biting cold of the northern winter. Even as Cregan held you close, his hairy body shielding you from the worst of the elements, the chill began to seep into your skin, turning your breath to fog and your lips to ice.

Cregan sensed it before you did, the way your shivers became more violent, more uncontrollable. He pulled back, his brow furrowing in concern as he looked into your eyes, now glassy with the onset of hypothermia. His heart clenched painfully in his chest at the sight.

"You're freezing," he murmured, his voice rough with worry. He pulled you closer, trying to rub warmth back into your limbs, but it was too late. The cold had already taken hold, and no amount of heat from him could chase it away.

You tried to smile, tried to reassure him that you were fine, but the words caught in your throat, your lips too numb to form them. You could feel the warmth of life slipping away, could feel the darkness creeping in at the edges of your vision. But you didn't want to let go, not when you were here, in his arms, where you had always dreamed of being.

"Cregan..." you whispered, your voice barely more than a breath. "I'm sorry..."

His eyes widened in horror as he realized what was happening. "No," he growled, shaking his head. "No, don't you dare leave me."

But you were already slipping away, your body going limp in his arms. The last thing you felt was the warmth of his tears on your face, the last thing you heard was the desperate, broken sound of his voice calling your name, begging you to stay.

When the dawn broke, the godswood was silent, the snow around you undisturbed save for the imprint of Cregan's body beside yours. He held you tightly, even as the life had long since fled from your body, refusing to let go, refusing to accept that you were gone.

The godswood bore witness to many things over the centuries, but the sight of the Lord of Winterfell, the fearsome wolf of the North, cradling the lifeless body of the one he loved, was something that would linger in its memory forever.

For Cregan Stark, the godswood would never again be a place of peace, but a place of sorrow, a reminder of the warmth he had once held in his arms and the cold that had stolen it away.

Guyss, this is my first fic! 🫣 Please let me know what you think so that I can improve my work 🐺🌙💫 Thanks for reading! 💝

[orbitariums]

warmth | patrick zweig, art donaldson + black fem reader (pt. 1)

you guys really liked the snippet i posted so it's finally here! this will probably have a second part <3 (let me know if you'd like to be tagged for that!)

content: smut (oral f. receiving, fingering, handjob), childhood best friends trope, patrick and art are acting like high schoolers again, reader is rich bougie conniving hippie writer hybrid ...

reader, patrick and art are childhood best friends who conveniently were all in love with each other, or at least had enough sexual tension to make it feel that way. fast forward almost a decade later, and reader has made it onto the red carpet with her fantastic pen, and patrick and art have gone pro. when she invites them to her house for a star-studded friendsgiving, tensions rise and old doors open, springing forth new possibilities. this is only the beginning.

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

warmth

“We should just turn around now, save ourselves the embarrassment.”

Patrick paid Art no mind, rolling down the window and leaning out of it, pressing the buzzer as you had dutifully instructed them in your email invite. 

“Too late now. Already threw away about a gallon of gas just coming up the hill to this place,” he replied, the sense of ease in his voice only egging Art on even more. 

“Exactly why we should leave. I mean, fuck. Does she have to live on a hill?”

“Residence of [last name], to whom am I speaking?” a male voice rings on the other end. 

“Uh…” Patrick starts, Art reaching up over him, 

“Patrick Zweig and Art Donaldson?”

A silence filled the air. Patrick swatted at Art, forcing him back in his seat. 

“Why’d you say it like a question, dumbass?”

Art stammered,  already starting to get red in the face,

“I was --”

The gate swung open and both the boys let out a sigh of relief.

“Thank you!” Patrick chimed, smirking over at Art, who seemed to be sinking in his seat. 

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Meanwhile, you were inside the mansion that you call home, flowing around the kitchen like there weren’t about fifty people milling about and mingling amongst one another. It smelled like something out of Hansel and Gretel -- from the fragrant brown roasted turkey sitting in the oven, to the gourmand scent of perfectly caramelized candied yams, to the vanilla musk perfume you dotted on your wrists. A black mini Schnauzer nipped excitedly at your feet as you added half a cherry tomato to the giant bowl of salad you’ve been prepping for the last twenty minutes. You look like a pro, like a party of this magnitude is no big deal to you.

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

“Do we ring the doorbell? Or maybe… should we knock?” Art questioned, hands tied behind his back as he glanced up at Patrick for answers. 

“It’s open,” Patrick retorted, but he too stood stupefied at the door like a weary traveler wavering in horrific awe before the mouth of some epic beast. 

“On three?” Art suggested, and when he didn’t hear a response, he started to count, “one… two…”

Patrick stepped in before Art could get to three. Art scoffed, but followed behind him anyway. 

The both of them stood there silently, taking the grandiosity of it all in — the sky high dome ceiling, two grand wooden staircases directly opposite one another, the shiny verdant porcelain flooring, the Basquiat painting hanging above the wide bookcase directly in front of them. Mouths open, they looked like they were ready to catch flies. 

“Fuuuck me,” Patrick breathed out heavily. Art’s head was stuck staring up at the ceiling, so high he thought it’d never end. 

“You made it.”

Both Art and Patrick seemed to stand straight at the sound of your voice, like soldiers at attention. You almost laughed, but instead, you stood there coolly, smiling at them both with your lips and your eyes— in them, a look that was almost knowing, wise beyond your years. It seemed like a lifetime before either of them would speak. They spent half of that lifetime practically gawking at you, drinking you in. And how could they not, when you were practically draped in that baby blue silk dress, the flowy bottom dancing above your ankles. You looked more beautiful than they remembered you, calmer, secure — of course, they hadn’t seen you since they were teenagers. Now there was this air of timelessness about you that was only just poking at the surface when you were in high school, now it surrounded you. Something mystic encompassed your entire spirit, dripping from your head to your feet. They’d spent years seeing you from behind a screen, being interviewed on live TV, attending red carpets for award shows, blending in with the Hollywood mecca — another beautiful twentysomething industry talent. But the glow of the television that seemed to give everyone a perfectly filtered sheen was nothing compared to your beauty here. 

“It’s so good to see you,” Patrick broke the silence first, practically lurching forward with open arms to embrace you. His beard scratched against your cheek. You could smell the cologne that was beginning to wear off, mixed with a hint of cigarette smoke. His arms nearly sucked you in. 

When he pulled away, you couldn’t help but chuckle at the way he smiled at you so fervently. 

“Good to see you too, Patrick…” you glanced over at the mousy boy who didn’t seem to have changed much since high school. “C’mere, Artie.”

Art chuckled: a nervous huff of relief, inching forward into your open arms and nuzzling his chin into your shoulder, closing his arms around your midwaist. You could smell the aftershave that clung to his jaw, and the detergent still fresh on his clothes. 

You pulled away, but took one of each of their hands, squeezing. 

“My two boys. Man, how long has it been?”

“Oh, just a while—”

“Seven years,” Art interjected. 

“Who’s counting, right?” Patrick grinned, making all of you laugh. 

You looked at them almost expectantly, eyes wide like a doe, the slightest smile playing at your lips. They looked back with bated breaths. Always, you were in charge, always. It had been like this since the scabby-kneed days of childhood. If you wanted to play on the swings, they were there on either side of you. You were the queen of the sandbox. In middle school, they snuck extra cookies for you from the lunchroom, and they fought over who got to surprise you with the treat every day. Senior year of high school, in the hotel room in London, when you had them perched on either side of you like baby birds waiting for mother’s return— when you had both your hands on each of their thighs inching further and further up, their lips ghosting against your soft skin, had them panting like puppy dogs, only to leave the minute you heard “lights out.” 

It had been seven years since then and still, it was the same. Only this time, you were stupidly rich, thanks to the soaring success of your two psychological thriller books turned TV series. It wasn’t that you’d forgotten about them, or didn’t care about them now that you were rich and famous. You’d gotten accepted to study creative writing at Brown, Art went to play at Stanford, and Patrick went on his path to go pro. It was just the process of growing up. You were delighted to see that they were only a click away thanks to the internet, just one click away from reintegrating into your life. Your childhood best friends. 

“C���mon, lunch is almost ready.”

Friendsgiving. Who didn’t love the concept? It was a readily welcomed, wholesome idea — friends of all ages and backgrounds coming together to rehash their Thanksgiving with leftovers, stories from the year, and maybe a game of cards. Except your friendsgiving was attended by A-list actresses, Cannes festival attending screenwriters, and the odd Grammy nominated artist. And your friendsgiving was not at all an intimate affair — it may as well have been a club party. Most people were outside, dancing, shrieking with laughter, drinking, and skipping their way to their seats. Your backyard was vast and verdant green, with a pool in the center, the perimeter lined with lemon and peach trees, and miles to explore. 

“This is fucking insane, is that Dakota Johnson?” Patrick scoffed. He and Patrick had been left to their own devices yet again, while you flitted around being the hostess with the mostest, easing and gliding about. A laugh here, a clink of glasses there, and a coolness to you that stood in striking comparison with the warmth that stirred deep down inside you. A warmth that could be served with a ladle into goblets, like some elixir with magical properties only you possessed. 

“No, you idiot, that’s— oh shit. That might be Dakota Johnson.” 

Clink clink clink. 

“Everybody, hi, hi! Thank you for coming, please, sit down,” you called out, clinking your glass to get the attention of your guests. Patrick and Art scrambled to find seats, ending up at a table with people who might have been minor celebrities or art critiques or designers -- at least one of those options. 

“I wanna thank you all so much for coming, this really means a lot to me. I know these sorts of things can be really hectic, but you guys make this house feel like a home. I’m glad that some of you will be staying with me for the next few days, there’s always room for more,” you glanced over at Art and Patrick. “Some of you are new friends, some of you I’ve known for far too long. But I think it’s incredibly fucking cool that we’re all here together now in this moment, just enjoying each other’s presence. I do this every year, and every year I meet even more amazing, talented, fascinating people and you all are so dear to my heart. And now, what we’re all waiting for… lunch is served!”

A cacophony of cheers rang out as staff rushed about to place plates in front of everyone. You stood giggling, basking in all of it. 

The rest of the afternoon Patrick and Art spent attempting to blend in as best they could. They were pro tennis players, but this was another level of stardom that they couldn’t quite fathom yet. They watched you ruthlessly the entire night, unable to squash those rising feelings of attraction and yearning for you that had never quite simmered to begin with. You’d always been cooler than them, but watching you now there was a certain air to you that belonged to a grown woman, someone comfortable and confident and in their element. You were positively swimming in the sunlight the entire afternoon. It was like you had this sort of magnetic pull to all things good, rich, and warm. People wanted to be around you. And god, did this prove that. 

By night time, people were finally starting to leave. The sun hung low in the darkening sky, making the fairy lights glow stronger now. The few people that were staying with you for the rest of Thanksgiving weekend had disappeared to their rooms. Besides the waitstaff still milling about, it was just you, Patrick, and Art. The two of them hadn’t meant to stay so long, really. It wasn’t like they were forcing themselves to stick around and be acknowledged by you in a way that felt meaningful. Sure, you’d had your small talk and cracked a few inside jokes, but as much as neither of them wanted to admit it, they needed more. If it was hard to get your attention before, it was nearly impossible now. They were surrounded by so many people who all wanted to network and talk and introduce themselves, they found themselves mingling with your friends, some of them people who they’d seen on screen in the past year,  more than you. They’d been dragged onto the dance floor multiple times by multiple acquaintances, only to gawk at you swaying your hips rather than actually dance themselves. It became overwhelmingly clear, in the midst of their increasingly present desperation, that they should’ve accepted your offer to stay in this castle of a house for the weekend. Neither of them had packed a bag. 

“This is awkward, we’re the only ones left,” Art sighed, still sitting at their table. 

“Let’s just… wait, okay? She might come back out."

"And give us a little speech?"

"Yeah, asshole, maybe she will."

At that very moment, you appeared again, this time clad in a two piece linen pajama set. You didn’t miss the way both their eyes trailed up your legs as you stood in front of them, arms crossed, smiling expectantly. 

“I was hoping you two would still be here,” you said. You glanced between the two of them, that awkward silence filling the air once again. “C’mon. Let’s talk.”

You turned and walked back inside, the two of them trailing behind you.   

"Your house is fucking sick by the way. I mean holy shit," Art blurted once you got to the main entrance hall.

"Feel like I just walked into a page of Architectural Digest," Patrick added on.

You led them up the stairs. Both their eyes dropped to your ass, which poked out just a bit from under the pair of shorts you wore. Silently watching the way your body curved as you walked.

"Ha, thanks. I think I did pretty okay for myself," you replied. 

You led them to the den on the second floor and sat criss cross apple sauce on the lush green couch. Art sat on your left, Patrick on your right. Patrick spread his legs and Art had one foot up on the couch, bouncing against his knee. 

“Sorry we didn’t get to talk much. I was so busy being the host of the year that I didn’t pay enough attention to you two. My favorites.”

Art chuckled,

“Favorites? You’re just saying that.”

“No, I’m serious! D’you know how much I missed you guys?”

Patrick scoffed playfully,

“All those TV interviews I watched of you? I wouldn’t even be thinking about us.”

You couldn’t help but grin, that warmth coming through once again. It nearly made the two men melt. 

“Well I was. I always think about you guys.”

Now came Patrick’s voice again, a heaviness to it that almost made you jump,

“Do you think about anything specific?”

Although it had been nearly a decade since you’d last seen each other, you didn’t miss a single thing about either of them. Patrick didn’t mince words, and he never shied away from not just hinting at, but blaring his salacious intentions every time he spoke. You tilted your head towards him, a cool smile tugging at your lips. 

“Just what good times we had.”

A silence, accented with a flood of nostalgia and a pointed reference to those “good times” permeated the air. You took a moment to gaze at the two of them ever so softly — enough for them to feel it, but not enough to make them squirm (though, they were easy to make squirm)— before you decimated the silence by slapping your hands down on either of their thighs and squeezing endearingly. 

“So tell me, where’ve you two been? I’m not the only one on TV these days.”

“Ahh, you don’t wanna hear about boring tennis,” Art waved a hand of dismissal. 

You chortled, a trademark of yours that Art and Patrick had always poked fun at in school,

“You’re right, I don’t.”

“You still laugh the same,” Patrick said, grinning like he was trying not to but was unable.

You chuckled, this time low in your throat, and turned your head to face him again. You and Patrick were similar in the sense that you were always pushing the boundaries, tiptoeing closer and closer to the line — but the three of you had never quite established where that was. At some point, you were all just too close to even think about “the line” or “boundaries” — all of you appeared clueless to societal expectations of friendship, spurting a sort of cultlike relationship where everyone else was an outsider. 

“Do I?” smiling at him like you were warning him not to tease. 

“Yeah, that little snort you do,” Patrick replied, unshaken. 

“You do do a little snort,” Art chimed in, always chirping like he spoke from a less nefarious place. 

“And if I get started on you guys’ little tennis grunts?” you grinned fully now, showing teeth, looking between the two of them and leaning back a bit.

They followed, leaning back against the couch and keeping their heads in line with yours so you were never too far away from them, each of them turning their heads to look at you. 

“No way you actually watch us,” Art replied.

“I do!” you insisted. “Seriously, if you’d asked anybody here you would know.”

“Sure, let me just strike up conversation with George Clooney,” Art shot back.

“Ha-ha,” you bleated sarcastically. “I don’t even know him… but I have walked past him once on the carpet.”

“Look at you,” Patrick smirked. “Little Miss Superstar.”

