#in the form of a tiny snippet

[aparticularbandit]

Just A Jump To The Left (I)

Summary: When Haruhi grabs the collar of her shirt and tugs her backward, Junko expects it. That doesn’t mean it doesn’t still hurt when the back of her head bangs against the edge of Haruhi’s desk, doesn’t mean she doesn’t still wince with the pain of it. She glances up, blinking, and meets Haruhi’s golden honey eyes with a grin. “We’re gonna start a club,” she whispers, mouth moving a fragment of a second before Haruhi’s, so it sounds almost like an echo but not quite.

“We’re gonna start a—” For a moment, Haruhi’s enthusiasm, her excitement, falters. Her brow furrows again. “What did you say?”

OR: Kyon's role is sabotaged by none other than one (1) Junko Enoshima. This...probably won't end well.

Brought to you by a discussion @tobiasdrake and I had about what it would look like if Junko and Haruhi ever met.

Chapter Rating: T. Fic Rating: T.

AO3

next chapter

Ryoko hasn’t done anything with her hair yet.

Chunks of it still hold its natural blood red sheen, but streaks of it from her scalp all the way through to their tips have transformed to a pearlescent white.  She can’t say exactly when it happened; somewhere between the moment she fled her sister’s massacre of assassins (at her sister’s insistence) and the moment she found Yasuke in the little apartment where he’d been holed up since transferring to his new middle school (to intern at the nearby hospital, despite his age) – somewhere in that space of time, it had happened.  Yasuke didn’t comment on it the first moment he saw her, but he did shortly after, and she’d run her fingers through it, all grease-spattered and dirty, and wondered how he’d seen the white underneath all of its grime in the first place.

Eventually, she’ll have to decide what to do with it; whether she’ll return it to its blood red or bleach it all white or play around with something that is neither at all, she’ll need to do something.

(Not the red.  If not for the white streaks, it would look just like the blood she’d seen around the—)

((When she remembers all of that, she heaves, vomits.  She told Yasuke once – just once – and they’ve never discussed it since. Even then, she didn’t give him any specifics, just enough for him to understand why she is here.  Why she can’t go back.))

She hasn’t started attending middle school yet, not while she’s still recovering from everything, not when she doesn’t even have hair with one consistent color yet; she’d be bullied ceaselessly for that, and she’s in no condition to be bullied (she’ll snap, she’ll hurt someone the way that Mukie—), and Yasuke is so busy during the day with middle school and his hospital internship that the only time they can spend together is after dark.  He bikes to school, bikes to the hospital, because that means he loses less time to sleep (because that means he loses less time with her), but every now and again, as she slowly but surely gets better, she walks to the hospital to see him – to walk back with him, if she doesn’t sit on the back of the bike as he takes them back.  Sometimes they walk the streets, silent, and it’s clear that bothers him.  She’s always been the talkative one.  She just doesn’t have the words anymore.

Ryoko walks through the streets in a white gown, barefoot, with her hair streaked red and white, and people avoid her.

They probably think she’s a ghost.  That’s fine.

Yasuke bikes them back, and people avoid both of them.  That’s fine, too.

Ryoko holds onto both sides of the rack Yasuke’s tied to the back of his bike and leans her head back and looks at the stars.  They seem to stay in place as he bikes them back, and she reaches one hand up and out, as though she could almost—

The bike hits a pebble, something so infinitesimally small Yasuke couldn’t have known to avoid it, and the bike jumps, and Yasuke stays on, and Ryoko, with only one hand loose on the rack, tumbles off.  Her knee stings, as does the palm of the hand she’d pushed out to break her fall.  The skin of both has been scraped clean off.  She’s bleeding.  The same color as her hair.  The same color as—

To the left of her, something metallic jangles.

Ryoko breathes (had she not been breathing before?  maybe not) and looks up to see a girl of roughly her age with long brown hair and a ribbon holding it back trying to climb over some sort of metal entry gate.  She blinks twice – makes sure she isn’t seeing anything, and she isn’t because the girl is still there – and shouts out, “H-hey!”

The girl glares at her.  “Hey what.”

It’s not a question.  It should be a question, probably, but it’s not.

“What are you….”  Ryoko struggles with words.  She’s never struggled with words before.  “What are you doing?”

“What are you doing?” the girl calls back, still glaring at her, pert nose upturned.

Ryoko glances at the sidewalk around her, then slowly pushes herself up as Yasuke’s bike skids to a stop behind her.  “I fell,” she says.  She brushes the dirt and rocks from her skin, sees the blood bubbling and ebbing up through her broken skin, and her eyes begin to glaze over.

“Well, I’m going to break into the school!” the girl halfway over the gate says.  “And you’re going to help me!”

This has nothing to do with me.

The breeze lifts the edge of Ryoko’s white gown and sends it pushing back and forth against her ankles.  Yasuke’s saying something – barking it out at the girl whose name she still doesn’t know – and Ryoko’s just seeing the spot at her knee where the white gown is growing stained with her blood.

This has nothing to do with me.

Ryoko shivers as the breeze brushes cold against her bare arms, and she starts towards the gate, to the girl halfway over it.  Yasuke grabs her wrist, but she shakes his hand off.  “What are we doing?”

The other girl beams.

“You’ll see when we get to the other side!”

~

Ryoko doesn’t exactly collapse on the other side of the gate, but she hits her bloody knee when she lands and then can only hobble where the girl wants her to run.

The girl gives her a sour expression, lips a downturned V, and then glares up at Yasuke as he jumps over the gate with them.  “Fine,” the girl says, “you’ll do it then.”

“Do what?”

Which is how Ryoko ends up sitting on the bleachers with her arms resting on her knees, her hand wrapped in a fresh bandage, her right knee wrapped in another one, while the girl shouts out directions to a Yasuke who keeps glaring at her and then looking over at Ryoko, who is too tired to tell him to stop.

Tired.

That’s a funny word, honestly.

Tired.  Exhausted.  Weary.  Consumed.

If she’s honest, Ryoko hasn’t felt like herself since Mukie abandoned her, since Mukie told her to run.  She feels like something else – like someone else – like she’s in the middle of some great and terrible becoming.  Eventually, the girl sits down next to her, still barking directions at Yasuke occasionally, and without a second thought, Ryoko leans her head against the girl’s shoulder.

The girl flinches.  “What are you doing?”

“What are you doing?” Ryoko quips back, voice soft with excessive weariness, as she glances up with big red eyes to meet the girl’s golden brown ones.

The girl gestures with one hand to Yasuke and whatever he’s writing with the chalk along the ground.  “Can’t you tell?”

Ryoko sighs.  She doesn’t have the dataset for this.  She doesn’t want to look for this.  But the girl asks, and so she does.  “You’re writing a message,” she says, voice growing monotone, “to anyone who can see it and understand what it says.  You’re saying, I’m here.  To aliens, to time-travelers, to espers, to sliders, to Santa Claus himself, if he’s out and about on a holiday that isn’t his.”  She doesn’t blink.  “As if that sort of thing would draw any of them to you.”

“You can read that?”  The girl’s eyes narrow, and her face gets super close to Ryoko’s.  She smells a bit.  Sweat, mostly.  Probably hasn’t brushed her teeth.  “Are you an alien?”

“No,” Ryoko says calmly.  “I’m a ghost.”

The girl presses the flat of her hand against Ryoko’s bandaged knee and scowls when Ryoko winces.  “Ghosts don’t bleed.”  Then she crosses her arms and slumps back down, glaring out at Yasuke.  She shouts another direction at him – Ryoko doesn’t care, so no matter how loud the girl gets, she doesn’t pay her any attention – and then gives Ryoko another suspicious look.  “How do you know that won’t work?”

Ryoko rolls her eyes.

(This isn’t like her.  She cares, usually.  She listens.  Even when Mukie used to go off on all of her soldier mercenary military assassin research and interests.  Even when Mukie spent hours correcting her posture because she was holding her stick sword wrong.  But this….

This has nothing to do with her.  Even if she’s sitting right here.  Even if she decided to break into the school with this stranger.  It still has nothing to do with her.

So why is she here?)

“If all those creatures are here and in hiding, a message like that isn’t going to get them out.”

“But it’s in their own language and everything!”

“Are you sure?” Ryoko asks, glancing out over the incomplete message, its chalk inscription trying to gleam in the moonlight and failing.  “Or did you just decide it was their language without any real proof?”  She leans against the other girl again.  It’s overly familiar, sure, but it’s comfortable.  And she’s so tired.  “If I were an alien, I wouldn’t tell you anyway.”

The girl frowns.  “Even if I guessed?”

“Even if you guessed.”

The girl barks out another instruction at Yasuke, but it’s not as enthusiastic as it was before.  Half-hearted.  “You really don’t think this will work?”

Ryoko shrugs.  “It might.  There are probably stupid aliens just like there are stupid people.”  (She is not like this.  She doesn’t call people stupid!)  She leans a little more heavily against her.  She’s warm, which really just means that Ryoko is cold.  “But do you really want a stupid alien?  Or do you want a smart one?”

“Any alien!” the girl proclaims, loud, enthusiastic, all that energy coming back all at once.  It’s endless, maybe, her enthusiasm for this.

It makes Ryoko feel even more tired.

(She was like this once.)

“People are all just boring and normal,” the girl continues without hesitation, "and aliens, time travelers, espers, sliders – all of them are infinitely better than people!”  She flashes Ryoko a grin.  “That means you, too, Ghost Girl.”

Ryoko blinks twice and then looks away.  (She’s too bright, this girl.  She’ll blind her with that warmth.)  “At least you’re looking for them,” she murmurs.  “You can’t find one if you aren’t looking.”  She runs her forefinger along the inseam of her thumb.  “Maybe I should write a message for them.”

The girl shoves her.  “Don’t steal my idea!”

“I won’t.”  Ryoko chuckles – small, broken – as she holds up her bandaged hand, used again to catch herself, twinging with pain.  “I’d have to break into another school first, and that….”  She sighs and stares out over the now quite marked up field in front of them.  “I’m too tired.  But you’ll let me know if yours succeeds, right?  Make all the papers?”

The girl just grins at her.

~

It’s as they’re leaving the school, as Ryoko carefully situates herself on the back of Yasuke’s bike, that the other girl pauses in her brisk walk in the opposite direction.  Then she turns, hands propped on her hips, and yells, “What’s your name?”

Yasuke doesn’t even turn back, answering before Ryoko has a chance to do so, “What do you need that for?”

“So I can tell you if they contact me!  Obviously.”

Ryoko hops off the back of Yasuke’s bike.  The action causes her knee to twinge again, but she doesn’t wince as she hobbles over to the other girl.  “Mitsuki,” she says, voice gentle.  Standing next to her, she realizes that she’s nearly the same height as the other girl.  How odd.  Someone so bright seemed like she would be huge.  Huh.  Still, she meets the girl’s honey brown eyes as she repeats, “Matsuda Mitsuki.”

The girl looks her over, and then instead of offering her own name, she asks, “What middle school are you at?”

This time, Ryoko doesn’t have a lie ready.  Even if she did, something tells her it would be far better to keep that information to herself.  There are people she doesn’t want to find her right now, after all, and while it isn’t likely this girl has contacts with any of them, it isn’t an impossibility.  So instead, she takes one of the girl’s hands in her bandaged one and holds it up until they’re flat against each other.  “Have you heard of the red string of fate?”

“Ew,” the girl says, lips pursing, but she doesn’t take her hand away.  “Why’re you bringing that up?”

“Well, think of it like this.  If I don’t tell you and we see each other again, then it’s fate, right?”  This time, when she meets the girl’s eyes, Ryoko almost feels taller than her, but not by much.  She’s growing, finally.  Maybe she’ll be as tall as Mukie the next time she sees her.  If she ever sees her again.  “Like the cosmos says we’re supposed to be friends, or something like that.  And if not—”  She winks.  “Well, we’ll find those time travelers, and we’ll fix it, won’t we?”

The girl holds her hand still, flat against Ryoko’s.  “If I find a time traveler, I’m not going to waste my time finding you.”

“Fate, then.”  Ryoko tucks her thumb around the other girl’s hand.  “Like a good story with a clandestine meeting.”

“Hm.”

But despite the noncommittal sound, the girl tucks her thumb around Ryoko’s hand just the same.

There are no red strings when they leave.

That’s probably for the best. Ryoko hates red, anyway.

