#too clean to be considered sketches

[umberwolf]

Been playing FF4 throughout April and god is it peak. Here's some drawings based off visiting Mysidia post-shipwreck.

Plus small comic on talking to the town entrance black mage

[lucabyte]

Taking pride in One's own appearance.

[jontaro-kun]

God I love women I wish they were real

[radrobotz]

i have a million things to do for uay universe but how many of them am i going to do imagining everything in my head is enrichment enough for me so sometimes i forget

[saturmarine]

Character from a story I used to write- I haven't really touched it in years but I'm still attached to it. She isn't the main character but I thought she would be fun to draw.

[lively-run-away]

I take my whiskey neat. my coffee black and my bed at 3 you're too sweet for me

i was forced to hear this song every time i'm at work and now my brain gave it to my OC Mathew to make me like it more. there an't that many good songs on the workplace radio so this is my favourite for now.

[dollwrites]

ᴍɪsᴛᴀᴋᴇɴ ɪᴅᴇɴᴛɪᴛʏ ! ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ ʀᴀғᴀʏᴇʟ

𝗰𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀 ∣ smut ( minors dni ), fem!bff!reader, sex toys mentioned but not used, noise control, dub con technically ( for him… kinda TRUST THE PROCESS ) prank gone wrong for reader lol, creampie, has absolutely no spoilers or deep lore, all characters featured are aged 18+

𝗶𝗺𝗽𝗼𝗿𝘁𝗮𝗻𝘁 ∣ please reblog && leave feedback. HAPPY 4/20! i was gonna do some dizzy drabbles but i couldn’t get this out of my head. not proofread ( and written when i was in the clouds ) so there’s probably mistakes. thanks for reading < 3

what had started out as a fun prank on your best friend for revenge ended with you completely at his mercy, unbeknownst to him.

picking up around the studio wasn’t something you did too often, considering it a breach of Rafayel’s privacy, but when you got there and he wasn’t home, you let yourself inside like you usually did. you were about an hour early, anyways. you hadn’t taken two steps when you stumble over a pile of crumpled sketch paper. you scrunched your brows as you gazed around your environment. scattered brushes, broken pencils, and a canvas half-painted in the middle of the floor. you sighed; perhaps Rafayel had hit a wall with his muse and had gone for a walk on the beach. the least you could do for him, you’d decided, was to clean up a bit. after all, a clean space is a productive space, right?

that was when you came across it, left carelessly on his bed, swaddled in a sea of white sheets and the comforter. you’d never seen one in real life until this moment, and at first you mistook it for a woman asleep in his bed with her butt sticking out of the blankets— but, it was fake. a plump, nearly life sized ass sitting atop the mattress.

does Rafayel really use something like this?

you found your cheeks heated up with embarrassment when you pictured him mounting it, both of his smooth palm against the cheeks, svelte digits digging into the silicone to spread it open wide enough for him to push inside…

shaking your head to snap yourself out of the fantasy, you look around, making sure no one was around to see you get lost in your own desire for him. “S—stupid.” you muttered to yourself, stepping closer to touch the fleshiest part of it. surprisingly soft, as soft as your own skin. your brow quirks, fingers sliding to the waistband of a pair of cerulean, lace panties that adorned the faux lower body. it seemed so strange to have clothes on something that was meant to stay hidden and used in private, as if the silicone slab had been laid out meticulously…

no, Rafayel didn’t use this for his own pleasure, you decided. this was a prank. an elaborate one, but one meant to fluster you when you came over.

he was such an ass!

“Oh yeah?” you challenge under your breath, grasping the panties and tugging them off of the toy, “You want to play games? I can play, too.” determined to outprank Rafayel, you toss the panties on the bed and stash the toy beneath the bed. it was surprisingly heavy, and made a splat when it hit the surface of the floor, you had to stifle a chuckle as just hilarious this was. you didn’t want him to win, even if he wasn’t there to see it. quickly unbuttoning your pants, you discard them and the panties you were wearing, kicking them under the bed, too. then, you grab the cerulean lace and pull them on— perfect fit! you took a moment to glance in a nearby mirror, turning slightly. your ass had a similar curve and complexion, and you hoped it was enough to fool him, at least long enough for you to scare him when he least expected it. then, you climb into the bed, scrupulous as you nest your top half under a pile of blankets, the pillows resting on the top of your shoulders to hide your head. there was also the issue with your legs. it took a great amount of wrapping sheets around your thighs as you kick and squirm, before you’re finally perfectly positioned— identical to the way he’d left the fake ass, your own sticks out as if inviting him, as you wait for him to return.

at first, it had been difficult to keep yourself from jittering, too excited to see the look on his face when you jump out, effectively one-upping his lewd joke. but, as the minutes ticked on, with your entire body hidden within his bedding, you’d started to sweat, breathing in the dense air trapped under the pillows with you, and you had to readjust several times. it took so long that you were just about to give up on the prank and unbury yourself, before you heard the door open.

showtime.

you felt knots of excitement tying themselves together in your belly as you willed yourself to be as still as possible, and appear as the lifeless, silicone toy.

you could hear him moving about the studio, sighing, and your heart was starting to beat faster in your ears— you hoped that he would hurry to his room, so you could reveal yourself soon, and you could get out from under this suffocating duvet.

when he’d stepped into the bedroom, you hear the door close behind him, and you have to physically keep yourself from kicking your feet in excitement. it was almost time to scare the living daylights out of your best friend. your muscles tighten, ready to jump up, but a sound abruptly stops you.

a zipper.

you freeze, listening silently to the sound of rusting fabric. soft thuds as he kicked out of his shoes, and a whoosh that follows towards the floor.

was he undressing?

your eyes widen only when you hear a heavy breath, followed by the click of a cap. squeezing, then a low moan coming from behind you. it was Rafayel. your eyes widen. you’d never heard such a sound from his mouth, and you had a pretty good idea of what he was doing. the subtle skin slapping that started slow, but sped up shortly after, his breath getting heavier simultaneously. you realized how wrong it was to hear Rafayel pleasuring himself, especially when he didn’t know that you were there. you should really say something, open your mouth and let him know that he wasn’t alone, but when your lips parted, you couldn’t force any sound from it. you were too stunned by these sounds to give him any kind of warning. you listen, mouth agape and eyes big, staring into the headboard of his bed as he takes a few steps towards the foot of it. your mind races, realizing that he had not placed the toy on his bed for you to find it—

this had not been a toilet-humor prank that he was putting together. he simply hadn’t had the time to hide his private toys before you stumbled upon them.

to solidify this revelation, you feel one hand tracing over the shape of your ass. his fingers were warm and slick, and you nearly gasped, sealing your lips just in time for his digits to curl around the panties and tug on them, inching down your thighs. he would definitely discover you were disguising yourself as the toy when he couldn’t take them all the way off, and that thought was equally humiliating and comforting. you didn’t exactly love the idea of him finding out now, after exposing your cunt to him, and now that you’d gotten an earful of him jerking off, but at least things wouldn’t go further. Rafayel doesn’t, however, try to pull the panties down completely. instead, he seems content to leave them around your thighs, and his fingers trace upwards, slowly and skillfully, until they trace your netherlips, slathering your sex in what had to be lube, cool and wet.

oh, god. your top teeth sink into your lower lip as his fingertips swipe full laps between your folds. the pads rub against your most sensitive nub, leaving it throbbing and begging for more attention before they drag downwards, teasing your opening. he didn’t seem to notice that your cunt spasms, attempting to clamp down on his fingers, before they run another lap. he lets out a heavy breath, the sound of his palm smacking against his abdomen as he fucks his own hand in tandem to the way he was unknowingly teasing your pussy making your head spin.

this was so wrong.

you had to tell him right now.

your tiers part once more, this time determined to stop this before—

the swollen, slippery head of Rafayel’s cock rubs against your slit. one hand covers your mouth to keep any sound, words or otherwise, from escaping as you realize that it’s too late to expose yourself now. you’d look like a total creep, taking advantage of your best friend by pretending to be his sex toy. “Huh—uhh…” Rafayel emitted a low moan as he rubbed his dick against you a few more times, before planting one palm on your ass, the other holding tight to his base as he plunged inside.

it took all you had within you to not let out a cry of surprise at the sudden entry. your free hand grips the sheet so tightly you fear your nails will rip holes in it, and your toes curl beneath the mattress. Rafayel had been under the impression that he could be as rough as he wanted, because the pussy was nothing but a silicone replica, and so his rhythm was steady, deep pumping almost immediately upon bottoming out in your guts. “Fuck,” he breathes out, hips thumping against your ass, both hands grasping at it. “F—feels good… yeah,”

he was right about that, and you wished you could vocalize it. your walls fluttered about in delight as he pounded into you, his cock was longer than you’d thought it would be, the tip bold in its deep exploration, prodding against your g-spot with every, full thrust of his hips. you fought the urge to bounce back, meet his movements with equally eager grinding. instead, your eyes began to roll and your lids flittered, and the grip on your own mouth tightened to keep any of your stifled mewls and whimpers from escaping. you couldn’t, however, keep from gushing when he hit the perfect depth with his fervent stroking, and you could only hope that his thorough drenching you in lubrication would be enough to mask this.

you could hear him panting, moaning, swearing, as he fucked you with reckless abandon. his fingers digging into your warm, satin skin, his cock twitching and throbbing inside you. it was as if you felt every, single vein as they rub your walls, autographing your insides, claiming them as his as he uses you.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah…!”

he was getting louder, his hips bucking more powerfully, more erratically, and the throbbing in your core was a testament to just how close to cumming he was.

you knew how wrong this was, but all rational thinking was dissipating; you were enjoying being fucked like this; greedy, careless pounding, by your closest friend too much to ruin it, now. you didn’t want to stop it, not until he was fully satiated.