He punctuated his sentence with a hand on your knee. Your eyes flickered over to him and you caught the way his Adam's apple bobbed in his throat when he swallowed, felt the way he gazed up at you. You didn’t miss the desire twinkling in his eyes. 

Then Art, always second but not necessarily last, 

“She’s our little superstar, you know that, right?” 

His hand just gently grazing your shoulder.

You let them revel in the moment for as long as you felt appropriate, then huffed.

“You know you guys can stay for the weekend, right? I mean, you should.”

“Oh… no, we wouldn’t wanna impose,” Patrick said, his hand slinking away from your knee.

Another chortle from you,

“You wouldn’t be. This is a five-bedroom house. It’s fine. Besides, don’t you guys wanna actually catch up? I’ll let you torture me with tennis talk.”

Art started to stammer,

“I-I mean… we didn’t bring anything.”

“Just our idiot selves,” Patrick added.

“Don’t worry. I’ll get Charles to get you guys all set up.”

“Charles?”

“Oh, he’s my assistant,” you said nonchalantly as if it were nothing. “You’re not fighting me on this. I want to spend some quality time with my boys. Don’t make me have to beg for it.”

“We could never make you beg for anything,” Art replied, just a little too quickly. 

“I know, Art, that’s why I love you,” you grinned over at him. “So, are we all in agreement? Stay with me. Just this weekend.”

“Yes,” they both replied a little too quickly this time. 

You bit your lip, suppressing a smile. 

“You know… I really, really missed you guys. And those good times we had.”

You let the memory of that night of almosts in London resurge, let their minds run amuck with whatever teenage fantasy was still left over from that night. A moment so brief it could almost be forgotten, could even be flagged as incidental, accidental. Still, the three of you knew, even as grown adults (especially as grown adults), that it would always stick and remain unresolved, unless someone ran to the rescue with some sort of solution. Once again they held their breaths. You stood up, glanced between the two of them like you were sizing them up, and then smiled as if nothing had happened at all — you let them breath. 

“Your bedroom’s the second on the right when you leave here. Charles will help you get set up— I’ll see you guys in the morning for breakfast.”

And just like that, you were gone. The air in the room seemed to clear. Your presence was like a thousand tons of pressure weighing on their bodies and their minds. Finally, they could breathe.

They glanced at each other with the same longing, almost nervous expression — they were just two pubescent boys all over again.

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“I think we should just go for it.”

Patrick lay on his back, looking up at the ceiling with his hand on his stomach, speaking aloud as if into the clouds. Art, who had been gazing into the distance, sitting up against the wall on his side of the room, shook his head at Patrick’s words.

“What are you talking about Patrick?”

The two of them sat in the room that you had put together. They had showered and dressed in the pajamas that were waiting for them, just as you said they would be. The house was practically silent, it was the dead of night. Though you’d left hours ago, that same heaviness in the air seemed to remain in their chests. 

“You know… I mean, she invited us here for a reason, don’t you think?”

Art glared over at Patrick, his brows furrowed and his mouth twisted in a frown,

“Don’t be a creep. We’re her friends.”

“Who want to fuck her, and she knows it. Pretty sure she wants to, too.”

“That was high school, Pat. Get over yourself.”

“Like you weren’t getting your dick wet just from looking at her. C’mon.”

Art throws a pillow at Patrick. It lands square at his feet.

“Don’t be disgusting.”

“I’m just saying, she’s not innocent. She knows what she’s doing. She’s just as perverted as the both of us.”

“Yeah? So what are you gonna do about it?”

“Fucking — I don’t know, something. We should just both go over there and knock on her door.”

Art couldn’t help but sigh heavily — Patrick was always creating some elaborate plot or scheme, but rarely did he ever actually go through with something unless Art was onboard. 

“Patrick, she’s not trying to have a threesome with us. I’m not interested in your porn addict fantasies. Plus it’s the middle of the night, she’s probably asleep. Think she’s gonna wanna sleep with two idiots who fucked up her nighttime routine?”

“So then why are you still here?” Patrick retorted. 

“What? What do you mean?” Art tried to sound normal, but his defenses were up, and they both knew exactly why. 

Patrick turned so he was on his side, facing Art, making sure his words hit just right. 

“You know what I mean. You could’ve just gone home. Could’ve told her that we’ll catch her some other time. But look at you, sitting here, feigning innocence. She’ll think we’re cowards, you know. Seven years later and we still can’t come out and say what is that we want.”

Art swallowed, staring blankly into the distance like Patrick’s words didn’t sting his side. He was right. He almost always was, even if his wording wasn’t the most politically correct or precise. It was just how they were — one too careful, the other one so not. Most of the time, they came together to balance each other out: like fire and ice. But sometimes, like this time, they just threw each other out of whack – an oil spill in a pristine lake. 

“I want a friendship. If you want a fuck, go and tell her that. Goodnight, Patrick,” Art spat, rolling onto his side and turning his light off. 

Patrick sighed heavily like a petulant little boy who’d just been denied a cookie. Maybe in college or high school, Art would have been all ears, and they would have risen from their beds like triumphant kings, and gone on the hunt for their king. But maybe he was right — that was high school. They were too old now, and it was embarrassing. At least if Art had agreed, even if he didn’t fully believe in Patrick, they would’ve gone in together. And so, swallowing his disappointment, Patrick stared up at the ceiling, ruminated for just a bit, and then turned off his light, forcing his eyes shut so he’d fall asleep faster. 

1:10 AM. 

That was the time on the clock when Art opened his eyes next. He woke with a start, like there was something he was meaning to do. Then immediately, he was a bit disoriented. This room was far too big. It wasn’t his. He remembered where he was, and just what he had to do. He rose like an automaton and found his feet swinging to the floor. He threw on the Calvin Klein shorts and shirt your assistant had given him (his pair was white, Patrick’s was black), and slid easily into his slippers. 

Only once he stood did he really catch his breath, and seemingly also his determination. It was like he knew what he was doing, and he was completely okay with it. He even peered over just slightly, to see if Patrick was still asleep. And by the slow rise and fall of his body on his side, he could tell that he was. He was stuck in this dream state between idiocy and confidence, making for mindless determination as he sauntered out of the room and down the hall. He had intent, his head was screwed on straight. He knew where your room was, and he practically marched down the end of the hall. 

As soon as he reached your door, he realized what he was doing, truly realized. He stood there stock still, like a rabbit that had just gotten caught eating a carrot from someone’s garden. He was suddenly confronted by the fact that he was completely alone; your room was at the very end of the hall and completely cut off from the other rooms. Now the heartbeat in his chest was loud and clear, and the slight shifting sound of the fabric of his shorts rubbing against his inner thigh sounded like nails on a chalkboard. Nervous tics settled in, and he felt a rattle go down his spine at the recognition of what he was doing— the sheer arrogance, the assumption he was making. He thought of Patrick, and the betrayal this would be, considering he had just shut him down so profusely earlier. He thought of the fact that it was so easy for him to be so double-sided, to just get up and attempt it on his own, even making sure that Patrick couldn’t possibly be involved. How easy it was for him to be so unfair. He thought of himself, standing there with suddenly sweaty palms and a dry throat. Like a high school boy with blue balls. 

What are you doing?

He thought to himself. He almost turned around, but he heard humming from the other side of the door. No doubt your voice, and no doubt you were very much awake. He could hear music, albeit muffled. He swallowed, closing his eyes like he was bracing for impact, and sighed. If he could remember the words to recite Hail Mary, he would have. Eyes still closed, he knocked. He heard the slight pause on the other side and imagined you perking up slightly and looking around the room to make sure you weren’t just hearing things. Despite his embarrassment, the knock was firm. It was clear it was someone else on the other side of the door. And so, a few seconds later, you swung the door open. 

“Art,” you said, a hint of both surprise and relief in your voice.

“YN,” he replied, saying your name like it was a period to a sentence. 

You were clad in a cream-colored silk slip with a lace trim. A dainty gold necklace adorned your neck, flush against your collarbone. You’d changed again since the last time he saw you, and this outfit did not make it any easier for him to tear his eyes off of you, starting from the necklace, to your breasts, to your legs. The slip was short and nearly see through, revealing your thighs which looked so soft and plush. The pucker of your nipples sheened underneath the thin fabric. The way it clung to your body was almost maddening. You looked fresh as a daisy — like you’d spent hours in the bath, rubbing countless creams and gels against your skin. Art felt suddenly embarrassed like he had interrupted your girl time with his boyish, base desires. You pulled him out of it though, with a slight smile and kind eyes looking up at him.

“You doing okay?” you asked almost playfully, still grinning slightly.

“Yeah, I just uh… wanted to… talk to you,” Art said, not even making eye contact with you and instead very obviously peering inside of your room. You looked over your shoulder like you were trying to see what Art was looking at, then looked back at him. Finally, he was making eye contact with you. He felt like you were scrutinizing him, searching for something to validate this interaction, to validate him. Your warm smile didn’t look all that different from a smirk anymore. 

“Well. I am the host. Who’d I be if I didn’t indulge a late night chat?”

You stepped aside, pushing the door wide open with your back. You nodded at him like a coach, beckoning him,

“Come in.”

And so he stepped inside, and you closed the door behind you. Your room was how he’d expected it to be — reflective of your personality as long as he’d known you, but a hint more sophisticated. Everything rested on a plush chenille carpet. Your mattress, adorned with plush, deep red and green linens, sat on a large wooden bedframe, above which posters of your favorite bands and writers hung — Audre Lorde, Led Zeppelin, James Baldwin, Khruangbin. Across from your bed, there was an almost bulky yet fitting antique dresser. On top of it sat a 1935 Remington typewriter. In the corner, a leather armchair sitting beneath a scallop shade floor lamp, accented by a magnificent bookshelf behind it that was positively full. A desk, scattered with papers and pens and a pair of glasses, yet still tidy. And a vanity, where Art imagined you’d been just a moment before he came in.  And dim, yet comforting lighting. 

“Wow,” Art couldn’t help himself — he truly was an admirer of the details, the little things. And clearly, so were you. It had gotten you this far. He sauntered over to the typewriter on your desk, fiddling with the keys just a bit and tapping the top. You giggled at his nerdy lopsided smile. “This is sick.”

You smiled, placing two hands on your hips, beaming like a proud parent,

“She doesn’t work, but she’s beautiful. That’s honestly my most prized possession.”

Art grinned, truly touched. He turned to face you straight on, feet away from where you stood at the bed. 

“I’m so proud of you, you know.”

The veritas in his voice rendered you bashful for just a moment, looking down and huffing an almost dismissive laugh,

“C’mon, Art, don’t go all soft on me now.” 

Art rose to his own defense,

“I’m serious, YN! Look what you’ve done for yourself… I mean, I couldn’t expect any less, though.”

You waved your hand with a cheeky eye roll, and he started walking towards you, his footsteps causing the floor beneath to creak slightly. It was almost suspenseful, but you weren’t intimidated or in danger, just deeply intrigued and honestly, excited. You watched him, positively ensnared, as he closed the distance between the two of you.  

He took two of your hands in his own like he was putting his life into your hands. That charming smile of his reared its head, accompanied by his blue-brown eyes, sparkling and wet and smiling too,

“We both are, you know. Proud of you.”

You smiled, genuinely at first. Then, it flickered. By the way he faltered momentarily, losing grip of the power trip that he dove into headfirst, you could tell he noticed. Your genuine smile turned slightly smug. 

“Both of you? Why is Patrick not here, then, telling me how proud he is?”

Art did his best to keep smiling smoothly, cocking his head to the side slightly as if to say what can you do? 

“He’s asleep.”

“Right… it is like, one AM. I’m surprised you’re even up, or that you assumed I would be," you kept on prodding.

“Hmm,” he smirked. He shrugged all too casually, so much so that it was cocky. “Guess I’m not that tired.”

“Mmm,” you hummed, nodding sympathetically. 

The both of you relished in this little game you were playing, a game of so few words but oh so much meaning. You held his gaze for just a moment longer, watching as his flickered from your eyes to your lips and back up. Then you sat down wordlessly onto your bed, never tearing your eyes away from his. You patted the spot next to you, and he followed, taking a deep breath that never seemed to exhale. You were sealing his fate in this one moment. 

“I spend a lot of my time holed up in here. That’s why I make it as peaceful as I possibly can. Beautiful too, but not too beautiful. Otherwise, I’d just be distracted and a bit disgusted,” you chuckled at the end.

“Beautiful. Right,” Art replied, his gaze burning a hole into you.

A beat. 

“So what’d you wanna talk about, Art?” 

He knew he couldn’t be imagining the dulcet innocence in your voice that suggested anything but innocence all the same, nor the flicker of desire in your inquiring, wide eyes. All of it, combined with the slight pout on your lips, seemed to come together to create a face that was almost begging. His entire body softened. His eyes went heavy with the confession that was his utter, depraved need to have you. He slowly pulled his bottom lip into his mouth with his tongue and blinked slowly, seemingly unaware of the fact that he was leaning in more and more with every passing millisecond. You stayed put where you were, wanting him to chase you through and through. You kept that poker face, like you didn’t feel your heart racing too. As his face inched closer to yours, his hands started to roam as well, and you stifled a whimpery breath at the touch of those hands against your bare skin. For some reason, you’d always thought he’d have such baby-soft hands, but they were rough and calloused from the weight of the tennis racket that was forever stationed between them. It only made the touch that much better, made you realize how long you’d been waiting for this, his rough hands seeping into your skin like a scar of age. 

“I don’t wanna talk,” he finally said, his voice lilted with need, and his lips nearly flush against yours. 

Finally, he closed the gap between your lips. The kiss was slow and languid, but not for lack of passion. Years of distance would do that, would amplify the mutual pining. You thought, in this interaction that you knew would happen with one or the two of them, that you might be more calm and collected, still wearing that disguise of cool nonchalance, but you were on fire. Your hands were quick to wander as well, up to his face, gripping his jaw, one traveling up to his hair and finding itself tucked beneath the tufts of slight curls. And then his hands were traveling up from your knees to your thighs, to your waist, practically glued to the expensive fabric. The room was silent bar for the sound of the two of you panting like crazed virgins, and the wet sounds of your kissing. 

You needed to gain control back, and quickly. So you pulled away, putting on your best smirk. Deep down, you felt like Art knew it was an act, like he was looking right through you. But at the same time, you knew he was far too ecstatic and anticipatory to call it out or really even notice it in full. And besides, you didn’t care. It was you who held all the glory, both back then and especially now. 

“You two place a bet or something? That was quick.”

Art was still breathing heavily, gazing at you like you were the solution to all his problems. His hands were still roaming widely, like your body was an expanse of wild land, his hands gripping your shoulders and caressing your arms up and down. The confidence boost in him was visible and almost amusing. 

“No bets… but Patrick was saying…”

“What was he saying, hmm?” you placed a hand on his chest and caressed the warmth there. “Why’d you come here, Art? Thought you should close the gap, huh? Answer the age-old question? Wanting to prove yourself?”

You slipped your hand between his legs, grasping the meat of his inner thigh and glaring into his eyes. You felt how he stilled, how his confidence stuttered. Both because he’d been called out, and because if he wasn’t hard before, he was raging now. 

“No…” you squeezed his thigh, your hand ghosting over the erection that sat directly above it, forcing the truth out of him with your touch. He shuddered. “Maybe. Yeah, fuck. Yes. I-I wanted to prove myself.”

“Yeah?” you murmured, slinking towards him like a black cat. You placed one leg over his lap, straddling him. Positioning yourself so your clothed cunt was directly over his erection, which dared to rip through both his boxers and his shorts. You rolled your hips over his cock gently, just once. “This helping you prove yourself?”

