#light the clucking mother hen

[13eyond13]

The real "mom friend" in Death Note is actually Light Yagami, unfortunately for the world

#I was thinking about Misa being relegated to the mom friend and I was like #Remember when light called the entire earth his fledgling utopia #light the clucking mother hen #He's the emotionally distant mother who still secretly checks your bank account online and deposits 50 bucks when you're in overdraft #sighing with disappointment then emailing you job bank listings #like of course I have to do everything around here #light yagami #p

[nelapanela94]

Emotional and fluff for mother's days

Can you please wite smth about how Levi overhears some kids talking about mother's day for the first time, so he asks his lover/wife about it and she describes what it's for and all that but she notice a hint of sadness in his eyes once she's done so she sneakily asks levi to describe what his mum looked like and she uses her secret talent to sketch her and gift it to him on mother's day?🥺🙏🏻

As the first rays of the morning sun creep over the horizon, a vibrant tapestry of colors and scents begin to unfurl at the heart of the quaint village. The Farmers' Market, a bustling and lively spectacle, comes alive with an enchanting allure that drew locals and travelers alike into its embrace.

Trost’s atmosphere buzzes with an energy that pulses like the beating heart of the countryside. The laughter of children chasing butterflies, the rhythmic clucking of contented hens, and the light tinkle of wind chimes hanging from makeshift stalls blended harmoniously with the hum of eager conversations and the occasional pluck of guitar strings.

Crisp, ruby-red apples glisten like polished jewels, beckoning passersby to taste their sweet, orchard-kissed flavors. Swirling pyramids of golden honey drip lazily from the combs, offering a taste of sunlit meadows and blooming wildflowers. Piles of vibrant heirloom tomatoes, like a painter's palette, display a spectrum of colors that ranged from blush pink to deep emerald green.

The old lady smiles, and the coins clank on the palm of his hand. Levi gives her a nod and casts the ghost of a smirk for the free apple she sneaked in his order. He slings the bag on his shoulder and crosses out tomatoes from the list. Summer accentuates the colors of the Earth, but also spurs sweat through his pores. A map is drawing on the back of his shirt and the stickiness is wrecking his nerves. He folds the list and slips it into his pocket as he heads to the spices and herbs stall. The Scouts budget for tea is a joke, and no it is not a whim from him at all to demand quality. Those boors with underdeveloped taste buds don’t know how to appreciate the true pleasures of life.

A riot of brats who can’t wipe their ass cracks hustle around the flower girl who is giving away red roses like the one pinned on her head. Tiny dirty hands tugging at the hem of her dress as if she were a fairy who will grant them wishes. With the flower in hand, the kids scamper away like bees from the honeycomb straight to their mother’s skirts.

“Happy Mother’s Day!” they chirp, and tender lips pepper their heads with kisses in return.

Mother’s Day?

His lips curve in a small longing smile.

It is noon when he drops the bags on the kitchen counter, and you sweeten him with a kiss. “How was it? I’m sorry for the long list, but we were running out of everything.”

“Good.” He plucks the apple from his pocket and hands it over to you. “This is for you.”

“Aren’t you the sweetest?” You ruffle his hair and then begin to fill the pleading pantries while Levi cools down with a pint. He looks down to the curlicues on the wood, reading them as if they were a path to treasure, his cheek straining on the back of his hand.

“Are you alright, cinnamon roll?” You tilt your head to the side, raising a brow in concern. “Do you have a fever?” You rush and press your hand to his forehead, wheedling a chuckle from him.

“I’m not sick.” He takes your hand and drops a kiss on your knuckles. “It’s just…” He sighs and picks up, embarrassed for not acknowledging what’s obvious for everyone else. “I overheard some kids in the market… what are we celebrating today?”

You glimpse over at the calendar on the wall. “Oh! It’s Mother’s Day! I utterly forgot about it.” Your shoulders slump. “I should’ve sent a letter on Thursday. Do you think she’ll forgive me for sending it late?”

You meet his eyes, but confusion is slathered all over his face.

And realization dawns. He never had the chance to celebrate the occasion in the first place.

From behind, you wrap your arms around him and kiss the back of his head. “Every year we celebrate Mother’s Day as a way to honor the sacrifices mothers make for their children. We visit them or invite them over for lunch or dinner or give presents like roses or jewelry to remind them how grateful we are. No matter where they are, they are always caring about us.”

Tears roll down his cheeks, you can feel them dripping from his chin to your arms.

You gingerly ask, “do you remember what she looked like?”

Levi shakes his head. His memories are blurry except for a few details. “She smelled nice.” He gulps and dries his tears with the sleeve. “Long black hair, soft light-honeyed eyes…” He closes the eyes, and you just listen, grasping as much as you can.

While Levi is grooming and feeding the horses, you sit at your studio, the charcoal tip scraping the paper as you print the description he gave you. As the portrait takes shape, more and more, you can spot him in his mother’s face.

The afternoon begins cooling, the tree leaves sway rhythmically on the soft breeze.

You dust off the rubber debris and smirk with satisfaction. That’s when you hear steps growing louder on your back. A blush tinges your cheeks.

“What were you doing?”

“I… well…”

He peers over your shoulder and tears glisten in his eyes. “Can I take a closer look?” His voice fractures as he sniffs to contain the tears from falling.

“Sure, it’s all yours.” You smile warmly and give him some time with his mom. “I’ll make dinner. Take as long as you need.”

“Thank you,” he mouths as you close the door behind you.

He had long forgotten how close the resemblance was. The eyes, the lashes, the eyebrows, her lips, you grasped everything he said and brought her back for him to tell her he loves her. Fragments of his memory play on the back of his head from those old days, and it’s not the grime, or the stench, or the moldy bread. He remembers her soft voice cooing lullabies, the warmth of her chest guarding him from any harm, the stories she told before bed, the kisses attack on his belly. Life is not so bad with someone who loves you.

He was her only reason to endure the woes of that nightmarish life.  

He mutters, "Happy Mother's Day."

#levi ackerman #levi attack on titan #attack on titan #snk #shingeki no kyojin #snk levi #levi aot #aot #levi x reader #levi x you

[amenders93]

The Surprising Meeting

Over time, the new road was constructed and completed. When the road was done and vehicles were allowed to drive on it, that meant it was time for a stake-out. Ginger, Bunty and Mac were on the beach trying to see what was happening on the mainland. Mac gloomily states that it was only a matter of time before the humans showed up. Somehow she must have known that the safety they've felt for so long wouldn't last for long. Mac and Ginger looked through binoculars to get a closer look, just like they did back on Tweedy's Farm. As they peered through the binoculars, they see a large truck wound its way along the new road. It had a colorful logo on the side that said FUN-LAND FARMS. There was a picture of a happy-looking chicken sitting in a bucket, doing a happy 'thumbs-up' sign. There was also the sound of clucking birds coming from inside the truck.

Ginger frowned at the sight and the sound, believing that humans are taking chickens to some kind of chicken farm. That's when our island queen lowered the binoculars and got a serious look on her face. Bunty starts to worry, saying that she hasn't seen that particular look in a long while. She tries to tell her friend that she can't right all the world's wrongs. However, this apparently falls on deaf ears because Ginger states that there will be a meeting tonight and to spread the word. Then she heads back to the village. Bunty looks at Mac; she knew Ginger very well and she knew that her friend would stop at nothing to fight back against any humans who threatened them. Our muscle-bound hen says what we can all agree from this, "Here we go again." 😏

The meeting was arranged for the town hall that very night and Molly could see from her bedroom window that all the chickens were gathering at that very moment. Our island princess goes downstairs to see Ginger getting herself ready to go to the meeting. She asks her mother some pretty serious questions like, "What's going on?", "Why can't I go up my tree anymore?", and "What's this meeting about?" Ginger tries very hard to think about something to tell her daughter. Then she comes up with an excuse that there's some quite big wasps up the tree this year; Molly looks at her mother in disbelief.

Ginger also tells Molly that she needs her to stay home and look after her father. Both island queen and princess turn to see Rocky trying to swat a moth away from their hanging light, but our island king loses his balance and falls off his stool, painfully saying he's good. We all know he's not 🤕. Molly starts to cheer up a bit, suggesting that her dad can tell her a story while her mom's out. Ginger smiles, agreeing with her daughter's idea. Then our island queen bids her big, brave girl goodnight, kisses her on the cheek and heads off to the meeting. As Ginger leaves, Molly runs up the stairs giggling and Rocky wishes his wife good luck with the meeting.

Once father and daughter were alone together, Rocky calls out to Molly, asking her what she wants to do as she comes back downstairs. Molly then holds up a large poster, suggesting to her dad that he could tell about it. It was Rocky's old circus poster with ROCKY THE FLYING ROOSTER on it, the same one that Rocky packed away the day Molly had hatched. Our island king is taken aback; he tries to convince his daughter that the rooster on the poster wasn't him. However, Molly is smarter than she seems. She looks at Rocky, then she looks at the poster and then she gives her dad a knowing look. They were clearly the one and the same rooster. Rocky caves in, saying that the rooster in the poster is him but it was a long time ago. Our dashing rooster then gazes at his poster, probably remember how different his life as a Lone Free Ranger was back then. Molly raises her eyebrows, convincing her dad to continue. Rocky then brightens up, stating that it's actually a pretty good story. Our island king then starts to tell his little princess all about his exciting adventures as a Lone Free Ranger. Those were the days when he lived in the circus and was shot into the sky from a cannon. He was living the life, free as a bird. This is going to come back to haunt Rocky. He's soon going to wish he'd never told Molly any of those stories.

Meanwhile at the town hall, all the chickens gathered around, chattering anxiously about what was happening on the mainland. At that moment, Ginger arrived and walked up to the podium with her serious look. Bunty is in one corner of the hall with Mac, Babs and Fowler with her arms crossed and frowning, knowing that when Ginger's got that look, she'll probably have them all charging right into the fray. Babs nervously says she doesn't want to charge into any frays since she's fray-phobic. Classic Babs 😂. Ginger then calls out to the crowd to settle down to make her annoucement.

Our island queen goes over what they already know: the new road and the trucks taking chickens to what looks like some kind of farm. Some of the chickens start to panic a little; one chicken named Beryl even laid an egg. Ginger calms them down again and continues with her announcement: that from their past experiences, they know what this new threat can mean. It's something that they just can't ignore and that they all only have one choice. Throughout this, the panic started up again and begins to get worse with each time Ginger gets more intense. Babs unknowingly knitted a blue masterpiece with a chicken skull and cross bones on it; she's obviously terrified with the news and tries to hide behind it, not wanting to hear their only choice. But surprisingly, Ginger says that their only choice is to hide.

Everyone is shocked silent. Even Mac, Babs, Bunty and Fowler were surprised. This wasn't the bold and brave Ginger they knew. One chicken suggested that by hide, it means like pretending that they're not there; Ginger agrees. There was more silence and then the crowd erupts in loud cheering. This didn't sound dangerous at all. All the chickens were cheering except for Mac. Our Scottish hen knows her best friend too well and this whole hiding plan was definitely not in her nature. Ginger explained how they could hide from the humans on the mainland by making a huge leafy screen to block the chickens from their view. The chickens left the meeting happily, ready to start to work right away, leaving Ginger in the hall. Even though old Fowler was used to facing up to the enemy, he tries to be enthusiastic about the plan. He walks alongside Babs calling this plan Operation Lie-Low; our ditzy hen states she likes lie-lows, especially the stripy ones 😂.

As Ginger watches the chickens leave, she's hoping she made the right choice for everyone even though it's usually not like her. Mac walks up to her best friend asking about her welfare, knowing that it's not like her to shy away from danger. Ginger knows that she would rather face the humans and stop the threat against chicken kind, but things are not the same as they once were. Now that she is married to Rocky and they have Molly to think about, she cannot risk their freedom by venturing into a world that finds chickens so delicious. They all have spend so long trying to escape from Tweedy's Farm to freedom for a better life and now that they have, they're not about to lose it at the hands of humans once again.

Our island queen had had a change of perspective now that she's a wife and a mother. She's trying so hard to protect her family and all her friends, even if it means shying away from danger instead of facing it like she used to. There are times when we think we made the right choice because it's easy, but sometimes the easy choice is not always the right one. However, I just hope that Ginger's decision to hide from the humans is a good one. 🤔

#chicken run #chicken run 2 #chicken run dawn of the nugget #dawn of the nugget #chicken run 2 spoilers #ginger and rocky #rocky and ginger #rocky #ginger #molly

[asirensrambles]

Leaving the Nest

Logan and Serena see Andy off on his first monster hunt without them.  It's an emotional parting.

@Pathea, let me adopt Andy if I marry Logan, I'm begging you.

"Ya sure ya got everything? Y'have enough water, plenty of bullets? I'm sure ma's got some extra ones over by the-"

"Logan!" Serena cut him off.

Logan jumped before looking over sheepishly.  Shaking her head fondly, Serena walked over to her boys,

"I swear, I leave you alone for all of two minutes and you turn into a mother hen." Andy snorted, standing next to Rambo the Second, "Please, Cluck, Doodle, and Doo hover less."

Logan threw up his hands, "Excuse me for wanting to make sure my son is fully prepared for his first ever monster hunt without us."

Although his tone was light and teasing, Serena could hear the undercurrent of genuine fear in her husband's voice.  After handing the blanket over to Andy, she took Logan's hand in her own and squeezed.  He squeezed back, holding on for dear life. Andy got the blanket tucked away, then turned to his dad,

"Don't worry Pa, it'll be fine.  'Sides, I'm not going out all on my own, Elsie'll be there too."

"I know," Logan sighed. "Just...be careful? A'right?"

"I'll be careful, promise," Andy replied. Serena said,

"You'd better get going. I know you're supposed to meet Elsie soon." She took her hand back from Logan to hug Andy. He'd sprouted up recently, and was finally taller than her. "I love you kiddo."

Andy hugged her tight, "Love you too, Ma."

He turned to Logan, who pulled him into a crushing hug.

"I love you kid,"he mumbled into Andy's shoulder.

"I know, Pa.  Love you too."

Having said his goodbyes, Andy swung up onto Rambo the Second before waving over his shoulder and taking off for the ranch. Serena heard a sniff at her side.

When she turned to look at Logan, tears were trailing down his cheeks.

"Oh honey," she whispered, moving close to hold him.  Logan buried his face in the crook of her neck, and clung on tightly.

"I know he's capable and been out on hunts before," he mumbled, "but so had my Pa."

Even after close to a decade of marriage, Serena still learned new things about Logan that shattered her heart into pieces. Of course he'd be seeing the parallels between their son's first monster hunt without him and his father's last monster hunt, that was also without him.  Her mind went back to the first time Andy got sick shortly after the Duvos affair, and how strongly Logan reacted then.

"He's not alone though," she soothed, "Elsie's going with him -she's more than capable- and they're taking Daffodil too."

Logan nodded, "Yeah, you're right," he heaved a sigh and lifted his head.   Serena raised a hand to wipe the tears from under his eyes.  She was rewarded with a watery smile that tugged at her heart strings, "I dunno how ya put up with me sometimes."

Serena lifted herself up onto tiptoes and kissed his cheek, "Cause I love you."

Even after so long of being together and hearing it countless times, Logan still occasionally get the same dopey smile he'd given her the first time she said 'I love you.'  Serena thought it was the most precious thing in the world. Logan pressed a kiss to her forehead, then rested his against hers,

"I love you too, darlin'."

The moment was broken by the impatient lowing of their yakmels.  Serena sighed,

"Work calls."

Logan pulled her in for one last kiss that made Serena's head spin, before letting go and getting started on the morning chores.

#mtas logan x builder #mtas #dad!logan #my time at sandrock #mtas fic #my time at sandrock fic #my writing #logan x builder

[lordgrimwing]

Omen: BITE #01

Fëanor sat on a three-legged stool just outside the fiber shed in the warming morning air. A distaff stood beside him, golden flax fibers held in place against the light breeze by a string. Wetting his fingers in the bowl resting on the knee of the leg he wasn't using to keep the spinning wheel turning, he reached up to the distaff and pulled a few more strands down to add to the thread. 

He'd been at this for several hours, since guiding Maedhros through the morning animal chores, Laurë tagging along though she was still too small to be of much help with anything other than the chickens. Yesterday, Nerdanel said the planting season would be upon them in a few more days, and they would all be too busy to find time to spin the processed flax fibers. He wanted another ten skeins ready for mangling so the children could entertain themselves while their parents were still out in the fields. 

