#incoordination

[kunikisss]

for ONCE in my life i chose a different route for my daily walk and found this puppy on the side of the road and i asked around in the nearby houses if they know whose it was, but they DIDN'T and then a lady told me that somebody probably left it there and oh my god how can you do that but whatever it's my responsibility now. it's so stupid & stinky & small i don't know what to do with it

i couldn't get a proper fucking picture because it kept SHAKING

[murdrdocs]

can't stop thinking about fucking matt murdock. MDNI 18+ w/ MATT MURDOCK

no bells and whistles, nothing that should make this time special. just you and matt, stark naked atop his silk sheets, bodies tired and damp with sweat, but you both keep going. he keeps rolling his hips and forcing his cock further and further into you, nudging against that spot that you know he knows about. knowing him, he might have some 'blind sense' of it's existence. your foreheads resting on the other, the tip of his nose nudging against yours with every other thrust. your hand hooked in his hair, the hand he's not using to hold himself up alternating between gripping your hip, cradling your head, and resting firmly against the base of your throat.

it always feels so intimate when you're with matt, whether that be because you're trusting him to do things to you that you would never let another man do, or just because you're giving a part of yourself to another. he hasn't done anything experimental to you tonight, there's no print of his hand stinging in your flesh, no stain on your inner thighs from forced excretion, no soreness settling in your muscles. no, in truth, tonight is completely tame. but it's no less pleasurable for you. no less intimate.

the way you share air as matt breathes in when you breathe out and vice versa. the way he's fucking you slow enough to make sure you can feel everything—down to the brush of his pubes against your mound. the whispers of praises and rhetorical questions phrased as the opposite against your parted lips.

matt dips his head and brushes his lips into the side of your neck, repeating the action along your collarbone before sinking down to the center of your chest, right over the intense thump of your heart caged by your ribs.

"you're doing so good for me, sweetheart," he tells you just before his lips press into your skin, his kiss lingering for a moment. his head lifts and his eyes flutter shut as you push the dark strands of hair off of his forehead. right beneath your palm sits a few grey streaks, they're trickled along his jawline, too. he's getting older, as are you. you're getting older together.

a particular drive from matt has you gasping. your back arches and your tits press into matt's chest, your flesh smooshed together until you can only see the faint white line of the scar that sits right below matt's collarbone. your nails scratch matt's scalp and again, his eyes flutter shut, this time in an action that mimics an animal being pet behind the ears.

when he opens his eyes and you're met with his unfocused stare, his breathing is more labored. heavy and sharp inhales followed by quick exhales.

he nods, although the action feels like it's intended more for himself than you. "i'm gonna..." he licks his lips and blinks, "i'm gonna get you there, sweetheart. promise."

and it's only then that you notice the slight stutter in his hips, the minute hint of incoordination that you only notice because you know matt.

you throw a leg over his hip, digging the heel of your foot into the dimple on his lower back. you would offer to help, but it's fruitless. when matt gets like this, he has to do it himself. his pride soars, as well as his pleasure, when he pleases you.

matt adjusts his position, leaning his weight onto his forearm now. he rests his head in the crook of your neck and his other hand slides up your arm, interlinking his fingers with yours resting along his scalp. he only stays like that for a moment, a brief moment of reprieve for both of you before matt lifts himself up, presses his fingers into the back of your elevated thigh, and fucks deep into you until uncontrolled sounds spill from your lips.

[dastardly-imbecile]

NOTDEER

AO3 HERE

Simon nods at you. He’s tall enough that, at the angle your phone points, the slant of light only reaches his neck, face still obscured in shadow. You can make out, through the barest changes in shades of gray, the suggestion of a nose, the theory of a brow, hypothesis of the lips. Indistinct enough that you could not draw him, defined enough that you can recognize him. --- When you cannot trust your own memory, alone on a trip in the woods, what else is there to do but submit? OR the incomprehensible monster who haunts your campsite is an alcoholic

---

Wordcount: ~7.5k

Inspired by this wonderful drabble by @ceilidho. Also, mandatory nods to the 'Goatman' and 'Fleshgait' creepypastas.

TW: this is some halfbreed horror story, so there WILL be graphic depictions of violence and death! Read at your own discretion!

It starts like any good romance: a grove of darkly flowered dogwoods and a rousing campfire, a bit too much to drink and a night just cold enough that you have an excuse to huddle together. 

It starts like any good horror movie: a storm and a drenched forest, clouds blotting out the stars and the sounds of many toothy things in the realm beyond your sight. 

It starts like any story ever, which is to say a hapless protagonist and a presence that watches, that waits. 

It starts like this: you are sitting around the campfire with three of your friends, trying to spear your marshmallow, fallen into the fire. Giving up, once it grows indistinguishable from all the other lumps of charcoal. 

Darren laughs too hard at that, puts an arm around you when he goes to grab a new marshmallow. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out why: Darren’s had a crush on you, ever since you drunkenly hooked up with him at a party in high school, and he’s just the right combination of too forward and too coy to be annoying. Makes rowdy, boys-locker-room jokes, sneaks looks at you to see if you laugh. Loudly talks about some new date around the group, bemoans his singleness in your private messages. 

You haven’t brought it up. No use making things awkward. No use letting him down gently, not when he’ll deny your claims, make it into some big, pick-me delusional-woman deal. 

Besides, you’d be lying if you said you didn’t like the attention a little bit. You’d be lying if you said the night and the campfire and the shitty beer buzzing through your veins doesn’t make any warm body look a bit appealing. 

“Hey,” Kelsey says from across the campfire, “grab the bottle.”

You’ve known Kelsey since third grade—the longest out of everyone at this circle. Were neighbors, close enough that when the fighting between her parents got bad, she’d come crawling through your window and you’d sleep in the same bed, back-to-back. She was your first kiss, during spin the bottle in middle school. Sure took that a lot better than Darren did. 

He does, changing course to reach for the beer. His arm brushes you, not entirely accidentally. You meet his eyes, smile, and the surprise that lights in them makes your grin widen.

With a bit of sloppy, tipsy incoordination, Kelsey fills her own red cup. The liquid is piss-yellow, and it tastes like gasoline, but anything is good when you’re already drunk and a hundred miles from the nearest liquor store. 

Wordlessly, Lou holds out his own cup. You don’t know him all that well, as a matter of fact, but he’s some friend of Kelsey’s from college and she insisted on bringing him along so she doesn’t, quote, get all caught up in your pining third wheel bullshit. Quiet, but the type of funny that makes you think he’s been saving all his humor up. She pours him one, and then, without needing to ask, you and Darren. 

Above, there is the distant rumble of thunder. You realize that you can’t see the moon anymore—it was full, ten minutes ago, and you suppose it’s technically still full, but out of sight, out of mind, all that. The campfire is the only source of light in the woods, that and the flashlight steepled by Lou’s feet, and it gives the whole clearing a sort of airy, unreal sense. Heat mirage, wavering light making everything a bit less solid. 

Kelsey pours a fifth cup. Sets it on the ground. Darren raises his eyebrows. “Wow.”

“What?” She asks. He laughs, like she’s being dumb—which is one of the reasons why you’ve never even tried dating him—and juts his chin out at the extra cup. 

“Going double, really?”

“What?” She repeats, looking down, then back, “it’s for Simon.”

“Who?” You ask, tilting your head. 

“Simon? Remember? Jesus, he lived on the same street as us. Remember, when Mom and Dad were divorcing, he let me stay at his house for two months because your folks didn’t like me?”

You remember the last part of that—your parents had developed an aversion to Kelsey because she dyed her hair and got a septum piercing, and they were the type to call that a bad influence—but not the first. As far as you’d known, she’d gone off to stay with her cousins for that stretch of time.

“No,” you say carefully, “who-”

Darren interrupts you, gesturing around the fire. “And where is Simon?”

“He just got up to take a piss,” she snaps, and the conversation’s getting heated, too heated, pushed along by the same things that made it fun—that being, alcohol and two groups who don’t know each other all that well and sleep deprivation—tipping over the edge of delirious entertainment to irritation. 

“Kel,” Lou says, careful and slow, “maybe you shouldn’t drink more, actually. Nobody named Simon came with us.”

She pauses. There is a strange, slow moment, where time stretches like taffy and the fire seems to freeze, and her face falls in a way that makes her look unlike herself. It’s what you imagine a doppelganger to look like—all the right features, all the right proportions, but a different person behind the eyes, windows to a different soul. 

“Sorry,” she says, and it’s back, all her spirits in the right body, “I don’t know… fuck, I’m mixing some shit up. Yeah, I don’t…”

Another peal of thunder. You look up at the sky. When you were a kid, you always had this wriggling thought in the back of your mind—that you should not look at the sky, in case something looks back, peels you open from epidermis to intestine and puts you back together wrong. 

No, you didn’t. Where the fuck did that come from?

“I think it’s gonna rain,” You observe. Darren throws back his beer, throat working in an effort to chug it, up-down-up like a ship on turbulent waves. Across the campfire, Kelsey looks at her cup with faint distaste. After a moment of consideration, chucks it into the large back garbage bag hitched to the nearest tree—Lou follows, though his cup is considerably emptier, and you as well, after a moment. 

Guess who drops his cup on the ground?

“C’mon,” Kelsey says, pointing. Darren looks at it, picks it up with a two-fingered grip like one might a piece of toilet paper on the bottom of their shoe, chucks it into the bag. 

“My bad,” he says, “Smokey the bear’s gonna get me, huh?”

“He’s for wildfires,” Kelsey snaps, “you’re just a fucking asshole.”

She doesn’t like him much. That’s also why she insisted on bringing Lou. 

He holds up his hands in a back off sort of resignation, pushes himself to his feet. You follow—as you do, a raindrop strikes the corner of your eye, teeters perilously close to falling in. By the time you blink it away, there are more—upon your arms, your legs, striking with the force of slow bullets, which is to say not like bullets at all. Shitty metaphor. Blame it on your BAC. 

When you make the trek back to your tent, Darren sticks with you for a bit longer than would necessarily make sense—it’s only when you don’t spare him a glance, while unzipping your tent, that he finally peels off. 

You turn around—the same instinct that makes you double-check the oven is turned off—to examine the campfire. Stupid, because the rain, extinguishing even the embers, but it does make you realize that Lou left his flashlight there. It illuminates the clearing, the four logs, and the absence of the fifth cup. 

Kelsey must’ve thrown it away. Didn’t see her do it, but Smokey Bear and all that jazz. 

Doesn’t take long for you to fall asleep. A full day of hiking—well, insofar as hiking means trekking a case of beer halfway up a mountain, which you think very much counts, actually—has given your body plenty to be tired about. 

—

When you wake up, it’s the middle of the night. If the darkness beyond your tent does not tell you that, then a quick glance at your phone does—the stark 2:54 splayed out across the screen. 

More pressing is the pressure on your bladder. Most of you wants to stay warm and comfortable in your sleeping bag, but the rest needs out, so you shove your way free. Stumble around a moment before you manage to unzip your tent. Can’t bother to look for your flashlight, so you grab your phone, use it to illuminate the way out into the edge of the clearing and into bliss. Not really needed, in any case—Lou’s is still on, and the rain has stopped, which makes the trip remarkably clear. 

When you turn around, you almost scream. There is a silhouette in the center of the glade, made stark by the stuttering light of the abandoned flashlight. Tall enough to dwarf you in the vertical direction, broad enough to do the same in the horizontal, and the only reason you do not shriek is that freeze manages to claw a victory over flight and fight. 

Instinctively, you put your hand out in front of you, phone still in it—and, when that tinny light lands upon the figure, all the panic suddenly bleeds out of you like a punctured lung. 

It’s just Simon. You met him in the campus coffeeshop, junior year of college, because he was sitting in your usual study spot. It was a silent competition, for a few months, to see who could get to the spot first, until one day, fed up, you sat directly across from him at the table. Another month of silent stalemate, both working across from each other, until you’d broken the ice by asking why he was ordering tea at a damn coffeeshop, and the rest is history, so to say. 

He’s a good friend. Kelsey likes him more than she likes Darren, for sure, and he and Lou could spend a century in happily companionable silence. 

“God,” you groan, “scared the shit out of me. What’re you doing?”

He nods at you. He’s tall enough that, at the angle your phone points, the slant of light only reaches his neck, face still obscured in shadow. You can make out, through the barest changes in shades of gray, the suggestion of a nose, the theory of a brow, hypothesis of the lips. Indistinct enough that you could not draw him, defined enough that you can recognize him. 

“Same thing as you,” he replies, “felt good?”

You snort. “You’re so weird. By all means, the spot’s yours.”

He doesn’t move, as you step around him, though you get the sense his head is turning, keeping his eyes upon you. 

“Remind me,” he says, casual, “how long’re we staying here?”

Right. He’d been a last-minute addition to the groupchat. You’d only added him because you’d remembered him mentioning, offhand, that he did some hiking. Well, in his words, less nature walks, more hunting. 

Thank God he’s not one of those guys that poses with dead deer like they’re fish. 

(Guess who is?)

Though, maybe you wouldn’t mind too much if he was. Since you were a kid, you’ve always wanted to cut a deer open, dig your hands into its guts and pull everything out, line them up all neat on a white table like you’re playing offal-solitaire. Push a finger into its eyesocket until you touch the brain, fuck yourself on its antlers. 

You blink. “Sorry,” you say, “spaced out. Uh, three days I think? A fourth, for getting back home.”

“Good,” he replies. 

A moment where you stare at each other, and then you add, a coy smile tugging at the corners of your lips, “fine if I use the kettle for coffee first tomorrow? You’ll have to wait for your tea.”

When he laughs, it’s a deep, burrish sort of rasp that digs into your sternum. “Fine by me, dove.”

—

You don’t remember making it back to your tent, but you must, because when you wake up, you’re back ensconced in your sleeping bag. The only proof you have that you went out at all is that you forgot to plug your phone back in, and it lays by your head. When you blearily prod at it, the screen does not light up, and you groan when you realize it must’ve died. 

Oh well. Get off that screen, enjoy the marvels of nature, all that. Lemons into lemonade. Water into wine. 

You’re not the first one up—that’s Lou, who’s busy heating up a cast iron over the replenished campfire, boxed pancake mix to his right. He nods at you, and you nod back, perfectly content to stay silent when it’s this early—talk can wait until the sky’s finished birthing the sun. 

You circle around to the other side of the fire, set up the kettle over the grate. By the time the water’s boiling, Kelsey is out, and by the time you pour out four mugs, Darren pushes his way into the open. 

“Hey,” you say, “where’s our teabags?” 

“Didn’t bring any,” Kelsey replies, “none of us drink tea?”

“Oh. Simon must’ve brought his own,” you reply, and the group freezes for a second. Not in the strange, unreal way from last night, but instead in the way that happens when someone’s just made a very poor taste joke. 

“Who the fuck is Simon?” Darren asks, looking up from his half-burnt pancake, “some bloke you and Kel know?”

She frowns. She hates when he calls her Kel. 

“I…” you say, glancing at her. Past her, to the line of tents, to the four tents, not five. “I swear… I talked to him last night?”

The last words are uncertain. Did you? You remember him, of course, tall and broad, but now, if you try, you cannot see his face in your mind’s eye. 

“...I think Kel freaked you out,” Lou says, “must’ve been a dream.”

“I think they’re fucking with us,” Darren says, and you shake your head, though you can’t tell whether it’s to deny him, Lou, or yourself. 

A dream makes enough sense—went out to piss, sure, forgot to plug your phone back in, had some tired-drunk-hallucination midway through. Kelsey’s little thing messed with her head, and maybe she’s the one fucking with you, and it worked a bit better than intended. 

When you think back on college, in that coffeeshop, you find that you don’t remember a single thing about a hulking man in the corner of the place. Makes less sense the more you think on it—why would he be there, not a student? Why would you talk to someone like that? Back then, at least, you were timid enough that you wouldn’t correct a waiter on your misheard order, let alone sit yourself down across from a stranger. 

Weird dream. You scrub a hand over your face. 

“Sorry,” you say, “must’ve… I don’t know.”

“Maybe lay off the alc, huh?” Darren asks, like you’re not only attracted to him when you’re drunk. You nod anyway. 

The day passes as lackadaisically as any day with four twenty-somethings alone in the woods can go, which is to say, easily. You while away a few hours in the morning just strolling through the desire paths that circle your clearing, listening to the birds sing overhead, the squirrels bouncing through great leafy branches. Even see a deer at one point, as it leaps over the path, and it dredges some quiet, half-grown memory from some quiet, half-there part of your mind, a dream within a dream within a bender. 

Lunch is canned ravioli, and the afternoon is a few rounds of poker played with sticks and rocks. Darren suggests—a few too many times for it to be funny—to turn it into strip poker, until Lou starts taking his pants off, and then he shuts up. 

“There’s a lake a few miles from here,” Kelsey says, consulting a map as dusk conquers the horizon, “we should go tomorrow.”

“Didn’t bring swimsuits,” you observe, “or fishing rods.” 

“We can skinny dip,” Darren suggests. 

A moment of silence, to emphasize that he’s being ignored, and then Lou says, “scenic hike, then.”

It’s settled. When night is fully upon the forest, Darren walks to the cooler, and as you once again lose a marshmallow to the flames, he yells back to you. 

“Who drank everything?”

“What?” You call back. A moment of silence, the sound of rustling and the clinking of glass bottles. 

“All the beer! We brought a 12-pack up, and we had nine after last night, and there’s only seven now.”

“Jesus,” Kelsey drawls, “you were counting? Alcoholic, much?”

“It’s not counting, it’s common fucking sense. Three bottles last night, so there should be-”

“Maybe it was Simon,” Lou says. The way he’s leaned towards you implies that it was a comment meant for your ears only, but he’s a bit too loud or everyone is a bit too sensitive, because they stop their argument immediately. 

Your eyes fix upon the marshmallow in the fire, past the point of softening and edging into char. When you were in third grade, a firefighter came to your school, gave a presentation in front of the class. You remember he described a burning house and a woman who wasn’t able to get out. Hid in the bathtub instead. When they went back inside, she was melted into the porcelain. Human lard, he said, smiling, smells just like Sunday morning. Anyone like bacon? 

Yum. Your tongue prods at the back of your teeth, and you try to remember what you ate for dinner. 

A tense moment, nobody sure how to respond to that, whether to brush it off or to play in it. Eventually, it’s Darren who half-laughs, half-groans, “shut up.”

He lumbers back to the fire, carrying two bottles in his hands. 

“So,” he says, handing one to you and one to Kelsey to pour, “again, who is he? Some neighbor kid?”

“No,” she says, staring at her hands, “I think I met him… somewhere else.”

“I think I met him in college,” you blurt, and she brightens immediately, meeting eyes with you. 

“Yeah, me too! That’s it.”

“I think,” Lou says, “the problem with that is that you went to different colleges.”

Darren snorts. You consider passing him the cup, but rapidly change your trajectory to Lou. “Woah. Can’t even get your story straight.”

A new furrow has worked its way into Kelsey’s brow, and she tilts her head. “Did he go to our high school, then?”

“I’d know him,” Darren says, and she shrugs loosely. Looks like it takes a conscious effort to clear herself up, to smooth out the tension in her skin and reach down her throat with a hand and wring her kidneys out like bloodsoaked rags. 

“Dunno, then. Maybe he’s one of my mom’s friend’s sons. She introduced me to a ton of those, back in high school. Or maybe I am messing with you.” She smiles impishly, but you don’t have to examine her eyes to know that she’s lying, that she’s trying to cover. 

The topic passes, eventually, but the mood it sets does not. Lou’s some massive horror buff, apparently, and he regales you with the type of story that takes you back to ten-year-old summer camp. Even Darren gets into it, and you’re reminded why you came on this trip with him in the first place—when he’s not being horny or being an asshole, he’s surprisingly funny, good at setting the mood. 

“...drip, drip,” he says, “and you’ll never guess, what she sees when she’s looking at the trees above the car-”

“Oh my god,” Kelsey moans, “it’s way too fucking dark for this. I’m going to bed.” She points an accusing finger at Darren, “and if I catch you dripping water over my fucking tent-”

“Would never,” he says lightly. She giggles as she stands, staggering to her feet, out from the dome of the firelight and off to the dark lumps of the tents beyond. 

After only a minute, Lou follows, yawning and murmuring a quiet, “night.”

And then, there were two. You glance over at Darren, and through the haze of tipsiness, in the flickering light, he looks almost good. Firelight is better than a diet—it casts all the planes of his cheek in chiseled levels of light and shadow, cuts off the extraneous until all you can see is the shape of a person. 

He must notice, because he grins. 

“You scared too?”

You return the grin. It feels like slipping on someone else’s skin. “Maybe.”

“I can think of something to help that.”

You swat at him, laughing. “And that is?”

“Come to my tent. Find out.”

“God, you’re corny. Fine.” You point at the campfire, “you go ahead. I’ll put out the fire. Smokey Bear, you know.”

He chuckles, and for a moment, you almost think this might not be a mistake. 

The fire’s almost entirely burnt out already, but you give it a few more minutes as you go fumbling about for the shovel. Must trek all the way to the cooler before you find it, buried under a tarp, and by the time you return, there is someone sitting on your log. 

Simon, you know instinctively, from the hunch of his back, from the rasp of his breath. You grin as you come up behind him. 

“There you are. Thought we scared us to sleep, and you were just too chicken to tell us.”

He laughs. It’s deeper than Darren’s, sends a tremor rattling through your chest. 

Carefully, you sit down next to him—he left your space free—and stare into the fire. You don’t feel particularly like looking at his face right now. Maybe you’re afraid of what the firelight will do to it, how the shadows will cut him, shave away the flesh to expose the bone. 

You’ve known Simon since high school. He wasn’t a part of you and Kelsey and Darren’s group—new student, transferred in sophomore year, bit of an outcast, from arriving late in the game and for being generally offputting. Dark clothes, dark eyes, unspeaking. 

It wasn’t until you started talking to him, after being assigned to tutor him in maths, that the wider student body warmed to him. Still, Darren’s never liked him—sees him as competition—and Kelsey’s never liked him—still thinks he’s a bit weird—and Lou, you’re pretty sure, doesn’t like him either, though you can’t say why. 

“Can’t believe you drank the beer,” you say, “and didn’t tell Darren.”

“Wasn’t v’ry good,” he replies, “prefer bourbon.”

You cast him an askance look. “Who’s bringing bourbon on a camping trip?” 

He doesn’t respond. Eventually, you add, “next time. For you,” and he huffs out a muted bolt of laughter. 

“You gonna fuck him?” He asks, after a moment. You chew on your bottom lip.

“Maybe. What’s it to you?” 

You dated Simon briefly, senior year. Your hookup with Darren was a rebound of a sort, in that way, and you don’t think he took it very well—to this day, he still glares at him, still clenches his jaw when he makes some stupid comment. Earlier, when Darren made that joke about strip poker, he looked like he was going to launch across the clearing and pummel him. 

Crash to the ground, break his nose, dig his fingers into his eyes and crush his chest. You remember a factoid—something about lungs, when spread out, something about the length of a tennis court. You bet Simon would do it, slowly unpeel every nerve from the walls of his chest and string them up around the trees like he’s toilet-papering a neighbor’s house.

Your heart beats a little faster. You bite down harder on your lip. 

“He won’t make you cum,” he says, and you shrug loosely. 

“Then who will?”

He tilts his head like you’re asking a really stupid question. You suppose you are. 

