#considering i didn’t want to tip my hand by asking if you even. uh. like pink floyd

[oscartwofoxtrot]

Did they get you to trade your heroes for ghosts? Hot ashes for trees? Hot air for a cool breeze? Cold comfort for change?

A gift for my dearest Secret Santa recipient, @jenkil

[theemporium]

[1.7k] an early morning birthday treat for your boyfriend hours before the rest of the world needs either of you. (smut)

we are gonna ignore the fact i accidentally hit the post limit yesterday and pretend i actually posted this on his birthday

.

“Good morning, birthday boy.” 

Oscar let out a small hum of acknowledgement, a small smile working its way onto his face but he didn’t bother opening his eyes. Instead, he wound his arm around your waist and tugged you down until you were collapsing down on his chest. He sighed happily, nuzzling himself further against you whilst you wiggled in his embrace. 

“You’re ruining your birthday,” you commented, trying to nudge his arm away so you could sit back up. But Oscar didn’t budge a bit.

“It’s my birthday,” he grumbled, his voice still laced with sleep and his accent coating his slurred words a little thicker than normal. “I get to choose what we do and I choose sleeping.”

“That’s boring,” you retorted, twisting in his hold until you were facing him. You reached a hand out, pushing his hair back until you got an unrestricted view of his face squished against the pillow. 

“I happen to like boring birthdays.” 

You snorted, smiling fondly as you leaned down to press a kiss on the tip of his slightly scrunched nose. “You’re not even going to ask what I planned?” 

“If it includes leaving this bed before I have to head to the track, then I’m not interested,” Oscar mumbled, letting out a sigh as your nails began to scratch along his scalp. “I’m quite happy here. Very content. Very happy birthday boy.”

“And if I said your birthday plans start in bed?” 

Oscar paused for a moment. “I’m listening.”

You grinned, lightly poking his cheek until his eyes slowly fluttered open. “Hey.”

He flashed you a lazy smile. “Hi, baby.”

“Happy birthday,” you murmured before you leaned down, pressing a soft but lingering kiss on his lips. 

“Definitely happy,” he hummed in response, huffing a little when you pushed his shoulder so he was lying on his back. “You’re awfully bossy this morning.”

“You like it,” you teased, throwing one leg over his body until you were settled on his lap. In seconds, his hands were on your waist like the reaction was instinctive. 

“Maybe,” he replied, though the light pink painting his cheeks gave him away. His thumbs lightly swiped along your hip bones, slowly pushing the material of your (his) shirt up until he was met with bare skin. “I have to be at the track by ten.”

“It’s only seven,” you retorted.

“That means we could have had a solid two more hours of sleep,” he pointed out, his eyes still a bit bleary from sleep. He was just grateful enough that one of you remembered to pull the curtains shut last night. “You know, cuddling is good for dopamine and stuff.”

Your lips twitched. “Dopamine and stuff?”

“You woke me up five minutes ago, give me a break,” Oscar grumbled, squeezing your hips to emphasise his point. 

“I know something else that would be good for your dopamine and stuff,” you said, grinning a little as you leaned down to peck his lips. “Something for the birthday boy.”

“You keep saying that but—oh shit.”

You watched his eyes flutter shut, his grip on you tightening as you rolled your hips against his. You ducked your head down, lips pressing chaste, open-mouthed kisses along his jaw and neck as you felt his skin flush under your touch. You felt his thumping pulse pounding, could feel the way his body was reacting to you. 

It was fucking intoxicating. 

“Do you still wanna go back to sleep?” You questioned, your voice teasing and a little patronising as you nipped the skin just below his ear.

“Nuh uh,” he breathed out, shaking his head in response. “This is good. This is better.”

You grinned against his skin.

And maybe it was still-half-asleep brain or maybe Oscar just didn’t want to assume, but he wasn’t really expecting more. It was still painfully early for either of you to be awake right now, especially considering how late you had managed to get to the hotel. And he was honestly more than happy to have this, to have his girl on top of him. To have your hands and your lips and your pretty words. To just have you. 

He wasn’t thinking about where it was leading, he was just stuck in the present moment of you, you, you.

His brain hadn’t even fully caught up until your kisses started moving lower, until a few chaste kisses along his collarbone started to move further down his chest. 

“Babe,” he rasped, his head still a little fuzzy with sleep as your breath fanned over the muscles of his stomach.

“Shhh, relax f’me, Osc,” you murmured between soft kisses, fingers tugging the edge of his boxers down as the urge to mark along his v-line overwhelmed you. 

“I—” But the words were lost in the back of his throat as the heel of your palm pressed against the bulge in his boxers, your lips mouthing at the sensitive skin along his hips. 

His eyes fell shut, his head digging back into the pillow as he let himself enjoy every single inch of his body that was being touched by you. The way his hips bucked against your hand, the front of the fabric already wet and stained with precome as you marked pretty bruises on his pale skin. The way your body settled between his thick thighs, nails grazing along his skin until he was squirming and whining underneath you. The way every cell in his body was just so, so responsive to you. 

A guttural moan escaped the back of his throat as you mouthed along his clothed cock, licking a thick strip over the fabric of his boxers as he helplessly buckled beneath your touch. He didn’t think a single thought in his head was about anything but you. He didn’t think he wanted to think about anything else but you. 

Your fingers curled around the waistband of his boxers, pulling them down his legs and throwing them somewhere off the edge of the bed, neither one of you all too bothered where it landed. Instead, you took his hard cock in your hand, not wasting a second before you sucked the tip in your mouth, lapping at the small beads of precome that were already leaking.

“Shit, shit, shit,” he breathed out, his hips bucking further into your mouth but your other hand kept his body planted on the mattress. 

He was fucking helpess. 

He was fucking helpess and he didn’t give two shits about anything other than you. 

There was a vague voice in the back of his head reminding him that it was early, that they had neighbours, that those neighbours were colleagues of his. But it was a passing thought at best for Oscar as he squirmed and wiggled and writhed beneath your touch. It was a problem for future Oscar to deal with. 

And it wasn’t often Oscar was vocal, not like this. But he was sleepy and caught off-guard and, fuck, your mouth just felt like heaven wrapped around his cock. He couldn’t help himself with the whimpers and moans he let out, your name like a mantra as it left his lips on a broken loop. 

Because Oscar Piastri was a weak man when it came to you. 

And when he lifted his head off the pillow to finally look down at you, he about lost whatever semblance of control he had left.

Your hands were placed on his thighs, your nails digging into his skin but the pain was biting and welcomed. Your cheeks were hallowed around his dick, a mix of come and drool leaking from the edges but it just made his stomach twist with a deep desire that he knew would haunt his fantasies for months to come. Your lips were red and swollen, your eyes were glossy and hooded and, fucking hell, the second he met your gaze, it was over for him. 

His hands were gripping the sheets of the duvet beneath him as he came, the pleasure white and hot and overwhelming in every sense of the word. He felt it all over like a hot flush, dancing along his nerve endings and racing down his spine as his body bucked upwards to be closer to you, your mouth, your everything. He was distantly aware of the little whiny noises he made as he came, the ones that were half muffled as he buried his face into his pillow as his orgasm washed over him whilst you lapped at his sensitive cock. 

He couldn’t really find it in himself to be embarrassed when he finally turned back to look at you, seeing you slowly lick your fingers clean from the cum that had leaked out your mouth with a huge grin on your face.

“You’re a menace,” was all he managed to breathe out, throwing his arm over his face to try and recover from mind blowing orgasm and the sight of you shamelessly tasting him. 

“Happy birthday,” you replied cheerfully, crawling back up the bed until you could press a chaste kiss on his cheek before nuzzling yourself against him. “Good start to twenty-three?”

He huffed out a laugh. “I think you might’ve killed me.”

“At least you died young, pretty and satisfied,” you joked, feeling his chest rumble beneath you and it made your stomach twist with something quite like delight. 

“And in love,” he added, his words a little slurred and his cheeks burning a little at his own cheesiness. But it still made you grin.

“I love you too, Osc,” you murmured back.

“I was talking about those sushi rolls we had last night, but yeah I love you too,” he murmured, letting out a short pained noise when you pinched his side. “Ow! What happened to birthday boy privileges?”

“Those ended with the blowjob,” you retorted. “You’re back to normal Oscar now.”

“Hm, that seems a little unfair,” Oscar commented as he wound his arms around your body, hugging you close to his chest like the two of you could melt into one person. 

“Tragic life of being twenty-three,” you teased.

Oscar smiled. “Thank you, seriously.” 

You laughed, lifting your head to look at him. “Did you just thank me for a blowjob?”

The sleepy smile returned. “Yeah, pretty sure I just did.”

“Never beating the polite cat allegations,” you said, lighthearted and sweet and joking as you leaned down to kiss him. “Never change, birthday boy.”

“Never in a million years, baby.” 

.

[pathologicalreid]

next of kin | S.R.

disaster strikes and you and Spencer try to take custody of your younger sister

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: angst content warnings: actually might be gn! but i'm too scared to say it is. death, orphan-ing, funerals, child custody issues, blood, general cm violence, like actually an abhorrent amount of death. sorry i killed your parents for the sake of my fanfiction can we still be friends? word count: 3.33k a/n: this is the fic that this post is about. i am in fact my own worst enemy. i hope y'all like it actually genuinely i am most definitely overthinking this. if your name is maya im sorry that sucks.

“What did your parents say?” Spencer asked, walking into the conference room that the local precinct had offered to you.

You had been staring blankly at your phone since you got off the call with your mother, “Uh, they said thanks, but no thanks.”

The uneasy feeling had settled in your stomach as soon as you found out the team was being called to your hometown, and you had been nauseous ever since you found out the UnSub’s pattern.

Married couples with an older child who had moved out and a younger child who was still at home.

Your little sister was a surprise, you had incorrectly assumed your parents were done having kids.

Until today, you wouldn’t have traded Maya for the world, but now you sat in fear of your family being targeted by a serial killer. Hotch had offered them a protective detail, but they declined. Self-righteous as they were, they told you it wouldn’t feel right for them to accept help that couldn’t be offered to everyone.

Clenching your jaw, you stood at the table, “I’ll go by later and check in on them.”

Spencer had met your family twice by now. Last Christmas he had tagged along to meet them and celebrate with your family before the two of you spent New Year’s with his mom. Then, while your sister was on Spring Break, they flew out to Virginia, and you and Spencer had shown your family around Quantico and the District.

Maya had loved Spencer, partially because you loved him, but mostly because of his magic tricks.

“Do you want me to go with you?” He asked, stepping up next to you and placing a hand on the small of your back.

You sighed and shook your head, “No, not if you’re needed here.” You reached up and cupped his cheek, smiling softly, “Thank you for offering, Spence.”

He nodded affirmatively, “If you change your mind,” he offered. Gently, he pressed a soft kiss to your forehead before the two of you returned to the rest of the team.

The fact that your parents lived only five minutes from the police station gave you some relief, but you still felt tightly wound. Everyone had noticed. You just needed this case to be over.

The porch lights were on when you got there, and you used your house key – which you had never taken off of your keychain - to open the front door. “Hey, kiddo,” your dad greeted from the couch. A peek into the kitchen showed you that your mom was wiping down the counters. It all felt so eerily normal.

It was dark by the time you had gotten there. Maya was already asleep, but you tip-toed into her room anyway and kissed her goodnight before going back downstairs. Once you had hugged both of your parents and told them you loved them, you made your way back to the police precinct.

By nearly three in the morning, there was no new information, and the team was starting to consider calling it a night until the police chief got a call.

“We just got a call. Lady reported shouts coming from her neighbor’s house at 86 Meadowbrook,” he informed you, putting his hands on his hips and looking around at the team.

None of them even spared him a returning glance, everyone’s eyes were on you.

Blinking rapidly, you nodded assuredly, “I have to go get Maya.” You didn’t even recognize your voice even as you said it. It couldn’t have been your voice. That was the rasp of someone far away from you.

All of the other voices around you were muffled, you couldn’t hear what people were telling you, let alone understand them.

Maya. Maya. Maya.

Brown eyes. There they were, right in front of your face. “Let’s go get her,” Spencer whispered.

You had been speaking out loud. Repeating your sister’s name like a prayer without even realizing it.

Hotch let you go with them, but he made it abundantly clear to you – and the rest of the team – that you weren’t working this case anymore.

Surrounded by reverent voices in an SUV, JJ drove while Spencer stayed in the back with you. He held your hand tightly in his.

The house was closed off with police tape. Bright yellow plastic fluttered in the wind as you watched your team and other emergency personnel enter and exit. At your insistence, Spencer went in to get Maya, it felt like it had been hours before he walked out, carrying her in his arms.

Carefully, he brought her to you, and you pulled her close to your chest, blocking her eyesight as two body bags were brought out of the house.

You didn’t hear anything after that. You just let yourself be moved to wherever you needed to be, holding your kid sister as she cried for your parents.

They had to take their bodies to the hospital even though they were already gone, and you needed to be the one to confirm their identities. Spencer stayed with Maya while you were busy. She had cried herself to the point of exhaustion, you were grateful that she was sleeping, and then you felt cruel.

By sunrise, she was still asleep, and you had been set up in that same conference room from earlier. Sitting across from you was a social worker, a representative of the state. Your lips had parted in shock as you looked at her, “What do you mean they denied my request?”

In an attempt to be helpful, JJ worked with you to file an emergency request for custody of Maya, and the case worker had just told you that the request was denied. “The state doesn’t believe your request is valid,” she told you.

Your mouth went dry, “I don’t…” you glanced over at your little sister. “Our parents were murdered last night, and they won’t let me take custody of my sister?” You asked indignantly, peering at the social worker. It wasn’t her fault, somewhere in your grief-ridden brain you knew that, but you couldn’t help the feeling that she was somehow your enemy.

“They don’t believe you can provide her with a stable living environment,” the social worker, Brittany, explained.

Narrowing your eyes, you responded, “A stable living environment like a foster home? I’m her sister. We’re family – the only family each other has left.” You stood up, excusing yourself for a moment before walking out of the precinct. Once you were outside, you promptly hurled into the bushes.

That was how he found you, to the side of the building with your hair haphazardly moved out of your face, dry heaving into the shrubbery. Gently, Spencer placed a hand on your back before starting to rub small circles on your back, “You should eat something, love.”

You just shook your head in response, you weren’t hungry. “They won’t let me take her,” you whispered morosely, straightening up, you kept your back facing him.

“What?” He asked, his hand abruptly stopping its movement on your back.

Taking a deep breath and sitting on the curb, you looked up at Spencer. “The state thinks I’m not stable enough to take her in,” you said, resting your chin in your hands.

Your boyfriend crouched down so that he could sit next to you, “Are you going to challenge it?”

“Of course I am,” you cried. “But what happens to her in the interim, Spence? She gets placed with whatever foster home here and I go back to Virginia? I see her when the family court resolves this in two years?”

Treading carefully, Spencer cleared his throat, “What are you going to do?”

Defeated, you shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m…” your voice trailed off. “My parents are dead, Spencer,” you murmured softly, tears welling in your eyes.

He reached out and wrapped his arms around you, “I know, darling. I know. I’m so sorry.”

“I don’t think I can do this alone,” you whispered, leaning gently into him.

Spencer turned to kiss your temple, “It’s a good thing you’re not alone then. I’m not going anywhere.” He waited for a moment before continuing, “Give me something to do. Give me a job to take off of your shoulders.”

In the end, you let Spencer take over funeral planning. He thanked you for trusting him before the both of you went back into the precinct.

You had just hung up with a family lawyer who had offered to take your case, letting your phone drop to the floor, you let your arms hang at your side. Someone had taken Maya to get breakfast while you spoke with the lawyer.

At the sound of the phone falling to the floor, Spencer stepped into the conference room, letting the door click shut before him. “Hey, what did he say?”

Pressing the heels of your palms into your eyes, you took in a deep breath, “Um, he said he’d be willing to take the case if I could put together a case plan to present before the judge.”

Before that phone call, you didn’t know what a case plan was, you could’ve gone your whole life without knowing what a case plan was.

“I need a year-long plan for how I’m going to prepare to have Maya in my custody, but he said a year is the best he can do,” you said, staring blankly at the wall ahead of you. “A year?” You whispered aimlessly, “I’m not waiting a fucking year to take custody of her. I have to take her home, Spence. I have to.” It wasn’t your intention to snipe at him, but you felt like you couldn’t help yourself.

The events of the last twelve hours threatened to take you down, but you had to stay strong for Maya.  

Taking a shaky breath, you looked up at Spencer, “Why is it that every time I convince myself that it’s going to be okay, I get tossed to the ground again?” You asked him.

Maybe because you weren’t fully convinced. Maybe it was because it had only been seven hours. You needed to remind yourself of that.

“She’s a ward of the state?” Spencer asked for clarification, holding you tightly.

Nodding absentmindedly, you rested your head on his shoulder as he swayed gently. “She can stay with me until after the funeral, and after that, she has to go with the social worker.”

The sad look on Spencer’s face told you that he was running out of ideas, and you were coming to the very same conclusion. “We could get married,” he offered.

“Stop, Spence,” you said, shaking your head. You couldn’t believe this was where he was going.

He shrugged helplessly, “I’m serious, Y/N. If we get married, they might think we’re stable, as a couple. They might give us custody.”

Your shoulders slumped, “I don’t want to get married just to get custody of my sister.” It certainly wasn’t that you didn’t want to marry Spencer, just not like this.

He nodded understandingly, “I know, but I’m just saying. If that’s what it takes, then I’ll do it.” Placing a comforting hand on your knee, the two of you sat in silence for a moment. “Do you have any ideas?” He asked you carefully.

Looking through the blinds of the conference room, you saw the rest of the team coming back to the precinct. Setting your jaw, you nodded, “I might.”

Opening the door, you had Maya go in with Spencer while you approached your Unit Chief. “Hey,” Hotch said, a glint of sympathy in his eyes. “How are you holding up?” He pulled you away from the people, wanting to give you privacy.

This wasn’t fair, they were still working on an active case. A case that was disturbingly close to you, and yet, you felt you were out of options. “I need a favor,” you blurted to him, wringing your hands. Your nervous energy made it impossible for you to stay still.

Hotch nodded, “What do you need?” He asked, studying your composure with the eye of a profiler.

You took a deep breath, “I was… I need you to call in a favor with someone. Anyone, really. The state won’t let me take custody of Maya, but I can’t let her become a ward of the state. Not when I’m right here, ready, willing, and able to take her.”

“Okay,” he responded, not even pausing to think about it.

Taken aback, you looked at him curiously, “I- that’s it? I had groveling prepared.”

He nodded almost imperceptibly as if he was trying to tell you it wasn’t necessary. “You’ve been a part of this team for years and not once have you ever asked for anything in return for everything you do for everyone else. This is the least I can do,” he told you.

You couldn’t help it. Overwhelmed, you tackled Hotch in a bear hug, “Thank you.” Your voice was low, “Thank you so much.”

Succinctly, Hotch hugged you back before you pulled away, “I’ll go make some calls.”

It was the smell.

The smell that you’d sensed countless times before on the job, the metallic tang of the blood. It should’ve been mostly dried by now – you supposed you were more susceptible to the scent, considering it was your parent’s blood, but it put you on high alert.

Emily had brought you by so that you could pack a bag for Maya, but you found yourself stuck on the landing. To one side, there was your childhood bedroom and Maya’s room. On the other side, there was your parent’s room.

“Y/N?” Emily called your name from downstairs, “Are you alright?”

