#it just feels like nothing goes ever goes how i want it to

[mmogurl]

Dragonseed

18+ | 6.4k | Daemon Targaryen X Female Reader | dangerous, sex starved, raunchy Daemon | virgin reader, first time sex, first night / prima noctae, big breast reader, daemon is a boob man in this, non con, non consensual, P in V, much groping, lots of typical Daemon cussing, starts out rough but reader enjoys it in the end, I just woke up with this in my head and needed to get it out.

Daemon has not been satisfied with his wife Rhaenyra lately. Frustrated and sexually deprived, he goes searching in the village at the base of the Dragonmont for a woman that might catch his eye. That's when he comes upon you, a beautiful, young dragonseed, ripe for the taking, whether you like it or not. I came up with the idea for this after reading page 914 in Fire and Blood. In the show, they recruit Valyrian blooded bastards to ride the unclaimed dragons from King’s Landing, but in the book there is actually a fishing village at the base of the island where Dragonstone is located. The men of House Targaryen were known to seek pleasure among the commonfolk there quite often, claiming their ‘first night’ rights and sowing ‘dragonseeds.’ Leave a comment if you're interested in seeing me expand upon this story, because I could definitely see writing more.

Tags: @coffeebooksrain18 On AO3

Rhaenyra has been an insufferable cunt as of late. First she had wallowed in the death of her son, Lucerys, which he understood to an extent. They were at war though and Daemon could not excuse her absence at council. There simply was no time for mourning when the Iron Throne was at stake.

When Rhaenyra finally returned to the painted table, she was in shambles, a scared, frail shadow of the strong Targaryen woman he’d known and cared for. It had taken all he had to hold back the grimace that fought its way out at the sight of her tear stained cheeks. They were of royal blood, Valyrian blood, and she should be ashamed to show such weakness openly, especially as the future queen.

She spoke of retribution for her fallen boy, demanding the life of the Hightower bitch’s second mongrel son, Aemond. Daemon had offered to fly to King’s Landing right away to avenge his wife, but none would take any part in his plan. So he did as he often did, connived in the shadows, plotting murder so that a one-eyed Targaryen princeling might die to replace the son Rhaenyra had lost.

But, it seemed nothing was ever good enough for the so-called Realm’s Delight. No act of loyalty, nor obeisance, nor love, nor retribution would ever amount to anything in his wife’s eyes. She did not seem to trust a word he said lately, viewing him always with thinly veiled scrutiny and scorning him from her bed every night. Perhaps she had only been interested in using him to solidify her claim as queen after all. The irony was not lost on him considering how badly he’d wanted the throne in the past. It all left Daemon feeling restless, his blood running hot with the need to satisfy his carnal urges. Admittedly, there were not many women within the confines of the castle, save for the servants, who were not especially comely. So, he ventured forth to the village below the Dragonmont, where farmers and fishermen lived around the now thriving port. There he walked the streets, drank in the tavern among the commonfolk, hoping to chance upon a suitable woman. Any fair of face with a willing cunt would satisfy his needs, but he was hoping to find someone of note, a beauty worth his seed.

So far, he has found nothing but mediocrity and it does nothing to stiffen his cock.

As he exits the tavern already deep in his cups, given the position of the sun it’s sometime past mid-day, and there is a celebration underway. A flutist is playing a lively tune as men and women alike dance together in the square. His eyes dart around, taking the scene in slowly considering his relatively inebriated state, until he catches a flash of blue.

And that is when he sees you. You are ravishing in light blue silk, a crown of yellow wildflowers upon your silvery-gold head of hair. Daemon finds himself completely enamored as he takes in your fetching features; the big blue eyes, your proud nose, those luscious lips, and the full swell of your breast has him reeling.

Daemon finds you a sight for sore eyes, a vision of purity and class coupled most gladly with the bosom of a well coveted whore. From the look of it, you are the bride, clutching arms with some young pup who is likely to be your new husband.

It was well known to Daemon that the towns below the mount were seeded with Valyrian blood. Going back two hundred years when Aenar Targaryen first arrived with his dragons, when the house began to practice the tradition of ‘First Night.’ Whereas a lord or king has the privilege over the smallfolk, to bed any bride first on their wedding night. As a result, it was not uncommon to see pale hair mixed in among the common, many having been bred within the Targaryen line for generations.

Daemon has never claimed such a right before, but he is inclined to command it at the sight of you. A wicked smirk begins to work it’s way up his lips as he approaches. He can’t believe his good fortune, that such a shining flower of a maiden was waiting for him, so close by, and that he just happened to stumble upon you at just the right moment to claim you.

As the King-Consort to be closes the distance, many begin to notice his presence with a look of awe and excitement on their faces. For on Dragonstone, the Targaryens were considered closer to the gods than other folk, and were esteemed as such. Brides that were chosen were considered blessed and envied by all. Many of these women were taken care of well by their benefactors, being endowed with luxurious gifts of jewelry, fine silks, and even bequeathed titles for land.

The children born of dragonseed were celebrated on Dragonstone and it is clear to Daemon by the fine silk of your wedding gown that you have been attended well by your Valyrian patron, whoever it may be.

He walks purposefully towards your merry, dancing form and takes hold of your arm to still your movement. When you look up at him, he cannot help but feel disappointed when your face drops, a look of despair crossing your face as you intrinsically know what he desires of you. Daemon had hoped you’d be pleased to attract his attention, that you’d consider it a godsend as most would. It is merely a minor blow to his ego that won’t stop him from taking your maidenhead.

Silence hangs in the air and before words can even be exchanged, an older woman with dark gray hair advances forth to him. She claims to be your mother and apologizes for your insolence.

‘The blood runs too strong in her, m’lord,’ she grovels with deference, bowing her head with every word.

Good he thinks to himself I like them feisty. Daemon grins, glaring sideways at the young man next to you. He would be considered handsome by most standards, but he is green, just a silly boy without disposition to even protect his alluring little wife. He intends to ruin you for any other fellow tonight, so not even your juvenile husband will ever be able to satisfy you again.

He snickers with satisfaction as your mother offers to escort the pair of you to a suitable location where he might take up his rights. Daemon can’t help but soak up every curve of your face and body like a predator eying up his next meal as she speaks, but you look on the verge of tears, ready to break at the thought of being torn away from your silly little wedding festivities.

“Might I freshen up first, My Prince,” you say, your civility barely held in tact through grit teeth.

“King,” he reminds you, furling his brow. This girl will be nothing but trouble. It will be best to break her swiftly. He then shakes his head non-nonchalantly. “And there is no need. You are already quite pristine and lovely in your wedding gown. I will take my claim now.”

You fluster, your cheeks growing impossibly red with embarrassment at not just the mention of his intent, but your own indignity as well. “My King,” you acknowledge his correction. “Allow us to ready the chambers for a man of your caliber. My marital bed is far too simple…” you continue prattling on. He isn’t really listening anymore though, instead focusing on the plump of your lower lip and how it might feel wrapped around his cock.

He also can’t help but notice how you sound much more proper than your mother, than most commonfolk really, and wonders if your Valyrian contributor has paid for your tutelage as well. You strike him as someone who has been overindulged in your life, treated as a lady of distinction. It would certainly explain your bratty attitude.

“I am not against the amenities of the commonfolk,” he offers indifferently. “As long as there is a clean surface, it will do.” It’s not like he hadn’t fucked in some of the filthiest brothels on the Street of Silk back in King’s Landing. At least there weren’t many rats in Dragonstone.

‘Oi, aell take ye to me own dwelling, m’lord,’ your mother is spouting now. ‘It aes clean, Ae wash the linens m’self.’

“Nonsense.” A man with well-kept clothes is now stepping forward and Daemon believes he recognizes him as the innkeep. He offers his finest suite for the union of Daemon and his freshly wed dragonseed maiden.

Gods, it’s good to be king.

Daemon can’t help but chuckle smugly at the look of absolute dread on your face. You think you’re so special, too important to be fucked by a king apparently. He was going to enjoy showing you otherwise.

His grip has not left your upper arm and it now tightens as he nods to the innkeep, accepting the proposition for a room. The man leads the way and Daemon follows, dragging you along with him and reveling in the way you peer back with sad lamb eyes at your newly minted husband. There is something so deliciously satisfying in tearing you away from that whelp of a lad, in taking what belongs to another simply because he can. It spoke to the primal side of him, the dragon within that would snatch up whatever it pleased without concern for morality.

He desires you now and he would soon have you whether you liked it or not. Rhaenyra had cowed him for far too long and now he’s going to reclaim his manhood, his brutal nature, by taking your bloody virtue on the head of his cock. For the bedroom was just as fierce as any battlefield and Daemon was a seasoned veteran of both arts.

Daemon’s stride is long and resolved as he jerks you closer to his side. You’re reluctant to be close to him, but finally heed the warning and match his pace as you both enter the tavern which also serves as the inn. Upstairs, the balding innkeeper opens the door and ushers Daemon into his freely provided chambers, with his unwilling maiden shuffling in beside him.

The room is quite nice for what it is. Accommodations for peasant folk were typically a mix of ramshackle furniture and blankets with patched holes in them, if the mattress had linens at all. This chamber is simple, but the furniture looks as though it were hand-crafted in town. The bed is very obviously carved by a skilled carpenter and topped with a red blanket as though it were actually a fine establishment.

“This will do nicely,” he nods to the innkeep. Even though Daemon knows he is not expected to offer compensation as an esteemed guest, he let’s you go from his grasp momentarily to fish a coin from his purse, and places it in the man’s hand. “My thanks,” Daemon offers plainly with a dismissive nod, declaring his desire to be left alone with his prize.

“My pleasure, My King,” the innkeeper says with an overzealous bow as he closes the door behind him, finally leaving Daemon alone with you.

You stand there looking like a stunned baby bird who has just fallen from the nest. Your hands are clasped together in front of your stomach as though that might defend you from his designs.

He smirks at you with a pointed laugh as he draws close. Daemon apprises you thoroughly, circling you like a beast as he takes in every sign of weakness, every swallow, every carefully withheld whimper.

“You know what will happen, girl?” he finally breaks the silence as he comes to a stop right behind you.

“Y-yes,” you answer unenthusiastically. The tremulous tone of your voice both excites and amuses him.

Daemon’s hands reach out to your waist then, finding the laces that hold your bodice tightly in place and he begins to untie them. You turn rapidly on your heels to face him, trying in vain to halt his advances. He can’t help but growl at your defiance as he tugs you against him, his grip like a biting jaw on your pliant body.

Grinning wickedly, he glares into your eyes, leaning in so closely that his forehead is against yours and his hot breath is in your face.

“I’m going to take you, little one,” his voice is filled with violence, his tone rough and dangerous. “You will give yourself readily or we can take the difficult path. But, I promise you would not like how brutish I can be. Especially considering how sore you will be once I take your maidenhood.”

Your expression contorts with hatred and insubordination as resignation tries to take root, but ultimately you refuse to budge. He has not broken your spirit yet, but he knows he soon will. Daemon hopes to avoid being truly cruel to you, that is unless you remind him of his fucking wife by being so gods damned obstinate. Then he might just be forced to take his impotence out on you.

“Or maybe…” he continues with a sardonic twitch of his brow. “Maybe since you’re behaving like such an ungrateful bitch, I’ll just fuck you hard and deep until I spill seed in your unspoiled little cunt. I might even keep you here all day, perhaps all night. I have not wet my cock for at least a moon’s length and I am wont to gorge myself in you.”

Your breath hitches at his menacing coercion and tears begin to well in your eyes. It doesn’t bother him, in fact he thinks you might look even more attractive when you’re crying. Most importantly, you nod subtly as you finally understand the truth of your situation, that he has conquered your rebuffs and brought you low before him. You should be much more compliant now.

Daemon presses a kiss against your cheek, relishing the taste of your fear and the way your body tenses in his arms. “Good girl,” he states in a calmer voice.

He swiftly turns you around again, his fingers moving deftly to work the laces of your corset free. You are sobbing quietly and even though he relishes the idea of making you submit, of seeing your eyes red and swollen as you take him to the hilt, it’s becoming tiresome to hear as he undresses you.

“Would you cease with all that incessant blubbering?” he chides you with palpable irritation. He pulls at your laces, then the fabric of the bodice, going back and forth to loosen it enough so he remove it from your body.

“I’m scared,” you peep. “That you will hurt me.” You’re reminding him of a bird once more, perhaps a little chick with no wings to fly, sniffling and pathetic as you accept your fate.

Daemon lets out an exasperated sigh. He would almost rather you be angry and spiteful than sniveling like this. He should have known to use a different tact, but he’s been out of practice for quite some time. He now sees with clarity that you’d be far more susceptible to seduction rather than brute force, but his anger with Rhaenyra had him on edge.

He places his hands on each of your shoulders and cranes his neck forward until his lips meet the spot below your right ear. You jump as he presses a gentle kiss against your skin, his fingers reaching over and caressing along your collarbone. He can feel you relax considerably with his shift in behavior and takes the opportunity to slide the sleeves of your dress down your arms.

“You need not be scared, little bird,” he whispers into your flesh as he leaves another kiss wet against the base of your neck. “I have bedded many a maiden in my time, and I assure you that I am a far more experienced and skillful lover than that untried boy you call husband.”

You swallow with difficulty and then your whole chest heaves upward as you let out a shaky breath. He is not sure if you’re still apprehensive about the pain involved in the act itself or if you dislike hearing him speak ill of your new spouse. It matters not, for Daemon knows he is best suited to tend to your needs on this day, and he will deliver you swiftly from your pain if you serve him well. He could also make it much worse than it has to be if you don’t.

But for the moment, you’re obliging him, not even resisting as he slips the sleeves of your dress off of your hands and they fall to your side. He groans at the pale skin bared to him, feverish at the thought of groping those large tits of yours without the restraint of any bindings.

“I know how best to alleviate your discomfort, my dear,” he continues, his breath tickling your skin. “I know how to hasten you to pleasure.” Daemon sucks teasingly at the lobe of your ear and delights as you shiver and goosebumps break out across the exposed flesh peering out from your low neckline. He is getting so eager now, craving the way you’ll squirm beneath him as he touches you, as he claims you.

He rocks the slackened bodice down over your waist, wiggling it from side to side until it clears your hips and the entire gown finally falls to the floor in a heap. You still don a sleeveless cloth chemise underneath that goes down past your knees, but the fabric is so thin that he can see the outline of your figure right through it.

Daemon feels the hairs on the back of his neck bristle as his cock bulges painfully against his breeches. He’d been so caught up in taming you, so fervent at the thought of plundering your shores, that he hadn’t even realized how much he was aching for you.

With a surge of fist and cord, his trousers are on the ground and he practically tears his braies off so he can press his throbbing length against you sooner. Being liberated from his smallclothes leaves his member free to prod the valley of your arse, and he yanks you back tightly against his chest with a grunt that makes you chirp. You are his sweet, helpless baby bird, ready to be devoured by the fox.

As though pulled by an invisible force, his hands are already snaking around to your front catching your breasts, one in each hand as he kneads them forcefully. You let out a strangled cry of distress as he tweaks your nipples firmly and Daemon’s eyes roll up at the supple, yet dense give of your breasts.

“By the old gods,” he rasps out, looking over her shoulder at the beautiful sight below of cleavage and ample bosom turning in his grip. “These are surely sacred treasures befitting a king.”

He has to feel you without the interference of meddling fabric, needs to see your breasts in all their splendor, to touch-taste-suck them until you cry out. A growl erupts through his nasal cavity and he abruptly yanks your shift down your shoulders, ripping the straps in the process of revealing your remarkable tits.

Seeing your exposed bosom, Daemon grinds his cock into your arse with arousal, his restraint faltering with the promise of you. He spins you towards him, walking backwards to the bed and drawing you by the hands with him. He glances up to see the uneasy expression on your face, the blush in your cheeks as you allow him to lead you. His cheekbones rise and his brow furrows slightly, regarding you with discernment and maybe a sense of pride as you walk bravely forward.

Daemon decides after brief consideration, that he likes you this way: vulnerable, yet courageous. The thought is fleeting as he hits the edge of the bed and sits down without hesitation, tugging you close until you are standing in the space between his parted thighs. Your tits are right in his face now, just where he wants them.

With an aggressive pull, he wrenches the shift from your body, laying you completely bare to him. He doesn’t even know where to begin, so much pale and youthful skin to take in that it makes him absolutely ravenous. Daemon’s hand reaches behind your back, holding you in place as he practically inhales your breast into his mouth. You writhe in his embrace, trying to back away from the intensity of his hungry maw to no avail as his strong arms keep you effortlessly in place.

He nips at the stiff peak, relishing the way you jump in response. Daemon’s hand slides downwards, cupping your round, tight ass with a squeeze. He leans back, taking in the view for a moment as he licks with the point of his tongue around your pale pink areola. He switches to the other beautifully pliant tit, tracing a line with his tongue across the valley of your breasts.

Daemon sucks hungrily at your nipple, palming the other with fanatical tenacity. He can feel your body wanting to withdraw, the way it pushes for more and pulls back at the same time, yet your feet remain firmly planted. He’d praise you for being so mannerly if his mouth weren’t full with your delicious tit at the moment.

He can feel his pulse pounding throughout his cock, standing erect between his legs and starving for any attention it can get from you. He relinquishes his grip on your breast, daring an attempt at getting you to relieve his torment as he clutches your hand and brings it down. Your hand retreats backwards, not wishing to participate, but Daemon is firm with you, guiding you to wrap your little bird wings around his engorged member.

Tepid, featherlight fingers graze against the sensitive skin of his too-fat-with-blood cockhead, and he lets loose a growl against the slope of your chest. “Fuck,” he hisses, sucking air through his teeth as you reluctantly touch him. At this point, his sexual deprivation paired with the immense lust he feels for you makes even your untrained pawing feel flawless in execution.

He’s quickly reaching the point of no return, his carnal urges so great that he knows he must have you soon. Daemon’s fingers lower to your tight little cunt, checking to see how ready you are for his impending intrusion. A knowing grin spreads across his cheeks as he feels the silken wet state of your folds.

“Mmm,” he pulls off of your nipple, peering up at you with violet eyes full of mischief. “Are you holding back how much you desire me, little bird? You naughty thing. What will your husband think?”

You flush red and while he was hoping to see indignation, he’s not displeased with the look of yearning present instead. Had he actually managed to ensnare you with the capable way he handled your body? Had he charmed you into his grasp when it seemed impossible you might actually enjoy yourself? Your silence is complicity as far as he is concerned.

Daemon smirks up at you deviously before switching back to your left breast, his tongue dancing across the tender nub as his fingers test and prod at your entrance. He doesn’t feel a solid membrane, but one that has already been teased on multiple occasions, likely coaxed from the efforts of the wanton little dragonseed herself. He could take her virtue with very little pain and she might even find pleasure in the act.

Dragging creamy nectar up from your heat, he holds your hood back, pressing his middle finger to your swollen pearl with a light, circular motion. You jolt into him, leaning forward as though your knees might buckle with even the slightest of coaxing from his touch.

He does not relent, continuing his attentions to both of your breathtaking breasts as he caresses the peak of your sex with practiced grace. You begin to whine, flinching your shoulders with every nip and suck of your tender nipples, your body becoming overly sensitive with his continued ministrations.

Daemon can feel the tension in your body rising and knows that you are ready for him. And not a moment too soon, he muses to himself, lest he lose his fucking mind with desperate need of you.

He stands up suddenly, gently walking you back a couple steps. He then picks you up into his arms with one fluid motion before depositing you with careful precision onto the bed. You look up at him with big eyes, dilated black with arousal as he climbs on top of you.

“You are a sight to behold, dear girl,” he says hoarsely, his voice heavy with desire. “I will not regret this joining and nor should you.” You look bewildered, a flurry of emotions all rolled into one, acutely aware and fuzzy at the same time.

For the first time, Daemon kisses you, and the feeling is like molten lava blazing through his heart and pooling in his gut. His cock is hard and threatening against your thighs, seeking entry with every jerk and twitch. His tongue sinks through your parted lips, dipping into the heat of your mouth, wanting to consume you whole.

He parts from your lips with an intake of breath, declaring gruffly, “You know that you belong to me now?”

With your quiet acceptance, Daemon positions his head at your core, pressing in just enough to fit snugly against your entrance. Leaning down once more, he cradles your back in his arms and presses another kiss to your lips. He needs to keep you distracted, his tongue dancing with yours, keeping you from dwelling too long on unavoidable pain. Gods knew, the feel of your passionate kiss was enough to divert his attention away from all meaningful thought besides the easing of your hurt.

Without warning, Daemon thrusts into you, breaking through your virtue as he holds you tightly. You cry out in startled agony as his length enters you, tears welling in the corners of your eyes at the sudden flash of pain. He holds position within you, soothing you with hushed whispers and gentle kisses through the worst of it.

As he thought, you are not upset for long, within moments already wiggling your hips around his swollen cock and hungry for more. He can’t help but grin with smug satisfaction at the way your body begs for more without speaking any words. Daemon will give you exactly what you crave. In fact, he loves how quickly you’ve become his little bird, his sweet harlot, forsaking your new husband for him in no more than a hand’s width of daylight.

He winces as he begins to move again; the way your cunt clings to his intruding cock for dear life is almost too much to bear. Daemon pulls back slightly to take you in and is not disappointed by the way your pretty lips are spread and panting out quick breaths of ecstasy. He had not lied to you, he’d certainly been with his fair share of maidens. None have come close to matching the beauty of your deliverance from chastity. You take to his girth with aplomb, to the act of love-making with a passionate, melodious abandon.

Daemon would watch your blissfully lurid expression, listen to your dulcet of sinful delectation, all day if he could. But, it’s not long before he can tell that your little cunny is going to give him trouble. If it hadn’t been so long since the last time he knew a pleasure better than his fucking hand, he might be able to deal with you. But, you are so fucking tight and he’s so wound up, that he opts to go out with a clash of smacking flesh. If he cannot make you peak this time, then he most certainly will on the next try, and he will most certainly take you again.

Your lilting moans drive him closer to the edge, pushing him faster than he’d like. Rearing up onto his knees, he clutches your hips tightly and spreads you across his lap. Daemon desperately tries to push you along to your climax, knowing it will be a race that he is likely to lose. He’s not expecting the intense response you give him or the way your hips buck as he coaxes your pearl to completion.

His eyes widen in disbelief, wincing as your pelvis seizes and you clamp down on him with a force so powerful it undoes him. “Fuccccking Hells!” he growls out sounding like a gruff animal as your walls milk his seed forth. Daemon’s member pulses violently, your muscles finally letting up only to begin rolling in waves across his length. “Gods fucking damn, girl!” he steadies himself against the bed, almost falling on top of you in the process.