You pushed him back, back, back, until his head rested firm on the pillow and you were directly above him, the shape of your entire body clear to him as you straddled him on your bed. He couldn’t speak, only stare up at you in awe, his heavy breaths loud and desperate. You only stayed like this on top of him for a minute before you shimmied down until you were at face level with his crotch. You let your hands explore the expanse of his chest and stomach over his white t-shirt, and then took the bottom of it in your mouth, pulling it up with your teeth in a motion so effortless and tigress-like that Art nearly came on the spot.

“Hmm?” you probed him to answer the question with a demanding hum, the soft fabric of his t-shirt still in between your teeth, gazing up at him from beneath wispy lashes. You let go once he was decently exposed, his tight stomach rising and falling frantically. 

“Fuck, yes,” he rattled, his hips bucking up involuntarily. 

You pushed his hips back down immediately and like a reflex, he started to apologize,

“Sorry, I’m sorry.” 

You ignored him and instead, you practically ripped the shorts off of him and started to palm him through his boxers, admiring the way his cock twitched and jumped beneath the small of your hand. You were attentive, watching as precum started to leak from his tip onto his boxers. You tsked.

“We’ll have to get someone to wash those.”

He squirmed and swallowed a wild grunt in his throat. His head was fully thrown back like he was in the most immense pleasure of his life, and you hadn’t even really started yet. You ground the part of your hand just above your wrist over his erection before peeling his boxers off. You watched as his cock sprung up in the air, thick and red and leaking. A tuft of strawberry blonde hair sat at his mound, but he was still put together. You sat up just a bit so you could place your hand on his cheek lovingly. 

“Look at me, Artie.”

Your voice was so enchanting and soft that he almost forgot you were fucking his entire mind up, and he opened his eyes and looked down at you with the shaft of his cock enclosed in your hand. 

“Fuck,” he huffed, resisting the urge to throw his head back again. 

You maintained eye contact with him as you circled your finger over his wet, pleading tip, spreading the leaking precum around the head of his dick. He glanced away from you and looked at what you were doing, causing his eyes to roll back in his head. It was taking everything in him not to give in completely, and not to cum. 

“No- no - I… I wanna make you feel good first. Please.”

Something in Art’s voice nearly made your heart drop — the wholehearted desperation and earnestness in it. It also made your pussy throb around nothing. The whole night Patrick and Art had been desperate, but now it was like you were finally seeing the extent of it. It was somehow endearing, a reminder of the love between all three of you. Art had always been a giver, and he sought out praise any place he could get it. It came as no surprise to you that he was the same now, but still, it made you indescribably horny. 

You hardly realized you hadn’t responded. That wasn’t supposed to be part of your act, but Art was still pleading all the same,

“Can I? Can I just… taste you or — f-feel you, I-”

You kept your wrist moving in slow and controlled motions up and down his shaft, studying his face as you did: the way his eyes fluttered open and closed with a pleasured squeeze, his mouth perpetually open in gratification.

“It’s so fun watching you fall apart, though,” you replied, but you found yourself working your way up anyway, sneaking your legs up his body like a snake, one on either side of him. 

He grasped onto your hips immediately, groaning at just the sight of you. The moonlight shone through the windows and brightened up the darkness of your room, illuminating your features and painting you under something like a spotlight. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he breathed, looking at you with hooded eyes. You steadied yourself, your hand reaching out to grab the bedframe and one of his hands gripped the fleshy underside of your thigh to help you. The more you inched up, the more he could see up the slip, catching a glimpse of your cotton panties, cream-colored with a tiny black bow in the middle. The print of your cunt through them was like an outline, a map to promised land. He sucked in a breath, almost like he was in pain. Your necklace dangled just inches away from your neck, like it was teasing him too.

 “Wanna taste me?” you asked teasingly, lifting your hips above his face and hovering there, forcing him to tilt his head back and look up directly at your cunt, still hidden beneath your panties. You rolled your hips, letting your clit brush against the tip of his nose. He was enamored by the scent, had to physically stop himself from taking a deep sniff. “Hmm?”

“Yes, please, fuck,” he groaned, slightly arching his back up off the mattress just to get closer to you. “Please.”

He pressed a closed-mouth kiss to your clothed cunt, his eyes closed. It was such a gentle, delicate touch that you almost wouldn’t have believed how desperate he was if it weren’t for the longwinded moan that involuntarily escaped his lips when he made contact with your core. You bit down on your lip, breathing out from your nose, and started to grind your hips against his face. He kept kissing at your cunt over and over until it was almost indiscernible what was fabric and what was flesh— your panties had gotten so wet from his mouth and your slick. The wet trace made the friction unbearable, and your pussy throbbed through the fabric onto his face. 

Through a mouthful, Art mewled,

“You taste so good. Please let me eat this pussy.”

This time, his lips peppered kisses around your inner thighs, soft but quick touches, taking in your musk. You decided to stop torturing him, that enough was enough. You lifted yourself up just a bit, and pushed up your slip. You were about to reach your hand down when you stopped and cocked your head with a smirk. 

“Go on, then,” you said. Softly, like it was a suggestion more than it was a command. And Art took it in perfect stride. 

He practically ripped your underwear off, pushing them to the side with a brute swipe of his hand that contrasted wildly with the gentle kisses he had given you before. Literally pushing your panties to the side. He looked for a second, eyes glazed over at the sight in front of him, taking in the sight of your dripping pussy. It looked so warm and wet and inviting, if he weren’t a better man he would’ve had to force himself not to bury his dick inside of you. When he felt he’d gotten a good look of it, savored the moment just enough, he wrapped his arms around your waist, smashing your cunt against his face. His mouth connected with your folds and you felt him sucking vehemently, before slipping his tongue in between your slit, pressing the tip of it against you. You cried out as he collected all the slick from your weeping center, keeping a hand on your stomach to stabilize himself, the other against your asscheek, squeezing every now and then. 

“Oh,” you moaned, immediately starting to grind your pussy against his tongue, your clit once again nudging his nose each time you moved up. Art kept up, positioning the tip of his tongue just right so you rode it each time you wound up, applying just the right amount of pressure. “Yes, Art, just like that.”

“Mm-hm,” he hummed, the vibrations causing you to clench over his face and around the tip of his tongue. Then he flattened his tongue so he could capture the entire surface of your cunt. This time the grip on your ass grew stronger, and soon enough both his hands were squeezing your ass, supplementing your movements. You kept the time you wanted, Art just assisted you in rolling up. You honestly needed it, the way your thighs were starting to shake. 

Art hummed satisfactorily again, enclosing his lips around your clit and suctioning, keeping his tongue out just enough so you could feel both sensations. You nearly squealed, your hand flinging down to push your panties out the way even more. Your back arched in pleasure, creating a whole new angle for Art to lick at and please. His fingers pressed deep into the flesh of your ass, like he was leaving some imprint. Now it was you writhing and moaning, but Art never forgot who was in control. That is, until he took firm grasp of your hips and used that to flip you over so that you were on your back. It was like he never lost contact with your pussy, diving right back down before you could even register what had happened. He yanked your panties all the way down and threw them over his shoulder. 

“Take your shirt off, baby,” you panted. 

He obliged, throwing his shirt off too, and then leaning back in so he could get to work. His arms wrapped around the inside part of your thighs, spreading you apart for him. Before you even felt his mouth, you moaned at the sight of his back and shoulder muscles flexing as he worked. He placed sloppy kisses against your inner thighs and kissed closer and closer to your mound until finally, he was wrapping his lips around your clit once again, using what he could of his tongue to lap up your juices at the same time. You were nearly trembling in pleasure, your hand flying to the back of his head to keep him secure where he belonged. He moaned in response, and you squeezed tufts of his strawberry-blond hair. 

“That’s it, I want you to feel good. Make yourself feel good for me,” he murmured, his nose buried in your cunt, eyes closed in satisfaction and concentration. You glanced down to see that he was grinding his hips ever so subtly into the bed — getting off by getting you off, and you threw your head back. 

“Mhmm. So good, Art, you’re so good.”

This seemed to set him off into a frenzy as he placed open-mouth kisses against your pussy, kissing it like it was a mouth. His tongue lapped you up and sucked you in, making precise, timed movements with the close of his lips around your clitoris. He used his hands to gently push your legs back so they were angled slightly in the air, the new angle causing you to whine. He angled his neck ever so slightly so he was licking the lips, a slender finger prodding at your wet, tight entrance.

“This okay?” he asked, just dipping the pad of his finger in and opening his eyes to look up at you, as if you weren’t lost in your own world of pleasure, eyes shut tight. You opened them momentarily, looking down at what he was doing, the sight of his face engulfed in your pussy and his finger slipping up and down your slit now. You could only manage a moan along with a strangled nod, and he obliged, sliding a slender finger inside of you. Your pussy stretched and then collapsed around his finger, suctioning in like a glove, and now he used his tongue and lips to go from your lips to your clit, all spit and drool and your arousal as he worked his finger inside of you. 

“Fuck,” a strangled grunt left your throat, your pussy tightening around his finger, which made him moan in response. “Art, fuck. I’m getting close.”

“Yeah?” he replied, muffled as it was. He slipped another finger inside of you with ease, wishing he could watch as he felt your pussy sucking him in greedily. Now the slow thrusts of his fingers became more forceful, pushing deep inside of your walls. You nearly screamed at the addition of his finger and the way he curled them inside each time they came to a stop inside of you. 

“Y-yes, fuck, just like that, Art, don’t stop.”

He moaned something incomprehensible, or maybe it was a groan mixed with a sigh, as he continued the expert deft movement of his fingers inside of you and mouth against you, bringing you to rock your hips against his face. You were muttering to yourself now: “so close”, “gonna come” until his fingers finally hit that sacred spot, his lips closed just right around your clit, spit drooling from his mouth, and you fell apart. That devastating feeling peaked in your stomach as Art brought you to your high and you gushed around his fingers and into his mouth. Your moans were girlish and deliciously sweet, momentarily wiping away that facade you’d been playing so good at all night. 

“Fuck, I’m coming!” it was like you were announcing it to yourself, squeezing your legs around his head and practically clamping down on his hair with your hand as you released. He helped you ride out that high, not stopping, but slowing his fingers and easing his lips against your pussy to keep you grounded. 

When you’d finally caught your breath, Art pulled back, his chin and cheeks absolutely soaked.  

“You taste so fucking good, YN,” he said it like it was a fact of life, as simple as “the sky is blue,” trying to ignore the fact that his load was prone to explode any second now. 

“C’mere, I wanna taste,” you implored. Shakily, he pulled himself up and above you, letting you cradle him in your arms, one around his back and the other cupping the nape of his neck, as you captured him in an open-mouthed, sloppy, slow kiss. You could feel his cock sticking out of his boxers and poking your leg and in one swift movement you slipped your hand between the two of you and pulled him out, your hand wrapping around him. He couldn’t help but take notice of how your hand fit him perfectly, like a glove. 

His hips started to stutter, quite literally, he nearly fell on top of you, gasping desperately.

“Fuck,” he drawled slowly, lips still brushed against yours, pinching his eyes closed. “T-this is s-so—”

He spoke between full-body twitches and spasms of his cock. You pouted slightly, running your fingers through his hair,

“Use your words, Artie. Whatsa matter?”

He chuckled, hanging his head low and shaking it slowly,

“It’s just I’m so — fuck,” his words morphed into a whine when you used your finger to circle around his tip, which was positively leaking with precum. “I… I’m so sensitive right now. I’ve been trying not to come for like thirty minutes.”

You both laughed, genuinely amused. 

“You wanna come?” you entreated, gazing at him with a look that almost resembled concern. 

His smile dropped as his face morphed into that of desperation, that of need, and he nodded earnestly,

“Yes, please. Please make me come, YN. Make me come h-however you want me to.”

“Yeah?” you implored, the palm of your hand closing over his tip to gather slick and then spreading it all down his shaft. “Want you to look at me while you come. Can you do that for me?”

Art felt pressure building in his chest as his breaths grew more and more erratic and he forced himself to look you in the eyes, responding with an affirmative albeit strangled whimper that was supposed to resemble the word “yes.” You rewarded him by stroking him faster now, your hand a tight grip around his shaft, the sound of his wet skin and your open hand slapping against his balls overwhelmingly lewd. His eyes fluttered closed for just a minute, and his head cocked to the right, his mouth opening while no sound came out. His eyes rolled back in his head, and his hips started to buck up into your hand, supplementing your strokes. 

“F-fuck, YN, that’s– fucking incredible, Jesus Christ. Please, I’m gonna–” he stammered, looking up at you like he was pleading with you. You simply returned his gaze and smiled, that warm, all-knowing smile of yours, and he fell apart. His entire body, hot to the touch, seemed to shake uncontrollably as he burst, thick ropes of cum spilling out of him and splashing onto your hands and your thighs. 

“Fuck!” he whined almost pathetically, his hips faltering to an unsteady stop as he released.

You kept your hand there, slowing to languid, gentle strokes as he rode out his high until you were sure he’d emptied the last of his cum in the crease between your thigh and hip. He tried his best not to collapse on top of you, but you knew he was weak. 

“It’s okay,” you reassured him, and he fell on top of you with a limp thud, groaning as he buried his face in your chest. 

The two of you lay there catching your breaths, sweaty and hot to the touch. When Art finally got up, he laid next to you on his side. His face was red, and not just because of the exertion. 

“Fuck. I’m so sorry, I-I don’t know what came over me, probably crushed you,” he laughed apologetically.

You replied by using two fingers to gather what you could of his cum, smiling writhely as you licked them clean. He watched intently, absolutely enraptured. You did it again, reaching down to your thigh and gathering up his cum. This time, your fingers prodded at his lips. He nearly rattled with arousal. Easily, he obliged, opening ever so slightly, and wrapping his lips around your fingers, sucking the taste of himself clean off. You smiled at him admiringly. He couldn't help but laugh around your fingers,

"Fuck, that's so hot. I'm so sorry."

“Don’t apologize. You did so well.”

Suddenly, Art sat up. 

“Let’s get you cleaned up, okay?”

You giggled, your eyes twinkling as you looked up at him, amused by this sudden display of responsibility. 

“Do I seem that fragile?” you teased.

“Oh, on the contrary. I just, I don’t know. Aftercare is important.”

So you spend the next half hour being doted on by Art as he soaped down your body in the tub. It’s the most intimate you had been the entire night, and he realized now that this was the most detailed he’d seen your body. He wanted you like this forever, being carefully pampered under his adoration, gazed upon by his eyes only. For a moment, you worried that this was somehow crossing a line, but you swallowed those thoughts just as quickly as they surfaced. The line had already been crossed when you reached out to them. Sure, you wanted to see how your two favorite white boys were doing, and you were excited to rekindle the friendship that had molded your life for so long. 

But like Art walking to your door, you knew what it was that you wanted, and you knew that you were opening up a can of worms. Besides, you really did love Art, and you loved Patrick too. It was the sort of platonic love that could only be understood by people who had been friends as long as the three of you had. The kind of love that was still there for the taking years later. It didn’t need constant stoking to keep the flame. So, neither of you made this routine— this gentle touch in the water, loofah running across your back and Art’s fingers digging into your shoulders to loosen you up — a big deal. 

