#tree trunk bank

[eyesearchedandfound]

Those charming souvenirs from 1960s.

A bank like this one will only bring back memories to those of us over a certain age --and for everyone else, we feel for you that you no longer find these in gift shops by the lake or the beach or the mountain trail. Make no mistake, there are souvenirs but now they usually come from China.

The old ones were usually made by hand by someone somewhat local and they always had a cute sticker applied to remind you of your visit to the Smokey Mountains, Lake George or Stone Harbor NJ.

Leaving that gift shop with a memento in hand was truly a vacation experience. And keeping them on the shelf at home to remember the fun family time was crucial for all those inevitably lonely, sad moments that come with growing up.

This one is available on my Etsy shop isearchedandfound.com.

[shotmrmiller]

sugar daddy!simon would go so hard cuz he'd need no sugar but lets his hand linger on the small of your back when standing at the register with his wallet out or grab your foot to massage beneath the table at the upper scale restaurant yall are dining at.

he doesn't push (surprisingly but hey it works for you!) you give him whatever you want, be it just your hand to hold or a chaste kiss on the cheek in thanks after carrying all the stuff he bought to your room. he spoils you rotten regardless but then the issue comes when you actually want him to touch you.

simon doesn't touch. not when you model the little slips of clothing he so generously gifted you from that one overpriced shop at the mall. not when you wear his favorite skirt, the one that got him to talk to you in the first place on the sugar daddy website. not when you invite him in for a nightcap, letting your bare legs rest on top of his while watching a movie.

he. doesn't. touch.

simon doesn't touch you even when you want him to.

keeps his right hand curled around the glass he's nursing and the other laying on the backrest of the couch when you tell him if he wants to peel off the undergarments he'd just bought you today. (a shot you don't shoot is a shot missed anyway.)

"'s not necessary," he says. "got 'em for you to wear." he hasn't taken his eyes off the screen once.

that'd sting more if you hadn't caught him discreetly palming himself outside his trousers while you'd modeled these too.

"might not be necessary but it's what i want." that gets his attention, an arrogant curl on his lip making your heart flutter in your chest.

he gives your knee a squeeze. "i've always given you everythin' you've ever wanted but this is the one thing you're gonna 'ave to work for."

work for? simon doesn't wait for you to ask what he means.

"only way i'm touchin' ya is if ya beg," he rumbles.

should've known it was too good to be true. but you've got an ache between your legs that won't go away no matter how many times you've used the rose (also another gift.) guess you'll just have to "beg".

/

your definition of begging and his are not even in the same dimension. he had shot you down when you'd said please. when you'd batted your pretty eyes at him while saying please. when you'd gotten on your knees between his legs and said please with your hands flat on the carpet.-

simon had only tapped you on the nose and said, "'s good, but not good enough."

what had been good enough was you riding his thigh until sweat slicked your skin, until your lip trembled with need, until his trousers looked like he'd spilled his drink on it while you mewled out your please's.

only then had wiped the corner of your eyes with his thumb and whispered tiny words of praise into your ear, his breath warm against it.

"wasn't so hard, was it, pet?" you'd been beyond reason at that point, core burning almost painfully hot with desire, so you'd jerkily shaken your head. anything to finally get him to touch you like how you need.

his long fingers splayed out across the back of your head, palm almost engulfing your entire head. "now tell me where you want me to touch."

he touches with clever fingers, his warm tongue, even uses his crooked nose to rub at your pearl while his thumb, spit slick, presses into the girl of your arse. having him fuck you is a whole different beast you have to tackle. if you plead for something, anything, he'll rut his cock between your thighs and come over your sticky pussy :)

[songofsunset]

Someone on my dash was talking longingly about seeing a purple gallinule and I cannot for the life of me remember who it was, but I saw one today and took pictures in their honor!!!!

Bonus: a majestic blue heron and an anhinga!

The heron was in a staring match with an alligator on the opposite bank, and just before I took this pic we watched a different anhinga spear a fish, swallow it whole, then swim away like the loch ness monster. Florida!!!

[wordsofwhimsy]

ᗷEᗩᑕᕼ ᗪᗩY ᗷᒪᑌEᔕ

Pairing: Main!Mark Grayson x f!Reader

Warnings: It’s suggested that Mark’s got a boner at the end but that’s it lmao, also you kinda start to touch yourself but it’s literally only a sentence or two

Tags: Fluff, romcom, hero-friend-Mark coming to the rescue, slow burn, makeout sesh later on, Mark’s a dork who doesn’t know how to express his feelings (as usual)

Word Count: 5,314

Synopsis: A nice solo day at the beach turns sour when some creep of a man starts trying to follow you home. You manage to lose him but are now stranded on the other side of town. And the only person who’s available to come save you is the guy who does that for a living. Who would’ve figured?

a/n: this turned out sooo much longer than i intended lmao it do be like that sometimes tho

The sun is still warm on your skin as you leave the beach, flip-flops smacking softly against the pavement. Your hair’s damp with saltwater, strands still sticking to your forehead. Your tote bag—sandy, half-zipped, overflowing with a towel, a half-read book, and an empty soda can—swings against your hip as you head for the bus stop on the corner.

You’re smiling to yourself, pleasantly buzzed from sun and sea, when a voice behind you cuts rudely through the calm.

"Hey there, pretty thing. Where you headed?"

You don’t flinch, but your steps slow.

He’s maybe mid-thirties, wearing a faded tank top and gas station sunglasses. Too confident. Too close. He grins like you’re already in on some joke you never agreed to. 

"Just headed home," you say, even and polite, eyes fixed straight ahead.

He steps closer. "This stop? What a coincidence, that’s where I’m going too."

Sure it is.

You shift your tote to the other shoulder, as if to put some kind of buffer between you. By some miracle the bus starts pulling into view.

He keeps talking—something about how wild it is that you’re both here, what are the odds, ha ha—but you’re already tuning him out. The second the doors hiss open, you climb on, flash your card, and slip into a window seat midway down.

He follows.

You feel him settle in a row behind you. Not next to you, but near. Close enough to talk. Close enough to make it weird.

Nope.

Just before the doors close, you stand up, walk past him without a word, and step right back off.

The bus pulls away with him on it, and you don’t bother to look back until you’re safely half a block down. When you do, he’s craning his neck to look through the window.

You don’t wave. You don’t smirk. You just turn the corner and duck behind a tree, pulling out your phone with fingers still trembling from the slow burn of adrenaline.

You scroll through your contacts.

First you try your roommate. Straight to voicemail.

Then your cousin. She picks up, but she’s out of town. You tell her it’s fine. Just a weird thing with a guy. No big deal.

You try your best friend. No answer.

With a frustrated sigh, you switch to your banking app. There’s a buffering wheel for a second, then your checking account balance loads: $4.82.

You feel a vein pulse in your head. Refresh the screen.

Still $4.82.

You let out a quiet, humorless laugh. Looks like Uber wasn’t an option.

You close the app and rest your forehead against the tree trunk for a second, just… reevaluating your life choices.

Figures.

You go back to your contacts, scanning names. You scroll past his name once. Twice. Hover over it. Keep going.

You feel dumb. Guilty. Mark’s probably in the middle of saving a school bus full of kids or punching a kaiju or talking to that mysterious government shadow figure about interplanetary security… something serious. And you’re over here like, "Heeelp, I had to miss the bus."

Still.

You flick back to his name.

Mark 🚀

Your thumbs fly before you can overthink it:

You: hey, any chance ur free? got myself in a v dumb situation lol You: not an emergency, just mildly stranded and a lil freaked out 😅

You lock your phone. Wait.

Not even a minute passes before it buzzes.

Mark 🚀: where are you?

You smile.

He always answers.

You: Beachside Blvd near the old surf shop

You hesitate for half a second, then snap a picture of the little corner where you’re hiding—tree trunk, sand-crusted sidewalk, the closed-down surf rental shack in the background with its sun-bleached paint peeling in soft curls.

You add a caption: don’t judge me for this hiding spot. i panicked.

Then hit send.

Almost immediately you get a reply.

Mark 🚀: lol. on my way. five minutes tops.

You exhale, tension releasing in slow waves like the tide.

And yeah. Maybe your face is hot. Maybe your heart’s still thudding a little too hard in your chest. But it’s already starting to settle.

Mark’s coming.

You straighten up, brushing the bark dust off your thighs and stepping out into the fading sunlight. The sea breeze is gentler now, cooler, and you roll up your sleeves a bit higher on your white button-down—still damp from the beach, clinging a little in places. Your bikini’s peeking out underneath, lilac and tied at the sides. Not exactly full coverage. But hey, you weren’t planning to be stranded on the sidewalk when you put it on.

A guy walking his dog glances over, eyebrows briefly lifting before he looks away. You offer him a breezy, nonchalant smile.

“Don’t mind me,” you call out. “Just waiting on a friend.”

He nods slowly, clearly unconvinced, and keeps walking.

You check your phone. Two minutes.

You shift your weight to one foot, trying not to look too awkward. The heat from earlier was starting to fade off your skin, leaving a faint chill in the breeze. You hug your arms around yourself, half for warmth, half just to feel less exposed.

Then you hear it.

The soft whoosh of air pressure, the subtle thud of sneakers against pavement.

You glance behind you, and there he is.

Mark Grayson, a little windblown, a little flushed from the speed of getting here, standing there in all his superhero glory—minus the suit. Just joggers and a blue t-shirt, but still very much Invincible.

Relief crashes over you.

“God, thank you,” you exhale, stepping forward and wrapping your arms around him. “I owe you big time.”

You feel him tense a little, and for a second, your heart drops.

Oh no. Is he annoyed? Did you really just pull him away from something important for... this?

You let your arms fall away from him, brows drawing together. “Hey, I’m sorry—this was so dumb, I shouldn’t have—”

“It’s not dumb,” he cuts in, quick and quiet. “Seriously. I’m glad you called me.”

His voice is warm, but his eyes are still everywhere but on you—off to the side, up at the sky, back toward the sidewalk.

And that’s when it clicks.

He’s avoiding looking at you.

Like, really avoiding.

You glance down and—yep. Cover up still unbuttoned. Still damp. Still clinging in places you’d really prefer it not be clinging. Your bikini bottoms peek out like they’re trying to steal the show, and your chest is just… there.

And now you’re the one going pink.

You don’t say anything. Just quietly start buttoning up the top, fingers fumbling a little as your eyes do a full tour of the sidewalk, the streetlamp, a very interesting patch of grass—anything that isn’t Mark.

Because okay. Maybe standing here like this wasn’t your finest moment.

He clears his throat and takes a step closer, flashing that crooked, boyish grin—the one that always seems to surface when he’s nervous and trying to look unaffected. "Okay," he says, a little too upbeat, rubbing the back of his neck, "guess I’m your ride today. You’ll have to remind me how to get to your place—I always mess up that last turn near the park."

He’s absolutely trying to play it cool.

And absolutely failing.

Not that you’re much better, your stare drifting up toward the rooftops as you squint like there’s something up there you just gotta see. "So... how exactly are we doing this?"

Mark glances down at you, then off to the side, then very obviously not at your bare legs or the way your damp shirt is hugging places that have him struggling to maintain eye contact. "I mean, I usually just—" he makes a vague scooping gesture. "—pick people up and go."

"Bridal style?" you deadpan.

He hesitates. "I mean, yeah. It’s kind of the classic."

You shift your weight to one leg, then the other. "Okay, I guess… Let's see it."

Mark nods, like he’s steeling himself for battle, then steps forward and slides one arm behind your back, the other under your knees. In one smooth motion, you’re weightless in his arms.

And also very much pressed into his chest.

His forearm is sturdy beneath your bare thighs, one of his fingers accidentally grazing the string of your bikini bottom. You shift slightly, trying to adjust how you're being held without actually... touching him more. Your knee bumps his hip. Your hand slides awkwardly off his shoulder and straight into the space between your bodies that really feels like a dead zone.

"Okay, is it just me," you mutter, your face all but buried in the valley of his chest, "or is this weirdly... a lot?"

Mark tilts his head, accidentally brushing his jaw against the top of your head. "I mean—no, it’s not just you. Definitely not just you."

There’s a beat as you both try to recalibrate.

He shifts his grip again. One of his hands ends up cradling the underside of your thigh in a way that feels far too close to romantic territory.

"Alright—abort. Abort mission," you say quickly, arms flailing a little as you try to push off him.

"Copy that," Mark replies, instantly lowering you to the ground with a delicacy that said he really was trying to be respectful.

He exhales, hands on his hips, staring into the middle distance. "Okay. Plan B."

"Which is?"

He perks up, like he just solved world peace. "Fireman carry. That’s how professionals do it, right? First responders and stuff. Feels efficient."

And yeah—you nod, starting to agree. "Honestly, yeah. That makes sense. Sturdy. Tactical."

You forget, for a crucial second, that a fireman carry involves being slung.

He moves without hesitation, grabbing your legs and hoisting you up onto his shoulder like he’s carrying a sandbag in a training montage.

Your stomach lurches.

"Mark—MARK—"

Too late.

Your thighs smack against his chest, your hips curve over his collarbone, and your entire lower half is just... present. Right in his face. Right there.

His movement stutters. One hand instinctively locks onto the back of your bare thigh—just to steady you, logically—but you feel his entire soul leave his body.

He wheezes. "Okay. Okay, nope. Bad idea. I can’t—this is not—"

"PUT ME DOWN," you screech, hair dangling in your mouth, boobs threatening to stage a full escape from your top.

He drops to his knee quick, letting you awkwardly slide down off his shoulder under your own power.

The moment your feet hit the ground, you turn away from him without a word, yanking your shirt forward and subtly readjusting where your boobs have clearly gone rogue.

Mark won’t even look at you. He rubs the back of his neck, muttering something that sounds like “that was a lot of ass.”

You clear your throat. "Okay, okay. What about... shoulders? Like when dads carry their kids at Disney?"

Mark looks at you like you’ve lost your mind. "You want to sit on my shoulders?"

You shrug. "Seems high up. Good visibility. Hands-free."

His brow twitches, and maybe there’s something itching at his lips too. "You do realize where your thighs will be."

"Yes, Mark. I'm not an idiot."

"Okay, just making sure, because—"

"Do it before I change my mind."

He crouches slightly and you climb on, settling your legs over his shoulders like you’re eight years old and waiting for the fireworks to start.

And that’s when you both realize: this might be the worst one yet.

Your thighs are clamped around the sides of his face. Your swimsuit bottoms are pressed to the back of his neck.

Mark’s hands hover just above your knees like he’s afraid to even think about where to hold.

"So this is a no?" you say weakly.

His voice is strangled. "Yeah. Gonna go ahead and call this a hard no."

He ducks, and you slide off him in a clumsy, tangled dismount, nearly tripping over your own feet as you land.

You both stand there, flushed and winded, like you just lost a round on a game show.

Finally, you sigh. "Just... gimme your back."

He doesn’t argue, turning around and kneeling slightly. You hop on, arms around his neck, legs around his waist. The regret is instantaneous.

Your chest squishes against his shoulder blades. Your entire front half is molded to his back. Your bikini bottoms felt like they were holding on for dear life—barely doing their only job.

You try not to breathe too deeply. Or move. Or exist.

"You good?" he asks, voice tight.

"I’ve never been less good."

He shifts slightly. Your boobs shift with him.

You groan. "Oh my god. This is still bad."

Then it hits you—a bright, stupid little lightbulb moment. "Wait," you say, sitting up straighter on his back. "What if I sit on your arm instead? Like a throne."

Mark turns just enough to give you a side-eye so dry it could start a brush fire. "You want to perch on my arm. Like royalty."

"Yes! Like a princess on a parade float," you say, already sliding down and gesturing enthusiastically. "You’re strong, right? Just hold me like—like I’m light and majestic."

He stares at you for a long moment. Then, sighing like this is somehow the least weird idea you’ve had all day, he crouches and offers his arm.

You climb on carefully, settling along his bicep like it's a bench seat, one arm lazily looped around the back of his neck while your legs dangle off the front side. You wiggle into position until your balance feels right, then look at him expectantly.

Mark adjusts his hold—carefully, deliberately—his free hand braced under your knees like he’s steadying a priceless antique. "Good?"

You grin, already settling in like you really are royalty. "Honestly? This might be my best idea yet. I should travel like this more often."

Mark adjusts his grip with visible reluctance, his brow furrowing slightly. "Why do I feel like I’m being... used?" He muttered. Still, his arm stayed steady as he rose into the air.

The ground drops away, the wind picks up, and you lift one arm in a full pageant wave. "People of Earth! I bring good vibes and sunburns!"

"Please stop," Mark groans, voice tight. "Someone might actually see us."

"Let them! Let them witness my reign!"

"I'm serious," he says, suppressing a laugh with something heavy in his voice. "If anyone sees me flying around like this without the suit... it's kind of a problem. Secret identity and all."

You sigh with dramatic flair and lean sideways, resting your cheek against the top of his head like it’s the armrest of a throne. "Alright, alright," you murmur, voice muffled against his hair. "I’ll behave. Keep it lowkey for your secret superhero lifestyle." Your fingers flutter lazily in a final regal wave. "But just so you know, you’re absolutely wasting a peak aesthetic moment."

He doesn’t respond this time—just exhales through his nose and banks slightly west.

The flight is… longer than expected.

Turns out, giving aerial directions is kind of a nightmare. Everything looks different from up here. Your usual landmarks—corner stores, that one pizza place with the terrifying mascot, your neighbor’s weirdly aggressive lawn gnome—either vanish from view or blur together like a watercolor painting.

"Wait—go back. That might’ve been it," you call, pointing down at a clump of rooftops that look vaguely familiar.

Mark slows, glancing down. "That’s a hardware store."

You squint. "Oh. Right. Never mind."

He doesn’t say anything, but his jaw tics slightly as he adjusts altitude again. The sun’s lower now, bleeding soft gold and pink across the sky. Your hair is whipped every which way by the wind.

"Okay, that’s definitely the park," you announce suddenly. "We’re close. Like, actually close."

"That’s what you said twenty minutes ago."

"Yeah, well, it felt true then."

By the time your house finally comes into view—weathered siding, cracked sidewalk, and all—the sun is just starting to dip below the rooftops. Mark begins his descent, slow and controlled.

You say nothing. But you do raise your hand in one final, dramatic wave to absolutely no one.

Mark sets you down with all the care you’ve come to know and expect from him. You wobble slightly, windblown and flushed, and smooth your hair out of your face with a laugh.

"Really," you say, more sincere now, "thank you. For coming to get me. And for not judging how stupid this all was."

He shrugs, smiling softly. "Didn’t seem stupid. You needed help."

There’s a pause. Then he glances over, just a hint if curiosity in his eyes. "Wait—you never told me what the dumb situation was. Don’t you normally take the bus around?"

You blink. "Oh. Right. Yeah, uh... just some creep. Guy at the stop wouldn’t back off. He said he was getting on the bus too, so I got off last minute. Didn’t want him following me."

Mark straightens a little. The easy look on his face vanishes.

"Was he touching you? Harassing you?"

"No, nothing like that," you say quickly, waving a hand. "Just... too much. Gave me a weird vibe."