He'd send Maedhros and Laurë away after the chores to help their mother with their younger siblings and to play. There wouldn't be much time for that once planting started and the rest of the homestead woke up from the sleepy grip of winter, at least not for several weeks. Now, he worked in contented quiet, the whirring of the spinning wheel a steady accompaniment to the clucking and scratching of roaming chickens.

The kitchen door squeaked open, and out toddled little Celegorm. He was just about two years old now, learning to navigate the world on his own and constantly slipping away as soon as people took their attention off of him, which was a lot easier now that he had a new little brother. Fëanor respected the tenacity even if it sometimes left him scrambling to find the toddler before he got into too much trouble.

Seeing that this time Celegorm was making his determined way across the yard toward Fëanor, he decided to just keep an eye on his progress.

Halting step after halting step, the child made his way from the door and out into the yard. He moved forward with determination, his little eyebrows set in serious lines, his mouth tight with focus. He had a goal to reach before anyone inside noticed his disappearance.

Without looking away, Fëanor reached up and pulled down a few more fibers to add to the thread. His foot pressed the pedal rhythmically, keeping the wheel spinning at a constant speed without thought. 

Celegorm toddled onward.

A hen pecked her way across the yard, eyes focused on the ground as she searched for the first insects or earliest sprouts. Large, with black and white barred feathers, she enjoyed a spot at the top of the flock’s pecking order. Used to a certain degree of respect from the other animals, she clucked to herself with little regard for the world beyond the end of her beak.

Fëanor saw the collision coming.

Celegorm took one last step forward. His arms pinwheeled out to the sides as the hefty bird bumped against his thighs. He swayed, and the hen, irritated, pecked at his toes. With a little cry of mixed surprise and pain, he went down.

He tumbled over the bird, knocking her down as he went. She squawked and flapped her wings, battering his bare legs with stiff feathers as she tried to righted herself. With very ungraceful flopping, she extricated herself from the undignified heap they became. Ruffling and puffing out her feathers, she gave a parting peck to the boy's heel and returned to the most important task of finding food.

Celegorm lay sprawled out, arms extended flat across the ground and face planted in the damp grasses. He hadn't quite managed to catch himself with his hands on the way down. 

Fëanor paused his spinning, foot coming off the pedal and fingers pinching the end of the thread. He watched his son's back rise and fall under his little shirt, waiting to see how he would respond.

After a few seconds, Celegorm raised his head and stuck his tongue out as he coughed out several blades of grass and some dirt. His scrunched up face looked like he was confused or thinking very hard more than about the cry, and Fëanor relaxed on his stool. The spinning wheel started up again as he pulled down more flax strands and offered an encouraging smile.

Remembering that he had a destination other than the soft ground, the toddler got his knees under himself and shakily climbed to his feet. He had a scrape on his thigh from a stone and scratches on his legs from the chicken, but he ignored these as he started forward again, determined to cross the half-dozen yards to his father. Fëanor let his attention drift back to his work now that he was safely on his way again.

After one more stumble over a particularly uneven patch of ground, he finally arrived. 

Fëanor felt short arms reach part way around his side. He looked down.

Celegorm stood next to the stool and smiled up at his father as he gave him as big a hug as he could manage. Green grass stuck to his teeth in a couple spots and he had dirt on his nose.

“Papa,” He giggled.

Fëanor dropped a hand to the boy’s head and lightly tousled the thin, pale hair. “Hello, Cele.”

Celegorm turned his face into his side, nuzzling his nose back and forth. He pressed his lips together and tried giving a raspberry kiss, but it was decidedly unrewarding on fabric instead of skin.

Fëanor snorted. "Silly goose," He said and reached up for flax.

Without warning, sharp little teeth clamped into the flesh just above his hip. Even though they were small, Celegorm's jaws pinched down painfully tight.

Fëanor's foot stuttered on the pedal and the wheel made an unhappy sound when he pressed down too soon and too hard.

"Ah!" He exclaimed, grabbing for the aching spot with one hand, the other desperately clinging to the end of the thread.

Celegorm ducked out of the way, pulling back and out of his father's reach. "Hehe," He laughed, pure excitement etched across his face.

“No,” Fëanor reprimanded him, still clutching his side.

The toddler made a burbling sound with his lips, stuck out a very wet tongue, and ran away as fast as he could toward the safety of the house.

Groaning, Fëanor pulled his hand away, checking the shirt for a tear or bleeding. There was evidence of neither of those, and he breathed a sigh of relief. 

“Maedhros!” He shouted, rubbing at the aching spot to soothe it. “Get Celegorm! He’s biting again!”

Realizing the coming roadblock to his escape route, Celegorm turned hard away from the house. He stumbled but regained his balance and kept running, skinny arms pumping hard as he headed for the barn.

The back door flew open. Maedhros stepped out, head already swiveling to find his wayward brother.

“Barn,” Fëanor directed, turning his attention to the kinks that worked their way into the thread while he was otherwise distracted. 

“Sorry,” The boy said, referring to both for letting the toddler slip away and the biting.

His father shook his head, brushing aside the apologetic words. “Just catch him.”

Maedhros nodded and jogged after his brother.

#savage baby celegorm #he want bite #he want sweet mouthful delight #celegorm is cute but has serious chompers #don't mind me lore-dumping flax processing into this au #feanor is crafty #and when i say crafty i mean he spins and weaves and makes talismans out of hair #feanor #celegorm #maedhros #the silmarillion #old gods au #grimwing writes

[halsinsbiceps]

A Great and Sudden Change - Chapter 5

Chapter 5 of AGaSC is up on AO3!

I have a request: please comment or shoot me a message if you don't think Astarion's "outburst" in this chapter fits his character. I'm not necessarily sticking to canon, but I want to be faithful to the characters. If people feel like it works, then I won't worry about a rewrite.

Thank you for reading!

Fic below the cut.

A Great and Sudden Change

Chapter 5

"Is that all you’re wearing?”

Enelya looked up from the clasps of her travel robe to find Astarion eyeing her up and down. She held her arms out and inspected herself in the gray pre-dawn light. “Yes? It’s all I’ve got; everything else was lost on that damned thing.” She gestured vaguely in the direction of the Illithid ship. Including my new bag of Holding, she thought irritably.

“Darling, we’re all but traipsing into the midst of a goblin horde, and you don’t have a single bit of armor?”

“I don't see you fretting over Gale,” she commented. She slung her quarterstaff over her shoulder and tightened the strap at her chest.

“He’s a wizard. He fights at a distance and has plenty of wards and cantrips to protect himself. What do you have, outside of a frigid glare?” He crossed his arms, waiting for an answer. 

“...I have Barkskin."

Astarion sighed and grabbed her arm. “Come on,” he said as he led her deeper into the ruins. “There was a smith somewhere around here. Surely he has a cuirass or jerkin, something to keep that soft little body of yours safe.”

Enelya scowled. “I’m hardly little , or soft, and I can handle myself even without armor.”

“I don’t doubt that, but I also do doubt any of these goblins will let you waltz up to them and twist their arms out of their sockets like you did to Lae’zel.” Astarion began opening and peering into crates.

"What are you doing?" she hissed. She glanced at the sleeping forms across the room. 

Astarion gave her a look that read, My dear, isn't it obvious?

“We are not stealing armor from them!” 

“Do you have any gold jingling around in one of your many pockets?” he asked with a quirked brow. He lifted a jerkin by the shoulders, tilted his head in thought, then discarded it. “Consider it borrowing against your credit.”

“What credit?”

“The credit for saving their skins from a group of murderous druids.” He pulled out a set of simple leathers, regarded them a moment, then held them out to her. “Here. These seem to be about your size.” When she didn’t move to take them, he rolled his eyes. "Gods, you're more stubborn than a rothé."

"And you're clucking over me like a mother hen. I mean no offense, but you don't seem to be the kind of person to care about others." She crossed her arms. "What's going on?"

Astarion shifted his feet, not quite meeting her eyes. He suddenly seemed uncertain, a far cry from his normally arrogant self. Finally, he rolled his eyes and made a noise that was somewhere between exasperation and disgust.

“I actually take great offense at that," he said. "I care quite a lot, if you must know, and not just about my own self-preservation. For whatever reason, you’ve become the leader of this little group. Impressive though your skills may be, that doesn't mean you need to forgo protection, or be some sort of martyr. And if you insist on endearing yourself to every marginalized group we come across, you’ll need to survive long enough to see yourself become a folk hero.” His eyes - an unusually dark red, she noticed - bore into hers. “You’re important ." He held the armor out again. 

This time Enelya took it from him. “Thank you," she said quietly.

As she changed, she considered Astarion's words. Was she truly putting herself in danger needlessly, carelessly even? She didn't believe so; she was simply doing what she could to help others...right? A lack of armor certainly didn't mean she was trying to be a martyr; her own had been in her bag of Holding, and she hadn't truly needed it in weeks. As for her importance…she tightened the final strap of the leather breastplate and shoved her thoughts to the back of her mind to be dealt with later.

She knew better than to believe she was any more important than anyone else.

The armor fit well enough; a bit tight around the shoulders and hips, but she could handle the discomfort for the additional safety. Astarion nodded approvingly when she stepped out from behind the crumbling wall that served as a privacy screen, a leather hood clutched in her hand.

“Much better. Now, before we go…I would appreciate it if we can keep my little outburst between us. We wouldn't want the others to get the wrong idea about me, would we?" He looked at her expectantly, a cool mask settled back onto his fine marblelike features.

She bowed her head. "Of course, Astarion."

"I'm glad we understand each other. Shall we?” He gestured to where the others had gathered to make final preparations.

They departed as the first golden rays pierced the skies overhead. A fine mist hung through the undergrowth of the forest and swirled around their ankles as they walked. Enelya gripped her staff and shifted her shoulders, the leather creaking as it warmed and stretched to fit her frame.

“They’ll be alright.” 

Enelya glanced to her right to find Wyll walking beside her. “Who?”

“The tieflings. I saw you look back as we left. We stand between them and the goblins, and the druids will leave them be. They're as safe as they can be for now. You chose a good spot for them.”

“I hope you're right. The grove would have been better,” Enelya said with a soft sigh. “I probably made things worse for them, truth be told. But thank you for saying so.”

“You're welcome.” 

A pleasant lull followed. When Wyll did not drop away from her, she cleared her throat to speak.

“About that devil. The one you were chasing in Avernus…”

He bowed his head. “Karlach."

"Sorry?"

"That's her name. A powerful devil from the Hells. She's a danger to the entire Sword Coast." Wyll's face was grim. "I have to bring her down."

"Why, exactly? Is it so important that you have to keep hunting her?"

“I suppose in the grand scheme of things, Karlach doesn’t seem like much of a problem. But she’s been terrorizing innocent people and leaving bodies in her wake for the better part of a decade. My…source said she was planning to return to Faerun, and I was supposed to kill her before she could.” Wyll shook his head. “You see how well that’s gone.”

She nodded slowly. “Well, if she’s as dangerous as you say…we should take her down.”

“‘We’, huh?” Wyll chuckled. “You really are a bit of a bleeding heart, aren’t you?”

Enelya felt herself bristle at the comment. “And if I am?”

He shrugged. “That makes two of us. Couldn't walk away from someone in need if my life depended on it. Kindred spirits, you and I."

She blinked, put off by the comment. "I was raised to help where I can. My parents, my Circle, my church all expected it. You must have been raised in such a way as well."

Wyll raised a fist to his chest, a proud smile on his face. "Baldur's Gate, born and raised. Been a while since I've been home…" he trailed off wistfully, then seemed to shake it off. "If you don’t mind me asking, where do you hail from?”

“The High Forest, in Northwest Faerun,” she replied. “I am a druid of the Circle of Tall Trees there.”

“Ah. That explains why there is such an otherworldly air about you.”

Enelya quirked an eyebrow. “'Otherworldly'? Was that your line for Shadowheart as well?”

She heard him take a surprised breath, but to his credit he bounced right back with his own quip.

“Actually I told her her eyes were as green as emeralds glistening in the sun. She didn’t seem to mind the compliment," Wyll replied in a good-natured tone. 

Enelya smiled as well, then. “That’s not bad. A bit cliche, but I’ve heard worse.”

“You've been flirted with a lot, I take it?”

“Mmm…when you’ve lived for nearly 300 years you do.”

“300? You don’t look a day over 130.”

“Oh, very good!" She laughed. "What else have you got?"

"Plenty where that came from, I assure you…but a gentleman can't give away all his secrets."

"Then perhaps a gentleman should not speak." Lae'zel suggested as she overtook Wyll in clanking strides. Her withering glance did indeed shut Wyll up, but he turned to wink at Enelya before dropping back to walk with Gale.

They walked for some while in relatively comfortable silence. Wyll and Gale spoke quietly about their respective powers; Gale made it clear, in no uncertain terms, that wizardry was infinitely superior to other forms of magic casting. The warlock bore the criticism with a patient smile, even if it didn't quite meet his eyes.

Enelya gathered her hair into her hands and began plaiting it out of her face as the sun rose higher into the pale sky. The reverie of walking afforded her precious time to focus on her own thoughts, something she'd barely had since her abduction. The issue of these parasites dominated her concern at the moment. If the one in her head and the one Halsin and Nettie encountered originated from the same place - and how could they not - then she and her companions were still living on borrowed time. More than they had originally believed, but borrowed nonetheless. With any luck Halsin would have discovered something to help them, but luck was in short supply these days.

Which led her to the next concern on her list…the closer they crept to the goblin camp, the tighter the knot in her stomach twisted. She breathed deep, willing herself to focus on the task at hand, yet she could not keep her mind from conjuring scenarios of what it might be like to meet Halsin again. Would he be pleased to see her? Would he even remember her, or care? They barely knew each other, after all.

And yet…they had spent the better part of two days in her rooms in the High Forest, their bodies so intertwined that at times Enelya couldn't tell where hers ended and his began. She could practically feel his large, calloused hands sliding up along her back as he nipped and suckled at her throat, guiding her hips while she-

Her thoughts were interrupted by her hair prickling up on the back of her neck.

Enelya slowed to a halt, noticing they stood on a stone bridge. She tried to focus her hearing on something - anything - but there was only eerie silence except for the rushing of water beneath them.

“I feel it too.” Astarion stepped up beside her, a small crease forming between his brows. “Death.”

"There." Gale pointed across the bridge.

Several bodies of varying sizes lay at the end of the bridge. A man sat slouched on top of a crate nearby, staring down at them. As they approached he looked up from beneath a pile of brown curls.

“Aradin?” Gale sounded surprised. “What happened here?”

“Well, if it isn’t the foul blood lovers.” The man scoffed. “Damn gobbos ambushed us. Wiped out whoever didn’t get killed at the keep. 'cept me.” He nudged one of the bodies with his foot. 

Enelya took in the carnage. Several goblins and a few adventurers lay dead. “You were the ones with Master Halsin.”

Aradin rolled his eyes. “Gods, if I hear that name one more time…Yes. He run off and got himself killed, and we got nothing to show for it 'cept this scrap of paper." He waved it around in his hand. "Gold's not much use when you're dead, is it."

"What were you trying to find?" 

"Some hot-shot wizard in Baldur’s Gate hired us to find this Nightsong. Dunno what it is or what it does, but he'll pay through the nose for it. Couldn't get in when we was with the druid, couldn't get in now. And now I’m headed back alone." Aradin sniffed as he ran a thumb under his nose and hopped off the crate. 

Enelya moved forward, hand raised to stop him. "Can I see that missive?" she asked.

Aradin all but flung it at her; it fluttered lazily to the bloodied earth. "Have at it." With that he walked away without a second glance.

Enelya bent to pick up the paper, now damp with blood at the seam. "Pleasant fellow," she said drily. "I thought he stuck around after they got back?"

"Oh, no. Zevlor gave him a blow about the ears and they ran off as soon as he could see straight." Gale’s words were tinged with sadness. "He's not much more than a kid, really. I hope he makes it home."

Enelya hummed noncommittally as she squinted down at the paper in her hand. "Lorr-oak-an? Does that name ring a bell, Gale?"

He took the missive from her and scanned it with a frown. "'The Recluse of Ramazith's Tower'…yes, I've heard of him. Mostly that he's a bit of an ass, but that’s no surprise. Most wizards are not as humble as myself."