By the time the water drained, you were absolutely zonked. You didn’t realize how late it was and just how much energy the whole ordeal had taken out of you. Your orgasm was so strong you were surpised you didn’t fall asleep then and there. Art used a towel to dry you off and had to practically carry you to your bed. He was lucky you didn’t see the shit eating, self-satisfied grin on his face — he liked being a caregiver, and throughout all the years that you had been friends, it was rare that you ever let him take care of you like this. 

You threw the sheets over yourself, lashes batting as you looked over at Art, who was kneeling on the floor next to you, at face level with you. He was smiling so wholesomely that you couldn’t help but reach your hand out and stroke his face, your thumb resting on his sharp jaw.

“You’re good to me, Art. You both are. I really did miss you two. I keep saying it but I want you to know it’s true. Didn’t just invite you guys here to live out some old fantasy.”

“I missed you so much,” Art could melt from the touch of your hand on his cheek. He tilted his head slightly to kiss your fingers gently, cupping your hand over his. “I know you, YN. You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”

You yawned,

“I’ve been a rotten friend, though. Don’t know what took me so long to invite you guys to one of these. I thought about it every year, but decided against it every ime.”

Art waved his hand, shaking his head in dismissal of your comments,

“You’re a perfect friend. We’re the rotten ones.”

“See? You’re just the sweetest,” you grinned, your eyes sparkling. “I’d let you sleep with me, but—”

“Patrick,” he concluded.

“Don’t want him to be mad you didn’t tuck him in,” you giggled. 

In the back of Art’s mind, he wondered if it would’ve gone the same way if Patrick had been the one to knock on your door. He knew it would, but it was nice to pretend that it was something he had to think about. He wondered what you would’ve done if they’d both shown up. Almost laughed to himself at how little self-control he had, while you were like a rock. 

“He’s asleep anyway, but I should be there in the morning so things aren’t weird… things won’t be weird, will they?”

You shook your head, though some part of you knew that Patrick would even out the scorecard soon enough. He always did, competitor that he was. He was so hard to resist, and it’s not like you were resisting him very much in the first place — you’d invited the both of them, it was just a quirk that Art had been the one to do it first. You’d half expected Patrick to show up by himself, if it wasn’t the two of them. But one thing about Art was that he wasn’t some stick in the mud — he could be a wild card, and if he was anything like that ball of energy he was back in high school, you knew he could get shit done. 

“It could never be weird. It’s us,” you replied with certainty. 

Art leaned in, pressing his lips against yours in a soft kiss. 

“Go back to bed, Artie. I’ll see you at breakfast,” you grinned. 

“Goodnight,” he crooned. 

“Goodnight,” you replied. 

He stood up and walked out the room, though part of him was longing to stay there for just a bit longer, if not the whole night. But he knew this was just a one-time thing, just a way to let out that pent-up tension. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t already thinking about showing up to your door tonight, and the next night, spending each warm summer night here buried inside of you, pulling his name from your mouth in pleasured sobs, making you come undone with his fingers once again. But, dutiful as he was, he walked back to their room, careful not to make a sound as he pulled off his shirt and stepped back into bed— staring up at the ceiling while he replayed moments over again in his mind. Like high school all over again. 

[aishangotome]

Nokto Klein: Even If The World Becomes False Again...

From A Hidden Oath: King of the BEAST (2024 Election) - Collection Event

Thank you @dark-frosted-heart for providing the SE video!

—

Late at night, when even the plants and trees are asleep---

I returned to my room after finishing my official duties, and Emma, dressed in her nightgown, greeted me.

Nokto: I'm home. You could have gone to bed earlier. I told you I'd be late today, didn't I?

Emma: Welcome back. But I wanted to sleep after seeing your face.

Nokto: Just seeing me is enough? That's not enough for me, by the way.

Nokto: If I knew you were waiting up for me so diligently, I'd want to hold you.

I embraced her waist and kissed her.

My second kiss was stopped by her hand, as if to hold me back.

Emma: You just got back, didn't you?

Nokto: That's exactly why I want you, to make up for the time we were apart.

Emma: That's true, but...

She suddenly looked at me with a questioning gaze.

Emma: Nokto, are you a little tired?

Nokto: Hmm, a little.

(As expected, you notice right away.)

I was surprised to find myself answering honestly, even as I replied.

(Maybe it's because I was dealing with someone who kept lying to me tonight, but I am a little tired.)

(But if it were the old me, I would have lied to you with a smile, just like that person I was dealing with, and said "I'm fine.")

Emma: Then I'll make you some tea now. Should I add plenty of milk tonight?

Nokto: I think I'll take you up on that.

I sat down on the bed and sighed, and immediately a teacup filled with fragrant steam was offered to me.

I could feel Emma's kindness even in its warmth.

(You had it ready so you could serve it as soon as I got back, huh?)

Nokto: Thank you. Your tea seems to have a more restorative effect than any medicine.

Emma: Hehe, you're welcome.

As I drank the tea, Emma sat down next to me and rested her head on my shoulder.

Her lovely weight and warmth seemed to warm my heart and body.

(You're so endlessly kind and straightforward that my heart melts in an instant.)

(I can now honestly open up to you, and it's probably thanks to that.)

Emma: After you finish your tea, let's take a bath and go to bed early, okay?

Nokto: Don't we need to continue what we were doing earlier?

I put the empty teacup on the side table and lifted Emma onto my lap.

I teasingly traced my fingertips along her back, and her cheeks flushed as if she understood what I meant.

Emma: Well, that's because it's reading day today...

(Oh my, you're so red.)

(But you're not saying no, which means you've become quite naughty too... cute.)

A smile escaped my lips, and Emma raised her eyebrows in a playful pout.

Emma: Oh, you're teasing me, aren't you?

Nokto: Of course not. I really think we should continue what we were doing.

Nokto: I laughed because you reacted so cutely.

Nokto: You know, that feeling when you see something cute and your cheeks loosen up.

Emma: Like when I see your sleeping face?

Nokto: I can't relate to that at all.

Emma: What? But it's cute.

(I used to deceive people with fake smiles, but now I smile from the heart more often.)

(When I'm with you, I find myself smiling.)

My feelings welled up and I hugged her, and Emma looked up and narrowed her eyes happily.

Nokto: You smile so happily at just the slightest thing.

Emma: It's not "just" anything to me.

Emma: I'm so, so happy to feel your warmth, Nokto.

(Happiness, huh... I thought I didn't need it so much, but now I can't let go of this happiness.)

(Because you reached out and saved me so many times, even though you were hurt, just to make me happy.)

(And because I know that if I'm not happy, neither you nor Licht can be truly happy...)

Emma: Nokto?

Nokto: I was just savoring the happiness of being with you, too.

Unusually honest words spilled out.

(...But I'm still a little embarrassed.)

I cupped Emma's chin and kissed her to hide my embarrassment.

I stroked her hair indulgently, repeating gentle pecks on her lips.

(I love your happy, unguarded face, but it's not enough.)

I placed my hand on the back of her head, taking away her escape route, and devoured her lips, my tongue parting them.

I traced her teeth and captured her relaxed tongue, eliciting a sensual moan.

Emma: Mmm...

Nokto: Come on, melt even more with my love and show me your indecent side.

I devoured the body we had remade together in our days of lovemaking, immersed in deep happiness, and made a vow in my heart.

To protect this happiness, I wouldn't hesitate to throw myself back into a world full of falsehoods.

(No matter how false the world is, I know your pure feelings are not false,)

(And I'm sure my love for you is not false either...)

FIN

[orions-choker]

Animals (Werewolf! James Hetfield x Reader Fluff)

Werewolf! James Hetfield, Fluff, Domestic moments.

Word Count: 3,770

Reader works at a vet clinic, just when she's sure she has seen it all come through those doors she's met with the oddest looking wolf she's ever seen. (Cross posted to AO3)

This is a very quick and probably not fantastic Werewolf James fluff. I just had this silly idea in my head and wanted to write it down quickly so apologies this isn't the best thing I've ever written <3

Being a veterinarian in a rural town meant one saw a lot of odd things. Coming through those doors were sometimes wild deer, cows, hawks, owls, you name it. However Y/N had never treated a wolf before, let alone a wolf quite so big.

“How did you say you found this guy?” She asked, concern in her voice as she pet across the animals side gently, simultaneously soothing the creature and searching for any egregious wounds hidden in the thick fur. It was breathing shallowly, hardly conscious as it lay across her cold examining table.

The old farmer standing in the room with her shrugged, the smell of his chewing tobacco fragrant in the air as his teeth clacked together. “Laying in the ditch just down the road ere’” His twang was a little thicker than her own, though she understood him easily enough. “Seemed pretty beat up. unno’ I figured I should bring him in.”

She nodded slowly, leaning over to pry the beast's eyes open gently, she watched as the pupils slowly followed her movements, a good sign. Aside from that she noticed its eyes were strikingly blue, captivating in an odd way. “Thank’s Kenny, we’ll take care of him from here, get home it's getting late.” She dismissed him kindly. Y/N stood up, turning her back to the table to grab IV supplies.

Kenny, the farmer, grunted in acknowledgment, shutting the door to the examination room behind him. The heavy thud of his boots grew distant until she could no longer hear them. She turned around, holding the small needle attached to the drip bag in her hands. “C’mon boy, let's get you feeling better.” She smiled sweetly.

It was some hours later that Y/N had found the cause, luckily no serious wounds but a fractured leg and some slight malnutrition. Poor guy looked like he had been abandoned by his pack. With the bandage wrapped around the offending leg she pulled the wheeling bed outside. It took three members of staff to gently move the sedated wolf into one of their outside kennels for wild animals.

Y/N grunted as she clicked the gate close, pulling on the lock. “We’ll keep an eye on him for a bit, maybe get in touch with a rehabilitation center.” She huffed out to one of her techs. Dusting her hands off on her scrubs. “Odd looking wolf though don't you think?” She asked, looking over the hulking mass of dusty blonde fur.

“Yeah, maybe it's part albino?” Her vet tech supplied with a shrug, following after her into the building once more.

By the time she had finished cleaning up and completing the necessary paperwork it was near midnight. Y/N had long since sent the rest of the staff home, assuring them she could close up here by herself. She decided to do one last set of rounds, checking on all the current patients she had, her final stop being the wolf. To her surprise he was awake.

“Hey buddy, how are you feeling?” She asked sweetly, crouching down in front of the cage he was sitting in. The wolf eyed her curiously, unmoving from the spot it lay in, on top of a soft but old and worn blanket. “Still a little dazed huh? I’ll be back tomorrow okay?” She smiled with a tilt of her head. Its blue eyes followed her movements as she got back up to her feet, slowly turning and walking away.

Y/N couldn’t help but think of the creature all night, a mixture of curiosity and concern for its well being. Truly nothing could have prepared her for a wolf that big, despite the clear signs of undereating, she shuddered to think what it looked like when properly taken care of. She likened it to something like a fictional dire wolf.

In her dreams were those blue eyes watching her, and a boy, her age with wild blonde hair. Prophetic dreams weren’t her strong suit so by the time the sun crested the hills and woke her with its gently warm rays, she had forgotten about it.

The wolf was her first stop that day, a hunk of raw meat in her hands as she approached the enclosure. She noticed the way its large ears perked up, its nose high in the sky as it sniffed out the blood in the air. A good sign, it was still interested in eating.

“Hey boy.” She sang, stepping towards the metal bars. “How are you doing this morning, hungry?” She asked, holding the meat out between the bars with a pair of tongs. “Think you can try walking over here?” She hoped to gauge how bad the injured leg was.

It seemed annoyed? Giving her an almost comical side eye and pathetic snarl before slowly raising itself up. The steps it took towards her were slow, but unwavering, no wobbles or winces of pain. “That's a good boy.” She praised him gently. It prodded at the meat gently with its nose before opening its large jaws and snapping at the food.

The entire chunk was gone in a matter of seconds, the wolf devouring it like it hadn’t eaten in months. Y/N frowned. “You poor thing, there's more where that came from kay?” She watched with curious eyes as it licked at its lips, seemingly satisfied. Slowly it pressed its face to the bars, eyes wide and pitiful as it looked up at her.

Y/N was almost convinced, just for a moment, that this predator was nothing more than a big puppy. “Aww buddy, I can’t give you pets, you'll bite my hand off.” She shook her head at him. It whined at her slowly, as if it could understand the words she was saying. She frowned, looking down to the ground, spotting a stick laying by her feet.

Quickly she picked it up, reaching forward with it to scratch gently between the wolf's large ears. “That's the best I can do dude.” She chuckled, watching the way its tail thumped against the ground happily. “I’ll be back to check on you in a bit, keep yourself entertained.” She tossed the stick into the enclosure, the wolf's jaws snapping around it in an impressive catch. She stared in bewilderment before shaking her head and walking away.

“Do you think there's any chance in hell that this thing is some kind of wolf dog?” Y/N asked her team as she entered the building. “I might be going crazy but it seems domesticated.” She frowned, sitting down at her desk chair.

One of the fellow vets stared at her like she had grown a second head. “I've seen wolf dogs before, they’re smaller than a normal wolf, not bigger than them.” He said, placing a cup of coffee down in front of Y/N. “That thing is not domesticated I can promise you that, please dont get any funny ideas and try to cuddle the fucking thing.”

Y/N couldn’t help but chuckle at that, taking a sip of the warm drink as she leaned forward. “I have a couple more brain cells than that, but seriously it seemed like it wanted pets and to play fetch?” She frowned, placing her elbows on the desk before her. “I wonder if some crazy person tried domesticating a pup and left it in the wild when they realized it wasn’t going to work.”

“Hmm possible I guess, but I think you’re just reading too much into it.”

He was probably right. Y/N sighed and shook her head. The rest of her day was terribly uneventful, which she supposed was good, less hurt animals was always a good thing. Still she couldn't shake the feeling of boredom. She had no excuse for staying late tonight but she did anyway.

Bidding farewell to the last receptionist she closed the door, turning the deadbolt before making her way to the back door that led out to the yard. The other enclosures were empty save for the final one at the end. Flashlight in hand she approached once more with an offering to the beast.

“You awake boy?” She called out as she rounded the corner. As she laid eyes upon the contents of the cage her flashlight and tongs clattered to the ground. The beam of the light still illuminated the inside and like a spotlight drew the attention to the boy that sat there. Naked, a loose bandage falling from his leg. Messy blonde locks and piercing blue eyes. “What the fuck.” She mumbled.

There was a sheepish smile on his face as he sat there, staring up at Y/N. His legs were crossed, hands placed to hide his more intimate parts. “Sorry, I can explain.” His voice was raspy, gruff but a little boyish. The next startling thing aside from this man suddenly sitting before her, was the fact this man also had a large set of protruding wolf's ears atop his head, and a huge tail that thumped against the ground just as the beast here before had.

Y/N was truly at a loss for words, standing frozen before the scene unfolding. “What. The. Fuck.” She finally managed to force out, taking a hesitant step backwards. Her eyes scanned over the enclosure for any signs of the animal she had come out here to see in the first place. “Who are you? How did you get in there?” She sputtered out. “I’m James.” He helpfully informed her, his ears laid flat against his head as he heard the panic in his voice. “You put me in here.” He scratched awkwardly at the back of his neck. “Ahh man, how do you explain lycanthropy to someone.”

She blinked hard, was that supposed to be a joke? She scoffed “I know perfectly well about fucking werewolves.” her eyebrows furrowing. As much as she wanted to assume this was some horrible practical joke her staff was playing on her, she couldn’t deny the literal dog-like features he held. “Are you seriously telling me I was treating a werewolf and now I have a whole man locked up in the back of my vets office?”