[beastsovrevelation]

Check out a snippet from my Michael/Beelzebub longfic 🌞

I just love making Metatron cower before the Supreme Commander. 💖 Gabriel too, because he usurped her rightful place in the show.

I believe, in my GO fanfiction lore, I'll make Uriel Michael's right hand, her Lieutenant. Zadkiel can just be... Himself, and Jophiel's fallen anyway (she's now known as Astaroth).

[kavehayati]

ALHAITJAM IS SO CUTE OMGGGGHIEWOWLAA

[voitier]

HANS - In your Hands

In a world where every single step is recorded and analysed by cameras, F1 racer Jeon Jungkook could care less about his reputation, having decided that with the amount of money he has he could buy the silence of everybody, if he wished.

Behind him, there's a girl losing her mind trying to get him to behave, knowing that her job is at risk if she doesn't cover up his mess-ups in time.

What happens when one of the most influential and world recognised racers falls head over heels for his PR manager, who absolutely despises his "I've got it all" attitude and wants nothing more than to keep doing her job in peace?

DISCLAIMER:

This story is set in the F1 world. I am not a part of the F1 fandom. Therefore, all the knowledge I'll put to use comes from research I've been doing lately. Since I plan on using at least a tiny bit of technical terminology, I'll link the official F1 website where the basics are explained and I'll create another post with all the basic useful informations (COMING SOON!).

CONTAINS:

Mature themes, including sex, alcohol and substances use and abuse, money bets, life-risking events, yearning, jealousy, flashbacks into the protagonists' pasts, slow burn, use of sex as a form of unhealthy coping mechanism, angst and unresolved past issues. MDNI.

THIS WORK IS PURELY A WORK OF FICTION. PEOPLE, NAMES, PLACES AND BRANDS ARE USED FOR VISUAL PURPOSES ONLY. NONE OF WHAT YOU'RE GOING TO READ IS REAL.

INDEX:

- 하나 : Gran Premio de España

- 둘 : Of caramel and coffee grounds

- 셋 :

- 넷 :

(More chapters will be uploaded one by one. As of now, the introductory post will be posted to see if the idea is well liked and supported by readers. Please know that it's still work in progress, and I plan on posting Ch.1 once I'm working at least on the second half of the series. Thank you)

EXTRAS:

✈ General moodboard

✈ Couple moodboard

SNIPPETS:

– Chapter 1 : 1 / 2

– Chapter 2 : 1 / 2

HASHTAGS:

You can find HANS - In your Hands content under the two hashtags down below #© voitier [HANS] and #HANS!jungkook asks🏎

TAGLIST:

@jungkoode @gnarlycore @koodollylvr @annpeachy @haru-jiminn @magicalnachocreator @delulutofr @httpjeonlicious @offl-ine @akirawhore @rexana19 @army7-013 @alana4610 @cherricherryy @mangify @wettbaby @bettytta @bjoriis @thatgirliehan

Thank you for reading and showing support.

Now, make sure to buckle up and put your helmets on, we have a Grand Prix to win. Enjoy the race!

© voitier 2025

[ozzgin]

Kiritsubo fun facts or snippets or anything pleak ... He's so cute of a character

When it comes to the other yokai, Kiritsubo could actually count as Murasaki's best friend. He was the first demon he encountered after being captured as a youngling. Despite his cold demeanor and belittling attitude, Murasaki looked after him, taught him everything, and occasionally took the blame in order to spare him from even more punishment. It's why Kiritsubo never takes his mean antics seriously, and why he encourages you to trust him.

Kiritsubo has a sweet tooth and loves desserts, especially the ones from your modern world. He’s too embarrassed to admit it, but he loves it when you take him to those cute, fashionable cafes; even though everyone will stare at your massive, bulky boyfriend, so entirely out of place. He’ll be too busy fawning over his tiny strawberry cake to notice the uncomfortable silence.

On that topic, he’s a fan of cute things, particularly if they’re related to you. That fluffy keychain you won at a fair? He keeps it tied around his sword handle. He’ll occasionally gaze at it with a goofy smile.

Similar to Suma, he’s not very good at assessing his own strength. While he is extremely careful with you, others are not so lucky. Last time you were bothered by a stranger, Kiritsubo accidentally ended up breaking their neck, then followed with many teary apologies to you. “I really didn’t mean to kill him. I’m not a bad person, right? Right? It doesn’t count if I didn’t mean it to happen.”

His true dragon form is enormous. So far it hasn’t been required in combat, so he mostly transforms just to carry you around. Why not? It’s an easy, comfortable means of transport, and he lives to serve you. It’s a win-win.

[Yokai Harem Masterlist]

[crescenthistory]

while we're both here; part five

Synopsis: Being loved may be difficult, but loving one another isn't, and you find that maybe, just maybe, it's worth the work. After reconnecting, Remus goes to find you outside the infirmary for once.

Words: 2.1k

Tags: fem!reader, undisclosed chronic illness that causes you pain and fatigue (writer has EDS and POTS), remus pov, fluff, some hurt/comfort, physical affection, remus' lycanthropy and related theatrics, disabled!remus, remus is slowly healing, establishing the relationship, happy and hopeful ending

previous part | series masterlist

Note: this is the final official part:,) however, if you liked their story and want to see drabble-form snippets of various points in their relationship, shoot me a request!

There is a disturbing amount of emotions swirling around in the cavity of Remus’ chest. 

Hope, shame, affection, insecurity, assuredness, mixing down the drain. To drown out the chaos, he tries to let your voice in his head guide him to focus on the ones that are worthwhile.

His cane is a heavy and comforting weight in his hand as he hobbled probably a little too fast on his way to his destination; he has not the patience for his hips and knees to keep up with him, for he is a man on a mission.

Tucked away beneath his pillow in the dorm he just left behind – his mates’ chuffed sniggers following him down the hall – is a magical map that he had hunted you down on, his finger tracing the ink that spelled out your name in a faraway corner of the library. With the end of year etching closer, it made sense that you would be holed up there with your final essays.

Before summer comes in to affect your dynamic, Remus had an overwhelming desire to spend time with you outside the infirmary. He doubted a change of scenery would affect his feelings for you, it was more so the growing incessant need to be close to you. This is the most real thing he had ever had the terrifying pleasure of having, and even so, he felt a need to further cement whatever you had to ensure it stays that way.

The cold stones surrounding him as he walked the final stretch to the library were familiar, the confines of a home he has had for years on end. He was still overwhelmed by the thought that he would get to leave with a found family of best mates, something he never expected. To think that he might have found love, too, was more than he could handle.

Might. Remus chuckled at himself. Not many nights have passed since you were cleared by Madam Pomfrey to go back to your real dorm, but even during that short period of time, Remus knew better than to question it.

He was in love. 

Perhaps that was stupid of him, perhaps his father would even tell him as much if he dared have you over, if he dared make plans for the future that included you. Nevertheless, it was Remus’ reality.

The most tangible evidence of his love was now just a few metres away – he memorised exactly which spot you sat in – as he entered the Hogwarts Library, gait somewhat crooked. His cane was a deep maroon, given to him as a gift from James and his parents a few Christmases ago. You had recently helped Remus decorate it by wrapping a string of tiny crocheted silver stars around it, spelling it to stay put and sparkle. 

He felt oddly confident walking through the library with this cane as an amalgamation of the people he loved most; a far cry from the embarrassed 12 year old who once roamed the halls with a plastic crutch.

You had chosen a secluded corner of the library, hidden away by yourself in an alcove carved into the stone wall, lined with flickering candles on the walls and padded with purple cushions. A shy smile spread over Remus’ face as he saw you, taking in the way you sat crisscrossed on the bench, absentmindedly massaging your calves while you read the massive book laid down in front of you, dust dancing out from it in the sunlight. The same sunlight caressed your skin beautifully, drawing forth your inner shine that always captivated Remus so.

You hadn’t noticed him yet. Remus slowly closed in on you, too distracted by your familiar beauty to take a closer look at what book you’re reading.

As if you picked up on the distinct sound of Remus’ steps, you looked up. Surprise flashed in your eyes for but a second before they were filled with a warmth that made his fingertips tingle, a barely subdued grin taking over your expression.

“Hi there, stranger,” you said quietly as he got closer, leaning forward on the table. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“You mean outside the infirmary?” Remus stopped in front of your table, leaning his good hip against it and crossing his arms. The polite almost-flirting tone he extended you when you first met felt much more genuine now, abated by slight nerves. He added softly, “Hey, dove.”

Remus let himself believe you relaxed at the sound of his voice, pushing down the sensation of how dangerously far gone he was becoming.

“I thought you boys were banned from the library,” you teased, smile prevalent. You lifted a challenging brow at him.

“Ah, no, that's just James and Sirius. Wormtail and I are still in Madam Pince’s good books, and are trying to use our repertoire with her to get them unbanned.” Remus’ eyes filled with even more mirth at the snort you let out at his friend’s nickname.

“Well, I’m glad to see you. What’re you here for?”

At that, Remus reached up to scratch the back of his head, chuckling nervously. Normally he might have tried to play it off, but after your conversation about openness and honesty, he couldn’t even bring himself to want to do that.  “I came looking for you, actually. Figured you might fancy some company?”

Might fancy spending time with me, specifically, he hoped silently.

Your eyes crinkled as you let out a soft laugh. “I– yeah, of course. Settle down.”

Remus did, resting his cane against the table carefully before he slid in on the opposite side of the alcove, all the way around so he almost sat arm in arm with you. Close enough that your knee brushed his thigh in its curled up position. 

Only then did the illustration on the book in front of you catch his eye – a sketch of the different moon phases.

His breath caught in his throat as he froze, properly focussing on the book now. It was massive and clearly ancient, the ink meandering across the space, one repeated word seemingly screaming out at him: “The Wolf”, always capitalised.

He didn’t know how to process what he saw, so he just looked up at you, lips quivering as if uncertain whether to smile and frown. His silent question floated between you.

You acted nonplussed, but it was clearly a put-on front, shyness and fondness simmering beneath the surface. “This one’s quite outdated,” you began to explain, “but I figured it’s helpful to read how academics used to discuss the matter to better understand how lycanthropy was received over the years. I finished reading Scamander’s take on it earlier, which was much more empathetic and refined.” Beside you was a small notebook that Remus could now see was nearly full, your quill resting on top of it, still wet .

Remus’ lips remained slightly parted, his voice hoarse as he spoke. “You… you’re doing research? For… me?”

You shrugged, as if this didn’t turn his world upside down, as if it didn’t mean everything to him and more. “I mean, you did it for me. With everything. And I know it’s much harder to find muggle medical textbooks in a place like this than it is to find information about lycanthropes.”

The laugh that escaped him was wet and breathy, his mind still not having quite caught up. “It wasn’t that difficult, Madam Pince is rather helpful. And this… this is something else entirely, dove.”

“I just don’t want a lack of knowledge to be a barrier between us,” you said quietly, seemingly trying to downplay the care in your gesture. “I want you to be able to speak freely with me about lycanthropy, without me having to ask about everything.” Remus opened his mouth to answer, but you hurriedly added, “Though, of course, if you want to explain something yourself, please do. Lived experience always trumps dusty books.”

He stared at you with nothing short of awe, uncertain what to say and whether you would ever understand how much this meant to him. There were no words, so all he could offer was, “You, uh, can just call us werewolves. Lycanthropy is a mouthful.”

Your smile suggested his expression was easy to read. “Alright, I will,” you whispered, voice soft.

“Thank you, love. Really.” He let out a longer breath, relaxing into his seat and looking sideways at you with a quivering smile. “You’re really doing this for me?”

“Of course. I want to be there for you.” You held his gaze up until that point before swallowing, looking down to your book. “Friends, right?”

Remus knew, in his heart of hearts, that it was now or never.

“Right. And… and if I wanted to be more than friends? If I wanted to spend time with you, not just while we’re both here, but when we’re anywhere, together?”

Your previously shy smile became borderline unabashed now, lighting up both his life and your eyes as you met his again. “Then, I guess I would ask you why you haven’t invited me to Hogsmeade yet?”

Remus’ heart thundered in his chest as he placed his hands on the table, slowly circling his pinky around yours. This felt like a dream. “Well, I’ve seen how you always flare up afterwards. I didn’t want that to happen because of me.”

Which was true. It was also because he was a coward, but he figured you didn’t need to hear that; he was certain you already knew. He was a lucky bastard, though, because you didn’t seem to mind.