When his hand clamps down upon your upper arm, it startles you—for some reason, you haven’t been expecting him to be solid, are not used to the feeling of his fingers on your skin. He’s cold, despite the fire. 

Wordlessly, he yanks you to your feet, drags you to your tent. You don’t necessarily mean to pull your feet, to resist a tiny bit, but it feels right—makes it righter when he yanks open the zipper to your tent, near-throws you inside. It’s spacious enough that two people can fit, low enough that he must duck, and Simon hunches his back in such a way that the shadows obscure his face, paint him in broad strokes of gray. 

You hardly have a moment of peace on the ground, back against your sleeping bag before he’s kneeling, putting a hand in the nexus of your thighs. Such an insistent pressure that you scrabble to tug your pants off, leave long scratches down your stomach with the clumsiness of speed. The cold air almost stings against your bare sex, but before that’s too much a problem, Simon’s lowering himself. There is a brief moment in which his face is in the light, but you blink, and you miss it—and, by the time you’re looking again, his tongue is hitting your cunt, and stars bloom in your vision. 

His hands were cold, but his mouth is warm, and he licks a long stroke to your clit. Focuses on that, for a moment, sucking on it gently, which is enough for your legs to wrap around his back in half-greed half-gratitude. 

When he bites down upon it gently, the brief nip of teeth, you moan. When you were a kid, your neighbors left their bedroom window open one night, and you watched the husband fuck the wife upon the bed, intertwined as closely together as the friendship bracelet Kelsey gave you. After he was done, he peeled off the wife’s skin and ate her whole. Started with the toes and ended with the eyes, shoved her bones down his throat like a fire-eater. 

How does one eat an elephant? 

One bite at a time!

You laugh. Simon knows you well enough that he doesn’t ask you why. 

Instead, he brings his mouth down to your hole, circling it with his tongue, as his hand goes up to rub at your clit. You push forwards into his face, desperate, greedy, and he strokes his hand down your thigh. He’s warm now, warm as you are. 

“More,” you manage to pant, when he extends his tongue into your opening. If anything, he slows—teasing bastard—and now, it’s with a luxuriating sort of tension that he inserts a single finger into your cunt. Follows, a moment later, with another, curves them down and uses his thumb to spin a slow circle over your clit. 

It’s enough to send you over the edge. Your body shakes, walls clenching in on a gaping nothing, and though the climax leaves you limp-boned and hazy, it’s clear that this is only the start for Simon. He rises to his feet to shuck his pants off, followed by his underwear, which does much to reveal that he’s already hard. 

Good. You’d be insulted, honestly, if he wasn’t. He kneels, and you reach out a hand to run over his cock, feeling out the shape of the veins, stroking a single finger over the tip and smearing his precum about. He places a hand upon yours, gently shifting it off, and the other goes to your waist. Without what seems like an effort at all, he flips you from your back to your stomach. Now, you are facing the wall—he may as well have no face, no body, just a pair of hands and a dick. 

“Eager dove,” he murmurs, and you arch up towards him, wanting to be filled, to be contained and released, but all he does is stroke a slow, almost reverent hand over your ass. “Had my eye on you, you know? Ever since I saw you.”

“Please,” you half-moan half-snap, and he finally obliges with a thrust forwards that takes the breath from your lungs. There is an immediate burn. It is not given time to fade, time to adjust, before he’s pushing himself deeper—you shudder, clenching with the effort it takes to accommodate him. The hand upon your ass, he brings up, brings back down again, a sting to distract from the pleasant ache within you. Less a slap and more the way a man thuds a new car, more possession and less the intent to hurt. 

“Not leaving,” he says, and you don’t quite process what the words mean. Simply nod—you’d not if he told you to break your phone and slit your throat with the glass, you’d nod if he asked if he could cut you chin-to-clit and crawl inside your body. He bends closer, close enough that his chest is pressed to your back and his chin notches into the crook of your shoulder. 

You’re already sensitive from his previous workings, and with this—him, hitting spots inside of you that you do not think anyone else could, not in any sense of the word—it does not take much to bring you over once again. A full-body shake that stars from your core, expands outwards like ripples in a lake, violent enough to make you click your teeth together. Warmth, seeping inside of you, and when he tenderly pulls back, it gushes out in a stream that might as well be blood. 

There is movement behind you, shuffling, and by the time you regain the wherewithal to turn back around, sit up, he’s already pulling his pants on, back to you. 

“You’re leaving?” You ask, trying not to sound insulted. True love you did not think this was, but he could at least stay the night. 

“Some business t’ take care of,” he grunts, “I’ll be back soon.”

It’s a good enough excuse that you let your head fall back upon the pillow. You don’t hear your tent zipper being pulled open, but when you look back up, he’s gone. 

—

Kelsey screams. Once, again, again. 

You wake up. 

She screams. 

It spurs you into action, and you leap from the warmth of the bag, fumbling with how quickly you unzip the tent. Burst into the open air—see, from your peripheral, Lou doing much the same thing. 

Once you’re out, it’s not hard to see why. 

Hanging from a tree directly above the campfire, by his wrists, is a man. Is Darren. His chin is tucked into his chest, and he is naked, stomach cleaved open. 

Strangely, there’s no blood, no puddle. You stare at it, some yawning emptiness that might be horror opening inside of you, look down, then up, then down again. 

His dick is cut off. You think, in some ironic world, that would be funny. 

Lou reaches Kelsey first—she stands at the edge of the log circle, looking up, face ashen and eyes wide. It reminds you of, when you were in seventh grade, when you walked into her house after school and found her Mom dead in the kitchen, a knife embedded in her neck. It was her Dad. They never found him—Kelsey’s always been scared that he’ll find her, someday, do the same thing. 

Your hand twitches. It was you. You killed her. She never found out.

You rub your forehead with your hand. Maybe you’re getting a migraine. You can’t remember what you were thinking about. 

“We have to go,” he says, after a moment, voice high with panic, “c’mon, don’t… don’t stay for anything, we have to go.” He whirls around, meeting eyes with you. “Hey! Where’s Simon?”

Silence. Kelsey, after a moment. 

“You’re joking.”

He hesitates, face suddenly as stricken as hers, all blood drained out. “I…”

She whips around, face almost nose-to-nose with his, “you’re fucking joking, who the fuck is Simon, what-”

“I was with him,” he swears, backing away a step, head swiveling around—like Simon will materialize at any minute—“I… he came into my tent, told me he couldn’t sleep. We played poker and he took all my rocks.”

“No,” you say, distantly, like your voice is not your own, “he was with me.”

With me seems like a better word than fucking my brains out. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Kelsey says after a moment, half-sobbing, “whatever- whatever the hell he is, let’s leave.”

“My phone,” Lou says after a moment, dashing towards the tents. You follow, and when Kelsey catches up to you, her hands lock onto your arm. They’re warm. You place your hand over hers, and wonder how long it takes to make a corpse feel real. 

When he emerges, phone in hand, there’s little hope upon his face. 

“Dead,” he says, “flat-out dead, not no service, dead.”

“Mine’s dead too,” you say, recalling that first night, forgetting to plug it back in. You haven’t remembered to do it since. 

“We need to leave,” Kelsey repeats, “no point in checking.”

You don’t need any further reminding. The path that led you to the clearing is easy to find. It’s significantly lighter, going down, with not even a pack upon your backs—makes the journey feel quick, even if it’s agonizingly slow. You do not stop for anything—not food, not water, all done with a numbness of your feet and the strange fog in your mind. 

“I should’ve known better,” Lou says, as the sun reaches his zenith—it comes out with the certainty of a thought that’s been stewing for hours—“I’ve watched a thousand horror movies, obviously. You both think of a man that doesn’t exist and you get confused when we prod you on it, and we’re in the woods, oh my god.”

“Don’t start,” Kelsey snaps. Her voice has stabilized from earlier, but she still has that wide-eyed, deer-in-headlights look. 

“It was so obvious,” he repeats, “and of course, Darren dies first, because he’s the confident asshole, and…”

That feels a tad insensitive, but you suppose the charitable part of his brain has short-circuited.

“And what the fuck does that make you?” Kelsey asks, “the meta guy? You die next. You’re fucking Randy Meeks.” 

“I know,” he replies, and that quiets her. It puts you on that line of thinking—that of horror movies. Logic dictates something along the lines of a final girl, unless your filmmaker is avant-garde or a sadist, so it could go either way for you. 

You don’t realize you’ve turned back around until you’re short of breath—until you realize that somehow, you have made a 180 on the trail, and are now going uphill. It takes another five minutes before Lou notices, before he stops in his tracks, and says, “we… we got turned around.”

“What?” Kelsey asks. He points up the slope. 

“We’re walking up. I recognize that tree! We just passed that rock! Oh my god.”

He puts his head in his hands. She stares dully up the trail, as if uncomprehending, before slowly turning around. 

“Let’s go.”

There’s not any hope in the words. Another bit of time—you don’t have any way to tell, but you think it might be an hour—before, once again, you are climbing up. 

“There’s not really any point,” you observe. 

“No,” Lou says, and he turns again. 

When the sun begins to sink below the horizon, when the sky darkens like a bruise, you break back into the clearing. Logs to one side, tents to another. 

Darren is gone. You look up at the tree, and see not even a rope mark—and, without the puddle of blood, there is no sign that he was ever there at all. 

“Fuck,” Kelsey says. Turns, kicking out at one of the logs, screams the word, then collapses to her knees, sobbing. Lou kneels by her side, rubbing a hand along her back. Looks up at you, after a moment. 

“We’re sleeping in the same tent tonight. All three of us. He seems… he seems to only get one of us at a time. There is no Simon.”

“There is no Simon,” you breathe, digging your fingernails into your palms. No Simon. You did not meet him in college, did not meet him in high school, he was not in your tent last night and you have never felt his hands upon your skin. 

When you were a kid, you’d repeat that mantra to yourself, there is no, there is no there is no there is no there is no there is no there is. 

When you were a kid…

You blink, and you are in the tent. Must be Lou’s—cramped, with all three of you, but you and Kelsey are sharing a sleeping bag, and Lou is in his own. You stare at him, sleeping, and then crawl out into the cold air. Sit for a moment, in the tent, look at the darkness around and the things beyond it that you cannot see. 

Quietly, you unzip the flaps, pull yourself into the open. Walk a slow circle around the camp, half-contemplating, half enjoying the cold air. 

On your third loop, you see Simon, sitting in what used to be Darren’s tent. Your heart stutters briefly in your chest, but you relax just as quickly. He’s so familiar that it hurts. 

You’ve known Simon since first grade, when he would chase you around the playground, and make you kiss him when he caught you. Kelsey’s always hated him. So has Darren. Even Lou, from the first moment he laid eyes on him. When you told them that you were bringing him along on the trip, Kelsey dug her fingers into your neck and strangled you until your nails were bloodied from scratching at her skin. 

“Hey,” you say, ducking down to sit next to him. You didn’t think to bring a light with you, on this trip, so he’s shaded in darkness, but you can hear the movement of his body, feel the soft brush of his lips as he leans down to kiss the top of your head. “Mourning?”

“Somethin’ like that,” he replies, “Lou thinks he can get you out?”

“Yeah,” you reply, “he’ll try again tomorrow, I bet.”

He laughs. You wonder if he has a mouth to laugh with. 

“Not gonna work, Dove. You know that.”

You shrug listlessly. “Makes him feel better.”

One heavy, warm hand settles around your wait, tugs you closer, until you’re half-onto his lap. You nestle your head on his shoulder. He smells like blood. You dig your nose into his chest, inhale deeper. 

“I love you,” you say. His fingers dig in, the tiniest bit, pinpricks of sensation down your side. 

“I know. Love y’ too much, sometimes.”

“Is that possible?” You ask. He laughs, and you swear you can smell it, swear you can taste it. 

“Guess not. I’d just do anything to keep you. Anything, y’hear?”

“Anything,” you whisper. You’re so close to his heart that you swear it goes straight through, you swear you can dig your teeth in and tug it out and speak to it directly, mouth wrapped around his aorta. 

—

When you wake up, you’re sprawled on the ground outside of Darren’s tent. Stumble to your feet, steadying yourself with a hand upon the flimsy material, walk around listlessly until Kelsey pushes her way free of last night’s abode. She looks around, surveying the space, before her eyes lock on you. 

“Where’s Lou?” She asks. You blink once, taking in the tender hope, the wish—she wants you to say, bathroom, or in my tent, or, over there, behind that tree, peekaboo!

You swallow once, and whisper, “I don’t know.”

It is like some invisible wall collapses, making her suddenly smaller. “What do you mean-”

“I mean he’s gone,” you reply, running a hand through your hair, pretending it’s someone else’s, someone you never knew and someone you know as intimately as yourself, “I mean he’s… he’s dead, probably.”

“No,” she says, “no, we were all together- he couldn’t get us, it’s not possible, I- where were you? Why are you out here?”

“I saw him last night,” you whisper, “Simon. I… I went outside.”

“No,” she repeats, “why the fuck would you do that? Is it you?” The accusation comes with the force of a slap—you’re half-surprised one doesn’t accompany it. She backs away a step, pointing, “is he yours? You’ve- you’ve seen him the most, haven’t you, and he fucking killed Darren because you hated him, and he killed Lou because he was trying to get us out, and, oh my God.” 

Another step. She turns, still staring at you over her shoulder—like you will pounce, like you will come for her—begins a halting run down the path. Accelerates to a sprint, by the time she’s out of your view. You place a hand to your chest, and feel the beat of your heart, and wonder what’s wrong with your legs. 

Not ten minutes later, you spot her over the horizon, still running—if at a flagging pace. She turns, when her eyes meet with you, but it’s short order before she’s back in the clearing, collapsing on the log before you. 

“I didn’t do it on purpose,” you say, not turning towards her. Almost surprisingly, your voice wavers, and some animal instinct buried in your hindbrain twitches, caught in the throes of death. “He… it… whatever he is, I didn’t summon him, I didn’t ask for anything. I see him, and I know him, and what am I supposed to do?”

She’s quiet for a long moment. Pushes herself up to a sitting position. 

“Tell my Mom that I love her. And my Dad.”

You can’t remember having a family. You can’t remember being a kid, can’t remember meeting those people that were once your friends. Again, you think of the doppelganger. Maybe you’re the clone, maybe you’ve slipped into the skin of whoever used to inhabit this body. 

“I don’t know if I’m making it out either,” you reply. She laughs. 

“What, he’s gonna kill you? Please.” Again, a peal of laughter, and she can’t seem to contain herself, one hand wrapping around to cup her stomach. 

“I didn’t say I’d be dead.” 

That sobers her. 

The sun falls across the horizon. She walks to the cooler eventually, digs around in it. Comes back with a single bottle of beer. 

“Go fucking figure. Only one left.”

She opens it, takes a swig, holds it out to you. You oblige, turning it about in your hand, take a cautious sip. It brings you back to the firelight, to the time of hours ago, to the life that you cannot be sure you lived. 

You see him before it’s fully dark. Behind Kelsey’s back, in the treeline, face hidden by the drooping leaves and the curve of the shadows. 

“You should go,” you tell her. She stares at you. 

“Yeah? Where?” 

“Let her go,” you say. If there is one favor you can give to your former life, then it’s this. If there is one favor he can give to you, it’s this. 

You don’t see him nod, but you push her anyway, urge her to her feet. 

“Go. Quickly. You’ll… you’ll make it.”

You don’t know if it’s any kinder, honestly. Deer chews its way out of the snare, must live the rest of its life with an amputated leg. Still, she gives you a single, wide-eyed stare, before she jerkily walks to the path, takes to a jog in the dying light. 

There is nothing between you and Simon, not anymore. You stand up, walk into the trees, and he comes towards you in the same measure. Keep walking, until your chest is bumping against his, nose pressed into his chest and legs arranged between his, some half-dissolved hug. 

You have known Simon for as long as you’ve known yourself, and where your skin meets, you can’t quite tell who is who, which limbs you can control and which limbs you cannot. 

“They’ll come looking,” he says. You say. 

“Is that a problem?” You reply. He replies. 

“No,” he whispers, hand coming around to sink into your back, “good hunting.”

“Good hunting,” you echo, and it feels like you could stand here forever, as still as the trees around you. 

You look up at his face. Meet his eyes. 

When you lean up to kiss him, it is the only thing you have ever been certain of.

[pseudowho]

The Cock Ring

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

"Hey," you whisper to him, the lights in the living room dim as he begins to bear down over you, your kisses moving from 'I've missed you', to 'fuck, I've really missed you' in under a minute. He hums questioningly, dipping down to nuzzle at your neck, trapping you down with his hips and twitching cock.

"I...bought something today. Close your eyes."

He pulls back momentarily, giving you a shrewd questioning look. You narrow your eyes at him, smiling, and move to close your legs. He's quick to play along.

"Alright, alright..." he sighs, but his breath catches when he feels you move to unzip him, the tips of your fingers grazing over his cock, hardening in his boxers. By the time you've fished his cock out, he's completely hard, his arms trembling as he suspends himself above you.

He gasps to feel something tight being stretched over his cockhead, being guided down and gently released at the base of his cock and balls. He's shuddering as he feels the blood thump through his rigid cock, in a way he hasn't before. You take advantage of his surprise, to push him back to the sofa, pushing his knees apart so you can kneel on the floor between them.

"Oh f-fuck...darling, I--"

"...shhhhh. I want to play with you."

The cock ring is tight, and his length has never looked so strained, so enormous and jerking weakly against his belly. He presses two fingers to the bridge of his nose, taking a single shaky breath in and out. His fists clench, his arms stretching out along the back of the sofa. Seeing you between his legs, eyes dewy and licking your lips at the sight of his engorged cock...he groans.

You hold him in your hand, feeling the weight of him, examining him with hungry curiosity. You can't help the shudder that leaves you as he whimpers, his hands furiously clenching and unclenching, face twisted in euphoric agony, squirming above you. You pump silky lube into your hands, far too much of it. Your eyes flick up to him as you wrap your fingers around his length again.

The way he moans as your wet little hand masturbates his rapidly reddening length, gets you through so many dark nights alone after this. He gasps, shuddering, hair mussed and flicking over his forehead, whining incoordinate babble at you.

"You're so beautiful," you whisper to him, pressing a kiss to the tip of his cock, glossing your lips with his salty pre-cum, "...and so big...d'you wanna cum inside me, or...?"

"--I--I don't--I can't-- fuck, my love I...help me--"

He's offered a choice, and is woefully unable to decide for himself, every spark of pleasure aggressively amplified by the cuff trapping blood in his aching cock and balls. He humps up against the air spontaneously when you decide for him, letting go of his cock while he curses and sweats. He begs, incomprehensible nonsense, his cock too sore and too tight to be touched by anything less wet and velvety than your pussy.

You stand, undressing slowly before him, stripteasing, brushing yourself so softly against his poor electrified body. By the time you're straddling his lap, he's almost ready to spill.

He grasps your hips, holding you close with trembling desperation, afraid you'll leave him whimpering with a weeping engorged cock and balls like this.

"--please, darling-- I'll do anything--" You hush him again, a finger on his lips, and he bites it between his teeth, eyes fiery. You can feel him yank you above his cock, his arms locked over your hips to force you down.

You smirk, laughing and locking your knees, and he growls as you fight back against him, his eyes fixed on where he cock almost sheathes inside you.

"...no more fucking around," he chokes out, ready to burst, his length twitching against your entrance. He lets go of your hips briefly to bat your knees aside, and you fall with a squeak, crying out as you immediately impale on his slippery cock. He curses, spitting with need, feeling himself bottom out instantly. You mewl and twist, totally unable to release yourself from his savage insistence.

He's a pathetic mess in seconds, ramming you down onto him, thrusting up, sloppy and wet as his hypersensitive cock struggles to take the pleasure. He watches you squeak and cling onto him, breasts bouncing with his animalistic fucks, reaching out for him to anchor you, and he can't take it anymore it's just too much and his cock feels like it'll explode if he doesn't cum soon and--

He finishes with a shout, cumming uncontrollably. His moans trail off into fractured whimpers, his cock slipping out mid thrust, half of his seed spurting inside you and half spattering out onto your belly and mound. You're drenched in dripping thick white, his balls throbbing and tight and full inside the cock ring. He groans, stuttering and husky, face twisted into a desperate snarl at having been reduced to such a sloppy mess.

He wets his fingers with his cum, lathering it between your folds before reaching aside, grabbing the vibrating wand that you keep in the bag. He grips your wrists together in one hand, maxing the vibrations out on the wand and teasing it over your folds.

"Think it's funny, making me hypersensitive, do you? Let's see who's laughing, now."

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

-- Nanami Kento, Geto Suguru, Higuruma Hiromi, Okkotsu Yuuta, Kong Shiu

[destroyndecay]

Ride a Cowboy

genre: almost smut but like technically not

non-apocalypse au

can be imagined as any era!

word count: 1.4k

summary: Daryl has fun with you on a bar date.

Glasses clinking and joyous conversation filled the air of the club while you eyed Daryl down his fourth shot of vodka, barely grimacing as it went down his throat.

“How can you do that? I've only had two shots and my mouth tastes literally disgusting right now.” You chuckled at the tolerance of your boyfriend, sipping your sweet tea to get the taste out of your mouth.

“Years of practice, sweetheart.” He retorted, leaning his elbows on the bar in front of him and flicking a piece of hair out of his eyes.

Daryl had been wanting to take you on a date for a while, and it was his choice for the location this time. So, of course, you and him had ended up at a southern style club a couple miles into town. It was very old-fashioned, with all wooden furniture and brick walls, adorned with framed photos of the owners, along with iconic landmarks of the surrounding area. The lights, however, were colorful and energetic, flashing along with the beat of the music at times. The bar area took up half of the building, while the other half housed a mechanical bull that was currently inactive.

With your attire being black skinny jeans, a band tank, and a black cowboy hat you stole from Daryl, the regulars could tell that this wasn't your scene. Juxtaposed with Daryl's rugged dark red flannel that fit his biceps just right thrown over a v-neck and blue jeans, you two were a sight to see.

You were broken out of your thoughts by a man over by the bull with a microphone, his voice loud enough to be heard over Low blaring over the speakers. You snapped your head over to his direction, your boyfriend's head moving slightly slower than yours.

“Alright, y'all! Bessie over here is finally up ‘n runnin’ and ready for a ridin'! Any of you folks wanna give ‘er a ride? Show ‘er a good time?” The man in the beige cowboy hat gave a wink and a few women sitting at surrounding tables shouted and whistled.

“Oh my God, Dar, can we? Please??” You gasped, eyes gradually lighting up as you shook his bicep, signaling your excitement.

He chuckled in response. “(Y/N). Really? Ya wanna ride the bull?”

“Yeah it'll be fun!!”

A raised eyebrow was all you got in response.

“If you do it with me, I'll pay for your tab.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose and chuckled lightly. He then suddenly downed his fifth shot and placed it down on the bar harshly. “Aight. Fuck it. Le’s go.”

You immediately beamed and jumped off your barstool and basically pulled Daryl off of his, stumbling slightly from inebriation and the sudden incoordination. Daryl could only kind of keep up with the pace of your speed walking.

“Us! Us! We will!” You shouted, dodging a few groups of casually dancing club goers.

“Oh, we've got some volunteers!” A few patrons that were paying attention whooped and applauded your bravery. “Step right up!” He announced, motioning to an opening in the inflatable, cushiony material that surrounded the bull to avoid injury. “You better hold on, little lady.” the announcer said quietly to you, followed by a wink. You smiled and rolled your eyes while walking across the inflatable floor to the bull.

