#like you can see it’s bones through the blue parts of skin. either as a threat display or courtship

[puppyeared]

Big cat

#ft my poorly drawn monstera leaves for vibe #I was thinking abt shinx and luxray like. I know theyre supposed to be lions but I feel like cheetah or serval would work well too #like with electricity and stuff. wouldnt speed and agility make more sense for an electric type? esp a cat shaped electric type? #maybe it would be ok for luxray to be heavy built because itd be really big by then. but I thought hey it would be cool if its preevolutions #could focus on speed for escaping. escaping and hunting yknow #maybe this is just because I watched a cheetah documentary last night and thought they were cool #I also have a hc that luxray can charge up electricity and make its whole body glow like an x ray #like you can see it’s bones through the blue parts of skin. either as a threat display or courtship #the shinier and bluer the fur is the better you can see the bones. which would mean its feeding itself well #but Im not a biology expert Im just using what I learned from birds LOL #so sososo normal abt luxray line (is my favorite pokemon) #my art #myart #pokemon #illustration #shinx #Luxio #luxray #luxray line

[azullumi]

trying different types of kissing with scaramouche?💔 like forehead, neck kisses, hand or anything at all....

“say yes to heaven” ; wanderer/scaramouche

summary — ultimately, he really does just want to be loved, behind the many layers of him to hide all that yearning and longing. but how can he say it when love, for him, was a synonym to forgiveness; alternatively, different kisses with him, with each one signifying a progressing relationship.

pairing — scaramouche/wanderer (w/ gender-neutral reader) ; could imagine this with either but i wrote this with wanderer in mind

tags — established relationship, fluff, a little bit of angst, not proofread, 1.1k ; ficlet

note — i needed an excuse to write a fic that is just all about kissing him and also comforting him (but still, i hope u like this nonnieee!!)

i. hand

You hold his hand and press small kisses on his knuckles, a little bit ticklish it was for him but he doesn’t retract. The feeling of it makes something in his chest ache with an unfamiliar sensation, and he knows it’s not his heart because he never had any.

You kiss the back of his hand, an intimate gesture, like devotion, like he was something—or someone—that should be adored.

“I am no god.” He was no deity to be worshiped so why are you so gentle to him? He wasn’t made of glass nor is he fragile; he was born from ashes of a burned home, he was carved out of war and winter storms and everything that you could ever pray against, he was a symphony composed of nothing but bad luck and conflicting melodies—he was not the kind people would choose to be around, much less adore.

And as if you bear a part of him in your mind, you understood what he was trying to say, could hear the questions that tormented him, could see the conflicted look on him as he looks at you with a gaze that seems to scrutinize your being when only he is looking for an answer. He tries to look for a crack, a gap in your expression, so that he can look through it and see what you’re really thinking.

“You don’t have to be one to be loved.” You press one last kiss on his hand just as you finished speaking, looking up to him. Indigo blue orbs met yours in a gentle gaze, eyes filled with affection only for the other to drown in. If he could put all that he was feeling, all that he was asking and seeking an answer to, into a simple word, it all condenses to: why?

“Do you still have doubts?” You ask, despite knowing the answer. He opens his mouth only to close it again, looking for the words that he should say but chose to be silent instead. And you smile—not a beaming grin nor a subtle paint on your features, but something gentle and comforting as if you’re assuring him: it’s okay, I understand you. I know you.

“You’re not unloveable.”

Loving him wasn’t the hardest thing to do, it came to you naturally as if breathing but the man thinks otherwise. A burnt child who loves the fire will only hear the fact that he is loveable, people just choose not to.

“How do you know that?” You know him well enough to hear the way his voice trembles at the effort to allow himself to be vulnerable. Long was the fall of the tall and formidable walls that he built around him.

“You’re not unloveable.” You repeat, taking hold of his fingers to kiss his hand once more. “Am I not enough proof of that?”

ii. forehead and cheeks

You cupped his cheeks and kissed his forehead, an unspoken language of tenderness in which he took a long time to understand. When love and affection has finally been given to him after decades of yearning, he’s unsure of how to hold it in his hands—does he gently hold it with both? Every bit overwhelms him to the bone, the gratifying yet intense feeling seeps through his being and settles inside of him in a way that it slowly consumes the crevices of his mind, until all that is left of him is nothing but a starved man who only longs for the feeling of your skin against his own.

There was a flicker of warmth in his expression and he closed his eyes as he relished in your kindness, your hands cradling his cheeks with warmth that coaxed his entire existence, your lips pressing against his forehead softly. Then, you started to pepper his face with small kisses and the man could only surrender to your touch, a dance of vulnerability and intimacy as he crumbled into your hold.

No one has ever come this close to him (a closeness that was a stranger to the pages of his past, a tender note composed solely for him), no one and nothing.

You spoke, murmuring against his skin and close to his lips: “Sunshine.” Humor weaves through your tone, teasing the absurdity of the mismatched title and the man who wears it with subtle grace.

“Don’t call me that.” He snarks yet no bite. It’s ironically funny how you use that nickname on him despite him being the complete contrast of it; he stands as the living paradox of the word itself.

The sound of laughter bubbles up in your throat and you answer, “Why not? It suits you perfectly, don’t you think?”

What else should you call the man who grasps the warmth and tender light in his chest only the sun could give? To be with him was to sit in the autumn sunlight, to sleep in the comfort of your sheets when the rain patters against your window, to walk barefoot on the sand even if it feels like shards of glasses against your sole, to be with him was to simply exist; you’ve never met anyone who had the sun for a soul and he has never met anyone who had the stars in their eyes, and while you had the universe etched on the palm of your hands, he has your name engraved on his.

iii. lips

Your lips ghost against his own, albeit in a tantalizing manner, teasing and quite slow—but he wasn’t a patient man.

“Are you going to kiss me or what?” He whispers and you don't waver at his straightforwardness, having been used to this note. There was no hostility in his tone, just pure and raw desperation and desire to feel you.

You could imagine the eye roll he would give you had he not had his eyes closed at the moment, could imagine the frown on his expression while he spoke and could imagine it faltering soon when you finally kissed him, slow as if to savor the softness of his lips and how it reminds you of spring; he could not properly express the warmth on his chest at the thought of how you love him when he still tasted of heartache and war.

You part from him but remained close, foreheads pressed against one another, breathing heavily, and looking into each other’s eyes. You wanted to tell him that you will find him in every lifetime, but the silence between you two was enough to convey such strong affections that you could hear him respond: And I will love you in each one.

(And he somehow finds himself thinking at the same, this is what he deserves. He’d do these, these vulnerable moments where he lays himself bare for you to touch and hold even if you’ll see the scars and cracks on his skin, the falling and getting hurt despite the fear, the burning and constant searching for something, he’ll do it all over again—if it’s you.)

If someone were to ask him what forgiveness tastes like, he would utter your name—everything that he has ever longed for came in the form of you. And he fears that this longing will last forever even while you’re here, that this longing will grow even when he crumbles to dust, that this longing will outlive this body and weave life into the earth that swallows your existence.

© azullumi — do not plagiarize, copy, repost, nor translate any of my works.

#genshin impact #genshin x reader #genshin imagines #genshin impact x reader #genshin fluff #genshin #scaramouche fluff #scaramouche x you #genshin scaramouche #scaramouche imagines #scaramouche x reader #wanderer scaramouche #genshin wanderer #genshin impact wanderer #wanderer x reader #wanderer fluff #wanderer genshin #azul.writes

[mitsies]

SWEET NOTHINGS - gojo satoru . . this love, he thinks, might just be limitless.

some days are harder than others. today is particularly hard.

it's a cold tuesday night. the sky outside is bluer than blue, like the ocean on a television screen. it's easy for gojo satoru to lose himself on occasions like this.

it's not quiet, but sound is dulled. he hears the traffic outside his all-too-big apartment's window, and he hears the cat next door on the balcony meowing to be let in. but it's all so muffled, like there's water in his ears. the blue skies are suffocating, muting everything that falls under them. the world is underwater. his head feels all wrong.

there's nothing to be done now. he's finished at work, and everything else is covered, too. there is nothing left to distract him from his thoughts tonight. tonight, there are a million things happening in his head, drowning everything else out. tonight, while he is safe at home, he has never felt more at risk. tonight, he is truly, horribly alone.

satoru doesn't remember stepping into the shower. he doesn't remember polishing off the bottle of alcohol that's sitting on the bathroom counter, and thank god he doesn't remember its bitter taste. he doesn't remember the showerhead turning on, either. but at some point, his eyes refocus, and he's sitting on the cold, wet tile of his guest bathroom's shower. it's undecorated. there are no traces of life. not a shampoo bottle or stray hair, or a shaving razor or soap stains. the shower water is freezing. it stings and nips at his skin, a sharp-toothed animal, biting and chilling. if he could focus enough, satoru is sure he'd feel the ice building on his bones, as the water pelts his bareness like a knife into skin.

there are certain things that haunt him. that will always haunt him, it seems. that will be at the back of his mind until he is alone, like they are waiting to catch him. satoru is a man made of sin. he's the epitome of a system made to kill the only people who could even begin to try and understand him. he is the crown jewel of an empire built on blood. and he has seen dozens of people he's loved slip out of his grasp, just like that. oh, of course it's the nights, the nights just like these, where they come back to whisper in his ear. to tell him it's his fault— he already knows. this is redundant. he knows it's all his fault. he can smell the blood on his hands; coppery, metallic, and staining his skin. of course he knows.