“F—fuck, yeah,” Rafayel swoons, grabbing full fists of your ass, pulling your ass back to meet his hungry hip-snapping, “more, more, more!”

you couldn���t take much more, and you push your face into the mattress to keep quiet, both hands scrambling to hold on to something, squeezing the edge of the mattress with your nails sinking in— anything to relieve the pressure he was forcing as deep into you as he could. your feet wanted to kick, your back wanted to arch, and you wanted to scream out in pure pleasure, so you clung to the bed as tightly as you could in hopes that you could ride out the orgasm he was ripping from you.

he didn’t even seem to notice your twitching and subtle squirming beneath the blankets as he made you drop off and come undone, which you were thankful for, because he was too caught up in chasing his own high. “Gonna cum, gonna cum!” Rafayel was sputtering, desperately trying to get there, pressing all of his weight against your ass as he pumps a few more, deep and hard, thrusts into you before he grunts, and releases. as if he’d been pent up for quite a while, you felt a spattering of warmth, and then it spreads as he fills your belly with his essence. you nearly lose it in this moment, and almost blow your cover, your walls clamping down on his cock as he starts to retract. it felt so good to be full of Rafayel that you didn’t want him to pull out, but he does so with a ragged moan. there’s an uncomfortable emptiness that follows his abandoning of your cunt, the feeling of being fucked deep and left there, your oblivious best friend’s cum dribbling out of your used pussy as it twitches and your muscles stay tense. you knew you were leaving a small puddle on his sheets below you, but you could hear him milling around the room instead of focusing on you, now.

“Damn,” he mutters to himself, and you his phone unlock, then the rapid-fire tapping of his fingers on the keys. was he… texting?

you were answered when you heard the faint vibrating of your phone in your pants pocket, hidden under the bed. he texted you?! at first, you think he must’ve heard it, because everything went silent, and you waited for him to start shouting, but he doesn’t.

a few moments later, the door opens, and his footsteps fade as he swaggers down the corridor, satiated, and a moment later, you hear the shower turn on.

for the first time in several minutes, your muscles relax for a moment, before you swim out from your heated prison in a hurry, scrambling under the bed to grab your phone. every move you made, you could feel his release swirling around inside you and dribbling down your thighs, and you groan at the sensation, and the trail you made before you pulled the panties up to keep any more from leaving evidence. staring at the screen, panting and fucked out, your eyes barely focusing, you read the message in disbelief.

just woke up so i’m running late. stop on the way and buy lunch or something i’m starving

liar.

but you didn’t have time to dwell on the message; you get dressed as quickly as you can, what with your legs trembling like shaken jelly and your insides sore from Rafayel’s eager plowing, and hoist the fake butt back into place on top of the bed. you had to make a stealthy exit before he got out of the shower. stuffing your own panties into your pocket, you decide the best way to avoid an even stickier mess on his floor that would certainly be noticeable, you had to wear the panties meant for the doll. you could only pray he didn’t realize they’d gone missing right away, and later today when you could sneak away to the bathroom, you’d put them back in place.

so, stumbling and trying to catch your breath, freshly fucked, you leave through the sliding back door, the one that faces the shoreside, and closes it behind you to complete your escape.

once outside, you exhale deeply, lean against his car, hidden from windows’ views, to evaluate the damage, beyond the mess of him in your panties. you groan, covering your face with both hands in belated guilt.

you could never, ever tell him about this!

[the-travelling-witch]

𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐀 𝐋𝐈𝐏𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐊 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐈𝐍 𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐌

nonnie asked: lately i noticed many writers writing about reader kissing character's face while wearing lipstick and therefore covering them in it and i found it so cute and then started to imagine your om!ocs and the modern au guys (…) being covered in lipstick kisses too […]

pairings: my genshin modern au guys (xiao :: scara :: aether :: kazuha :: heizou :: venti :: childe :: diluc :: kaeya), my obey me ocs (dantalion :: valefar :: stolas), my twst oc (cheron) x gn! reader

warnings: these lipsticks are not smudge-proof

a/n: as said i might write a full thing for one character when i have the chance but considering i have 13 characters here and i can only think of so many scenarios, i’m writing a few paragraphs each for now ^^;

original ask

modern au || dantalion || valefar || stolas || cheron

𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐧 𝐌𝐨𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐧 𝐀𝐔

𝐗𝐈𝐀𝐎 Piercer/ Tattoo Artist

It had been a busy week in which you hadn’t seen much of each other, so when you finally made it to Friday evening, you were overjoyed to see your boyfriend again. Needless to say, when the door swung shut, the first thing you did was flutter some well-earned kisses across his face, not even bothering to take your make-up off.  So when Xiao spotted his reflection in the mirror, the flush on his cheeks wasn’t the only rose colour decorating his beautiful complexion. While you watched his blush darken, he couldn’t meet your eyes in the mirror and you giggled to yourself as you watched them snap to you when you pulled the neckline of his shirt out of the way and planted a final kiss on the base of his neck.

𝐒𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐀 Piercer/ Tattoo Artist

It was your day off, so for once you weren’t out of the house before Scara, instead getting ready at the same time as him. You made him his usual morning coffee to go after he slept over, since he straight up refused to drink anyone else’s, and kissed him goodbye. Not long after he arrived at the piercing studio, notifications started blowing up your phone and you skimmed the furious string of texts, laughing to yourself. Apparently, Xiao hadn’t said anything about the smudge on the corner of his lips, leaving Heizou and Venti to have a field day when they came in, teasing him relentlessly even after he wiped it off.  As for the accusation that you did it on purpose, who was to say…

𝐀𝐄𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑 Piercer/ Tattoo Artist

“Do you still need the make up remover?” Aether asked from outside your bathroom door. You’d both just gotten back from an outing with the others from the piercing shop, staying longer than you initially intended. But that was what always happened. Venti could be very convincing and the group was too much fun to leave early. “I’m done, but I didn’t notice you wearing any makeup earlier,” you admitted, opening the door to let your boyfriend in.  “Well I wasn’t,” Aether sheepishly laughed, rubbing the base of his neck. And then you saw it. Faint traces of colour decorating his temple, cheek, the corner of his mouth and even the parts of his neck and chest not covered by his shirt. A shade that very closely resembled the lipstick you applied before going out. “You might be a bit of an affectionate drunk.” “Oh my— I’m so sorry, Aether,” you apologised, quickly searching around for some cotton pads and wiping the lipstick off his chest, trying not to linger on the thought too much. “Don’t worry, I thought it was cute,” he assured you, his warm smile seemingly lighting up the room. As you leaned in to clean his face, he took the opportunity to steal a quick kiss from you as well. “You should wear it more often, it looked very pretty on you.”

𝐊𝐀𝐙𝐔𝐇𝐀 Piercer/ Tattoo Artist

Kazuha had come over for lunch, as he often did, taking a break from his coworkers between the plants, sketching if the time allowed for it. When you both had to return to work, you pressed a sweet kiss against his cheek and then rushed to help a customer. And while neither one of you noticed the colour dusting his cheek, the others sure did and wasted no time pointing it out, though all their teasing comments seemed to bounce right off of him.  He wiped the stain away before any customers came in, laughing off how he hadn’t noticed at all. “Of course you wouldn’t notice,” Heizou agreed, a knowing air about him. “After all, you’re way too busy making heart eyes at your florist to even think about looking anywhere else for a second.”

𝐇𝐄𝐈𝐙𝐎𝐔 Piercer/ Tattoo Artist

“Hey honey, could you help me with something real quick?” You called your boyfriend over as you finished applying a new shade of lipstick you bought. As Heizou strolled up to where you were standing, you turned towards him with a smile. “What do you think? Do you like it?” “The colour looks beautiful on you,” he easily replied, sending you a flirtatious wink. “Though I’m not sure if it’s really the colour or just you being gorgeous that’s causing it. Now what did you need help with?” Wrapping one arm around his neck, you pulled him in for a kiss, making sure to firmly plant your lips against his. If your boyfriend was surprised at all, he masked it well, easily melting into the kiss. As you pulled away a little breathlessly, you grinned. “Just wanted to see if it’s really smudge-proof, though I guess it failed in that regard.” You traced a finger around the faint trace of colour on his lips as Heizou took the tube from you and applied the lipstick with pinpoint precision. Turning to you, his olive eyes were gleaming with mischief as he chuckled. “I think we should run a few more tests, just to be sure.”

𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈 Piercer/ Tattoo Artist

“This one’s for the song you wrote for me and this one’s for bringing me my favourite coffee without me asking,” you mused, studying your boyfriend’s face covered in pink-hued gloss marks. Somehow a kiss to the temple had ended with you caging Venti against the couch, fluttering a dozen kisses all over the skin you could reach. “Ehe, what can I say, I’m just the best boyfriend ever,” he giggled, tracing his fingers down the contours of your face in return. Then, something in his expression changed and you prepared yourself to shut down whatever idea he was about to propose next. “Maybe I should think about getting one of them tattooed? On my shoulder or so?” “Don’t you dare.”

𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐃𝐄 Idol

Ever since you had caught a lot of heat from Childe’s manager for accidentally letting your boyfriend leave with a mark decorating his collarbones, you were very cautious of leaving any visible stains on him, even if it was just makeup.  Still, you found ways to work around this little inconvenience. There was one time you signed off a little post-it note you left on the fridge for him, wishing him good luck for a performance, with a lipstick stain. After seeing his reaction of childish glee, it became a staple in your relationship. Then again, whenever Childe came home from work with his makeup still on, he never failed to press a big, fat, lip gloss stained kiss on your cheek, chuckling like the menace he is when you make a show of wiping it off.