No, you wanted to say, but you bit your tongue, scanning the house you had grown up in. “This doesn’t belong here,” you told her, glancing behind you as she made her way up the staircase.

You didn’t have gloves, so instead you pointed at the figurine that was resting on the bookshelves, a little bear facing in the direction of your parent’s bedroom door. “This is in the wrong spot?”

Nodding, your eyes followed the ceramic bear as Emily picked it up with a gloved hand. “It’s mine, it should be in my room,” you informed her. Your parents never changed anything about your childhood bedroom, not since you moved out. “It was like it was watching them,” you thought aloud.

“Do you think the UnSub did it?” She asked you gently, her voice was low but steady.

Blinking rapidly, you kept your eyes focused on the figurine, “Little Bear,” you murmured, “They called her Little Bear.”

Emily shook her head in confusion, dark hair swaying as her head moved. “Who was called Little Bear?”

Dropping the bag you had packed to the floor, you buried your face in your hands, “I should’ve seen it sooner.” The victimology, it all suddenly made sense to you. “When I was a kid, there was a family like mine. A brother who was in his twenties when his parents had another baby, a girl. They called her Little Bear.”

Realization dawned on Emily’s dark features, “Like this bear?”

You picked up the bag and started making your way back down the stairs. “Their mother made those figurines. The parents died in a fire two weeks ago – they left everything to the younger sister. It was all over the news. God, I should’ve figured it out sooner.”

“Hey,” Emily said sympathetically, “You had other things going on. None of this was your fault.” Her voice was stern, harsher than you’d ever heard her, as she pulled out her phone and called the team.

Your teammate drove, passing the police station on the way to drop you off. They left for the takedown, and you felt yourself floating into the precinct. Maya was waiting in the conference room for you, watching cartoons on someone’s laptop.

Kneeling in front of your little sister, you tapped the space bar, pausing the video. “Hey, kiddo,” you whispered, reaching over, and smoothing her hair away from her face. “How are you feeling?”

She had cried herself to sleep earlier, and you felt like you hadn’t been around enough. Maya sat up on the couch and rubbed her eyes, they were red, but not teary. “I miss mommy,” she told you, pouting slightly.

You nodded gently, moving to sit next to her before you pulled her into your lap. At six years old, she was all gangly limbs, just starting to grow into her own person. Just old enough to understand death, “I know, baby. I miss them too.”

“They wouldn’t lemme go home,” she continued, leaning her head on your shoulder. “I wanted Thumper,” she whined, sounding younger than she was.

Looking up at the light, you silently begged for your tears to go away. “I got him for you,” you told her, reaching into your bag and producing the small stuffed bunny that you had given her as a baby.

You savored the way her eyes lit up as she grabbed the stuffed animal from you.

“So, you and Thumper are gonna come to stay with me in Virginia. Do you remember going there? You said you liked it?” You kept smoothing her hair back as she held her toy.

She was silent for a moment, “Will Spencer be there?” She asked quietly.

Smiling slightly, you nodded, “He and I live together, so he’ll be there with us.” Slowly, you started rocking back and forth, trying to soothe the both of you simultaneously.

“As long as he doesn’t pull money out of my ear,” she answered succinctly, shutting her eyes as she leaned up against you.

There was approximately an hour before you watched the team return to the precinct, slowly, you laid Maya down on the couch before walking out. “It was a clean shoot,” you heard Rossi tell Morgan, and one look at the rest of them told you everything you needed to know.

The team went back to the hotel, and Spencer filled you in on the funeral arrangements he had made on your behalf. You were about to try to get some sleep when Hotch approached you and told you he needed to speak to you.

“I called a good friend of mine on your behalf, and he gave me some information. We were able to work out a plan,” he told you, sitting across from you in the hotel lobby.

You were about to tell him that a case plan wouldn’t work, but he held his hand out, telling you to wait.

He nodded before he kept going, “He was able to file an emergency request to grant you temporary custody of Maya, and it was granted.”

You felt sick to your stomach, “She’s mine?”

“Temporarily, you’ll have to take care of some formalities back in Virginia, but you have full custody of her,” he informed you. “You’re being granted family leave, and I’ve encouraged Reid to apply for it as well,” Hotch told you, reaching out and placing a hand on your shoulder. “I am… I’m sorry that you’ve had to go through this but thank you for coming to me when you needed the help.”

You nodded absentmindedly, your head still whirling with the information that you had just been given. Stumbling, you walked back to your hotel room that you were sharing with Spencer and Maya.

The funeral was planned, the custody issue was solved, all there was left to do was…

“Baby?” Spencer said softly as you swung open the door, “Everyone else took Maya to get ice cream, I figured it couldn’t-“ his voice broke off at your first sob.

Everything you had held in came bursting out, all of the grief and stress and exhaustion nearly knocked your legs out from underneath you.

But Spencer was there to catch you.

[sunderingstars]

zayne x reader + expressing his emotions/feelings via his and reader's heartbeat? Since he's not *just* her doctor...🪐

♡ heartbeat (zayne x reader) ♡

what the stars reveal: no gender signifiers for reader, (but can be assumed fem based off the game’s mc), slight allusions to lore, poetic prose taken directly from my brain at 3am

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ જ⁀➴ thank you for the suggestion, anon !! i feel like this ask was made just for me because i use zayne’s heartbeats as a way to de-stress every day LOL. i got a little bit carried away so i hope more than a few paragraphs is fine :3

It had started as a joke. Some silly, off-the-cuff banter you didn’t even remember starting, much less continuing until the two of you sat face-to-face on the couch in his office. It didn’t really matter, in your mind, how it happened. All that mattered was the thrumming; the steady rhythm of a heart, his heart, resting warm and stable under layers of skin and fabric.

It didn’t occur to you to be embarrassed. Not when you could feel it against your fingertips, burning through the outer layers of Zayne’s frost-tipped skin, coming to rest against you like a flower, like some sort of fragile thing with petals of ice. If you could, you wished to hold it in your hands, softly, tenderly, in the vain hope it would never crack. A prayer, perhaps, to a god you couldn’t remember.

“What is your verdict, doctor?” the teasing lilt of the last word brought you back to yourself, to the man in front of you. Zayne looked at you, eyes sparkling in amusement.

You coughed lightly. “It’s… uh… normal.” You didn’t remove your hand. “But kind of weird.”

Zayne’s heart stuttered along with his chuckle. “Weird?”

“Yes, weird,” you repeated, letting the lull of his heart diffuse from your fingertips to your chest. “I feel like I’m going to fall asleep.”

A beat of silence. “Go ahead, then.”

You blinked. Part of you thought you must’ve heard wrong — perhaps his heartbeat was laced with some sort of hallucinogen — but when you looked back to him, to the soft upturn at the corners of his mouth, you realized he was serious.

“What?” you asked. “Just like that?”

Zayne raised his eyebrows. “Why not? Leading research suggests that eight to ten hours of sleep is best for optimal performance. And someone I know is falling behind in that regard.”

You considered it, humming. Then you leaned forward until the side of your head replaced your hand on his chest. From here, you could hear the tempo picking up pace directly in your ear.

“It’s even weirder now,” you said.

“Is it?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“Maybe it likes you.”

You smiled against his chest. “Maybe I like it, too. Maybe, even, I want to give it a big kiss on t—”

“Go to sleep.” His tone was faux-stern, the way he sounded when he wasn’t fully committed to deflecting something. You could have kept prying, you knew, just to see how far the heart metaphor would go, but you decided to give his actual heart a break.

“Fine,” you said. “But I hope it knows it belongs to a great doctor.”

Another stutter against your ear. “I’ll be sure to pass on the message.”

Content, you settle against him, not caring that you’re still half-sitting. It’s easy, then, to listen. To wash away. To hear the sounds of rising, falling, cresting like snowcapped mountains and falling stars, and feel as though you’re a falling star yourself, hopeless.

“I wonder if it loves me,” you murmur, half-conscious, half-hopeful, half-blurred.

The last thing you hear is the low timbre of Zayne’s voice, softer than you’ve ever heard it, sending you off into the dark.

“It does.”

💙 bonus hc 💙: zayne has different ways to check heartbeats depending on how close he is to someone. for his normal days on the job, he uses a stethoscope, but when it comes to those he gets close to, he’ll take it by wrist pulse or neck. when the two of you start dating, he becomes a fan of pretending he can only take your pulse if he’s resting his head against your chest, which usually leads to him falling asleep on you.

© 2024, written by sunderingstars. do not copy, repost, translate, modify, or claim my work as your own.

[grave-z-boy]

are you comfortable with writing about a transman? if so id like to see arthur morgan comforting ftm!reader, maybe calling him a "good boy" to make him happy x

Arthur Morgan x Trans!male!reader

Summary: Reader runs into an old family member and is desperately in need of comfort afterwards. (Once again making excuses to be sad and transgender)

Words: 1264

Warning: hurt/comfort, pre-transition reader is referred to as “dead” and “little girl” by reader, reader threatens his cousin, shitty family members.

A/n: shorter fic cuz I've been banging my head against the wall trying to get the rest of my writing back.

Masterlist

“You need to eat.”

You glanced up at Arthur, the fire between the two of you illuminating him in a orange glow. Your food had gone cold, and you didn’t mean to be wasteful, but today was…a lot. You shifted uncomfortably on the large rock you'd perched yourself on.

“‘M not hungry.”

You heard him sigh as you stared down at your plate.

“You gonna tell me what’s wrong or are you just gonna sit there and sulk.”

“It's nothing-”

It was something, it was definitely something. You went into town on your own, bright and early so you could be in and out of the shops and get back to camp while the sun was still up. That was the plan, pick up some spices, and oddly enough a picture frame, Arthur had asked for it but he said it wasn't for him, probably gonna be a gift of some kind, you didn't think too much about it.

While you were making sure you're satchel was still secure, you heard a familiar voice.

“D/n?” he called from across the street.

You froze, but just for a moment, you tried climbing onto your horse as fast as you could by you were stopped by a firm grip on your shoulder. Turning, you saw him, right in front of you, your cousin, your asshole of a cousin, Damian.

“Well I'll be damned, it is you!”

Taking a breath you said, “Do I know you?”

“‘Do you’- d/n stop playing around!”

His voice was loud, loud enough to garner unwanted attention from those around you.

“I don't know no d/n sir, you've got the wrong man, now you best take your hand off me before you lose it.”

He backed off, a small apologetic yet nervous smile on his face, “sorry, you just uh, look an awful lot like my little cousin.”

Finally mounting your horse, you looked down at the man. You didn't say anything, just holding his gaze in yours for a long moment before giving him a quick nod and riding off.

You rode out of town faster than you should have, gaining various shouts and complaints from the townspeople who'd nearly stepped in your way.

As you broke out into the open road, your mind swelled with thoughts.

D/n was dead, she’d been dead a long, long time and you really didn't need reminders of her life, especially not the parts she hated.

You didn't want to hate your cousin, you just did. He was an ass and so was the rest of his family, you guess that technically included you too, but you never really felt like they were your family- even when you were little. You were different, so they treated you different. You never knew what tipped them off so early. Maybe you played with the boys too much, or you were too rough with the girls. Whatever it was, they knew before you did, they considered their daughter dead before she was, and they treated you like you killed her.

You liked being dead now, you thought you wouldn't have to worry about your family anymore, they had a whole funeral for you and everything, you figured that they'd move on, that if you did run into them, they'd take you as a ghost and nothing more. Your cousin was always an asshole though, and could never quiet get with the program, that made y'all alike in some ways, but mostly it just drew a bigger rift between you and your family. Everybody loved him, but they hated you, wasn't that funny?

You skid to a stop right outside of camp, zoning back into your surroundings just in time. Hoping off your horse, petting her for a short moment before tying her to a post.

It didn't take long for Arthur to find you, having only been in camp a couple of minutes before he spotted you. Before he even reached you, he could see the grim look on your face as you sat on your cot, glaring at the ground.

Arthur sat next to you, rubbing your back with his hand for a short moment. Arthur wasn't really a touchy person, not in front of people at least, a soothing touch on the back was as close to a kiss as you'd get with this many people around.

You glanced up at him, meeting his eyes for a short moment before starting back down at the ground below.

It didn't take much for him to convince you to take a ride with him, especially when he offered to let you ride his horse with him, you appreciated it, knowing that yours would have bucked you off the moment you saddled her after you nearly ran her through camp. You almost felt bad- when you climbed on the horse behind Arthur, watching him avert his gaze from anyone who looked in your direction.

He wasn't ashamed, you knew that, he was just private, didn't like it when people paid too much attention to your relationship, or you at all for that matter.

You rode together for a long while, once you figured the road was clear enough, you wrapped your arms around Arthur and rested against his back, you felt him tense, then ask if you were okay, you nodded, he relaxed after a moment, quietly continuing down the road, he knew you weren't alright, not fully, but he figured talking could wait a couple of hours.

Now you're here, you sat on a rock while Arthur set up camp, when you mumbled an offer to help, he shot it down, reassuring you it was fine.

By the time food was cooked, the sun had set completely, the fire being the only source of light.

“- I swear I just…ran into somebody today.”

You could here the faint clink of silverware against the bowl as Arthur set it to the side.

“‘Somebody’ like who?”

You sighed.

“Like my cousin, Damien, ran into him in town today.”

You weren't fully sure you told Arthur about Damien, but when you looked up at him over the fire you could see a look of annoyance on his face, so you had to at least have mentioned him and his aggravating exploits.

“It's stupid, I just… I don't know. I thought that I would never run into them again, or maybe that they wouldn't recognize me if they did. But he called that little girl's name and it just felt like my heart had stopped.”

Starting down at the dirt, you heard Arthur push himself up off the ground, the dirt crunching beneath his boots. Then he was sitting right next to you, the stone just big enough to hold two queers at once. Meeting his eyes again, you opened your mouth to speak, but all that came out was a long, tired sigh.

“I know, “ he said, his voice so calm and soft, a tone reserved for those that deserved it, “come here, boy..”

And you did, leaning your head on his shoulder, buried in the nook of his neck, your arms just barely around him in an effort. He wrapped his arms around you far tighter, pulling you into him, feeling your shallow breaths as the day's events replayed in your mind.

“That's it, good boy,” he muttered.

A small smile formed on your face. You hummed in contentment, squeezing him a bit tighter, forcing a small chuckle out of him.

“You liked that?” you nodded, he laughed again.

“It's helping..”

“I'll keep that in mind.”

[myfictionaldreams]

Day 2: Mommy Kink - Steven Grant

Kinktober Day 2: Mommy Kink - Steven Grant x f!reader

Tags: 18+ readers only, smut, oral (m receiving), dom/sub, sub!steven, mommy kink, riding, creampie , no use of y/n

my main masterlist 📚 // kinktober masterlist😈 // AO3 Link 

“Do you like that, Steven?” you asked softly, keeping your eyes closely on him whilst licking the underside of his cock that was being held up by your hand.

Steven’s face was flushed, face contorted in pure ecstasy as he stared down at your from where he lay in the middle of the bed, both hands tightly gripping onto the bed sheets below. You’d explained on multiple occasions that he could hold you during these intimate moments but he still held back quite a lot, scared he would do the wrong thing, even though you had both been dating for a few months and you knew for sure there was nothing that he could do to offend you.

This is why you also liked to ask every few minutes if what you were doing was ok and not too overwhelming for him, and it was also good to communicate during sex anyway and Steven always appreciated it.

Steven’s only response to your question was a pleasured grunt and nod of the head that had you smiling, kissing the tip of his leaking cock before opening your mouth and taking him to the back of the throat, feeling satisfied at seeing his head fall back into the pillows and a loud groan coming from his lips.

You absolutely loved seeing him like this, so utterly vulnerable to you but also completely smitten and trustworthy. Steven had always been the submissive one, which you enjoyed considering his alters Jake and Marc were most definitely dominants.

With your hand wrapped around the base of his cock, you were able to move in tandem with your mouth, sucking and hollowing your cheeks whilst simultaneously gripping and moving your hand up and down, making sure he was fully pleasured.

As you took him as far as you could, more than half of his cock now sliding down your throat, your spare hand was able to reach in between his legs to gently massage his balls that tightened with the touch.

Steven gasped loudly, hands flying into the air looking as if he wanted to touch you but still, not doing so, but it was his next words that had you halting all movements.

“That feels so good…so so good mommy, please don’t stop”.

Well, this was new and also had your pussy clenching around nothing at just the mention of the single word that he had never uttered before. Steven seemed to freeze as well, realising what he had let slip. Pulling his cock out of your mouth, you looked up at him once more, your breath warm against his cock as you asked, “repeat that for me, Steven”.

“I uh- I” he stuttered, not sure what to say or where to look as his arms returned back to his sides on the bed. Sensing his discomfort you tried to soothe him.

“Shh it’s ok”, you spoke gently, leaning down to kiss the sensitive skin on the trimmed hair mound above his cock before continuing. “There’s no need to be embarrassed, I’m sure you’re more than aware that I called Marc and Jake, daddy.”

Steven still didn’t say anything and didn’t seem all that convinced by your words so you began tossing your hand against his cock again slowly, watching his breathing hitch as he didn’t take his eyes off of you.

“Do you want me to take care of you Steven?” you asked innocently, kissing up the length of his cock. “Do you want mommy to take care of you?”

Simply just mentioned the word has his cock hardening and twitching, his beautiful brown eyes almost darkening as his mouth started to hang open in pleasure.

“Talk to me honey, do you want mommy to make you cum?” his cock once again twitched the word and finally, Steven gasped the word, “yes!”

Smiling encouragingly up at him, you sucked on his tip, as if rewarding him for opening up and not hiding how he felt. Removing your mouth once more you asked, “what do you want me to do my love? Talk to me, Steven.”

Steven’s eyes followed your every move like if he even blinked you might possibly disappear so his next words came out with a hint of desperation. “I want you… please”.

He was always so polite, it just made your heart melt. “How do you want mommy?”

“I…I want you to ride me please… mommy”. You almost didn’t catch the last word he whispered so quietly but you smiled broadly nonetheless, again kissing his cock in reward before climbing up the bed, and straddling his lap. Steven moved too, sitting up so that he could wrap his muscular arms around your waist.

Your own arms wrapped around him as well, curling around his neck so that your fingers could slide through his slightly damp hair, resting your sweat-covered forehead against his, smiling softly at him as he breathed you in. Without another word, you raised onto your knees, shifting your hips until his cock was nudging against your entrance and as slowly as you could, savouring every groan and harsh breath, you sank down on him, gasping at the sensation before kissing him sensationally.

His noises were like music to your ears as you steadily lifted your hips, rolling them up and down against his length, feeling his tip brushing deep into your core.

“Is this what you want Steven?” He moaned loudly, and this was the only response that you were expecting but he once again whispered almost so lowly that you couldn’t catch it, but you did as he said, “yes mommy, you feel so good”.

You loved that he was finally relaxing with each second that passed, his hands holding you close, touching the bare skin of your back as you chased Steven’s pleasure riding his cock.

With each movement, your chest brushed against his, nipples peaked from arousal and stimulation of his chest. Intently watching Steven, you noticed the way that his breathing had picked up its pace, the fact that his hands were clenching and unclenching against your back and that his eyebrows had knitted together, - he was close to cumming.

Smiling broadly at the man you loved and kissing him tenderly, thumb brushing against his cheek, you continued to fuck yourself on him.

“You’re doing so well Steven, you’re making me feel so good with your beautiful cock”.