The boy, James, that was his name. James' awkward smile returned. ‘Yeah I guess that's the gist of it.” A shiver ran over his bare body. “Hey you wouldn’t happen to have some clothes or something? It's kind of cold out here.”

Which is how she ended up with a half naked boy, wrapped up in a thick blanket in the passenger seat of her beat up 1980 Chevette. The hum of the radio being the only sound filling the tense car. “I think I have my dads old clothes in storage.” Y/N mumbled, eyes trained on the road ahead, hands stiff on the steering wheel.

James hummed awkwardly in acknowledgment. “Thank you again.” He drummed his fingers against the fabric of the blanket covering his thighs. She could see him staring at her from the corner of her eyes. His big blue puppy dog eyes seemingly admiring her like she was a hero.

Pulling into her garage Y/N shut the car off quickly. Waiting until the door shut behind them before opening the car door. She didn’t need any of her neighbors seeing her bring a strange naked dog boy back home. “You can come inside.” She mumbled awkwardly, pushing open the door that led into the main section of her home.

She didn’t need to tell him that, James had already been following her closely. Right on her heels. His blanket dragged behind him as he shuffled into the house.She frowned at him. “You know I think you could stand to have a shower too.” She could see the blanket moving wildly as his tail began wagging once more. “Over here,” She sighed.

Y/N gestured to the door leading to her bathroom. She shoved James inside gently, grabbing a towel from her linen closet. “Come out when you're done I should hopefully have some clothes for you.” She pushed the towel into his hands, ignoring the blush that rose to her cheeks as he smiled widely at her.

Quickly she backed out of the room as he began to drop the blanket covering him, pulling the door shut with a loud slam. Her chest heaved as she attempted to calm down her erratic breathing. While he had seemed like a well domesticated dog he certainly wasn’t a house trained human. Or maybe he was just like that.

The sound of the water heater humming to life and water pattering against the tile was her cue to find James some real clothes. She rummaged around in the back of her closet until she found something that looked approximately the right size. James was tall, big but lean just like the wolf had been, so she opted for some shorts over jeans and a plain loose fitting t-shirt. This would have to do for now.

Collecting the clothes in her arms she shuffled back into her living room, tossing them unceremoniously onto her couch. The sound of running water still echoed distantly down the hall so she took the moment to sit and contemplate.

She had treated a wolf, put the wolf outside, came back a day later to find a man there instead, and then brought the man home with her. The more she replayed the events in her mind the more it seemed completely unfathomable. She sat there, head hung low, hands tugging at her hair as she tried to rationalize it.

The house fell silent as the shower shut off. Her eyes drifted upwards at the sound of wet footsteps padded down the hall towards her. James rounded the corner, towel hung low around his waist, droplets of water running from his soaked hair down his lean chest and abdomen. Fuck, he was hot too wasn’t he. Y/N audibly groaned, tossing her head back against the couch.

“You okay?” He asked cautiously, walking forward to grab the pile of clothes from beside her. Y/N squeezed her eyes shut as James dropped the towel from his waist without a second thought. She waited until she no longer heard the ruffling of clothes before opening them again. The shorts were a little too short on him but otherwise everything fit just fine. “Y/N?”

“How do you know my name?” She asked curiously, she was positive she had not given him the courtesy of her name when they had their first introductions. She watched him as he moved to sit next to her on the couch, he grabbed the towel, using it to roughly dry his hair. Noticeably his ears and tail seemed to be gone now. “What's with the whole; wolf, half wolf half man, full man, thing you have going on?”

James smiled at her, yeah, yeah he was really cute. “It was on your nametag the other day.” He explained. He leaned back, body relaxing into the soft cushions on the couch. “Also that much is a little hard to explain, It’s just what my body does, you wouldn't try to explain the process of blood pumping in your veins to someone.”

Y/N rolled her eyes. “That's hardly a good analogy.” She complained. She liked hard concrete answers, not wishy-washy bullshit. “It doesn't matter they don't train you for this thing in vet school.” She pulled her legs up onto the couch, resting her head atop her knees as she looked towards him. “Explain what led you here, why were you injured on the side of the road, why haven't you been eating?”

There was a hesitation in his eyes, silence following for a long moment. Gulping hard the blond finally spoke. “I got kicked out by my dad a couple years ago while I was still a teenager, I was couch surfing for awhile but I figured I needed to start fresh.” He seemed tense as he spoke. “Easier to cross the country on four legs rather than two, accidentally encroached on some guy's territory and got my shit kicked in, it had been a few weeks since I ate properly after that.”

“Are you hungry then?” Y/N asked sympathetically, feeling it wasn't her place to pry into the details of that story. She stood up from the couch, moving to the kitchen. James followed her closely, she didn’t comment on it. “Want some cold leftover pizza?” She hummed, throwing the door to her fridge open and rummaging around.

James peaked down at her from over the open door, excitement in his eyes as he nodded enthusiastically. “Thank you.” He eagerly took the pizza box from her hands, ripping it open to shovel the remaining slices into his mouth. “God Y/N, you’re the best.”

She couldn’t help the blush that stained her skin. She wasn’t sure what came over her next as she spoke. “Need a place to crash for a couple days?” The offer was out before she could take it back. Though at the way his eyes brightened, looking towards her, she was glad she offered.

“Are you really cool with that?” He asked around a mouthful of pizza.

Y/N sighed, defeated. “What can I say, I like helping out injured animals.” She joked lightly. Her heart fluttered at the way James cracked a smile at her. “I hope you don’t shed.”

–

A few days turned into a few weeks, weeks to a month. Truthfully she wasn’t keeping track anymore. She hated to admit it but she was lonely. Coming home each day to someone so eager to see her was definitely improving her overall quality of life.

James waited around eagerly for her every day, lounging across her sofa, usually half clothed. His presence in her home came in the form of old skate shoes by the front door, a guitar hanging above her bed, his dirty jeans and shirts piled in the corner of the bathroom each day. It felt more lived in.

“James!” She called out. She could hear the distant chattering of the t.v in the living room, a clattering of dishes alerting her to his location. She shuffled into the kitchen, body slumped over in exhaustion.

He eyed her worriedly as she came into view, quickly placing his plate down against the counter and coming to place a hand on her shoulder. “Long day?” He asked gruffly. A frown situated itself on his face.

Y/N nodded, leaning her head against his chest. “That's an understatement.” She groaned. “I think I might be in need of some doggy cuddles.” She looked up at him with pleading eyes. This had become a routine for them now, she had not only gained a roommate, but also a big fluffy pet to ease her sorrows on the worst of days.

Beneath her she could feel James’s body stiffen lightly, the hand he had placed on her shoulder gripping tighter. Curiously she peered up at him, their eyes meeting and she could feel the anxiety pouring from him. “Can I just…give you regular cuddles today?” He asked slowly, like the question would burn him if he spit it out too fast.

That was a boundary that hadn’t been crossed before. Not to say she hadn’t thought of it, truly she didn’t really know what the difference would be. She was lying next to him no matter what. Still she could feel the amount of courage it took for him to ask. Her eyes twinkled and she nodded softly. “Yeah that works too.” She grabbed his large hand within her own, and pulled him behind her to the bedroom.

James had taken up residence on her couch but that didn’t mean he hadn’t become well acquainted with her room. It was one of his favorite places to nap, completely overwhelmed by her scent and enveloped in the warmth of her trinkets and decorations. Of course he was always invited onto the bed when he chose to present as his wolf.

Y/N rolled onto the bed, letting out a comforted sigh. James enthusiastically crawled beside her. Their bodies gravitated towards each other like magnets, Y/N settling into the comforting embrace of his strong arms. He was big enough to fully envelop her with his body. She felt safe and hidden from the world like this.

“Thank you.” She rolled over, her back to his chest as she nestled her head against his arm using it as a pillow. “We lost some patients today.” Her voice wavered as she recounted the events of the day to James. “I just wanted to come home and cry.”

Her body was pulled back, bringing her tighter against James’s strong chest. His nose pressed to the top of her head. “M’sorry.” He soothed her gently rubbing her arms. “You can cry if you want to.” He assured her.

Y/N shook her head gently, taking in a deep shaky breath before speaking. “No, I think I’m okay now.” She tilted her head back to catch a glimpse of his face. Her hand reaching up, fingers gently tracing over the scarring across his cheeks. She thought it was cute, but she knew he didn’t feel the same. “Funny just being around you seems to make me feel better.”

Leaning into her touch, He smiled down at her. “Aren't you glad you saved me.” He joked lightly. Though it was true, he wasn’t sure he would have had the will to go on much longer had he not been brought into Y/N’s clinic.

“Every day.” She returned the smile. Her words filled with a sincerity that James wasn’t used to. His hair stood on end as an unfamiliar feeling swirled in the pit of his stomach. Suddenly Y/N yawned, her body straightening out as she stretched her limbs. “I think it's nap time.” She mumbled. Dropping her head back down she closed her eyes. “I’ll make dinner later.”

James nodded, reaching down with a free hand to pull the blankets over them. “A nap seems good.” He grunted out, trying to still the excitement building inside him. It threatened to boil over at how pleasantly domestic it felt to lay next to her. His mind whirled with hundreds of things he desperately wanted to blurt out.

Her body went slack in his hold. The rhythmic movement of her chest as she breathed falling in sync with his own. He decided his eager professions of love could wait until after she woke up.

[mika-no-sekai-blog]

Word count: 2400+

Warnings: language, mentions of trauma

I noticed that most of you aren't Tamlin's fans, but give him a chance😉

Part I | Part III

After the beast was gone your life returned to its normal. You spent your days taking walks in the forest, picking up herbs, fishing and collecting berries and mushrooms to eat. You still thought about the beast, of course you did, but after all it was his decision to leave. All you could do was hope that there's somebody who would check on his wound, making sure it healed properly.

One day you woke up into gloomy morning, heavy rain drumming on the leaves behind the windows. You couldn't go out, so you cuddled down with a blanket into your favourite armchair in front of the fireplace with cracking wood in it. Slowly sipping fragrant tea you dived into a book laid on your lap.

Suddenly front door burst open harshly and the beast broke in. He was soaked, water dripping on the floor. But the sudden invasion wasn't what scared you the most. It was the beast's expression. He looked so wild, so dangerous, so angry, the rows of sharp fangs bared, his angry eyes sizing you. Huge body filled small space of cottage, sucking out all the air.

Your fingers clenching tighter around the mug, was the only sign of fear you allowed yourself. Maybe after all, they were right saying the High Lord went crazy. There's no other explanation to this. You looked straight into the green eyes with gold flecks waiting, leaving the first move to him.

He growled, the sound full of rage and pain shook the walls. He began to pad around, the dagger-like claws had left scratches on the wooden floor. You were watching him with bated breath.

After few minutes he came to you, sitting down he pressed his wolf's head to your knees and exhaled deeply.

"I'm sorry," he muttered. "I didn't know where else to go."

"It's okay," you breathed out swallowing hard. You could still feel his rage seeping from his body.

"And I'm sorry for the door. I'll repair it." You looked to the remains of what used to be the front door. The spicy smell of magic filled the air and the debris disappeared immediately replaced by new door.

"Thank you," you whispered still clenching the mug. Even thought he seemed to be calmer now, you could sense bad mood hadn't left him yet. Your eyes fell to the side where he had been wounded. "I see you healed."

"Yes, all thanks to you and that tea you gave me." He didn't offer any explanation of why he disappeared without a word, so you wouldn't ask more about it. You sat silently in that strange position for a while, not sure which topic was safe to take out.

"Is.. everything alright?" you tried your luck, hoping he wouldn't bite your head off.

"No," he answered simply and you could sense new surge of anger building in him. "She looked so satisfied..so happy next to that bastard. As if she was laughing right in my face and saying: he fucks me better than you. He even made me his.." He abruptly halted, probably thinking he said too much.

But you already knew who he really was. You suspected it before and today his words just made you sure of it. You swallowed hard. There wasn't much you could say to that without revealing you knew his true identity. So you decided it's better to remain silent.

The beast exhaled deeply and closed his eyes. "Would you mind if we stay like this for a while?" he asked, voice full of pain and resignation.

"No, I don't mind it," you offered small smile. And so you sat there in silence with beast's head rested on your legs. The fire in the hearth crackled, raindrops drummed on windows and roof and the wind blew through the treetops.

Lost in your thoughts you watched beast's slowly drying fur while sipping your tea. Reaching out your fingers gently ran over the soft fur. The beast tensed under your touch and holding breathe cracked his eyes open. Only then you realized what you had done.

"I'm so sorry," you quickly untangled fingers from fur. "I didn't mean.."

"It's okay," he interrupted you. "I.. like..it.."

It's so surprising, you weren't sure what to do. Was it permission to continue? Hesitantly you touched him, gently scratching soft fur between the antlers. He purred lowly and shut eyes closed. Heat consumed your cheeks. Treating High Lord as some pet. How rude. You couldn't believe your own audacity. Thankfully nobody else saw that. Your fingers slid down behind his ear.

Shiver ran down his spine and startled he sat up, breaking off contact. His unusual green eyes locked with yours. Some strange energy surged between you and then he blinked and it was gone.

Turning his gaze to the fire, he cleared his throat. "Don't you...have more of the tea? It smells nice."

"Oh, sure," you babbled, accepting the way out he'd offered you so generously.

While you were pouring tea to the bowl, you could feel his intensive gaze. He didn't stop even when you returned back and offered him the tea.

"Thank you," he mumbled. Both of you sat and drank your teas, silence was stretching. When it was clear he didn't want to talk anymore, you picked up your book, found where you left off and started to read.

It was almost dinner time. The beast was lying in front of the fireplace fast asleep. His gentle snoring and unceasing rain were the only sounds in the darkening room. You put the book aside. Lighting candles along the way you stalked to the kitchen to prepare something to eat.

The beast didn't make even slightest move, but you knew he's awake. When food was on the table you hesitantly stepped to his side and touched his shoulder. He looked up at you.

"Come and eat something," you invited him. Obediently he followed you to table and sat down across from you. Sitting on the floor he was still taller than you. Looking down on you he watched as you took first bite. Only then he started to eat too. He finished in no time and liking his muzzle looked at plates on the table.

"Would you like some more?" you asked him.

He stiffened slowly looking up at you. "No, I'm fine." Lie. You could not only see, but also hear his hunger. You smirked, took his plate and put another portion of food on it.

"Don't be shy to tell you are hungry." He hesitantly nodded and started to eat.

When you finished, you began to clean table and dishes while he watched you with interest. "I wonder why you don't use your magic. It could be done in no time."

"I have no powers," you snorted amused.

"But you do have some," he insisted. "I can feel it. Especially when you make tea, medicines or cook."

"You must be wrong," you tried to laugh it off nervously. "I don't—can't.."

"Believe me. I can sense quite great power from you. Even now. It's suppressed, but it's there. You're on the same level as any High Fae."

"Can we just stop talking about it?" you asked him. You felt uneasy. Any mention of your magic made you feel so since you could remember. You didn't know why, anything that happened before you started to live in this cottage, was blurred. You didn't know where you came from, who you were or who your parents were. You only knew you didn't want to find out. All this magic talk made you feel nauseous. "I'm going to take some logs for fire," you announced, needing to get out of there. You didn't wait for his reaction. You needed fresh chilly air immediately.

His eyes narrowed as you rushed out into the dark. He noticed your pale face, but decided not to mention this topic anymore. Obviously there was something about it that bothered you. You didn't push him about his inner wounds, you didn't demand any explanations and he would do the same.