satoru, for all his hypervigilance, doesn't notice the footsteps approaching, gently sounding on the bathroom tile. no, he doesn't know you're there until you call his name.

he'd know your voice anywhere. it's a part of him. your voice, saying his name. he likes it when you say it. it makes him feel better, somehow. he thinks you know this too, which is why you say it again. it's less of a question and more of a quiet exclamation. he wonders how this looks to you. a grown man, sitting on the shower floor, trapped in his own head. probably as pathetic as he feels. he should be better. he's 22, and acting like a teenager. he needs to be better. so he plasters on a typical, brazen smile and tips his head to see you. you're difficult to make out through the running water, which runs down the glass. he hopes you don't hear the rasp in his voice when he greets you, "hey."

it's out of character. you know him well enough to know that. maybe satoru would be more embarrassed, and maybe he'd try harder to act like nothing was wrong. but again— you know him. better than anyone else, anymore. you know him and you love him regardless. this much he knows is true, although he questions how much he deserves it. you've seen him through it all before. his good days, his bad ones, too.

his mind is still fuzzy, but you're opening the shower door and turning the water off. you comment about how cold it is, before kneeling down in front of him. your shoes are still on, so he tells you: "your shoes are on."

you give him a look. he knows that look. it's the 'don't question me right now' look. you're so pretty, satoru thinks. you wrinkle your nose when he exhales— he wonders if you smell the drink on his breath. "i was worried."

your hands are warm, so warm, against his cold, damp skin. a gentle touch travels from his shoulder down his arm. you treat him like he's made of glass. it's nice, for a change. he leans into your touch. you frown. "are you drunk?"

"uh.. a few sips."

he likes that you smile. it's a sad smile, but it's still a smile. "such a lightweight, satoru."

there you go, saying his name again. he hopes you touch his arm some more; your hands are so warm. and his wishes are granted, when your gentle touch moves to lift him up off the floor of the shower. he lets himself lean on you, and his face falls to your hair. it still smells the same as it did back in school. kind of floral. he likes your shampoo. maybe he'd steal it later.

you guide him out the shower and he realises just how cold he was. so it's a good thing that you bring him to his bedroom. the pillows smell like your hair. the sheets are soft and warm.

it's by memory, how you navigate his bedroom with ease. you know it like it's your own home. and he supposes that much might be true— you sleep here more than you do your own place. satoru had known you for years now. and he'd loved you years, too. but a couple of years after school, you'd been stationed off in another country to help a struggling community. you were time zones away for far too long. only recently had you returned— half a year ago, now. he hadn't moved house since you left so you'd always have somewhere familiar. he didn't touch the things you'd left, either, anticipating the day you'd come back.

satoru wonders if this is what you'd expected going into a relationship with him. he seems confident, he seems vibrant. you fell in love with his good days. you fell in love with that 99%, who he was 364 days out of the year. did you see the 1%, the 1 day, the bad day, coming? regardless of if you did, you stayed. he feels fuzzy.

you're back by his side now. a towel in hand, you dry his hair with nimble, careful fingers. you treat him like something delicate. like he's important. like he's broken, and like he's allowed to be. you press a kiss to his scalp and say something he doesn't really hear.

"you're so pretty," he mumbles as you pull away. you give him a little smile, and suddenly, satoru is jealous of your bedsheets, and how they can cradle you whilst you sleep. he’s jealous of your nails that get to cling to your fingers. he’s jealous of the scar on your left shoulder, because he wasn’t the one who gave it to you. he is so in love with you it aches. he is so empty, and so full of this love. the paradox makes him sick.

so when your hand trails across his jaw and pulls away, he holds it in place, so you're cradling his face. the pressure of your hand feels nice— he is so drawn to your touch.

"so pretty," he mumbles again, and this time you laugh. with your free hand, you card through his hair, water droplets making your fingers come away wet. "thank you, satoru. thank you."

deftly, you pry his hand off yours so you're free, much to his grumbled protests. you bite your lip to hide the size of the grin that cuts across your cheeks. your lover has always been a funny drunk, when he's not a sad one. usually, the two go hand-in-hand. it makes you sad, seeing him like this. you want nothing but happiness for him forever. you suppose it comes with the territory. you have bad days too. but you're allowed to feel. satoru is the strongest. he's meant to be good always, to protect, to serve, to be everything but not okay forever and ever. so you've come to think of yourself as lucky, to be able to have and hold him through both the good, and the bad.

among the practices you'd picked up in your time abroad, you've learned how to put your love in your touch. grabbing a small jar from the bedside table, a palmful of oil finds itself in your palm. when you'd first shown this to satoru, he'd been delighted— he'd said something along the lines of you being his personal spa treatment, with a gauchely suggestive look. you'd rolled your eyes then. but now, you take your place sitting behind him by the pillows, and he clambers in front of you by instinct. he doesn't move in a straight line and you try not to laugh. his head and shoulders fall into your lap and his eyes flutter up to gaze at you. they're half-lidded, and exhausted. there's a weight behind them that is not visible most days.

hands beginning in his hair, you watch those eyes flutter shut. they squeeze closed for a moment before he lets himself relax into your touch. deftly, with ease, you work through his hair. it's made easy by how much he maintains it— satoru is relentless about his beauty regiments— so it doesn't take long before you shift to his shoulders and upper arms.

his skin is still cold, but you feel it grow warmer beneath your touch. he's tense and rigid, and you take immense pleasure in the way his body loosens like a wire uncoiling. eyes following your hands, you observe him. the freckles on his back and upper arms are like splatters of paint in a canvas. intentionally unintentional, like the speckled on a fawn’s flank. a scar decorates his shoulder blade, from a time before infinity. he is so beautiful, even when he isn't trying. you're sick and full of love.

at some point, his breathing grows even. he's asleep in your lap. you keep rotating between carding through his hair and running your palms across his upper body with the tenderness only a lover could hold. satoru looks peaceful when he sleeps. you wonder what he might be dreaming of. bad dreams, perhaps? you don't think so. not tonight. his brow remains still, and his eyes are shut lightly, not pulled together. you lean down and plant a kiss to his temple.

gojo satoru was only human. and just like any other human, he had his ups and he had his downs. there would always be bad days to chase the good. but he knows, and you know, that there will always be you, too, to help the bad days feel a little better. you are always there to understand, to hold him and help him up, to make everything a little more okay again.

you let him know that it's alright. that tomorrow is a new day. that tomorrow, he can try again. yes, tomorrow will be better, satoru believes, so long as he has you.

this fic is rough, to say the least, but i wanted to celebrate the loml's bday so!! hi!! alternative title: gojo oiled up butt booty naked like the 4th of july

#gojo satoru x reader #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #gojo x reader #gojo satoru #satoru gojo #satoru gojou #jjk imagines #jjk fanfic #jjk fluff #jjk #jujutsu kaisen gojo #jujutsu kaisen gojou #satoru x reader #gojou satoru x reader #reader insert

[pandoras-box0]

|| : Title : 'golden touch'

|| : Characters : aged up! neteyam x metkayina! reader

|| : Contents Warnings : male!body worship; hand job, oral - male receiving; marking; switch! neteyam; fluff; kissing neteyam's gunshot scar; Metkayina warrior! neteyam; brief cum play; newly mated, honeymoon phase couple;

|| : Synopsis : as a newly mated pair, you and neteyam can't keep your hands off each other. what's better than body worshipping your man during fertility season?

Your lips trail down Neteyam's chiseled chest, leaving purple splotches in your wake. Neteyam's chest heaves, pulling air deeply into his lungs as your lips wander him.

You can feel his abdomen quiver under your hand, as it is sprawled out across his azure skin. The bioluminescent beauty marks lead you as you plant an open-mouth kiss anywhere you see a bright freckle.

You and Neteyam are a newly mated pair, and with the breath of fertility season in the air and your fresh union in your minds, the two of you cannot keep your hands to yourself. So when he comes back after a three-day hunting session, you can't help but jump his bones. Not that Neteyam minds any, he can't get enough of you either.

You giggle at the shake of Neteyam's abdomen as pleasure courses through him. You nibble along his pecs, leaving teasing bites across Neteyam's chest. His fangs are embedded into his lips at your wandering mouth that leaves open-mouthed kisses along his skin. Your warm hand rubbing along his cock.

"feels good, 'teyam?" You ask, greenish blue eyes peering down at your lover. Your thick, paddle-like tail sways with anticipation, as your ears pivot to drink up the male's noises. He lets out a shaky breath, and his eyes flutter as the sounds of your wet hand sliding along his dick bless his ears.

Neteyam hand cups your face, where he runs the pad of his thumb over your cheek. Your chin rests on his chest as your keen into his touch, your wrist still working along his lengthy, cock. Using the remnants of his last orgasm to work his cock in your wet grasp.

Your lips are a rosy color, indents of your teeth pressed into your bottom lip. All Neteyam can think about, is how good you look as you pleasure him. Curly hair in a disheveled, sexy mess. "Yes baby, it feels good." The words slip from him with a light, throaty groan, as you massage his cock in your palm.

