#if you squint dust is here he just has actually BECOME dust

[trashpuppyy]

cat edit‼

[fishsticksloser]

If it's alright - And if it's not then i understand if you're going to delete this - to request about Rise! Future! Leonardo x Rabbit yokai!fem!Reader? (NSFW S3x), where Leonardo and reader get into roleplaying as cowboy Shierff and an outlaw female criminal. Leonardo is the dominating one while reader is the submit side.

And yes it would involve things like; ropes tying, rough S3x, Leonardo getting to cowboy accent (?)

/ 🐔 Anon reader /

If You Can't Be Good, Be Bad With Me

f!Leo x fem!reader

Warnings: Smut with a tiny plot, p in v, rough sex, light bondage (handcuffs), ear and tail pulling, spanking, slight Sir kink, Leo has a country accent, Leo calls you a good/bad girl (sue me...), rabbit yo'kai!reader, FAKE guns, swearing, enemies to lovers if you squint really really hard

A/N: I've spent like 2 months writing this because I was just sitting there looking at it and going "wtf do I do?" But here you are, so sorry for the wait. I actually threw out the first draft because I hated it so much... This is a little different than the prompt and I apologize, my brain couldn't do it. :/

"My, my, my... What have we here?" Leonardo's voice was deep, soothing, and with a faint drawl that spoke of Texas. His words were slow and measured, just before he'd bring the hammer down with that thunderous attention. Leo squinted at you, narrowing his gaze before slowly walking towards you. "You look like you're on the wrong side of the law there, doll." Leo stops in front of you, hands on his hips just above his holsters. "What're you doin' on this here land, Miss?"

"Doin' what I can to survive, sheriff." You answer, continuing to stuff your pockets and bag with whatever was in reach. You seemed completely unbothered that the sheriff was standing over and watching you. "Is that a crime?"

"Well yes, it is." Leo responds cooly, his stance loose and relaxed despite you obviously committing a crime. His hands hover over his holsters, his tone becomes more intimidating. "The punishment for those crimes tends to be less uh... agreeable. And yet... I could be lenient with you." Leo's face softens as he looks down at the small, humanoid rabbit. He kneels down to get a better look. "And what exactly is in your pockets, little one? Come now, let's have a look."

You open your bag and empty your pockets. Its not like you were stealing much of anything really. Some bread and not so valuable things like knick knacks and trinkets. Nothing that's really worth anything.

"No guns?" He mutters, eyeing you up and down with a sly, teasing smirk. "That makes things so much sweeter." Leo's eyes twinkle in the sunlight as he stand up. His gaze seems to study every little crevice in your face, taking note of your expressions, trying to figure out everything about you. "You're not from these parts, are ya, darlin'? What's your pretty face doin' so far down south?"

"Got kicked outta town for not marryin' my suitor. Left with nothin'." You repond, repacking your bag and pockets. "Train only took me this far..."

"Not bein' married? Why, now that's a crime against the holy union of man and woman, darlin', 'specially out here." Leo shakes his head placing a hand on his face, feigning disgust. His other hand still rests on his holster. "Can't just leave you out here in this hot dust storm." Leo's eyes flicker up to your face and he grins widely.

"I've got nowhere to go." You say, pleading. "Please just let me go, I'll... I'll go find a place to settle down and be law abiding."

"Well, I'm afraid I can't let that happen, darlin'," Leo responds, his tone slowly becoming slightly more forceful. "The folks 'round these parts say you've done some unsavory and illegal things. I can't just let a law-breaker roam free like that." Leo seems to enjoy your pleas, leaning in more. He leans his body close to yours, whispering close to your ear. "Unless you want to do something for me..."

"And what would that be, sir?" You ask quietly, a shiver running down your spine as his breath fans over your ear. Leo grins as he leans in, his lips inches from your ear.

"You could do all sorts of things for me. It's such a shame for a pretty little thing like you to be caught for crimes you definitely didn't do. But, I'm feeling generous today, and, as the local lawman, I can definitely overlook your sins, darlin'." The corner of his lips curl into a smug grin. "All for a few private favors from you."

"You catch my drift?" He asks, his voice talking on a more predatory tone as his fingers graze down your waist and back. His hot breath caresses down the back of your neck, his eyes burning into your form before glancing back at your own. "Such a delicate, pretty thing..."

"Yes, sir. I understand." You mutter, your ears standing tall and twitching slightly.

"Good girl." He whispers as he leans in close. "And you know if you do well, maybe I could be generous and let you off of that punishment." Leo's voice comes out low and smooth, almost sultry as he leans back just enough to let his fingers stroke along the side of your face. "All you have to do is play nice, understand?"

"Yes, sir." You nod firmly, his eyes seem to study you once more. His fingers slide down and grasp your chin, gently tilting your face upwards as his other hand reaches for your waist.

"Good girl." He says, his eyes burn like hot coals as he bring your face inches from his. "And you know, when I get back to town, I have to write a report. And if I see my girl following through with our little arrangement, I'll make sure they know what a good girl you've been. If you're a good girl. Got it, darlin'?"

Who knew you'd end up here?

"Yes, sir."

"Mm... That's a good girl." Leo whisper as he closes the last few inches between you and him, pushing his lips against yours in a quick but firm kiss. He pulls back slowly before speaking. "You don't mind if I let these hands wander now, do you, darlin'?"

"No, sir." You mumble as he kisses you again, eyes fluttering closed and your hands move to cup the back of his head. Leo grins as he continues to kiss you, his body slightly tilting to get a better grip on you. HIs right hand wraps around your waist and pulls you closer as his left searches through his pocket for something. He fumbles around for a bit more before pulling out a pair of handcuffs.

"Oh, and I almost forgot. Can't be letting my pretty, lawbreaker darlin' roam free... 'specially after getting caught." He chuckles and beings to fasten your arms behind your back with the cuffs. You don't protest, letting him fit the cuffs on your wrist comfortably. "Good girl. Now, I have just the punishment in mind." He says with a smirk, wrapping an arm around your waist to pull you closer. His other hand grips your chin as he kisses your neck softly. "Maybe I could show you what being a good girl for me would get you, darlin'. If you play your cards just right, I might be feeling generous with another reward."

You let out a small whine, basically having no other option and really not in the mood to say no. You give him a small nod and tilt your head to the side to give him better access. His lips meet your neck again, travelling upwards to finally find those sweet, soft lips of yours.

"That's an obedient girl... You know, you're lucky I like good girls. I mean, you could be in big trouble if you had been a bad girl." He whispers, his hands massaging your hips, slowly sliding them upwards. Leo decides that his lips are not the only way of satisfying the desires, sliding his hand under your dress, his fingers running over that soft, silky skin. His eyes are burning with hunger, the heat of the desert finally getting to him. The heat of his breath blowing across your body, breath mingling, your lips coming together in a hungry kiss.

꒦꒷⚔️꒷꒦

Everything's a blur, but you find yourself in the sheriff's station. Leonardo laughs a little at all that nonsense before pulling your head up enough for another kiss. He holds you by the ears, he smacks his hand harder on your ass with your tail twitching with every hit. Your dress bunched up around your waist as you bend over his desk, your legs spread wide apart, offering yourself to him completely.

The desk creaks under both of you, his lips on your neck as he rocks into you, your bodies meeting with a wet slapping sound. You're open for him. Each thrust sends waves of pleasure through you, your mouth left hanging open, moans echoing throughout the room.

"Oh yeah, take that, darlin'!" He whispers, his voice thick with a low purr as he grabs on to your hips. "You're my good girl." He moves down to your ear, his lips nuzzling against it.

You moan, standing in your toes so he hits a better angle. You moan loudly as he hits that soft spot inside you. Your legs shake and you ball my fists in the part of your dress you could reach, you arms still cuffed. You feel his hand connect with your ass with a loud smack and you squeak, jolting at the sting. "Good girl," he breathes, his voice low and husky as he rocks into you harder, going a little faster. He bites on the side of your neck before whispering to you ear. "Such a good girl, darlin'.. you'll get it good.." He lets off a low hum to match the pace of his thrusts.

He brings his free hand down to your tail before giving it a light tug, laughing as you squirm and whine. "Aww, such a good, sweet thing," he sighs, his tone low and husky before biting on your neck again. "I love the way you take it so well, darlin'.. you're so good for me, such a sweet darlin'," he whispers to you, pulling you closer so he can kiss the side of your face.

He spanks you hard one final time before moving his hands over to tug on your ears, holding them tightly in his fists as he goes even harder and faster, his hips bucking aggressively to meet your thighs. "Such a good girl!" He whispers, his voice turning low and throaty as his eyes bore into yours. "Take it all, darlin'.. such a good girl!"

"C-Close, sir!" You whimper, tears falling down your cheeks. He tilts your head up to look at him, but makes sure to keep your body against the desk for him. It puts you into an uncomfortable arch.

Leonardo moans loudly, his expression turning more feral with every thrust as he rocks into you. His hips moving as forcefully as he could, he pushes harder and harder like he was trying to drive you through the desk, his free hand still holding onto your ears. Finally, his climax is about to peak and he lets out an, "Ahhhh… such a good girl, darlin'.."

At your releases, Leo lets out a groan and lets his thrusts die down a bit, pressing against your back with his chest as he slowly rocks into you. His face is buried deep into your neck, "Shhh... be a good girl.. be my good girl for me," he whispers to you, his voice low and husky. His free hand is playing with your tail, rubbing it up and down before giving it another tug for good measure and he slowly pulls out. "Such a good girl..." He murmurs, letting go of your ears and giving you a light tap on your ass.

[inoreuct]

Since it’s spooky season, may I request a demon Sanji offering Zoro some food?

i was supposed to post this for friday the 13th, but it got way more dramatic than i planned… thank you for the ask!

Y’know, when Sanji became a demon, he hadn’t expected to have to deal with moss infestations. 

He is aware that that sounds rather ridiculous and makes little to no sense. The long and short of it is, he got himself cursed. Dumb, yes, he’s aware of that too, but how was he supposed to have known that the rare herb garden he’d stepped into was guarded by a territorial (and rather unhinged, in his humble opinion) occultist?

But as far as curses go, this one really isn’t so bad. Sanji had just sort of… accepted it, after a while, and it certainly hadn’t hurt that the whole becoming a demon gig came with its own massive underworld castle filled with invisible servants. He shudders, peering into a mirror and brushing an invisible speck of dust from his horns. He could have been turned into a goat, or something. How the hell would he cook if he was a goat?

Back to the topic at hand, he has a visitor. A human, of all things! Wandering about the underworld! Sanji’s scrying bowl had offered him a view of short green hair and three swords hanging from a belt, and honestly? He doesn’t know what to make of it, and now the man is hovering in his entryway, poking at a 6th century vase that Sanji is fairly sure holds some Roman emperor’s dead body. He checks his reflection one last time, sucking at his teeth before he phases into shadow, hovering just outside the edges of the foyer. The flames of the candelabra flicker in an invisible wind and the man whip his head around, looking for a threat that isn’t there— 

And Sanji coalesces right behind him. “Hello, little huma— Ack!” A sword swings for his neck in the space of a breath and he leans back on instinct, not putting much effort into it—

The tip nicks his throat and draws blood.

Sanji’s eyes go wide. Oh, this just got interesting.

Regular blades can’t hurt him. Can’t even touch him; they pass right through his form like he’s made of liquid shadow, but he feels this cut. The faint sting, the hot trickle over his tendons, the smell of his own blood thick in the air. He hadn’t even heard the sword unsheathe.

The man is backing away, eyes wild; Sanji huffs a laugh and melts into the shadow again, reappearing just in time for the man to bump into him with a loud swear. Sanji needs to stop calling him The Man. “What’s your name?”

The Man scowls as he holds his sword ready, and it pulls at the vertical scar over his left eye. “Like hell I’ll tell you. I’m not gonna let you use me for whatever— witchy shit you wanna do.”

Sanji raises an unimpressed brow. “First of all, I’m a demon, not a witch. And second, it doesn’t work like that. You need my name for spells and such.” 

“Which is?”

“Now why would I tell you?” He grins, sharp and sweet like the song of a blade through the air. “You’ll know mine when I know yours, Marimo.”

“Marimo?” his visitor scoffs, and Sanji shrugs with a genial smile even as Marimo bristles. Better than The Man. 

He turns around, gliding through the foyer more for the sake of having something to do than actually trying to go anywhere, and of course Marimo follows. “Don’t you have anywhere else to be?” he sighs, side-eyeing the man as he squints warily at a bust of some sort of cat with seven eyes. 

“Nope.”

“What’s the deal, then? A human all the way down here? Hell isn’t exactly the most popular vacation spot, y’know.” Sanji pauses and gives a pointed look to the weapon that had drawn his blood. “And that is not a normal sword.” 

Marimo’s eyebrows twitch, the only sign Sanji gets that he’s surprised. “Cursed blade,” the man grumbles, rubbing a thumb over the hilt. “And I’m looking for someone.”

“…In Hell.” Sanji’s skeptical.

“My best friend got himself kicked through a portal, alright?” Marimo protests, lip curling in irritation. 

“Ha! Good luck with that,” Sanji huffs, walking again. “Nobody new’s been down here except—” Wait. He spins on his heel, and Marimo narrows his eyes suspiciously. “Dark hair, chatty as anything, about… yea high?” he asks, lifting his hand as an estimate, and he lurches back when Marimo leans all up in his face with his eyes like sharp granite.

“You know something.”

“One of my… acquaintances said something about it, yes.” Mihawk had mentioned a guy suddenly popping up. Monkey something-or-other. Loofah? He opens his mouth to speak right as he hears an odd growl, and Marimo pulls back with the tips of his ears turning red. A huff of a laugh slips out without Sanji’s permission. “Alright, come on,” he decides, creating a shadow door and waiting for the other man to follow. “Can’t find your friend on an empty stomach.” 

They walk straight into the kitchen, and Sanji gets to work whipping up a plate of omurice. He was a chef before, and he still is one; he’ll feed anyone who’s hungry. He might not be human or alive (or is he? He still isn’t sure) anymore but he refuses to let go of the values that he’d lived and breathed by, no matter how… questionable his unexpected guest may be.

He is done in a matter of minutes. “Eat.” The plate scrapes as he slides it across the countertop with cutlery, but Marimo just glares. “What? Don’t like eggs?”

“Isn’t there some rule about getting trapped here if you eat?” 

Sanji resists the urge to roll his eyes, because Hell’s bells, this man is stubborn. “Look, that’s all bullshit, alright? Eat, or I’ll make you. This is the only place around for leagues that has food you could possibly digest. Or would you rather go hunt for elephant scorpions?”

The man recoils. “The fuck are those?”

“You don’t wanna know.” He nudges the fork and spoon closer, crossing his arms with an expectant eyebrow.

Marimo raises one right back, but he hesitantly picks up the cutlery and digs in. “…So you eat human food,” he mutters after a while, and Sanji looks up from where he’s washing the dishes.

“Yes? Why wouldn’t I?”

“Dunno,” the other man muses, taking another bite. The dim light of the wall sconces makes his three golden earrings gleam, highlighting the gnarly scar across his chest. “What with the whole demon thing.”

“Not all of us have a taste for mortal flesh,” Sanji sniffs, examining his cuticles coolly before getting back to scrubbing. 

He’s feeling a little strange. Maybe it’s the human interaction after so long of being down here with just his invisible friends and other demons for company, but it’s making something hurt right behind his ribs, where his heart beats more slowly than it has any right to. He’d missed this. Cooking for someone else. Banter. Companionship. 

He takes a shaky breath and plunges his hands into the water, grabbing a frying pan and scouring it viciously. No use reminiscing and chasing pipe dreams. 

“Oi.”

Marimo’s voice catches his attention, and he rinses the sponge. “Hm?”

“How’s the—?” The man gestures vaguely to his neck, and Sanji’s fingers fly up to his throat to feel for the cut.

“Oh, that.” It’s already mostly healed, and he tilts his jaw to the side to show it. “S’fine. See?”

Marimo grunts, turning back to the last bites of his food. “Sorry.”

Sanji stills, something wild flaring hot in his ribcage before he mentally wrangles it into submission. He wouldn’t have expected an apology from anyone— much less this man. “It’s no big deal.”

“Still,” Marimo says gruffly, sliding the plate back over, the ceramic scraped clean. “And thanks.” He blinks for a second before nodding to the empty plate, as if it isn’t clear enough. “For the food.”

What the fuck. Sanji takes it, feeling like he’s in a bit of a daze. Marimo had seemed like a bit of a brute at first, with his scars and his close-cropped hair and his physique and the stupid shirt that was open halfway down his damn chest (Sanji, don’t look, it doesn’t matter how many muscles he has), not to mention the three swords. He’s bullheaded but obviously skilled, and— who the Hell is this guy? 

“Who sent you,” Sanji breathes as he sets the plate down, something sinking in the pit of his gut. He readies one hand behind his back. There has to be a catch.

Marimo frowns. “Nobody sent me, I told you I’m looking for my—”

He lunges. His claws are around the man’s neck in less than a second, digging up into the soft part of his throat. Marimo’s Adam’s apple bobs against the pad of his thumb. “Who sent you,” he hisses again, and it comes out less steady than he likes.

Sanji doesn’t know why he’s affected. It shouldn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. He has not fallen so far that the thought of this small bit of— of courtesy, of company, being a farce should feel like such a betrayal. 

So why does it?

He tightens his grip, gaze boring into eyes that have gone granite-dark in the low light, and yet Marimo does not pull away. The man tips his chin up, allows the point of Sanji’s claw to dig just beneath his trachea. “Nobody sent me,” he repeats evenly, chest rising and falling with his breaths, and Sanji holds back a snarl. He has been alone for too long for some human to come waltzing in and fucking up his life with— whatever this is, only for him to get butthurt because it wasn’t real. It’s not even that big of a deal and he feels fucking ridiculous. 

“If you’re lying—”

“I’m not.” 

And it seems like he really isn’t. Marimo’s pulse is rock steady, his gaze unflinchingly neutral, tracking Sanji across the room even as the demon slowly pulls away. 

“I’m sorry,” Sanji mutters, leaning back against the sink and pressing a hand over his eyes with a tired exhale. “I apologise, I— I lost myself.” 

“S’okay,” Marimo says cautiously. His swords clatter against each other as he stands and pushes the stool in with his knee. “I should… get going.”

“Yeah.” Taking a deep breath, Sanji shakes his head a little and smoothes his hands over the front of his blouse. He snaps his fingers, and a shadow door materialises in front of the other man. “This will take you to the acquaintance I was talking about, Mihawk. He’s your best bet at finding— What’s his name?”

“Luffy.”

“Luffy. Right.” 

Marimo hesitates, and Sanji feels like something’s gotten caught in his throat. 

“It gets lonely here, doesn’t it?” the other man asks abruptly, turning to face Sanji properly.

He swallows. “…Sometimes,” he concedes, keeping his tone light. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

Marimo gives an aborted jerk of his head, like he hadn’t been able to decide whether to nod or not. “Luffy’s appetite is crazy. He’ll be hungry when I find him.”

Sanji can’t help but laugh. It seems to be becoming a recurring problem. “You asking if I’ll feed him?” 

“Yeah. Because I think you’ll say yes.” 

A smirk pulls at Sanji’s mouth, and he lets it lean sharp. “Do you have a death wish, planning to come back to a demon’s castle?”

“Maybe,” Zoro mutters, but he matches Sanji’s expression tooth for tooth. “But the food’s good, and the company’s… decent.”

Sanji really does roll his eyes this time. Unbelievable. “You’ve got some nerve, Marimo.”

“Zoro.”

Zoro. It echoes around in his skull, sets something sparking up under his skin. “Zoro,” he tries, cocking his head before he nods to the shadow door. “Get going, idiot. That isn’t going to stay open forever.”

Zoro takes a step backwards. “You haven’t told me your name.”

Sanji purses his lips to hide his chuckle. “Come back with Luffy, and maybe you’ll find out.” 

The last thing he sees is the swordsman’s grin before the door dissolves, leaving him alone in his kitchen with a feeling in his chest that he hasn’t felt for ages. Fuck, this Zoro is trouble.

Sanji drags his hands over his face and groans, but he’s smiling. 

All he does in this damn castle is laze around and cook for himself. If it means cooking for someone else, and decent company… Well, a little trouble couldn’t hurt.

[nomoreusername]

Lily Of The Valley (Part 3)

Pairing:Aris x female reader

Summary:You and Aris finally make your way into the real world.

The plan has been made. Maybe not a faultless one, but nonetheless, it was something.

As I expected, the Double T’s didn't want to leave. So all those times Aris said it was just him and I against the world was about to be a literal statement.

“Let's go over the list one more time. Water?”

“Check,”He nodded, looking at his bag while I did the same.

“Food?”

“Check.”

“Knives.”

“Check.”

“Jacket?”

“Check.”

“Cash?”

“Check.”

“That's good then,”I accepted. “I don't know though. I feel like we're forgetting something.”

“Yeah. You are,”He confirmed, tossing a bag to me. Glancing inside, I wondered how the hell I could forget pads as I put them in my backpack.

“Thanks. You're a lifesaver,”I promised.

“I know,”He shrugged.

“Don't get cocky or I’ll take the compliment back,”I sighed, rolling my eyes as I zipped my bag up. Glancing at the latch, I looked at him to silently ask if he actually wanted to go through with this. Because he knows very well where he goes I go, and vice versa. So if he said no we’d put everything back, I’d make fun of him a little bit, and we’d spend the rest of our lives here.

“It's now or never.”

“Yeah. Now or never,”I mumbled, wrapping my hands around the metal ladder that had remained untouched for years. So much so, that it put an instant chill over my skin, almost making me shiver. Or maybe it was the way I was about to see what had become of the world for the first time in years, if it had changed at all.

Moving up, I knew imagining whatever it may be was pointless. Whether I was optimistic or pessimistic made no difference to reality.

Taking a breath, I spun the bar and pushed it upwards, inviting a cool breeze and rubble inside. Putting my jacket over my mouth and nose with one hand, I pulled myself out with the other.

“How's it look up there?”Aris called, starting a chapter we never thought we would have in our stories.

“Like hell,”I called back, squinting as my eyes adjusted. After a moment, as I looked around at the unmoving rubble and demolished building, the dust settled back into place.

“You weren't kidding,”He said, coming up. Grabbing his hand, I helped pull him out.

“Thanks,”He mumbled, standing up. In dead silence, we looked at the roof that was barely standing and walls threatening to finish the job at any second.

“Last chance before we close the door,”I spoke up.

“If you don't want to leave then-”

“It doesn't matter what I want. If you're leaving I’m leaving. If you're staying I’m staying,”I said firmly.

“Okay. Then, let's get moving before the sun kills us,”He reminded me, a smile in his voice despite the words. Kicking the door with his good foot, when it slammed down he tightened the straps on his bag before gesturing for us to start the trip. With a sigh, I walked next to him as he looked at everything despite the way this had once been out home. Coming to a still standing doorframe he gave me a look that I didn't quite like as he stared at it. Then, just like we did when we were kids, jumped up despite being able to touch it without doing so, and hit the top. Giving in to the childlike wonder joy it once brought, I did the same.

“And outside we go.”

“Oh goodie,”I deadpanned.

“Are you going to be this sarcastic the entire trip?”

“Because I’ve never been sarcastic before this.”

“You're something special, you know that?”He sighed, giving me a boyish grin before nudging my shoulder with his. Not really moving, I invaded his personal space before pointing out that I had learned from the best.

“I should have left you behind,”He complained, as if this hadn't all been his idea.

“Come on, you dork. Let's go find your flower,”I replied, opening the entrance to this entire place, somewhere that we had never actually seen before. With the door being kind of stuck though, I was fighting to push it open. Shoving it, as I put my all into it Aris grabbed the handle on the other side and pulled.

“Oh,”I mumbled. “I knew that,”I lied, doing the same to my side. Looking out at the barely rising sun, we still covered our eyes as we adjusted to this amount of light again.

Once my pupils's weren't on fire anymore, this suddenly became real. With the sun in the horizon, hardly even touching the earth that has small patches of grass and orange dirt, it wasn't what I thought it would be.

Yes. The grass was dried and little, but it was plants. If there were plants then it was possible that we could find his Lily Of The Valley. Difficult for sure, but there was a chance.

“You ready to do this?”He asked, holding out his hand. Accepting it, I interlocked our fingers as we got ready for whatever the world has to offer.

× ~ × ~ × ~ ×

Heat. The world has a lot of heat. It was barely noon yet the amount of sweat on me could create another ocean.

“Remind me to never listen to you,”I pleaded, wiping my hands on my jeans.

“Wouldn't you be listening to me about not listening to me?”He pointed out.

“Don't complicate my words.”

“Is it complicated or are you just slow?”

“How funny,”I deadpanned, wiping my brow while wondering why the hell I was out here instead of safe inside.

As I looked at the smile that hadn't left Aris’s face though, the bit of light in his eyes, the spark that had been threatening to go out, I knew this was the right decision. For him.

“Why are you staring at me?”He asked, turning his head and catching me off guard.

“I would never stare at you,”I scoffed.

“Well, you should.”

“Because you're so amazing?”

“Obviously.”

“This is the idiot I’m stuck with?”

“Stuck with? Come on. You're out here because you love me,”He corrected.

“Yeah. I love an idiot,”I shrugged.

“Y/N-”

“Kidding, kidding,”I promised, nudging his shoulder with mine. “Kind of.”

“You at one mean remark from making you go home.”

“This is home now, Aris. Get used to it.”

“I already am. There's actual air out here and even more room to get on your nerves.”

“You are good at that.”

“Thank you very much. Now off we go,”He declared, swinging his arm over me.

“It is extremely hot out here.”

“I couldn't tell.”

“So don't touch me.”

“But it gets on your nerves.”

“Your existence gets on my nerves.”

“Maybe, but you're still here with me,”He pointed out. While he’s definitely right I couldn't let this dork go out here alone. Plus, he seemed so shut down when I said no the first time. No matter how much he may make me want to rip my hair out, he’s still my best friend. “Hey, Y/N?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you for agreeing to come. I know that you were comfortable in the bunker, and it means a lot that left it for me,”He admitted, his tone more serious yet genuine.

“Of course. I’d do anything for you, and if that means looking for a flower than I’m going to look for that flower,”I said firmly.

“Well, thank you. You're an amazing friend.”

“So are you,”I told him, grabbing his hand. Accepting it, he interlocked our fingers as we kept going forward.

Forever.

All Parts

[morwensteelsheen]

migrained out my nut so posting this and then dipping back to my sick bed like the Victorian waif that I am, but I’ve spent the last few months (actually, Ulysses says it’s been since July of 2022) pondering a Farawyn Rogue One AU. I’ve been chipping away at it whenever the urge takes me, but here’s an early and incomplete draft of what may become the first chapter

Tank treads are archaic on all planets except uncontacted ones. Shuddering, loud, and expensive to produce, corporate guilds stopped using them centuries ago when they realised they didn’t need to damage their goods in transport. Every civilised entity in the galaxy uses some combination of repulsorlifts and good old fashioned thrusters to transport cargo hither and thither, totally unmolested.

That Éowyn is currently being beaten to shit in the back of an Imperial prison transport, then, is purely an ideological choice.

She hears the treads whine and judder as they traverse the rough terrain of Wobani. Her seat restraints rub her skin raw through the coarse material of her uniform, and beside her a prisoner, a Devaronian with docked horns, has fully cracked, mumbling something incomprehensible into the tense half-silence.

Today will be a bore—unless the Devaronian decides to put on a show and harass the guards—just like each of her previous 94 days in this camp. They’ll break rocks in the quarry for between eight and twelve hours depending on what mood the watch wardens are in, then they’ll be carted unceremoniously back to the blocks, where Éowyn will spend the night dodging unsavoury looks from her Trandoshan cell mate who has a serious problem with boundaries.

A little naively, Éowyn tests the tensile strength of her binders, waiting until they go over a particularly large bump to mask the sound of steel clanking against steel. No luck: despite her best efforts, she has not developed superhuman strength in her sleep.

“Playing both sides—th-they were playing both sides!” The Devaronian slams both feet into the transport floor, the sound ricochets. “Selling clones to the Republic and collaborating with the Separatists!”