Mark’s jaw tenses. He looks over his shoulder like he’s hoping the guy is still lurking somewhere within fighting distance.

You nudge his arm gently. "Hey. It’s fine. I got out of there, called my personal airlift, and survived to tell the tale."

He doesn’t quite relax, but he nods. "Still. Next time someone gives you a weird vibe, call me earlier."

You grin. "What, so you can launch them into low orbit?"

"Only if they deserve it," he says, and it’s barely a joke.

You just roll your eyes, and there’s a moment of quiet after that. You shift your weight a little and glance at him sideways, a smirk tugging at your mouth.

"I’d say goodbye with a hug," you murmur, brushing a wind-whipped strand of hair behind your ear, "but I feel like we already pushed the limits of physical contact today."

Mark lets out a breath that’s a half laugh as he scratches the back of his neck. "Yeah, we might’ve hit the quota."

You flash him a peace sign instead, two fingers wiggling with lazy flair. "Night, Grayson."

He nods, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Yeah, goodnight. Get inside safe."

You turn and head up the porch steps, the boards creaking softly under your feet. And even though your back’s to him now, you swear you can still feel him watching.

—

Later that night, long after the sun’s gone down and the neighborhood’s turned quiet, you lie awake in bed staring at the ceiling fan spinning shadows across your walls.

You’d changed into pajamas hours ago. Washed off the salt. Pulled your hair up. Brushed your teeth. Did all the things that were supposed to settle your body down into rest.

And yet.

You couldn’t stop thinking about him.

Not Mark-the-friend. Not Mark, the guy you send dumb memes to or banter with about pizza toppings.

No, this was Mark’s body.

His arms. His shoulders. The impossible way he held you like you weighed nothing. How your thighs had wrapped around his waist like it was muscle memory you didn’t know you had.

You’d never really thought about him like that before. Not seriously. Not in a way that stuck around longer than a fleeting joke.

But now? Now you couldn’t stop replaying how warm his body was. How big his hands were when he adjusted his grip. The unintentional intimacy of it all.

In the moment it just felt awkward, but now looking back on it? It felt electric.

Your fingers slip beneath the waistband of your sleep shorts almost without thought. Just enough to feel the edge of sensation, the tension that’s been building in your stomach all evening. Your breath stutters. One gentle graze turns into another, your eyes fluttering almost shut, lips parting—

"M—Ma—aark?!"

It starts low, breathy, nearly reverent—but the moment your half-lidded eyes catch the silhouette outside your window, the tone snaps mid-name into something much higher and far less composed.

You jolt upright with a gasp, yanking your hand free and throwing the blanket over your lap like it’s a crime scene.

There he is.

Hovering.

Mark.

In daylight, you might’ve brushed it off as a joke, but at this hour, with the moon casting soft light over his hair and the way his eyes blink in surprise—it feels way too intimate.

He raises a hand and knocks lightly against the glass like maybe he really didn’t just witness the most unhinged thing imaginable.

You’re pretty sure your soul has left your body.

You scramble out of bed, nearly tripping over the blanket, heart hammering as you fumble to unlock the window. Every molecule of your being is praying he didn’t hear anything. Didn’t see anything. You plaster on what you hope is a casual, non-horny smile as you shove the pane open.

"Hey," you whisper, breathless. "Uh. What are you doing here?"

Mark floats in a little closer, still hovering just outside the sill, arms crossed, looking vaguely sheepish. "I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about earlier. About you."

Your eyes went dry. That was... not the answer you were expecting.

He keeps going. "I don’t know, I just... didn’t like the idea of you almost having to walk home alone. That creep could’ve followed you, and the fact that you didn’t even feel comfortable calling me right away? I don’t like that."

Your throat tightens a little, but you try to keep the mood light. "Well, next time I’ll just hit up my personal superhero hotline immediately."

He huffs a quiet laugh, but there’s something more serious under it. "I mean it. I’ve been thinking—and maybe it would just... make more sense if I was around more. For safety. Like, logistics."

"Logistics," you repeat, raising a brow.

"Yeah," he says, floundering now, rubbing the back of his neck. "Like, if we were together—not just like that, I mean, not just for that—but like, technically, it would be easier to make sure you’re okay. And it’d be easier for you to call me. And I wouldn’t have to hover outside your window at midnight like a weirdo."

You stare at him.

He stares at you.

"…Are you… proposing we date for security reasons?"

His throat bobs. "...Yes?"

Your lips twitch.

"That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard."

"I just mean—it’s not like it has to be a big thing. I already worry about you. You already call me for weird stuff. And if we were—y'know, together—it wouldn’t be weird for me to show up when you need me. It’d be normal. Expected. Practical."

You sigh, dragging your hands down your face. "Get in here before one of my neighbors calls the cops."

He climbs in through the window with the kind of silent grace that somehow makes it worse—like he does this all the time, like being in your bedroom in the middle of the night isn’t absolutely deranged. You close the window behind him, lock it, then turn around to find him standing awkwardly in the middle of your room, hands in the pockets of his joggers.

You cross your arms, still half-reeling. "Okay. Back up. Explain to me again how dating me is supposed to be a logical safety plan."

He doesn’t flinch, which is honestly impressive. "Because it is logical," he says. "If we were together, I wouldn’t have to wait for you to ask me for help. I’d just know to be there. I already worry about you. This just... cuts out the weird in-between."

You stare. "You’re talking about eliminating emotional bureaucracy."

Mark hesitates. "...Yeah?"

You groan and throw yourself backward onto the bed, staring at the ceiling with what felt like dead eyes. "Wow. Incredible. I can really only get a guy to ask me out if it doubles as a protective services contract."

Mark looks like he wants to argue but doesn’t say anything.

You sit up halfway, shooting him a look. "We literally couldn’t even hug goodbye earlier without it being a thing. And now you think we should just be together? For efficiency? Like we’re a fuckin’ Excel spreadsheet or something?"

"Okay, no, not like a spreadsheet. And in my defense that hug got complicated really fast."

You level him with a flat, skeptical expression. "Complicated?"

He looks everywhere but at you again. "You were in a bikini. And a wet shirt. And you smelled good. And you looked—like—soft. I didn’t want to be weird."

You scoff, bringing one arm over your chest subconsciously. “Right. Because hugging your friend goodbye would’ve been weird—but showing up at her window at midnight to pitch a bodyguard boyfriend arrangement? Totally normal.”

Mark doesn’t even try to deny it. He shrugs helplessly, a lopsided smile tugging at his mouth. “Okay… maybe not totally normal. But at least it got me in the door.”

You give him a look, half-exasperated and half-amused. “That’s the bar now?”

He lets out a soft laugh, then finally moves to join you on the bed. The mattress dips slightly under his weight as you move to sit up beside him at the edge, his knee bumping gently against yours. The room feels smaller now, quieter.

You glance sideways, noticing how his hands rest on his thighs, fingers twitching slightly like he wants to reach for something but doesn’t know what.

Neither of you speaks right away.

After some time, you hear him say softly, “I wanted to hug you.” Something flutters in your stomach. He keeps his eyes ahead, voice low. “I didn’t want to leave like that. But you were the one who said we ‘already pushed the limits of physical contact’.”

You feel your ears warm. “Yeah, well. I was trying to keep it together. Not...” You trail off, not wanting to finish where that thought was going.

That makes him look at you, and suddenly the space between you feels thinner than air.

His voice is soft. Careful. “Do I get another chance?”

Your lips part, trembling, but no sound leaves your throat. Instead you just nod.

And then you’re leaning into him, and he’s leaning into you, and it’s not even a decision so much as a reaction. Like this was something the two of you were always going to do.

His lips brush yours. Soft. Testing. Then it deepens.

His hand slides up to the back of your neck, holding you steady as he tilts his head, kissing you fuller. His tongue slips past your lips, teasing and deliberate, coaxing you into something hot and slow. His tongue explores your mouth with languid, fluid strokes—a slick, pink muscle dragging against yours, tasting you like he’s been thinking about this for a while. He doesn’t rush. He lingers, savoring the way you open up for him, the way your breath catches when he slides his tongue along the roof of your mouth.

His other hand settles at your waist, fingers spreading possessively. He pulls you closer, his palm sliding beneath your shirt just enough to brush over your skin. You can feel the way his chest rises and falls against yours, how his lips part and seal over and over again, mapping every curve of your mouth.

He nudges you gently, repositioning his legs and shifting you with him until you’re straddling his thighs. One arm slides fully around your waist, hugging you closer into the warmth of him, while the hand at your neck loosens just enough to drift up into your hair. He kisses you deeper, tongue curling just a little more greedily now, like he can’t get enough of the way you taste.

Your fingers flex against his chest, bracing yourself. The heat between you builds fast—sharp, undeniable. He groans into your mouth, a sound low and unfiltered that sends heat straight into your lower belly.

You’re the one who finally breaks the kiss, gasping a little as you pull back—because if you didn’t, you’re pretty sure he’d never stop. Mark chases you instinctively, lips brushing the corner of your mouth, your cheek, your jaw. He noses at your neck, presses a kiss just beneath your ear.

“This is not why I came here,” he murmurs against you, breath hot and trembling.

You laugh softly, breathless and flushed. “Yeah, sure. Midnight pop-ins are just your love language now, huh?”

He lifts his head slightly, eyes half-lidded but earnest. “I mean it. I just… I couldn’t stop thinking about you. About what could’ve happened. About how weird you felt calling me. I hated that.”

You brushed your nose against his. “And kissing me senseless was the solution?”

He grins, and before he can answer, you pull him back in.

Your mouths crash together again, hotter now—messier. His hands are everywhere: one in your hair, one gripping your hip, sliding under your shirt for the second time like he needs to feel every inch of you. You roll your hips without thinking, and he groans once more into your mouth, the sound vibrating down your spine.

Then he pulls back, panting slightly. “Wait… what were you doing when I showed up, anyway?”

You freeze.

Your eyes dart away. “Nothing.”

His brow lifts. “Nothing?”

You chew your lip. “Just… thinking about stuff.”

He leans in, a little smirk playing at his lips. “Stuff like… me?”

Suddenly you’re jolting upright like you’ve been electrocuted. "Okay! Wow! Y’know what? It is definitely way too late for you to be in a girl’s bedroom. Like, aggressively past curfew. So! I think it’s time you go, Mr. Grayson. Please and thank you."

“What—?”

You stand up, gesturing toward the window with mock formality. “Thank you for your service, please fly responsibly. Goodnight.”

Mark just blinks at you, still sitting. You raise a brow. "Uh. That's your cue, flight boy."

He shifts, clears his throat—but makes no move to stand.

You squint. "Why aren't you getting up?"

He grimaces slightly, suddenly very interested in a speck of dust on your floor. "I'm working on it."

One of your brows quirk as your line-of-sight drops.

Oh.

Your eyes go wide.

“Oh my God—” You whip around sharply on the balls of your feet. “Never mind! Take your time! Or don’t! I-I don’t even know!”

Behind you, Mark clears his throat, shifting like he's just settling in more comfortably. "I just—uh—need a second to make sure your mattress isn’t… you know. Lopsided or anything. Structural integrity check. Nothing weird."

You nod rapidly, still facing away. "Right. Mattress stability is important."

You march over to the window and start fiddling with the lock like it suddenly needs adjusting. You give it two twists, then a shake, then check it again just to be safe.

Across the room, Mark continues to sit very still, facing the opposite wall like it's a meditation exercise. Neither of you speak.

The silence stretches.

This is fine. Totally normal.

Just a standard, extremely platonic, post-makeout building inspection.

No one's aroused. No one's flustered. No one is internally screaming into the void.

You clear your throat.

Mark clears his throat.

Another ten seconds pass.

"...Think it's safe for me to stand yet?" he mutters.

You nearly jump out of your skin. "Only if you're done verifying the mattress's—structural reliability."

"Almost there."

You nod like that makes perfect sense.

Absolutely perfect.

You both sit in silence for another thirty seconds.

You are never going to survive this night.

[botanyshitposts]

love it when the leaves are green and then a couple trees start turning yellow and suddenly there’s a run on the sugar bank and the whole damn block is moving glucose to the trunk. we need to shed those leaves asap there’s just no time to waste

[revelboo]

Possible spoilers for earthspark season 3

Ok ok hear me out- yk the episode with the hate virus right after prowl was introduced I think, and how before they all turn into zombies it’s just Bumblebee who’s like really angry for literally no reason? Can I request something spicy with him using reader to try and calm himself down and it doesn’t work? I had an idea idk if it’s a good one tho lmao

Sure! It’s a good one 🤣

🔞 Mass displaced mech 🌶️

Aggression

ES Bumblebee x Reader

• What’s wrong with him, everything hazed and tinged with an impatient sort of anger. Every little thing putting him on edge until he’s snapping at everyone, servos trembling. Wanting to hurt someone, anyone. And you’re laying a soft hand on his leg, distracting him from snarling at the Terrans. “Come on,” you say, chin tipped up and you’re the only thing that isn’t setting him off. Familiar and grounding amid the fury roiling through him, heat and need twisting through him as he focuses on you. “Let’s get some air and talk.”

• Have no idea what’s wrong with him, but he looked like he was about to shove Jawbreaker’s head through a wall and you’re not having it. This isn’t like him and his engine is softly revving as he follows you outside into the tree line and away from the house. When you round on him to ask him what his problem is, his big palm smacks against the trunk of a tree. Making you realize he’s mass shifted and he’s caging you with his body.

• “I need,” he growls, struggling for the words as that angry haze digs in deeper. Need you to distract him so he doesn’t lose it. Hurt someone. Wants to hurt someone. Something’s wrong with him and he’s on edge. “Need,” he rasps again, leaning into your space when you back up, coming up against the tree. Those violent impulses keep him from reaching for you. Afraid of hurting you without meaning to even as his spike stirs.

• “Tell me what you need,” you whisper, and his optics flicker, bleeding red for a beat. What was that? He’s growling softly, engine revving nonstop now and the only thing you’re sure of? That he’s not going to hurt you, but he’s definitely a threat to everyone else in this state. And you can’t let him go near them. “You need me?”

• They’re back there. Enemies. Plotting to take you, hurt you. Unless he hurts them first. Turning toward the barn and house with a snarl, he hesitates when you cup his face, pulling him back to you. “Don’t worry about them. I need you.” And your mouth covers his. That chaos in his processor jangling through him. Hating them, but grounded by you.

• And he’s focused completely on you, servos a little rough as he tries to figure out your clothes and just ends up tearing them. Growling softly as his mouth finds your neck, kissing and then biting gently. Big hands gripping your waist and lifting you and his spike brushes against your inner thigh. Slides against you before he’s stretching you and you arch in his grip. Clinging to him as he moves against you and your body softens for him. Can feel the rough bark digging into you as he pins you, hips pumping urgently. Almost too rough as his servos dig in to your hips, probably leaving bruises on you.

• He’s less out of control buried deep inside you, the familiar scent and feel of you keeping him barely in check. Working out the anger with the feel of you wrapped so tight around his spike and your gasping cries. Feels your heels digging into him as he ruts against you, spike stroking deep and he claims your mouth again, muffling your cry when you fist his spike. Managing a handful of deep drives of his hips before he’s shuddering with his overload to fill you. Head brushing yours, that rage is banked for the moment, but it’s still there. And he’s still so hard and aching for you.

[cairoblair]

Might i request some love at first sight headcanons for each of the boys with a non MC reader? What would make them fall in love at first sight? Thank you my dear!!!

Because these are a little lengthy, I'm separating this into two parts. I'll link part 2 to this post as soon as I finish it!

Part 1: Rafayel, Xavier, Zayne Part 2: Sylus, Caleb

Rafayel

You were walking through the art exhibition that had just arrived in town. Nothing had really caught your eye yet, but the paintings were beautiful regardless. You stopped in front of one - a huge canvas with shades of pink and blue. It seemed to be a sunset, but more...whimsical. Mysterious, even. You stared at it for what felt like hours. It seemed to be pulling you in, dragging you into its depths like a siren's song. "You like this one?" A man's voice said as a figure appeared beside you. "I do," You replied, not bothering to glance at the owner of the voice. "But...it's missing something." "Missing something?" He almost sounded offended, but more intrigued than anything. You hummed, examining the painting with furrowed brows. The man beside you studied your face, as if he could see the gears turning in your head. "Maybe some darker colors," You finally responded. "It's very...pastel. I think it would be more striking with some dimension." It was his turn to hum. He turned to the painting, observing it for himself. "Maybe you should tell the artist." You scoffed. "Critique a master's work at his own exhibition? I'll pass." "That's unfortunate," He replied, a chuckle underlying his voice. "I should tell you, though, that you just did." You froze, your head finally turning to look at the man beside you. His name tag specified that he was, in fact, the artist who created the paintings in the exhibition. Rafayel. "Ah," You sighed. You could feel the embarrassment rising in your chest, your cheeks warming as you realized what you had done. "I'm sorry, I only-" "No, please," Rafayel interrupted, holding up a hand. "I'm always open to some...constructive criticism. Why don't we have a look at the others? Maybe you have some opinions on those." You could hear the slight sarcasm in his tone, an obviously teasing smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. It probably would've been wise to turn him down...but where's the fun in that? "Maybe I do," You replied, cocking your head to the side. "Shall we, then?" He motioned for you to lead the way, following close behind you as you wandered around the exhibition. He couldn't seem to help the small smile that lingered on his lips, the hint of amusement in his expression as you offered your criticism. His art was interesting, sure. But he was convinced you were much more worthy of his attention.

Xavier

It was a beautiful spring day - perfect for a walk in your favorite park just outside the city. Luckily, most people opted to go to the one in the city's center, so crowds never seemed to be an issue. Plus, you had managed to find a lovely little spot hidden away from public view. As far as you knew, no one else had managed to find it. You adjusted your tote bag on your shoulder - full of little snacks, a water bottle, and a couple books you had been meaning to read for ages. The little trail that let to your secret spot was overgrown with vines and bushes, making it a little difficult to navigate. But, once you had managed to make it through, there was a small open area on the bank of the river that ran through the park. Beautiful flowers had started to bloom under the trees, and the recent rain had raised the water level of the river. It was the perfect spot for a little R&R. That is, until you noticed the man slumped up against one of the tree trunks. You almost jumped at the sight - you had never seen anyone else here before. A pang of disappointment hit your chest at the realization that this wasn't your little secret anymore. But, it was only one person. Maybe there was enough room for two. Upon closer investigation, you realized he was asleep. Deciding against waking the stranger up, you simply sighed and sat at the opposite end of the riverbank, putting as much space between the two of you as you could despite the small space. You rummaged through your tote bag, pulling out one of the books and opening to the bookmarked page. This particularly story had been gnawing at you for weeks, so before you knew it, you had already read through several chapters. "When did you get here?" A voice broke the comfortable silence. Your head shot up - the sudden noise had startled you slightly, pulling you out of your reading-induced trance. The man had woken up, but remained sitting against the tree trunk where you had found him. "Um, just a little while ago," You replied, checking the time on your phone. "I didn't want to wake you." He simply nodded in response, his gaze lingering on you for a moment before he glanced around. "I didn't know anyone else knew about this place," You added, lowering your book into your lap. "I've been coming here for a few months," The man replied, his voice still a little groggy from his nap. "So have I," You said. "I'm surprised we haven't run into each other sooner." Another beat of silence passed. It wasn't necessarily an awkward silence, despite the urge you felt to fill it. "I'm (y/n), by the way." You extended a hand towards him. His gaze flicked between your hand and the expectant look on your face. "Xavier," He finally replied, reaching to shake your hand. "It's nice to meet you." "Likewise," You smiled. Satisfied with just an introduction, you turned your attention back to your book. You didn't come to this spot to socialize, after all. "What are you reading?" Xavier asked, tilting his head in an attempt to look at the cover. "Oh, just a fantasy novel," You answered. "Nothing too interesting." He hummed, his eyes still stuck on the book. "May I?" He motioned to the open spot next to you. Your eyebrows raised slightly. "Sure, yeah." Xavier moved from his spot to sit beside you, his shoulder brushing yours as he leaned over to read the page you had stopped on. While this was far from what you had planned on doing today, it wasn't an unwelcome surprise. Perhaps you could learn to share your little hideout. His only condition? Always bring your book.