His eyes convey just how you make him feel. The dilation of his pupil leaves nothing but the thinnest ring of amber, giving you a dangerously lustful (yet loving) gaze. His hand is heavy on the back of your head as he coaxes you to return your mouth to his chest.

Your ears lightly press into your skull as you look along Neteyam's skin. You kiss along every freckle he has, every scar. Every mark that litters his body, you kiss along. Neteyam watches through droopy eyes, as you press kisses along his flesh. Your tail swishes through the air softly, mind filled with your lover and how content you are, the comforting scent you put out permeates through the air and into Neteyam's lungs.

Neteyam's mouth is slightly open to inhale it deeper, waiting til his lungs ache to breathe you out. You kiss along his gunshot scar, a symbol of his hardship. Shudder crawls its way up the both of your spines as your lips make contact.

Your eyes skim across his dark blue skin, where they settle on his eyes. They hold a vulnerable, soft gaze. You never touched that scar outside from times like this, where you'd be leaving kisses along his skin, worshipping the man in his whole. Every part of him, including that part.

Sprawled out on top of Neteyam's body, pooling between his legs, you let go of his throbbing cock to hold yourself up. With the hand that you have on his chest, you reach up to hold his jaw.

You cradle his face in your hand, giving him a comforting touch. Your thumb tugs his bottom lip as you trace your fingers for the bioluminescent freckles on his chin. Your eyes ask if he's okay, eyes flickering to wear your lips are pressed.

You map him like the fishermen map the stars, holding him as gently as your body will allow. He can't help but kiss the heel of your hand, nodding as your eyes give him concern, love, and comfort. He's more than fine, he's never felt better.

You worm your way down, giving a few sporadic and soft kisses to his sternum before drawing further down. Your hand makes quick work of itself, reaching between your bodies to pick up Neteyam's neglected and drooling cock.

Neteyam lets out breathy groans as you pull away to spit on his cock and your fist. You rub along the tip of Neteyam's dick, coating him in the spit that you'd given him. Your tongue swirls along the stripes of Neteyam's abdomen, sucking hickeys onto his skin when you make contact again.

You pay extra attention to the brighter freckles of Neteyam's. The ones that sit around his belly button, just above his pelvis. Your tongue pressed into the brightest one, biting where you are kissing him.

Neteyam is grunting at the feeling of your wet, warm muscle licking along his skin. His grip on the back of your head tightens as you kiss so close to where he needs you. "Lo..lower, paskalin." He practically chokes on the words, as your hands speed up. Neteyam can't help but grow needy for you, grinding up into your hand.

His eyes flutter shut, long lashes kiss his cheeks as you leave open-mouth kisses along his dick. "Oh, Eywa," his hips gyrate, itching for more as you kiss along his blue shaft. You leave small hickies along his cock.

Your pink tongue peaks from behind your lips, as you tilt Neteyam's cock to lick across the bottom of it. Tongue pressed into a vein that dances along his member, before popping one of his squishy and swollen balls in your mouth. You give it a gentle suck, watching as Neteyam writhes underneath you. His large hand gripping your braided-out curls, a sigh leaving his lips. "Fuck, yawne,"

The noises Neteyam makes when you finally take his entire length down your throat are downright sinful. The feeling of your mouth on him, the feeling of your tongue massaging his cock, it's all so much for him. Neteyam's eyes squeeze out of pleasure. You run a comforting hand over his thighs, and when they open, they met your loving gaze. Neteyam can't get enough of you and your golden touch.

2023 © Pandoras-Box0 — all rights reserved. do not repost or recommend my works on any other site. plagiarism will not be tolerated! inspiration is appreciated if credited, reblogs and comments are also appreciated. Minors dni with my content.

|| : Author's notes : I couldn't help myself lmao, I'm not a fluff writer so I don't know if this is any good. @cinetrix thank you for creating the aged up neteyam art 🙏💙 they're masterpieces.

#avatar smut #neteyam sully x y/n #neteyam #neteyam sully #neteyam smut #sage speaks #metkayina reader #jake sully smut #neteyam x reader #jake sully x reader smut #🌿 – strong heart

[yawnderu]

Lamb of God — Nikto x Medic!Reader | Part I

Shot, stabbed, beaten... Mikhail has been through hell countless times, yet no amount of training or experience from years in Spetsnaz could ever prepare him for what Victor Zakhaev did to him. 8 missing nails, multiple new wounds on his already scarred body, and a face so disfigured he could no longer recognize himself— not only was his body broken, but so was his psyche.

His first visit was with the medics, wounds in desperate need of cleaning even with infection starting to set in most of them, the chemical burns on his face already blistering and itching despite being scolded by the medic multiple times for scratching himself. He was a difficult patient to say the least— not wanting anyone to touch his injuries or even look at him, only accepting treatment from the only person who dared confront him.

“'Stop that.” Your request comes in a sharp tone, not wanting him to itch his blistering injuries and make the scarring worse than what you knew it would be. A mumbled ''don't tell me what to do'' makes its way to your ears, though you decide to ignore it when he puts his hands way, adhesive bandages decorating his fingers where the nails had been ripped off.

“Sit up for me.” The man is an aggressive dog that defends himself with fangs bared, yet he somehow listens to your commands— even when he scoffs or grumbles before finally doing what you ask. Your gloved hand goes to his chin as you examine the red skin on his face, noting it was washed when he was first rescued, no residue of the acid left. He mumbles something and you raise an eyebrow, waiting for him to repeat himself.

“Is it gross?” His deep voice asks, accent even rougher with the raw emotion he's feeling. He knows for a fact it's gross, he saw it himself— he has blisters covering over half of his face, still remembering the acid dripping down his face from Zakhaev simply wanting to cause him pain.

“I've seen worse— at least you still have a face.” Being a medic for the military allowed you to see both human cruelty, and the extends injuries could go. You've seen multiple soldiers missing their face, skin pulled and bones poking out of their bodies— Mikhail's injuries aren't the worst you've seen, not even close.

“Your nose doesn't look too weird either, even when I was told it was broken. Your eyes still work, all your limbs are still attached... you'll recover from everything in no time.” You try to keep a positive attitude despite the way his baby blue eyes are staring holes into your head, pupils looking tiny despite the dim light in the room.

“I'm mostly worried about what's going on here.” You tap his head softly and he doesn't take long on pushing your hand away softly, a small smile making way to your lips when you notice how he avoids eye contact for a second before he's back to staring at you. You stare back for a while, trying to decipher what he's feeling before going to grab a cloth, filling a small bucket with cold water and making your way back to him.

“This might hurt a little bit, let me know if you want me to stop and we can take a break.” He looks down at the bucket of water and the cloth you're dipping in, squeezing the excess water as you wait for his approval. He gives you a nod in affirmation, flinching slightly as the cold cloth makes contact with his face. It doesn't hurt as much as he imagined— if anything, it feels almost soothing, the previous ache and itchiness disappearing even if only for a very short while.

“Заканчивай быстрее с этой хернëй.” He mutters under his breath despite how good it actually feels on his injuries, not wanting to get any pity from you.

“Be patient.” It almost feels like he's getting scolded by his nana, faint memories of the old woman cleaning his scrapped knees come to mind, holding onto them to try and stop the bad thoughts from flooding his damaged brain.

“Mikhail.” Your soft voice slowly brings him back to reality, feeling an odd sensation all over his face. His hand goes up to feel his cheeks, only now realizing that you already dressed his wounds. He looks utterly confused, not even remembering you getting gauze, everything happening too suddenly. Now that he thinks about it, he doesn't remember most of the heli flight back home, too busy thinking about... what was he even thinking about?

“Mikhail.” You repeat, one of your gloved hands going to his shoulder in attempts to make him look at you. He's still staring blankly at the floor, just as he has been doing for the past 20 minutes, not responding to his own name.

“Quiet, I hear enough voices.” He brushes you off, finally getting up from the medical bed and quickly leaving your office despite the small limp from the beatings he took for days.

He hears voices? His next stop will have to be with the provided psychiatrist once his body recovers a little bit to test if he's still fit to be part of Spetsnaz, leaving your heart filled with worry until you move onto the next patient, making a mental note to check on him later.

A/N: Mikhail is Nikto's name in this fic, the person he used to be before turning into Никто.

#stray answers #cod mw2 #cod mwii #mw3 nikto #mw2 nikto #nikto cod #nikto x reader #nikto x you #call of duty nikto #cod nikto #nikto x fem!reader #nikto x female!reader #nikto #mwii nikto #nikto call of duty #tw blood #tw violence #tw mental illness #tw injury #medic!reader #nikto x medic!reader #cod mw2 x reader #mw2 x reader #mw2 x you

[dcxdpdabbles]

Hey there! Halfa!cass anon here

Holy shit that was such a good read, I've gone through and re-read it over a dozen times now

Can we please please get a part 2?

When Cass wakes, she knows that something is seriously different about her body. There is a lightness to her bones that she only associates with flying through the air or even leaps during her dance.

The fact she is lying in a bed completely still makes the lightness a worrying sign. Cass doesn't sense anyone else in the room, and if there is, they do a wonderful job hiding from her instincts.

Carefully she cracks open an eye, careful to not move any other part of her body. She does a slow look around taking in the room that for all purposes seems to be a hospital of some kind.