𝐃𝐈𝐋𝐔𝐂 Club Owner/ Bartender

Diluc had seen his fair share of shameless make outs during his time at the Angel’s Share and normally he just turned his head the other way, not sure why people would enjoy slobbering all over each other. Well, that was until he met you anyway.  Though he’d like to think he was more composed than the intoxicated people at his club, whenever you pressed your lips against his, he thought he might get drunk off of you. He swallowed hard when you pulled away, mind still trying to process what was happening as his eyes tracked the movement of your own kiss-swollen lips, not hasty to wipe away the traces of you against his skin.

𝐊𝐀𝐄𝐘𝐀 Model

Kaeya actually revelled in it whenever you leave any type of mark on him, as long as it didn’t lead to a scolding from his manager. Whether it was something more durable like a hickey or something easily wiped off like a lipstick stain, Kaeya always looked very smug about it afterwards. After all, the marks were a testimony to the events that transpired previously, and what could he say, Kaeya enjoyed those very much. Even more so considering he knew his way around a makeup bag, confidently picking out shades that looked gorgeous on you and even more gorgeous when they were smudged around the corner of your lips and over his skin. In his opinion, every photo of the aftermath was more stunning than any of his cover shoots.

𝐎𝐛𝐞𝐲 𝐌𝐞! 𝐎𝐂𝐬

𝐃𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐎𝐍 Majolish Owner/ Devil Style Chief Editor

You walked in on Dantalion getting ready, his attention that was previously on his reflection in the vanity mirror flickering to you when you entered. His plush lips, curled into a loving smile, are painted in a flattering shade of red and your gaze was trained on them as you came to stand in front of him. “Are you trying a new shade? It suits you well.” “I am. I’m glad you like it,” he hummed, tilting his head in contemplation. “I wonder…” Cupping your cheek in his palm, the demon leaned towards you and you instinctively closed your eyes as his soft lips pressed against yours with purpose. As always his kisses made a part of your brain short circuit and you blinked at him dazedly for a moment after you parted. There was a satisfied gleam in his bright eyes as he wiped at your bottom lip with his thumb, studying the red stain he left. “As expected, it’s an even lovelier colour on you, my flower.”

𝐕𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐅𝐀𝐑 Casino Owner

“Little lamb, come here for a second.” Valefar was no stranger to finding your lipstick smudges at the rim of his drinks or wiping smudges of colour and gloss from his cheek before leaving for the casino after you gave him a kiss goodbye. He didn’t mind, found it cute even, but as he regarded the pink stain on the collar of his white dress shirt in the lounge’s mirror, he knew it won’t come off with a quick swipe of his thumb. It wasn’t a big deal, he kept spare shirts in his office, but Val wouldn’t pass on the opportunity to fluster you. “Care to explain yourself?” You were halfway through stuttering out a sheepish apology when Valefar backed you against his desk, keeping you pinned to him with a hand on your back. Intense amber eyes keep contact with yours as he leaned down to suck a noticeable hickey on the same spot his collar would be, knowing your clothes barely wouldn’t be able to hide it. “Debts should be repaid, wouldn’t you agree?”

𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐋𝐀𝐒 Popular Streamer

It was a pleasant day in the Devildom, as pleasant as it could be in a realm without the sun anyway, pulling the two of you out into town. While strolling from apparel stores to gaming shops, you passed a café you frequented and decided to stop by for some refreshments. As you pointed around various shop displays, you had the sinking feeling that your drink emptied faster than usual. And when you spotted the colourful stain that had transferred from your straw to your boyfriend’s lips, you caught the culprit red- handed (or rather red-lipped). When confronted he merely chuckled playfully before swooping in to steal a kiss on top of your drink, staining them with more of your lipstick and thereby destroying the evidence. (His straw also became more colourful as he offered you his drink as compensation.)

𝐓𝐰𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐖𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐎𝐂

𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐎𝐍 Prince of Hell

When Vil gifted you a set of lipsticks and glosses from a campaign he was part of and had no need for, you accepted them gratefully. You just finished sorting through all the shades and trying out a pretty shade of red, when there was a knock on your door and Cheron sauntered into your room.  “There you are,” he grinned, charming without even having to try, before pulling you close and stealing the air from your lungs with a kiss. For someone who claimed to not be interested in ferrying more souls to hell, he sure seemed intent on trying to kill you. “What’s this you got there? Vil’s new collab?” “Right you are,” you paused, peering around him to the lipstick tube in your hand and chuckling as you read the shade name. Pressing another kiss right onto the middle of his cheek as payback for his usual schemes, you took in the red matching the colour on the corner of his lips. “Don’t you think it’s a beautiful colour, Cherry? It does match your hair and eyes. Maybe I should start calling you that.” There was a dangerous glint in his crimson eyes, clearly aware of the red staining his face, as he swiped his thumb under your bottom lip where the lipstick left a smudge as well.  “You have a lot of nerve marking the Prince of Hell.” His grin showed off the points of his fangs more clearly now, clearly amused at your little stunt, taking a step forward and walking you backwards towards the edge of your bed. “That’s fine. If you can handle the consequences, that is.”

© the-travelling-witch 2024 - do not repost, translate, copy or edit; do not feed my writing to an ai

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[hivemuthur]

Hi Anon(s)! I'm intermingling the request and prompt into one:

Filth, Unspoken

viktorxfemale!reader explicit! you know the drill, they end up doing stuff by the end of this. The premise is: Reader secretly writes love letters and poems to Viktor and one day she accidentally slips him some. From warnings: massive cringe warning regarding my attempt at poetry :v

word count: 4,1K

author’s note: Remember when I said that sometimes I need to remind myself that I can publish anything because nobody has my address and won't come and boycott me in real life? I had to do it ten times harder with this. You don't like my poems? High five, I don't either :') Viktor does tho, hehe :v @rennethen as usual thank you for beta reading and surviving :v

artist on X

—

Chaos. The only word capable of describing your day. From the frantic oversleeping—jumping around your bedroom while picking up yesterday’s clothes—to the rushed, half-hearted teeth cleaning your dentist would surely condemn, to breakfast consisting of a single apple, to bumping into Sky and painfully clashing foreheads, to nearly stumbling over the threshold of Heimerdinger’s classroom. And then, the realisation: you’ve forgotten your textbook.

You’re forced to borrow the classroom copy, the one Heimerdinger keeps for emergencies. Poor book—barely holding together, its pages threatening to break free from their loose stitching, stained and scrawled on by generations of equally forgetful students.

In the middle of a page, you spot a tiny drawing of Viktor, ink bleeding into the text you’re supposed to be reading. He’s hunched over a desk, his back abruptly cut off by the edge of the paper, his hair reduced to sketchy, heavy-handed strokes. And yet, it’s undeniably him. Signed J.T.—Jayce, you assume. Around the drawing, various hearts have been added in different inks and handwritings, a quiet chorus of affection from students past. No wonder the book is so worn. You smile to yourself—you’re not the only one, it would seem.

Your eyes flick to where he sits, finding him in the exact same position, only now with the full curve of his back visible. The eraser end of a pencil rests between his lips, his gaze blank as he stares off, lost in thought. You imagine it’s something else entirely that finds its way into his mouth.

Slowly, you draw your own heart next to his tiny, sketched lips.

The lecture blurs as the last of your adrenaline fades. Secretive yawns slip through as Heimerdinger’s monotonous voice grows heavier, pressing your eyelids shut. Eventually, you succumb, head resting against your hand.

The next thing you know, a warm hand presses firmly against your forearm, and your name is murmured close to your cheek, laced with the scent of coffee and something sweet. You lean into it before you can think better of it.

“I must admit, I agree with your review,” Viktor mutters, far too close to your lips for your pupils not to dilate.

There’s a stupid look on your face, and he must notice, because he adds, “Eh. Not the most thrilling lecture, I suppose.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t know. Damn, I barely took any notes,” you whine, rubbing the sleep from your eyes.

Viktor chuckles, clearly mistaking the heat in your cheeks for lingering drowsiness rather than the way his closeness sets your pulse stumbling. You’re still leaning toward him, caught between the haze of waking and the warmth of his voice.

“I have a free period now,” he offers. “We can go through them together.”

For a fleeting second, you consider lying—mumbling a heated yes, forsaking another lecture only to spend some time in his proximity and get a good whiff of his scent. But a nagging sense of duty wins over the frantic thrum in your chest.

You fidget, pushing yourself up from your seat too fast, nearly toppling over in the process. “Ah—next class—I have to—” Papers crumple under your fingers as you shove them into your bag with all the grace of a landslide.

Viktor watches you with quiet amusement. He has seen this flustered scramble before—usually when someone is running late or, occasionally, when someone is running from him. But he isn’t one to give up easily.

“If you do not have time,” he says smoothly, “I can review the notes myself.”

You pause, blinking at him. “You’d really do that?”

“Mm.” He tilts his head, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “I like collecting favours.”

Still not entirely awake, you dig through your bag and pull out a stack of papers. It’s not a particularly pleasant sight—edges curled, some pages crumpled beyond saving, a coffee stain blooming across the corner of one sheet like a spreading bruise. You give him an apologetic shrug.

Viktor takes them without hesitation, his smile turning playful. “I do like a challenge.” He taps the stack against the desk to straighten it. “I will drop them off later?”

Your brain is still catching up to the fact that you just handed over your notes—your disaster of a note-taking system—to Viktor, of all people.

“Uh. Yeah. Sure.” The words leave your mouth before you can rethink them, and by the time you do, Viktor is already slipping the papers into his bag with a satisfied little hum.

And so you go your separate ways, the needy thing in your chest both sated and still starving, your mind already drifting to what the evening might bring. You wrap your fingers around your forearm where Viktor’s hand rested for a moment, itching to roll up your sleeve and inspect the skin beneath.