“Will you shut the fuck up?” Éowyn doesn’t need to look up to recognise the harsh growl of the Corellian on the far side of the cabin.

“J-just because you don’t care doesn’t mean it doesn’t matter! They manufactured a war to keep us all—”

The rest of his diatribe is lost. A blast erupts somewhere—everywhere and nowhere all at once—blowing the doors wide open. Light and smoke and the bitter scent of melted ozone fill the compartment. The troopers who guard the transport are in disarray, she can hear how far ahead they’ve cruised on their speeders, now desperate to recoup lost ground.

“Haleth Haladin!”

From the cloud of dust and smoke emerges a man, tall, dressed in nondescript military fatigues. He’s holding a holo of her face, and she’s in no rush to figure out why.

He bends down in front of her, squinting at her as if she isn’t the only human woman on this transport. “Do you wanna get out of here?”

She nods, then doesn’t flinch as he smashes through her restraints. His distraction is all she needs: she leverages her weight against the jumpseat, pummelling both of her feet into his chest and sending him into a crumpled heap on the ground opposite her.

He’s brought friends, but they’re easy enough to dispatch with; a sharp elbow to the nose immobilises one, and a shoulder check sends the other flying out the splintered metal door.

Just a few short feet separate her from freedom. She’s not sure how she’ll make it to the edge of the camp, but once she’s there the planet is desolate enough that the Imps won’t bother searching for her for more than a couple clicks in any given direction. She’ll keep taking her chances from there until she can get off this rock; and if those chances don’t come through for her, better to die with dignity than in the clutches of the Empire.

Her chances are spent quicker than she’d hope. She’s no more than two feet into the air, arms bracing as she takes her leap to freedom, when something hooks around her ankles, slamming her into the hard ground.

She’s breathless—not just breathless, completely incapable of breathing she’s hit the ground so hard. Adrenaline courses through her, her body’s last ditch attempt to save itself. The dirt around her flutters, a sympathetic shockwave. It does nothing to lift her up. The panic starts to set in as she realises she still can’t move her arms and legs.

An astromech looms over her—not an experience she ever thought she’d have—its visual sensors lighting up in what feels a little too close to smugness.

“You are being rescued,” it beeps. “Please do not resist.”

Her head spins. Her vision tunnels. It’s not, she bemoans as consciousness escapes her, the most glorious way to die.

•°

She’s hauled out of the freighter on a planet she doesn’t recognise, in the shadow of a temple that at once pierces the atmosphere and looks utterly at peace with the surrounding jungle. She glares at the man who takes ownership of her restraints, but doesn’t squander energy resisting her march her across the landing pad.

“Your ship is junk,” she sneers. “Things must be dire if that’s what you’re sending out into the galaxy.”

The man doesn’t bother to acknowledge her jibe, and she bristles. It doesn’t stop her from cataloguing every detail of the temple and its labyrinthine tunnels. She counts the number of people walking around, how many of them carry weapons, how few ships are parked outside and in. She keeps track of how many left turns they make, how many doors they pass until they take their first right, which corridors dead-end and which don’t.

She’s heard about the nascent rebellion, of course, she’s not a moron and she certainly hasn’t had her head in the sand for the last five years, but she hadn’t imagined that they’d be quite so organised. They’re operating with almost as much surety as a genuine state, and they’ve clearly got plenty of resources to back them up, if the reams of equipment they’ve got laying about in the open is anything to go by. Still, they’re not flawless, and their security flaws are numerous, enough that it’s clear to her they’re not yet thinking like a government-in-waiting, no matter how much they look like one.

By the time her guards stop forcing her around the compound, she’s halfway to her escape plan. That they’re now forcing her down into a steel chair and hooking her restraints to the floor is not an ideal development, but she’s worked bigger miracles in worse conditions.

A man stands from behind an enormous, clunky, and remarkably dated holodesk. He’s a general, based on the repurposed Republic insignia—it might even be his own Republic insignia, if his age is anything to go by.

“You’re currently calling yourself Haleth Haladin, is that correct?” He does not pause to allow her to answer. “Possession of unsanctioned weapons, forgery of Imperial documents, grand theft auto, aggravated assault. Escape from custody. Resisting arrest… Imagine if the Imperial authorities had figured out who you really were, Éowyn Éomundsdottir.” Setting the holopad he was ostensibly reading from down, he waits just long enough for the dramatic effect to take hold. “That’s your given name, is it not? Éowyn Éomundsdottir? Niece of Théoden Thengelsson, renowned starship manufacturer?”

She frowns, squinting at him sceptically to mask her surprise. “What is this?”

“We think you might be able to help us.”

Another man steps forward from the shadows. She realises he’s been there all along, half-cast in neon glow. He’s tall, with raven dark hair tied in a messy braid, and she might have called him young if in her soul it didn’t feel so inaccurate. Something in his air throws her immediately, like he’s been pulled through from a different universe, or a different time.

“This is Captain Faramir, Rebel Intelligence,” says the general.

The newcomer hardly acknowledges his introduction, his attention so keenly focused upon her. “When was the last time you were in contact with your uncle?”

“15 months ago.” She answers it before she can think, as if she’s incapable of answering him with anything less than the truth. It frightens her.

“Any idea what he’s been doing all that time?”

The room narrows to the endlessly tiny tunnel of attention that connects her to him. “I like to think he’s dead—makes things easier.”

“Easier than what? That he’s been a useful idiot for the Imperial war machine?”

“Why does it matter to you what I should think of my uncle’s business prospects?”

“One of your uncle’s pilots is being held at the Imperial prison in Dxun; he’s claiming the Empire is developing a weapon with the ability to destroy planets. The pilot says they’re using your uncle’s fighters to defend it.”

“Captain Faramir’s mission is to authenticate the pilot's story and then, if possible, convince your uncle to renege on his contract,” interjects the general, adding a thin veneer of professionalism to her jailbreak and kidnapping. “If we can cut off their supply of fighters, we may yet buy ourselves time to destroy the weapon before it is finished.”

“Given the gravity of the situation, and your relationship to your uncle, we’re hoping that you’ll help us bring him to his senses.”

Her heart thuds unnaturally in her chest. She has no inkling as to the state of her uncle’s affairs, to the state of her uncle at all. She had forsaken her home to do what he would not: to stem the rising tide of the Empire, to defend the Galaxy; but she has no desire to discover which side of that fight he has landed on.

“And if I do it?” She looks only at Captain Faramir as she asks, though it is clear it is not his decision to make.

“We’ll ensure you go free,” he answers, and the thrumming energy enveloping his words says it is the truth.

•°

The transport they’re shipping out on is not much better than the battered freighter they’d used to bring her in. Still, with one Astromech at the copilot’s console and another in the stern engineering bay, it’s at least marginally better equipped.

“I am M-RE, and I’m glad you’re being sent with us,” beeps the droid, and she recognises it as the reason there are two searing rub-burns around her ankles.

“I remember you,” she answers, with no love lost.

“That’s P1-PN in the back, he’s a reprogrammed Imperial droid.”

“I have nothing against you either,” the black and red liveried droid chirps.

“You say it like I should be surprised.”

“You should,” it says, extending a spike arm to connect to the ship’s navicomputer. “Faramir thinks you’re a liability.”

Anger bubbles up inside her. A liability? Her? She’s crossed half the known galaxy entirely on her own, faced down battalions of Stormtroopers near single-handedly; what right had a footsoldier of a foundering political farce have to call her a liability?

With alarming precision, the captain chooses that moment precisely to re-appear at the boarding ramp, two battered backpacks in his hands. He offers one to her. “You met Merry and Pippin?”

“They’re very informative.”

“A generous description.” He sidesteps her with perfect formality to continue up the gangplank. Unbidden, a single word enters her mind, enough to stop her dead for the second time today: Jedi.

Before he slides into his pilot’s seat, he turns to look at her, grey eyes meeting hers in what she can only make sense of as an acknowledgment. But how he could know what thoughts came to her, let alone what it would take for those thoughts to be true—it’s so unlikely it hardly warrants consideration.

Yet the longer she looks at him, the more probable the unlikely becomes. He carries himself like the warriors of legend, and the grave tenderness that was said to be all but extinct in the last Jedi of the Old Republic shines brightly in his eyes. Maybe the Jedi have not all been exterminated, maybe—

He turns away, lowering himself into the seat with preternatural grace. “Let’s get going,” he says to the droid, and her momentarily-halted upset at him returns.

[thelunarbar]

I Wanna Know What It’s Like(On The Inside Of Love)

In which: they somehow happen to all be back in Miramar at the same time. And they’re not about to let the opportunity pass them by.

Word count: 2603

Playlist!

-/-/-/-

“I know it’s been less than a year, but it feels like it’s been so much longer than that.” Phoenix states, leaning back, hands in the sand. Murmurs of agreement mingle in the air. Beer bottles and soda cans are scattered around their little party, as well as the remains of the fixings for hotdogs and s’mores. The sun is starting to set, melting into the ocean and washing the sky in a brilliant blush. The fire is cracking and popping happily.

“Every time I have shore leave I kinda don’t wanna go back.” Payback says, slouching down more in his folding lawn chair. “But at the same time I need to be back in the air.”

“It’s an addiction.” Maverick replies. He watches the fire intently, a can of ginger ale held loosely in his hand. It had taken a lot of convincing to get him to join them. He’d protested, making comments about how they wouldn’t want an old man bringing them down, and how he had to get up early. All bullshit. And when he’d been called on it, he really couldn’t come up with anymore arguments. So there he sits, in front of Rooster’s folding lawn chair, pant legs rolled up, bare feet buried in the sand. “Once you get a taste you can’t go back.”

“It’s a never ending internal battle.” Halo pipes up. “When you’re up there,” she gazes up at the sky. Stars are starting to become visible and the moon is almost full. “You’re always thinking about the things you’re missing down below. But when you’re down here all you can think about is getting back in a plane.” She sighs contentedly, still gazing upward. From his chair behind her, Omaha rests a hand on top of her head. She turns to look at him and smiles.

“Being free.” Omaha adds.

“Y’all are getting a bit too sentimental for my tastes.” Hangman stands and dusts the sand off his pants.

“So you’re leaving?” Rooster asks, “very mature response.”

“Actually,” Hangman drawls, leaning down so he’s nose to nose with Rooster and practically on top of Mav. “I’m going to grab something from my car.” And then he walks off.

“Hand me another beer?” Harvard asks, tipping his chair to side in an effort to reach the cooler sitting between Rooster and Bob’s chairs.

“Why didn’t we bring any water?” Bob asks as he hands Harvard another bottle. Harvard reaches a little too far and topples over onto Fanboy, kicking Yale in the process.

“Y’know I don’t think you really need another one.” Yale snarks while rubbing the spot Harvard had kicked. Harvard rights his chair and drops back into before sticking his tongue out at Yale.

“Alright.” Hangman drops back onto the sand beside Mav and in front of Coyote, a guitar held in his hands. A few cheers and whistles greet him. He plucks the strings, adjusts the tuning pegs and plucks again. He repeats this process several times before he’s satisfied. “What am I playing first?” He glances at Rooster, who shoots him a grin. “I already told you no.” Rooster just keeps grinning, undeterred by Hangman’s response. “Fine. But you owe me.” Rooster laughs and pushes his aviators up. Hangman plucks a couple strings and looks at Rooster. “One, two, three.” And he begins to play. Mav can’t help the snort when he realizes why Hangman said no to begin with. Rooster begins to sing.

“On a warm summers evening. On a train bound for nowhere.”

Rooster certainly has the voice for it though. Rich and resonant. Hangman grins despite himself. The songs ends and everyone cheers.

“Bradshaw, we should do Long Time Gone.” Phoenix says, sitting up straighter.

“I don’t think I know that one.” Hangman tells her while plucking idly at the strings.

“I do.” Rooster holds his hand out expectantly. Hangman squints at him for moment before handing the guitar over, nearly whacking Mav in the head. Rooster adjust the guitar in his lap and starts to play. He and Phoenix start to sing, voices overlapping perfectly. When the first verse ends Rooster let’s Phoenix go on alone for the next one. Joining her again when the chorus hits.

“I’ll be a long time gone.”

It’s a nice song, even if somewhat sad. Mav smiles as he listens, catches Phoenix grinning as she reaches up and lets Bob take her hand.

“Yes, when I leave. I’ll be a long time gone.”

They finish and cheers rise up around them. Bob kisses the back of Phoenix’s hand and Mav almost certain she blushes.

“Hey!” Amelia bounces over and drops down beside Maverick. “That sounded amazing, guys.”

“Thanks, kiddo.” Rooster ruffles her hair and she scowls up at him. He just grins and pushes his aviators up.

“Wearing sunglasses at night isn’t cool.” Amelia informs him. “You just look stupid.” Rooster sticks his tongue out and pushes against Amelia’s head in a playful manner, but does remove his aviators.

“Ooh. Yes!” Hangman chuckles, “fuck Rooster! I love it.” He puts his fist out and Amelia bumps hers against it. Hangman takes the guitar back and plucks a tune. He struggles through the first few lines of the song before it starts to come naturally.

“Wherever we are is where I wanna be, and honey for once in our life let’s take our chances and roll the dice.”

Rooster sincerely hopes no one can tell he’s blushing. Hangman shoots him a smile and winks. Rooster smiles, downing the last of his beer. There’s a warm feeling in his chest and he can’t determine if it’s from the alcohol or Hangman practically serenading him.

Halo joins Hangman towards the end. While their voices don’t meld the way Phoenix and Rooster’s did they still sound nice. More applause when the song ends.

Bob offers Amelia a can of root beer, which she accepts and pops open, taking a drink. Then she looks over at Hangman.

“Play a song for me?” She asks in her sweetest voice.

“Depends on what you request?”

“Can you play something by Taylor Swift?” Her request is met by a couple of groans. Hangman smiles in a way reserved only for little sisters who make requests you don’t like, but that you’ll follow through anyway. Even though Amelia isn’t his sister she may as well have been. Hangman hums to himself and plucks at the strings trying to figure out the song. Amelia gasps, excitement evident in on her face.

“I love this song.” She starts to sing. She’s got a beautiful voice and Mav can’t help but smile as he watches her sway gently while she sings, eyes closed and smiling the whole time. God, he loves that kid like she’s his own.

By the time the chorus comes around both Halo and Fanboy are singing with her.

“On a Wednesday in cafe I watched it begin again.”

Towards the middle of the song Payback and Harvard pull their phones out and turn the flashlights so they can wave them in the air while Amelia, Halo and Fanboy keep singing.

The song ends and everyone cheers. Amelia goes pink in the face and smiles shyly. Mav pulls her into a one armed hug and presses a kiss to her temple.

“That was beautiful, kiddo.” She grins at him.

“Thanks.” She says softly. Mav doesn’t let her go, she doesn’t try to get away.

After that the guitar gets passed around to anyone who can and wants to play. There’s interesting assortment of songs played due to the diverse musical likes of their group.

Yale plays a couple songs Mav doesn’t recognize. He’s a surprisingly smooth tenor that’s very pleasant listen to. After that Payback requests a Willie Nelson song followed by Harvard requesting Patience by Guns ‘n’ Roses. Rooster plays a couple Tom Petty songs before playing Country Roads by John Denver at the request of Omaha. Everyone sings that one and Landslide when Fritz plays it a bit shakily. Coyote plays a somewhat sad song about loving someone much you’ll follow them even to death. Hangman takes it back and plays some older classics that Mava actually knows and he finds himself humming along.

“Hey!” Amelia says when Jake finishes I’ll Follow The Sun. “Mav hasn’t picked a song yet.” Mav groans internally as all eyes turn to him.

“She’s right. Make a request Mav.” Hangman says. “I’m sure someone here can play something for you.” Mav wants to protest, but Amelia gives him her best puppy dog eyes and Rooster nudges him with his toe and Mav can’t say no to his kids.

“D’you know Wild Horses by the Stones?” He asks. Hangman grins.

“You got it, Pops.” He begins to pluck at the strings. Mav takes a deep breath and hopes his face isn’t as red as it feels before he starts to sing. He’s never been the best singer, but if he knows the song well he’ll give it his all. All eyes are on him and he doesn’t know where to look. He settles his gaze on the fire, gaining more confidence in his voice when he reaches the chorus. He squeezes Amelia a little tighter and hopes she understands. Hopes Rooster knows.

The song ends and cheers erupt around him. If he wasn’t blushing before he definitely is now. Rooster gives his shoulder a squeeze and when Mav looks up he says, “that was great.” And Mav can tell by the look in his eyes that he knows. Knows everything Mav can never find the words to say.

The guitar gets passed around again. They all sing a laughter filled version of Sweet Caroline followed by a couple Elton John songs and more John Denver. They’re all at least suitably tipsy, with a select few having stayed sober enough to drive others home, and the fire is starting to die out, but no one wants to leave yet. Eventually the guitar ends up back in Rooster’s lap and he begins to play a country song Mav doesn’t recognize. When the chorus hits Phoenix joins him and Mav is in awe again at how beautiful the two sound together.

“You don’t wanna fall in love.”

Mav looks up to watch Rooster and doesn’t miss the longing look he’s giving Hangman. Hopefully one of them will stop being stupid and they’ll deal with whatever’s going on between them. And if they don’t do it soon Mav may have to bang their heads together and tell them to get their shit together. He doesn’t want it to come to that.

The last notes of the song get tugged away by the breeze and Mav becomes aware of how cool it’s gotten. Everyone cheers again, but in a somewhat more subdued manner now that they’re starting to get tired. They sit in comfortable silence, but with their eyes turned skyward. The stars are beautiful and the moon is full.

“It’s time like this I wish didn’t live in the city.” Phoenix says. “I forget how beautiful the stars are.”

“Makes me miss home.” Hangman admits. “Used to lay out on the trampoline with my sisters.” There’s longing laced through his words. “Slept out there a lot.” He’s smiling, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Rooster reaches over and squeezes his shoulder. Hangman rests his hand on top of Roosters, but doesn’t take his eyes off the stars.

“The moon is so pretty when it’s full.” Amelia says after a beat of silence.

“I always wanted to be an astronaut when I was a kid.” Fritz tells them.

“There’s still time.” Halo tells him. He smiles and nods.

“Stargazing always reminds me of going with Goose when he’d go back to Texas.” Mav says, voice cracking when he says Goose’s name. “The guest room at their house had a window that opened onto the roof and I’d climb out and lay there to look at the stars. Goose-Goose joined me a lot. Talk a lot about the future, being neighbors, sitting by a campfire in the evenings and watching the stars come out. Sitting somewhere more comfortable than the roof.” Mav chuckles a little at the memory and starts to get teary so focuses on the dying embers in front of him. Amelia squeezes him tight and he rests his head against hers. He wishes Goose was there. Could live that future they always talked about. Could see the incredible young man Bradley has become. Could get to know Penny and be Amelia’s weird Uncle Goose. He swallows the lump in his throat and blinks back his tears.

Over thirty five years later and he stills misses Goose. He thinks he always will. It hurts a little less as the years go by, but the pain of losing a brother stays with you forever.

They start picking up trash and leftovers. Chairs get folded up, sand is kicked over the remains of the fire and they all trek back to the parking lot. Mav’s watch tells him it’s almost midnight. Amelia is leaning heavily against them as they walk, but he doesn’t mind.

At the cars goodbyes are shared and confirmations of dinner at Mav and Penny’s the following night are given. Hugs are exchanged. Mostly given to Mav, who’s not expecting it and gets a bit emotional. Both Phoenix and Halo press a kiss to his cheek. He doesn’t cry, thank you very much, but maybe a gets little misty eyed. He watches his kids pair off and head toward different vehicles, laughing and talking and wonders how he lived so long without this. This wonderful familial kind of love. Rooster hugs him last and longest.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” He tells Mav, searching his face for something, but Mav doesn’t know what. Mav smiles and nods. Rooster pulls him back into a hug. It took several hard conversations to get to this point, but Mav is so glad to have Rooster back in his life.

“Tomorrow, kid.” Rooster huffs a laugh against Mav’s neck and let’s him go, turning to pull Amelia into a hug.

“G’night, kiddo.” He mumbles and presses a kiss to the top of her head. Mav was admittedly very surprised by how quickly Rooster and Amelia grew attached to each other, but he’s glad they’re getting along. Whenever he asks what they got up to the day he took Penny up in his Mustang he only receives laughter in response so he’s given up asking. But something happened to have them form a bond like they now share.

Once he’s sure they’ll all be ok he and Amelia head back over to the Hard Deck. Penny is just finishing up her closing chores when they stumble in, laughing. Penny smiles. She loves watching the two of them. Amelia had been very dubious when she and Mav had first gotten back together, but Mav had been sincere when he said he wasn’t leaving again and Amelia let him in. And Mav clearly loves Amelia like she’s his own and while that still scares Penny a little she loves him and she’s so happy to him back in her life she’s willing to work past her lingering fears.

Amelia joins Penny behind the bar, offering to help finish up. Mav watches them and realizes not for the first time just how lucky he is. He realizes too that he’s been wondering for years what it really means to have a family and kids. And if this is what it’s like on the inside of love, well, it’s not a bad place to be.

[whisker-biscuit]

The Lines We Cross: Chapter 9

The Swamp’s Dark Center

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I like to say I believe in ghosts so I don't get haunted by one.

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Carmelita had never put much belief in superstition. She knew certain supernatural things existed, of course – the clause in the World Peace Accord of 1971 about banning the production of zombies hadn't been made on a whim, after all – but she was still skeptical of the vast majority of things that supposedly went bump in the night.

Still, even she could feel something distinctly off about this place they had just started trekking through. Beyond the dark sky and the creak of trees and the endless swarms of bugs, there was something else here. Something ancient. Powerful.

Malevolent, even.

Sly seemed to feel it too. He was twitchy and on edge, constantly scanning their surroundings as if expecting an assailant from the brambles or even the water. His hands gripped the straps of his backpack like they were his only lifeline.

“I didn’t mean to scare you with what those other officers were claiming,” she said quietly, almost afraid to disturb the natural silence of the swamp. “It's not too late to turn back and wait for me at the hotel.”

“Oh, it definitely is,” he mumbled, sending a sharp look towards a cluster of trees that swayed a little more in the wind than the rest. “We might not have alerted anyone living to our presence yet, but it doesn't mean other things don't know we're here.”

“You believe in ghosts?”

“Of course I do,” the raccoon replied, like it was incomprehensible to do otherwise. “You don’t?”

“Some stories, I guess. I’m a little surprised, though, Ringtail. I would have pegged you as more of a skeptic.”

“You haven’t seen the things I’ve seen.”

She tilted her head at him, intrigued. “Like what?”

“Like –”

He cut himself off when they came upon a giant spiked wall that looked more suited for a fortress than a swamp. Its gate was in the shape of some kind of bat-like creature, wings spread menacingly as if to encircle any unwelcome guests.

Sly thumbed up at glowing red eyes that seemed to follow their movement despite having no pupils.

“Like that.”

The inspector stared at the bizarre barricade. Although the walls were easily ten feet high and without any obvious weaknesses, there were a few cracks in the gate itself, and the wood looked like it was starting to rot in places. When she squinted, something about the closed doorway almost seemed to gleam; a purple shimmer in the reflection of the dim moonlight.

Mesmerized, Carmelita lifted her hand and began to reach out.

“Don’t touch it!”

She jerked back, startled by the raccoon's command. “What! What’s wrong?”

“It’s not safe. Look.”

He picked a branch off the ground and tried to press one end of it against the gate. Before it could hit wood, the subtle shimmer suddenly lit up like a flare, and the branch caught fire. Sly dropped the stick to stomp on it until all the embers disappeared.

“How did you know it was going to do that?” The fox asked, startled. “Actually, how did you even know that thing was there? I barely saw anything.”

“You have to know what to look for,” he said, edging as close as he could to peer through the tiny cracks. “With magic like this, there’s always some kind of color that shouldn’t be there, and once you’ve seen it then it becomes obvious. It’s like using dust to reveal invisible lasers.”

“Huh, okay. You still haven’t answered my first question.”

“Personal experience. I told you I believe in this stuff for a reason, Inspector.”

An awkward moment of silence fell between them as she waited for him to elaborate and he didn’t. Eventually she pinched the bridge of her nose in a frustrated sigh.

“Okay, so…how do we get past this…‘death barrier’? I left the jetpack back in the hotel room because it’d be too dangerous to use among all these trees, and neither of us has any magical equipment…I think.”

She accompanied the remark with a significant glance at her partner’s backpack, but he only shook his head.

“Unless you count a change of clothes and some personal effects, then I’m afraid I have to disappoint – oh! Here we go!”

Sly gestured for her to look through the same crevice he was. When she leaned forward to take his place, she could see several candles placed in a semi-circle on the ground on the other side. A significant purple glow radiated off the entire set-up.

“Those right there are what’s keeping the barrier up. We snuff them out, and then it’s gone. The gate will be easy to get through after that.”

Carmelita bit her lip, and looked the entire wall up and down. “I don't like this.”

“Don't like what? The spooky psychic fence?”

“No – well, yes but…I’m starting to see why those officers were so nervous about coming here, even if it’s not for the reasons they’re scared.”

“Oh yeah?” He asked, turning to blink at her. “How do you figure?”

“This isn’t anything like Mesa, where Muggshot and his men were running around an abandoned city. This feels like we’re breaking into an established territory. There’s no telling what could set off an alarm. What if turning off that barrier alerts Mz. Ruby to our presence, or you jabbing it with the stick already did?”

The raccoon got a funny kind of look on his face. “Don’t tell me you’re starting to have second thoughts already.”

“I’m not. I just…I wish I had come better prepared. I don’t have any experience with anything supernatural.”

“That’s why you’ve got me,” he said sincerely. “I might not have all your confidential Interpol knowledge, but I’ve been around the block. I guarantee that whatever we encounter here, I’ll probably know how to deal with it.”

“You can’t guarantee something like that, Ringtail. Not when we’re dealing with someone like Mz. Ruby.”

Sly shrugged in the most nonchalant concession she had ever seen anyone make in her life. Carmelita wanted to grab him by the shoulders and demand to know how he was so sure about any of this. How could he act so unfazed by something as outlandish as psychic booby-traps but then be scared silly by something as mundane as a plane ride? Why was he so confident he could handle all these supposedly-supernatural hazards? What kind of ‘personal experience’ did he have that made him wary of ghosts, or recognize glowing barriers and how to remove them?

The kind of personal experience that she needed, apparently.

The fox made a face and gestured towards the obstacle before them. “Okay, well, what do you suggest we do here? We’re still stuck. I can't even touch the gate to try and get to those candles.”

He was staring at the top of the wall, where trees towered over it on both sides like specters.

“I have an idea.”

Before she could say anything, Sly began scaling the nearest tree. Once he was high enough to see over the gate, he started edging out onto a branch that looked far too thin to hold him.

“What are you doing?!” She called, afraid with each step he took that the branch would snap and he would plummet.

“Just trust me. I’ve got this.”

The raccoon inched forward carefully with a level of focus that she suddenly didn’t want to risk breaking. When he reached the end of it, he eyeballed a branch hanging just over the top of the gate from a tree on the other side. Carmelita’s heart leapt into her throat as she realized what he was about to do.

“Don’t –!”

Sly jumped.

He landed on the other branch in a forward crouch, arms pinwheeling as it bobbed up and down dangerously under his weight. After several terrifying seconds of bracing for the worst, he found his balance and looked back at her.

“Told you I’ve got this.” His voice was steady but she could still see the nervous flickering of his tail. The fox pursed her lips as he climbed down the other tree and disappeared from sight behind the gate.

It only took a minute for him to extinguish all the candles on the other side, and the strange, shimmering barrier dissipated like smoke. Carmelita tentatively pressed her palm against the now-normal gate. When it didn’t zap her, she pushed hard at it until the wood splintered enough for her to slip through.

Sly was leaning against the base of the tree he’d jumped to when she joined him on the other side. The fox glanced up at the branches above them, which looked even more precarious than the ones on the first tree.

“How did you do that?” She asked him.

He shrugged. “Gymnastics.”

“Ringtail, I’ve taken gymnastics. I’ve never seen anyone do anything like that.”

“Advanced gymnastics.”