Zayne

A new bakery had just opened around the corner from your apartment, and you were all too eager to try it out. Even the air around the little shop smelled of baked treats. Inside, glass display cases held various sweets, each one just as mouthwatering as the last. You had managed to miss most of the crowd, save for a few customers who must've been enjoyed an after-dinner dessert. You, however, were just craving a late night treat. Your long day at work had warranted such a thing. After looking over all of the options, your stomach had decided on a small piece of cake topped with various berries. It looked positively divine. "Excuse me-" "Excuse me-"

You glanced over at the voice that had mixed with yours. A man stood a few feet away, his gaze meeting yours. He was dressed in a surgeon's coat, a name tag hanging from the small chest pocket. A small, amused smile lingered on his face. "Ladies first," He offered, motioning for you to go ahead. "Thank you," You replied, offering a nod before turning to the bakery worker and ordering your cake of choice. The man stepped forward after you had finished, his eyes flicking between you and the display case. "Make it two," He said to the worker before moving to the register. "Allow me." "Oh, you don't have to-" A beep from the card reader cut you off. He had paid for both treats before you even had a chance to protest.

Your mouth snapped shut, your brows raised as he simply slipped the card back into his wallet. You had no idea who this stranger was, or why he had paid for your dessert, but you weren't going to complain about it. Who would? "Thank you," You said as he held the small box of cake out to you. "You didn't have to do that." "You have good taste," He replied. "I was still deciding, so I should thank you for making the choice easier." "We're even then," You chuckled, holding out your hand. "I'm (y/n), by the way." He reached out to meet your handshake. "Zayne. It's a pleasure." His hand seemed to linger on yours a moment longer than necessary before he pulled it away. "If you aren't busy," You began tentatively. "Would you like to join me? There are a few tables outside, and it's nice out tonight." Zayne seemed to contemplate the offer for a few seconds before a hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "I'd love to," He replied. He walked just ahead of you, holding the door to the bakery open as you both stepped outside. There was a small table away from the entrance that you settled on. You were both out of your comfort zones - sharing a dessert with a complete stranger. Well, stranger might have been an overstatement. Something about you was...familiar to him. Perhaps from another lifetime. Or maybe your taste in sweets simply intrigued him.

[starkeymeow]

❛ we make each other alive . .

does it matter if it hurts? ❜

I’M COMING, WAIT FOR ME.

PLOT you enter the hunger games a proud weapon of your district, only to find your sharpest blade is the boy beside you, and you’re not sure which one of you the capitol wants to break first.

CONTENT chapter seven, best read in dark mode, rafe cameron x reader au, insight on one of the spots in the arena, lots of blood, violence, panic, anxiety, jj and kie <3, toppers just exisiting, and sorry we’ll get more rafe and y/n soon LMFAO i just needed a little trouble, might be an abrupt ending but next chapters fair warning someones gna die LOOL, not proofread

main masterlist | series ml | tag list | previous next

the water’s still red when you first step in.

like it’s not thick, it’s just stained. that’s the thing about blood. it never looks real when it’s in the water. it disappears within a few splashes.

your jacket’s already halfway off. you ease it off your arms and crouch at the edge, scrubbing at the fabric in circles, trying to work out what you can. in front of you, jj and topper are already knee-deep in the shallows, laughing under their breath as they slap at the water and try to rinse themselves without freezing. topper’s shirt is still on him, soaked and clinging, but he pulls at the collar and dips under, letting out a rough curse when he surfaces again.

“cold as shit,” he mutters.

you don’t laugh, but kie does. she’s crouched beside you, elbows braced against her knees, dirt under her nails as she sets up something with wire and a few spare twigs she found in her bag. she’s got that look in her eye, like sharp and focused, like every movement matters.

you squeeze the sleeve of your jacket tighter. water runs down your knuckles and drips off the hem, the tension from the bloodbath’s still in your muscles. you can’t shake it. can’t scrub it away.

“what’s that one for?” you ask quietly.

kie doesn’t look up, just ties a knot with her teeth and flicks her gaze toward the water. “gonna leave it in there. if someone tries to wash off, this’ll clamp down on ‘em.”

you blink. “seriously?”

she shrugs. “works. it’s low. hidden. hurts like hell.”

“good idea,” you say, and mean it.

a shadow falls over your shoulder. the sun dims just slightly.

you glance up and see rafe standing there, shirt clinging to him. he’s wringing out the hem of his shirt, arms tensed and droplets flicking off with each twist. water traces lines down his chest before soaking into the waistband of his pants. it’s almost enough to make you look away, but you don’t.

he doesn’t say anything either. just stands there like some unbothered statue, watching the rest of the group move around the bank, his eyes flicking briefly to yours before glancing back out at the trees.

you finish with your jacket and shake it out once before slinging it over your lap. it won’t be dry by night, but it’s better than nothing. kie finishes her trap and stands, brushing her hands on her pants and starting to walk deep to where jj and topper are to bury her trap, probably muttering to them to be careful where they stand.

you whiste low between your teeth to get their attention.

topper’s folding his jacket over his shoulder as he looks back at you, “we movin’?”

“yeah,” rafe says before anyone else can. “enough light left to find somethin’ decent.”

the walk back to the forest is quieter. the birch trees start tall and sparse, with white trunks and peeling bark, like they’re trying to shed skin. the deeper you go, the less sound there is. birds don’t chirp. wind doesn’t carry the way it did near the water. it’s all damp earth and whispering grass, and when your foot crunches on a twig, it sounds loud enough to be gunfire.

“don’t like it,” jj mutters after a while. he kicks a rock, watches it roll until it hits a root.

“no one asked,” rafe says, but it’s automatic. not mean.

kie walks with her blade drawn as topper fiddles with his axe. you just keep your head down, counting your steps between the trunks. when you finally stop, it’s not because the spot is good. it’s because it’s getting dark.

no one says it, but you all feel it. it’s that collective kind of settling that happens when you’ve run out of options and decide this’ll have to do. there’s no firewood worth lighting, not without giving yourselves away, but the boys try anyway. they scrape at bark and try to spark something with flint, building a makeshift ring of stones around what might be a small flame.

kie leans against a tree, her legs curled to her chest, jacket pulled over her knees. she keeps nodding off and snapping back awake, like she’s afraid of what she’ll miss if she sleeps too deep. jj eventually drops beside her, back to the same tree, and they sit shoulder to shoulder without saying a word.

topper circles the camp twice before choosing his own tree. he tosses his bag down like it’s a pillow and sits on top of it, facing out, legs crossed, fingers twitching like he still wants something to do with them.

he’s quieter than usual. you wouldn’t be surprised if he’s worried for diamonte. wherever she is.

you sit last. back to a birch, jacket draped across your chest like a blanket. your boots are still moist, your pants too. it doesn’t help that the night’s dropped colder than expected. your fingertips are numb at this point.

you glance over. rafe’s nearby. not right beside you, but close. his bag’s at his side, but he hasn’t laid down yet. he stands with his arms crossed, eyes scanning the dark like he’s expecting something to move. his shirt’s still damp, and it clings to him in the middle, wrinkled and uneven where he’d wrung it out. he looks like a statue again.

your gaze drifts down to his fingers that curl against his arm. his chest is rising slow. his hand twitches briefly toward his belt like he’s debating keeping a knife in hand.

you look away. your breath fogs faintly in the cold. the jacket around you isn’t enough. nothing is. your skin still feels sticky, even though you scrubbed it raw.

somewhere in the distance, a cannon goes off. just one. everyone flinches, even if only slightly. you don’t say it, but you know what they’re all thinking. nine left, and you’re still here. nine more people other than the ones in this circle and you have no idea how it’ll play out.

eventually you try to sleep, like really try, but the cold creeps into your bones, making every breath feel sharp. you shift against the rough bark of the tree at your back, pulling your jacket tighter around yourself, its material sticking uncomfortably to your skin.

you five have decided at two at a time to stay up. so somewhere nearby, jj and kie are keeping watch. they’re sitting shoulder to shoulder, faces lit faintly by the dying firelight, speaking in voices too soft for you to catch. now and then you hear the scratch of jj's boot against the dirt or the low clink of metal in kie's hands as she fidgets with something.

your eyes fall closed, and for a few moments, you drift in the uneasy space between waking and sleep. but just when you feel yourself slipping under completely, something changes. it’s subtle, like a shift in the air, but your body feels it before your mind catches up.

the wind.

it brushes over your cheek like a blade, so cold it burns, and instinct snaps you awake with a jolt. you sit up, heart hammering, hands instinctively tightening around the edges of your jacket. for a few seconds, you think it must have been a dream, some leftover thread of anxiety pulling you from sleep. but then you hear it again. it’s a faint, whispering sound threading its way between the trees, too high-pitched to be natural.

you glance toward the others. kie has frozen, crouched low with her hands still tangled in the trap she was working on. jj straightens, muscles tense, his hand drifting to the knife tucked at his belt. across the clearing, rafe stirs where he's leaned against a tree, lifting his head sharply like he heard it too.

nobody speaks. nobody moves.

the forest around you shivers with every gust of wind, the slender birch trunks creaking and swaying in this slow, unsteady rhythm. they’re so hollow it catches the wind in strange ways, creating sounds that don’t quite belong in this world. you can hear wails and soft, deliberate whispers that seem to dart past your ears before you can catch them.

the longer you sit there, the more you feel like the forest isn’t just alive, it’s watching.

you scramble to your feet, your hands stiff from the cold. rafe is suddenly beside you, his fingers brushing your elbow to steady you. his eyes flick quickly over your face before shifting to the trees around you. he says nothing, but the set of his jaw and the tension in his shoulders tells you enough. he feels it too.

“guys, what the hell is that?” kie murmurs, just loud enough for you to hear. her voice even sounds wrong in the hollow space, too human, too solid.

jj doesn’t answer. he’s already moving, silently packing up the few things he had pulled from his bag earlier. a few feet away, topper, who must have woken up at the sound, is sitting up, staring wide-eyed into the trees as if he can see something none of you can.

no one needs to say it. you need to get out of here. there’s something wrong about this forest.

the group starts gathering their things immediately, slinging backpacks over shoulders, stuffing whatever supplies you had out back into whatever pockets you can. the fire is left to smolder and die eventually too.

you stick close to rafe without even thinking about it, matching your steps to his as jj and kie fall into a loose formation ahead of you. topper brings up the rear, checking over his shoulder every few seconds like he expects something to lunge out of the trees and drag him away.

the birch forest feels endless, like you’ve lost your way in a maze or it stretches further than you remember it did earlier, like it changed. either way, it’s making you freak out.

and the deeper you move into the forest, the worse it gets. the wind picks up, slicing across exposed skin in quick, stinging bursts that leave you wincing and turning your head.

at one point you swear you see something in the corner of your eye, like a shadow darting between the trees, but when you turn, there’s nothing. only the birch trees.

beside you, rafe pulls his jacket tighter and leans down slightly, his mouth brushing your ear so he doesn’t have to speak loud enough for the forest to hear. “keep moving, a’right? n’ don’t stop.”

you don’t argue. you don't even look at him. you just keep your eyes ahead, focusing on the faint outlines of jj and kie.

every so often, the group rotates who’s leading. jj passes the front to kie, then topper takes over for a while, but it doesn't really matter. the forest looks the same in every direction, and every step feels heavier than the last.

minutes seem to bleed together until your legs are sore and your throat burns from breathing the cold.

nobody argues when jj suggests camping at the mouth of the cornucopia instead. you guys slip out of the tree line as fast as you can without breaking into a full sprint.

the cornucopia looms in front of you. it’s better than being out in the open or trapped between those trees again. probably should’ve just stayed here first.

everyone collapses down near the entrance without much ceremony, backs against the cold metal walls or slumped over their packs.

you're still catching your breath when topper curses under it, pulling back his jacket sleeve and looking at his forearm. “dude,” he mutters, voice half in disbelief, half in frustration. “i swear to god something scratched me back there.”

he turns his arm toward the firelight after jj and rafe managed to get a small fire going, careful to keep it low and hidden, and sure enough, there's a thin, angry-looking slice across his skin. the sleeve of his jacket is torn too, a clean rip like something sharp and invisible slashed right through the fabric.

kie is on her feet immediately, brushing dirt from her palms as she crosses over to him. “you need to clean that before it gets infected,” she says, already digging through the nearest backpacks, checking each one quickly for any sign of a medkit or even something they could use as a bandage.

watching them stirs something uneasy inside you. you remember that slicing feeling against your skin earlier. fuck. you shift where you sit, running your hands over your arms, your sides, your legs, looking for anything, any sting, any wetness that might mean blood. nothing. not until—

“hey,” rafe says quietly.

you glance up at him just as he steps closer, and his hand lifts before you can react, the tips of his fingers brushing carefully along your cheekbone. his thumb drags lightly across a spot just beneath your eye, and you flinch at the touch. something stings there.

your hand flies up instinctively, covering the spot as you jerk away slightly, heart pounding. you hadn’t even noticed. hadn’t even felt it until now. your fingers come away faintly wet when you touch the scratch, and you blink down at them, stunned. it really got you. the forest really left a mark on you.

“it's not deep,” rafe says as he glances back over his shoulder toward kie. “you find anything?” he calls to her.

kie shakes her head, still rifling through a few more bags. “nothing real. some antiseptic wipes, but that's about it.”

“give ‘em here,” rafe says, already reaching out a hand.

within a minute, he’s back in front of you, crouching low enough that you're eye-level with him. the wipe in his hand stings worse than anything when he presses it gently against the scratch, and you grit your teeth against the burn, refusing to pull away even though every instinct tells you to. rafe works quickly, efficient but careful, his fingers steady where they brace the side of your face.

“you’re good,” he says after a moment, crumpling the wipe and tossing it into the fire to burn away. “just a scratch.”

just a scratch. but somehow it feels like more.

you sit there quietly as the night goes on, the fire burning low between all of you, throwing long shadows against the inside of the cornucopia. no one talks much. the exhaustion is too heavy, and the fear from the forest still lingers. eventually, one by one, people start settling down where they sit, leaning back against the cold metal and pulling their jackets tighter.

rafe stays close, sitting just a few inches from you, his shoulder almost brushing yours. jj and kie continue their watch again, trading quiet words and keeping their eyes pinned to the trees. you try to sleep, but your body refuses to fully relax, your muscles still wired tight, your mind half-expecting to see something move in the darkness just beyond the firelight.

morning can’t come fast enough.

it’s quiet, which should be a good thing, but by now, silence feels more like a warning than a gift. you sit with your knees pulled to your chest, knuckles cold. there hasn’t been much movement since dawn.

you keep glancing around the clearing, your eyes tracking empty air. you know the cameras are out there somewhere, always are, but there are no booms in the sky. no signs of death.

by the time it’s day three you’ve only heard one cannon, maybe two if you count the one that rang out sometime late last night too.

you’d been awake last night, barely, head resting back against your pack, watching the sky twist open as a hovercraft descended near the water. you couldn’t see much, just the mechanical limbs dropping down and pulling a limp body up into the air before disappearing again. maybe it had been one of the tributes. maybe it’d been kie’s trap. either way, someone was gone.

you remember fiddling with a piece of grass between your fingers, wrapping it tight until it snapped, and trying not to think about it.

but you didn’t get much time to be still. you hear a scream the morning after.

you jolt upright, hand scrambling for the daggers you’d kept close to your hip. your head turns fast, eyes scanning for movement and you find it, just beyond the edge of the cornucopia. a mess of limbs and shouting. kie. she’s out there, fighting off two figures, maybe three, already half on the ground.

she must’ve gone out early, probably to check something or maybe even just pee, and got followed back.

jj’s already on his feet, spear in hand, eyes locked on the chaos just ahead. topper curses behind him, grabbing for his axe, but he’s moving fast, rage written all over his face.

“go!” jj barks.

the three figures ahead split up. one, a girl with a jagged ponytail and wild eyes, stays back with kie, pinning her to the ground and shouting something you can’t make out. the other two, the boys, are charging straight for jj and topper.

you barely have time to think before you and rafe are running too, his mace clenched tight in his fist. you reach them just in time to see kie struggling under a girl’s weight, the other tribute pressing a forearm against her throat.

jj lets out a hoarse yell and lunges first, spear angled low before snapping it upward into the stomach of the boy charging him. the point hits home, but the kid’s momentum sends them both sprawling. they hit the ground hard, wrestling for control, jj keeping the shaft of the spear between them, teeth gritted, muscles locked.

topper meets the second boy mid-sprint.

he swings his axe, catching the edge of the kid’s shoulder with a sickening thud. the boy stumbles, but not enough to stop. he grabs topper by the collar and drives a knee into his side. they break apart only to collide again, fists flying, wood meeting flesh, metal against bone.

you and rafe flank wide, slipping into the chaos.

you duck a blind swing from one of the boys and drive your dagger across the back of his thigh, deep and slicing. he jerks with a yell, and jj takes the opening, twisting his spear up and shoving it straight through the boy’s chest. he lets out a gargled cough before he collapses to the dirt.

“kie!” jj yells, dragging the spear free, almost like he needs to make sure she knows she’s going to be okay. he’s already moving toward topper. topper’s still fighting, but barely.

blood is running down his forehead, but he’s got his axe up, teeth bared as he swings again. this time, it hits clean. the blade bites deep into the side of the boy’s neck. he jerks once, then falls to his knees. topper pushes him off with a final grunt, panting hard.

you’re already turning your head, trying to find kie, the girl. there. she’s still on top of kie, but something’s wrong. she’s not hitting. she’s not stabbing. she’s just holding her.

then you see it. her leg, caught in something like taut metal wire, barely visible in the early morning light, looped tight around her calf. blood drips fast and heavy from the gash, pooling into the soil beneath her. it’s one of kie’s traps. that’s why they’re here?

you’re already moving.

the girl’s too distracted by the pain to realize you’re there. you lunge, dagger drawn, slicing across her back to knock her off balance. she shrieks and twists.

rafe’s there beside you in an instant, swinging his mace with brute force. it crashes into her side, ribs crack with a dull, sickening crunch. she tries to scream, but it chokes out into a wheeze.

you don’t hesitate. you grab the front of her jacket, force her down, and drive your blade into her chest. she jerks just once, then goes still. for a second, all you hear is breathing.

you turn to kie, who’s propped herself up on her elbows, eyes wide, staring at the body beside her.

jj steps forward, spear still slick in his grip. “you good?”

kie nods slowly, then glances down at the wire trap still tight around the girl’s leg. “caught her,” she mutters, voice scratchy.

you nod, swallowing hard. “trap held.”