The bull was slightly elevated, so you were having trouble mounting it, and Daryl could tell. He let you try and struggle for a few moments before lifting you by the waist and placing you on the bull, the sudden gesture causing you to giggle and grip one of the bulls ears for balance. You felt the bull jostle and then settle, signaling that Daryl had hopped on behind you. You blushed at the feeling of his hands holding your hips.

“Y’all ready?!” The announcer shouted, talking to you and Daryl, but also everyone else in the bar, including the small crowd that surrounded the bull. You grinned and gave a thumbs up in the announcer's direction. “Alright! Hold on, you two!”

The bull then whirred to life and rose a couple inches higher than it already was. You kept both hands secured to it’s ears in front of you, thanking whatever deity that was listening that Daryl had agreed to go on with you.

Then, it began to move.

Startled, you gasped and moved your hands to the handle in front of you for more balance. You slowly got used to the up and down diagonal movement, even taking one of your hands off the handle to raise it above your head, only to return it a couple seconds on a particularly deep downward slope. Meanwhile, Daryl was calm, barely reacting to the movement at all, instead choosing to keep his hands firmly planted on your waist to ensure your security. He softly chuckled in your ear at your inexperience.

“Don’t worry, darlin’. I’ll make sure ya don’t fall off.”

You felt your blush grow impossibly bigger. What does that mean?

He started by stealing back his hat, placing it on his head and returning his hand to your shoulder and squeezing it. His hand then snaked to your throat, engulfing it with his large fingers and making your head lean back. Your eyes widened and your breath hitched.

“Dar we’re… we’re in public.”

He bit your ear lobe in retaliation. “Ya think I care?” Your airflow was then slightly restricted, and you sighed in pleasure.

“Yeah. Ya like it, ya dirty little slut.”

He then took a hold of your hair and pulled, continuing to leave your neck exposed, and cockily put the other hand in the air. Your eyes had closed and your hands had migrated to his knees.

The patrons surrounding the bull cheered and whooped at Daryl’s action, a few women squealing.

“Everyone's gonna know who ya belong to.”

Your head was then tugged to the side and his lips were hungrily latched to your neck, sucking hard and adding a good amount of teeth so that when he pulled away, there was a decent sized purple mark left in its wake, growing deeper by the minute. You let a small moan escape your lips and Daryl huffed.

He then had an idea.

The brunette let you and the crowd calm down a bit, riding the bucking bronco how it was intended. He waited until the bull moved diagonally downward, then he strategically flung himself to the front of the bull and moved his legs on top of yours, earning another cheer from the crowd. You, on the other hand, were absolutely stunned, staring at him with your mouth agape. Your heart was going a million miles a minute, and he could tell. He loved it.

“Wha’d I say, darlin’? Years of practice.”

The sporadic thrusts of the bull now had a new intensity to them, Daryl’s bulge clearly being felt through your thin jeans. You steadied yourself by gripping Daryl’s shoulders and looking at him with half-lidded, lust-filled eyes. Daryl smirked, leaned down to your ear, and grumbled, “What’s wrong, sunshine? Thought ya was worried ‘bout bein’ in public.” He bit your cartilage for extra measure and continued to smirk down at you, proud of the needy little fuck doll his actions have created.

Daryl’s lustful gaze along with the thrusts of the bull and the cheers of the bull were all too much to handle, so you shamelessly latched your lips with his with intensity, something that he gladly returned. Both of you barely even registered the roar of the crowd while your hands were tangled in his hair and his hands firmly held your torso.

Right after Daryl had drunkenly and fervently introduced tongue into the mix and was already winning the battle of dominance, an especially quick jolt of the bull had you falling off the side. You tried to stabilize yourself by gripping Daryl’s shoulders again, but that just caused him to fall as well, ironically, right on top of you.

You both gazed at each other longingly for a few moments before finally registering your surroundings. He stood up first and held out a hand to help you stand as well. The crowd was wild, some of them waving their cowboy hats in the air in excitement. Daryl snicked. He wrapped a heavy arm around your shoulders and used his other hand to take his hat off and return it to your head. Almost like he was showing off a shiny gold trophy that he had just won for his performance.

The announcer beamed. “Holy shit! We haven’t seen that level of ridin’ in a while, literally.”

Daryl looked over at you and winked.

You and him will definitely be returning soon.

[ticklygiggles]

Lovelynim's tickletober Day 24: Bullying

Rafayel x Reader

A/N: it's late but it's here @homurasturtle MY LOVELY ❤️💖 I hope you enjoy yourself bullying fishie 🤭 give him his ticklies love 🥺🤗

"Ouchie, ouchie, ouchie!" Rafayel cried as you clung to his neck and nibbled on his cheek. Your teeth barely sinking into his skin, yet he made a big deal about it, acting as if his cheeks weren't blushing and his lips weren't curled into a smile.

Paint was all over the floor and your clothes. Him trying to teach you how to paint had ended in a paint fight that Rafayel lost miserably.

You giggled, feeling strangely playful as he whined your name over and over, trying to suppress his laughter as you started to press wet kisses against his cheek and ear.

"Ack! Let go! You're so- ack!" Sitting with your legs folded in a lotus position, you took Rafayel's wrist and pulled him right into the gap between your legs. He flushed to his ears and tried to get up, but your arms wrapped around his waist tightly. "M-Miss h-hunter, aaack! C-Cutie! W-Wait! Wait! This is bullying! This is definitely bullyhihihing! Nohoahahaha!"

Rafayel threw his head back and squirmed around as your evil little fingers started to tickle his sides, ribs and waist. He practically collapsed onto your lap, his back arched over one of your legs as your fingers clawed at his ribs. He was laughing wildly, tears already clinging and shining against his long eyelashes. His bright smile set butterflies free in your tummy and you couldn't help but giggle along with him.

"Thihihis is so unfahahair!"

"Hmmm... yeah you're right!" He shrieked, kicking his legs slightly and incoordinately trying to catch your hands to no avail. "Are you ticklish, little fishie? How is it possible that a cute fishies like you can be so ticklish, hmm? Are all Lemurians as ticklish as you?"

"STAHAHAP! Y-You ahahare the w-worst huhuman to eveheher- AHAHAH! I'm s-sorry!"

Now that his underarms were under attack, he really didn't have much to say, huh? You laughed, stealing kisses to his red cheeks as he squealed and begged for mercy.

'A fishie like me cannot sweat!'

'Agh! Leave my stupid armpits alone!'

'Reddie, help meee!'

You giggled, "look at your master, Reddie. He's so ticklish, poor thing."

"J-Juhuhust you wahahait untihihil I g-get you b-ba- nohoho! No! It's a lihihihie! Gahahaha, cuhuhutie!"

He was so adorable, you didn't think you would be able to stop anytime soon! Besides, it wasn't like he actually wanted you to stop, right~?

[warsofarmageddon]

butch4femme reader and lottie 😭 pre crash!!! please

femme!lottie w butch!reader YEAAASSSS

☆ keeping chivalry alive! opening doors for her, paying for dates (even if she’s absolutely loaded), walking her to class, holding her bags, just doing anything you can to make things easier for her!

☆ she cuts your hair!! pulling you into her massive bathroom and sitting you down and just absolutely going to town on your hair. she has clippers, every different guard length, multiple pairs of scissors, you name it. she wants her butch to look good. sue her.

☆ thinking about you taking up some kind of afterschool job like working at an auto body shop, or something similar. she comes by after soccer practice with a sandwich or a gatorade, greeting you with a kiss. your tank top is stained with grease and sweat, but in lottie’s eyes you look handsome as ever.

☆ going on double dates with tai and van!! not to get too taivan pilled rn but……. they r so butchfemme. you and van shooting the shit about movies while lottie and tai gossip about a couple sophomores on the jv team.

☆ going to the gym with lottie! you work arms and back as she does cardio and speed training for soccer. she spots you while you bench press and you time her as she runs. getting food afterwards and eating in the car as you listen to a new mixtape you made for her.

☆ not rly sure when the crash happens in the year but going to prom!! she pays for a nice suit for you, making sure that your tie matches her dress. picking her up at her mansion with a corsage, telling her how beautiful she is in her heliotrope dress. waltzing with her as you both giggle about your incoordination, accidentally stepping on her very expensive heels.

[s0ulsice]

     V I R A G O

CHAPTER 6:

She was a bird, I was an arrow

✮⋆»»———➤⋆.˚꩜ ˙⋆ ☀︎  ✮⋆»»———➤⋆.˚꩜ ˙⋆ ☀︎  

Neteyam x fem na’vi!omaticaya!reader

Characters:

Ka’lik- (like you would pronounce “Malik”) Y/n’s father/deceased

Zensira-deceased, Y/n’s mother, spider's adoptive mother

Kailo-(Y/n’s ikran. Your ikran is a male)

WARNINGS: panic attack, blood, heights, sexual assault???(Kyuna being touchy) attempts of undressing someone? (Again, Kyuna.)

☾✮⋆»»———➤⋆.˚꩜ ˙⋆ ☀︎  ☾✮⋆»»———➤

Neteyam POV:

When I was 15 I fell in love.

I fell in love with a girl made of moonlight and stars stitched together by sirenic hymns of pulsed passion. 

She left loose curls in her braids and had bruised knees from climbing. She has auriferous, harvest moon eyes that glow viridescent when the night untangles itself from its resting place, aligned imperfectly with her stellified sunset-tinted soul. 

I started by bringing her little things.

Flowers. Crystals. Herbs for various uses to share with her family. She danced at clan ceremonies, immune to the curse of incoordination. Her dark hair swung behind her, braids woven out of pieces of the night. She was a wild child. Running through rivers and daring to drive herself through the dullness of the dirt.

I knew that she never met her grandmother, but she wore the river pearl necklace that once belonged to her.

I knew that she loved swimming, and never really talked about how good she was at it.

I knew that she kept the dried petals from the little dolls her mother would make her out of flowers as a child and hung them above her hammock in her family's tent.

I knew that she made her first kill with a bow and arrow when she was 4. And that the tip of that very arrowhead was tied on her song chord to mark the occasion.

I knew that she was worried. Worried about me, about the human boy she called her brother, about her home, and her people, her parents who were still healing from the first war.

But I loved what I didn’t understand. That was my first mistake.

Because my whole life has been about being the older brother. When she gave me the gift of feeling like a child again, I suppose I thought I could leave her like one. 

And I know that sounds stupid. I know I sound stupid. 

It wasn’t immaturity I craved. It was that lightness. The kind that the sun could never provide.

That stupid, stupid boy. If I could grab him and shake him by his shoulders until his brain repositioned itself into the right place, I would.

There was an addicting absurdity to it all. 

Running through the forest with her after dark, whispering her name in the night while my hands traced her spine, leaving lazy, open kisses on her ribcage and spinning her around with her legs caught around my waist. Dragging my fingers along her pulse point. Feeling her breath flicker in the firelight of the stars. I never dared to do anything beyond kissing her and holding her. So perhaps that boy isn’t as stupid as I thought.

I slept with her. Not like that, though. Actually sleeping. The kind where your clothes remained on. The first time it happened was when I stumbled to find her by the creek, where she was weaving a basket for her mother. I was so exhausted from training i collapsed my head into her lap while she stroked my back. 

Sometimes I kissed her neck, the expanse of her throat where I swore I saw heaven hollowed within. I ran my hands over the sweet homage of her thighs. 

There was a freedom with her I felt with no one else. Then the world felt too big, my heart created corners that only fit her shape. When the air became knotted and my breath spilled from my lungs in sporadic bouts of blemished air, she blessed me with a barrier of bliss. I thought I was so deserving of that decompression. I was an idiot to think it wasn’t a privilege. 

Some nights we’d sit on the thickened tree branches of the pandora oak outside the old village.

She’d lean her head on my shoulder and i’d tell her the English names of the constellations my father taught me.

“What’s that one?”

She whispered, pointing with the tip of her finger and tracing the shape of the asterism, eywa knows I couldn’t look away from the stars in her eyes, an opalescence embedded like a sea mirroring the night’s contents, and suddenly I saw two skies. 

“Its called the archer.” I hummed, gently guiding her wrist to place her hand atop the shaft of the bow caught in the cosmos.

“See? There’s her bow, and her arrow, and her body.”

She tilted her head, attempting to see the shape. Her eyes light up when she finds it.

I smile, a warmth spreads within my chest as my enamourment echoes through the dusk.

“My father says some people on earth started calling it a ‘virago’.”

She nods in acknowledgment, glancing between me and the stars.

Those were the nights I hope she can remember. Those are the nights I pray i never forget.

But sometimes the shadows loom instead of live. The world around me started breaking down into fragments that figmented themselves drunk on delirium. Because having my mother’s eyes doesn’t mean i’m free of my father’s gaze. 

I was afraid of control. My second mistake was becoming accustomed to it.

But my chance with that fiery girl is gone. I’ll bury it. So I don’t have to look at it. So no one has to look at it. Because she deserves so much better than to chase fireflies for the rest of her life. 

I don’t think I’ll ever forget the night the sky turned red. 

My father and mother had left for date night. I was home with Lo’ak, Kiri, and Y/n who as babysitting Tuk while her parents went to gather herbs.

We didn’t speak to one another. It was too awkward. I clung to silence like it was a sustenance for my survival. 

Our parents had been gone for a few hours when we saw it. 

A new star surfaced in the sky, tearing through the dark viciously. Sparing nothing in its path of annihilation. 

An unfamiliar sort of fear fell upon Norm and Max’s face as they exited their shack at the sound of commotion. Their smiles faded so fast they might as well have never been there in the first place.

Kiri shrunk away slowly to an unknown place of hiding. As if trying to shield herself from the threatening presence of this bolide.

lo’ak dropped the bracelet he was making, the beads landing on the ground with scattered sounds of clanking and chaos.

Tuk ran to y/n, a panicked descry leaving her as she took refuge in her arms. Y/n held Tuk protectively. Her expression was notated by one of horror.

Me? I froze. The world stopped spinning. The moon refused to shine. The earth had withered away under my feet.

I was dazed as I followed my siblings into our families tent, I remember Norm’s words as he ushered us inside, trying to mask his panic.

“Kids, get inside- c’mon quickly.

Tuk, let’s play a game. Okay? Tuck your knees to your chest and don’t move until I come back.”

The world was falling apart.

And I couldn’t even see my last glimpse of it beyond the cloth quarters of the home I grew up in. That’s how you trap yourself.  You convince yourself your cage is just an illusion. 

When my parents returned home later, Y/n sprinted to them, asking frantically if they had seen her parents return.

“They haven’t yet returned?”

When my mother spoke those words, the air tensed.

I watched helplessly as she ran to her ikran, mounting it with no time to waste.

I reached for her arm, stammering out pleas for her to stay. Stay close to the stars that sent the shadows of the endless dusk desolating any shred of hope. Without them i’d surely loose her in the darkness. Stay in the light, please. Stay where I can see you. Where I know you are safe. Where I know they can’t take another.  Stay where every moment was inscribed to instinct. Where every moment of my life is a piece of a plan. A plot. Every word is scripted. And even if you were never a part of it I can still keep your eyes in my life.

Stay with me. Please. I don’t know what’s out there and I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you.

She hissed at me with tears in her eyes, shaky hands pushing me away as she mounted Kailo with irascible mannerisms. 

Behind it all was a little girl who just wanted to find her mom and dad.

I envy her. I envy her ability to not cower from the darkness. 

To stand where others couldn't see. 

My father chased after Y/n. Determined to bring her and her parents back in one piece. Promising my mother she wouldn’t loose anyone else she was close too.

But sometimes we can’t keep our promises. 

I waited with my mother and my siblings. 

I watched my mother pray. Clutching my grandmother’s hand close to her chest. Murmuring invocations to the wind.  My mother couldn’t stall away the anxious inquisitiveness of Tuk, complying with her to shut herself away from the sharp helix-scarred sky, victim to fire and ruin. 

“Wait inside, Tuk.”

That’s all anyone would tell her. 

Lo’ak sat coiled in the corner. Staring infront of him as if the air was dissolving into fragments filmed in glass, shattering into pieces.

He was silent. Still. But he was like my father in that way. A master of disassociation. When you stayed so rooted in solitude the world around you ceased its spinning. 

Kiri prayed in my grandmother’s tent. Isolating herself.

What more can you do when what you thought were stories of the past resurrect from devastation?

History was cruel. Our biggest mistake was thinking the future would forget.

Would it forgive? Would it tread this demolition generously? Would it spare my mother from losing a sister for teh second time?  Would it let my father laugh just a bit longer? Let him remain unpunished. Maybe in a world where the heart on his sleeve isn’t in the shape of a shackle. Where the shadows of his past sins remain silent. When ‘sir’ wasn’t a synonym for ‘dad’.

Please.  Let my littlest sister play in the forest after dark again. Chasing winged insects and dancing to heartbeats. Let her feel the solace of safety and the freedom of frolicking in the flower fields without fear of the sky demons. Don’t make her grow up knowing war. Give her a world where I don't have to explain that Dad still loves Lo’ak and me even after yelling at us. 

Don’t take my little brother's light away. Don’t shy him away from me. let me see the spark flicker in his eyes when he would look up at me. Bring back the days of chasing him around and having our heights measured next to each other. Childhood memories of keeping him occupied with stories while he squirmed on my mother's lap, getting his hair rebraided. Back when I was his sibling. Not his shadow. Now I can’t find it when my existence is the pinnacle of excellence that’s dangled over his head. To fall as the burning star while he damns me in the daylight of the sun. Days when my father's words to Lo’ak were filled with tender devotion, and not deadlines and demands and disappointment. Look at him. Please. Don’t turn your attention into a privilege. 

And Kiri. Oh kiri. Please. Don’t twist her story. Don’t write my sister’s mother into the enemy. Don’t make the sleeping body she yearns to touch beyond her hand pressed to cold glass awake in darkness only to say goodbye. The only place solace is found for Kiri, the only place she can hear her voice within the deep forest. Don’t resurrect Grace’s memory and taint it.

Please don’t hurt the girl I’m in love with. Please don’t banish the stars in her sky to the depths of the hollowed and hardened corridors of her heart.  What must I do to protect her? Tell me, and tell me now. I’m running out of time. Do i look her in her eyes and tell her that every breath i take is for her? Every half-note of my heartbeat is a syllable in her name. I know I failed her. I know. And im sorry. I’m so, so sorry. 

I paced around the tent, watching Tuk play with her toys in the corner, waiting for any sign of return. 

When the shadow and the screech of my father’s ikran, the rising sun rushing currents of a blinding white light leaking through the overlay of the trees, crashed into the sounds shaping themselves into shards, slicing through the air.

My father had his arm thrown over y/n’s shoulder, locking her in place against his chest, she crouched on the front of his ikran, shaking and thrashing.

His other hand gripped his ikran saddle like a vice, struggling to keep both him and Y/n upright in flight.

The moment the touch down to the village y/n all but collapses to the ground, slipping out of my fathers grasp.

He curses, jumping off and scrambling to hold her. A low wail leaves y/n as she claws and scratches at her own skin, clutching what looks like the remnants of a songchord in her hand.

No sign of her parents. That only meant the worst.

It hits me like a blow to my chest, creeping up my spine like vines of plants from hell and tying me down to the earth, roots caging me in, the world around me clawing to come inside.

Everything around me blurs. The ground under me shifts with the wind. The patterns reverse and the sound waves reshape themselves behind shadows.

Light is refracted, captured in a dome of reflections. My mother is the first to sprint towards the pair. Her steps slowly traipsed down as she registered the absence of Zensira and Kai’lik.

The sight of Y/n clutching a bloodied song chord shattered any ounce of hope she had.

My mother sobbed into her palm, rushing towards Y/n to grasp at her shoulders, desperately trying to keep her close, as if the sky demons would rip her straight out of her arms.

My grandmother jogs over, trying to cage her daughter in her arms and gradually pull her away, giving Y/n the much-needed space. 

My father has tears in his eyes.

He doesn’t dare let them fall. Not in front of his clan. His children.

My father is a master of disassociation. Confrontation was never a confidant of my fathers. Lock him in a room with him and his own grief and watch him fall apart.

He's angry. Angry at the world. Angry at himself. Angry at this piece of his past he prayed he’d never see again.

Lo’ak drops frantically, taking a place behind y/n and my father, trying to speak to her in hushed tones that are washed out by her cries. Lo’ak isn’t good with these kinds of things. But he cares for her. He struggles with the placement of his hands momentarily, settling to rub her back soothingly.

Tuk pushes past the crowd forming in the distance, and scampering behind me,  gently placing her palm on my leg and tugging on my fingertips.

“What's wrong? Whys’ everyone crying?”

I don’t answer. I can’t answer. I can’t even look at her. I’m still. I’m frozen. I’m useless.

She winces at the sound of more wailing, pushing herself to stand in front of my father.

I know I should speak. Tell Tuk to go back inside. Away from the screaming and the crying. That’s what older siblings do. I feel her small fingers slip away from mine and suddenly my skin feels as if it's unraveling.

I don’t think yesterday existed.

Because just yesterday I saw Y/n and her parents, with Spider and with the clan. Just yesterday the sky was blue. Today it dawns a sickening shade of orange.  The sky dissevered and swallowed it whole before it could even breathe. 

How can it change so fast? Did it slip away from me? Maybe I didn’t hold on to it tight enough. Please, my love. I’m sorry. Can’t you see I’m sorry? Please hold onto me again and I swear I'll never let you go again. 

I look at Y/n again, still trying to pry herself out of my father’s grasp. One hand clutches her forearm and digs and scratches her fingers into the flesh so manically it draws blood. Her other hand clawing at the dirt. She starts to hyperventilate as my father panics.

“Breathe Y/n.  You have to breathe. Please.” My father’s voice is hoarse and desperate. The world is spinning to fast for him meanwhile mine ceases to spin at all. 

Or maybe that’s incorrect. My world was right infront of me. Crying and breathing as if her lungs denied her existence.

Tuk’s whimpering catches his attention, his ears pin down as he grapples with the idea of his youngest baring witness to such tragedy. 

Then those frantic golden eyes that mirror my own focus on me.

“Neteyam! Take your sister inside. Now! go! “

I can’t. I’m stuck. Why am i stuck? Iv’e always been the first to act. The first to speak, to advocate, to defend.

What will happen to my clan? To my family? Can we win again? Will we win again? Are we as strong as we were during the first war?

“Neteyam! Get Tuk and move!”

My fathers voice is drowned by the swirling thoughts in my head.

My father places Y’n beside Lo’ak, who immediately wraps an arm around her to keep her upright.

“Dad!”

Loa’k calls after him as he files towards me. His voice cracks. 

He scoops tuk up with one arm, using his other to grab my arm, dragging us both into the tent, pushing us inside with all the gentleness he could manage.

“Stay with your sisters and your mother. Please.”

He breathes before leaving, returning to Y/n.

My mother is sobbing in the corner, Kiri at her side with tears streaming down her cheeks.

Grandmother tries to calm them both.

“Eywa why? Why has the past come back to us?”

She curls herself into a fetal position as she cries out as if she's in physical pain.

Tuk starts to cry.

The earth is weeping and my family is shattered. The love of my life is left in a starless night sky.

Can the sun shine in the dusk?

✮⋆»»———➤⋆.˚꩜ ˙⋆ ☀︎  ☾✮⋆»»———➤⋆.˚꩜ ˙⋆ ☀︎  ☾✮⋆»»———➤

“If you can’t smell the fletching you aren’t doing it right.”