There are even informational posters on the walls, the kind that doctors put up to help citizens with basic hygiene. She can't see any windows, which isn't promising for her if she needs to escape, but there are no restraints on her body.

Despite the weightlessness, there also doesn't seem to be anything wrong with her body that would hnder her movement. If she is being held against her will, then this is an oversight.

Either her captors are underestimating her or there are no captors at all. Cass carefully goes to stand up, trying to stay as silent as possible, when suddenly she finds herself floating.

She panics, attempting to go back down, but the more she moves the higher she goes. She ends up on the ceiling trying desperately to figure out what is happening- is there a telepath in the room? Anti-gravity ray she got hit by?- when the door opens and in steps a man in his early thirties.

He looks around the room, body language screaming worry and confusion before he glances up and makes eye contact with her. At once his face softens, amusement and relief bleeding into his body language.

"Hey there." He says flouting up to her level slowly. "Need some help adjusting?"

"Adjusting?" She asks her voice slightly rough from disuse. "From what?"

The man's smile turns slightly sad. "I'm sorry to have to tell you but you were in an accident and it killed you."

Cass blinks at him and then shakes her head trying to gather her thoughts. She knows that she was electrocuted- it was like a blink had passed since the shock, really and she isn't surprised that it was strong enough to kill her. But she doesn't feel dead.

Doesn't feel much different at all. Does that mean she died quickly? Was that a mercy?

The man must have mistaken her head shake for denial for he only smiles sadder. He pulls out a mirror from his chest- that was only slightly alarming after all she's seen in life- turning it around and showing her reflection.

Or someone who looks like her but is so very obviously not human. Cass reaches up, afraid to touch the dirty silver hair that stands straight up like someone had gone at it with gallons of gel. Her reflection does the same staring back at her with glowing silver eyes Her skin is now an ashy grey, covered in blue Lichtenberg marks like a full body tattoo.

She gasps.

The man's body sings of regret, of sadness for her, but most of all comfort. "You're a ghost now. That's your ghost from. We can work on getting an understanding of your powers at a later date. For now, let me help you set in."

He takes Cass's hand- making sure his movements are slow and allowing her to pull away if she wants. She doesn't. He uses their linked hands to descend back to the ground. It's only then that she notices there is no light in the room- the glowing she had been using to see is coming from her.

Cass is glowing because she is dead and now she is a ghost. Somewhere her corpse is lying in an abandoned town where it will likely stay until her family realizes she hasn't reported in.

She hopes it's not Bruce who finds her. Her dad has already suffered enough. Cass wishes he saved the view of her corpse if only to save him from that heartbreak.

The man leads her towards the door. He is speaking but Cass can't hear a single word that he is saying. Her head is buzzing, she's trying to come to terms with everything so when he pushes open the door she nearly walks right off the edge of a cliff.

"Careful now." The man says yanking her back. Cass swings wild eyes at him, at his flaming white hair and glowing red eyes, before she looks around.

She is shocked to see floating purple islands, each top with a building flying around. The floating islands are close by, barely kept apart by small gaps, gently moving around in the wind.

All around here is green, the sky is the bottomless floor, and even some flying beings are green. If it were not for the few human-like beings she could see jumping to and from between the islands she would think of herself on an alien planet.

"This is the Ghost Zone. We're in Phantom's Keep." Her guide says gesturing around. "The locals call it New Amity Park. Said locals are the humans and Phantom's only rule here is that no one harms the humans. Understand?"

So they were humans. But how did they get to the Ghost Zone? Who was Phantom? Were they the missing people of Amity Park?

Something on her face must have given away her thoughts because the man- a ghost? Is he like Cass- gives her a weary smile. "The humans are stuck here. See a few years back their hometown was attacked by the old King, and were sucked into the Ghost Zone. When Phantom defeated him the town returned but the people couldn't."

Why she wants to ask. Why can't they go home?

He shrugs as if though he heard her question. "You know how if you eat food offered by the Fae you are trapped in their world? Same concept. Phantom has been trying to get them home, but it's been seven years now. Everyone pretty much adjusted to this place."

He nods to the flouting island that proudly proclaims a large mall that is slowly passing overhead. "When they first arrived the humans were all stuck on one large piece of rock that used to be their park. It was Phantom that slowly pulled islands towards them, linking them to a gravitational pull he designed and powered, that let the humans expand into this web-like conany."

Cass thinks back to the large crater in the middle of town. She remembers passing by a half-buried sign that proclaimed "Amity Park" but she never realized it was literally snatched off the ground.

A group of children- likely born after their parents were trapped- jump by, laughing in a carefree way only those with wonder can. They land gracefully on the flouting rocks that form makeshift stairs as they race up toward- an ice cream shop.

Cass realizes those rock stairways are all over, connecting all the parts of the town into one. They all lead to a large green field that a castle sits on. Likely the old park.

""By the way, my name is Dan. I'm in charge of Phantom's Keep while Phantom is away." Dan says. He shrugs at Cass's questioning look, somehow aware of her question without her having to speak it again.

Could ghosts read body language in the same way she could?

"I'm basically the mayor/ enforcer. Phantom stuck me with the job as a form of community service. I can't leave because, like the islands, he trapped me here with a gravitation pull."

Trapped?

Then was this Phantom evil?

Cass opens her mouth to ask- when a strange tightness in her abs makes her jerk to the side. She doubles over, pressing a hand to her stomach and Dan pauses. "Are you alright-"

Twin rings of pure darkness appear, running over Cass's form before vanishing without a trace. At once Cass feels her whole body become heavy- the familar heavy she had known all her life as her balance.

She also realizes that she had been flouting the whole time before she fell to her knees right at the edge, using her hands to cushion her fall. Her now normal human hands- the deadly grey nowhere in sight.

Dan sucks a hiss through his teeth. "You're a halfa."

Cass looks up at him, watching the ghost rub the space between his eyes while his hair flickers around in irritation. "Of course the new ghost I come to welcome turns out to be a halfa. Right when my shift was ending too."

The ghost rolls his shoulders and then sighs "Alright come on. We have to report this development."

Where are we going?

Dan's smile turns sharp. Cass isn't sure she likes "To See the Fentons."

She follows him anyway for she has no other choice. As she hops along the rock stairways down to the castle, she notices multiple people stop to stare at her. Some beings that are obviously not humans- ghosts her mind supplies- gape at her with just as much wonder.

She picked up bits of conversation as she scurried after Dan's floating figure.

"A new human? Has Danny finally found a way home?"

"Maybe she fell through a natural portal. Poor thing"

"Will never see her family again. That's going to be the hardest part. My dad said he was only passing through Amity Park the day it was attacked. My grandparents might still be looking for him."

"If King Phantom leaves, what will happen to ghosts like us? His Keep is the only place that welcomes us!

"Calm yourself, the King never stays on Earth long. Not when his entire family is trapped here like the rest of the humans. We will be safe."

Cass doesn't like the implications of this place one bit

#dcxdpdabbles #dc x dp crossover #Cass the halfa #Part 2 #Cass wakes in her ghost form on the other side #The rest think she is a new ghost #The missing poeple of Amity Park have been claimed by the Zone' #They living life as best they can #While Danny tries to get them home #Dan just wants to clock out #Cass is now a halfa #Do you like her ghost form? #Yes ghost speak in body lauange

[barbieaemond]

Thorns in your mouth

PART 1

PAIRING: Aemond Targaryen x f!reader

WARNINGS: angst, smut, oral sex, a bit of religious kink, a bit of choking

WORD COUNT: 787

Author's note: Widow's blood is poison. This will likely have a third part.

taglist: @zae5 @arcielee @bunbunbl0gs @multyfangirl @chompchompluke

“Until all the roses turn to black.” you said, but they didn’t have the time to either wither or blacken. A fresh new bouquet of white roses is found on your nightstand any other day following the events above Storm’s End.

His lack of regret is also lack of concern. He doesn’t care about the Gods as much as he doesn’t care about the maid knocking while you are sprawled on the chaise as if lying in your tomb, still but feverish, waiting for another death.

“Answer.” he mumbles, with his mouth full of your cunt.

“My lady?” The young woman calls, but the call of his tongue drains you of every will, except the arching of your back, the drops of sweat on your temples. The swirls of his tongue are soft as a rose on your throbbing flesh, sharp as a thorn as he buries it deep inside. One last time and you're melting in a trickle of blood—of bones.

Your hand knots his hair and pulls at the roots, clawing at your need, raw, a wound split open that leaks and pours into his mouth. His name is a curse and a blessing clashing on your tongue, your fingers keep pulling, grasping silver and leather.

A flash of glinting blue before your eyes and you greet it with a smile, as one upon seeing a star. There’s a sneer twisting his mouth, one that you felt curling your own lips countless of times. That sneer is a glimpse into a mirror, a glimpse at your own desire. Ugly, exactly as desire is.

He thrusts inside you with ease, an act that goes almost unnoticed as breathing, but necessary. You're an extension of his body as he grips your waist and starts rutting with a cruel purpose.

“Do you like taunting the gods, don’t you?” he grins watching the seven pointed star stuck with sweat around your neck.

“I like taunting you.”

He wraps his fingers around the thin silver chain and twists, so hard he’s able to lift your head from the cushion.

“Will you get on your knees after this? Will you ask the Gods forgiveness for your sin?”

“I will ask them to give me more of it. I will beg them to make me sin before it vanishes.”