The inspector shook her head and decided it wasn’t worth the energy. “Well, whatever it was, it was impressive – and you got us in safely. Nice job.”

Sly paused in the middle of turning towards the path ahead. At this angle, she couldn’t see his face.

“My pleasure,” he said at last. “Let’s get going before someone notices the barrier is down.”

“Good idea.” She wasn’t exactly keen on finding out what kinds of things Mz. Ruby or her hired men were capable of after that entire display.

Past the barricade, the swamp started showing real signs of someone living there. Paths had been carved along the hard ground for vehicle use, man-made structures began popping up here and there, and lamps were scattered all over to provide just enough light to see what came next. It probably looked different during the day, but in the middle of the night it was both the perfect example of covert operations and brought a supreme sense of dread that the two of them were not supposed to be part of it.

Inspector Fox turned off her flashlight, afraid of drawing unwanted attention when they really didn’t need to use it anymore. It was just in the nick of time as a bobbing, moving glow suddenly broke around the corner of a nearby building. Sly pivoted on his heel and practically pushed Carmelita flat against the wall as they hid and waited.

A large brown rat shuffled by with a lantern atop a large walking stick. He yawned as he walked, just far enough away that the two trespassers were not caught in his light. Carmelita could see the white flash of his teeth before he covered his mouth with a hand.

Neither of them moved until the guard was well past them. She could feel the raccoon’s fur puffed like a blowfish where his arm was stretched across her shoulders. The familiarity of the position made her smile despite the situation.

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” she whispered once they finally felt safe enough to pull away from the wall. Sly blinked at her, then jerked his arm back as if she’d burned him.

“Sorry,” he whispered back. Even in the dark she could see his face had gone red. “Didn’t mean to shove you.”

“It’s fine, Ringtail. You were just looking out for me.” The fox nudged him, and smiled when he seemed to relax. “Good reaction time.”

She took the lead again, feeling his eyes on her from behind, and pretended that she didn’t notice it.

Another ten or so minutes of walking and they found themselves at the edge of a large, artificial clearing; the most well-lit of anything they’d come across before. A large abstract statue of sorts – or perhaps it was a shrine – sat in its center, covered in candles, and there were multiple buildings and gated pathways circling the entire area. When Carmelita strained to listen past the natural sounds of the swamp, she could faintly hear voices chatting on the other side of the fences.

They had found the center of Mz. Ruby’s operation.

“See any obviously illegal activity?” Sly mumbled in her direction, eyes locked on a huge skull-like structure in the distance.

“No, but I don’t need to.” She pulled out a hand-held GPS in one hand and her radio in the other. “I just have to relay this exact location back to the local Interpol detective, and then he’ll know it’s a good place to send in a team to help me catch Mz. Ruby during her supposed rendezvous with Muggshot.”

“Why didn’t you do that before we started trekking through the swamp?”

“Because he’ll need a safe place to land a helicopter, and we sure as hell haven’t found anything open enough for it besides this spot.”

“Good point.” He stepped up to the bizarre statue, and she thought for a moment he was going to try and climb it, but he crouched at its base instead. “I’ll be the look-out while you do your cop thing.”

“My ‘cop thing’,” the inspector repeated, exasperated but not quite as irritated anymore. “What’s it going to take for you to show a little respect for Interpol procedure?”

“Something worth showing respect for.”

Carmelita’s muzzle scrunched up and she rolled her eyes, then switched on her radio and spoke into the receiver.

“Inspector Fox to dispatch. Come in, dispatch. Over.”

Static answered her.

“Dispatch, are you there?”

The static was replaced by a burst of crackling loud enough for both of them to glance around in alarm. It seemed to have gone unnoticed, however, as no guards came rushing out to investigate.

“Maybe the reception is bad where you’re standing?” Sly offered, ears pinned back from either nervousness or the grating sound.

“It shouldn’t be. We’re in a clearing, not in the middle of the trees.” The fox walked a few paces to her left just in case, then tried again. “Inspector Fox to dispatch. Please respond if you hear this, over.”

They watched the little radio struggle to do anything other than spit more static. It was enough to make her grit her teeth in frustration.

“What on earth is wrong with this –”

 “Wake up, you lazy bags of swamp gas!”

Mz. Ruby’s voice rang out of the device so suddenly and clearly that Carmelita nearly dropped it in shock. She held it out at arm’s length, afraid to touch any buttons for fear that it would give away her unintentional eavesdropping as the crime boss continued.

 “The voodoo vibe is thick tonight. Let’s take advantage of this powerful mojo and step-up production. Keep piling those shiny bones into the soup. We’ll have an army of ghosts by morning, and take over Mexico by the end of the week!”

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Sly stand up, fully alert. Her own fur was bristled to sharp points all the way down to her tail.

“Hear that, voodoo children?” The alligator practically crooned. “Our family is about to grow, grow, grow-ho-ho-ho!”

The transmission ended, and the radio went back to static as if nothing had happened. Inspector Fox stared at it a moment as everything hit her all at once.

“An army…” She whispered in growing horror. “She’s building an undead army! We have to stop her before she can make any more!”

Her partner, although clearly agitated as well, seemed almost more distracted than horrified. He was watching the distant skull with a flickering tail and an unreadable expression.

“Sly, did you even hear me?”

“Of course I did,” he replied, finally tearing his eyes away to look at her instead. “I just don’t exactly know how we’re supposed to do that when you can’t even call for back-up.”

Carmelita bit her lip as she glanced down at her radio. She put it away quickly and straightened her shoulders before she could second guess herself.

“We’ll just do it all ourselves. This will be a…a two-man operation, just like in Mesa. Don’t –” she cut him off as he started to open his mouth, “give me any snark. I didn’t ask for any and I don’t need any.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the raccoon mumbled, sounding more amused by the command than anything else.

“Okay. Good. We currently have…” she checked her watch, “almost three hours until the rendezvous. That should give us plenty of time to scope out exactly what Mz. Ruby is doing to create her army and put a stop to it.”

“Works for me.” Sly spared one last glance at that distant structure. Carmelita wondered what was so fascinating about it – it was unusually shaped, yes, but so was just about everything around them. “Lead the way, inspector.”

Said inspector gave a resolute nod, self-assuredness growing with her partner’s trust. She had no idea how the two of them were going to stop a supernatural assembly line, but surely they’d be able to find a way without too much hassle…right?

Without giving the doubt a chance to take root, the fox approached the nearest building and began testing the doors. Most were locked with actual, physical padlocks, but she kept a careful eye out for any purple shimmering just in case. When she glanced back to see where her companion was, it came as no surprise to see he had indeed decided to climb the statue and was now perched atop it with his legs swinging idly like he was on a jungle-gym.

As ridiculous as he looked up there, it was obvious he was using the height to be a better look-out, and she felt safe enough to turn her back to the clearing.

It didn’t take very long before she finally found an unlocked door, with the added luck that the windows around it were dark, giving her hope that the building would be vacant while they snooped. She waved Sly over who slid off the statue and was at her side in an instant.

“Found something?” He whispered, turned away from her to continue watching their six.

“I think so.” Carmelita turned the knob and opened the door as quietly as possible, relieved that the hinges didn’t squeak. She slipped into the dark room, the raccoon right behind her, and was suddenly hit with the overpowering smell of poultry.

“Oh, man,” she heard Sly say with a whistle, and when she clicked her flashlight on to see why, she was inclined to agree with him.

Chicken coops lined every wall, nook, and cranny, stacked on top of each other to create an entire maze of countless unevolved birds. Many of them only gave a few curious clucks at the evening disturbance, while the rest remained watchful or asleep. Inspector Fox’s snout scrunched up as she realized the coops hadn’t been cleaned in what was probably a good while; the smell was almost enough to make her gag.

“Why are there so many chickens?” She asked, completely confounded by the sight in front of her. Of all the things she’d expected to find – stored body parts, or zombie production equipment, or a room full of voodoo dolls, maybe – this was not one of them. “What is she even going to do with all of them?”

“An army gets hungry, I bet. Even a zombie one.” The raccoon took a few steps forward and began trailing his gloved hand along the closest cage. “The real question is what we can do with them. You think if I let them all out, it would ruffle some feathers?”

The tone in which he said it was downright gleeful as he threw a mischievous look at her over his shoulder. Carmelita gave him a flat stare in return.

“We’re not setting loose an entire room of chickens, Ringtail.”

“Why not?”

“Because – uh, because…”

She did not have an immediate answer, and that seemed to egg Sly on. Without breaking eye contact with her, his hand wandered over to the first coop’s latch and slowly began to undo it.

“Sly,” she warned.

“What?” He asked in faux innocence. “You said we need to stop Mz. Ruby’s plans. I think this is a pretty great place to start, don’t you?”

Once again, Carmelita didn’t have a rebuttal. She could only watch in a mix of dread and almost inappropriate curiosity as the raccoon opened the coop. He pulled the hen out with surprising gentleness, and it cooed as it woke from his touch. Then he set it on the ground, paused as it blinked up at him…

And lunged at it with a loud growl.

The chicken screeched, startled, and fled in a flurry of flapping feathers. Its panic woke its sisters, and soon the entire room was filled with hens freaking out and trying to escape their coops from the threat. Sly’s snarl settled back into a smug smile as he stared at Inspector Fox’s wide, shocked eyes.

“Most number of released chickens wins!”

And he went straight for the next coop.

Carmelita stood frozen a moment, torn between her learned professionalism and her instinctive competitiveness. Then her partner looked back at her as he opened his third cage with a shit-eating grin across his face.

Oh, it was on.

She ran for the opposite wall and started opening coops one-by-one, ducking wings and beaks and talons as the birds barreled past her in their frenzy to escape. Feathers smacked her in the face when one hen tried to jump into her hair, and she could hear Sly laughing at her as it sent her stumbling backwards, throwing her arms up to try and dislodge the disheveled bird. One quick glance showed he was a few meters away, and she cut off his laughter quick by throwing the chicken at him; suddenly he was the one having to deal with a frantic chicken on his body as it attempted to climb up and into his hoodie.

Carmelita used the distraction to close the small lead he had, and soon they were literally neck and neck, fighting for space to see who could reach the next coop before the other. Chickens screeched and flapped all around them – on the ground, in the air, on top of cages – and it became just as much a part of the game just to avoid tripping on a bird as it was to let them out.

By the time every cage was empty, both of them had lost track of who had opened the most and they were completely surrounded by fowl and feathers. As a final way to add insult to injury, Sly opened the door they had come through and scared the entire flock into a frenzy again, sending chickens outside in what could only be described as a hen hurricane. The two went running out after them, booking it for the nearest cluster of swamp overgrowth to hide in just as one of Mz. Ruby’s men finally realized something was not as it should be.

Sly had the biggest grin on his face as they watched several frantic rats try in vain to corral dozens of poultry back inside the building, and even Carmelita had to admit it was a hilarious sight. She struggled to put her professional mask back over her emotions so they could get back to the real task at hand; it was significantly harder to do when she glanced at her partner and saw feathers poking out of the space between his hoodie and his head.

“You look like you’ve been tarred and feathered,” she couldn’t help but snort as he began plucking them out of his fur one by one.

“And you look like you decided feathers make good hair extensions.” His eyes were twinkling and his teeth were gleaming in the dim glow of the nearest camp lights.

The inspector huffed and started combing her fingers through her hair. “I can’t believe we just did that. That was probably the dumbest thing I’ve ever done in my life. It felt like we just TP-ed her front yard.”

“Think of it as calculated sabotage,” the raccoon said cheerfully, in the best mood she’d ever seen him in. “Now all those guards will be too busy catching lost chickens to notice us poking around in the more important parts of this operation. We were just giving ourselves a window of opportunity.”

For the third time in a row, Carmelita found that she could not argue. She rolled her eyes, stood up, and brushed the remaining feathers off her body.

“Come on. We shouldn’t dally here any longer if we’re going to take advantage of that ���window of opportunity.’”

She held out her hand to help him up and he took it with only a little hesitation. They hurried to the nearest fence, scaled it with no issue, and left behind the lightest of footprints and the screeching of chickens as the only proof of their presence.

-------------------------------------------------- 

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A/N: It took all my willpower not to name this chapter "Down Home Cooking" and spoil the surprise. I wasn't originally going to adapt any of the minigames in the story for obvious reasons, but I had to give a shout-out to the most BS one in the entire game. Sly's taking out 11 years of having to deal with chickens in that scene and I'm doing the same but with 20 years lmao. Also figured a brief bit of levity was in order before we properly delve into the terrifying world of Mz. Ruby.

Thanks for reading!

[safyresky]

Nobody:

Nobody:

Me: sorry, did someone ask for some older Fino, Fiera, and Jacqueline? Oh! Well here you go!

Okok so these are kinda lil. BAD sketches lmao except for the top ones!! Practise makes perfect and I'll get them right eventually!! :3 Mind the cam scan watermark, I always forget to crop it out 🙄🙄🙄

anyway some hot facts about Fiera, Fino, and Jacquie when they are a weee bit older than they are now below the cut!

First up: Fiera!

BUNS. She has FIERY BUNS! On her head. And freckles, apparently

Absolutely VIBING ribbons

She causes a ruckus, a stir up, but in the most elegant of ways which nobody expected, least of all Fiera

She's become v good at summer sprite-ing. Her fire is RAINBOW sometimes, she's very proud of that!

She and Fino both have the same face shape, same noses, and same freckles funnily enough! V. similar twins

The second doodle is a bit of a better Fiera-Hair. She's not as spinelly as I drew her at the top!

What is she up to? No idea! Adventure is out there and she's an on fire ribbony mess. She's carpe dieming that SHIT

Both she and Fino got a lot of Winter's more angular (pointy) features, and are very lanky. they have no fluff or curves. They are also both very tall!

Fino!

He's a very very VERY skilled warlock

And just as good as Fiera at fire manipulation--he's seen his Dad and Uncle and Fino went yeah, no, I'm gonna get real good at BOTH the summer sprite shit AND the warlock shit!

And then he did.

Smaller simmer of hair at the top; but it's pretty long! By Fino standards, at least. not quite a mullet but if you squint....

Spends most of his time in the human world cultivating the reputation of weird forest wizard, helping local kids and ordibeings down on their luck

he likes nature a LOT

Went to castor school in Crystal Springs, fucking ROCKED IT

And of course, last but certainly not least: Jacqueline!

Happily married to Dite (who has, at this point, forged her own identity and goes by her name: Hedone! Jacqueline calls her Donnie for short ;)

They have 3 kids!

They are just as unhinged as Jacqueline with all of the Frost crazy and bits and pieces of god power thanks to Donnie (Dite), and sass out the ass since their granpater (Cupid) is. well. like that lol

Jacqueline loves them very, very, VERY much

Jacqueline: My kids are so terrible and I love them soooo much for it 🥺🥺🥺🥺

She tries really hard to keep her hair up in a messy fat bun, but by the end of the day it's fallen down completely

Has smile lines like her parents do!!!!

She is out here Jack Frosting officially

SMILE LINES!

Still cannot seem to leave behind poofy sleeves 🤔

Lives in ordibeing world with Donnie and the kids. Kids go to human school; they cause all sorts of shenanigans

The middlest, Bianca, has a tiktok devoted to her moms called magic moms. In it, Donnie and Jacquie just exist as their magical selves and Bianca gets a kick out of all the human commentors being like WOW THEY ARE SUPER GOOD AT MAGIC HOW DOES SHE GET HER HAIR LIKE THAT? HOW DOES YOUR MATER MAKE HER WINGS MOVE LIKE HANDS? And their insistence that Bianca's answer of "they're for real actually magical beings" is not true

Also has a smattering of magibeans following who like to cause problems with ordibeings in the comments and Bianca LIVES for this

Jacqueline also lives for this magic moms thing, she thinks it's funny. Her fave video is one where Bianca charges in and goes MOM SHOW THEM HOW YOU DO YOUR HAIR and Jacqueline goes WELL, I FREEZE DRY, AND IT'S VERY EASY. YOU SUMMON YOUR FROSTY POWERS AND JUST RUN YOUR HANDS THROUGH YOUR HAIR AND MOLD IT INTO THE SHAPE YOU WANT! BOOM! DONE! You can use snow or ice or mix it UP. sometimes a light dusting of frost is gr8 for when you wanna just. have your hair down but not in your face :)

Everyone trying to debunk the sfx after that one gave Bianca and Jacquie many fun nights in the evening chillin on the couch. watching the replies. just a Legend and her Legate bonding

Jack follows magic moms and is the BIGGEST shit stirrer in the comments

EVERYONE LOVES UNCLE JACK LMAO

[abominationvault]

Session 26: Sat 24 Feb 2024

Baldur’s Gate 3!!!! It’s great. Don't worry, me and the DM weren’t playing D&D without anyone, we were just using the Discord to talk while we fight our way across the Sword Coast.

So we found a Wand of Clench? Well, someone did. No, Quench, that was it. Jorg’ath finds a workshop - Nadia wants a go. She looks around for stuff to take with her. 16 Perception - Mostly repair materials for the upkeep of books. She does find two 2nd level scrolls of mending and one of Hypercognition. (Instantly use up to 6 recall knowledge rolls.) She offers them around. Sprocket and Skabb take the Mending scrolls but no-one can use the hypercognition one. Nadia tucks the last away, we will sell it.

More doors. For the sake of completeness, we go back on ourselves and open the one on the southern end of the corridor. A friend!

This is Jarelle Kaldrian. She is a ghost, and appears to be binding books. There is also a skeleton here in light blue robes, slumped in a corner. Jorg’ath backs out slowly. Hartvig points at the skeleton and addresses the ghost. “Hey lady! Was that you?”

She looks annoyed, but then turns sad and nods. What’s she doing?

“Binding books,” he is told.

Ghost books?

Visitors are rough with the books! If the mistress comes for a book and it’s damaged… She shakes her head. Clearly the consequences are unspeakable.

She appears to be going through the motions rather than actually working. Has the mistress been down lately, we ask her?

"Last time was a long time before my unfortunate accident." Speaking of which… this seems like a fairly low risk job, how does one… die, while binding books? Hartvig makes a Diplomacy check, already accumulating dust around his feet. 17, after a Hero point. When the mistress didn’t return, her colleagues became monstrous. Rather than become like them, she barricaded herself in here and helped herself to the arsenic.

Is arsenic a nice way to die, Skabb wonders.

Agonising, she is told. The dose has to be perfect otherwise you don’t die, but just sick it back up but it does irreversible damage.

... Yikes.

Is there a way to help her chuff off to whatever comes next? Jorg’ath suggests some axe work, but Skabb doesn’t think that will work on your incorporeals. Hartvig asks her what her job satisfaction is like. She doesn’t seem to understand. He thinks, before re-wording his question.

Why you still putting around, Skabb interrupts? Jarelle repeats her initial statement about looking after the books.

Not your responsibility any more, surely? Skabb asks. Don’t you want to go on to the next life? (Diplomacy - 20.)

Jarelle seems puzzled. "You mean I don’t need to be here?"

"Let the books rot," Skabb tells her. And just like that, she disappears.

“I thought we had a rapport, but whatever,” says Hartvig. He seems put out. What sort of books are they in here? He finds a key on the skeleton. The books are all sorts, none especially interesting. He finds a gold paperweight and a crafter’s eyepiece. It is etched with square patterns. While worn, you get a +1 item bonus to crafting checks. Nadia wants it. “Gimmegimmegimmegimme!” Hartvig hands it over, and she puts it on straight away.

We find more books for Augustus to carry as well, so we do some book tetris to get them all in. (Well; we put the books in his tummy and he jumps up and down a bit to settle them.)

There’s a conversation about goblin piss, which I will not document.

(Nadia squints at Skabb through her eyepiece to see if she looks any different; an error message pops up: “Unfixable”)

Hartvig grumbles about Skabb banishing the ghost lady before he could get her number. She has been trying to come up with a new title for herself, and immediately one comes to mind: “Blocker of Cocks!”

We move on and find another room. Luna, and only Luna, can hear laughter.

It sounds like it’s coming from the other side of the door at the other end of a short corridor, that Jorg’ath has opened. The laughter is mean-spirited, like a naughty child.

Skabb pings for magic - the chandelier pings back. She sends Grabby Cat for a - gentle! - poke around up there. There is an ever-burning torch up there. Grabby Cat tries to get it down. Nat 20 for a 24! Skabb adds it to her inventory. (Will it shine through her bag, she asks? She can deactivate it. It will never run out of fuel, she is told.)

This room is full of comfy furniture, more books, a fountain, and this fella:

(Hartvig: “Who’s this prick?”)

It is giggling, and annotating a book as it does so. Luna wants to catch and eat it. “ekekekekekkekekekekek,” she says involuntarily, pupils wide, tail swishing.

Jorg’ath admires the carpet. “I may be a big lizard, but I have exquisite taste,” he announces.

Luna jumps on the - thing? Lurker - and tries to snatch it. “I want to cram it into my mouth.” 20 Athletics! And… Initiative, though the rest of us are reluctant to get in the way of her fun.

The Lurker goes first, and casts Mote of Light, dealing 7 Force damage. Now she is affected by Lurker’s Glow:

“I don’t mind him being able to see me while I eat him,” says Luna. It claws her face.

Skabb, who speaks Sylvan, hears it say a number of disgusting things about how he’s going to rip Luna’s eyes out and peel off her skin. It uses its last action to make an escape attempt, but has a -6 penalty: it fails miserably, and she manages to hold on to it. She does want us to help her kill it after all, however, as it’s done significant damage with its claws.

She stabs twice but the second one misses even though she rolls a 20. And it’s flat footed as well so she technically rolled a 22 and it still missed.

Uhhhhh… we might be fucked.

Should she drop it and run away? If she dies she won’t be any use to anyone. It might hit her as she runs away though…? There is some discussion about attacks of opportunity. (Can it do that? Luna wonders. You'll find out when you run away, Sprocket tells her.)

“…No, fuck it, I’m going to hold on to him,” she decides. Her third attack misses by a country mile.

Sprocket casts Draw Ire, forcing a Will save. It rolls a 26. “… Fuckbiscuits.”

Save the day, Ash-man! He does Needle dart and crits! (Someone’s found his mojo.) 18 damage! Wait - he did a crit, so that’s double damage AND persistent bleeding. Woof. Wouldn’t want to be that guy. Oh wait again, the 18 WAS the crit damage. Hartvig’ll take it.

“Do I know what kind of creature this is?” Skabb asks.

“A dickhead,” Jorg’ath tells her.

She sends Grabby in to see what the light source is in here. She thinks the thing will be hurt by the dark, so she wants Grabby to put the light out or steal it.

GC rolls too low to grab it, so Skabb gives her two more actions to try again - wait, can she do that? No she can’t, balls. GRabby’ll just have a little sit on the chandelier. Skabb does Slashing Gust instead, for 16 damage.

Jorg’ath does a big Godzilla roar as he Rages and will "bash him up with a Great Axe". 12 damage, including 4 acid.

Nadia sticks it to the floor with a glue bullet, yeah. It’s stuck for six rounds! (Sprocket wants her to find a revolver, and get a feat he will call “empty the chamber”. Nadia: “I cast ‘Uzi’!”)

Luna has earned a Hero Point for roleplaying seamlessly as a cat, which is poor consolation as she’s dead when the Lurker hits her. Then it disappears, muttering about how it’s going to skin every last one of us… Uh oh. (Nadia is outraged that it escaped her glue bullet. It used Dimension Door. She's happy to find out that it is still stuck to itself, wherever it went.) Hartvig Heals Luna for 27 hit points.

“Did I eat him?” she asks as she awakens.

Someone does recall knowledge - the Lurker is fey, and evil. They sometimes hide their wings, and like to murder things for fun. They hate noble humans, and especially hate gnomes. (Jorg’ath: “Me too.”)

We look at the book it was reading; it’s in Sylvan. Skabb sighs.

There is a picture of someone being skinned alive. The annotations say things like “This looks like fun, must try that one".

Jorg’ath makes a Perception check. He spots another key between two of the chairs; it’s iron, with a symbol of Aradin (?). More books, about hauntings I think? Jorg’ath takes that one, as he’s a big fan of Derek Acorath. (Ha-cha-cha.)

Luna makes a grab for the other ever burning torch, on direction from Grabby Cat.

Jorg’ath finds a rubber ducky and is inordinately excited about it. It is in a suspiciously clean bathroom.

(He has found a book about how to create poltergeists and ghostly weapons! He gives it to Sprocket. It’s called Ineffable Hauntings.)

More doors, quick! Skabb finds some stairs that go down, and we are briefly paralysed with indecision. Skabb asks if she can send Grabby downstairs to scout, as she can be re-summoned if she dies? The DM hasn’t done the map for that layer yet, so no.

Jorg’ath finds another suspiciously clean bathroom, and then a pile of cultists and the Light Lurker - oh shit!

Initiative, and we all call for Augie…

Does 33 hit Jorg’ath? Yeah, he would say it does. In fact it is more than ten over his AC which makes it a crit - it does 24 damage to him with Mote of Light, and Lurker’s Glow.

“Help…?” he asks.

Sprocket. (“This room is a real shithouse,” Jorg’ath remarks, earning himself a Hero Point.) Augustus strides in and smashes a ghoul for 8 damage, and casts Shield on himself.

Skabb casts Disrupt Undead, and the ghoul fails its save. “Hah.” She then pours a Minor Elixir of Life down Jorg’ath’s throat.

Nadia rushes in and throws a Holy Water at a cultist and hits! She then glues him to the floor with a crit and a glue bullet. Then she spots how many ghouls are in this room. “Uhhhhhhhhh…”

Augie also rushes in and starts biting, and does it so good we start chanting his name. MVP!

The Cultist casts Phantom Pain. On whom…? Can the DM get a Will save from Nadia? (Ah shit. That's me.) She rolls an 18; she needed a 20. She takes 7 damage, and 2 Persistent. He then tries to get out of the glue; he rolls Acrobatics 24 and frees himself.

Luna is up. She moves up and takes aim at one of the ghouls. Can she hide first? She’s not in the room yet, so yes. She crits with her shortbow - and then crits her damage roll for 25! She’s one-shotted a ghoul, yeah.

Jorg’ath would like to, if possible, move in and scoop Nadia up and throw her out of the room. He succeeds his Strength check (Strength? Rude) and flings her back out into the corridor. He crits with his greatsword for 13 damage. Howdydoodis! "Uh, I run in, throwing tieflings all over the place, and bisect a ghoul."

A ghoul claws Augustus, who is Sickened 1, apparently (no-one's quite sure how), 22 hits him for 4 slashing damage. 13 misses. Another slashes at Jorg’ath, and another at Augie.

Hartvig Heals Sprocket, so that Augustus is also healed. He does a 1 actioner - wait… no, a 2 actioner. 16 plus 9 back for Augustus.

The Lurker takes his turn to do Searing Light… 40 damage to Augie.

Noooooo! He then slashes him for 12 damage, but he’s still up! Yeahhhhhhhhh. (We weren't supposed to roll good enough to have Augie come with us, and the DM has been trying his hardest to kill him off ever since.)

Sprocket casts Boost Eidolon on Augustus, and Augustus has a ‘chuntering run’ toward a ghoul, and thumps some understanding into him - well, he tries, and misses.

Skabb will Magic Missile… something. I miss what.

Nadia glues Jorg’ath’s ghoul to the floor to make it easier to hit, then misses with Bluebird. Augie kills something and then eats its flesh to heal himself. (Even though he’s bitten heads off, he STILL doesn’t get a Hero point. Unfair.)

Luna is next, and I think she’s going for that little winged shit. We hear her growling from her hiding place. 30 to hit, and it’s green! she rolls minimum on her damage roll, and does “just a measly 25”, getting the howdy doodis! She pins him to the wall like a butterfly, so she can come over later and cham his wings off.

Inspired by the cat, Jorg’ath goes into a rage. 29 and it’s also green! 26 damage plus four acid and the ghoul is dead. He goes for the next one and hits, it hits back and misses all three of its attacks.

Hartvig is out of scrolls, so he has to use his own actual spell slots now, just so we all know the sacrifices he makes. (He hardly ever gets to flense anything.) 14 hp back for Jorg’ath. He could use his last action to Guide Augie, but he hardly needs it. He casts it on Augustus instead.