“Yeah?” he asked looking glazed over almost, determined to make you feel good as his head dipped so that he could suck one of your nipples into his mouth, the sensation sending a pulse straight through between your legs, your own head now falling back as you cradled his head to your chest.

“Ah that's it, you’re making mommy feel so good” you praised.

Steven released your nipple hearing you say that special word one more time and he couldn’t hold back anymore as he grunted heavily, body shuddering as your cunt started to gush his hot seed, dripping down into his lap.

You held him close, whispering that he did so well, he was so good, well done, all trying to help him through his orgasm, feeling giddy on the inside however that you had finally found the kink that could easily pull him over the edge.

As Steven’s shoulders sagged, you began playing with his short hair, kissing along his forehead as he sat back slightly, looking ashamed so you were quick to cup his cheeks, lifting his face higher so you could kiss his lips.

“hey, it's ok Steven”.

“But it’s not ok, is it love? You didn’t even-” he couldn’t even finish his sentence, ashamed that you hadn’t cum before he did, something that he always made sure to do. You could feel his skin heating up with his embarrassment.

“Steven, I promise you that I really don’t care. I’m just glad you’ve been open with me about what sort of thing you’re into, there’s nothing to be ashamed about my love”.

He seemed to be settled by your words, his shoulders noticeably dropping as he found the courage to look you in the eyes and say: “well then, let me make you feel good mommy”.

And with that, gently pushed you back onto the bed, legs now spread, his eyes settled on your cum-leaking cunt, a smirk resting on your lips as you knew you were in for a fun night.

[fuckmyskywalker]

"Wet and Warm." — Sam Monroe.

— CW: 18+ | Smut. Watersports. Pee drinking. Brief blowjob. Sam and Reader are drunk asf. | Word count: 0.8k (not proofread!)

— List of films! | Taglist.

“Stop staring” Sam slurs, lowering his shorts and unticking his soft cock from the confines of his boxers.

“I’m not!” You reply back, your tone matching his drunken state. “I’m staring the necessary. This was your idea, dipshit”

You were right, it was his idea after all— but that didn’t make it easier for him. Sam invited you over while his family was away for the weekend, and two scary movies and two and a half six-packs of beers later, he couldn’t contain the urge to pee every 10 minutes. The thing is, Sam hates to pee when he is drunk; with his vision blurry and his uncoordinated moves, he successfully manages to pee everywhere except the toilet. So, he decided to ignore every uncomfortable pulsation of his bladder and focus on the third movie you chose for the night. He thought that maybe crossing his legs would help but it didn’t, which caused him to ask you to stop the movie and boldly ask you if you could help him to pee.

“Tell me why am I doing this again” You asked, kneeling next to the toilet, keeping your half-lidded eyes up, looking at his scrunched expression of concentration.

“Because I will make a mess and I’m not gonna clean it” Sam wraps a hand around the base of his cock, which is normally the only thing he needs to do— that is when his vision can register one toilet, not three. “And my mom will kill me”

“You are disgusting” 

“Shut up and help me”

And you do. Sam’s heart jolts inside his chest when you bring your hand to touch his cock. There’s an unreadable countenance on your face, likely induced by the alcohol in your system, so when you move his cock to the right gently in order for him to properly aim to the toilet, Sam is unable to read what could you be possibly thinking. Thank god he is drunk, or else he wouldn’t be asking his best friend to help him hold his dick while he pees. 

Relaxing his body, he closes his eyes and hangs his head, groaning a sigh of relief as he finally releases all the liquid accumulating inside his bladder. He is loud and that catches your attention. As he continues to do his thing, you tilt your head to look at his cock curiously. The hot stream of almost clear liquid flows right before your eyes, making you think questions that maybe your sober self wouldn’t even consider. 

“Can I taste it?” 

Sam chokes at your question, and his cock jolts around your hand. You feel it, but you assume is an involuntary muscle response. “What?” He looks at you. The interaction only lasts a few seconds, and you are hazily amazed at all the urine his bladder managed to keep. He looks into your eyes looking for any signs of mockery but he finds none. “Uh— well… if you want to.”

He was certainly not going to stop you. 

In a quick motion, you change the aim of his tip and wrap your mouth around it. Some drops fell on the white tiles and your lap, but most of it was now streaming down your throat. At the view and feeling, Sam gasps and shivers, his Adam’s apple bobbing. His tongue slides over his labret, a nervous habit of his; inside your mouth, his cock stirs and he curses himself for the wave of pleasure that courses down his body. You hum at the taste, practically swallowing every drop. Most of his urine was in the toilet now, but you still managed to get a reasonable amount— or at least enough to satisfy your curiosity. Removing his length from your lips, your tongue licks the tip to make sure he is nice and clean, a gesture that doesn’t go unnoticed. Lifting your head, you meet his gaze once again only to find his eyes hazy and shiny with an emotion you know all too well. Sam’s lips are parted, as he pants quietly. The air around you two is thick and there’s a magnetic pull that induces you to bring your lips back to his cock. 

“Fuck—” He sighs, his large hand landing on top of your head and caressing your head as you begin to suck his tip, working his cock slowly until it goes from half-hard to a full rock-hard state. “Was it good?”

The question makes you giggle around his cock, provoking him to jolt his hips and slide further inside your mouth. Picking up a faster pace, you close your eyes and moan around his cock, laying your palms flat on his thighs to force your head forward, deepthroating him and making him groan your name. 

His thumb wipes over the underside of your mouth, wiping away a mixture of saliva and drops of urine that trickle down your chin. He can’t believe how beautiful you look— and if he wasn’t drunk as fuck, he would think this is all a dream. An amazing fucking wet dream. 

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

🌊Taglist!: @jellydodger | @bimbo-baggins86 | @sythethecarrot | @haydensgirlaela | @lovrsm | @valsarchives | @grimkaos | @daniiileee | @dianaaxoxo | @arzua10

— 🐚 if you wish you be added to my taglist there's a google forms in the beginning of the post! There you can select which days you would like to be tagged in (or choose the option: all the above!). If you send me a DM or an ask I will tag you on every day! | some tags might not work due to your settings, so let me know!

[munson-blurbs]

hi ^^ can you do best friend!eddie teaching virgin!reader how to give head ?? like she’s so curious how it all works and i feel like eddie would be so vocal omg like so instructional while trying to keep his cool lol

I know this trope has been done a lot, so I hope y'all enjoy my take on it 💚

Warnings: smut (18+ only, minors DNI), oral (m!receiving), fem!Reader, kinda perv!Eddie, mention of weed, Eddie & Reader are both over 18

WC: 1.8k

--

The cafeteria is buzzing with conversation, including the table where you sit amongst the Hellfire boys. Mike and Lucas are arguing over something–you can’t be bothered to pay attention to their constant squabbles anymore–while Dustin is whining about his failing Spanish grade to Gareth and Jeff.

The only ones not talking are you and, surprisingly, Eddie. He’s nibbling on a pretzel, reminding you of one of the bunny rabbits that congregates in your yard. You’re not exactly sure why he’s so quiet, but you take this opportunity to whisper, “Can we go out to your van for a sec?”

His eyebrows pinch together in confusion; if you wanted weed from him, you would wait until after school hours to buy. Well, buy wasn’t the right word, considering Eddie always gave you yours for free.

“Yeah, sure,” he says, sliding his chair back from the table without bothering to push it back in. If one of the meathead jocks happens to trip over it and twist an ankle before their precious game, that’s not his problem.

You wait until you’re outside, away from anyone who could possibly overhear the absurd request you’re about to make, before you start speaking. “So, um, you know how I have that date tonight? With Mark?” you ask, biting your lower lip nervously. You can taste the strawberry gloss that you’d reapplied after finishing lunch.

Eddie’s already digging through the glove compartment for the baggie he keeps stashed away. “You want some for him, too?” His tone is impatient; irritated, even, as he pulls out the blunt he’s already rolled for you. “Because I only brought one.” For you, he adds silently.

“Wha–oh, no; I didn’t need any weed,” you tell him, shaking your head before dropping your gaze to the gravel beneath your feet. “It’s our third date, and I was thinking he might wanna…y’know…do stuff?” You cringe at the phrasing, but press on. “But I…I don’t really know how.”

“Sweetheart, if you’re confessing your virgin status to me, I already know,” Eddie says with a smirk. “I mean, we’ve been friends for a million years. If you did it and didn’t tell me, I’d be pissed.”

You manage a giggle at his candidness. “Nope, still a virgin,” you report miserably. “And last time, he asked me to give him head, but I told him I had to get home. Not because I didn’t want to, but because I didn’t wanna do it wrong.”

Eddie shrugs. “Just don’t use teeth,” he replies casually. “Other than that, there isn’t much you can do wrong.” He starts back towards the school, pausing when he realizes that you’re not by his side. “Look, I don’t have any other tips. I’ve only ever been on the, uh, receiving end of dick sucking.”

“Yeah, well,” you mumble, shoving your hands in your pockets and brushing the toe of your sneaker against the ground, “that’s kinda what I wanted to ask you. I was thinking that maybe I could…practice on you?”

Eddie’s eyes practically pop out of his head. “You…you wanna do what?”

“Forget it. It’s stupid, I’m sorry. Can we never talk about this again?” Tears well up in your eyes, and you try to blink them away before he can notice. What were you thinking? Asking your best friend if you could give him a blowjob?

“Hey, no, I just wanted to make sure that’s what you meant.” He smiles, letting his hand graze yours. “Do you mind…in my van?”

You nod, returning his smile with your own shy one. “Um, yeah. I mean, no, I don’t mind. I can give you head in your van.” 

Eddie swallows a lump in his throat, opening the back door and helping you inside. He lays down on the shag carpet–the one you always tease him about–and pats his thigh. “C’mon over.” He watches as you timidly straddle his waist, trying not to sit down on his lap. “You’re not gonna crush me, y’know,” he jokes lightly. “And even if you did, s’not like I’d be mad about it.”

You hesitate but ultimately let yourself rest on him; immediately, his cock starts to stiffen, and you pull back. “Shit, I-”

“S’okay,” Eddie says, tilting his head. He’s not about to let you know that this isn’t the first time you’ve gotten him hard; just the first time you know about. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Fingers fumbling with his belt, you pull on the strip of leather until the shiny metal clasp unhooks from its notch. He undoes the silver button on his pants but lets you tug his zipper down until you get a glimpse of his blue-and-white checked boxers. “Can I take these off?” you ask.

“Y-Yeah, ‘course,” he stutters, sitting back on his elbows to give you more leverage. You have to keep yourself from gawking at his hardened length as it rests against his Iron Maiden shirt, tip leaking a pearly bead of pre-cum. He mistakes your awe for nerves, and he quickly adds, “if you changed your mind, I’m not gonna be mad or anything–”

“No,” you shake your head. “I just d-don’t know where to start.”

Relief visibly floods his body. “I like being teased a little. Like, kissing it or licking it–holy fucking shit.” His train of thought is abruptly cut off when your tongue flattens against the base of his shaft, dragging upwards until you reach the head. His lithe fingers grab onto the collar of your cotton t-shirt, twisting the fabric around them just to steady himself. 

“Like that?” you ask, giving him eyes that are far too innocent for someone who just coated his dick with her saliva. 

“J-Jus’ like that,” Eddie nods, gripping your shirt tighter as your lips brush against his length with tiny, measured pecks. “And then you’ll wanna–fuck–wanna focus on the tip. Wrap your lips around it, there you go.” His toes curl as you lower your mouth, licking at the saltiness. “Make, like, circles w-with your tongue.” 

You do as he says, feeling him twitch against your parted lips. A wanton moan escapes him, and it’s music to your ears. A sign that you’re doing something right. 

“When you’re ready—Jesus H. Christ, your mouth feels s’fucking good—hollow out your cheeks and kinda…glide down? I dunno, all the blood is rushing to my dick right now.”

You blanche as you reposition yourself, glancing at his girth. “Eddie, I…I don’t think I can fit all of you in my mouth.”

His fingernails could tear through your shirt with the grip he has. “Shit, y-you can’t say that. Actually, you can. Tell me how fuckin’ big I am, baby.”

Baby. You try not to let this new pet name distract you as you say, “you’re huge, Eddie. I won’t be able to take it.”

“Yeah? Gonna choke on my cock?” Eddie growls, momentarily forgetting his role as oral sex tutor. “S-Sorry. Um, if you can’t, you can use your hand to help you out.”

“Okay,” you nod, crouching back down. One hand rests on his thigh while the other wraps around the base of his dick. He hisses at your touch, and you smile despite the butterflies in your stomach. 

“M-Might help if you spit on it. My, um, my dick.”

The trail of saliva drips down until it reaches his wiry patch of pubic hair. You swirl your tongue around his tip a few more times for good measure before opening your mouth a bit wider and bringing your head down. 

“Thassit, keep doin’ that. Don’t worry about getting it all; jus’ do what you can.” His knees tremble as you move a bit faster. “You can do the t-tongue thing when you come back up. I really like that, fuck.” 

You want to ask about the pace: is it too fast? Too slow? But when you lift your gaze to meet his—your lips still on his length—he lets out a whimper. A fucking whimper. 

“Yes, look at me, baby. Look at me while you blow me,” he pants. “Wanna see your cute little mouth stuffed full of my cock.” And if that wasn’t enough, what he says next could stop a bullet in mid-air: “You’re better than I ever imagined.”

That’s enough to warrant you to ask a follow-up question, and Eddie could cry when you pull away. “You imagined this?”

“Mhm,” he squeaks out. “Wanted you f’so long. Please just keep going. Please don’t stop.”

So you don’t. You find your rhythm, using his groans and twitches to find what he really likes. It’s messy and different but so fucking right. 

“Hnng, baby, ‘m gonna cum. You might wanna—”

But you shake your head gently, not wanting to break the momentum you’ve built. You lock eyes with him, silently telling him that it’s okay.

“Fuck, you’re perfect. You can spit it out if you don't wanna swallow, pretty girl. B-but ‘m about to c-cum—fucking shit!” You take as much of him as you can until you start to gag, and you feel his hot release hit the back of your throat. It’s a lot; much more than you’d anticipated, but you swallow it all. 

Eddie stares at you incredulously, momentarily speechless. “Did you just…?”

“Was I not supposed to?” The intimacy of it only dawns on you now. He’s just teaching you, and now you’re going on a date with someone after swallowing his cum. “Shit, I’m sorry.”

He barks out a laugh. “Do not apologize for that. Just wasn’t expecting it.” He sits all the way up, adjusting his softening dick and re-fastening his pants. “So…that’s how you give a blowjob. Any questions?”

There’s an awkward silence as you contemplate, ultimately deciding to ask. I mean, you’d just performed oral sex on him; he could answer a measly personal question. 

“When you said you wanted me for so long…did you mean that? Or were you just saying it?”

Eddie’s gaze is suddenly glued to the van floor. “Look, you’re with Mark now. I can’t…”

“Did. You. Mean. It?” You cross your arms over your chest, waiting for his response. 

He relents after a moment. “Yes, I meant it. I’ve had this big, stupid crush on you, but I kept making excuses not to ask you out, and then you got with Mark—”

You cut his rant short with a clumsy kiss, noses hitting each other as you press your lips to his. You stumble a bit and he catches you, bringing his hands to your hips. “I have a big, stupid crush on you, too,” you admit, “but I figured you would’ve asked me out if you felt the same way.”

This time, Eddie kisses you, soft and sweet. “I can taste myself on your lips,” he murmurs into you. One finger grazes your pants button. “Do me a favor?”

“Yes, I’ll cancel with Mark,” you say, teasing but truthful. 

“I mean, you fuckin’ better,” he laughs, but he shakes his head. “Nah, I need you to lie down f’me.”

Your brow creases. “Why?”

“A gentleman always returns the favor.”

--

[cactusnymph]

the right ingredients

Even when he was a child himself Gale was never good at dealing with other children. Burying himself in books all day and using the biggest words he could find to sound impressive and to be as precise as he could never really resonated with most other children—or adults, for that matter.

So when Tav walks over with a child in tow as he carefully cuts some onions for tonight’s dinner, Gale is wary. She is scrawny, with a mop of red hair and two differently colored eyes. The most important thing about her is the fat, fluffy cat at her side, staring at him with huge eyes as if he might throw it in the soup at any second.

“Gale, this is Yenna. She’s staying with us for a while. I thought she could help you cook?”, Tav says with a smile. Gale wishes that smile wouldn’t turn his brain into something that feels much like the bubbling soup in the cauldron looks. He clears his throat.

“Uh—“, he starts, unsure of what he wants to say. The child looks so big-eyed that Gale is afraid she might start crying at any second and that would most likely be even worse than having her cut some carrots. “Have you ever cooked before?”

She shuffles and nods.

“Yes, I’m real good at it! I can make all kinds of stuff. Porridge and omelets and squash soup and—“

As Yenna continues to list a total of eleven dishes she can cook, Tav rustles her hair with a soft look on their face that makes Gale’s insides tingle. Oh, he wishes he didn’t feel the unnecessary pang of jealousy just because he wants them to touch his hair and smile at him the same way. Emotions are to terribly silly.

Gale coughs.

“Well, that sounds very impressive indeed. Yenna, was it? I suppose I can make way for an assistant. Usually I don’t allow others to interfere in my nightly cooking, but! Since our fearless leader recommended your prowess I shall—“

He stops himself as Tav looks at him with an amused smile.

“Right”, he says, catching himself. “How about you peel some of those potatoes over there?”

“Yes! I can do that, sir!”

“Mind me sitting here while you work?”, Tav asks, their head tipped in Gale’s direction. Once again he marvels at the fact that he never really spent much time with anyone, let alone a Tiefling.  Tav’s dark blue skin is not unlike the nightsky, especially with the white freckles covering their entire face and their muscular arms. Gale would like to pretend that he does not spend innumerable minutes of every single day staring at their biceps. But he would be lying to himself, of course.

He allows himself to follow the curvature of their horns and gaze at their glowing white eyes before turning to Yenna.

“So, I see you have a cat companion! As do I. What’s their name?”

“This is Grub”, Yenna says, her tongue sticking out between her lips as she peels a large potato that looks even bigger in her tiny hands. “He’s shy. What’s your cat’s name?”

Gale carefully dumps some sliced onions into the bubbling liquid.

“Her name is Tara. She’s been my companion for a long time and I miss her dearly.”

Yenna smiles at him. She has a front tooth missing.

“Do you also have a cat?”, she asks Tav who is casually chewing on a piece of carrot.

“No, I don’t. Always wanted one, but my pops was allergic”, Tav says with a rueful sigh. Gale notices that their eyes linger on Grub but they keep their respectful distance. Considering Tav’s habit of speaking to every single animal they come across Gale can imagine that they asked permission to pet Grub—and were denied.

Yenna is quiet for a while as she peels potatoes and Gale does his best not to comment on the uneven peeling. He can imagine that Tav would not appreciate him reprimanding a child for less than optimal peeling techniques.

Usually Gale doesn’t allow anyone else to intrude on his cooking, but he has to admit that it’s not too bad to keep his territorial habits in check for a bit, if just to bask in the delightful companionship of Tav. And even though Gale usually doesn’t deal well with children, Yenna doesn’t seem to mind his presence or the way he speaks.

She asks for the meaning of every ‘big’ word that he uses and listens intently as he explains and Tav watches the two of them with a glint in their white eyes.

“This smells so good already”, Yenna sighs and sniffs the air with her eyes closed. “Can I stir it?”