Y/n smacks my chest for the 8th time that hour. My lessons with her had finally begun, per my father’s orders.

And after thinking about it, i’m grateful my father chose me for this position. so what if I enjoy spending time with her? And I can’t say I despise hearing her make demands and orders and instructions.

Is that weird? Am I weird for that?

She sighed in frustration, staring at me like the hopeless case i was.

“Really? you have these freakishly big arms and no posture.” 

I frown, patting my bicep pitifully.

“They’re called muscles.”

“Then use them. Straighten up.”

She elbows me in the ribs. 

I take a breath, tracing her slightly faded form with my peripheral vision as I prepare to be denied of her essence in my line of sight, even for just a moment as she steps behind me. 

I correct my stance, shooting the arrow as it flies through the woven targets shes created and tied to the tree.

She examines my shot, running her fingers over the painted circle and where my arrow has skewered itself embed. It was perfect. Right at the center.

“Better.”

She affirms, yanking it out of the target and tossing it to my feet.

“We have to practice angles. Its clear you can shoot a bow, quite well at that. But it’s different when you’re transitioning into targets that are at sky-level with you.”

Today, she trains me to become an archer like her and my mother, to learn the skills to eventually shoot down sky demon ships.

I reach behind me to let my bow hang on my back, the string brushing my torso.

“Will the transition take long?”

She shurgs.

“It depends. It’s different from using a bow on foot or on a direhorse, even on ikran from low distances. It’s not like sturmbeast hunting. The rush, the wind, the air, it all screams at you while you shoot from the sky. The last thing you want is to be fumbling around for an arrow while a gunned ship chases you.”

She speaks absentmindedly as she gathers the targets from the tree, untying the  ropeshes used to secure them.

I smile to myself, watching the way her hands work around the intricate knots she’s created.

“I’m a fast learner. I’m sure I’ll catch on.”

She scoffs, looking over her shoulder.

“Don’t shower me with proclamations, I’m confident in your archery skills. It's the change of pace that’ll become an impediment.”

I think sometimes Y/n assumes I harbor this overabundance of cockiness. I don’t. I never have. But i guess that’s what happens when you’re is away from someone for a long time. You forget.

Her gaze explores the thickened grass woven into a makeshift target as she starts to pile them into the big pouch she brought them in. The air around us spreads and forms an exterior of foreign feelings. I don’t reject the atmosphere it provides.

Treading lightly, I slowly take a step towards her.

“You are a good teacher.”

I say matter-of-factly. I’m stalling. I don’t want my time with her to end.

She scoffs, refusing to spare me a glance.

“I’m a terrible teacher, I’m a good shot and I order other warriors around when your father wants me to. People see that and assume my teaching skills are just as good.”

I shrug, leaning against a tree, reaching out to take the sack off her hands for a moment. She gave me it reluctantly. She takes a seat on the tree stump, tossing her head back before looking back at me, waving her hand in a downward motion.

“Sit for a moment. It’s important to rest your muscles after training. There’s nothing worse than straining your shooting arm.”

I huff out a quiet laugh. I sink against the tree across from her. “Well if you insist.”

She shakes her head.

“I don’t. But the cramps you’ll avoid in your biceps arms definitely do.”

I watch as her fingers trace the curvature of the arrowhead, the sun sliced over the ridges in the small objects surface, rounding over the curves and patterns in the stone.

“How would you feel about heading back without me?”

She asks; not even glancing at me as she opens her water flask, taking a few sips out of it and cursing quietky when she tilts the pouch too far back and some water spills down her chin to her neck, the unwelcomed sudden sensation making her shudder.

She hands me the flask, offering some water but all i can do is gawk at her words.

“To high camp? No. We should stay together.”

I shake my head, gently declining her offer of water and muttering a thank you.

It’s her turn to gawk now. Staring at me as if i have three tails.

“I have my bow.”

She gestures to the weapon next to her, the curved wood carved with patterns and bright beads and feathers adorining it.

“I’ll be fine on my own.”

I know she hates beinhg chaperoned or supervised. So i allow the sounds of the forest to symphonize while i devise something to respond with. The sewn sky is torn at the seams as clouds creep by. Something with feathers moves in the distant canopy. 

“Why? Don’t you want to return with me?”

It’s not you. I just don’t want to go home yet.”

“Than who is it?”

She’s quiet for a moment, fidgeting with her songchord to busy her hands.

“Spider.”

That was honestly the last thing I expceted to hear.

By the time Spider could walk-

Well, really, i doubt the guy ever went through a ‘first steps’ phase. He probably just started running. 

By the time he could preform some kind of motion with his legs that incorporated standing up and getting him from one place to another, Y/n’s parents had pretty much accepted him as their child.

That was his ticket to having the full na’vi child experience. He had a songchord, a bow, was taught the history of the clan through stories and songs. He loved them, and mourned them when their time came. Y/n and him have always been close, and since the past tragedy, it’s not hard to say that they’ve fought to keep eachother in their lives. Especially when my parents ushered y/n to live with our family, and leaving spider with norm and max. Because whether others believe spider belongs with our people or not, she’s never known a world where he’s not there. It’s a scale that shouldn’t be tipped. One will surely loose balance without the other.

I blink, sitting up as my head cocks to the side.

“Spider? Why? What did he do?”

IS it wrong for me to assume spider is the one at fault for whatever quarrel is proceeding?

No. At least i don’t think so. I actually think it’s pretty fair.

She groans, running her palms down her face, the skin under her eyes being dragged downwards under her fingertips.

“He’s just so- and then he- and he just- and he-”

She shakes her fists furiously as if shes strangling something invisible.

I wince.

“I don’t think that will improve his current situation with the air on this planet.”

“I’m ready to take the mask and shove it where it won’t see air again.”

“Woah there.”

She sighs roughly, absently throwing a small rock into a bush.

“Why doesn’t he ever think before doing stupid shit?”

“Well the shit wouldn’t be stupid if it was properly considred.”

She mumbles to herself, waving me off.

I place my hand on the stump next to me to shift myself to lean back against the tree further.

“Y/n, I know things can be rough with siblings. Trust me, i know. But-”

“Can i tell you something that will sound horrible?”

My sentence is stifled as she hinders it with her quiet, rueful words.

I fumble for my next words.

“Uh yeah. Yes. yes of course.”

I wave my palm towards her in a stupidly clumsy ‘the floor is yours’ motion.

When someone wants to vent, count on me to turn the atmosphere into one of an addiction confrontation. 

But my eywa, she wants to talk to me about her problems. ME! Not lo’ak, but me!  Does that mean she trusts me?

She looks down, the light spills down through the overbush of the trees, casting a hazy halo upon her figure, golden-crested shadows flirt with her azure skin. The sunlight feels shallow today. Melancholic and hollow. The sun is silenced as it slips behind a cloud. Buried beneath a grey eclipse.

“He’s not one of us. He’s my family but he’s not the same as me, not even the same species. but he wasn’t-” 

She hesitates.

“His people were never suppose to come here. To this planet. He can’t run as fast as us, fall from heights where we can and just come out unscathed, he’s not as big, as strong, as durable and adaptable as us! He’s not a na’vi! And as much as i wish I could make that his reality, I can use all the blue paint in the world and It won’t make him as tall as me. I can’t-.”

Her voice cracks at the endnotes, it’s only noticeable if you listened closely.  it makes my ears pin back, itching to aid this burden.

“I can’t keep drawing circles around him and begging him to stay inside of them.”

Sometimes soulmates aren’t lovers. They’re siblings. Tied at the roots.  Whether they were related by blood or not, they carried a piece of eachother. Even when the world tears them apart, that piece binds that root back to common ground. Energy is only borrowed. And one day, you’re gonna have to give it back.

If i were to loose Tuk, Lo’ak, or Kiri, the energy we’ve shared would circle back to where it started. And that root would retreat back to it’s spiral shape. That’s what life entails at the center of your circle. You would die for your siblings at the end of the day, and if they take the shapes of stars you search for them in the lengths of the sky.

Her tail coils around her ankle, poking at the bracelet that circled around the skin.

“Y/n, we can’t protect them forever.”

She curls herself into a ball, letting her weight drag her to the ground so that she lays bundled, her arms locked around her knees. Groaning and hissing loudly.

“I don’t want to protect him forever i just want him to stop trying to kill himself.”

“I don’t think that’s his intention, Y/n..”

I poke at her back, attempting to push her upwards with my palm so that she doesn’t faceplant in the dirt.

She mumbles, And if I was anything but a foot farther away I probably couldn’t hear her.

“When we were children he was so small… small-brained…And now he's still small, but bigger..but still fucking smaller than me..but he’s older…”

“..and?”

“His brain hasn’t gotten any fucking bigger. I’m going to take up alcoholism.”

“Please don’t.” I sigh, 

“You can’t stop me. I’m going to drink until I forget.”

Oh how beautifully eloquent she is when shes loosing all sense of sanity...

“Y/n, he lives in the same camp as us. You’re going to wake up and remember.”

I rock my knuckles against her spine, still trying to have her body avoid the fresh dirt.

She stares into the cup of her palm. My eyes catches glimpses of the shadows kept sacred in the corridors of the covers that cover her body, the dip of her hips, the drag of her nape, the cinch of her waist, the plush of her thighs and stomach. She’s soft right now. Her muscles aren’t tensed and her stomach isn’t lined.

I’m quiet as i stare at my shins, my fingertips brushing against her other hand.

“Do you remember the other night, when we all talked about scars?”

Her tail flicks, signaling that even if she wasn’t looking at me, i knew she was listening.

“Scars are symbols. They stay with us wherever we go, reminding us of where we’v e been, how we’ve gotten there..how we survived.”

I stare up at the trees, my eyes catching the shapes casting shadows over the leaves.

“Well, I’ve been thinking that some scars don’t appear over time, sometimes we’re born with them.

Her muscles tense and she pensively clutches at her song chord. I almost take it as a sign for me to just shut up. But i can’t. The words just seem to find me.

“You..”

I stare at her. My gaze tracing lines over the patterns imprinted into her back. Somedays i think pieces of her essence are torn from the scars, blemishes, bruises, and slight discolorations that stretch across her skin. Bruises that overlap ultraviolet hues darkened into navy nights, blemishes that I swear are just painstrokes from outer space, shapes imitate cosmic rays and lunar surfaces, opulent nebulae and collisions of stars that would surely cower before her.

She is made out of pieces of the universe.

Salvageable stretches of sunlight. Crystal blue, sun-kissed acquiescence of July. Cherished adventures stained in ink delight

Refusing to wither away even when seasons change and when snow i’ve never seen turns to falling stars. 

Violent sunsets, whispers, and the oceans start to sink. I consider myself equally submerged.

“You are just..so strong. You’ve always been responsible for him. You both have grown up under the same roof, you can find that common ground. You both share that circle. Those scars from your experiences..you both can’t escape that.”

Silence settles between us, my arm drapes over my propped up leg.

“It’s not wrong of you to say he doesn’t belong here. Because there’s truth to that. Our home was never meant for his kind, and maybe it never will be.

But if i know one thing, I know that he belongs with you. You’ve stood on that common ground with him through what might as well have been an earthquake, but you’re still here. He owes you that.”

She shakes her head, sitting up quickly, her words catch in her throat.

“But that’s exactly where i seem trapped. He doesn’t owe me. It’s my job, it’s my own commitment! When my parents were still around i swore to stay by his side.”

“You were no older than 6 when you probably grasped the idea that he was there in your home to take the place of a sibling. Y/n, you didn’t swear anything. I wish you wouldn’t bind yourself to this idea-”

“I’m not binded to anything. I am proud to protect my people.”

“Someone once asked me if i’m so busy protecting everyone else, who protects me.”

She stills. Surprised that i’m quoting her.

When the world becomes a sword, she became a shield.

She purses her lips, tugging on a braid that rests over her shoulder.

“That’s different.”

I laugh. Not because its funny. Because its ironic.

“How? You, me, and two dumb, reckless siblings to look after. Lo’ak and spider aren’t that different. Suppose that means neither are we.”

She leans back, her head roughly resting on the bark.

I take a breath, leaning back with her.

“Letting go of that bind doesn’t mean giving up.” I whispered. Staring up at the sky, watching as it creeped and treaded towards a crepuscular cape.

“I know”

She whispered, leaning her head opposite of my direction to rests on her shoulder.

“But he’s all i have left.”

She rasps, looking downwards once again.

My fingers brush hers. I try to focus my eyes on anything but her. The burnished bronze bark shades of the forest around me grapples with my gaze.

I know she hates pity.

A fleeting fracture, half exposed, and bare. Bones shaking under scared skin stretched over a blanket of shame. I think weakness is her greatest enemy. Vulnerability is nothing but a pallid guise of weakness’ tide. In obdurate grace, She stands elate. I’m nothing more than a shadow in the corner of her storms.

She’s an ocean I fear is too vast to cross. I've let myself drown before. 

“Y/n. I’m so sorry.”

I whisper. But as apologetic as I am, I can’t decide what I’m apologizing for.

Her parents being dead?

Her crippling fear of losing what fragile pieces of her family she had left?

The specters of her lost, an elegy of ceaseless pain. It forces me to remember I'm presumably forgotten, along with the stars and the sky I once promised i’d give her. 

As the sky grew a bit darker. We sat in a silence that danced with serenity.

the clouds like shredded silk, tinged with the delicate hues of a bruise that would never fade.

It was me she trusted in this moment. Not Lo’ak coming in clutch with bad jokes or my father with years of experience I can only pray I’d amount to earn. 

Me. Who’s soul took the shape of a shadow that loomed in the darker corners of her heart.

What did I do to deserve this?

As I look at her now-, Y/n.

The y/n.

the woman who had walked through infernos that would have incinerated lesser souls, whose spirit had been forged in the crucible of war, who bore scars both visible and unseen. Her eyes, shadowed by a thousand skies and golden eclipses, had softened now, their fierce gleam dimmed for a brief moment of vulnerability, her very presence carrying the weight of bereavment.

The sky and I share a flicker of breath, as though it too understood the gravity of the moment.

I want to capture her words with my hands, catch them. 

These words of hers, the ones I can only beg to hear once again, alike the essence of something rare and blackened, with sorrow yet magnificent in its pain. She spoke of battles fought not just against the sky demons, but against creatures that lurked in the recesses of her mind, devouring fragments of her peace. The blood she had spilled is not foreign but it rots all the same.

At the cost of being blunt, it fucking pisses me off. Beyond that if I can ever find the words.

How could they-

No. How could anyone hurt her? 

How could anyone take what they’ve taken from her and continue to reach for what precious circle of family she had left?

How could anyone—any hand—have so defiled such sanctity? faceless figures, cowards. Fighting from far away in the sky ships that stir the wind and attempt poorly to glide upon air that was never even theirs to breathe.  

I want to be the shield that keeps her safe, and at from the storms that sweep her away and leave her with scars.

I don’t want to watch her fight for the rest of my life-

Please. I don’t want her to fight for the rest of hers.

Is this where I have to stay? Is this where I have to wait? 

I am consumed by an ardor so profound it defies the very essence of language.

No. No, I'm done waiting.

I’ve dispensed myself in my mistakes for 3 years. I may never entirely forgive myself for what I’ve done to her, but I refuse to keep drowning myself in it. 

I want to live. Not survive off her faint glances and light touches.

No I want her. I want her back and I want her to be mine.

How could I ever think I could move on? That I could outgrow her? The thought of any other woman in the clan-

No, any other female known to this ground, to want any of them the way I want her, it’s wrong. It’s unnatural. A parallel that threads like a citadel, a monument of sinew and steel, fissures spider webbing beneath My skin, cracks through which light might enter or shatter me under her touch.

And eywa, I’m tired of it. I’m so fucking tired of it. How much longer will I be consumed by this need that cannot be satiated by any other presence other than hers?

I want to hear her laugh again. I want to hold her again. I want to kiss her neck and trace my palms down the curve of her waist and her thighs. I want to hear her call my name breathless into the darkness while I capture her moans with my lips and watch her hair spill through my fingers. 

I want to hold her hand. I want to kiss her until I can’t breathe. I want to feel the weight of her on top of me and under me and her legs wrapped around my waist. 

If she allowed me I would beg her on my knees. I would kiss her ankles up to her hairline and whisper apologies that sound more like worship.  

I want her to pull me away. I want to drown in her.

Can she possibly know? Her absence is not a void but a presence—vast, unbearable, and omnipotent—filling every crevice of thought, every trembling nerve that dares to remember. Her voice lingers in the silence, a phantom melody that unspools endlessly. she might as well be a rope to my wrists, tightening like a noose.

I don’t s resist her.  Even torment is preferable to the sterility of forgetting, to the annihilation of what remains of her in me.

How could she possibly not understand? The things I would do for her?

I would crawl through dirt and dust and call it scared ground if she so much as stepped there. What is love if not worship and what is yearning if not devotion?

Because she’s so beautiful. She’s pretty. She’s gorgeous. She’s perfect. She’s every word I can think of and all the words I’ve yet to learn.

So much so it’s almost otherworldly. i stand before like a penitent before an altar that will never grant me absolution. if this longing is a sickness in my soul, i'm going to cherish it because it's hers. 

Watch as she unmakes me.  Slowly, exquisitely—dismantling my pride, my reason, my very humanity, until nothing remains but the hollow echo of her name. And I  would call that emptiness sacred. 

If anger is what she needs so be it. betray me, despise me, reduce me to carrion before her feet.

Must I weep for gratitude? for even in degradation?  Done.

I will wait.

“I don’t like just waiting here.” The silence that had once reigned was shattered. Unveiling the world anew, pulling the soul from its slumber. I’m shaken awake from my momet of zoning away. It doesn’t take me long too realize it was Y/n’s voice. Well obviously- who else could it have been? the tree?

“Huh? I’m sorry- did you speak?”

She squints at me. Her eyes flicker before she stands to her feet.

“I said I don’t like this waiting. I should have never suggested it. I’m sorry.” 

She brushes herself off before grabbing her bow and the woven bag of targets, slinging her bow to tuck under her arm and the sack over her shoulder. I scramble to my feet, grabbing my own bow and water skin. 

“It was stupid of me to try to avoid this- i’m just gonna talk to spider when i get back.”

She mumbles.

“Oh- wait. Eywa you’re fast.”

I chuckle awkwardly. All she can do is toss me a blank glance over her shoulder. She moved swiftly, not making much if any sound.

I stop infornt of her, reaching out to offer her my free arms to carry the bag.

“Do you need-”

“No. lets get moving. I want to get you back before dark or else your father will have a heart attack scare.”

She cuts me off, swaying past me and onto the path where ouyr ikrans perched somehwre ahead.

“You know-”

I jog behind her, casually steadying myself to match her pace.

“You know my father doesn’t need to know where i am every second of the day.”

She shrugs.

“And yet, he does.”

Touche. 

Brush it off Neteyam.  I mean, how bad would it really be if the woman you were in love with saw you as nothing but a marionette tethered pathetically to his father?

Oh. That sounds worse than i thought.

Easy fix? Right? …Right?

“He’s just looking out for you.”

She enlightens, with a quiet precision, each word a steady beat, unadorned by excess or hesitation.

My whole life i've wanted people to see past the shadow of my father. But now i’m begging her to. 

 Why can’t she see the me that has shaped with my own hands, not inherited or molded by the past. 

I riven between the maddening urge to captivate and the harrowing awareness of my own profound inadequacy. She, an indomitable presence, even though i've known her since she was learning to walk, is still so fascinatingly intimidating. 

“I don’t-”

I stumble over a branch. Was it a branch? It could have been a root or a rock. Whatever it was. I lurch forward before unevenly shifting, then I awkwardly brushed it off, pretending it hadn’t happened.

She stops and stares at me. Painfully unimpressed with my lack of attention to the ground.

I clear my throat, trying not to wince.

“I don’t need him to look after me.”

She shrugs, walking ahead of me without much thought. “Well of course not. Look at how gracefully you coordinated that fall.”

“I didn’t fall.”

“Are you calling me blind.”

“No part of my body other then my feet touched the ground. That’s not a fall. It’s a…stammer.”

I cross my arms, suddenly my gaze finds interest in the bright colors that crowd a herb patch near by.

“Oh and what a beautiful stammer it was.”

She rolls her eyes, effortlessly shifting everything in her arms to only one side as she raises two fingers to her lips and create a whistle sound.

I see a shape of something winged and large in the distance. A cacophony of  colors and  jagged lines, and abstract forms are layered atop one another, intermingling and overlapping in a way that feels both disorienting and captivating

The sounds of flapping wings resonate from afar, an unseen presence demands attention by echoing the sound of it’s arrival. Kailo lands first, followed by rey’sa. 

Kailo was larger than the average ikran. That’s what Norm told us the night after Y/n’s ikinimya.

I still remember that day. Watching her dodge and duck away from the literal jaws of death on the ikran rookery. I saw her, and in that fleeting moment, my soul seemed to abandon me, leaving flesh frozen as I watched her plummet off the cliff side. My heart might as well have been ripped from my chest. It felt as though stricken with some fatal malady, ceased to beat. A dire, unshakable certainty gripped me—that she was gone. as good as dead. That she had slipped from the grasp of light.  

Kailo’s colors seem to pulsate with a tumultuous vibrancy. Bold and garish in their audacity, writhe and clash which burn with an almost sacrilegious intensity, to the shrieking blues and grotesque purple, the hues seem to scream at the beholder, drowning the senses in a discordance of visual tumult. 

 a gnawing sense of impotence. They spill, uncontained, stretching and sprawling, as though in the midst of some violent outpouring of emotion or thought. Jagged, fractured red lines pierce the air, juxtaposed by sweeping curves, both jagged and fluid in their simultaneous grace and aggression.

The spread of red, blue, and purple creates a  furor of colors, intermingling and overlapping in a way that feels both disorienting and captivating.

My eyes, without any conscious volition, as if led by some hidden magnetism, gravitated toward Rey’sa. Her brown, green, and yellow skin clash in a manic strife. The splashes of brown are deep and earthbound. It pushes it’s weight against the lighter, more volatile green, incessant, and vibrant, it twists and coils in unruly shapes, as though struggling to break free from the heavy grasp of the brown. Meanwhile, the yellow flashes like a burst of lightning, crackling with energy.

She shakes her head back in forth in a quick wild nutation before tiltidng her head towards me, a high noted-shrill leaving her as if informing me of her arrival.

I give her neck a few pats, tightening my saddle with one hand while I throw myself to straddle atop, hiking up my leg and shifting in a slight jump.

Y/n doesn’t mount until she secures the targets and her bow in her side saddle, handling it with the utmost care. As if parting with it was akin to severing a vital thread that tied her soul to her body.

There was a quiet dominion everywhere she went. Trailing her steps. In her orbit, the air became sanctified. Her back straight as if someone held a board to it to ensure it never faletered from it’s position.

I mount rey’sa after ensuring everything was fastened. I reach back for my kuru. The movements to connect my kuru to my ikran are so unmistakably ingrained. Practiced and performed to a point of cognitive habituation. 

The moment I see the cords connect, I feel it.

The traverse vast expanse between us thinning into a network that flows effortlessly, a seamless exchange of synapses that make the sound of sensitive reverberations.  It’s an undercurrent of synergistic sensations.

I shake my head to clear up the swift headrush that swept through when making the bond, my vision clearing almost instantly.

I turn to my side, seeing y/n already staring at the sky with a quiet resolve.

“I’m going to talk to him when we get back.”

She looks at her hands, they almost bruise with how tightly she grips the reigns. Her gaze is suffused in a promise that I feel proud to say she only shares with me.