Sprocket and Augustus - Sprocket Boosts him, and Augustus will move… and… “give this guy a bit of a bonkin’.” Howdy doodis! Double fist slam into the ground so he makes a horrible greasy puddle for Augie to snack on. A ghoul bisque, if you will.

Augie yoms it up, and we’re out of initiative. Skabb wants to carve the eyes out of the Lurker, one for her and one for Luna, because it said it was going to do that to them. She gives one to Nadia to make a necklace for Luna. Nadia flubs it, even with her new eyepiece AND a Hero point, and hangs on to the eye for another go later.

The DM has good news for two of us - Sprocket has ghoul fever! Skabb has contracted blue blisters from eating offal, and is developing blisters on her skin and gums.

… we’ll deal with that next week.

Well, we went another week without the DM managing to kill Augie, and we are all extremely relieved. If he ever does die, the funeral's going to be half a session at least. Until he rises again as Augie the White...

"Augie the Grey, that's what they used to call me..."

[imagine-darksiders]

This might be one dark af/angsty ask but here we go. How do you think a y/n would react to Death having nightmares in front of them? Specifically any about Lilith, flashback type nightmares about the past, & Absalom. Hell how would Death react to them in your opinion? I personally believe after nightmares about Lilith the first thing he may do depending on severity is bolt in panic like he's just escaped her all over again. If you know you know.

Me? Actually getting around to answering your lovely asks?? It's more likely than you think ;)

--------

What does Death fear?

What could a creature so ancient and stoic and courageous possibly have to be afraid of?

Before tonight, you'd have argued, 'probably nothing outside of losing his siblings.'

But as you lay here in the dying glow of a campfire with your eyes wide open and painfully alert, you're coming to the dawning realisation that your grim and grouchy companion might be afraid of more than he lets on.

The mutterings had begun about ten minutes ago, and you'd snapped awake almost immediately, perhaps having grown accustomed to sleeping with one ear perked to detect any approaching threat.

Dust is roosting quite comfortably on your sternum, a reassuring presence in the night, but when you jolt awake, he cracks open a single, beady eye and squints down at you, his feathered throat bobbing with a lazy croon.

“War...”

Blearily, you stare up at the crow for a few seconds before your sleep-addled brain sharpens and you realise that, no, Dust has not suddenly and inexplicably become capable of speech.

But then... who..?

“War... Run... Nnngh...”

Admittedly wary of what you're about to witness, you roll your head over to the right, away from the little firepit you've dug and search the darkness for your travelling companion, finding him resting on his side with his protruding spine to you, just out reach of the fire's illuminating flames.

“Death?” you croak wearily, propping yourself up ever so slightly so as not to dislodge the crow nestled on your chest.

Even in the meagre light, you can make out that the Horseman is... twitching. He doesn't stir or acknowledge your call, and it's with a sudden and jarring realisation that you come to the conclusion that Death is... asleep.

You never even knew Death could sleep. He certainly hasn't in the weeks you've already journeyed with him, that you know of, at least.

“Let... him go...” he growls out with a dangerous rattle in his throat, kicking his leg out before settling again.

More to the point, you never knew the ancient Nephilim could dream.

'Right,' you decide, 'This is weird.'

Whispering a soft apology to Dust, you cup your hands beneath him and lift the bird off your chest, lowering the warbling ball of ebony feathers down onto the rolled-up cowl that Death has been lending you for use as a pillow.

The crow's sharp gaze tracks you steadily as you make your way across the campsite and lower yourself to your knees behind Death, lifting your hands to hover just above his shoulder.

“Death?” you call softly, only to flinch away when the Horseman abruptly rolls onto his back and hisses something ancient and untranslatable through his teeth.

You stare down into the sockets of his bone mask, noting that although his eyes are squeezed firmly shut, they seem to be darting back and forth underneath his lids.

You're still stunned at the revelation that the Horseman is actually asleep for once in his life.

But then, he'd had quite the eventful day yesterday. Ever since he climbed that bleak, crumbling tower in Shadow's Edge, he's been quiet and standoffish, more-so than he usually is. A lot more.

That tower... he'd fearsomely forbidden you to follow him up it. He'd even threatened to leave you hogtied at the bottom of the stairs if you tried to accompany him...

He hadn't spoken a word to you once he eventually descended several minutes later, he'd simply taken you by the wrist and dragged you roughly and hastily away from the ruins.

It took several hours of sitting in the shade of a dead, whispering tree before he deigned to speak to you again, and even then, it was only to tell you that he would be setting up camp for the night.

You stopped trying to get him to talk after that, but the whole evening, you felt the hairs on your arms prickle and stand on end.

Magic...

Death's expression was unreadable, yet his inner turmoil was all-too apparent by the amount of dark energy fracturing the air around you like an invisible lightening storm.

“Let them GO!”

You jump at the Horseman sudden shout, lowering your eyes to watch his skeletal hands ball into fists at his sides. From behind clenched teeth, he bites out, “Me.. You want me. Not them.”

And then, in the midst of his unconscious turmoil, he murmurs your name.

Without thinking, you finally stretch out your fingers. Determined to wake your friend from his nightmare., you grip his broad, cold shoulder and give it a tiny shake. “Wake up, Death!” you croak, “You're having a nightm- ack!”

Bruising fingers snap shut around your neck at a devastating speed and immediately begin to squeeze, cruelly choking the end of your sentence from your throat and cutting off your supply of oxygen.

Death's eyes have burst open and are now pointed straight at you, burning with a ferocious madness as they bore through your skull like a drill.

Frightened, you try to jerk yourself back, but the pressure increases as you do, so you resort to opening your mouth to try and tell the Horseman to let you go. Yet all you can utter is a soundless wheeze, losing yourself precious millimetres of lung capacity.

Lifting your hands, you scrabble fruitlessly at his rigid wrist. “Death!” you manage to gargle out, “S'me!”

You should have known better than to try and wake a sleeping lion. You should have left well-enough alone! How could you be so stupid!?

You can only hope that when this is over, Death won't blame himself.

The very instant the Horseman's hand met your throat, Dust had flapped into the air and is now zipping in low circles around his master's head, squawking like a creature possessed.

For several, excruciating seconds, Death glares up at you blindly, sending a cold, painful spike of dread sliding down the back of your neck from the point were his nails dig into your delicate flesh.

His eyelids flicker once, you hear your name leave the tip of his tongue, and then, just as suddenly as his hand snatched you, the appendage is wrenched away, leaving your throat exposed and cold, but free once more.

In an instant, you collapse backwards onto your rear, spluttering and heaving in a great lungful of air as you frantically push yourself away from the Horseman and raise a hand to cover your neck in some pathetic illusion of protection.

With a rustle of black feathers, Dust lands on the ground between you and Death, clacking his beak and puffing himself up like an absolutely livid cat.

The Nephilim doesn't even acknowledge his crow. He only stares down at you, one arm subconsciously stretching out in your direction. “Human?” he utters, and the uncertainty in his voice is so unlike him that it stops you from scrabbling away at once.

Still, you maintain your distance, leaning back on one hand and eyeing him warily as you catch your breath, wheezing through a throat that is slowly reshaping itself to its original width. Slowly, your galloping heart eases its way back down your neck to sit safely behind your ribs from which it had leapt.

The Horseman takes in your heaving chest and his eyes land upon the trembling hand that you're using to protect your vulnerable little neck.

He must put two and two together, because one moment he's laying on the ground, and the next, he's on his feet, inexplicably fast, backing away from you with a gentle frown collapsing over his eyes.

“Dea-!” In attempting to call out, your oesophagus suddenly clenches and you lurch forwards, hacking out a series of ragged coughs that only seem to irritate your tender throat even more.

You blink through a haze of tears and raise your head to see the Nephilim's retreating back as he disappears swiftly into the night.

Swallowing roughly, you clamber up onto your feet and choke out, “Wait!” before stumbling after him.

He isn't running, but with the length of his stride, he might as well be.

Even at a jog, you struggle to gain any ground on him whilst breathing through your sore windpipe at the same time. Tears spring to your eyes as you cough yet again. “Death!” you croak, “Stop! Wasn't your fault!”

And to your surprise, the Horseman actually slows his pace.

Your legs begin to wobble with hesitant relief, grateful that he's willing to let you catch up so you can apologise to him.

But just as you start to draw near, Death suddenly flings a hand up through the air and curls his fingers into a fist as it reaches the top of its swing.

Momentarily bewildered, your steps falter.

Without warning, the ground all around you begins to tremble and quake, and before you can take another step forwards, several, sun-bleached hands burst out of the dirt near your feet, startling a hoarse yelp out of you.

One by one, Death's undead ghouls claw their way past crumbling soil and heave themselves straight out of the ground, rising to their feet and shaking themselves free of dust and muck before swinging their empty skulls about, likely searching for the threat that their master has summoned them to deal with.

Their sunken, skeletal heads perk up when Death speaks, his voice tight as a coiled spring. “Take the human back to camp,” he commands them, never once turning to meet your eye, “Keep them there... Keep them safe.”

And just like that, he's gone, striding away into the darkness to who knows where.

“Death!” you bark, trying to follow, but a sudden, clammy grasp around your wrist keeps you from venturing any further.

“Oh, come on, guys,” you groan and stomp a foot as two of the ghouls take up each of your arms, leaving their three, remaining brethren to fan out around you in a loose circle.

Together, with single-minded focus, they herd you back to the camp where you soon find that Dust has reclaimed his spot on Death's cowl, cawing at you lazily upon your return.

“Yeah, yeah, I'm okay,” you grumble when the ghouls coax you down beside the fire, chittering away to one another with an unknowable urgency. You know it's pointless to try and protest. Once Death has given them an objective, they'll carry it out until they're either destroyed, or until their master releases his grip on their souls and allows them to slip back into the ether, returning to an eternal slumber.

You sigh, letting one of the skeletal beasts card its rawboned fingers through your hair, crooning at the texture beneath its skin. The others meanwhile, gather around you, keeping their sallow eyes pointed out towards the darkness of Shadow's Edge.

-----

By the time Death has gathered his wits and dragged himself back to the campsite, now with a much more solid grasp on his fluctuating emotions, you've fallen asleep on his cowl with Dust perched in the dip of your back, soaking up your body's heat.

The ghouls, meanwhile, are pressed in all around you, their heads on a constant, vigilant swivel.

Death hasn't even come within fifty feet of you before their skulls all snap in his direction and the soft, rumbling growls of an angry pack disturbs the silence of the air. They're quick to recognise him though, falling quiet again almost at once.

The Horseman merely gives his hand a wave and all five of them stiffen with the slightest shudder. In total silence, their bodies crumple and fall, turning to ash before they even hit the ground. Gently, they drift away from the camp on a warm, steady breeze.

Death's chest rises and falls with a quiet sigh and he trudges closer to you until his shadow falls across your face.

In the early morning light, his eyes find your neck and he can't stop himself from digging his nails into the skin of his palms at the sight of the bruises that are blossoming to life across your flesh. Why do humans have to be so damnably fragile?

He can remember his nightmare in vivid detail. It had, after all, been more of a memory than a fabrication.

It's one of the many curses that sits upon his shoulders like a lead weight, the knowledge of what that... that demon had done to him all those years ago – what she would have done to his siblings if he hadn't stepped in and offered himself up to her as some kind of sick, consolation prize.

He recalls what she said to him yesterday when he met her at the top of her dark, gloomy tower. In his mind's eye, he can still picture her rancid but alluring face twist with wanton pleasure as she described what she'd do to you.

“You stink of that filthy Earth rat,” she'd hummed, her tone sultry and pleasant despite her cruel words, “You can't hide it from your mother forever...”

With a rough shake of his head, Death banishes the memory and drops smoothly to the ground, sitting cross-legged at your side.

You'd caught him off guard last night. And you'd paid the terrible price for his lack of control.

His gaze drifts again to your throat, to the stains he's left behind in the shape of his treacherous fingers. Another sin to his ever-growing list.

He'd let his psyche slip... he'd let his mind go spiralling deep down a suffocating rabbit hole and you're the one who has been hurt as a result.

No doubt you'll forgive him when you wake, if you haven't already. You'll probably be quick to blame yourself, and though he appreciates the effort you'd go to spare his feelings, he wishes you wouldn't.

This is on him alone.

“Never again, he murmurs, bending over a little as if to shelter you beneath his bulk from the world around you, “Never again.”

[tommyspeakycap]

I love your work! I was wondering if you’d be willing to write something about (toddler) baby Shelby having Alfie help her bake a cake for Tommy

omggggg that’s so so cute!!

A Bakers Help

The burly Camden Town ‘baker’ was nothing short of completely shocked when he heard a soft banging on his office door in the mid afternoon. His eyebrows had furrowed and he had kept his hand readily on his weapon so he was prepared in the event of an enemy being on the other side of the door. He was surprised to say the least when he tugged open the door and had to look down multiple inches to spot she who knocked on the door.

There stood a little girl. One he knew fairly well but who’s appearance outside his office was still a shock. That little girl was notorious around most of England, especially in heavily gang populated territories where the “Shelby” was a household name and everybody who knew that name knew the littlest member of the family was something akin to a jewel in Tommy Shelby’s crown. Alfie had been curious as to whether or not she was actually attached to Thomas Shelby’s hip in consideration to how much time she spent right by his side, teetering along on little legs so he knew she was safe right by his side. It wasn’t often that Tommy entrusted others to watch over his youngest sister, so it would be safe to say that Alfie was incredibly confused.

“Good morning.” The little girl greets, her lips plastered with a bright smile as she lifts a hand to wave at him. Alfie braces himself on either side of his doorway with strong hands so as to lean out of his office to look out into the ‘bakery’ to both the left and right before stepping back in. “Mhm yes it was actually. Where’s your brothers?” He asks, turning his eyes back to the girl in the doorway who fights to pull her wool coat back up from falling off her arms due to the fact it hadn’t been buttoned up. The girl shrugs, “Dunno...Can I come in?” She asks politely, “It’s very cold.”

Alfie Solomons squints his eyes and forms a crease between his brows, but even he can’t deny the chill in the winter breeze through the unheated factory and the shivering of the child, and so he steps to the side and gestures her in the door. Alfie hums, or maybe something more akin to a grumble, in thought as the five year old wanders around his office to take in the whole surroundings. “And where are your pikey brothers then yeah?” His voice rumbles deep and gravelly the same way it always does, not missing the chance or thinking twice about dropping an insult to the Shelby men as he speaks. The youngest of the clan shrugs her little shoulders. “Dunno,” she says again, “I’m with Ada. Told her i was going out to play.”

The words most definitely do worry Alfie Solomons after the girl with Tommy Shelby’s striking blue eyes and his heart in the palm of her tiny hand finishes speaking flippantly. It occurs to him that she’s simply too young to understand both risk and consequence. She knows that Tommy Shelby dotes on her like the little princess he believes her to be. She knows he loves her, he tells her every day. However, Alfie knows the far darker side to that love. He’s heard of people brutally murdered with remains unidentifiable after coming close to her, and although Alfie has no desire to harm a child who probably doesn’t even understand what it is the rest of her family do when she’s not around, that doesn’t reassure him even in the slightest that Tommy, Arthur, Ada and John Shelby along with Polly Gray wouldn’t rip him to shreds if they knew their little princess was stood in his office for whatever reason.

“Right,” Alfie states, “Better get you home then,” He strides easily towards the door to hold it open, but the little girl simply quirks one eyebrow and remains where she stands. “It’s Tommy’s birthday soon.” She declares, looking up at the hardened London gangster as if he poses no threat nor fear to her in the slightest bit. She smiles at him, big and bright. She didn’t know him. She didn’t know if he was violent, didn’t know if he was supposed to be scary. She just knew she had met him before, he was relatively funny as the 5 year old obviously did not pick up on the thinly veiled threats hiding beneath the verbal back and forth between her favourite brother and the man she stood with now, and more importantly than anything; she knew he was a ‘baker’. “You need a cake on your birthday, you know.” She adds very matter of factly, and Alfie Solomons doesn’t fight the little grin he gives. “And you’re a baker, so you can make good cakes. I need you to help me make Tommy’s cake for birthday cake time on Saturday.”

There’s virtually no way this little girl had just come up with this by herself. The way she acts, her generosity, her sweetness and her absolute insistence of cake for her brothers birthday was not something she had adapted by herself. Children don’t just come up with these things. That thought, for Alfie, means that those who have raised her have drilled a certain kindness into her. Thomas Shelby has raised his little sister to be the kind of kid who will find a man she thinks is a baker just because her brother told her he was, so that he can help her make a cake. That makes Alfie want to laugh. Tommy Shelby acts the part, but Solomons now knows he’s the type who taught a little girl about the importance of cake and birthday fun.

“Fine.” Alfie responds, out stretching his arm to gesture the little girl out into the factory. He did actually have a designated area for the ‘bakery’ just in the event that someone came looking or investigating and he needed to show there was actually a bakery there. He was thankful for that now, because he got the feeling that there was little to no chance he would have gotten away from the very very persistent little Shelby trailing behind him. It becomes apparent very quickly that little (y/n) will have no luck when it comes to seeing what was going on up on the counter, considering she wasn’t even nearly the same height as it, never mind tall enough see over it. Alfie has to get creative in that respect, eyes flicking around until they lands on a a stack of crates that he grabs a couple of to pile them next to the counter so that the youngest Shelby can contribute as she pleased to the cake making.

All things considered, Alfie was actually a fairly good baker. He didn’t come up with the idea of a bakery to cover his illegal business work for no reason. He knew he could bake if it was necessary (which it sometimes was to smuggle alcohol), so this ask from the little girl who had a list of ingredients and an exact image of how she wanted this cake to look, wasn’t a huge task for him.

In the process of the bake, Alfie learned a lot. He learned that little Shelby couldn’t quite pronounce her L’s (which Tommy was apparently working on with her), so she called him Afie. He learned that Tommy’s favourite cake was vanilla sponge, which was why it was a four tier vanilla sponge with extra strawberry jam that his sweet little sister had chosen. He learned that the little girl got here by very discretely tripping up her cousin, Karl, so that Ada was preoccupied giving him a plaster for his knee and stopping his tears and (y/n) snuck off from Ada’s London home in the direction she felt like she remembered Tommy going when he had taken her to Alfie’s bakery once, albeit leaving her in the car with Arthur and John. She had to ask for directions from confused strangers a few times, but ultimately she found the place on her own. Alfie learned that little Shelby talks a lot. She’s very clever, can follow instructions a lot better than most children of a similar age. It had become increasingly clear she didn’t see any problem with talking about the fun things she did with her brothers. The way Arthur and John like to throw her about to hear her giggles, how Tommy tucks her in every single night that he can. How he tickles her, how he still carries her around even though her aunt Polly protests it. How good her aunt Polly’s cooking is. How much she loves her family. She sees no problem with divulging these soft family moments, although Tommy would probably be absolutely appalled that people knew these things about him and his brothers. It made the head of the Peaky Blinders seem so incredibly mundane.

Alfie could see now why that sweet girl was so loved and held so dear by the family. He also had to wonder if she truly was one of them. She was funny and bright, she giggled with him and babbled on about sorts of rubbish. Alas, she was bossy as Thomas himself. She was loud like Arthur, sarcastic as John, self assured as Polly, as independent as Finn and opinionated as Ada. She made sure to tell Alfie exactly how to stack the first layer while she mixed ingredients for the next layer and he was kept on a very short leash, reminded every so often that he was not to dip his fingers in any of the mixtures and leaning over as he worked to tell him Tommy liked more jam than what Alfie had put on.

“Wait!” She yelps out, leaping off the makeshift kitchen stool made from those bottle crates to chase after Alfie until she reaches the man who was carrying the cake towards a box. “Finishing touches,” she insists, ever so slightly dusting the cake with powdered icing sugar to give a final decorational appearance. Alfie smiles subconsciously as the small girl stands back with a proud grin, turning her eyes to man holding the cake, “Thank you Afie,” she beams, her cute little way of saying his name never lost on him as his heart flutters. “Welcome, baby Shelby.” He responds as he slips it into the cake box he’d ordered one of his men to go and get without question.

Alfie was certain he would step outside his bakery and London would be burning. He expected to have Shelby’s killing people on the streets searching for their baby, their sweet little princess. He assumed (and rightly so) that Ada hadn’t told Tommy that she had absolutely no idea where his most precious little love was for genuine fear of his reaction and so she had mobilised some friends and acquaintances she had made while in London to try finding her little sister. Albeit they were evidently unsuccessful and absolutely no one expected little (y/n) to be baking with Alfie Solomons for her gangster brothers birthday because she just loves him so.

Ada literally burst out the front door frantically when she saw the car headlights pull up outside her house, wrapping herself tightly in her coat as Alfie Solomons lifts her little sister down out of the car. The 5 year old stands innocent as ever next to the man who Tommy never truly knows if he can trust or not as he reaches back into the car to lift out a white cake box with two strong hands. “Better keep a closer eye on this one yeah?” He gestured his head to (y/n) who runs towards Ada and jumps into her open arms to be squeezed incredibly, almost painfully tightly. “Never run off like that again!” She hisses, her concern and anxiety clear behind her words as she speaks into her sisters soft hair, stroking it with her hand for some form of reassurance.

“Sorry Ada,” she hums cutely in response, “We made Tommy a cake though, for his birthday!” Ada let’s go of (y/n) and turns to the little girl. “Go inside and find Aunt Pol, i’ll be in shortly.” She says as she eyes Alfie Solomons with the stoney faced glare he assumes she learned from Polly Gray and her often stoney resolve. “Bye bye Afie!” The 5 year old chimes, scuttling up to him to wrap her arms around his legs for a moment before turning and running off with a wave at the doorstep with Alfie a little bit to stunned by how kind she was to him despite the bad man he was to do much else than wave after her. “You,” Ada snipped, cutting him out of his thoughts and crossing her arms firmly over her chest, “Baked a cake with my little sister?” Her words leak with confusion, eyebrows furrowed with her head tilted in question as she continues to be unable to think of any reason why Alfie Solomons hadn’t turned the little girl away or even used her as a bargaining chip with threats of harm to the child if Tommy didn’t do as Alfie wanted. Instead he baked with her a cake for Thomas and she was returned without a bump, not even a hair on her head harmed. He had returned the little Shelby who was uncharacteristically clumsy for a Shelby without her falling off of anything, burning herself on any ovens or accidentally eating something she was supposed to.

“Yeah.” Alfie responds, shrugging his shoulders at the same time. Ada steps closer to him to try in some way to read what he’s not saying, her heels clicking with each step. “And you want nothing for it?” She presses, her eyes narrowed as he shrugs. “Birthday gift innit yeah?” He grumbles, handing the cake to Ada. “She’s the best of you lot,” he states firmly as he turns his back to climb back into his car, “Keep her that way yeah?”

Ada’s frown turns to a soft smile as she nods, watching as Alfie Solomons pulls his door shut firmly and turns on his ignition.

“Mr Solomons, Oi!” She calls after him, forcing him to roll down his window to hear what she has to say. “Thank you.” She breathes, “For looking after her and bringing her home. And for the cake.” Alfie nods his head in acknowledgment. Ada isn’t sure what else to say. She still feels fairly nauseous at the fact her little sister was missing for virtually the whole day and littered with further nerves at the fact Tommy would be around to pick her up in a half hour and it wasn’t like little Shelby to keep quiet about anything, especially not when it came to Tommy and especially when it came to her adventures that her favourite brother hadn’t been part of, so assuredly she would let him know all about her baking day with Alfie after the cake was revealed tomorrow afternoon for his birthday. Alfie knew this too and he imagined he’d get a visit from the head of the Peaky Blinders relatively soon after he found out.

Tommy would probably be as confused as Ada as to why Alfie looked after little (y/n) the way he did. Alfie couldn’t even really explain it himself, she just warmed up his heart and the sweet little girl showed Alfie truly why Tommy loves that little girl so much. She brings laughter and happiness and fun. She brings light into a very, very dark life and Alfie appreciates that dedication Tommy had to keeping her safe a lot more now. He himself now had a soft spot for the kid and there was a part of him that knew for a fact he too would be making sure no one in his circle was breathing words of harming that little girl who had promised she would bake with him again, and had his birthday written on her hand so she could bake for his birthday.

Maybe the Shelby’s weren’t so bad after all.

[kaitsawamura]

would you like to stay forever?

SUMMARY⎮   Sparring with Pro Hero Kirishima Eijiro in his private gym at his home doesn't seem like a bad idea if you don't count the fact that you really, really like him.

STATS⎮ minors do not interact, 18+ ⎮  Rating: M (for mature)  ⎮  WC: 5525  ⎮   Pairing: Pro Hero Kirishima Eijiro x Fem!Reader  ⎮   Tags: Aged Up Character(s), Friends to Lovers, Sparring, Smut, Fluff, Age/Experience Gap (if you really squint)  ⎮  AO3

NOTES⎮  Thanks to @spacelabrathor​ for listening to me scream about this and to @some-kindofgnome​ for fueling my Kiri fever dreams.  Yes, that title is based on a Mulan quote. This whole fic was based on THIS POST and Kirishima seemed like the perfect character for this pwp.  Hope y'all enjoy!  (Also please for the love of God, click on the banner to see in HD if you’re on mobile, it looks so much better lol)

It was Saturday and even though you’re on your way to becoming a Pro Hero, you can think of several things you’d rather be doing with your one day off than going to Kirishima Eijiro’s house to spar.  But here you are pulling into his driveway, going over combat moves in your head as if your life depended on it.  They weren’t really serving their purpose which was to distract yourself.  Kiri had offered up his personal gym, encouraged you to stop by with one hand in his pocket and the other rubbing the back of his neck as if he was nervous.  

A couple of his friends had already taken him up on the offer.  You were the only one he’d offered who hadn’t come over yet.  He had texted you a couple of weeks later saying he was starting to take it personally…  and then immediately texted with a laughing emoji just to clarify he was only giving you a hard time.  It brings a smile to your face now as you remember it.  Yesterday he had also clarified it would just be the two of you if you were self-conscious sparring in front of other people.  You’d have the whole place to yourselves.  Like that should mean something.  Which it did.  It does , you realize with butterflies growing in your stomach.  Kiri doesn’t need to know that though.

The two of you had been toeing around something since you had been hired at Fatgum’s Agency a year ago.  Neither of you had made a move.  Kirishima, the Red Riot, was a big Pro Hero and while you took pride in your quirk, it didn’t hold a coin to some of the others you’d come in contact with.  It had surprised you when Toyomitsu had brought you on.  But he had mumbled something about “liking your spunk” and that he thought a teleportation quirk would be a useful one to add to his agency.  The first day you had shown up, Kiri had immediately caught your eye.  Not for the obvious reasons.  Obvious reasons being the fact that he was climbing the Pro Hero charts or the fact that he had a dynamically interesting quirk or that at twenty-five he was already built like a brickhouse. 

Those were all valid reasons, yes, but what had pulled you in was his smile and his genuine interest in you outside of your quirk.  But he was just like that you had quickly discovered.  He knew everyone’s coffee order and what they liked for lunch.  He knew when to push and when to back off.  He knew when to talk and when to listen , knew when he still had a lesson to learn.  The kids flocked to him.  Even now you’re still entirely convinced that’s actually his quirk, getting people to like him.  It’s not a difficult thing to do though.

Your brain stutters back to the present when a text notification pings from your cell phone as you sit in Kiri’s driveway, picking at non-existent lint on your gym shorts.  The cute ones you’re still convincing yourself were your only clean pair and that’s the only reason you wore them.

KIRI : i saw u pull up, u gonna come in or what 😂

Had he been waiting for you to get there?  You tapped out a quick response, one that hid the little flip in your stomach at the thought: creeper, you were watching for me lmao

Response bubbles immediately flash on your phone screen but you’re angling out of your car and shutting the door before he can reply.

Somehow, this house fits Kiri perfectly.  It isn’t big.  You had seen pictures of other top-ranking Pros’ houses.  Enji Todoroki’s house, for example, was fucking ridiculous.  But even without a massive floor plan, Kiri’s house is nicer than any you’d been in for some time.  Clean, straight lines and lots of windows.  In fact, you can see straight through the floor-to-ceiling windows out to his backyard when you reach the front door.  Is that a pool ?  Kiri had tons of fun showing pictures at the agency; it was a well-deserved investment for his already multiple years of service as a Pro.  The pictures hadn’t done the place justice though.