Over Gale's shoulder Enelya noticed Astarion and Shadowheart exchange a wry glance, while Wyll hid a smirk behind his hand as he pretended to yawn.

"I've never heard of this Nightsong, however," Gale went on. "Surely you cannot call something a "storied artefact" when no one has heard of it."

“No one, in this case, being you,” Astarion said with a smirk. 

While Gale floundered to produce a comeback to his jab, Astarion continued. "Even so, we have a lead on a bit of treasure someone will pay handsomely for," he said. "Once we figure out this tadpole nonsense, maybe we can all work together to find it and split the reward, hmm?"

Shadowheart snorted. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. As Aradin said, gold is no use if we’re dead. We should press on.” She strode ahead.

“Shadowheart is right, much as it irks me to say it,” Lae’zel said as they followed the cleric. “I am eager to rid myself of this ghaik parasite. I have my doubts about this druid’s abilities, however. The only true way to cleanse ourselves is to use a zaith’isk .”

“Now, pray tell, what is a zaith’isk ?” Gale asked, his retort seemingly forgotten. They passed into a deserted town as Lae’zel explained the healing instrument used by the Githyanki. Shadowheart stopped walking suddenly, her eyes focused overhead. Enelya stopped as well and followed her gaze to find a goblin peering down at them from the rooftop of a nearby building. She slowly slid one hand behind her back to grip her quarterstaff.

“Looks like we’ve got some company, boys!” the goblin called. A handful more goblins popped out of the windows and doors of the building. Enelya could see five in front of them, and if the shuffling behind them was any indication, there were at least three more flanking them. Lae’zel and the rest of the group had fallen silent, readying themselves for a fight. 

“What’s yer business?” the goblin called down. As they spoke, a strange symbol over their left eye began to glow. At the same time, Enelya felt a surge of confidence flow through her, striking down any feeling of uncertainty. She felt powerful. Authoritative. The tadpole squirmed in her head, and she felt her body relax significantly of its own accord. Curious, she leaned into the feeling. An unseen force seemed to take control of her as she stared the goblin down.

“We need not explain ourselves to the likes of you.” Her voice rang out boldly with words that were not her own. “You will let us pass.”

The goblin immediately cowered before her authority. “I-I’m sorry, True Souls!” they exclaimed, their eyes wide and fearful behind their helm. “Please, make your way in peace. You will find our leaders at the ruined temple, just that way.” They pointed west, through town.

Enelya led the way, not sparing the goblins another glance. The authoritative sensation waned, and as they reached the center of town, Shadowheart grabbed her elbow. 

“What was that?” she asked. The worry in her eyes was evident.“That… power . Did you feel it?”

“I’m not sure,” Enelya admitted. “It definitely came from the tadpoles, though. I let it direct me, and they just bowed down.” 

A sudden, sharp pain pierced her brain, as if someone had stabbed her in the temple with a white-hot ice pick. She gasped and clutched at her head. Shadowheart reached out to steady her. 

“What’s wrong?”

The pain lingered as Enelya straightened, blinking away the shadows at the edge of her vision. “I…I think it bit me.”

Shadowheart’s eyes narrowed. “We must be careful,” she said softly. She extended a hand and cast a healing spell. The pain in Enelya’s head dissipated. “Whatever this thing is capable of, it comes at a cost. It could be speeding up the ceremorphosis.”

“She’s right,” Gale said, a troubled look on his own face. “We should avoid using this power until we know more, at the very least.” 

"That's not our only problem," Wyll said. He had drawn his weapon and was turned to face the north, leading away from the path the goblin indicated. "Karlach is here. I can sense her, that way.” He pointed with his rapier. “We need to kill her before she can wreak any more havoc."

Enelya shared an uncertain look with Shadowheart, then eyed the sky. It was still quite early; they'd made good time. Surely a quick detour to dispatch an Infernal threat wouldn't take long. She gave a quick nod, and Wyll's face lit up as an almost giddy grin spread over his face.

"Excellent! Follow me, and be careful."

Astarion muttered under his breath, but followed the group.

They made their way out of town through a large oak door that was hanging off its hinges. Wyll stopped for a moment, taking in his surroundings. Suddenly he turned and focused his gaze on a barn not far from them. He gestured for the others to follow as he began to slowly approach the building. 

As they neared the building they each drew their weapons and fanned out. Wyll continued to take the lead, creeping closer to the door so he could open it. Enelya could hear movement inside from where she stood near a window, and hazarded a peek inside just as Wyll reached the entrance.

What she saw gave her pause. 

A large Tiefling sat in the middle of the barn, curled into a ball with her knees pressed to her chest as she breathed heavily. She was wreathed in flame. A low, anguished moan escaped her as she threw her head back. Enelya saw one horn was broken off; the other curled back and away from her face.

Wyll kicked the door open with a bang .

Karlach hardly reacted, only shooting him a pained look. "Fuck me," she said with a shaky laugh. "You found me, then.

" Advocatus diaboli, " Wyll said as he stepped into the barn. He held his rapier steadily in front of him. "Now you meet your end."

Karlach opened her mouth to quip back at him, but instead grit her teeth as flame flickered anew around her body.

Enelya slipped around the corner of the building and entered the barn herself.

"Wyll, wait. This is no devil."

Wyll spared a glance in her direction. "You see what I see, Enelya. Look at the flames. This devil was in the front lines in Avernus. She's Zariel's right arm! I must take her down."

Suddenly Enelya was knocked back as her senses were assaulted by a connection to her tadpole. She could see the planes of Avernus stretched out in front of her. A war axe swung wildly as she fought, her eyes scanning the red skies. Sweat poured from every pore, steaming into her eyes and down her neck and back. In her chest, her heart ground out a mechanical beat.

A flash of light, and above her was a ship, all writhing tentacles and smoke pluming from its sides. She didn't think, just reacted; sprinting towards the craggy cliffs of brimstone, the Blade of Frontiers not far behind. A single thought rang in her mind over and over.

My way out .

The connection snapped.

"I'm not a devil," Karlach whispered hoarsely. She struggled to her feet, clutching at her chest. "I was sold, sent like a horse to slaughter, and forced to fight." Another wave of flame flashed over her. She grimaced. "But go ahead. Kill me. I'd rather die than go back to Avernus."

"Good news for you, then." Wyll flourished his blade and stepped forward. 

Enelya stepped in front of him, locking eyes with him.

"Wyll."

He glared at her. "Enelya, move."

"You know this is wrong."

"And you don't know what you're asking me to do. Please," he whispered. His voice was strained as he searched her face imploringly. "My source…my contract is unforgiving. I must do this."

She shook her head. "She's innocent. A victim of the Blood War. Can't you feel that? You saw her memories. She's infected. And…she’s a tiefling, Wyll. Not a devil." 

Wyll looked past her, at Karlach, who had gone quiet and still. Hesitation and fear were written plainly on his face. Enelya reached a hand out and pressed her palm flat against his blade, slowly lowering it.

Wyll finally withdrew his weapon, only to fling it to the floor and toss his hands in the air. " Shit! " He spun, kicking a bucket across the room and running his palms over his braided rows of hair. Then, without another word, he stormed out of the barn. 

Enelya released a shaky breath and bent to pick up Wyll's rapier. Then she turned to Karlach. "Are you hurt?" she asked.

Karlach nodded. "Yeah. Pretty bad, too…" She lifted her hand to reveal a gaping wound in her side. Blood trickled freely down her hip. "Not exactly helping my ticker," she said with a short laugh.

Enelya frowned, unsure of what she meant. Either way, she needed a healer. She moved to the door. "Shadowheart?" she called.

"I'm here." The cleric appeared in the doorway. "What do you need?" Then, seeing Karlach and her bloodied body, she moved to her side, hands aglow.

"Wait!"

Karlach's warning came too late as Shadowheart laid her hand over her wound. There was a sizzling sound, and Shadowheart screamed as she pulled her hands back, reeling away from Karlach with red, blistering palms.

"Oh my gods, I'm so sorry!" Karlach's eyes were wide with horror. "I'm burning too hot, I didn't mean for-" 

"It's alright. Te curo ." Shadowheart’s hands were bathed in a soft blue glow. She held them up to show Karlach, her skin healed and smooth. "See? All better."

Karlach let out a relieved sigh. "Still, I'm sorry. Something's up with this thing; it's been acting up since I got out of Avernus." She pounded on her chest. There was a metallic thump and a strange grinding sound. "Doesn't help I've been run through, though. It's working overtime. Do you have a potion or something?"

Shadowheart murmured again, casting her hands in Karlach's direction. The tiefling sighed happily as the healing spell washed over her, watching with interest as the hole in her side stitched together gently. The flames surrounding her ebbed until none remained. A distortion still rippled the air around her body, but Karlach’s shoulders relaxed away from her ears as the grinding noise stopped. 

"Thanks. That's a lot better. Still hot, but I'll take it." 

Gale, Lae'zel, and Astarion came into the building. "All well in here?" Gale asked, glancing between them. 

Enelya nodded. "Yes. For now at least. Where's Wyll?"

"Gazing despondently into a chasm, at the moment," Astarion said. "I feel the same way. This was horribly anticlimactic; I'd hoped we'd finally kill something. " He eyed Karlach up and down. "So this is our newest charity case, Enelya? You're certainly gathering all the strays you can find."

Enelya ignored his comment and turned back to Karlach. "You look like you can handle yourself. Want to come kill a bunch of cultists?"

Karlach stared at her, a bewildered expression. "What, just like that? I mean… fuck yes, but…you know nothing about me. What if I'm actually a devil in disguise and I slaughter you all once your backs are turned?" She waved her hands around her head and widened her eyes dramatically.

Enelya's eyebrow arched with amusement. "Are you?"

"Nope!" Karlach grinned.

"Well then, that's settled." She turned to the others. "Make sure she's got what she needs. I'm going to go get Wyll, then we're heading out. No more delays." 

Gale gave a mock salute. "Yes, ma'am!"

Enelya paused briefly to stare at him. "Please don't do that again."

He nodded sheepishly and lowered his hand.

She turned on her heel and left the barn, scanning her surroundings as she went.

She found Wyll at the edge of town, indeed staring down into the abyss at the churning river below. She quietly came to stand beside him. 

"The call of the void?" she asked. He looked up at her

"Somewhat. If I throw myself off this cliff it might prove to be a better end than what I have coming."

"Care to tell me more about this deal? The contract?"

"...I can’t, I’m afraid. I'm sure all will be revealed soon enough, though. Don’t worry."

"Alright. Well, until that end…" She held out his rapier. 

He reached out and took it from her. Before he could pull away, she laid a hand on his.

"While you draw breath, you have purpose." She caught his gaze and held it, squeezing his hand meaningfully. "The Blade of Frontiers has a lot of saving left to do. And besides…do you really trust the fate of the Sword Coast to those ruffians?" She nodded her head back towards the barn, her eyes glittering with mirth.

He smirked back at her. "Gods, no. Thank you, Enelya." He considered her for a moment. "This…isn't your first time leading, is it?"

She hesitated before releasing his hand. "No," she replied. She paused again, unsure of what else to say. The truth certainly wouldn't do; not as they were staring down a keep full of goblin cultists. She needed them to have faith in her. So she kept it at that, offering him a tight-lipped smile of her own. 

"Ah. Well, keep your secrets then," he teased. "Gods know we all have enough to go around."

They met the others at the barn, then took to the path once again. They went back through town and across another bridge, ignoring the jeers and curious looks from the goblins stumbling around. By the time they reached the main gate of the defiled temple, Enelya was feeling beyond anxious. There were goblins everywhere, and their group of seven wasn't exactly inconspicuous as they tramped along through the mud. 

"Hold up!" Yet another group of them guarded the gate, flanked on either side by worgs. Their leader stepped forward, his green-yellow face a smashed mess of features. He peered up at her. "Can't just wander in here. We're celebrating a raid. Gotta wear our war colors," 

The same mark from earlier glowed on their faces, and with it, that same overwhelming feeling of confidence. Enelya eyed the group - six goblins spread out along the wall, and two worgs. They could take them easily…

She hoped.

"What color would that be?" she asked, crossing her arms.

He pointed at a fresh pile of worg dung with a smug smile. "That right there. Perfect shade."

Enelya glared at the goblin. "You can't be serious." 

He smirked. "You wanna get in? Gotta get dressed up."

Enelya hesitated, then stooped to scoop up the warm dung with her fingers. She heard several groans from the group behind her.

"Can't help noticing you're not wearing any yourself," she commented.

"Don't have to if you was part of the raid. Now." He gestured to her face, an excited smile splitting his own. "On ya get."

She hefted the dung in her palm for a moment, considering its weight. The stench alone was enough to make her stomach turn and her eyes sting.

Perfect .

She focused on the tadpole; it wriggled as it effortlessly linked to her companions'.

Get ready .

With a flick of her wrist, she flung the dung into the eyes of the goblins. At the same time, she swung her staff off her back and through the air, connecting with the leader's head with a sickening crunch . He collapsed into the mud without so much as a whimper.

Astarion rushed past, daggers glinting in the sunlight. " Finally !" He slit a goblin's throat as he passed, making his way to the platforms surrounding the wall.

The quiet morning erupted into chaos.

The air sang in Enelya's ear as Karlach brought her greataxe down into a worg's head. Gray chunks of brain splattered into the air. Then Karlach pulled her axe free and swung again, this time taking another goblin's head clean off.

 A shout came from behind her. Before she could even turn, three Magic Missiles and an Eldritch Blast shot past her and practically eviscerated the other worg as it lunged at her. Gale and Wyll both let out whoops of victory. 

And just like that, the fight was over. Enelya heard a gurgling death rattle as Lae'zel pulled her sword free from a goblin overhead. Shadowheart was making sure everyone was alright, but the only injury was her own twisted knee from slipping in the mud.

"Right." Enelya wiped gory bits of bone and brain off her quarterstaff with a worg's fur. "That went well."

"Definitely," Astarion drawled. His eyes were alight with excitement. Enelya had a sneaking suspicion that he was a bit bloodthirsty.

"Are we all good?" she asked. She pulled her leather hood free from her belt. "We should keep moving if we can. Shadowheart, is your knee alright?"

"It's fine," Shadowheart replied breezily. "Not even worth using a spell for."

Enelya nodded, then twisted her braid into a knot and dropped the hood over her hair. "Let's go."

Through the gate and around the wall they went, their weapons sheathed but eyes peeled for trouble. Ahead of them the temple loomed. They could hear the driving beat of a goblin drum from within. 

Enelya wondered, as they began to cross the final, broken bridge to their goal, why this seemed so easy. 

Then the world went black.

#baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #baldurs gate 3 #halsin #bg3 halsin #baldur's gate iii #halsin x tav #baldurs gate 3 fanfiction #bg3 fanfiction #halsin x enelya #enelya #a great and sudden change

[annieandro]

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Little Critter: I'm Sorry

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The Cat In The Hat

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The Jacket I Wear In The Snow

The Gingerbread Bear

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Can I Have A Stegosaurus Mom Can I Please

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[scoutandvioletfan]

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At Night

Sam

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Swimmy

Track Picture Book

My Little Brother

Goggles

ABC Of Cars and Trucks Peter's Chair

Maybe A Monster

Cluck The Captain's Chicken Moving Day For Manuel

Who Will Wake Up Spring

Welcome Roberto, Bienvenido Roberto

I Am A Hunter

Mommies At Work

Tom In The Middle

Play With Me

What Do You Say, Dear

Where Are The Mothers

Will I Have A Friend

I Have A Tree

The Story Grandmother Told

Dandelion

5A and 7B

The Circus Baby

Clyde Of Africa If I Had

Tony and The Toll Collector

I'll Fix Anthony

Ask Mr.Bear

Go Away Dog

Chicken Little Count To Ten

The Snowy Day

Birthday Presents

Whistle For Willie

My Friend John

Katie Goes To Camp

What Is Your Favorite Thing To Touch

What Do I Do

City In The Summer

Dear Uncle Carlos

The Cat Who Thought He Was A Tiger

Six Foolish Fishermen

A Kiss For Little Bear

Corduroy

Some Of The Days Of Everett Anderson

Chicken Soup With Rice

Where The Wild Things Are

The Lorax

Clifford The Big Red Dog

Mr.Uppity

Thomas Snowsuit

My Funny Animal Alphabet

Alexander and The Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

Hideout

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Clifford The Big Red Dog: Tummy Trouble

The Animal Alphabet Book

My Little Pony: Twilight Sparkle's Magical Journey

Horton Hears A Who

Oh The Places You'll Go

Old MacDonald Had A Farm

My Little People School Bus

Socks

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Fluffy Bunnies

Chicka Chicka 123

I Can Read With My Eyes Shut

Barefoot Bear and The Ice Cream Factory

Green Eggs and Ham

The Berenstain Bears and The Attic Treasure

Goodnight Moon

In A People House

The Pigeon Finds A Hot Dog

It's Not Easy Being A Bunny

Parachuting Hamsters and Andy Russell

Mr.Brown Can Moo Can You

Care Bears: Meet The Care Bears

Little Monster At School

Rugrats: The Rugrats Versus The Monkeys

The Pigeon Loves Things That Go

My Little Pony: The Perfect Pumpkin

Pink Panther and Sons: Pinky Saves The Beach Bullies

Monchichi's ABC

Curious George and The Dump Truck

Bad Kitty

Chicka Chicka Boom Boom

Big Bird's New New Nest and Other Goodnight Stories

Little Critter: I'm Sorry

The Foot Book

The Cat In The Hat

Alphapets: Bradley and The Great Swamp Mystery

Curious George At The Parade

The Jacket I Wear In The Snow

The Gingerbread Bear

Blast Off Barefoot Bear

Can I Have A Stegosaurus Mom Can I Please

Sprout's Valley Adventure

Blue Skidoos To The Beach

One Fish Two Fish Red Fish Blue Fish

Richard Scarry's Find Your ABC's

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Bad Kitty Does Not Like Dogs

Spongebob Squarepants: Spongebob Goes To The Doctor

The Backyardians: The Mystery Of The Jeweled Eggs

Shopkins: Lights Camera Shopkins

Llama Llama and The Bully Goat

Posie The Kitten In Pink

Goodnight Sweet Butterflies a Color Dreamland

A Boy, A Dog and A Frog

Disney's Aladdin

ABC Animal Jamboree

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Richard Scarry's Please and Thank You Book

Max and Ruby: Bunny Cakes

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W Is For Woof A Dog Alphabet

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Splat and The School Trip

Blue's Clues: Blue's Bedtime

Scooter Computer and Mr.Chips: The Computer In The Candy Store

How Do You Say It Today, Jesse Bear

A Big Ball Of String

The Cat In The Hat Comes Back

Blue's Cool Idea

Little Bear

The Gruffalo

Q Is For Duck

Sesame Street: A My Name Is Alice An Alphabet Book

Pink Panther and Sons: Fun At The Picnic

Spongebob Squarepants: Ice Cream Time

Alpha Bugs

How Many Bugs In A Box

More Bugs In Boxes

The Day It Rained Hearts

Peppa Pig Class Trip

Socks For Stan

The Three Bears ABC An Alphabet Book

Harry The Dirty Dog

Gummi Bears: Zumi's Magic Spells

Foster's Home For Imaginary Friends: Sidekick Showdown

Foster's Home For Imaginary Friends: Go Goo Go

Foster's Home For Imaginary Friends: Eduardo Goes Extreme

Rainbow Brite: The Risky Rescue

The Care Bears Picnic

The Care Bears: The Mystery Of The Missing Dreams

Fox In Socks

Hop On Pop

Ronald McDonald Alphabet

The Very Hungry Caterpillar

Wuzzles: Bumblelion's Funny Money

Wuzzles: Butterbear's Surprise Guest

Wuzzles: Hippopotamus Goes To Hollywuz

Wuzzles: Eleroo and The Brahma Bullfinch

Thomas and Friends: Thomas and The Treasure and Other Stories

Thomas and Friends: Track Stars 3 Thomas and Friends Stories

Thomas and Friends: Hooray For Thomas and Other Thomas and Friends Stories

The Bernstain Bears: Go Green

The Bernstain Bears: No Girls Allowed

The Bernstain Bears: Computer Trouble

The Bernstain Bears: and Baby Makes Five

Riddles Riddles From A To Z

3 Little Witches Trick Or Treat Halloween The Berenstain Bears and The Tooth Fairy

Spot's Halloween Spot's Halloween Party

Barbie: The Big Splash

Biscuit and Friends A Day At The Aquarium

Biscuit's Birthday

Schoolhouse Rock: 3 Ring Government Sesame Street: Oscar's Rotten Birthday

The Taxi That Hurried

The Wonderful School

You're A Good Sport Charlie Brown

Sesame Street: Grover Goes To School

Master Of The Universe: Castle Grayskull

Master Of The Universe: He Man and Battle Cat

Masters Of The Universe: The Revenge Of Skeletor

Rocky Versus Clubber Lang

Scooby Doo: Scooby Doo and The Mystery Of The Strange Paw Prints

Strawberry Shortcake and Her Friends

Pound Puppies: Fun From A To Z

Barbie: Camping Adventure Barbie: Barbie Goes To The City

Benji Goes Camping

My Little Pony: Lost In The Clouds

Halloween Cats

On The Night You Were Born

The Berenstain Bears: New Baby

Barbie: Soccer Coach

Barbie: The Missing Wedding Dress

Jim Henson Muppets: Trouble With Twins

Jim Henson Muppets: The Wonderful Wagon

Jim Henson Muppets: What A Mess

Spot Loves His Daddy

The Berenstain Bears and The Ghost Of The Forest

The Berenstain Bears and The Spooky Old Tree

Sesame Street: Big Bird Follows The Signs

Alphaoops The Day Z Went First

Sesame Street: How To Be A Grouch

Alphaoops H Is For Halloween

Sesame Street: Cookie Monster and The Cookie Tree

It's A Mystery Charlie Brown

The Berenstain Bears: Go On A Ghost Walk

Fraggle Rock: The Legends Of The Doozer Who Didn't

Muppet Babies: Gonzo Saves London

Pucasso The Cat Who Wanted To Be A Artist

Muppet Babies: Animal Go Bye-Bye

How The Alphabet Came To Be

Muppet Babies: Baby Gonzo's Treasure Hunt

Heathcliff: Pigs Out

Little Critter: Being Thankful

Spot's Birthday Party

Robo Machine Challenge Of The Gobots: Collision Course Comet

Gobots: Battle For Gobotron

The Transformers: Battle For Cybertron

Gobots: Battle Target Earth

Fraggle Rock: What Do Doozers Do

Gerry The Giraffe

Alf: This Place Is A Zoo

Clifford The Big Red Dog: Thanksgiving Parade

Alf: A Day At The Fair

Corduroy's Thanksgiving Muppet Babies: Baby Piggy's Mermaid Tales

Little Critter: Just A Special Thanksgiving

Fraggle Rock: No One Know Where Gobo Goes

Muppet Babies: Gonzo and the Great Race

Fraggle Rock: What's A Fraggle

Muppet Babies: What Is A Gonzo

Spot Love His Mommy

Muppet Babies: Kermit The Hermit

Corduroy Goes To The Doctor

Winnie The Pooh: Pooh Can, Can You

Fantastic Four: The Island Of Dragon

Corduroy's Busy Street

Thomas and Friends: Christmas In Wellsworth

Corduroy's Day

Corduroy's Halloween Hooray For Halloween

Goldilocks and The 3 Bears

Curious George Sonny Says Sorry

The Little Sparrow

Why Anansi Has Eight Thin Legs

The Story Of Rama and Sita

Donald Duck's Christmas Tree

Biscuit's and Friends: A Day At The Aquarium

The Little Red Hen

The 12 Days Of Christmas

Little Owl: ABC and Counting

The 3 Billy Goats Gruff

The Princess and The Pea

Tredicino

Schaefer and The Raccoons: The Mystery Of The Disappearing Forest

The Berenstain Bears: Meet Santa Bear

Care Bears: Where Are You

Care Bears: Caring Contest

Care Bears: What Makes You Happy

Sleepy Kittens

Don't Put Mustard In The Custard

Richard Scarry's Christmas Mice

Corduroy's 4th Of July

Merry Christmas Uncle Scrooge McDuck

Spot's First Christmas The Christmas Helpers

The Poky Little Puppy's First Christmas

Thomas and Friends: Thomas and The Missing Christmas Tree

Once A Mouse

The Little Engine Could

Little Christmas Star

Winnie The Pooh: The Merry Christmas Mystery

The Little Engine That Could and The Snowy Blowy Christmas Merry

Christmas Curious George

Dreams

Two Ducks and a Turtle

Shangool and Mangool

The Hare and The Hedgehog

Please Baby Please

Dinosaur Vs Bedtime

Blue's Starry Night

[mumble-jumble-gallery]

When riding the coattails of song by day, this classy cowpoke makes it out like a bandit under the covered night. After coming out much sweeter than his bittered brother, it's no wonder the Witch left Rhubarb Pie to crumble all on his own. This laid back fella will sweep cookies off their feet with such sweet melodies. Like they say, music is good for the soul and that makes it just as rich on the side.

If you listen closely at times in the evening when the air is at its most crisp and the cows their most poked, one could hear just the softest singing. A song being strummed by the fire as the fella idly sways...almost like...the hunched cookie is entranced in the moment..With head full of nothing more but the lyrics just are popping off, the deep enriched tunes he sings by fire light at his most comforting place makes the late nights less wild. Despite the sweetness that he keeps, forgive a fella for being a bit shy on the side when the rustles start up. Whatever melody he's working on day in and day out still ain't ready to share.

Huh...guess this pie has layers...

---------------------------------------

-As a thief, his bounty isn't much to sneeze at so he's perfectly safe from other more dangerous bandits and bounty hunters though he did nearly turn to crust when he encountered someone truly formidable -Sometimes yah just gotta pick your battles and he ain't going down without a hoedown first -There might be rumors of a place that is a bit more of a daring group which is the kinda crowd he wouldn't want to cross paths with but of course there are...more pressing matters when it comes to curiosity~ After all, one knows how the cats fared :]

-Holds no real purpose but to carry on with only crumbs to his name after the Witch took one bite and spat him right out. Goes to show that there's such thing as TOO much sweetness...just enough dumb luck to get him by alive... -Quite a set of vocals on this one! Seems like something got overlooked during the baking process after a fateful encounter with some wild cake creatures helped the lonesome lad figure out how to have a way with words. Now cake hounds are happily yipping at his heels as he wanders the dusty trail

-Has a brother who runs his own mafia thing and helps with the business through captivating an audience with fancy melodies and even snatching a few sparklies from the more seedy folk. As for a sister? Who can say~

-Don't expect him to be much of a fighter when he likely takes on a more supportive role with his songs relieving stress and can even soothe high-strung emotions. As mellow as he is to be, there's still has a bit of a temper to him that will make the regret all the more sickeningly sweet. 

-Beware the bonk from his banjo if his voice doesn't do the trick 

-Spoils Ruby Barbed Hen to bits! The plucky cluck sweeps up the crumbs that fall from her cookie and tends to him like a mother hen

-With all the nibbles taken out from the get-go, poor guy is kinda a glass cannon physically since his body kinda crumbles a bit with extra force from anywhere else but his back crust. No worries! He patches himself up with some pie filling ointment when the cracks get irritating. Not everything is all bitter greens when he gets sick tattoos as part of the deal. 

-Loves his partners with all of his heart. Gotta be grateful for the ones who yah can take off your shoes around

-----------------------

Gaze upon my cowboy son

Soon his mafia brother shall follow. Maybe. If my brain doesn't betray me again

#Cookie Run #Cookie Run OC #Cookie Run Ovenbreak #Rhubarb Pie Cookie #It's been 84 years since I finally got around to making lore about the running biscuits #Gather 'round for the boy sauce #Oh wow an actual concept and not just an adopt lol/j

[superfluffychickens]

[ID: a video of several chickens picking at a half-eaten ear of corn-on-the-cob on the ground. Most of the chickens are light and medium-brown colored hens, one is a black, brown, and grey hen, and one is a black-and-white rooster. Several of the hens are wearing hen saddles, which are colorful pieces of fabric covering the hens’ backs. The chickens are clucking to each other, and crickets can be heard in the background. End ID.]

Enjoying the leftover corn, grown from my mother’s garden!

#my mom worked so hard and only ended up with 4 or 5 ears of corn #but she overcooked them by accident so they were all chewy instead of crisp #so the chickens got to enjoy them instead #they were tasty though I hope she has better luck next year #chicken #chickens #backyard chickens #chickenblr #farmcore #pet chicken #faverolle chicken #faverolles chicken #rooster #brahma chicken #video

[groundcontrol21]

Sicktember #29

Prompt #29: Lethargy/Exhaustion

Fandom: The Three Musketeers

Title: Midnight Mass

Summary: After spending weeks abed, Aramis swears he is well enough for one little Mass. His brothers aren't so sure.

CW: This takes place at Mass, in a Catholic Church, so applicable religious imagery applies.

It had snowed that afternoon, and the crisp frost crunched beneath the boots of the Musketeers as they walked by lamplight to The Church of Saint-Sulpice. Aramis preferred the Midnight Mass at Saint-Étienne-du-Mont, but Athos reminded him that it was a miracle they were letting him out for any midnight Mass at all, given the chill in the air and the two weeks he had just spent abed coughing out his lungs from pneumonia, so the church closest to the Musketeer garrison would just have to suffice for this Christmas.

Even though the walk to Saint-Sulpice was scarcely all of five minutes, they had bundled Aramis up against the cold in every spare item of winter clothing they had between them. Still, their pace was slower than it should have been owing to Aramis’s lethargic gait, and even in the low light from the streetlamps Athos could see his cheeks beginning to be bitten red from the wind. He resisted the matronly urge to pull the scarf up over the exposed skin of Aramis’s face and was immensely gratified when D’Artagnan did it for him, and thus bore the subsequent grumbling.

When they reached the church, they paused, propping Aramis up against the giant wooden doors to the nave to allow him to catch his breath while the air was still fresh and free of incense. The doors and the nave were lit by large torches, which cast their warm glow all amongst the churchgoers who filed in beside them, the sounds of their chattering evening out into a hymn punctuated by the ringing of the bells overhead. Aramis pulled down the scarf and smiled, and even so all Athos could see was the way the pallor of his face still too closely mirrored the fresh snowfall, all he could think of was the way his fever had broken just two days prior. 

He took his friend by the shoulder. “If you feel too unwell, Aramis, you must promise to tell us and we will escort you back early, alright?”

“Yes, Aramis, there’s no shame in leaving early,” D’Artagnan said, stamping the snow from his boots. “We’d rather that than have to carry you back in a cart.”

“Hell, I’ll stage a diversion if you want me to,” Porthos said with a shrug. “Pretend to faint or something. I don’t mind.”

Aramis rolled his eyes, and Athos had to physically stop himself from bracing him with a hand; he looked so ready to fall. “Cluck, cluck, cluck, that’s all I hear.” At the blank and marginally worried looks he received from his friends, Aramis sighed exasperatedly. “Mother hens, the lot of you!” He waved a gloved hand. “Yes, I promise, I promise, let’s just get inside and sit down.”

Neither Athos nor his fellows mentioned the brief stumble that accompanied Aramis’s directive; they merely gathered him and guided him in through the doors, Athos and Porthos each at a side and D’Artagnan at his back, their arms sure and steady. Athos, also, kept silent about the sheer amount of weight Aramis was leaning into him and allowing him to support, but a quick glance over the man’s head at Porthos told him Porthos had noticed this as well. 

They let Aramis lead them into a pew and they all slid in after him, Athos helping Aramis divest himself of his heavy cloak when his own fingers were too shaky for the task themselves. 

“I mean it,” Athos told him after he had taken the cloak and laid it behind him in the pew. 

“The hardest part is over,” Aramis said, and Athos tried his best not to focus on how quickly his breaths came. “Now I just get to sit here.”

Soon after, the Mass began, and as the priest droned on in saccharine Latin, Athos was reminded of why he had weaseled his way out of accompanying Aramis to every Mass he possibly could. The ceremony held nothing for him, had held nothing for him for a very long time, but tonight, he would be nowhere but here. He thought back to the way he had held Aramis’s fevered body in his arms and pounded his palm in the square of his back, just the way the physician had shown him, to loosen the congestion in his lungs, because he was the only one who could make himself keep doing it even when Aramis sobbed through the pain like a little boy. 