All this time, you’ve been pouring your heart out onto sheets of paper that no one has seen. Technically, Sky once found one you accidentally used as a napkin—deeming it trash after you’ve read it back to yourself, mortified. You snatched it from her hand and shoved it deep into the bin. Thankfully, it was a tame one.

Love letters, poems, confessions—all of them left unseen. For someone so secretive about your little crush, you take surprisingly few security measures. You stuff them under your pillow, into your drawers, sometimes into your pockets, books, or notes you carry around in your bag. Or, they become an eventual napkin, but that has only happened once so far.

You should probably keep them safer. But the thought vanishes the moment you sit down for your next class, forcing yourself into the focused state you need to brace through the lab exercise. Occasionally, your mind drifts back to later.

Viktor, true to his word, spends the period back at his dorm, where all the notes he might need are. He sets up at his desk, intending to correct your scribblings and annotate what you might have missed, only to realise soon after that this won’t be a one-sitting job. How you’ve been passing your classes eludes him.

It’s pure chaos incarnate. What starts as notes on one page quickly devolves into a caricature of Heimerdinger, his poro gnawing at his foot, before abruptly resuming a page later. He chuckles at your commentary—hastily scribbled words underlined whenever boredom struck: yawn, no idea what this man is talking about, kill me.

Until it’s no longer chaos. His eyes fixate on a small sheet of paper wedged between your class materials. A poem. No mistake here. But what kind of poem is this? Has this bloomed under your pen? He reads the first two verses, convincing himself it’s to identify your handwriting.

when you brush my fingers I don’t wash my hands

And there is no mistake here either. He places the sheet face down on his desk, looking around as if anyone might be there to spy on him. He steadies himself with a deep breath before peeking back in.

your touch lingers, stains my skin seeps into every tender place I press against in the dark it’s cruel, how you favour my left hand how you never take the right— the one I slip between my thighs the one that does you no justice, I’m sure

Your words pour into him, his mind racing as he imagines you saying them. Writing them, tapping your chin with your pen at your desk—or better yet, in your bed. Or have you written this in class? Heart begins to thump loudly in his temples as he re-reads the poem a couple of times, each pass making his cheeks hotter. He tries to focus on the words, imagining you, wondering who you’ve written this for. By the time he’s forced to pack up for his next class, his hair is dishevelled from running a hand through it too many times. He eyes the rest of your notes suspiciously, his mind racing.

After lectures, he’d like nothing more than to run back to his dorm, but instead, he walks briskly, the thought of your writings nagging at him. The stack of papers teases at his mind, and as he turns the corner, a sudden impulse hits him—what if he searched the rest of the notes?

He sits down faster than he would admit to anyone and begins to go through the papers, one by one. It doesn’t take long to identify another hold-withered sheet, folded in half unevenly, which he opens with excited hands.

I fall asleep drunk on the whiskey of your eyes and the promise of your teeth I dream of the mark your cane leaves on my ass

Stop. Can’t be. He twists the cane in his fingers and falls against the chair’s backrest. Head lulls back on his shoulders and a hand comes to cover his mouth. Can’t be, so he reads the whole thing again.

I fall asleep drunk on the whiskey of your eyes and the promise of your teeth I dream of the mark your cane leaves on my ass make it red make it many every night, I regret that I cannot kiss where past life lovers have kissed you— under your eye, above your mouth

Zatraceně, Viktor thinks. He runs his fingers across the mark under his eye, then the one above his lip. Still, can't be, can it? Every blush, every fidgeting of hands he mistook for your general anxiety—was it all him?

Every time you’ve shied away from his eyes or slipped from under his touch. His mind races through your interactions, trying to remember how many times he’s touched your left hand. Countless. Unbelievable, how blind a smart man can be.

With trembling hands, he fumbles through the rest of the stack. And as if he weren’t sure enough already, a tiny piece of parchment, presumably ripped from one of your notebooks, glares at him with his name scribbled in loving letters.

Fuck me, Viktor. I don’t want to die— Untouched by you, Unfucked by you, Unruined by you, Unmade in the way only you could.

Such words, coming from under your wrist, unthinkable. He finds his collar tight and his mind foggy as he reads all three of them over and over. Images of your lips reciting the poems flood his brain. Then, images of your lips doing other things.

He loosens his tie, after a while discards it completely. Determined to finish what he promised, he goes through the rest of your notes, thankfully finding no other filthy scribbles. Or unluckily.

He considers completing the task tomorrow, but there’s no use. His cock is relentlessly stiff, and if he doesn’t hand you your filth back, he will most likely stay awake until the morning. When the knock lands on your door, it's late, but you’d be lying if you said you weren’t waiting.

“Hello,” says Viktor, and he looks… tired. His clothes are dishevelled, his hair a mess, and his cheeks are faintly flushed. He looks pretty, too.

“Hi, um… am I this unreadable?” You wince, eyeing the notes in Viktor’s hand, which look somewhat neater than you remember.

You have no idea, he thinks. “Eh, it was a little bit… challenging, but everything should be here,” Viktor says, hesitating before passing you the stack. “Can I come in?”

You step away faster than you can say yes. Then, you take the notes from his hand and put them on the table, looking at him expectantly. “Well?”

This time it’s Viktor fidgeting, and it gets you mildly self-conscious. He turns to you, then eyes the stack on the table. “You have an interesting way of cataloguing knowledge,” he chooses to say.

“What… do you mean?” you ask, and feel your heart stop, drop out of your chest, and stumble to the floor. For a moment, you feel bloodless, before all this blood comes rushing up to your face with an ice-cold gush.

“I might have stumbled upon some of your… eh, original work, so to speak?” he offers and smiles of all things. Curiosity lingers in his eyes, and you swallow, hard.

“Original… oh, fuck.” you exhale sharply, and your hand shots up to cover your mouth.

“You are very talented. I know not much of poetry, but—”

“Poetry?! Gods, these are the worst!” You rub your temples, mortified, eyes flicking to the floor, desperately trying to hide your embarrassment.

“There’s more?” he asks, bewildered. This is the most animated he’s seen you… perhaps, ever. Always quiet. Always shy around him. How interesting.

“Viktor, I beg you,” before you know it, you fist his shirt, and your face is inches away from his. Your cheeks burn and your temples hammer with the rhythm of your heart. “Don’t mock me. Which ones have you read?”

The proximity moves something within him, and suddenly, the images of your lips come back to him. Of you, begging for his cane against your ass and his cock in your mouth, and it’s thrilling.

His hands come to rest on your hips, and a chill runs down your spine when a smirk blooms on his face. “What can I say… forgive me for favouring your left hand. I shall fix my mistake.”

“Oh gods, I’m going to die,” you lament, covering your face and pulling away, but Viktor’s grip tightens.

“Wait! Wait,” he pleads, pulling you close, cane pokes between your shoulder blades. “You cannot die yet,” he whispers, and it doesn’t take you long to connect the dots. All the blood thriving and gushing under the skin of your face immediately drains when his mouth comes to your ear and he hums, “Not before I touch you.” A breath gets trapped in your throat when his hand slides up your side to wrap around your neck. “Not before I… fuck you,” he whispers against your lips and waits for your reaction. “Or ruin you,” comes last and well, almost ruins you there, on the spot.

Then, he stills and just stares into your eyes. Wide and frightened, you search his—pupils black and huge, eating up the gold to the rim. “Unless… your writing is of the past. Or untrue.”

Feeling the weight of his scrutiny, you surrender. “It’s not,” you murmur, your voice so small it’s barely there. You don’t dare look at him, so you miss the way his lips curl into an amused smile. “Which ones did you read exactly?”

“Oh? Are the themes reoccurring?” Viktor asks, tilting his head, his tone deceptively innocent.

You let out a weak, mortified whine, and before you can fully process what’s happening, he pulls you in, guiding your head to rest beneath his chin. The scent of him fills your nose. When he speaks again, the low timbre of his voice vibrates against your cheek. “Oh hush, I’m only teasing you.”

“Well, have you considered stopping? I’m barely hanging in here,” you mutter against his throat. You feel the slight shift in his breath, and if you weren’t so dizzy with embarrassment, you’d swear you felt goosebumps rise under your lips.

“Why? It’s only me. You’ve known me for years,” he muses, his fingers tracing idly along your back.

“Yes, but—” you start, only for him to interrupt.

“But what? Am I so intimidating?”

“No, you are just so…” You hesitate, your breath hitching as you realise how close you are, how warm he feels against you. “Nice,” you whisper, barely able to force out the word. And then, quieter still, almost a confession: “And hot. I can’t think straight around you.”

Viktor tilts your chin up, gold eyes searching yours, his breath warm against your lips. “Do you mean it?” he asks, voice low. “This and everything you’ve written?”

You force yourself to answer with a weak, “Yes.”

Your lips brush his as you press forward, seeking out his tongue, inviting him in needily. He obliges, mouth breathing into yours slowly—a deep kiss that’s both cautious and wanting, melting the two of you together. It’s slow, and it grows, each inhale Viktor takes deep and measured, like he’s trying to memorise the shape of your breath. His teeth catch on your lower lip, and a moan escapes you when his hand moves from your chin to the base of your skull.

His thumb brushes under your hairline, almost soothing, when he asks, “Would you like me to touch you, then?”

When he pulls back, just enough to let you catch your breath, his lips are still ghosting over yours.

“Please,” you whisper, the word bouncing between you.

Wordlessly, he nods, takes your hand in his, and guides you toward your bed. Then he sits, props his chin on his palms resting atop his cane, and says calmly, “Strip for me.” His voice is steady, but inside, he is anything but.

With trembling hands, you undress, your skin prickling under his stare. Once bare, you clasp your palms at the bottom of your stomach, shifting from foot to foot as you await his next instruction. Viktor smiles—kind, knowing—and sets his cane aside before extending his arm.