Kiri comes to the door, throwing it wide open with a huge grin that shows off his sharp teeth.  You ignore the way your mouth goes dry as he drags you in, babbling on like an excited little kid at you actually coming.

“I really thought you were gonna back out!  I mean, that would have been fine, of course.  I just can’t see the point of having the whole place to myself all the time.”  He’s irresistibly cute, walking around showing you the living room and the kitchen and pointing out to the backyard where, yes, there is indeed a pool.  “You can come over any time and use that too if you want!”  You thank him, warmth pooling in your stomach at how incredibly nice he is.

“Uh, we should probably get in the gym.  I have… stuff to do later,” you finish lamely.  You don’t have anything to do later but very quickly you’re realizing how far out of your depth you are here.  The familiar beginnings of the head over heels fall is washing over you in steady waves.  But you’re coworkers and the thought of coming to work every day and having to see his adorable face and not doing anything about it is almost making you nauseous.

“Oh, yeah, it’s just down the hallway,” he rumbles, leading the way and you follow trying and failing miserably to calm the nerves flashing through your veins.  You’re here alone with Kiri , the man you’ve been crushing on since you’d started working with him a year ago.  And now your stupid brain isn’t just thinking about what it would feel like to run your tongue along his teeth or how his hands would feel between your legs.  No, your stupid brain is thinking about what Kiri looks like when he first opens his eyes in the morning.

Your one-track mind is not getting any help, especially when Kiri walks through the doorway of the gym addition and immediately proceeds to pull his shirt up and over his shoulders and tosses it to the side.  Shit.  His back muscles ripple with the movement and when he turns to face you, it’s heart-wrenchingly obvious that he has no idea the effect he’s having on you.  He has to know .  Doesn’t he?  From your end, it seems wildly obvious that someone as good-looking as him should know .  

You glance around, eternally grateful for the fact that the gym is also attractive.  Floor to ceiling windows span two of the walls here as well and there’s a large set of French doors leading out to the yard.  You find yourself actually in awe when you get a better look at the landscaping.  It’s so green .  There’s a small patch of lawn but the rest is just artfully arranged native flora and fauna.  Violets, tulips.  Huge hosta plants.  And cherry trees heavy with their signature sakura blossoms.  

“Kiri, it’s beautiful!”  He comes to stand beside you, looking out the French doors as well.

“You like it?  I guess it is pretty nice, huh?”  You glance up at him, your chest expanding on a lurch looking at his smile.  You’d never noticed before but he has a light dusting of freckles across his nose.

“Yeah, really nice.”  You look out again, letting the silence grow until it feels like the most comfortable thing in the world.  After what seems like an eternity Kiri clears his throat, rocking back on the balls of his feet.  “What are you thinking for today?”  The question leaves your lips and you’re immediately regretting it; your stomach flips again when Kiri looks at you like you’re prey.

“Close combat, hand-to-hand combat.  You did mention a while ago you wanted to strengthen that, right?”  You throw your head back, rolling your eyes, and groan.  The two of you make your way to the center of the mat.

“Yeah, I mean, I’d be scared to take me on too,” Kiri says, large hands on even larger hips.   He isn’t as tall as some of the other heroes at six foot three inches but he’s wide , thick.  You know for a fact you couldn’t wrap your arms around his waist and have your hands meet.  He’s wearing the biggest shit-eating grin you’ve ever seen.  The sharpened points of his canines are out and on prominent display.   Famous last words you think as a snarl erupts on your face.

“I’m not scared , Kiri.  I just don’t want to wear you out .  You’re a Pro Hero.  You’re on the job a lot more than I am.  Plus, you’re getting kind of old.  Is that a little gray I see coming in?”  Kiri bares his teeth even more but it’s not lost on you that he quickly reaches up to rake his fingers through his hair.  There isn’t any gray, obviously , but the thought has Red Riot distracted.  Distracted enough that when you plant your feet and your fist connects with his face, your knuckles hit skin and not the reinforced rock of his quirk.

“ Shit.”  Kiri takes a step back, reaching up to cradle his jaw.  His tongue swipes out to lick at the blood on his bottom lip.  His vermillion eyes find yours and if you didn’t work with him on a regular basis, you would have felt fear at this moment.  You know he wouldn’t hurt you but even now, a thrill races through your veins like electricity.  He looks as if he’s going to devour you.  You take your own step back, readying your quirk, reaching out to it as your fists hold their position in front of your body.  A dark chuckle spills from his chest as Kiri calls on his own quirk.

Now it was your turn to be distracted; you had always been fascinated by Kiri’s quirk, the way his body looked when it hardened up.  The ripples of muscle still visible under the toughened skin.  The divots and ridges and how they mapped their way across his shoulders and chest and abdomen.  You knew how it felt to the touch in fake combat.  The Fatgum heroes all took pride in maintaining a healthy routine; sparring was a common workout that was previously done at a local public gym.  You wonder absently what it would feel like to touch him slow and at the moment.  When you could give extra attention with extra time. 

Kiri closes the space between the two of you at the moment your mind strays and you barely are able to teleport out of the way to avoid him crashing into you.  You try to take a swipe at him as you materialize from in front of him to behind but this time he’s ready for you and he’s using his quirk.  Instead of moving out of the way, he plants his feet and allows your punch to hit.  Pain radiates up through your fingers and wrist.  It always irritated you that you had to prepare yourself to strike Kiri when he was using his quirk.  Otherwise, you’d be in for a whole lot of hurt every time you landed a punch.

Teleportation is a pretty handy quirk.  It gives you a pretty good advantage the more you work on your close combat skills.  The trick with Kiri was to keep going at him until he ran out of energy.  You hadn’t gotten to that point yet; your quirk had its limits as well.  You were only two years out of UA, Kiri was out by seven.  His strength was already fairly unmatched; sparring with him was always good practice.  You relish the thought of the day you can win a sparring session without tapping out.  It surges through you like pure energy.  

You teleport to stand in front of him again, shifting your weight into your hips and up through your right hook.  This time your fist connects with Kiri’s side and he lets out a small grunt.  Your fingers don’t hurt so bad this time and by the time Kiri is retaliating, you jump back a few feet.  He hmms, a sound that reverberates from his chest.

“That’s all well and good but how do you expect to do anything if you jump that far away?”  He lunges forward at a running start, leaping at the last second, sending his gloved fist into your stomach.  You were fast, but still not always fast enough.  You double over, the air rushing from your lungs and your pre-workout protein smoothie threatening to exit back the way it went in.  Sweat is already beading on your brow and sliding under your tank top.  You take a few breaths through your nose when an idea pops into your head; you stay bent over.  “Hey, I didn’t hit you that hard.  You good?”  

Kiri comes to stand in front of you, leaving him vulnerable.  He can’t see your smirk until it’s too late.  You wail on him, using some of the basic combos he’s taught you before today.  Satisfaction rolls through you when he actually takes a step back.  But then he puts his arms up in front of him, clenching his abdomen and bending inward to protect his core.  He drops just a fraction and before you realize what’s happening, he’s swiping his leg out to push through yours.  You watch in slow motion as you see his laughing face then the ceiling of the gym as you flip and land on your back.

If you thought you were out of breath before…  “Fuuu-.”  It’s a wheeze that feels like it’s ripping your chest open.  You’re seeing stars.  Kiri stands over you, hands on his hips again.  You stare at his face; the hero has his hair pulled back into a bun.  You snort, rolling your eyes.  Why does he still look so fucking good?  The sweat has caused some of the pieces falling out of his hair tie to curl.  His hair has curl to it?  You’ve never noticed before, considering he always gels it into spikes.  You like the curl.  “Are you--are you gonna help me up, or what?”  It was still painful to talk.

Kiri tilts his head to the side, just slightly, and crosses his arms.  “I’m thinking not.  Last time I let down my guard you got those good combos in.”  You stare in stunned silence, sitting up so you’re supported by your elbows.  Kiri shifts slightly and if you didn’t know better, you’d say he’s backing up to… get a better view.   

“Is that any way to treat your student,  Red Riot?”  You know you get under his skin when he clicks his tongue against his teeth and holds out a hand with a begrudging eye roll.  He pulls you up with ease, quickly enough that you almost lose your balance, swaying into his space.  You look up, eyes moving back and forth between his.  

He draws in a breath and drags his bottom lip between his teeth.  “First of all,” he says as he places his hands on your upper arms, “I’m not your teacher.  I’m not that much older than you.  Secondly,” he mutters as he tucks a stray lock of hair behind your ear, “our relationship isn’t that formal is it?”  He’s so fucking close.  This is getting dangerous.  Dangerous because Kiri is within kissing distance.  Dangerous because this gentle side of him is making you lose more breath than falling on your ass.  Dangerous because the thought of Kiri taking you on the floor right now is almost too much to bear.  

So you fall back on what you’re here to do.  Fight.  You flash him a wicked smile before rallying your quirk and teleporting a few feet away.  His hand is still raised in mid-air and when his head whips to look in your direction, his crimson eyes are narrowed and his nostrils are flared.  He laughs and rolls his neck, dancing on his toes.

“Okay.  I see.  I’m not gonna go easy on you, you know?”  You snort and put your fists up in front of you again.

“As if you were going easy on me before, Kiri.  Bring it on.”  He smiles, the sharp points of his teeth enough to make your thoughts swerve again before you bring them under control.  “Bring it on,” you whisper more to yourself as you brace for the fight.

Two hours later, you feel the strain in your muscles.  Your quirk is running low on reserves and you know you won’t be able to use it much more.  Kiri looks like he hasn’t wasted a breath but you can see he’s getting tired in the way his feet don’t move as sharply.  And if the length of time he’s using his quirk is any indication to his state of mind, you know the two of you will be calling it a day soon.  But you’re also both stubborn.  And you’re dying to get one more good move in on him.

The cockiness the two of you had at the beginning of the sparring session hasn’t gone away but has burned hot into determination.  No more smiles, only clear-headed concentration.  The two of you are an arm's length from each other, throwing various punches and switching quickly between using your quirks and not.  You’re breathing hard, sweat gathering at your brow as you throw another right hook that Kiri easily blocks.

“Get out of your head.  You can be too predictable sometimes.”  He doesn’t mean for it to come across as rude but the words strike a match to a guttering fire.  You bare your own teeth at Kiri even though they aren’t sharp and probably don’t look nearly as threatening but it helps you feel powerful nonetheless.  You drop without a second thought, lowering to your palms and sweeping your leg out in front of you in a wide arc.  A grin spreads across your face when your calf meets Kiri’s ankle.  He’s too physically dense for this move to work if he had seen it coming.  But he doesn’t.  And his solid 220 pounds of muscle falls hard.  

You allow yourself the satisfaction of the moment for only a split second; Kiri’s recovery time is much shorter than yours so it isn’t long before he’s scrambling forward.  He goes straight for your wrists to subdue you but with a smirk, you realize in his haste he’s put himself in the perfect position for you to possibly gain the upper hand.  You scoot up away from him just enough to drag his arm forward and swing your legs around his neck.  Then you elevate your hips and lock your core.

It’s over from there as you squeeze with every last ounce of strength left in your body.  It doesn’t take long for him to tap out.  You release as soon as you feel his loose hand tap your arm; he collapses over you and you’re too tired to move away or push him off.  Now his breathing is rough and you feel a surge of pride.  You reach up and place your hand on his head where his bun has come undone; he’s so heavy but it doesn’t feel bad.  In fact, the feel of Kirishima resting his head and upper chest on your stomach is feeling nothing short of good .  He’s still between your legs and suddenly the air is crackling with a new kind of energy when you gently comb your fingers through his hair.

He rises up, his hands on either side of you.  His hips rest between your legs; the mingled heat radiating from both of you is almost more than you can take but there is no way you’re going to move anywhere.  He leans forward, so close you can see the flecks of burnt orange in his eyes.  If you moved forward just a little, you could close that space between you.  He leans down more, his mouth right next to the shell of your ear.

“Maybe not always predictable.  You did good today.  Probably some of the best fighting I’ve seen from you so far.  Keep it up.”  He grunts, a shift of his hips allowing the curve of his cock to brush against your clothed sex through his gym shorts.  He stiffens in what you think might be embarrassment.  “Shit, sorry, let me just, uh--”  The stuttering mess he becomes right before your eyes makes something lurch in your chest; you reach for his face without thinking.

“Kiri,” you whisper, rolling your own hips against his.  His cheeks are burning a shade of red almost as vibrant as his hair.  You bring up your other hand, holding his face between them and bringing him down to settle over you once more.  Your lips meet his; he seems to war with himself for just a moment.  A suspended second in time.  But then he gives in, slipping his tongue against yours in a delicious sliding vision of what’s coming.

He reaches between you to slip his hand under your tank top; his hand is big and nearly encompasses your side.  But it’s warm and gentle.  Gentle.  Who would have guessed that Red Riot could be so fucking gentle?  But he is and when his hand moves lower to slide below the hem of your shorts, you give yourself to him with no reservations.  His middle finger passes through the mess of your sex; a hissed breath rattles through his chest as your back arches on a ragged groan.

“ Shit.  You’re so wet .”  He slides his finger back and forth, gathering your slick on the thick digit.  He takes his hand away and you mewl.  “Can I?”  He asks breathlessly as he hooks his hands on the hem of your shorts.  You nod, eyes half-lidded.  He pulls them down along with your underwear and the way he looks at you, at what’s between your legs, you don’t even have the wherewithal to feel self-conscious.  Adoration.  It’s the only word you can think of and it makes you wonder if you’d made a mistake waiting so long.

He’s on his knees when he takes your legs and drapes them on either side of his hips; this time he doesn’t hesitate in slipping his finger into your cunt.  You nearly see stars just from that and if one finger is any indication, you’re in for it.  Slowly, he adds another, his hand pumping into you in a steady rhythm.  You’re grabbing for the ground, grabbing for him as a strangled noise pushes from your throat.  He reaches out with his other hand to splay it across your sternum and it’s the only thing anchoring you as he adds the third finger before scooting down to put his mouth on your clit.

“ Kiri,” you keen, shoving your hips into his touch, frantically scrabbling for his wrist that’s on your chest just to have something to hold on to.  He’s done this before, he’s had to.  He’s too good.  Too fucking good.  Already there’s coiling in your gut as incomprehensible words tumble from your mouth.  “Shit.  Shit.  Kiri I’m--I’m gonna--”  He rumbles approvingly against your clit; the vibrations send you closer and closer to the edge and when it crests, your back arches near pain as you cry out, your voice echoing in the gym.  It’s deep, roaring through all of your limbs but  Kiri keeps going, fingers still pumping, tongue still swirling around your sensitive nub.

Another orgasm breaks over you sharp and quick and the overstimulation has your legs quaking as your arousal gushes over Kiri’s hand and tongue.  But then he’s moving again, and you’re blearily aware that he’s shoving his own shorts and boxers past his hips to free his cock.  You stare as it bounces back to sit near the planes of his stomach; it’s already leaking steadily with precum.  Kiri looks back at you and when your eyes meet, you dart your tongue out between your lips to wet them.  Another time, maybe.  

Kiri leans forward to lift you up and the closer you get you can barely see any red in his eyes; his pupils are blown, his nostrils flared as he lifts you like you weigh nothing .  He could snap you like a twig.  But he won’t.  You know without a doubt this is the safest you’ve ever felt, even as he lowers you slowly over his cock and it does feel like you’re being split .

“ Fuuuck…”  You wrap your legs around him, your mouth dropped open, your hands gripping his shoulders.  You try not to dig your nails in but it’s almost impossible with how you’re being filled.  You knew Kiri was big but this was almost too much.  His forehead drops to yours as he pants.  But he’s not moving, won’t move until you tell him to.  It makes your heart ache and your cunt floods, drunk on the affection thrumming through your veins.  You roll your hips experimentally and the friction is bliss.  “Oh fuck, ohfuck.”  You move again, pushing yourself up and back down, listening to the hitch in his breathing.  “ Kiri, please, ” you whisper.  Those words… they’re enough.

Kirishima grips you by the hips, his fingers splayed and digging into the flesh; it’ll leave bruises and the knowledge cracks through you like electricity.  Let him leave marks.  Let him leave them everywhere.  He’s moving you up and down his cock, grunting, mumbling.  “Tell me, Kiri, tell me.”  His eyes meet yours again and his own mouth drops open.

“Fuck, you’re so good.  S’ tight.  Jesus, I-- ” Kiri moves his hands from your hips to support you as he lays you down on the floor of the gym.  The idea should be questionable but it’s not, it’s fucking not and you can’t concentrate on any other thoughts when Kiri grabs your wrists and pins them gently above your head with one hand while the other comes back to your hip.  He thrusts into you at a brutal pace but… it feels like home and you think in that moment as your cunt begins to seize around his cock that you would give up forever to continue touching him.

“Yes, Kiri, yes.  Right there, right--shit yesyes yes. ”  He pistons up, the veins of his cock rubbing just right and when he releases the grip on your hands, they’re moving to wrap around him on instinct.  He’s planting kisses along your jaw, mouthing up to your lips and back down to graze his teeth over your pulse point.  “Do it, fuckin’ do it, let them know ‘m yours, ” you slur and when he bites down you crash over the edge on a groan that’s really more of a scream.  Everything goes black but you're cradling him to you as his movements become more erratic.  The snapping of his hips is getting sloppier by the second and a steady growl punches from his lungs with each breath.  “Cum, Kirishima, cum inside me.”

He’s never heard those words before and it lights a fire in his veins.  His head is buzzing and then he can’t hear anything as his cock releases and he’s spurting searing hot ropes of cum into your cunt.  He goes until you’ve milked every last drop from him and he’d be lying if he said his world didn't suddenly feel whole.  Finally, his body settles and his chest drops to yours.  Everything slowly bleeds back into focus and somehow, everything seems more colorful than it did moments before.  You’re still clinging to him.

“Kiri.  Kiri, babe, I can’t breathe,” you say and he slowly rises, taking in your blissed-out expression.  Your eyes can barely stay open, your cheeks are flushed.  He backs up to see his handiwork on display, hyper-focused on the trail of the mingling cum dripping from the mess of your sex.  But you’re smiling.  Lazy and tired, completely at ease.  “Wanna take a shower?”  When you nod he doesn’t hesitate in standing to kick his underwear and shorts the rest of the way off his legs and then he’s grabbing you, scooping you into his arms and against his chest.  He pads out of the gym and across the hall to his bathroom where he deposits you on your feet, only after he’s sure you can stand and only long enough to turn the shower head-on.

He puts his hand under the water, waiting for it to get warm.  Steam billows from behind the glass door when he’s turning back to you to remove your tank top and your sports bra.  Thank god you chose the front-closure one today; you didn’t think either one of you wanted to struggle to get one up over your head right now.  When your breasts spill out of the high-impact fabric, you notice with tender amusement that his cock is half-hard again.  His eyes go dark again and he leans in for a kiss.  But it's slow and sweet. 

"You're so fuckin' beautiful," he whispers.  He ignores his arousal, ushering you into the stream of water.  Your care is the only thing that matters to him right now.  The heat slides across your body, and when Kirishima steps up behind you and begins soaping up your shoulders, it feels like heaven .

You take turns washing each other until you’re both blissed out in a different kind of way and the only thing either one of you can think about is sleep.  But the afterglow is fading and doubt is creeping in.  When you step out of the water, you stand awkwardly as Kiri hands you a towel.  “You okay?”  He’s actually concerned and you can’t put your finger on why you’re so fucking grateful for it.

“Yea, just tired.  I should, uh, probably get going.”  Kiri freezes and you think you’ve said something wrong, already crossed a line.  Your brain is like a broken record as the stomach-curdling image of having to see him at the agency flashes across your eyes in vivid detail.  But then he’s stepping into your space and pulling you in for a hug.  A hug.

“Don’t go,” he whispers into the crown of your head and it has you smiling like an idiot against his chest.  His skin smells clean and warm with a hint of spice.  You bury your face further in as you nod against him.  Then he’s leading you to his room, to the king-sized bed.  He peels back the comforter and the white sheets and pulls you in beside him.  Your back is against him and he hooks his foot around your ankles, bringing you even closer.  

He doesn’t say anything more, just lets out a huge sigh as he wraps his arm around you.  The last thing you notice before your eyes flutter shut is how your heartbeats are thumping at the same steady rhythm.  

Late afternoon sunlight slants in Kirishima’s bedroom window, creating interesting patterns across his blanket.  It’s pushed towards the end of the bed, your legs intertwined and tangled in the sheets.  He’s still dozing, his breathing not quite that of someone sleeping but not of a person fully awake.  You reach out to cup his cheek, stroke above his eyebrows, caress his lips with your thumb.  A contented sigh leaves his chest as he grabs your hand and kisses your wrist.  His eyes are open now and he watches you.  You smile at him, snuggling closer, not wanting the moment to end.

“Hey,” he says quietly, suddenly serious.  “I just want you to know, I don’t do this all the time.  I mean, I’ve been with other people before but I don’t…  I don’t really hook up .”  Things start clicking into place as you realize what he’s trying to get across.  He just fucked you stupid in his personal gym and somehow he looks bashful.  And because you love it, you’re not going to help him along.  You just watch, biting your lip to keep from giggling.  “I just.  I guess what I’m trying to say is I like you.  I’ve liked you for a long time.  And normally I would have wined and dined you first but...  Well.  Here we are.  Would you like to stay for dinner?”

That’s the last straw; your laughter comes bubbling out of you and Kiri is leaning back to look at you with a quizzical expression on his face.  “Is something funny?”  That just makes you laugh a little harder but the confused look he’s wearing has you leaning in to press your lips against his.

“I’ve liked you from the first day I met you, Kiri.  I’ll one-up your offer and tell you that I might like to stay forever.”  A grin rips across his face and your heart blooms with warmth and affection.  The world seems full of possibilities but none of them matter except for the possibility laying right in front of you.

[hellion-writes]

Surprise Conversations

Pairing: 10th Doctor x reader (intended as platonic)

Pronouns used: They/them (gender neutral reader)

Summary: When life isn’t great for you, a strange man talks to you when you’re at your lowest. 

Word count: 2,345 (edited)

Warnings: Intrusive thoughts, mentions of self harm, suicidal thoughts/tendencies, self deprecation

(A/N): Wrote this as a sort of vent/comfort within the span of 3ish hours and it’s currently 6:30 in the morning. This takes place sometime between Martha and Donna. Enjoy and ignore the awful title and writing pls

    ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆　　 ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆　　 ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

It was always behind you, looming over your shoulder and breathing down your neck with saccharine addled air. You breathed in that oxygen against your will; sometimes that was the only way you could get through the day. Other times, it was the thing that ruined your perfect day. 

It whispered in your ear whenever you made a mistake, no matter how small. It only started yelling whenever you started to decline, escalating to screaming when you were at your worst. You could swear that your eardrums were tattered beyond belief and that you could hear the remnants of the voice in the back of your mind whenever it wasn’t there, but you just chalked it up to the pains of growing up and becoming an adult. 

You listened to it sometimes. You listened to it when it told you that you were a failure for getting anything besides a perfect score on a test. You listened to it when it told you that you were incapable of love when you and your childhood best friend started to drift apart. You listened to it when it told you that slashing at your skin with the razor blade you had unscrewed from a handheld pencil sharpener would solve your problems. And for the most part, you felt as if it was best that you listened to it. 

There were times that you ignored it, though; this was usually whenever it’s ideas were too drastic for the situation. It called for you to jump when you came across ledges and bridges. It beckoned you towards the knife block and commanded you to stick them all in your abdomen. It wants you to jump onto the rails whenever you are boarding a train. 

Ignoring it was hard, but doable when you didn’t have anything to stress out about. A couple of cuts and you’d be good to go for the day. It would be silent. 

That was until things started to pile up. Bill due dates were getting closer and closer, friends were increasingly leaving, your debts were growing larger and larger, and your family was basically nonexistent in helping you with your problems. So you decided to finally give in and listen to everything the voice told you to do. 

You found yourself at your favorite part of the city you lived in: the bridge overlooking the ocean. It had a perfect view of the moon and it’s beams glistening on the ever moving waves. It gave you some comfort that things would continue after you would be at your end. It was beautiful and you’d be damned if you didn’t at least have something to see before you died. 

You were sitting on the ledge, feeling the salty sea breeze raise the goosebumps on your skin. Your grip on the metal bars was tight, almost as steely as the beam itself. Your feet dangled over the abyss limply. 

“Hey.” A voice broke through the quiet, making you jump out of your skin and almost lose your grip on the bars. “Sorry,” they awkwardly coughed. A figure came to a seated position next to you, dragging your eyes off from the waves below. 

The first thing you registered about him was the gravity-defying hair slightly being shifted by the breeze. In the back of your mind, you wondered how much gel he had to use to get it to stick up like that. The second thing you noticed was the way he looked at you. His eyes were expressive, probably more so than the average person. They were a deep brown color, the pupil almost blending in with his iris. 

“So, I assume you aren’t out here for a little stroll?” He glanced at you out of the corner of his eyes and gave you a sliver of a smile. You shook your head and returned to looking over at the ocean. He sat with you in silence for a moment before he spoke up, “what’s your name?” 

“Why do you need to know?” 

“I like meeting new people,” he shrugged. “If it makes it easier, I’ll tell you mine: I’m the Doctor.” 

“Doctor who?” You asked skeptically.

“Just the Doctor,” he grinned widely. 

“Well Doctor, it’s strange that you’re making small talk with someone sitting on the ledge.” 

“Like I said, I like meeting new people… Nice day outside, isn’t it? Or should I say night?”

“Yeah,” you hummed quietly. Silence enveloped you both once more, only the sounds of each other’s breathing and the occasional shuffle being heard whenever one of you moved. It was starting to unnerve you, so you decided that telling him your name wasn’t going to do any harm. “(Y/n).”

“What?” He asked quietly.

“(Y/n). That’s my name, don’t wear it out,” you sighed out the last phrase. Normally, you would’ve said it with a large grin and happiness exuding from your every feature but you just felt numb. 

“(Y/n),” he said slowly, as if getting a feel for your name, “that’s a lovely name. It suits you, you know. Nice to meet you,” he stuck a hand out towards you and gave you a smile that almost melted the numbness that froze you. You stared at it for a moment before slowly moving to grasp his hand in yours and give it a firm little shake.

“Likewise,” you mumbled. He jumped slightly when your cold skin met his warm hand, looking at you in alarm. 

“You’re freezing,” he said before shrugging off his trench coat and laying it across your shoulders. An instant warmth enveloped you, making you unconsciously lean into the warmth. He was warm, incredibly warm. When your nose brushed against the collar, you caught a slight whiff of cologne and… something that you couldn’t place your finger on. Maybe apples or grass? Or a mixture of the two, you didn’t ponder on it. The Doctor was warm and he smelled good. 

“Well being cold is the least of my worries right now, Doc,” a small chuckle left you. You gestured at the water below you wordlessly. It was then that you noticed his slightly beaten up off white converse shoes. “Nice shoes by the way. Not my definition of dress shoes, but at least you aren’t running around barefoot. I respect it.” 

“Thanks,” he grinned, wiggling his feet in the air slightly, “they’re my lucky pair, haven’t failed me yet.”

“You know, you could use a magic eraser or something to get those dirt stains off from them.”

“Why would I do that? These stains are memories,” he pointed to a slightly purple spot. “This is when R- an old friend accidentally ran into trouble with some nasty things.” He pointed to a small grass stain, “this is when I was running with Martha.” 

He had a fond smile on his face as he started to tell you stories about his adventures with his friends. There was Martha, the brilliant doctor (also a doctor, interesting) that almost matched his intelligence. Then there was Sarah Jane, a gifted journalist with a knack for discovering and defending the truth. K-9. Romanas I and II. Peri. Grace. Susan. Kamelion. It was as if this man had lived several lifetimes. 

“It sounds like someone’s lived quite the life,” you mused when the conversation fizzled out. 

“I have,” he nodded, an almost hidden wistfulness in his tone. “Now what about you? I feel like I’ve been hogging the conversation.”