“Certainly”, Gale allows and Yenna grabs the big wooden spoon excitedly before dunking it into the soup. Gale doesn’t cringe. He doesn’t. This is a child in distress that deserves every piece of distraction she can get. Gale can let her stir his soup even though she stirs it as if the spoon is running away from a goblin horde.

“Maybe in the morning you could teach me how to make a proper omelet”, Gale says and Yenna almost drops the spoon into the soup.

“Really?”, she says, her eyes impossibly big. It makes Gale’s heart melt. He might not be well equipped to deal with children but their joy is something precious to behold.

“Absolutely! One should never stop to acquire new skills and knowledge”, Gale says with a nod and a little bow that makes Yenna giggle. Finally, she hands him back the spoon and sits cross-legged on the floor next to the fire as she watches him season their dinner, asking about every single herb he adds to the cauldron.

It takes him a while to notice Tav looking at him with a soft expression on their face.

“Now why are you looking at me like that?”, he can’t help but ask. Tav laughs quietly and shrugs.

“Nothing. Just appreciating your efforts”, they say. Gale would love to hear more about what exactly it is that Tav appreciates, but Yenna is still watching him intently so he goes back to holding out a fresh sage leaf to her so she can smell and taste it before he adds it to the soup.

As the smell of his soup spreads through the entire camp the rest of their colorful band of misfits starts gathering around.

“Well, well, well, Gale, have you finally found your match in the kitchen?”, Wyll says, his eyes crinkling in the corners as he settles down next to Tav on the ground.

Gale waves his spoon.

“Yenna has hereby been promoted to assistant chef”, he answers and Yenna beams.

“I will teach Sir Gale how to make an omelet tomorrow!”, she proclaims proudly, Grub now curled in her lap.

“Very impressive! I can’t wait to taste it”, Wyll says with a smile and winks at Yenna.

“Maybe I can also learn how to make some pie! I love pie. Mister Gale, Sir, can you teach me how to make pie?”

Gale thinks that it seems so mundane compared to everything else he’s been doing with his life up to this point. To sit here, around a fire, stirring a soup for a group of people who—in another life—would never have been in his inner social circle, being asked by a child for cooking lessons. It’s so different from everything Gale has experienced while he was with Mystra.

It’s trivial. It’s simple.

And yet it makes his heart sing in an entirely new way.

“I will have you know, I make the very best cherry pie in all of Waterdeep, young lady”, he says with a little flourish, using the spoon to underline his words dramatically. Yenna claps full of excitement. Grub purrs, Tav laughs and Wyll and Karlach shake their heads about his exaggeration.

And for this moment in time Gale thinks that he could be happy after all.

[the-auguer]

The Forbidden Book of… Uh, Forbiddeness

Normal forbidden book mishaps lead to Mammon getting hallucination whammied into his ultimate dream world.

cw: suggestive

Dull, throbbing pain laced up Mammon’s leg, his body jerking back in an attempt to counterbalance its precarious tip forward. 

“What the hell, Satan!” Mammon barks, kicking vengefully at the book stack that had violated him so carelessly. It toppled so very satisfyingly. Stupid Satan and his stupid room with his stupid book stacks that are just lying around, waiting to be tripped over. 

“Do not,” Satan intones in that dangerous way he’s perfected over the centuries, “kick my books.”

Mammon scowls back at him. Wrathful or not, Mammon is the second born, Mammon is the big brother, and Mammon is the one helping Satan out of the kindness of his heart. 

You stumble over your own deadly pile of books, kicking a few over as you reorient yourself. You crouch to stack them, glancing over your shoulder sheepishly. “My bad, Satan.”

Okay, so maybe it’s not exactly out of the kindness of Mammon’s heart that he’s here. But he couldn’t just leave you alone in the damn snake’s den!

Satan grunts, waving his hand at you. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Hey! Why do they get a pass and I don’t?” Mammon yells across Satan’s room. “Here I am, helpin’ you like you asked—”

“You’re only helping because they are,” Satan cuts Mammon off, dry and slightly amused. Like the bastard knows something Mammon doesn’t. Ugh.

Mammon’s mouth gapes open in offense. “What! You don’t know a damn thing, you… you…!”

“‘You’ what?” Satan asks, creeping closer to Mammon.

Mammon rears up, ready, but you call out from the distant side of the room.

“Do you think it’ll be in this section?”

Satan’s leer melts right off, turning contemplative. “That depends. Are you in the history or the practical leather work section?”

“Uhhh, neither?” You duck further into the dusty shelves from your crouch. “This looks like… demonic industrial psychology?”

Satan snaps his fingers and begins to walk over. “Yes, actually, it should be a shelf over from there.”

“Okay.” You lift yourself up off the floor, brushing the dust out of your hair. “Ick. Will it be to the right or left?”

Satan’s confident stride to the shelf falters. 

Mammon cackles. “Lookit you! You don’t even know where it is.”

Satan’s brows draw back down his face immediately.

“It would be a lot easier to find anything if someone hadn’t wrecked my room like a moron!” 

“I dunno why you’re yellin’ at me!” Mammon shouts back. “I didn’t do anythin’!”

“You ate Beel’s sandwich.” Satan says. “Again.”

“I dunno why you’re bringing that back up,” Mammon sulks. “It’s not my fault he went on a rampage over a stupid sandwich. Besides, that happened months ago.”

“It’s been two weeks and my room is still a mess.”

“I don’t see any difference.”

“Why you—“

Satan steps towards Mammon.

“Satan,” you call. “Still needing those directions.”

You’ve leaned yourself against a wall, like you don’t really care about all the shouting Mammon and Satan are doing. Hell, maybe you really don’t. Mammon knows that he himself does a lot of the shouting. Maybe you’re used to it. 

Maybe you like it. 

“Ah,” Satan says. “Yes.”

He stares at the wall, considering. 

“Maybe to the right?” He does not sound sure. 

You laugh. Just a little. Mammon finds himself leaning towards you, even though you’re ten feet away. 

“I’ll take left and you take right?” You suggest to Satan.

Mammon nods. “I’ll go left with ya!”

Satan sighs. “Sure.”

Mammon bounds over to stand next to you. You quirk a smile at him. A nice, small one. Like there’s still a bit of a laugh caught in your mouth. Mammon wants… he wants…

“I’ll look low if you’ll look high.”

Mammon startles, but recovers just as quickly. “Leave it to the Great Mammon!”

He cranes his neck, squinting at the ceiling height shelves that make up Satan’s walls, only just able to read the titles embossed on the spines of the books. 

“Hey,” Mammon says, “what’re we looking for again?”

That half of a laugh falls from your mouth again. “Only you, Mammon, I swear.” 

“There is only one Mammon,” Mammon says seriously. It makes you huff again. 

“We’re looking for Satan’s cursed cookbook.”

“Oh yeah! Hey, Satan, what’re you making for dinner?”

“Nothing if I can’t find my cookbook,” Satan says tersely.

“Eh? Just use your D.D.D. for recipes like everyone else.”

“No.” Satan replies, rifling through a mid-level shelf. 

“Why?”

“Because it’s not right. My Cursed Demon Cuisine Cookbook has every recipe a demon could need, and it already has my adjustments written in it. It’s irreplaceable. I will never cook without it.”

“Yeesh, alright.”

Mammon squints at the shelves again. Something something Demonic Animal Acupuncture , some fancy cursive that Mammon doesn’t care to make horns or tails of, Forbidden Fruits of the Demonic Realm , something something Skewering Techniques , something Demon Cuisine something, some book without a title, Practical Woodwork in Relation to Leather Work , and Demonic Tree Species and their Habitats . 

Damn, Satan really had a line up of bores in his room. Nothing interesting, like mechanic books or something. How to Win Big Fast , that’s Mammon’s kind of book.

Nothing like… hmm. 

“What’d you say the book title was?”

Satan snorts dismissively. His search has been completely halted, as he has immersed himself into hunching over a different book.

You glance up, raking your hair out of your face with your hand as you do so. You need a haircut, something Asmo has been bemoaning all week. Mammon’s mouth is dry. 

“ Cursed Demon Cuisine Cookbook , I think.”

Mammon whips his head up. “I think I found it.”

You draw yourself up from the floor. “Really? Where?”

Mammon points. “Fourth shelf down, kinda on the right.”

You hum, eyes nearly in slits from how hard you’re having to squint to see that far. Your nose is scrunched. Your brows too. You’re really… you look so… Mammon wants to poke your nose. 

“Oh, I think that is it!”

Mammon’s chest puffs. 

“What’d I tell ya? Leave it to the Great Mammon, the best of the best.”

You pat his chest. “You did great Mammon.”

Cheeks suddenly hot, Mammon looks back up the shelf. “O-of cou-course. Let me… I’ll get it down!”

“How?” You ask. “It’s pretty high up there.”

“Oh, sad little human. I can get that book down with my eyes closed.” Mammon replies, shaking out his hands and then his legs. “Never underestimate Mammon!”

“Right… and you’re going to…”

Mammon jumps, his eyes truly closed. 

“Mammon!”

Laughing, Mammon stretches out his hand. At the peak of his jump, he brushes against the spine of a book. He snatches it, certain he’s correctly judged how high he’d needed to jump. 

As gravity begins to pull at his body, Mammon grins. You’ll be so impressed with him, once he lands. He’ll be perfectly balanced, practically bouncing on his toes, with the book in his hands in one fell swoop. You’ll tell him how great he is. How powerful and cool. And you’ll… You’ll. 

You’ll what?

Mammon hits the ground, his knees stock straight and unprepared. He stumbles, arms pinwheeling, before finally regaining his balance. That was close. 

He holds the book over his head. “A-HA! Victory is Mammon’s!”

Satan has finally pulled his nose out of his book and made his way to stand next to you. Mammon lowers the book to show it to him. 

Satan sighs. “Mammon, that’s not my cookbook.”

“Whaddaya mean it’s not your cookbook? We saw it for sure—” Mammon glances down. “Damn it!”

It was the stupid no title book that was right next to the cookbook. Mammon had been so close. His jump was perfect, even if his landing wasn’t. If he had only been a little to the left he would have gotten the right book!

“Don’t worry Mammon,” you say. “You still found it. All we have to do is get it down.”

Mammon grumbles. “Stupid no-title book.”

“Did you say no title?” Satan’s voice is sharp. 

“Yeah,” Mammon replies. What’s all the fuss about leather bound, unmarked books anyway? Mammon has a few paperbacks in his room, and they don’t look nearly as namby-pamby as this stupid thing. Mammon cracks the book open. 

“Mammon,” Satan warns. “Do not open that.”

Oh-ho? Is it Satan’s diary? Mammon bets it is. Well, it’s not like Satan should have anything too embarrassing in here. It’s probably all just ranting about how much he hates Lucifer. It wouldn’t hurt if Mammon had a little peek. 

Maybe he can tell you about it later. If it’s funny, of course. You might not laugh, though. Oh well. 

Mammon pulls it the rest of the way open. 

“Mammon!”

The only thing Mammon really remembered with any clarity was how strange it felt to have his knees buckle underneath him. 

“Mammon!” His face isn’t pale, or even really stricken with pain, but your hands hesitate over him all the same. What if you make whatever this is worse? What if you hurt him?

Satan sighs. “Idiot. I told him not to open that book.”

You turn to Satan. He seems twice as tall from where you kneel next to Mammon, but you’re not phased. 

“What’s wrong with him?”

“He opened the Forbidden Book of…” Satan delicately flips the fallen book closed with his shoe. It has no title, just a symbol you can’t decipher. “The Forbidden Book of Dreams.”

Your brows furrow in confusion. “Aren’t your forbidden book titles usually a little more on the nose than that?”

Satan shivered, likely reminded of the body-switching debacle. “Yes, you are right. However, I have acquired some forbidden books that follow different rules. I never really got around to experimenting with this one. Maybe it activated because—”

“Stop,” you say. “We can talk about that later. Right now…” 

Mammon looks strange, lying limp on the floor. Even in sleep, he should be restless. Muttering and rolling and kicking. Instead his only movement is the rise and fall of his chest. 

You feel wretched just looking at him. 

“We need to get him somewhere more comfortable.”

Mammon blinks out of his haze, rather confused. It’s not often he can’t remember when he walked into a casino. 

This casino seems different, too. At least, Mammon hasn’t been in it before. The walls are covered in a golden sheen, with high arcing ceilings where gleaming demonic crystal chandlers hang. The carpet is a warm, lush red, with dozens of gambling tables full of patrons scatter across the room. The dealer at his table is one of those four armed demons that Mammon loves and hates. Loves because of how quick the next hand is shuffled passed out. Hates because the extra hands make it much harder to identify the cards Mammon’s opponents receive. Glancing down at his hand of cards, Mammon conceals a devilish grin. Poker. Mammon is awesome at poker. And his cards… his cards are good. Really good. 

And he has a lot of chips. Mammon’s neck cranes with how much his head has to tip in order to see the end of his chips. 

Mammon hasn’t had good prospects like this is a while. Ever since that whole thing with the witches and Lucifer cutting him off, Mammon hasn’t had enough money to bet to win big like this. He can feel his mouth watering.

“Hey, Mammon? Where are you looking?”

The chips, as numerous and shiny as they are, quickly loose all meaning to Mammon.

It’s you. Sitting in the chair next to him. You’re glittering, draped in all sorts of gold accessories and jewels. If Mammon dips his eyes, he can see a discarded pile of tributes at your feet. Defective. Not nearly pretty enough to grace your body. 

You’re wearing yellow. It’s not a color Mammon usually sees you in. It’s lovely. You look… you look so…

A hand feathers through Mammon’s hair, scratching lightly at his scalp. It makes Mammon shiver all the way down to his toes. 

“Much better.” Your smile brings heat to Mammon’s chest. “I like it when you look at me like that.”

“Li-like what, st-stupid human?” Mammon splutters. 

The hand in his hair tugs. Not enough to hurt but just enough to reprimand.

“I don’t like being called that.” You’re… you’re frowning at him. A little bit. Mammon’s mouth is dry. 

“S-sor-sorry.” Mammon replies lamely, his tongue sluggish in his mouth. 

“Hmm,” you release his head and Mammon does his best to not chase after your hand. “Good enough, I guess. Your turn, then.”

Mammon turns to the table. His opponents’ piles of chips look pitiful next to his own. They watch him apprehensively. 

You’re watching him too, a half smile lazily curling about your face. “Go on. Win me a bracelet this time.” You show your wrists, both already heavy with bangles of all sorts, of diamond and gold and ruby. Your left wrist looks a bit more full than your right. Mammon finds his mouth is no longer dry anymore. He has a little too much saliva, now. “I don’t want an uneven amount. I’m sure the Great Mammon, Avatar of Greed, can fix that for me.”

“Yea-yeah! You bet!”

Mammon turns his head back to the table. The demon in green is looking pretty poor on chips and he has a very, very nice gold watch on his arm. Unbidden, a smirk crawls up Mammon’s cheeks. 

You huff out a quiet laugh. 

“I’m all in!”

There seems to be an unbearable pain in Lucifer’s head, what with how hard he’s pinching the bridge of his nose. You feel a bit embarrassed, because, yes, Lucifer only left the house for a few hours and there’s another crisis. Satan, Belphegor, and you stand in a semi-circle around Mammon’s bed. 

“Belphie, what does he look like?” Lucifer rasps, only just holding onto his sanity. 

Belphegor leans over Mammon, a discerning look in his eyes. He sighs. 

“He’s in there. Just dreaming.”

All of the air that was stuck in your lungs releases. Breathing is so much easier now. 

“Can you get him out,” you ask. Your hands flex, aching to clamp around Mammon’s hand. His hands are always warm, though. You’re a little afraid that they’ll be cold. 

Belphegor see-saws his hand. “Yes and no. I can go in and try, but the Forbidden Book will have its own conditions for Mammon to wake up.”

You turn to Satan, who is very carefully leafing through the book with oven mitts on. 

Satan grunts, turning a page. “Still looking. I found the activation requirements, though. It says in this passage that for the curse to work, a demon must be a ‘warrior at heart’ and ‘dreaming of something dear to their heart’ so that the dream world can be constructed accordingly.”

In your mind’s eye, you see Mammon’s wide grin as he opens the book.

”A warrior?” Belphie scoffs. “Mammon hasn’t done anything special in centuries.”

Lucifer makes a skeptical noise. “Inaction does not invalidate the claim to the title. Mammon… has always been one of a kind.”

“That’s true enough, I suppose. What do you mean ‘constructed’?” Belphegor asks, one hand placed carefully on Mammon’s forehead. 

“Just that,” Satan replies. “It takes the dreams of the demon and makes a world that they’ll never want to leave. Quite fascinating, really. This was crafted to be a trial for warriors, to test if they would truly be able to turn from their inherent sin and serve their greater demon lord. When I saw it up for auction on Akuzon, I had to have it. Shame about the situation, though.”

Satan did not sound too disappointed. 

“You mean he can wake up on his own?” Lucifer says. 

Satan shrugs. “I still haven’t found the actual chapter for it, but in theory, yes. He just has to have the willpower to turn away from his own sin.”

An uneasy feeling roils in your stomach. Turning away from your sin might be hard for regular, low-level demons, but an Avatar of Sin like Mammon…

The others seem to feel similarly. 

Lucifer turns to Belphegor. “How likely is it that you can get him out, Belphie?” 

“Pretty likely.” Belphegor replies, hand smoothing over Mammon’s cheek to his pulse. “Sleep is in my domain, so dreams also fall in by association, and I’m not sensing any kind of power that would overrule my own. The thing is, I don’t know if the curse will retaliate if I interfere. Could be that Mammon can never go a night without a nightmare or something equally awful. That sort of thing would take a lot of time to reverse.”

“Wouldn’t there be a failsafe if it was a warriors’ trial?” You ask. 

Satan shakes his head. “This particular demon tribe did not believe in failsafes. If you didn’t have the discipline to resurface on your own, you didn’t resurface at all.”

“Will he die? If he doesn’t resurface?”

“No,” Lucifer assures, his voice firm in a way that gives you a little bit of relief. “Mammon is an Avatar, so he won’t die. Besides, Belphie will get him out, if he can’t on his own. We’ll deal with whatever comes after.”

“How long will we wait, then?”

Lucifer looks to Belphegor. 

Belphegor yawns, likely exhausted by the serious atmosphere. “Two days or so, maybe?”

“The longest recorded coma was seven months, sixteen days, and eleven hours.” Satan pipes up.

“A week, then.” Belphie amends.

Lucifer nods. “In the meantime, I expect everyone to attend their classes as they usually would. I will talk to Diavolo.”

You nod, your eyes fixed on Mammon. 

Hopefully it won’t take more than a week. 

“ALL RIGHT! EVERYONE BOW DOWN TO THE GREAT MAMMON!”

All demons of all sins could only oblige, as Mammon had taken every valuable on the table. And a few off of it, too.

You laugh. It’s not that soft breath but an honest guffaw that has you shaking in your seat. You’re dripping in luxury, your ornaments doubled in number and rarity, a bigger heap of offerings at your slippered feet. It’s still not enough. Mammon wants… Mammon wants to see you in a crown. Maybe a crown of ruby, to compliment the yellow you’re wearing. Maybe one of emeralds. A mighty, tall crown worth more than the entire casino they sit in. 

Fingers whisper under Mammon’s chin as you tip his head towards you. So many necklaces of different kinds dangle from your neck, but not a choker. Mammon wonders why. He likes the look of them, how they emphasize the muscles or the graceful column or the lovely plump of a demon’s neck. 