“Good.you two should work things out.”

She nods, shifting, adjusting her legs.

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

She shrugs.

“Talking sense into me.”

I laugh. But I don’t mean to. It’s accidental. It echoes between us

“Nothing makes sense when you have stupid reckless people like Lo’ak or spider in your life.”

If only she knew things only ever made sense when I was with her.

₊⋆⁺☀︎₊☾⁺☀︎₊𖦹✮⋆⁺₊⋆☾⁺☀︎₊₊⋆⁺☀︎₊☾⁺☀︎₊𖦹✮⋆⁺₊₊⋆⁺☀︎₊☾⁺☀︎₊𖦹✮⋆⁺₊⋆☾⁺☀︎₊₊⋆⁺☀︎₊☾⁺☀︎₊𖦹✮⋆⁺₊

NETEYAM POV; back at high camp..

When we arrived back at high camp, I watched y/n run off to wherever spider was, leaving me alone to return the targets to the supply tent.

I should have told her right there and then. Why didn’t I? 

I linger in my self-pity for only a moment, then steady myself, refocusing on the task at hand. I start putting the targets back and their respective places. Behind me, the faint sound of a new presence disrupts the silence.

 The steps are quiet, as if treading.

“Finally, Lo’ak. Come help me put these away.”

I wave him over without turning my head

“Guess again..”

I jump. In all the year’s iv’e lived with Lo’ak, Iv’e never known him to have a voice so feminine sounding.

I turn, and I feel my breath leave my body in a flicker.

Kyuna stands in front of the tent flap, with one methodical move she uses her finger to tie the drawstring of the flap closed, the sudden lack of light making this whole endeavor even more horrifying.

 her presence lingers, a silken thread weaving through the space between us.

“My eywa, you’re so jumpy, Teyam.”

Here’s a fun fact. No one in the entire clan I’ve been born and raised in, calls me ‘teyam’ other than my siblings and occasionally my mother. The sobriquet came about when Lo’ak was about 3, and had trouble pronouncing “Neteyam”. Net or Teyam was his go-to. Honestly I never understood how hard it was to just push the two together but anyways,

When Kyuna uses its imbued with a sense of familiarity and ease, felt unmerited. A familiarity that hasn’t been earned. Much less deserved.

Is it fair? To say something as simple as a shortened version of my own name to be so intimate?  

My subconscious drive takes the shape of a marionette. Instinctively moving me backwards the split second she steps forward, her chest invading what I’m positive marks the starting point of “personal space.”

It’s almost like my body repulses the idea of touching her in any way that could even immediately be seen as intimate.

“I finally caught you alone. You’re always so busy..”

She makes her fingers mimic a walking motion as they trail up my chest, neck, before tapping my nose.

I clear my throat, grabbing her wrist and gently placing it back at her side.

“Kyuna this doesn’t seem very-“

“Oh shut up! You’re always so worried about everything. Can you ever let loose?”

She laughs, almost manically, trying despairingly to make her constant interruption seem cute or innocent.

”speaking of loose.”

My eyes flicker down to where she hooks a finger under the waistband of my knife, pulling me closer to her. almost trying to pry her way between where the woven strip of fabric keeps my loincloth resting on my hips.

My eyes widen.

“Nope! Okay! That’s just- nope. No. We are not. I’m going to remain clothed. Thank you..”

I push her away by her shoulders this time.

She Rolls her eyes.

“You’re so stiff sometimes”.

Stiff. Interesting choice of words.

As she bats her eyelashes at me and pouts, I can’t decide whether I feel sad or sorry for her. Or both. Is my attention worth all this? Does she think this is attractive?

Unfortunately, I don't think I have the patience to indulge her.

“Kyuna this is not-“

I sigh, running a hand down my face. Frustrated at what part of that incredibly, small brain in her head thinks that this is okay??

“Kyuna you can’t be doing this. I don’t want to be seen as someone who sneaks around with anyone like this.”

“No one has to know.”

“Right! Because nothing is happening here.”

I speak slowly, as if trying to explain to a small child, holding her hands as I place them down at her sides once again.

“I. Don’t. Want. This.”

I reiterate.

She throws her hands up in frustration, groaning loudly.

“Then what do you want, Neteyam? You never tell or do anything that shows it!”

I raise my eyebrow, quietly standing and watching her tantrum.

A part of me does finally feel coerced into pity. Why did she obsess over this? Over me?

“Women throw themselves at you! They practically drool over you and you don’t even blink! It’s like you don’t care.”

She continues.

“Do you think the whole playing “hard to get” and the “I don’t care” facade will last forever? Because I see right through it.” 

She pokes my chest, making me step back once again, my hand behind me resting on the wooden pillar that held the tent up. My fingers anxiously and absently tracing the grooves in the smooth wood.

“There’s something or someone  you want. “

“Kyuna, if you are so fixated on there being someone, do you honestly believe, in your heart, that it’s you?”

“Why cant it be?”

“I’m not saying it can’t be, I'm telling you it’s not!”

“Look at you! You won’t even touch me. You’re probably just shy?”

“I’m ‘shy’ because I wont have sex with you inside this tent? Sure. let's put it that way.”

I turn my back to her, starting to pile up the targets and untie the hanging cord around each one. Maybe if I act like she’s not there, she’ll disappear. 

There's a pulse of silence before i feel a hand on my shoulder, sending a shrilling shudder down my spine.

“Let’s not dance around this Neteyam.”

She snakes to duck underneath me, placing herself to occupy the very small space between me and the wall, her nose nearly touching mine, I feel her breath for only a shred of a second before I flinch the other way.

“You can’t keep running from this.”

“Yes, I can. The question is, will you stop chasing me.”

 "I won't stop chasing what I know belongs to me."

It’s unnerving. How her tone treads that unmistakable subtle possessiveness. That’s how Kyuna works. In her mind, you belong to her whether she realizes it or not. This is how she plays the game. Shifts the board, moves the pieces while you're not looking, and when you turn around, she tries to convince you that it was you who can’t remember what you did with your pieces.

I know where my pieces are. They’re my fucking pieces. Not hers.

“I want you”

She declares.

“No, you want something no one else has.”

I reason.

“No You don’t understand-”

“Something no one else has, but I can’t satisfy that for you-”

Our voices overlap.

“I love you.”

“You love the idea of me.”

Maybe I really do feel sorry for her.

“Can you really think of anyone else in this clan that would be a better wife for you other than me?? They wouldn’t last.”

Nevermind. I’m annoyed again.

“Is it fun? Thinking you’re better than everyone else?”

I query.

“No. Thinking isn’t fun. Knowing is my forte.”

Ah, so she doesn't enjoy thinking. What a shocker.

“Ever since the return of the sky people we’ve been weakened.”

I raise my brow, my face furrowing into something new.

“I don’t follow.”

“Don’t you see it? They only dwell in the past, we’re too afraid to fight the way we used to. We’ve all heard the stories. Our clan used to be ruthless. Feared by others. Now we’re just an afterthought. We’re afraid. But you, once you’re olo’eyktan you could change that, And i could help.”

She speaks, and the sound—that sound—is as if some unfortunate hand struck an untuned instrument, a mere echo of what it could have been. A cruel, discordant note that rends the stillness of the soul.

She is like a child playing a game whose rules she cannot understand, and whose consequences she cannot foresee. But the pain, the pain is real. It is deep, it is sharp, it is unspoken. And yet, she speaks again, and again, with the same ignorance. 

Maybe I'm offended because it was all real to me.

Watching my mother wake up crying in the middle of the night plagued with memories of hometree was real.

Watching the love of my life lose her family because of the sky people’s destruction, that was real.

Standing here right now while they dangle our survival over our heads is real.

“I suggest you quit while you’re stepping ahead, Kyuna, You don’t know what you speak of.”

My former tone vanished, replaced by a gravity that demanded attention.

She looks embarrassed. And why wouldn’t she be?

She stammers, fidgeting with one of her braids.

“I was only- you don’t understand.”

“You’re right. I don’t. Do you think I’m impressed by this?

I don’t know what comes over me. Anger? Frustration? Annoyance.

I take a step closer, than another, until she’s pedaling backwards to remain ahead of me.

“Do you think this is attractive? Impressive? Do you think this is the kind of thing I yearn for at night? Stupidity? Ignorance? Do you think I get off on this? On you? Because I can promise you I don't.”

She gulps.

My father once told me that fear controls people.

I vowed to never fall victim to that again. Controlling others. I did it once and I lost the love of my life.

But maybe, control was potential. So was power. And if I have to shape my shadow into something scary and unapologetic to cast away such intrusive presences like hers? I’d justify it.

“Neteyam, I didn’t mean-“

She reaches for my arm, and I’m beyond tired of her touching me.

“Get out, Kyuna. I’m dismissing you.”

“But-“

“Out. Now.”

She stands in silence before turning to leave.

I feel my chest tighten its knot of air I didn’t even know was there until she’s out of my sight.

I don’t like pulling rank on people. But am I so terrible if I say that felt good??

I take a breath, steadying myself. Whatever just happened I could unpack later.

Right now, I allowed myself to be busy with the task at hand.

My sense of peace vanished once again when I saw a figure enter the tent out of the corner of my eye.

Can’t she take a hint?

“For the love of eywa!”

I groan.

“I’m not going to have sex with you! What do you want from me!? Just keep it  in your fucking loincloth and-“

I turn around to see my father staring at me in horror.

“Dad?“

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Y/ns Pov:

you shouldn’t be nervous to talk to someone you’ve  known my whole entire life and yet a more insidious, gnawing sensation sears at the back of your mind.

Maybe it’s guilt you feel. because the last time you spoke you brought up the past we both wish we could forget.

It was an unspoken rule between us. Not to bring up your mother. 

It was never a spoken pact.  Youboth knew all too well what happened with grief was left untouched. It hardens into something immutable.

 you care about each other too much to put yourselves through that pain again.

You think the sky is sinking. The darker it became the more it seemed to cave downward. Maybe if you climbed a tree you could brush your fingertips against the stars and hear them whisper words of comfort.

You were a warrior. A “lieutenant” as Jake would call you.  You had an invitingly strange familiarity to challenges. 

Why did the feeling you had right now akin itself to the one you have before a raid?

Every step you take feels closer to the fire. 

You grabbed the metal railing and hoisted yourself up to the wooden platform, ignoring the stairs made for human sized feet. 

Ducking under the small door you felt the back of your neck brush the  cool metal.

No matter how many times you’ve been in the shack, entering it always felt like a fever dream. The white and gray that washed the walls were such a huge contrast to the natural shades that hued pandora’s grounds. It had a way of making you feel empty. Like the crowded space could seep into a pit dwelling portal.

You treaded carefully, minding your anxiously swishing tail and praying that it wouldn’t be the cause of a beaker or something irreplaceable shattering.

Max and norm come into view.  They sit at a table hunched over a flat board that sits between them. The board has little white and black boxes and pieces that all differ in size and shape. They scatter across the board, stilling in their place, waiting to be moved.

Norm’s eyes light up as he laughs manically, grabbing a black piece by the curved top and shifting it to one of the white pieces, knocking it over with a swift flick and taking the spot the white piece once inhabited.

“Have fun doing my dishes for a week.”

“You’ve been spending too much time in your avatar, you've finally lost it. You know I'm winning, right?

“Don’t even think for one second you haven’t been shoving pieces in your pocket every time I get up for coffee.”

Max scoffs.

“You’re a caffeine addict.”

“And you’re a cheater!”

“Those are fighting words, I’d watch myself.”

“Then empty your pockets! Come on! If you have nothing to hide.”

“What’s in a man’s lab coat is his own damn business!”

You stand awkwardly, exaggerating a cough to emphasize your presence.

Their heads snap towards you and every trace of frustration and theatrical betrayal vanish.

“Oh hey Kiddo.”

Norm waves, standing up and stretching his arms over his head. Max follows behind him, cracking his back with a groan before smiling at you with a warm familiarity.

You stand awkwardly greeting the two with respectful nods.

“I hope I’m not interrupting.”

“Oh no, never, You caught us at a good time.”

Max waves away the notion of apology from the air, 

“To what do we owe the pleasure?”

Norm leans against the wall, grabbing a spare mask made for avatars and reaching out his hand to offer it to you.

You shake your hand, gently pushing the mask away.

“I’m not staying long.Is spider around?”

“He's outside.”

The three of you jump a bit at the sounds of footsteps above you, thick metallic thuds echo from the outside.

“Oh. well, now he’s up..side?” Norm gestures to the roof where spider’s evident movement was heard.

“Oh son of a- he’s gonna tear his stitches. That’s like the 5th time in the last 4 days.”

Max groaned, running to grab a med kit that sat on a table in the corner.

“I_..I can go let him know you guys don’t want him climbing?”

Your tail thwacks your shoulder blades. An exemplary allude of nervousness.

Norm nods, folding up the black and white squared board that laid flat on the table.

“That’d be great, he listens to you.”

You exited the shack without words, looking up at the slightly slanted roof and metal poles that curved embed with the shape. You jumped, hoisting yourself up over the awkward overhang before sitting atop it. You paused when two dangling pale legs came into view, you crawled over the next curve and were met with Spider’s back.

You froze for a moment. 

Because it’s just now you realize that you thought the anticipation was what intimidated you. Just the walk from your ikran to the shack itself like like an unendruable trek towards something unmapped. Uncharted.

Your clan glorified you because they cannot see the contrast within recklessness and bravery.

To everyone around you, you were never afraid of the unknown. Dancing where others struggled to stand on uneven ground. Danger was an adventure. Not an intimidation. In a sky devoid of light you never feared the dark. 

The wait was never what you should have feared. The uncertainty, in the silent torment of your thoughts was a comfort you’ve taken forgranted.

Because now you have to face him. 

You can’t pretend to be made of stone forever. Eventually you’ll break like glass. 

You reach your hand out, tapping his shoulders.

“Spider.”

His name comes out hoarse. The two syllables sound as if they had to pry thesmelves from the depths of your throat.

He turns around, and you can’t get yourself to meet his eyes. They settle in his lap, and you see his knife and a sharpening tool resting there.

“Hey.”

He whispered, turning around to face you. He places the knife and sharpening tool in a pouch resting on his hip.

There's an awkward silence as you both turn to face the edge of the mountain where only a few marui’s scattered and stopped where the natural stone barrier of highcamp enclosed you all inside. 

Your breath hitches as your eyes follow two na’vi children running around playing a game, tackling each other and screeching.

And for a moment, for a fragment of a second, you swear you see you and spider.

“Norm and Max don’t want you up here.”

You say it unintentionally. But you needed something to fill the space between you. The silence demanded too much of your attention.

Spider glances over at you, swinging his feet absentmindedly.

“Yeah..I know. I just-”

He tugs at his locs lightly.

“I don’t know. I can’t think with my feet on the ground.”

Really? You never would have guessed.

“I think we should talk.”

“About what?”

You look at him, wondering if he’s forgotten your argument.

He squints at you before his gaze settles on the ground.

“Oh. That.”

“Did you forget.”

He shook his head.

“No. I tried though.”

Silence strikes again. Suffocating the expanse of what pressed between you two. It’s an oppressive hum of the unendurable truth that is heavy and refuses to remain unacknowledged. 

“I’m sorry, I was an asshole. I know you were just worried and-”

He paused.

“No. Let’s start with this. 

Y/n you’re the strongest person I know.

You’re intelligent and badass and a warrior. And I love that about you. But I remember a time where you’re life didn’t revolve around this war. And sometimes I feel like- part of why you put yourself into that position to protect me…I don’t want you going out and risking you’re life because I’m weak and small and-“

“You’re not weak.”

You cut him off. The edge of your voice makd his hands stop their fidgeting.

“You’re not weak. You’re just not like us.”

You expect hi to flinch or scowl when you say that but he does nothing of the sort. There’s a sadness behind his eyes shadowed by the long ignored truth.

You sigh, staring back up at the dark sky.

“We can paint as many layers and shades of blue as we can and it still can’t hide what’s underneath.”

“Yeah. A sky demon.”

He mumbles quietly.

“A product of mistakes that someone else made.”

You correct.

He's silent, he stares ahead.

“That’s one way of putting it.”

You nod, swaying your feet in a rhythm that matches his own.

“If we both were to climb a tree and throw ourselves off the highest branches, who would have a better chance of lesser injury. You, or me?”

Spider is quiet in his response. Almost embarrassed.

“You.”

“Which one of us can run faster?”

He rolls his eyes subtly, shoving you softly with his palm.

“You.”

“Who has more knowledge about the sky demons and their weaknesses.”

“Me?”

You both pause . You smile and nudge him back.

“That doesn’t make either of us stronger or weaker from the other. We’re different. But there is no difference that can divide what has grown between us, spider.”

He finally looks at you.

“I never should have brought up sa’nok. It was wrong.”

You whispered

For a moment you both slip to the center of your spiral. The center that was slowly unraveling to reveal a pain you both could wish never existed.

“But that is our common ground. We were raised under the same roof, in the same family.”

He leans his head on your shoulder, and the motion makes your still, your spine stiffening.

It’s not unwelcomed. Just unexpected. 

“When they died I thought that they would separate us.”

Pain and fear is heard in his voice. And Jake says you and Lo’ak are a trouble making duo? You’ve clearly never met pain and fear. Two wretched companions that gnaw at the marrow of every shred of hope. It's the shadow that stalks even in the most mundane of moments. 

“They vouched for me. Even when the rest of the clan said I didn't belong with a family.”

“I don't care what the rest of the clan thinks.”

You affirm.

Spider blinks at you. Seemingly shocked.

“But they’re your people.”

“So are you!”

You toss your head back and groan, taking your frustrations out on the sky.

“Why does everyone else get to tell me who I love? Who do I choose to protect and value as my own?”

Spider is quiet. He goes to answer, but nothing comes out.

“I don’t know.” he whispers. 

“I don’t know either. Listen, no one gets to tell us that we aren’t family. Family isn’t always who you share blood with. 

I may not have lived with you continuously throughout my life, but I would die for you at the end of the day. You’re my family because I remember playing with you in the river and chasing you down the stream. You’re my brother because I remember staying beside you even when other children said you being in my home meant that we shared your ‘human germs’.”

He stares at you. You can’t  decipher what he’s thinking.

“Why should anyone else decide what you are to me?”

“Neytiri can.”

Spider interjects. Her name isn’t resentful in his voice, it’s rather longing for something distant. Something he’s never had.

You look down. Regretful.

“I can’t change the way she thinks about humans. She’s just afraid, and shes protective of her family-”

“I know that. But she’s also protective of you. And I don’t hate you for it. But-”

He stops. Staring down at his hands as if they are stained with something you can’t see.

“But what?”

You inquire gently, like trying to coax a shy child to speak.

“I’m gonna sound like such an asshole if I say it.”

You snort. 

“It’s okay. I felt the same way earlier.”

He takes a breath.

“It’s not fair. They were parents to both of us. But you're the one taken in after they die. They would never do that to me. Because I'm not a na’vi.”

“Spider, I know it feels like that but they aren’t abandoning you for some sort of vengeance-

My- our mother and neytiri were like sisters. Jake and our parents were close. They promised that if anything happened to either of them they would step up for me.”

“No. They promised to step up to take any children she had under their wing.”

“Spider…”

“I’m not mad at you. It’s just frustrating. You get off at the easy lane while I'm going 90 miles to nothin’ off a cliff.”

And there it was again. That sting.

“Easy lane? Did you think this, any of this was easy for me? Having neytiri and mo’at braid my hair the way our mother would? Having jake accidentally call me “Zensira” for the first few months by accident? That day we had to leave the old village and come to high camp, the day I walked past the home we grew up in for a final time? Saying a last goodbye to the place where every moment of laughter, every memory, every fragment of joy I've known in my life feel so empty? So dark and cold?”

Spider shakes his head frantically.

“No! No of course not, we both lost something that day. I remember it too..It’s just..They’re there for you. You know?”

“I'm here for you.”

You reiterate. Almost desperate. At this moment you felt like a spider and you were onlookers into a mirror where he refused to acknowledge that you could both see your reflection upon the same surface.

“Iv’e been here. I’m staying here. So is Lo’ak, and kiri, tuk, norm, and max-”

You stop mid sentence as you remember what was scractching at the back of your brain.

“Oh by the way, max told me to tell you to stop tearing your stitches.”

You both are quiet. And then you laugh. You both laugh hard. And you nor him really know why.

As the laughter dies down he rests his head on your shoulder, whispering into the air.

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry too.”

What were you both sorry for? Everything. Nothing. Somethings. Because this is where you both surrender. Even while you both remain tainted with the bitter aftertaste of unresolved tension, you withdrew, but not in peace—no, it was more like the calm that precedes a storm, an uneasy lull where the heart strains against its own quietude.

You both were stronger than what or whoever came between you. That was a fact.

₊⋆⁺☀︎₊☾⁺☀︎₊𖦹✮⋆⁺₊⋆☾⁺☀︎₊₊⋆⁺☀︎₊☾⁺☀︎₊𖦹✮⋆⁺₊₊⋆⁺☀︎₊☾⁺☀︎₊𖦹✮⋆⁺₊⋆☾⁺☀︎₊₊⋆⁺☀︎₊☾⁺☀︎₊𖦹✮⋆⁺₊₊⋆⁺☀︎₊☾⁺☀︎₊𖦹✮⋆⁺₊⋆☾⁺☀︎₊₊⋆⁺☀︎₊☾⁺☀︎₊𖦹✮⋆⁺₊

*emerges from my cave*

Hehe..hi…long time no see, huh?

Now before you throw the pitchforks at me, I can explain my delay of this chapter. For those of you who have read my bio, you already know I’m a film student. In the next few weeks me and a group of my classmates are going to start shooting a film entirely directed, produced, and written by us. I’m the art director and getting ready to travel (we’re filming in another location) has made me so busy…on another note I had to rewrite this chapter almost 5 times because it never came out right until now.

But, allow us to move on a happier note…

 Happy Valentine’s Day and Black history month guys! I hope everyone enjoyed this chapter as much as I did. 

Neteyam and Y/n have finally started they’re training sessions, so buckle up for more tension to come. And FINALLY! Spider and y/n are back on speaking terms. Phew. (This will not be the last argument they have in this story 😚)  

Writing for Kyuna is so funny. Like, take a hint please shawty. He don’t want you. Ugh. It's desperation for me. And we left off on a cliffhanger with Jake and Neteyam? That will be an interesting conversation for next chapter..hm..ANYWAYSSS I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter!

btw for my arcane watchers, do neteyam and y/n give you guys ekko and jinx vibes??

₊𖦹✮⋆⁺₊⋆☾⁺☀︎₊₊⋆⁺☀︎₊☾⁺☀︎₊𖦹✮⋆⁺₊

TAGLIST!

@fluorynn (THIS ONE’S FOR YOU FYNE SHYTE)

@mntx666

@isnt-itstrange @thebestrouge

@bay7let

@fairuzwhat

@jackiehollanderr

@6423btw

@satesatesate2009

@OstargirlO

@heavenlysstuff

@dayyzlol

@iheartamajiki

@fluorynn

@bakugouswaif

@eljaynosine-triphosphate

@mojo-jojo-1

@strongheartneteyam

@hungrynessforfics

@ravenxx888

@teyamsgirlx

@notsaelty

@eywaite 

@love7buggy

I love you all! Happy Valentine’s Day everyone!