You didn't know how long you were sitting under the tree in the dark cold forest pressing your hands to ears, rocking back and forth. Screaming female's voice echoed in your mind. No doubt it was something you witnessed in the past, some lost memory, but you didn't want to know what it meant. You only wanted it to stop.

When you finally regained your usual composure, you took few logs and returned to cottage. The beast was again lying in front of the hearth. He looked up at you. "Everything okay?"

"Perfectly fine," you put logs away and sat down to your armchair. Suddenly realising how cold you were, you pulled up the blanket. The beast watched as you settled into the armchair and then put his head on the paws. The rest of the night you two spent in silence.

Three days passed since that day. You lived just as before. Only one thing changed - you weren't alone anymore.

The first day the beast stayed inside while you went on your regular walk, picking up herbs, mushrooms and berries, and fishing. He was probably bored all alone, because next day he joined you and went out with you. He was rather quiet companion, mostly just looking out for you while basking in the sun or helping you to carry the basket.

He was often lost in thoughts. Something bothered him, but he wouldn't say a single word. You didn't ask about it either. You just made sure he knew you were there if he needed.

Today wasn't different. You were sitting on the bank of small lake fishing while the beast was lying on large rock nearby, watching you out of habit.

"Don't you hunt?" he asked you suddenly.

You shook head. "I don't. I couldn't possibly kill an animal. I feel sick to even think about hurting small mouse."

He made a sound that remotely resembled the laughter. "You are really a vicious witch."

You frowned at him. "There's nothing wrong with it."

"No, it isn't," he agreed, his voice playful. It was the first time he had such good mood since you met him. For some reason it warmed your heart and you smiled too. "Have you ever eaten meat except of fish?"

"To be honest I don't know. I don't remember my life before I came to this forest," you admitted.

"Why?" he asked carefully.

"I don't know," you shrugged.

"Did you try to remember or search for someone to help you?"

You bit on your lower lip and shook your head. "I feel that it's better not to know."

"I see," he turned back to the lake, putting this conversation to the end. He wanted to know more, but it seemed to be dangerous topic. You were already pale enough.

For the rest of the day he stayed silent seemingly thinking about something. His good mood disappeared which was a pity. You quite liked that change and his teasing.

After the dinner he sat down in front of you, resolution in his green eyes.

"There's—there's something I should tell you.."

You patiently waited for his next words, giving him an encouraging smile.

"I..I'm not beast," he breathed out, watching you carefully, waiting for your reaction.

"I know. You have human eyes," you said calmly and took a sip of tea.

"You are really special," his mouth widened into something similar to the smile, but more wild, eyes shined brightly.

He looked at you, jaw tightening. "There is more.."

He inhaled deeply, those gleaming green eyes never leaving yours. His features started to change. You just sat there and watched. It took mere seconds, a flash of light and there was a young male kneeling in front of you only in ragged brown breeches. His golden hair were long, tangled and as dirty as the rest of his muscular body. Big silver scar on his ribs was the only proof he was the injured beast you saved.

On the first look he was High Fae, there's no doubt about it. His magic was so powerful your insides shivered. You couldn't take eyes off of him, lips slightly parted. Even under the layers of dirt he was still attractive. You'd already seen all kinds of fae males, but no one like him. Nobody was so handsome, so graceful. Nobody made your heart jump to your throat. You realized you were staring at him. Ashamed you looked down on your hands.

He nervously cleared his throat. "I'm.. Tamlin.." No titles. Okay, you could play along.

"Ehm, nice to meet you," you mumbled.

"I'm sorry for my messy appearance. It's quite some time since I.. you know.. I've spent several days in my animal form.."

"It's okay," you shyly took another sip of tea, so you didn't have to look at his broad chest.

He shakily inhaled. "Listen.. I know this is sudden, but.. the war is approaching. I had a peaceful time here to think things over, which I'm really grateful for.. but you have to go.. flee to another Court or maybe even to continent. This place won't be safe. If Prythian looses, this Court will be destroyed as first.."

Tamlin wanted to continue, but you stopped him. All feelings aside you found your balance once again and he could see why other Fae had avoided you. You were empty.

"I will not go anywhere," you stated coldly.

"It wasn't request," he matched your tone, anger building up in his voice, sharp claws slid out.

"You have no right to command me around. It's up to me if I want to leave or no." You spoke calmly, it wasn't in your nature to shout at others.

"Actually I.." Tamlin halted, biting down on his lower lip. "Do as you wish, you stubborn little thing. I warned you," he growled, stood up swiftly and without another word left.

You remained seated in your armchair grasping mug in your fingers. You understood his concern, but high lord or no he had no right to order you to leave your cottage, the only home you had ever known. This was your comfort zone and you couldn't even imagine life behind the borders of this forest.

You closed your eyes trying to calm down. You almost started to like him and his silent company. You didn't want to be angry at him. You didn't want to feel anything at all. Feelings were just troubles and troubles hadn't place in your life. And so you pushed and pushed until all of the feelings disappeared and you again felt yourself.

[hyperactively-me]

Heyyy!!! It’s me again, DogHandler!Graves anon 😁😁 just for the heck of it, what if our dear Princess is riding her trusty steed out in the fields close to the forest’s edge. The whole time, she feels eyes on her as if she’s being watched. Right before she is attacked by a wild creature, Graves and his pack of dogs chase the beast away and now they both have to explain to King!Simon what they were doing with each other…. Out where no one could see what was going on? I love drama 😊😊😊😊😊

i really liked this prompt and the whole doghandler!graves character! i had a bit of a hard time conveying my ideas/thoughts for this prompt, and i've tried rewriting it, but this is the best i can do! hopefully you like it 🙏

king!ghost x reader -- forest's edge

You sit atop your majestic horse, her hooves rhythmically pounding against the soft earth beneath. The golden fields stretch out before you, the tall grass a sea of undulating waves, bathed in the warm hues of the sun. You revel in the freedom of the open air, the wind tousling your hair as you ride close to the forest’s edge.

Simon had been reluctant to let you venture too far, his concerns and protests echoing in your ears. He was not keen on the idea of you going out by yourself, especially since the attack, but you were adamant in your request. You reassured him that a simple ride by yourself posed no danger. Besides, you had his knife with you, and the knights and guards were not too far away. “I just need some alone time,” you had said gently. With a tender smile and a promise to return promptly, you convinced him of your safety.

Despite Simon’s initial reservations, you felt an overwhelming sense of liberation. The scent of blooming wildflowers and the earthy aroma of the field filled the air, permeating you with a deep connection to the land you ruled.

This is just what you needed after being cooped up in the palace for the past month and a half. As you ride closer to the forest, the scent of pine mingled with the fragrant wildflowers, invigorating your senses. You finally approach the edge, a canopy of ancient trees looming overhead, casting dappled shadows on the ground. The air grew slightly cooler, and a subtle sense of unease creeps over you. 

You shake off the feeling, trying to push it away, just thinking that it was residual anxiety from being attacked. Still, you can’t help but glance around, unable to shake the feeling that eyes were watching your every move. Undeterred, you urge your horse forward, the clopping of hooves accompanying the rustle of leaves underfoot. The forest’s edge murmurs with the distant call of woodland creatures.

Then, without warning, a chill runs down your spine. A primal instinct warns you of imminent danger, and your breath catches in your throat. Your horse, sensing your unease, snorts and paws at the ground.

A glance around reveals only the stillness of the woods, yet the sensation persists, an unsettling undercurrent in the air. Your hand instinctively tightens around the knife at your waist. The horse beneath you fidgeted, its ears flicking nervously as it senses the shift in atmosphere. Despite your attempts to dismiss the feeling, a quiet voice within you urged caution. The recent attack had left scars that weren’t quite healed. 

With a frustrated huff, you decide to turn around and head back to the castle, hands shaking slightly with adrenaline and fear. Your horse seems eager to move away, its muscles tense beneath you. 

Then, the air itself seemed to hold its breath. A guttural growl echoed through the ambiance, and your heart skips a beat. Your vision goes slightly blurry from fear, hands pulling at the reins of your horse. The wild creature, or another of its kin, emerges from the shadows, eyes narrowed and taking slow steps towards you. Panic tightens your chest as the beast lunges towards your horse, teeth bared in a predatory snarl. A strangled scream rips from your throat, and time seems to slow as the wild creature closes the distance between you and the safety of the open fields. Your horse rears back, and you lean forward to keep your balance in the saddle. 

Before the beast could lay siege on your horse, a chorus of ferocious barks and snarls erupts. Graves appears with his pack of loyal hounds, galloping on his own horse with full speed in your direction. The dogs, trained for moments like these, leap into action, a blur of fur and teeth tearing into the beast. The wild creature, caught off guard by the unexpected counterattack, recoils under their relentless attack. The snarls and growls of the beast counters the disciplined barks of the royal dogs. The pack, fueled by their loyalty and training, forms a barrier between you and the impending threat. Graves swoops in, steering the skirmish away from you, ensuring your safety. 

You back your horse away from the epicenter of the struggle, leading her away whilst you stroke her mane reassuringly, whispering praises in her ear. The dogs finally drive the wild creature back into the shadows of the forest, and you watch it retreat with a defeated growl, disappearing into the depths of the forest. 

Breathing heavily, you watch as Graves and his pack secure the perimeter, ensuring that the danger has passed. The royal dogs, panting but triumphant, return to Graves’ side, their loyalty unwavering. Graves approaches you on his steed, concern etched on his face. 

“Your Majesty, are you alright? Are you hurt?” Graves asks, his eyes scanning you for any signs of injury, his voice calm yet carrying an unsettling edge.

You shake your head, adrenaline still coursing through your veins. “No, no, I’m fine.” 

You look at him, a surge of exasperation and frustration now washing over you. “I really don’t know how I keep finding myself in these situations,” you laugh humorlessly. 

Graves offers you a reassuring look, his gaze locked onto you. “It’s the unpredictability of the wild, your majesty. A one-off occurrence, I’m sure.” 

You sigh, guiding your horse farther away from the forest. The dogs circle around your feet, as if pushing you back home. 

“I’m going to escort you back to the castle now,” Graves says, leading his horse closer to yours. The royal dogs fall in line, swarming around the feet of Graves. 

“Thank you for chasing the creature away,” you say quietly, eyes fixed on the grass ahead of you. 

Graves leans close over his saddle, as if trying to get a little closer to you. “It’s always my pleasure to serve, especially when it involves ensuring the safety of such a... precious ruler. And besides, it’s what the dogs are trained to do.” 

You can’t help but feel grateful for the distance between you and Graves right now, as the last time you met him he was a bit too friendly with you. Although, he had now just saved your life. Oh god, what was Simon going to think? 

“We don’t have to tell—”

“I must.” 

You’re silent. You roll the thought over in your head once more. 

You sigh, realizing that Graves is right. “You're right. It’s just... Ghost has been worried enough, and I don’t want to add to his concerns.”

“Worried or not, your safety is of utmost importance. The King wouldn’t want his wife to be hurt under the watch of a member of the guard? It’s my duty to report these kinds of ordeals.” 

You glance at him, and his gaze is intense, almost unnerving. You tighten your grip on the reins, just desperately wanting to arrive home quicker, all thoughts of having a little bit of alone time vanishing. You’re grateful he stepped in; after all, he did save your life, but you don’t really want that to be held over your head. 

As you ride alongside Graves and the loyal pack of dogs, the journey back is quieter than before. The golden fields seem less inviting, and the forest holds an air of caution. The sun dips lower on the horizon, casting long shadows that stretch across the landscape.

Simon is going to lose his shit. 

. . .

The moment you both arrive at the castle, some stablehands take care of your horses. Immediately, you and Graves are off to Simon’s study to report what happened in the fields. You walk slowly on purpose, trying to delay the inevitable of Simon potentially blowing a fuse. 

You happen to catch Soap’s eyes as you make your way down the hall. He flashes you a look of confusion, motioning to Graves beside you. You shrug, indicating that you’ll explain later. Soap pauses for a moment as if deciding whether or not to intervene, but he nods in understanding as you flash him a reassuring look and continues on his way.

The study door looms ahead, and you exchange a fleeting glance with Graves. His expression is unreadable, but you can sense a trace of tension. Taking a deep breath, you knock twice on the mahogany doors of Simon’s study, gently, as if already trying to calm his impending anger. Graves adjusts his clothes, tugging at his collar. 

The low timber of his voice rumbles through the door, Come in. 

Simon, in all his regal attire, stands up the moment you both enter. His eyes narrow at the sight of you accompanied by Graves. He sighs, moving from behind his desk to stand in front of you both. 

“What happened?” Simon’s voice is stern, his worry evident beneath the hard surface.

Graves steps forward, his posture rigid yet composed, and begins recounting the encounter in the forest. Simon listens attentively, his face growing darker with each passing moment.

“It was an unexpected threat, but the dogs managed the creature. Her majesty is unharmed. I made sure of it.”

When Graves finishes his report, a heavy silence descends upon the room. Simon’s gaze shifts from Graves to you, his jaw clenched as the concern deepens in his gaze. The air is thick with tension, and you brace yourself for the storm. 

“Is this true? Are you unharmed?” he asks, his voice hard.

You nod, giving him a reassuring look. “Yes, Simon. Graves and the dogs intervened in time. I’m fine.”

He nods, taking a moment to collect himself before speaking. He shifts his attention back to Graves, clearing his throat. 

“I appreciate your, uh quick judgment, Graves. Thank you for ensuring the safety of my wife.”

Graves has a smug expression on his face, knowing that Simon has no other choice than to be grateful that he stepped in. Deep down, you knew Graves was only this giddy because Simon couldn’t be upset with him, and if it were any other situation, Simon would’ve reprimanded him.

You think that’s the end of that, but Simon continues speaking. 

“However, I can’t help but wonder why she was with you alone in the first place, especially after what happened a few months ago.”

Graves clears his throat, seemingly caught off guard by the directness of Simon’s scrutiny. You shift uncomfortably, rocking back and forth on the balls of your feet. Simon’s gaze is still dead set on Graves. Graves begins to explain, carefully choosing his words.

“Your majesty, I was merely nearby with the dogs. I just happened to be training them, as the royal dog handler does. I spotted her majesty quite a while away, and alone, so I felt the obligation to ensure her safety. I couldn’t stand by and let harm come to her.”

Simon's eyes narrow, skepticism etched on his face. “Training the dogs, you say? Alone near the forest? Graves, you know the queen's safety is a top priority, but it seems you went beyond your duties. I thought I made myself clear.”

Graves scoffs, and you immediately tense beside him. “Would you rather me watch the queen be attacked and possibly killed?”

Simon’s jaw ticks, and even he knows that he’s being slightly unreasonable. He can’t exactly be mad at Graves. How silly would it be, being mad that he potentially saved the life of the queen? His stern expression deepens, and for a moment, it feels as if the air in the room has thickened. The tension between the king and Graves could be cut by a knife. Simon takes a step closer, his gaze unwavering.

“Okay, um, listen,” you begin, and both men turn to look at you with expectant eyes. Your voice breaks the silence that had settled in the room, and their eyes bore into you. 

“I appreciate Graves’ quick response, Simon, really, I do. Things could’ve gone really bad if he wasn’t there. But, I’m also not sorry for wanting to have alone time. And before you can tell me that it was a bad idea to begin with, I am honestly willing to take that risk again. I understand that there’s always going to be risks of going alone, but at the end of the day, I need those moments for myself. I can’t be confined to the palace all the time because of fear. I trust myself to be cautious. This incident doesn’t change that, and I will not let fear dictate my every move.”