His hands find your thighs, running up and down, leaving cinders in the aftermath of his touch. Then, he turns you around and pulls you down until your back is flush against his chest.

“Now,” he whispers into your ear, his voice a slow drag of heat down your spine as he spreads your legs, hooking them over his knees.

“I will touch you,” he murmurs, fingers tracing your bare skin, “and you will tell me what else you’ve written.”

His touch trails up your inner thigh, barely there, leaving only the ghost of warmth behind. The anticipation is unbearable—he enjoys it. Your breath stutters when he finally, finally brushes over where you need him, only to pull away just as quickly.

“Go on,” he prompts, voice smooth as silk, his mouth close to your ear. You swallow hard, heat coiling deep inside you. You shift uncomfortably on his lap, hook one arm around his shoulder before breathing your weak plea into his neck. "Viktor."

He hums in response, his hand returning, teasing, fingers slipping between your thighs but still refusing to give you what you ache for.

"Say it," he coaxes. "For me?"

You gasp when his knuckles brush against your centre, his second hand slipping up your other thigh, joining the right one—a promise of what awaits you if you share this with him.

"What if you come," you whisper, voice shaking, "into my throat?"

A sharp inhale from Viktor, his fingers playing at your entrance. He nuzzles into your hair, breath hot against your temple. "More."

"I’d eat mud to touch the root of you," you murmur, heat flooding your face. "I go hungry if you don’t feed me."

Viktor groans and plunges two fingers inside you, his right hand rubbing lazy circles over your clit. You can feel him, so painfully hard against the small of your back, and your head lulls onto his shoulder, a shuddered whimper slipping from your lips.

"More," he demands with a soft moan.

Your mind is slipping, drowning in the way he touches you, but you force the words out. "I kneel at the altar of your hands," you whisper, your eyes meeting his. "I part for them like a prayer."

Viktor swears under his breath, his mouth pressing a bruising kiss to your lips. His tongue parts them effortlessly, devouring your filthy testament to your infatuation straight from your throat.

"It tortures me," you say, voice hitching, "that I cannot mould the shape of your cock from the slope of your groin."

The wet sounds of his fingers sliding in and out of you, the feeling of them curving just right, the heat of his chest against your back, and his hair tickling your forehead—it all has you dizzy. You tighten your grip on his shoulder, fingers grasping his shirt tightly as you press your face against his.

"Good girl," Viktor breathes against your lips, each word a quiet indulgence. Something roars in his ribcage at the feeling of being this adored. His fingers push deeper, curling mercilessly, coaxing the slickest, filthiest sounds from your body. The other hand does a deft work of your clit, and you jerk, a breathy moan escaping into the open air.

"That’s it," he murmurs, nipping at your jaw, letting his teeth linger over your skin before soothing the bite with a kiss. "No more left hand torture."

His hips shift against you, slow at first, a teasing drag of his cock over the swell of your ass, letting you feel the hard, aching length of him through his trousers. He groans, a deep, broken thing, and his breath stutters when you push back, rolling your hips to match his movement.

"Fuck," he hisses, forehead dropping to your shoulder as he grinds against you more deliberately. "I could listen to you endlessly."

You whimper, arching against him, hand clutching at his shoulder as he builds the pressure inside you with every firm thrust. Your whole body is taut, trembling at the way his hips rut against yours, the way his breath catches when you moan his name.

"Will you come for me?" he rasps, lifting his head, catching your mouth in a kiss that’s hot and searching, swallowing every little sound you make. "Let me hear you. Let me feel it."

You gasp into his mouth, shaking, so impossibly close as his fingers drive into you faster, rub your clit harder. His legs spread further apart, keeping you open for him, guiding your pleasure. "You’re so lovely," Viktor whispers, breathless, voice thick with awe.

The coil inside you tightens, unbearable, your body wound so tight you think you might snap in two on his lap. And then Viktor shifts, bites down gently on your lower lip, and it’s too much—you break, gasping against his mouth as you come undone around his fingers.

And it’s so much more than you’ve imagined. None of your hands have done him justice. Nor your pillow, nor your shower head. Nothing could compare, save for the promise of his cock lingering in your mind.

"Yes," he exhales, pressing his forehead against yours, voice laced with something dangerously close to devotion. "That’s it. Just like that. Let me have it."

Your body trembles in his hold, pulsing around his fingers as he guides you through the aftershocks, his movements slowing, softening. He keeps kissing you, swallowing your ragged breaths, grinding himself against you as his own breath turns uneven, as his own restraint frays.

"Tell me," he pants, grinding harder, desperate, aching. "Tell me you’ll write more for me."

His cock throbs against you, his fingers still buried inside you, and you barely have the strength to whisper back—

"Yes."

And Viktor groans like he’s the one coming apart. You hook your arms over his neck and kiss him, grinding your hips against him. “Yes,” you say into his mouth again, breathless, fervent.

Slick fingers come to press bruises into the skin of your thighs as he chases the friction, the heat of you against him, edging him toward his peak. His hips jerk, rutting against the curve of your ass with a desperate, needy rhythm. You can feel him, so impossibly hard, straining against the fabric of his trousers, the damp heat of you seeping through to him.

"Fuck," he hisses against your lips, his voice wrecked. His forehead presses to yours, his breath shuddering as he thrusts against you, chasing relief, needing it like air.

Your hands slip into his hair, tugging lightly, and he groans, his body shivering with pleasure. "Come for me," you whisper, rolling your hips back, pushing against him with just enough pressure to tip him over the edge.

Viktor gasps, his hands flying to wrap around your stomach, pulling you flush against him as his body seizes. A guttural moan tears from his throat, his hips stuttering as he spills into his trousers, panting against your skin, trembling. His grip on you is bruising, grounding, as waves of his orgasm crash through him.

For a long moment, he doesn’t move, only breathes, his mouth brushing over your cheek, your jaw, your lips—soft, reverent touches. His hands ease their grip, smoothing over your belly, your waist, as if trying to memorize you by touch.

When he finally speaks, his voice is raw, ruined. "I fear you’ll be the death of me." “It’s only fair,” you say quietly, nuzzling into his neck. “You’ve been the death of me for the longest time.”

[a-scary-lack-of-common-sense]

Designing the main villains!

I was a bit stumped on what to do with Gunmar and Bular, but some lovely people over on TikTok suggested that Drago and his Bewilderbeast swap places with Gunmar, so I decided to combine the two of them for his design :)

I assigned Bular to switch places with the Red Death since she’s a first movie exclusive character, and Bular is also pretty much a first season exclusive villain (if I’m remembering things correctly ?) Overall the designs actually translated very well into trolls which is awesome. It’s with Bular/RedDeath that Hiccup loses his leg in this AU.

I also worked a bit more on Hiccup’s armour since my previous attempt was a little too bland for my liking. It was a bit of a juggle of trying to make it look more ‘Hiccup’ and Viking-ish, while also trying to maintain that classic sleek clean look of Trollhunter armour.

It was especially hard considering that the Daylight armour is magically summoned, so it wouldn’t really make sense for it to have things like belts or clothing underneath. I made do by just mish mashing a bit of both worlds. The trick was just to add more leather into the design. I’m still not super satisfied with his prosthetic leg though, so I’ll also have to redesign that.

+ And finally a bunch of miscellaneous sketches, ideas, and WIPS on the crossover :

As established before, Fishlegs is taking over the role of both Eli and Toby :) I’d imagine that he hangs out a lot with Blinky at Trollmarket needing out together. He’s taken a strong interest in wanting ALL about Troll culture ever since Hiccup becomes Trollhunter.

I’m not too sure how I want the twins’ backstories should be as Akiridians, since they barely really have one in canon. But so far I got three options :

I do think that when the twins are in their human disguises at school, they immediately latch onto the most interesting person they find, that being Snotlout. They cause him so much grief by annoying him half to death and dragging him into weird situations.

The Zippleback twins are notoriously known for being tricksters who keep stealing jewelry and bedazzling themselves with it. They’re technically banned from Trollmarket but keep somehow appearing anyway, and Vendel has long since given up on trying to find out how and keeping them out

Very random headcanon, but Barf’s real name is Bartholomew, and that’s why people call him Barf. That’s all I had to say.

Someone else on TikTok also just opened my eyes to Wizard Heather. I was initially going to make Dagur a changeling, but I thought it would be infinitely funnier if he was actually just some regular ass guy who EVERYONE thinks is a changeling purely based off his behaviour.

Snotlout is probably going to be an antagonist for a short bit after he finds out about both his and his father’s true nature, because Spitelout convinces him that the Trollhunters are their enemy and Snotlout doesn’t know anything and just assumes he’s telling the truth.

Potential backstory for Hookfang which might end up being too outlandish to use hut whatever : one of the reasons Hookfang is one of the only ones to not care Snotlout is half changeling is because he also used to be part of a Gumm Gumm experiment to combine Stalkling biology with regular Troll biology, which earns him a bit of a bad reputation in Trollmarket. Because of this he lives pretty much on the very outskirts of the market, and understands Snotlout’s struggles.

Anyways! If you read this far congratulations. This is a BIG post and I talk a lot, so thank you for dealing with my crazy ramblings. I’m so happy people actually like my ideas :)

[umberwolf]

Just a gaggle of my favorite joker cards (Also I know the Baseball one is meant to be in an older form of uniforms, but Idc)

[midnight-shadow-cafe]

I fear you've awaken something in me with that cold!reader fic........ We need lore drops....... How did they meet....... Their dynamic at home...... CLENCHING MY SEAT AND BEGGING ✊✊✊✊✊✊

Unexpected Head Cannons

Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x cold!reader

Warnings: N/A

Author's Note: You wanted lore—here it is.