“trap held,” jj echoes, looking down at the girl like he almost can’t believe it worked.

topper leans on his axe, the high from the fight already wearing off, sweat sliding down his temple. rafe’s still standing beside you, his breathing finally slowing. you don’t realize how close you’re leaning into him until the sound of another cannon rolls through the sky.

third one in less than a few minutes.

you stare at the girl’s bloody leg for another second before finally backing away. and for the first time since you woke, you realize you’re still shaking.

but rafe doesn’t move. he’s staring. you notice the shift in his posture before you notice what he’s looking at, eyes are narrowed slightly downward. you follow his gaze and—

your stomach sinks. blood, but not from the girl you just killed. it’s smeared across kie’s thigh, soaking the side of her pants. she didn’t even notice. or maybe she did and just didn’t want to say anything. but now that you’re looking, you can see how stiff she’s sitting, how carefully she’s trying not to put weight on that leg.

“shit,” you breathe out, already crouching beside her. “kie—”

she flinches when you reach for her, just barely. “it’s nothing.”

“no, it’s not.” you press your hand near the tear in the fabric, fingers already sticky. “jesus, kie, they got you bad. when—?”

kie glances toward the body beside her, then away again. her mouth is set. “before. when she and the guys first jumped me. one of them had a knife.”

“shit. topper, grab anything from their bags. i don’t care what it is, just— something.”

your hands hover uselessly near the blood that won’t stop spreading. it’s soaking through your fingers.

“we need to get her out of the open,” you say, sharper now. your eyes snap up to rafe and jj. “help me—inside. she needs cover.”

jj doesn’t hesitate. neither does rafe. the three of you lift her together. she tries to mumble that she’s fine again, but the sound is thin and breathless. you don’t even look at her.

topper follows, arms full with whatever gear he could grab from the fallen tributes’ bags like loose supplies, scraps of cloth, water, someone’s jacket. it’s not much, but it’ll have to be enough.

inside the cornucopia, you get kie onto one of the tables, and even then she grits her teeth and turns her head away to muffle a sound. her leg hangs slightly off the edge, blood’s dripping down the table now.

you try to breathe. you’ve never had to deal with this before.

your hands shake as you rifle through what topper brought. there’s gauze from someone’s first aid strip, a torn-up shirt, a flask of water, a hunting knife you toss aside quickly.

“what do i do?” you ask, looking at kie frantically. “just tell me, tell me what do i do, okay? i don’t know how to help you.”

kie’s jaw is tight. she looks at you, then down at her leg. her face is pale but her eyes are sharp.

“you’re doing fine,” she says gently, which somehow only makes the tears in your throat sting worse. “start with pressure. above the cut.”

you grab a strip of cloth and do as she says, wrapping it around her thigh and pulling tight. your fingers fumble the knot. blood seeps through almost instantly.

“fuck,” you whisper, pressing harder.

jj’s pacing now, running both hands through his hair, the spear clutched tightly in one of them. his mouth is twisted, his shoulders hunched. he looks like he might explode.

“they could’ve killed her,” he mutters, voice rising. “they could’ve fucking killed her—”

“jj,” rafe warns, stepping in front of him, hand pressed against his chest. topper joins him a second later, pushing lightly on jj’s shoulder. “calm down.”

jj jerks his arm away, breathing hard. but he doesn’t move toward you again. he just stands there, watching, helpless.

then, a yell, somewhere across the field. everyone freezes.

rafe and topper spin toward the open mouth of the cornucopia. rafe grabs his mace. you don’t even look up.

“go,” you say quickly, pressing the cloth harder against kie’s leg. “whatever it is, handle it. we’re fine in here.”

topper hesitates. “are you sure—”

“yes.” you glance up at him finally, your expression unreadable. “you don’t need all of us for one scream. go.”

jj growls something under his breath but doesn’t argue. he’s the first out the door, rafe and topper right behind him.

you’re alone again, just you and kie and the blood that won’t stop leaking through your fingers.

“you’re not gonna die,” you tell her, not sure who you’re trying to convince. you reach for more cloth.

kie tries to laugh, but it catches in her throat and becomes a hiss of pain. “yeah. well. thanks for the pep talk.”

@nicholaschavezslut69 @iissza @snowtargaryen @yootvi @ariiwritess @spideysimpossiblegirl @skyslowalking @adribarbie @obsessionsarenotfortheweak @0-tatiana-0 @beebeerockknot @rafestar @drewstarkeyzwhore @drewsephrry @annaconscience @writtenbyhollywood @yourtypicalteenagegirl @daisydark @v4mpscrms @issahruiz @ilovefictionallmenn @derpjungkook @vanessa-rafesgirl @sunny1616 @alphabetically-deranged @nrmlgirl @supercxnt @xoxosblogsblog @rafegetinmybed @siyahmoonlight @livie4lifestarkeyblyth @d-daxx @tsumudoll @ogcrashout @jjasmiineee @loverliner @ailimedae @belle101200 @hiimbrina @nomup @ayy1234567 @girxwrp @k4yr14 @theteenagementality @maggscr @hey-you22w @delilah22pbp

[rafeskai]

Starstruck | Drew Starkey

Chapter One

Summary: In the bustling crowd of a premiere event for Outer Banks, you find yourself caught up in a chaotic moment, lost in the sea of fans. Desperate for a way out, you stumble into an alley where fate leads you to an unexpected—and painful—encounter with Drew Starkey. What starts as a simple misstep soon spirals into something far more complicated, and your life takes an unexpected turn.

Pairings: Drew Starkey x Reader

Warnings: N/A

Author's Note: This will be another short fic!!

The city of Los Angeles had always seemed like a dream—one that was just out of reach, filled with palm trees, bright lights, and endless possibilities. You’d seen it in the movies, heard the stories, and scrolled through enough Instagram posts to feel like you knew the place by heart. But none of that had prepared you for the reality of it all—the hum of the traffic, the overwhelming buzz of constant movement, and the sheer size of everything.

It was your first trip to LA, and you had planned to move there. To experience a new beginning, a contrast from your life back in a small town in South Carolina. Your cousin, Ava had begged you to move in with her. She moved out here a few months ago to follow her dreams, chasing her career in fashion and the hustle of the city. And as much as you’d heard about her exciting life, you couldn’t help but feel a little bit nervous. She was always the one to take the leap, to dive headfirst into new opportunities while you watched from the sidelines.

You stood at the gate of LAX, your suitcase rolling behind you, looking around at the sea of strangers and travelers. It felt like the city itself had swallowed you up already, even though you were still waiting for Ava to come pick you up. The air smelled like a mix of saltwater, car exhaust, and faint hints of perfume. Everything seemed bigger, louder, and brighter than anything you were used to.

Ava had promised to take you to some cool places—maybe even a celebrity sighting or two, if you were lucky. She’d been raving about how “amazing” LA was, how everyone was so “laid-back” but also so “serious about making things happen.” You weren’t sure what that meant exactly, but you were excited to see what her new life was all about.

Finally, your phone buzzed with a text. It was Ava.

Ava: “I’m here, babe! I’ll be by in a sec. Get ready for an adventure!”

You smiled to yourself, tucking your phone back in your pocket. Your cousin always had a way of making everything sound like it was going to be epic.

As you stepped outside the airport, you saw Ava leaning against her car, a mischievous grin on her face and sunglasses perched atop her head. She waved you over enthusiastically, her curly hair bouncing as she jumped up and down.

“There you are!” she said, pulling you into a hug. “Welcome to LA, sweetheart!”

You hugged her back, letting out a small laugh at her over-the-top enthusiasm. Despite the chaos around you, her energy was contagious. It was exactly what you needed to start your adventure in this strange, exciting city. And maybe, just maybe, you’d find yourself falling for LA the way everyone else did.

Ava tossed your suitcase into the trunk and hopped into the driver’s seat, motioning for you to get in. “Alright,” she said, turning the key in the ignition. “Let’s show you what this place is really about.”

As you slid into the passenger seat and buckled up, the city sprawled out in front of you. The buildings, the people, the cars—everything was moving so fast. You couldn’t help but feel like you were on the brink of something big. This trip was going to be more than just a visit; it was going to be an experience that might change everything.

Ava shot you a grin as she pulled onto the highway. “Ready for your first adventure in LA?”

You took a deep breath, a nervous excitement bubbling up inside of you. “I think so.”

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

The ride to Ava’s apartment was a whirlwind of sights and sounds. Palm trees lined the streets, swaying lazily in the breeze, their silhouettes framed against the setting sun. The cars zipped by, each one seemingly flashier than the last, and the billboards advertised everything from the latest blockbuster films to obscure yoga studios. Ava, ever the LA native-in-the-making, narrated the trip like a tour guide, pointing out landmarks and offering unsolicited advice.

“That’s Runyon Canyon,” she said, gesturing to a hill dotted with hikers. “Great for photos, but only go early in the morning. Otherwise, it’s hotter than hell.”

You nodded, your eyes wide as you took everything in. “Noted.”

“Oh, and you’ll definitely need to get used to traffic. Like, it’s not if you’ll sit in it—it’s how many hours of your life you’ll lose to it.”

The apartment complex Ava lived in was nestled in a lively neighborhood just outside of downtown. It wasn’t the most glamorous building, but it had charm, with colorful murals painted along the walls and a small courtyard with string lights hanging from the trees. As you stepped inside, dragging your suitcase behind you, Ava gave you a grand tour of her one-bedroom unit, which she’d converted into a makeshift two-bedroom by sectioning off the living room with a curtain.

“Sorry it’s not huge,” she said, flopping onto her bed as you set your suitcase down near the futon that would serve as your new sleeping spot. “But the location is killer, and it’s LA—no one actually hangs out in their apartment. We’ll be too busy living it up.”

You laughed, appreciating her enthusiasm even if you weren’t entirely sure you’d adjust to this new pace. The space itself was cozy, with mismatched furniture, a tiny kitchen, and windows that let in just enough light to make it feel inviting. Ava’s personality was everywhere—her collection of vintage magazines, her mood board filled with fabric swatches and fashion sketches, and an eclectic mix of candles and trinkets scattered on every surface.

That night, you spent hours unpacking while Ava filled you in on her plans for your first week. From trendy coffee shops to a thrift store crawl, she had your itinerary packed. But what caught your attention most was her excitement over the Outer Banks premiere.

“You have to come with me tonight,” she said, flopping onto your futon dramatically. “It’s going to be amazing. Red carpet, celebrities, the works.”

You hesitated, folding a sweater and setting it aside. “I don’t know, Ava. I just got here. Don’t you think I need a little time to settle in?”

She shook her head emphatically. “Nope. The best way to settle in is to jump in headfirst. Trust me, babe. You’ll love it. Plus, who knows? Maybe you’ll meet someone famous.”

You raised an eyebrow at her, but her grin was infectious. Despite your nerves, you couldn’t help but feel a little intrigued. The idea of attending a real Hollywood event was daunting, but also undeniably exciting. This was LA, after all—the city of endless possibilities.

“Okay,” you said finally, earning a squeal of delight from Ava. “But you owe me coffee for a week if this goes horribly wrong.”

“Deal,” she said, leaping to her feet. “Now, let’s find you something fabulous to wear.”

As Ava rummaged through her closet, tossing dresses and accessories your way, you couldn’t help but smile. Moving to LA was already proving to be as overwhelming as you’d feared, but with Ava by your side, you were starting to believe that maybe you could handle it.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

You’d never been one for crowds, but when Ava forced convinced you to go the Outer Banks premiere in LA, you couldn’t turn it down. You weren’t a huge fan of the show, but you’d heard enough buzz to know it was a big deal. Plus, Ava had a knack for dragging you into her wild adventures, and when she’d said "Hollywood glamour," you couldn't help but get caught up in the excitement.

The red carpet was everything you imagined and more. Flashbulbs from cameras stung your eyes as celebrities in perfectly tailored suits and dresses posed for photos. You tried to focus on the stars walking by, but it felt like the entire city was crammed into this one street, and the noise—oh, the noise—was almost too much to bear. Ava had already spotted a few friends and pulled you along, her chatter almost drowned out by the sound of hundreds of voices and music blaring from speakers.

"I need to get a selfie with Drew Starkey!" Ava shouted over the noise, practically bouncing on her feet.

You blinked. Drew Starkey? The guy who played Rafe Cameron on Outer Banks?

"Wait, wait, wait," you protested, pulling back on her arm. "I’m not ready for that—"

But she was already off, threading her way through the crowd, her phone in hand, her eyes focused on the star she was aiming for. You sighed and tried to follow, but the crowd was thickening, and before you knew it, you were separated from Ava.

You glanced around, feeling your pulse quicken as the realization hit—you were lost. People were pushing past you, and the overwhelming mass of bodies made it hard to even catch your breath. Frantically, you glanced around for some way to escape the chaos, a backdoor, a quiet corner—anything.

That’s when you spotted a narrow alleyway just off the red carpet, tucked behind a line of sleek black cars. It was quiet. It was a chance to breathe.

You weaved through the crowd, trying to stay unnoticed, hoping to find an escape route or at least somewhere to collect yourself. But as you stepped into the alley, you felt a bit of relief—until a loud bang echoed from behind you.

Before you could react, the door to a building swung open, and you stumbled backward as the metal edge caught you square in the face.

The world tilted sideways.

Everything went black for a moment, and you stumbled backward into the wall of the alley, your hands instinctively reaching up to touch your face, feeling a sharp pain shoot across your forehead. What the hell just happened?

A voice—gruff and slightly panicked—came from the direction of the door. “Oh, God, I’m so sorry!”

You groaned, blinking your eyes open, your vision swimming. Standing in front of you, looking at you with wide, apologetic eyes, was none other than Drew Starkey himself.

You didn’t recognize him at first. Your head was swimming, and your pulse was racing. But then his face registered, and you froze. Drew Starkey?

“I didn’t see you there,” he said, reaching out as if to help you, but then pulling back as though unsure. “Are you okay? I’m so sorry. I—I didn’t mean to… hit you. I’m really sorry.”

You couldn’t find words right away. Your vision swam, and you felt lightheaded, your hand instinctively rising to your forehead to feel the throbbing pain.

“Do you need help? I can get someone…” His voice trailed off, a soft edge of concern in it now. “Please say you’re okay.”

Somehow, you found your voice, though it came out more like a pained whisper. “I think... I think I’m okay. Just... I need a second.”

His eyes were full of worry, but he took a step back, glancing around as if searching for someone to help. The alley was dimly lit, and you weren’t sure if anyone had even noticed the accident with how chaotic the premiere still was just beyond the alley.

“Look, um, I don’t know how to make this better. But can I help you?” Drew asked, his voice quieter now, as if he wasn’t sure how to approach you.

You stared at him, trying to focus. This was Drew Starkey. The actor you’d just been thinking about. And you’d gotten hit in the face by a door he opened. You blinked again, still struggling with the fog in your head.

“I’m really not sure you can fix this,” you managed to say, but there was a hint of humor in your voice. The ridiculousness of the situation, how absurd it felt, wasn’t lost on you. Here you were, standing in a back alley with Drew Starkey, and you were definitely not looking your best.

Drew chuckled, though there was still concern in his eyes. “Okay, fair enough,” he said, running a hand through his hair, making it even messier than usual. “But seriously, let me at least get you a drink or something. I feel awful.”

You hesitated, blinking away the dizziness. There was no denying you felt a little bit starstruck, standing face-to-face with him. But there was something else in his eyes now—something soft and genuine. He wasn’t acting like the celebrity you’d imagined, with all the flashy confidence. Instead, he seemed... human. Worried. And kind.

"Alright," you said slowly, trying to steady yourself.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

 You hadn’t realized how badly you were shaking until Drew gently guided you toward a nearby door. It looked like a back entrance to the venue, a simple wooden door with a security keypad next to it. He motioned for you to go first, his hand on the small of your back as though to steady you, and you couldn’t help but feel your heart rate spike for reasons entirely unrelated to the pain in your head.

“Okay, okay,” Drew said, pushing open the door with a soft creak. “We’re going inside where it’s a little quieter. We can sit for a second while you get your bearings. Deal?”

You nodded, your brain still struggling to catch up. This was really happening—you were with Drew Starkey right now. The man Ava has been obsessing over. But now, here he was, acting more like a guy who’d accidentally banged someone’s face with a door than some famous heartthrob.

Once inside, you realized it wasn’t some ritzy celebrity lounge or hidden VIP area, but rather a backstage hallway with a few chairs scattered around and crew members rushing by, deep in conversation or adjusting equipment. The lights were dim here too, but it was at least a bit more peaceful compared to the madness outside.

Drew led you to one of the chairs by the wall and sat down across from you, though not too far. He was careful not to invade your personal space, which you appreciated. He looked genuinely concerned, his brow furrowed as he examined your face.

“Does it hurt? I mean, does it feel like it’s swelling or anything? I’m no doctor, but...” He trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly.

You winced, touching the side of your forehead again. It was definitely sore, a dull ache, but nothing that felt too serious. Yet.

“No, I think it’s just a bump. It’ll be fine,” you said, hoping you weren’t downplaying it too much. “It’s not the first time I’ve walked into a door, you know?”

Drew raised an eyebrow. “Really? That’s a new one for me. Usually, people walk into doors because they’re distracted or something, but... this feels a little more like a... targeted door.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, the sound shaky at first but more genuine as it left your mouth. “Well, if I’d known the door was going to open right into my face, I would've steered clear.”

He chuckled along with you, but his eyes still carried a hint of concern.

“Look, I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean for you to get hurt. I was just trying to get out of there before the paparazzi went wild. It’s been a long night.”

You could tell he was being sincere. There was no hint of ego in his voice, nothing that would make you feel like he was brushing it off because he was a celebrity—which, honestly, you might have expected in a situation like this. But Drew didn’t seem like the type.

“I’m just glad you’re not one of those celebrities who tries to act too cool to care,” you said, then realized how that might sound. “I mean, not that I thought you would be, but you know... it’s nice not to be treated like a random fan.”

He looked at you, tilting his head slightly, his expression softening. “I get it. I mean, I don’t think we’re all that different, you know? I’m just a guy with a weird job.”

“A weird job?” You raised an eyebrow, surprised by his humble tone.

“Yeah,” he said, shrugging. “I mean, I get paid to pretend to be someone I’m not for a living. How weird is that?”

You smiled. “Well, you’re pretty good at it. Everyone seems to love Rafe Cameron.”

Drew laughed, but it sounded a little forced. “Thanks, I guess. I don’t know if ‘love’ is the right word though, considering the character I play...”

You nodded in understanding. It was clear he wasn’t as fond of Rafe as most fans were. “True, true,” you said. “I mean, Rafe’s not exactly the most... well, likeable guy. But he’s interesting. He’s got layers, you know? I feel like he’s the kind of character you love to hate.”