“What?”

“The smell of you on me.”

It does fade away for a few days. Everything fades away except the wailings of the Queen echoing through the walls.

“It’s not your fault.” you whisper in his mouth “It’s not your fault.”

“You’re lying.” he croaks in your neck, guiding your hips to move slower and slower.

“I know, but you believe me.”

Fingers dig in your skin, willing to break you, to tear his grief to pieces. But in the end, he only says “Yes.”

Everything was slipping from his grasp like water. Helaena, Aegon, his mother. You were the only immutable condition. Stable, firm, stone that does not scratch despite the winds, rains and storms that come against it. And he wanted to carve himself into the woven you were made of.

He asked you to stay one night, and the next, and the one after that.

“My husband will grow suspicious.” You said once, lying next to him, your flesh still entangled in one another.

“You could slip some widow’s blood in his cup.”

“To make myself a widow?”

“To make myself your husband.”

“You are.”

“No. I will be when I will fuck you in the royal gardens and no one will spare us a look. I will be when I can come inside you and see you round with my child.”

That was the last night you spent together.

Despite all the careful measures and lies and deceptions, this thing was just as plain as those white roses, plain as Aemond intended it to be. It only took a careful look. A glimpse at how your eyes would find his and his yours. It only took asking the maid to whom she was bringing those bouquets of white roses. And she did ask, Queen Alicent. She did look.

“This thing must end, Aemond. Immediately. We need her husband’s support, his army. Why are you challenging the Gods? Have they not cursed you enough?”

“I thought the Gods had forsaken me by now.”

“You forsook them the moment you succumbed to sin with a married woman.”

“I can assure you, Mother, she’s more my wife than his.”

“Enough! The Gods may have forsaken you but I did not. And I will not let you forsake your family even further.”

And enough it was.

Roses were left to bloom on their branches. While you, and him, withered and blackened.

#liv's drabbles #liv(in la vida loca) #aemond x you #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen #ewan mitchell #aemond x fem!reader #aemond targaryen x you #aemond smut #aemond fic #aemond targaryen smut #aemond targaryen fic #aemond targaryen imagine #aemond targaryen x fem!reader

[shibaraki]

WHAT THE WATER GAVE ME ┊ MIDORIYA IZUKU

synopsis: when your sailboat is caught in a vicious storm you are saved by a whale sized mer that cannot keep his curiosity—nor his affections—at bay.

tags: GN reader, suggestive, merfolk au, giant mer deku, storms + boating accidents, language barrier, a little angst, fluff, near drowning + mild injury (no detailed desc), courting behaviours, modern fantasy, macro/micro, manhandling (literally), hopeful ending

wc: 6.4K

↳ for the mermay collab hosted by the teahouse server! ↰

There’s little you remember. A breeze carrying the taste of sea salt grew bitter and cutting. The gentle lull of the waves slowly grew treacherous. Freezing sheets of grey rain blurred visibility, ocean foaming at the mouth. You lurched as the boat tipped, taking a hit to the head on the main mast. Grappling with consciousness, you recall how your body had been flung into the depths, a sharp and endless cradle; cold enough, kind enough, that you quickly lost all sensation.

Then you’re gasping desperately. When your lungs fill with cool night air relief floods your system. An ache wracks your being, muscles seizing and bones rattling, but the only thing you can think is: I’m alive. I’m alive. I’m alive.

Everything comes back in small pieces. You slump back and clutch at your soaked shirt, wincing at the bruising around your lungs with each breath. Above is a wide open sky littered with stars and the moon hangs high. You notice that you’re floating then; not on the surface of the water but in a steep puddle that stops above your waist, clothes entirely soaked. Surrounding you are… walls?

Adjusted to the darkness, your eyes drag cautiously across them. They are curved like a bowl, and seem oddly shelved, quite similar to a cupped human hand except much bigger. As that thought crosses your mind the upper shelf moves, and the two walls turn inward, opening a small crevice underneath you to let the water spill back into the sea.

And then a soft lucid croon vibrates through the air. You feel it deep in your chest; the sound is soothing, like a mother’s hum, pressing on an old, innate need for comfort.

Gravity swoops through your belly as the structure moves. Down come the walls. They lay slightly flat, though still keeping you in a shallow divot. Your eyes squeeze shut and sting. The storm must have killed you because what is plain to see could only be conjured in a dream.

The size of a small blue whale— neither blue nor whale. A soft jaw and a pale face, cheeked covered in what appeared to be sunspots. Full lips parted to warble in quiet wonder, revealing a set of large sharp teeth. Either side of the creature's neck are diaphanous slits. Gills. Smatterings of luminescent green scales trail beautifully from the throat to the shoulders. You notice a glow on the ocean’s surface, the rest of his form hidden below.

Rocked off balance as their head dips, dark tendrils of hair clinging to skin, you are met with a pair of large pupil-less eyes. Vibrant green speckled with white, full of curiosity. A few clicks and a whistle echoes into the night. Your tongue feels like a slab of lead, cloven to the roof of your mouth, frozen by unadulterated fear.

It's a mer. It must be. Mer sightings are incredibly rare. You’re in the palm of a legend. A giant one at that.

What you now presume to be the mer’s thumb passes over you cautiously. You flinch despite his obvious attempt at telegraphing the movement. To someone your size it still happens a little too fast. The sinew in your neck hurts, wrung with tension as the thumb stops an inch short of your crown. Seconds elapse. There’s a light pressure, liquid streaming down your face, a back and forth motion, a low warbling.

The mer is petting you.

“Wha—?” your voice comes out rasped, painful as it scratches the inside of your throat. Dissolving into a violent coughing fit, you curl forward with arms crossed over your stomach as you vomit, crying out through the sharp stabs in your ribs. Overhead, the mer whines, and you’re prepared this time as his hands move.

“I’m… I’m okay, I think,” you croaked, mostly to yourself, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. The acrid taste of blood and salt lingers in your teeth. Suddenly, a warm gust of air knocks the wind out of you— the tremors too. The soft hair on your arms prickles at the sudden chill as the warmth retreats, but you’re grateful to be a little dryer.

When you glance up the mer is much closer. His face has gentled into sadness. He'd huffed a breath over you the same way one might do to keep their hands warm. You are struck by the thoughtfulness. Unlike the old stories this mer seemed intent on keeping you alive. So far he has treated you softly, albeit clumsily, and tried to comfort you. Understanding settles over you accompanied by a sense of helplessness. To this mer you are probably nothing more than an injured baby bird.

“Did…” you try to speak louder, the words strained. “Did you save me?”

The moonlight kisses him just right. His expression blooms when you speak, a reflexive trill building in his throat to verbalise happiness. Beneath the mass of curls on his head there are two fin shaped ears fluttering. Giant as he may be, the mer is… cute, as well as devastating.

You swallow and wince. It feels like sandpaper. “Can you understand me?” you ask, purposefully slow. Any local information gathered about merfolk was either a lie or rumour. Some say they can understand spoken word and others don’t. Perhaps this mer had migrated from far away where the human tongue is different. Or maybe it was his first time meeting a person. That would explain the enthusiasm.

You’re given a plaintive blink. Membranous lids first, outer lids after. The muted roll of the waves fills the silence as you gaze at one another, nearly forgetting your question all together as you’re pulled in— wading through sea glass depths. Two pulsing clicks ripple across the open water and you startle out of your reverie.

He tips to meet you halfway. You steel yourself, unsteady as you try to stand, and choke a laugh when the creature nudges his nose into your middle. He rumbles a purr, as though pleased by the proximity. You shudder when it resonates pleasantly through your body.

“Okay that’s—dangerous,” you strain a laugh, bracing against his nose. Fatigue threads its way into your muscles. The adrenaline is beginning to wear off and giving way to a harsh headache. Your eyes close, the only mercy being that it is dark out. The mer exhales another hot breath against your lap.

“Guess you won’t be talking anytime soon,” you continue aloud. A weak smile curls at your lips as you recline to look at him better, “Sorry if I don’t make good company”.

Seeing him cross eyed makes you laugh, even through the tenderness, and you stroke your hand against his cheek; so contrivedly real looking that it seems like it must be a trick. Licking the salt water from your lips, you drag your palms from freckle to freckle, forming patterns and constellations. His skin is deceptively soft. Smooth and slippery— like blubber, you can only assume.

“You’re so gorgeous,” you lean into the hum he is emitting, low and supple. You reach with fingertips stretched to skim along his lower lashes. Closer now you see the green hues in his hair where the light reflects. Though he might not be able to understand the language you hoped your reverence would carry through in your tone. You think perhaps it does; a faint red glow stains his fin tipped ears and happy whistles quake through your bones.

The saccharine moment is cut short by something splashing nearby. It sounds big. You startle with a yelp, cowering back into the safety of the mer’s hand. Glancing back over his shoulder, face crinkled and lips thin, you thought he looked almost petulant. How unsettlingly human it is.

Collapsing into a puddle of vertigo, you clutch your head as he suddenly turns. A sad trill reverberates in your skull and you’re sliding, the too-corporeal ground rising to meet you. You land with a thump on damp wood where he puts you down, forcing a pained wheeze from your throat.

Another splash. This time it is followed by a stern wailing call that forces a frantic urgency into the mer’s movements. From above he looks between you and the black horizon, eyes wide and beseeching, as though he wanted to impress his intentions with his gaze. You think you get it.