Simon’s gaze softens as he listens to your impassioned plea, but the furrow in his brow remains. Graves remains silent, a tense expression still etched on his face. Simon opens his mouth as if to say something, but he shuts it instead, saving the thought until after Graves leaves. 

“Again, I appreciate your dedication to the safety of the queen, Graves, but there are protocols for a reason,” Simon responds, his tone measured but firm. 

Graves remains composed, though a flicker of irritation shows in his expression. “Your majesty, I understand the concerns. I assure you, it was a matter of coincidence that I was in the vicinity. The safety of the queen is of chief importance to me and the rest of the kingdom.”

“Right. Of course. Thank you. But know, I won't tolerate any deviation that compromises my wife’s well-being,” Simon asserts, his eyes narrowing at Graves.

You pick at your fingernails absentmindedly, trying to ignore the way they’re talking about you as  if you weren’t standing right there. 

Graves nods stiffly, a curt acknowledgment of the king’s directive. “Understood, your majesty. My only concern was with the queen’s safety.” 

With a final, scrutinizing look, Simon dismisses Graves from the study. 

“Thank you again for your timely response. We’ll discuss this further later. I need a moment alone with my wife.”

Graves bows slightly and leaves, flashing you a look, the tension lingering in the air even after the door closes behind him.

Simon turns his attention back to you, his expression softening as he crosses the room to stand in front of you. There’s a mixture of relief and worry in his eyes.

“Are you really alright?” he asks, his voice gentle now.

You nod, grateful for the chance to speak with Simon alone. “Yes, Simon, I’m fine, I swear. Graves got there in time, and besides, it was really the dogs that handled the situation. I’m completely unharmed.”

He exhales, running a hand through his hair. “I worry about you,” he admits, his voice softer now. “I can't help but worry, especially after what happened before. With Graves, and with the attack.” 

You approach him, running your hand up and down his arm soothingly. 

“And it was just you and Graves?”

You wince at that, registering his pointed look. “Yes, it was. But he didn’t do anything. I would’ve told you the moment I saw you if he did.” 

He grumbles quietly, pacing back and forth a few times before stopping and turning to you. 

“It’s time you should have a personal knight. I should’ve done this months ago.”  

You raise an eyebrow at Simon’s suggestion. “A personal knight? Really? I appreciate the concern, but isn’t that a bit excessive?”

Simon looks at you with a stern expression. “After what just happened, I think it’s necessary. I can’t have you wandering off alone, especially after the attack and now this. We need to take extra precautions.” 

You sigh, realizing that arguing with Simon on this matter might be futile. “Fine, if it makes you feel better, but I don’t want a knight glued to my side every moment. Only when deemed absolutely necessary, from the both of us. And only when I’m outside the castle walls. Is that alright with you?” You question, standing your ground whilst stating your boundaries. 

Simon nods in agreement with your boundaries. “It will only be necessary when you’re outside of the castle walls, alone. Of course, they’ll keep a respectful distance according to your desires, but they will still be there.”

“Okay, but, I don't want to feel like I’m under constant surveillance. I feel like it could get stifling real fast, Si.” 

Simon sighs, understanding that finding the right balance is crucial. He comes closer and takes your hands in his.

“I understand, love. We’ll find a way to make this work without making you feel suffocated. I don’t want you to feel like you’re losing your freedom, but I also want you to see this situation from my perspective,” Simon reassures you.

You give him a small smile, appreciating his willingness to compromise, being the stubborn man he usually is. “Thank you, Simon. I know you’re just worried, and I appreciate that. We can figure this out together.” 

Simon looks down at you, his eyes searching yours for reassurance. He takes a breath. 

“I know you’re strong, and I respect that. It’s just that... time and time again, there’s always something happening that involves your wellbeing, and it’s… it’s difficult to deal with.” 

You nod, knowing full well that he’s trying not to relive his past. He lost his whole family, blaming himself for their untimely deaths. He wouldn’t make that same mistake again. 

You lean in, pressing up onto your toes to place a gentle kiss on Simon’s cheek. “I completely understand, Simon. We’re a team. I promise to be cautious, but I also need moments to myself. It doesn’t mean I’m not grateful for you thoughtfulness and protection; it’s just about finding a balance and trust.” 

Simon looks at you with gratitude, his eyes reflecting a mixture of love and concern. “I trust you with every fiber of my being. I just want you safe, and sometimes my worries get the best of me. Just… promise me you’ll be careful.”

“I promise,” you assure him, leaning in for a gentle kiss.

- - - - -

(masterlist)

[satans-knitwear]

I gave her a bath yesterday in preparation for meeting her aunties so she smells like raspberries now ✨

[strangelittlestories]

After we had finished rising up out of the clay, after we had spread ourselves across the spiked and shaking ribs of the world, we discovered two things.

First, that despite how much we believed, our world showed no signs that it was home to any gods.

Second, that it certainly did offer a home to *monsters*.

But we did not see why we should face the toothed maw of this earth alone. Why, just because the divine did not spring into the world fully formed, should our prayers go unheard? After all, if demons can sprawl across the peaks above us and cast their shadows upon our crowns, does that not imply a space from which deities might offer us their light?

A person named Jana was the first to turn our vision into action. Atop a mountain near their home, they could see a great beast - a dragon of rock and ichor and slime moss - squatting on the apex and drinking the sunlight. Jana and their people assembled supplies - candle tallow and lumber and fragrant oils - and the group began the climb to the summit.

They caught the monster while it slept (for these creatures slumbered months at a time, between their ruinous devastations). These canny folks pried apart its craggy teeth with levers and wedged its mouth open long enough for Jana to drag the cart of supplies inside.

Weeks passed. The dragon did not wake. Jana did not emerge.

Some of the people grew tired of waiting and gave Jana up for dead.

But some stayed, huddled beneath makeshift shacks and gathered round pitiful little wasteling campfires made of dried moss and dung.

Then, one day, the beast's mouth opened on its own. But its eyes stayed shut and no cantankerous breath issued forth to spread its slow death of sulphur, ash and nightshade.

Staring down its throat, the faithful saw a gentle glow.

They stepped into the mouth. Inside, the craggy passage was shored up with sanded wooden arches and decorated with softly burning candles. But the *glow*, the glow came from deeper still.

Traversing the corpse of this strange dreadnought (for it was clearly dead), they saw a creature that had been transformed into a building. Its dense flesh was calcified and hollowed out. Bones were shaped and chiselled into arches, beams, pillars. In its cavernous lungs, the air sacs had been turned into sparse cells furnished with sparse pallets.

They knew, when they saw this, that this was a place they could shelter. A place they could be safe. A place where - free from the ravages of beasts - they could begin to live.

And in its heart, there they found the thing that had once been Jana. It was a figure of light and smoke and absence. It was our first god.

---

In the times that came after, many new gods were made. Each born in the heart of some awestruck hellspawn or monstrosity.

Over the years, the presence of the gods sharpened our faith and with those blades of belief did we drive back the darkness. And with power, so did the gods become more distant.

Their monstrous temples, too, ceased to be places of succour and became places of worship. They turned from homes into holy houses. And, in their way, they became prisons. For we walled up our gods, who had once been our *friends*, behind blockades of reverence.

We forgot what it was that made these places holy:

That these temples were beautiful because people had made them and because people had lived in them.

And that our gods were beautiful because people had made them and because *people* had lived in them.

One day, perhaps, a person like Jana will walk down the halls of that first temple and drive a blade of faith into the first god’s chest.

And they will live in the empty temple and it will become beautiful again (for a time).

Perhaps.

[thecreaturecodex]

Skull Peeler

Image © Paizo Publishing, accessed at Archives of Nethys here

[The skull peeler from PF2e's Bestiary 3 is a monster I wanted to like, but enough stuff bugged me about it that the version published isn't my favorite. For one thing, it supposedly is a specialist on sauropod dinosaurs, but as a CR 6 versus a CR 10 (at least) seems a little steep. It's described as being explicitly a "naturally evolved creature", but a mammal with insect wings doesn't strike me as something that can be claimed to be naturalistic, even for fantasy world evolution. Lastly, the slow speed and the excellent camouflage make me think it was originally intended to be a sloth monster, and got changed to a monkey monster at some point in development. I have made a number of tweaks to the mechanics and flavor text alike in order to bring it to my admittedly persnickety standards.]

Skull Peeler CR 6 N Magical Beast This creature looks like a monkey except for its translucent butterfly wings. Its forelimbs have oversized claws, and it has a long tongue studded with razor blades.

Skull peelers look cute, but their behavior is anything but. Skull peelers are predators of the canopy, feeding on birds, monkeys, lizards and browsing megafauna. A skull peeler will attack a giraffe, elephant or even sauropod dinosaur from ambush, tearing into its face and neck with razor sharp claws and a bladed tongue. Even if the prey survives the initial assault, it often bleeds to death from the creature’s supernaturally anticoagulant saliva. The skull peeler then lives up to its name, tearing off its victim’s head to eat the fleshy cheeks and the fatty brain. Skull peelers can go a long time between meals, and rarely descend to the forest floor to feed on the rest of the corpse. Scavengers and kleptoparasites tend to feed well in areas inhabited by a skull peeler.

Skull peelers are native to the First World, but have escaped onto the Material Plane through portals and the intervention of mortals and fey alike. Fey creatures and gnomes can often coax a skull peeler to remain in a particular area, but otherwise they are undomesticable, being semi-sapient in their own right. The combination of adorable appearance and vicious temper makes them popular as trophies and guardians by crime lords or rulers of a crueler bent. Skull peelers are notorious escape artists, however, and are adept at escaping into the wild and taking up residence in unexpected habitats.

Skull Peeler CR 6 XP 2,400 N Small magical beast (extraplanar) Init +8; Senses low-light vision, Perception +8

Defense AC 19, touch 15, flat-footed 15 (+1 size, +4 Dex, +4 natural) hp 66 (7d10+32) Fort +9, Ref +10, Will +5

Offense Speed 20 ft., climb 15 ft., fly 15 ft. (average) Melee 2 claws +13 (1d4+5), tongue +13 (2d4+5 plus bleed) Space 5 ft.; Reach 5 ft. (10 ft. with tongue) Special Attacks anticoagulant, bleed (1d4), giantslayer, sneak attack +1d6

Statistics Str 20, Dex 19, Con 16, Int 5, Wis 16, Cha 13 Base Atk +7; CMB +11; CMD 25 (29 vs. trip) Feats Acrobatic, Improved Initiative, Stealthy, Toughness Skills Acrobatics +10 (+6 jumping), Climb +17, Escape Artist +7, Fly +12, Perception +8, Stealth +13 (+17 in vegetation); Racial Modifiers +4 Stealth in vegetation Languages Sylvan (cannot speak) SQ fragrant, freeze (vegetation)

Ecology Environment warm and temperate forests (First World) Organization solitary or pair Treasure incidental

Special Abilities Anticoagulant (Su) Bleed dealt by a skull peeler requires a DC 21 Heal check to stop with mundane methods. Anyone using a healing spell to stop the bleed must succeed a DC 16 caster level check or the bleed persists. Fragrant (Ex) A skull peeler smells like vegetation as well as looking like vegetation. Creatures with the scent special ability must succeed a Perception check against the skull peeler’s Stealth check -10 to recognize the presence of a creature within their scent radius. Giantslayer (Ex) A skull peeler deals an extra +1d6 points of damage with its sneak attack for every size category larger the creature is than the skull peeler. Tongue (Ex) The tongue of a skull peeler is treated as a primary natural weapon that deals slashing damage.

[itselriel]

A hint of Jasmine

Throughout Acotar, the Jasmine flower is mentioned a couple of times. First, in relation to Elain and second, in relation to the Night Court. Today I’m going to be breaking down some facts and a little bit of history about this beautiful flower that blooms at night and how it is both attached to Elain and the Night Court.

Here is a quote from the ACOTAR series that shows Elain smells like Jasmine: “Elain was in the private library. Nesta knew it before she’d cleared the stairs, covered in dust from the library. Her sisters delicate sent of Jasmine and Honey lingered in the red-stoned hall.”

Here is a quote from the ACOTAR series that shows the Night Court / Verlaris smells like Jasmine: “I smelled Jasmine first—then saw stars flickering beyond glowing pillars of moonstone that framed the sweeping view of endless snowcapped mountains. ‘Welcome to the Night Court,’ was all Rhys said.”

Here are two quotes that show the Night Court has Jasmine flowers:

“Nesta ran a finger over her ivory and obsidion place setting, examining the silverware and vines of night-bloomimg Jasmine engraved around the hilts.”

and

“Great scaled black beasts were carved into those gates, all coiled together in a nest of claws and fangs, sleeping and fighting, some locked in an endless cycle of devouring each other. Between them flowed vines of Jasmine and moon flowers.”

What is Jasmine? Jasmine is a rich and flourishing plant and is one of the most beautiful and fragrant flowers in the world.

What does the Jasmine flower represent? Jasmine flowers symbolize love, beauty and sensuality. It’s pure white blossoms also represent purity.

In the ACOTAR series it is said by the Archeron sisters mother that Elain “shall wed for love and beauty.”

What is the language of the Jasmine flower? In the language of flowers, the Jasmine flower is saying “I care deeply” or “I am with you in spirit.”

What is the Biblical meaning of the Jasmine name? The meaning of Jasmine is “Gift from God.”

Reminder: Azriel and Elain’s name meanings in Hebrew both have to do with God and are both connected to each other, like a puzzle piece. Azriel’s name meaning in Hebrew is “God is my help.” Elain’s name meaning in Hebrew is “God has answered me.”

What does Jasmine symbolize in Buddhism? Jasmine holds great importance in Buddhism. It symbolizes compassion, empathy and showing kindness to all living beings of the world.

A quote from Feyre about Elain in ACOWAR: “Elain had always been gentle and sweet—and I had considered it a different sort of strength. A better strength. To look at the hardness of the world and choose, over and over, to love, to be kind.”

Jasmine in Greek Mythology: In Greek Mythology, Jasmine is associated with Aphrodite, the goddess of beauty and love.

What is the emotion of Jasmine flowers? The scent of Jasmine has the abilty to relax and uplift. It is a floral, musky, sweet and sensual scent all at once.

When do Jasmine flowers bloom? Jasmine flowers bloom at night to attract nocturnal pollinators such as moths and bats. Night blooming Jasmine is also known as Lady of the night.

What does it mean to smell Jasmine at night? Smelling Jasmine at night could be a sign that the spirit of a loved one is checking in on you or wants to communicate.

What do the colors of Jasmine represent? White is for innocence. Pink is for new love. Yellow is for joy.

Diving Deeper: In some traditions, Jasmine is believed to attract positive energy, promote happiness and offer protection against negative influences. The Jasmine flower could also symbolize hope, good fortune and positive outcomes. The delicate blossoms of the flower are seen as happiness and prosperity.

[orbitariums]

warmth | art donaldson + patrick zweig + black fem reader (a snippet)

full length part 1 here!

i miss posting on here real bad and i keep teasing things (christopher moltisanti, richie jerimovich) and not actually writing/releasing them SO i'm putting this snippet of this oneshot i'm writing to encourage myself to actually put this out.

i think this will probably have multiple parts because the tension needs to builddd. and please, let me know y'alls thoughts!!! what do you think, what do you predict is gonna happen, r u thirsting adequately, etc. i love hearing your little comments <333

& let me know if you’d wanna be tagged when this comes out

essentially: reader, patrick and art were childhood best friends who conveniently were all in love with each other, or at least had enough sexual tension to make it feel that way. fast forward almost a decade later, and reader has made it onto the red carpet with her fantastic pen, and patrick and art have gone pro. when she invites them to her house for a star-studded friendsgiving, tensions rise and old doors open, springing forth new possibilities. this is only the beginning.