Drew’s lips twitched into a faint smile. “Yeah. It’s definitely a challenge. But I’ll take it. It’s more fun playing a character who’s got that edge.”

The conversation lingered in an unexpected place of comfort, with the two of you talking like you had known each other far longer than just a few minutes. As you talked, you started to feel the fogginess in your head subside a little, your thoughts a bit clearer. You shifted in your chair, feeling a bit more steady.

"So, uh," Drew spoke up again, breaking the comfortable silence. "I feel like we should properly introduce ourselves now. I’m Drew, obviously." He grinned, though there was a hint of awkwardness in his eyes.

You smiled, feeling a little silly that you hadn’t introduced yourself earlier, but you were still kind of in shock. “I’m Y/N.”

“Well, Y/N, I’m really sorry again for hitting you in the face,” he said, still a little sheepish. "Maybe I can make it up to you somehow? Like, take you out for a drink or... I don’t know... find a way to help?"

It took you a moment to register the question, your mind racing. Was he asking you out? Or just trying to be nice?

Before you could overthink it, Drew added quickly, “Not in a weird way! Just... you know... trying to make it right.”

You couldn’t help but laugh. “I get it. I mean, a drink sounds nice—just... no more doors, okay?”

Drew's grin widened, clearly relieved by your response. “Deal. No more doors. And I’ll make sure to keep it to something a little more... calm.”

© 2024 rafeskai | All rights reserved. This fanfiction is a work of fiction inspired by characters from Outer Banks, and no part of it may be reproduced or distributed without permission.

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Cannibals [Chapter 10: Arteries and Rain] [Series Finale]

Series summary: You are his sister, his lover, his betrothed despite everyone else’s protests; you have always belonged to Aemond and believe you always will. But on the night he returns from Storm’s End with horrifying news, the trajectories of your lives are irrevocably changed. Will the war of succession make your bond permanent, or destroy the twisted and fanatical love you share?

Chapter warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), blood and violence and death, Alicent desperately trying to bond with her freak children.

Word count: 4.6k

❤️ All my writing can be found HERE! 💙

Tagging: @themoonofthesun @chattylurker @moonfllowerr @ecstaticactus @mrs-starkgaryen, more in comments 🥰

The same hand that once turned a key in the locks of closets and trunks, that moved his game piece across the board until it landed on the same space as yours and sent your bat hurtling back to the start, that shoved you into an ice-flecked stream in the Vale, that yanked you, bruised you, pushed you, trapped you, tore off your clothes, unraveled your braid, committed sins that others believe are beyond redemption; now you grasp for Aemond’s hand and it is not there.

I’ve lost him, you think, splintering like a shell struck with a mallet. I was too late.

Then the Cannibal dives and banks steeply, and your outstretched, searching fingers close around Aemond’s wrist.

He slams into the Cannibal’s side, grabs a jutting black spine with his other hand, and pulls himself upwards to where you are. The ground is closer, the field and the castle and the Gods Eye where the bones of Daemon and Caraxes and Vhagar will spend eternity in the sunless depths. The wind is cold and vicious, howling in your ears. From where the Cannibal torched the Northmen, dark smoke billows into the air and makes your eyes water, makes your lungs burn.

As the Cannibal descends, Aemond speaks to you only once that you can hear. He is still panting, trying to catch his breath from the fall he had believed would kill him. He shouts to you over the roar of the wind and the deafening whirr of dragon wings: “I always knew you were worthy.”

On the shore of the Gods Eye, Cregan Stark is down on his knees. He has surrendered to spare the lives of his remaining men; thousands of soldiers are flocking to yield with him, their empty hands held high in contrition, submitting to the orders of troops carrying Aegon’s banner. You recognize your uncle Gwayne Hightower among them. Criston looks up at you as he holds Cregan at the lakeshore, a blade to his throat. The Cannibal soars past a group of Northmen sprinting for the trees, deserters, cowards, and they are engulfed in flames. As one of the men burns, your dragon scoops him into his mouth and bites down, fangs impaling flesh, jaws crushing bones. There is a muffled scream and then nothing. You feel the Cannibal’s hunger being dulled like you’ve eaten something hot and bloody yourself, boar or venison dripping with grease.

You land near Criston and Cregan Stark, the gales from the Cannibal’s wings rocking the trees and making waves on the dark, enigmatic blue of the lake, a color that reminds you of Aegon’s eyes. The Cannibal is already impatient, lurching from side to side. He wants this stranger off of his back. He will tolerate no one but you.

“You should dismount,” you tell Aemond, and he promptly finds a path to the earth, scrambling down the onyx-black spines that protrude from the dragon’s thorax and taking several hurried strides away. The Cannibal glares at him and growls, steam rising from his flaring nostrils. But he can feel who Aemond is to you—ricochets of animal lust and episodic tenderness and doubt and surety and hatred and love—and so the Cannibal refrains from killing him.

You climb down from your dragon and walk to where Cregan Stark is kneeling. Criston is gaping at you, thunderstruck. Aemond steps closer to you and draws his sword. He carries the weapon that belonged to Aegon before he was burned at Rook’s Rest, the Conqueror’s sword Blackfyre. Aemond is watching you, and you have the impression he is trying to tell you something. You feel echoes of the wounds the past year has left in him: regret, shame, the most inescapable pain he’s ever known. He doesn’t want you to have to feel the same things.

You recall what Mother, standing defiantly behind the iron bars of her cell, once told Rhaenyra: Perhaps you imagine that you will kill every last Green, and all of our loyalists throughout the Seven Kingdoms, millions of people, and therefore you will have no use for bricks upon which to build a lasting peace. But I think that would be a mistake.

Cregan Stark, tall and rugged and with dark hair that runs to his broad shoulders, bows his head. He seems stoic, but his breathing is rapid and you can see his jugular pulsing madly in his throat. He has never met you before, but there’s only one person you could be. “Princess.”

Snowflakes and cinders fall from the sky. Escaped strands of your silver hair blow in the wind. I hate him, you think. But nothing I do now can raise the dead. And there must be a future for those of us who are left. You say to the Warden of the North: “Yield and you will live.”

“We yield,” Cregan Stark agrees immediately, placing his sword on the ground in front of him. It is Valyrian steel; it is called Ice. If he obeys, you will let him keep it. “We will return to the North at once.”

“No,” you say. “You will march south to pledge fealty to the king. And your men will help us rebuild, since their support emboldened Rhaenyra’s treason.”

Behind you, the Cannibal snarls and gnashes his teeth, stained with fresh blood and flecked with shreds of organs. He is the largest claimed dragon in the world. Vhagar is dead, and so are Caraxes and Syrax, Dreamfyre and Meleys, Moondancer, Seasmoke, Vermax, and Arrax. But there are some beasts left as well. Vermithor, Silverwing, and Tessarion are free. Nettles is somewhere far away with her mount Sheepstealer. Sunfyre is healing on Dragonstone. Little Joffrey Velaryon has the young creature Tyraxes, and his silver-haired brother Aegon has Stormcloud. The juvenile Shrykos was orphaned when Jaehaerys died, but Jaehaera still possesses Morghul. And so both the Targaryens and their dragons will live on for generations, and perhaps forever.

“Yes, princess,” Cregan Stark replies, gazing with thinly-veiled horror at the Cannibal, a monster that only someone who has known hatred could see beauty in.

You tell Aemond and Criston: “The Cannibal and I will escort you to King’s Landing to ensure your safety. I’ll keep him as far from your men as I can. I know he unnerves people. Believe me, he doesn’t want to be so close to you either. Not unless he intends to eat you.”

Criston is sheathing his sword. Aemond is smiling, faint and tentative but proud, so proud.

~~~~~~~~~~

When you arrive it is raining in King’s Landing, cold and misty and grey; soon there will be snow. Winter will last a year, or two, or five, but you will survive it. Aemond is already sending letters to Dorne and the Triarchy to forge trade agreements that will help supply the realm with food. He feels responsible for attending to this. His destruction in the Riverlands has endangered everyone. You rarely speak to Aemond, nothing beyond logistics. You are relieved that he survived, and your fury is waning like a crescent moon…but you don’t know what to say to him. Each time you try, you think of Luca and Jace and all the others, and your words crumble like bodies charred to ashes. Aemond gives you space and silence, but he watches you, and sometimes you overhear him telling the soldiers stories of the Conqueror’s wife Visenya, the same reverence in his voice he’s had since childhood.

At the gate of the Red Keep, Mother rushes out and embraces you first, collides with you, collapses and sobs into your shoulder as you hold her like a good daughter would. She is so thin you fear you will shatter her. Jaehaera and Maelor follow after Mother, so much older than you remember them. Jaehaera runs to embrace you too, but Maelor hesitates by the gate. His sister goes back for him, promises that everything will be okay now, and walks with him to where you are crumpled on the cobblestones with Mother. Jaehaera hugs you tightly, but Maelor is still frowning. Perhaps he does not remember the details, but he knows he has the sense that you once betrayed him.

“I’m so sorry, Maelor,” you whisper. “I would never hurt you. I would burn anyone who tried to.” And he relents and allows you to bundle him into your arms, and once he’s there he finds it feels like home.

Mother is weeping for Helaena and Daeron and Aegon. “Aegon is alive,” you say. “He is wounded, but he is safe and has been in hiding on Dragonstone. Aemond has arranged for a ship to bring him here. You will see him tomorrow or the day after.”

“Long live the king!” Criston shouts, you all echo him, Mother with an astonished smile and tears glistening in her large dark eyes. Her firstborn son is back from the dead. She will have the chance to try to learn to love him properly.

“My girl, my brave girl,” Mother says, touching your face and your hair. Your eyes are savage; you smell like smoke. “What’s happened to you? Rhaenyra told me that you’d given birth to a baby at Heart’s Home, that she and I shared a grandson, but…” She looks around, hoping that a maid will appear carrying an infant with Jace’s pug nose and unruly dark curls. And there is such a child, but not in the land of the living. You explain this, and Mother takes your hand and leads you to the sept, and for the first time in your life you join her without protest. Together you light candles for those who were lost, and a little more of your bitterness burns away as the wax melts into pools and cools like lava that runs into the sea.

The king returns to his city, and the smallfolk pour into the streets to welcome him. He is ashamed of his scars, his infirmity, the fact that he must be carried in a litter, but to them he is a man who has suffered just like they have—maimed and marooned and grieving martyred loved ones—and proved that there is hope for a different sort of future. That first day, Aegon spends ten hours on the Iron Throne listening to the stories of his people and learning what they need, you and Aemond standing on either side of him. Each time the Cannibal flies overhead, growling in a rumble like thunder and casting a vast shadow, they do not shrink away but beam up at him as their protector, their assurance that no further harm can befall King’s Landing. Women embroider him into their blankets and pillowcases. Children carve tiny wooden figurines of him. Cregan Stark and his Northmen bend the knee, as do representatives from scores of other treasonous houses. Aegon pardons them; but he grins wickedly when the Cannibal’s roars quake the Great Hall and battle-hardened warriors tremble.

You wait until Aegon is back to see Rhaenyra. You go to the dungeon with your brothers, Mother, and Criston, and you stand in the same place Rhaenyra did when she agreed to marry you to Jace. You were supposed to save her son. Instead, your love for Aemond condemned him.

What was our marriage for? What was any of this for?

The woman who once aspired to be queen and paid the price in blood is a ghost, hushed and weightless, hunched in a corner with her knees to her chest, her long unkempt silver hair thinning. When she sees you, she crawls to the door of her cell and grips the rusted iron bars with skeletal hands. Her watery eyes are frantic and darting like a trapped animal’s. “My children—”

“They are unharmed and still at the Eyrie with Rhaena,” you say, and Rhaenyra sobs in relief.

“Please let them live,” she begs you hoarsely. It is difficult to reach the Eyrie in the winter, but you could do it on the Cannibal. You could raze the fortress like Aemond burned Heart’s Home.

“Because you showed the same mercy to Helaena and Daeron?” Aegon seethes.

“They are helpless, they are blameless. It was my decision to go to war, not theirs.”

“And you shall atone for it,” Aegon taunts, leaning heavily on his walking stick. “I will take you to Dragonstone and Sunfyre will eat you alive. How do you like that, bitch? He’ll start at your feet and work his way up, and you will feel everything.”

“Jace would want her to be spared,” you say quietly.

“I’m not taking suggestions from the delegation of the dead.”

“I’m serious,” you say. Aegon’s scarred brow furrows, Criston is incredulous. Aemond is watching you thoughtfully, his right hand resting on Blackfyre’s hilt. Only Mother is not startled; instead she is studying Rhaenyra wearily, perhaps wondering if she can stomach the mercy the gods would want her to extend to even the most vile of sinners. “That’s why Jace married me,” you remind them. “So his family might survive even if the Blacks lost the war. And he swore to do the same in return. He was kind to me. When he traveled here to King’s Landing, he ensured that Helaena, Jaehaera, and Maelor were treated well. He would have protected Mother if our side had been defeated.”

“And so you’re proposing…what, that we free her?!” Aegon exclaims.

“Her dragon is gone. Her cause is hopeless. But half the realm fought for her, and if we are to earn their loyalty rather than merely compel it with force, we will need to offer concessions. We could give Driftmark to Joffrey—he is allegedly a Velaryon, after all—and allow Rhaenyra to reside there under guard. When her sons with Daemon are grown, we can marry them into the great houses that allied with us in the war. Both branches of the family will survive, and eventually they will grow back together through marriage, just as Jace and I learned to care for each other.”

“She’s a traitor.” Aegon glares hatefully at Rhaenyra. “She’s a murderer, she’s a monster.”

“She could make the same accusations against Aemond, or you, or me,” you say calmly. “Consider it. Take it to the council. You are the king, and it is your decision either way. But this war began with Targaryens devouring each other. And if we continue to succumb to this fury, this fire…then someday there will be none of us left, and our bloodlines and our dragons will be myths and nothing more.”

You turn to go, and Rhaenyra’s bony hand strikes out from between the bars of her cell and seizes your wrist. In a second, Aemond is there; but you shake your head and he retreats. You are not in danger. Rhaenyra cannot hurt you now.

“Where is Luca?” Rhaenyra asks you, pleading and pitiful, terrified of the answer. “Where’s the baby? No one has spoken of him, not the guards, not the maids. The people don’t seem to know he exists. Is he dead?” The tears that well up and glitter in your eyes reveal the truth before you can say it. Rhaenyra nods, weeping. “Aemond killed him when he burned Heart’s Home, didn’t he?”

Once you lied for Aemond on the night Luke died over Shipbreaker Bay: Luke was an enemy. He perished in combat. And now, just as instinctively, you refuse to disavow him. “No,” you say solemnly, agony choking your words, Aemond looking at you, racked with guilt and entirely mystified. “Luca died of fever three days before the attack. It wasn’t Aemond’s fault.”

“So Jace’s line has ended.” Rhaenyra has lost him all over again. She releases your hand and sinks to the stone floor, kneeling there despondently.

“Yes,” you say, briefly touching a palm to one of her jagged, waifish shoulders. And you feel a flicker of something you would have thought was impossible: sympathy, compassion, kinship. “But you still have Joffrey.” You still have a son of Harwin Strong.

You leave the drafty gloom of the dungeon and return to Maegor’s Holdfast, where life is beginning again. Maids are stripping away every vestige of Rhaenyra’s tenure here. A hundred cats, once brought to the Red Keep by Grandsire, trot lazily through the corridors and groom themselves on windowsills. You take Jaehaera and Maelor with you to collect seashells on the chilly, fog-swept beach and teach them how to make mosaics. You craft one depicting Vhagar for Aemond, and give it to him without a word. He brings you a new roost for bats, forget-me-nots painted onto the oak wood box, a deep blue velvet cover to blot out the daylight.

Each night your bed seems to grow bigger, more lonely, more unnaturally vacant. When you are here…think of me, Aemond once wrote to you; and gradually, like mountains are formed over eons, you do.

~~~~~~~~~~

Several weeks after you arrive home, you bleed for the first time since you gave birth to Luca, your body healed and replenished, your corporal almanac beginning again. Soon you will have another child. Soon your hatred and your grief will fade even further, never disappearing but becoming cool to the touch and clear like glass. The flow of blood is heavy, and your cramps are terrible; but you know what will relieve you.

You find Aemond in the small council chamber, where he spends so much of his time. Sometimes he is in meetings with Aegon and Criston and Mother and the rest of the king’s advisors, sometimes he is examining maps and making calculations. But often he is simply here alone and empty-handed, the weight of the past year mooring him like an anchor does a ship. He does not seem to hear you come in. He is sitting with his elbows resting on his knees, his hands clasped together, his melancholic blue gaze on the floor. He is mourning Vhagar. He is mourning what he once had with you.

You sweep across the room to him, crimson gown, bare feet. You lift Aemond’s chin and say, soft and gentle: “Enough.”

He looks at you as if he’s not sure if this is real. Then after a moment, he smiles. “I missed you.”

“I know.” You flash a mischievous grin, taking several steps back from him. “If I ran, do you think you could catch me?”

“I do.”

“I’m very fast.”

“But you want to be caught.”

Aemond lunges for you; you snatch your hand away just as his fingernails are biting into the vulnerable flesh of your forearm. You bolt to the other side of the small council chamber, careening around the table. Aemond follows, his silver hair flowing behind him, his boots thumping against the floor. He grabs you, hurls you against the wall, pins you there with his hips as he rips off his black leather tunic and kisses you messily, deeply, gulping down all the time he’s lost. Your hair is torn from its braid. Your pulse is racing, low moans spilling from your lips. Aemond is not taken aback at all when he reaches under your scarlet gown to find a bundle of bloodied rags tucked between your thighs. He whisks them away and replaces them with his right hand, rough and forceful.

It’s been a year since he’s touched you this way, and you’ve had a child since then. You stop him, a palm pressed to his chest. Suddenly, you are self-conscious. You must warn him. “I don’t look the same as I used to. I don’t feel the same.”

“You’re still you,” Aemond says tenderly. His thumbprint traces the arc of your jaw, skims down the front of your throat, ghosts delicately over the scar that begins at your collarbone. This is where he mended you with a needle and thread; this is where he almost lost you. “You belong to me, you always will. Nothing can change that.” Then he kisses you again, and you are drunk in it, warm all over and melting into the forbidden ancient magic you share, the violence and the hatred and the devotion and the love, the insatiable hunger that thuds in your tangled arteries.

Aemond drags you to the table and throws you down onto it. You can feel bruises blooming like violets beneath your skin, the hot euphoric pressure of trapped blood. You try to crawl away from him, scratching your way across the table. Aemond grips your ankles and hauls you closer, wrenches you onto your back, pushes your thighs apart and buries his fingers in you—slick lust and clotted blood, muscles loosening with desperate need—and unlaces his trousers with his other hand so at last he can take you as a husband would. He leans down over the table and seizes your jaw to hold you still, watching your face as he pushes himself inside you, knowing that he’s not hurting you, knowing that you are whole again after a year of having pieces carved away.