You smile like you know what he’s thinking. “I saved something for you.” 

It’s leather or something like it, which isn’t strange for the demon world. It has a huge sapphire embedded in gold hanging from the middle. You turn his chair to face yours, your knees touching his, and fasten it around his throat. It’s tight, tight enough that he feels it constrict slightly as he swallows. 

“There we are. It looks better on you, anyway.”

“Of co-course it do-does. Everythin’ looks better on me.”

“Careful.” You say. You take hold of his chin again. Mammon’s world narrows down to your fingers and your eyes. “I might get upset if you keep being mean to me.”

The world is dizzy. Was he… was he really being mean? He always talks to you a bit like that, but he never thought that you would… that he would upset you. 

Your brows ease from their furrow. “Don’t worry, Mammon. You didn’t upset me. I was playing.”

Your fingers begin to withdraw. Mammon clutches your wrist. 

“Don’t stop.” Mammon nearly whines. “I didn’t say ya should stop.”

You smile at him. Mammon feels the choker against his throat as he swallows. 

“I won’t, Mammon, don’t worry.” You lean in, the hand Mammon’s holding moving to cup his jaw and the other going to the poker table behind him. Every demon’s eyes are on you. On your wealth, on your magnificence, on your daring. On your lips, skimming across Mammon’s cheek to his  earlobe. 

The the back of the chair that Mammon sits in is the only thing keeping him upright. He feels like he’s trembling apart at the seams, lightheaded with how close you are.

“Hey,” you whisper to him, your lips brushing his ear. Mammon is about to morph into his demon form, if only to loose some of the excess heat that is blazing across every inch of his skin. 

“Yeah?” Mammon rasps back. 

You stand between his splayed open legs, so close you’re practically in his lap. You lean away from his ear, both a relief and a loss. He feels set aflame by your very breath. 

“Let’s go play something else.”

Mammon glances over. Other demons are beginning to crowd the table, raring to play a game of poker, but wary of the Avatar of Greed and his winning streak. 

“What should we play?” Mammon asks. He knows a bit of what he wants, but you could want something else. And if it makes you keep smiling at him like that…

“Anything,” you murmur. “As long as you take everything they’ve got. I want to walk out tripping over money.”

Shit. Shit.  

Mammon feels heat suffuse his body with vengeance. His head lolls back to rest at the top of his chair. 

You huff— Mammon can feel your breath ghost along his cheek— and run a finger down Mammon’s throat, gliding across the choker and ending at his collar bone. 

Mammon’s back quivers, curling up off of the plush cushion of his seat. His breath is leaving him fast, and he can barely inhale enough to keep up with the demand for oxygen. 

You straighten, the heat of your body retreating with you, leaving Mammon all but limp in his chair. 

The ceiling is nice. Has Mammon mentioned how nice the ceiling is? Very high, very pretty. Gold and red, just like everything else in the casino. 

“Where are we going, Mammon?”

Mammon exhales. You want everything off of every demon. All of it. Mammon wants to give it to you. Wants to so very bad. 

He stands. “Let’s go play some craps.” 

Asmodeus drapes his torso dramatically over the table. 

“It’s not fair. Why does Mammon get to sleep through school with his deepest desires?”

“Careful,” you mutter ruefully, picking at your breakfast. You can’t really help how bitter your voice is. Someone has brought up this same topic at every meal. “You sound like Levi right now.”

“It’s true,” Levi bemoans, crossing his arms, “why does he get to live out his ultimate dream and I don’t? Mammon is probably wasting this opportunity on counting Grimm when I could be saving the world with my precious Ruri-chan! Shaking hands with Henry! Playing a real life RPG! How could Lucifer lock away my golden ticket to paradise? I would give anything, even my limited edition Double Bubble Ruri-chan: Disco Era Funtime doll!”

You put down your fork, frustration killing your appetite. You haven’t talked to Mammon in two days. By the time school is over, it’ll be three days. He’ll be in the same realm, in the same house even, and you still won’t be able to talk to him. It makes you nauseous. 

You don’t blame the others. To them, this is a temporary situation that Mammon will awaken from anyway, so why not be jealous of it? But to you… 

You miss Mammon. That’s all there is to it. 

Beel stares at your plate. You push it towards him. He drools over it, but turns away. 

“You should eat more,” Beel grits out with difficulty. “Eating is good for you.”

You reach down for the backpack at your feet. “Don’t worry, Beel. I’m not hungry, so I’m going to start heading to RAD.”

Beel does not wait for a second confirmation. He digs into your plate dutifully. He’s been eating a bit more than usual, you think. He’s probably anxious. You make sure to pat him on the shoulder on your way out. 

As you walk out the door, you hear Asmodeus’s voice, loud in his laughter. 

“Counting Grimm, Levi? Oh please. Mammon is probably in some casino with them blowing on his dice for luck. Maybe blowing something else, too, the lucky bastard.”

Hot breath fans gently over Mammon’s knuckles, and Mammon feels his cheeks heat at your dipped head. You rise, and Mammon rolls his dice. Eleven. Just what he needed.

Your arm winds around his shoulders as he cackles and collects his winnings of this round. Mammon is on a winning streak a mile wide, with his opponents in tears. 

“You’re lucky,” Mammon announces to you, to the casino, to the world. “I’ll take ya to any casino, anywhere.”

“Really?” You ask, your arm a band around Mammon’s chest. 

“Hell yeah, baby! Did ya see me? I won every game!”

You still, and Mammon stills with you. 

His face flushes. He considers backpedaling. Calling you a stupid human, saying that you should be grateful he wants to take you anywhere. But… you said it could make you upset. 

“Mammon. Mammon, look at me.”

Reluctantly he turns to look at you. 

Your cheeks are pink and your smile is kind. You lean your forehead against his. 

“I like that,” you tell him tenderly. “Say it again?”

Mammon murmurs something or another that he himself did not hear. 

“Please Mammon?” Your hands smooth over his shoulders. “Mammon?”

“Baby,” Mammon whispers, unsure. 

He has only a second to doubt himself before your lips drag across his collarbone. Mammon’s hands rise to brush against your waist, uncertain. Then your lips move just a little and bite down and all Mammon can do is hold onto you like a lifeline. He would shout, but something about the way that your teeth felt… it was… weird. Dry and not at all tingly. Maybe Mammon didn’t like biting? But…

“Hey, Mammon?” Your voice is breathy, like you ran a mile. 

“Yeah?” 

“Wanna get out of here?”

More than anything. “Sure, baby.”

Mammon gets a Little D to cash out all his chips and another to carry the excess wealth to the car. He wasn’t sure if he actually had a car here, but he could improvise. Maybe trade a few hundred thousand Grimm for a real nice car. 

But he takes you to the parking lot and there it is. His red convertible, top already down. The one he he’s been wanting to take you on joy rides in. You climb in like it’s no big deal. 

Swallowing, Mammon climbs in the drivers’ side. 

“Where to?” Mammon asks, unsure himself. If they go back to the House of Lamentation, Lucifer is sure to ream him out about gambling again. Mammon is in too good of a mood for it to be spoiled by Lucifer’s endless nagging. 

You tip your head back to rest on the shoulder of the headrest. 

“Anywhere. As long as you’re driving.”

Mammon laughs nervously, and puts the car in reverse. Anywhere. Anywhere at all. 

Mammon drives to the edge of the sea. On the beach. 

You sigh as the beach breeze moves through the car. Then you sit up to look at him. 

“Is there anyone around?”

“I, uh,” Mammon swivels his head, searching. Strangely enough, there’s no sign of any other demons on this beach. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Good.”

Mammon’s about to ask what’s good about being alone of a huge beach like two teens in a horror movie when you amble over the center console and sit yourself on his lap. All that can leave Mammon’s mouth is a strangled wheeze. 

You sparkle even more in the sunlight. You’re literally blinding. 

You tuck your head into Mammon’s neck and he awkwardly touches your waist with his fingertips. There’s a click, and Mammon is falling backwards as his seat reclines, yelping. Your breath puffs against the skin of his throat. Then your lips replace your breath. 

Mammon’s body jolts, jostling you from where you lay on top of him. You only laugh and feather another kiss under Mammon’s jaw, then against his cheek. 

“Mammon,” you breathe, your eyes bearing into his. Slowly, you inch forward, and all Mammon can do is meet your lips with his. 

You let your pencil clatter uselessly against the fine wood of your desk. There would be no more productivity tonight, and you pack up the remainder of your homework. Hopefully you’ll be able to wake up early tomorrow and work on it after breakfast. Maybe curling up with a book will distract you more that homework.

Day four of Mammon’s coma has trickled away, leaving you on the cusp of the fifth day and all the more bitter for it. Satan said that there was no way to reverse the coma using the Forbidden book, and had left it completely at that. Now you either had to wait three more days or hope that Mammon gave up on the pool of Grimm he was probably swimming in at the very moment. 

As much as you believe in Mammon, you know that’s not very likely. 

You toss your book aside, bored of it within seconds. Much like everything else lately. Walking with Beelzebub or Asmodeus to school is nice, but it would be much nicer if Mammon were there. Eating lunch with Simeon, Luke, and Solomon was relaxing, but it would be so much more exciting if Mammon were there. Gaming with Leviathan and reading with Satan was fun, but you miss Mammon’s ridiculous schemes and raucous laughter. 

It’s strange. You always enjoyed all of those things normally when Mammon wasn’t in a coma, but you can’t now that he is. 

He’s down the hall from you right now and you miss him more than you did when you returned to the human world for all those months. 

Tired, but unlikely to fall asleep anytime soon, you tuck yourself under your bed covers and close your eyes. 

There’s nothing. 

Mammon’s eyes are wide open. Shocked. Terrified. 

There’s no warmth at all from your lips. 

There is no fluttery feeling. No giddiness. There’s not even the heat that Mammon was boiling with back at the casino. All of the warmth from then and now seems to have leached right out of him. 

You pull back, smile bright.

“Mammon. Mammon.” 

Your hips move just a little, and you move back in to kiss him. Mammon flails, rolls you off of him, and fumbles to open the driver’s side door. When it finally opens, Mammon stumbles out, lands flat on his face in the sand, and scrambles to his feet. 

You sit up in the car. You’re still deck out in shimmering jewels, and you look just the slightest bit rumpled. And hurt. You look so hurt. 

It’s nearly enough to make Mammon trip over himself to climb back in the car, but he can't forget the feeling of your lips on his, or lack thereof. 

Maybe he just built it up too much in his own mind? Maybe he did both you and him a disservice by raising you on a pedestal, and the real deal can’t hold a candle to it?

But no. Mammon remembers. 

Mammon remembers a late movie night, you asleep with your head on his shoulder. Your head lolled and your nose ended up in the crook of Mammon’s neck. Your breath took up Mammon’s every thought, and your proximity made his heart speed. Most of all, he remembers the touch of your sleeping lips to his skin, and how electrified he felt. Like he could punch straight through Cerberus and a hungry Beelzebub all in one go. 

Everything else felt so real, so why did your kiss make Mammon feel so…

Why did it feel so fake?

“Mammon, what’s going on?” You venture, stepping out of the still ajar car door. “Are you okay?” 

“Whaddaya mean ‘what’s going on’?” Mammon yells, hurt and terrified and unsure. “What the hell was that?”

“That was—,” you stutter, “I thought that you—”

“No! No, no, no, no.” Mammon grabs fistfuls of his hair. “Don’t look at me like that! Don’t do it.”

You’re teary eyed. Which is ridiculous, because Mammon should be the one crying. Why did it feel that way? Why does he not feel horror at the thought of you crying?

“Something’s wrong.” Mammon says to himself, to the empty beach, to you. 

“What’s wrong? Mammon, tell me what it is and we can fix it!”

Mammon whips his head around. It all started with this damn abandoned beach, that feeling of wrongness. No lovely beach this side of Devildom is ever without demons. Or was it the casino? He should go back there. Right now! Only…

Where was the casino again?

Mammon’s head spun. Which way was it? He drove here, so he should be able to go back, right? Since when does Mammon, Avatar of Greed, not know where any casino is?

Never. Mammon has never forgotten where a casino is in his life. 

Your hands clutch at his shoulders, desperate. You’re crying, and your hands are trembling. 

“Talk to me! What’s going on?”

Mammon’s only gotten that many wins in a row a few times in his long, long life. And there’s no way Lucifer would ever let him bet enough money to play the type of high-stakes game that would result in that much money. He’s never seen that casino before, and doesn’t know where it is. Even if he concentrates, he can’t remember a single face from that casino. 

Which means that there’s no way that that was a casino. Which means the casino wasn’t real. 

“Mammon, you’re scaring me.”

Mammon looks down at you. You’re in yellow, his favorite color. You were in that fake casino with him, despite him never taking you to any demon casino anywhere in Devildom. You climbed right into the car he’s never shown you anywhere but his dreams. 

Dreams. 

Mammon takes in how hazy the horizon is. He spent several hours in that casino but the sun hasn’t budged from its half-mast in the sky, just before sunset. His favorite time of day. But there’s no day in the Devildom. And this isn’t one of Prince Diavolo’s special beaches.

“You’re not real,” he whispers. 

“What are you talking about, of course I’m real,” you cry, gripping his shoulders harder. 

“No,” Mammon says, “all of this isn’t real.”

He shoves fake-you away, skin burning with home close to him they were. How close he let them be. With one absent-minded hand, he rips off the leather choker and tosses it away carelessly. 

How was he supposed to get out of here? Was there some sort of spell? Was he supposed to fly out?

“It could be real,” fake-you says from the sand. They sit up, face contorted into a beatific smile. “You could stay here, forever. You could win every day. All the wealth you could ever imagine, gifted to you.” Mountains of gold pile up, tumbling over themselves as they stack high, high, high. “Nothing to slow you down. And then at night, you can take me home.” Fake-you rises and steps forward. Mammon retreats further away. “Think of all the fun we could have. You could do anything.”

Fake-you reclines in a pile, sliding a hand down their body, and it takes everything Mammon has not to throw up. 

The Grimm, skulls emblazoned and golden, are tempting. Mammon wants money, wants so much money that he’ll drown in it. But that… that isn’t real money, is it? What the fuck is Mammon supposed to buy with fake money?

“No! I don’t want fake money! I want real money!” Mammon kicks down a pile, feeling his fangs prickle his lower lip. What was the use of money that Mammon could never have in real life? What was the use of time spent with you when you weren’t really here? “I don’t want fake-you! I want the real you!”

“Why?” Fake-you asks, cupping a handful of gold and letting it pour from their hand. It makes musical clanks as it hits the rest of the coins and slides down the pile. “It’s as real as you believe it is, and so am I.” Fake-you grins. “Come on, Mammon. It’s not like you’ll ever get this chance anywhere else.”

Reeling with hurt and outrage, Mammon lets his demon form rise to the surface, feeling his power distort the very air. 

“I. Want. Out.”

The beach and fake-you are ripped to shreds by his claws. 

Belphegor crashed into the dinning room, looking more disheveled than usual. 

“Mammon’s waking up!”

Despite your human nature, you’re the fastest to react. You stumble to Mammon’s room, where he’s thrashing so violently you balk at the door. The blankets twist around him where his claws haven’t shredded them, and he’s growling. 

“What’s wrong with him?” Lucifer demands, pushing past his curious brothers, dragging Belphegor with him. 

Belphegor shrugs. “He’s waking up, but he’s forcing it. The Book’s fighting him.”

“Can you help him?” You ask. 

“I could,” Belphegor says, “but he doesn’t need it. Look.”

You turn back in enough time to see Mammon’s eyes fly right open, snarling in rage. Rising, he claws off the remaining blankets, and moves towards the crowed at the door, horns out and wings flared.

“Mammon,” you say, excited, shouldering past Lucifer. He doesn’t break his stride in his path to you, and when you reach out to hug him, he snatches you close to him. 

“You woke up,” you exclaim, squeezing him. “I thought I wouldn’t see you for two days! I took school notes, you can use them if you want.”

Mammon tilts up your head, the claws that tore up fabric in seconds gentle. “Mind if I check that this is real?”

“Yeah?” You reply. “How are you—”

He kisses you. Right there, in front of all six of his brothers. It’s soft, barely a brush of his lips on yours for a chaste second, but your heart nearly bursts in your chest with free fall sensation. Your head swims a little, and the words of the demons behind you fly right over your head. 

“Yeah,” Mammon sighs, stroking your cheek with his thumb, dopey smile growing on his face. “This is real all right.”

You have a million questions. How does your kiss make everything real? What was Mammon dreaming about? Did he miss you, too? 

As you open your mouth to ask any of these questions, Mammon collapses on you in a dead faint, taking you to the ground with him. 

Winded, you stare at the minuscule amount of ceiling that you can see through stark white hair. 

“Oh,” Satan says calmly. “The book did say to expect some disorientation upon awakening.”

[spirk-trek]

I always love when spock has to ask mccoy to help him understand his feelings for jim

now on ao3!

i'm so sorry to this anon who waited so long for me to finish this prompt *cries* i have never written anything from mccoy's pov and wanted to challenge myself... and oh boy, was it a challenge. i feel like it turned out kind of (very) boring and maybe not so good but i tried my best with something new!

~*~*~*~

Spock had cultivated an arsenal of excuses to get himself into sick bay when he didn’t really need to be. Some were more convincing than others, but over the years Doctor McCoy had come to consider himself a damn near expert at identifying them. At least, he eventually identified them. Once he managed to stop being annoyed. 

“What in the blazes- Spock! Get your hands off my equipment!”

“Doctor,” he greeted, raising a brow and pausing whatever the hell he was doing with several panels removed from the wall. McCoy stared at him, swelling with rage.

“I leave this room for one damn minute-!”

“Actually, you were absent for nine minutes, eighteen-”

“Dammit Spock,” McCoy gritted his teeth and begged whatever gods might be listening for strength. “ You have eighteen seconds to tell me what you’re doing before I tranquilize you.”

Spock’s mouth closed with a well-then expression, eyes widening just enough that McCoy might’ve felt accomplished if he didn’t have a six patient backup in the transporter room. He watched as Spock deposited the components onto an empty biobed- the only one remaining, mind you- and placed both arms behind his back to face the doctor squarely. 

“I am here to calibrate your newly installed biofilters to include the latest blood-type data sets.”

McCoy blinked, then helplessly gestured to the chaos surrounding them. “I'm a little busy here, if you hadn't noticed. Can it wait?”

“Hardly.”

He crossed his arms over his chest and squinted. Two can play at that game.  

“Medical equipment, eh? Since when are you our go-to guy for that?”

Both Vulcan brows eased their tension, rising to meet the dark curve of his bangs. “I am not. However, considering the fact you are currently treating Lieutenant Macsen, as an experienced science officer I am the most qualified individual to-”

McCoy groaned and uncrossed his arms to toss them at Spock impatiently. “Yeah, yeah, alright but-” he jabbed a finger at him. “But you're acting Captain now, aren’t you? Shouldn’t you be on the bridge? ”

Spock’s eyes slipped away. It was only for a moment, but that was enough. Gotcha.

“The danger has passed,” Spock eventually answered, careful mask back in place. “I can be of assistance here.”

“You sure?” A smug grin was spreading over McCoy’s features. Spock tilted his head in consideration of him, likely knowing he was in trouble. Damn right. “So this ain’t just an excuse to check up on Jim, then?”