You laughed good-naturedly, shaking your head. “I have a flare-up every two to three business days, Lupin. If I have one because I get to spend time with you, it would have been a worthy sacrifice, at least in my books.”

“Yeah?” Remus breathed out, feeling like he was floating on air. Like the unbelievable had happened – because it had. He was walking with someone, and that someone was you.

“Yeah.” You nodded emphatically, emotion swirling in your gorgeous eyes.

Remus used his pinky around yours to properly intertwine your hands. Passerbys would see you holding hands and sitting close in a library alcove, and probably assume you were together. The thought exhilarated him even more when he realised they wouldn’t be far off. 

“This Friday good for you?” he asked.

“Yeah, I think so. Hope so.” You looked somewhat nervous, but he could tell it was because of you and not because of him or the prospect of going out. He squeezed your hand.

“If it winds up being a bad day, we can always just spend the night in the infirmary, dove. I would like to be anywhere with you, familiar or new,” he murmured reassuringly.

Your eyes softened as you held his gaze, whatever slight tension that had been building in your shoulders melting away. Remus dared think you looked like you felt safe. “Thank you,” you mumbled. “The sentiment is shared.”

You leaned sideways to rest your head on his shoulder, shuffling closer so that you could lean your crisscrossed knee on top of his thigh. Each place where your bodies touched served as a grounding point for Remus, anchoring himself to you and the world. He was beginning to understand what peace feels like.

Abruptly, your head shot up and you furrowed your brows at him, as if struck with a thought. “Wait– how did you know I would be here?” you wondered, voice not accusatory but certainly intrigued.

Remus let out a breathy laugh, not having expected to have to explain himself. Though, for once, he found himself not opposed to doing so. “Oh, that, uh– that is one of the many secrets of mine that I’ll be peeling open for you, love. Though, preferably somewhere less crowded.”

You made a show of looking around at the sparse students sitting scattered at tables around you, as if you were undercover detectives on high alert. “You and your secrets, Remus Lupin.”

“They’re all yours, if you want them.” His voice was more suave than he was feeling.

Your smile widened just for him. “I want them.”

Remus’ heart chose to interpret that as I want you. “I’ll spill it all in private, dovey, just you wait.”

You leaned further against him, smile taking on a more deviant undertone. “Are you saying you want to whisk me away to somewhere more intimate, then?”

The tops of Remus’ ears felt warm in a way that warned him they were surely turning red. He swallowed heavily, but it didn’t diminish his wide smile.

“I would love nothing more, dove.”

And that, he did.

[revelboo]

Do you mind writing an Optimus Prime part 2? Whenever 😄 inspiration finds you.

Sure! Also, I just accidentally found out that a single post can’t have over 100 links in it by accident with my Masterlist... Guess I get to par that down to the first chapters of everything and add actual previous/next links to the individual posts to navigate within a storyline.

And I’ve had a few people speculating about it and tried to make it a bit clearer now on the masterlist: the IDW stuff is all one big continuity with Lost Light and the random kink snippets clearly separated as alternate takes/AUs now.

Gravity pt 2

Optimus x Reader

• “You’re going to give them a heart attack when they come to if you don’t stop looming like that,” Ratchet mutters and Optimus looks up trying to decide if his old friend is joking. Given the frown, Ratchet’s serious and he’s not sure what to make of that. He’d known humans were fragile, but your heart can just stop? From fear? “They’re a little banged up, but fine,” Ratchet adds as Optimus stretches out a servo to touch your still form and then hesitates. You’re just so tiny, he’s not sure he can touch you without breaking you. “Who are you giving this one to?”

• Like it’s a forgone conclusion he’ll pawn watching over you on someone else. Someone less busy, less weighed down with duty. “It’s my responsibility,” he says, watching your chest rise and fall. You’ve been out since he caught you and so very still. He keeps his optics on you so he doesn’t have to see Ratchet’s expression. Because this is his responsibility and his guilt. He knows it’s not fair to trap you on the Ark, but keeping the surviving Autobots safe is his priority. And the other humans seem fine. Mostly.

• “Bumblebee would take them,” Ratchet offers, a hand touching his arm. “I think he’d be glad of the company.” Shaking his head, Optimus carefully curls his servos around your limp form and lifts you. Hears Ratchet venting tiredly behind him as he walks out and carries you through the halls to his quarters. Trailbreaker and Hound both turning to look when he walks by, curious. Maybe it’s been a mistake to try to keep his people far from humans. Maybe not. Sideswipe probably won’t be the last to abuse his rules, but he’s not ready to trust the humans to not betray them yet. He can’t.

• Your head is ringing, sinuses burning as you stiffly shift and your body complains about it. Why do you feel like one big bruise? There’s a blanket wrapped around you, but whatever you’re laying on isn’t that soft. Something presses so gently between your shoulder blades that it’s a ghost of a touch then slides down your spine. Repeats the stroke. Lifting your head, you squint up at a huge face staring down at you and everything slams back into focus. The Jeep that wasn’t a Jeep. The wreck. Giant, alien robots. One of which is holding you in one hand while it runs a huge finger down your spine again and again. You start shaking. That petting stopping when it notices.

• You’re awake. And not screaming. That has to be good thing, but remembering Ratchet’s warning, he rumbles and presses a servo carefully over your heart. It’s not stopped, but it is racing. A little, warm hand lands on his servo, your eyes wide in fear as you just tremble. And he understands, you have to realize how tiny you are compared to him, how easily you can be hurt. “You’re going to be okay, little one. I have you,” he says, optics snared on that tiny hand on his. And he knows he’ll protect you just like his Autobots. Be sword or shield for you, whatever you need. You’re his to care for now, that trembling fear hurting him to see.

• That rumbly, deep voice sings in your bones where you’re touching him, because that voice erased any doubts. Blue eyes is definitely a he. And as crazy as it is, you believe him despite the fear. There’s an earnestness in that voice that’s almost a promise of safety. Wonder mingles with the fear still thrumming through you as you stare at those pretty glowing eyes and think that they look unbelievably kind. The thought almost immediately followed with the certainty that you probably have a concussion.

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[ashotofogdensoldfirewhiskey]

Ambiguous

@ginnystrophyhusband Prompt 11

Word count: 403

She’s a bit of a show off. 

They’ve stolen down to the Quidditch pitch after dinner to fly. The season’s over, no need to practice any longer, but Harry reckons they’ve both managed to intertwine freedom and flying, both made it their little form of escape. 

Ginny's diving and looping and toeing the line of recklessness with the dangerous maneuvers she’s pulling, and Harry watches her at a safer speed. Her bright red hair is streaming behind her in the wind, her legs wrapped expertly around her broom, and he likes that he’s free to appreciate her unabashedly now, unlike during those furtive moments at practice when he stole looks at her like a fucking criminal. 

But then she pulls up, slams to such an abrupt halt that Harry sucks in a breath, and turns to him with a wicked gleam in her eye.

“Are you going to concede, yet?” she calls.

Harry didn’t know there’d been anything to concede. “What?”

“That I’m the better flyer.”

Harry stares at her - all freckles and bluster and mischief - and thinks she’s the best everything: flyer, girlfriend, thing that’s ever happened to him. But doesn’t say it, not yet. “I didn’t realize we were competing.”

She grins. “Life’s a competition, Potter.”

He likes the way she calls him that. And then it hits him all at once as he looks at her - Chaser, show off, competitiveness baked into her bones, banter that lives on her lips. My dad would’ve liked you, he thinks. No, he knows. 

He chokes on it, the knowing. Because he’s never known anything about his father before, not really. His father’s just an idea of a person, cooked up from snippets of anecdotes from Sirius, photographs from Hagrid, memories from Snape. He doesn’t have anything of his father that isn’t ambiguous, wasn’t given to him by someone else, but this - this. 

He would’ve liked you.

This, he knows.

She’s still staring at him, hovering midair, and he wants to close the distance between them, wants to press his thanks into her lips for giving him this tiny piece of James Potter, but doesn’t know how to bridge the gap. Instead, he says, “Reckon I’d better keep you on your toes, then.”

And he flashes forward with a burst of speed, past the sound of her delighted cackle.

She chases after him, heckling, and Harry grins toward the purpling sky. Glad you approve.

[short-honey-badger]

Hello!

This is the first time ever that I ask for a writing to a headcanon and it’s exciting. :) I have been eating up your Shamrock/Shanks writings, love them!

There is this idea living in my head that the female reader

a) falls very ill

b) gets poisoned by rivals of the Figarland family

And is then discovered by Shamrock who comes looking for us, wondering why we don’t react to him calling our name.

In both scenarios mentioned, the reader is then lying in bed and very weak, suffering and slipping in and out of consciousness.

Meanwhile, Shamrock deals with guilt, fear and shock about this even happening right under his nose

Shanks of course would be there too, angry with his brother for not looking out enough for Reader

I know this is very angsty (think about that scene from Gone with the Wind where Scarlett fell down the stairs and was ill) and I am not sure if you said anywhere that this isn’t something you would like to write about.

Still, I would love to see what you make of this little snippet. :) Your Shamrock characterization is great 👍

Okay anon. This was probably one of my favorite ones I've done so far so thank you dearly for the wonderful prompt. I hope I have done it justice! ❤️❤️

Watch me Wither

Pairings! Shanks x Female Reader x Figarland Shamrock

Warnings! Not many? Angsty sick fic

Shamrock Masterlist-> HERE

Shamrock stands vigil over your still form, lips set in a harsh frown. It's been three days, and still your condition has yet to improve. Guilt eats at him, knowing that if he had listened to his brother for once that this wouldn't have happened. That you, their most precious person, would not be lying here still as a corpse. How could he let this happen when he had sworn to you that you would be safe here with him?

When you don't come to his office to share lunch with the leader of the Holy Knights, Shamrock knows that there is something going on. He stands from his desk and leaves his office, booted feet slapping against the stone of his home as he navigates the halls to the room he had set you up in a month ago.

Shanks had argued against you staying in Marie Geoise with Shamrock, seemingly convinced that you would be happier, safer with him and his crew. Shamrock had scoffed and rolled his eyes at his younger twin, lips pursed and arms crossed.

“She will be perfectly fine here with me, safe where no bloody pirates can steal her away when you aren't paying attention.”

Shanks had rolled his eyes but backed down, face set in a scowl as he turned on his heel to go tell you goodbye.

Shamrock knocks on your door, knowing that you value your privacy, but when you didn't answer after several moments, the holy knight turned the handle and strode inside. He stalks forward, scowl on his face as he comes to a stop beside your bed. He can see the lump you make under the blankets and calls your name, but still, there is no response from you. He rolls his eyes and reaches out, pulling the quilt down and freezing when he sees the yellow pallor of your face, your hair weighed down by sweat.

His heart siezed in his chest, eyes going wide as he reached out, on ehand wrapping around your shoulder and shaking you gently, “Darling, my love, please, wake up.”

A wretched groan left your mouth, eyes cracking open just enough that he could see the way your pupils had shrunk, tiny pinpoints surrounded by the dull color of your iris and bloodshot white sclera.

He had jumped into action when you fell back into unconsciousness seconds later, eyes drooping and body going lax in his hold. Shamrock had scooped you up and ran like he had never before, heedless of puting up a front in front of the servants and other members of his household until he made it to the room that their personal healer stayed. He’d woken Jurgan, demanding that the old man examine you, and what he found had made dreaded guilt well up inside the holy knight.

Someone, either an enemy of the Figarland household or one of their enemies, had poisoned you.

Now Shamrock could do nothing but regret his choice in keeping you here. He had called Shanks on the second day that you were admitted into the medical ward, and had sat still and silent as his twin lay into him, furious at Shamrock for allowing this to happen right under his nose. He deserved the dressing down, and it only added to his guilt and fear that because of him, they would never see that shy little grin that was only meant for them, ever again.

Shanks had told him that he would be back as quickly as he could, wanting to be there for his twin and for you if you ever happened to wake for longer periods of time. Shamrock had just quietly agreed, not feeling the need to argue against his younger brother, not when you were in such a delicate position.

You would wake long enough each day that Shamrock for drip water into your mouth, his eyes intent as he watched you slowly consume the liquid before you would drop back off, still too weak to do much but slowly recover. Jurgan had purged your system with a concoction of drugs, but even then, the doctor had informed him that it may not be enough for you to pull through. Only time would tell.