[sweetimpurity]

Robin Hood: A quest for love and freedom

A Miguel O'hara Fairytale Chapter 1

Ever since the war started, the kingdom is in ruin and the King is far away. With no-one to protect them from the evil Sheriff taking over the throne. Who will save them? Will he be able to do it and preserve his love with the girl he's been dreaming about for a decade?

w.c. 5k masterlist

“It’s that Hood!” “Don’t let the Bastard get away!” The guards shout, chasing him through the castle halls and corridors. All this for a small sack of gold coin. A small sum that could change a poor village family’s life around. He’s been doing this for months. Since he got back from the war, the crusade. The seemingly endless trek with the promise of fortune only to be confronted with the stunning reality that the grail might not even be real in the first place. His loyalty to his king and country blinding him to harrowing truth. 

But he’s back now. Back in Nottingham. With a new mission, a new war. A determination to change the times. To steal from the rich and give to the poor!!

“Agh!” He grunts, climbing up into a castle window, overlooking the castle grounds, the ground far below coming into dizzying focus, his eyes on the towers across the way. It's a longshot but he’s made further jumps before in higher stakes than this. He can make the jump if he just- just-

“Stop him!!” A guard yells and they ascend on him like hounds running down the corridor from both ends. Their boots stomping and metal clanging. Armor and swords and a furious desperation to finally get their hands on him. Without a chance to think it through any further, he’s leaping across the open space, everything almost slowed, his long legs extending as if to push him further. To get him there. Guards watching in awe and horror as he makes it across. Like a flash of dark green, a shadow in the night, his silhouette whispering over the cobblestone in the moonlight. The top of the castle wall catching under his arms. He holds on with a grunt of pain at the stress on his muscles, grabbing onto the other side with all his might. His boots sliding over the stone and shoulders aching from the strain. Hanging onto the ledge of the opposing wall and pulling himself up. “You won’t get away so easily Robin!” One of them shouts through the window, watching him climb over the castle wall. He only chuckles, glancing back over his shoulder while still keeping his face concealed in shadow under his hat. No one’s seen his face, they only know the name. Robin Hood. If that’s even his real name at all. 

Then he’s gone. From what they can tell. Gone into the night of Sherwood forest most likely. “Send the dogs out! I want him caught tonight! Have them search the grounds!” The Captain shouts in anger. The guards rushing around, metal clanging and boots thumping on the stone floors. A mess of incoordination and desperation. And yet no Hood to present his ‘majesty’. The guards disperse, with the determination to find Robin in the edges of the forest. Even in the dark of night, they won’t give up, they know what happens if they don’t find the infamous outlaw soon.

…

“That could’ve been bad…” Miguel mumbles softly to himself, his usual sarcastic manner coming out even in the aftermath of trouble. Still hanging onto the edge of the wall. Staying up in the darkness where the light from their torches below doesn’t even reach the soles of his boots. He looks down, watching the hounds scouring the grass and the tree line. Countless guards fanning the area. Miguel shakes his head at their stupidity, their utter foolishness. Just waiting until the guards think he’s gone into the forest. Pulling himself up, looking over the edge of the wall and seeing it’s clear. Hoisting himself back over, he balances on the edge of the castle wall. His nimbleness and flexibility allowed him to walk across the stone like a tightrope. He walks carefully to the end, where the wall connects to the next tower over, stabilizing himself with his hands. Grabbing an arrow from his quiver and jabbing it into a crack in the stonework. Making sure it’s stable before pushing himself up and using it as a step to the windowsill. Holding onto the stone that outlines the opening in the wall. He pops his head in, looking both ways. 

If he can just get to the top of the east tower then he’ll have a clear shot to climb down to the forest and hopefully avoid all that mess down there. He’ll spend less time on the castle green where the hounds might be searching and guards lurking. And the castle seems much less crowded with all the guards looking for him outside. He stealthily climbs stairs and walks down hallways, admiring the portraits on the walls, the treasures lining the place, so lavish, so rich. 

He walks to the end of a corridor, catching a portrait of King Richard on the wall. The rightful King. Not that greedy Sheriff who thinks he’s royalty. The Sheriff who’s raising taxes every chance he gets and bleeding this kingdom dry. He looks down at the sack of gold pieces in his hand. It’s the first time he’s managed to steal directly from the castle. He’s been stealing from that blasted old Sheriff for months. Taking from his wagons as they travel through the woods, distracting his men and trapping them in the forest, taking the gold and riches that were stolen with the intent of giving it back to the victim it was taken from. The King would never let his kingdom go to ruin. But the King isn’t here. If he were, these people wouldn’t be starving and dying in the village. He’s seen children, the elderly, pregnant desperate women needing food, needing clothes. Many of their husbands, fathers, and brothers died in the war. He’s one of the lucky ones that managed to come back home. Many never made it back. But he’s come back to this. A dying kingdom, a greedy bastard thinking he can take the throne just because it’s empty. His actions have earned him the title of wanted criminal. A bounty on his head and a poster with his alias on it. 

There’s noise at the other end of the hallway. Without a second thought, he’s gone. Flipping up the dark hood of his phthalo cloak, turning the corner, he’s out of view. And he’s got to get out of here while he still can. Moving faster now. Not wanting to spend a minute longer in this trap. He climbs some stairs to a new hallway and finds a door. Feeling the breeze of air through the crack with his fingers, knowing there must be an open window or something inside. He quietly sneaks his way through and finds open doors on the other side of the room, open to a balcony. Drapes billowing in the breeze. The forest thereafter. A clean escape. 

He doesn’t even look around the bedroom he's passing through as he rushes through to the balcony doors. Pushing them open more and the night air hits his face. The smell of the forest, so familiar, and not those perfumes and oils that castle is pumped full of. He marches across the balcony and to the edge, hoping he’ll get down and back to camp in one piece. He happens to glance back and he-

“Miguel…?”

Across the balcony. 

Time seems to stop as he sees you. Hears you. Is his heart that hopeful? Is his mind so tortured by your memory that it would taunt him with visions? Are his senses so depleted of your presence that his ears make up the song of your voice? But there you stand, the light of the moon glowing through the fabric of your nightgown, through the abundance of your hair. Across your cheek. Is this a memory? Is this a cruel joke? He’s dreamt of nothing but you and now here you are at last.

But you’re different now. You’re not the little girl he remembers. When he too was a young boy. Two kids together. No. You’re grown. You’re all grown up and stunningly beautiful. The kind of beauty that would bring a mourning dove to song if only for your ears to enjoy. The kind of beauty that brings angels to sweet sugary tears. 

He takes a tentative step forward, as if you make sure you’re not a puff of smoke, a figment of his desperate imagination. But you start walking closer too. One step, then another, two more and you’ve crossed the distance into his arms. He’s stunned, shocked by the warmth of your embrace. He’s thought of only you for a decade. “Hah…” He sighs in relief, melting into your arms. Could this really be happening?

“You’re alive…” Your voice is a heavy hushing whisper next to his ear. 

“You’re beautiful…” He whispers into your shoulder, his lips pressing to the bare skin there. His dark eyes watching his fingertips graze over your skin. So soft, so warm, so here and real; holding you like a most precious perfect specimen. Like pure beauty blown in glass. 

He pulls back to look in your eyes. Only now does he really believe this is real. That he’s seeing you again after all this time. His arms around you, fingers coming to caress your cheek and he just can’t help himself. He’s dreamt of this for so long, too long. His lips meet yours. Crashing into you with the need of a man deprived. A man starved and thirsty. A kiss that would erupt over many kingdoms and countries, it would shake the ground with its passion, its connection, its need, desperation. A kiss that would be felt around the Earth five times over. His arms slide down your back, pulling you in more, only slightly off the ground with your toes just touching the floor, his eager tongue delving into your soft perfect mouth. Is he even worthy of tasting such precious perfection? Yet you taste so sweet, sweeter than any of the times he dreamt of you. He swallows down your gasps, your hitched needy breaths, feeling your delicate fingers digging into his back; soothing you, holding you. He’ll never let you go again. 

“I want him dead!” The Sheriff shouts from his throne. Well it’s not actually his but he’s sitting in it. His death black robes clinging to his calves, a pout on his face, gems decorating his fingers cast in gold. Gold and jewels that don’t belong to him. “I want his head and I want it warm!” 

“I know sir, we’ll get the Hood next time for you, sir, we just need a bit more time.” The guard Captain bows his head in fear and reverence. “-I’ve given you enough time. He dares to defy me- steal from me and you do what? Nothing!” He growls, pacing across the throne room floor. “I have enough to do as it is, I don’t need some… some ghost stealing what’s rightfully mine! And making a damn fool of me!!” He frowns almost like a child. His robes hitting his feet as he huffs, sitting back down in his throne. Crossing his arms and pouting. “And the bastard won’t even show his face! Some phantom determined to ruin my plans!” He knocks a pitcher of wine off the table next to him. The crimson liquid pooling on the stone floor, like spilled blood swirling and dribbling down the uneven cobblestone. 

“Don’t force me to make an example out of you. Captain.” He drawls, pointing his finger at the man, an evil glint in his eye. The Captain gulps, feeling an uneasy sense of dread. “I have no issue with public execution. Unlike our good old King.” He glares at the stained glass decorating the throne room. The red and purple hues, oranges and yellows glowing in the moonlight. Greens, blues, teals, cascading on the floor like water in the stream. An image depicting King Richard, who is at this moment halfway across the continent still on a hunt for the evading holy grail as the war rages on, shown with his family. His siblings, his parents, his cousins. You. His last living cousin. The Sheriff’s only option. An evil one at that. 

The Sheriff bellows, grabbing his gauntlet of wine and throwing it at the stained glass window. Glass shards shattering and clinking on the cobblestone. Echoing off the walls, ringing loud against everyone’s eardrums. Breaking the glass to bits, blowing a big hole in the image. The guards in the room gasp and the Captain takes cover from the falling glass overhead. Purified moonlight streams in through the shatter, lighting the Sheriff's face in an evil white light.

“JUST GET ME THAT ROBIN HOOD AND GET HIM NOW!!!”

“Th-this… you-” You stutter and sigh, unable to believe what you’re seeing. What you’re feeling. The last time you saw him he was 15. You were 14 and tearfully saying goodbye as you were sent away for schooling across the continent. You wanted to stay. You wanted to marry him. As a teenager you knew. Even as a little girl you knew in your heart. From running in the blackberry fields to swimming in the nearby streams, spending everyday with each other growing up, even if you're parents may have disapproved of you spending so much time with a peasant boy, as a lady of royal blood. To be separated from him was like ripping the sun of its warmth. By the time you returned at 18 he had already gone off to the war. He was expected to be a man. Fight for King and country. You were the King’s cousin and expected to be a lady, go to church, continue the royal bloodline. But you’d both taken pieces of each other’s hearts. Your heart was broken those long 10 years ago. “I know…” He whispers, keeping his hands on your shoulders, your cheeks. Any place he can keep touching you. Feeling you.

“I thought you were dead” You practically sob and his heart snaps at the sound of your voice. The look in your eyes. “I-I thought… I mourned you” You could cry. You’re nearly crying already. “I know- I know, I’m sorry…” He whispers, fearing anything louder than a hush would rupture your aching heart, wanting to explain, it wasn’t his intention to keep his return a secret. And he wanted to find you but wasn’t sure you’d still be here. That you’d remember him like he remembers you. 

“I’ve been back just a few months now… I’m back, I'm here now…” He whispers, trying to soothe your broken heart.  “This… is what you’ve been doing? Robin Hood…” You cry, tears brimming and threatening to spill over. He’s been back and you’ve thought him dead for years. Mostly everyone died in the war. Or was taken prisoner. You take a look at what he’s wearing, the quiver on his back. He’s the outlaw that everyone has been talking about. The criminal the Sheriff is hellbent on putting down. “I-I had to… the kingdom. It’s in ruin, my love… it’s all ruined, people are dying and it’s all his fault…” He explains, wiping your tears away with his thumb, looking right in your eyes, his words like a prophecy. “I can’t just stand by and watch. And once the Sheriff caught onto me I… I had to disappear. That’s when the alias arose…” He whispers, watching your face contort in emotion at his explanation. He wishes things could be different. 

“It’s been so long…” You whimper, leaning into his hand on your cheek. “Why didn’t you come for me?” 

“I wanted to, my love, mi amor, but I... didn’t know you’d be here, I thought you’d be… far from this place.” He whispers. He thought you’d be gone and married by now. With children and a husband for him to envy. Your children should be his children, your husband, he should be. 

“I thought you’d forgotten me” He admits, an urgency in his voice, met with the despair and heartbreak written all over your beautiful features. “I’d never have forgotten you!” You cry, more of a protest than anything, shaking your head as if to refuse reality. “I’ve thought of only you in your absence…” You confess, taking his breath away. 

“The Sheriff he- he’s after the throne, he’s taking over the castle.”

“I know… I know.” He nods, trying earnestly to understand your desperate ramblings. “But the King-” 

“My cousin is too far… too unreachable…” You sigh, speaking through the tears. “The Sheriff has too much power already. The guards listen to everything he says. I even think the priest is on his side.” 

He listens to you explain. All that’s gone on. All you’ve been through.

“I’ve been locking myself away in here. Only leaving when I must. He’s kept some distance and my ladies in waiting have been keeping me safe for some time but… I fear he’ll get too comfortable. He thinks he’s King already.”

“Oh, my love…” Miguel wraps you up in his arms, holding you close and listening to every word, wanting to wipe away every tear, take away every ounce of pain. To think the Sheriff’s has been practically keeping you prisoner in your own home, weaponizing your fear. It makes his blood boil with anger and hatred. His heart hammer with the need to protect you, defend you from this abuse. That must be why he hasn’t heard one peep about you. He’d have known you were in Nottingham. If he’d known sooner, he would have come. “It’s okay now… I’ll help you, we’ll do whatever necessary.” He whispers into your hair, his arms wrapping you up in such a safe and secure embrace.

“Oh, how I’ve missed you…” He whispers, his hand running up your back and gently holding the back of your neck. Your body seems to mold to his like soft fine clay, his fingers brushing against your warm skin, arms wrapping around your body. It’s amazing for him to see you this way. A woman. All grown up now.

“You’re so tall…” You smile and pull back to take a look at him, a sight that takes his breath away once more. He looks down at you, smiling himself. “You’ve grown more beautiful than I could ever have imagined.” 

Your heart soars at his words. To know that he’s remembered the pure, innocent, yet true love you shared as kids, then teenagers, only to be ripped apart. To have found one another again and feel the same way. Only love true as this could last. 

You pull back a bit to look up at him. He’s grown. He’s a man now. Not the boy you once loved, but a man. He’s still got that boyish smile, a lopsided one with those soft brown eyes, so familiar. As if the sight is ingrained into your very heart. It’s almost as if no time has passed at all. You still feel just as comfortable, just as familiar. He feels like home. 

His shoulders have broadened, his jaw, chin and nose sharp and handsome. His arms feel thick and strong around your back, his chest feels firm under your hands. His hair curling up slightly by his ears, just like it was when he was 15. 

“Oh, won’t you stay? I don’t… I don’t want to be apart from you…” You whisper, leaning into him again, looking up into those eyes. The eyes that have you fawning all over again. “I don’t want to be apart from you either, love. I don’t think my heart could withstand it.” He says.

Your hands slip into his, fingers intertwining, like your souls lacing back up. Like the stars aligning in the sky, everything in their rightful place once again. “I can’t bear your heart being far from mine…” He whispers, his nose brushing up against yours, the night breeze rustling through the trees off the balcony and through your hair. 

He kisses you once more. The little girl inside of you squealing with glee. This is the boy you fell in love with and he’s alive. He’s back after all this time. 

…

“...so I escaped and somehow made my way back home…” He finishes explaining. The two sitting on the balcony floor, side by side on the stone, under the moonlight. Discussing his time in the war, then as a prisoner and his efforts to return in one piece. Going over all that's happened since you've seen each other last. “How did you ever bear it? I can’t imagine how hard that must have been…” 

“We lost many good men… A few of them managed to come back with me. The battle was hard but dreaming of you was much more difficult to bear. I always wanted to return. I always knew I needed to be with you.” He says, making you smile, his fingertips gently stroking the back of your hand. “Then I saw what the Sheriff was doing in the King’s absence and I couldn’t just stand by. I knew the villagers would have no one to protect them with half the army and the King still away searching for that damned grail.”

“I begged my cousin not to leave. I told him the kingdom would be in ruin. That we needed him more than ever. But he thought the grail would be the answer to our prayers.” He listens to you explain, his eyes scanning over your pretty face. A small smile on his lips as he admires your features. A feeling of nostalgia deep in his heart. His fingers coming up to brush some hair behind your ear. “He thought it would end the war, it would end disease and illness, and it would bring back peace. But all this has brought is pain and suffering.” You say, thinking back on the past year. When your cousin left to find the grail and hopefully end the war. Then the Sheriff got too comfortable in the empty role. 

“The Sheriff thinks he can be King. I don’t know how he’ll do it but he’ll find a way.” You sigh. Miguel’s expression hardens. Knowing they have to be careful. If the Sheriff is going around Nottingham with some twisted plan, he won’t just stop if asked nicely. “We’ll figure this out. I promise.” He nods, squeezing your hand gently. 

It’s quiet for a moment. The breeze in the sway of the trees. The sounds of the night in the forest. It’s like the first moment of peace for both of you in years. Holding each other. Sitting beside each other once more. “So… Robin Hood? What’s the meaning behind that name?” You smile, leaning in closer.

“Oh…well…” He chuckles, smiling bashfully. “I must say it is an impressive hood.” You tease, reaching over his shoulders and lifting the dark green material over his head. Watching the shadow cascade over his smiling face. “Thank you…” He grins, his hands coming to your wrists as you hold onto the edges of his cowl. “And I suppose you are robbing… Robin.” You figure out. Pulling back the hood just a bit so you can see his eyes, the way they sparkle in the moonlight. “Robin Hood.” You whisper, his thumbs caressing the inside of your palms, his eyes completely captivated by your beautiful face and your smile. This still feels like a dream. Like he’ll wake up any minute and be back on the battlefield thousands of miles away. 

“I am in love with you…” He sighs, a half hum, leaning forward slightly with that same boyish grin on his face. Watching your face as you giggle and blush at his sudden confession. Although you already knew it to be true. “You are?” You tease, pulling on his hood just slightly to bring him closer. “Yes… hopelessly… helplessly.” He whispers.

His nose brushes yours, lips ghosting just across yours too, so soft and gentle. “Wonderfully… desperately…” He whispers against your lips, turning his head and tilting it, as if to find the perfect angle to kiss your perfect lips. Your eyes flutter closed, feeling so calm and peaceful, allowing his lips to find yours at the exact right moment, not a second later or before. His lips pressing to yours with the smallest amount of pressure, a whisper of a kiss. That sends a chill down your arms and your back, a flush to your cheeks, heat through your body. From then on, he kisses the corner of your lips, then your cheek, moving down to your jaw. It’s the first time you’ve ever been kissed in such a way. His head tilting slowly into your neck and leaving chaste kisses below your ear. The night breeze blowing past your cheek, feeling so weakened by his touch, desperate for more. For all of him.

One of his hands comes to the other side of your face, cradling your cheek and tilting your chin back with his nose, pressing kisses up the column of your throat. The girl of his dreams, in his arms again. 

“Maid y/n…” A voice calls from inside the room, beyond the curtains that billow in the breeze, the only cover the two of you have. Miguel instantly draws back from your neck, his fingers gently wrapping around the back of your neck protectively, his eyes trained on the curtains, the candlelight behind them. “Are you alright? You’re not in bed…” It’s one of your ladies. Someone you trust but not enough to see Miguel here. For someone to find out the Hood's true identity. “Yes, I’m fine. Just fine, thank you… just breathing in some fresh air…” You say before she can come out onto the balcony to check. You both watch the light flickering inside. The flame from the candle she’s holding. Hoping by God’s will she won’t venture onto the balcony to check. After a moment, the light flickers and disappears as the woman leaves your room. His arms relaxing from their tense and coiled position. He looks back at you. 

“Won’t you come with me? I have a safe place… in the forest. Completely safe for you… for us…” He whispers, knowing he’s risking everything to stay here longer. His fingers caress the side of your face with pure love and affection. He wants to keep that promise to himself and to you. That he won’t allow you into danger if he can help it. He’ll protect you from harm. He’ll get you out of here. He’ll marry you. You’ll run away, find a safe place far from here. He’ll fill you up with so much love and care, you’ll both be bursting with true love and children. Symbols of your everlasting love. This is his promise to you.

“I don’t think it's wise. If I go, the Sheriff will notice and we’ll lose what little control we still have. I don’t want to leave the people with him. They deserve more.” You explain and he nods, fully understanding and admiring your nurturing soul and courage to do the right thing even if it proves difficult or painful. Your loyalty to the kingdom and her citizens matches his own. “But I will come to you tomorrow night… I promise.” He whispers, nodding in sincerity. Cradling your face in his hands. “I’ll be here…” You smile, heart overflowing. You both rise off the floor.

“Stay safe, my love…” He kisses your forehead, then your cheek, then a slow soft peck on your lips. His arms wrap around your waist, slowly walking backwards towards the edge of the balcony with you in his arms. “Just a little while longer and everything will be right again.” He wants nothing more than to take you away from this place. Sleep with you in his arms, finally make love to you for the very first time after years of desperation. But soon everything will be right once more. He has to keep believing that. 

“Stay safe yourself… please.” You whisper, feeling him let go and sit on the edge of the balcony, getting ready to climb down and return to the forest. He turns around, expertly finding his footing and starting to climb down the edge of the balcony. His hands and feet lodged in the stones, ready to climb down. But his heart doesn’t want to leave yet. “Sweet dreams, my love… mi amor…” He whispers with a smile. You lean down to kiss him. The big, golden, low hanging moon shining right through the space between your lips until it’s smothered out by their union. Each kiss you share feels as if it could shake the ground, level this corrupted castle in an instant. You don’t want to but you pull back, smiling down at him and seeing that lopsided grin once more. He’s a dream come true in every sense of the saying. 

“I love you…” You hum, watching him start to climb down. “I love you too…” He says, getting a bit further down but still looking up at you, watching your figure back lit by the light of the moon. “I love you unconditionally…” You say, teasing him lovingly. “I love you endlessly…” He says, climbing further down the tower wall and playing into your little competition. 

“I love you breathlessly…”

“I love you absolutely…” 

“I love you infinitely…” 

“I love you perpetually…” 

“I love you forever…” You say and see him finally reach the ground. Watching him step back across the grass below. He can only just barely hear your voice now but he caught every word. “I love you forever.” He echos, looking up at you. Pretty, perfect you all the way up in that tower. He walks backwards towards the tree line, keeping his eyes on you the whole way, blowing you a kiss before he disappears into the shadows of Sherwood forest. Only love true as this could last. 

to be continued...

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ if you'd like to be tagged in the next chapter let me know! thanks for reading! 🍬❤︎ ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

[lucijawriteswords]

head canons | quinn hughes

summary: in which i discuss my silly little ideas and fantasies regarding everyone’s favorite canuck.

warnings: 18+!!! SMUT. quinn hughes x fem reader. pre-established relationship, fingering, p in v, marking/possession

a/n: a quick midnight rambling to tide us all over until my next real fic. thank you for your patience.

18+ below cut

sweet

- the thud of his bag on the floor when he returns home late from the rink. the scratching of his shoes as he toes them off onto the mat by the door, the rustle of his jacket as he hangs it up. perhaps the clatter of keys or the smart tap of a baseball cap thrown haphazardly upon a table.