I’ll be back soon, he’s saying. “Go,” you try to smile and gesture to your surroundings. “It’s not like I can go anywhere anytime soon”.

Relief colours his features. Then he’s gone. Sinking into the ocean like a stone, frighteningly silent. The boat rolls over a passing wave and nausea churns in your stomach. You squint through the moonlight, dizzy, and make out the limp flapping material of the sail, now torn and strewn across the deck. Good enough.

You gather strength and stretch to pull it over your form. If drowning didn’t take you then hypothermia would. Dark spots gather in your vision, closing in as you curl into yourself. The ocean rocks you gently in her arms. You can only lie back—on what you now know to be remains of the boat—listen to the rasp in your breathing, watch the flickering stars blur together, and think of how small you really are.

When you wake the sky is bleeding into dawn with the quieting rays of light. Soft enough that you can look directly at the sun and see the blushing canvas it paints. Sitting up with a wounded groan, you stare at the far off horizon. You cannot discern where reality began and your dreams ended, only that at some point you walked between them.

Tugging the tarp close to your chest you survey the surroundings. Pinpricks of seawater spray up the hull. The mast has been snapped in half and the main sails are gone along with the helm. Below the cabin is flooded. Most of the resources you brought, along with the VHF radio, have seemingly gone overboard.

Your lips are unbearably dry. Skin splits, iron mixing with salt. You inhale deeply, lungs bloating with crisp air, and exhale raggedly through the soreness. First priority is water. Like a newborn calf you amble over to the hatch. There are coolers fixed to the floors under the cockpit that you hope survived—

One broken and empty. One mostly undamaged.

“C’mon… Please…” opening the lock is more strenuous than it should be. Your fingers tremble and slip, still numb. A sob wracks your body. Relief buckles you at the knees and you brace against the counter. Inside is an emergency flare gun and an assortment of non perishables, including biscuits and bottled water.

You fumble with the bottle cap, shaking as you bring it to your mouth. It immediately soothes your throat and you begin to gulp mouthfuls, pulling off only for breath. Tearing the biscuit packet open with your teeth you settle back in the spot you slept on. It crumbles, dry enough to stick to the roof of your mouth, but food is food.

Two things are certain. You’re stuck here, and you have no idea how far off course the storm threw you. You shoot the first flare, a bright red vein soaring into the sky, leaving you with nothing to do but wait. The gun had at least three more rounds. Would anybody see it out here?

Another streak of light flares as the sun rises and casts an orange shimmer across the ocean surface. The giant mer crosses your thoughts as your eyes drag over the large indent pressed into the side of the boat. Though unsure if he existed at all you miss the security of his hands.

You lose focus listening to the sea exhale. Barely cognisant of the formless blur spreading like ink in the distance, growing in size the closer it gets. It slows a few feet away and the momentum has waves jolting through the water. Scrambling to grab the side of the boat as it jerks, ice grips at your heart when you notice the huge shadow lingering nearby.

When it rises the blur sharpens and takes shape. Features distort, rippling under the tide, and you daren’t blink. Eyes of sea glass stare back with equal hesitance. Cool morning light reflects off dark green curls, strands laid to a pale forehead, flat and reminiscent of wet seaweed. The surface breaks dramatically, water rushing down his head and fizzling into foam.

You release a staggered breath, realising you’d been holding it. A mer really had saved you. In daylight you can appreciate the sheer size of him. Shoulders near the width of your boat, covered in opalescent scales and dark scars.

Emboldened by your silence a careful hum vibrates in his throat. His gills pulse and flutter as he comes in closer. The sun is eclipsed by his hand, shadows looming across the deck where his fingers come to rest. Careful, retreating quickly when the structure groans, and then returning again, gentler.

“You… came back,” you whisper. Disbelief bleeds into your voice. A needling sensation flows to your legs as you stand. You grasp his fingertip and the mer smiles— a trill behind his lips, stretched warmly across his face, enough to lift the swell of his freckled cheeks. Light undulates brightly in his eyes, swaying like patterns you see on the seafloor.

“It’s good to know I didn’t lose my mind,” a wave of uncertainty washes over you as the mer watches you expectantly. There’s a clear intelligence in his gaze, rapt inquisitiveness, but you can’t yet be sure he really understands. Equally, you know precisely nothing about mer social etiquette. “Does this make us friends? You’re friendly, right? I hope so. I probably taste like shit, you know”.

Ignoring his curious hum you brace against his hand and lean toward the edge of the deck. Illuminated by the sunlit hues, more of his upper body is visible to you. Waves lap placidly up a strong chest, smooth muscled pecs glistening. The scales spanning his flanks are notably larger and thicker.

You wonder the science behind his existence, if it was simply work of the Gods, or there was some reason for him to be so egregiously large. Merfolk have always been depicted as human sized or close enough to it. “...Guess I should give you a name. You’re pretty green. Midori? Too simple. How about Midoriya?”

His finger wiggles slightly with a playful whistle, happy about the name. It bends to curl around you. Even a slight shift causes the boat to dip. What must be an imperceptible movement for him nearly knocks you on your feet. “Ah—Steady!” your yelp scratches at the inside of your throat and nausea pulses hot in your stomach. “Oh, fuck. That sucked”.

Midoriya’s head tilts and he croons. It sounds apologetic. “Just go easy with me, alright? You could probably squash me like a bug,” you squint at the folds in his finger, and further at the gossamer webbing in the spaces between each knuckle as your stomach twists uncomfortably in hunger. Asking him to bring you fish would probably be futile.

Patting the firm heel you move away from his hand and dismiss his solemn whine. For a creature his size he sure was a bundle of nerves. “Don’t panic. I just need to eat something,” you pick the bottled water up once more and sip, keeping it held in your mouth for a few precious seconds. The sun flares as the giant creature moves silently, leaning in closer. He huffs through his nose at the food packets.

“Nu-uh, you can’t have these. They’re mine,” the biscuit falls apart, sodden between your damp fingers. Tasteless and yet not so insipid now that you’re with company. Swallowing thickly, you watch the large body bob and dither beside the boat, scrutinising your every move.

Hell, you’re not even doing anything particularly interesting. This must be how animals feel in zoos.

Dragging your gaze to the skies your thoughts turn toward getting home. There is nothing for miles. Laid out before you is a near seamless horizon, planes blurring together the longer you look. “Hey, Midoriya. Are you the only one out here, or are there more?” Whales were your first thought. They traveled in pods, to your knowledge. “Is that who called out to you last night?”

Midoriya’s answer comes in wide eyed blinks. A self deprecating smile thins across your lips. The lack of response is expected, though you are struck by the quick flash of emotion crossing his expression as you say, “Nevermind. As long as nothing comes around to eat me before I die on this stupid boat”.

Midoriya pouts. Shakes his head and makes it rain. He clicks firmly before descending into the depths again. You panic and scramble closer to the edge, wondering if you’d upset him, but find that he is lazily circling the area back and forth. His hair moves in soft tendrils around his face, dancing along the current. Your eyes widen, mouth open in awe as he dives lower and suddenly—

Opalescent hues of green and red. Breaching the surface Midoriya arcs his body into the air and twists his torso in your direction, arms splayed out in joy. There isn’t enough time to appreciate him all. His lower half is longer than his upper body, thicker at his waist bordered by wispy iridescent pelvic fins that flare in the breeze, another running the length of his spine. The tail tapers, narrowing toward a large fork ending with two broad fins.

He lands with a great splash. Exhilarated laughter shakes your shoulders as you cling to the nearest fixture, swaying clumsily over the oncoming waves. You squint through the thin spray. White sea foam ripples out in wide rings, sparkling softly under the sun and dissolving in the calm.

“Holy shit,” adrenaline numbs the tenderness throbbing in your gullet. Midoriya jumps again as he draws closer to you, this time with less height, and you cup your hands around your mouth to cheer for him. His beaming grin is all sharp teeth when he resurfaces, finned ears vibrating. He looks happy that you’re happy.

Part of you remains one foot in disbelief. You expect that anytime now you will wake up washed up on an old forgotten beach. Another cannot discount how real the mer feels under your palms as you reach for him, the vibration of his pleased hum shaking your bones and warming your belly. Midoriya rises up into the insignificant touch like a pampered feline and forces your arms wider to accept more of him.

A strong briney smell fills your senses. “That was incredible. Were you trying to cheer me up?” plastered to his cheek in some poor imitation of a hug, you press an exaggerated kiss to his cheek. A glow spreads across his skin like circuitry, crossing over his nose bridge, flushed red. It makes the air taste metallic. You feel another warm exhale billowing where his own mouth pouts, pushing against your lap. Tears prickle behind your eyes and you blink them away as the anxiety in your chest recedes, “Thanks, big guy”.

Midoriya keeps you company well into the day, never straying too far. You acclimate to his presence and feel at ease with him by your side. Hair half dry in the softening light of the afternoon sun he lets you coil his waves around your arm with eyes crinkled at the corners. He doesn’t appear to be bored in the slightest.

You’re kept under his watchful eyes as you amble around what remains of the boat for something, anything, that might help you get home. At one point you wade into the flooded cabin and search for the HF radio again only to be bombarded by a cornucopia of concerned wailing. Lesson learned: Midoriya does not like when you’re out of sight. You come up empty handed, vexed and dizzy.