Athos looked down the pew at his brothers and thought of the night Aramis’s fever had been highest, his breathing at its worst, and how they had all gathered at his bedside, bathed his forehead, and held out bowls for him as he coughed and gagged, fearing the worst as they watched him shiver and shake beneath their touch. Then Athos thought of the next day, when Aramis had startled them all out of their exhausted doze with a shriek and a demand to know if he had missed Christmas Mass. Athos had run to him, assured him that he had two days yet until Christmas, and found the man’s skin blessedly cool and slick with sweat.

Just as they had been then, they were all where they needed to be now, though Athos could say the Mass itself meant little more to Porthos and D’Artagnan than it did to him. Still, he could not deny there was a bit of comfort in the familiarity, not in the rite itself but in the feeling of Aramis beside him, in the snatches of whispered Latin Athos could occasionally hear Aramis say on an exhale.  

Athos blinked himself from his trance to realize that he had not heard any such murmurs in a while. He looked beside him to find Aramis fast asleep, his chin tucked against his chest, breaths coming in deep, even puffs. He elbowed Porthos and nodded in the sleeping man’s direction. 

Porthos leaned forward, the pew creaking beneath his shifting weight. “Stubborn bastard,” he mumbled, shaking his head, fondness and worry warring for equal precedence in his voice. “I knew it was too soon for him to be out of bed.”

D’Artagnan leaned forward, too, chewing his lip as he surveyed the situation. “Should we wake him?”

Athos regarded Aramis’s sleeping form another moment, noting again the shadows beneath his eyes. Were it up to him, Athos would let the man sleep there for the duration of the Mass, but he knew Aramis would not abide that. “I’ll give him until the Consecration.”

With that, the three Musketeers sat uneasily back in their pews, casting frequent glances at their friend, who remained unconscious to the ceremony occurring around him. As the priest read the Gospel and Aramis still showed no signs of waking on his own, Athos felt a small pit of apprehension grow in his chest, wondering what his friend’s reaction to having fallen asleep (despite having so desperately needed the rest) at Mass would be.

The priest kissed his book. “Per evangélica dicta, deleántur nostra delícta,” and moved to the creed.

Just as Athos was debating how best to wake Aramis subtly–should he rub the pad of his thumb across his knuckles or would that be too obvious?--Aramis stirred with a deep, expansive inhale, blinking as he reoriented himself to his surroundings. Athos wondered briefly if the man was at all surprised not to wake to the four walls of his room again, but if he was, Aramis did not show it.

The deep breath set off a couple coughs, which Aramis muffled against his hand. They were still far raspier than Athos cared for, but given that Athos had heard what they had sounded like before, Athos chased away his worry, which was aided by the fact that Aramis was actually able to stop coughing now rather than just choke himself into exhaustion. 

When he had stopped coughing, Aramis caught a soft sneeze in his steepled hands. “Heh’shooo!” When he did not lower them, Athos retrieved his own handkerchief from his breast pocket and held it out to Aramis, nudging his friend’s shoulder with his own to get his attention.

Aramis nodded his thanks and took the cloth. Athos looked back ahead to give him privacy, and he did not turn back even when he heard Aramis finish, even when, in his periphery, he saw Aramis turn his gaze away from the Mass and on him, on Porthos, on D’Artagnan, and watch them like they three were the holiest things in the building.

Even from the corner of his eye, and in the twilight of the candles, Athos could see a faint flush on Aramis’s cheeks that foretold a return of his fever in the coming day. Perhaps it was too soon for him to be out of bed, Athos thought, and the worry snaked down his spine again. He turned to Aramis, half-wondering a way to voice this concern, only to find the man beaming at him.

“I’m alright,” he mouthed. “Stop worrying.”

Athos exhaled, a puff of air through his nose, and relaxed back against the pew. 

Aramis leaned forward. “You too, Porthos.”

Athos looked to his side and saw Porthos glance away, caught out. D’Artagnan, too, sat back in his pew and became enraptured with the way his fingers intertwined when his hands folded together.

The priest offered first the bread, then the wine for blessing, but Athos instead trained his eyes on Aramis, watched as his lips moved in perfect cadence as he murmured the benedictions alongside the celebrant. The hazy cloud of incense, swimming before the darkened stained glass windows, gave the moment the air of a dream. And perhaps it was that reason that Athos found himself sending up a prayer of thanks, a prayer as formed and directed as the incense cloud, but a prayer nonetheless, for the presence of his brothers at his side.

#i watched two whole tridentine masses for this #me? get carried away? never #the world needs so much more historic snz fic #sick ara/mis #more muskie snz!!! #my writing #sicktember 2022 #sicktember day 29 #snzfic

[sixtymillionoverdueideas]

coming soon... or eventually - sneak peek of current “muses” at play...?

Credit: Picrew creator duckyora, link here Aikokyū: Puppy-like - Overdoes it - Enthusiastic + Loud Biologically Sakura and Lee’s son in Walking-By; Very much Lee’s son, but somehow with more Puppy Energy. He’s got a little... -clicks tongue- heart-ahoge on the top of his head. Ajikaku may have a reduced, non-moving one as well.

EDIT: IT’S INORAI NOW. INORAI YAMANAKA HERE. ...The first thing I developed for him, as a character, is that instead of his father’s rolling/perpetual lollipop-in-the-mouth, he plays around with actual straight-up glass marbles. Just. One clinking around in his mouth. That is definitely a choking hazard. He carries them around in both a little drawstring bag hanging inside his jacket and in his lunchbox (yes he actually carries a lunchbox around with him, the same lunchbox that he carried around as a kid). He looks rather a lot like his father, except with light golden eyes. He has the Yamanaka Hiden Mind-Body Transfer-Technique jutsu and he’s the worrier-mother hen of his friend group - he packs things with himself in case for people like lunches and packs of tissues (like Genma, as Genma’s friend cluck and chuckle).

PERSONALITY: Worrier - respectful + polite - Drank his Respect Women Juice This Morning - Responsible - Team Leader of his Genin group which happens to be Ino-Shika-Cho

Ajikaku: The Only One of the SakuSaiLee children to actually inherit Sai’s Super Ninja Art -  Beast Imitating Drawing. Oh sure, Utsukushinagare likes to sketch for fun (and has Sai’s artistic skill and style) and can use, not create seals alright, but Ajikaku’s the one who is actively learning how to use seals (planning on becoming a future Seals-Master) and Super Ninja Art: Beast Scrolls. They’re the one with peachy (more of an orange-tan-pinkish mix than straight-up Peach Pink) hair and blue eyes - (rich? probably. ocean? or cobalt, now here’s the choice...). Not as easily charming or socially adept as their brothers, Ajikaku is somewhat socially awkward and nervous as a result. Color palette for wardrobe is a mix of light spring green, a light-medium blue, offwhite (probably a light jacket), and mmaybe a peachy orange-pink (not much). They are genderfluid and use they/he/she in that order of commonness!! Ajikaku likes wearing dresses (though they get terribly flustered/embarrassed over them...) and jean-shorts, cable-knit sweaters and hightops. Somehow they’re hitting an Aesthetic and I don’t even know why. Personality: Quiet - socially somewhat nervous - Exudes (some) Glasses Nerd Energy Despite Never Having Glasses

(Tentative name): Kanega Aburame (rainfall - moth), aka Shino Aburame’’s biological son (he’s a single father and he was born from an unimportant surrogate shinobi mother -- as far as everyone cares, there is no mother and it doesn’t matter). Not rlly a muse (?, !) but we need to put down his information somewhere so here it is.  PERSONALITY: Calm - diplomatic - respectful (and ig polite... though he does sometimes be a little blunt just like his father and the Aburame Clan) -  Drank his Respect Women Juice This Morning

#Misc. #characters tagged: #ajikaku and aikokyū and whoever ino/omoi's son is and quartz #walking-by! content #kanega aburame?? #snippets - definitely not enough

[casuallyimagining]

Fix You (1)

hybrid!Min Yoongi x female!reader

Summary: When you take in a stray cat, you have no idea he’s secretly a hybrid trying to escape his past. Can you help him heal?  Genre: hurt/comfort, angst, slow burn, fluff Word Count: 3,660 Rating: M Warnings (may not appear in every part): minor character is a dick to animals, mentions of a gun, main character injury (non-serious), discussion of physical abuse, emotional abuse, discussion of sexual abuse, discussion of self-harm

Notes: This is for the March project for @thebtswritersclub. The prompt word was ‘adventure’ and I mean, what’s more of an adventure than adopting a pet? Banner by @birbdae; thanks to @voiceswithoutlips, @taetaesbaebaepsae​, @hoebii​ and @aroseforyoongi for editing various parts of this for me.

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“That cat got into Rick’s chickens again. Killed a couple chicks. He said he’s going to kill it if he sees it on his property.”

Your dad had said it nonchalantly, barely glancing over his newspaper. Without a second thought, you were out the door. There was no way to be sure, not really, but the sinking feeling in your stomach made you run a little faster down your parents’ driveway.

You could have sworn you saw that cat slinking under Rick’s fence on your walk earlier.

Rick’s property neighbored that of your parents, but you wouldn’t necessarily consider him their neighbor. If you stood on their front porch, you could just barely make out Rick’s house through the stand of trees that served as the property line. Your parents had chosen to let their piece of the world be natural, carving out just enough space for a house and a decent sized yard all those years ago. It had made for some great childhood adventures in the woods: pretending fairies were real, living out your childhood fantasies of being some sort of wizard, making friends with the trees--normal kid stuff.

Rick, on the other hand, had turned his land into farmland, even though he neither farmed nor cared for the land. The vast rolling fields of Rick’s “farm” were mostly bare. He had a pond in one corner on the other side of the property, and he had a small cabin for hunting when game season started. Mostly, though, Rick raised chickens. Annoying things, the chickens were, not unlike Rick himself. It wasn’t uncommon to hear the hens’ incessant clucking from your parents’ house, and the roosters never seemed to shut up.

When you moved to the city to attend college, you were elated to get away from the chickens.

According to your dad, the cat had showed up in the woods a few weeks ago, and it had made an enemy out of Rick almost immediately. The poor thing was skinny--too skinny, like it had been living on the streets for a while--and though its dark fur was ruddy and matted, you could tell it would be a beautiful onyx if taken care of.

As you got closer to Rick’s farm, you heard barking and a sharp yowl, and you hurried in the direction of the sounds, afraid of what you’d find. Rounding the corner of the chicken coop, you gasped in horror.

Rick stood with his back to you, shotgun in his hands. His dog, an old bird hound with caramel spotted fur, had the cat clutched in his mouth, the dog’s teeth sunk directly into the cat’s shoulder. The cat, to its credit, had puffed itself up greatly, its tail nearly double its normal size. It was growling and hissing, and, despite the pain it was almost certainly in, was swiping at the dog with its front claws.

“Call your dog off, Rick.” Your voice was steadier than you thought it would be. You were out of breath from the run over there, and being anywhere near Rick with a gun and his snarling dog made you a little uneasy.

“Fuck off.” The man barely turned his head to you. “Damn cat’s been a pain in my ass since someone dumped it here. It killed four of my chicks.”

“Look at it. Of course it’s going after your chickens. You don’t keep them in their coop. It’s starving.”

“Damn thing should stay at your soft-ass parents’ house if it wants handouts.” Rick cocked his gun, pointing it at the cat. The cat’s copper eyes flashed to Rick at the sound. It looked terrified.

The fact that it knew what a gun was and knew to be afraid of it broke your heart a little bit.

“Call off the dog,” you said again, taking a step toward him, hands splayed out in front of you placatingly. “Calm down. I’ll get the cat out of your hair, and you won’t have to worry about it again.”

“Ain’t going to replace my chickens.” Rick’s voice was gruff, but he lowered the gun.

“I’ll pay for your chickens. Just call off your dog.”

He stared at the cat, the gun clutched in his hands but no longer pointing it at anything. For a second, you thought he was going to sicc the dog on the poor thing just to spite you and make a point. You had a feeling he was the type of person to do that. But after a tense stare down, he whistled through his teeth.

“Drop it,” he commanded the dog. The dog looked to its owner, and he repeated the command. It took a second, but the dog released its bite, and the cat slumped to the ground. Rick regarded the cat with a sneer before turning to you. “Take care of that thing. If I see it on my property one more time, it won’t be so lucky.”

You nodded tensely, and he whistled again. The dog trotted over to Rick’s side and the two walked off. You stared after him for a moment. A pained yowl drew your attention back to the cat.

The cat looked angry, and you didn’t blame it. Its tail was still puffed up, and you could tell that if it hadn’t just been attacked by a dog, its hackles would be straight up. Its copper eyes glared at you, its ears flat against its head. You approached cautiously, and it growled deeply in its throat.

“Hey, it’s okay,” you soothed, crouching down to make yourself less threatening. “I’m going to get you help. Is that okay?”

The cat hissed at you and attempted to back away. It made two limping steps before collapsing into the mud around the coop.

“That’s alright. It’s okay.” You sighed, unsure of your next steps. You didn’t want to traumatize the cat by coming any closer, and you really didn’t want to risk injuring it further by picking it up and having it fight you.

You looked at the cat, blinking slowly when you accidentally made eye contact with it. You had read somewhere that blinking was a way to show a cat that you weren’t a threat, and though you felt kind of silly, at this point, you were willing to try anything.

“What am I going to do with you, kitty?” you questioned, sitting down in the mud. The cat looked at you curiously, as if asking what the fuck you were doing. “I don’t want Rick to hurt you,” you confessed. “I’d like to take you somewhere safe.”

Truthfully, that was part of the reason why you were even visiting your parents. Your mom had told you about the cat, and how it didn’t seem to be wearing any collar, and while you were visiting them you wanted to try to trap it, either to bring it to live with you, or to take it to a nice shelter where it could get a good meal and hopefully find a nice family.

“Can I take you to the vet, at least?” You really were desperate, talking to the cat as if it understood what you were saying. The cat, to its credit, looked at you, copper eyes staring into your face before it blinked, just once, slowly and deliberately.

When you reached out to it, it didn’t growl.

You stood and approached the cat, doing your best not to make any sudden moves. You scooped it up gently, careful not to jostle his left shoulder too much, and cradled it close to your chest.

The walk back to your parents’ house was slow, but the trip to the vet was even slower.

It was a weekend, so the vet in your parents’ sleepy little suburb was closed. You had no choice but to pack your bags back up and make the trek home to the city to take the cat to the 24/7 emergency veterinary hospital.

You tapped your hand on the steering wheel. Traffic wasn’t usually this terrible on a weekend, but there was some sort of sporting event happening, so of course, all the roads into the city were clogged.

Stopped at a red light, you spared a glance toward your passenger seat. The cat laid on his side--it was a him, your mother had confirmed--his breathing labored. You could tell he was still on edge. His tail was still puffed up like a cat-of-nine-tails, and he kept eyeing you warily. But he had let you wrap him in a blanket and carry him to your car, and he had stayed on the seat, almost like he knew it was the safest place for him.

“Almost there, kitty,” you mumbled, changing lanes, finally free of the congestion. “Hang on just a little longer.”

Thankfully, the vet wasn’t busy, and you were able to get in with the assistant almost right away. You explained everything that had happened to her as she examined the cat, tutting slightly as she checked his shoulder.

“There are some punctures, but nothing that’s too worrying. I can bandage it and give you some antibiotics.” The assistant pulled her hand back as the cat swatted at her for touching his shoulder a little too forcefully. “Do you know if he has an owner? It would be helpful to know his shot records.”

You shook your head. “He just showed up in the woods one day.”

“We’ll get him a full round of vaccines, then, too.” Copper eyes met yours, and for a second, you thought you saw a look of concern cross them. But then he blinked, and it was gone.

The vet ordered an MRI, and thankfully, because it was a large veterinary hospital connected with the local university, they were able to do it the same day. So you ended up staying at the vet for two hours as they anesthetized the cat and did the scan. While the cat was waking up, the vet called you into the exam room.

“We checked for a microchip, and there was none,” the vet--Dr. Jung--informed you, his brow furrowed. “Based on the cat’s malnutrition and the condition of the coat, it’s likely he was a stray for at least a few months.” You nodded. The poor cat. “We should have the MRI results soon. I’ll give you a call in a few hours once I get a chance to read them. Normally, since he’s a stray, we would contact our foster network to see if anyone would be able to take him in. But since you brought him in-”

“I’ll keep him,” you said quickly. You were planning on it anyway. Just because he was hurt didn’t mean you were willing to give him up.