Summary: How Ghost met and fell for you and how their dynamic is at home with something extra

Masterlist

MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+

How They Met:

It wasn’t romantic. Not at first.

Simon met her during an off-books operation. She wasn’t military, but she was involved—either contracted through intelligence, maybe cyber ops, or part of a joint task force that had crossed paths with his. She was quiet. Efficient. Said only what needed to be said and nothing more. She didn’t look at him like others did—not with fear or awe or speculation.

She just looked. And then looked away.

Simon noticed her silence before anything else. In a room full of barking voices and tension, she was a cold draft—calm and collected, but present. He couldn’t explain it, but he started listening for her. Watching her. Noticing the smallest quirks—how she read documents like she was dissecting prey, how she barely blinked when someone yelled, how she seemed carved from stone but never missed a detail.

She noticed him, too. How he stood in corners like a sentry. How he didn’t make noise unless it mattered. They didn’t talk often, but when they did, it was… honest.

They exchanged numbers under the guise of “professional follow-up.”

The texts started dry. Then sharp. Then softer.

When he asked her to meet up again—off duty—she didn’t say yes.

She just said, “Send the address.”

Their Dynamic at Home:

Their home is quiet. Not cold, just peaceful.

Neither of them fill silence with empty noise. They speak when it matters. They read in the same room. She’ll curl up on the couch with a book while he sits on the floor nearby, cleaning a weapon or sketching something in a notebook. The TV is rarely on unless it’s a documentary or something dry and British.

She doesn’t fuss over him—and he adores her for it.

If he’s injured, she won’t gasp or coddle. She’ll just set out the med kit, raise an eyebrow, and say, “Shirt off. Sit still.”

She drinks her tea slowly. Watches him over the rim of the mug. He stares back, eyes soft behind the mask when he wears it, softer still without it.

They don’t “check in�� like most couples. No excessive “how was your day” nonsense. It’s more like:

“Eat yet?”
“No.”
“Kitchen.”
“Alright.”

But when he’s had a bad mission, or when something heavy’s weighing on him—she’ll sit beside him, thigh against his, and let him breathe. Her hand will find his. She won’t speak.

And Simon? He melts in those moments. He’s safe there.

Little Details / More Lore:

* Pet Names: She never calls him "Ghost." It’s always Simon—like she’s peeling back the layers and refuses to entertain anything less. He sometimes calls her “love” or “trouble,” depending on her mood.

* Arguments: Silent, sharp, and over quickly. They don’t yell—they glare. He broods. She gives him a look that says “Fix it, or I walk.” And he always does.

* Affection: Rare in public. Behind closed doors? He’s got a hand on her thigh under the dinner table. Forehead kisses. Muted murmurs of “You’re all I’ve got.”

* Her Past: Nobody’s quite sure. Ghost suspects she’s been through hell—same as him—but she doesn’t share unless it slips through the cracks. And when it does? He listens. No judgement. Just squeezes her hand until her voice steadies.

* She Keeps His Spare Mask: Hidden in her drawer, tucked behind a stack of books. She doesn’t wear it—but when he’s gone too long, she holds it like it’s him.

Hope you enjoyed! Please consider liking and reposting! -Midnight💜

[pencilpat]

The Scout RED v. BLU sketch pages were fun, I might keep doing that until I run out of steam. Take some Snipers.

Like the Scout ones, some brief related headcanons below.

RED:

-Likes bugs a lot. Will go out of his way to pick up and play with even the 'ugliest' or most dangerous ones. Fond of roaches and beetles. If he could wake up tomorrow and be a beetle, he'd finally be content with life.

-Smokes, both tobacco and weed. He tries to not smoke too much weed though, because if he smells like it he would be easy to track down during battle. Tobacco really helps his nerves and paranoid thinking.

-Sewed animal teeth onto his own hat. He likes his hat a lot, it was a gift from his father. Hunting also reminds him of spending time with his dad & mum, and he likes to go hunt birds to cook, or to go fishing to pass the time off work.

-Enjoys a GNC look sometimes. Considers himself a bit of a girl too, but doesn't really know how to express that to the people around him. "I'm probably nonbinary but I've got a job so idrc about that rn."

-Pierced his ears himself. Has longer, unruly hair that he contains with ponytails and braids. Is very tan because of spending so much of his time outside. Generally dresses in darker clothes during work, as it makes him feel like he blends into the shadows (even though it really makes him stand out a bit more). Always has a slight smile, like he's making fun of you in his head.

-Rarely seen without a weapon of some sort on his person. Also pretty much never seen without his sunglasses on.

BLU:

-Peeked through the brain-scooping-induced veil once and realized he had the same face as someone on the other team. So they scooped his brain even more til it got muddled up. Now he gets frequent, intense migraines and struggles with his balance, and with limb control on his left side. It mostly affects his legs, meaning he can still snipe with good accuracy. He sometimes uses a cane if he feels particularly weak that day.

-Hates his face but can't remember why without his head pounding. He can barely even see it, it feels like. Like a big pixelated mass where it should be. So he covers it a lot, especially during battles and missions.

-Hats make him feel more anonymous. Ranges from very cool ones to the dorkiest bucket hats you've ever seen.

-Likes fishing and nature walks to look for birds. Also goes hunting in the tundra around the BLU base pretty much daily. It's good stress relief.

-Plays guitar, pretty decently too. Also good for stress relief.

-Uses a bow and arrows about as much as he uses his rifle. He hand carves his arrows, wood carving is a very satisfying hobby for him.

-Always seems a little pallid and grey in the face. Especially compared to the deep tan RED Sniper has.

-Cuts or shaves down his hair regularly, only lets it grow back a little. Clean-shaven unless he's doing terribly that week. Has a couple scars that stick around even after respawning. Wears bracelets and necklaces often, though less so during work. Only smiles when he's alone, and in general behaves coldly towards his team.

-Doesn't smoke or drink. Hates the feeling of an altered consciousness.

-Paid his own money for a gun he thought looked better. He's getting tired of being on the losing team all the time.

Bonus

[akiology]

Akiren, Ryuji, Yusuke, Goro with S/O who wants a kiss

Note: This was mainly done out of boredom and need for fluff Ahwwksos I did this in my phone so if it looks weird, I apologize! I will fix it once I get to my computer.

Akiren

"I want a kiss."

The both of you were hanging out at Leblanc. Well, more like you. He was busy washing the dishes while watching over the store. Although, at the moment it was empty, save for the two of you.

When he heard your request, he smiles. He proceeds to dry his hands, and go to your side of the counter.

"Where, treasure?"

You thought of it for a moment, and pointed at your lips, "Here?"

He smiles even wider this time. He closes his eyes and gave you a quick peck. Before he could pull away, you wrap your arms around his neck in an attempt to ask for more, but the sound of the door opening made you retrieve your hands. He cleared his throat, "Welcome!"

Maybe when he wasn't so busy, you could continue...

He looks at you apologetically and mouths, "Later."

Ryuji

"I want a kiss."

The sound of the various videogame sound effects, children cheering and laughing, and the grunts of your boyfriend on this certain fighting game he has been playing for almost thirty minutes fills your senses. You love watching him play, but man do you also want some affection.

"Wait a minute babe."

You pout, though he cannot see it. The match ended after almost a minute though, and then he quickly turned to you.

"What did'cha want, babe?"

"Kiss please."

"Oh!" And for a second he felt sheepish, but seeing that you were in a slightly secluded part of the arcade, he decided to be a little more bold. He gave you a quick kiss on your cheek, and pulled you closer to him to give another kiss on your forehead.

"Do you want to get something to eat?"

Yusuke

"I want a kiss."

The both of you were at Inokashira Park, as Yusuke wanted to find inspiration for his next artwork. It was a nice slightly cloudy day, so it wasn't too hot out. Having an impromptu picnic with your boyfriend outside was definitely a good change of pace.

He has just started cleaning up his landscape sketches, but looked up upon hearing your request.

"Certainly, my darling."

He places his sketchpad beside him, and reached out to give you a quick kiss on your lips. He reached out for your hand and placed a kiss on your knuckles. You smiled at his actions, and then suddenly he stops for a brief second.

"Yusuke, are you o-"

"Hold that pose!"

Goro

"I want a kiss."

The both of you were at his apartment. He was catching up with the Featherman episodes he missed because of work, and you were doing homework. Upon hearing your request, Goro smirked.

"Why?"

Your eyebrows furrowed, "What do you mean 'why'? What if I'm just craving attention from my boyfriend?"

"Hmm..." Goro put his hand under his chin, as if he is considering your very serious request.

You rolled your eyes at his antics. You scooted over to his side until there was no more space between the two of you, "Kiss please!"

He complied and gave you a quick kiss on your nose. You smiled and was about to back away when he held on to your arm.

"What about me? Where's my kiss?"

[staarriezz]

New Follower~!

Welcome 🤗

- - -

May I request

Albedo in NSFW Alphabet?