- the soft pad of his footsteps across the rooms of your home, his fingers brushing against the door handle to enter your room. his hushed curse as the door creaks.

- his lazy smile as you lift your head from the pillow, his tired gaze meeting yours as he whispers a hello, peeling off his dress pants and dress shirt. his mumbled thank you as you point to the clean t shirt and boxers you laid out for him on the chair.

- his warm body, soft breaths, whispered questions as he climbs into bed. his strong arms around you, holding himself to you. his head on your chest, his soft hair tickling your chin and you card your fingers through his hair.

- his muffled words becoming slow breaths, his back rising and falling deeply. his slow heartbeat on top of yours. the feeling of him on top of you, sleep stealing your both away.

- his bright laugh bouncing off the walls of your home, the smile pulling at your face as he tells you about his day, the concentration and attention on his as you tell him about yours.

- dancing with him in the kitchen in the middle of the night, all sleepy eyes and mussed hair and incoordination and stubbed toes.

- soft kisses to wake you up when he has to leave early.

spicy

- the feeling of his fingers inside you, pushing against that spot that makes you writhe, makes you scream his name. the pressure against your clit from inside your core, begging to be released. the throb and ache and tease of orgasm right on the tip of your tongue as his fingers and mouth render you senseless.

- his cock dragging along your walls, every ridge and vein felt when you clench on him like a vice. his groaned curse, his flexed arms, the sweat dripping off his nose and catching on your chest, seeming to sizzle.

- his teeth digging into his lip as he pounds into you, every inch of him slamming into you, your mind muddled by the taste and smell and feel of him.

- his hot tongue dragging along your body, his lips leaving soft kisses all over. his teeth leaving marks, leaving small red nips in the shape of a “Q” on your inner thigh.

- the flare in his eyes when, a few weeks late, you show him a small “Q” tattoo in the same place he left his mark. that same flare when his eyes meet yours as he devours your cunt, worshipping you.

- the way he revels in your praise when you make those pretty little noises for him, his breaths coming a little more ragged, his hands gripping your hips a little tighter.

- the bruises on your hips and thighs that you wear like a badge of honor.

[silentsneezes]

my time and energy to write sneezefics has unfortunately hit a bit of a brick wall with classes starting back up after break, but i promise i'll get to people's asks eventually!

until then, here's some sick j/ayce in a college professor au. it'll eventually be a j/ayvik fic once i get around to writing the second part, but this is just the intro!

with that said, here's 3k of j/ayce being a stubborn miserable mess

Sitting in his office, Jayce keeps a close eye on the time, his fingers absentmindedly tapping against the worn edge of his desk. It’s half past noon, and his lecture on thermodynamics in engineering is scheduled to start at one. His desk is unusually cluttered—notes, assignments to grade, and the lecture slides he had fine-tuned just this morning strewn messily across its surface. Realistically, he should spend the next hour polishing his lecture, but he can’t quite sum up the energy or motivation to do so. 

Instead, he glances out the window, noticing the overcast sky that stifles the usually bright campus in a gray fog. A dull exhaustion weighs down on Jayce, settling in his limbs and aching through his muscles. His movements are sluggish, slower than usual and tinged with slight incoordination. Every few minutes, he finds himself rubbing his temples, trying to ward off the intermittent headache that’s been bothering him all day. 

He hadn’t been able to pinpoint exactly when it started—maybe last night, or the day before—but it had crept up on him slowly, gnawing at the edges of his concentration: the constant, low ache in his temples, the tightness in his neck, the occasional dizziness. It wasn’t enough to keep him in bed, but it was enough to make everything feel like it required more effort than usual.

Jayce watches as the campus pathways are dotted with students rushing to their next class, heads down against the chill. The clock on the wall ticks forward, 12:35 now, a steady reminder that Jayce needs to get shit together. His usual room is prepared, of course, Room 112, the lecture hall he’d used for years now, with its high ceilings and neatly organized rows of desks. He’s grown accustomed to its elegant appearance, finding comfort in the fact that it was his room from the hours of 1:00 to 3:00 on Tuesdays and Thursdays. 

It’s only a short walk to the lecture hall, typically taking him 10 minutes at a leisurely pace, but he prefers to leave himself a cushion of time. Time to make sure the projector worked, to test the microphone, maybe even to grab a coffee if he was feeling particularly ambitious. That last part had become a bit of a ritual over the years. There was something calming about the routine of it all—the quiet before the classroom filled, the air of anticipation as students trickled in.

Arguably, his favorite part of his routine is stopping by Viktor’s office after his lectures. He often brings his partner food, knowing how frequently Viktor forgets to nourish his body throughout the day. The two of them typically exchange notes on the lectures, complain about certain bothersome students, and then work until they’re ready to go home. 

Jayce is torn from his rumination as his phone pings, glancing down and immediately recognizing the subject line of an email: URGENT – New Lecture Hall Assigned. With a sense of frustration swelling in his chest, he opens the email, skimming over the professional pleasantries to a line that reads, “There are currently electrical difficulties in Room 112. Your Thermodynamics in Engineering Lecture has been moved to Room 215 until further notice.”

Jayce takes a steadying breath, the throbbing in his temples making this slight change in plans feel like the end of the world. After taking a moment to bask in his frustration, Jayce registers that Room 215 is on the opposite side of campus, at least a 20 minute walk away at a brisk pace. He checks his watch, his stomach dropping as he registers the time: 12:39. 

He scrambles to collect his lecture notes, shoving them unceremoniously into his bag and exiting his office in a rush. Unfortunately, he only remembers the travel pack of tissues he’d left on his desk five minutes into his walk. He considers turning back for them, the steady dripping of his nose from the cold threatening to spill over his upper lip, but he doesn’t have the time. Instead, he berates his septum with a sleeve, grateful that the smear of moisture isn’t visible on the cuffs of his jacket. 

Despite the aching exhaustion throughout his body, he manages to make it across campus within a reasonable time. He swipes his keycard and enters the ancient building, taking a moment to appreciate the wave of warmth that greets him. 

As Jayce begins making his way through the labyrinth of corridors, he’s forced to sniffle every few seconds, the change in temperature only worsening his runny nose. He silently chastises himself for not having remembered the tissues, hoping in vain that Room 215  might have a tissue box stored somewhere. Realistically, he knows it wont. Room 215 is just a temporary lecture hall, used when the main buildings on campus have operational difficulties. 

As he walks, he double-checks the email confirming the switch, his brow furrowing in frustration once again. Of course, of all the days for this to happen, it had to be when Jayce felt like utter shit. Any other day, it would’ve offered him a pleasant walk across campus and a topic of conversation to bring up with Viktor when he yaps about his day. 

The further Jayce walks, the more he’s reminded of the building’s age, noting the cold patches in the hallways where the installation fails to maintain its heat. He keeps his coat held tightly around his broad frame, his shoulders uncharacteristically slumped. 

‘Damnit, not now’ 

With a particularly wet sniffle, Jayce’s sinuses begin buzzing. He recognizes the telltale itch, not enough to inspire a sneeze, but enough to make him berate his nose with a knuckle. The touch only worsens the itch, causing the buzzing to move up to the tip of his nose and flare his nostrils. His eyebrows knit together, his mouth falling slightly agape as a hitch slips through his lips, “hh-”

The singular hitch is enough to change the unpleasant buzzing to a full on burning sensation, and it’s quickly follow with a second, more urgent “hhHH-”

Jayce pauses in the middle of the hallway, grateful that no one seems to be around to witness his struggle. His elbow is bent over his nose, his eyes lidded and teary as his breath continues to catch in his throat.

“hhhhH’uh…hhih,” after a few seconds, Jayce moves to paw at his nose, desperate to either trigger a sneeze or relieve the itch. Unsurprisingly, Jayce’s nose decides on the former. He sucks in a final urgent breath, “hhhHHH-” before pitching forwards, his knee jerking up with the force of the expulsion, “hhHHRSSZZXCHH’uHh!”

Caught against his palm, the sneeze casts a thick spray across Jayce’s skin. He cringes at the clear sheen, sniffling desperately as the congestion in his nose starts slipping over his upper lip. He wipes the back of his hand against his septum, collecting a clear string of mess and hurriedly wiping it on his jacket. Yes, it’s gross, but without a tissue or handkerchief in sight, he doesn’t have much of a choice. 

With a defeated sigh, Jayce continues down the hall, the itch still tickling through his nose. He shouldn’t be surprised, really, It’s rare that he only sneezes once, especially when he’s sick. Still, he’d been hoping his nose would give him some relief after the expulsion. 

After what feels like years, Jayce reaches the door to Room 215. It stands slightly ajar, inviting him in. The moment he pushes the door open, he’s hit with a heavy wave of dust, so thick it coats his already irritated throat. His breath catches, the air too thick to take in without coughing. He sucks in a desperate breath in preparation before a harsh, chest rattling cough erupts from his chest, his body jerking forwards with the force of it. After a minute of painful sputtering, the fit dies down and Jayce registers the raw, burning sensation of his throat, feeling as if dust is settling deeper inside with every stuttered breath. 

“Great,” Jayce mumbles to himself, wincing as he attempts to clear his throat, which does nothing but worsen the watering of his eyes. He steps further inside the room, flicking on a lightswitch and glancing around. It’s evident that the college has left this room in slight disrepair since its last use. The desks are disorganized, the lights flickering every few seconds, as if teasing his already aching head. 

"This is going to be a mess.” Jayce mutters to himself, running a hand through his hair and hoping he doesn’t look as terrible as he feels– though he doubts that's true. He checks the clock on the wall, surprised to see that it’s still functioning. It’s nearly time for his lecture to start. 

‘At least the students haven’t arrived yet,’ he thinks, clearing his throat again as he feels phlegm sitting in its base. As he sets up his laptop on the podium, he feels the itch in his nose begin again. It teases along the innermost walls of his nose, causing the appendage to twitch. Before he can do as much as sniffle, his breath catches in a vocal hitch.

“hhHH-,” for better or for worse, this sneeze doesn’t tease him, coming out a second later and echoing through the room, “hHHGDSSXHCHew’hh!” Entirely uncovered, the sneeze mists the air in front of him, made visible by the overhead lights. 

Without warning, a second sneeze follows, though he manages to catch this one in the crook of his elbow, “hhhHMPDDSXCHHh’ewh!” 

Jayce snuffles wetly. He can feel the mess caught between his elbow and his nose, knowing the second expulsion was much more productive than the first. He takes a moment to clean himself up, though it’s more easily said than done without any tissues. He wipes his nose against his sleeve, hoping that students won’t be able to see the damp spots splotched along his jacket from their seats. 

He can hear the soft shuffle of footsteps approaching down the hall, feeling a pit form in his stomach as he realizes there’s no turning back now. He’s going to have to give a two hour lecture while fighting back a sneezing fit and feeling dead on his feet… What could possibly go wrong?

Jayce busies himself with his notes as students begin filtering into the hall, greeting him upon entry. Usually, he’d have a chipper response; he’s always loved getting to know his students. Today, he settles for a tired smile and a wave, deciding not to use his already strained voice more than he has to. 

Against all odds, Jayce manages to make it through the first half hour relatively smoothly. He has to pause often to clear his throat or cough into his elbow, but the students seem to blame it on the dust coating the room’s furniture and floor. 

Of course, Jayce can’t catch a break forever. As he begins the portion of his lecture on thermodynamic cycles, he feels a slight buzzing settle in the base of his sinuses. Between sentences, he attempts to sniffle quietly away from the mic, occasionally rubbing his nose. 

Jayce quickly realizes that this isn’t a sustainable solution, the touch only reddening his nostrils and causing them to flare. Still, he continues. He can’t just stop teaching in the middle of a lecture, not while he has over 40 students expecting a two hour class. 

“As we know, thermodynamic cycles are a series of processes that- hh- return a system to its initial state,” Jayce forces himself to continue speaking even as his breath begins to hitch, glancing down at his notes as his brain stalls, “these processes typically involve the transfer of heat and w-hHH’eh- snDf- work between the systehhhm and- Excuse me-”

Jayce turns around as his chest swells with a gasp, pivoting into his elbow as his back is turned to the class, “hhHHDDSSXHCHHew!” He stays bent over for a moment, his breath hitching again, “hhhh’uhH- HrRSCDXCHHHew’hh!” 

Jayce mops up his nose with his sleeve, blushing as a chorus of “bless yous” sound from the students. With a final wet sniffle, he turns back to the podium, “Thangk you,” he says to the blessings before continuing, “Where was I? Oh, right,” he mumbles to himself. 

“The processes work between the system and its surroundings, and the system undergoes period changes,” he begins lecturing again, but the itch stubbornly returns. He changes course, straying from his notes in an attempt to get a moment to collect himself, “work with the phh’ehrson beside you and discuss why these changes- hhhHih- might occur.”

Jayce is grateful as the room fills with chatter, finally granted a second to attend to his nose. He berates the appendage with his palm, turning his back to the class once again and catching a wet, “hhHHGGSSXHCHHew!” against his wrist. 

Luckily, this sneeze seems to dispel the itch for now, allowing him to refocus on his notes. After a few minutes, Jayce interrupts the discussion, drawing his student’s attention back to the lecture. It only takes a simple, “Let’s continue,” for the students to stop speaking. They listen well to him as he’s one of the more favored professors at the school for two reasons. Firstly, he’s nice: he takes time out of his day to talk to students one on one if they’re struggling, he’s lenient in giving extensions for assignments, and he makes pleasant small talk instead of acting superior. Secondly, he’s hot. Sure, it may seem inappropriate to say so, but if you put an intelligent, kind, wildly attractive man in front of a group of twenty-something-year-olds, they’ll pay attention.

“As I’m sure you all know, thermodynamic cycles are vital to a lot of mechanisms in engineering machinery,” Jayce starts lecturing again, noting that even a few of the students seem especially sniffly and sneezy– maybe it’s the dust, or maybe there’s a cold going around campus, that would at least explain where he caught it from. 

As Jayce continues teaching, his headache gradually worsens, the weight of his body threatening to make him drop to the floor. And yet, he stubbornly continues. He glances at the clock on the wall: 2:12. He’s already made it halfway through the lecture, surely he can make it another hour…. Right?

Wrong.

Within a few minutes, the tickling sensation in his nose returns, forcing him to rub it every few sentences to keep the liquid clinging to his septum at bay. Logically, he knows it’s only a matter of time before he has a fit. He’s grown accustomed to the signs, knowing full well how bothersome his nose gets when he’s sick. 

“The Brayton Cycle, also known as the Gas Turbine -hhh- cycle is used in gas turbines and jhhhH-jet engines,” he says as he moves to the chalkboard, brushing the coating of dust away with his sleeve, “it involves- hHH,” Jayce realizes his mistake a moment too late, the dust pushing his nose past its limit. 

Before he can even cover, Jayce snaps forwards with a harsh sneeze, “hhHHZZZXCHHEW’hh!” He watches as a splatter of droplets land on the floor below him, blushing and quickly moving to cover his dripping nose, “hhHGDSHHDXCH’uhh!”

Once again, a chorus of bless yous sound from his students, and he embarrassedly says, “Thangk you.”

“As I was saying, this cycle involves many components,” he continues, sniffling against his runny nose as he begins writing on the chalkboard, “Air, combustion, and expansion of exhaust gasses are the most- snNDFf- important…” 

Jayce’s voice trails off as his breath begins hitching again, and once again he curses himself for having forgotten tissues. His brain short circuits as a build up begins, and he tries desperately to mutter, “ExchhhH-cuse hH’eh mbe-” before doubling over into his elbow again.

“hheH’HNNGGSXCHh’uh- hhhih’ih’HRSSZZCHHHhh!” 

The double comes out back to back, and it’s as if the floodgates are finally broken. Jayce blushes as he registers the strings of snot clinging from his nose to the crook of his elbow, turning away from the podium and wiping a smear of mess along his sleeve. After a moment, he turns back with a defeated sigh. He glances at the clock: 2:25. 

“Mby abologies,” he starts, cringing at the sound of his own voice, almost unrecognizable through its congestion, “I’mb calling class early. Remember thad your- hhh- blueprint drafts are due this- snNDFf- Friday.”

At their dismissal, the students begin chatting and clearing their notebooks, evidently pleased with their class being cut short. On a day like this, Jayce can’t blame them, the gloomy overcast outside making it a perfect afternoon to stay bundled in bed. 

As the student’s exit, he hears a few mentions of the dust in the room, figuring that they’re blaming his nose’s performance on allergies rather than illness. He busies himself with cleaning up his notes, grateful that no one tries talking to him. 

After a few minutes, he’s finally alone. In the silence of the lecture room, it finally hits him just how miserable he feels. Aside from his dripping and raw nose, his throat is aching, his head is throbbing, and he feels like he’s carrying around a bag of bricks. 

His movements are dulled, making his progress in collecting all his things and wiping the chalkboard painfully slow. Finally, Jayce manages to compose himself enough to leave the room, giving the Room 215 placard one last glare before heading down the hall.

i hope someone enjoyed! as always, comments, tags, and reposts are much appreciated :) i'm hoping to post the second part next week, so expect some j/ayvik caretaking fluff

sorry for any grammatical errors or typos! i wrote most of this around 3AM so it has some issues (that i'm too tired to fix lol)

[idyllwave]

If you're open to asks and nsfw ones, can I request giving and receiving oral headcanon's for Burnice ZZZ?

Since I am not sure if you meant with male or female reader, I’ll just do both (for receiving). Also, my headcanons turned into like small blocks of text (sorry about that)

cw ; smut, nsfw, giving oral, receiving (both m & f)

GIVING oral to Burnice was always a wild ride for both her and you. Your hands would always seek purchase by gripping her thighs and she loved to ride your face. She claims that you have the best mouth around. Your tongue seeming to be her favorite as you would run it along her folds and circle her clit. Burnice enjoys sitting on your face, and I feel like she wouldn’t be nervous even If it was her first time doing it with you. She is very confident in your capabilities and strength. And she is very vocal with you and is heavy on the praise when you suck on her just right or dip your fingers in just the right way. Is the type to try something crazy by lathering up her pussy in nitro fuel and watching you drink it up with her cum.

(F)RECEIVING always makes you nervous. Burnice is the type to bite and isn’t afraid to do it. Likes hearing all the cute sounds you make as you buck your hips in a haphazardly manner. Though, she doesn’t mind the incoordination. She isn’t the type of person to be into all that orderly stuff. Be as chaotic and wild as you want, as long as you do what feels right and what feels good then she’s having just as good as time as you.

(M)RECEIVING always makes you vocal almost to the point of being whiny. It feels like she is teasing you, torturing you almost as she gives small kitten licks and kisses to your throbbing dick and swelling, wet tip. But that was always her plan because she likes it when you take control and put her mouth to work. She works your cock like a champ as she swallows you whole and takes you to the back of her throat as she hollows her cheeks, sucks, and moans as random moments as she bobs her head up and down. She likes it even more when you twist your fingers into her hair and pull at the strands.

[hey-august]

When it's time to party, we will always party hard

I wrote this one-shot a while ago and held onto it as a lil reward for getting 200 followers. I know that's not the usual milestone, but omgggg it's so amazing to me!!! To everyone who enjoys reading my nonsense about this goober - thank you, ily, I appreciate you lots and lots! 🤗🥰❤️❤️❤️

Word count: ~3.3k

Warnings: NSFW, MDNI, buggy x GN!reader, no use of Y/N, not an established relationship, drinking, oral - buggy receiving, anal sex - reader receiving, protected sex, *glitter*, a bandana is not enough aftercare (but it's the thought that counts). All parties are consenting adults.

A/N: I originally imagined that the song playing in the background is Custer by Slipknot. It just seems like the kinda shit they'd put on after a while because 'lol cut cut cut me up' but the silly chop chop man will always put himself back together. I'm curious to hear what music you imagine!

Title comes from "Party Hard" by Andrew W.K.

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ ✩ ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ ✩ ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ ✩ ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

Pirates and drinking - already an overwhelming combination. Add loud music, rowdy jokes, lighthearted arguments, tall tales, drunk fights, a disco ball, sea shanties, and terrible dancing? Then it’s a full-blown we’re-gonna-get-fucked-up party.

Your crew was celebrating a successful treasure raid - overflowing chests led to overflowing cups. Buggy had ordered for all the alcohol to be pulled out and cracked open for tonight’s festivities, the tantalizing smells of wooden casks, sharp rum, and wine becoming a siren’s call for everyone on the ship.

This was your first time experiencing such a blowout and it quickly went to your head. The main party was contained in the mess, but the festivities quickly spread across the ship with people constantly coming and leaving. Clusters and cliques found everywhere and anywhere, like rowdy dust bunnies. Some groups gathered to sing loud choruses, others to conduct drinking challenges, one lot took over the crow’s nest to smoke, and countless others that simply enjoyed the fun.

The group that adopted you stayed in the mess, talking and chatting. Unfortunately, the concentration required to follow a conversation that could hardly be heard over the pounding music was far out of your grasp. Instead, you just pretended to listen. Nodding when it felt appropriate, chuckling when the others broke into laughter, and taking shots alongside the others. Meanwhile, you watched the crowd. It didn’t take long for someone to start a game of darts, but with throwing knives. Fun and dangerous. Someone else began collecting empty bottles to juggle. By this point, he was up to 5 bottles cascading through the air, with one balanced on his head. Delightful!

You took another shot and broke off from your group. You wanted to get a closer look at the juggler. He made it look so easy and you wanted to try. Sure, you never juggled before, but it couldn’t be that difficult. Navigating the surging crowd was a challenge that you succeeded in overcoming. The victory was short lived when you misjudged your next step. Your foot caught the corner of a chair like a ship hitting shallow coral. The momentum propelled your forwards and you grabbed onto the first thing that touched your hands. A person. A person who grabbed you back, trying to fix your incoordination. It took you a moment to realize that the hands steadying your body didn’t line up with the arms you grabbed. Shit. That was when you finally recognized the coat in your grasp.

Buggy’s hands brought you back to your feet as he turned around to survey the damage. Your face was flushed, but you were fine. The red tint was probably because of the alcohol. And embarrassment from losing your sea legs. Even worse, the humiliation made your body feel weaker, like your knees were going to give out. At least you thought that’s what it was, until the butterflies in your stomach took flight. Stupid blue butterflies with cute red noses. 

Buggy felt your grip tighten so he slipped an arm around your back, propping your unsteady form against his. Having lived most of his life above water, it took a lot for the captain’s sea legs to falter. Although, the sweet look of shame on your face did make him feel a little woozy.

“S-sorry, Captain. I didn’t see you there.” Feebly, you tried to pull away, but you couldn’t. You didn’t really want to. And Buggy didn’t want to let go yet, either.

“Damn and here I was thinking that you fell for me,” he joked. 

You didn’t think your temperature could get any hotter, but now you were hoping to melt a hole in the floor and fall away. Hopefully it wasn’t obvious how fucking flustered you were. A floating hand came by holding two shots and the expectant look on your captain’s face told you that one was for you. 

“C’mon, it’s a celebration,” Buggy encouraged, squeezing you and kicking back his shot. 

You took yours and winced as it hit your throat. It almost felt cool, soothing the torrent of thoughts raging in your body. Looking back at Buggy, you noticed a few drops trailing down the corner of his mouth. Sloppy. Adorable. Without thinking, you reached over and wiped the liquid with your thumb. Before you could pull away, the clown flicked out his tongue to lick your thumb. He apologized for wasting alcohol and winked. That fucker.