“Good.” Dr. Jung smiled at you. “My assistant is wrapping his shoulder now, and we’d like to just monitor him for a few more minutes to make sure he’s coming out of the anesthesia well, but you should be clear to take him home after that.” He placed a box on the table between you. “This is Clavamox. One millilitre twice a day for seven days. I don’t think he’ll develop an infection, but since he was so dirty, I think it’s probably better to be safe.” You nodded and pocketed the box. “We also gave him a rabies shot while he was here. It’s standard because he was bitten. If you notice any symptoms, please call us immediately. Once he’s feeling better, we can get him the rest of the vaccines he needs.”

You nodded. This was a lot all at once. And you didn’t even know what you wanted to call the cat yet.

Dr. Jung seemed to be able to tell you were feeling overwhelmed, because he offered you a comforting smile and patted your shoulder. “I’m going to go check on him. You can come if you want.”

As soon as you entered the room, groggy copper eyes were on you. The poor thing looked stoned out of his mind, but there was recognition there, and that gave you some comfort. At least he wasn’t glaring at you anymore. Dr. Jung’s assistant had wrapped his shoulder, so he had a bandage from his upper left front leg wrapped all the way around his chest and up around his shoulders.

“What are we going to do with you, kitty?” you questioned softly, reaching out and gently placing your hand on his head.

After checking the cat’s vitals one last time, Dr. Jung let you leave.

He was limp in your arms as you carried him into your apartment, still a little drugged up from the anesthesia. The whole way back to your apartment, he had sat in the passenger seat and looked out the window like a drunk, moody college student.

“It’s up to you if you want to stay, kitty,” you told him, gently laying him down on your couch as soon as you kicked your shoes off. Of course you wanted to keep him. You had grown attached to him in the few hours you had been with him. But if he was miserable, you were willing to help him find somewhere that was more suited for his needs.

He tried to stand, succeeding only long enough to give a dramatic wobble before collapsing back into the overstuffed cushion. While he was completely recovered from the anesthesia, Dr. Jung had warned you that the cat might be feeling the side effects for a day or so. You reached out to pet him, but his copper eyes slanted into a glare, and you pulled back.

Assuming the cat was hungry, you left him alone and headed into the kitchen. You had some chicken in the fridge, and you thought maybe he would enjoy some fresh meat he didn’t have to steal. You weren’t sure when his last real meal was, so you wanted to go easy on his digestive system until you knew he was feeling better. You’d have to stop and get cat food at some point, but for now, chicken would do.

You did your best to trim off all the fat from the chicken breast. You knew he wouldn’t mind eating it--cats ate weirder things from fresh kills, after all--but you figured with how thin he was, lean meat would probably be better. Carefully, you cut it up into small, easy-to-chew chunks and put some on a plate, wrapping the rest and putting it into the fridge for later. You used a dropper to evenly spread the required dose of the antibiotics onto the chicken in hopes that it would make it easier to give him the medicine.

Returning to the living room, you noticed that the cat hadn’t moved aside from doing his best to curl up as small as possible in the corner of the couch. You tried not to make eye contact with him as you pulled the blanket from the back of the couch and draped it on the cushions. You weren’t particularly keen on having raw chicken all over your furniture, but you sat the plate on the blanket anyway. There was no way you trusted the cat to be able to jump down off your couch at this point.

“Here’s some chicken, kitty.” You gestured toward the plate, and he eyed it warily, unmoving. You supposed he would feel more comfortable eating if you weren’t in the room. “Don’t leave it too long--it’ll go bad. I have to go do some work. I’ll be in my office if you need me. It’s just down the hall.”  As you stood up, you paused. You were talking to a cat. You were talking to a cat as if it could understand exactly what you were saying.

Maybe your parents were right. Maybe you had been living alone for too long.

Your mother had suggested you get a hybrid when you first moved to the city--a nice, loyal, protective one, like a German shepherd hybrid or a golden retriever--but you had never gone further than passively looking.

You were happy for the hybrids. A majority of them were still owned, but they could move about their lives freely and without question. It was illegal to treat them as servants, and all ownership had to be consensual, though you weren’t sure how well those rules were enforced. You didn’t really understand how someone could just own a hybrid--they were people, after all, even if their DNA was a little altered. It was weird to you, owning another sentient being like that.

Their lives were certainly much better than they had been. Some hybrids were naturally occurring, but others--a majority of them--had been created by rich and powerful individuals and the government in secret during some shady human experiments in the early 20th century. And, of course, because they were experiments, it created a whole host of problems regarding rights and discrimination.

But despite all the improvements, there was still a long way to go. There was nothing wrong with owning a hybrid if it was consensual, but that didn’t mean you were necessarily comfortable with it.

After a few hours of sitting at your desk working on your most recent graphic design project for work, you turned away and stretched. If you had to stare at the color chartreuse for ten more minutes, you thought you would go blind. It was time to check on the cat anyway, and you wanted to make sure you threw away any chicken that was left on the plate you had given him so he wouldn’t get sick.

When you entered the living room, you were immediately confused. The cat was gone, but so was your blanket. The plate was still on the couch, almost exactly where you left it, but it was entirely empty. Wonderful. You had taken in some sort of Houdini cat.

You grabbed the plate and put it in the sink, trying to look for your blanket as you went. You found it when you returned to the living room, the corner sticking out from under your TV stand. There was just enough space between the bottom shelf and the floor for the cat to fit under, and apparently he had taken the blanket with him. You couldn’t really blame him--it was April, and it was late evening, and your floors were still a little chilly.

“Hey kitty?” you called, bending down to see if you could see him under the shelf. You had thought about it while working, and at this point, you were just going to lean into the whole ‘talking to the cat like he’s a person’ thing. “It’s starting to get late. I’m going to go get ready for bed, okay?” You could just barely see his copper eyes hidden all the way under the TV stand. His pupils were blown wide to capture all the ambient light they could. “You can explore or whatever you’re comfortable with tonight, but please don’t ruin my stuff. Please be a good kitty.”

He blinked once and continued to stare blankly at you.

“Okay, well… if I don’t see you, goodnight.”

You stood and headed off to your bathroom to start your nightly routine. It only took you about a half an hour, but you were soon laying down in bed with your book. You had started it a few days ago, but you were hooked, and you were already almost done with it. The author had managed to somehow insert a space alien robot into today’s modern digital age, and you found it fascinating. You would never look at social media and influencers the same way after reading this book.

It was cozy in your room with the little bedside lamp on, snuggled up in your blankets. Your bed was soft--it was one of those that you could change it using a remote to fit your mood and preference, but you almost always preferred it soft--and you had plenty of blankets and pillows to make it comfortable.

You only had a few pages left when you noticed it, the shadow lingering in the hallway, slowly getting closer to your open bedroom door. It started out against the wall across the hall. When you next looked up after glancing down to your book, the shadow had moved to your doorway. He even had turned his head away like he was pretending it was a coincidence that he had ended up in your room.

He was walking with a slight limp, which was unsurprising given the bandage and the fact that he was attacked not even 12 hours before. He was much more lucid than he was when you first brought him home, though you could tell he was still a little groggy. You didn’t say anything to him--you figured if you did, he would bolt, so you let him do what he wanted.

After a few minutes--maybe 15 or 20--you closed your book quietly, careful not to startle the cat. You glanced at the doorway and didn’t see him, so you put your book on your nightstand and turned off the light. It took you a second, but you snuggled down into the blankets, pulling them tightly around you. You were just about to drift off when you felt it.

Something landed gently on your bed by your feet. It paused for a moment before slowly making its way up the bed to your head, its gait uneven. When it got to the other pillow, it laid down. You risked opening an eye then, and were met with copper eyes staring back at you.

He watched you warily, as if waiting for you to yell or kick him off the bed. When you didn’t, his eyes narrowed, and he slowly allowed himself to lay down, his head on his paws, curled up as best as he could be.

You fell asleep to the sound of him snoring lightly.

As always, your feedback is appreciated. Feel free to pop into my ask box with questions or thoughts about the series. I’d love to hear from you!

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#yoongi x reader #min yoongi #min yoongi x reader #hybrid yoongi #hybrid yoongi x reader #bts hybrid au #hybrid au #thebtswritersclub #yoongi hybrid au #hybrid bts #hybridyoongi #yoongi hybrid #yoongihybrid #yoongi angst #bts angst #min yoongi angst

[falling-pages]

Kissed by Moonlight: Jean Kirschtein x Reader

My first AoT fic for the love of my life <3 Will there be more? Likely--but almost exclusively of him!

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Jean Kirschtein x female Reader

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Modern AU, Jean and Reader live in a cliff beachside town, childhood best friends to lovers, fluff, pining, confession, first kiss

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Reader and Jean are early college, aged roughly 18-20

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It’s 3 a.m. and you’re nowhere close to sleeping when your best friend texts you.

Are you awake?

Your eyes focus on his name headlining the top of your screen. You supposed you should have his contact saved under a nickname, or with emojis, or something indicative of your friendship. But not even his last name appears; it’s just Jean, in standard silver letters, but some part of that makes it more romantic, you think, a wonderful familiarity lost in the simplicity. No need to put on airs with him, no need to pretend your relationship is supposed to be quirky or perfect. Pretentious never suited him.

Of course I am, you type back. Your fingers felt like they might bleed with the weight. I always am when I think of you.

But you back off; you delete the words before your foolish, lovesick heart can get too carried away. If he saw your typing bubble, he doesn’t indicate; his own bubble pops up, sending a caring message within a few seconds.

Because if you’re not, don’t worry about it. Go back to sleep.

A string tugs around your heart and pulls it into your stomach.

I’m awake.

As soon as you hit send he calls you, his handsome face lighting up the pitch black of your phone screen. He wasn’t even aware of this picture of him, you’re pretty sure. His eyes are closed and his head is thrown back, smiling, laughing at a joke Connie made; his face is colored by the orange and pink and yellow of a dying sun, too lost in his own world to realize the beauty that he brought to yours.

While others had embarrassing pictures of their friends sleeping or in ridiculous filters as their contact photos, you weren’t ashamed of this one. He was a serious boy, always under so much stress; he second-guessed himself when he didn’t need to, brilliant brain trapped under so many questions and doubts. It was nice to have a reminder of him smiling, his heart unbound and carefree, if only for you to enjoy.

You admired it a moment more before swiping to accept the call, nestling the phone against your ear. “Hey, J.”

Despite your insomnia, your voice was still rusty. He noticed instantly, clucking his tongue to take on that mother hen tone he so often directed at Connie and Sasha whenever they were doing something dumb. “You said you were awake.”

“I am!”

“Don’t sound like it.”

You sighed, rolling onto your side to nuzzle deeper into your pillow. Sometimes, if you strained really hard, you could make it smell like him. “Well, then I don’t know how else to convince you I am.”

He hummed, dropping the tone. “Sorry. I just worry about you.” The string tightened. “Bad night?”

Not now. Not since I’m talking to you. “No, just...there’s a lot on my mind.” It wasn’t a lie. There always was when it came to him.

“I’m with you on that.” He yawned, and even through the speaker you heard the adorable miniscule moans playing from his throat. “I think I can help.”

“Why are you lecturing me when you’re also awake?” you teased, cut off by his curt laugh.

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll be there in 5.” Just as you nearly hung up, he hastily tagged on, “And give me back my Scouts sweatshirt. You’ve had it for long enough.”

“No promises.”

“Do--”

An elephant never forgets, you thought as you hung up, slamming the phone back down onto your blankets. Running your hands down your face, through your hair, trying to make it look presentable, only to be left needy and frustrated instead. It wasn’t the first time you had stayed up late together, messy with wet hair and soft skin. The friend group had a habit of staying up late with sleepovers and videochatting--and even you and Jean, alone, when Connie and Sasha had passed out after their soda hauls. Like the total Dad friend he was, he made sure everyone else was out before he fell asleep--even lulling your insomniac self into the great beyond with a hand in your hair and gentle words. Sometimes you wondered if even that were a dream, cruel memories implanted by your brain due to intricate fantasies you wove for comfort, but even if they were, they helped calm your heart and rest your mind.

Pulling the covers back was a cruel awakening; the night air was chilling against your skin, goosebumps rising over the ridges of your legs. With a sigh you pulled on some leggings and your shoes, rifling through your closet for his coveted lacrosse sweatshirt. There was good reason as to why it was his favorite, and why you stole it so often. It was thick and cushiony, nearly waterproof, with the wings emblem printed on the front and his last name stitched across the back of the shoulders, warm and cuddly.

For some reason, having Kirschtein embroidered across your back filled you with a sense of security and warmed you to the furthest corners of your heart.

Lights flashed outside your window, and careful to keep your housemates sleeping you opened the screen and snuck out, shimmying down the pipe drain and landing on your feet outside the house. You dashed over to his car and he’s there to greet you, throwing open your door from the inside.

“Hey,” you whispered as soon as you got in, brushing back your hair flyaways from the wind.

Jean leaned over to hug you, keeping his right hand on the wheel while his left arm crossed his body, tucking you close against his neck. His stubbled chin brushed against your forehead. “You came,” he said, releasing you, as if nestled right in the crook of his shoulder wasn’t the most peaceful place on earth.

“We were on the phone less than five minutes ago,” you said, crossing your arms indignantly. “You think I’d ditch you like that?”

“Mmm, maybe, princess.” He flicked your nose before shifting the car back into drive. “You do have a history of flaking on me.”

“That was once, and I had just come back from surgery,” you sputtered, clicking your seatbelt. “I’m sorry I was knocked out and couldn’t answer your text.”

“Yeah, you should be.”

Impossible boy, but damn if you didn’t love him.

Jean cleared his throat as he pulled out of the driveway. You tried to ignore the way his arm rested behind your seat as he looked behind him, ever so cautious, calculating, and caring.

“Where are we going?” you asked, trying to focus on the lights spearing the darkness of night.

“The beach,” he replied, switching on his high-beams. “It’s somewhere I go for peace and quiet. Figured it might work for you, too.”

When he rested his hand on the gearshift, large and tantalizingly warm, it took everything in you not to grab it. He might not even notice, and if he did, would he think much of it? Physical affection was rife in your friend group, from Connie swinging his arms around to Sasha giving headpats for even the tiniest achievements. More than once since childhood you’ve fallen asleep in someone’s arms or had someone’s head in your lap while watching a movie. But in the last year there was an electric charge between you and him, a tension not unwelcome between every glance, as if every almost-touch was worth more than gold; his skin would feel wonderful, but oh, it was that almost-touch, fingertips ghosting over knuckles and lips skimming cheeks, that intoxicated you, made you so desperate for him.

“That sounds nice,” you choked out, giving way to the temptation of his hand so close to your leg. You rest yours on top of his, feather-light dragging against the skin. “Thank you.”

Jean swallowed, but gave you a smile, flipping his hand to cage yours underneath his, molding it against the knob of his gearshift. After that he kept his eyes on the road, but it gave you a pass to stare at him, how the moonlight illuminated his features.

The sweet smell of a barbershop filled the air, mingling with the salty spray from the cliffside ocean just to your left. It led you to examine his hair--swept back underneath his backwards baseball cap, his undercut fresh and fuzzy beneath. Where could he have gotten his hair cut at 3 a.m.? He’d likely never tell you, and you’d likely never know, but that was his little mystery to contain, just as you had your own.

Light glinted off the black studs in his ears and the silver chain hooked around his neck. A devil in the details but an angel in this car. Why was he so dressed up so late at night, when you were still in your pajamas? Had he even gone to bed?

Like a good boy he kept his eyes on the road, the only communication when he squeezed your hand when he used it to change gears. He swore he’d teach you how to drive his car one day, but you sensed he liked the control it gave him. He was competitive, if those detention slips and fistfights with Eren taught you anything. He liked being in the know.

Plus, not just anyone drove his car.

Tension mounted until you thought it would break, snapping like steel, but before it could he was smoothing the car to a stop and shifting your hand into park. Ever the gentleman, he got out first and hopped over the hood to your side, opening it with ease. The absence of his hand on yours was sobering, but then he extended it again to help you out of the car, reviving the butterflies, and held it as he led you to the front.