YIPEE thank you for the follow!! i appreciate it very very much <3

albedo nsfw alphabet

pairing: albedo x reader

genre: smut, headcanons

warnings: nsfw! 18+!! minors dni

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

albedo is VERY meticulous when it comes to aftercare, treating it like an essential part of the experience. he ensures his sweetheart is comfortable, cleans you up with gentle hands, and quietly observes your reactions to make sure you’re okay. if you’re worn out, he'll pull you into his arms and run his fingers through your hair as you fall asleep.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

on himself, he values his hands— they are precise, capable of both destruction and creation, and he enjoys using them to make his partner come undone. on his lover, he's particularly fond of your neck and collarbones, often tracing them absentmindedly, fascinated by how your body reacts to his touch.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

he enjoys seeing the aftermath of his efforts— it's like proof of a successful experiment. but he’s also a very clean and precise man. when he cums, it’s usually kept on your stomach, back, or simply onto a towel. he wouldn’t dare cum inside his partner— he feels it’s too dirty. especially if you’re a woman— children aren’t a commitment he’s willing to make.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

despite his usual composed demeanor, albedo has a deeply curious nature, which extends to intimacy. he’s considered sketching you in moments of vulnerability— purely for scientific purposes, of course. the idea of capturing your raw emotions and reactions on paper is an irresistible temptation. additionally, due to him being a scientist and all… he’s open to trying a lot of new things out.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

albedo is incredibly intelligent and a very fast learner, meaning even if he wasn't highly experienced at first, he quickly becomes proficient. he approaches intimacy much like an experiment— observing, analyzing, and adapting until he knows exactly how to unravel you.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

he enjoys positions where he can maintain eye contact and study every little reaction— whether it's you beneath him in missionary, or in his lap riding him, he’s all for it.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

albedo tends to be more serious, but not in a harsh way— rather, he's focused and thoughtful. however, he does have a dry sense of humor, and occasionally, he'll make a quiet, teasing remark just to see your reaction.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

neat and well-groomed, much like the rest of him. he tends to keep it trimmed and clean to the best of his abilities, though if he’s up in dragonspine, completely engrossed in an experiment for a period of time, shaving might slip his mind.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

he may not be the most openly affectionate person, but when it comes to intimacy, his touch is incredibly tender. albedo sees intimacy as an almost sacred form of connection— one that goes far beyond words. he memorizes every detail, every sound, every shiver, as if trying to preserve the moment forever.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

albedo doesn't prioritize his own needs often, as he's almost always engrossed in his research. however, when his mind does wander to you, he indulges occasionally, almost experimentally, using it as a way to process his feelings.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

control and precision— albedo enjoys knowing exactly how to push you to your limits, whether through teasing or experimentation. he also has a bit of a praise kink; hearing you admire his skills or beg for more stirs something deep within him.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

his research lab is sacred to him, so he wouldn't compromise it for something indecent. he prefers to keep things private in the quiet intimacy of one of your bedrooms. however, the idea of doing something risky in dragonspine, where the cold air contrasts with the heat between you, is something he's quietly entertained.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

intimacy for albedo is deeply tied to connection and intrigue. seeing you flustered, hearing you say his name in a way you wouldn't in public, or even just having you cling to him after a long day is enough to spark something in him.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

anything that puts you in discomfort or pain. he may be an experimenter, but he values your well-being above all else. if he senses even a hint of distress, he will stop immediately.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

a perfectionist by nature, albedo ensures that every aspect of intimacy is executed with skill and precision. he is patient, meticulous, and completely focused on your reactions, treating it as both an art and a science. he prefers giving over receiving, mostly because he always puts your needs before his. and besides— your pleasure is his pleasure. he’s definitely came untouched at least once just from going down on his sweetheart.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

albedo adjusts based on the situation— slow, sensual and calculated when he wants to prolong the moment, and faster and more intense when his patience wears thin. either, he's incredibly controlled, ensuring that every movement is intentional.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

quickies don't appeal to him as much— he prefers to take his time and explore every reaction. however, if circumstances demand it (such as in a rare moment of stolen privacy), he will make it efficient and effective.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

albedo is methodical and thoughtful, meaning he won't take unnecessary risks. however, if you propose something new, he will consider it like an experiment— analyzing the risks and rewards before deciding if he wants to proceed.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

his endurance is impressive— probably a side effect of his artificial nature. While he's not one to rush, he has the ability to go multiple rounds if the situation calls for it.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

albedo doesn't rely on them, but if introduced, he would be intrigued rather than intimidated. he’d see them as tools for enhancing the experience, and if you let him, he'd take great pleasure in testing their effects on you.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

albedo can be VERY unfair, even without trying. his patience extends to teasing— drawing things out, keeping you on edge until you're practically begging. he finds pleasure in your reactions, in seeing how much you can handle before you break.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

soft-spoken even in intimacy. albedo isn't particularly loud, but he does let out the occasional breathy sigh or low hum. his words, however, are what truly get to you— low, whispered praises that leave you shivering.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

when deeply immersed in his research, albedo has a habit of talking to himself. that extends to intimacy as well. sometimes he murmurs absent observations, almost as if he's studying your reactions in real-time. it can be both endearing and incredibly flustering.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

albedo’s probably 6 1/2 inches, 7 if he’s really turned on. he’s the perfect size, not big enough to hurt (unless he’s going really hard), but just right to where he rubs you in all the right places. he’s also probably got one of the prettiest dicks.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

he isn't one to be driven solely by desire, but when it comes to you, his self-control is occasionally tested. his need for intimacy isn't just physical— it's about the quiet, unspoken connection between you.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

albedo doesn't sleep easily, as his mind is always racing with new theories and experiments. however, if he's truly worn out, he finds comfort in having you close— your warmth lulling him into rare, peaceful rest.

[cuckoo-on-a-string]

A Sparrow at Sea (2/4)

MDNI

Whitebeard pirates/reader (fem? functionally gender-neutral)

I do not curate tag lists, but I reply to comments on each chapter when the next goes live.

Summary: Turned into a bird as part of a slave-smuggling operation, you get your revenge - and then your revenge gets you. Panicked and alone, you crash land on a very large, very famous ship full of very large and quite infamous men.

Warnings: mild body horror, technically kidnapping, reasonable fear of death

Master List

You blinked. You breathed. Your chest rose and fell much too quickly as you tried to determine if you were alright. Feathers on your chest fluttered in the stiff, ocean breeze, and the sensation carried down through the quills into your flesh.

It made you sick.

You weren’t sure you had the energy to roll over if you threw up, though. So best not.

Your vision was different. Without the mission, without the fear, rage, and adrenaline, you couldn’t help noticing just how wrong the world looked. There was too much, and your eyes didn’t focus the way you wanted them to. Your peripheral vision was overwhelming, and the narrow point of binocular crossover stabbed you with details you didn’t want or need. Bits of bird shit pressed in groves of the planks left from the last cleaning. An ant missing one leg. Scratches and dents where men stood on watch.

Aches clenched through unfamiliar muscles, and crackling agony radiated down toes that were too few and too long.

Your fucking teeth were gone.

And the exhaustion turned the glut of sensory information into a smokey haze, just like the fire you’d set. You wandered blind through your own thoughts, trying to find a plan, or some grounding sensation that didn’t horrify you the more you considered it.

Rest hovered out of reach, driven away by confusion and the human drive to fix all this before… before what? It stuck? You stayed a bird forever?

Fuck if you knew how that Devil Fruit worked.

Maybe you’d just pop back into your human skin, naked and unarmed on a strange ship at any second.

You stretched your feet. The tiny, useless talons flexed against the sky.

How long did sparrows usually live? Would this body follow bird rules that way, or would you live decade after decade trying to return to normal? If you survived the bigger birds. And the humans. And the weather. And cats.

Oh, shit.

You’d seen what cats did to birds. All blood and feathers. Hopefully this ship didn’t keep a mouser. Escaping the grasp of an owl to land in a kitty’s claws would be just your luck.

Freshly motivated to understand your surroundings, you craned your head back to get a better look at the sail billowing overhead. If it was anything but a private merchant or fishing vessel, it would fly some sort of colors. The Marines’ signature bird or a distinct Jolly Roger.

You caught sight of the colorful sketch on the sails, and your heart stopped dead in your chest.

Yeah. Your luck had not improved.

The Whitebeard Pirates controlled your stretch of the New World, and you’d seen their mark fly over every town, trading post, and port you’d ever visited. It grinned down at you now, larger than ever, and you strung the pieces of your fate together.

The whale figurehead.

The sheer size of the vessel.

The mustachioed Jolly Roger flying overhead.

The necklace of bad news beads clenched around your throat, and for a hot minute you went into shock.

No thoughts.

Only dead silence.

Waiting for the funeral bell to toll.

Because, while the Whitebeard crews didn’t go out of their way to cause trouble, they were still pirates, and if they figured out you were anything but a bird, they’d reasonably assume you were a spy. Or worse.

To make matters worse, their flagship carried an array of intensely gifted Haki users, and while you didn’t fully understand those abilities, observation was a big one. Someone was bound to notice a bird that didn’t act like a bird, or the Devil Fruit power may leave traces an observant fucker could spot.

There would be questions.

Unless you just stayed small. Stayed out of the way. Entirely avoided the entire crew until you could see land and fly off to your next fuck over. That was possible, right? If you stayed in your perch, or climbed higher into the rigging, you could just wait until something green, bumpy, and beautiful broke the horizon. Sparrows were tiny. And common. So long as you stayed away from prying eyes…

“I knew you weren’t a gull. Izou owes me a hundred Berri.”

Startled into a scream that came out as a sharp, biting note of birdsong, you rolled onto blistered feet, getting low and facing the voice like you were a human with a knife or a gun who could do something about the pirate smiling over the edge of the crow’s nest.

His eyes, framed on the left by a crescent-shaped scar, widened at your reaction.

“Hey, easy, okay? This won’t take long.” A palm bigger than your entire body blocked out the sun. “I just need to show you to my brother and you can take off.”

Like.

Fuck.

No one else would be touching you today. Certainly not a killer who’d apparently escalated your situation over a dumbass bet (with another killer who had one hundred shiny reasons to end your feathered ass).

Hopping, fluttering, and cursing him out with words your beak couldn’t translate, you launched into the air. Balanced as he was at the top of the rope ladder to the outlook post, the pirate’s reach was limited, and you moved too fast for him to do anything without losing his balance.

“Whoa! Hey! Wait!”

Noping nope.

He was going to lose that bet. Maybe fall, too. You wished him an ill voyage to the deck, but you had better things to do than assist gravity – like fucking off to higher climes. It wasn’t easy, especially because your body hadn’t gotten the memo that nap time was over, and you had the aerial coordination of a hedgehog in a strong breeze.