As if he had forgotten his excuse, Spock gathered several of the discarded components back in his hands, answering only once his back was turned. “I assure you, doctor, my only concern is the efficiency with which your facilities are capable of treating the biologically unique individuals awaiting care.” He paused, both his speech and his hands, which were simultaneously reconnecting a tangle of wires. His chin tipped back over his shoulder just enough for McCoy to see downcast eyes stuck to the floor. “It is a logical endeavor. There is no need to question it.”

McCoy set down his medical tricorder with a thud and glared at the back of Spock’s head. “Uh-huh,” he muttered, chewing the corner of his mouth. “Well, if you're not here to bother me, carry on with your ‘logical endeavor.’ Just make it snappy. I got patients to heal.”

He left the goddamned hole in his wall to do a lap around the med bay, asking after patient conditions and giving orders where needed. When he got back around to where he started, he was pleased to find the wall panels more or less back in place. He was even more pleased to catch Spock peering down the line of beds, even craning his neck to do so. Gotcha again.

He knew already, of course, which bed was the subject of Spock’s nosiness. Nurse Chapel was there, standing over an unconscious, battered, and idiotic (in McCoy's professional opinion) Captain James T. Kirk. The man looked downright pitiful with his uniform torn and bloodied, neck supported on either side by braces. 

I’ll be damned if I’m gonna say anything. He wants to know? He’s gonna have to ask.

Spock never asked, though. He suffered in silence, like a damn ascetic. The doctor sighed, knowing already he didn’t have this particular fight in him. Not now. Not today. 

“He’s gonna be alright, Spock. He’s had worse.”

At being addressed, Spock hastily resumed what appeared to be the last of his tinkering. McCoy watched him quietly, trying- unsuccessfully, as always- to read the unyielding Vulcan façade he so effortlessly constructed moment by moment. 

“I acknowledge that the Captain's injuries are not likely to be fatal.”

“More n’ not likely. He’s gonna live, and he’s gonna thank me for it.”

Spock said nothing, simply pressing the final strip of wall back into place. He slid his hand over the seam to ensure there was no protrusion before ultimately turning around to face McCoy again.

“Once more, my concern lies with the efficiency of the ship's functions. The Captain's well-being is, logically, a crucial component of that efficiency. Is that not correct, doctor?” 

McCoy scowled, not buying a damn word. He knew Spock wanted him to agree. To hand him his own excuse back on a silver platter. Not gonna happen.

“Well, if you were worried about him,” he cajoled, bouncing on the balls of his feet, "you might have a point. He took quite the beating down there.” 

Spock shifted, and another bolt of triumph shot through McCoy’s core. 

“It has been my experience that the Captain possesses a remarkable ability to defy all odds.” 

Leonard barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Sap. 

“Still. Haven’t you people ever heard of hand phasers? They have a couple hundred meter range, you know, but no. You just have to get up close n’ personal.”

Spock’s gaze hardened. McCoy knew that meant his bluff had been called.  

“Doctor. You have already indicated that the Captain’s injuries are not of long term concern. Are you rescinding that assessment?”

McCoy sighed, any remaining sense of accomplishment fleeing him. He was just about to damn his attempt at getting a proper rise out of Spock when he saw him turn a glance toward Jim’s vital signs, checking them. Not very Vulcan of you, he thought, even as a pang of pity won out over the desire to dig his thumbs in and yank.

“I, uh…” He sighed deeply and ran a hand through his hair, rubbing awkwardly at the back of his neck. “Listen, Spock. Since you’re here, I’ve been waiting what feels like a century to get my tricorders synced with the medical catalog we integrated from Nomalis III.” He looked at Spock pointedly before jerking his head in the direction of the storage cabinets. “Think you have time to get to them, too?”

He nodded once. “Certainly. I will assess their status presently.”

And if he noticed a stroke of gratitude in Spock’s immediate acceptance, he wasn’t about to claim responsibility for it.

*   *   *   *   *

Sometimes, the visits were shorter.

Leonard glanced up from his screen, raising a brow at Spock's unexpected presence on the other side of his automatic doors.

“Spock,” he greeted warily, one eyebrow raised. “You finally taking me up on that open nurse position?”

With a look he’d no doubt deny was annoyance, and a breath he’d definitely deny was a sigh, Spock placed his hands at the small of his back. “Negative, doctor. I require a medical examination for a minor injury sustained during our most recent expenditure.”

“You? Injured?” He set his PADD down and pushed it away, leaning over his desk toward the other. “I find that hard to believe.”

“It is a minor contusion,” Spock explained promptly. “I deemed it necessary to ensure my optimal functionality.”

The Vulcan presented his hand between them, fingers outstretched, a thin line of green wrapping around the palm and over his first knuckle. With a frown, McCoy stood and gestured for Spock to take a seat on the nearest biobed, coming to stand beside him as he snapped on a pair of gloves. He pulled the marked hand into the light, turning it at different angles. It was half healed at best, shallow at worst.

“You know, Spock,” McCoy murmured as he looked, “I don’t tolerate malingering.”

“Proof of my injury is visible, doctor. Or did your medical training not prepare you for superficial wounds?

“Ha ha,” McCoy deadpanned, noticeably less gentle as he flipped the hand back over and dropped it. “It’s already started healing, so I can’t use a stitcher. A treatment bandage overnight should do it, with that Vulcan metabolism of yours.” 

He busied himself with a nearby drawer, pulling the right type of bandage from its depths. Once he had Spock’s hand back in his, he cleared his throat and began wrapping it.

“You didn't come all the way down here for a papercut, did you?”

Steely blue eyes flashed upward, but Spock wasn’t looking down to meet them. McCoy rolled them instead, annoyance mounting.

“I discharged him twenty minutes ago, y'know.”

He refused to look up again when Spock’s posture went rigid, his fingers flexing unconsciously against his newly coiled bandage. To McCoy's shock, he didn’t even bother denying that’s what he was really after. 

“The venom was of an unidentified variety.”

“I identified it.”

“And his symptoms? They were-”

“Severe, yes. Keyword there being were .” He smirked, but Spock was still looking straight ahead. It quickly curled into a frown. “I healed him. That's what doctors do.”

Spock said nothing in response, though a crease appeared between his brows as he watched McCoy seal his bandage with a whirr of instrumentation. 

“Anyway,” he turned in his chair, wheeling to a shelf to pull out a bottle of pain capsules he knew Spock would refuse. “I confined him to quarters until morning, if that's what- hey!” The doors were swishing as he turned back around, and despite knowing he wouldn’t hear it, he still called after Spock bitterly.

“You’re welcome!”

*   *   *   *   *

Sometimes, the excuses weren’t really excuses at all.

“Doctor,” Spock greeted upon being let into McCoy's office. He blinked in surprise at the vision before him; Spock was pacing, hands clasped tightly behind his back, gaze down on the floor. He watched him take two trips from wall to wall before clearing his throat.

“Why yes, Spock?” he asked sweetly, batting his eyelashes to no effect.

“I have come to report increased stress levels, resulting in loss of sleep.” 

McCoy’s eyebrows shot up. He placed his resequencer aside, immediately forgetting whatever he’d been doing with it. It’d still be there later, but this. This, he had to hear.

“Stress, Spock? That doesn’t sound like you one bit.”

“Stress is a natural reaction to disturbed mental equilibrium.”

“Would you please stand still?”

The Vulcan froze in his tacks, looking down at himself as if he hadn’t even realized he was in motion until that moment.

“That’s better. Now, what is going on with you?”

Spock, for a moment, looked explicitly uncomfortable. The lines of Leonard's face ironed out in shock. That level of transparency was, in Vulcan terms, something like an outright confession. He might as well be singing Shakespeare from rooftops.

“I’m waiting,” he eventually probed when Spock didn’t answer, crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair.

Spock shut his eyes. “Captain Kirk has recently… developed a closer association with a civilian on board.”

Oh. McCoy couldn’t help but smile, thinking of the pretty copper-haired thing he’d seen hanging off Jim’s arm that morning. And the morning before that. And the morning before that.

“Kaylia, right?”

“My concern ,” Spock continued as if McCoy hadn’t spoken, his eyes meeting some spot beyond them both, “stems from the potential risk such emotional entanglements pose to our current endeavor.”

McCoy’s smile curved into something dangerous.

“I see, I see… So, the Captain’s love life. That’s what’s stressing you out, is it?”

Spock’s jaw worked from side to side. “I fail to see the relevance of his personal relationships to my emotional state.”

And damn him, Leonard actually believed that. He leaned in, fixing Spock with an intense stare.

“Look, Spock. I'm a doctor, not a counselor, but I've seen the way you look at Jim.” He raised a hand when Spock opened his mouth, no doubt to deny it or try to explain the accusation away. “This ain’t just about the ship, or your current endeavor, or whatever the hell we’re calling it today.” When Spock didn’t answer, McCoy’s harshness receded slightly. He could feel it shrink within him, going from hot to cold in an instant. 

“There's something more there,” he continued earnestly. They were well past it being a question. It was a damn fact as far as he was concerned, and he was sick and tired of pretending it wasn’t. “Way I see it is, you may be a Vulcan, you may have even fooled yourself, but you're not fooling anyone else.” 

In the end, that got Spock’s attention. The dark eyes that swiveled down to meet his had a dangerous flicker to them. An ember he couldn’t help but stoke.

“I've known Jim a lot longer ‘n you have, and this? This ain’t about a single thing except you being jealous .”

Spock's mask wavered, another current of vulnerability passing over him like a spectre.  When he finally broke his silence, he spoke with a voice that was measured and low.

“That is a highly illogical hypothesis, doctor. I am not capable of experiencing jealousy, and even if such were the case-”

“Oh, cut the crap, Spock. I've known you long enough, too. You've got feelings, and they're more n' just friendly when it comes to Jim.”

Spock raised a brow, the barest hint of a frown crossing his features. 

“It is not… ‘crap.’”

“It is crap,” McCoy snapped, smacking an open palm against his desk. Spock stared at it stiffly. “Admit it, Spock! Seeing him with someone else is tearing you up inside." He narrowed his eyes, baring his teeth in a not-quite grin. Struck a nerve, did I? "How many days has it been since you slept, anyway? Have you gotten a wink since she walked onto this ship?”

“Your analysis is flawed," Spock spoke quickly, his speech pressured in a way the doctor hadn't heard before. "I am merely concerned with the Captain's ability to remain impartial. These matters often do not work out favorably.”

McCoy shook his head. “So, what? You’re worried she’ll break his heart?”

Spock didn’t react other than to pull his lips into a thin line.

“Ah, no. You're worried she won't.”

Spock was speaking again before McCoy had even finished accusing him, and if he had to give it a name he'd say he sounded downright irritated. Yeah, well, join the club.

“I am not governed by emotions. I am not worried, nor am I jealous-”

“Yes you are.”

“Furthermore, my feelings would be irrelevant regardless of-”

“Irrelevant my foot .”

A pause. “That doesn’t-”

“All’s I’m sayin’, Spock,” McCoy raised his hand and his voice to cut the other off, eyes screwing shut in his frustration. “You might want to face those feelings head-on before they gut you.”

They held each other's gaze for a prolonged moment, McCoy’s silent office beginning to feel heavier and darker than before.

“As you have already pointed out, doctor,” Spock spoke quietly now, the tide of irritation ebbing away. “You are not a counselor. I am here to seek a simple sleep aid, if one is available.” 

After several more seconds, Leonard finally broke their eye contact to slam a drawer open. He tossed the bottle of pills at Spock, who caught them with cat-like reflexes that annoyed him more than it should have. Spock held the bottle low and looked down at the capsules, watching them fall over each other as he twisted the bottle side to side. McCoy bit his tongue, waiting... and what’ll you know? It paid off for once.

“Suppose your hypothesis is correct,” the Vulcan eventually murmured without looking up. “What is the solution?”

McCoy blinked. “Spock.”

Only then did their eyes meet again. McCoy sighed.

“Emotions don’t have solutions. Alright?” A ripple of impatience pushed itself into a frown on Spock’s lips. “But,” he continued, “they do have causes. Usually, anyway. Is that- Does that make any kinda sense to you?” Spock nodded once, straightening his spine. McCoy considered for a moment, his lips pursed. “Jealousy, for example, is usually caused by…” He leveled a careful look at the other man. “Well, I don’t have to tell you. It’s biblical.” Seeing the bewildered expression beginning to take shape, he rushed to clarify. “A tale as old as time. You want to be in her place.”

Spock averted his gaze again, then shook his head once. “I do not.”

“I don’t mean you want to be a diplomat, or a pretty redhead, or on the mind of every man aboard this ship.” He let out a short huff of breath. “Just the one man, right? And he’s currently off on some observation deck somewhere…” McCoy trailed off when he noticed Spock’s hands flex around the bottle, taking a moment to send some irritated thoughts Jim's way. Blind, stupid idiot.

“Am I getting anything right, here?”

Spock rolled his shoulders. “This is… not my area of expertise.” 

“I know,” he said in a way he hoped was kind. He meant it to be kind, anyway. “Like I said, there ain’t a solution to feelings, but... In this situation, there are a few outcomes. And outcomes are sorta like solutions, right?”

Spock opened his mouth as if to disagree, then shut it again and gave a curt nod.

“Right. Okay. So,” he held one hand up as a visual representation, “one outcome is, you keep doing what you’ve been doing. Hope it goes away, hope each beautiful woman that comes along never stays too long. Hope you can keep ignoring it forever, and hell, sometimes that’s what it takes.” He took a deep breath, allowing his lungs to fully empty again before pressing on. “Sometimes, though,” he raised his other hand, looked at it as if he was actually holding something suspended in the air, “it never goes away. It just becomes… different. Sometimes better, sometimes worse.”

He fixed Spock with a severe look before dropping both hands back to his desk.

“And since you can’t know, there’s no way to know- well, that’s why us humans decide to do something about it to find out.”

Spock remained perfectly still until he swallowed, throat bobbing with what looked like effort. 

“‘Something’ is vague terminology,” he pointed out, deadpan. “Clarify.”

McCoy flipped his restless hands skyward. “Well, we talk. Ask questions we don’t know the answer to.” A gradual smile broke across his lips. “Kiss each other, maybe, if the moment’s right.” 

Spock looked more uncomfortable than McCoy had ever seen him, but he couldn’t even enjoy the blotches of subtle green that bloomed over both cheeks because of the pit of worry weighing down his stomach. Damn.

“You are saying," Spock began to summarize slowly, "that my options are to continue attempting to suppress my emotions… or to inform Jim of them.” The green in his face darkened as McCoy nodded. “I admit, I do not favor either prospect.”

The doctor chuckled, but it sounded hollow. “Yeah. One of the scariest things in the world, tellin’ someone who’s important to you that…” He looked Spock up and down. “Well. That they’re important.”

The Vulcan remained silent, finally opening the pill bottle and rolling two tan colored capsules into his palm before looking up at McCoy again.

“Thank you, doctor,” he said simply, and the words held a tightness to them so poignant McCoy couldn’t think of a single thing to say as he watched Spock take his leave. 

The next time he or Jim tried walking into his office to worry about the other one, he was gonna lock them in a conference room somewhere, even if it meant crashing the whole damn ship. And he was gonna demand a drink first.

[justplainwhump]

Shoes

Felt inspired by the prompt by @worldofwhumpcraft I reblogged earlier - obviously, the part about shoes, mostly. I don't even know what this scribble is, or where in canon it would happen (rather early), but have it anyway. Just consider it a bonus scene.

[Pet Safety]

Bea gets her first shoes.

Content / Warning: BBU, BBU recovery, caretaker is new owner.

While handing Adrian the two huge packages from his hand truck, the doorman tried to look past Adrian’s shoulder into the apartment. Adrian raised an eyebrow and leaned to the doorframe instead, his broad shoulders blocking the man’s view - and maybe, probably also intimidating him the slightest bit. Adrian was big. It was only appropriate to use it sometimes. 

He signed off on the tablet the man was holding out to him.

"Anything of interest to you in my apartment?", he asked coolly, handing back the pen.

"I’m sorry, Sir, uhm, I…"

Adrian tilted his head. "Yes?"

"The… the pretty, uh, the…, she’s not actually a woman, right? I mean she is, but, like, do you still call it that, when they’re, you know…?"

"Her name’s Bea," Adrian said. "She is a woman."

"Is, she… there?"

"I got insurance for her, if that’s what you want to ask."

"No, I… I know that, it’s in the files, uh, yeah, thank you for providing it. I just… I’ve never seen one."

"A woman?" Adrian folded his arms, making sure to emphasize the muscles on his upper arms. 

The doorman actually blushed. "A…"

"I don’t think I want you to see her," Adrian said. "I think I want you to apologize for that intrusion into her - and my - privacy, and I think you’ll need to do without a tip."

"It’s…" He cleared his throat. "Sorry, Sir, I didn’t want to invade your privacy, I… I just thought they, … I didn’t know you’d be that sensitive, I… I mean, don’t you work for WRU?"

Adrian closed the door into the man’s face.

"You know, Adrian Delgado," Bea said from where she lounged on the couch and paused painting her toenails. "You are allowed show me off. I don’t mind. I…" She paused, gestured at the eyepatch. "I know I have this, but I can still offer everything I am made for. I am - we all are made to be looked at, you know?"

"Made to," Adrian scoffed. "I fucking hate that phrase. How about, conditioned or, well actually, tor-"

Bea frowned.

Fuck. He worked for them. He worked for them, he was a good employee, a loyal employee, and he really should stop letting his guard down in front of someone who’d been made to - conditioned to never lie to WRU.

"I don’t like it," he said. "It’s disrespectful."

"Because I’m yours," she said solemnly and nodded. "Nobody should get to look at me, but you."

Adrian carried the first box into the living room. "Not that, either. Because I think you should get to decide who looks at you."

"That’s stupid," she said and closed the yellow nail polish, wiggling her toes at him. "I cannot decide things."

"You did decide on a color for your nail polish."

"It’s yellow," she said.

"Your favorite color," Adrian replied.

"It’s my favorite color because of how you smile when I say that it is." She smiled at him, in a way that made his heart ache. "I don’t decide things on my own. I decide things for your sake. But…" She winked. "I am pretty good at it, right?"

Was there a right answer? Was it right to tell her she was being good? Was it wrong? Was he enhancing her conditioning, using it, breaking it? Fuck. He was supposed to know these things. 

"You are," he said. "You’re good at making me happy. I feel like you’re getting better at making yourself happy, too." He got the second box and stacked it onto the first.

She looked at the boxes with a nervous frown.

"I got you something," he said.

Her eyes widened a little bit. Not in excitement, he realized. In fear. "Thank… thank you, Sir," she said, voice dropping into a sweet lilt. "I’ll be good."

"It’s… It’s nothing bad," he hurried to say. "It’s… not for me. Nothing to hurt you. It’s-" He should just show her. He leaned over to pull a box cutter from his desk drawer. 

Bea froze, staring at the blade. Her smile became soft and pliant. "You are free to hurt me, Sir," she said. He thought he could hear her hide a sob. "Do… do you want me to scream?"

"This is for the box," Adrian said. "The box." He cut open the packaging tape and threw the cutter back into the farthest corner of the desk, as far from Bea as possible. "You hear me? I don’t want to hurt you. Ever."

"It’s what I’m for," she whispered.

"Not anymore," Adrian said with clenched teeth. 

"Then what am I for?" She looked at him, with a tint of hurt in her eyes. "Not for you to hurt. Not for you to fuck. Not to serve you, not to seduce you, not to serve the man at the door or anyone else. What do you want me for, Sir?"