His release lurches through his body, demanding and powerful as he erupts into you. He is faintly aware of the way your chanting with delight, muttering something incoherent while your small hands remain fastened to his back, holding onto him. The overwhelming rush finally passes and he is left feeling weak, breathless, but oh so fucking good.

Daemon wilts onto you, pressing a contented kiss against your lips. He’s not entirely surprised, but is still pleased when your hands find the back of his neck, deepening the kiss with vehemence. He feels the musculature of your inner lining contract upon his cock again and shakes his head as he parts from your lips.

“No. No more of that,” he gripes, still too sensitive to take that kind of abuse.

He recoils as he withdraws from you, unable to believe how big his cock looks, not fully hard, but still excessively fat considering. Daemon lies down beside you, wrapping his arm behind you and pulling you close.

You come willingly, cuddling into the crook of his arm as your hungry fingers roam about his jerkin.

And then it dawns on him, that in his impatience, he never even bothered to fully disrobe. He dutifully unfastens the clasps on his leather vest, displacing you for a moment as he tosses it aside and tears off his doublet.

“There,” he says with confidence. “Now you can have the full show.”

You laugh, a mirthful sound that makes his heart ache in a good way. Gods, he had really needed to get in a good plowing. He can feel all of his anger and tension melting away as he takes you back into his arms.

“So? Was it all bad?” he asks, fishing for compliments because he loves to hear them. He’d especially welcome them from a stubborn creature such as yourself.

Quietly, you shake your head, seeming at a loss for words. He could understand. A lot had happened in such a short amount of time. He’d essentially stolen you from the path you’d been traveling, plucked you up for himself without your say so. Daemon wouldn’t prod you to talk about it now that his appetites were sated, wouldn’t tease you about your husband now that he had claimed you fully.

He raises a brow as you speak unexpectedly, listening intently for your first real words since he’d imposed himself upon you.

“It was enjoyable,” you answer respectfully, your lusting eyes betraying your true feelings as your hands rove over his now bare chest, eager for more.

“Only enjoyable, little bird?” he decides to tease you a little bit, just for fun.

That mellifluous laugh returns, making him smile genuinely as he gazes upon you. Daemon strokes your back, relishing in the warm plushness of your skin as he settles into bed.

“Why do you keep calling me little bird?” she asks instead of padding his ego. “I am a dragon just as you… Am I not?”

His whole face lights up with a self-satisfied smirk. “Oh, are you a dragon now? I thought you were just a little bird.”

“I am a seed,” you contend with him, far more seriously than he expects you should. “I am of your line too.” You run your fingers into your disheveled hair, twirling cornsilk strands as evidence.

“Well, yes, but you are not quite a dragon. It’s true you have wings and the means to fly, but that does not make a dragon, my delicate little bird,” he cannot help but say it with a mocking tone, enjoying your reactions too much to let it go.

You dare a fearless smack at his chest, indignant and pouting. He would normally kill someone for laying hands on him in any manner of disrespect, but Daemon does not mind it from you in this moment.

“Perhaps, you do have some fire in you yet,” he taunts you with amusement. You look at him wide eyed as though he’s about to admit that you are a dragon just as he is. You make this too easy. He chuckles as he continues to rib you, “I’ll call you my firebird then. I think that suits you nicely.”

Daemon’s brow winks with humor as you take another swing at him. He holds your arms down to your sides as he pulls you on top of him. He let’s you go as your annoyance settles, regarding you fondly as he tucks loose tresses of silvery hair behind your ears.

“I hope you know that I’m going to come back for you again and again, my little firebird,” he utters in a lower tone, his voice taking on a more serious quality now.

You give him a twisted look of both gladness and remorse, your mind unable to decide whether this is a good or a bad thing.

“Do you care for your husband?” he asks earnestly, not pleased with the idea of another man laying hands on you. “I can conscript him to the queen’s army if you wish to free yourself from him. You need only ask.”

You look torn, but he can tell you’re considering his words carefully. “He is not a bad man as far as I know. The marriage was selected by my mother, my husband earns a living well enough to pay my way.”

It bothers Daemon to hear you call the man your husband, even if it’s true. He considers killing the man masquerading as your groom for you should undoubtedly belong entirely to him and no other.

“Paying your way will no longer be an issue. I will ensure that you are financially supported from this day forth, but I will not give you up,” he hears the words spilling from his mouth and feels like an old fool. He’d celebrated too many namedays to be spewing this lovesick shit? He couldn’t help it though. You stoked a fire inside of him that made him feel alive and vibrant, he needed to keep burning with you.

“I appreciate that,” you offer with a small, but hesitant smile. “I’m sure my mother will be thrilled. She has always tried to make sure I’m well looked after. It’s unfortunate you could not find me a day sooner. I’m not sure how to face him now,” she says with a trembling lip. “He will expect to bed me. I’m not sure if I’ll be able to. It would make me nothing but a whore.”

“Hush,” Daemon says disagreeably. “Don’t say such things.” He finds himself cradling your sweet head against his chest, hating how true your words are and that he is the one responsible for your situation. He must make it his own responsibility to free you from it then.

“I’ll pull you to castle staff then,” he offers, grasping at possible solutions. It would not be wise to tempt Rhaenyra’s wrath under her own roof, but it would be a means to separate you from your husband at least temporarily, until something more lasting could be devised. There were many positions that would keep you far from his wife’s vicinity as well, if she would even notice that he had taken a lover to begin with.

He might also simply murder the bastard and be done with it, but it might be nice to have you close by in Dragonstone too for opportunistic dalliances.

You begin to protest the idea of going to work at the castle, but he won’t hear any of it and interrupts you. “I will give you a choice then, in recompense for what I’ve taken from you. Will you stay with me, little firebird, or with your husband?” He peers at you with thoughtful bluish-red irises, waiting to hear your answer. He has already decided that he will abide by whatever ruling you make, at least for a time. If you wish to bed your husband as well as him, then that will be your prerogative.

“I do not wish to stay with my husband,” you say quicker than he anticipated.

“Well,” he practically gloats with a mischievous grin. “You’ll be coming home with me then.” Daemon presses a happy kiss against your lips, the sight of your bosom sinfully crushed against his chest sends a pang of desire to his cock, signaling it for action. “But, we might as well make good use of the room first. It was graciously afforded to us after all.”

Daemon reaches down to grip your hips, letting forth a hiss of air as he positions you on his already rigid length. You, his little firebird, would be keeping his flame kindled all this day and perhaps all night as well, with many more to follow. You were his now, born from a threat and remade into a promise that he intended to keep.

[cloudedgalaxies]

ANYWAYS Idiyuu is Hades and Persephone conspiracy:

Persephone is not from the Underworld. She is called back to the Mortal Realm eventually because she has to return. Yuu is literally from another world. They are not suited to Twisted Wonderland, and are nothing like Idia has ever seen. They have to go back eventually.

Hades is probably one of the few TWST boys to have a “canon” spouse (at least in Greek mythology, which Hercules’ Hades is obviously based on). On top of that, Hades and Persephone is the love story between death and life, isolation and abundance, ending and rebirth. Idia is a gloomy, pessimistic boy who has been condemned to be the keeper of the Underworld. Yuu is a kind, gentle prefect who has been there to help and has helped everyone they know, again and again. 

Night Raven College has been in a ‘winter’ for all of its history. Everyone is hostile to everyone, no one wants to cooperate or work together, and every single person there has some ulterior motive. In comes Yuu, who is a breath of fresh air. A new perspective. A new season. They bring ‘spring,’ showing people that they can bloom. They can harbor feelings that aren’t cruel. They can do things that aren’t harsh. And slowly, they start to thaw. Flowers of friendship and something gentler bloom. Yuu is there to help pull the boys from their darkest moments to see the light again. Idia is no exception.

I think that the way Book 6 was set up makes Idia and Yuu seem a lot more meaningful honestly, though I'm probably reading way too into things lol. Yuu originally goes to the Island of Woe to save Grim. They don’t particularly care much about what’s going on with Idia—they just want to get Grim back. But then later, once they realize what’s going on, they do. There isn’t much, if any, personal connection to Idia’s overblot like there was with all the others. Yuu doesn’t have to do anything to help. And yet, they still do. Even after Idia basically kidnapped Grim, they still help him. They still try to end his winter.

Persephone, in many forms of the myth, didn't originally go to the Underworld willingly. But eventually, she came to love Hades, and they were happy together. Idia and Yuu have no reason to care about the other at first. But they eventually do, after everything that happens and everything that brings them together.

Hades and Persephone are in a constant push and pull. Persephone has to leave because if she stays, winter will never end. She does not want to leave, because she loves Hades. Yuu has to leave Twisted Wonderland, because they have a home beyond it that they need to return to. And yet, they don't want to leave because they love Idia. Idia doesn't want them to go, because it finally feels like spring again. But the seasons have to continue in their cycle, so what can they do?

Also, I think it’s really funny and really beautiful how Idia and Yuu’s first meeting was probably the Ghost Marriage event. This guy who thinks he has 0 rizz ends up having to be saved by some strange new isekai'd student and their gang of potential suitors before he gets his first kiss and promptly dies afterwards. Idia, the boy surrounded by death, is saved by the prefect who seems to be giving everyone a new chance at life. Imagine how poetic it’d be if Yuu and Idia end up getting married in the end, except now neither of them are going to die and they have the rest of their new lives together. There will be winter, but there will also be spring. The cycle of seasons will continue, but flowers will always bloom. They will always return to each other.

[teddybeartoji]

18+ mdni; gn!reader

with a hand on the back of your head and another holding your throat, nanami curses under his breath, the sight of you gagging around his cock so filthy that the usually composed man has his knees threatening to buckle from underneath him. 

sweat trickles from the side of his face and there’s a deep shade of blush spread across his nose and cheeks, hiding the freckles you love so much. even the tips of his ears burn, the pleasure blooming everywhere under his skin as he rocks his hips against your face. the first buttons of his dress shirt are undone, a few hickeys already starting to darken on his skin from you nipping at him before dropping to your knees. he’s been working so very hard, and you just want him to let off a little steam – he just needs a bit of a push sometimes. 

so with you sat on his lap, sucking on his earlobe while pleading for him to take a break, it was impossible for him to say no. how could he when he’s got an angel in his arms, playing with his hair and kissing his neck ever so sweetly – he’s a weaker man than he thinks. 

when you slithered down between his thighs and stared up at him with big, hungry eyes, he found himself loosening his tie, his mind already beginning to cloud with the nastiest thoughts. 

ghosting your fingers over the growing bulge in his slacks, you rested your head against his thigh with a mischievous smile etched onto your lips. “c’mon, ken… i want to make you feel good.”

your words come out as a purr, as a siren’s call – you always have been a little tease, always the one to make him break and crumble. 

so here he finds himself now – slacks pooling around his ankles and the hem of his shirt caught between his teeth, trying his utmost best not to fill your mouth with cum after the first ten minutes like some damn teenager. his hair is a fucking mess, dusty blonde strands falling over his forehead no matter how many times he tries to push them back. he’s given up on it now, realizing that there are better things to be doing with his hands – the one on the back of your head, protects you from knocking against the wooden cupboard while the other rests on your neck, marveling the way his cock slides up and down your throat. 

it’s mesmerizing, the feeling of the bulge under the palm of his shaky hand. he’s in there, filling you up like nothing else and it’s the hottest fucking thing in the world. 

his pace is slow and steady, every roll of his hips has your nose nuzzling into his pubes, your chin pressing against his heavy balls. drool trickles from the corners of your mouth and it’s a sight to behold – it dribbles all the way down onto your thighs and from there on onto the floor and nanami can’t help but feel the coil in his stomach tighten faster than ever. you’re the only one that makes him feel like this, who manages to mold him to your own liking all while being down on your knees. 

the tip of your tongue tickles his balls and the growl he lets out makes you clench your thighs together. his shirt falls from between his teeth and he rushes to undo the rest of the buttons, desperate to get the material off of him, so he can give you his full attention once more. it’s exciting to see him this needy. 

you try to look up at him with him still down your throat and as a reward, he moves to stroke your cheek with his thumb. “you’re– you’re doing so good for me, darling.” 

his voice is raspier than ever and the praise that tumbles from his bitten lips has you moaning around his cock. his vision goes blurry for a moment as the pleasure overwhelms his senses. you’re something else. 

you’re fucking perfect. 

the ache in your knees fades in your mind as you get to watch him unravel above you. his strokes become more languid; he pulls out only a little before pushing back in, his tip reaching deeper and deeper with every thrust he makes. he wants to stay inside you, he wants to stay there forever. 

squirming below him, you screw your eyes shut and try to focus on your breathing – but as he stays slotted deep down your throat, it’s getting harder and harder and you can’t hold back the few tears that have been brimming at your lashline.

“f–fuck, i’m sorry, sweetheart… i– “

he feels you struggling, but doesn’t pull out even an inch, only grinding his hips into your face as if he was fucking your tight little hole instead. you claw at the backs of his thighs, your nails marking up his sensitive skin as you gag around him. but nanami’s mindful not to go too far, to make sure that he wouldn’t miss the moment your scratching should turn into tapping instead. as much as he’s enjoying himself, he’d rather die than to hurt you.

he waits for your signal but when it doesn’t come, he presses himself even further down your throat, moaning loudly when you gag around him. his blonde pubes stick to your skin, your spit acting as glue between you. 

your mouth is so fucking warm and tight and, fuck– the obscene sounds that fill his ears are making him lose his mind. you feel divine and it has him wondering what ever did he do to deserve a lover like you. 

all it takes is two pats against his thighs and he’s pulling away, his eyes locked onto your face as you gasp for air. crystalline droplets brim in the corners of your eyes and run over the apples of your cheeks, leaving behind salty remainders of your hard work. your lips are swollen and covered in a mixture of his precum and your own spit. trying to catch your breath, you take a moment before looking back up at him. 

the way his lips part in a silent groan the second you make eye-contact, his chest rising and falling as he strokes his fat cock right in front of your face. there’s still a strand of spit connecting the two of you, from your lips to his tip, and nanami wants to hate how big of an effect such a small thing can have on him. it’s romantic. 

you look ruined. 

he thinks you look absolutely fucking beautiful.

leaning down, he presses a fiery kiss to your lips as a thank you, as another form of praise. he loves the way you taste and they way you feel against him. 

you breathe into his mouth. “more…” 

nanami squeezes his fist around his base, another groan falling from him as he pulls away from you. the grin on your face, the hearts in your eyes and the love pooling on your tongue are more than enough to have him taking in a sharp intake of air – you reach out to him, gentle fingers wrapping around his way bigger ones as you guide him back to your mouth. your heavenly lips. 

as embarrassing as it is, it only takes another few minutes for him to cum down your throat with a loud, deep groan. he holds your neck just as before, feeling the way his own cock twitches inside of you as he gives you his all. 

there’s so much of it that despite you swallowing around him a couple of times, it still pours out from the corners of your mouth, turning you into an even bigger mess than before. but it’s not like you mind – this is exactly what you wanted in the first place. he’s panting like a dog above you, face red as a tomato as he bucks his hips into your mouth one last time. 

the sound that leaves his lips as he finally pulls out resembles a whimper and he lets out a sheepish chuckle, a bit flustered that you managed to pull that out of him. but then again…

it is you. 

his beloved, his love – the one who knows him the best, the one who knows what he needs without ever having to ask. you read him like an open book and he couldn't be more grateful. you're more than he could've asked for. hoped for.

and he loves you.

[meazalykov]

nationality switch

esmee brugts x uswnt!dutch!reader

summary: choosing a national team almost made you drift away from the person you love most

warnings: angst

it’s been a long time since you’ve seen esmee, since that fight—since everything changed. 

you’re sitting in the corner of a cozy café in barcelona, sipping your iced coffee, lost in your thoughts about how things used to be. the only noise around you is the coffee machines brewing or the ovens beeping in the background of your thoughts.

you never expected to see her today. you thought she moved to arsenal in london. a club that she mentioned her interest in. but then again, nothing with esmee ever goes as planned.

the bell above the café door chimes, and you look over at the door on instinct. when you see her, your stomach flips. is that her? you had to do a double take.

it is esmee. her eyes lock on yours instantly, and for a second, it’s like no time has passed. the familiarity, the memories, all come rushing back. you miss her, but the weight of your last conversation—the fight—hangs heavily between you both.

you don’t move. you don’t know if you should, and maybe she doesn’t either, because she hesitates before walking over. you freeze before you see her stop at the counter.

you took a deep breath before she gets her flat white and walks over.

when she finally reaches your table, you see that same spark in her eyes, but there’s something else now. something different.

“hey,” she says, her voice soft, almost tentative, as if she’s afraid of how you’ll respond.

you raise an eyebrow, trying to keep things light. 

“esmee, how did you even find me?”

she offers a small smile, a little suspicious. 

“we never turned off each other’s locations on our phones.”

that breaks the tension for a moment, and you can’t help but laugh. 

it’s such a typical esmee thing to say. well for you, as someone who is the closest to her. she never fails to make a heavy moment become lighter. you shake your head at the absurdity of it all. 

“of course.”

she sits down across from you at the wooden table, and suddenly, the reality of everything hits. you’re both here in barcelona. after all this time, all the distance, somehow, fate—or maybe something else—has pulled you back together. 

it feels like you’re supposed to be here, like you were always meant to end up on the same team again. it hasn't been too long since you were both at psv. your contracts ended at the same time and you had a bad feeling that it would've been your last time together.

it wasn't.

“so…” esmee starts, her fingers fiddling with the edge of the napkin in front of her. “i heard the news.”

you nod slowly. “yeah. barca. i guess it was inevitable, huh?”

“inevitable,” she echoes, her gaze dropping to the table before lifting back to meet yours. 

“we were always supposed to end up here together, it was our dream.”

the silence stretches between you both, and it’s not uncomfortable, but it’s heavy. there’s so much unsaid, and you know it. she knows it. 

the past months have been complicated. after the women’s world cup, after that game against the netherlands where you scored that header, after you told her that you weren't going to represent the netherlands on the senior level, things between you two were…different.

“you were mad,” you say softly, cutting through the silence.

her eyes darken slightly, and she nods, not bothering to deny it. “yeah, i was.”

“because I celebrated my goal?”

“because it felt like you were celebrating more than just a goal,” she admits. 

“it felt like you were celebrating the fact that you chose them over us. over me.”

throwback to july 26th, 2023

it’s the 62nd minute, and the game between the u.s and the netherlands is 0-1. the tension is suffocating—this isn’t just any group stage match. 

it’s a battle between two teams who were in the finals of the last world cup. the netherlands want revenge.

for you, it’s personal. you are dutch and american. your mother was born and raised in eindhoven, while your dad is an american who studied there then met your mother.

while growing up, you considered yourself to be dutch. you never lived in the united states. however, you've wondered what it was like to live over there.

at the age of 8 you met your bestfriend, esmee, at a soccer club. the both of you grew up, joined psv together, and played for the dutch youth teams together.

when your father expressed how he wanted you to chose the uswnt when you reached the senior level, you didn't count him out. the team was the best in the world.

the 2019 world cup solidified your decision to represent your father's side of the family. however, sometimes you think about the other world where you chose the dutch team instead of the americans.

you jog back to your position for a corner kick being taken by rose lavelle, feeling the weight of the moment settle on your shoulders. 

your heart pounds in your chest, and as you glance toward the dutch goal, your eyes flicker briefly to the orange clad figure on the left. esmee. 

she’s looks at you briefly, her expression unreadable. for a split second, it’s like time slows down. you remember the late nights practicing at psv, the laughter, the way she used to tell you that you’d both dominate the world together one day.

now, you’re on opposing sides, thanks to you choosing your other nationality.

the whistle blows. you snap back to the present, focusing on the corner being taken. 

the ball soars through the air, heading toward the front post. you leap, eyes locked on the ball, and your timing is perfect. you rise above the defenders, connecting with the ball in a powerful header that rockets past the dutch goalkeeper.

goal!

for a moment, the world stops. then the noise of the crowd hits you like a wave, and you’re running, arms outstretched in celebration. your teammates swarm around you, shouting, grabbing your jersey, jumping on your back. 

you can hear julie yelling for you and lindsey clapping you on the back with a proud grin. it’s chaos—pure joy, adrenaline, and pride.

but as you slow down, turning back toward midfield, your eyes find esmee again. 

she’s standing there, watching, her expression unreadable at first. in the moment that you look away before turning back, you see it: the hurt. the disbelief. you know it’s not just about the goal. it’s about everything else.

you swallow the lump forming in your throat and try to focus on your teammates still celebrating around you, but esmee’s look is burned into your mind. 

she goes back on the left-back then stands, her hands clenched into fists by her sides, it looks as if she’s frozen. you see her teammates—players you grew up with on youth teams—pat her on the back, but it’s clear she’s not hearing them.

it’s the celebration that did it. you know it. the way you threw your fists in the air, the way you smiled at your teammates like this goal was everything. 

to esmee, it wasn’t just a goal against the netherlands. it was a statement, a reminder that you chose the united states over the netherlands, over her.

as the game resumes, you push the thought to the back of your mind. you have to stay focused. there’s still time left, and the dutch team isn’t going to back down easily. but every time you glance in esmee’s direction, it stings. 

you see the frustration in her movements, the way she presses forward with even more intensity than before. she’s angry—at you, at the situation—and it shows.

the game ends and its tied. the rest of her team is exhausted, but she doesn’t even wait for the usual post-match handshakes and shirt swaps. she walks straight down the tunnel, disappearing from view, and a pit forms in your stomach.

you want to go after her, explain that the celebration wasn’t meant to hurt her. but deep down, you know this moment has been building for a long time. 

the decision to play for the united states on the senior level, the arguments, the silence between you two—it’s all led to this. 

in the locker room, your teammates are quiet, they’re focused on the next match. 

your thoughts are stuck on esmee. you stare down at your phone, wondering if you should text her, try to explain. but what could you say? what could make this better?

back to the barcelona cafe, a month later

you blink, taken aback by the raw honesty in her words. 

you’ve had months to think about it—about what it meant when you chose to play for the uswnt, about how your dad had always pushed you to follow in his footsteps. but you didn’t think esmee would take it this personally.

“esmee, it wasn’t about that,” you say, voice soft, almost pleading.

“you know it wasn’t like that.”

it was your first goal for the national team. it happened to be against your other country, the other country that wanted you to play for them too. 

your mother is dutch, and your father is american– so you had a tough decision to make.

esmee shakes her head, and for a moment, you think she’s going to argue. but then she sighs, leaning back in her chair. 