Shamrock didn’t know what he would do if you didn’t make it. You had become an extension of his life, a need that he would happily let consume him if only to receive your soft hands and sweet attitude that you rewarded him and Shanks with. Raging guilt eats at him, knowing that he failed you, that the promise he had made you and Shanks has been broken by being too prideful, too sure in the knowledge that you would be safe in his home.

A low groan gains his attention, and Shamrock cuts his eyes down at you, loping forward to grasp your hand in his own when he sees your hand twitch in his direction. You grip his fingers weakly, and the holy knight kneels by your side, burgundy eyes soft as he reaches out with his other hand to gently card his fingers through your hair. You look pitiful, but it gives him hope that you are beginning to feel better when you crack your eyes open to meet his own.

“Sham?”

Your voice is scratchy with disuse, but Shamrock is just happy to hear your voice. He squeezes your fingers, the hand in your hair smoothing down to cup your cheek, “I’m here, darling.”

Shamrock doesn’t know what to do or how he could make you feel better other than just by being at your side. His father had huffed and sneered, telling his older son that he needed to get over this, and get back to his duties, but the redhead found that he was always pulled back to your side, unable to be away from you for too long.

“Red?” You rasp quietly and frown when Shamrock shakes his head.

“Shanks is on his way, my love,” he murmurs, and the knowledge that the other twin was on the way seems to settle you, face smoothing out into something peaceful. He watches you for a while longer until your hand goes slack and you seem to slip back to sleep. Shamrock sighs and carefully disentangles his hand from yours and stands. He knows that you are unlikely to wake again in the next couple of hours, so as much as it pains him to leave your side, Shamrock does. He must before his father comes to collect him.

The next several days passed the same way, Shamrock would come and stay by your side, the guilt inside him eating away at him as he stared at your pale form resting under warm blankets. He would hold your hand, a silent sentinel. He seethed and raged inside his mind, furious that he was no closer to finding out the culprit behind your poisoning. He watched you wither further every day, and it killed him on the inside little by little.

Shanks arrived on the seventh day, running through the halls of a home he held no fond memories of. He ignored the sneers that were directed at him, not caring that the household thought of him as lesser just because he refused to bow to their whims. He found his twin sitting beside you in the medical ward, the other redhead looking worse than Shanks has ever seen his older brother.

“How is she?” He asks as he shuts the door behind him. He comes and stands at his twin's side, eyes wide as he stares down at you. He wanted to touch, to feel you, to make sure that you were still holding on, but he was terrified of making your condition worse.

“Better,” Shamrock murmured, voice rough from disuse. He watched his younger brother, seeing the look of fear etched on the face that looked so much like his own, and felt that same remorse well up. He drops his eyes quickly, averting them back to where you lay, “Jurgan says that she will recover, but the poison did a number on her internal organs. She will never be as strong as she once was.”

Shanks grits his teeth, his anger at his brother coming back with a vengeance. He doesn't bother looking at the other man, but his voice is tense and full of displeasure, “I told you that she wouldn't be safe here. You should have known better than to keep the one weakness you have so close. Her staying here was doomed from the start, Sham.”

Shamrock grits his teeth, shoulders hunching. He knows that Shanks is right, having already berated himself mentally more than his brother ever could.

“So you've already said last time we spoke,” He murmurs, and thankfully, Shanks doesn't say anything else about his failings. The two sit in silence, both content to watch your chest move up and down in your sleep. It isn't until there is a catch in your breath that they snap to attention.

Your brow furrows, and soft sound leaves you. You shift on the bed, arm snaking out from under the blankets, and Shanks stands, beating his brother to grasp your hand in his own. Your eyes crack open a moment later, blurry but more focused now than you seem to have been in days. You turn your head, lips pulling up in a tiny smile when you see both of your boys sitting beside you. You squeeze the hand you hold, voice scratching and throat sore.

“Shanks, you're here.”

The redhead smiles sadly, squeezing your hand back tightly, “Yeah, baby. I'm right here. How are you feeling?”

You shift with a wince to lay on your side, sliding your other hand out and reaching for the older twin. Shamrock easily slides his hand into yours, eyes soft as he stares at you.

“Better now that you're both here,” you say quietly and give them both a meager smile. You can tell, even in your pained and muddled state, that there is more than the usual tension between the two brothers. You sigh softly and squeeze Shanks’ hand again to gain his attention.

“Don't be mad, Red. This is my own fault. I should have been more careful.”

Both men widen their eyes, confused and about to argue that they are the ones who are supposed to take care of you, but you plow on before they can get a word out, “You can't be by my side every waking hour, loves. I knew this place would be dangerous even when I agreed to stay here. I got too comfortable, and that cost me.”

“But-”

You cut the holy knight off, “But nothing, Sham. You have duties, and Shanks, you have a crew to take care of. I don't want the two of you beating yourselves up or each other up.”

They watch you swallow harshly, lips moving into a weary smile full of sadness both men dearly wished they could wipe away.

“I heard what you said, Shamrock, and if it's as bad as you say it is, then I'm going to need you. Both of you.”

Shanks nods immediately, crouching down so that he can be at eye level with you. He leans forward, lips kissing your brow before he pulls back to give you a smile, “We'll be here, baby.”

Shamrock clutches your hand, still feeling that raging guilt that threatens to suffocate him, but he shoves it down for now. You were right. They would need to be there. He leans in and kisses your knuckles where they wrap around his hand, voice a soft promise, “Always, my love. We have you.”

You give them both a small smile, exhaustion suddenly eating away at you, and you squeeze their hands again, grip going slack as moments later, “I know.”

You are asleep seconds later, but neither man has any plans of going anywhere, not when you would need them when you woke up next. You had a long road of recovery ahead, but you would get there with them at your side.

@mit-suri @mfreedomstuff @sanjisleggy @nocturnalrorobin

[hungry-hungry-reader]

Little Nulla adoration snippet to celebrate Halloween with :)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“…Beautiful.”

“Sorry?” Nulla’s void form started to shift before your eyes as he recalled his old face.

“You are beautiful, Nulla.”

You spoke with the reverence he had only heard in prayers — none of which were directed at him before. Your gaze followed the swirling patterns the void drew out in the air like smoke which was picked up by a gust of air. Nulla froze in place as you took a couple of steps, closing the short stretch between the two of you.

If he needed to breathe, he would have forgotten how to.

If you had to describe your lover now, you would recall Van Gogh’s Starry Night or Rembrandt’s Night Watch.

And then you would throw all these comparisons away because no work of art could truly encapsulate the vision of picturesque idyll himself who stood right before you. You watched with trepidation as his darker than night itself features shifted, changed hue, giving way to the opaline blues and purples. You watched the dance colors on the canvas of his flustered face as Nulla found himself not simply lost for words, but utterly stunned by your display of adoration towards the form he perceived less desirable.

You reached out your hand in an attempt to grasp at the ethereal form of the one whom you love most dearly.

He didn’t dare move, afraid of scaring you away.

Yet, when the tips of your fingers finally reached featureless void, Nulla grabbed your wrist and leaned into your touch. The crushing weight of this wretched world felt like nothing more than a tiny spec of dust on the shoulder pad of his vest. Your sincere smile took away the years of torment. Your loving gaze made him forget the hatred he felt towards those who wronged him. Your warmth melted away the ice within the gazes he threw at this universe.

Your love gave him the point for existing.

“Thank you.”

[muffinsin]

hiii muffin. would you accept a request for a li’l (lmao) something of bela having a micro penis? i just think she’d be so cute like that

Hey hon :) Awhh haha, that's a fun prompt XP I agree! XP A bit of a short lil snippet that I might turn into a oneshot sometime XP

(fem. reader)

Let's get into it!

Masterlists

"Please…my love...."

Bela's body, perched perfectly on top of your lap, arches into you as you press another kiss to her throat. Your thigh is strong between hers, kept apart, her skin smooth, pale, bare. The only thing still covering your beautiful girlfriend are the dark red panties with a tiny bulge and a darker spot, wet from your teasing. It presses lightly into your thigh when she moves, but despite her need, her pride still somewhat remains, preventing her from humping your thigh like in feral need for now.

Of course, that won’t do at all.

Of course, you will be sure to correct this in no time.

A deep red, thick collar hugs her smooth, kiss-marked throat, matching the red satin ribbon tied around her breasts, little bows at the front, and the thin red leash connecting to the silver ring at the front of her collar. She whines pitifully as you give it a tug, humiliation burning at her warm, pink cheeks as her hands fly up to grab at your shoulders, careful not to dig her fingers in too sharply.

She yearns for you to let her take the slim panties off already, whines and whimpers pathetically at the thought of release, at the mere thought of your hot, warm mouth wrapping around her small cock.

Alas, you only tease, licking and kissing at her throat and biting playfully at the collar hugging parts of it, your index fingertip sliding along the small bulge in her panties, enough so to make her squirm and pant hotly, her face flushed completely.

“Come on, baby”, you coo, brushing her hands along her hips, just past the red ribbon hugging her beautiful, pale body, “Be good, Bela”, you whisper, humming in satisfaction when she whines and her hips automatically buck up, drawing a cute little squeal from her. You see the small bulge twitch slightly, her cock hard and sensitive, her full, but small balls throbbing. Perfect.

She flinches in surprise when you pick up her sickle, but stays still on your lap, perfectly behaved for you, fully trusting you. Still, this doesn’t mean she manages to bite back the breathless gasp when the curled tip of the blade hooks into the front of her panties, nor the squeak of surprise and want when you give it a sharp tug, ripping the fabric from her. You coo, watching her cock twitch and leak precum from the tip already.

You don't miss the way her hips twitch at your words and actions, nor how her fingers dig into you a little, her sharp nails grazing your shoulders, but not harming you. Briefly, you think you should have restrained her, and she whines hotly when you bring her hands to the front and- lacking proper cuffs- tie the leash around both her wrists. She moves them slightly, her cock throbbing when she feels the pull at her throat from the leash. Her small dick gives the tiniest jerk, a fresh bead of precum forming at the tip of the sensitive thing already. She's panting now, leaning forward as if trying to hide her face in your neck.

You only hum at your favorite girl’s cute attempt.

“Oh, my beautiful girl…”, you coo, cradling her face like she’s something precious, forcing golden eyes back to you. She moans softly at your words, her hips jerking, her small dick rubbing up against your thigh at the praise. “Look at this mess you’re making, princess. What a wet, wet girl”, you tease knowingly, stroking her hot cheek with your thumb. Again, you feel her hump your thigh in return, utterly desperate after making out in this position for what felt like hours to her.

“Are you going to be a good girl for me, Bela?”

She nods, barely, whining from need and embarrassment, but the way her hips jerk forward tells the truth about just how needy she already is.

“That’s right”, you whisper, voice low and so tender. She gasps when you reach down, to your thigh, her balls, the red ring snug around the base of her cock, until your index fingertip pushes against the tip of her dick. “Such a needy little girl..”, you coo, chuckling when you tease her tip and she moans already, her tied hands automatically trying to come down only for her to gasp and sit upright again.

“That’s it, Bela…”, you whisper by her ear, your breath hot against her skin. You feel precum leak from the sensitive little cock, feel her hump your thigh and fingertip desperately, her blush hot across her cheeks and throat by now.

“There, I know you can’t help yourself. You’re so cute”, you praise, knowing fully well what your words do to her. She’s trembling already, her cock tip wet as it twitches against you, her balls throbbing. She feels so hot, the ribbon over her nipples suddenly so arousing, her collar snug, the cock ring tight and forcing her to feel even more sensitive. Her ass clenches around nothingness and she whines, her head turning as golden eyes briefly flicker to the thick, long black strap sat on the bed.

You laugh gently, stroking her hot cheek again.

“Later, little one, if you behave”, you promise, and it’s enough for her to moan and for her hips to twitch forth again. She’s adorably close, her thighs trembling, her little cock so sensitive.

You love it.

A whimper. Her breath hitched. She tries to deny how close she feels, but the second you flex your thigh under her and trap her tip between your index and middle fingertip, her whole body shudders and she moans lowly.

“There’s my good girl”, you praise, dropping your hand from her cheek to wrap around her slim hips instead. “So sweet, so obedient. Trying so hard for me, even when I know your little dick needs Mommy to let you cum already…”

This time, she gasps audibly, and you laugh as a small rope of white cum shoots from her tip, slapping against your thigh as she whines and cries out, right there, just a little more.

“Mind your manners, baby”, you coo, feeling her lean closer to you, whining and moaning softly.