The bashful frown on your face was too much for Buggy. It was fun pressing your buttons, but this was quickly turning into a dangerous game. Reluctantly, he loosened his grip on your body to release you back into the wild of the party. He watched you sway slightly, as if your body forgot how to stand without him. His body tensed as he resisted the urge to pull you back into his embrace.

Thoughts swirled in your head, carried on the current of alcohol. If your captain was acting so forward, why couldn’t you? It is a party after all…

“Captain, would it- would it be okay if I kept thinking about you? At night?” you stumbled over the words, eager to get an answer.

Buggy cocked his head to the side. This was a surprise - albeit a welcome one. He pointed at himself questioningly and you nodded. His eyes narrowed and his grin broadened dangerously. Leaning forwards, Buggy whispered in your ear. His voice sent chills down your spine, conflicting with the heat between your legs.

“How about you do more than thinking?” 

His breath was warm and you wanted to feel it everywhere on your body. You wanted to feel him everywhere. You nodded.

Buggy grabbed your hand and strutted away, leaving you with just a hand. You followed the direction his appendage pulled, trailing behind your captain like a puppy. He guided you both to the closest empty corridor, dragging you the last few feet by summoning his hand. Spinning you around in a clumsy two-step to the muffled music that reverberated through the ship, he pressed his lips against yours and moved past a few crates stored in the dead-end hallway. Still with wobbly legs, you grabbed his coat to stay upright and held your mouth tight against your dancing partner. The taste of rum and spit coated your tongue. He tasted sweet and bitter. And a little dirty. 

Breaking the kiss, Buggy tilted your face up with a finger on your chin. He searched your eyes, looking for any sign of hesitation. It wouldn’t be the first time the pirate clown misread a situation and he wasn’t in the mood to be slapped in a not-sexy way. Your crashing mouth against his was enough of an answer and he eagerly reciprocated the affection. The next break was initiated by your breathlessness and dizziness. Pulling away, you saw that Buggy wore a similar expression with stars in his eyes.

“Why don’t you show me what kinds of things you think about?” Buggy prodded in a low voice. He placed your hand on his erection and used you to pet himself.

“Fuck,” you whispered, surprised by the pirate’s large mast. Although you said that for yourself, his cock twitched in appreciation.

“Please? Show me,” he whined, grinding against you. The begging tone in his voice made your throat tight and put your stomach in knots. That was nice. You liked hearing that.

Sinking to your knees, you undid Buggy’s pants and shimmied them down enough to access the treasure you’ve only dreamt about. The tip of his fat cock glistened, coated in precum. You blew on it lightly, enjoying how it swung and bobbed. Buggy hissed in anticipation.

“D-don’t be such a tease.”

You blew again. He groaned in pleasure and frustration. Holding the base of his cock, Buggy pressed it against your lips. At the very least, this should keep you from treating him like a fucking whistle. Your eyes fluttered as it throbbed against your lips, smearing precum like chapstick. You gave in and let Buggy into your mouth, relishing the soft moan he rewarded you with.

You sucked, licked, and caressed him until your jaw ached and your chin was coated in drool. Needing a break, you dragged your tender lips down the side of his cock. Kissing the base, you worked your way down to bathe his balls with a wide lick. You just barely hear Buggy muttering sweet nothings over the faint music. He placed a hand on the back of your head and pressed your face against himself. Spurred by his encouragement, you gently sucked and kissed his balls, coating them in your spit. You like how his cock rested on your face, accidentally tapping you a few times when it twitched.

Nearby voices broke your concentration. You looked up and saw Buggy eyeing the end of the hallway. He looked back down and - fuck - you looked so good down there. Obscene and beautiful.  He blinked a few times trying to clear his mind.

“N-no one can see anything as long as they don’t come down here. Crates are in the way,” he mumbled while thoughtlessly grinding against your mouth.

The voices got louder then softer, soon they were drowned out by the ambience of the ship. Whoever it was didn’t pay any attention or pause. While it felt naughty and a bit exciting, neither of you were in the mood to play a fucked up game of hide-and-seek. Before anyone else could come by and interrupt, Buggy brought you into the storeroom at the end of the hallway. One hand led the way, opening and closing the door, while the other pulled you along, taking you to one of the barrels kept in the room.

The hand you held pulled you across the barrel, your stomach and chest pressed along the top. You let your head drop into your arms for a moment. You were breathless, excited, and overwhelmed. Afraid that you would forget to live in the moment by being too interested in what might happen next. But this moment is more than you ever fucking imagined. The taste of Buggy’s cock in your mouth, your face coated in precum and spit, and now, here you were waiting for his touch.

Muttered profanity and rummaging brought your attention to your frantic captain. Looking over your shoulder, you saw Buggy patting and checking his coat pockets with floating hands and arm stumps. One hand seemed to emerge proudly until you both noticed the glove was covered in glitter. That is definitely not what he wanted and his hand actually looked disappointed in itself. You laughed at how dramatic Buggy is, even when it’s just a fraction of himself.

The clown cast a joking sneer your way before being interrupted by his other hand. Why he’s interrupting himself, you don’t know, but it makes you laugh again. Pulling himself back together, Buggy told you to get ready. You undid your pants and pulled them down enough to grant him access. Meanwhile, Buggy took the condom and lube he pulled out and prepared himself. The crinkle of the foil packet had your heart pounding.

A slap to the ass let you know that the fun was about to begin, the sound of his bare hand on your body was sharp. A rough hand pulled your ass cheeks apart as he kneaded your doughy skin.

“Fucking amazing,” he sighed while stroking his lubed cock.

Buggy leaned in and spit. You shuddered as it trickled down. He swiped the liquid with his thumb and pressed it against your asshole. Teasing you. Applying just enough pressure to make you feel delirious. You bucked your hips, trying to get something more. More pressure, more movement, something, anything.

“Tell me what you want, use your words,” Buggy crooned, rubbing circles that went to your head, dizzying your mind. You could still hear the dull sounds of music carrying through the ship. The heavy bass made you feel like your heartbeat was echoing everywhere.

“F-fuck me! I want you in me, please!” you cried.

“Keep going. I need to know what you think about~” he said in a sing-song lilt. 

Impatience and need raged in your body, consuming all rational thought. You took a deep breath, preparing to say things that you had only planned to keep contained in your fucked up head.

“Captain, I want you to fuck me in the ass,” your voice was shakey, but you kept going, “I w-want to feel your dick stretch my ass while you fuck me stupid. I don’t want my body to forget what you feel like.”

While you couldn’t see the brief surprise flit across his face, you could hear it in his husky voice.

“Damn, I didn’t expect you to be so filthy. You fucking pervert,” Buggy said as he pulled his hand away and slapped your ass again. It stung in a delightful way.

A breath lingered in your throat at the feeling of the tip of his cock pressing against you. Buggy entered, eased by the lube and spit. He could see your body soften with the sensation.

“Y-yeah, like that please,” you whined, wanting to encourage your captain.

Panting, Buggy grabbed your waist and thrusted in time with the music floating through the walls. Hitting quick and deep, as if he knew what your body craved. It wasn’t long before the wet sounds of your bodies connecting filled the room, accented with moans of pleasure.

“I-is this wh-”

“Yes! You’re d-doing so good, Captain. So much better than I imagined.”

“Of-fucking-course,” he grunted, insulted by the insinuation that your imagination could be better than the real thing. He snapped his hips into you harder, wanting to pulverize those measly thoughts and replace them with memories that would make your legs shake. The high pitched whine you released let him know that he was hitting a good spot.

“Ooooh, that feels s-good…” Your words slurred together, strung with ecstasy and alcohol. 

Buggy’s hands pawed at your hips as he continued slamming into you, the movement jostling the barrel beneath your bodies. The ferocity in his movements were numbing your mind and body to everything except his touch. Each thrust loosened all thoughts that weren’t about your captain. The constant jiggling of your body dulled everything that wasn’t extreme - that wasn’t his bruising hands or his hard cock that refused to relent to your tight ass.

You were in absolute bliss, drifting on golden waves of lust, desire, and cock. You could hardly lift your head up, choosing to rest it against the wood grain and drool.

“D-do you think about coming while I screw you? I bet you fucking do…”

Buggy’s taunting words lit a fire in your body. While you were content to be fucked senseless, it wouldn’t take long to come and you absolutely imagined it before. Countless times. Sluggishly, you wiggled your body, moving a hand between your legs. It took a moment to get comfortable, since you didn’t pull your pants down far and your unsteady hand had to navigate through that blocker. Once you were in an okay position and playing with yourself, you tilted your head to the side so Buggy could see you nod.

“M’close,” you whined.  

You didn’t have to tell him, Buggy could feel it. Your body was tight. Tense under his hands. Your ass was squeezing against him, increasing the pressure and friction you both needed. Your orgasm was at your fingertips, just waiting for the final push.

“Where d-do you want me to finish?”

“-in me, f-fucking come in me, please. Want you to come too. W-wanna feel it.”

Buggy’s body threatened to fall apart at the sound of those words. He’s pretty sure his neck split a fraction when he tilted his head back in delight. Worried that he might actually fall apart entirely, he hunched over your back and leaned into his impending orgasm. He was in a frenzy, bucking his hips against you, while also rocking your body and barrel against him. Going so deep it ached. Making your body confused, believing this is what it was created for. 

The way your sweet hole accepted him so readily each time he slid into you, but gripped him tightly when he pulled back was more intoxicating than anything else Buggy had tonight. Your yelps and cries of pleasure carried him higher, closer to the precipice until he tipped over. His weak seams threatening to break again, Buggy slumped over your back as he fucked through his orgasm.

You felt Buggy’s cock pump inside, flexing against your already strained hole. That sensation and the weight of his body collapsing on yours, which felt surprisingly intimate, were the final pieces you needed - wanted - before you came. You had imagined what it would be like to come on his throbbing cock, feeling it twitch inside you, and holy shit. Your hands and toys were a depressingly pale comparison to the real thing.

Buggy kept moving until you finished with a deep breath that gently rocked his body. Finally letting go of your hips, Buggy braced against the barrel and pushed himself upright. Reluctant to pull his softening cock from your body just yet, he ran his hands along your lower back, thumbs pressing into muscles that must be tender. A shudder coasted through your body, causing your asshole to pulse and flutter. Buggy hissed, feeling both overstimulated but craving more. He definitely didn’t have another round in him just then, so he pulled out.

You felt empty. Satisfied. Messy. But also empty. You stayed resting against the barrel, not trusting your wobbly legs or the spinning in your head. Both were probably from getting dicked down so successfully, but it could still be the alcohol. You listened to the sound of snapping rubber, which was followed by the sound of rustling fabric. 

Groaning, you pushed yourself up and turned to see what the pirate captain was looking for this time. He was unsuccessful so far. And then that damn hand emerges from the glitter pocket. But this time, it was his bare hand. Which was sticky. And now it’s sticky and covered in glitter.

“For fuck’s sake,” Buggy growled, swatting his arts-and-crafts hand away with his arm. You found that fucking hilarious and threw your head back in laughter. Although Buggy wasn’t keen on being laughed at, he did like the sound. Giving up on his quest, the clown used his other hand to tug the bandana off his head and straightened his hat afterwards. He held the square of fabric out towards you.

“Sorry, I can’t find something else. This should be enough until you get to the showers,” he explained.

This was like a dream. Better than a dream, really. You never would have thought Buggy would hand off one of his bandanas for post-sex clean up. Dirty, like a pirate, and you liked it. You accepted the gesture and gingerly cleaned yourself, clearing away just enough that you could get dressed.

Buggy waited by the door until you were ready. You walked over and before he could open the door, you stuck out your foot. Tonight had been full of surprises and cause for celebration. Even though you had already pushed your luck, maybe there was room for a little more. Trailing your fingers on Buggy’s coat, you leaned in and pressed a light kiss against the corner of his mouth.

“You know, I’ve thought about what the captain’s personal shower must be like…” you said coyly.

Buggy reached up to grab your chin before realizing it was the glitter hand. Rolling his eyes, Buggy matched your gaze instead.

“I never woulda thought you were such a greedy slut for your captain. Seems like there are a lot of thoughts in that head that I need to deal with.” He flashed you that dashing, mischievous smile that always turns you into putty.

Buggy pushed past you to exit and tilted his head, inviting you to follow. And you did, without wasting another thought.

[gofishygo]

mito mito mito hihi 😋

i’ve been having some thoughts n i felt like sharing w the class newayssss

so i was having bubble tea earlier and i started thinking,,,,what cod characters would like it? i feel like price def wouldn’t,,simon wouldn’t mind it but he does def think its too sweet and proper tea is superior and blah blah blah (i acc don’t know im kinda divided on that like i hc him as a sweet tooth but bubble tea,,,ehhh i feel like he wouldn’t like it all that much like he’d be all grumbly about it,,, idfk

johnny and gaz i think would like it lots ,,

i also think alex wouldn’t like it abd farah would (i js like hc farah as this secret softie ok leave me alone 😞)

but THAT got me thinking,,,, what other food preferences would they have ?? i think gaz would rlly like sushi (saw a fan art of him on a sushi date w the reader and i forgot who made it but ):$/:)/&!:!!!!! it was so cute) and i also think gaz would handle spicy food well ?? and he would like seafood in general methinks (tryna think of some select seafood items he wouldn’t like but im drawing a blank bc im vegetarian shusbssjnsuen)

idrk ab simon and johnny and price,,,,,,out of them 3, i feel like simon or johnny would have the biggest sweet tooth (they’re on like completely dif ends of the spectrum character wise but shh i js know it) but they all eat A SHIT TON like the food could be burned or too salty or smth but if they’ve js come back from a mission then they’re eating that shit UP. and asking for seconds. and thirds. they would still give u food feedback if it’s some other day tho

also johnny is extremely passionate about haggis. no i have never tried it yes i js know he is ok moving on

KONIGGGG hmmmm,,,, i have no fucking idea lmao i think? a lot of german cusine involves bread and stuff,,,so……………i think he’d have rlly bland meals idk

i’ve been rlly into keegan lately but i cant come up w anything for him aaaa

also gaz would be the only one who knows how to use chopsticks. the others would learn fast being in the military and all but gaz and chopstick skills js make sense???

ANYWAY im soso sry for rambling sm lmao this is a lot of words,,,,,and this isn’t a req by any means !!! js needed to hear ur thoughts bc food is js calling to me like “ok but would blank character like this” like. urgh. ok im done now i think but yeah food preferences for cod characters of ur choice

ALSO !!! THE IOS SHARK STICKERS REMIND ME OF U,,,,,look at them$:!!;&:!3 OK IM ACC DONE NOW BYE BEY MITO HIPE U DONT FALL ASLEPE READING ALL THAT

AHHH hi weebun !! ^^ i was literally having bubble tea with my sister like a few hours ago and when i checked the inbox n saw this i BOLTED !! sorry for never responding to this, i forgot inbox existed..,

notes: shittily wrote as this as a warmup/just general yap :> sorry for messiness and incoordination.., platonic, no warnings !! unless ur lactose intolerant idk

so you'll be jus chillin w the 141 on base and then say something like "boba is absolute gas shits better than normal tea" and of course, since the majority of the taskforce is british, you get absolutely fucking jumped for it. like- keep in mind, you say this price, the NUMBER ONE TEA AND BISCUTS DEFENDER, so you do end up getting toilet duty for a week with the explanation of 'uncordial behaviour.'

but after your deployment, you are the one to arrange where the 141 meet up. it's a little ritual you guys have developed to stay connected in between missions, one that makes your friendship seem a bit more real. sometimes the only thing that keeps your eyes open and heart pumping. and since you're an absolute fucking menace, you ask if you can meet around the heart of london- and then drag them all into the nearest bubble tea store you can.

-

price... doesn't end up liking it. takes a total of two sips, nearly chokes on the pearls, and then sets the cup down. he claims he's been around long enough to know that this- like many other foods, is probably some 'trendy millennial bullshit that'll disappear in a solid few', but that doesn't help ease the insane side eye that he gets from the cashier.

but to your surprise, ghost seems somewhat okay with it. his face doesnt really change (from what you can tell- his mouth is still hidden due to some face mask he put on), but he seems neutral, relaxed, even. he mutters something along the lines of how it isn't too bad, but it doesn't beat a cuppa- to which you chose to ignore, and how he'll probably just stick to having an earl grey in the mornings. but a few months later, you catch him at the same boba store, and you cant help but giggle to yourself.

soap fucking inhales the drink. its genuinely concerning, to say the very least. he seems to like.. unhinge his jaw like some kind of snake, and then inhales the whole drink in what you think is a millisecond. and since he's the only scotsman on the team- thinks the whole 'tea n biscuits' ritual his colleagues have is utter stupidity, so not only does he now FREQUENTLY drink boba because he likes it- he also drinks out of utter spite.

gaz is the only one with a seemingly respectable opinion about boba, unfortunately. he's had it before, multiple times- it appeals to his sweet tooth and is the occasional treat after long missions. but unlike you, gaz does not value peace, and seems to keep egging soap on in chugging unreasonable amounts of the drink. (and he doesnt mention it, as he does not want to face the same punishment as you did, but he thinks that bubble tea is sometimes, just sometimes better than his cuppa.)

masterlist (some of my other stuff is better promise)

[manyblinkinglights]

I HAVE DEFEATED THE TWISTING BEAST.

Now I bend the correct way on spins, AND (so long as my laptop's on power), I no longer outpace my hindbody on spins! You still outpace yourself on profound FPS drops, but there was an additional incoordination when that happened that I also just fixed.

[leaslichoma]

Touhou Project theory: the Scarlet Devil Mansion's heavy metal poisoning

something an intro idk how to do this

WARNING! LONG POST AHEAD!

Potential sources of heavy metal toxins

If we look inside the mansion there's a lot of red carpet. One pigment for red is vermilion, which which is derived from the mercury mineral cinnabar which is highly toxic. Vermilion was a highly valued and prestigious dye historically, befitting of an aristocrat's mansion. Another detail is in one of these screenshots the carpet is a rather dark red, and while many red pigments slowly turn pink as they fade vermilion actually darkens and turns brown (similar to blood), which you can see in the painting below. This could be a lighting effect, though.

Another possible pigment is minium, which is derived from lead and is also toxic.

We also see a fair amount of white in the mansion, on the table cloth in the above image and many of the residents' clothing such as Sakuya's apron and Flandre's mob cap. One historical pigment for white is lead white, which is also derived from lead. Lead white was also used in cosmetics to whiten skin, for another potential source of poisoning.

Another potential source is lead from pewter. Given Remilia's weakness to silver she is not likely to use sterling silver for metal objects such as tableware and tea sets. Pewter, a broad term for various tin alloys, is a popular alternative she might use. However, many older pewter alloys contained large amounts of lead as its toxicity was not understood. For a long time lead was actually used in toys since it was cheap and not understood.

There's also a possibility of toxins leaching into food or drink through glass or the enamel of pottery. Lead-crystal glass slowing leaches lead into drink and if Remilia happened to buy any Uranium glass, which became popular during the mid 19th century, and peaked between 1880 to 1920, that would leach uranium. If any pottery uses toxic materials in the enamel that is another source of poisoning.

Potential victims

Sakuya Izayoi and Patchouli Knowledge are the two most human residents of the Scarlet Devil Mansion. Both display symptoms of heavy metal poisoning.

Patchouli is stated to have anemia and weak muscles. Both of these can occur from lead poisoning, though anemia typically takes a very large dose.

Sakuya Izayoi is described as "spacey", which is defined by the Merriam-webster dictionary as a synonym of spaced-out which means "dazed or stupefied by or as if by a narcotic substance,". Given how both mercury and lead mostly affect the nervous system, and both can cause memory impairment, tremors and incoordination, it makes sense that someone suffering from heavy metal poisoning might be compared to someone who is drunk or high.

For more definitive proof that Sakuya has mental difficulties, we should look at the fact that Sakuya does not know what oxygen is. While one might assume that this is just because she lives isolated from the modern world, Oxygen was first isolated before 1604 by Michael Sendivogius, and given a name and recognized as an element in 1777. Oxygen could be an important discovery for her position considering its role in food preservation. Sakuya has had over two centuries to learn that oxygen exists. Keep in mind that she lives with Patchouli Knowledge, a professional scholar, who may have been residing in the mansion for nearly a century. This could suggest serious memory and learning issues, symptoms of both lead and mercury poisoning.

While Sakuya does not display the the delayed reactions or loss of coordination associated with lead and mercury poisoning, her powers over time may prevent this. If she trips and drops something, which might normally cause someone to notice her decreasing coordination, she can just stop time and undo it.

Another interesting, though flawed, possibility is that the fairy maids have heavy metal poisoning as well. The fairy maids are stated numerous times to be bad at their jobs, spending most of their work hours only able to maintain themselves, but were still hired by Sakuya and continue to be employed by Remilia. With symptoms of anemia, weakness, memory loss, pain, lack of coordination and more it's easy to see how lead and/or mercury poisoning could make a maid bad at their job. Fairies in Touhou Project are often compared to children who are especially susceptible to lead poisoning. The fairy maids would probably slowly improve at their jobs since first being hired, and plateau and slowly decrease as increasing heavy metal levels in their blood poison them and affect their work. Perhaps Remilia and Sakuya see this happen with all the maids and assume it's just how maids or fairies work.

While one might object and that youkai would not be affected by human medical conditions like lead or mercury poisoning, there is a tiny bit of precedent for this. There's an exchange in Touhou 19 where Sanae recommends that Mamizou stop smoking so much: "I don't suppose that smoking too much is good for you. Nor is drinking." This, if admittedly stretched, suggests that certain things that are unhealthy for humans may be unhealthy for certain youkai and similar beings as well. Youkai are also affected by alcohol as well and get drunk. While this might be because of the idea that drinking makes you drunk, is it possible that if knowledge of lead and mercury poisoning spread to the humans of Gensokyo, and they started believing that lead makes you sick, that belief might cause certain youkai and related beings to get sick as well?

Problems with this theory

Neither Patchouli nor Sakuya show certain physical symptoms of mercury poisoning: Skin discolouration (usually reddening), hair loss, or peeling of the skin. Let's compare some artwork from Touhou 6:

As we can see, Reimu has the reddest cheeks which is inconsistent with Sakuya and Patchouli having mercury poisoning. However, an interesting connection is that Reimu wears mostly red, and considering it is traditional to paint the Torii gates of shrines vermilion to ward off evil, it is actually more possible than I initially thought that she could have mercury poisoning as well.

Some might object that Patchouli Knowledge, being a youkai mage, might be immune to toxins. Considering how wizards are stated to often have weak bodies due to interaction with dangerous substances, I find this unlikely. One might argue something similar for Sakuya because of her time manipulation, but we only see her use time manipulation consciously, so we aren't sure. The main question would be whether the process that slows her aging also negates most of her bodily functions, so I guess this would depend on whether we see her eat and breath, and since she gets tired from hypoxia in Touhou 18 she must be breathing and is probably susceptible to poison as well.

The main problems I can think with this theory of are with the fairy maids having heavy metal poisoning as well, which was not the main subject. It's been explained that Remilia goes for quantity over quality for her staff, and Sakuya presumably hires anyone with the most basic of skills. However, it could be possible that Remilia goes for quantity over quality because they all end up low quality due to their poisoning. Given that fairies are used to playing and pulling pranks they are probably unsuited to hard work. The reasoning that they might still be affected by poison is rather weak since much of it relies on a single remark from Sanae, who might be wrong. I still found it interesting to consider.