“This ground’s uneven,” he muttered, like it could excuse his actions. “Don’t trip.”

A fall off this cliff would mean certain death, so it was nice he cared. “So considerate,” you whispered, only met with his scoff.

“Yeah, well, if I didn’t have you, then I would be stuck with Connie and Sasha alone,” he moaned. “And don’t get me wrong, I love them to death, but sometimes I need peace and quiet, and you provide that for me. So no, I don’t want you tripping over your own ass and falling off a cliff.”

He flexed his hand so you could feel his strength. A rush washed over you. He trusted himself to keep you safe, and you trusted him, so much that if you had to choose him or the sun, you’d bask in his warmth every single day.

“Thanks. That means a lot.” It was the quietest mumble, but he heard it, deftly running his thumb over your knuckles before pulling away.

By now you were both comfortably settled against the hood of his car, facing the horizon over the edge of the cliff. A familiar spot, though tucked away and hidden from sight of most roads, but stunning, worth the seclusion for the moonrise it allowed you to see. Darkness faded in the light of the moon, bright though crescented, stitched among a canvas of stars above an azure blue sea, stretching out to the end of the world. Almost its own proper working galaxy, a private show from the cosmos that Jean wanted to share with you. At this elevation, you felt like you could reach out and wrap a star in your palm.

If he came here often to think...did this somehow remind him of you?

“This is…perfect,” you said, all air stolen from your lungs at the sight before you. He had somehow both caused and cured your insomnia.

Unbeknownst to you, his gaze lingered on your face, memorizing how wide your smile was, how your features were awash in moonlight, glazed in silver and dripping with saline. And to think he had caused it, he had done something as simple as driving you to a new spot had caused you so much happiness, tugged his stomach in a funny type of way.

“I wanted to share this with you,” he admitted. “I thought it might help.”

“Oh, Jean.” You turned to him, eyes aglow with candelight. “Thank you.”

Just the way you said his name sent a sharp feeling digging into his sides, satisfying, like reaching an itch he couldn’t quite scratch. A million thoughts leapt from his brain onto his tongue--You’re beautiful, I want you, I love you--but he swallowed them down like medicine, letting them burn like lead. If you didn’t feel the same, it would ruin a beautiful moment. He couldn’t do that to you. Not on this night. Not in this special place.

“You’re shivering,” he whispered, and he took off his outer shirt, a button-down one size too big that acted like a jacket over his henley tee, to drape loosely around your shoulders. He liked to layer his outfits; they were like barriers to his heart, yet he shed these layers to keep you warm, to keep you close to him.

“We can share the warmth,” you offered, tilting closer until your head rested against his shoulder and you could feel the nervous breath stuttering in his lungs.

He allowed his eyes to drift down your body, settling on the team logo emblazoned on your chest. The sweater was much too big on you, made for his broad shoulders and not your frame, but it suited you. He smirked, wrapping an arm around your waist, keeping you close--even sitting sedentary, the cliff worried him.

“You’re wearing my sweatshirt.”

“Yep.” You slide the sleeves over your hands, cushioning them to slap at him playfully.

He laughed, dodging your attacks but nimbly grabbing your wrists by the joint. “I’m not getting it back, am I,” he said, more of a defeated statement of fact than a question.

You giggled, and facing him from this angle, it’s like you were wearing the moon as a tiara. “Not unless you wanna see what’s underneath.”

Jean blinked, careful not to betray his surprise, “You’re saucy for three in the morning. What’s gotten into you?”

The playfulness in your core dies down, replaced with that familiar gnawing whenever his skin brushed yours. “Couldn’t sleep,” you shrugged.

When you shimmied your hips, Jean lifted you by the waist and helped you sit on the hood. He leaned back, using his hands to support himself, and despite your new elevation, he stood, all six-foot-two of him, towering over you. You balled your fists, pretending the sight didn’t make your knees weak.

“You know if you can’t sleep, you can always call me, right?” he asked carefully, keeping his eyes on the horizon.

“I don’t wanna bother you. You deserve to sleep, too.”

“You’re more important to me than that.” A hasty swallow, a breathy laugh. “Besides, everyone thinks I’m a big grump anyways, so it only adds to my image.”

“They only think that because you let them,” you said. “Why don’t you let people in? Why don’t you let them see what I see?”

He turned, hazel eyes charged with energy from the night sky. “What do you see, princess?”

“I see my best friend! I see the boy I grew up with now turned into a man, a man with his own morals and sense of truth and loyalty, who would never, ever leave me behind. I see a man too smart for his own good, someone who is capable and strong but doubts himself!” You’re out of breath, but the words just keep tumbling out. “I see a leader, a go-getter, someone honest and compassionate and true, who would die before he lets his friends down. That’s who I see, Jean, I see you as the man I fell in love with and I have no idea where I would be without you in my life.”

Somehow your hands had become entangled around his shoulders, pressing hot against his neck before sliding up his jaw to cup his cheeks, making him look at you shining with tears and love and moonlight. It spilled out of you like water, though your eyes were dry.

And that’s when something funny happened. He looked like he had just been punched in the gut because he had--you made him feel weak, stabbed right through the chink in the armor he so tightly fastened around his heart, but instead of deflating at the intrusion, he blossomed; with you his heart swelled till it burst, showering you in love and adoration and something shining brighter than the moon watching above your heads.

“I thought I’d never hear you say those words,” he gasped, laughing as he leaned his forehead down into yours. “I really--I didn’t--”

“Say what words?” you asked innocently, needing, bleeding, to hear him say it back.

“I love you. Oh my God, I love you so much, come here.”

Jean pulled you close on the hood and kissed you, so dizzying that it was a bit concerning, considering you two were perched on a cliff, but at that moment it didn’t matter; the moon could have dropped out of orbit, the world could have collapsed, you could have fallen from the sky and it wouldn’t have mattered, not as long as his lips were on yours.

He was warm in the cool night air, frenzied as you two fought with and against each other. It was less of a dance and more of a battle as all the tension from all those years rushed from one and into the other. It was all grabbing hands and knocking teeth and clawing fingers; you knocked off his cap as you tangled in his ash brown hair, and he nearly picked you up with how hard he was holding your waist.

Then, when common sense burrowed itself back into his brain, he leaned away, tongue severing the thin string of saliva tethering you. His absence drew a whimper from you as you struggled to open your eyes, so lost and drunk on this feeling, the feeling of finally and forever.

“Jean…” you whined, but he gently shushed you, trailing his thumb over your chin and swiping against your bottom lip before coming up to your cheekbone and caressing the soft skin.

What kind of man was he, kissing the girl he loved for the first time like a random hook-up at a party?

No, you were worth more than that, and you deserved more than that. He was a romantic, and you were his princess; he had to be gentle with you, soft, now that he held your heart in his hands.

“Most beautiful girl in the world,” he hummed, lightly pressing his lips below your ear, met with goosebumps flooding down your skin. “Let me give you a proper kiss.”

And he did. It was good and proper, sweet yet still feisty--this was more like the waltz you had envisioned sharing with him. In this one soft kiss, he let out every sensitive emotion, cupping your face in his hands as if it were glass, drinking from your lips as if you were a fountain that would never ever run dry.

Soft sighs and sounds escaped your diaphragm as you melted in his hands. You ran your fingers gingerly across his well-muscled biceps, dipping onto his chest, before settling contendly at his waist. Caressing him softly, you laved all the love you could into him, like he was the prize you deserved after a hard-fought life.

This was the I love you kiss.

Jean pulled away with a whisper of your name, dropping another kiss to your forehead before wrapping you up in a suffocating hug. “It feels so good to hold you like this,” he cooed, “in my arms, against my chest. Like...like I’ve always dreamed.” He perched his head on top of yours, humming, stroking up and down your back. “If I could stay right here with you forever, I would.”

“We can.”

“But finals…”

You hushed him with another kiss, one that had him laughing and blushing against your lips.

“Okay,” he grinned. “No finals talk. Not tonight.”

He squeezed you closer as the wind blew harder--the one downside of living on a cliffside beach--and you nosed along his neck. “Are you cold?”

Despite his shaking head, you squirmed out of his embrace and began peeling off the shirt he had given you, but he gently stopped your hands, intertwining them with his.

“Keep it. You look good wearing my clothes,” he said, to which you had a physical reaction to his sincerity.

“Aww, you’re blushing like a rose.” He leaned down and pecked the space between your eyes. “Don’t be embarrassed. ‘S cute, princess.”

“Gonna keep calling me that?”

“Mmmhm.” He kissed the tip of your nose, a self-satisfied smirk playing on his lips. “Because you’re my pretty little flower, my princess. For as long as you’ll have me.”

“That will be a very long time, my love.”

This cliff high above the waves was made for childhood friends, for the lovers who always knew but couldn’t act, for the breathless and wild, for the safe and secure, a place to talk and dream and adore in the other’s arms, kissed by moonlight and blessed by the stars.

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Kofi

#aot #jean kirschtein #jean kirschtein x reader #aot x reader #attack on titan #jean kirschtein x you #snk #snk x reader #attack on titan x reader #jean kirstein

[wri0thesley]

*bursts through the door* Hello Nat, I am here to request some chubby/fat reader smut with Diavolo. Perhaps a more possessive and less reclusive Diavolo who spots reader and has to have them?? Headcanons or a scenario are fine, of course. Thanks!

[opening hours] - diavolo x chubby!reader (4k)

The rules for one special customer at your bakery get you into a situation that you’re not all that mad about, actually.

[NSFW, minors do not interact. Diavolo x Reader. AFAB reader, explicitly fat/chubby. No pronouns used, but Diavolo refers to reader with feminine pet names. Possessive/jealous sex. Power imbalance (he IS the Don of Passione). Brief references to reader’s lack of self-confidence/body-shaming in their past.]

The trouble had started with the bakery's unnofficial opening hours.

You had been told when you started working here that you opened ten minutes earlier than you were supposed to, but only for one specific customer. When you had expressed frustration at not knowing who this customer was and how to identify them, the owner and her son had looked at one another and then back at you.

"You'll know if you meet him," she'd said, eventually - and that was all.

Oh, you're paid for those extra ten minutes, of course - you're paid very well, honestly, for a job that you like working and that pays in all of the leftover sweet treats you'd like at the end of the day. The owner - Francesca - is polite and careful and clucks about you like a mother hen, which is nice considering how far away you feel from home. But after six months of working at the bakery and not coming across this mysterious customer once, you resign yourself to the fate that you're never going to see him.

Things, though, can change in an instant. Tiny little occurrences that feel like nothing at the time can shape your life more than you ever realise. For you, that occurrence had been the morning that the pink-haired man in a crisply pressed suit had walked into the bakery at seven fifty two in the moring and stood by the counter.

At first, he had not spoken. He had simply looked at you, bright green stare coloured with something that made your skin feel hot and prickly. He had rested his fingertips on the counter, tapping black lacquered nails against the glass.

You are used to being looked at. You have been looked at your whole life; generally not favourably. Hell, you have even been looked at behind the counter before, as people snickered behind their hands to their companions that 'no wonder this place sells out of the good stuff so fast, with someone like that working here--'. Your cheeks heat up under the man's intense stare, wondering if he's about to say something to you--

And then, he does say something.

"You're new."

His voice is low and smooth, like fine wine being poured in the dark, and against your will your heart begins to beat a little quicker. You nod. His painted lips curve in a smile that's all danger and elegance.

(It's normal, you tell yourself, to be very aware when someone near you is handsome. It's normal to have your breath taken away, to find yourself shaking a little, to feel warm and strange - and it's even more normal, you think, when you consider that something about this man makes him special.)

"You won't know my usual, then." He says, and you shake your head wordlessly, offering him an apologetic look that seems to amuse him just as much as your newness.

He directs you (cappuccino, cornetto) to his regular, his eyes not leaving you for a moment. It's strange, to be so watched - most customers can't wait to get out of the bakery with their gains tucked neatly under their arms. Very few of them look at you beyond a cursory bark of their order and a nod as they leave. This man, though . . . his eyes do not leave you for a moment.

You bag up the cornetto in one of the pale paper bags and are about to punch the numbers into your cash register, when the man leans over the counter and grabs ahold of your wrist, his grip strong and firm.

Your breath catches at the power with which he restrains you. His suit sleeve rolls up to reveal an intricate tattoo of black inked designs that starts at his wrist and (from what you can see) continues further and further up.

"That won't be necessary, carina." He says, his voice smooth. Your own voice wobbles a little as you reply;

"B-but--"

He raises his eyebrows, clearly amused by whatever it is you're doing. You don't think it's that amusing that you're attempting to get him to pay for what he's bought, but alright then.

"You're cute," he tells you, without flinching. Those lips remain turned up at the corners in a smirk that makes you feel as though you don't know what the hell you're doing. The compliment wraps around you, heated and nervous - men, in your experience, do not often say such things to people who look like you - and certainly not so quickly after meeting you. "Ask Francesca why I don't pay, if you must. Have a good day - I'll see you tomorrow."

You don't realise you've been holding your breath until the door has closed behind him.

You also don't realise how much the promise of seeing him again sounds like a threat.

--------

You find out, incidentally, why he doesn't pay - and the information makes your cheeks flame at how brazen you must have seemed, trying to insist he was going to pay. You tell Francesca exactly what happened and her face creases in concern. At first, you think she's going to tell you off - you wouldn't blame her for firing you, after finding out that you disrespected the Don of Passione like that.

It turns out what she's worried about is the staffing. You are not scheduled to do a morning shift tomorrow. She expresses fear, too, that he spoke to you and smiled at you and stared at you so intently.

"Normally he doesn't look at any of us," she frets. "That's not the kind of man you want the attention of, you know?"

You laugh off her concerns.

"It's probably nothing like that anyway," you tell her. "He was just amused I didn't realise who he was, I guess."

Her worried face does not ease.

--------

(He's not pleased to not see you behind the counter the next morning, Francesca relates to you. He asks after you. He asks your name. He asks when you're next working. And though you know that it's dangerous territory, you cannot help but be flattered).

Diavolo - that's his name, one he gives you over a shared cornetto the fifth time he comes in for his regular order, and it's a name you're told not to repeat to anyone with a gaze so intense that you feel like a butterfly pinned to glass. 

Diavolo looks at you hungrily, like he wants to devour you whole. As if you are an item on the menu that he can purchase at his leisure, and he is merely waiting for the right moment.

You're light-headed and flattered and warm around him, a pulsating edge of danger beating below the surface that you ignore for the sake of enjoying someone being interested in you. Sometimes, the fear grips you as it has so many times before that he's flirting with you as a joke, or you're reading too much into things - and then, he leans across the counter to wipe cream from the corner of your mouth with a thumb or leans in so close to you that you can see the slightest sprinkling of freckles across his cheeks and your breath catches and all of your thoughts go entirely out of the window.

He drops compliments easily to you. He mentions the colour of your eyes, the fullness of your mouth, the way your hair falls - once, he mentions how you fill out the button-up shirt you're wearing with the top three buttons undone with approval clear in his voice and gaze and you go all over hot and nervous and unsure, something that seems to amuse and please him no end.

(It’s hot, in Naples. You were not intending to gather his interest. Still, the next morning you have four buttons undone.)

You think that it's harmess flirting. After all - Diavolo is the Don of Passione. You're nothing compared to him; he is a shrine. A statue in a beautiful garden, with worshipers at his feet. You are a fat bumblebee buzzing past the statue - sated, and comfortable, but inconsequential. You assume you're an amusement to him - just a little distraction in a morning, that's all.

You don't realise how wrong you are until you're on a closing shift one evening with Francesca's son. His name is Stefano, and he's perfectly nice to you, if a touch over-eager - desperate to please. He's a little younger than you, with an earnest face and a rushed way of speaking that means you sometimes have to ask him to calm down. Francesca hints, occasionally, that he has a crush on you - and you laugh it off, as you so often do when anyone expresses any kind of interest in you.

Only, tonight he is more nervous than usual. He messes up people's orders. He spills coffee and espresso and cappuccino left right and centre - his hands shake and he fumbles over the names of regular customers who he's known half of his life.

While you're closing up, you ask him, carefully and delicately, if something is wrong. You don't know what you're expecting, as you and he walk to the front door of the bakery together - but Stefano pauses, and touches your arm.

"I've just been balling up my courage, I guess," he says, twisting his lip to one side.