Then, at last…

“Please, Mommy…”

You tighten your hold around her, greedily dragging her closer as you turn to cup her between her legs with a single hand. Immediately, she clenches her thighs together as much as your thigh allows it. She’s small, far smaller than her tall body would suggest, and you find it utterly adorable, much to her pleasure and humiliation alike.

“Good girl, that’s it..”, you coo at her, your fingers raising to give her just the softest of touches to her overstimulated tip. Greedily, you watch as her soft lips part and she pants, her hips rocking back and forth, her small cock rubbing against your palm and fingers with every move.

“Please…ple..ahh…please…my love…please…”, she whimpers, her cheeks to warm and coloured they almost match the red leash, ribbons, collar and cock ring put on her.

You smirk. You’ll get her there.

“Look at you. This cute little dick is meant for Mommy, for this, isn’t it?”, you whisper lovingly, kissing her soft, warm cheeks lovingly. “You’re not meant to fuck Mommy”, you tease, your head tilting towards the bed- towards the strap again. Immediately, she follows, her cheeks heating up in embarrassment and desire, her mind replaying the countless times you filled her or made her suck the strap to give her a feeling of what a large dick feels like.

“You’re meant to plead for me, babygirl”, you coo, chuckling a little when you feel more wet, white precum drool onto your palm. “To rub that cute little cock on my thigh and in my palm while I hold you and tell you what a good little girl you are”

That almost does it.

She’s trembling, crying out little pleas to please, please, please let her cum!

Your head spins with want. You love this. You love reducing your strong, intelligent girlfriend to this, to a shaky, needy mess on your thigh, to a little, praise-driven slut begging for your touch and the strap.

Her body shakes, so close…

“You’re my good girl”, you whisper in her ear, lips brushing her sensitive lobe. “My perfect, cute, sensitive little thing. And I love every part of you. Especially this one…”, you whisper seductively. Then…

Your thigh presses up, hard, and your fingers curl a little harder around her, your palm rubbing against her.

She breaks.

She breaks, and she moans, and squeals and tries to push herself closer to you as she groans.

A needy little sob rips out of the proud Dimitrescu heiress as she cums again, her poor, tiny cock twitching desperately as more hot, sticky cum spills over your skin. She’s shaking, trying to curl in on herself, but you don’t allow it. You hold her still, kissing her face, her jaw, her trembling lips as you feel her moan against your tongue.

“Good girl”, you whisper between kisses, your arm tight around her, your fingers lazily stroking her firm, but soft ass cheeks.

She feels you shift, her golden eyes following your hand as you raise it from between your thighs, and you smirk when she obediently sticks her tongue out and licks broadly across your wet palm when you offer it to her.

“Good girl, Bela”, you praise, your core throbbing with need.

Looking up, a single glance at you tells her that it’s time to get on her hands and knees, now…

[raitonsfw]

fuck her, flip her, bend her backwards....

...baby, put your back into it. smash it, grab it, go bananas–

–listen, i'm gon' talk you through it.

jjk men: positions edition

characters: gojo satoru, geto suguru, okkotsu yūta, kamo chōsō, & sukuna ryōmen.

warnings: 18+ mdni, smut, fem!reader, {s}ex positions, breast play, clit play, p in v intercourse, creampies, pussywhipped!gojo, asswhipped!geto (idk he just loves ass, is there a name for that?), intimate!yūta, slight sub!chōsō, rough!sukuna, mirror {s}ex (geto's), cockwarming (chōsō's), choking (sukuna's), true form sukuna (sadly just one 🍆), one line of filthy dialogue.

a/n: just a tiny paragraphed snippet for y'all. used this guide for most of the position names. wc: 1.3k. m.list

now playing: sloppy seconds (ick pt. 2) by lay bankz

divider credit: @benkeibear

❝𝐠𝐨𝐣𝐨 𝐬𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐮❞ missionary & flux. 

gojo puts you in several positions within the first five minutes of fucking– you didn’t even know you were this flexible until your legs were high in the air, his cock drilling into you with his hands holding your calves. his hair stuck to his forehead, droplets of sweat rolling down the sides of his temples as his tongue lolled out of his mouth at the insane pleasure coursing through him. he just loved being sooo deep in you, your walls tightening around his cock as he dragged against your g-spot with precision. and with a low groan, he’d have you on your tummy within seconds, his cock slipping back into you and his hips setting another fast rhythm inside you that made your head spin and your thighs tremble. his hands trailing towards the mounds of your breasts, fondling them as he watched his cock slide through your arousal, a creamy white ring forming at the base. god, he’d froth at the mouth at that– his hips faltering and his eyes squeezing shut ‘cause it was just too much for him. he’d finish in you in record time, his final position being you on top of him, riding the living shit out of him as his lips sucked against your chest, his eyes gazing up at you as you feathered your hand in his hair– moans vibrating against your skin as his eyebrows furrowed and his eyelashes dipped, his cock twitching at his release crashing through him. 

“fuck, fuck– stay like that for me, wait– no, here– fuck back on me like this… let me see you.”

❝𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐮𝐠𝐮𝐫𝐮❞ reverse cowgirl. 

geto has you looking towards the mirror on the opposite wall of the bed, your ass rippling with every bounce on his thick cock. his hands would barely hold you steady– he’s too hyper focused on your ass, his eyes practically half-lidded and lustful from the way it moved against him. you watched him through the mirror, reveling in the way his chest heaved with light pants and the occasional lip bite as he tried his best to hold back his moans. he never was a loud one, much to your discretion but if you moved just right– you could get him to let out a satisfying groan of your name. his eyes would meet yours in the mirror a few times, his hands gripping onto the flesh of your hips even tighter as he noticed your fucked out expression. the dim violet of them would then squeeze shut, his head tipping back as you fucked down faster on him– moans now leaving his lips as he started to roll his hips in time with yours. his hair would frame his face, cascading down his broadened shoulders and down his back with such a lovely shine– such a shame you couldn’t grip onto it. your hands would find his slightly raised knees, situating yourself enough to get you there with a broken cry and as you convulsed around him– you felt his seed leak out of you and around his cock, a silent groan most likely leaving his lips that you knew he suppressed.

“shit– y/n, keep going… driving me crazy looking like this… yeah, just like that– fuck on me some more.”

❝𝐨𝐤𝐤𝐨𝐭𝐬𝐮 𝐲𝐮𝐮𝐭𝐚❞ lotus. 

yūta has you in his lap, languid eyes rolling into the back of his head as you both meet in the middle. his hands are wrapped around your waist, massaging his thumbs gently in circles as you roll your hips down on his– his cock pulsating with every movement. it was extremely intimate and you could very well see the blush that he sported, the pinkish hue of it creeping down his neck slightly as he tried so hard not to look too fucked out; but you knew him and how sensitive he was. everything made him quiver in your grasp, his entire body shuddering in the midst of the pleasure every once in a while– it was really cute. once the both of you really got going, your hands would brace the back of his thighs as you leaned back to let him fully fuck into you. your breasts would bounce with every thrust, one hand trailing towards them and another towards your clit as he gaped at you– his eyes not really knowing where to look or rather, what gorgeous part of you to focus on. to watch your breasts jiggle in his palm, to watch his cock slide in and out of your arousal, or to watch your face as it contorted in pleasure from your orgasm? it was all too much for him as he blew his load into you with a loud groan– his body tensing and trembling as it coursed through his veins with so much force.

“ah–! baby, please… ‘nough teasing– don’t point it out, it’s embarrassing… lean back for me?”

❝𝐤𝐚𝐦𝐨 𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐨❞ cowgirl. 

chōsō has you on top of him– well, actually you put yourself there. if it weren’t for his endless pleas, you’d be soaking in the bath right now, but he wanted you on him the second you got back from wherever you were. he wasn’t used to actually fucking you yet– the tip of his cock so sensitive that once he thrusted into you more than three times he’d spill into you with a needy whine. so you had to fuck him at your own pace– or milk him dry. whatever came first. as you sunk down on him, the blood from his mark dripped down his cheeks like a damn nosebleed and a raspy groan greeted you as well as his purple eyes fluttering shut. you’d cockwarm him for a while, thumbing at his budded nipples a bit and watching him shudder until he nodded at you silently to continue. his hands would fly straight to your hips as soon as you pulled him out of you, a heady feeling clutching him as you sunk yourself back down much quicker than before. maybe he just liked you better on top of him– instead of fucking you senseless like all the other men before having met the curse. you weren’t a stickler for certain positions and dominant men anyway– you were most happy pleasing your man who would cum in less than three minutes from the sheer pleasure of your pussy.

“wait– don’t move, g-gonna cum–! fuckfuckfuck, pleaaaase don’t move yet. wanna try to last this time around…”

❝𝐬𝐮𝐤𝐮𝐧𝐚 𝐫𝐲𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐧❞ doggy style & mating press.

sukuna puts you in a chokehold, your pussy clenching against his throbbing cock as he hovers over you. one of his four arms would hold you hostage, a guttural laugh leaving his mouth as you tremble against his grip– the other three would trace your waist and the front of your body. he kept you steady against him, his hips striking your ass every time he thrusted and making sure his cock bulged where his palm rested on your tummy; he needed to make sure he was stuffing you full. when you’d whine from overstimulation, he’d flip you over and plant his feet to the bed, fucking you in a mating press instead. you’d stop your whining if you had him in view, what a needy little bitch you were– his malicious grin easing you into such a bliss once you saw the materialized lines on his face. his hands would still grip at every place he could reach, heavy pants leaving him now as he fucked down into you with such an intoxicating pace. he would try so hard not to bury his face into your neck, wanting to watch you fall apart from his huge cock instead but he couldn’t help it– he didn’t need you taunting him for his fucked out expression as your pussy squeezed him tightly. he’d fill you up with copious amounts of his seed, reveling in the way it made such a dirty noise from his relentless fucks. 

“huh– can’t handle it, sweetheart? too bad, fucking suffer through it. holy shit– you’re so goddamn needy, fine.”

taglist: @izakyun | @classyempathmongercloud | @satorawrrr | @noxioustoxin | @rubyparsonx | @mazzd4

a/n: wanna get tagged in future writing posts? join my taglist!

[pez3639]

Okay, this was supposed to be a short blurb about freaky luke, but its turned into over 2k words of filth and im in the middle of it. anyways enjoy this tiny snippet of luke yearning and pining.

Luke leans down and pressed his lips to the side of your neck. “I got you baby,” he mumbles and nips into you, feeling your delicate skin against his tongue. You drive him haywire. The taste of you sending him into a tizzy. Luke would quit everything, leave it all behind, if it meant that his personal heaven took the form of you and your love. If it meant that he could forever be enveloped in your scent and warmth.

holy shit i love pathetic men.

[piplupfluffwritingstuff2]

Anniversary Adversities

This is a special snippet for my friend @creweemmaeec11! I hope you have an awesome and happy birthday!!

I made this using my Storymatic cards!

Hero tossed and turned in the tiny bed, unable to get comfortable in the trailer. Villain was an outdoorsy type, so for their anniversary Hero just had to open their big mouth and suggest they go camping . Of course, Villain agreed with such enthusiasm that Hero couldn’t possibly take it back, even when they remembered how much they hated camping.

To Hero, camping was like paying a parking fee to live like a homeless person. There was no access to hot showers, you had to hike to the nearest bathroom- which was rarely maintained so the toilet paper was always empty and you were lucky if they had soap- and there were bugs. So many bugs. To the city, Hero was pretty fearless, but that was only because they had never faced a bug-powered villain. Oh, and don’t forget the campfire, that was a real problem. Aside from the fact that smoke would blow in their face no matter where they sat, Hero’s cryogenic makeup made them especially sensitive to high heat. Hero almost passed out twice when it was time to roast marshmallows.

Hero kept these complaints to themselves, of course. But this was the third night in the mountains, and Hero still hadn’t slept a wink. The wind whipped outside while every little noise made them jump. Raccoons, Villain had assured them. Bears, Hero’s brain argued.

…

An eternity of a night later, Hero’s face matched the supposed raccoons’, dark circles and all. The sun was barely up before Villain was pulling them out of bed to sit by the fire. Villain was going on and on about the day’s itinerary.

“And after the hike to the falls, we can go birdwatching, and then maybe some rock-hopping… Hero? Are you okay?”

Hero was nodding off in their thin folding chair. They woke with a start, looking at Villain and forcing a smile.