“No, you’re fine; I liked hearing about your friends. As for me, well my life’s just not important.”

“Not important,” he scoffed. “Impossible. I’ve never met anybody who’s life wasn’t important. Everybody has a story, what’s yours?” 

You were silent for a moment before you took a deep breath. What’s one more hour of conversation? It wasn’t like you had any time constraints. You diverged into sharing some aspects of your life, just the small things that wouldn’t normally make any normal person bat an eye at. 

But the Doctor wasn’t a normal person.

You didn’t mean that in a negative way, no far from it. He actually was invested in what you had to say, not just politely nodding along. He asked you questions about what you were talking about, subtly pushing you to elaborate further. Soon enough you both were laughing like you were old friends catching up with each other. If anybody drove past you both, they probably would have thought you both were insane. 

“You actually did that?” He asked incredulously through his snickering. 

“Yes, I was a gullible kid. Not my fault that I’d do anything for a quarter and a cool looking rock,” you smiled and leaned your head against the metal bar behind you. “Everyone thought I was going to become a geologist when I got older with how much I’d hoard rocks in my room like there was no tomorrow. Made Mum cross with me for bringing dirty things into the house, but she never found the stash I had in the basement. I actually think that they’re still there, hidden in a box collecting dust.” You sighed and tightened your grip on the bars, “there’s no appeal in rocks when you grow up and see that the little sparkles and colors in them are just… imperfections that should be ignored.” 

“The little imperfections I see in rocks,” he began, pinching a small bit of loose concrete between his pointer finger and thumb and brought it up to his face to examine it. “Are the things I refuse to ignore. They’re charming and separate it from being just a hunk of slate you find in a rock garden.”

“I feel like that’s some sort of analogy.” 

“That… wasn’t what I was intending, but I do suppose that it could be one.” He turned to squint at you, placing the rock back onto the ledge next to his thigh. You squinted back at him, wondering what was going through his head. A smile ghosted across his face before he laughed to himself. 

“What?” You asked him.

“Nothing,” he chuckled, “it’s just that we’ve talked all night.” He jutted his chin towards the sun rising over the horizon casting oranges and pinks onto the water in place of the moonlight that resided there previously. 

“We have,” you said in surprise. The sun’s rays warmed you slightly, but you didn’t want to move away from the shelter of the trench coat. It gave you a strange sense of comfort. You both watched the sun rise out of the ocean and take its place high in the sky. Traffic started to bustle as people started their morning commute to work, some craning their necks in their cars as they drove by to look at you and the Doctor. None stopped to talk to you. 

“Say, (N/n),” he started.

“(N/n)?” You asked as the corners of your lips quirked upwards. The nickname made you feel warm inside, it felt nice. 

“Yes, (N/n); I think it suits you well. Anyways (N/n), if you were to choose a time and place in all of time and space, where would you like to visit the most?” 

“Anywhere? Like, even on a planet trillions of light years from Earth?” You asked him, watching him nod curtly. “Yes, but there are some rules. You can’t interact with your past self or change a point that was destined to happen. Wars, deaths, births, things like that.”

“Ah, so the general movie rules of time travel?” He grumbled to himself (something along the lines of ‘those are wildly inaccurate’) before he nodded once more. 

After a bit of contemplation, you supplied him with your answer. A spark in his eye appeared, similar to the spark he got when he talked about his friends but slightly different. He slowly got up and stretched his lanky limbs out, cracks coming from the joints and small groans leaving him whenever the stretch was apparently good. 

He looked down at you and, with a grin, extended his hand to you. “(Y/n), would you like to come with me? See that place you wanted to see?” 

You found yourself staring at his hand for the second time that night. Thoughts of stranger danger circulated through your mind before you realized that if he wanted to harm you in any way, he would have done it by now. He wouldn’t have talked to you for hours on end, making you feel like you had a small sliver of yourself back again. 

Why not? One little detour couldn’t hurt; you had a good feeling about going along with him. 

You grabbed his hand and allowed him to pull you up to a standing position. He gave you a small lift so that you could hop over the barrier before he catapulted his body over it. With an arm wrapped around your shoulders, he led you away from the bridge. You both got strange looks from the people driving past, but you managed to ignore it when you burrowed yourself deeper into the trench coat and he brought you closer to him. He led you to an old navy blue police box, much to your confusion. 

“Well, Mx…”

“(L/n),” you supplied.

“Well, Mx. (L/n), welcome to the TARDIS.” 

One trip turned to two. Then three. Then four. Then several more. It became normal to come home from work to see the man waiting for you comfortably in your small apartment, brightening up whenever you walked through the door and asking you excitedly about what you had in mind for your next adventure. 

Soon enough, the voice became something that would only come to you on your bad days, becoming largely dormant in your mind. Whenever you had a bad day, you finally had someone to confide in. Someone that wouldn’t judge you, someone that wouldn’t tell you that you were being overly dramatic. 

The Doctor was different from the normal person; he was the Doctor and you wouldn’t want to have it any other way. 

[ellsbclls]

White Winged Dove

warnings ➛ COUNTRY!TOM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! MY BELOVED!!!!!!!! smut, baby! (PLEASE do not interact if you are a minor), hurt/comfort, minor angst, happy ending: guaranteed!, a handful of swear words, and y/n has no choice but to have a country accent, i don’t make the rules here. extended warnings will be under the cut!

word count ➛ 9.5K

authors note ➛ i saw that gifset of tom taking a shower in cherry and my brain short circuited, so here! have a cupcake!

synopsis ➛ Tom feels like his world is falling apart, so he turns to you, the only person that reminds him of home.

extended warnings ➛ nsfw, fingering (f receiving), dirty talk, praise kink, multiple orgasms, unprotected f/m intercourse (please practice safe sex, kiddos! wrap it before you whack it!), a tiny tiny tiny sliver of blood!play if you squint with one eye closed.

You remember the night in waves, docile, fleeting waves that tease the rim of your consciousness before reeling back. Golden whiskey licks at the seam of your lips with each pass of the bottle, and the pond is glittering beneath the blinking trails of all the lightning bugs — tens of hundreds of fireflies, dancing in the night’s misty skyglow, rivaling the pale moonlight.

You remember the night in waves, but he is a mighty current.

You can’t scrub the memory of him from your mind, that bleak, hopeless expression that hollowed out his features. You remember how your heart split into a million little shards the second it appeared, and just when you thought there was nothing left to break, his fragile voice pleaded for you to take him somewhere, anywhere, as long as it was far.

By the time the sun spilled past your window pane, you were nothing but a drowsy amalgamation of lithe limbs, coated in morning glow as it spilled through the glass.

But behind your eyelids lives an imprint of the night before — a shimmering reflection of the night sky, and the moments that unraveled beneath its sweeping gaze.

9:17PM — You’re belting into your hairbrush, not a care in the world, and pouring your heart and soul out to a crowd of none. Somewhere between all of your clumsy twirls and impromptu choreography, you stumble over the shoebox that was poking out from under your bed, and a flurry of damp tresses and musical giggles fan across your comforter.

The walls in your house have always been notoriously thin, but what could you possibly expect from the weathered planks of wood paneling that lined your bedroom? You could hear your father’s creaky footsteps whenever he ransacked the fridge for leftovers in the dead of night, and the heavy thump of laundry that your mother would throw down to the basement, but once your radio crackles to life, and Stevie’s enchanting croon permeates the air, all those subtle nuances fades to a dull, lifeless roar.

With each passing note, the white winged dove becomes you, and you soar above endless miles of  Mississippi wood. There’s not a soul that can drag you back to the outskirts of town, force you to confront what may become of you when you land, there’s no room for trepidation where you go. There, in your own little corner of the woods, it’s just you, Stevie Nicks, and the moon.

And, technically, Thomas.

Minutes have gone by, you still can’t find the strength, nor the energy, to lift yourself up, and as your downy blankets hug your tired frame, you remain blissfully ignorant of your peeping tom.

Thomas, affectionately penned Tommy, has been your best friend, your confidante, since the very first day of kindergarten. You had pulled a pack of scented markers from your tiny, pink barbie backpack during free time, and he had pulled out the empty seat beside you, plucking, sniffing, and ultimately discarding each and every pen until the box was empty. When you asked him which one was his favorite, he asked you the very same in response, just so you’d “coincidentally” have a shared affinity for coconuts. He was oddly endearing, which is a trait that’s always stuck with him. So, even at a young age, you never wondered if he was just using you for your nice possessions, or trying to take advantage of your courtesy — he always offered himself to you at face value, and you never stopped taking as much of him as you could get.

Had you been aware that your childhood friend was waiting expectantly at your window, you may have handled your alone time with a tad more discretion — but you weren’t, and each act of your private concert forces him into an even harder position. To what extent does he let you embarrass yourself before he makes his presence known, and for how long will you bury your head in the sand before the embarrassment mulls over? He sees your stage dive as a golden opportunity, and seizes it before you begin to stir.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Three short, mild raps, uttered in quick succession, jostle you from your lavish daydreams like a bucket of ice water, and you have to squint just to make out his fair features amidst all the darkness shrouding them.

“Tommy?” A flash of his soft, earthy hues tame the wild drum of your heart, confirming your suspicions, and you fight the urge to chuckle when he innocently waves at you.

“Well don’t get all shy on me now. Come in.” You open the window just enough for him to slip through its frame, allowing your eyes to graze the sculpted plains of his back, and admire, albeit shamelessly, how his muscles ripple beneath his fitted t-shirt.

Yet, there’s something about him being in your room, towering over fixtures that once towered over him, that makes you feel uneasy. A part of you adores the way he instantly makes himself at home, but the remainder is doused in fear, fretting over his wandering hands and what they may discover, surveying little trinkets and souvenirs that decorate your desk.

“Hasn’t changed much since the last time I was in here, has it?” He notes, absentmindedly shaking the contents of a snowglobe your grandma brought you from New York, a miniature skyline of Manhattan continuously buried in a flurry of snow. Most of your playdates took place in his house, so as your friendship flourished past elementary school, and the time that spanned between your meetings grew shorter and shorter, you’d found yourselves frequenting his home for all of your endeavors. It was just easier that way.

That’s the sole reason you rarely visited your room. It surely wasn’t the suffocating atmosphere that plagued your home, or your hormonal, angst ridden brain convincing you that you’d scare him to the high heavens if he caught a glimpse of your relationship with your family — how dismal it is. How you build entire worlds, cycle through dozens of bountiful lives, in the luxury of your mind in hopes of retreating.

You’d be lying if you said the poster of Zac Efron, now lurking precariously behind his shoulder, wasn’t a glaring reason as well.

“Yeah, couple things here and there, but it’s pretty much the same.” You try to be discreet as you wander around your own room, Destination: Tiger Beat. Once you reach it, you rise up on your tiptoes to cover as much of the poster as humanly possible, but scramble for an excuse once you notice him turning. “You actually left something the last time you were here. It’s on the top shelf.”

RIP! The poster is crumpled in your grasp no sooner than his back turns to you. You’d have to give a formal apology to your wildcat once you were left to your own devices, but until then, he was banished to the most unsuspecting corner of your room.

“Jesus Christ Y/N,” His thumb fondly strokes a small, yellowed testament to your friendship, a weathered page of loose leaf etched in awry plumes of ink that perfectly encapsulate his very essence — egregiously passionate, regardless of the outcome. He had written it when he was about seven, intending to give it to the “girl of his dreams” once he met her. You can still hear his sweet, little voice echo between your ears, endearingly mistaking his r’s for w’s. “You kept this?”

“Of course I did.“ Candor coats your tongue before you catch yourself, the tail end of your answer turning to dust as soon as it hits the air. You can’t bring yourself to admit just how many restless nights you’ve allowed yourself to clamber up that oak dresser, just to read that letter over, and over, and over again, praying that if you had stared at it for long enough, his messy scrawl would transform into the words you yearned for most — that it was meant for you, that he’s loved you from the very start. “Wasn’t sure if you were planning to repurpose it for some other lucky gal.”

You lock eyes with him for the first time since he appeared at your window, and stowed beneath his reservation are faint embers of warmth, kindling behind ebony curtains as you indulge in the hearth of his gaze. Lifetimes seemingly pass before his eyes are flickering back down to his hands, and it prompts you to offer him the note. “You can have it back.”

“No, you keep it.” Your brows pinch together, and a thousand questions collect on the tip of your tongue. You wonder if he recalls the same memory you do, if he remembers the significance buried in that little scrap of paper, but ultimately choose not to dwell on it. He knows just how much you love to collect memorabilia — keep cherished memories stowed away for safekeeping — he’s just being thoughtful. “Consider it undeniable proof that I know how to read and write.”

“Ain’t nothin’ in here about knowing how to read.” You tease, catching your tongue between your canines as a smirk conquers your lips.

“Ya got me,” He chuckles, smile reaching for, but never quite meeting, his faraway stare. You are so accustomed to his teasing quips, his usual flair for the dramatics, that this half-hearted attempt at replicating it fills you with discomfort. He tries to punctuate his words by tossing his arms to the sky, but they don’t reach high enough to convince you that he’s okay. Something is plaguing him, and you won’t settle for anything less than the truth.

“Tommy,” His name is sweet on your tongue, all honeyed vowels and soft, descant consonants that command his attention. “What’s wrong?”

“No, nothin’, I just-“ he’s avoiding your eyes, which is a clever strategy on his part. If eyes are the windows to the soul, then his are a stained glass mosaic, a vibrant display of all his emotions, and you — you are but an avid observer.

“Hey, look at me,” Two slender digits underline the curve of his jaw, and with a firm grasp of his chin, leave him no choice but to meet your gaze, tender and resolute all the same. “ You don’t have to tell me anything if you’re not ready, but I can tell when someone’s been rode hard and put away wet.”

“I just, I need to get out of here, and I thought I’d ask my favorite distraction to accompany me.” He stumbles over his words, faltering over his messy façade, but you’d rather this over nothing at all.

“And where might we be goin’?” You query. You can tell that this is going to be a long night, but luckily for him, you don’t have any plans that can’t be rescheduled. Your adoring fans will just have to wait another night.

“Somewhere… Anywhere,” He murmurs hopefully, and your heart nearly sinks to the floor. You’ve never seen such a chasm of joy, not in those bright, amber orbs you study so adamantly. You’d almost deem it pain, whatever’s tugging at the frame of his optics, whatever’s depriving them of that usual, warm glow. “as long as it’s far from here.”

9:39PM — “Watch your step.”

“Can you help me?” You whine — one hand reaching out for his assistance, the other firmly clasped around a bottle of Jack Daniels. There is an awkward incline just below you, only a few inches off the ground, but tall enough to make you stumble, and he could already see you bumping your knees on the way down, so he offers his elbow as a point of leverage.

“Atta girl, you’ve got it.” He coos, reluctantly abandoning your grip once you’re safely on the ground.

Mystical, and buzzing with life, you introduce him to the farthest corner of the woodlands. Whenever the walls of your room become suffocating, your legs always give out right about here. 

Your secret hideaway. 

Where you let your most worrisome thoughts roam free, and when those thoughts seemingly wander into nothingness, you chalk it up to wishful thinking, and fail to realize that they haven’t disappeared, they just don’t belong to you anymore. They belong to the babbling brook, constantly replenishing itself and its inhabitants with fresh, spring water, belong to the frogs and crickets as they fill the night with their moonlit ballad, they belong to the night, and it’s reflection, as it wades across the face of the creek; dotted with lightning bugs or the cosmos themself, you weren’t sure. All you know is that you always returned, as if a piece of you was tethered to the very spot.

“Where are we?” He wonders aloud, raking his fingers through his downy, chestnut locks as he explores his surroundings.

“I don’t exactly know.” You confess, making yourself comfortable on the ground. Most nights, you slip off your shoes and sink your feet into the brook, but you know Tom like the back of your hand, know what kind of ideas might venture through that rascally mind of his when he spots you near the water. So, you play it safe, pulling your knees up to your chest as you peer up at him from a safe distance. “It’s nice, though. Quiet. Good place to let your thoughts wander.”

“You ever take a dip in here?” Predictable. You stifle the urge to laugh at his query, sinking ivory veneers into your pillowy bottom lip, and shake your head in response.  “Hell, if I were you, with my own nature-made swimmin’ pool, I’d bring all the boys around.”

“You know I don’t waste my time with no silly boys.” You sigh, sending him a wistful glare. 

“You sure about that?” He counters, mimicking your perked brow with eerie precision.

“Oh, I’m sure.” You huff. God doesn’t build boys the same way he built him, he took his time crafting that statuesque frame, implemented hawk-eyed precision for each and every beguiling detail you’ve come to adore. He is a man, tried and true, from his sharp, angular structure to the neverending bounds of his heart, but rather than inflate his ego moreso, you let him assume the worst. “You can take a dip if you want, though. I wouldn’t mind.”

You wonder if he can tell just how little you’d mind as a mischievous glint highlights his amber hues, but before he can even open his mouth, you’ve already pinpointed the source of his glower, already voicing your adamant refusal. “No, absolutely not. Not a chance, Tommy.”

“But why not?” He whines, bellowing over your feeble chant, conjuring the most convincing set of pleading eyes he can muster. “It’s dark, it’s humid, and ain’t no one around to tell us not to.”

“Sounds like all the more reason to not do that.” You scoff, scooting further away from him and the strength of his hopeful gaze.

“I hate to pull out the big guns, but... what if I told you that it’d make me feel so much better if you accompanied me?” You’re left to wonder what the big guns are supposed to be, if they aren’t the way he is encroaching on your personal space, crawling up the length of your legs until there is only a sliver of space between you. 

“I’d remind you that there are much drier ways to make you feel better.” You could feel your warm breath fanning across his lips, distracting you with the scent of minty toothpaste and your vanilla chapstick, ultimately failing to notice his hands, and how they’re positioned just below your waist.

It would only take one swift move to reach the small of your back, two to scoop you up in his arms, and about six more to drag you into the pond — kicking and screaming, but successfully so.

And he doesn’t chance it.

SPLASH! You’re no sooner submerged in the brooks’ murky depths, reaching out for lily pads and cattails that fail to provide you leverage, and your screams bubble into thick, smothered embers of a once irate flame. He better pray you never emerge from usunder, because he’s merely a howl away from being swept up in the tide — the tide being your arms as they force him to the bottom of the crick.

“Y/N,” your name scrambles between the slosh of the water and the pounding in your ears, but you manage to break the surface and blink spare drops of water from your eyes.

“I was drowning!’ You gasp, struggling to keep your head above water as you kick, and splash, and writhe around in the stygian abyss.

“In two feet of water? I beg to differ.” You can barely make out his comeback over his fit of giggles, but a part of you would rather this bright, teasing version of himself that what you’ve been dreading beforehand. Taking his outstretched hand, you stumble to your feet and, much to your dismay, find yourself standing in about two feet of water (which, in your defense, is a far more daunting threat to someone your size as opposed to his). You cool his inflating ego with a cold splash of water, dispersing tiny droplets from your fingers as they wave in front of his face.

You splash around in the water for what feels like forever, transforming stray lily pads into makeshift hats, dressing to the nines in the latest collection of aquatic couture, and as the moon casts a pale spotlight on the babbling brook, you occupy it’s centre, huddled in one another’s embrace, swaying back and forth amidst the shallow pools.

10:02 — You're still wet.

Drenched, really.

You’ve resorted to wringing out your hair with your bare hands, twisting the dampened locks between your fists until water pours from the follicles. You’d never once pondered the benefits of freshwater landings, but you were about to find out. A glare threatened to slice through the air, but immediately wavered at the sight of him — desolate, void, so lost in his thoughts that you’d wondered if he were even there.

God, you’re worried sick. You’ve dealt with bouts of sadness, sprinkles of melancholy, but this was downright depressing. You wouldn’t even know what to do if you tried, and that’s what worried you the most.

Thomas, your best friend, your crush, your light — the best parts of you all wrapped up in a clumsy little package while the best parts of him threaten to snatch up your heart, as if it wasn’t already his.

“Tommy?” You break him out of his reverie, but press on, scooching closer to his form, dangerously standoffish, like an uncaged animal winding up to attack, until you cross the threshold into his personal space. With a sturdy hold on his bicep, he melts into the palm of your hand, practically leaning all of his weight into you, stealing a reprieve you didn’t know he needed. “You can talk to me, y’know. It’s just us.”

“She left, Y/N.” The evening air seems still, in perfect tandem with your breath as you fear what might come out once you finally exhale. You know he’d shove all of his feelings down if he caught you shedding a single tear, and this isn’t about you, it never has been. So you hold your breath, latching onto the heavy silence that follows his confession, and pray that your chest is strong enough to smother the sob bubbling beneath its surface.

Fortunately, he takes your silence as a cue to continue. “The closet was empty, and all her cookbooks were gone. I looked downstairs and there was nothin’ there.” You don’t know if he’s finished, watching as he toys with a loose string on his jeans, but he breaks his own silence with a newfound waver in his voice.  “I had a feelin’ she was ‘bout to leave, but I didn’t think it’d be so soon. I thought I had a lil’ bit more time to say goodbye.”

Edie was a good mother, the best of mothers, and never had she drawn a line when it came to who she nurtured. When you were little kids, you’d race each other to his house once the school bell rang, tiny little bodies weaving through the stalks of corn that prefaced the farm. She would follow the shuffling crops with a heavy eye, leading you to the porch with her raspy, whimsical chime, and crouch down to envelop the both of you in a tight hug when you emerged. She was the best of mothers.

But she wasn’t the best of wives. You were both far too young to notice the signs — the nights where you found her sound asleep on the sofa by her own volition, the packed suitcase that hid underneath the stairwell to the basement, the hesitance that laced her tone when she said I love you to his father — and something tells you she wanted to keep it that way. 

Her son didn’t need to worry about his parents, and how fast they were falling out of love, and whether they really loved each other in the first place. Her son just needed to be a kid, and that is a belief she devoted the best years of her life to.

But he isn’t a kid anymore.

That’s why she fled in the middle of night, leaving nothing but a ruby encrusted ring on his dresser — her class ring. The same one he’d snatch from her jewelry box whenever she wasn’t looking. The same one he used to propose to you at the wee age of four, promising you as much of the world as a toddler could imagine.

Tears prick at the corner of your eyes as he recounts every detail, and every fiber of your being yearns to just schoop him up in your arms, hold all his broken pieces together with the strongest embrace you can muster. He doesn’t deserve that type of pain, shouldn’t have to relive it, and yet he takes it upon himself to tell you everything, to relive it for your own selfish gain.

You grow envious of the way the moon trails kisses down the slope of his nose, across the high rise of his cheeks, and over the swell of his bottom lip. There were times where you’d find traces of his mother in Tom’s features, lining the curve of his warm smile or, when the sun hit them just right, speckling his earthy hues with tiny rods of gold. Tonight, he is shrouded in a celestial spotlight, mesmerized by its waning body, and if you squint just enough, you’ll find her longing stare hidden beneath his own.

“And the worst part is that I ain’t even mad at her. Not even a lil’ bit.” He concludes, talking more to the sky than to you. “Not even at all.” When his gaze falls back to you, you can only try to cover up the betrayal, wipe the back of your arm across your tear-stained cheeks before he notices they’re even misty.

You inevitably fail, expelling a wistful sigh as he pulls you into his side, comfortingly running his hand over your bicep as he murmurs sweet nothings into the night.

“I’m so sorry. I-I didn’t want you to find out like this,” You furrow your brows, and wonder just how he would want to break the news to you. Would he let you find out for yourself, or would he bring you out to the plantation, and let you sink into the soil until the news began to blossom in the fields? Would they be cornstalks? And would they reach for the sky just like her?  “I didn’t wanna make you cry, but... I didn’t know where else to go.”

“It’s okay.” Your voice is a wash of dulcet tones, fingers soothingly raking through his damp tendrils in a silent bid to comfort him. “It’s okay, I’m a big girl. I can take it.” You’re quick to clamber to your knees, wrapping him up in an airtight embrace, keeping him from wallowing into a puddle of tears. “I’m right here, Tommy.”

“I know,” he sputters, with an edge of sorrow to his tone.

“I’m right here, I’m not goin’ anywhere.” You promise.

“Don’t say that” He whispers, and shatters any trace of consolation looming over the encounter. Your brow furrows, your heart pounds against your chest, and for a fleeting second, you feel like you're caught in a lie. What if he knows? What if he can tell just how much you’d surrender to be with him? What if he doesn’t want it?  

“Why not?” You’re near hysterics, praying that the intensity in your eyes makes up for the tremor in your voice. “Why not? I didn’t say anything I didn’t mean.” 

“I just don’t want you to make a promise you can’t keep, Y/N.” That sullen gaze resurfaces, chills the air with it’s haunting presence — that hollow stare which fosters the remnants of a bright, contagious joy, and carves a pit, just as empty, in the well of your stomach, one that aches to be satiated. He tucks a stray piece of hair behind your ear, but his palm lingers against your cheek, trying to smooth out the heavy creases in your expression with the gentle stroke of his thumb.  “Hell, I don’t want you to promise that in the first place. You deserve more than all this, you deserve the best this life has to offer you, and I’m not gonna keep you from all o’ that.”

You’ve lost track of your heart long ago, it’s dizzying tempo rivaling a hummingbird, nearly undetectable as it flitted uncontrollably, knocking against your ribs until its ultimate descent to the pit of your stomach. 

You pray that he can one day see everything that you see in him, that loving himself is as easy for him as it is for you; you hope that there is a life where he never has to feel as small, or inconvenient, as he confessed, and you wish that this would eventually be that life.

You decide that it’s time to put an end to wishful thinking. 

“Let me make something clear to you, Thomas.” You cup his jaw, firmly, and utter each word without a trace of uncertainty. “I’m not sure exactly what I want from life yet. I don’t know if I wanna spend the rest of it in this little ol’ town, or just pack my things and go as far as the wind will take me. I couldn’t tell you if I tried, but… that’s okay.” Slowly but surely, your lips give way to a sheepish grin, feeling lighter, freer, the further into your declaration. “It’s okay, because there’s one thing that’s for certain, and it’s that I’m all yours. It don’t matter how far I go, I’m always gonna come home to you.”

The silence is deafening. 

All your emotions hang in the air, crippling your air supply with insurmountable regret. But his gaze is what terrifies you the most; just as suffocating, but in a way that sweeps the air from your lungs. You knew that there would always come a time where all the unrequited feelings you’ve harbored would finally boil to the surface, fueled by the hope that maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t as one sided as you thought; but under the void of his empty gaze, you wonder if you’d made a huge mistake. 

Or maybe there really is nothing — nothing to reciprocate, nothing to subdue you, nothing to salvage what little remained of your friendship after such a loaded confession — and so you scramble to assemble an apology convincing enough to overshadow your lapse in judgement.

But he doesn’t even spare you the chance, swallowing your half-hearted excuses with the firm press of his lips, pouring a lifetime of ardent desire, of longing, into the hollow of your mouth. It’s crystal clear that you’re his, the realization comes borderline cathartic. There has never been a day where your heart has not beat for him, and only him, forever threatening to spring from your chest and return to its rightful owner. The days, the months, the years of back and forth felt like a cruel jest from the fates, but now you were here, bundled in the warmth of his strong embrace, tongues curling against one another in an endless battle for dominance, and you would endure it all over again if this was where it lead

He searches for some sign of absolution, paws up and down your back in hopes of grounding himself, and you reverently provide, mustering what little strength you have left to crawl into his lap, brushing against the growing bulge in his jeans without a trace of subtlety, offering him the most sacred parts of you in hopes of bringing him home.

“Y/N,” he sighs raggedly, a half hearted attempt to gain your attention, one that proves unsuccessful as his pleas whittle into a frail, insipid shadow of what they could be. You’re too busy acquainting yourself with the plains of his body, embedding a trail of deep red marks into the column of his neck as your hands slip beneath the hem of his t-shirt. He’s built like a greek statue, you don’t even need to discard his shirt to indulge in the taut muscles tensing beneath your fingertips. “Y/N, darlin’, wait.” He interrupts your greedy ministrations by fastening his digits around your wrists. This is the point of no return, you can feel the fragile divide between friends and lovers, splintering beneath the weight of your heart, and yet you fail to concern yourself.