Aemond thrusts carefully at first, and then hard and deep, and you hook your arms around his neck and pull yourself upright so you can taste him, whisper to him, moan and whimper into his sweat-damp throat. Aemond tugs down your bodice so he can stroke and bite at your breasts. And you feast on each other until you are both satiated and gasping for air, your blood staining his skin and trickling down his legs, the table painted with smudges of viscous red. Before you leave together for a bath murky with soap and steam, Aemond drags his tongue over the wood, drinking your copper and iron and youth and desire; and when he smiles at you with blood on his lips and chin, you lick his face clean.

Later that night in the hour of the wolf, his tasks of governance behind him, Aemond comes to your chambers and climbs into bed beside you. And he holds you like he did when you were a girl he had shoved into a frigid stream in the Vale, burning up with fever as The Stranger stood in your doorway.

~~~~~~~~~~

You are married on Dragonstone. You and Aemond ask for Aegon’s permission and no one else’s. You want Mother there even if you fear she will not be able to hide her disappointment, but she and Criston attend and make no complaints, standing together amidst the black volcanic rocks and the mist, murmuring back and forth about the many oddities of your house. You don’t mind; you are glad they have each other. It is very lonely to be surrounded by creatures so different from yourself.

Jaehaera and Maelor giggle as they chase minnows and skittering red crabs around the tidepools. Aegon watches them from where he is sprawled on the wet sand swigging his wine, smiling wistfully, effusively admiring the seashells they bring him, heaps overflowing in their tiny hands. When Vermithor roars from the other side of the island, Maelor looks up and gazes intently through the fog as if someone has called his name. Perhaps one day he will claim the Bronze Fury. When you return to Maegor’s Holdfast, you will give him the small oak dragon that Aegon once carved for you.

Afterwards you tell Mother, blood from the ancient Valyrian ceremony still drying on your lips: “You were right.”

She is puzzled, her brow crinkling as she dabs gingerly at your wound with her green handkerchief, embroidered with the Hightower of Oldtown. “About what, dear?”

“A year ago, I didn’t know anything besides how it had always been with Aemond. I didn’t really have a choice in the matter. But now I do.”

Mother distracts herself by tending to your lip, some infinitesimal way in which she can mend you. Her white hands are wrinkled and frail. Her coppery hair thrashes in the cruel wind. “You being happy brings me peace.”

Your voice goes quiet, somber, ashamed. “I’m sorry I couldn’t save Helaena and Daeron. I’m sorry I failed.”

“Oh, darling, it wasn’t your fault. We tried, didn’t we?” Mother says, smiling sadly and cradling your cheek. And then she tells you for the first time in your life: “I’m proud of you.”

During the short journey home, you sail past the island of Driftmark, where Rhaenyra, her three surviving sons, and Rhaena now reside with the council’s assent. As you peer over the side of the ship, you spy sapphire dorsal fins of sailfish rising up through the frothing surf, and you lift Maelor so he can see them too. In King’s Landing, there are statues being chiseled out of marble to be placed throughout the city, not just effigies of Jaehaerys and Helaena and Daeron but also Jace, Luke, Baela. The old wounds must be stitched closed. The realm must be united again. The Targaryens must not allow their hunger for fire and blood to turn inwards, lest the last of the Valyrians and all their dragons perish from the earth. Your first son will be named Lucerion after the child you lost; Aemond has already promised this. Jaehaera, sweet and benign like her dead mother, has been betrothed to Jace’s brother Joffrey.

When his wings have healed enough, Sunfyre flies home to King’s Landing to be with Aegon. When fragments of Vhagar’s bones and teeth wash up on the shore of the Gods Eye, Aemond has them brought south so he can burn them. The Cannibal does not slumber in the Dragonpit, nor does he seek you out for comfort or companionship. He ranges far and only comes to you when kindling threats make you hateful again. There are rebellions in the Riverlands where Aemond has made generations of enemies, but Harrenhal and its vassals are always loyal. Since the day you claimed the Cannibal, you are rarely ill. Your chills and fevers and headaches have vanished like a dead language no one is left to remember.

One day summer will return, and there will be roses and blue jays in the garden again, ladybugs and dragonflies and forget-me-nots. But tonight snow is falling outside, hushed and powdery, and you are reminded of when you were at Heart’s Home with Luca and Jace and Lady Caro. You miss being able to talk to Jace; you are grievously aware of the absence of Luca’s fledgling weight in your arms. Aemond knows this, and he understands that you are in need of a distraction.

On the floor of your bedchamber as a sweltering fire crackles in the hearth, the five of you are gathered around the board. Jaehaera and Maelor are finally old enough to play. Jaehaera has inherited Helaena’s yellow butterfly; Maelor’s game piece is Daeron’s purple shadowcat. Your new bats are scrabbling out of their roost and gliding through the window you’ve left open for them. Their names are Ocean, Sorrow, Stream, Winter, Dreams, Rain, Peace.

Presently, it is Jaehaera’s turn. She tosses the dice but they tumble too far, clattering across the room. Aegon helps her fetch them. Maelor asks if you will show him how to make a mosaic of Vermithor the Bronze Fury, and of course you agree.

“I love you,” you say to Maelor as you comb your fingers through his white-blonde hair, and he stares up at you, bewildered. Perhaps no one has ever told him this before. You say it again, smiling. “I love you.”

Now it’s Aemond’s turn. He rolls the dice, pretends to misread nine dots as ten, lands on Aegon’s space and sends his piece back to the start instead of yours.

[hometoursandotherstuff]

Affordable little 2018 adobe house in Live Oak, FL is adorable. 1bd, 1ba, 462sqft, $125k. Of course, it's sold already. (A cash sale, unless the buyer found a bank for a small loan.) It was permitted and inspected by the Suwannee County Building Dept., so the electric, plumbing, etc., was approved.

It has a tankless water heater on the outside (I had one in my house- it was great- hot water is instantaneous). The home is made of SuperAdobe - 18" thick. The roof is tin.

Look at how cute it is- a tree trunk in the middle and a little wood stove. The rounded room is the bath. This could be much cuter, too.

It's cheery, too. I like the red accents

Little kitchy area. It just has a hotplate, but I think that a small stove would fit in there.

The sink looks like it's on a tree stump. Look at the branch holding the toilet paper roll. It has a regular septic system.

The shower has a little bench.

The shower curtain rod is a branch.

It has a couple of safety sockets. It's near a for boating, etc., a lake w/lots of activities and a Music Park.

There's a little shed on the property with a small porch and a/c unit, so it must be for guests or an office.

And, here's a larger building. The listing doesn't mention these outbuildings.

The property is loaded with fruit trees: Pears, blackberries, figs, plums, sugar cane, an olive tree, and bananas. 0.28 acre lot.

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/1459-181st-Rd-Live-Oak-FL-32060/97296111_zpid/

[hotwings0203]

Needed to get possessive alpha bakugo off my chest, ill prolly write a sequel to this tmrw cuz i got some ideas

Tw: noncon, omegaverse

thinking about childhood possessive bakugo who's pined for his omega since she joined the pack Time after time again since you were kids he'd always tried to get close to you, using a number of strange to threatening courting techniques. It was benign at first when you both were young, with him jumping up the large apple tree to get you the juiciest fruit you could never seem to reach, but when you two grew older and played together with the rest of the pack, his efforts seemed more...possessive.

He'd always single you out and force you to be on his team, following up with growling at you whenever you'd run more than a few paces in front of away from him. His sleek gold and black coat would brush up against you constantly, as if only touching you would satiate his desire for your proximity. Bloodred eyes would glare at you when you'd shyly back away at dinnertime, opting to sit away from his intense gaze.

Not like he'd let you get that far.

When it would come time for bathing with your sisters, somehow, everytime you'd be out of the loop and would end up being forced to wash yourself on your own in the cold water.

Little did you know your sisters were not-so-kindly encouraged to not communicate their congregation to you by a certain fiery alpha.

And so when everyone was by the fire, barking out laughter and telling stories of their weekly hunt, you'd sulk to the riverside by yourself, clutching your towel over your shivering body as youd sink closer in the shallow water.

You wanted to get it done as fast as possible so you could join your pack in merry-making, haphazardly scraping dirt off your paws and washing the crevices between your ears.

But as soon as you take a step towards the lush bank, you hear a heavy splash behind you.

You whip around, ears drawn back immeditaley after seeing the alpha who shamelessly follows you around like he's already claimed you.

"W-whatre you doing here? Everyone's by the..fire..." you trail off unsurely as his spiked-up wet mane shakes in laughter. His lack of concern for the reprimands he'll undoubtedly recieve for being this physically close to you send faint warning alarms at the back of your head. Usually he glowers at you and turns tail, but this is new.

"I thought the pack leaders told you to leave me alone," your lip wobbles as your tone borders on fear and indignation. Your brothers had always kept you safe from him, snarling and hiding you behind their tall legs whenever he was around. Bakugo never seemed to give up though, his own flashing teeth and sick grin mirroring their own worry pulled back from their lips.

"Yeah? But you're here though."

You swallow hard and hope he doesn't hear your whimper as you splash backwards towards the bank, but his low grumble of pleasure upon smelling your sweet fear-omones says otherwise. It proves to him that you're not as immune as your other brothers swear you are to protect yourself against him, theyre actually worried for a reason.

They know you'd never stand a chance against him.

And his muscles do ripple amid the water as he steadily stalks towards you, leering as he licks his canines and trains his eyes on your feeble form.

It seems like as fast as you flail backwards towards unseen safety, he advances twice as fast, and within seconds your back hits a hard and scratchy surface.

Bakugo chuckles a humorless laugh as you've nestled yourself in a nice, private corner away from the mainland where everyone can see you. You've backed both of you into an enormous concaved treetrunk, one that circles around 10ft and only one opening...

which you've trapped yourself in.

The roots of various plants that have grown inside this hollowed out trunk provide little cushion as you whimper and try to desperatley climb the walls.

"When are you gonna give up?"

His voice is low, raspy with mixed want and bitterness.

"S-stop, stay away from me or I'll call for h-"

"When are you gonna realize you can't escape me?" He harshly whispers right at your ear as he lunges toward you, causing you to squeal with terror.

He nips your soft ear and inhales your neck, craning his own to get a good look at the sensitive unclaimed part of your neck.

His hands grip your sides and mold the squishy parts as though they were dough, his greediness increasing exponentially as he lowers his drooling mouth to your ear and laves his wet tongue over the planes of your neck and shoulder.

You begin to shake and sob, never having been dealt with him actually touching you and being a victim to his lust. You've taken the protection of your brothers for granted, and oh how you wish you could softly howl out if you had the courage to ask for help.

But the blonde's presence itself is enough of a threat to your life and safety, that much being made clear as his hands grow claws, no doubt his physical appearance shifting from being so riled up. Your skin prick and cuts as his nails jab harder into you, his hands roaming up and down your back, feeling your hips and ghosting over the swell of your ass as well as chest.

You writhe against him which unbeknownst to you, pushes your naked chest out against his own shredded pecs, your pebbled nipples grazing his toned skin and practically making his eyes roll back in efforts not to pin you down and take you like his bitch.

"I just wanted to wash," your voice comes out pleading, and meek. You have no idea how he'll react to you being aggressive and defensive against his assault even if you had the courage to speak out against him.

"And I want to claim you as my omega," he growls directly in your ear, causing you to whine again and cower your head beneath his hounding mouth. "But I guess we'll both have to wait for what we want, huh?"

He knows you know.

You have to know.

Have to have known how badly he wants you, wants to hear your voice ring high with laughter like you do teasing your sisters, wants to hear your playful growls as you wrestle with your brothers who let you win just to see you swish your tail with prowess. He wants to feel you rest your head on his chest, wants to see you look up at him with security and ease, knowing that he's there to protect and love you.

But how can he explain that, with years of nothing but threatening looks and yards of distance between you two?

If it brings you familiarity and perhaps ease of seeing him as you've always thought to have known him, as a brute with nothing on his mind apart from taking you like an animal and conquering you, then he'll save the monologuing for later.

"After all," he heaves in the darkness of the seclusion, voicing his thoughts, "your birthday's coming up, right? You'll be of age to be claimed."

He thrusts his knee in between your trembling legs, pushing your shoulders down while following with his head and never letting his mouth rise above your unclaimed mark. You gasp as he begins grinding his knee in circles against your hooded clit, bouncing you lightly to evoke whatever sweet noises he can from your pursed lips.

You choke and sputter, suddenly grasping around his neck for leverage as you try to pull yourself up, but you're no match for him as it only serves to prove his point and enrage him from your constant rejection.

You can lie to him all you want, but your body never will.

"And trust me, little girl, when that cunt ripens for me to take, when that neck fucking sings for me to lay my mark-"

Your voice cracks into a howl as he takes one of his hands and squeezes the fat of your tit while the other spanks your jiggling ass on his knee, feeling whiplash from the onslaught of sensations.

"-I can promise you, there's no running. There's no cowering behind your brother's legs like some fucking baby, there's no using your sisters as an excuse to turn your face away from me."

Bakugo presses you tight against the wall, smothering you chest-to-chest with him and using the confined space to rut his naked erection against your thigh, his hips snapping forward and chasing years of needed release in your presence.

"I'll tie you down on my bed, face down ass-up and breed you as my bitch. I'll take you bent over and wrapped around me against every surface and floor of our secluded cave."

You blubber as you can feel yourself coming to a high, the water splashing obnoxiously at your humping against each other. In an effort to keep your pride, you try as hard as you can to grit your teeth and delay your orgasm, but he seems to catch on pretty quick.

"And then," he drops your tit and uses both hands to pry your asscheeks apart, impaling you impossibly closer down on the hard bone of his knee, your clit grating deliciously as his leg vibrates and flexes from moving you back and forth, up and down, any direction he can get your teeth to latch onto your lip and pussy clench on nothing.

"Then, you won't have to hide that pretty voice anymore. I'll get those years of silence back in exchange for your screams for help."

At this, he hugs you flush against the wall and himself as you shake from your orgasm, the water rippling at your reaction.

"So if I were you, I'd be grateful for any solitude from now on. Because you won't be getting it anymore."

[transboyswitchytales]

'Warm All Night'

🦊Request: 4. I actually want to see rio sleeping outside for once, would be fun and ags would just tease her by saying "oh, don't worry rio, i will keep our baby warm all night"🦊

SORRY FOX I FORGOT TO FINISH IT! HERE IT IS <3 I only have one fox request left!

Warning: Daddy Mommy Kink / Fluff / Tension / Hurt /Comfort / Domestic Fluff / Triad Polyamory / Therapist Rio / Psych Agatha / Reader Trains Service Dogs / Arguements / Backstory / No Magic AU / Smoking Cigarettes / Drinking / Campfires / Wanted to go camping but I can't lol so they will!

4. I actually want to see rio sleeping outside for once, would be fun and ags would just tease her by saying "oh, don't worry rio, i will keep our baby warm all night"

You and Rio loved camping every summer. Agatha pretended not to like it but something about seeing you and Rio skinny dipping always cheered her up.

But Agatha demanded you at least rent a cabin. So that is how this whole mess started.

It was Thursday and all of you had taken Friday and Monday off to go to this gorgeous cabin. You were excited as Agatha drove your old pickup truck. The bed was full to the max of stuff you probably didn’t need. Rio had cracked open another Arizona mango tea. She had a map pulled open as she told Agatha which back roads to go down. There was zero service where you were. Which you knew was Rio’s preference. No electronics, no checking on work emails. 

You had appointed yourself as DJ because one time you got your partners lost in Yellowstone, and now you never got the chance to give directions ever again. And Agatha got car sick way too easily so she drove the majority of the long car trips, which always made Rio antsy to get out and walk around. 

You opened the music that you’d spent hours downloading last night instead of packing. Your sunglasses pulled over your forehead as you picked another tune. Agatha and Rio rolled down the windows a few miles back to smell how delicious the air was. 

No smog here. 

It felt cleaner now, as you sped down gravel roads. The tree’s getting taller and taller as you got closer to the cabin. 

You put on Caamp ‘ All the Debts I Owe.’ And you sang the lyrics obnoxiously loud and threw the dial all the way up so that the sound system vibrated the bench seat. 

“Honey, honey, get the kids in the car now

Put the cash in the trunk, get the keys, let's go

Hit the biggest bank in Chicago

For all it had, we're thieves you know

Remember the thing that I told ya'

Three years, two moons ago?

I promise I’ll be right behind you

But you’re gonna die if you don’t hit the road”

You kiss Agatha’s cheek, and she smiles as the wind whips her hair. Rio puts her arm out across the back of the bench, and you place your warm palm against the inside of her thigh and she instinctively grins happily at the contact. 

Keep your lights down, keep your voice down low

Wear your hair down, whichever way you go

And I’ll meet you in Idaho

Three kids in the back of a Caddy

She said, "Come here and kiss your wife"

And I know you’re real mad at me

But you’re on your way to some kind of life

Daniel, John, and Abby

Promise me you’ll treat your mother nice

Keep your lights down, keep your voice down low

You sing along too loudly, and the car slows eventually as Agatha knows the turn into the dirt driveway to the cabin. She turns off the engine, and you and Rio are out of the truck so fast. She doesn’t have time to yell at either of you. 

You throw your old David Bowie T-shirt at your wife and Rio barely avoids getting hit with it as she takes off her tank top and throws it at you to slow you down.

 You two have an ongoing tradition that the first to get into the water doesn’t have to do dishes the whole weekend. Agatha has tried to stop you two from doing this, but no such luck. 

You grab Rio around the waist, and she yells at you, but you pull her back, and you don’t take your red vans off as you dive off the dock and into the water. 

You let your body be unguled by the ice cold water. You hear the water splash under the lake, but you were still surprised when Rio’s hands find your hips and she guided you up to the surface.

You wrapped your legs around her and you both broke the water above cuddling her hands found your thighs and held onto you. 

“You little cheat!” Rio spits out lake water and pushes one hand to smooth her hair. 

“You are always such a sore loser!” You tease, and Rio grabs your chin and pulls you in for a wet kiss. Her lips are wet but you push your body into hers so you can kiss her even closer. 

Rio bites your bottom lip and you moan and she dunks your face under the water while you are distracted. You pop back up and spit out water. 

“That is me being a sore loser! You wanna see a sore loser!” Rio teased but you splashed her while you started to swim away from your wife. “Hey! Where do you think you are going, Ariel? Come back here and kiss me! I’ll be your pretty Prince Eric! Oh my god you swim fast, what are you part fish? I married a mermaid! Or are you a Selkie? DON’T IGNORE ME!” Rio tried to swim after you but you were faster. And she was talking too much.  

Grabbing the edge of the old dock, you easily hoisted your wet, dripping body onto the old wood. Your vans made a squishy noise as you put wait on them once more. Water pouring out of your poor shoes. 