“Of course!” Hero said, “go on. Bird-hopping and rock-watching and a falls to the hike.”

Villain’s brows furrowed in concern. Hero stared, their smile not reaching their eyes. Were they on to them? They hadn’t said anything weird, had they?

“You didn’t sleep last night, did you?” Villain asked.

“Of course I-”

Villain’s brow quirked. Lie to me, I dare you, it said.

“…didn’t,” Hero sighed, “no, um, I haven’t really slept for the past few days.”

“Few days!? Hero- you should’ve said something!”

“There wasn’t anything to do about it,” Hero argued, “it’s not like you could magically make me sleep…”

Villain chuckled sadly, shaking their head, as if sharing a joke with themselves that Hero wasn’t privy to. Hero could feel Villain raking their gaze up and down their form, inspecting them and making calculations like they always did.

“You’ve been miserable, haven’t you?” They realized.

“No!” Hero said quickly, “of course not! I’m with you! This is so… fun! And… natural!”

“Oh, Hero… I wish you’d’ve told me…”

Villain got up from their spot by the fire. The leaves crunched under their shoes as they approached their lover. They crouched down to be eye-level with them. Villain took their hands and started rubbing them, while Hero stared into their eyes with a dead-tired look.

“I’m sorry,” Hero said as they failed to stifle a yawn, “but you were so happy to go camping and I love you and it’s our anniversary and it shouldn’t be just what I want to do and-”

“Hero. It shouldn’t be just what I want to do, either. We could’ve gone to that water park, or that huge bookstore in Other City. Heck, we could’ve gone to Bora Bora if we wanted to!”

Hero giggled a little despite themselves.

“Bora Bora? How?”

“Come now, my love, I’m a Villain. It wouldn’t be hard to buy first-class tickets. I could probably even get you a private jet if I wanted to.”

“Are you mad at me?” Hero asked.

“If I was, I’m over it now. I could never stay upset with you, you know that.”

Villain stood, pulling Hero up with them.

“I’ll get everything packed up and we’ll go home. The week isn’t over. We can still do something we’d both enjoy.”

“I just wanna sleep in my own bed…”

“I’ll get you back to your bed,” Villain smiled, rubbing their back, “I can have you sleep on the way home, if you’d like.”

Villain held a hand to Hero’s temple, and Hero’s body felt inexplicably relaxed and heavy. Their eyelids began to flutter.

“You never told me you were a telepath…” they mumbled.

“I can’t read minds, but I can influence them,” Villain said, lifting Hero into their arms and carrying them to the car, “just rest. We’ll get you home and then we’ll start anniversary 2.0.”

“Bora Bora?”

“Bora Bora,” Villain nodded with a smirk.

Hero drifted off just as Villain buckled their seatbelt for them. When they awoke next, it would be to a hot shower and freshly washed bedsheets. In the meantime, Villain made sure their dreams were pleasant and sweet.

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[twisted-wonderland-shenanigans]

Kaiju AU Concepts

So while I'm currently slowly working my way through working on my AUs, I had a burst of energy and motivation to draw some Kaiju concepts for characters we've already seen in what I've written--namely Grim and Crowley! (I did have a concept for Crewel's Kaiju form I did last year, but I'm probably going to edit it and just do a before and after comparison or something)

Kaiju AU Grim/Grimfang:

Notes:

This design is based on the updated description in the rewrite of the first chapter I'm almost finished with, keeping enough of his original design while making it fit into the AU.

The crystal on his chest is embedded into the flesh, and yes, it is purple like the crystal on his ribbon in game! It was a spur of the moment thought while sketching, but seemed very fitting and would lend more into the crystals being important to the kaiju themselves and how it helps with regulating magic similar to their in-game counterparts.

In the story, Yuu is supposed to be able to give Grim a proper bath since his fur wasn't as clean as it could have been when they first met. That's how Yuu will discover the crystal.

Keep in mind this is a relatively rough concept sketch to help me with designing the final version. In the meantime, this'll at least help with visualization when reading!

"Average Human" is essentially how tall an average sized human would be compared to kaiju Grim, since not every Yuu is the same height or size!

Kaiju AU Crowley/Nevermore Concept:

Notes:

So...I'll be honest, I've rarely if ever drawn anything relatively bird-like, so Crowley's design in this AU always made me worry he'd be too cartoony or something if I'd attempted before. It is a complete and utter accident that he wound up looking like a griffin without the lion half, but I'm not complaining! 😂

His "face mask" wound up being a last minute pattern I added, which wound up helping flesh him out more and not making him look like any old griffin bird creature. Still a major concept development for his overall design, but I'm feeling more confident on how he looks!

Based on the height differences for each kaiju here, I'd put Crowley at 70 ft tall. Which is pretty crazy in general, but then again, so is Godzilla and the other monsters, so eh. XD Anyway, tiny average human is spooked!

Yes, Crowley has those tiny arms that I mentioned in the rewrite snippet I had posted a bit ago, I just gotta figure out how they're shaped and such. They typically hide under all that chest floof!

That's all I've got for now regarding their designs. I'm still tapping away at the rewrite and working out how each character is designed. I've also got to post the updated species list since I decided to change things around, so keep an eye out for that! 😌

[slowd1ving]

EAT MY HEART, I'LL EAT YOURS ⁺ 　 . ✦ MOZE

Seek the answer ‘neath the tides,  Madness shall prosper, forget her wiles,  The moon grins once again tonight.  He hates you. He hates your plans, how you talk, how you work. He loathes being stuck with you: detests it to his very core. But that's great, because the feeling is mutual with you! Tied to an ill-omened crow of your own, what's there not to abhor? continuation of tales of a disgruntled corvid art by @ RMavio on x!! pairing: moze + male reader warnings: blood, death, violence, yall HATE each other bro, v slow burn, pre established relationship (if you don't count the relationship of HATING each other's GUTS) wc: 6.3k

HONKAI STAR RAIL MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

Copper defiles the carefully manufactured oxygen that circulates this tiny starship. Its stench pervades the past the clean air, past the distinctly alkaline tang of bleach, and past what little protection your visor affords you. In fact, the clear nanocomputers pick up on a distinctly sanguine hue to the air: labelling tiny crimson specks as biological matter—human blood (tentative). 

“Adult Foxian male, died approximately forty hours ago,” the man crouched before you narrates, oblivious to the you who stares up at the ceiling of the small room—as if the gesture could possibly shield you from the horrifying reality at your feet. No matter how many times you’ve stepped into a situation like this (too many to count ever since your career path practically merged with the Shadow Guards’), you don’t think you’ll ever get used to this. This is Moze’s sphere of knowledge: Moze’s work that intimately twines and dances with the very cesspit of vice and umbrage. 

“Died from presumably loss of blood caused by the deep lacerations across his abdomen and throat,” he continues—the details, unfortunately, seep into your brain as you try your best to tune him out. Thank you, Captain Obvious, you’d bite out, but unfortunately opening your mouth in these conditions would make you sick. “Or at least, that’s what the perpetrator would want us to think.”

There’s viscera splashed even on the very walls. Messy streaks of scarlet contaminate the aged wallpaper in the small room: capricious strokes, as though a child painted them, form characters and seemingly random lines of verse that register as unusual on your visor. That’s your area of expertise. 

Like clockwork, your gaze remains unwavering on the riddle presented on the structure. That’s how you’ve dealt with being in such proximity to Reapers: by pretending the wall is a block of stone and its red ink is precisely that—ink. That’s how you separate yourself from the victims of these gruesome cases; bit by bit, you’re slowly growing accustomed to the nauseating reek of metal that wafts before you. 

And so, when you finally glance down at the glazed-over eyes of the latest victim, it is with startling impassiveness that you assess his cadaver. He’s gone, you accept. Your little ritual has worked, as it oft does. 

“Same sigils as the other bodies.” You finally regain your voice, and the silver-haired man turns his sharp gaze up at you. “But the last line to the verse is different.”

Seek the answer ‘neath the tides, 

Madness shall prosper, forget her wiles, 

The moon grins once again tonight. 

The characters rest heavy on your tongue—foreign meanings straightening themselves out as you slowly sound out the snippet. It’s a verse from a children’s book of poems: a short tale about an obsolete, oceanic planet and its restoration by few brave souls. 

“The moon slumbered tonight,” you mutter the original line to yourself. This ancient script doesn’t suit the naïve phrases, but it’s commonly used for rituals—both antique and modern, you’ve unfortunately found. 

With a heavy sigh, you pull out the gun in your holster; it’s warm, humming to life which seems terribly ironic to you, considering where you are. You’ve not used the weapon for quite some time: the flickering it emits seems both familiar and unfamiliar. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” His clipped speech warily assesses the ease with which you handle the arm you never seem to use: preferring the glassy, almost invisible blade currently strapped across your back when in combat. 

“Xiaoze,” you sigh tauntingly, infusing the firearm with quantum energy that briefly glows indigo in this dim room. “Shut up and let me do my job.”

“Ew,” his face sours almost immediately at the nickname, embittered by both how it drips with condescension and no real affection, and how off putting it is for you of all people to be adding things to his name. “Don’t do that.”

“Then shut up.” You line the sights experimentally, having successfully blackmailed the Shadow Guard into keeping mum for a few minutes while you turn the qualitative verse into quantitative data. Perhaps he does feel threatened by the promise, for you only feel his heavy stare on you and not his words. 

The bullet careens and phases through the wall where the verse is located, and with a shimmer of data, the strings of numbers behind the verse reveal themselves: meaningless to all but yourself. It’s a temporary display, containing important information about the very foundations of this riddle. Or, at least, it’s a shortcut since the verse has already been decoded. 

Seek the answer ‘neath the tides: a reference to where the power ‘current’ of Madam General Feixiao is absent. Or at least, these murder locations point to that; they’re in the areas least looked over in the Alliance: namely, not aboard the Flagship. 

Madness shall prosper, forget her wiles: a crude depiction of Moon Rage, as well as the shedding of a ‘Foxian’ identity. Considering all these victims have been Foxian, it’s no far-fetched assumption to think that these have all been building up to something sinister. 

The moon slumbered tonight: a reference to the plaguemark hung over the Yaoqing—a moon left behind by Yaoshi. Past tense. Sleeping.

But that had all changed with this particular murder. Whatever goal the perpetrator hoped to achieve was finally coming into fruition with the awakening of this ‘moon’. 

The data transmitted onto your visor is as elapsed: the time of writing, the exact coordinates relative to the Flagship at the time of writing, as well as some background noise of little relevance to this current predicament. These numbers are duly inputted into one of your pre-created ‘equation’ sheets: linking abstracts together in their own relationships to receive a divinatory variable. It’s one of the few successes you’ve had with qualitative equations; linking energy and mass and speed is easy, but linking feeling together is not. 

In this case, tying down the exact time and coordinates to a specific intention. Any organic creature or ingenium leaves behind a trace of intention, whether it be through actual thoughts or a pre-programmed function. But in this case, the result comes out void. 

Thirty-two hours since verse was written. 

“How long did you say the man has been dead?” you ask, urgently. Moze snaps back to attention at the specific tone in your voice. 

“Forty hours,” he answers. When it comes down to the bloody aspects of this job, he returns to his laconic, reticent ways—it’s truly a shame he can’t keep it up in other aspects. 

“You’re sure about that,” you probe, half a question in your voice.

“It’s my job,” he deadpans, and you scowl as he uses your words against you. 

“Well, this verse appeared about eight hours after the man died,” you comment wonderingly. The strokes of the characters for grins once again appear a bit messier than the rest—almost like a map. Well, it’s not a deduction; your visor picks up on the strange wording right before you do. “Unlike the others that were written manually by a perpetrator.”

“So, this sacrificial lamb was finally the success,” he mutters darkly. 

“But the trail is no longer dead.” You sheathe your pistol back into its holster with a touch of relief, because finally this set of murders is coming to its conclusion.

⁺ 　 . ✦

You take back whatever compliments you had of him focusing on his job when it came down to it. As you pilot the star skiff along the trail of data outputted from your visor and the crude map from the bloody drawings, he’s practically talking your ear off about the garbled string of answers you sent him from your visor. 

“And what is beef’s relevance to this case?” he asks, each syllable drawn taut with what could only be mockery. 

“Typo,” you grit out, tilting the control wheel starboard. Now is not the time. 

“Egg, too?” he taunts. 

Your eyes flick to the top left of your visor, where you did in fact merge the contents of your grocery list with the file meant for him. 