You tumbled through the air. Sometimes up, but just as often sideways. Or downwards. Once you cleared the crow’s nest the wind hit you like a wall. You weren’t ready to really leave the ship, but the gusts powerful enough to move the massive ship demanded you grab on or get lost.

The pirate’s shouting alerted everyone at work in the rigging, and safe landing zones dwindled as you fought to keep any kind of control over your course.

From far behind you, your would-be kidnapper shouted, “Marco, grab it!”

“Relax, yoi.”

The blasé reply barely registered before a great, winged shadow fell over you. Talons framed your peripheral vision, and you squeaked, trying to fight harder against the gale as they closed in.

But you lacked grace, speed, and energy, so the battle was over before it had even begun – with you trapped in a grip that put the owl Zoan’s to shame.

And dropping toward the deck fast.

You screamed – or tried to – wriggling and fighting for your life as the planks neared. A fall like that would snap every bone in your body. If this new fiend didn’t just eat you. Or land on you. Death by squish. What a sound. What a mess.

Closing your eyes, you pulled your feet into your chest and huddled as far into your own feathers as you could, bracing for the end.

Then you were free, but still falling, and you watched blue flames wheel away as you dropped.

Certain birds killed their prey by dropping them. Or ramming them on spikes. You fell with your back to the ocean and your belly to the sky, well aware that it was too late to catch yourself, and you imagined a sword below, waiting to skewer you for further inspection. It would be convenient. And damn on brand for pirates.

You waited for the pain.

Instead, you collided with human flesh, and long, pale fingers closed around you, keeping your wings and feet pinned as a man with make-up skills beyond your ken lifted you for a better look. His delicate brows furrowed, lips pursing as he turned his wrist, examining your dazed face.

I swear I didn’t mean to land here, you tried to say. I know I’m not a bird. But it’s not my fault, and I’ll gladly fuck off as soon as there’s somewhere to go, so I’m not a spy, and I’m not a bird, and please don’t stab me, or crush me, or throw me to your mouser, because I’m really not ready to die. And…

The man clicked his tongue, lifting his free hand. You flinched as it approached, entirely unready to feel your neck snap in his delicate grip, but death didn’t come. A knuckle ran down your beak, and the man spoke in a low, disgruntled voice that wasn’t aimed at you at all.

“We’re too far from land for sparrows.”

Flickering blue alighted beside you, and you craned to look over your shoulder as Marco the Fucking Phoenix landed. The man from the crow’s nest jumped the last few feet from the rope ladder, and all three began a conversation you had no part in.

As your heartbeat returned to a mildly elevated tempo, you started putting more names to faces. Pirates were proud of their bounties, and Whitebeard’s crew was no exception. They welcomed the posters in their territories, and all three men surrounding you had appeared on many a wall and bulletin board.

The man who made the bet and scared you out of your temporary shelter was Thatch.

He’d already mentioned Izou by name, and given a moment to breathe, you would’ve recognized his distinctive style without prompting.

Three division commanders. The best of the best among the strongest pirate crew in the world. You hadn’t been in a good position before, but somehow it had gotten worse. Nearly as bad as it could be.

Thatch swaggered up, bending down to look you in the eye and chuckle before swinging his attention to his comrade. “Not a gull, though.”

Izou sighed, closing his eyes with the put-upon air of a great martyr. “Not a gull.”

One hand reached into his robes as he handed you off to Marco, who didn’t give you time to even dream of escaping. Frowning, the First Division Commander turned you, checking from all angles as you imagined you were a statue. If you didn’t move, they may forget you were alive, and then they’d set you down so you could fly off into the sunset before they realized their mistake. There had to land somewhere, right?

“What’s got Thatch so happy?”

Another famous face strolled over, peeping around Marco.

Fire-Fist Ace.

Because it wasn’t hell until everything was on fire, right?

Marco raised a brow, lifting your itty-bitty talons with a finger to show the cost of setting fires without opposable digits.

“It’s hurt. Look at the feet, yoi.” He side-eyed Ace. “They’re burned.”

The bronze skin beneath the legion of freckles across the Second Division Commander’s face paled. He stepped back, waving his hands. “Don’t look at me! I’ve never seen it before.”

“It could explain why it’s so far beyond the usual range,” Izou mused, looking far too intently over your features with a knuckle resting on his chin. “But that only explains so much. This species isn’t native to the New World.”

Your heartbeat spiked again. Even if you still had a human’s lifespan, every minute in this body was shaving off years.

Grudgingly, you had to admit it made sense. Turning people into birds that weren’t local would make escapees easier to spot. It also validated carting so many around as merchandise.

It wasn’t your fault. Not that anyone would care whenever the effect wore off and you started screaming instead of chirping. Doomed, doomed, and more doomed.

Would it hurt less to die as a bird? Maybe you should be considering some long-term measures, like flying into a window before the torture started.

“Are you sure?” Thatch craned over you again, entirely too much in every sense. He smelled like a thousand spices and loomed tall as a lighthouse. “How do you tell sparrows apart?”

“No New World species has these marks.” A finger ran down the side of your head, following a stripe you couldn’t see. “A quirk of nature I learned studying Zoan-types. It pays to know when an animal is in the wrong part of the world.” The finger ran down the opposite side of your head, and you recommitted to your new life as a living statue. “No fruit creates a sparrow Zoan, though.”

Well, thank fuck for that. You may live to see sunset.

The men mumbled among themselves until Thatch asked, “What should we do with it? If it’s lost and hurt, I mean…”

They all fell silent. Something about the wording struck them dumb, and the vibe of the little huddle shifted. You couldn’t see all of their faces, but Ace had gone stone-still, wearing an expression far too serious for those damn freckles, and Thatch’s brows pinched, like he’d just gotten bad news from home. It wasn’t right for any of them to suffer such gravitas over a bird. Couldn’t they just let go and forget you, for fuck’s sake?

Marco adjusted his grip. “First thing’s first.”

The blue fire returned, and instinct threw you headlong into fight or flight. Since your wings were pinned, you tore at the nearest flesh with your beak, twisting and clawing aimlessly with your maimed feet. The flame rose, engulfing you. It would roast you, turn you to ash, and you wouldn’t even get a burial because there wasn’t much of you as it was; there wouldn’t be enough to sweep up after a cremation. Turquoise tongues licked up, and up, eating your sanity.

And then it was gone.

You panted, dizzy with fear even as you flexed your toes without pain.

Healing fire. Phoenix fire. Right.

And so, so, so wrong.

Ace whistled. “Little fighter, huh?”

Marco snorted. “Didn’t even draw blood.”

“Sure tried, though.” Thatch’s eyebrows reached for his pompadour.

The First Division Commander ignored Thatch, checking your feet for damage. You didn’t even pretend to resist. You couldn’t. It was like your crash landing in the crow’s nest all over again. All you could do was breathe and hope you’d be okay when you reunited with your body. If you were human, you’d call it a panic attack.

Did birds have panic attacks? What about people turned into birds? Surely, they deserved the right to flip their shit. You couldn’t think of a better reason to have a meltdown.

Besides being hunted by an owl.

And getting lost at sea.

Or winding up in the hands of the strongest pirates alive.

“Why’re you all so worried about it?”

Another enormous man lumbered over. His face rang a very distant bell, but he was no commander. Only a small part of a massive band. But he swaggered up to the others like they were the best of friends and no one batted an eye. Except for you. You blinked frantically, trying to keep up with the conversation that would determine if you lived or died. And how you’d do either, because the troop of commanders seemed very invested in keeping you in-hand.

Literally.

“Just a dumb animal.” The way the big-bellied newcomer grinned down at you did not put you at ease. It reminded you of an old nursery rhyme about a king who ate birds stuffed in pies. “Leave it to the gulls, or put it out of its misery now if you’re feeling merciful.”

Izou tsked, but Thatch grinned at the latest addition to the sparrow’s tribunal.

“Never have a pet, Teach?”

The stranger, Teach, laughed, putting a hand on his stomach as it bounced with his mirth. “Nah. Only belly I worry about filling is my own.”

As those two casually discussed your murder, Ace chewed on the inside of his cheek. His jaw twitched and the flesh pulled tight between his teeth. You could only hope he was considering how important it was to let wild things be free, not how your bones might crunch after a good roasting.

“We could keep it,” he mused. “Pops has a dog, so it’s not like pets are off limits, right?”

A future spent behind bars, forced to shit in your own space and peck at whatever a gang of man-children thought would be good for a bird to eat added fuel to your frustration. You fought to free yourself again, pleas falling on deaf ears.

You don’t have to do that. Please don’t do that. Why the fuck would you keep a sparrow, anyway?

“Not against the rules, but not encouraged.” Marco squinted at you again, like he was trying to read the future in the stripes that caught his brother’s eye. “This isn’t a regular situation, though. And it’s not like a bird would take up much space.”

I’ll take up even less space if I’m not here.

Your mad chirping didn’t convince any of them to let you go, and Marco turned on his heel, heading towards a door you assumed led below.

“I’ll keep it in my office until Pops makes a decision. We’ll figure things out from there.”

If he’d just open his hand and let you go, they could have all of this figured out here and now. But no one took your insight seriously. Your distressed chatter seemed to work against you, actually, and you took note of several of the men eying you with amusement and a possessive hint of care.

Like a little girl who found a stray kitten raiding the trash and dragged it to her parents for permission to name and collar.

“Remember,” Thatch called, “I technically saw it first!”

“I hear you, yoi,” Marco mumbled, clearly thinking about other things.

He stepped out of the sunshine, into the ship’s belly, and you wondered how the hell you’d landed in a worse situation than you started with.