“i know. but it hurt. i wanted you to play with me and for the oranje. i wanted us to play together, like we always did in eindhoven. and then, when you celebrated after that goal…it felt like you’d forgotten everything we’d had.”

“i didn’t forget. i could never forget,” you say, and it’s the truth. you haven’t forgotten a single moment. 

“but esmee, you know how much my dad wanted this for me.” 

“i know,” she whispers, and there’s pain in her voice. 

“but i wanted you to want the same things i did. i wanted you to choose me.”

her words hit you hard, and for a second, you can’t respond. this is about more than just football, more than just a decision you had to make when choosing a national team. 

it’s about the two of you—about what you’ve meant to each other all these years.

“esmee,” you start, leaning forward, trying to make her understand. “it wasn’t about choosing them over you. you mean everything to me. i-i didn’t even realize—”

“that’s the thing,” she interrupts, her voice trembling slightly. 

“i was upset because i always want to be around you. it was selfish, maybe, but it’s the truth. i thought…i thought i was going to lose you when you chose them. what if you didn’t choose to come to barcelona? what if i didn’t? we wouldn’t see each other anymore..”

you frown, confused. “esmee, you’re never going to lose me. what are you talking about?”

she bites her lip, her eyes searching yours, and suddenly, it’s like all the walls she’s built up come crashing down. her hands stop gripping on her coffe cup and goes to gently hold your right hand instead. 

you froze.

“i’m talking about how i feel about you,” she admits, her voice barely above a whisper. 

you feel your heart skip a beat, and for some reason, her confession doesn’t surprise you. 

it’s like you always knew, like a part of you had been waiting for her to say it out loud. she’s been your best friend for years, but deep down, maybe you always knew there was something more.

the left-back never made her crush on you a hidden secret. she was never outright, but her actions towards you spoke for itself. 

“es…” you start, but you don’t know what to say. so instead, you reach across the table, gently taking your other hand and holding hers.

she looks at you, her eyes wide and vulnerable, like she’s terrified of what you’ll say next.

“i like you too,” you say softly, your thumb brushing over the back of her hand. 

“i think i always have.”

her eyes widen even more, but there’s a soft smile playing on her lips now. 

“really?”

you nod, giving her a small smile in return. “yeah. really.”

you stand up slowly, moving around the table, and she doesn’t pull away when you lean down and press a soft kiss to her forehead. 

it feels right and natural, like something you should’ve done a long time ago. you wanted to, but you didn't know how she felt about you then.

nobody was present in the cafe instead of the barista who was too focused on making drinks, so you didn’t feel embarrassed to kiss her.

when you pull back, esmee smiling up at you, and for the first time in months, you feel like things between you two might finally be okay.

“so…barcelona, huh?” you say, trying to lighten the mood.

esmee laughs, that familiar sound you’ve missed so much. “yeah. looks like we’re stuck together again.”

you grin, squeezing her hand gently. “good. i wouldn’t want it any other way.”

my masterlist is here if you want to read more!

[jwsverse]

𓈒ㅤׂ 𝜗𝜚 timestamp 03:09

pairing ⁝ jake x f!reader

synopsis ⁝ in which jake tells the boys all about his crush on you, and he's way too downbad

genre ⁝ fluff!!! , reader is implied to be "cold", jake is in luv and the boys are real goofs, oh reader os also said to have bunny teeth (sawry if you guys dh it cause i do so im sorry for being self indulgent 😥)

word count ⁝ 0.8k

author's note ⁝ ummmm idk what this is but i wanted to make tbis like black cat x golden retriever typa shii... kinda wanna write a long fic for this icl!' also fhis is NAWTTT proofread

“you like who?!”

jake stumbles back a bit at the loudness of jake's voice. he chuckles awkwardly, glancing around at the boys who are now gathered around him. even heeseung, who was about to make his leave for his next class, turns around with wide eyes.

“uh, i like y/n?” jake scratches the back of his neck shyly, flushing under the eyes of his friends as well as from his confession, “what's wrong?”

jay jumps from his seat, leaning across with his palms flat om the table as he hurriedly says, “but why? i mean like how? what about y/n? why her?”

jake is a little confused, and it's clear, so sunoo quickly clarifies, “there's nothing wrong with y/n! she's our friend and we love her!” then a pause, and his face scrunches up as he hesitates, “but it's just... you know, y/n. she's not the most cheerful nor is she the friendliest! and you've known her the shortest among us! so you know, we're just shocked.” sunoo ends his ramble with a stiff tilt of his head as he leans back into his seat.

“oh,” jake utters out quietly, flushing red, “but y/n's great. she's not very cheerful or friendly. but she cares a lot! especially for you guys!” he defends.

he doesn't quite understand what the guys are trying to say here. he knows that amongst all of them, he's known you the shortest, considering he joined the friend group late after transferring here. but, feelings don't need explanation, right? there's no reason for liking someone, it's a ‘just because’ kind of thing.

“and she's super pretty! especially when she smiles and laughs, which i know is rare, but she only ever does it around you guys, you know? she hates it but, when her bunny teeth shows it's the cutest thing and i think that makes her so unique. and she may seem cold, but i think she really cares for you guys! like whenever we go to parties, she doesn't drink cause she know you guys would get drunk, so someone has to take care of you guys.” jake rambles. he takes a deep breath, only then noticing the boys' wide eyes all staring at him.

“what?”

sunghoon, who has been silent all this while, shakes his head, gesturing for jake to go on.

“y/n's... well she doesn't show it. but she's actually really sensitive. every time you guys tease her, she may flick you off but deep down, she does get hurt! i mean you can just tell by the way her eyes shift downwards and she goes quiet for awhile.” jake frowns at a fresh memory from just last week when the boys joked about you rejecting a boy who confessed to you too coldly, and you had looked hurt for a second, before masking it up into annoyance.

“she hates it when people see her blush, but when she does, her cheeks don't turn pink, her neck does. and she always tucks her hair back when she's nervous and she'll never make eye contact with you! she's always the happiest when she's with us, and you'll miss her subtle smile if you don't pay attention. her eyes always go brighter and her way of showing care and love is by rolling her eyes and being childish.”

“i like y/n. i really do, i know i've known her the shortest and there are still many things i need to know and understand about her, but i just want you guys to know i'm really sincere about her.”

jake has to take a deep breath once he's finished. his face is red, and his mouth is dry from all the rambling. even so, he wants to go on, and he intends to, until heeseung cuts in, with his palm in his face, stopping him.

“okay that's enough. we get it jake, we trust you.” heeseung utters out with a smirk, finding the flush on his friend's cheeks awfully funny and cute. “we know you're a good guy and we think you'll be good for y/n! let's just take this slowly, okay? let's discuss after class.”

heeseung grabs his bag and heads for the door, turning back to jake as he winks, “don't worry, we won't tell y/n.” he twists the door knob and immediately halts.

right behind the door, stands you with wide eyes in shock and your hand about to knock. the heat is evident in your neck as you glance from heeseung to jake then you look away immediately.

“i...” your throat dries up as you snap out of it and tuck your hair behind your ear in a hurry, “i just wanted to grab my book.” then without looking at any of them, you cover up the side of your neck, sneak pass heeseung to grab your belongings and you run out of the room.

sunoo chuckles awkwardly, “well... at least you got her behavior on point.”

© jwsverse

[junedenim]

what it takes to say goodnight

just him & his girls

warnings: dad!alex, fluff, smut, piv, fingering, mild breeding kink, & so on...

word count: 4.4k

He nearly trips over the cat when he walks in. He mutters curse words to himself before picking Pepper—the cat—up before it runs out the front door. Pepper has always been a calm kitty and she takes well in Alex's arms, though they are full and he struggles through the door before he can finally put everything, including Pepper, down on the floor. She tangles in his legs before running off back into the house.

Alex closes the front door roughly causing one of the magnets that holds a picture of the girls up to fall on the floor loud enough to alert the other residents of the house that he is home.

"Sounds like someone's home," he hears you announce followed by the sudden noise of pattering feet.

He rounds the corner, greeted by two blurs rushing him like linebackers. As always, Willow is quick to talk her mouth going a mile a minute, shouting, "Come look what I made today! Pick me up, daddy, pick me up! Come on!" He can't even keep track of what she is saying most of the time, her mouth going a mile a minute.

Contrasting her twin sister, Wren, his quiet little girl, tugs on his pant leg to get his attention. They've always been this way, even when you were pregnant with them. Willow would kick away and Wren would suck her thumb. Wren speaks when spoken to, preferring to perform motions to express her opinions. Unless it's vegetables, then she cries and yells, "Yuck!"

To combat both girls' interests, he bends down and picks them both up. They are just on the edge of being too heavy for Alex to pick both up at once. But maybe he'll wait until the next birthday to stop doing this. Wren curls into him while Willow hangs off his neck still yapping, "I want mac & cheese for dinner. Mummy said we can so you have to let us. Wen wants it too. Say it, Wen." Willow has always called Wren "Wen." It's adorable and Alex and you can't bear to ever correct it.

Alex turns to Wren, nudging her with a bounce to show her some attention and get her answer. "I want mac & cheese," she says robotically as if Willow trained her to say it.

"Really?" Alex questions. He looks toward you, sitting on the living room rug and watching this exchange. You share a silent laugh with him. You're calm, and he never understands how you managed to hold that through the whole day with the girls. He loves them like nothing else ever but, man, do they tire him out.

"Swear," Willow answers for Wren. "Mummy also said you'd play dolls with us."

You laugh out loud. "I never said that, Will."

Willow thinks otherwise. "Well, maybe you could anyway."

Alex laughs. "We'll see." He feels a strain in his back and decides it's time to put the girls down. Will goes off running back to her toys but Wren hangs on, unable to let go of the comfort. "C'mon Wren. At least let me take my shoes off."

"But you'll come back?" She's completely wide-eyed and worried. Whenever she's in need of reassurance, Alex fears it's his fault. That he went on tour when they were too young and ever since Alex is certain he has caused them abandonment issues. 

He told you this once, late at night, after Wren had cried for him to not leave her alone in her room. He stayed with her until she fell asleep and would have fallen asleep beside her if you hadn't come to collect him. Under the covers, he told you this fear and regret, at first, you laughed, insisting Wren was just clingy. Alex chose to believe you if only to fall asleep that night.  

Sometime after midnight, Wren came into yours and Alex's bedroom, tugging on Alex's hand making sure that he was still there, still breathing, still real. Her little whimpers woke you up. Alex hugged Wren to his chest and you ran a hand down the sensitive girl's back. She kept saying, "You were gone. You left." You tried your best to minimize Alex's worries but he felt this fear to be true and a hidden part of him thinks you blame him too.

Alex kisses Wren's plump baby cheek, placing her tiny feet on the wooden floor. "Always," he assured her. She toddles cautiously back to the toys to join her sister.

But then there's one more girl he has to take care of. "Are you going to make me mac & cheese?" You ask, approaching him, and slinging your arms around his neck. His hand finds its rightful place on the small of your back, the one where you always feel an ache when his hand isn't there.

He pulls you closer to him, pressing her body up against his, your faces so close, your noses just barely not touching. "I'll make you whatever you want." His lips pucker expectantly, waiting for yours to collide with them.

"Anything?" You raise an eyebrow.

He relaxes his lips and quirks a smile. "Yeah, I can make you the unicorn-shaped mac & cheese."

"Wow," you laugh, "you really are my prince charming."

He puckers his lips again. "Hurry up and kiss me, would you?" You give in because he's so cute talking about mac and cheese and there's a flutter in his eyes that you can tell means he had a long day so you won't put up much of a fight, especially when he kisses you just right.

You pull away and ask, "Long day?"

Alex shrugs. "I'm where I want to be now. How was it here?" He runs his hand up and down your right arm.

You sigh as you begin to feel the weight of the day"Good. No fights. Wren didn't nap."

Alex throws his head back. "Don't tell me that." 

That fear ticks away inside him but you grab his hand and squeeze it. "It's not because of you. It allowed me to have Wren & me time considering she's a daddy's girl and Will's constant desire to be the center of attention, but don't tell her I told you that."

He chuckles. "Your secret's safe with me."

"Now come on with the mac & cheese!"

Later, when he's cooking dinner, Wren clings to his leg. Will is singing loudly in the living room and he can hear you clapping along with her. 

"Mac & cheese?" Wren asks him.

"Almost done," Alex promises, picking her up by the straps of her overalls and depositing her onto the counter. "Would you do today? Did you have fun with mummy and Will?"

Wren simply nods with a smile, which is a good sign, no frowns in sight.

But she tugs away at his heart, making grabby hands for him. She's always been clingy, enjoying the feeling of being held, but he can't help but feel that she's spent the whole day missing him, not able to have any fun. 

"Do you maybe want to come to work with me tomorrow, honey?" He knows he should ask you about this and Willow will have to come along or she'll throw a temper tantrum but sometimes he thinks Wren needs a little extra love. She doesn't shout for attention in the manner Willow does. Sometimes she needs to be noticed and needs to feel special.

Then, Wren starts doing that happy gurgle-laugh thing. She swings her legs, tiny socked feet hitting the utensil drawer. She nods quickly, completely excited. "I'll have to talk with mummy about it but you and me will do something special. That sound nice?"

"Yeah!" She squeals and claps her hands. 

Her excitement rubs off on Alex, giving him something to smile about. He nuzzles his nose with hers. He can't get over how precious she is. "Yeah," he repeats, completely content. In moments like this, he doesn't feel like he's completely failed as a parent.

Willow comes walking in, patting her stomach, asking, "Is the mac & cheese ready? I'm 'ungry."

*

Putting the twins to bed can either be the easiest part of the day or the hardest. Wren nearly passes out in the bathtub, running on limited sleep. Willow refuses to stay in bed. When you leave the room, she pops out of bed and starts playing with her toys in the dark. 

Alex goes in to kiss her goodnight after he lays Wren down and finds her bouncing on her bed. She stalls at the sight of Alex, clear that she has been caught out. "Bedtime, missy," he tells her.

She giggles but plops down on her butt. "I'm not tired," she states like there is simply no argument to be made.

Alex sighs and sits on the edge of her tiny bed. "But I'm tired."

"You can go to bed. That's okay, daddy." She touches his arm like she's reassuring him she'll be fine.

Alex huffs a laugh into his hand. He doesn't want Will to get excited that she's making her dad laugh. "I can't go to bed unless you go to bed. It's the rules."

She closes her eyes and flops down on the bed dramatically, pushing the air loudly out of her pillow. "Fine." She seems like she's making an attempt, but then she opens her eyes wide and demands, "Story first."

He knows you probably read her two stories already and he shouldn't give in but you're in the shower and he'll be waiting all alone in bed for you so why shouldn't he kill some time with one of his girls? "One."

She claps her little kiddie hands. "You can pick," she says like she's doing him a favour.

And she kind of is because if he has to read Goldilocks again, he might lose it. "Rumplestiltskin it is." He's always liked it and he knows Will likes the straw turning into gold part. 

He picks up the book of the collected Brothers Grimm fairy tales. Part of him can never deny reading the girls (including you) a story. You all do the same thing: cuddle up beside him, lay your head on his arm, point at the pictures, and say a comment on every sentence if only to make reading time just a bit longer. Will curls his fingers around his forearm and falls asleep halfway through the story but he finishes it anyway. Partly because he knows if Will is pretending to be asleep and he doesn't finish the whole thing she'll insist he has to read her another one. (The other part because he loves the story).

You've just exited the bathroom with wet hair and a towel wrapped around you when Alex enters your bedroom. "Everyone went to sleep alright?" You're going through the drawers, looking for pajamas.

"Yeah. Will had me read her another story but she conked out quick."

You smirk. "Will had you read another story or you wanted to read another story?"

He rolls his eyes at you mocking him before admitting, "Both."

You laugh at him, your sweet boy. The house can feel overrun with girls sometimes, even the cat is a girl, but Alex never seems to mind. He likes all the girlish things the girls like. Tea parties and dress-up, although, he did get noticeably a little more excited when the girls started kicking around a football. But then Alex just said, "Girls are better at football anyway." 

He's better at tea parties than football anyway. He doesn't even try to pretend to lose to the girls when they play 2 v. 1 with him. They are sneaky and tiny and like Pepper does, they wrap around and slide through his legs to kick into his goal. Meanwhile, he thrives at the tea parties, drinking whatever concoction the girls make, even if it tastes like plastic. You always pretend to sip but Alex is the real deal. Always has been.

"Did you miss me while I was gone?" He asks, leaning against the wall, trying to tempt you.

You smile, dropping the towel, leaving you naked in his view for five seconds before you toss a T-shirt over your head. "No, not really."

The T-shirt is red and he's like a bull as he charges toward you, picks you up, and lands both of you on the bed. You're giggling affectionately into the kiss and it's completely loved-up and lovely and you both love that but Alex and you clearly want more. You push him up, off of your lips. "Shut the door."

Sex with the kids can be challenging. Before you did it every time, every surface you could find. Now, you mostly do it at night, rarely in the morning because the girls are always up early. You can't do it every night. Sometimes you can tell the girls didn't fall asleep or you're tired or Alex passed out while you were in the shower. 

Despite the scheduling-sounding nature of things, sex still seems spontaneous. Like a random gust of wind felt upon the skin. Alex always makes things exciting and after doing it more times than you can count, it never bores. The predictability of it is what makes it so charged, so romantic, so sexual, so loving. You can tell by the thrust of his hips whether he's close or not. He can tell by the furrow of your brow whether he's hitting that spot in you or not. It has always felt right.

He's fast in his steps, locking the door, and pretty much launching himself back onto the bed. He covers you, completely all over you, kissing you, feeling you up. He reaches under your shirt, pushing it up to expose your boobs, but not taking it off. He grabs them, a fistful at first, then just the nipple. He kisses down your neck, over the collection of your shirt's fabric, onto the skin of your boobs, and then the areola, licking over the wrinkles of it before meeting the erected nipple.

There are times when you do devote time to foreplay. Alex loves it. You love it. Both ways. You both have always been reciprocal naturally. You never need to ask the other for more. In fact, more often you ask for less. Like...

"This feels really nice," you tell him, "but I'm tired and I know you're tired so just fuck me, okay?"

"Okay," he agrees, breathing heavily already. He stands to take his clothes off. You don't bother shedding the top. He can fondle your boobs just fine with it still on and it provides an emergency cover if one of the girls walks in.

Alex lays back on you intently, kissing you harshly. You reach down to hold his cock, pumping him a few times before his hand takes over and slides into you. The idea of it is quick but the pace is rocking, not fast, not slow, just right. You furrow your brows and arch up into him. He reaches into the space underneath the arch and holds you, completely skin-to-skin. He lays kisses on your neck in no particular pattern like he isn't even trying to turn you on more, he just wants to do it. 

You grip the back of his head's hair, clumps in your compressed grasp. "More," you urge, needing just a little more to tip over.

His mouth moves next to your ear, whispering, "Want me to fuck another baby into you?"

It makes you snort a laugh right in the middle of sex. You have to physically stop his hips from moving as you collect your breath. "What? Another set of twins?"

"Yeah. With my super sperm." He's jokingly bragged about that with you since you found out you were having twins. You corrected him and said it was your eggs that made the twins since they're fraternal. He said, "No, it was a really good load, I remember." It's always made you laugh.

"Twin boys now?" You ask.

He shrugs. "Or more girls? I don't mind."

Everything about him is calm, but there is sincerity in all of it. "Are we seriously talking about more kids while you're inside me?"

Alex makes small movements inside you. "Yeah, come on." He leans closer and closer to you. "We make cute kids. The girls are older. I know you want it."

You place your hands on his shoulders. "Right now I just want you so can we do that part before the 9-month part?"

He nods. "Cart before the horse."

You laugh and tug him down into your shoulder. You whisper into his ear as his hips begin to move harder and harder, "Fuck a baby into me."

Alex chuckles and kisses your jugular. He quickens, both of you feeling an ache for release conjuring inside you. He moves harder and pulls your hips to him. He's doing all the work, but he doesn't mind, he likes doing this for you, likes being good for you. That's all he wants to do.

"That feel good?" He has asked this almost every time you've had sex like, no matter what, even after doing this for years, he wants to make sure it's as good as the last time.

You hum in the affirmative, feeling too overwhelmed to talk clearly. Your grip around his neck tightens as you drag him closer down to you. He keeps thrusting into you hard, skin hitting skin sounding across the room. 

"So fucking tight," he groans into your ear. 

His pace is quick, erratic, and eager. His breath is heavy and filled with soft grunts. His hands are rough, squeezing on your hips. You know he's holding on for you but you want him to enjoy it too. It doesn't always have to be about you. "Let go," you tell him. 

But he's hot for it, not rejecting your request like you thought he would. "You want it?" He asks.

You nod, fluttering eyes.

"Tell me," he says, pounding deep.

You scrap your nails down his back soothingly. "I want it. Deep in me." He hums, requesting more without saying it. "Fill me up with your cum. Please."

Maybe it's your words, maybe it's how close he was, or maybe it's both, but he cums instantly after, deep inside you, filling you up. He groans and pants into your neck. He rests inside you, holding everything in, while he catches his breath. You comb your fingers through his hair, calming him.

He raises his head so he's looking down on you. "You okay?"

You softly smile, exhaustion hovering over you. "Yeah."

"You don't cum," he comments.

You shrug. "I got what I wanted."

Alex grunts. "God, you're gonna make me cum again."

You push him up, making him hiss at the sensitivity. "Don't," you command.

He pulls out slowly and before you can even say anything, he's got his fingers inside you, keeping all that cum in, making a mess on his finger. It takes you off guard, making you moan instantly. He's quick with everything, knowing you want to go to bed, hoping to release the tension and ease you into relaxation.

His two fingers shove in and out of you rapidly. He curls them just in the right spot, making you moan, "Fuck." His thumb grazes over your clit, just like how he knows to do it. It's messy, the whole thing is a mess, but it feels like the hottest thing ever, and soon your hips are unable to stay still and you're coming.

It's your turn to catch your breath and he's licking your shared cum off his hands. He makes a face. "I don't think I've ever tasted my own cum."

You reach out and grab his hand, taking the still-dirty finger into your mouth, and licking it clean. "You've made me taste both before."

He kisses your lips before getting off the bed to grab tissues. "Don't act like it was against your will. I recall you liking it."

You sigh, sitting up and fixing your shirt. "We're gonna have to change the sheets."

Alex hands you a few tissues and says, "I'll do it. You clean yourself up." You'll always accept him doing all the work.