His digits are free to roam the high plains of your cheeks, pioneering the flushed expanse with beacons of soft, arching butterfly kisses until there’s no skin to cover, ultimately pressing his forehead against yours. ”You don’t- I don’t want you to do anything you don’t wanna do.” Seems almost redundant, you muse, to wonder if you want him when you’ve made it abundantly clear that you’d follow him to the ends of the earth. You are a pillar of salt, and as he showers you in a knee buckling torrent of kisses, you melt into the palm of his hands. If the way you’re draped against his form isn’t evidence enough, then the wetness pooling between your thighs most certainly will be, he’ll come across that confirmation once he tends to the spot you need him most.

You trace the cleft of his chin in delicate pursuit, whining as he tears his lips from their languid path, and peer through your inky lashes to meet his gaze once more. “I want this, Tom. I want you.”

“You have me. I’m all yours.” He echoes your words back to you, reverently, delivering a sacred vow from the hearth of your soul, ove you have, and will continue to, dedicate your humble living to, and you seal that promise with a bruising kiss. 

The weight of his palm melts into the small of your back, pulling your chest flush against his own as it sweeps up your spine, and you moan against his lips when your nipples press up against his sturdy chest, aching to be freed as they strain against their gossamer confines. 

You’ve only had the pleasure of making out with Tom for less than five minutes, but you can already tell that it ranks high on your list of favorite pastimes. Soft, pink petals brush against your own like they’re a flourishing canvas, and he’s trying to even out the brushstrokes, but all he leaves is a scorching flush in his wake, and your clothing, despite being bathed in pond water, do little to ease the blistering heat. It’s suffocating you, and you begrudgingly tear yourself away so that you can rid yourself of the article.

Besides, the less fabric separating you from his anchoring, toned embrace, the better.

“I’m all dirty,” Your meek voice collapses into a fit of giggles, and your feeble attempt to wring out your clothes is thwarted by his hands, venturing up, up, up, and under the hem of your skirt at a teasing pace, savoring the feeling of your warm, silky skin beneath his fingertips. You can tell he’s as desperate as you are, confronted with acres of new terrain to explore, and only so little of his patience to spare.

“I know, I’m sorry angel.” His voice is soft, and soothing, and riddled with mischief. Even if there is even an ounce of truth in his apology, you can still make out the devilish grin that toys at the corner of his mouth. “May I, m’lady?” He croons teasingly, flashing those whiskey glazed hues in a way that you could never refuse. 

“Proceed, good sir.” You counter in the most refined timbre you can dictate, a low chuckle escaping his lips as he bunches the hem of your dress in his palms, hoisting it over your head to expose the breathtaking contours and curves of your body. You can’t remember what compelled you to forego your bra, but the thought is soon pushed to the corner of your mind, making room for the warm, fuzzy feeling that conquers your insides when Tom lays his eyes on you, bared to him and only him. His gaze alone makes you feel like you are a spectacle to behold, the most enchanting vision to ever cross his line of sight. If there was even a speck of insecurity buried deep in the back of your mind, the sight of Tom’s eyes, blown wide with adoration as they worship every sinful inch of your skin, instantly quells those fears. 

He struggles to find his words, to occupy this infinite silence with anything, everything, as his calloused palms caress the sides of your waist, but all he can manage is a husky growl. One that prefaces the reappearance of his tongue, and its feverish descent from the column of your neck to the tops of your breasts, bathing your skin with gluttonous, broad strokes, and coaxing pretty, little whines from the back of your throat.

There is something so unhinged in his actions, so carnal, it summons another wave of arousal to pool against your soiled panties, knowing you have such a strong clutch on his resolve. Though, another branch of your mind races at a mile a minute, consumed by the endless possibilities that come equipped with Tom’s skill. 

You try not to dwell on the little flings that came before you, especially now, in the afterglow of your confession. The taunting, pitious gazes you shared with his hookups in the hallowed halls of your alma mater, toting a reminder that they could indulge in everything you yearned for, scorched you more than the thought of the act itself — but the rumors were just plain inescapable. If even a fraction of them hold a candle to the truth, then you are in for one hell of a night.

“You’re just as sweet as I imagined, angel.” Angel. The nickname sends sparks flying in the well of your stomach. “Can’t wait to taste that perfect little pussy. Just know it’s gonna be even sweeter when you cum all over my fingers.”

You whine softly at his words, but clench hard around nothing, aching to be filled by those unbearably long, slender digits. Nothing could have prepared you for the scene unraveling below you — his lips latched around the stiff peak of your nipple, a husky groan reverberating around the pebbled surface, and head slightly moving against the palm of your hand as your fingers tug at his chestnut locks. The long, covetous laps of his tongue mingling with the vibrations of his contented little hums make you desperate for more, arching, writhing, trembling against him in hopes of finding a semblance of relief for the ache between your thighs.

“Tommy, please.” You plead in the most convincing, fucked out tone you can muster, but he doesn’t budge, showering your other bud with a flurry of quick, relentless kitten licks. Even mother nature joins in his relentless teasing, making you squirm as the gentle breeze blows cool, summer air against the glistening bud.

This is torture, a blissful, euphoric form of torture that, despite your irritability, you would surrender to time and time again. But you fail to notice just how hard your canines puncture the swell of your bottom lip, too immersed in the stroke of his tongue, in the ghost of pleasure that stirs in the pit of your stomach each time you rut against his clothed cock. A sharp, metallic tang seeps into your mouth, hitting the tip of your tongue and forcing a trembling whimper to the front of your mouth.

The pitiful sound piques Tom’s interest, and before you can wipe the blood from your lip, your face is already cradled between his palms. “Fuck, Y/N, look at you,” His eye were wide with concern, and your heart sputters over the blistering scorch of need his compassion arises in you. “C’mere.” Dropping his forehead against your own, his tongue tentatively brushes the curve of your lips, lapping up every last drop of blood that is smeared against it. He applies pressure to the wound, cauterizes it with a searing dance of bloodstained brims, as his one hand weaves into your damp locks. You barely know how to respond, but your body compensates with an untapped sense of hunger, scraping your teeth against his lower lip as you desperately claw at the toned valley of his back.

“Please, Tommy, please. I’m dripping.” You mewl, teetering over the perilous edge of delusion, foraging between your stomachs in search of his free hand. Yet another wave of arousal pools between your thighs at the sight of him, with his puffy, saliva stained lips slightly parted, and his eyes blown wide with the insatiable need to indulge himself, to spoil you. Once your fingers circle around his wrist, you guide his hand to the apex of your thighs and urge him to feel for himself, applying the lightest of pressure against his fingers, urging him to caress your tender lips through the sodden barrier of your panties. To feel what he’s done to you. “You feel that? It’s all for you.”

“All for me,” he echoes back, mesmerized, cognac hues fading into obsidian orbs as he rubs deliberately teasing circles over your covered clit. “And you ask oh so pretty. Let me take care of you, my pretty girl.” Before you even get the chance to reply, he’s pushing your panties to the side, dipping the pad of his middle finger between your silky folds — feeling, exploring, acquainting himself with the tight ring of muscle that he plans on stretching open. 

His hesitation is nothing more than a plight at this point, you are more than willing to take anything he has to offer, and he can gather that much from the wild gleam in your eyes, so he slowly works one finger into your snug, velvety walls and curses under his breath at how heavenly you feel. You’re unlike anything he’s had before, far exceeding the lengths of his imagination as you softly clench around his digit, and it only takes a few seconds to adjust to the lithe intrusion, your walls already twitching against his shallow, testing thrusts, before he adds another.

“So fuckin’ perfect, darlin’. Love the way your pretty little cunt takes me.” A thin sheen of sweat coats your forehead as he rocks his digits at a leisurely pace. Tom is obsessed with the tiny frown forming between your brows, almost like you’re confused by the amount of pleasure building between your legs, struggling to keep your eyes open, your juices spilling past your opening to trickle down the palm of his hand. To say your experience is limited is a bit of an understatement — the whopping two men you’ve slept with prior were merely amateurs in comparison to your lover. Even if there was enough air in your lungs to articulate it, you don’t have the heart to tell him that you’ve never been fingerfucked. Period. The embarrassment almost swallows you whole.

But even without anything to compare it to, you’re convinced that you’re receiving the upper echelon of experiences.

As his pace quickens, prodding against your pulsing walls with an onslaught of keen, ravaging thrusts, you’re too busy gasping for air to notice how he’s switched his angle. Now the heel of his hand is rubbing against your bundle of nerves with each stroke, applying just enough pressure to light a spark without ever setting you off, and as the pads of his fingers pound against your sweet spot, you are reduced to a limbless puddle in his hands, doused in an ethereal glow that only he could surface. “God, Y/N, you look like an angel. My pretty little angel— ‘bout to cum all over my fingers.” he panted, voice biting the air with a wolfish gleam, canines peaking past his thin lips.

“Tommy, I’m so close.” You aren’t sure if you can hold on for much longer, dangling on the coattails of insurmountable bliss, finding a new reason to fall apart with each lewd kiss or sharp thrust. Your orgasm is already creeping up, threatening to crash over you each time he plunges into your slick heat, but you know that you want to feel him — all of him — stretching you to unimaginable lengths as he sinks into your tight little hole for the first time. “I wanna feel you. I wanna- I need to cum on your cock.”

Tom’s brows meet in the middle, and you wonder if you’ve strewn too far, surrendered the remainder of your common sense to lust and her shameless palms. “Such a filthy little mouth for such a good girl.” He whispers, wondering aloud, his free hand abandoning the nape of your neck to cup your jaw as his thumb sweeps over your bottom lip, applying just enough pressure to drag it down before letting it spring back to its pouty default. “You will, angel, you will, but I gotta get you ready first.” He reassures you, and you remember just how prominent his length is, straining against the denim cage of his jeans, and attribute his wavering tone to the sheer restraint he’s been exhibiting. But you have to admit — if his fingers are only a fraction of his length, then you are not sure just how much of him you’ll be able to handle. The thought sends you barrelling toward your climax, but not without the help of his thumb, pressing up to rub fervent, clumsy circles against your clit, his husky tenor cooing sweet words of encouragement into the space just below your ear. “I can feel you, angel, let go for me. I’ve got you.”

With one final thrust, he buries his fingers to the hilt, caressing your g-spot with a tentative come hither motion, until you are ridden with overwhelming waves of pleasure. All you can feel are your tender walls tightening around his fingers, and your thighs starting to tremble under the weight of your high. But he is spellbound, mesmerized by the swirling vision of you at your most content, eyelids hanging low over your blown out hues, your hips absentmindedly grinding against his hand, meeting his timid rhythm as he tries to work you through your aftershocks.

Emptiness soon replaces the stretch of his fingers once he slips them out, but a twitch of excitement follows the path of his slick hand, and you can’t stop from outright moaning at his shameless display.

“Just what I thought,” he murmurs. You are too captivated by the sight of his lips — pink, and kiss-weathered, and frankly obscene —  opening wide to welcome his slick fingers, gracing his taste buds with your juices, and humming around them as they coat his tongue in an intoxicating elixir . “Open up, pretty girl,” You‘re torn from your trance by the pressure of his digits, knocking against your bottom lip, begging for entry. “Come taste how sweet you are.”

Hollowing your cheeks, you graciously welcome his fingers, putting on a show as you swirl your tongue between the two digits, moaning softly as the bittersweet taste that hits your tastebuds. You aren’t prepared for the shallow, tentative thrust of his digits, or how he starts up a slow, steady rhythm against the back of your tongue — but god do you welcome it, softly gagging with each steady downstroke, spit already dribbling down your chin as you try to keep up with his quickening pace.

“Atta girl, that’s it.” He offers you a ginger smile, one that makes the tears pooling in your eyes worth gagging for. “Good girl. Good, good girl. I wish you could see how pretty you look.”

You try to reply over his digits, but your words are muffled and faint as they thud against the wall of your lips. Luckily, he’s coherent enough to notice that you’d like to speak — and who is he to stifle that sweet little voice of yours? “Thank you,” you pant, fluttering your tear-stained lashes up at him as you clamber to fill your lungs, disputing your feverish pleas as you wriggle away from the outline of his cock. The sensation of his waterlogged jeans rubbing against your sensitive bundle of nerves has you keening over him, pushing you further from his crotch, and closer to his embrace, back arched with a near-feline agility.

“Can I?” you ask, kneading your palms over his thighs, feigning innocence as you inch closer and closer to his zipper with each upstroke, and he nods, granting you permission to free him from his denim confines. In one fluid motion, your one hand unzips his fly as the other helps him kick off the remainder of his offending items, and you have to resist the urge to drool at the sight of his cock springing from his boxers, let alone his sinfully perfect, exposed form.

He’s a little bit larger than you expected — what he lacks in length, he makes up in girth, but there isn’t much to make up for in the first place. His shaft is decorated with pretty, ivory veins, ones that would no doubt twitch beneath the hot, heavy weight of your tongue, and the crown of his cock is flushed, glistening with a thin sheen of precum that makes your mouth feel conveniently dry. Your walls twitch at the disheartening reminder of your emptiness, but all out spasm as his fingers eclipse the circumference of his cock, using your juices to leisurely pump himself.

“You’re so pretty.” You sigh, a flurry of giggles floating beneath your words as you reach out to touch him, hovering just above the tip in order to send him a cautionary glance — one he hurriedly accepts, nodding his head fervently as he stutters into his grasp. A rosy hue blooms across the valley of your cheekbones as you encircle him, covering whatever he can’t as he all but bucks into your palm. His heart strains against his chest upon the realization that his hand easily dwarfs your own, watches your smaller fingers barely curl around his engorged shaft and fights the urge to cum right then and there.

No, he needs to feel you.

“Are you sure?” He asks once more, granting you a final chance to salvage what little scraps remain of your childhood friendship, but you are already committed, determined to devour every last, glorious piece of him, to prove that he is the rightful owner of you, all of you, every shimmering shade of you.The sentiment would be almost derisive if not so loving, so noble, and yet you dismiss it with three, chaste kisses upon the outline of his profile — against his forehead, the notch on the bridge of his nose, and finally his lips, warm and inviting.

“I’m certain.” You promise, merely a breaths width away from his lips.

You have never been more certain of a decision in your life, desperate to feel him nestled deep inside you, to blur the line where he begins and you end. Your fingers curl around the base of his cock, their pressure neither here nor there as they coax a hiss out of him, and you line him up with your entrance, tossing your head back as you waste no time breaching your needy hole with the bulbous head of his cock.

It’s blindingly clear that you have been given the reins, what with Tom’s finger’s seeking refuge in the soil beneath him, a low groan rumbling beneath his chest, his eyes rapt with an unspoken urgency as they survey the spot where you connect, and you relish in your paramount. Your knees dig deeper into the ground as you lower yourself onto him, and with little resistance, your walls steadily welcome inch after inch with a searing embrace, etching every delicious ridge and vein of his length to memory until he bottoms out, and you’re left with an overwhelming sense of fullness. There is a dull pain laced in the stretch of your opening, intermingling with the remnants of your last orgasm, and as you twitch and pulse around his girth, he appears like an dream before you, sifting through a thick haze of desire, wispy curls clinging to the thin sheen of sweat coating his forehead, and eyes blown wide with ripples of pleasure, of lust, that long to be indulged.

Once you’ve adjusted to him, you test a few shallow, tentative rolls of your hips, lifting yourself off the tiniest bit before filling yourself up again. He just feels so perfect, like god spent a little extra time molding him just for you, rubbing against parts of you that have never known such ecstasy until now, and you struggle to find a rhythm amidst all these new, dizzying sensations. “Poor little thing, you’re so worked up, you barely know how to take my cock.” It’s funny, how he can make such degrading words sound so sympathetic, and regardless, your body responds long before your brain can register, wildly spasming around his cock. It doesn’t take long for his fingers to return, digging into the curve of your hips to assist you, working you over his length in long, plundering strokes that steal the air from your lungs. “That feel better, angel?”

“Mhmm,” you shakily nod your head, fingers finding purchase in the broad expanse of his shoulders as you dig your nails into the freckled expanse, flooding his senses with the weak little uh, uh, uh’s tumbling from your lips each time you’re impaled on his cock. If he could lap up every hitch of your breath, every wayward sigh, he’d be drunk off the height of your unbridled joy. Hell, he can barely sustain himself as is, ravenously lapping up the beads of sweat clinging to your temple, swirling his tongue around your earlobe in its descent. Yes, yes, he’s swept up in sultry waves of you, and as your pelvis kisses his, as the air is filled with the sounds of your hips snapping against his own, he’s less and less concerned about emerging from your enchanting depths. “You got another one for me, angel? I can feel you squeezing my cock, baby, I know you got another one.” He’s delirious, clawing at the altar of your hips, and nowhere near as close to finishing as you are, but god is he eager to tear another orgasm out of you.

You, on the other hand, are a furnace, taunting flames of embarrassment licking up your insides, pooling in the small of your back, racing up your cheeks, at such arduous lengths as to mix with the coil of pleasure tightening in your core. Tom seizes the opportunity to find some leverage, pulling his knees up to rest on either side of you, planting his feet on the ground so that he can thrust up into your sopping cunt at a punishing pace, and you both can already feel the tell-tale signs of your building pleasure. “It’s okay, Y/N, you can let go.” Nothing more than a faint whisper, you indulge in the way his cock massages your inner walls, how your name sounds so filthy, yet beguiling, as it slips from his slightly ajar lips, how it blends so well with the weak little moans of his own name rolling off your tongue. “Let go for me. I wanna feel that perfect little pussy cum all over me.” His hand dips between your sweat slick forms, firmly swiping his fingers over your hypersensitive bundle of nerves, turning circles into your favorite shape, and his change in position makes the crown of his cock curve into your g-spot each time he pounds into you — so your helpless to the crescendo of pleasure that washes over you. 

A broken, startled shriek tears through your lungs, and you topple over his thighs, digging crescent shaped indents into his knees as you surrender to your climax, walls fluttering and contracting over his length as he works you over the edge.

“Oh, what a good girl.” He coos encouragingly, reaching his hand out to cup the weight of your breast, swiping his thumb over your peaked bud as his pace eases up, and it isn’t until now that you realize he’s leaning back, holding himself up by his forearms while he drinks in your pleasure-ridden form. “My sweet, sweet girl.” You can tell he’s holding back by the way his hips still stutter up into your overstimulated heat, how his cheeks, his forehead, all of his features are set with a heavy flush, how you aren’t filled to the brim with his cum — and you simply won’t allow that. 

“It’s okay, Tommy.” You whisper, carefully lowering yourself until your chest is aligned with his own, sharply exhaling as you feel him push up against your tender core. Your eyes are soft, and dazed, and oh so pretty, glittering beneath a thin layer of unshed tears, but this is about him, it’s always been about him, and as his cock twitches amidst your spasming walls, you firmly believe that you can handle another orgasm if he can coax it from you.  “Keep goin’, it’s okay. I want you to fill me up. I wanna feel all of you.”

“Y/N—” His voice is stern, but your lips are fierce, stealing whatever argument may have been building in the cavern of his mouth as you weakly tilt your hips downward, offering yourself to him once more. When he muscles up enough strength to tear himself away, he only finds a bounty of understanding, of devotion, of love, teeming at the brim of your eyes, and he needs no words to indulge himself, to yield to a mesmerising whirlpool of you, you, shimmering you.

Tom wraps one arm around your back, holding you close to his chest while you scatter soft, lingering kisses to his shoulder, smoothing his palm over your damp tresses as he hoists one leg over his hip, prying your legs even further apart so he can fuck up into you — impossibly tighter, and tormentingly more responsive as he slams into your overstimulated cunt. You can feel every square inch of him now, every long sweeping vein, the tiny sliver of skin hidden beneath his tip, it’s all crystal clear as he plunges into your weepy core, and you’re so cockdrunk, so fucked out of your mind, that you don’t even notice your hips slanting down to meet his thrusts. You’re just that greedy for another orgasm, hellbent on tumbling over yet again as he fills you to the brim.

It doesn’t take long for him to work himself to that precipice once again, the coil in his stomach pulled taut with your whimpered chant of his name, with each strong pulse of your cunt tightening over him. He buries himself to the hilt one last time, stuttering into your hips with a loud, frenzied groan, and finally teeters off the edge, dragging you down with him as you sink your teeth into his shoulder blade, pumping his hot seed into you, coating your walls with hot spurts of cum as you milk him for every last drop, the crude sound of your arousal mixing with his own making you shudder.

You both lay there for a second, safe in each other’s warm embrace, basking in the aftermath of your fortuned affair, and you cowered beneath the sky and it’s constellation clad ceiling, feeling infinitesimal, but oh so contented, beneath its glorious gaze. There, wrapped up in one another, two splintered halves mending, healing, into the whole they were destined to become — the sky was but a star in comparison to your light, your bright, everlasting light.

How did we get here? You wonder. How, oh, how is he finally mine?

You follow the steady rise and fall of his chest, the way the moon lounges across his curly lashes in a silver chaise — you survey him at his most vulnerable — and determine that you have more than enough time to find the answer. As long as he’s here, by your side, you don’t plan to wander too far.

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING! PLEASE LIKE, OR LEAVE A COMMENT, IF YOU ENJOYED!

TAGLIST: @devotion @reawritesthings​

[dourpeep]

you asked for albedo stuff yesterday and i forgot to give you some 🥲 here

-Albedo bites the ends of his pencil/pen while in deep thought

-He covers his mouth while laughing

-His hair is a huge problem to becoming messy so he usually keeps it in one style bc he sucks at styling hair

-I believe he would hyperfocus on a meal until he starts to hate it and goes onto another

-Probably sleeps on his back or stomach

-Quietly sings to himself when he's alone doing experiments

-his hands are probably soft as hell

-he probably bounces his leg when stressed

-I cant decide whether or not he's always cold or always hot (wearing his jacket everywhere but seems fine at dragonspine??)

-would break klee out of jail

-he always tries to have at least one meal with klee

WAIT SHIT I FORGOT ABOUT THIS--

definitely a pleasant surprise nodnod always a treat to have more Albedo, thank you for the food, Chi OTL

I'll write a little about each one b/c I have no self control and I'm feeling inspired by ur headcanons so lets goooooo ehehehe

They'll be a mix between imagines and drabbles!

Enjoy the food :3c

Contains: Albedo x gn!Reader, some standalone Albedo, Klee, fluff

-

- Breaking Habits -

"Albedo? You're doing it again-"

He blinks, shifting to remove the tip of his pencil from his lips, frowning when little indents come into view.

"Hm...it appears to be so."

Really, the Chief Alchemist has tried to wean himself off the habit, taking to coating the butt ends of his writing utensils with a horrid concoction of qingxin and jueyun chili, but the moment he slips into his usual daily tasks, it arises once more. The bitter spiciness is a taste that he still has not forgotten.

When his brows crease and his gaze seems to burn into the pencil, you offer a smile. With a kiss pressed to his temple, you take it from his loose grasp, setting it down on the table's surface.

A few weeks later, it dawns on him that the touch of wood to his lips evokes the memory of your gentle reminder. Without fail, he sets his pencil down in search of a sweet to busy himself with instead.

- His Laugh -

I can just imagine him with his hand lifted to cover his mouth, a smile tugging at his lips and his eyes slightly squinted. It's something that'd happen almost instantaneously--he doesn't intend to hide his smile but for some reason he can't help but do it.

An endearing habit that you've come to look for.

Regardless-

If you lower his hand and pepper him with a few little kisses, you'll get another giggle out of him before a kiss.

- Hairstyles -

Albedo only knows two ways to do hair: Klee's twin pigtails and his own half-up braid.

Over the past three years of his residency in Mond, it's become a sort of trademark. The assumption that it's just how he likes to style his hair has long since been accepted as truth--and really, he does prefer the style.

Though...

"Mr Albedo? Perhaps you should try to tie it all up instead...?"

The stray wisps of bangs that escape from the securely tied braid fall into his face and distract him from the task at hand. There's also the ever-present tickle right where the blond locks fall around his jaw. Surely, this shouldn't prove to be a problem considering he always has this style...right?

Needless to say, the smell of singed hair makes him choke and the Alchemist finds himself pulling away to tie his hair properly.

It's simple.

Or at least that's what he has been stuck repeating like a mantra as he stares at his reflection, unhappy with the way there's a strange bit of hair that refuses to stay tied. Sighing, he undoes his pony tail and tries again.

Hm.

No, now it's lopsided...certainly can't have that.

- Mealtime -

First, two little ears peek up above the surface of the counter besides him. Then, two little eyes belonging to a stuff rabbit toy followed by a red hat--

"Klee?"

The little girl stares at the fish steaks sizzling away on the pan, displeasure on her features despite the incredibly enticing smell. With unmatched resolve, she huffs.

"Big brother, Klee doesn't want fish again-"

Ah, right.

He's been in another of those moods, the particular taste and texture of the fish mingling with the salted butter, simple sauce, and lightly seasoned veggies sounding so much more appealing compared to nearly any other dish he's tried to enjoy in the past two weeks. It's without a doubt Albedo's all-time favorite dish. Perfect for someone with a small appetite and a need for something quick, filling, and nutritious.

"What would you like then?"

Ultimately (and truly, Albedo wasn't surprise), the little knight requested a serving of 'Fishy Toast'. Cutting up one of the fillets he'd fried, he laughs and shakes his head.

- Sleep Time -

When you come home, it's already dark, the streetlamps lining the cobbled road illuminating the front door as you fish out your key.

"Albedo? I'm back-"

Soft snoring punctuates the silence.

With a fond smile, you remove your shoes and make your way to the make-shift 'sleep station' set up on the couch. Sure enough, with his face shoved at an awkward angle against a pillow, Albedo lays on his stomach holding a second pillow to his chest.

As much as you'd rather not wake him (after all, he's barely gotten sleep over the past few days with how busy it's been), you kneel besides the couch to gently shake him awake.

"Bedo? Bedo, lets go to bed-"

He shoves his face further into his pillow, muttering something about waiting for results. But the silence that follows only lasts so long until he sighs and opens his bleary eyes.

"Welcome home," he mumbles, carefully shuffling best he can closer to meet your lips.

With a stretch and sigh, he sits up. Blond hair sticks up from the top of his head and to his cheek, some parts tangled despite his attempts to prevent it--your hair shouldn't tangle if you sleep on your stomach, right?

Holding back your laugh, you help him up so that the two of you can get ready to sleep.

- Singing -

Most often if not nearly each day, if you pass by the Favonius HQ's workshop, you might catch the soft sound of singing. A light sound that drifts from the partly-cracked door echoes into the empty hallway. Regardless of the traffic outside, it shows no sign of stopping, so you easily can sit right outside and listen.

It's not shy, though, even as the man's dulcet tone comes out gently, and there are days that the lyrics that slip from his tongue are of other regions.

Perhaps if you ever approach the Chief Alchemist, you might be able to convince him to sing just a short little tune. He'll oblige, though a soft dusting of pink will cover his cheeks as he does.

- Hands -

"My hands?"

Albedo watches as you tug off his gloves, head cocked to the side curiously. The moment his hands are free from their confines, you press a kiss to his palm and intertwine your fingers.

"Do you use lotion or something?"

He laughs.

"...Not that I am aware of...?"

When you squeeze his hand once, he squeezes yours back three times before bringing your joined hand to his cheek. Resting against them, his eyes close.

"Why do you ask?"

He feels you take his other hand as well, turning it over palm-side up, your fingertips tracing over the lines that adorn it's surface.

The tenderness of your touch is enough to make his heart stutter in his chest.

"Mmm...no reason."

- Leg Bouncing -

Whenever Albedo bounces his leg sitting at the Dragonspine workshop, a curse or two will slip out the moment his knee bangs against the wood.

Even being considered short, the table has decided to lay just low enough for him to cause minor injury to himself.

Shaking his head, he rubs at his knee to rid himself of the dull ache before continuing his observations at hand.

- His Jacket -

Wait okay but like...what if he actually has different versions of the same jacket? They look virtually the same but there's some of lighter material for warmer days, 'standard' ones for day-to-day use, and heavier ones lined with warm, soft fabric to insulate heat when he's on Dragonspine.