"Adrian," he corrected her, more harshly than intended. "I want you to be-" Free, he thought. Free. He couldn’t say it. He couldn’t free her. Not yet. 

This was such a mess.

"Happy."

"Happy?," she asked with a frown, that smoothed away once she seemed to develop an idea. "Then let me sleep with y-"

Adrian cut her off roughly. "I want you to know you can move around. That you’re not… restricted." He reached into the cardboard box and pulled out one of the smaller boxes inside. "I got you shoes. I… I didn’t know your size, so I got a bunch of different sizes." He pulled away the paper and lifted a pair of yellow sneakers. 

She looked at him, confused, then at her feet. Then back at him. "Pets don’t need shoes."

He knew. At the facilities, most trainees walked on bare feet. At the homes of their owners, it varied. Guards had shoes, of course, standard were heavy boots, equipped to fight. Domestics usually received these ugly clogs that wouldn’t allow them to run but stand stable when they cleaned the floors. Platonics, depended on their tasks. But Romantics? Either nothing, or insanely high heels that emphasized long legs and sinuous movements.

"I think you might find them… comfortable," he said. "It’s a good brand, they’re very light-weighted, and they allow you to run, walk, dance, they’re suitable for anything."

"I can do everything you need me to without shoes." She looked at him cautiously. "Do you want me to run, Adrian Delgado?"

"No, I…" He shook his head. "No."

Bea traced thin scars on the side of her feet with a finger. "Jack wanted me to run, sometimes. A game. Let the pack chase me, then. But he-" She tilted her head and glanced at the sneaker in his hand, almost longingly. "He didn’t give me shoes."

He reached out to hand the shoe over, and she took it gently, ran her fingers over the fabric, weighed it in her hand. "I," she began. "I would like to be better at running."

"You will be," he said. "Shoes will help."

She furrowed her brows, as if trying to understand if he was teasing her, then nodded and slipped into the shoe. 

Wordlessly, Adrian knelt down in front of her, to check the size. She stayed perfectly still for him. Of course she would.

"Too big," he said and handed her another box. "Here, try these. I usually go for a run in the morning, before work, twice a week. Around the marina. You can come. Train with me."

She unpacked the other size. "Why?"

Adrian looked up at her. "Because if there ever comes a next time, when someone chases you," he said. "I want you to get away."

"What if it’s you?"

He felt her toes through the fabric, checked how firmly the shoe sat around her foot. This one fit more snugly. Good. He nodded to himself, only then realized he owed her a reply. "Always, yeah" he said eventually. "When you’re ready, Bea, run away. Don’t look back."

"You’re strange," she said.

Adrian smiled, and settled back on his heels. "You know, Bea. You’re the only one from whom this sounds like a compliment."

"You know, Adrian." She reached down to rest her hand against his cheek. Adrian’s heart threatened to skip a beat, when she met his gaze. "Yes. I think it is one."

-

--

pet safety tag list (ask to be added or removed!): @gottawhump @flowersarefreetherapy @whumplr-reader @highwaywhump @tauntedoctopuses @pigeonwhumps @whumppsychology @labgrowndemon @whumpinggrounds @somewhumpyguy @whumpzone @tragedyinblue @theelvishcowgirl @light-me-on-pyre @whumps-and-bumps

[theemporium]

A number 15 green-eyed mojito with Nico💚

thank you for requesting!🫶🏽

15. "What would I be jealous about?”

.

“You’re staring.” 

“I’m observing.”

“If looks could kill, he would be dead.”

“Tragic.” 

“Oh my god,” Jack grumbled under his breath, shooting his captain a concerned look before shaking his head. “Remind me not to piss you off.” 

Nico rolled his eyes. “You piss me off quite often, actually.”

“I—” Jack paused, his eyes narrowing as he lightly jabbed his side with his elbow. “One, that was rude. Two, you need to calm down. You’re acting like a jealous boyfriend and you aren’t even her boyfriend. You’re just the jealous part.”

Nico scoffed, but he didn’t tear his eyes away from you. 

Because, as much as it pained him to admit, Jack was right. He was acting like a jealous boyfriend and he was fully aware of that. But it wasn’t like self-awareness couldn’t exactly stop the bitter feelings bubbling in the pit of his stomach as he watched the man openly flirt with you. 

“You know,” Jack continued, something quite like amusement in his voice. “This wouldn’t be a problem if you just grew the balls to ask her out.” 

And he hated that Jack was right again. 

The crush he had been harbouring on you was obvious to everyone with a pair of working eyes. Or at least, everyone except you. Since the day you started on the team, Nico had been all lovesick smiles and longing gazes, practically throwing himself at any social media opportunity he could just so he could spend time with you. It was a little embarrassing and pathetic, all things considered. 

But the worst part was that it had been a better part of two years and Nico had made no move to confess his feelings towards you.

Which then led to moments like now, where Nico had no real reason to feel as irritated as he was over some guy from the media team flirting with you.

“Shut up,” was all he managed to mutter out.

“This is actually really sad to watch,” Jack muttered before sighing deeply. “Just know that I’m doing this because, as your friend and alternate, I’m worried about you possibly breaking your jaw before making a move.”

Nico frowned a little. “What are you—”

But before Nico could even stop whatever stupid move Jack was going to pull, he was calling out your name and waving his hands in such an exaggerated and overly dramatic manner that Nico felt his cheeks heating up. 

“I hate you,” Nico muttered under his breath as you began making your way over.

“You’re about to hate me so much more but I know you love me,” Jack whispered back before he grinned at you, the words leaving his mouth so quick that Nico almost thought he imagined it when the younger boy said, “Nico is jealous.” 

And then, the fucker was running off and leaving a gaping Nico in the dust to deal with the consequences.

You blinked in surprise before you turned to the boy. “You’re jealous?” 

“Me? Jealous? What would I be jealous about?” Nico attempted to laugh off, but it was forced and dry and it didn’t quite land the way he wanted to when he noticed your brows furrowing in concern. “Jack is just messing about, don’t listen to him.”

“Really?” You questioned, watching as Nico quickly nodded in response. “So it has nothing to do with the fact you have spent the last fifteen minutes glaring at Thomas?” 

Nico blinked, feeling the blush spread from his cheeks to the tip of his ears. “Uh—”

“For what it’s worth, I’m not interested in him,” you said.

“Oh.” He couldn’t bring himself to care how happy he sounded, how hopeful.

“I’m interested in someone else,” you continued.

“Oh.” The disappointment was clear and heavy in his voice, inklings of the previous jealousy sinking into his response.

“You might know him,” you added, trying to bite back your smile when you watched his nose scrunch up. “He’s a hockey player, has a cute accent and pretty brown eyes. Think he might even be the captain or something.” 

Blood roared in his ears and he was pretty sure his smile was going to split his cheeks, but he didn’t care. “Really?”

“Yeah, but he’s a little blind,” you teased, almost looking a little bashful despite the unwavering confidence in your voice. “I’ve been waiting for him to ask me out but he hasn’t been catching my hints.”

“He sounds a little stupid,” Nico murmured. Maybe he would’ve felt embarrassed if his heart didn’t feel like it was about to beat out of his own chest. “But I bet he’s wondering if you’re free at seven tonight.”

“Let him know it’s a date,” you said, grinning right back at him.

.

[keirawantstocry]

May i request my brain goes blank for pacbo 👀

im ngl this one kinda got away from me a bit, i had a bit of this written ages ago and then i saw this request and go inspo to finish this with your request!

-

Pac loved men. It was something that had always been true of him. He just loved them so much. Honestly who wouldn't? There was so much to admire. Tall, dark, and handsome? Absolutely, sign him up please. Scowling and brooding? Another absolutely. Giggly and full of big smiles? A big hell yes as well. He had known since he was a teenager that he didn’t quite seem to view relationships the way other people did. That was made clear ages ago when one girl had asked him who he wanted to marry most. Looking back it was clear she was trying to flirt with him but he was 13 at the time and had no idea so he was honest. Squinted at her first before really truly considering it. 

“Mike,” he had said with all the confidence a 13 year old boy could possess. Mike, who was standing right beside him at the time, nodded much to the girl’s chagrin. 

She laughed a bit. “Não, nao. Isso não é…” she trailed off. “He’s your best friend. You don’t have romantic feelings for him.” 

Pac remembers blinking slowly at her. “What does romance have to do with it?” 

“That’s why people get married. For romance.” 

That didn’t make any sense to him and honestly to this day he believed the same. “Well I will get married for friendship then.” 

Even now he wasn’t quite sure what to call himself. Labels never seemed that important to him. He would love who he would love, be that in a kissing way or not. But he soon realized that he would kiss a whole hell of a lot of people. 

The island certainly wasn’t the start of that discovery but oh did it help because there were so. Many. Hot. Guys. Almost every day was just him internally panicking while Mike laughed at him over their internal mind link. 

He honestly thought it might calm down after he got with Fit. He loved that man so much and honestly wanted to spend the rest of his life with him. But oh men were still so attractive. 

The worst now for him was Tubbo. Those eyes were entrancing. Swirls of colors lived inside his eyes. Soft hair fell over his eyes in a tangled mess every day. Pac just wanted to run his hands through it until it was soft and untangled. Until Tubbo was looking at him softly with those wide blue-green eyes. Until his gaze was drifting down and Pac could catch those soft pink lips with his own. 

He smacked himself in the head when he realized he had been staring at the man in front of him for an uncomfortably long time. “I'm sorry what?” 

Those gorgeous eyes glittered back at him. “I said where's your head man, you keep zoning out.” 

“My brain goes blank when I look at you.” 

Tubbo stared at him, those deep eyes going wide. “I'm sorry?” 

“I…” Pac felt his face start to flush. “Well. You're botino. Pretty boy.” 

The tips of his ears went pink. “Oh. Thank you, Pac.” 

Pac averted his eyes and tried not to laugh. “Yeah, yeah no problem.” 

“I didn't uh realize you thought that.” 

Pac couldn't help but gape at him. “But you're so handsome.” 

“Nahhh,” Tubbo scoffed. “I. You don't have to say shit like that to me.” 

Pac couldn't help but grab Tubbo's face in his hands. His skin was so warm agaisnt his palms. “I am not just saying it.” 

He allowed himself to really study the man in front of him again. Get lost in those ocean eyes and the adorable flush on his cheeks. The feeling of his soft skin under his rough fingertips. “How can I convince you?” he asked. 

Tubbo shrugged but Pac watched as those eyes fell to his lips and his mouth nearly split open with the grin that followed. He surged forward to kiss the boy on the lips. The lips against his were chapped but tasted oh so nice. Every movement burned as Tubbo sighed against his mouth and fell into him. His mouth was opening and it was so warm. Damn near perfect. Life could not get any better than this.

[starlitangels]

Withdrawals

I had some thoughts. I had to write them down 2.7k words

CW: discussion and dealing with drug-like withdrawals, discussion of addiction

—

Squinting against how bright the simple lamp now was in the darkness—Vincent said I’d get used to it—I tiptoed down the stairs.

Vincent was sitting in the living room, in the armchair we never really used considering we couldn’t cuddle very well on it. He was curled up—those long, slim, but toned limbs all folded in toward the center—with his eyes closed. There was a peaceful expression on his face, but I knew him. It was the forced peace of “I’m trying to meditate but don’t actually know what I’m doing.”

“Vin?” I asked quietly.

He inhaled deeply and opened his eyes. “Hey baby,” he said, voice soft. “I thought you were gonna sleep for another couple hours.”

I shrugged. “The bed got really cold without you.” I went over to him and perched on the arm of the chair. Vincent immediately wrapped his arm around my waist and tugged me down until I fell onto his lap. “What are you doing?”

“What did it look like I was doing?”

“Attempting to meditate or something.”

He smiled, his teeth sparkly in the lamplight. Then his expression fell. “I wish it was that easy,” he mumbled.

“What is it?”

He shook his head. “It’s nothing, lovely. You just barely turned a week ago. This isn’t one more thing you need to be burdened with.”

I cupped his chin in my hand. “Vincent Solaire,” I warned, keeping my voice down. “What’s wrong?”

He smiled bitterly. “You always see right through me,” he whispered.

“Baby, talk to me. Tell me what’s going on? Just because I’m going through a rough time with turning doesn’t mean you’re not allowed to struggle too. Talk to me. Please? You’re worrying me.”

He took a deep breath and released a shuddering sigh, his breath cool against my skin. “I, uh…” He closed his eyes. The tips of his ears were bright red. “I think I’m experiencing withdrawals.”

“From… from what?”

He closed his eyes and turned his face away from me. “Your blood.”

“Oh Vin…” I breathed.

“I didn’t think I was actually addicted to it but…” He growled in frustration. “I guess I was wrong.”

“Are you sure?”

He swallowed, Adam’s Apple bobbing, and nodded. “I’ve been nauseated and my muscles and fangs ache—and I woke up shaking. Just enough to be noticeable. Didn’t want to wake you so I came down here.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “And that was after barely getting any sleep to begin with this past week. I haven’t had insomnia this bad since I was human. We only need a fraction of the sleep that we used to but I haven’t been getting even that bare minimum.”

I shuffled so I could put my arms around him and draw his head to my chest. He thumped his forehead against my collarbones without hesitation. “Tell me how to help you, baby,” I whispered.

He shook his head. “You can’t. Lovely, you just turned. You need to be focusing on your own adjusting.”

“Vincent,” I warned, scratching my fingernails across his scalp and winding his curls around my fingers. “That’s not how this works. We help each other, remember? Spending eternity by each other’s sides means we support and help. Just because you’re trying to be a good Maker and help me through this change doesn’t mean you’re having an easy time of it. This is just proof of it.”

“Baby, I’ll handle this myself,” Vincent said softly.

“No, you won’t.” I suppressed a growl. “Withdrawals are a serious thing. It’s not something you can handle on your own. You need your support system. I don’t care that I just turned and I’m not having the easiest time of it. I’m going to help you and you’re going to let me.”

He took a deep breath. “Okay.”

“Come on. Let’s get you back in bed.” I reached over and turned the lamp off before climbing off Vincent’s lap and pulling him to his feet by both hands. He unfolded from the chair reluctantly but let me take him back upstairs to bed.

I tucked him into bed before climbing in on my side and gathering him to my chest. Carefully, I played with his—enviously soft—hair until I felt his breathing finally ease out and heard his heartbeat slow down dramatically. Finally falling back to sleep. “It’s gonna be okay, baby. I promise. We’ll get through it together. All of it. Like we always have,” I whispered. I kissed the top of his head.

Automatically, and without waking up, he made a kissy noise.

—

Ring-ring... Ring-ring... Ring-ri—

“Hello, my dear. To what do I owe the pleasure of this call?” William’s voice asked.

I sucked in a deep breath. “Does the Department have any resources for vampires with blood addictions?”

“Blood addictions? What do you mean?”

“Remember what Vincent told you about my blood? That it is—was—addictive because of how much magic was concentrated in it? That when he fed from me, it felt like a need. Like his body needed it?”

“I recall, yes.”

“Does the Department have resources for addictions like that?”

William was silent on the other end of the call for several long seconds.

I swallowed. Had the call disconnected? I glanced at the screen. The time elapsed on the call was still ticking upwards.

“Is he going through withdrawals?” William’s voice was so quiet that without vampire hearing I would never have heard it, but it was directed at me.

“Yes,” I replied, almost as quietly.

I heard William sigh. “In all my centuries, I never saw a latent affect vampires the way you did to him. I’m afraid my knowledge is quite limited in this matter. I’m so sorry, my dear.”

“That’s okay. The Department website’s just a nightmare to navigate so I figured I’d call and ask.”

“I wish I could be of more help. If there is anything else I can do, please do not hesitate to reach out.”

“Thanks William.”

“Will is fine. You are family now.”

I couldn’t help but grin—even if it was a little melancholy. “Thanks Will.”

“Of course.”

“Bye.”

“Goodbye.”

We hung up.

I sighed in mild frustration and set my phone down before I could crush it. The screen was already severely cracked from the Inversion and Vincent hadn’t had a chance to go get it replaced yet. And I didn’t want to end up needing an entirely new phone. Although I knew Vincent would love spoiling me if I did.

Chewing on the inside of my cheek, I paced the living room. Vincent was out for the night, checking in on some of William’s properties. Sam had offered to do it for him, considering how many times Vincent had stepped in to watch Sam’s progenies when they were newly-turned whenever he needed a break or to watch the park or had to go heal someone or—

Wait a second.

I snatched my phone up and unlocked it again, scrolling through my contacts quickly until I found who I was looking for and clicking Call.

Ring-ring... Ring-ring... Ri—

“Hello?”

“Hi Sam. It’s me.”

“What’s up? Everythin’ alright?”

I sucked in a deep breath. “You used to work as a healer, right?”

“Yep.” He said the word slowly, sounding suspicious. “Why?”

“Have you ever heard of a vampire having a blood addiction?”

There was a long silence. “Kid, you know we drink blood to survive, right? It’s not an addiction.”

I growled. “That’s not what I meant. I mean...” I sucked in a sharp breath. “Like an addiction to the magic in an empowered person’s blood. So much so that they experience withdrawals.”

Another long silence. “Why? What’s goin’ on?”

“It’s not my place to say.”

“What’s goin’ on with Vincent?” Sam rumbled.

“What makes you think anything’s going on with Vincent?”

“Because you’re his partner and you don’t sound worried for yourself. If you were, then it would be your place to say. Now what’s goin’ on?”

“It’s not my place.”

Sam swore under his breath several times. “So help me, kid. Vincent is a brother to me. Tell me what’s wrong.”

I huffed a sigh out through clenched teeth. “He drained me, remember? You were there. Remember that I was latent? Remember that my blood was potent? Full of magic that my Core was drawing in but unable to vent into an aura for years—remember that? I don’t need to go into the details about our more intimate encounters, but he fed on me plenty enough times even before I turned. He woke up shaking yesterday. And today. William doesn’t know of any resources to help him. I was hoping you might have because you worked as a healer.”

Sam swore again—but he didn’t sound angry at me this time. He sounded... scared? Maybe not quite. Worried? “If he fed on you often enough but not too often he wouldn’t even realize he was developin’ a dependency and gettin’ a fix... dammit,” he whispered. “Drainin’ you to turn you... he was exhausted from givin’ you his own blood... but if he hadn’t... he’d-a been buzzed outta his mind.” He sighed. “I’ve never heard of a blood addiction. Vampires don’t make their way into healin’ clinics often. Their own healin’ factor usually meant they didn’t need to. Let me ask some old friends-a mine. See if I can dredge up anythin’.”

“Thank you, Sam.”

“Sure. I’ll let you know when I find anythin’.” He hung up.

I took a deep breath and set my phone back down. “It’s gonna be okay. We’re gonna figure something out,” I promised myself.

—

I woke with a small jolt at the same time that Vincent did. Peering over my shoulder, I watched as he sat up in bed and curled up himself. I rolled over to face him properly and pushed myself up to sit next to him. His breathing was shaky and he was trembling.

“Hey,” I greeted softly, wrapping my arms around him. His sucked in a sharp breath through clenched teeth. “Do we wanna reach out to the Department offices to see if there’s someone you can talk to?”

“Wh-what?”

“Counseling helps withdrawals. Sam and I have been looking into resources to help you. For drugs, detoxing helps too but I doubt that’s really gonna work here.”

“I think I just have to ride it out.”

“You don’t actually think I’m going to accept that option, do you? Cold turkey? Which is probably the hardest way to go through it, even with support? What kind of partner do you think I am?”