"For what?" You ask, trying to sound interested though one of your hands is digging deep in your coat pocket to try and find your keys. You swear that you left them there this morning. Your hand moves to your bag. Stefano takes a deep breath.

All at once, his words come out in a jumbled rush.

"To-ask-you-on-a-date."

You blink at him.

"Um," you say, succintly. "To ask . . . me?"

He nods emphatically, moving closer to you. He's about the same height as you, so your noses come too close for comfort - the hand in your bag stays there, limply, as you try and process what he's saying.

"You don't have to answer right now," he says, his voice still pitching erratically. "But yeah, I think you're pretty and nice and I'd just-- I'd really like to take you on a date or something, i-if you think you'd like that? You don't have to! You don't have to answer right now, I just--"

He's babbling, and you're trying to keep the thread of the conversation, your mind working in overdrive - and then he moves his head forward and kisses you. It's a nervous little peck that lasts only a moment, before he steps back with his cheeks flushed red and pulls his coat closer to him.

"Okay, yeah, I'll see you tomorrow--" He says, and then he's stepping out of the door and letting it click shut behind him without even waiting to see how you respond to the kiss.

You're not sure of how to respond, honestly. You stand there, the breath knocked out of you, for a few moments. His lips had been dry and quick on your own, and you hadn't felt . . . to be honest, you hadn't felt anything.

No point dwelling on it. Your fingers scramble around the bottom of your bag for your keys, as you try and ignore that your heart isn't thumping the way that it does when Diavolo is near you. Stefano is a nice boy. He's your boss' son. He isn't, as far as you're aware, engaged in any shady business like you know Diavolo must be--

For God's sake. Your keys are not there. You resign yourself to making your way back to your apartment and trying to beg someone else in the building to let you in so that you can get the key you leave under the plant pot by your front door just in case of things like this as you step outside of the door, locking up the bakery behind you (thank God that key has remained where you thought it was)--

Only to step straight into the warm, solid chest of a man.

Fear seeps through all of your bones as you nervously look up to see what kind of person you have angered. You are already dredging up a thousand apologies when your eyes meet Diavolo's keen, green ones.

He doesn't look how he usually does when he sees you. Ordinarily, he's amused and elegant and pleased in a quiet, self-assured sort of way. Tonight, though . . . tonight, Diavolo's eyes burn hot and bright and angry. There's a ferocity in his face and the set of his mouth that makes you feel like he's captured your ability to breathe in a bottle only he has access to.

He speaks.

"Who does that boy think he is?" He asks you, voice low and cool like black velvet - and then, he leans down and kisses you hungrily, and this time you feel a hundred things.

------

You go with him, heady and intoxicated by the way his mouth had felt upon yours and the way his hand had gone around your waist, squeezing the generous curve of your hip as if he wanted to grip you by them and pin you against a wall right there and then, in the centre of the city. You think, judging by the way he had looked at you when the kiss had broken, he would have - if he had not had an image of mystery to maintain.

Instead, he says (his normally velvet voice hoarse);

"Come home with me."

It is not a question. It's a demand - and luckily for him, you are in no mood to decline. You sit beside him in the back of a car (a screen between you two and the driver), and Diavolo's hands are all over you even there.

"I can barely wait," he murmurs, hungrily, into the curve of your shoulder and neck as he lathes kisses over your throat, marking you with his dark lipstick. "Oh, bella, if you even knew how much I've wanted you--"

It's hard not to be dazzled by the knowledge that he wants you. A man like Diavolo - in his sharp suits and ties, surrounded by servile underlings, rings on his fingers that cost more than you make in a year - wants someone like you. It's hard not to be carried away by how hungrily he mouths at you and how beautiful you feel under that piercing green gaze, when you have not often felt beautiful in your life. Your body in the past has been a source of shame and sadness - under Diavolo's grazing palms and questing fingertips, though, you feel transformed.

You tumble out of the car and are pulled along with impatient hands by Diavolo, not letting you take any moments to enjoy how beautiful his home is. Sure, the pillars are marble and flowers drape from the windows in hues of crimson and purple, but there is a different purpose for the two of you now - you are barely aware of anything around you as you're tugged into the first bedroom Diavolo finds.

You're breathless again as you're tossed on the bed underneath him. Things are moving so quickly - but you have no complaints, as Diavolo immediately has you pinned beneath him, his muscular weight self-assured as he leans over your prone form to beg from you another hungry kiss. His teeth tug at your bottom lip, demanding entrance instead of asking; and you yield to him. His hands grasp your hips, holding you with fervent frustrations bubbling under the surface.

He breaks the kiss to say, every syllable of his words dripping with jealousy.

"You're mine. You know that, don't you?"

You hadn't known it before tonight - but with the way his hands are already going to your uniform, pulling open the buttons with little care (you hear one of them skitter onto the floor), it's no longer a question.

"I didn't," you breathe, and he snorts. His fingertips are cool as he slides them up the curved softness of your stomach, pausing just beneath your breast.

"You will," he vows. "After tonight, carina, you'll realise there's nobody else in the entire world for you but me."

Your body shivers under the promise of his words. You shiver harder as he slides your work shirt off of your shoulders, tugging it away, dropping it on the floor along with the button that you assume you will never see again. As his hands slide into the small of your back, cool where you are boiling warm - and you hear the snap of your bra being undone and suddenly you are bare before him in the room.

He looks down on you in satisfaction.

"There," he coos, his hands covering your breasts (they are not quite large enough to cover the round flesh, but they fill out his grip in a way that seems to please him). "You look much better without the ugly uniform. Something so lovely deserves beautiful things only to adorn them--"

A gasp is bitten back as his thumbs rub your nipples, coaxing the nubs to hardened points. You press your thighs together beneath him, your cheeks heating up at how your body responds to him in gooseflesh and slick.

"You should never have to wear clothes," Diavolo muses, as he gathers himself onto his knees and your work pants are the next to go. "It's a waste, to not have your body where I can see it."

Diavolo lavishes hungry, possessive attention on all of the parts of you that you have never gotten along with. He does it with his hands, massaging and petting and gripping - and then, he leans down and he uses his mouth and you're squirming beneath him, the heat gathering with the wetness between your thighs almost unbearable.

The curves of your hips are mapped out - the soft flesh of your thighs. The pillows of your upper arms, the roundness of your stomach, all of the places you have thought of as fleshy and unattractive seem like a siren's call to Diavolo. He kisses you, leaving marks of his lipstick everywhere - and occasionally, he pulls back and whispers things against your skin that have you hot and needy.

"Mine," he murmurs, as he sucks a blue-purple lovebite into your collarbone.

"Il mio tesoro," he whispers, as he kisses you on the mouth hard and his hands go to strip off his own suit jacket.

"You belong to me," he says, and suddenly he is shirtless and you are staring at the sculpted muscle of his chest and the intricate tattoos on his arms. You have no complaints - you look up at him above you, a big cat playing with his prey, and all you can do is swallow and nod.

"Good," he breathes, "you're going to be so good for me, hmm?" His hands alight on your thighs and you spread them without him asking, displaying the damp patch on your silken underwear and making his eyes darken and his nostrils flare. "For me, amore?"

You avert your gaze and do not answer - but that's enough of an assent for Diavolo. He laughs as his fingers curl into the garment, tugging them down your thighs (you shiver at the sensation of slick fabric clinging, just for a moment, against your sodden folds).

"I'm a lucky man," he says to you. "I've always been lucky, you know . . . but you may very well be my luckiest find."

Your thighs are urged further apart, until Diavolo can settle between them, his weight heavy and self-assured. What is between your thighs, too, is subject to Diavolo's piercing gaze - but he is not critical. He is merely . . . hungry. Intoxicated. You know that, arguably, Diavolo has all of the power here - and yet you cannot help but feel as though it is you who is really in control.

One of his fingers slides over your sex, gathering your slick on his fingers, winning the chase of your hips as he slides from clit to perineum and back again. You pant aloud, a soft whimpering noise falling from your lips against your will.

"Look at you," he murmurs, enthralled. "Look how you respond, all for me--"

Your fingers clench in the sheets beneath you as Diavolo presses one finger inside you, slowly, letting you adjust to the feel of him inside. You know that he is longing to fuck you with them vigorously - you can see it from the set of his shoulders and his mouth. He is practically buzzing with unrestrained tension. But he keeps his calm, pumping the lone finger in and out of you (you are wet enough that the sound echoes around the room, mixing with your laboured breathing). Occasionally, he buries his finger inside you almost to the hilt and you gasp at the cool sensation of one of his rings pressing against your entrance. He looks amused, his lips curved into a smirk - but he remains solid. He does nothing, in fact, until your hips buck up and you whimper;

"I can take another one, please--"

"Good," Diavolo purrs, his voice persuasive. "Of course you can, cara. Yes. You'll take all of me, won't you?" A second finger joins the first, scissoring you open with slow movements. "You're going to be so good for me. You're going to forget about any other person in the world when you're speared on my cock--"

Your body heats up in embarrassment and pleasure all over. The way his fingers rub inside your channel makes you squirm, your hips wriggling underneath him, your lungs barely able to contain your breath. A tight, hot ball of tension is making itself known low in your stomach, familiar and yet unfamiliar all at once.

His thumb brushes over your clit and your body jolts. Diavolo chuckles under his breath and pulls out his fingers, accompanied by a wet gush of your arousal that seems incredibly loud to your ears. You watch as Diavolo brings his fingers to his mouth and his tongue darts out to taste you.

Your lower body gives a throb as he drinks in your slick like fine wine, as he utters forth a low groan of pleasure. He looks at you with dark-lidded eyes.

"Amore," he murmurs, all soft, quiet words with a steel edge. He shifts, and something hot and silky and damp brushes across your thigh that you realise is his cock. That same body part is positioned with his thumb and forefinger, at the tight entrance to your sex. "Just relax . . . I'll have finished making you mine soon enough--"

His hips move. You're pushed open, his cock deep and thick - your hands come to cling to his shoulders instead of the bedsheets, your voice coming out in a broken little wail.

It is not that it hurts. Diavolo has prepared you, and you are slick and needy enough that there's only the briefest stretch of discomfort - but it is more that Diavolo's cock inside you feels so right. You feel so full and possessed and owned, and you never thought you would need and adore it as much as you do.

You feel like nothing more than a piece of Diavolo's property, a treasured jewel that he wants to lock away and keep for himself forever - and you love it. Your legs lock about his hips without him even urging you to, determined to have him sink inside you as deep as he can go - and Diavolo groans chest-deep at the feel of it.

His hips move, sliding his cock deep and then shallow, enjoying the feel of you tightly engulfing him.

"You're perfect," he growls, lowly. "Tight, hot, wet -- and most importantly, cara . . . you’re mine.” He sighs, pressing himself impossibly deeper inside you so that your toes curl. A pleased rumble in the back of his throat. “You feel so good." He pauses, before he says, demanding; "Tell me how I feel."

"B-big," you hiccup out in between breathless moans and soft, needy pants. "L-like you're filling me up--"

"Tell me, little coniglio . . . do you like being filled up by me? Belonging to me? Having me . . ." His fingers skitter over your breasts, leaving hot trails of fire behind him. The heat low inside you is just burning hotter and hotter, your head swimming with all of the new sensations. "Lay my claim on you?"

You nod. You're babbling, your hips stuttering against his. Everything feels far away from you, now - earlier on that night feels like a fever dream. You can't remember how it felt to be anywhere but beneath Diavolo with his cock drilling deep inside you, making you feel needed and claimed and unmistakably his--

"Yes," you cry out, as his other hand moved lower, brushing your stomach, your mound - parting the lips of your sex so his fingers can rub firm circles on your clit.

There's that heat again, threefold - tumbling over and over itself until you feel fireworks set off behind your eyes and Diavolo's cock pumps harder inside you, your channel squeezing and constricting around him inside you. You're so busy coming, in fact, that you almost don't hear him murmur;

"Good. Because it's something you're going to have to get used to now you're mine."

#this . . . got away with me #diavolo x reader #not sfw #writing #afab reader #power imbalance for ts #possessive #jealousy #ladynonon

[londonskies]

Uno Reverse Card

In which the first official snow day has come and you realize just how adorkable your boyfriend is.

The weather had steadily been getting colder the last few days, a light sprinkle of snow here and there, but nothing major. But today, the day had finally come: the first snow day. 

You woke up excited, seeing the amount of snow that had settled from you and Corpse’s bedroom window. Quickly suiting up to go play in the snow like a child before he could even realize what you were doing. 

Your boyfriend however, was not particularly fond of the cold, especially at this rate. The cold made his joints ache even more than they already usually did, so while you frolicked in the snow like a hyperactive child at 8 am, he was content with watching you through the living room window in his cozy sweater, sitting right in front of the blazing fire that warmed him through. 

Now, you could have gone to the backyard where people couldn’t see you (and therefore could not judge you) so you could roll around the snow in peace. However, you started to take care of plants earlier that year and Corpse, the amazing boyfriend that he is, had a greenhouse built so that you and your plants could survive the winter. 

So there he found you, making snow angels on the front lawn, two hours later. 

Your lips were chapped and just about your entire face was red because of the cold, and yet you still had a bright smile on your face and if that wasn’t enough, the constant stream of giggles spilling out from your lips was witness to how much fun you were having, despite having people stop and stare from the sidewalk every ten minutes.

Corpse would have let you have your fun for much longer, but knowing you, you would probably get a really bad cold soon if he doesn’t lure you back into the warmth of the house ASAP. 

From your vantage point, the only thing you saw was a mess of curls, peeking out through the smallest possible opening of the front door, a deep voice yelling out. “I HAVE A CUP OF HOT CHOCOLATE! GET YOUR CUTE ASS IN HERE!” and then the door slammed close. 

Another giggle spilled from your now chapped lips. Knowing Corpse, he was probably moving towards warmth the second he moved to close the door, and if he did, he would now be looking through the gap in the blinds from the fireplace. And what do you know? A glance at the window let you see him doing just that, only he wasn’t just looking, the man was glaring. 

What could you have do- OH!

You snorted and grabbed a handful of snow, chucking it towards the window. It didn’t hit the window (it was too far and you didn’t exactly pack it into a snowball) but it gave the message across. 

Stop glaring at the poor snow Corpsey!

The message back was clear too. 

No. 

Corpse had crossed his arms across his chest and turned away from the window. You were willing to bet your dominant arm that there was probably a pout on his face at the moment too.

Not wanting to give him grief any longer, you stood and brushed the snow off your person, moving to the front door. But when you stepped onto the driveway, you didn’t see that the garden hose had turned on somehow, spilling water onto the concrete that froze over into a thin sheet of ice. 

And you slipped on it, falling onto your back with a loud, Y/n sized thump, 

For a second, you felt disoriented. Damn that hurt! But then, a curly haired, black clad, violently shivering figure peeked down at you. 

Mind you, violently shivering was not an understatement. 

It seemed as if even his curls were shivering, as extreme as his shivering was. He was basically shivering from head to toe, teeth and all. 

Before he could even ask you if you were okay, you were already sitting up and putting mitten covered hands on his cheeks, a frantic quest to warm him up immediately filling you. “Are you okay???” you said almost hysterically. If there was one thing you didn’t want to happen, it was Corpse not feeling well, no matter how mild it was. 

For a few moments, Corpse let you cluck at him like a mother hen, enjoying the warm contrast of your hands to the wind that blew around the both of you. 

And then you had to open your mouth again. “Are you alright?” you said. 

All of a sudden, he caught you off guard by slapping something onto your forehead and then basically sprinting his way back in the house. 

What the heck?

You blinked in bewilderment. I mean, you knew that he was a bit ….. eccentric sometimes, but this forehead slapping thing was new. 

Reaching up, you realized that there was something stuck to your forehead. What the-

An uno card?

You turned it around

An uno reverse card?

What the actual heck??

Like seriously, what is going through hi-

You thought back to your last question: “Are you alright??”

“DID YOU JUST REVERSE CARD ME IN REAL LIFE??” 

“YES!”

Oh My Gosh. This dork!

“CORPSE HOW LONG HAVE YOU BEEN HOLDING ONTO THIS CARD, YOU DORK?!?!” 

“TOO LONG!” 

#corpse husband #corpse_husband #corpse x reader #corpse x y/n #snow day #dork #uno reverse card #in real life #imagine #drabble