“Use your common sense,” you bite on the inside of your cheek, hard, to prevent any insults from slipping past your lips. “You do still have that, right?”

“So what’s for dinner tonight?” He leans back against the co-pilot seat, and you can feel his gaze prick your face—much like you feel the tiny, irritating smile he wears. 

“I will crash this skiff if I have to, and you’ll have to explain to the General why the cryptologist exploded into itty-bitty pieces, Xiaoze,” you seethe. 

“Not if they don’t find your body,” he returns—far too accustomed to the patronising name for someone who blanched at its usage just an hour prior. Worst part is, he’d definitely make do on this vaguely-worded threat. 

“Madame General and A-hua would know it was you.” You propel the stern forward, if only to feel his hands grip the sides of his seat tighter. He courts death daily as an assassin, but wouldn’t it be a treat to die because of reckless driving. It’s not like you can entrust the programmed visor to him (and it’s not like you want to send the decoded map to the skiff). 

“Would they, though?” He pares away the dirt beneath his nails with his knife, and you hope the sudden jolt in the vehicle gave him an injury. 

“Jump.” A single syllable, gracing the space with your tender command. His brow raises minutely. 

“No one will miss you,” you add. 

“Since you’ve got no friends,” you tack on with an air of finality. 

⁺ 　 . ✦

He hates you. He hates you: hates the way your hands deftly turn the control wheel on the skiff; hates the way you trip and stumble through life, leaving countless messes behind yet still managing to have Feixiao’s approval to work with him; hates your facetious and conniving and sly insults. But most of all, he really fucking hates your plans. 

“This is so stupid,” he mutters in your ear; invisible to all but the tell tale outline on your shrunken visor. You’d reply, but you’re already conspicuous enough in the tailored suit you’ve donned—all sharp lines and a cut too bittersweet for your home planet. So actually, fuck that, then—there’s no point in being all Spy-like and Inconspicuous any longer. 

“Shut the fuck up,” you hiss, adjusting the cufflinks beneath the rich jacket—then subconsciously running a thumb along the edge of your fake identification card that’s pinned to your collar. Unlike that weirdo, you can’t turn invisible—so you’re left firing quanta bullets at the hull of this rig right outside Yaoqing airspace (or technically, space-space) and gleaning whatever information you can to assemble a persona for yourself. 

 <Doctor, Who is slightly Strange> how do I look < 1:34

The message pings to him from your visor, and you know he’s seen it—from the caustic sigh that leaves his lips, because if he ever blows his cover while he’s invisible, it will have been because of you.

< Weirdo > 1:34 > Focus on the damned mission.

Lukewarm, you scoff, brain sounding out your response. How… do… I… look, you type out once more.

1:35 > Terrible. 

Aggravated, you clench your fist, and you swear you can hear the space behind you warp and distort when he snickers. Terrible! What a joke, you seethe—jabbing the code into the airlock that you’d worked out by the little tones left on the verse, as well as reading the intentions left by people at this door. 

Your job is simple—getting to the bottom of these long-standing murders while also planting a bug on the ship that would allow the Seat of Divine Foresight of the Yaoqing to monitor the situation. Nothing more, but maybe something less if something went wrong. This was only a two-man operation, after all. 

Of course, you neither kept optimistic nor pessimistic. Though there were only two objectives,  those that underestimated the simplest missions oft suffered the brutal brunt of defeat. And of course, the former term being negotiable showed just how difficult it was. Or at least, if you managed to find the office of the higher ups, the data you stole would allow you to reconstruct the space virtually—though what you needed were concrete files that pointed to clear motives. 

No—not the office. 

You squinted as a rough plan of the building popped up from the continuous data you fed your visor—a general prediction of where the lab and computer room would be located, which were simulated as being in the same wing as the office. Perfect. 

<Weirdo> 1:40 > Done all your shopping already, or are you just tired of steak?

You grind your molars as you travel past the small throngs of borisin and humans alike: you don’t look entirely out of place as they’re dressed in a medley of different outfits, from IPC uniform replicas to Penacony garb to even the long robes found on Herta’s Space Station. Point is—your Earthwear doesn’t stand out, and there’s enough people that your badge does not go noticed. 

<Doctor, Who is slightly Strange> gonna shoot you how about that < 1:40

It takes the time of twenty-seven heartbeats to stride through the corridors (tunnels) that make their way around the aircraft. Twenty-seven heartbeats, three checkpoints and one smile shot at presumably a ‘coworker’—before you finally make it into the final stretch. He knows, though you don’t, because he’s counted: listening to the rhythmic beat of your organs as you calmly navigate the ship like you know what you’re doing. 

It’s devoid of souls, except for the two of you as you pad down the corridor. Even the very lab and big office seem abandoned—but Moze’s urgent text alerts you of the presence of someone in the office, just not the lab. 

Guess we’ll start there then. 

A quick swipe of your falsified keycard, and you were in—slipping on one of the freely available lab coats and extending your visor to cover your eyes at the entrance. You do respect lab etiquette, after all; erasing even your thoughts about food and drink as you press through the automatic glass doors. 

<Weirdo> 1:43 > You almost look like a scientist now.

You can hear his exhales—they’re so obviously deliberate, because no way would he blow his cover by accident. He’s snickering, that sod is. 

I am a scientific doctor, you senile fuckwad. < 1:44 

1:45 > Thought your default display name was just a joke. Did you hit your head and hallucinate some credentials?

You seethe, since you can’t exactly scroll through endless files to locate your dissertation on ancient science and qualitative formulae. Over sixty-thousand words, reduced to mere mockery by this cretin. 

It’s a triple entendre < 1:45 And I’ve got the creds < 1:45 prick < 1:45 

1:45 > moron

He types this lightning quick, not even pausing to stop walking—not even pausing to capitalise and punctuate his stupidly mocking text like normal—and you can still hear him because he’s letting you hear his normally silent steps, he’s letting you know he can fulfil the mission while shit talking you to your own face.

this is why you have no friends < 1:46

1:47 > this is why you don’t have friends outside your job. no one actually likes you

You rummage around in the large filing cabinet besides all the gleaming equipment: large centrifuges, safety cupboards, fume hoods, and weird display cases filled with samples of what can only be blood. Swiftly, you snap several photos of the evidence with your visor, then mindlessly write a response. Talk about a call coming from inside the house, you think. 

name two people who voluntarily spend time with you < 1:49 [<Doctor, Who is slightly Strange> sent index.finger.pointing emoji] < 1:49 [<Doctor, Who is slightly Strange> sent laughing.crying emoji] < 1:49

He’s no longer in the peripheries of your earshot; so you know he’s gone off to investigate the other areas of the small lab—beyond the equipment and into the computer room. Good, you exhale—at least he respects lab protocol. 

1:51 > name a time feixiao actually talked to you outside of work

I will…. lend you… my gun so… you can shoot…. yourself, you type, then quickly hit backspace before you can send it by accident. 

yesterday. eat shit xiaoze < 1:52

1:52 > that was charity work don’t flatter yourself

Hastily, you scan any files in the weird stronghold that look even remotely related to borisin and Foxians and especially the one you cradle: labelled only with the icon of a moon and containing eerily similar rituals to the crime scenes you found. 

oh you want to talk about charity work? lets ask the crowd bro < 1:55 everyone who interacts with you is doing charity work.. < 1:56

1:57 > ok at least my job wanted me

Wow. Wooow. You stare incredulously at the message—he’s dragging the Intelligenstia Guild into this, knowing you got put on leave for ‘engaging in querulous behaviour’ and ‘lacking in real life experience’. Low blow. 

…and no one else did so what now < 1:58 name a single friend you have < 1:58

1:58 > .. 1:59 > Jiaoqiu 

Jiaoqiu. How cute, you scoff, resuming your hate typing while you flick through the last few files hidden around in drawers and cupboards. 

idk how to tell you this but you are NOT the friend bro you’re the test subject… < 2:00 I think he pitied you or smth.. < 2:01

2:02 > ew 2:02 > don’t call me bro it’s sickening 2:02 > we are not alike

it’s exposure therapy < 2:03 since you don’t have any friends you don’t and probably never will be called anything endearing < 2:04 aren’t I so nice < 2:04

Pausing, you glance up at where the glass doors lead right to the computer lab; a dim glow washes over the space. Nothing much to worry about, you think—copying data is a far less burdensome task than rifling through pages upon pages of reports and then arranging them back into their rightful place. Though, if you were worried about anything, it was that the virus and bugger installation would take longer than they had to. 

Maybe it’s the paranoia getting to you. 

Or maybe, maybe, it’s the faint click of footsteps against linoleum floors—getting louder and louder and louder. As does your heartbeat: thundering deafeningly in your ears. You can’t turn invisible. You don’t get the luxury of slipping into the shadows like your colleague (to put it very politely) does. 

And so you swallow—tongue thick and leaden within your suddenly too-dry mouth. There are two courses of action you can take (hurry, the steps are getting louder): the first being to hide away in the little storage cupboard and take the escape from there. You will not be able to fool a scientist who knows their colleagues far more intimately than the grunts in the lobby. Moze has worked alone before. He’ll figure out how to get the virus downloaded and the data copied before the person even gets close to noticing him. 

Or—and your eyes flick to the computer room clearly visible from the lab—you could put on an act to save both your life and Moze’s time. You could… probably do that, right?

Heart moving renditions…. Never mind that your heart was pounding right out of your chest—never mind that your glassy sword could not be wielded in this narrow hallway, never mind that flipping the switch on your gun was not quite something you were prepared to do. 

They were almost at the corner, and you made your decision to step out into that narrow corridor. One hand in your pocket and the other raking across your face as you yawned. The epitome of casual. 

And Moze’s ears pricked as he watched you; though you’d never know, and he’d never admit that he did so. He heard the sound of sharp shoes, and was honestly expecting you to turn tail. 

But you didn’t. 

You’re taking lazy strides as he hears the researcher approach—counting on the secrecy of this organisation being tight enough to operate on a need-to-know basis. In other words, you’re operating on the high-risk gamble: that this particular person would be unaware of changes in personnel. There’s no time to read the data streaming from their steps. Ordinarily, from their intention you could figure out their rank in the pecking order—but you are plumb out of luck. 

He rounds the corner: wearing a suit far more well cut than yours, though his tie sits loose at his throat and his jacket is slung over one shoulder. From one glance, you can tell immediately. You’re screwed. Still, it’s too late to run now: far too late to leave Moze to figure out how to download the data faster. 

“Who are you?” The drawl is heavy with a cadence far too confident. Just your fucking luck, you momentarily scowl—of course the lab would be frequented by some clear higher-up. Not a regular degular scientist you could simply sweet talk, but someone not in the lower strata of this shady organisation.  

He’s handsome: black hair that sheens prussic, eyes glinting practically amber even in the frigid lighting that washes over this space. Something you’ve unfortunately learned while traversing the galaxy is that this guy cannot possibly be a grunt; and if he is, there’s something seriously wrong with the corporation. He’s eye candy—which makes this situation so terrible. You are screwed. In that moment, your lazy smile wavers somewhat; you are utterly and irredeemably fucked. You could shoot him, but that would no doubt put the rig on immediate lockdown with the sound of the gun. 

Fuck. You want to slam your head against the glass, but that would no doubt screw you over even further. 

You’re not built for this. 

“Oh, are you part of the research team too?” Naive. Your qualifications have just landed you this position, and you’re not quite capable of discerning if you should be divulging that information or not. That’s the mindset you centre this particular character around: just some random guy who’s a bit gullible. 

“Just got transferred,” you lie through your teeth, shamelessly. It’s a sin to lie, but you’ve committed bigger ones before. 

“No wonder I’ve never seen a cutie like you here before,” he murmurs—leaning in as though to inspect your face. And so, you freeze; naturally, this was not the direction you thought this conversation would take. Maybe sweet talking is not entirely off the table, but you sincerely doubt you’ll actually get away. 

You swallow. How much longer do you have to stall for? Is Moze done? What the fuck do you say next?

“Uh.” Thanks? I guess? You’re pretty cute too? You find your hand inching towards your holster—minutely, of course—while potential replies whirl through your mind chaotically. Miniature storms wrapped up in slimy brain matter and miniscule neuron connections. 

It’s only when he lets out a short laugh that you realise that you might’ve let out your thoughts, and you curse at yourself in your mind. 