*

It’s three in the morning when a tiny hand shakes Alex awake, and he opens his eyes to find Wren there holding her stuffed teddy bear against her chest, cheeks wet from crying. “I wet the bed.”

“Oh,” Alex says, while his heart rate settles. He looks around to get his bearings and finds you out of it to his right, curled up on your side. He blinks the last vestiges of sleep from his eyes as Wren sniffles miserably, and he pushes up to wipe her jaw dry. “Hey, it’s okay, baby. It just happens sometimes, alright?”

“But I'm not ‘posed to,” she croaks. “I’m supposed to be a big girl now. I’m sorry.”

“No, hey,” Alex kisses her forehead. “It’ll be fine, come on.”

She holds onto his hand and he leads her into the bathroom, running the water to warm and filling the tub with strawberry-scented bubbles. Once she’s in, he lets her play with her rubber ducks for a while to calm down. She splashes them and chews on their tails and presses their drawn-on smiles to his cheek as a kiss. "Muah," she says, and he loves her so much it hurts.

He runs a hand over her damp hair. “I’m gonna go fix your bed, okay? Just keep playing.”

Wren nods, so he leaves her with the door wide open and the light cascading into the hall. Strips her bed of the old sheets and carries them over to the wash. When he comes back, she’s resting her chin against the edge of the tub, waiting for him.

His head tilts, looking down at her big eyes on her little face. “Hey, Peanut.”

“Hi,” she says, timid. “Do you still love me?”

Alex frowns and sits down in front of her on the cold tile. “Why wouldn’t I still love you?”

“M’no good,” she whispers. “M’not small anymore, and I miss you all the time, and—”

“Alright, hey,” Alex cuts in gently, pushing her hair behind her ears to hold her face, all flushed chubby cheeks. He hates himself. Feels like he has made her feel this way. Made her feel unloved and he'll beat himself up for it every day. Never forgive himself for making her doubt his love. "I know I’ve been gone a lot, and I’m really sorry, but I miss you the whole time I’m away. All I wanna do is be here with you, okay? I promise. I love you,” he says, kissing her freckled nose and watching it crinkle up, “so much. I hope you know that.”

She nods, bites her lower lip, and chews. “You love mummy?”

“Yes,” Alex says. “Tons.”

“Is tons a lot?” She asks, and he notices her eyes flit over his shoulder, which gives him a pretty good idea of why she’s asking.

“It is,” he confirms, glancing behind him and finding you in the doorway, hair thrown up, wearing that ratty old red tee. You grin and lean against the door jamb, eyes soft. “The better question is: does mummy love daddy?”

You laugh. “Tons squared,” she promises. “Come on, it’s bedtime, baby.”

“Can I sleep with you?” Wren asks, anxious.

Alex kisses her cheek. “Of course,” he says and leans around her to pull the drain. You come over to help her dry off and Alex goes to grab her fresh pajamas. You both help her dress because she’s all sleepy from the warmth of the bath, and she’d get lost in her shirt if you weren’t around. Alex picks her up and carries her to their bed, laying her down between them so they can both hold her.

"You okay, honey?" You ask Wren, running your fingers through her hair, calming her like you do for him.

She nods, her eyes slowly closing, sleep taking her away from you.

Alex kisses her cheek lightly, not wanting to disturb her sleep. "Love you."

You repeat his action, kissing her baby skin cheek. "Me too." But she's already fallen asleep, exhausted from her little life.

You look across at Alex, his eyes cautiously looking over Wren. "Hey," you whisper to him to grab his attention. His gaze meets yours, his eyes solemn, but affectionate. "Love you."

He smiles because that's just what he needs. That's all he'll ever need. "Me too."

*

A hand pushes on your back somewhere around 4 in the morning. You turn around at the expected sight: Willow holding her stuffed teddy bear, thumb in her mouth, scared little eyes.

"What's wrong, baby?" You ask her, reaching out and smoothing back her messy hair.

"I had a night'are." Her voice wobbles. Alex and Wren are still sound asleep. You reach down to pick her up, laying her on your chest and hugging her to you, wanting to keep her safe from all the evil things awakening her.

"Everything's okay," you reassure.

"What's wrong?" You turn to see Alex, alert and worried rubbing his eyes.

"Nightmare."

Willow turns her head to look at her dad. "Oh," she says, "there's Wen. I was scared she wasn't where she was."

Alex reaches his arm over a sleeping Wren and rubs Willow's back, hushing her rapid heartbeat. "She's been in here. She got scared too but she's okay. She's sleeping now."

Willow keeps her voice low, understanding to keep quiet. "I went lookin' for her but she wasn't in her room."

"Why did you go to her room, honey? Why didn’t you come in here?" You ask.

"'Cause I always go there when I'm scared. Wen goes 'Everyting's okay' and then I know it will be 'cause she said so." She's so sweet, she hides it sometimes, doesn't like to give it away, she's careful with who she gives it to and you're sure nobody loves someone like Willow and Wren love each other. For that, Alex doesn't have to worry. He knows Willow and Wren will always look out for each other.

You kiss Willow's cheek and slide her carefully next to Wren. The bed is just big enough to fit you all but you have to hold steady to not tip off the bed. The girls are comfortable though and that's all that matters.

"We should sleep in here all the time," Willow says.

You and Alex both laugh quietly at your little girl. "Maybe," Alex says.

"Pep should be here too."

So, Alex goes and gets Pepper.

*

a/n: i hope the names are fine. i just tried to pick two twin-sounding names. whatever that means.

[thomas-jefferson-miku-binder]

I hate Mel Medarda discourse because she’s an insanely well-written character with a lot of depth, but people almost always have only two things to say about her: 1) evil girlboss or 2) never did anything wrong. both make me want to krill myself 🦐

In front of you, there’s a female character born of war who rejects the physical brutality of her family’s name and the regime she was born under. except said violence never really goes away because if it ever does leave, nothing else would remain

This character can and will reproduce the hatred she has always known, just in more palpable ways, ways where she’s allowed to look away — or even better, ways where she’s so distanced from the action itself that where she “looks” doesn’t even matter

It’s also so interesting to think that maybe Mel doesn’t dislike physical violence because it’s “bad” but simply because she does not excel at it The thought that if Mel was maybe stronger or a more skilled fighter, she would be just like her mother tickles my brain. yaaaas Although, to me, that's a more "what-if" scenario than the actual characterization Arcane deceipts

By the way, I do not think Mel is a monster. She clearly does try to be what she considers a "good" person, but the violence she’s always known sometimes escapes (just like in the Viktor scene above — she does not like to be disagreed with).

Sooo insane that she’s a diplomat/politician because yes. what other job in the world would allow her to exercise that repressed violence while also giving her the sense of duty—of goodness.

Mel is stuck at the scene of the execution form her childhood. All she does is repeat the same scenario in her head with different outcomes: sometimes one where she saves the prisoner, another where she doesn’t hesitate (that being the keyword here) to kill her

This reverberation of the violence she suffered is just her manner of coping with that traumatic scene. a way of lessening the pain without actually confronting its cause.

I feel like I need to clarify that no, I do not think Mel is “evil”. I don’t even think she is intentionally manipulative (most of the time), I think she handles people the only way she knows how to, which is probably one of the only reasons she survived Noxus at all (as, to how I see it, there's only a certain extent your House will guarantee your protection in Noxus).

I know the fandom talks a lot about Viktor and Jayce being idealistic, but I rarely see people mention how Mel is just as romantic. Jesus- that’s literally a huge source of conflict with her mother: Ambessa thinks Mel is naive, which to her means weakness, which to her is unacceptable.

I hate that Mel Medarda is forced to be subjected to fandom spaces, because, no, she is not a small bean. no, she’s not an evil girlboss.

Do I believe she is a good person? I think she tries to be (even if her notion of goodness is so heavily aligned with honor, too), and that tells me a lot more about her character than how successful she is at it

[caitlinsgirl]

Reader drunk texting caitlin

Summary: caitlin and the narrator are childhood friends. narrator joins coworkers on a night out despite not wanting to go.

Word count: 820ish

author's note: something quick i wrote while wasting time at work <3 thank you sm for requesting it's very inspiring

tags: alcohol, clubs, taylor swift

 A Rose by Any Other Name is a Scandal

            Another night, another boring night, another lame night surrounded by folks who could not care less about me. The loud speakers of the club project a bass that shake my bones. My third martini glass sits heavy in my hand as I stare into space. I wish to be anywhere but here. The high-pitched blabbering of the people from my work cut through the noise, but it still sounds like a lump of gibberish to me. I would rather spend my night with anyone but them. Well, maybe not anyone…

 

           How easy it is to agree to plans with people who are not remotely interested in anything I have to say in an important setting. As if showing up to the club in a pretty dress and getting hammered in front of these people would make them appreciate my contribution more when the workweek starts again on Monday. At least God has given me the brief relief that they appear more engrossed with whatever nonsense the other has to say, rather than remembering I tagged along and sit just a few feet away.

            I down the rest of my drink and get up from my seat to approach the bar. I’m sure another one would make this night a little easier for me to stomach. Just one more. The bartender notices me and his mouth moves, as if asking me a question. The noise makes it impossible for me to make out what his words are, but I nod in hopes that he is asking to make me another drink.

heyyy hows it going so far?

            My phone lights up with a message from one of my dearest girls, I mean friends, I mean she is a friend who is a girl… nothing inaccurate about that. On the speakers, the song ended and a familiar tune starts up loud as ever: It feels like a perfect night, to dress up like hipsters… Seriously. It's like the world is taunting me.

            they're playing ur song at this club

            My fourth drink in front of me appeared as if it was out of thin air. The retreating bartender appears like a vanishing magician from this angle. His latest act: fueling my future hangover. My stomach buzzes with butterflies and alcohol as I stare at her contact name on my phone: Catilin Elizabeth.

She had asked me to hang out with her earlier in the week, only it was after I had already made plans with these coworkers. I felt obligated to stick to my original commitment, despite heavily disliking my coworkers and greatly liking…

what song?

            I always felt I was too obvious around her. The media has recognized me as a friend who is constantly around Caitlin, the ordinary girl who attends every home game, and often attends away games. To her, the gleam in my eye registers as nothing more than the look of one of her oldest friends. To the observant fans on the internet, they recognize the almost life-long longing that I have yet to admit to myself. It started when we both bonded over our shared love for Taylor Swift as young girls. Over a decade, I sent her links and lyrics of my favorite songs that reminded me of her. My excuse: she likes these songs, too.

            wise men once said wild winds r death to teh candle

            a rose by any otherrrr name is a scandal

            My fingers poured out the words from the latest song that has been on my mind. It feels impossible to admit the way I feel, not to her, not to myself. Caitlin goes through enough scrutiny in the media. If I said what was in my heart out loud, it could end really, really, really badly. Earth-shatteringly horrible. If we had a falling out and the world found out one of her life-long friends stopped showing up to her games, they would run with the worst assumptions to paint her in an evil light, like they always have.

theres no way theyre playing that one in the club rn 🤣

            I started giggling into my cup at the sight of her message, like a crazy woman standing on the corner of a street. The alcohol causes my vision to darken in this already-dim establishment. Electricity runs up and down my stomach and I cannot tell if it is from the martinis or from her.

            shes the albatrossssss 🦅she is here to destroy you

okay, do u want me to pick u up now?

            I looked back at my coworkers, who disappeared into non-existence. Are they seriously bar hopping, without even asking me if I wanted to tag along? If I had a ride? If I felt okay being left alone here?

            they lef tme alone here:(

fucking morons

i'm on my way

            Neither of us can admit the feelings in our hearts to ourselves, let alone to each other. But I cherish the quiet understanding intertwined in her knee-jerk reaction to drop everything and come save me.

thank u my pretty lady

[bitterbutblue]

our times

turns out, you're the fortune i want to keep most ☆ multi x reader

~ this is a multi x reader!! hatssun was talking about writing angst and i really said omg my turn! sorry hatssun ur idea was so good and it works so well w yukong and feixiao... ill credit u so hard bro i swear. WVERYONE BE PREPARED FOR WHEN THINK FAST DROPS🙏🙏🙏

UMM ALSO THE FEIXIAO ONE IS SOLONG FOR NO REASON LOTS OF DIALOGUE SORRYYYYY

characters: feixiao, yukong, ruan mei

 song: 小幸運 - Hebe Tian ~

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────

i was too busy chasing shooting stars in the sky ☆ feixiao

The day Saran ran away, something in you ran with her. The day Saran ran away, you didn't know if you would ever see her face break into a smile again, or if you would see her hanging the next day. The trace of her slowly faded with time, but even when you finally had the guts to bolt for it she was still the only thing on your mind. That day, you didn't mind if you died running, because it would've been better than staying there but alive. You didn't mind if you died running, because you died with her on your mind.

God knows how many decades had passed since the Luofu took you in. You only count days in how much your heart ached for her. Eventually it dulls down, it goes from a sharp thud to a muted nudge every time you see a dash of silver hair in the crowd or a sharp but soft smile on Jing Yuan's lips. You've heard of how far she had gotten, and you wished it didn't hurt so much to hear about it. You forced yourself to forget about her, because you couldn't keep living every day haunted by her. You were finally able to live your days how you wanted to, even if it meant without her by your side.

"Yukong, can you run these by the general for me?"

You were absentmindedly sitting at your desk, filling in whatever forms the general had sent to you about all the legality things they had to sort out for the Wardance. You spin your pen, signing your name down and ticking the last of the boxes. You huffed at the lack of response from the woman who should be sitting across from you.

"Yukong?"

"She's not here."

You look up at the sound of the unfamiliar voice, and the world decides to take a break for a moment. In that small fraction of a second you feel yourself going back in time for decades until you are standing face to face with the young foxian, bruised and battered with an undying flame in her eyes. She is now much taller, her face pale but not the sickly kind that she harboured before. Her eyebags faded, hair flowing as if it had been just washed- a sight you never saw before in those camps.

She looked healthy, she had everything she wanted.

So why did she look like she was about to break down in front of you?

It wasn't fair.

"Saran?"

She only nods, standing with her arms by her side like a fool who doesn't know how to speak. She clears her throat, moving to cross her arms so she looked less awkward standing in front of you.

She wears clean clothes, she smells of petals.

Her scent of blood long faded, but you feel the pain behind her stance.

"How have you been?" Is all she asks as she eyes your desk warily, as if not knowing how to approach the conversation.

"Well. You?"

"Good enough."

Your old banter had long faded now, your previous ability to make each other laugh despite knowing the imminent death that looms over you two every day.

"Neergul died."

"I know."

"I'm sorry."

It's like talking to a wall, or to just a mirrored version of yourself with how either of you refuse to look at each other.

"I never knew if you died or not until I came here."

Your shaky voice finally cuts the tension that has been simmering for far too long. She swallows, looking up and you know she is holding back tears because she has only ever looked up when the night sky is open and she can see the stars that granted her hope.

"I found out you became general. I was happy for you."

She says nothing.

"Why didn't you reach out?"

The edge to your voice has her breath knocked out of her lungs for a second as she tries to formulate an answer. She tries to weave incoherent thoughts and jumbles of emotions into a sentence and it's much harder to be done than she realised.

"I couldn't."

Of course she couldn't. Why would she admit to you how much of a coward she was? Knowing she had abandoned you after kissing you goodnight that evening.

"Why?"

But you want answers. It's not every day your presumed dead lover comes back to see you after years and years of crying yourself to sleep and hoping that in another future you could be in her arms without having to fear for your life.

"I was scared."

The general cannot be scared, or show any signs of fear in any situation- especially emotional situations where they need to stay calm so that people can feel secure around her but right now it all falls apart.

"Of who?"

"You."

"Why?"

You really did not like to raise your voice but you couldn't help it- she infuriates you. From the moment she flooded your heart you realised why love and hate go hand in hand because you hate that you love her.

"Why now?"

"I don't know."

Is all she manages to stutter out after an incredulous minute of silence and you just sigh.

"Why didn't you come find me?"

Her question has you going speechless now.

You were a hypocrite.

"I don't know."

She just nods with an unreadable expression on her face.

"I don't regret what I did that night."

You squeeze your now-fisted hand tight, taking a deep breath in to try to not only steady your voice but calm your racing heart that threatens to beat so hard it shatters in your chest.

"But why? Why make me love you for decades if you never planned to return?"

"I wanted to return. I always did."

Her words come out much more rushed than she intended it to come out. You feel your world shatter in that moment as you speak your next words.

"You never moved on?"

She steps closer.

"I dreamt about you every night. Under the sea of the shooting stars."

You shake your head, quickly wiping away at your own tears and she has to take a sharp breath in so her tears don't fall.

"Don't say that." You whisper "We can't. Please."

She looks at you, more intensely than ever as her voice quivers.

"Why?"

You shake your head.

"It'll only hold us back."

You still adorn matching scars from the torture you both had gone through in those camps. You love her, but she also left you.

"We can't." Is all you say.

She turns around and you want to pull her into your arms, you want her to be able to look at you but from that moment on, the look on her face as you showed her your soulmate would be the face you see every night you close your eyes.

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somewhere in the sky i could not see, was you ☆ yukong

The evening Caiyi died in her arms, Yukong vowed to never see the skies again. That was the same evening you went missing, the same evening she breaks down because how can she lose two of what she loved most in her life within the blink of an eye? The reason for her to wake up every morning, the reason she smiled even through the roughest of the days- now faded into nothing but memory and a distant bitter taste in her mouth.

You were not presumed dead, only missing. The false sense of hope had Yukong staying at her desk for hours every day, going through files and files, records upon records to try and maybe find some trace of you somewhere but after years of searching she finally gave up. She had to care for Qingni for Caiyi, she had to keep loving you because if she doesn't then she feels like she's lost herself.

It was the day Qingni flew to the skies when she finally looked up once more. She looks to the planes to see her daughter flying the same path that doomed her from wanting to live but the sky was the reason she had the two people who made life worth living. It was that day a plane crashed and Yukong felt the familiar, sickening feeling from decades ago as she runs to the sight. She's panicked, flustered, heart racing and feeling like throwing up as she pushes past crowds amongst crowds-

She doesn't know if she should scream or sigh in relief when they pull the lifeless-looking figure out of the starskiff. The model was old, the same she used in the war where she lost....

You. The figure they pulled out was you and she feels like she's going to be sick. She runs up to them, asking if you're okay and the medics are telling her to back off but she needs to know. She puts her head down, ear against your chest and almost sobs when she hears your heart thud weakly. It's so soft she really could've missed it but she hears it.

"Oh baby..."

She whispers as she cradles your head on her lap.

She sits by your side in the hospital until you wake up. She doesn't move, doesn't eat or drink or anything unless Qingni drags her to the bathroom or to the cafeteria. She holds your hand weakly, squeezing it every once in a while to see if you'd respond.

A cough jolts her awake and she quickly scans the dark, dimly lit room to find you- blinking weakly as you scan the room wearily.

"Oh, oh my god."

She quickly gets off her chair, rushing by your side.

"Are you okay? How are you feeling? Nurse-"

"Yukong."

She never thought she'd hear her name fall from your lips, to hear her name mumbled out so softly and hoarsely again.

"I'm here, I'm right here."

You don't say anything as you close your eyes, taking in a deep but pained breath as you close your eyes. She can feel her hands go cold, trembling violently as she tries to calm herself down. Her fingertips feel like they've been dipped in ice water and her throat feels like its closing up violently.

"You're here."

Yukong couldn't help the sob that escapes her lips at your words.

"Yes, yes baby. I'm right here."

The tears are already falling before she can even bother trying to control them, and she can already feel herself slipping away when you smile softly at her because she had always been a fool for you. She put the whole world down for you and she would lift it up for you if you needed it to be lifted again.

"I- I came back."

"You did, you did baby, you're back." She whispers, finally moving to take your hand in hers. You feel so much smaller, your hand much rougher than it used to be and when she finally takes in how scarred you are she feels like breaking down.

"Wanted to see you..." you whisper weakly, voice shaking as you look directly into her eyes.

Your eyes were nothing like the eyes she used to look at every night before she drifted off to sleep. Now they were hollow, every trace of who you once were has faded into the past that only resides through her dreams.

You were back, but you'd never really be back.

She just squeezes your hand gently as she tells herself it's okay, telling herself that you're physically here and you were somehow still alive and that's all she's been praying for since the day you fell.

So why does it hurt so much?

If all she's ever wanted was to have you back in her arms, why does it hurt so much to have you back now? Looking at her with a smile that no longer meets your eyes and a sense of coldness washing over her like a suffocating blanket every time she sees you.

She still loves you.

She still loves you and it hurts that her lover has died, reincarnated into a broken version of who she once loved. But she doesn't care. She will learn to live with the cold if it means being able to hold you once more. She would spend as long as she needs, puzzling every piece of you back together until you are able to smile at her without the history of all that happened haunting your every waking move.

She vowed, from that moment on, she'd start looking at the sky again because the sky brought you back. Every evening she stares up at the moon, watching it dim the lights to another day, and whisper her gratefulness to have her lover back. Every evening, she brings you out to look at the moon, the same moon you looked at during the two decades apart where the only thing you had together was the moon draped in the sky that she was too scared to look at.

"I love you."

You just lean your head against her chest.

You just listen to her heartbeat, and with each thud the cracks in your body begin to renew themselves- you would never be who you were, but you would always love her.

"I love you too."

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every scene was you ☆ ruan mei

The day she left, she vanished. No note, no text, nothing. Ruan Mei had become nothing but a shadow on earth when she decided to leave your house and you questioned if it was even worth searching for her at that point.

She had always been obsessed with aeonhood, aeons, power- whatever. You knew she was. Yet you still loved her for it, and she always promised you that one day you two would be able to love each other for eternity, for as long as you wanted to and until time itself faded into nothing but what was a mere idea of the past. She held you close that evening when she promised you, your head resting on her chest as she wrapped her arms around you.

A week later, she vanishes.

Lab empty, notes packed away, it was like as if your house had gone back in time to before you met her with how empty it all was. You called her number, texted her phone, contacted everyone she knew which was not a lot but you still tried because you loved her.

The day she revealed herself as the 81st member of the genius society, you felt your entire being shatter into pieces of who it once was. That was why she left you. Ultimately, Ruan Mei was selfish, and she had always been a selfish person.

You were foolish for loving her.

But you couldn't stop.

By the time you finally encountered her again, your history had become just a speck of dust in her mind but it was still your reason for hurt. It was still the reason why getting out of bed was a bit harder and why looking in the mirror hurt just a bit more than it should.

"Oh, it's you."