Agatha sauntered overpulling her sunglasses up to her hair, and threw a towel at you. You caught it and wrapped it around your shoulders. 

“I will not be unpacking the truck alone, get your tight ass OUT OF THE WATER RIO HARKNESS!”  Agatha yells at the one wife still trying to swim to the dock. 

You ignored your wives walking up to the doc with your wet vans until you get to the truck. You find a large, dark green duffle bag with all three of your clothes, and you pull out a sweatshirt from a greenhouse Rio worked in when she was twenty-two. You take off your wet bra. Throwing it across the inside dash to dry. No one is around for miles, so you can be naked and no one but your wives is gonna see it. Your nipples harden from the cold water, and you put the tie-dye green house sweatshirt on. 

Kicking your shoes off and throwing them on your truck rooftop. You grab the two biggest duffels and start to unload the truck. Opening the old cabin door and throwing the stuff down. You heard Rio and Agatha outside flirting and bickering, which was the same thing for them. 

You came back out, and Rio eyed you like you had hurt her sense of self. 

“You are on my shit list pretty lady.”

“Oh no, what’ll I do. You are so scary.” You tease, and Rio is gawking in offense at you. Agatha just rolls her eyes and shoves three brown bags of groceries into Rio’s wet arms. 

“You know you could have brought me a towel too,” Rio complains at Aggie who just takes the cooler with the ice and starts to walk towards the cabin. You find your phone and the small JBL speaker that you’d stolen from Rio. Turning your tunes back on, you finished bringing it all in. 

Aggie was sorting the dry food into the pantry, and all the cold stuff was in the fridge. Rio found the big bag of charcoal and started up the grill. You made the bed, putting your pillows and sheets on. It just felt better to have the smell of home. So you threw the summer quilt across the bed and then found the toiletry bag to locate a hair tie. You grabbed two onto your arm, and then went back into the kitchen.

Agatha put the tea kettle on, which was so on brand. She’d been here less than thirty minutes and needed tea. You located the ‘Southern Comfort’ and put it on the counter. Agatha saw it and took out three mugs, being together this long meant words weren’t needed. 

You opened the fridge to find one of the giant containers of ground beef and two portobello mushrooms. You took out a clean plate and formed the burgers, and salted the mushrooms. Agatha sliced the cheese and put it on the side of the plate you were working on. Aggie leaned across the small space to kiss your cheek. Your lips curled at the corners in pleasure at her touch, then you turned and walked out to your cranky wife. 

Rio, howeve,r was a lot less cranky when you walked out. She’d stolen the speaker back. And she was playing your playlist, continuing the song from the drive. You always liked it when Rio and Agatha enjoyed your extremely thought out playlists. 

You wrapped your arms around Rio from behind, who put her hand over your arms. 

You released Rio and then pulled her wet hair back with the secon hair tie and put it in a messy bun on top of her hair. She thanked you in spanish and you squeezed her butt before going back inside to help Aggie. The song played through the screendoor now. 

‘Wear your hair down, whichever way you go

And I’ll meet you in Idaho

I know you’ll miss me, I’m barely fifty

Ain't comin' with me are all the debts I owe

You don’t have to kiss me, just bear with me

And I'll be back someday I hope

I know you’ll miss me, I’m barely fifty

Ain't comin' with me are all the debts I owe

You don’t have to kiss me, just bear with me

And I'll be back someday I hope

Oh, I hope

Oh, oh, oh, I hope’

You three work together to make dinner, and you eat on the picnic table on the back deck looking out onto the lake. 

You pass Rio her vegan ketchup, and Agatha pours you ice water to go with your hot toddy. Which was another tradition for camping. 

Rio reaches over to hand you the bread and butter pickles as you build your burger. 

“Rio, are you wearing the strap?” Agatha asks as she serves the salad onto Rio’s plate. 

Just as Rio is about to take a bite of her portobello she stops. She looks confused for a minute. 

“I thought you packed it?”

“Rio! I told you to pack it or wear it! You said ‘Yeah of course.’”

“No, no, you asked me to pack the straps to the truck! Like the bungee cords!”

“Rio Harkness, why would I tell you to pack it or WEAR IT, if it was bungee cords?” Agatha groaned in frustration, throwing her napkin at Rio’s face. 

The crumpled napkin hit Rio in the face as she panicked. 

You took a knife and cut your burger as the two tops freaked out over sex toys. You were so hungry you weren’t super worried about it right now. 

“It’s not a big deal! We don’t need sex toys! We got fingers and mouths!” Rio says, and Agatha grinds her jaw. 

“Sex toys, as in you didn’t pack any! As in you didn’t pack the rope or I don’t know, after care pack?” That was what Agatha was really upset about. 

Rio gulped now, and you turned to look at your wife. 

Now she was in real trouble. You three lived a pretty kinky life style. You had specific aftercare things. It was one of Aggie’s rules that no kink scene could take place without proper aftercare. You loved it about your wife.

That didn’t mean you couldn’t get spanked in a bathroom in Ross for being a brat. Because that still happened a lot… 

But no care kit meant no kinky scenes….

Rio knew in this moment, that she’d fucked up. 

“I thought you we-” She scrambles for help. 

“No! We made a list! You read the list you were in charge of after care packs! You were in charge of sex toys! You were in charge of shampoo an-” Agatha realized in that moment that she didn’t have shampoo for this trick. 

“Can I start by throwing our younger wife under the bus by saying she was downloading music for hours? ” Rio tried for comedy and you shrieked with a mouth full of burger. 

“No, you cannot throw Bunny under because you were inept! Did you even read the list?” Agatha wasn’t a happy camper. 

“If I plead the fifth, can I maybe g-”

“You are so getting punished. And tomorrow you can drive three hours to the nearest town and buy us shampoo and conditioner. And I don’t know, fucking soap!” Agatha is peeved to say the least, but Rio is joking too much. And you know that she’s not taking this seriously, and that means it’ll only get worse. 

But you eat your burger. Part of being married to Agatha and Rio for the past ten years means you know when to join in and when to hang back. 

And you didn’t want or need to be in this fight. 

You three eat, and Agatha throws barbs at Rio every now and then, and Rio only makes it worse. 

Rio is stuck on dish duty as you go take a shower with no soap, just to get the lake water out of your hair a little. 

When you come back, Rio is in her boxers and baggy grey sleep shirt and she’s on the bed smoking a cigarette. 

Oh shit, this wasn’t good. 

“Forget it, I’m not doing it!” Agatha growled but didn’t look up from her book. 

Oh man, you wondered when this would come up. 

Rio always tried to get Agatha and you to go sleep in the tent the first night. She’d pack a tent and say just one night in the tent. 

Agatha did not sleep in tents.

Agatha was a tough mother fucker, she worked hard, she liked nice things. Agatha could tie you and suspend you in under five minutes. 

But Agatha liked bubble baths, soft plum colored cashmere sweaters, and a good cup of tea. You loved this about Aggie, you loved that after a long day of work you could crawl into Agatha’s lap in the study. Where she’d have a book and a steaming cupa. Where she’d play with your hair like you were her kitty curled up. Agatha was hard as nails to defend you and she’d proven time and time again that she was your protector.  

Rio on the other hand. 

Rio was just as smart and just as protective over you. But Rio was way more rough and tumble. Rio had grown up with a lot of brothers. Rio was way more likely to wear biker boots and a flannel. Rio listened to rock music and was obsessed with getting the slugs to leave your veggie garden alone.

Rio was thoughtful, keeping Agatha’s favorite flowers in the garden. 

Rio loved sex rough; she’d get this pent-up energy, and you two would end up wrestling. Somehow, it always ended with you naked, even if it didn’t start sexual.

Where Agatha liked to leave big bite marks, Rio liked to suck and give hickies. 

They were opposite sides of the same coin. 

Agatha was cool and calculated but had a slicing tone. Rio was loud and abrasive and spoke before she thought. 

The first time you ever went home to meet Rio’s family, they instantly loved you. Agatha would constantly get overstimulated, having grown up with a single mother who was cruel. 

Rio’s Abuela understood this, she loved Agatha and would often pull her off to the side away from the nine cousins and many brothers who tried to play with you and get you drunk. 

Rio and you always made sure Agatha didn’t get uncomfortable in these parties. Because they were a lot. But you could tell a lot about Rio from her large family.

Your home was the perfect mix of rainy sunday spent curled up on the sofa, talking. Rio and you had Friday horror movie nights, and Agatha rolled her eyes but spoke through the whole film. 

Agatha bought tickets to the Opera, and you had Thai food Wednesday dates. 

Rio was an early riser ,and you two went to endless greenhouses as Aggie slept in. 

They were opposites. 

Though Rio and Agatha had their own things too. 

You got out of work later than they did, which always bothered your wives. They texted you throughout the day, making sure you’d eaten the lunch Rio packed or drank the water bottle Agatha demanded you consume. 

Every night, you’d come home to see them playing Scrabble. Their weird thing. 

You don’t know why or how they’d started this.

But dirty words were double points, and on the fridge, they kept a scoreboard. Making wagers and sexual favors for whoever won. 

It was hilarious to come home to Rio shouting and Agatha sipping her wine in victory. Rio won too, but not as often. 

You’d come in to the smell of dinner waiting for you, they always waited no matter how late. 

And Rio was usually screaming at the top of her lungs. 

“YOUR FATHER WAS A HAMPSTER AND YOUR MOTHER SMELT OF ELDERBERRIES! YOU CUNT! THAT IS NOT A WORD! AND IT’S NOT ON A DOUBLE POINT SPACE!” 

Agatha would cackle her witch's laugh, and you knew Rio had lost again.

They argued about philosophy and weather or not a therapy technicuqe was sound. They’d talk about their patients, never names of course,  but questions for each other. It was like they got a kick out of each other’s brains, and you would quietly watch the two of them. 

Like they played their own game, and you were the only one who understood the rules. 

There were things that drove you all insane that each of you did. Rio refused to drink out of a glass for milk and juice. She always forgot to remembered to write food you were out of on the grocery list. You hadn’t ever put your socks in the hamper and never remembered to bring your to-go mugs in from your truck. Agatha had never, not once, thrown her tea bag out in the trash.  Always leaving it in the mug in the sink. And she left more hair in the drain then a yeti.

But you had your rules, house rules; like everyone in bed by ten pm no matter what. This was a hard rule for you and Rio.

You had your intimacy rules, Rio would get really upset if you and Agatha watched a documentary without her. Even though she slept through documentaries.

 Neither of them liked it if you didn’t text them that you got to work safely. Or if you left them on read for more than thirty minutes in fact.

You hated it when Agatha got angry and raised her voice, so Aggie had learned to keep her tone lower even in arguments with you. Because she understood it was a trauma point for you. She yelled at Rio who grew up in yelling and didn’t mind though. This didn’t bother you. 

You had your kink rules, no one choked Agatha, not ever. Rio loved using knives on you but did not like being tied up with rope at all. You didn’t usually top but Rio switched back and forth every now and then. You didn’t like queer slurs used in bed, and disliked being blindfolded, stuff like that. 

Agatha was a licensed Psychiatrist. 

Rio was a licensed Adolescent and Family Therapist. 

You taught service dogs and worked with people with varying disabilities. 

Which is how you’d all met. You’d started the organization, and met them at a conference. You three spoke on a panel for mental health.

You didn’t know each other. But the more each of you spoke, the more turned on by how fucking smart each of you were you all got.

Rio would always claim she was first.

But at the hotel, which was comped, you were at the bar with one of your free drink tokens. You were looking at the list of cocktails. 

It was really Agatha who walked up first.

“You know, the martini is actually very good.” 

You looked up to see her, her hair no longer up tight, but gorgeous and long around her shoulders. Her lipstick not as dark a red as it was on the panel.

“Good to know, but I’m not big on olives.” You say conversationaly, always unaware of a gorgeous woman hitting on you. But Agatha wasn’t deterred, and she found you adorable. You both sat at a table as you decided on a drink. But her company was so distracting that you didn’t order. 

You both talked for about twelve minutes (yes, it matters) before Rio came over.

“What are you two beautiful women doing here at the bar?” She teased, and Agatha arched an eyebrow. Unsure of who Rio was flirting with, but never one to lose. Agatha had decided she liked you, and she wouldn’t be going back to  her hotel room alone. If things went how she wanted, you’d both be spending a lot more than a night together.  

“Where else would we be, Doc?” You teased, fingers still holding the menu and Rio’s face lit up, enjoying your game. 

“Well, most people are at the pool.” Rio sat down at your table.

“I work with service animals for a living, if I wanted to swim in urine I’d go back to the kennel. Besides I didn’t bring a bathing suit, and this doesn’t seem like the place for skinny dipping.” You said and both Agatha and Rio’s eyebrows raised. 

They liked you. 

“Kinky girl, and perhaps we can skinny dip later, I didn’t see any signs against it.” Rio flirts back easy and Agatha is both turned on and frustrated by the Therapist. 

“Well, right now she’s picking a drink.” Agatha states like she was ‘here first’ and she wasn’t sure what Rio was doing, but she wasn’t getting the signs. 

“Oh, what are you having?” Rio asked and you eyed the list. Unaware of Rio and Agatha looking at each other.  

“Haven’t made up my mind.” You say not realizing they weren’t talking about drinks right now. 

“Let me choose one for you,” Rio states, doesn’t ask, but she eyes Agatha. 

“No, I’m sure she’s going to try a martini. They’re very good, even without olives.” Agatha’s eyes turn stern and full of seduction at Rio. You lick your lips still looking down, still unaware. 

“No, you have to try the Mexican Muel, it’s got tequila. Nothing is as good as tequila. Especially if we move this party over to the pool.”

Agatha chuckles but it doesn’t reach her eyes. Rio licks her top lip and Agatha’s eyes fall down to it. But they both turn to look at you, wondering if you feel how hot it’s gotten at your table. 

Their eyes fall to your neck and cleavage. You tilt your head to the side and they both trail their gaze down your throat to the small bit of lacey bra peaking out to play with them. 

Agatha is the first to snap out of her hunger to speak, realizing no one had in a minute. 

“Tequilia  may be fun, but it’s not good long term. And everyone regrets it in the morning. A martini has class. It’s made for more than a good time.” 

Rio laughs now and Agatha smirks like she’s winning. 

You look up now and realize finally that the conversation is flirtatious. You don’t know people, not like the doctors at your table. 

But you knew animals. 

Rio’s eyes were dilated, and it wasn’t the drink. And she kept licking her lips like she had a juicy bone. 

Where as Agatha’s voice had dropped a level, she had a flush at the base of her neck. And she was playing with the stem of her glass like it had an erogenous zone. 

You understood now. 

They were flirting, you realized you were a third wheel here. That was a bummer, seeing as they were both gorgeous. You would have killed to be a fly on the wall of their hotel room tonight.  

“You know, I think I’ll go order that drink. You two have fun.” You say with a knowing expression but Agatha and Rio both grab your arms gently. 

“Where are you going?” Agatha’s voice cracks in panic. 

“You don’t want to go swimming?” Rio says ontop of Agatha.

You were half standing up and you realized you’d misread this situation. Much like you always did with people who were flirting with you. 

You slowly sat back down and the waiter came over and both Agatha and Rio were looking at you expectantly. 

“Do you know what you’d like to drink?”

They waited for you to decide and you thought about it for a moment.

Go big or go home, you figured. 

“I have two free drink chips, can I cash them both in now?” You asked him, not looking at either women. 

“Of course, you want both now?”

“Yes, I want both.” You said and your life was never the same. 

As for your job. You’d always had a thing for dogs. And you had what the person who trained you a decade and a half ago called “Alpha temperament.” Which you’d always thought was a fucking joke.

But Rio said it made ‘perfect sense’. Because when you walked into a room full of dogs, you were calm and assertive. 

All eyes were on yo,u waiting for a command.

You’d joked while tipsy that it didn’t transfer to the bedroom once at dinner, and Agatha snorted. Before feeding you a piece of her pasta off her fork. You bit it and she told you very flirtatiously in front of work friends;

“I think your wives would disagree, you always have our attention in the bedroom.”

You didn’t consider yourself the alpha of much of anything in life.

Agatha and Rio were the ones who grabbed your arm that evening at the bar. 

But you were in these times, an emotional power bottom for sure.

You knew you could fix this fight in a matter of sentences. But you felt like you shouldn’t have to.

Rio was being stubborn and waiting for Agatha to go pitch a fucking tent. So she was punishing her by smoking inside.

Agatha was sitting on the wooden kitchen chair. Her glasses were on as she pretended to read. You knew for a fact she wasn’t reading, her eyebrows said it all.

She was being passive aggressive, which was very scary on Agatha. 

Rio had taken out a pack of cigarettes. And was smoking inside, two things Aggie hated.

Rio had argued for the rule to be made that while we were camping, she was allowed such luxuries. Agatha didn’t agree, thus the tension. 

You stepped into the main room of the cabin and sighed. 

Eyeing Aggie and turning to the right and looking at Rio. The two of them were in a power play standoff.

You groaned and went outside, letting the old door slam behind you.

This was supposed to be fun. This was a vacation. 

It was so hard to get your schedules to match up for this. You had to train someone for the past two weeks to take over your main admin duties. And you knew a mess waited for you.

You went to the truck to find a pile of wood, and you reached into the glove box for your favorite lighter. 

Going out towards the river that connected to the lake. You set out to build a campfire for yourself.

It didn’t take five minutes for Rio to come find you.

She carried a folded chair, a tent, and marshmallows.

She threw the tent down and you reached out for her. She unfolded the chair and handed you the marshmallows, but you shook your head.

Rios' eyebrows raise,d and she looked over her shoulder to see if Aggie was there. Before taking the half-burnt American Spirit out of her mouth and handing it to you.

You sucked in enjoying the burn and taste of nicotine.

“Mi corazón! You tryin to get me in more trouble? Aye!” Rio teased, but you glared at her now.

“What’s that? Why are you mad at me?”

You didn’t like that. You never picked sides when they argued. And Agatha and Rio were always the voice of reason if you were mad at one of them. No one played sides, only love was there at the end of the day. 

“You couldn’t just apologize to Aggie? You had to push her buttons and make our first night all fucked up? Come on Papi! You just had to say sorry, and you wouldn’t be fighting!”

“We aren’t fighting!” Rio commented like it wasn’t her fault at all. You were getting angry now. 

“Rio, if we aren’t fighting, then why are none of us naked and making love right now under the stars?” 

Which was the plan all along.

You ask, and Rio huffs a breath and reaches for the cig. She thinks about this. 

She pats the folded chair for you, you get up, walk over to it and plop down. Not thank ing her and not leaving her.

Rio throws her cigarette into the fire. Before turning and building the tent.

You know Rio better than that. 

She’s not ignoring you, she’s asking you to sit with her while she thinks. While she processes this. Rio was a fucking shrink, of course she made mistakes, but she was nothing if not able to find a healthy way to deal with something. She was a king at looking at the bigger picture. 

Aggie had a bit more OCD, but it was way manageable. It’s what made her a great Psychiatrist, she saw it like a detective. Like a person was a puzzle and finding the right chemicals to help them were her cases. Agatha wanted people to find stability and safety. 

But she was a bit of a control freak and the OCD tendencies every now and then stopped her in her tracks. 

A random weekday Rio had broken one of Agatha’s favorite mugs and she didn’t know how to do her mornings. She didn’t get angry or complain, but you both noticed she didn’t know how to do her routine. 