There are a few instances you’re almost tipped over despite Midoriya’s determination to be careful. One by one, you are gifted with more current-smoothed stones and rusted trinkets than you know how to carry. His curious hand pokes at the broken equipment strewn around. You end up rambling for hours, explaining each gifted object to him to keep yourself conscious. It’s not as if the mer is an unwilling participant. You might be unable to understand him but the stuttered clicking and whistles he responds with are as close to conversation as you're going to get. Plus— it’s cute.

Noon elapses and no vessels in sight. Now laid beside the indent left in the hull, your vision rises and falls as the ocean shifts. Midoriya lies parallel to you, on his back, buoyed on the surface and sunning himself. He looks a lot more vibrant than before, as though he had really soaked up the daylight. A true picture of serenity. His eyes are closed for the first time; an opportunity to observe him candidly.

There are deep scars on his arms, and elsewhere too. Healed pink on skin and pallid white where his scales would be. Your gaze drags lower, over his bare front, appreciating the defined peaks of his abdomen. Down to a toned navel where scales climb over his hip bones, pale skin gradually blending into rich green. Further, to the powerful muscled tail elevated in the water. You absentmindedly lick your lips and wonder where his di—

You halt. Heat flashes through his body in a strange mix of shame and arousal and you violently shake your head as if to throw away the thought.

Midoriya hums. Snapping back you meet that drowsy half lidded stare, caught red handed. You gulp and offer a sheepish grin, “Sorry. I just wanted a closer look”.

At that the mer turns noiselessly and broad ripples fan out into the distance. Cautious, you push up onto your forearms as Midoriya proffered his hand, indicating that you jump onto his palm. Your spine straightens with a frisson of excitement.

“You’ll let me see?” you gestures to yourself and then to the others' languid repose. Midoriya’s eyelids blink. He tilts expectantly. “Fuck. Okay. Promise to catch me?”

Click, click, whistle. It’s as good a ‘yes’ as any.

Weak in the knees, you feel your thighs ache as you move. A rush of wind blows over, sharp and chilly. Your pulse throbs and knocks around your skull. It’s more strenuous than it should be to climb down, a deep instinct unwilling to part with the railings, fighting fear as you hang your lower body over the depths.

Midoriya scoops you up delicately. Your stomach rolls at the sudden change in direction, gravity bearing down on you. You land in the shallow of his palm on hands and knees. Head lifted, you lock eyes, and a sonorous trill thrums through your veins.

“What did I say about being caref—Hey!”

He brings you to his chest. Legs unfurl from under your hips as you slide down onto his collar and land feet first in the ankle deep water covering his body, soaking your pants through. Midoriya is safe, solid ground beneath you, buoyed on the ocean surface, yet still uniquely soft in the way relaxed muscle often is.

You keep tension in your abdomen for balance and give a cursory glance, first seeking permission before wading toward the cluster of green curling around his shoulders. A webwork glow blooms quietly across his skin and hems the edge of his scales red.

Midoriya’s pleased face takes up most of your peripheral vision. A plump mouth filled with pointed teeth that could swallow you whole juxtaposed by the wobbly smile playing on his lips. You crouch, knees wet, and brush your fingers against the hard plates decorating his skin. They’re slightly slimy and the smallest ones are the size of your hand.

“They’re beautiful, Midoriya,” you tell him earnestly, grinning. The kaleidoscopic patterns in his irises appear as though they’re dancing. Flecks of white and gold gleam amidst the green. Humming in dulcet tones, heavy streams of seawater rain down on you as his thumb comes to rest atop your head once again. There’s barely any pressure— seems you no longer need to worry that he might accidentally break your neck.

You squeezed your eyes shut, exhaling harshly as the thick rivulets trickled over your face and glaring the second you looked back at him. “You’re lucky you’re so cute,” your nose wrinkles, brine lingering unpleasantly in his nostrils. You think you can taste it in the back of your throat. Deku is busy preening, turned into the crook of his arm and creating waves, flustered by such a simple compliment.

A cherry blush follows the path of your thumb as it returns to smoothing over the tiny ridges impressed into each individual scale; retaining your heat for a few seconds before fading into green. They flash luridly at your words—specifically your praise. Knowing you had such an effect on a mer of his magnitude stokes something in you, possessive and fond, a feeling you’re not sure you’ll ever be able to replicate. But it also confirmed what you had been suspecting for most of the day.

“I knew it. You can understand me,” you accuse breathlessly. It isn’t a question. “You’ve been pretending this entire time”.

Midoriya’s expression wanes. His brows pinch into a doleful frown, eyes crossing to tentatively watch you stand and trudge toward his tucked chin, almost losing balance where his collarbones dip and the water suddenly deepens.

Fingers nudged under your thighs to act as a seat. You startle at the sudden elevation; it’s still surreal to feel the ground collapse beneath your feet, your knees collapsing against the pressure. Midoriya brings you up to his face, letting his tail sink into an upright position. Gasp caught in your throat you frantically hang onto the end of his nose. The large mer whistles quietly. Low and forlorn like an apology.

From up here you’re all too aware of up and down— endless in every direction, surrounded by a flat canvas of blue. He’s the only thing you can see for miles. Bottom low caught between your teeth you turn inward, squashing your cheek against him.

“You know I can’t stay here, right?” you tell him. Midoriya listens attentively. You’re close enough to hear the soft slide of lids drawing across his eyes, stained gills venting as he breathes, the waves crashing against his back. You point to the far horizon, “I need to go home, or close to it. Think you can help me one more time, hero?”

You aren’t prepared for the mer to sulk. The lower half of his face slips beneath the water and you’re face to face with a freckled forehead. Looking up at you now, eyes big and round like a puppy, he blows air out from his mouth to create a sad burst of bubbles. You had vastly underestimated his attachment to you; and your own fast-grown affection for him.

But he nods anyway, setting you back on the worn deck and righting his posture. Unfounded guilt squirms in your chest, tightening as you relays the plan in simple terms, knowing that these would probably be your final moments with him.

Get nearer to the shore and fire a flare. That was the plan. He pointed in a specific direction when you asked if he knew where the land was. Unable to understand his complex vocalisations you simply needed to trust he could do it. Easy— the day will darken so the flare will be more visible against the gloaming. You could play the fool and claim the tide brought you in. Most importantly there was no risk of Midoriya being seen and put in danger.

As the sky dims the sun begins to sheath itself below the horizon. The numbness spreading through your limbs at least meant you couldn’t feel the cold.

“We don’t need to get too close,” you kneel over the edge of the bow to speak to him. Hands that held you delicately are now wrapped around the hull, ready to push. “Your kind stays hidden for a reason, right? I don’t want people trying to come after you”.

You consider the gleam in his gaze. Appreciative and amused, as though he found it endearing that you would be worried about him. “That confident, huh?”

Receiving a toothy grin—eyes closing and smiling with him— you find you’re no longer nervous.

Consistently gentle, Midoriya guides the boat. The ocean parts around the oncoming obstruction and leaves behind a long trail of foam. That red network of veins returns, glowing across his upper body as the velocity increases, his powerfully muscled tail working to propel you forward and glinting in the warm evening light.

You call for him to stop when the distant skyline becomes uneven, the familiar bumps and divots of mountains near your port town and the islands surrounding it. The mer brakes abruptly, tall waves crashing up over the deck as your body is thrown backward, narrowly missing the broken mast. You can hear the various gifts he gave you rolling into one another over his frantic stuttered clicks as Midoriya tries to get a look in.

“I’m okay! I’m alive,” barely, you think. There’s a worrisome pain in your rib you can’t let yourself think about. The ground beneath you tips as his fingers come to rest on the boat's edge. You begin to slide on your ass, unceremoniously careening toward him, vertigo flooding your senses.

Midoriya catches you, murmuring at your spluttered curses. Abruptly, you cover his mouth and swallow the acrid bile crawling up your throat, mustering up a tired glare. Heart palpitating, it echoes harshly through your body. The muscles in your legs are heavy like wet sand and your vision doubles, overlaps, and then rights itself.

“Starting to think you like manhandling me,” you croaked teasingly. It’s a testament to Midoriya’s attentiveness that he hasn’t accidentally killed you yet. Though you wouldn’t be surprised if most of your organs had completely rearranged themselves given how you’ve been thrown around in the past few hours.

The playful air dwindles when reality rears it's head. “…I guess this is it, hero”.

There’s that sad sorry sound again. Melancholy bleeds into the atmosphere as silence befalls the two of you. Staring intently at one another, committing faces to memory; kiss curls tucked behind ears, faint sunspots, scales of green and honeydew, the luminescence that belies his true emotions. You wondered what Midoriya saw as he looked back at you. Just a silly lost human.

“Thank you, Midoriya,” your palm cups his cheek, thumb stroking beneath his eye, a touch that probably feels like an itch. He leans into it anyway. “You saved me twice now. I’ll never forget this”.

A mellifluous song thrummed in his throat. You feel the vibrations under your hand and it seeps honeyed and sweet into your bones. Outlined in soft evening light against a dusky sky, Midoriya nuzzles you one last time.

You’re anchored by unexpected grief when he sets you down. The hull rocks as the tide rolls. Water cascades down his scarred forearm as he lifts it up, fist unfurling to reveal a single scale. His scale.