Her monotonous voice has you wanting to squeeze her throat, strangle her until she can't speak but you don't move. You stare at her, her lack of reaction, her poker face and you just swallow.

"How are you?"

That was the only sentence you could manage out and if you looked closely enough, you could see her eye twitch slightly as her throat tightens- her composure begins breaking at the sound of your voice.

"Well." She nods. She sounds too composed to you despite all the pain she is desperately trying to hide. She hates you for making her feel this way. She hates how weak she feels when you make that face at her, when your eyes widen and your mouth tightens into a line, body tense and breathing shallow. "You?"

She notices how your body tenses even more at that question, how your eyebrows begin to furrow as your face grows pink from anger.

"Not very good."

"Oh."

Her response had you fuming even more. How she was so careless and thoughtless towards you and how you felt drove you off the walls. She doesn't give a shit about you, why would she even ask?

Because you don't see the guilt that eats away at her heart every night as she stares at the photo of you that she has on her bedside table.

"Congratulations. You did it. Genius society."

It came out bitter and harsh, and Ruan Mei doesn't flinch but she feels this twist in her gut that's too unfamiliar and too painful for her to fully register. She doesn't understand this feeling. She wants to, because she wants to know how to stop it.

"Thank you."

You scoff at her response, physically unable to stop yourself from rolling your eyes as you stepped closer to her, jabbing a finger into her chest.

"You're a fucking bitch."

She hates how her heart leapt at the feeling of your touch, she hates how your words actually manage to hurt her when it really shouldn't be affecting her at all. She's been called so much worse, so why does this, coming from you, hurt so much?

"Is this because I left?"

How can she be so dense?

"You left without saying a word! You just disappeared off the face of the earth, I don't hear from you saying where you are. I don't know what happened, I thought I did something wrong, but no- I remember who you are. A narcissistic bitch who only cares about herself."

The last part hurt more than it should've.

"I don't only care about myself."

You can't help but falter at how soft her voice suddenly goes as she looks down, not making eye contact as she shifts her bodyweight from foot to foot.

"I really cared for you."

Those words shouldn't affect you. You should've moved on from what happened almost twenty years ago now but you can't. You just stare at her and you hate how you feel tears start to form in your eyes as you blink violently, trying to hold it back.

"Don't say that to me."

She goes silent.

"I hate you."

She looks down and you don't see the tears that well up in her eyes.

"I really hope you succeed. I hope you get everything you've ever wanted."

She doesn't even get to see your face for the last time, because by the time she finally gets the courage to look up you were already gone. Your last words to her haunt her every time she begins her studies, or every time she tries to focus on figuring out creating a new life species. She knows you didn't mean it, yet she can't help but want you to notice her just one last time.

Maybe this time, she could fulfil her long broken promise to you.

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@44rtem idk ifthis is the ruan mei content u wanted... but here u go <3

[gojo-licious]

The Big Bad Wolf?!

Summary: Satoru is a wolf hybrid and started working for your department where only prey animal hybrids work. What could possibly go wrong? It’s not like he has a crush on you, his boss who just so happens to be a sheep.

Warnings: 18+, mdni, fem! reader, afab reader, hybrids, reader is a sheep-hybrid, Satoru is a wolf-hybrid, reader goes into heat, sub-ish! Satoru, bondage (Satoru gets his hands tied up), breeding kink, pet names (baby, sweetheart), unprotected, p in v

a/n: I read "I'm a Wolf, but by Boss is a Sheep" and got inspired to put my own twist on it!

"I'm sorry Satoru-kun, but we need you to work overtime today. But I promise it’s the last time this month!“ you say empathetically, understanding that he probably wants to go home on time.

The deadline for the project your department has been working on is moving closer, much faster than anticipated. Most of the work has been already finished, but the draft Satoru sent in needs to be refined before tomorrow's meeting.

"Oh! It’s okay. I will finish my work as fast as you can and then I can drop you off at the station." Satoru replies without showing a hint of sadness or any tiredness. In fact he looks excited to spend more time at the office. Especially since it’s just the two of you left on the floor, everyone else already left.

"I'm still very sorry, Satoru-kun. I know you were excited to head home early today. You did say that one of the games you play is releasing a new DLC today. I will buy you dinner tomorrow to make it up to you, is that okay?“ you reach to ruffle his hair affectionately in an attempt to convey that you truly feel apologetic.

Satoru's ears perk up. The wolf-like ears on the top of his head stand up and his tail starts to swoosh back and forth like that of an excited puppy. Dinner? Alone with you? That’s the closest to a date he has ever had! "Of course!“ he states a little too enthusiastically. "I mean- I mean, yes, that would be lovely!"

His eagerness is delightful and elicits a giggle out of you. "Okay. I will make a reservation for us. Now, how about we both finish our work and head home, hm?" you lightly scratch behind his ears affectionately.

Since Satoru is the only predator-animal-hybrid in your department. At first it seemed to be a hurdle, since the other members of the department wanted to keep their distance. It is a little nerve-wrecking to have a predator so close at all times when one isn’t used to it. But all the worry turned out to be for nothing. Satoru is a delight to work with. He is always eager to help, very gentle with everyone and, most of all, understanding of the difficulties in predator and prey interactions. And a well-built man who can carry all the heavy things is always a plus.

"Okay Boss!" Satoru's tail keeps wagging in excitement and hearts form in his eyes as he watches you leave to your office. He lets out little whimpers at the loss of your touch but makes sure that you don’t hear how pathetic he is being.

The only sound that Satoru can hear is the air conditioning cooling the office air, providing a comfortable work environment. He honestly just wants to go home and play games, but for you, he would willingly spend a few more hours here. And the thought of walking you to the station and talking to you just sweetens the deal even more. His games could wait.

The typing on his keyboard speeds up as he understands what improvements need to be made. The presentation at tomorrow's meeting will be easy to handle for you, if he finishes up quickly.

The clock ticks on as the sky turns darker and the streetlights outside of the office window turn on. Satoru sends the final draft to you and stands up to stretch his aching back from all the hours of sitting. He packs up his bag and carries his cacao brown suit jacket on his arm as he gracefully maneuvers through the halls.

As he stands in front of the door to your office, he takes a deep breath to gather his composure and courage. Satoru looks confident and dashingly handsome as he stands in the hall, but internally he is freaking out. His crush on his superior messes with his head to the point where he stumbled over his words and, in the worst-case scenario, can’t even form a coherent sentence.

The knock on your door goes unanswered, which makes Satoru nervous. You always answer with a small come in or come to open the door yourself, but right now there is no sign of you. He raises his hand to knock on your door again, but he hears a loud thud. Satoru freezes. Are his ears messing with him?

His worry gets the best of him and he reaches for the doorknob. "I'm coming in!“ he lets you know and swings the door open. The first thing he notices is that he smells something strong. It’s your scent, but somehow stronger and more alluring. It makes his ears ring and nose twitch. The second is your face covered in a light sweat. Your hands are harshly gripping the mahogany desk as you breathe unevenly.

All the symptoms only have one obvious cause. You are in heat! This is bad. "F-fuck! W-what should I do?" Satoru asks out loud. He doesn’t know how to help a sheep who has gone into heat.

"Satoru-kun~" you whine out to him as you stand on your wobbly legs with most of your weight being supported by the desk. You look good enough to eat! No, bad Satoru. He needs to do something. "Come here~" you call him over to you.

Satoru is frozen in place. What should he do? If he gets any closer, he will have a hard time helping you. His brain is already malfunctioning. Your pencil skirt is hugging your hips so deliciously and you’re also wearing a turtleneck! It has been on his mind all day.

You walk towards him, but stumble because of the feverish symptoms from your heat. Satoru drops his bag along with his suit jacket and hurries to catch you in his arms. Your sweet scent envelops him completely. There is no way he is making it out of here without developing an even more crazed obsession with you.

Right now, Satoru feels like the prey. You yank him down by his tie and push your body weight onto him for support. "Satoru-kun, can I kiss you?" you manage to ask while looking up at him with a barely functioning mind. Your lips ghost over his.

"Are… are you sure? This is your heat talking. We need to call someone!“ Satoru panics at the thought of doing something he might regret and ruin your relationship with him forever! He can’t let that happen.

You, on the other hand, shut the door behind Satoru and push him up against it. Satoru closes his eyes in surprise and feels terrified that if he sees you up close like this, he will lose his mind.

"Toru-kun~ I like you. This isn’t only the heat. I like you a lot, I promise." you say earnestly.

The breathlessness in your voice eggs Satoru on as he gains a little more courage. "Really?" he asks as he peeks down at you with barely opened eyes. His tail starts to swish back and forth, giving away his true feelings.

"Hmm…" you hum to support your previous statement. "I really like you.“ The confession is muted since you decided to bury your face in Satoru's chest in hopes of smelling his scent better. Not only does his woody scent ground you a little, you can also hear his heartbeat pick up. It’s pounding against his ribcage. Maybe he’s nervous, or maybe he’s about to have a heart attack. Satoru couldn’t tell either.

"Y-you like me?" he’s stunned. He leans closer to you and gently cups your face in one of his hands. "Say it again, please! I need to hear you say it again," he mutters as his body heats up. His face and ears turn red and he uses the back of his left hand to cover the lower part of his face.

He looks at you with such an intense gaze. Your hand lets go of the fabric of his shirt and wanders lower and lower until your fingertips graze his bulge. The sharp inhale makes your ears perk up. "Let me show you how much I like you, Satoru-kun." you coo at him.

His false, somewhat calm demeanor breaks into pieces as he lets out a loud whine. Satoru leans in to capture your soft lips against his own. The spit, tongue and heavy breathing get to his head. He feels dizzy. He feels overwhelmed.

He breaks away from the kiss, allowing the spit to connect your lips to his for a few seconds longer. The dashing smile that follows makes your pussy quiver. Satoru wipes the spit away with the back of his hand and goes to wipe the spit away from your lips using his thumb. But what he didn’t expect was for you to take his thumb into his mouth and suck on it. "Oh~ f-fuck-" he moans out loudly, not expecting your lips to have this kind of effect on him.

His reaction makes you smirk. He’s so cute! You take this opportunity to gently stroke his cock through his slacks. Up and down. Up and down and squeeze lightly.

"Fuck- fuck! Baby! Your hand f-feels soo~ good.“ Satoru throws his head back. His hair falls over his eyes. His prim and proper look exchanged for a disheveled mess.

He pulls at his tie with one hand. Meanwhile you release his thumb from your mouth with a loud 'pop'. "Can you help me, Toru?" you ask with faux innocence in your expression, trying to hide the carnivorous look in your eyes. If only he knew you wanted to swallow him whole.

All Satoru can do is nod dumbly and let you strip him off of his clothes. The belt falls to the floor along with his slacks, boxers and shirt. The tie is repurposed by you, into a make-soft bondage. His hands are tied snuggly behind him as you push him to take a seat on the sofa in your office.

Satoru’s eyes a shining brightly under the fluorescent light. He looks like a puppy more than a wolf, with his ears pressed to his head. On the other hand, he never expected you to be the predator everyone should have been worried about in your department. A real wolf in sheep’s clothing.

"I wanna fuck you soo bad, Toru." you run a nail down his chest, teasing him. "I want to ride you and you can suck on my nípples, okay?" You throw your unbuttoned blouse to the floor, followed by your bra. Satoru’s eyes stay glued to your tits as they jiggle while you try to shimmy your way out of your pencil skirt. His mouth opens involuntarily, letting a small moan escape and hoping you will let him latch on to one. Tempting you to do so.

His reaction coaxes a giggle out of you. He’s so eager. In a way, seducing you without even trying to. "I-I want- no need your tits in my mouth. Please, please, please- I need it so bad!" he sounds delirious. So desperate to bring you any kind of pleasure.

„Like this?“ you ask teasingly as you straddle him and shove his head into your chest.

Satoru hums in appreciation and lets his eyes roll to the back of his head.

"Oh~" you sigh out in pleasure as you start to move your hips against his. Your clit bumping into his bulge repeatedly. "Yeah… such a good boy~" you coo out. „but I need more. I wish you could feel how wet I am." your grinding comes to a halt. "Actually, you can! Silly me. Here, feel.“ you slowly slip his tip in, not giving him a second to adjust to your warmth as you slide him in completely.

"F-fuck! Baby, you shouldn’t have, I‘m gonna- cum!" Satoru cums immediately. His face is bright red from embarrassment. How could this happen! He’s going to die from how embarrassing this is. Now you are going to think he can only pump once and can’t bring you any kind of pleasu- Huh?! Are you giggling? "Baby, I’m so sorry, so sorry! Nnngh- fuuuck. Wait- d-don‘t move so fast, I just came!" he rambled desperately, trying to gain some kind of control over the situation. Are you really going to overstimulate him?

"S'goood. I'm not going to last long! You need to go deeper. I want your babies! You have t- to fill me up good." You stammer out in a horny haze. It’s clear to Satoru that your heat has hit you full force.

You place your feet next to his thighs to get a better angle. This position also makes it easier for you to ride Satoru's cock like a dildo. The mixture of Satoru's cum and your slick is pooling on the sofa, but there is no sign that you are stopping anytime soon.

Both of your moans fill the room along with the wet squelching 'plap' 'plap' 'plap'.

Satoru leans his head back and allows the drool to leak from the corner of his mouth. „Ugh- I'm… baby! Sweetheart, no- not again! Please cum with me, I don’t want to do it alone. Cum, cum, cum!" he lets out a whimper followed by a loud groan that sends shockwaves through your body.

You let your own orgasm wash over you as you continue to grind against him and milk his cock of every drop. You take the opportunity to lick the drool off from the corner of his mouth that had already wandered down to his sharp jaw.

"F-fuck baby.“ he groans seductively. "You wanna go to my place so I can fuck you good? Don’t wanna let my girl do all the work, especially since she wants my babies soo bad." he teases you for your earlier comment.

"Only of you wear your glasses." you tease back with a smile smirk on your face.

"Only if I get to play with your little horns." he retorts as you loosen the tie, freeing his hands. They quickly find their way to your waist and he envelops your lips in a kiss. One of his hands reaches for your horns as he lightly races them and in turn makes you shiver from how sensitive they are.

[factual-fantasy]

27 Asks! Thank you! :}} ✏️

@unpopularartist14

I don't ever number my panels or strive for a specific number- the only limitation I keep in mind is keeping the comic under 30 canvases. But that's only because of Tumblr's stupid new image limit. Before that crapdate I would make a comic with as many canvases/panels as I wanted.

And idk what you mean by overwhelming- I put between 1-6 drawings on one canvas, it just depends on the comic and what i need from that scene :0

Also idk what a comic chapter is- and I don't believe myself to be the best with dialogue 😅 I just slap comics together and keep adjusting it until it feels right..

Sorry, I'm sure these were not helpful answers. I never claimed to be good at explaining how I do things. Plus I'm in a pretty bad headspace so I'm sure that's not helping me..😓

I'm self taught, so its hard to explain how I learned anything or to teach it to others- "I just.. do it." "I just change it until it feels right." "I just draw it. How?.. idk I just.. draw it..?"

I hope you can find another artist to help you. Unless the questions get very specific- I'm afraid I can offer no better answers. <:(

@ayliminum

Ngl, I have no idea when I'm gonna open it again. My server has gotten enough members that if it gets any bigger, I'm gonna need a mod to help me monitor it. But I don't have anyone I trust/feel comfortable enough/know well enough- to add as a mod. And considering how horrible my mental and physical health has been.. I haven't wanted to even deal with it anyways.

Right now my server is manageable at its size. So I just closed it off to new members and put "get a server mod/reopen the server" on the list of millions of things I need to do once I crawl out of this health deteriorating pit.💀

AWWWW!!! WORGI!! COLF!!💞💞

@h31fd3ad

No way XDDD

@cicutagreninja

For Bonnie, he is an animatronic designed to handle small groups at a time and have 1 on 1 interactions. But in the case where Freddy is decommissioned, he takes Freddy's place as the star. So he constantly has huge crowds swarming all around him..

As a result, Bonnie is basically constantly overwhelmed. And any second that he has to himself, he just goes completely stone faced and quiet. Kind of to mentally take a break and recharge from all the interactions..

As for Foxy, he always looks so solemn in that AU because his heart just aches for his friends.. He misses Chica and Freddy.. He can see how horrible Bonnie, Roxy and Monty are feeling.. he wishes he could help them all.. but there's nothing he can do...

@neo-metalscottic

AAAAAA Thank you! :DDD I wonder how long it'll take me to get to 30K.. 🤔

Also as for terraria- I haven't fought any of the bosses on my own and I'm sure I haven't seen all the biomes 💀 But so far I like the jungle biome and the wall of flesh is a cool concept :00

I'm glad to hear you've liked my Octonauts stuff! :)) As for what attacked Calico Jack, it was supposed to be a sea monster that could be mistaken for a gator :0

I also had no back story in mind for how he got the scar on his eye <:0 and idk if he'd be willing to share the story.. it depends on how he got it! <:/

Aww.. poor Emmet.. man. I am not looking forward to experiencing that myself.

@holly-opal

I've seen the movie trailer for it! Beyond that I know nothing about it <:0

@sussyhahag

Its more of a reverse egg yolk, but I see what you mean! XDD

@captain-skyler1987

My week has been rough.😔funny picture though XD

(Referencing this post)

WAHGG THANK YOU!! :DDD

Also thankfully no- if Wally ever got close to being that tired he'd sit down somewhere. Maybe even accidentally take a nap-

@pink088

Idk if its supposed to hurt after the initial piercing- make sure you're taking care of the holes! <:0

(Referencing this post)

AAAA YES ITS EXCITING AND A LITTLE STRESSFUL! XDD

@ask-observer-ron

@cat7890

I haven't been feeling well, my health it pretty bad.. but thank you! I'm glad to hear you like my artwork! :)))

@beryl-shade

I haven't seen it, is it good? :0 Perhaps I should watch 8-Bitryans video on it..🤔

@birodactyloftheblog

WAAHHGHGH THANK YOU SO MUCH!!! :DDD

Maybe someday! :00

@enbydemirainbowbigfoot

No need to apologize! I take it as a big compliment! Thank you! :)))

@wolfie-777

Aw! Cute wolf! :)

Ugh.. that's always such a shame to hear.. but hey thanks for telling me 👍

@antikittysocial

Aw,, that's so sad.. <:( poor Shellington..

@briandraws

My head is more of a liquid. If you took a hair dryer to it I'd go splat XDD

I imagine the mama Emboar got pregnant and then the father dipped. Just like real boar fathers do 💀

I've never heard of it.. is that a show about the Daycare attendant..? :0

I do not know what that is.. sorry! <:(

(Referencing this post)

<XD It was certainly a show. I should go back and watch the whole thing in order sometime-

[signanothername]

So, I know you've admitted to never reading For the Forgotten Ones, but I will note it has some very fanon Nightmare + MTT. And, so, it made me wonder;

the concept is just Ink being stopping from destroying his own SOUL by Nightmare, who takes him in. Ink ends up as a healer, before eventually discovering that he's Protector of Creation. Loosest way to describe the plot as possible. Could go more in detail if you'd ever like. BUT BACK TO THE THING I WAS WONDERING!!!!!!!!

How would that go with your version of Nightmare and the gang? With Nightmare finding the small, skeleton (small enough to be a kid), who has almost no knowledge of how the word works, and stubbornly refuses to ever fight or hurt or destroy, to the point he learns green magic, and barely anything else (he only learns his own magic aside from green), and Ink wants them all to be okay at the end of the day. How would that go with him? Even more so, what about MTT? In the story, Horror's the most chill with Ink, they're vibing. Dust/Murder is kinda vibing with Ink, arguably the two closest to Ink in the beginning. Killer is.....it takes a good minute for him to warm up to this one(Will say, at some point Ink falls into another AU o accident when opening a portal for the first time, nearly dies, is soaking wet ad scared, and he's given one of MTT's jackets, AND IT GOES DOWN TO HIS KNEES, I NEED YOU TO PICTURE THIS PLEASE....it was Killer's). By the end they're found family, but I really love your version of everyone, and I started rereading ftfo, when I wondered how different this could be if it were a DIFFERENT multiverse, a.k.a., your iteration?

Oh it’s definitely extremely different chhchc

I’m sorry to say that my multiverse isn’t much of a merciful one hchchchchc (I wouldn’t say my multiverse is a sad one, but it’s certainly a bittersweet one)

Biggest difference? Nightmare won’t even think of getting Ink under him or get him inside his castle to begin with

To Nightmare, That’s just another random Sans in this vastly wide multiverse, he already got 3, he doesn’t need another, sure, the circumstances of this particular Sans are interesting to say the least, but by that point, there’s nothing Ink could offer Nightmare at all except for his misery and negativity, but again, he already got 3 negativity meals that continuously feed him anyway, and this entire place is nothing but white void, so Nightmare has nothing interesting to be offered, there is literally no reason Nightmare would feel like he needs to change his routine to include a random skeleton who’s best they ever done is sit down and sulk

And hey, if being in this white void makes them miserable then who’s Nightmare to stop them from being miserable? :)

He’ll come in, take one look at them and their Au, get out, simple as that, and even if this random Sans had something to offer, Nightmare would simply settle for making a deal and leaving them there (no open positions for another member in his gang)

So basically the entire plot of the fic won’t even happen with my Nightmare, the fic is just gonna be reduced to a oneshot wheeze gchchcch

But for the sake of this ask, let’s imagine that my Nightmare did actually take Ink in, let’s explore how that would go

Another big difference? It’s Killer that’s gonna “warm up” to Ink first, (ngl, never understood the notion of Killer being the aggressive one cchhcch), i put “warm up” in quotes cause in reality it’s less warming up and more like, “wow! A change of pace? Something new? Interesting gotta squeeze every info outta them and maybe even manipulate them to suit me and convenient me while i’m at it”

Killer is social in nature, and unless Ink somehow reminds him of his own misary, there’s no reason Killer would pass up the opportunity to see how this new guy ticks, he’d study Ink like an ant, dissect them in his mind even, i mean, Nightmare getting someone new? He knows Nightmare isn’t one who likes change in his routine so what’s the new guy got that actually caught Nightmare’s interest this much?