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warmth

“We should just turn around now, save ourselves the embarrassment.”

Patrick paid Art no mind, rolling down the window and leaning out of it, pressing the buzzer as you had dutifully instructed them in your email invite. 

“Too late now. Already threw away about a gallon of gas just coming up the hill to this place,” he replied, the sense of ease in his voice only egging Art on even more. 

“Exactly why we should leave. I mean, fuck. Does she have to live on a hill?”

“Residence of [last name], to whom am I speaking?” a male voice rings on the other end. 

“Uh…” Patrick starts, Art reaching up over him, 

“Patrick Zweig and Art Donaldson?”

A silence filled the air. Patrick swatted at Art, forcing him back in his seat. 

“Why’d you say it like a question, dumbass?”

Art stammered, already starting to get red in the face,

“I was --”

The gate swung open and both the boys let out a sigh of relief.

“Thank you!” Patrick chimed, smirking at Art, who seemed to be sinking in his seat. 

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Meanwhile, you were inside the mansion that you call home, flowing around the kitchen like there weren’t about fifty people milling about and mingling amongst one another. It smelled like something out of Hansel and Gretel -- from the fragrant brown roasted turkey sitting in the oven, to the gourmand scent of perfectly caramelized candied yams, to the vanilla musk perfume you dotted on your wrists. A black mini Schnauzer nipped excitedly at your feet as you added half a cherry tomato to the giant bowl of salad you’ve been prepping for the last twenty minutes. You look like a pro, like a party of this magnitude is no big deal to you.

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“Do we ring the doorbell? Or maybe… should we knock?” Art questioned, hands tied behind his back as he glanced up at Patrick for answers. 

“It’s open,” Patrick retorted, but he too stood stupefied at the door, like a weary traveler wavering in horrific awe before the mouth of some epic beast. 

“On three?” Art suggested, and when he didn’t hear a response, he started to count, “one… two…”

Patrick stepped in before Art could get to three. Art scoffed, but followed behind him anyway. 

The two of them stood there silently, taking the grandiosity of it all in — the sky-high dome ceiling, two grand wooden staircases directly opposite one another, the shiny verdant porcelain flooring, the Basquiat painting hanging above the wide bookcase directly in front of them. Mouths open, they looked like they were ready to catch flies. 

“Fuuuck me,” Patrick breathed out heavily. Art’s head was stuck staring up at the ceiling, so high he thought it’d never end. 

“You made it.”

Both Art and Patrick seemed to stand straight at the sound of your voice, like soldiers at attention. You almost laughed, but instead you stood there coolly, smiling at them both with your lips and your eyes— in them, a look that was almost knowing, wise beyond your years. It seemed like a lifetime before either of them would speak. They spent half that lifetime practically gawking at you, drinking you in. And how could they not, when you were draped in that cream-colored silk dress, the flowy bottom dancing above your ankles. You looked more beautiful than they remembered you, calmer, secure — of course, they hadn’t seen you since they were teenagers. Now there was this air of timelessness about you that was only just poking at the surface when you were in high school. Now it surrounded you. Something mystic encompassed your entire spirit, dripping from your head to your feet. They’d spent years seeing you from behind a screen, being interviewed on live TV, attending red carpets for award shows, blending in with the Hollywood mecca — another beautiful twenty-something industry talent. But the glow of the television that seemed to give everyone a perfectly filtered sheen was nothing compared to your beauty here. 

“It’s so good to see you,” Patrick broke the silence first, practically lurching forward with open arms to embrace you. His beard scratched against your cheek. You could smell the cologne that was beginning to wear off, mixed with a hint of cigarette smoke. His arms nearly suffocated you.

When he pulled away, you couldn’t help but chuckle at the way he smiled at you so fervently. 

“Good to see you too, Patrick…” you glanced over at the mousy boy who didn’t seem to have changed much since high school. “C’mere, Artie.”

Art chuckled: a nervous huff of relief, inching forward into your open arms and nuzzling his chin into your shoulder, closing his arms around your midwaist. You could smell the aftershave that still clung to his face, and the detergent still fresh from his clothes. 

You pulled away, but took one of each of their hands, squeezing. 

“My two boys. Man, how long has it been?”

“Oh, just a while—”

“Seven years,” Art interjected. 

“Who’s counting, right?” Patrick grinned, making all of you laugh. 

You looked at them almost expectantly, eyes wide like a doe, the slightest smile playing at your lips. They looked back with bated breaths. Always, you were in charge, always. It had been like this since the scabby-kneed days of childhood. If you wanted to play on the swings, they were there on either side of you. You were the queen of the sandbox. In middle school, they snuck extra cookies for you from the lunchroom and fought over who got to surprise you with the treat every day. Senior year of high school, in the hotel room in London, when you had them perched on either side of you like baby birds waiting for mother’s return— when you had both your hands on each of their thighs, had them panting like puppy dogs, inching your hands further and further only to leave the minute you heard “lights out.” 

It had been seven years since then and still, it was the same. Only this time, you were stupidly rich, thanks to the soaring success of your two psychological thriller books turned TV series. It wasn’t that you’d forgotten about them, or didn’t care about them now that you were rich and famous. You’d gotten accepted to study creative writing at Brown, Art went to play at Stanford, and Patrick went on his path to go pro. You were delighted to see that they were only a click away thanks to the internet, just one click away from being reintegrated into your life. Your childhood best friends. 

“C’mon, lunch is almost ready.”

Friendsgiving. Who didn’t love the concept? It was a readily welcomed, wholesome idea — friends of all ages and backgrounds coming together to rehash their Thanksgiving with leftovers, stories from the year, and maybe a game of cards. Except your friendsgiving was attended by A-list actresses, Cannes festival attending screenwriters, and the odd Grammy-nominated artist. And your friendsgiving was not at all an intimate affair — it may as well have been a club party. Most people were outside, dancing, shrieking with laughter, drinking, and skipping their way to their seats. Your backyard was vast and verdant green, with a pool in the center, the perimeter lined with lemon and peach trees, and miles to explore. 

“This is fucking insane, is that Dakota Johnson?” Patrick scoffed. He and Patrick had been left to their own devices yet again, while you flitted around being the hostess with the mostest, easing and gliding about. A laugh here, a clink of glasses there, and a coolness to you that stood in striking comparison with the warmth that stirred deep down inside you. A warmth that could be served with a ladle into goblets, like some elixir with magical properties only you possessed. 

“No, you idiot, that’s— oh shit. That might be Dakota Johnson.” 

Clink clink clink. 

“Everybody, hi, hi! Thank you for coming, please, sit down,” you called out, clinking your glass to get the attention of your guests. Patrick and Art scrambled to find seats, ending up at a table with people who might have been minor celebrities or art critiques or designers -- at least one of those options. 

“I wanna thank you all so much for coming, this really means a lot to me. I know these sorts of things can be really hectic, but you guys make this house feel like a home. I’m glad that some of you will be staying with me for the next few days, there’s always room for more,” you glanced over at Art and Patrick. “Some of you are new friends, some of you I’ve known for far too long. But I think it’s incredibly fucking cool that we’re all here together now in this moment, just enjoying each other’s presence. I do this every year, and every year I meet even more amazing, talented, fascinating people and you all are so dear to my heart. And now, what we’re all waiting for… lunch is served!”

A cacophony of cheers rang out as staff rushed about to place plates in front of everyone. You stood giggling, basking in all of it. Patrick and Art couldn't help but watch on with deeply impressed smiles — you were meant to bask: in glory, in pleasure, in everything. You looked just right standing where you were.

The rest of the afternoon Patrick and Art spent attempting to blend in as best they could. They were pro tennis players, but this was another level of stardom that they couldn’t quite fathom yet. They watched you ruthlessly the entire night, unable to squash those rising feelings of attraction and yearning for you that had never quite simmered to begin with. You’d always been cooler than them, but watching you now there was a certain air to you that belonged to a grown woman, someone comfortable and confident and in their element. You were positively swimming in the sunlight the entire afternoon. It was like you had this sort of magnetic pull to all things good, rich, and warm. People wanted to be around you. And god, did this prove that. 

By night time, people were finally starting to leave. The sun hung low in the darkening sky, making the fairy lights glow stronger now. The few people that were staying with you for the rest of Thanksgiving weekend had disappeared to their rooms. Besides the waitstaff still milling about, clearing the tables, it was just you, Patrick, and Art. The two of them hadn’t meant to stay so long, really. It wasn’t like they were forcing themselves to stick around and be acknowledged by you in a way that felt meaningful. Sure, you’d had your small talk and cracked a few inside jokes, but as much as neither wanted to admit it, they needed more. If it was hard to get your attention before, it was nearly impossible now. They were surrounded by so many people who all wanted to network and talk and introduce themselves, they found themselves mingling with your friends, some of them people who they’d seen on screen in the past year,  more than you. They’d been dragged onto the dance floor multiple times by multiple acquaintances, only to gawk at you swaying your hips rather than actually dance themselves. It became overwhelmingly clear, in their increasingly present desperation, that they should’ve accepted your offer to stay in this castle of a house for the weekend. Neither of them had packed a bag. 

“This is awkward, we’re the only ones left,” Art sighed, still sitting at their table. 

“Let’s just… wait, okay? She might come back out."

"And give us a little speech?"

"Yeah, asshole, maybe she will."

At that very moment, you appeared again, this time clad in a two piece linen pajama set. You didn’t miss the way both their eyes trailed up your legs as you stood in front of them, arms crossed, smiling expectantly. 

“I was hoping you two would still be here,” you said. You glanced between the two of them, that awkward silence filling the air once again. “C’mon. Let’s talk.”

You turned and walked back inside, the two of them trailing behind you.

"Your house is fucking sick by the way. I mean holy shit," Art blurted once you got to the main entrance hall.

"Feel like I just walked into a page of Architectural Digest," Patrick added on.

You led them up the stairs. Both their eyes dropped to your ass, which poked out just a bit from under the pair of shorts you wore. Silently watching the way your body curved as you walked.

"Ha, thanks. I think I did pretty okay for myself," you replied.

You led them to the den on the second floor and sat criss cross apple sauce on the lush green couch. Art sat on your left, Patrick on your right. Patrick spread his legs and Art had one foot up on the couch, bouncing against his knee. 

“Sorry we didn’t get to talk much. I was so busy being the host of the year that I didn’t pay enough attention to you two. My favorites.”

Art chuckled,

“Favorites? You’re just saying that.”

“No, I’m serious! D’you know how much I missed you guys?”

Patrick scoffed playfully,

“All those TV interviews I watched of you? I wouldn’t even be thinking about us.”

You couldn’t help but grin, that warmth coming through once again. It nearly made the two men melt. 

“Well I was. I always think about you guys.”

Now came Patrick’s voice again, a heaviness to it that almost made you jump,

“Do you think about anything specific?”

Although it had been nearly a decade since you’d last seen each other, you didn’t miss a single thing about either of them. Patrick didn’t mince words, and he never shied away from not just hinting at, but blaring his salacious intentions every time he spoke. You tilted your head towards him, a cool smile tugging at your lips. 

“Just what good times we had.”

A silence, accented with a flood of nostalgia and a pointed reference to those “good times” permeated the air. You took a moment to gaze at the two of them ever so softly — enough for them to feel it, but not enough to make them squirm (though, they were easy to make squirm) — before you decimated the silence by slapping your hands down on either of their thighs and squeezing endearingly. 

“So tell me, where’ve you two been? I’m not the only one on TV these days.”

“Ahh, you don’t wanna hear about boring tennis,” Art waved a hand of dismissal. 

You chortled, a trademark of yours that Art and Patrick had always poked fun at in school,

“You’re right, I don’t.”

“You still laugh the same,” Patrick said, grinning like he was trying not to but was unable.

You chuckled, this time low in your throat, and turned your head to face him again. You and Patrick were similar in the sense that you were always pushing the boundaries, tiptoeing closer and closer to the line — but the three of you had never quite established where that was. At some point, you were all just too close to even think about “the line” or “boundaries” — all of you appeared clueless to societal expectations of friendship, spurting a sort of cultlike relationship where everyone else was an outsider. 

“Do I?” smiling at him like you were warning him not to tease. 

“Yeah, that little snort you do,” Patrick replied, unshaken. 

“You do do a little snort,” Art chimed in, always chirping like he spoke from a less nefarious place. 

“And if I get started on you guys’ little tennis grunts?” you grinned fully now, showing teeth, looking between the two of them and leaning back a bit.

They followed, leaning back against the couch and keeping their heads in line with yours so you were never too far away from them, each of them turning their heads to look at you. 

“No way you actually watch us,” Art replied.

“I do!” you insisted. “Seriously, if you’d asked anybody here you would know.”

“Sure, let me just strike up conversation with George Clooney,” Art shot back.

“Ha-ha,” you bleated sarcastically. “I don’t even know him… but I have walked past him once on the carpet.”

“Look at you,” Patrick smirked. “Little Miss Superstar.”

He punctuated his sentence with a hand on your knee. Your eyes flickered over to him and you caught the way his Adam's apple bobbed in his throat when he swallowed, felt the way he gazed up at you. You didn’t miss the desire twinkling in his eyes. 

Then Art, always second but not necessarily last, 

“She’s our little superstar, you know that, right?” 

His hand just gently grazing your shoulder.

You let them revel in the moment for as long as you felt appropriate, then huffed.

“You know you guys can stay for the weekend, right? I mean, you should.”

“Oh… no, we wouldn’t wanna impose,” Patrick said, his hand slinking away from your knee.

Another chortle from you, this time the kind that said everything about how you lived in comparison to them,

“You wouldn’t be. This is a five bedroom house. It’s fine. Besides, don’t you guys wanna actually catch up? I’ll let you torture me with tennis talk.”

Art started to stammer,

“I-I mean… we didn’t bring anything.”

“Just our idiot selves,” Patrick added.

“Don’t worry. I’ll get Charles to get you guys all set up.”

“Charles?”

“Oh, he’s my assistant,” you said nonchalantly, as if it were nothing. “You’re not fighting me on this. I want to spend some quality time with my boys. Don’t make me have to beg for it.”

“We could never make you beg for anything,” Art replied, just a little too quickly. 

“I know, Art, that’s why I love you,” you grinned over at him. “So, are we all in agreement? Stay with me. Just this weekend.”

“Yes,” they both replied a little too quickly this time. 

You bit your lip, suppressing a smile. 

“You know… I really, really missed you guys. And those good times we had.”

You let the memory of that night of almosts in London resurge, let their minds run amuck with whatever teenage fantasy was still left over from that night. A moment so brief it could almost be forgotten, could even be flagged as incidental, accidental, but the three of you knew, even as grown adults (especially as grown adults), that it would always stick and remain unresolved, unless someone ran to the rescue with some sort of solution. Once again they held their breaths. You stood up, glanced between the two of them like you were sizing them up, and then smiled as if nothing had happened at all — you let them breath. 

“Your bedroom’s the second on the right when you leave here. Charles will help you get set up— I’ll see you guys in the morning for breakfast.”

And just like that, you were gone. The air in the room seemed to clear. Your presence was like a thousand tons of pressure weighing on their bodies and their minds. Finally, they could breathe.

They glanced at each other with the same longing, almost nervous expression — high school all over again.

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eek let me know what y'all thought. i wanna finish it by this week <3