It took two mornings before you and Rio talked about it. 

Rio and you dug the mug out from the outside trash bucket, found out who made it, and express-shipped a new one.

 Agatha needed structure and routine, no matter how much she pretended she didn’t.

And loving Agatha and Rio wasn’t in the big things. Not the gifts, expensive dinners, and nice clothes. It wasn’t even in camping trips and road trip playlists.

It was in the broken mugs and the intimacy of shared silence. 

You three took the time to really understand what each other needed to feel safe and loved. 

So you gave her the intimacy of shared space and waited for Rio to process and think this through. ‘Why was Rio doing this?’ ‘Why did she feel the need to pick at Agatha?’ ‘Why hadn’t Agatha reached out to solve this problem either?’ ‘Were people's boundaries crossed?’ 

You knew that these were the things Rio asked to check in with herself.

And you knew Rio would come to a decision on the best next steps shortly.

You reached over to Rio’s ass jean pocket and pulled out the pack, lighting another one. As you watched, Rios' body bend and flex as she easily put up the tent. Even in the quickly dimming light.

Only Rio didn’t get the cool-down time. A resolution didn’t happen.

Agatha came out in a blind rage.

“The fuck is that?” Agatha snapped, and you looked at Rio, and she cringed. Oh! You realized you were smoking. This wouldn’t end well for your ass cheeks. 

“Um-“ you start, and Agatha grabs it from your fingers and throws it into the fire. Before she walks over to Rio and grabs the pack you put back, tossing it in as well.

“Well, that’s not good, see it’s got plastic-“ Rio starts always the environmentalist, and Agatha is practically blue with anger. She’s past red, past the veins popping out of her neck and forehead.

“SO BOTH OF MY WIVES WANT LUNG CANCER NOW?!” Agatha fumes, and you stand up.

This was power bottom time. 

But she turned to you and held up her finger.

“No!” She snapped, and you bit your lip and sat back down. Agatha turned to Rio once more. 

“Tell you what! You want to sleep in a tent so badly? Sounds great! You sleep in the tent, in the cold, by your fucking self! I’ll keep our baby warm tonight!  Inside, without you! While punishing her for smoking a cigarette that Daddy brought!” Agatha snarls, and Rio actually looks absolutely frightened. 

You reach for the marshmallow bag, but Agatha is faster. She grabs you by your ponytail and leads you back to the cabin.

_________________________________

In the morning your ass is already deep purple from buises. And you wince and pull out from under Agatha’s body. Neither of you got much sleep, three in a bed was no longer a luxury but a necessity for sleep. 

You grimace at the cold floor but you pad over to the dufflebag and find a pair of Rio’s black loose boxers and Agatha’s dark heather crew neck. 

You don’t put shoes on as you pad outside to the tent. 

You try not to wake Rio up as you unzip the tent flap and you kneel onto the floor of the small canvas. 

But Rio’s awake and she’s got her arms behind her head to prop her up as she looks at you. 

“Morning Daddy.” You say and Rio gives you a sad smile. 

“Hey baby girl.”

“Did you get any sleep at all?”

“Nah, you?”

“An hour and a half. Pretty sure Agatha got less than that.”

“I was an idiot. I’m so sorry I ruined our first night of vacation. I should have apologized. Agatha was right, and I just..” Rio mused and then closed her eyes and breathed. 

You rolled onto your side on the floor and curled against her body. One of her arms immediately wrapped around your body. 

“Why did it upset you so much?” You asked the right question it seemed.

“You would have been a fantastic therapist.” Rio whispers in the early morning night. 

“Funny, Aggie always says I should have been a Psychatrist.”

“You are wicked smart, you could do either. You could do anything you want. We both believe that, anything you ever want, you can do. We believe in you, you know that right? There isn’t a thing we wouldn’t do for you.” Rio says and you turn and kiss her, used to her morning breath, marriage meant not caring. You missed her kisses last night. 

When you lean back you look into Rio’s eyes. 

“I know. But I’d hate dealing with people all the time. I like dogs, they tell you everything you need to know.” You say and Rio smirks, she liked watching you at work. You were in your element, it was clear to your wives that you were made for your line of work. 

“I think I got frustrated, I didn’t take my ADHD meds…and I didn’t want to tell either of you. So I was irritable and upset that I forgot our stuff. I could have been honest, but I was ashamed.” Rio admitted and you brushed the hair out of her eyes. 

“We love you, you don’t need to hide your mess ups. We love you no matter what, ok?” You tell her and Rio kisses your nose. 

“Let’s go make the apology breakfast of Aggies dreams.” Rio says and you chuckle.

____________________________________________________ 

When Agatha wakes up she panics, neither wife is in her bed. She’d been having a nightmare and neither of you were there. She’s sweaty and she quickly goes to the bathroom to splash water on her face. 

She looks up to see shampoo, conditioner, and face soap. Agatha smiles at the sight. 

When she opens the door you and Rio are laughing and she eyes you both. 

You turn in your seat to see her you get up and kiss Agatha’s cheek. Before taking your leave.

“Where are you going?” Agatha panics and Rio’s face says the same. 

“I am going to go for a quick dip. You two talk, then breakfast. I won’t go far.”

“Be careful!” Rio calls out, not loving you going swimming alone. But both of them could see you from the deck. 

You swim for around twenty minutes before you get out. 

You didn’t bring a towel and you are dripping wet in Rio’s boxers and no shirt. You left Aggies crew neck on the dock and quickly put it over your cold torso. 

You hear something in the distance and look back at the cabin. You can see Rio and Agatha holding each other from afar. So you decide it wouldn’t hurt to give them a few more minutes. 

So you go to investigate. 

You follow a small hiking trail head until you hear a whimper. 

Knowing for sure now it’s a dog. 

You walk faster worried that the animal is hurt. 

That’s when you meet her. 

She looked almost etherial in the morning light. 

You tilted your head to the side and put a hand out, not walking forward. Letting her come to you. 

She did, quickly too. And you pet her after she sniffed you enough. You bent down to see if she had a collar. 

“You lost gorgeous? Here with a family?” 

You spent the next thirty minutes walking with the dog, who didn’t need to be drug along. She seemed just happy to follow you. You didn’t see any other cabins, and no campers. 

Knowing that Rio and Agatha were probably worried about you now. It was time to head back. 

“Do me a favor, don’t jump on Agatha. She hates that, unless I do it and I’m naked. And if they let you in the cabin, you cannot under any circumstance eat Rio’s boots. She loves those things. They will say you can’t get up on the bed, but you can get up on the sofa with me. Because I run super cold. We’ll go to the vet tomorrow and see if you have a chip. If not, I think you and I should hang out, how does that sound” You ask as you walk with the sweet golden retriever. “You gotta follow those rules though. Because I don’t want to spend the night in the tent next.”

Her tail wags and she makes a quick detour, you stop and wait for her. 

She comes forward with a stick and you are all too happy to throw it as you walk back. 

“You know, I was a stray once too. And then these two pretty ladies found me.” You tell the dog who seems happy to rub against your leg every now and then. “I’ll tell you the story of how we fell in love while we walk ok?”

The dog listens to you, as you walk in the early morning of the woods. 

Requests MasterList

My MasterList

AO3

[desigal-26]

Hiii! I have a request if you're alright with the themes of it and if you're not too overwhelmed! I saw that you're accepting requests so I just would love to read something from one of my favorite writers! I saw that you write for Loki and seeing how you portray him would make me do flips! Total freedom to change things as you want, I want an Alfheim!Reader (so she's an light elf princess) maybe visiting Asgard to try and get a upper hand in the war in Alfheim (dark elves vs light elves) by gaining support of the Norse Gods? And the princess being offered to Loki to marry for support? So kinda of an arranged marriage with a reader who kinda follow Loki around to try and befriend him?

This was such a good request! I enjoyed a lot while writing it. Sorry for late response because I just changed my phone and everything got deleted 😅

That’s The Plan

Loki Laufeyson x Alfheim!Reader

He thought of her as a pawn; or a spy. But she was his equal—in fate and in status.

She was a Princess cast aside for her gender and given to a Prince she knew nothing of. He was a Prince forced to be a leash on her and her kingdom.

Warnings: Misogynistic hierarchy of Alfheim mentioned, heavy tension between Loki and Reader, kind of Enemies to Reluctant Allies.

Word Count: 1.4K (I know it’s not much)

The gardens of Asgard were not the gentle, cultivated glades of Alfheim. They were sprawling, majestic, and wild with divine intention—an expression of power rather than peace. Ancient trees, their trunks wide as temple columns, stretched toward skies that burned gold at dusk. The leaves shimmered in hues of emerald and bronze, whispering in a language older than Alfheim’s oldest runes.

Crystalline streams cut through the groves like veins of light, their waters impossibly clear, fed from celestial springs atop the mountains beyond the Bifrost. Strange flowers bloomed along the banks—some glowing softly, others shifting colours with the wind.

Golden statues lined the pathways—immortalised warriors and beasts from realms both remembered and forgotten. Vines climbed them shamelessly, as if mocking their eternal stillness. Above, birds with silver feathers sang eerie songs that seemed to echo from the edge of prophecy.

And yet, for all its grandeur, there was a stillness here—a quiet unease. The kind of quiet that hummed with magic barely restrained. This was no sanctuary. It was a display. A reminder. Even the gardens in Asgard were meant to impress, to awe, and perhaps… to intimidate.

But the Princess of Alfheim was not easily intimidated—not when she grew up witnessing war crimes against her kind. Threats, massacres, violence and things she could not confess to anyone else, for they were all too glory for the women of the courts of Asgard. All they wanted to do was fawn over the God of Thunder and whisper about the prowess of the God of Mischief behind the closed doors of his chambers—where seldom any court lady was allowed in.

But the Light Elf had no mind in the worthless gossips of women who thought of themselves as superior to the Princess. If only they knew what she was capable of.

Her blood was purer than any other elf of her kind—blue blood, whose powers were stronger than anyone else’s. Connection to the nature that surpassed even her frail old father’s ability to communicate to the plants and the animals that inhabited their lush lands. They worshipped them—the nature, for it gave them all the means to live a content and comfortable life and build a prosperous community.

It was the reason why the conflict between the Light Elves and their dark counterparts existed in the first place. The dark elves had, for many years, respected their solemn treaty of not harming the living world of flora and fauna. But that had changed when years ago—maybe before her father’s father was born—the Dark Elves had attacked their lands and took captives for the purpose of trafficking them to people like the Collector.

The crunch of a leaf beneath the heavy foot of Loki made the princess blink and sigh as she looked down at the crushed leaf while the prince strode ahead, tall and brisk. She deliberately avoided stepping on the yellowed leaf, flicking her wrist and letting a gentle breeze sweep it away into the trimmed bush where no one else would hurt it.

“You walk faster when you’re trying to avoid speaking,” she hummed, smiling softly aş she noticed his strides quickening slightly and his shoulders tensing before he forced them to relax. He did not look back, but replied nonetheless, “and yet you still speak.” A flicker of dry humour in his voice, at least something.

She offered him a gentle smile even though he would not be able to see it. “It’s either that or let the silence win,” she said, tilting her head to a side, watching him with a quiet curiosity. “And you seem to hate losing,” she added after a while.

That made him stop.

The Light Elf caught up slowly, letting the soft whispers of her skills fill the quiet he left behind. To anyone else’s gaze, she was partially floating instead of walking—grace and elegance wrapped in an otherworldly glow of moonlight that even Frigga didn’t possess, and she was the Queen of Asgard.

Loki turned around, his emerald eyes narrowed—not in anger or frustration, not exactly. But assessing her like a predator assesses another. Calculating and studying her for her strengths and weaknesses and anything else that could reveal what brewed beneath her polite smile.

“You’re not what I expected from Alfheim,” he started, his voice soft but sharp-edged like the daggers he held close to his heart. “Too clever to be a pawn.” He took confident steps, circling around her like a predator cornering his prey. But she was no prey—and he knew it as much as she did. “Too calm to be a spy.” He stopped in front of her, tilting his head to a side.

She mimicked his tilt, the sunshine hitting her skin, a faint glow of her kind subtly illuminating her skin—moonlight in mortal flesh but not really mortal. “And you are not what I expected from Asgard.”

The second prince raised an eyebrow, quietly asking her to elaborate. And she complied, with a smile that was anything but naïve.

“Too angry to be trusted. Too lonely to be dangerous.”

The air stilled between them, as if waiting for one of them to draw a breath, or a dagger. Tension pulsing between them, thick enough to be cut by one of the fancy, gold knives the Asgardian Gods use to cut their meals with.

And then, the corner’s of Loki’s lips twitched. Against his will, he laughed—low and sardonic. His eyes darkened a bit, a dangerous gleam in them. “Careful, princess. You might almost charm me.” His words were mocking, daring her to say something witty or to remain quiet. A challenge; a quiet, unspoken battle for power over one another.

“That’s the plan.” Her reply had his breath hitching, eyes flicking away from hers and at the scenery that surrounded them, at the horizon where silver-feathered birds circled above the distant gold towers of the fortress that housed Odin’s family.

She could see the gears in his mind churning, his thoughts rushing hastily while conflict flashed beneath his mask of cold indifference. The practiced charm of the Prince of Asgard had been thrown off by her statement, and in its place was a boy that maybe, she could relate with. A royal forced into a marriage he didn’t want, with a girl he didn’t know.

“You do know what they expect of us, don’t you?” His voice was quieter, more sincere than it had been since she arrived almost a fortnight ago. “This alliance. This marriage.” There was a spite in his voice, not directed at her, but at their situation.

“You’re a tool in their war.”

As if she didn’t know. She was a means to gaining support of their overlords—a means to get military aid that was needed by the Light Elves to crush the Dark Elves that threatened to crush them. A sacrifice her father and brothers saw fit for winning a war that had been waging for centuries.

“And I am a leash on your kingdom.”

Her smile had faltered once he had started speaking, but in the manner he had said that, so casually like her people weren’t just getting leashed like a mere pet dog, made her churn her stomach. “I know,” her voice was a mere whisper, devoid of any feeling.

“But tools can shape fate just as blades,” she added after a while, repeating the words her mother had whispered into her pointed ears when she had pinned the lace green veil in her hair and bid her farewell a fortnight ago, when she had reminded what she really was and told her to never forget.

She was the Princess of Alfheim, the strongest of their kind—stronger than her brothers but not given the throne for she was born a girl.

He hummed almost thoughtfully. Something flickering behind his intense gaze. Not trust, not yet. But curiosity. A dangerous curiosity—the kind that once opened could not easily be closed. Like a dam whose channels were open and could not be closed anymore.

“Then perhaps,” he murmured, leaning down. His breath caressed her skin, warmth flooding her cheeks but she won’t step back—she couldn’t. “This game won’t bore me after all.”

All she gave him was a small smile, “that’s the plan too.”

He watched her quietly, before he turned around and started walking, this time slower—allowing her to catch up easily.

They walked on, in silence, but this time—side by side.

[gowns]

"I look after about 700 olive trees around the valley. But I and others with groves have lost about 70% of them in the past five years. Some were taken by settlers; others have just been made impossible to cultivate.

These are our groves on our ancestral land, but we have to get permits from the Israeli authorities to nurture them and pick. Believe it or not, during last autumn’s olive harvesting, in some of my groves I was given permission to pick for only two days when it needed two weeks.

The day we started – 1 November – the settlers began their attacks. The next day I went to look to find that they had uprooted trees – some hundreds of years old. Others were cut down to their trunks with the olive branches taken."

3/5/23

[thewriteadviceforwriters]

Hi! I read your posts offering tips on how to describe dark coastal and academia settings. They were super helpful! I was wondering if you had any writing tips for dark forests..? Hope it wasn't too big of an ask. Thanks for your time!

I truly love this so much! I apologize for the delay in my post. I tend to put things off sometimes, I'm a serial procrastinator and it took me a little while to gather my thoughts on what you might encounter in dark forests. But hopefully these are similar to what you wanted!

✩°𓏲⋆🌿. ⋆⸜List of Random Things For Your Dark Forests Settings | For Writers

✩°𓏲⋆🌿. ⋆⸜

The Overgrown Trail 🌿

Winding dirt path obscured by tangled roots and underbrush

Twisted, gnarled tree trunks reaching up to block the sky

Shafts of pale moonlight cutting through the thick canopy

The distant hoot of an owl and the chittering of unseen creatures

The earthy, damp scent of decaying leaves and moss

The Abandoned Cabin 🏚️

Dilapidated wooden structure, its paint peeling and windows boarded up

Cobwebs draped across the porch railing and doorframe

The creak of warped floorboards and the groan of the sagging roof

Rusted tools and broken furniture scattered among the weeds

The stale, musty odor of neglect and the faint tang of rot

The Moonlit Glade 🌕

A small clearing, the grass blanketed in a carpet of wildflowers

Gnarled, ancient trees ringing the open space like silent sentinels

Faint wisps of fog drifting across the still surface of a dark pond

The soft susurration of leaves in the gentle breeze

The faint glow of bioluminescent mushrooms dotting the forest floor

The Winding Stream 🌊

A burbling brook cutting through the undergrowth, its water crystal-clear

Thick, twisted roots breaking through the soil along the banks

Schools of darting minnows and the occasional flash of a trout

Clusters of delicate ferns and mosses clinging to the damp rocks

The soothing sound of rushing water over the pebbles

The Ritual Circle 🕯️

A ring of large, moss-covered stones in a small, secluded clearing

Remnants of burned candles and wilted flower petals scattered within

Carved wooden totems or animal skulls adorning the perimeter

Thin wisps of incense smoke curling up towards the treetops

The eerie silence, broken only by the distant cry of a raven

The Fog-Shrouded Ravine 🌫️

A deep chasm obscured by tendrils of swirling mist

Gnarled, skeletal trees clinging to the steep, rocky sides

The faint sound of running water echoing up from the unseen depths

Thick vines and twisted roots snaking across the uneven ground

The chill of the damp air, raising goosebumps on bare skin

The Witch's Cottage 🧙‍♀️

A crooked, thatched-roof hut nestled between the twisted trees

Dried herbs and animal bones hanging from the eaves

Smoke curling from the chimney, the scent of charred wood and herbs

A small garden of nightshade, mandrake, and other sinister plants

The eerie cackling of the resident witch, her shadow glimpsed through the windows

The Forgotten Graveyard 🪦

Crumbling, moss-covered headstones half-submerged in the undergrowth

Skeletal tree branches reaching down like grasping hands

Ravens perched atop the weathered grave markers, cawing ominously

Shreds of tattered funeral wreaths and faded flowers scattered about

An unearthly chill in the air, as if the spirits of the dead linger

The Enchanted Pool 🌙

A small, still body of water reflecting the night sky above

Luminescent flora blooming along the murky banks

Schools of glimmering, ethereal fish drifting through the depths

Mist swirling across the surface, obscuring the view of the bottom

The faint sound of otherworldly music drifting from unseen sources

The Cursed Clearing 🕳️

A barren, circular area devoid of vegetation, as if scorched by dark magic

Twisted, blackened tree trunks surrounding the perimeter like sentinels

Jagged shards of obsidian-like rock piercing up from the soil

The crunch of bone-dry leaves and twigs underfoot, shattering the silence

An oppressive aura of dread and unnatural stillness permeating the air