All that aside, Killer is actually extremely docile to anyone as long as they don’t push him or force something upon him, and even when pushed, Killer is surprisingly patient and would simply let them get it out of their system all while making it clear he wants to be left alone until he loses that patience, so unless Ink somehow genuinely and actively pushes Killer’s buttons, he’ll never get on Killer’s nerves/bad side, Killer would simply treat Ink like he treats anyone, no genuine connection, just another thing (not person) to study and analyze

If Killer were to attack Ink in any way, it’s less aggression, and more “let’s see what this guy can do” just a quick test for his new lab rat

Killer wouldn’t form any genuine emotional connection with Ink, to Killer, Ink is just another toy Nightmare wanted to get for himself, and that’s talking about Stage 2, Stage 1 is… outta commission, I don’t think Ink would truly have the chance to meet Stage 1 Killer, meeting Stage 3 is a big possibility, but let’s hope Ink doesn’t have to cause I don’t think Ink would know how to deal with him

Murder and Horror are a different story, Horror wouldn’t want anything to do with the new guy, he already got a ton to deal with, he’s not interested to add another problem to his pile of problems, I wouldn’t say Horror would be aggressive, more passive aggressive, Horror is the old tired guy™ in the group, he’s got a splitting headache most of the time, a bitchy boss, hunger eating away at him and a Killer he would like to choke sometimes, he isn’t really in the mood to make friends

But as long as Ink doesn’t bother him, Horror would simply just co-exist with them, and even answer their questions or converse with them, but all in a “hurry up i want a nap” attitude

Horror has the capacity to warm up to Ink, but it’ll be a long slow journey till there, and Ink would have to do all the work cause Horror sure as hell won’t be the one trying to form a connection with him

Murder is a bit on the aggressive side, but not too much, just enough to make it very clear he isn’t up for making friends either, a bit of a cold shoulder if you will, but generally, Murder would just keep his distance, not trusting Ink too much, a bit paranoid about who he might be and why Nightmare brought them in considering they don’t look like they’d fit in their band of misfits at all

Still, Murder would warm up to Ink eventually if he truly realizes that Ink isn’t really that much of a bad guy, just another lost unfortunate soul that had miserable luck in life that Nightmare found them first

I’d say Murder is the one that might form a friendship with Ink, a twisted form of friendship where it’s “you’re now tolerable and so i might lend a hand here and there but every man for himself”, definitely not a rose filled friendship where it’s all rainbows, but a friendship nonetheless

But still, Murder is kinda the opposite to Killer, Killer is docile, Murder is hostile, so if Ink were to be hurt by one if the MTT first, it’s most likely Murder’s doing

But in general, it’s Killer that’s gonna help Ink “catch up” and get up to date on how things go around the castle and in general, it’s pretty much his job as he’s Nightmare’s right hand man, so if anything happens or if Ink steps outta line which could’ve been prevented had Killer done his job by properly introducing Ink to their “work flow”, it’s an 80% possibility that Killer is the one that’s gonna be in trouble

Don’t Imagine Killer doing his job in the sense of actual genuine love to help and more, cold distant “here’s how you can survive” without much emotion behind it even, just Killer smiling his dead smile and chatting it up, and even going as far as physical harm for “demonstration purposes”

When it comes to Nightmare and his relationship with Ink… there isn’t any, Nightmare sees Ink as another asset, another miserable soul to do his bidding, if Nightmare somehow deals with Ink’s refusal to hurt anyone then two things might happen:

1- Nightmare tortures Ink with his fear of white spaces and if things continue they way they do, and Nightmare reaches his limit, he’d simply try killing Ink off (now whether that would work is really up to you)

And

2- would let Ink warm up to MTT, then use them as scapegoats to force Ink to do what he wants by torturing them every time Ink decides to be stubborn (even going as far as making an example without any actual reason and demonstrating it by breaking one of MTT’s bones like twigs as Ink watches)

Now MTT would definitely start pressuring Ink to do his “job” to just murder someone or hurt them, as they aren’t looking forward to Nightmare torturing them just cause Ink wants to hold on to such delusional ideologies, and maybe even ending up feeling a lot of distaste for Ink and his behavior, their environment wasn’t meant for good intentions to blossom, and they’re gonna teach Ink that

If Ink somehow got stuck with Nightmare and his lil gang then man, I genuinely pity him

I feel like Ink would crave a tiny bit of genuine connection after being stuck in a white void for so long, but Nightmare and MTT don’t have that genuine connection, MTT are just roommates barely tolerating each other who live in absolute horrendous conditions under an abusive boss in an abusive environment, where the nicest most genuine thing one of them might do is tell you “hey don’t talk to boss today he’ll make you relive your worst nightmares, yeah, he’s in a mood today it seems”, and then there’s Nightmare who would make Ink extremely miserable and would use Ink’s fear of white spaces against him like the cruel sadistic bastard he is

Nightmare gang isn’t a found family, it’s a group of forced enslavement and labor, and there’s no escaping it

(The image of Killer’s jacket reaching Ink’s knees is really adorable tho, have a sketch for it :D)

[bamboozledbird]

IGNITE: A Teen Wolf S1 AU (Reader's Version) // Prev. / Chapter 5

Characters: Stiles Stilinski, fem!reader, Scott McCall, Lydia Martin, ofc, omc Pairing: Eventual Stiles x Reader, but man are we talking slow burn Word Count: 10.2k Warnings: Canon typical gore/violence, parental death (rip to your fake mom), depictions of depression (apathy, dissociation, 'numb little bug' vibes), depictions of a panic attack, animal death Tags: Canon has been lovingly scrapped for parts, author is a chaotic bi and it shows, prolific overuse of the em dash, the slowest of burns i fear

Summary: You can always smell ash long after the fire is gone. Perhaps, that’s why you still can’t breathe without choking on the past. It’s been four years since your mom died. Four years since she burned alive. Four years since you didn’t. You survived, but they must have buried your heart with her because most days you feel like a shadow, some horrifically sad creature caught halfway between a ghost and a lamb for slaughter. 

You can’t scrub the bitter smell of hospital from your memories, not even with denial. Maybe, that’s why death and disease follows Stiles wherever he goes now. It’s been eight years since his mom died. Eight years since he didn’t. Eight years since he decided that he wouldn’t let anyone he loved die ever again. He survived, but Beacon Hills’ bloody underbelly is making it pretty damn hard for him to keep his promise.

Time never stops turning. The grief never dissipates. Children soldier on—but in a town where all the monsters under the bed are real, and old family secrets rattle in every closet, how long can two fragile, breakable humans survive?

Maybe, the real question is: How long will they want to?

Chapter Summary: You start to unravel some of the secrets hidden in Beacon Hill's other world, and Stiles manages to worm his way into discovering some of your own. 

A/N: this took a minute, so i hope the length makes up for it! comments and reblogs are love, and i am tinkerbell. also check me out on ao3 (dork_knight) for the full lore version!

Tag list: @eaterof-concrete

Your anger fizzled with every mile you drove. By the time you finished your third loop around the Preserve, it was just a light simmer of irritation. The void was quickly filled with a different emotion: curiosity. There was a little dread in there too, perhaps also a touch of nausea, but the concoction was still potent enough to distract you from your...whatever that was with Lydia. Now that you were alone, trees blurring together in a ribbon of yellowing-green through your dash, all you could think about was the fire Derek’s family died in. Well, that, and another fire that was always lurking somewhere in your mind, hiding in the shadows, just waiting for the chance to jump out and strangle your heart. 

Beacon Hills was a small town. A town where, until very recently, bad things hardly ever happened. What were the chances of two houses going up in flames four years apart? Of two houses burning down to the foundation in the blink of an eye? Of two homes becoming charred rubble and chilling memorials to the lives lost inside? As far as you knew, they were the only unnatural fires that’d occurred in Beacon Hills in the last century. 

It could all be a coincidence, of course. Nothing. Just a delusional, grief-driven conspiracy. It would be best if you accepted that now before you fell too far down this rabbit hole. It’d taken you two years to finally realize that the police were never going to figure out what really happened to your mom, and those two years had been filled with a series of devastating misdirections, hundreds of dashed hopes and unanswered prayers to a god you no longer believed in. You knew better than this. You did. You knew better than to hope. 

But…maybe. Maybe there was something there. If there was an elaborate plot afoot, you knew just the right conspiracy nut to turn to.

The last time you believed in magic, you were six. You had run the entire mile-and-a-half to Maggie’s dad’s store, hands bloody and cupped into a small nest. You had almost choked on your quiet, congested whimpers, but after a few minutes of blubbering, you’d finally managed to spit out a few words, “You know how to fix him, right? You know everything.” There had to be a spell, you’d thought, with all the wisdom of a first-grade education. There had to be some magic flower or special potion that could make everything better. 

You hadn’t noticed the look on Maggie’s face when you finally opened your fingers, but Maggie had to have been panicking once she saw exactly what needed to be fixed—cradled in your palms, was a tiny, twitching field mouse you’d found on your way home from school. His little chest had heaved so slowly as he laid limply in your hands, as if he’d already accepted his fate. You’d been so young then, too young to realize that Maggie was only nineteen and faked her confidence more often than she felt it. Nineteen seemed so old at six, and now it was only three years away. 

Maggie had known, of course, that the poor little guy probably wouldn’t live long enough to see nightfall, but she’d made the fatal mistake of looking into your big wet eyes: still so full of hope and belief in the impossible. Instead of telling you the truth, she’d just said, “I got this," and took the mouse to the backroom—where all the magic happened. You never ended up seeing the mouse again. You realized now that probably meant he died, but you appreciated Maggie letting you live in the land of make-believe for just a little while longer. 

But that was ten years ago. Today, you knew that Mags was only mortal and Willowbark couldn’t actually heal fatal rodent wounds—but you were still hoping, against all hopes, that Maggie actually had the answers this time. 

“Mags?” your brow crinkled as you searched for Maggie and her wild curls. Mags often got lost in the midst of all the chaos, just a small blip in a collection of odd, Victorian-esque relics. You could usually spot at least a glimpse of whatever loud color Maggie was sporting that day. The yellows and pinks were always stark against the dingy backdrop, but today all you could see from the front door was varying shades of sage, oxblood, and charcoal. “Maggie?”

A muffled cry sounded from the storeroom, “Back here.” The door to the room was slightly ajar, and the purple lighting from the mini-greenhouse inside spilled through the crack. It cast a mesmerizing strip of dayglow lavender over the dangly earrings and mood rings for sale next to the register. “Bring me the shears, will you? The pink ones by Giz.”

You dropped your backpack behind the glass counter and drifted towards the sounds of Gizmo’s trumpeting snores. The stretch for the pruning scissors was a bit precarious; the little prince was batting his paws at something in the depths of dreamland and had no presence of mind for your fragile skin. You snagged the shears with minimal carnage and ran your finger along the cool edge, staring at the gleaming surface, “You’re into all local history, right? Not just the made-up stuff?”

Maggie took the shears from your lax hands and squatted next to the potted yew tree on the floor. It was just starting to blossom, red berries dotted sparsely around the spiky leaves—ripe for whatever ridiculous offering Maggie had planned. Maggie blew a ringlet out of her face and fixed you with a stern frown, “My ancestors were witches, and Dragons absolutely did exist. Just look at ‘dinosaur’ fossils from the—”

“Do you know anything about the fire the Hale family died in?” you looked down at your hands so that you didn’t have to see Maggie’s reaction. 

You traced circles around a rosy stain on Maggie’s workbench, likely from ground flower petals or dripping pomegranate seeds, shoulders hunching towards your ears as you continued, “I mean, you’re around the same age as the older sister, right?” Laura. You couldn’t bring yourself to say her name, and the hypocrisy was stifling. You hated when people tiptoed around death, when they used pretty euphemisms like that could make what actually happened any less brutal. Less evil. Less unfair. But there was no softening grief. Death. Murder. There was no candy coat sweet enough to cloak the taste of rotting—and yet, you still couldn’t say her name.

Maggie went still briefly and then continued clipping branches, ignoring or not noticing the couple of leaves stuck to her fuzzy sweater. “Why?”

You gritted your teeth and stared a burl in the wood underneath your fingers, “Why do you think?”

Sighing, Maggie spread her clippings across the maple worktop and picked at a few yellowing leaves, “Where is this coming from, babe? I mean, that was a long time ago. I’m almost thirty, you know—ancient by most standards.”

You didn’t smile. Couldn’t. “Do you know anything or not?”

“No,” Maggie sounded genuine, but she kept her eyes on the red stains underneath her fingernails, “nothing more than what was on the news.”

The fact that Maggie didn’t make a quip or a stupid pun was even more telling than her refusal to look in your direction. You folded your arms over your chest and leaned your hip against the doorframe, “Sure.”

“Are you okay, babe?” Maggie wiped the berry residue off on her skirt, and the long hem swished around her ankles as she crept towards you. Her hand was cautious when she placed it on your rigid shoulder, “You aren’t skipping your meds again, are—”

Your eyes flashed as you shook off Maggie’s light touch with a jerk of your shoulder, “Is it possible for me to have a single feeling without everyone jumping down my throat about my meds.”

“I just worry,” Maggie said softly, and she reached for you again, waiting for you to pull away. She tucked a strand of your hair behind your ear when you didn’t. Your limbs were still stiff, and your face was still stony, but you let Maggie grab your hand. It was slightly sweaty, probably from all the indoor-gardening, but there was some comfort in the circles she smoothed over your knuckles. “You know I’m a worrier. Comes with the conspiracy theorist in me.”

You looked down at your feet and dug your toes into the concrete floor, “And my mom’s dying wish—I know.”

A bit of hurt quivered in the corners of Maggie’s reassuring smile, even though she tried her best to hide it, “That’s not the reason I do it.”

Your entire frame slumped with guilt, “I know.” And you did; you did know. You made Maggie drive you to the library every weekend before you got your license, and in return Maggie stole about a dozen of your sweaters once she realized you were finally the same size—Mags wasn’t just your mom’s weird friend from the neighborhood; she was family. She taught you how to make pie crust and scones, and she always read ‘happily ever after’ in the lines of your palms when you needed something to smile about. Maggie did a million little things for you without any appreciation, and you tried to remember every single one as you sat on the floor in front of the ‘Local Culture’ shelf.

Your nose scrunched as you looked over the titles on the spines, searching for anything that sounded even remotely real. Maggie knelt next to you, patch-work skirt billowing around her knees, and watched your fingers drum against the floor. 

“Anything in particular you’re looking for?” Maggie bumped your shoulder with her own, and you grunted a little response.

“Nothing you can help me with.” Evidently, you thought with only a bit of bitterness. 

Maggie didn’t say anything for a long time. You almost forgot she was there, and then her bracelets clacked together as she shifted. “Here,” Maggie pulled a thick journal out of the depths of her baggy cardigan and held it out with a complicated expression on her face—something halfway between a frown and a smile, “I think you’ll find this one particularly interesting.”

You looked down at the title and rubbed your thumb over the engraved font, “‘A History and Detailed Account of Beacon Hills Bloodlines’?” 

Maggie nodded and shoved her hands into her skirt pockets, “Goes back all the way to the beginning—not literally, obviously. I don’t think they wanted to get into the whole ‘God vs. Big Bang’ debate, but it dates back to when the town was founded.”

“That’s…interesting, I guess,” you flipped through the pages and bit down on your tongue to squash the sneer curling across your lips. It was a nice gesture. You knew that—but what else were you supposed to do when the ‘History’ and ‘Detailed Account’ fell open to an artistic diagram of 'local werewolf packs’ genealogy lines. You were a little interested to see if the names were entirely fictional, or if the journal was an accurate record of Beacon Hill’s very own Werewolf Trials. Probably the first, you’d remember learning about extra hairy men and women being burned at the stake in social studies. 

Maggie huffed out a little laugh and pushed her glasses back up the bridge of her nose. “I know you won’t believe everything in there, but who knows,” she shrugged and held out a hand for you to grab onto, “maybe you’ll finally be enlightened.”

You took her hand and hummed, “While you’re feeling so generous and bad for me ‘cause I’m functionally an orphan, could I get some more of that wolfsbane gunk?” You batted your lashes over the edge of the leather cover and grinned your most adorable smile—the one that dusted off a rare view of your dimples, “It can be my birthday present.”

It was an obvious ploy, but Maggie just laughed and poked one of your dimples, “Your birthday is months away.”

You picked up the speed of your blinking, approaching butterfly-wing territory, and rocked onto your tiptoes, “An early birthday present is still a birthday present.” 

Mags watched you through narrowed eyes for a moment, “You don’t even believe in werewolves.”

You shrugged and smirked, “It works on humans too.” 

“Please, please don’t make me an accessory to murder.” Maggie gripped your shoulders and shook you a little, fighting a smile, “I would not fare well in prison. They limit your internet privileges there—no Wi-Fi, babe. No Wi-Fi. I would be completely alone with my thoughts.”

“The horror,” your eyes glittered with your grin, and for a sweet moment you forgot about the journal in your hands and all the questions it wouldn’t answer. “It’s not for me,” you admitted, grimacing as Maggie’s lips puckered. The pursing of her lips, the hollowing of her cheeks—that always came before a very long and arduous inquisition. Maggie could be relentless when she wanted to be. 

“And whom would you be giving such a precious gift to?” The thickness of her brows only magnified the suspicion in Maggie’s tapered expression, “A gift you called—what was it? ‘Useless’ and ‘stupid’ less than 24-hours ago?”  

“Just because I think it’s stupid, doesn’t mean it’s a bad gift for someone else. I thought the Sonic Chia Pet I gave you was stupid, and you loved it.” You knew you won when Maggie started walking away from you towards the storeroom. You still had no idea how Curio Killed the Cat stayed in business when Maggie handed out inventory like candy, but presently its troubling business model was a blessing in disguise.

“Don’t disparage him,” Maggie crooned over her shoulder, “it’s bad luck.”

“If everything is sacred, nothing is,” you sniped, doing your best Vulcan impression.

Maggie smiled brightly as she hopped over the counter, sticking out her tongue, “I don’t think everything is sacred—just all the things I like.”

Speaking of things Maggie liked—you tucked your first gift under your armpit and held out your hands, palms cupped together. Your mouth curved into a cheesy grin as you said, “Trick-or-Treat.”

Maggie rolled her eyes, but her puckish spark dwindled when she looked at the vile of wolfsbane. It was balanced between her thumb and forefinger, glass reflecting the light, and you felt a bit like you were accepting the One Ring and a quest you weren't prepared for. “Be careful, okay?” Maggie hesitated before dropping the vile into your waiting hands, “I know you love Buffy, but resurrection isn’t so easy off-screen.”

You were a little startled by the concern wrinkling the corners of Maggie’s eyes. She looked almost more worried now than she did when you asked her about the Hale fire. “Like I said,” you carefully eased the wolfsbane into your corduroy skirt, “it’s not for me.”

Maggie's eyes combed over your face, searching for something, and then she sighed, “Just…don’t let anyone drag you into something stupid. I don’t care how cute he is; no boy is worth the risk of ruining your gorgeous face. It’s your money-maker, babe.” 

There was a lot to unpack in those three sentences; you didn’t even know where to begin. There was, of course, the implication that you were going to join some kind of Scooby-Doo gang that dealt wolfsbane on the side. While the thought of going ghost hunting with a pair of boys who couldn’t make it to class without tripping over their feet was, in fact, asinine…that wasn’t the part twisting stubborn knots around your ear canal. 

Your face was dragged down by a broody pout, “For your information, I’m not giving it to Stiles; it’s actually for a guy who isn’t the leading cause of pulmonary embolisms in Beacon County—and I don’t think either of them are cute.” 

That wasn’t strictly true. You did think that Scott was cute, just like you thought Gizmo was cute when he pleaded for treats. You could see the appeal of Scott McCall, why Allison liked him, but you hadn’t thought someone was cute like that in a very long time. A person generally had to actually look at people to think they were cute, and you hadn’t looked beyond forcing one foot in front of the other and your nubby nails in years. 

And as far as Stiles went…honestly, you hadn’t really considered the concept of Stiles as an actual person until Maggie had to go and imply it. You supposed, now that you were thinking about it, he had an objectively nice face: big eyes, button nose, nice jaw—but when you saw him in person, it was almost always covered with an infuriating smirk or making obnoxious sounds. You usually just wanted to shove it away from you. Sometimes, when Stiles was being particularly difficult, you even thought about flicking him right in his long-lashed, honeycomb eyes. You wondered if the Sheriff would arrest you if you— 

That’s right, your eyes rounded with the thought, Stiles is the Sheriff's son.

The recollection rang through every single one of your thoughts and echoed along the caverns of your skull, sparing you from ruminating on something far, far scarier. You were much more comfortable with deduction. 

Your brow furrowed as you pushed yourself over the counter to grab your backpack—sure that Maggie would misinterpret your impromptu exit, but too lost in through to really care—Stiles is the Sheriff's son. You forgot that sometimes. They were so different, after all, and you were certain that Stiles had broken the law at least a few times in his life, but he was. Stiles was the Sheriff's son, and he probably knew things that he shouldn’t. Things that were only kept in confidential files. Fortunately, you didn’t need to think that someone was cute to use them for information. 

“Methinks the Lady doth protest too much,” Maggie chirped. She was fiddling with her branches in the back again, picking the berries and dropping them into a little stone bowl. 

You scowled at the berries like it was their fault you were in this predicament, “Gertrude sucks.

“And yet she was correct,” Maggie tossed a berry at your forehead, and it landed dead-center on the tip of your nose, dripping a small trail of crimson juice onto your cupid’s bow. Maggie laughed until a burst of snorts consumed her giggles, and you scowled deeper as you wiped your nose clean with your sleeve.

“And yet, she’s the prime example of doing something stupid for a boy.” You made a point of flipping Maggie off before trudging towards the door.

You pushed the exit open with your shoulder—rushing to get home to your notebook and pens. Ideas had a way of slipping away from you; you liked to make them real. Tangible. Inked lines and loops that couldn’t be erased. 

Maggie cupped your cheeks before you could slither away to your car, startling you out of your head. “Don’t be Gertrude. Don’t be stupid,” Maggie said, incredibly solemn, but the twinkle of mischief in her eye ruined the 'Yoda effect'. 

You pursed your lips as your eyes flitted towards the side, “I’ll do my best to not marry my dead husband’s brother-killer.” The door swung shut behind you, cutting off the trill of Maggie’s laughter. 

You spent the rest of the night on your bed, sitting cross-legged with your notebook spread open across your lap. You tapped your pen against your knee and watched the blades on your ceiling fan spin into a fuzzy Saturn ring until your eyes watered. You were trying, and failing, to think of a way to ask Stiles for help without him making a big deal about it—contemplating if it was truly worth all the aggravation.

Sighing, you sketched random swirling lines in purple ink. They interconnected in a pretty pattern that eventually took the shape of the maze on your pendant. There was no way out of the labyrinth without breaking down a wall; it was hopeless, a path that never ended. People who entered the maze would be doomed to walk in circles until they littered the ground with their decomposing skeletons—and oh how you envied them. 