Same with his tights. I do know for a fact that there are tights lined with fleece that are incredibly warm and comfortable!!

- Escapees -

"You need to be very quiet, alright?"

Once more in the dark of the night, Albedo finds himself awake within the walls of the Favonius Headquarters.

Now...Klee technically wasn't grounded, so technically escorting her out of the so called 'solitary confinement' wasn't against any rule. To be fair, the room itself also wasn't really that either, judging by the child-themed decor, soft bed, books littering the floor, and the little table that sits just off to the opposite side of the room.

So! Albedo was certain that there wasn't any harm in what he was doing.

Not that he wasn't still sneaking around on his little improvised rescue mission.

He looks back to Klee, the little girl now wide awake and hanging on to his hand tightly.

When the morning comes, he sighs, crouched sitting on one of the child-sized chairs in the solitary confinement room, Klee peacefully snoozing in bed.

If only Jean wasn't pulling an all-nighter last night as well.

- Very Early Breakfasts -

Klee wakes up to the smell of sweet berry jam and chocolate in the air.

Clumsily, she slips out from under the covers with Dodoco cradled in her arms, padding along the wooden floors on her way to the kitchen.

"Big brother...?" She rubs the sleep from her eyes waiting for him to turn around.

"Oh, good morning Klee-"

"What time is it?"

That, Albedo decided, was a very good question. Especially considering that he hadn't yet gone to sleep and instead shuffled through the kitchen in the early hours of the day to make pancakes. If he had to guess--and he took a quick peek out the window despite the darkness of the early morning lending no clue--he'd say it was nearing 4am.

"Early. Go ahead and sit down, breakfast is almost ready."

The plate is presented to her with a brilliant smile, the Chief Alchemist satisfied to be able to keep his promise with her to always share a meal. But...the fluffy pancakes and freshly made whipped cream were also a source of his brightened mood.

Even though he knew he'd have no time to sleep and pack for his next Dragonspine expedition, the lack of sleep was worth seeing the sudden widening of eyes and delighted giggle from his younger sibling.

He could always take a quick nap at the base camp, anyway.

[smells-like-mettaton]

Rating: T (for inherent neutral ending angst)

Summary: Toriel's old house feels like a mausoleum. She will gladly ignore chisp crumbs and lumpy mattresses for a place that feels more like home.  (Queen Toriel ending fic for Soriel Week 2021.)

Word Count: 5211

XXX

The bedroom was exactly how she left it. Her bed pushed up against the gray wall. A book about snails on the wooden desk. A knit sweater with the embroidered words "Mrs. Mom Lady" in the wardrobe.

Even after all this time, she could barely look at it without her soul splitting in two.

She'd known this wouldn't be easy. She hadn't seen this house in over a century. Still, she wasn't prepared for how Asgore had sealed up her old room like a tomb, a photograph of the day that everything went terribly, horribly wrong.

At least the last child was safe. They should not have had to take a life to save their own, but she doubted Asgore had given them a choice.  Her own soul felt more numb than anything.  To her, Asgore had died a century ago.

What was done, was done. And as usual, she was too late to do anything but sweep up the dust.

She backed through the doorframe, shutting the door with a quiet click. She would have to return eventually, but for now, she yearned for a place with fewer painful memories.

"Hey, Your Majesty." A voice startled her as she attempted to escape the foyer. Luckily it was a voice she would always recognize.

"Hello, old friend." She turned and smiled at the monster leaning against the stair railing.

He was smaller than she expected, with that deep voice. Not that that was a bad thing. As for him being a skeleton, that had been apparent from the abundance of bone puns.

"You know the formality is unnecessary," she told him softly.

"Is it?" He shuffled from foot to slippered foot. 

In all her time of joking with him through the door, she had never expected him to be so cute. 

"Didn't want to assume, old lady."

He winked, and she felt a weight lift from her chest. At least one monster would still treat her like a person, and not like a mythical figure returned to save them.

"Toriel," she introduced herself for the first time. He had to have heard already, but between rushing to the palace, scattering Asgore's dust, comforting their—her people… she hadn't had time to seek out her friend.

He seemed to feel comfortable walking right into her home, though. Did he ever visit Asgore when he was here? Her friend seemed like the type of monster who went wherever he felt like, and Asgore, for all his flaws, had never turned a monster away from his home.

"Sans." He held out a bony hand. "Sans the skeleton."

"Nice to meet you, Sans," she tested out the name and clasped his hand with her paw.

A loud pthbbbbbt echoed through the empty hall. Her eyes widened.

"Wow, Toriel. That's, uh, some way to make an introduction." He winked.

She squinted down at the inflatable object in his hand, the source of the farting noise. Then she pretended to ignore it.

"It certainly is. I was not aware that skeletons were capable of flatulence."

His eyelights gutted for a moment before he burst out laughing.

"Your jokes are even better in person," he said once he composed himself.

His laugh set her soul fluttering. In all their conversations through the door, he'd never laughed like that. Maybe she should have tried fart jokes sooner.

"I am always happy to tickle your funny bone." She smiled, and his face tinged blue.

"Happy to be tickled. But, uh. I guess that's not all I'm here for?"

Her breath caught in her lungs. Of course he would not visit without a reason. 

"I suppose not. Would you like to have a seat?"

"It's nothing that serious," he assured her quickly. "I just thought you'd want an update on the kid."

"You've spoken with them? They are still here?"  She tried to keep the hysteria from her voice.

How could they have taken Asgore’s soul and not returned home?  Had the Barrier proven too powerful?

"No—geez, I'm making this sound worse." He ran a bony palm down his face. "They’re definitely gone.  Papyrus tried to call them nonstop.  Besides that, you know the big stuff. The king's dead."

Her lips drew to a thin line, pulling tight across her fangs.

"I can hardly fault them for that."

"Right." He stuck his hands back in his pockets. "I gotta be honest. The way the kid looked when I last saw them… I don't think they did it."

Her brow furrowed. She was inclined to hope that the child had not chosen violence.  They had been so sweet, so eager to talk and joke with the monsters of the Ruins, so quick to hug her even after she’d fought them.  It was hard to imagine them striking down Asgore.

"But… then what do you think happened?"

Sans shrugged. "Wish I knew. I kept watch best I could, but…"

"I could not expect you to come between them and your king." As much as she wished he could have. She had hardly expected him to agree to watch over the human at all.

“Couldn’t have even if I wanted to.  These bones aren’t as sturdy as they look.  Maybe I shoulda listened to my bro and drank more milk...” He grimaced and glanced away.  “Anyway.  Like I said, I don’t know what happened.  Just.  Be careful, okay?”

“Careful?” She blinked.

“Yeah.  You never know.” His gaze flickered to a potted golden flower on the end table next to the stairs.

“Sans.  If I did not know better, that would sound like a threat.” She crouched down, so she could better meet his eyesockets. “Is there something you are trying to tell me?”

“Man. First I rip one in front of a lady, then I threaten her.  I’m makin’ a great first impression.”  He rocked back and forth on his slippers. “Look. Toriel. I don’t wanna scare you, ‘specially since today must’ve been hard. Real hard.”

His eyelights bored into her irises. She found herself needing to look away.

“It has certainly been… interesting. Moreso than any day since I last saw this place.” She suppressed a shudder.

Change. Her life had been constant for so long.  There would be no more of that, now. Hopefully that would be for the better, but only time would tell.

“Yeah. Being flung away from everything you’re used to… don’t imagine that’s a cakewalk. Don’t want you to worry about freaks hiding in the shadows on top of that.”

Somehow, she felt he made more sense when he was on the other side of a door. Knock-knock jokes had a formula. Just another normalcy she had forfeited, she supposed.

“Please, Sans. If you believe I am in danger, you may say so.”

“Fine. So.” He grinned, and she couldn’t help a snort.

“Alright, I suppose I walked into that one.” She smiled, despite his warning. “Under normal circumstances, I would say I could handle myself. But I must admit you are more updated on the state of the kingdom than I.  Do you have any information that could help?”

“...Not really?” His grin turned sheepish.  “You look like a tough lady. I bet my bones are rattling over nothing.”

“I would still humer-us you.”

He gave her a funny look. “You’re actually taking me seriously?”

“Why would I not? You are my friend.  Perhaps… my only friend, at this point,” she admitted.  It would be foolish to ignore a warning, even if it was based on gut feeling. Or, whatever skeletons had in place of a gut.

“Well.  Uh.  If someone, something, was behind the king’s… yeah. If it wasn’t the kid, whoever else it was might still be around. So.” He coughed. “Sounds stupid when I say it like that, huh.”

“It does not.  I think it is sweet that you are worried.” He wouldn’t be able to see her blush, thankfully. It had been a long time since anyone had looked out for her.

“Geez, Toriel.” He rubbed the back of his skull. “You’re gonna ruin my reputation.”

“What reputation? Are you typically a monster with a heart of bone?” she teased.

“Nah. I just don’t worry. Too much work.”  It was difficult to tell if he was joking.  “Guess I can make an exception this once, though.”

“Why, thank you, my friend.”  She had the sudden urge to reach out and squeeze his hand.  It would be more for her own comfort than his, so she did not act on it. “To be honest, your words are a relief. I do not mind the excuse to avoid this place.”

“Oh.” He sounded surprised. “You got somewhere else you’d rather be?”

She both did, and did not. How could she explain without sounding like a clinging child?

...Perhaps that was the wrong metaphor. She would have preferred her children to be a little clingier.

“‘Cause, uh, if you don’t mind a bit of mess… my door’s always open.”

She blinked at the offer. Had he felt the thoughts stirring in her soul?

She didn’t want to be alone. Not again. And she had told him the truth: there were unlikely to be any other monsters she knew still around. Perhaps Gerson; she and Asgore had always joked that he would outlive them.

That joke seemed awfully morbid now.

“Sorry. Was that too forward? Our friendship’s built off closed doors; guess we should just take 'em one at a—"

"No," she interjected too forcefully. “No. I would love to visit your home.”

Though she had never set foot there, she already suspected it would feel more like a home than this place.

“You really—? Great.” His skull tinged the faintest blue. “Just, uh, know that it’s nothing fancy.”

Toriel smiled. “‘Nothing fancy’ sounds wonderful at the moment.”

Perhaps wherever he lived would be out of the way enough that news of her return would be delayed. If she could be lucky enough to pass for an ordinary monster… well, that was likely too much to wish for. It certainly wasn’t becoming of a queen to hide from her subjects.

Stars, there was so much to get used to. So many formalities to reacquaint herself with.  She hoped such things would wait until tomorrow.

Sans returned her smile.

“In that case, I know a shortcut.”

XXX

She handled the shortcut well for a first-timer. No stumbling on the other end, no complaints of nausea or dizziness. Of course, she was a Queen. A Boss Monster. Why would a magic trick ruin her composure?

Sans wanted to laugh. All this time, he'd been joking with the Queen. She didn't seem to mind, but she could just be “humerus”ing him.

...Nah. She had every excuse to ignore him if she really wanted to. Instead she'd actually taken him up on his offer.

He almost forgot to drop her hand once their feet landed in the soft snow. Heh. Who was he kidding? It was just nice to feel her fur under his fingers. To touch her, and know that she was real.

"Oh!" Her eyes lit up, reflecting the gyftmas lights strung haphazardly around the house's columns. "I remember this place!"

"You do?" Sans's browbone furrowed.

"I saw it while travelling from the Ruins to…" she trailed off.  To stop the kid from fighting Asgore.

Sans felt stupid for not trying to stop them himself.  Not that a kid that determined would’ve listened, anyway.  Still… he’d believed in them.  Hoped that by some miracle, they’d get ‘em out of this mess.

Heh. That was too much pressure to put on a kid, even a determined one.

"Yeah." He coughed quietly. "Guess we're hard to miss. Papyrus did something to the Gyftmas lights—even when the CORE lights go out for the night, ours stay on. Never figured out how he pulled that off."

Toriel laughed before seeming to realize something.

"I will get to meet your brother!" She clasped her hands together. "I wish it had not come about for such an unhappy reason, but I am excited nonetheless."

He chuckled. Her excitement was contagious. That was something she and Papyrus had in common already.

He pushed the door open, called out for his brother—and noticed the monster sprawled out on his couch.

"Oh." Sans blinked at Undyne, who was snoring so loudly, he should've heard it from outside. Guess he'd been a little distracted. "Uh. This is awkward."

"What is it?" Toriel hung back, her head ducking through the doorframe. "Is your brother sleeping? I would not wish to wake him. You said he rarely sleeps, did you not?"

"Nah, it's not him. Forgot his pal's house burned down. Actually, I'm sure you met her. Undyne? Captain of the Royal Guard?"

"I… yes, we met." Toriel edged inside, closing the door behind her with a soft click. "She looks far more peaceful now than she did this morning. From what I understand, my ex-husband was something of a father to her."

"Something like that." Sans nodded in agreement. There hadn't even been a Royal Guard until Asgore created the position for her. Sans wondered if Toriel would keep it around now that Asgore was gone.

Welp. It wouldn't hurt, what with his suspicions about Papyrus's friend "Flowery." 

(Maybe Sans should let Toriel sleep on the top floor rather than the couch anyway. No dirt for stray flowers to get into up there.)

"Should we be staring?" Toriel said with a soft chuckle.

Sans shook his thoughts away. "Sorry. Just thinking. I, uh…"

There wasn't room on the top floor. Sans's lumpy, crumb-dusted mattress was out of the question. That left only Papyrus's bed, which while rarely in use, had too much sentimental value to give to Toriel without asking. Where was Papyrus, anyway?

"Undyne!" His brother practically kicked in the door. "I have returned with nutritious—oh!"

Papyrus's sockets blinked at Toriel. Then at Sans. Then at Toriel again.

(Undyne let out another loud snore.)

"Sans?”  Papyrus dropped his groceries on the table next to the pet rock. “Why didn't you tell me we had another guest??"  

Because he was an idiot who hadn't planned past one impulsive offer. His face went a little blue.

"I guest you would figure it out," he managed to joke. 

Toriel let out a bleating laugh at that. The suddenness of it was enough to jolt Undyne awake.

"NGAHH!!" She tried to leap off the couch, but ended up rolling onto the floor. "I'm here, Asgore! I won't—oh."

Her single eye blinked up at Toriel. 

"Papyrus?" Undyne hissed through her teeth. "Why didn't you tell me the Queen was coming??"

"Because I didn't know!" Papyrus replied brightly. 

"I, uh, promise I'm usually more professional than this." Undyne summoned an energy spear and used it to push herself to her feet. The attack left a small char mark on the carpet. "I am at your service, Your Majesty."

Sans thought she looked real professional in a pair of Papyrus's MTT-brand crop top pajamas. Toriel didn't comment on that though, instead opting for a matronly smile.

"There is no need for that, Captain. I am not here on business, but as a friend."

That smile turned towards Sans, and he fought back a blush.

"Yeah. I was just gonna, uh, make some dinner. Y'know, welcome our queen back with some Snowdin hospitality."

"Dinner?" Papyrus squinted suspiciously. "You don't cook dinner. I cook dinner."

"First time for everything, right?" Sans winked to hide his embarrassment. 

Of course Papyrus wouldn't buy his excuse. But he really didn't want his brother and Undyne worrying on top of Toriel. Granted, it was Undyne's job to worry about security threats… but she'd tear up the house's foundation if she thought an enemy might be hiding anywhere in a five-mile radius. 

"Sans," Toriel chided him. "You do not owe me that."

"Wowie! You must be a great influence on him, Bald Asgore!"

Toriel blinked before bursting out laughing. Sans's grin widened. 

"Her name is Toriel, bro."

"Of course!! Where are my manners?" Papyrus bustled past him to shake Toriel's paws. "I am the Great Papyrus! It's an honor to meet you, Queen Toriel!"

"The honor is mine. Sans has told me so much about you," she said, and Papyrus blushed pink.

"You? Know the new queen?" Undyne whispered to Sans while Papyrus and Toriel got acquainted.

"You know me. I know everyone." He winked.

"She came out of nowhere."

"Yeah. My bro and I know what that's like."

Undyne huffed, but Sans didn't offer a more thorough explanation.

Papyrus's affronted shout signalled that Toriel had dropped her first pun.

"I take it back! This is the worst day of my life!!" 

Sans met Toriel's eyes, and they both laughed.

"I suppose I will have to help Sans in the kitchen as my pun-ishment," she said with a coy wink.

"Normally I would object to a guest cooking, but in this case I will make an exception!" Papyrus turned on his heel and grabbed Undyne's arm. "We will clean up the living room in the meantime! Try not to corrupt the queen any further, Sans!!"

"Wouldn't dream of it, bro."

He gave a quick wink to Toriel behind Papyrus's back, and they moved to the kitchen.

"Did I actually upset him…?" She asked once they were out of earshot.

"Nah. He's just dramatic like that. He'll drop three puns per sentence when he thinks I'm not listening."

He turned away, rummaging through the fridge for something edible they could cook.  Discreetly, he tucked his empty chisp bag behind Papyrus’s spaghetti-filled tupperware.

“Oh, good.  I would not want to make a bad first impression.”

“Pfft. You’d have to try real hard to do that, Tori.  My bro sees the best in everyone.”  He smiled and pulled a “pupperoni” pizza out of the freezer.  It wasn’t anything fancy, but at least it would be edible.

He turned around, pizza in hand, and found Toriel staring at him oddly.

“What?”  His sockets widened.  “Uh, you’re not vegetarian, are you?”

She shook her head quickly, her gaze skimming off of his like oil from water.

“Pizza sounds lovely.  It has been quite some time since I had one.”

Sans didn’t pry, but he couldn’t help wondering what her expression had meant.  Had he said something weird?

...Oh.  He’d called her Tori, hadn’t he?  He should know better than to use nicknames without asking.  Papyrus hated them.

“Please, allow me.”  She held out her paws, so she couldn’t be too upset.

He handed over the pizza, and he jumped when fire flared to life in her palms.  For a moment he thought the fire would scorch the pizza beyond recognition, but the flames were just pleasantly warm.  He’d never known a monster other than Grillby to have such careful control of fire magic.

“Heh.  I didn’t know you were so hot, Toriel.”

As soon as he said it, he clamped his jaw shut.  Geez, how stupid could he be?  Making bad jokes was one thing, but flirting with bad jokes?

The fire went out.  She looked up abruptly—er, looked away from the pizza.  He was still a good two feet shorter than her.

“Tori was fine,” she said, her voice soft.

“Uh,” he replied intelligently. 

She suppressed a giggle, and he was pretty sure his face burned hotter than her fire had.  He could stand to take notes from Alphys and throw himself in the trash.

“Or not.  Whatever is comfortable for you,” she reassured him.  “Now, should we eat dinner before it gets cold?”

Eating was hardly something he could screw up at.

“Sure,” then after a pause, he tested, “Tori.”

Forget her fire magic.  Her smile could’ve heated the pizza all on its own.

XXX

For once in a hundred years, dinner was a warm and energetic affair.  In addition to the pizza, Papyrus had tossed together a salad from his fresh groceries, and Sans had briefly stepped out to grab a few orders of wings and fries.  In the end there was plenty of food for four hungry monsters.

Papyrus apologized for the lack of seating, but Toriel didn’t mind sitting on the couch squeezed between Sans and Undyne, eating off of paper plates.  She couldn’t imagine anywhere she would have felt more comfortable.

Before long, though, the day’s fatigue caught up with her.  She supposed it was to be expected—she wouldn’t regain her social stamina all at once.  

Sans caught her eye, and he nodded towards the stairs as Undyne and Papyrus “owned” each other in an MTT-Brand fighting game.

“Sorry.  I know they can be a bit much.” Sans rubbed the back of his skull.  

“They’re lovely.  I wish I had the energy to keep up with them.”  She smiled.

He leaned against the banister, smiling down at them.  Papyrus had gotten the upper hand this time, and was punching the air with joy.

“Me too,” Sans said, still looking away.  “I was thinking.  If you want a place to rest for the night, my bed’s open.”

She blinked.  Her face seemed to catch fire.  That was rather more… forward than she was expecting.  Sure, she had enjoyed his lighthearted flirting, and much as she tried to deny it, feelings had been growing in her for a long time.  But to have him return those feelings? And so boldly? It was as unfathomable as it was unlikely.

“I can get ya some fresh sheets, and I’ll crash in the shed.  My bro set up an, uh, guest room there when the human was in town.”

Oh.  She rubbed the heat from her face while he wasn’t looking.  How foolish could she be, to think he would be implying…? Well.

“I would not force you out of your room,” she said.  “If your brother prepared a guest room, I am sure that would be adequate.”

He let out a quick laugh.  “Uh, you’re not used to my brother’s… decorating.  Seriously, I don’t mind.”

She sighed.  If he insisted, she supposed it would be rude to deny his hospitality.

“Alright.  Thank you very much, Sans.”

“Great.”  He smiled back at her, then went into his brother’s room.  She waited patiently, and only jumped a little when he suddenly reappeared from the right hand door.  Perhaps the two rooms were connected in the back by a bathroom.

“Hotel Sans, one vacancy.”  He winked while holding the door open.

She chuckled behind her hand.  “You really did not have to resort to this.”

“Heh, I wouldn’t call it much of a resort.  The bed’s not even queen sized.”  He rubbed the back of his skull.

The bed was smaller than she was used to, but it did have fresh sheets.  That was the only fresh thing about the room.  Chisp crumbs had been brushed under the dresser, and… that was a tornado.  A self-sustaining trash tornado.  Though at least there was a pine-scented air freshener suspended in it.

“Sorry, it’s… really not much.  Uh.  Probably kinda insulting, expecting the Queen to sleep—”

“It’s perfect.”

He blinked.  “Huh?” 

“I am no stranger to a few crumbs, Sans.”

She remembered days that bled into weeks that bled into months.  Months where she couldn’t bring herself to clean, could hardly bring herself to care at all.  Months that had grown fewer and farther between since she’d met a friendly voice behind a door.

“I would’ve vacuumed,” he said sheepishly, “but I suck at it.”

More embarrassingly loud laughter burst from her.  In front of Sans, though, she didn’t feel the need to curtail her joy.

“Thank you.” She poured as much sincerity as she could into her voice.  

“‘S no problem, Tori.”  A light blue tinge warmed his cheekbones.  How could he possibly look so adorable? “Bathroom’s down the hall if you wanna wash up or anything.  And Undyne’ll be on the couch, so this is probably the safest place in the Underground right now.”

Her brow furrowed.  Sure enough, there was no bathroom door inside the room—he must have used one of his “shortcuts” to move from his brother’s room to here.

“So, uh.  I’ll be in the shed—uh, guest room if you need me.”  He flashed one more tense grin before turning to leave.

“Wait.” She stepped towards him without thinking.  

He looked up, one brow ridge raised.  She found herself biting her lip, wondering if she dared ask what her soul wanted.  It was silly, really.  She’d been on her own for years, decades.

Maybe that was why she was so hesitant to lose this one taste of companionship.

“I would feel… safer, if you would stay too.”  Her face burned beneath her fur, but she projected her usual composure.

“...Welp. Can’t say no to that, huh?”

She was about to reassure him that he could say no—that she was asking as his friend, not as his queen—but the soft smile on his face told her he already knew.  

He briefly left to grab a few things, then returned with a few pillows and, for some reason, a dog bed.

“You are not going to sleep on that,” she said in disbelief.

He flopped the dog bed in the middle of the floor and started fluffing it.  “Why not?  Gotta throw a dog bed a bone, right?”

“Sans.”  

The outdoor lights dimmed, as if at her command.  Only the colored Gyftmas lights outside and one dim indoor bulb lit the room.

Her confidence waned with the light.  What had she expected him to do?  She’d asked him to stay.  Unless she wanted to…

Oh, to hell with it.  She was too old to be so shy about these things.

“If you are not opposed,” she swallowed, “we could… share this mattress.”

When he looked up, she couldn’t make out his eyelights at all.  Their glow returned slowly, like the rising of the sun from her memories.

“Heh… you sure?  You don’t even know if I snore.”

She laughed and sat on the bed, patting the space beside her.  “You do not know if I snore, either.”

“Fair enough, Tori.”

They took turns cleaning up in the bathroom—she was imposing on Sans enough without adding the smell of dirty fur to his bed.  Then she did her best to ignore the flutterings in her soul as he slipped off his hoodie and climbed up onto the mattress.  She insisted he stay under the sheets; her fur would keep her warm enough with just the light blanket on top.  

The sheets were a barrier in name only.  There was only so much space on the mattress, so no matter how he adjusted and apologized, she could still feel the curve of his spine against hers.

It felt amazing.  It felt terrifying.  It felt like a mistake.  It felt like the only thing she’d ever done right.

The one saving grace of the whole situation was that it didn’t stir memories of Asgore.  Her royal beds had been triple the size of Sans’s lumpy mattress. She and her ex-husband had rarely slept back to back, and if they had, the feeling would have much different.

“...Tori?” Sans’s voice was just above a whisper.  “You, uh, still awake?”

As if she could sleep while enduring the wonderful agony of friendly touch for the first time in a century.

“Yes,” she replied softly.  “Am I taking up too much space?”

“No, ‘course not. I was just, uh… geez.” He sounded embarrassed.

Risking their precarious balance, she rolled over to face him.  Or to face the back of his skull, at least.

“Are you alright?” she asked.

“Doin’ sans-sational.” He chuckled to himself.  “Sorry.  Never got to use that one with you before.”

She would have laughed, had she not worried about shaking the whole mattress.

“It was sans-tastic,” she joked back, and he laughed again.

Then abruptly, his laughter cut off.

“Thanks, Tori,” he said in a quiet but firm voice.

“What for?” She wished she could take his hand, see his face, learn what thoughts were passing through his skull.  Instead she gave him as much space as physically possible… which still was not much.

A long, silent moment passed.  Had he fallen asleep?

“I know it’s not how you wanted,” he finally said, “but I’m glad I got to meet you.  So.  Thanks.”

Warmth spread outward from her soul to fill her whole body.  Sans could probably feel it radiating from her.

“Thank you, Sans.  If I had to return, knowing no one…”

He rolled to face her.  His eyelights were mere inches from her pupils.

“You would’ve been fine.  All you had to do was tell a few of your amazing jokes, and the whole Underground would’ve been linin’ up to be your pals.”

She suppressed a laugh.  “I hardly think that would be appropriate, under the circumstances.”

“Eh.”  He shrugged.  “Plenty of monsters in town cope with jokes.  You’d just be relating to the common folk.”

She stared into his sockets a little too intently.  At this distance, it easily made her dizzy.

“Would you be included in that demographic?” she couldn’t help asking.

“When I first met you?  For sure.” His gaze darted away.  “But it’s crazy.  Between you and the kid… I’m startin’ to think there’s more to life than good food and bad laughs.”

“Really?”  She and the child had made such an impact on him?

“I know.  Don’t tell Papyrus.  He wouldn’t believe you, anyway.” He winked.

“My lips are sealed.” She smiled.

Silence hung between them.  It should have felt awkward, but she couldn’t bring herself to turn away.  In the end it was Sans who yawned in her face and then hurriedly flipped back onto his other side.

She laughed, and clearly she was exhausted too, because she pressed a kiss to the back of his skull without thinking.

He froze.  She froze.  There was no way to play that off gracefully.  And there was no way she could fall asleep and pretend that it had not happened.

“Heh… those didn’t feel very sealed to me,” he finally rasped out.

It took her a moment to process what he meant.  Meanwhile her embarrassment only burned hotter.

“I am so sorry—”

“I’m not.” When he rolled back to face her, his face was bright blue.  “You’ll still be here when I wake up, right?”

His question was tinged with desperation.

“Of course,” she answered automatically, despite the many responsibilities that she would have to attend to in the morning.  She was the Queen once more.  If she had to, she could adjust the schedule of meetings and speeches to accommodate… this.

Whatever this was to be.

“Remind me in the morning,” he squeezed her hand, “that this is real.”

His hand quickly went limp.  She was worried for a moment, before she heard the faint snore escape his nasal cavity.

She gave him a fond smile, and allowed her own eyes to close.  She did not know if sleep would come or not.  She did not know what challenges the new day would bring, or what old challenges would continue to rear their heads.

But she did know that she was not alone.  For tonight, that was enough.