“Lovely...” He lifted his head from where it had been resting on his knees and looked at me, his silver eyes glittering in the darkness. “Wait. Did you say Sam?”

“He used to be a healer. I asked if he knew of any resources for vampires dealing with magic-in-the-blood addiction withdrawals and he kinda put it together.”

“Of course he did.”

“Vincent, we want to help you. We love you. And, frankly, you need the support right now. You can’t just ride this out on your own. We won’t let you. Me, Sam, William—we’d all be damned if we didn’t at least try.”

“Oh God,” Vincent groaned. “Does Will know too?”

“I asked him if he knew whether the Department has resources too. The website is a nightmare.”

Vincent closed his eyes and sighed. “I appreciate that you’re trying so hard. But you need to be focusing on your own struggles—and your training to adjust to your new body and abilities.”

I clenched my jaw. “Dammit, Vin!” I snapped. “Don’t you understand that being in a relationship means that, yeah, my problems are also yours—but your problems are mine too? I know you’ve been doing everything since—since Adam—to take care of me and help me through things. But we’re both dealing with this for you. We’re not experiencing it the same way. But it’s affecting you so it’s affecting me. I love you and I’m going to help you. I don’t want to know what might happen to you if you don’t learn to manage this. Or... or find a way to move past this.”

“Baby... I know. But what you’re going through is a lot worse—”

“Don’t even finish that sentence, Solaire,” I warned. “There is no scaling to struggling here. The Inversion sucked. The turning has been hard. The bloodlust kinda sucks too. But that doesn’t diminish what you are going through, do you understand me?”

Vincent looked surprised at the tone in my voice, eyebrows lifting and mouth parting.

Instead of saying something, he surged over the bed and threw his arms around me, burying his face in my chest. I held onto him tight, scratching the back of his scalp with my nails and rocking him.

He was still shaking, but this time it was from the quiet crying. Or, if it was still from the withdrawals, the crying added to it.

“Thank you, baby,” he whispered.

I kissed the top of his head. His glossy black curls were so soft. “That’s what we do for each other, Vincent. You’ve taken care of me for so long now. And you’re gonna have to keep doing it through this bloodlust. The least I can do is find ways to help you through your own struggle.”

“It’s really not the least. It’s a lot.”

“Not for me. Not if it’s you.” I twirled one of his curls around my finger and closed my eyes, inhaling the scent of him. It was so much more prominent and distinct now that I was a vampire.

He let out a shuddering sigh. “I love you.”

“I love you too, Vincent. So much.”

We stayed like that on our bed until the sun went down—and my phone started ringing. I let him go just barely long enough to twist and snatch it off the bedside table before holding onto him.

“Hey Sam, what’s up?” I asked.

“My partner knew about some resources the Department has that might help. Should I send the links to you, Vincent, or both?”

“Both.”

“Alright. Gimme a sec.” There was a pause. Then a chuckle. “Yes, darlin’, I know how to send links via text while still on a call. I’m not actually a fossil,” he said to someone the microphone on his phone hadn’t picked up.

Vincent smiled against my chest and snickered.

Sam’s voice got closer to his microphone. “A’right. I sent those over. Should show up any second,” he continued.

At that moment, my phone buzzed in my hand, and Vincent’s went off—full sound—on his bedside. He reached out and grabbed it while I put Sam on speaker and looked at the text that came through.

A series of links to the Department’s website, and several others.

“Thank you, Sam,” I said. “Thank you so much.”

“Thank my partner,” Sam said. “They’re the one that knew.”

“Thank you, Sam’s partner,” I replied louder into my phone so they could hear it.

“No problem,” a voice farther from the mic remarked. “I hope it helps. Vincent means a lot to Sam.”

Vincent’s arms tightened around me. He was smiling softly. Almost melancholy.

“We appreciate it. Thank you both.”

“Uh-huh. You have a good night, now,” Sam said.

“You too.”

“Bye.” He hung up.

I set my phone down and ran my fingers through Vincent’s curls. “Hey. We’re gonna get you help. We’re gonna get through this—all of this—together. Like we always do. Okay?”

He lifted his head from my chest to smile at me. “Together,” he promised.

I leaned down and gave him a kiss. He accepted and reciprocated enthusiastically.

When I pulled away, head spinning a little, I clicked on the first link Sam had sent us. The one for the Department’s website. There was a number for vampires to call after the usual closing times that would put them in touch with vampire Department employees.

My thumb hovered over the hyperlink of the number. If I tapped it, it would ask if I wanted to call the number.

I smiled down at Vincent. “Ready?”

He nodded. “Please.”

I twisted one of his curls around my finger and thumb of my free hand. “Let’s get you some help,” I whispered.

I tapped the link.

—

Tag list: @thegoldenlittlerose @zozo-01 @gingerbreadmonsters (you seemed very interested on the WIP Wednesday so I hope you don’t mind)

[thebluestbluewords]

Rhyming is hard

This is about 90% an excuse for me to write Banter, 9% jokes about murder, 1% plot. I wrote the dialogue for this over a year ago, and scavenged it from my drafts to clean up yesterday.

++

“Mirror, feel my evil presence,” Evie chants, clutching the mirror in one hand like it’s a call phone. “Show me the location of our parents.” 

“That’s seriously the rhyme you’re going with?” Mal asks, leaning over the table to stare at the mirror as Evie sets in down in the middle of their huddle. 

Evie frowns. “What do you think rhymes with parents?” 

Mal’s nose scrunches up as she thinks. “Errants? Aberrants?“ she offers. “Um, clearance?” 

“Insurance,” Jay adds. “Which won’t help against theft here, cause apparently they’re all too good for that. Don’t buy a phone from the guy in town unless you’re okay with getting it stolen, by the way.” 

“Don’t tell me that.” Ben says firmly, leaning over Evie’s head to see the mirror as well. The black smoke curls angrily, like the magic contained in the mirror is trying to escape the glass and smash their faces in for daring to use it for frivolous things like checking up on their parents, and then begins to clear. 

“Incoherence?” Carlos offers, drumming the very tips of his fingers on the table. “I think your rhyme was good though, Evie. I’m just offering suggestions for next time.” 

“Shut up, it’s working.” Mal gasps, pushing him out of the way as the smoke inside the mirror swirls into the beginnings of a clear picture. 

The background resolves itself first, into a deep grey wall made of rough stone. The figure standing in front of it is small in stature, which is made all the more obvious by the gigantic crow sitting on her shoulder. 

“My mother,” Mal says, sounding almost disappointed. “As alive and evil as ever.” 

“Didn’t need a mirror for that one, babe.” Evie says fondly. “Pretty sure we all remember what she looks like, considering that she’s been the bane of our existence for the last sixteen years.” 

Mal, on the pretense of leaning closer to the mirror, puts her hand over Evie’s on the table, interlacing their fingers. “Maybe Ben wanted to know, and also shut up. It’s changing.” 

The mirror is changing, but not to a nicer sight. The background darkens, and the view of Maleficent monologuing to Diablo fades out. The background turns a nasty, muddy shade of grey-brown, and the figure visible in the mirror doesn’t look much nicer. He’s filthy, for one thing, and he’s wearing a collection of leather scraps that would be better suited to a scarecrow than a living person. 

He’s also swinging a shovel at the wall with what looks like increasing violence, and his hair is on fire. 

“Dear old dad,” Mal drawls. “Great to see him expanding the cave for once.” 

“Is that Hades?” Ben asks, in a tone that could generously be described as ‘strangled’. 

Mal laughs. “Yeah. My mom wanted a powerful kid. She didn’t pick him cause he’s a great father, she picked him ‘cause he’s one of the most powerful entities on the isle. And I guess ‘cause he was DTF, or whatever. Chernabog isn’t much for procreation.” 

“Wow.” 

“I can’t raise the dead or anything,” Mal explains, eyes still locked on the mirror. “Not even a fly. I just get some sick highlights in my hair when I use his fire, and some cool shit happened with a ouija board once.” 

“That’s, uh, cool!” Ben manages, before the mirror swirls again, and a new face comes into view. 

“The Evil Queen,” Carlos says, reaching out to touch the side of the mirror. “Do you think the mirror’s showing her in better light because it’s magic and it likes her better, or does her castle just have better lighting?” 

“Mother’s castle has flattering light,” Evie says, but it’s her turn to stare at the mirror, eyes blank and lips slightly, beautifully parted. “She keeps it that way on purpose. For visitors.”

“Not that you got many.” 

Mal’s hand is warm and firm over Evie’s own. Her exile should be an old wound by now, but even old injuries, even ones that can be treated softly now, still ache sometimes. 

In the surface of the mirror, the Evil Queen is stabbing a needle, over and over, into the soft flesh on the inside of her legs. Behind her, there’s an intimidatingly large stone cauldron resting on a low fire. 

“Is she—“ 

“She’s fine,” Evie says quickly. She’s still staring at the mirror, but she’s looking through it now, like she can’t bear to see her mother through the magic. “That’s what she does, most days. She’s just waiting while the cauldron heats up.” 

“Pretty fucked up.” 

“It’s not anything magical,” Evie says, but her voice is soft and she’s still focused on the mirror. “It’s acupuncture. She’s doing it for weight loss. And the cauldron isn’t magical either, it’s just some makeup compounds that don’t come over on the barges.” 

Jay whistles, low and long. “That’s a pretty big cauldron for some makeup, princess.”

Evie startles out of her stare. “Oh, we sold it. She’s not boiling children’s skulls or anything like that. It’s a foundation base. She boils down some of the plants that come over and then adds pigments for each customer. It’s a pretty good business practice, and if we didn’t like somebody it was really easy to sneak something a little bit nastier than just pigment into their bottle.” 

“Oh.” Ben says. He’s leaning over Evie’s shoulder to see the mirror, and he doesn’t pull back, but his shoulders tense at the mention of Evie’s mother slipping something untoward into a bottle. He’s got sort of a thing about poisons and edible spells, which is understandable. “I see.” 

“Evil, babe,” Evie reminds him, tipping her chin up to look him in the face. “We didn’t exactly have a lot of other options.” 

Unseen by Evie, the mirror swirls again. This time, it reforms to show a crumpled skeleton, surrounded by pieces of rusty metal. 

“Uh, who’s that?” Ben asks after a moment, staring over Evie’s shoulder again. He looks a bit like someone watching a car wreck happening, but in a casual way. Like watching a car wreck on TV, maybe. 

Evie glances back down at the mirror, and then recoils visibly at the pile of bones. “Oh, ew. I guess I didn’t word the request very well. That’s my father’s corpse.” 

“Is that a dungeon?” 

“It’s my mother’s dungeon, yes.” Evie explains. “She had my father killed down there shortly after I was born.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

Evie shrugs. “Thanks, I guess. She had him killed when I was a baby, so it’s not like I ever got to know him.” 

Mal drops her head onto Evie’s shoulder. “Not like he was a big loss.” 

“Come on, M,” Evie says fondly, tipping her head so that it rests on top of Mal’s, just for a moment. “Just because you don’t like your father doesn’t mean we all have to hate ours.” 

“You never knew yours!” Mal points out. “And he was a man, E. We all know what men on the island are like.” 

“I could have liked him.” Evie insists. “He might have been better that your dad. Not everyone is a bad parent.” 

“Right, just everyone on the isle, then.” 

“I know my dad,” Jay adds, leaning over to insert himself into the girl’s space. “Not to sway our data here, but I agree with Mal. There’s way more bad parents on the island than good ones, and my dad’s shit. Mal’s dad is shit. Evie’s dad is dead, so he’s not doing great either—“ 

“It’s changing again!” Carlos points out, smacking the table next to where Evie’s set the mirror down in order to argue better. 

Five heads snap back to attention as the mirror swirls, and reforms into quite a different view. The background this time is bright grey, the color of the sky on a rainy spring day, the sort of day where the sun is trying and failing valiantly at breaking through the cloud cover. There’s a shop in the foreground, with a garish pink and green sign declaring it to be ‘the goblin mud spa’, and a bright copper car parked out front. There’s a woman in the front seat of the car, holding the steering wheel with one hand, and balancing a dirty glass in the fingertips of the other. 

Carlos makes a soft, sad sort of noise. “…oh.” 

On the surface of the mirror, his mother throws back the remainder of her drink. 

“Is that normal?” Ben asks, leaning in to get a better look. “Drinking and driving isn’t exactly legal.” 

Carlos’s hands aren’t visible, but there’s a sense of nervous, fidgety energy from him anyway. “…Yeah. She does that a lot. Goes away, drinks a lot, comes back stupid.” 

“Magic mirror, move on,” Evie whispers, after they all stare for a long moment at the unmoving view of Cruella and her beloved car. 

“Why isn’t it changing?” Mal asks. “It didn’t show my mom for this long.” 

“You don’t wanna know,” Carlos mumbles, around the fingertip he’s got in his mouth. There’s a drop of blood smeared on the corner of his mouth, and it’s not entirely clear if his hand was bleeding before or after he started chewing on it. “Trust me.” 

Mal frowns. “I totally do. Telling me I don’t want to know something is basically like slapping a neon sign on it telling me to keep digging until I find out. How do you not know know this already?” 

Carlos sighs, and reaches out with his other hand to hover his index finger just over the surface of the mirror, above where his mother is pulling the strap of her soft leather purse over her shoulder. “That’s my dad. Human remains count, and that leather she used for her purse is the biggest piece of him left.” 

Mal tries to recoil away from the mirror. but they’re so tightly packed around the table that she really just ends up shoving herself harder into Evie’s side. “Oh, gross. That can’t be hygienic.” 

Carlos stares at her. “It’s leather. Humans aren’t any different than cows inside. Is wearing cow leather gross?” 

Mal’s pale cheeks are somehow even paler than usual. “Yes,” she snaps. “It’s different.” 

“It’s fine, you just have to process it properly,” Carlos says, leaning ever so slightly closer to her. “And besides, it’s not like there were any concerns about fluid bonding when she scraped the flesh off his skin. They’d already been there, done that, had a kid to prove it.” 

“Gross,” Mal groans, burying her face in Evie’s shoulder. Conveniently, Evie’s wearing her coat with the mini caplet attached today, and Mal pulls the extra leather over her head. “You ever heard of a thing called TMI?” 

Carlos smiles, but it’s not a very nice expression. More like an animal showing their teeth. “Evil, remember?” 

“That’s horrible.” Ben says firmly. “I don’t mind knowing, but it’s still awful, and I’m glad you’re not there anymore.” 

“Yeah, well,” Carlos mumbles, sitting back now that his point’s been made. “It’s changing again.” 

The mirror clouds over with dark swirls, and clears to an image of Jafar, standing behind the counter of a shop while a woman in an emerald green dress examines a handful of jewelry that’s spread over the counter between them. 

Jay waves a hand at the mirror, middle finger firmly up. 

Ben laughs. “I take it there’s no lost love there?” 

Jay grins. He’s still flipping off the image of Jafar in the mirror, even as the picture shows him carefully slipping one of the rings onto the woman’s finger, mouth moving like he’s flattering her the whole time. “Nah. Not really. He’s charming and all, but not a great parent, you know?” 

Ben’s nodding before the words are even finished. “Yeah, that’s fair,” he agrees. “My dad isn’t exactly warm and fuzzy either.” Mal’s mother might be charming when she wants to be, and Evie’s mother is beautiful and dangerous and enticing, but Ben’s father has made a career out of walking the line between being loved and being feared, and neither of those things has made him the kind, attentive parent that Ben needed. Even more than the others, he can understand the pressure of having a career politician for a parent. “I wish you’d been able to get away sooner.” 

“Me too,” Mal agrees, reaching across Evie to tap her fingers on one of the scars that runs, white and twisted and bold, across Jay’s wrist. “Your dad’s a dick.” 

The mirror swirls again; the picture resolves into a patch of ocean. Very deep, dark, empty ocean. 

“Is that the ocean?” Evie asks, staring. “I didn’t think any of our parents were the sort to get murdered by pirates.” 

Jay makes a funny sort of choking noise. “That’s my mom,” he says, eyes locked on the mirror. Under the glass, the ocean undulates with the great swells of very deep, open water. “She drowned herself.” 

“I thought the spell prevented that?” Ben asks curiously. “The spell was supposed to prevent anyone from dying under the barrier.” 

Jay snaps his head up to look at Ben, and if his eyes are a little red, well, nobody else is close enough to notice.  

“The spell doesn’t work all the time,” he explains, voice low and even. “You can get around it if you destroy the body. Scatter the remains, or burn them beyond what the spell can handle, or let the sharks deal with you. People who really want that way out usually go with the sharks.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

Jay lifts a shoulder. “It is what it is. Can’t blame her for taking the only way out.” 

“Still.” 

Evie’s gasp breaks whatever sympathetic moment might have happened, and her hand shoots out quicker than a snake to grab the mirror as it starts to shift again. 

“Oh? Magic mirror, what—“ 

The picture solidifies before she can finish the command. A beige room, with a man sitting at a desk comes into view. 

“Why—“ Mal starts, but Ben is faster, and he leans down over Evie’s shoulder to tip the mirror up for a better view. 

“That’s my dad?” Ben says, sounding thoroughly confused by the discovery. “He’s not— he’s just sitting in his office. He’s not on the isle of the lost or anything like that.” 

Evie tips the mirror back down towards herself. “Ah, I guess I didn’t specify well enough when I said whose parents we wanted to see. My bad, Ben. You got caught up in the spell too.” 

“Are we going to see your mom next?”Mal demands, shoving her head further into Evie’s space to get a clear view of the mirror, which really isn’t large enough to be seen by five people at once, especially not when two of them are sitting on the same chair. “What does she do all day?” 

“I….don’t know,” Ben says slowly. “I guess we’ll see. I think she hangs out in the library, mostly. With grandpa, if she doesn’t have state duties to do with my dad.” 

The mirror swirls, and the surface turns brilliant, spring green. 

“It looks like she’s outside?” 

Sure enough, Queen Belle is standing outside, in the center of a ring of trees. There’s a book in her hand, and as she reads, she rocks back and forth slightly, her mouth moving around the shape of words that the mirror can’t play for them. Or possibly won’t. Evie’s been working on control of her powers, but when the spell is board enough to sweep a whole extra person in their attempt to see what their parents are up to, it’s possible that asking the mirror to help them ‘see’ their parents was a bit too literal. Or maybe the mirror can only do auditory assistance when it’s coming from the whole mirror, and not just the broken shard Evie keeps in her palm-sized frame. Maybe some of the magic was lost when her mother ground the shard to size, or maybe the magic is weaker than it should be, and there’s something deeply wrong with the state of magic in Auradon. 

Or maybe they’re just not very good at directing spells yet. 

Ben slaps his hand on the table. “Oh, that’s the glade above the lake!” he exclaims. “It’s enchanted. No wonder the mirror showed her too.” 

Mal frowns. “You have an enchanted glade?”

Ben beams at her. “Yeah! It’s up the trail from the enchanted lake a bit. Kind of by the cliffs up there. It’s really pretty in the fall, when the leaves are all changing. I guess she’s been riding out there sometimes. It’s one of the most magical places in the kingdom.” 

“She looks pretty happy,” Evie says thoughtfully. “D’you think that’s why the magic included her?” 

“Yeah, guess so.” Ben says, shrugging. “I don’t really understand magic, but I know the glade is supposed to be one of the most magically powerful sites in the kingdom. It’s a nice place to read, I guess?” 

“Ben.” Mal says sharply, as the image of Queen Belle turns, book still in hand. “Why is your mother reading a spell book?”