Stiles would never let it go; you were pretty damn sure of that. He would poke, and prod, and stick his upturned nose into your business until he'd thoroughly invaded your privacy and got all the answers to his meddlesome questions. He could never ju—

The sound of paper tearing dragged you out of your pitiful brooding, and you sighed. Your pen had ripped through the center of the maze. You held the page up to the light, and it shone through the hole, blinding you momentarily. 

There was no escaping the labyrinth—there was only pushing straight though. 

You spent a lot of your time observing people lately. It wasn’t as creepy as it sounded, at least you hoped it wasn’t as creepy as it sounded. It was just…ever since Stiles dragged you back into the present—kicking, screaming, and bitching the entire way—you had been…overwhelmed by how alive everything was. It felt like so much had happened in the last four years. Everyone had gone on living while you’d hidden away in your mind and rotted in your room. 

You couldn’t put a name to the strange feeling twisting in your chest. You were angry, of course, so angry that people had the audacity to just… live, like there wasn’t a gigantic, bleeding void in the world that had yet to scar over—that might never truly close—but there was something else mixed in with the bitterness, something sweeter.

There was a certain kind of beauty, you mused, in the way they enjoyed such silly things. There was just something about the way they found joy in sparkly nail polish, and their favorite song, and a boy looking in their general direction that had you choking on a foreign warmth. Everyone had something, and it was beautiful to see people grow their worlds around the ugliness while you weren't so consumed with shrinking yours. 

Leaning back against your locker, you watched two freshmen girls walk side-by-side until a flock of tropical-scented, lip-gloss-coated sophomore girls passed them. The taller of the two trailed after them, linking arms with a blonde in the back of the pack. The shorter one watched their hair swish over their shoulders until they walked around the corner, absently tugging at a beaded bracelet on her wrist the entire time. 

In three weeks, she’d start eating lunch alone in the library, hiding in the dark book closet with outdated textbooks as her only companions. In five, they wouldn’t speak unless they had to. You gave the girl a weak smile when she accidentally made eye-contact. Sorry, babe, I read your future. You didn’t even need to see the girl’s palm. 

You pushed yourself off of your locker and shook your head a little, regrouping your thoughts as you slid into your seat next to Stiles. He looked tired. He was slumped over his desk, chin propped on his folded arms, and his eyelids hung heavily over the exhaustion coating his directionless gaze. He barely acknowledged your presence, grunting a little and nudging your foot with his. 

You hid your smile behind your English binder and turned in your seat to face him. “Hey,” you paused, bundling the meager bits and pieces of courage in your chest, and then said, “your perpetual nosiness—that extends to your dad too, right?”

Stiles’s head lulled to the side, cheek pressed against his folded arms, evidently too drained to sit-up. He trailed his squinted gaze over your face, eyes hooded and unblinking, “Why?”

“No reason.” You drummed your pencil against your desk and watched the long red arrow tick forward on the clock above the whiteboard. Stiles watched you fidget with a little sleepy smirk eased into the corners of his mouth, patient and still for the first time since you’d met. It was a shame you couldn’t revel in it. 

You lost the stalemate after your desperation became too thick to swallow, “I need to see a case file. There’s like…nothing on the internet or in Maggie’s local history sagas.” 

That got his attention. Stiles leaned forward, glimmering with intrigue and ill-intent, and said, “Which case?”

“None of your business,” you retorted reflexively. Stiles gave you an amused look and cupped his cheek in his palm, waiting for the inevitable apology. You withered against your chair and muttered, “Does it matter?”

He snorted and lifted a shoulder, “I have a right to know what I’m potentially putting my life on the line for; breaking and entering is a very serious crime, y’know.”

You huffed and glared a little at your clasped hands, “Somehow I know you’ve done worse.”

Stiles didn’t deny it. He just grinned proudly and scooted closer to you, “Seriously, what’s so important you’re willing to steal something from the police?”

“Not steal,” you corrected, a bit too petulantly for your liking, “just…borrow indefinitely.” 

“Uh huh,” Stiles pursed his lips and almost went cross-eyed scrutinizing your face, “so what’s so important you’re willing to ‘borrow’ classified information from the police ‘indefinitely’?”

You paused, not entirely sure how to answer his question without spilling over the edges and ruining everything. “I don’t know,” you admitted quietly, bowing your head a little. You picked at a hangnail until it was tender and inflamed, “Just a hunch, really. It’s probably nothing.”

Stiles tapped his fingers against his desk, fast and furious, and let out a dramatic puff of air, “I could help you if you’d, y’know, tell me literally one single thing about it.”

“I don’t need your help,” you scoffed, feet sliding out in front of you as you sunk into your chair. 

He cocked his head and hummed, looking far too smug for 7:45 in the morning, “Besides the whole ‘stealing my dad’s keycard and making it actually possible for you to read it’ thing, right?”

“You’re enjoying this way too much,” you mumbled, stalling the inevitable. It felt a little too much like losing to admit that you needed him—even though…you definitely needed him. It was a rather unfortunate fact you were fruitlessly still trying to deny.

Stiles rolled his eyes, neck too, and grabbed his backpack from the floor, “Forgive me for having a hobby.”

He opened his backpack, and you imagined, just for a moment, the zipper latching onto his mouth like a singularly-tentacled alien. It would solve all your problems; you could zip and unzip him whenever you wanted. If only. Sighing, you dropped your head against your knuckles, “Which is…irritating me?”

“Putting the pieces together,” Stiles dropped his coffee-warped, dogeared copy of Metamorphosis onto his desk and flipped to the assigned chapter. His eyes flicked from right to left, pace ridiculously fast, as he scanned through the pages. If it were anyone else, you would’ve assumed it was all for show. “I was a jigsaw kid,” he murmured, nose still stuck in his book.

Your lip stung as you gnawed on the cracking center, “If I tell you what I’m looking for, you’ll help me?”

“That,” Stiles punctuated his statement with a dramatic page flip, “and I might need a tiny favor from you.” He held his pointer finger and thumb together, almost touching, and flashed a toothy smile over the bent cover of his book, “Just an itty-bitty, very small, totally not a big deal favor.”

Your face turned thoroughly sour, “Oh god.”

Stiles rolled his eyes, like he didn’t just intentionally plant the seeds of dead bodies and false alibis in your mind two seconds ago, and huffed, “I just want to check on Lydia, okay? I think I’ll have a better chance of getting in through the front door with you.”

Your smirk flattened, “Why?”

His mouth hung open for a second, and then he shook his head firmly, peering at you through pinched lids, “You first.”

You fixed your gaze on your shoes, shifting your foot from left to the right, watching the fluorescent lights bounce off of the burgundy leather. The extra shine only made the scuffs on the toes more pronounced. “I want to look into the Hale fire, okay?” Your voice got trapped in your throat, so your tone wasn’t as biting as you wanted it to be, “Happy?”

You would’ve been content to keep staring at your boots until class ended, but your attention snapped back to Stiles when he inhaled sharply. He looked baffled, and maybe even a little green in the face, and you were starting to feel a little queasy yourself—nerves tended to turn your stomach upside-down and inside-out all in the same excruciatingly slow flip. His mouth was already ajar, but it took him several red-hand ticks to finally speak, “Why?” 

“Nuh uh,” you crossed your arms and sat upright, rolling your shoulders back, “you go now.”

Stiles was still looking at you with an odd expression on his face, a little too distracted to be difficult. He answered you without any inflection in his voice, “She didn’t show up for homeroom.”

Your intestines unspun with your faint inhale and then immediately dropped to the floor along with your heart as you let out a weak, trembling exhale, “...and?”

Stiles recovered from his momentary lapse in vexation and leaned onto his forearms, "And it’s your turn again.”

You wished you had a simple answer for him, and, even more so, you wished you were a better liar. “There’s kinda no way to answer that without trauma dumping all over you,” you mumbled, intensively examining the fine ridges in your nails. 

“I can handle a little trauma.” Stiles rapped his knuckles against the top of his head and smiled a little, “I’ve got nothin’ but space up here.” 

People always said that—that they’d be there for you no matter what, that they could handle anything—and then they got a real good look at the ugly of it all, at the dirty hair and rotting kitchen, at the prolonged silences and self-absorbed isolation. People usually took off running pretty quickly after that. At least, Lydia had.

“There haven’t been that many residential fire fatalities here. Just two cases, actually.” You chewed on your thumbnail and shrugged, “I know they said the Hale fire was an accident, but…maybe there’s a connection.” You swallowed, and your boot squeaked against the floor when you kicked at the ground, “Or maybe I’m just a dumbass with too much spare time.”

Stiles stared at you, and you could see the exact moment he connected the pieces. You were expecting the usual nauseating sympathy, the well-intentioned kindness that always flirted with the edge of pity, oftentimes landing smack-dab in the middle of it—but there wasn’t a drip of pity in his eyes. They were filled with grief; for you or for someone else, you didn’t know. Maybe it didn’t matter. More importantly, perhaps, his eyes were shining with…relief, pure and simple relief that nothing else needed to be said. 

“I’ll get you into the file room,” Stiles said, low and soft in his throat, and he didn’t look away from you until Scott slid in-between your desks. They did a complicated series of high-fives and hand-shakes with a few ‘knucks’ thrown in here and there for good measure. 

Before Scott sat down behind Stiles, he smiled in your direction. You looked past him, assuming Allison was behind you, and watched a red-breasted robin flit around a tree through the window. You saw Scott’s hand move in your peripheral vision, and when you tore your eyes away from the streak of scarlet feathers and blue sky, your lips tipped into a timid smile. Scott was waving at you; he was smiling at you. You didn’t know when your world went from no friends to two, but it felt oddly…normal. Smiling back at Scott, dodging Stiles’s kicks at your feet, trying not to laugh at their goofy faces. It felt like it was part of your routine, exactly the same as organizing your pens and pencils on top of your desk at the start of class, and just like that: normal twisted into terrifying. 

You chewed on the end of your pen when you felt Stiles’s gaze on the side of your face, “So…why do you want to see Lydia—besides your typical stalker behavior, obviously.” 

“You’re gonna feel like such an asshole,” Stiles grinned a little and nudged your toes, but there was something strange tucked in the corners of his mouth, something a bit grim, a bit afraid. Whatever it was, his cheeks didn’t dimple with his smile, and you gnawed on your lip once you realized that you not only noticed their absence but you missed them. 

You peeked at him from under your lashes and frowned when you saw that the crinkles at the corners of his eyes were gone too. Stiles’s grin eroded away to little more than a flat line once he started speaking again, “Jackson was attacked by…something last night—they’re saying mountain lion, but you and I both know that’s bullshit—anyway, she was pretty freaked out when my dad got there.”

You stiffened, spinal column drawing into a taut line from the crown of your skull to your tailbone, and your blood went cold. You already knew Lydia hadn't shown up for school today. You always knew—you felt Lydia’s absence just as fiercely as her presence. The air was just different somehow. You didn’t even have to look for her anymore; an innate rabbit-sense always reared its head when Lydia was too far away…when she was too close. Your instincts couldn’t agree on anything. They couldn’t decide if Lydia was a rabbit or a fox, and it was exhausting—but at the moment all you wanted, all you needed, was to make sure that Lydia hadn’t been torn apart by a monster with sharp claws and serrated teeth. 

“And she isn’t here,” you finally said, barely above a whisper.

“And she isn’t here,” Stiles echoed, just as quiet. 

“Okay,” your head bobbed with a decisive nod, knees moving before your mind had the chance to scold them, “let’s go.”

Stiles’s jaw unhinged alarmingly fast and comically wide, “Wha—now?”

You pushed everything on your desk into your backpack with a broad sweep of your arm and jerked your head towards the door, “Come on, before class starts.”

Stiles blinked at you for a few moments and then floundered for his things when you started walking out of the room without him. He stumbled into a desk in his rapid, ever-so clumsy efforts to catch up with you and twisted around to salute Scott’s empty chair. Apparently, neither of you had noticed his exit. It seemed it was a perfect morning for ditching class, but you didn’t dwell on the consequences for long. Your focus was single-minded and unwavering, and Stiles had to jog to keep up with your stalwart stride. 

“Since when are you so helpful,” he muttered, slightly out of breath. 

“I told you,” you gave him a wry smile and shoved the exit door open with your back, holding it for Stiles until he was halfway through the frame—and then you promptly stepped out of the way and watched the door swing shut on his backpack. Your lips twitched with a grin, “I’m a nice girl.”

Stiles yelped a little and looked over his shoulder, ensuring all his limbs were intact before yanking on his straps. His backpack smacked into his shoulders, and the heavy textbooks inside slammed together with a satisfying thump. You snickered and dodged his attempts to kick the back of your knees.

Glowering, Stiles switched tactics and tried to step on your nimble feet. Tragically for him, all the fire in his indignation was lost to his plush pout, “Since when?”

You rolled your eyes and waited next to his jeep, anxiously tracing little swirls in the dirt caked onto the passenger door, “Since I met you.” 

You missed the look on Stiles’s face, but that was for the best. His honeyed smile would’ve changed your mind, and you had an ex-best friend to attend to.

****************************

The jeep was quiet for the first few minutes of the drive—at least, it was as quiet as a decrepit clunker could be. There were various clangs and squeals in-between the engine’s low rumble, and a soft indie song filled the silences in-between, but the air felt still. Stiles was intently focused on the road ahead, thumbs drumming against the steering wheel to a beat of his own making, while you picked at your cuticles, cycling between anxiety and denial. It was a subliminal game of chicken that Stiles eventually lost. 

After a few false starts, Stiles blurted out, “You ever gonna tell me what happened?”

You stared straight ahead, through the bug-splattered windshield and down the winding street, “Nope.”

“Fine. That’s fine.” Stiles flexed his fingers against the steering wheel, straightening them to their impressive full-length, and then wrapped them around the wheel again. His grip was as tight as the grit of his teeth, “I don’t even want to know anyway.” You lulled your head to the side to smirk at him, but you kept your mouth thoroughly closed. Stiles’s gaze flicked in your direction briefly, and then he directed his eye roll towards the road, “I don’t. Keep your boring secret.”

You settled further into the passenger seat and propped your feet on the dash, grin warm with satisfaction, “I will.”

The beat of Stiles’s thumbs sped up, thundering against ‘9’ and ‘3’ while you hummed along to the trickle of piano and acoustic guitar strumming through the cracked speakers. The time on the dash display flickered from 8:15 to 8:16, and Stiles let out a long, drawn-out groan, “Will you just tell me! It’s killing me. Seriously, I’m going to credit you in my epitaph. ‘Here lies Stiles Stilinski: Another Victim of Gaslighting, Gatekeeping, and Girlbossing.’”

“They say you always remember your first,” you sighed dreamily, battering your butterfly lashes. The mole on the hinge of his jaw jumped with a harsh swallow, and you grinned. 

Stiles snorted and then immediately grimaced like he was irritated with his mouth for having the audacity to laugh in the midst of his despair. “Good to know I’m just part of a pattern.”

“I don’t know about that,” you hummed, resting your temple against the window. The morning sun warmed your skin and washed your face with a glimmer of gold that glittered with the devilry in your eyes. You smirked at Stiles and poked the mole just below his earlobe, “I have yet to meet anyone as homicidally inspiring as you.”

He pulled a face to hide his smile as the jeep puttered to a stop against the curb, and you looked over his shoulder, blinking slowly. You hadn’t realized you were so close to Lydia’s house until you were parked in front of it. 

The colonial estate loomed largely through the window. The long white pillars stood oppressively alongside the double entrance, and the meticulously manicured lawn screamed ‘keep off’ louder than any sign or barbed-wire fence. Lydia’s house had always been more like a monument than a home: an art installation, an antique, something to be admired not loved.

Tilting your head, you squinted at the familiar windows and counted along the second floor until you found Lydia’s room. The heavy purple curtains were drawn closed, and you were a little surprised that Lydia hadn’t redecorated in the last couple years. It was probably different on the inside; sixteen was a little old for dollhouses and princess crowns.

Growing up, Lydia’s room had been stocked with every Barbie accessory on the market, and yet you'd always played Barbies at your house. Every single time. When her dad was home, Lydia’s house had teetered between too quiet and too loud. A constant vague unease hung heavily in the air, even with the volume on her CD player turned all the way up. No boy band could drowned out all the screaming and icy silences, but you'd tried. Oh how you'd tried. It happened so often, you’d eventually gotten used to the noise, but you could tell it’d bothered Lydia, no matter how unbothered she’d tried to seem. 

In comparison, your house was a Dreamhouse. It had been so warm before it became empty. Your mom always had something baking in the oven, and Lydia had never looked more at home than when she was tucked on your window seat, plate of brownies by her side, with your mom’s gentle hands braiding her hair out of her face. You hadn’t ever minded sharing; Lydia had needed the attention more than you did. She was so much softer than people gave her credit for, far more fragile than they’d ever know. 

In spite of her current taste in boys, Lydia used to be a steadfast romantic. She'd always wanted to reenact the romance novels stacked on her nightstand, a little heartbreak before the inevitable happily ever after. She read so voraciously there was a new plot to perform every day. You were also a bookworm, but your tastes had inspired morbid hits such as Black Widow Barbie and Dreamhouse Zombie Outbreak. You usually took turns, or Barbie ended up falling in love with zombie Ken until he chomped on her arm. 

“Not her brains,” Lydia had always insisted, “Barbie is the brains of the relationship.” 

Lydia, you would argue, Lydia was the brain. The only one that mattered.

Warm skin on your knuckles gently drew you back into the present. Stiles’s brow was pinched with concern, and his hand lingered on yours until you brushed him off with a shake of your head—but, as you’d come to learn the last couple weeks, Stiles Stilinski was nothing if not relentless. He leaned into your side as you walked along the lengthy driveway, sending you stumbling a few paces to the right. You glared at him, but it was watered down with stubborn affection. His mouth curled into a lopsided grin, and you forgot about the nerves wriggling up your esophagus until Stiles rang the doorbell. They came back full force when you heard a pair of high heels clicking towards them. 

Lydia’s mom peered out the door. She looked confused as she took in Stiles’s smile, stretched far too wide to look even remotely casual. Then, her gaze landed on you and her face broke out into a bright grin, “Y/N?”

You’d almost forgotten how beautiful she was; beauty ran just as deeply as old money in the Martin family. Lydia was born with her mom’s golden-red hair and hazel eyes, and they had the same dimpled smile. It was always difficult to see anything beyond the brilliance of their perfect teeth and incandescent skin. 

“Come here,” Mrs. Martin pulled you into a tight hug and cupped the back of your head with a steady hand. Your arms remained stiff by your sides, voice sticky in your throat. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d been hugged like this; the realization hurt more than you thought it would.

After a moment, your shoulders slumped, and you turned your face into Mrs. Martin’s shoulder. She still smelled the same, like patchouli and luxury, “Hi.”

She held you out at arm's-length, hands on your shoulders, and shook her head, “There’s no way that this beautiful young woman is the same little girl who tried to keep a frog colony in my guest bathroom. I can’t be that old.”

“You literally look exactly the same,” you smiled a little and rubbed your bicep.

“It has been far, far too long.” She smoothed out the wrinkles in your sleeves and then stepped back into the doorframe, “What can I do for you?”

“I…” your mouth went dry, and you looked everywhere except Mrs. Martin’s face. Your eyes flashed between the silver door knockers, the winding ivy, the sculpted shrubs. Everything was exactly the same. Nothing, not even the house, had noticed your absence. 

“We came to check on Lydia,” Stiles nudged your shoulder, and you blinked a few times. Mrs. Martin was watching you with big emphatic eyes—and you hated it. 

You swallowed and nodded, “Yeah…we brought her homework.”

“Come in.” She paused and pinched the bridge of her nose with freshly manicured nails, “She took a little something to relax herself, so please excuse…well, just be prepared.” Mrs. Martin sighed, and for the first time it looked like the last four years had actually aged her. She attempted a smile, but it was shriveled at the corners, “You remember the way, don’t you?”

A nod rolled up your neck to your head. You couldn’t find the words to tell Mrs. Martin that you weren’t the same girl anymore. You almost felt like her in this house: small, wild, still full of dreams. You crept up the curved staircase slowly, delaying the inevitable, and ran your fingers along the iron railing. You broke your arm falling off of it nine years ago. It was a nasty fracture that put you in a cast all summer, but it’d seemed worth it at the time. At least, you’d thought so. Your mom and Mrs. Martin hadn’t agreed with your assessment at the hospital.

You felt a twinging urge to run to the top of the stairs and slide down the railing until you became dizzy—and just like that, you were seven years old again, and you weren't scared of death or ending up alone. 

“You coming?” Stiles called from the top of the stairs. 

You nodded stiffly and pushed past him to the last door on the left. You held your hand on the doorknob and pressed your tongue against the roof of your mouth, scowling at the anxiety crawling under your skin. You were being ridiculous. It wasn’t like you were the one who ended up in an ambulance last night.

You rapped your knuckles against the door a few times, even though it was already cracked open wide enough to catch a glimpse of the raspberry walls and flower chandelier. “Lyds–ia. Lydia,” you cleared your throat and peeked into Lydia’s room, “it’s me. I mean, it’s Y/N.” Stiles nudged you in the ribs, and you sighed, “And Stiles.”

Lydia was face-down on her four-poster bed, slowly combing her fingers through her unbrushed hair. She smacked her lips together a few times, and then her head popped up from her mountain of throw pillows, “You still haven’t explained what the hell a Stiles is.”

You snorted and shot Stiles a pointed look. He pursed his lips and glanced around the room until he spotted a little bottle of pills on top of her vanity. He read the lengthy label and let out a low whistle, “Bet you can’t say, ‘I saw Sally sell seashells by the seashore.’”

Lydia swung her legs over the foot of her bed and leaned forward, eyes sparking with bullheaded determination. “I saw….I saw…” The light in her eyes faded as she drifted off to a place no one else could see.

You sat down next to her and grabbed her hand. You didn’t have to tell your body to move; it knew before you did. Finding Lydia when she was lost, it was like…swimming to the surface, shivering in a storm, bracing for a fall. It was an instinct so deeply rooted in your soul you couldn’t rip it out without rupturing an artery. You watched Lydia’s eyes focus on your face, felt her fingers lace with yours, and all you knew was the slow thump of Lydia’s pulse against your thumb.

Lydia squeezed your hand and swiveled to face you. Her eyes were still cloudy, but something warm dawned behind the fog. You felt the pit in your stomach roll. Lydia sighed happily, “There you are. I was looking for you.”