“Wow, you’re bold,” he comments, closer: until you can almost taste the lingering iron and manufactured scent he has. Like wood. Earth pine. A bitter pang goes through your heart at that: someone from the surviving fallout of Earth, here of all places. In a clean, sterile lab dedicated to sacrificing Foxians—for what? Money? Stupid credits? Humans are rotten creatures, cut from a cloth macerated in cesspits. On Earth, it was no exception. 

Still. Your lips press into a line at his clothes, the particular way the tie is knotted. You’ve never seen another survivor prior to this. 

You may also be completely mistaken. Penacony and doubtless others have the same strands of fashion—but this. This is wholly Earth. 

“People do tell me that,” you return, unbuttoning your lab coat since you’re no longer in the lab boundaries. Moze, hurry the fuck up. You’re already regretting it, but you need to confirm it. Alien everywhere, what other choice do you have?

His eyes don’t widen like you expect, and you feel a stupid ache at the realisation that you’re once again alone. But rather, they flicker to your breast pocket, where your falsified keycard peeks out. Closer. His fingers pluck the plastic as though it were a flower, and you’re much too astounded to stop him. 

“What a shame…” he murmurs, and only the nails digging into your palm remind you fitfully of just how near he is—practically tasting the fucking lies on your breath. 

“Sir, back up a bit,” you grimace. This sucks. The perks of keeping the guy from witnessing the glow in the computer room is slowly fading away the longer you keep this up. Should’ve left Moze to get caught. 

“O strange doctor, do movies of the bygone era really interest you so?” 

You freeze. Shit. Shit. You’d let down your guard—attempting to gauge his reaction to your attire and getting caught out yourself. Really, was there any spy worse than yourself? The falsified card was hastily put together with the help of your visor; of course it autofilled that stupid alias. 

It’s not the first time your mistakes have cost you. 

“You…” This guy. You should’ve run. You suck at gambling. 

“How odd. I should’ve been aware of one like me being transferred.”

“Who the hell are you?” Cautiously, you take a minute step back. He notices—of course he does. 

“The head of the research department, who else?”  Fuck, fuck. Your heart is entering arrhythmia: pounding flush against your eardrums like some goddamn hammer against piercing nail. You’re dead meat. 

“It’s unfortunate that I can’t buy you a suit to replace that cheap one—if you hadn’t infiltrated, we might’ve been good friends.” He’s still putting up a front, but you can tell he’s close to a fight. It’s the snarling instinct of a cornered human—fight or flight activating almost immediately at every minute movement of his. Each shallowed breath, each minute shift in sinew. All of it. 

“No, definitely not,” you retort in disgust. “Most people from that planet sucked.”

It’s true, but your heart twinges blue just the same. Millions of years, all for that stupid molten iron planet to just cease. None but you—all alone amongst the cold, dead stars. 

It was a graveyard of the giants: hulking Jupiter, so wretched and broken; stars slowly winking out one by one. Even the massive silhouette of the Sun had finally been conquered. Had the universe ever been so lonely for the wandering?

“Even you?” And now his fists punctuate the empty space with his words. 

“Especially me.”

How foolish. How foolish, as he’s barely breathing on the floor beside you. How foolish, as you let your teeth grind in stupefied frustration. How foolish, that you wanted to communicate with a remnant from that obsolete planet. 

You’re an idiot as you clutch at your side: warmth seeping between your fingers as you prop yourself up against the wall. Shallow, heaving breaths come ragged—though the fight didn’t last even five minutes, courtesy of your visor working overtime to electrocute that fool by your feet. He looks fried, but you don’t look much better: being stabbed does that, after all. 

You don’t know what you’re doing here. 

What were you trying to accomplish?

Iron tastes especially caustic today. Ah, you realise with a start—this stupid endeavour was all to buy time. Maybe it was all pointless. Maybe you’ll slip into slumber here—tripping over the sleeping man at your feet and seeing your planet once more, if only in your dreams. 

The flicker of lights reminds you of your wretched childhood apartment. All concrete and dilapidated structure, but it was your home. A cruel and cold home—though it was also one where the sun touched the horizon just so, in a way that erased pain for a singular moment in time. 

Stupid. All this to fulfil your stupid mission. 

Your legs wobble, and you would’ve slammed right into the wall were it not for the cold arms wrapping around your ribcage—gelid hand splayed on your chest. 

“Idiot.” Moze’s voice is low and angry; practically shaking while he supports your body. He’s pressed right up against your side—making the smell of blood ever more pungent. Slippery, metallic copper—all coming from you and ruining that stupid suit for good. “Are you illiterate too?”

“Huh?” You don’t know why he’s upset; he got the job done, didn’t he? Maybe he’s mad he has to prop you up while navigating the dim tunnels of this building—his teeth are gritting, after all, even if you can’t see him. You can hear the molars grind together. 

“Are your eyes just for show, or do you occasionally read your messages?” he seethes. Your trembling heart is far too loud to register the final death rattles of the man left behind in the corridor—courtesy of a blade thrown right into his jugular. 

“Hah. Muted them to not read your irritating texts anymore.” You close your eyes as he guides you past the chemicals, past the cleaning supplies in the closet that leads to a hidden path outwards. He’s more… gentle than you would’ve expected; grip firm on your arm slung over his shoulders rather than constricting. 

“I didn’t need your help,” he informs you: tone boreal as ever. “You blew our cover.”

Still, you cannot see the furrow in his brows as he peers down at you; neither can you see his lips pressing together. His heart’s pounding weirdly: focused on you rather than leaving this stupid place far behind. 

“I didn’t do it for you—” you grit out, stumbling the last few steps to the concealed star skiff while alarms blare on the ship the two of you leave behind. And he’s grasping your waist as you lean against the rocking vehicle—but you were not going to fall. Blood seeps onto his clothing, though he pays the mess no heed for once. 

“Don’t need your help either,” you scoff, returning his words back to him as you lean against the worn seat. It’s cold. So cold, but you’d rather die than admit it hurts. “Get off me.”

“I’ll drive.” His rich voice finally has a body once more as he settles into his copilot seat. He can visualise the path back to the Yaoqing already—back to the messy, warm place you call home. Where you linger on all those stupid trinkets, the decorations you put up, and the food simmering in the pot on your stove—he knows the route like the back of his scarred hand. 

“I’m fine. It’s not that deep, and Jiaoqiu will take a look at it anyway.”  Jiaoqiu. His lips curl into a sneer as the dashboard lights up—flipping switches with such harsh precision it’s much too apparent that he’s in a terrible mood. 

“Or A-hua,” you add, and his heartbeat becomes something twisted and wretched as he hears the dimmed affection in your voice. You’re tying off the bandage tight around your side—very rudimentary first aid, but the priority is to get as far away as possible from this facility while their systems go down.

“Neither of them will be in when we report to Feixiao.” 

He doesn’t quite know why he lies: syllables rolling off his tongue like a blunder, yet he manages to keep his voice steady. 

“Then I’ll give myself stitches.” So damn stubborn, he thinks. He’s irritated, for reasons unclear to him. 

“No, this was because of me. I’ll treat you.” He doesn’t know why he insists either; one thing he knows for sure though, is that he can’t help but cling onto the scent of your embodiment. Blood and sweat, laundry powder and soap. You. It’s nothing like the damp of his cell. 

“No thanks. You’d probably—hah—use this opportunity to get rid of me,” you wince out. Well, he cants his head in thought—you’re not wrong. He might’ve left you behind: no regrets, no more dead weight. 

“You think so little of me?” 

“Yes. Why else would you come close?” On edge—that’s what he can hear in the tremulous pulse beneath the flesh, all torn and never at ease. It’s not fearful, precisely, but gone is the casual annoyance in your tone—it’s more of a void acceptance, as though you’re stating the obvious. 

To answer your question, he doesn’t know. He’d normally recoil at the sight of the dried blood on his clothes—scrubbing at his skin the moment he could—but he’s absent-mindedly pulling at the threads laved in you with a hand not preoccupied by steering. 

“Anyways. If you keep pushing it, you’ll be permanently dubbed that nickname you so hate.” 

“Don’t care.” He meets your eyes through the reflection of the glass window. One gaze—flinty and stubborn. The other pair of eyes—silent and unyielding. “I’m treating you before we report to Feixiao.”

“Little A-ze is all grown up now, huh,” you mutter, and the prefix you put in front of his name is cold and distant. It tastes quite bitter, and for that reason he doesn’t deign to speak for the rest of the flight. 

For once, he’s truly living up to his description of being reticent. 

⁺ 　 . ✦

“Why’d you do such a stupid move?” With each agonised beat of your heart, the needle jabs into one side of your flesh and extends past the other. This may have been taken as to mean he’s fast with your treatment—but your pulse is as sluggish as barely molten lava, burbling and gurgling like you’re on your last legs. “Look after yourself first.”

The towel he painstakingly placed on your couch is spattered with sanguine. Unfortunately, you’re a bit too lost in delirium to realise the gravity of this situation: Moze, kneeling by your side as he carefully stitches you back up. So delirious, you don’t notice his heavy gaze and scarred hands that reverently handle the tools that pierce your body. 

“A-ze,” you slur, half-conscious as you bring a scalding hand to press against his boreal face. He freezes, like he really is made of ice. But alas, your hand falls back to your side just as quickly and his expression settles back into a scowl. 

“I could’ve escaped,” you murmur, eyes heavy with slumber. “But then you would’ve been in trouble.”

I wouldn’t have been, he wants to say back. You and your idiotic plans. He’s thought it before and thinks it now—he really fucking hates them. 

“Don’t ever do that again,” he instead grits out, tying off the last stitch with the scissors with a clinical professionality that you’re quite astounded then. “Look after yourself, and I’ll do the same.”

“Shut up and get out then,” you retort—and he plucks the roll of bandages you were planning on winding around your side. You blink: taken aback once more. 

“No.” 

No? 

“Fuckface,” you comment bitterly, though there’s a certain decrease in volume as he winds his arms slowly around your torso to wrap the cloth around you. Like this, his silver tufts of hair brush past your chin—strangely clean smelling for an assassin. And when you rest your palms on his upper back to alleviate the tension in your side, you swear he freezes. 

“Idiot,” he slams back; though, there’s a certain rapidity to his pulse as your chest is right in his eyeline. It’s steady, rising and falling with each even breath you have: naked muscle just about grazing his nose. For the first time in ages, his fingers waver in his task. 

“Call Jiaoqiu then,” you shrug. He’s tucking the ends of the bandage into itself, so you miss how the faint flush on his face immediately fades. 

Speak of the devil, and he shall appear. 

“Call who over?”

The foxian stands in the doorway with a pleased, close-eyed smile—much like the cat that finally got the cream. He’s grinning, Moze realises with horror; he saw the vulnerability in his shoulders, even if for a brief second.

Shit. He didn’t even notice. 

“Jiaoqiu?” You take your hand off his shoulder to wave; the man can no longer suppress the irritation in his expression. 

“In the flesh!” 

“Wow, you really don’t look good,” he continues, voice drawing closer as he inspects your bloodied torso. 

“Yeah, because I’m stuck with the fucker who lied about you not being—”

Moze presses his palm against your mouth—heart erratic at the feeling of soft lips against his hand, though it has nothing to do with you. More of the fact that he’s never been so close to someone like this. Yeah. That’s the reason. 

“Why are you here, Jiaoqiu?” he replies in your stead, ignoring how incredulously your gaze pierces into the side of his face. 

“So cold! You two are late to report even though you arrived half a system hour ago! But I totally understand, Moze.” Jiaoqiu’s smile does not quite reach his eyes as his gaze flitters between you and the assassin. That, perhaps, would be the usual description of how the foxian smiles regardless, but especially so today. “He’s injured, after all. Why not let me treat him before the two of you report to our Arbiter-General?”

“Pah–!” With a gasp, you finally wrench his hand from your mouth—glaring at him all the while. “That would be great, Jiaoqiu, thank you.”

Thus, the assassin is left simmering on the other side of your living room: daggers jabbing right into the other man’s back as he finishes your treatment off with a bowl of scorching hot broth. And though he doesn’t outright say it, Jiaoqiu is evidently amused by this turn of events—much like he’s amused with every irritated tell of Moze’s as he inches ever closer to you with his sly smile. 

Sorry, friend, he surmises. Not much of a chance you’ve got. 

It’s a great day for the fox, but not so much for the crow who seethes in the corner. 

⁺ 　 . ✦