“Well,” you almost choked on the lump in your throat and struggled to support Lydia’s weight as she went boneless against your side, “here I am.” You searched for some assistance with Lydia’s rapidly sinking frame, but Stiles was busy poking around every nook and cranny in the room. “Stiles,” you snapped. 

He wrenched his hand away from Lydia’s bottle of Dior perfume, purple just like the rest of the room, and clasped it behind his back. “What?” 

You gestured violently towards Lydia's wilting spine and rolled your eyes when he tripped over a discarded boot in his, frankly pathetic, haste to get to Lydia’s other side. You gently maneuvered her until she was propped up against her pillows. 

“Don’t go away again, okay?” Lydia licked her lips and looked like she was about to cry—so much like a scared little girl, your heart clenched. “I keep losing you.”

“I,” you stared at her with wide eyes, and the bottle of pills enveloped your peripheral vision, “I just wanted to see if you were alright…after last night.”

“Last night,” Lydia slurred, nuzzling back against her pillows.

“Yeah, last night,” Stiles folded his arms over his chest and arched his brow, “remember anything about it?”

“I remember…” Lydia looked like she was going to cry again, eyes glassy and round, but the chemical high quickly swept over the tide, “I remember a mountain lion.”

Stiles’s head tipped back between his shoulder blades, and his cheeks slowly puffed into pink little domes as he held his breath. Apparently, there was one thing more powerful than Stiles Stilinski’s obsession with Lydia Martin: his impatience. Stiles’s lips puckered as a loud sigh whooshed through his teeth. He crouched down to Lydia’s eye-level, “You remember seeing a mountain lion, or you remember them telling you it was a mountain lion?”

Lydia hummed and nodded until her hair fell in front of her face, “Mountain lion.”

“Jesus Christ,” Stiles reached for a stuffed giraffe next to her shoulder and shook it in her face, “what’s this?”

“Mountain lion,” Lydia’s head bobbed sharply. 

You snatched the stuffed animal out of Stiles’s hand, scowling as you bludgeoned his arm with the giraffe’s head. “Leave her alone. She’s doped out of her mind.” 

“Clearly,” Stiles snorted, watching Lydia curl a strand of her hair around her finger, completely entranced by the frizzy strands. 

“What did you want her to say?” You smoothed a few stray hairs sticking up from the crown of Lydia’s head back into place and met Stiles’s gaze, face impassive, “Werewolf?”

He opened his mouth and gaped like a particularly brainless fish. Before he could come up with a coherent answer—or any kind of answer, actually—Lydia’s text-tone chimed. Stiles dove across the bed for her phone, but you smacked his hand with the giraffe before he could touch it. “You are so not reading her texts, lonely boy.”

“I was just trying to help.” Stiles flopped onto her vanity chair and crossed his arms, squirming sullenly, “She can barely string two words together, let alone an actual thought.”

“I’m sure whatever it is can wait until she’s good and hungover tomorrow.” You glanced down at Lydia’s phone and paused. It was a video file. From an unknown number. 

“Hey,” Lydia poked her head up and pointed at Stiles until the weight of her arm became too much to bear. It fell on top of her stomach like a limp noodle, “You.”

“Me,” Stiles squeaked. 

You muted the video and made sure Stiles was sufficiently distracted by the curl of Lydia’s finger before you pressed play. Nothing happened at first. The video was shot in a strange, almost voyeuristic style, and the lighting was terrible, so dim you could barely tell that the camera was facing a large window. You squinted and made out the video store’s sign flickering above the door. So, this was from last night. Weird—but at least it wasn’t revenge porn; that had been your first guess. 

You’d almost given up on finishing the video, and then the camera angle moved. Two red eyes flashed in the darkness, a large…something smashed through the glass, and you bit down on your thumbnail so hard blood welled through the sidewalls. 

It was a goof, obviously. Some kind of poorly edited creepypasta. A cruel prank someone sent Lydia after they heard what happened last night. Had to be. Your hands shook as you sent yourself the video, and then you deleted it from Lydia’s phone. Your number, you realized once you stopped seeing red, was still saved as ☀️✨Babe!!!!✨☀️ in Lydia’s contacts. It took you longer than it should have to delete the sent message.

“If you’re done fighting your erection, we should get going.” Your voice sounded remarkably even, considering how scattered your mind was. It was certainly more composed than the babble spewing from Stiles’s mouth.

“I do not have—it’s not like—I wasn’t—she thought I was someone else.”

“Ah,” your phone felt heavy in your pocket, “real boner killer.”

Stiles sighed through his nose, “New rule, you can't make fun of anything I do or say when Lydia's in my fuckin' lap. Starting now."

He must’ve known something was wrong when you didn’t argue. That, and the way you practically sprinted out of the house to avoid seeing anyone else. Your hands were still shaking when you crawled into the jeep, and Stiles shot about a dozen little furious, concerned glances in your direction, but you couldn’t seem to move your tongue. 

Your bottom lip quivered. Your chest tightened until your ribs corseted your lungs. The screech of your ground teeth sent an unpleasant chill down your spine, but you’d rather choke on a chipped tooth than let the beast howling in your throat escape—the last thing you needed was to cry in the passenger seat next to Stiles Stilinski.

You were clearly losing your mind; everyone said it was only a matter of time—watching a loved one burn to death tended to have that effect on a person. Not that you remembered much, but you were clearly off your rocker if you were having vivid, day-time hallucinations of red-eyed monsters roaming the streets of Beacon Hills. 

You wiped your sweat-damp palms on your dress and bounced your leg up and down, driving your heel into the floor over and over again—and then you felt a solid warmth over your knee. Your eyes were a little wild when you followed the trail of Stiles’s arm to his face, and the divot between his brows deepened when he met your gaze, “Hey, she’s going to be okay. You know that, right?”

Your head jerked with a quick nod, and you sucked in a few shallow breaths, “I know.” The air got stuck in your chest, and your heart flapped erratically as the back of your eyelids played reruns of a familiar film starring your narrowing trachea. You dug your toes into the dusty floor mat, scrambling for any kind of grasp on reality, and choked on your words, “Her mom always…had…the good shit.”

Stiles kept his hand on your knee and then shook his head, pulling over against the curb and putting the jeep in park. “You don’t have to talk, but you gotta breathe.”

It took you a moment to realize that he was squeezing your kneecap in even intervals. You inhaled and exhaled with the flex of his joints until the panic receded enough for embarrassment to heat your cheeks. You slammed your head back against the seat and stared at the steel roof. You hoped that if you ignored the tears bubbling along your lash line, they’d instantaneously evaporate before they could spill onto your cheeks, “Fuck. I’m sorry. I don’t usually…this hasn’t happened in a long time.”

“Nothing I haven’t seen before.” Stiles chewed on his cheek and pulled his hand back into his lap. He drummed his fingers against his kneecap and then spoke softly, “I used to get ‘em too. Sucked.” Stiles stared out the dashboard, watching but not really seeing dead leaves swirl in little circles over the asphalt, “Happened a lot after my mom died.”

You froze for a moment, and you couldn’t stop yourself from staring. You realized, belatedly, that you hadn’t ever heard the Sheriff talk about his wife, not even once in the last four years, even though he wore a gold band on his left ring finger. It hadn’t even occurred to you to ask. 

You never had the right words to explain it. For a long time, you spoke in ripples at therapy, incomprehensible circles that skirted the point in an endless loop—but you realized, as you got stuck on the honey in Stiles’s eyes, you didn’t need the right words here. With him. In fact, you didn’t really need any words at all. “Me too.”

Stiles watched your eyes steadily, and his fingers stilled against his legs, “Yeah?”

You nodded and swallowed a little, “Yeah.”

A smile tugged on his mouth, tangled with too many paradoxes to parse in the soft, short moment humming between you. You smiled back at him, far more timidly, but that wasn’t a surprise. He was brave, you decided, much braver than you. It was contagious. 

Your tongue darted out, licking your chapped lips, and you clung to the fragile current of courage lapping against the back of your teeth. “We just stopped talking.” 

Stiles glanced at you, clearly confused. 

“Lydia and I.” You knotted your fingers in the hem of your dress and tugged on it every time you felt the stopper in your throat start to swell, “We just stopped being friends after my mom died. That’s why I didn’t…I mean, there’s not really a story to tell. We were close, and then I woke up one day, and we weren’t anymore.”

Stiles turned until he was facing you, leaning against the door and struggling to find a comfortable angle for his long legs. “Most people…they’re okay with the funeral part ‘cause it’s pretty simple—y’know: hold hands, bring food, pretend no one’s crying. And then after comes, and they can’t figure out what to do because it’s over but it’s not.”

“Limbo,” you mirrored his position and pulled your knees to your chest, rocking the soles of your boots from heel to toe like small patent leather boats adrift on a sea of faded nylon, “it’s limbo, and everyone else is so incredibly, hideously alive.” 

The relief was back in Stiles’s eyes, and you were swimming in it. He nodded and bent his knees, scooching his feet until the toes of his sneakers were pressed against yours. “Yeah," he exhaled, and the moment felt important, like something you were supposed to remember on your deathbed. You tried to memorize the look on Stiles's face, but you didn't know where to start. How could you etch infinity?  

“It wasn’t just her,” you admitted out loud for the first time. 

“Yeah,” Stiles shrugged a little and gave you a grin that brought the dimples back to his cheeks, and you couldn’t help but smile at their reappearance, “but we can pretend it was, just for today.” 

You let out a breath that felt like a laugh and lifted your toes, dropping them on top of his and pressing until they were pinned beneath the tread of your boots. He narrowed his eyes and wriggled his feet free, fighting your scurrying ankles with his tongue trapped between his teeth. His triumphant cry when he finally caught the tip of your laces was just enthusiastic enough to coerce another laugh through your clamped lips. 

The soft smile Stiles gave you while you laughed made his body go lax and the back of your neck warm. You quickly bent over to retie your laces, and he turned to restart the engine. 

“I should probably get us back to school,” Stiles ran his hand over his head. “My dad'll kill me if I get marked truant again.”

“It’s parent teacher conferences tonight,” you recalled as the words left your mouth. You slunk down in your seat, chin catching on the seatbelt, “I’ve never skipped school before. I have no idea what my dad’s gonna say.”

Stiles’s attention shifted from the road to your profile, “Really?”

“What?” you crossed your arms over your chest and blew your hair out of your eyes.

“Nothing,” Stiles tried to hide his smirk, but it was too sharp to cover with a cough, “it’s just…hasn’t everyone skipped at least once?”

“What would I even do?” The corner of your mouth tugged into a dry smile, “Visit my catatonic ex-best friend?”

Stiles nodded agreeably, and then his head danced from side to side, rolling over other options, “Or bowling. Bowling is fun.”

You grumbled a little in your throat and sunk further into the cradle of your hips, “I hate bowling.”

Stiles grinned, “Yeah, me too.”

Pausing, your bottom lip wormed its way between your teeth, “I’d play D&D with you, though.” 

“Really?”

“Mhm,” you watched the sun disappear behind the tree line over the hill and ignored the feeling of being examined like a bacterial petri dish.

“See, we are friends. The best of friends, actually. Two peas in the proverbial pod.”

And, well, you couldn’t really disagree.

[dat-lil-shark]

SPOILER ALERT! THIS WHOLE POST IS SPOILER!

I headcanon that the first jolly Transformer One trailer was something that was happening only inside Orion’s mind, where he tried to recall the events of the film but dodging from the traumas, that’s why it sounded so childish and comedic.

He was first thinking about being in the medical room after the glorious race, as him trying to begin on a happy note. But then he drifted into thinking about how Darkwing mistreated them and all the pain of being a miner bot. So he tried to dodge from those memories too by thinking more about the race and D-16, but when he thought about D his mind immediately jumped back to Megatron. So Orion then tried to then dodge from the memory of Megatron, by remembering other things about D-16, such as D shouting “there’s a reason why no one ever goes to the surface!”. But it wasn’t enough for him to escape the Megatron memory, so Orion even tried to bring up the memory from the Quintessons and D-16 shouting in his face “IT’S DANGEROUS!” to counter attack the Megatron memory. And then he remembered he was supposed to think about happy thoughts, so he went back to think about the race.

But to him, the happiest yet most traumatic memory was still the expedition, and he wanted to think about the expedition. So he tried to recall only the happy parts and ignore the traumas. He thought about beautiful scenery, the animals, the cool Alpha Trion, the silly moments where they were learning to transformer. It almost feel like Orion was trying to re-narrate the expedition to make it feel like it nothing but a grand adventure where nothing had gone wrong, where Alpha Trion made all four of them the chosen ones, and where they were supposed to be four pieces of a whole pie.

But then his mind involuntarily goes back to the battles, so he tried to make himself only think about other threats and events. And that’s why we see scenes flashing across in the trailer of Starscream, Airachnid, scraplets, but not Megatron. But despite so the battle memories still hurt him, too, so again Orion tried to only think about the jolly moments, which was when B-127 got the knife hands. And so Orion clang onto that memory and refused to let go for the rest of the sequence.

The entire trailer just feels like Orion was gently rocking himself into a recharge without being haunted by the traumas.

[inheritedbelly]

Heavy Lifting

I start the day excited about the new job. It's not what I dreamed of, of course, but it's a start, a way to gain experience and, maybe, distract myself from the mess my life has become. I work in the warehouse of a factory. I'm an apprentice to Mr. Fred, a big, sweaty 60-year-old man. When I arrived, he was leaning against a pile of boxes, breathing slowly, the weight of his enormous belly rising and falling. He has a deep, thick voice that seems to resonate in his chest, but what stands out the most is his size. I'm not talking about his height, but his width. The guy is huge, almost as if life had shaped him around a giant belly. When he laughs, it feels like his whole body shakes. I can't imagine being in his skin, it must be uncomfortable and gross, but aside from that, he's a nice guy.

The work is exhausting. We carry and move boxes, organize shelves. Things are always missing, and we're the ones responsible for keeping everything in order. I just wish my life was like that—organized. At the end of the day, after lifting heavy things all day, Fred suggests we sit down and talk for a bit. Sitting across from him, I start to open up. I don’t know why, but the words come out before I can hold them back. I talk about my issues with my dad, how I don’t have a mom, and how the pressure to choose a college is suffocating me. I don’t know what I want to do with my life, I just wish I could skip this phase, wake up one day and have everything figured out. Fred listens attentively, his gaze heavy, almost as if he’s absorbing everything I’m saying. He nods slowly, and after a pause, he laughs, slapping his large belly. "Funny," he says. "I wish for the opposite. I wish I could be young again. Skinny. Do everything over, make different choices." His laughter fades, and he looks at the floor for a moment. Then, he looks at me with a strange gleam in his eyes. "You know what, kid? I think I know how to solve our problem." He snaps his fingers, and before I can respond, my vision goes black.

When I wake up, the first thing I feel is a strange coldness on my head. I reach up to the top of my head and… nothing. I'm bald. My heart races, and I look down, terrified. I see a huge belly, a round sphere dominating my field of vision, as if it’s an extension of me, but… it can’t be. The striped shirt covering this body isn’t mine. I try to get up from the armchair I’m sitting in, but everything feels different. Heavy. I grab the belly, this mass of flabby flesh that seems to be part of me now, and I look at my hands. They’re large, wrinkled, covered in saggy skin. It’s like I’m wearing gloves of flesh. I feel panic rising, and I let out a scream, but the sound that comes out of my throat isn’t mine. It’s hoarse, old. I bring my hand to my neck and feel a double chin. Horror overwhelms me, and I fall forward, my body too heavy to keep balance.

I lift my head, struggling, and I see my old body standing there, smiling at me with a malicious look. Everything clicks in an instant. I’ve switched bodies with Fred.

"What the hell did you do?" I shout, my voice now rougher than ever. Fred, in my body, lets out a short, mocking laugh. "Relax, kid. It was just a spell. A solution to our little problem."

I panic. "Undo it! I want my life back! My youth!" But he just shakes his head, still laughing. "You can’t. The spell can only be done once. Now it’s permanent."

My heart, or what was left of it in that old body, starts pounding out of control. I stumble backward, trying to process this new reality. I feel the belly wobbling with every step I take, like an anchor dragging me down. This can’t be true. This can’t be happening.

I run, or at least I try to, to the office bathroom. I lock the door behind me and look in the mirror. The reflection shows me an old, sweaty man with a desperate expression on his face. The face isn’t mine. The skin is full of wrinkles, the cheeks sagging. I run my hand over my face, unable to believe what I see. I can’t stop holding my belly. It’s always there, like a constant reminder that I’m now someone else. Fred knocks on the door, and I hear his voice—my voice from before. “Hey, it’s not going to be that bad, let’s be honest. Now you have what you wanted, and I have what I wanted.” I scream in response, but the truth is that I’m trapped. There’s no going back. Fred then enters and gives a light squeeze to my enormous stomach. I yell at him to leave, and then he steps back. He closes the bathroom door, and I, still in shock and confused about what happened, am left unsure of what to do. I lift my shirt and see: a big belly, covered in hair. I also notice that my chest, which was normal before, is now larger and sagging. With every step I take, I feel my body moving in a way I’ve never felt before. It’s uncomfortable and strange. I turn around and notice that my backside has also changed; it’s now much bigger. I look in the mirror, trying to understand what has happened. The person in the reflection doesn’t seem like me, but the way the body moves makes it clear that, unfortunately, it is mine now.

I leave the bathroom and find Fred, who is now in my body. He smiles and makes an ironic comment, asking if I’m ready. I quickly pull down my shirt and, unsure of what to do, ask, “So now what are we going to do?”

When I leave the bathroom, Fred tells me I can go to his place, which is now my home. I have no choice. Walking through the streets is hell. Every step is a huge effort. I feel sweat dripping down my body, especially between the folds of my belly and on my back. And it’s just a short walk. Upon arriving at the apartment, Fred shows me everything—where the things are, the bathroom, the pantry. During this little tour, I’m extremely out of breath from the walk. My belly bumps into everything around the house. He tells me about his routine. Now, it’s my routine. Because of the heat, I take off my clothes, and my now free belly is enormous. As I squeeze through the house, my stomach occasionally bumps into Fred, who is in my way. “Sorry,” I say, even though I’m not the one to blame for this situation; he is! He’s the one who stuck me in this huge body, but honestly, I’m too out of breath for another argument. As soon as he leaves me alone in my new room, he says, “See you tomorrow, boss,” winking before closing the door. I get ready to take a shower, which is at least strange since I’ve never had to bathe a fat old man before, let alone be the old man myself. I feel the loose skin and the weight of the fat on me. Lying down on the bed is even worse; as soon as I collapse onto the bed, my huge new belly settles against my body in an uncomfortable way, and I have to turn over, quickly causing it to fall to my side. I let out a heavy sigh. “What was I wishing for?”

Lying on the bed, with not many options for comfort, I close my eyes, trying to believe that everything was just a nightmare and that tomorrow everything will be back to normal. But it’s hard to believe that it was just a dream, considering how real everything felt. Even lying there, I had a lot of physical contact with every part of my body, since I was now bulkier. I couldn’t just run my hand over my body without my hairy arm brushing against my hairy stomach. So, I would turn to the side, still thinking my slim body would react. But instead, I felt the weight of my new body. My brain was still that of a slim man.

I would run my hand over my forehead and remember the baldness. I would touch my face and feel the old beard. I would glide my hands over my body and notice my new bulk. It was this repetitive cycle until I finally managed to fall asleep. The next morning, when I wake up, I feel an erection, but not like it always used to be, my dick was fighting against my stomach. in a fright I quickly wake up and my eyes meet see my big stomach and the white hairs on my chest. I quickly get a shock, and suddenly everything hits me: nothing was a dream, everything was real, and this is my new lif

[thewisaaaaad]

AWWW FUCK

In my sleep deprived state, I have created YET ANOTHER AU by smashing together several ideas in my head, along with being inspired by @kamodofilez bells of the dammed au. Sorry for pinging you, but CREDIT IS DUE.

When am I going to run out of these oh lamb

Anyways here's the au. I call it the Regretful Hunter AU, no idea if i am going to continue with this.

In this AU, neither the lamb nor Narinder really wanted to fight.

As soon as Narinder heard the new prophecy through Ratau, he knew exactly what would happen.

Five becomes nothing? He wasn't stupid. He was going to fall too, just like all his siblings.

Good. It was what he deserved. It was what he wanted.

Narinder did the fight because he was actually tired of being the god of death, saw that the lamb was way better at being god than any of his siblings were, and wanted to pass the mantle. Of course, due to pride and family trauma, they couldn't just hand it over, so he tried to goad the lamb into killing him. He... doesn't really consider how Aym and Baal would feel about it. He forgot they were people, honestly, until it was too late to care.

The lamb, meanwhile, was totally chill with dying. They felt that they were OK at playing leader, but was ready to hand over the reins to the god that gave them the opportunity to take revenge for their people.

They were fully ready to let go, and see their family again in the afterlife. After all that had happened, they were just. So. Tired.

However, fate has ways of getting what it wants- including puppeting its victims. The lamb was conscious the whole time as they were forced to fight the person that gave them everything they had ever wanted and slay his guardians. They were just glad that they didn't have to kill him.

Narinder was less than pleased with the mercy. When the guilt of what he had done set in, he ran away from the cult before the lamb could explain what happened.

He planned on going out, finding a nice cliff with some sharp rocks at the bottom, and ending it once and for all.

Turns out, ending your life by your own hands is a lot harder than he thought. It can be pretty scary, standing at the edge.

He blames his mortality, of course.

Lamb, meanwhile, goes into a depression induced stupor, the young god just going through the motions of running a cult. ???'s arrival makes it a little easier, by giving them a goal to work towards, but they never stop hoping to find Narinder again. They know hes not dead yet.

They would feel it.

Narinder continues to survive in the forest, hunting critters using plumbata, or throwing arrows, made from stolen arrows. He goes around, surviving while cursing his cowardice, until one day he wanders through Silkcradle, looking for spiders to hunt.

Instead, he finds a panda and a skunk in mortal danger. Before, he would have let them die, for obviously if they had wanted to live then they would not have come here, doubly so for the panda who could have just never come to the lands of the old faith at all.

But now? Now he understands the fear of the end. How it can creep up on you without knowledge of its presence, how a foolish decision can seem like the best one to make in the moment.

So he saves them. They, of course, ask for his name.

He does not give it. Instead, he gives them the location of paradise, where they will be safe. When asked why he does not go there himself, he answers that "I had lost my right to that place long ago."

When Jalala and Rinor arrive at the lambs cult, they tell the lamb of the kind stranger who saved them, the cat with three red eyes.

The lamb gets excited. He's still out there. And he wishes he could be here.

They just have to talk to him.