You gape. “You’re giving me this…?”

He suddenly looks painfully bashful you scrambled to take it; a scale still wrought with luminescent colour, alive, still connected to him in ways he may never understand. Having it, holding him. Even after you were home Midoriya would be with you.

Emotion swells within you, struck by the trust you’ve been given. Merfolk remain a mystery for a reason. Human greed knows no bounds and money would be no object if you decided to sell him out.

“Thank you, I—I promise I’ll keep it safe. And you, Midoriya. I won't tell anyone,” you vowed, cradling the scale close.

Shadows widen across the bow as he then rises up ever so slightly. Midoriya dipped his chin. Your eyes reflexively clenched shut at the wet pillowy press of his lips taking up the entire left side of your face. A kiss. Seawater rivulets drop down to your collar, soaking into the fabric. Before you can speak he does it again, lower this time. Mouth pressed to your front, beginning at your chest and ending at your navel. A purr rumbles in his throat. You shudder, thighs clenching as the titillating vibrations reverberate between them.

When Midoriya pulls back his finned ears are vibrating earnestly and his scales flush red. The surface of the water is suddenly displaced and the waves are forced in every direction as he darts away from the boat with a trill, resurfacing a few feet away. “I see how it is. The type to hit and quit, eh?” your voice grows louder, lips twitching into a besotted smile. Egregiously lightheaded and giddy, you yell out, “I’ll miss you, Midoriya! Don’t forget about me!”

Midoriya responds in kind. He waves coyly—understanding more than he lets on—yet remains at a distance until the flare is lit. It arced far into the darkened sky with a quiet hiss, casting a spotlight over your stranded vessel, and only when lights blink in the distance does he disappear from view.

You tuck the scale into your waistband, concealed beneath your shirt. The rescue boat approaches at high speeds. Garish red with a v-shaped hull, cutting through the sea to reach you. There’s a five person squad sidling up at your side, immediately tending to any major injuries and tightly strapping a thick orange life jacket around your upper half.

“What happened?”

“Got caught in the storm last night. Was stranded until the tide brought me in”.

“Do you know your name?” You give it in full along with your birthday. “Are you dizzy? Nauseous?” More than they can imagine.

Concussion, they tell you. Fractures, probably.

“What’s all this?”

“Oh, that…” you turned to gaze at the collection of things Midoriya brought to you throughout the afternoon. “That was there when I woke up here”.

“Strange. Maybe a mer took a liking to ya,” the man, Oda, grins. His mouth is crooked, speaking in a tone meant to be playful.

“What makes you say that?”

He blinks, expression dimming. “Never heard the stories?” You shake your head. “Sailors used to say finding gifts an’ sea stones on board was an omen. Especially the shiny ones. Meant a mer wanted to seduce you”.

Another voice, their name escapes you, interrupts. “Eh? I thought they did that whole singing thing?”

Oda yanks a blanket around your shoulders with more force than necessary as he shoots his crew mate an exasperated glare. “That’s sirens, idiot”.

“What’s the difference?”

You tune out their bickering, acutely aware of all the polished stones in the pile. Of the scale hidden flat to your back. You look to the calm dark surface, throat swelling at the implication. Hand held to your left cheek you feel the plush impression of Midoriya’s lips like a phantom. Accepting his offerings— what had that meant? To him, to you?

The muffled voices come back into focus as Oda rounds on you once more, encouraging you onto the rescue vessel. “C’mon, let’s get’cha home. And don’t stress the big stuff, we’ll tow your boat in”.

You can’t take your eyes off the ocean, aching. The distinct feeling that you have misplaced something incredibly important sits poignantly in the recesses of your mind. It sees you to the dock, strong-armed into an ambulance because your legs have forgotten what solid earth is, and when the doors slam shut to obstruct the view your chest hollows out.

The hour is past midnight and the streets are empty. Miraculously you're mostly unharmed. You make it home with bruising, hairline fractures and a bad concussion. Your body looked a bit like a pollock painting if you squinted, blue and black converging on one another around your skin, vascular threads of purple hemming your ribcage. Painkillers dulled the pain enough that movement was tolerable.

Oda kept his word, decent enough to salvage your things. They are lumped together in a crate hidden in the doorway, an ever present reminder that what happened was real, not a figment of your concussed imagination. The scale remained awkwardly concealed under your shirt. You peel off your clothes, taking it between your hands. Vision adjusted to the darkness, you see a fleeting shimmer passing through the ridges, reflecting on your bedroom walls before dimming.

You climb into bed, plagued by thoughts of Midoriya. His plaintive farewell song, the reverent stars in his eyes whenever you spoke, the affectionate lean into your every touch. You should leave it alone. Let it be. A sane person would allow the memory age naturally and change into a story to recite over sake for years to come. After all, sometimes things just happened to you, like gravity or grief— or being the object of affection for a mer about the size of two school buses.

Scale cuddled to your front, the memory of his mouth laid itself against your sternum. It pins you to the mattress and begin to hum. The notes are almost tangible, echoing through skin, close-lipped and soothing. A final thought bleeds into your consciousness as it slips:

You hope you can find him again.

#bnha x reader #mha x reader #midoriya izuku x reader #midoriya x reader #deku x reader

[jazjelspen]

leaving on wild charted waters

(what if our mc just got tired of Night Raven College and it’s inhabitants?)

(and possible part 2)

It got to the point where you have simply just had it, you were done with the antics of Night Raven College and most especially Headmaster Crowley, whom is apparently so kind, so but so kind in fact that he’s been leaving you to do his job. In the end after the last overblot you ended up with a broken arm, a few small yet painful stitched up lacerations on your side aching your body to the bone, and a broken heart. 

Your heart just can’t take anymore of the neglect and ache from the headmaster as well as seeing overblot after overblot consistently during your stay in this strange world. Ace and Deuce didn’t help make this entire experience any better with the trouble their actions caused, and as much as you loved Grim he wasn’t exactly the greatest either but you knew that in Grim’s case you’d always see him try to help you out at some point in every day you were together unlike others around.

So now here you were taking the next boat from NRC to the infamous RSA, Royal Sword Academy. You weren’t sure if they were going to enroll you in there as well but you were a bit more positive that there would’ve been a likelier chance of effort in getting the help to get back home.

The breeze of the sea ran through your hair as you watched Night Raven College slowly but surely fade farther and farther away, and even so you could still see the face of your beloved fiery cat that you already miss so dearly even while sailing across the sea. Although you will miss a few of your classmates and friends, you knew that this was better than staying there only to eventually become incapacitated or killed. 

You wondered if anyone would miss you, scoff and say ‘good riddance’, or not have any particular feeling or reaction. 

Maybe a bit surprised..

Especially since you haven’t told anyone but your beloved cat and childish headmaster that you were currently off at sea at a new opportunity.

You knew there already was a chance at Grim spilling the secret so soon, and you had an idea that Crowley would either be incredibly vague about it or just flat out say it.

Nonetheless you knew it’d get out at some point.

You didn’t want to tell anyone you’d be back but then again you didn’t want to lie and then never come back either.

“On your way to visit RSA my friend?” A voice popped out from behind you as you were looking off at the endless blue which caused you to jump a bit and snap your head over your shoulder.

A young man of fair skin, bright candy red hair that reached down the nape of his neck and eyes with the same shade of blue as the sea you were facing at earlier. He has a gentle smile on his face with genuine curiosity sprawled out on his features as well.

“Ah.. hello- yes I’m currently on my way to visit RSA..” you spoke as you turned your body towards the boy “You are?..”

“Oh, my apologies!” the redhead spoke “You can call me Rielle my friend, and you are?” “My name is ______,” you looked down quickly at his outfit to see him wearing RSA’s posh white uniform with accent of blue and gold, except the sleeves of his uniform were up his elbows and the jacket was freely open. “Seems like you're from the academy yourself, Rielle.”

He chuckled as he walked beside you to then relax his arms up on the edge of the boat to look out at the sea “No kidding!” he joked as stared off at the sea, a look of familiarity on his face. 

You looked at him with a small smile then the sea before you heard your new redhead speak again “If you don’t mind me asking ______, what are you going to RSA for? Are they still enrolling during the school season?” 

You shook your head “Not exactly.. I’m not sure. I’m just looking for a way home..” you sighed as you let out your sentence. “Hopefully your school will be able to help me out here, something Night Raven couldn’t do.”

Riel looked at you with a look of pity, not a bad kind but more of a ‘I want to help you’ kind of way. “I see.. I apologize you haven’t been able to make it to your home, my friend..” he paused before he then shined a comforting smile towards you “But hey! Nothing to fear, we’ve got some of the best mages and wish-granters in RSA as well! I’m sure we’ll get more than a few clues to get you back home.” Rielle spoke with such positivity and confidence that you couldn’t help but smile as much as he was.

“Very well then, I guess we just have to wait and see.”

#disney twst #twst #twst angst #twst x reader #twisted wonderland angst #twisted wonderland #yuu #twisted wonderland mc #ace trappola #deuce spade #night raven college #royal sword academy #twst headcanons #twisted wonderland hcs #female reader #i love angst #not proofread #crowley #grim #grim twst #crowley twst #headmaster crowley #leavingonwildchartedwatersjazjel #leavingonwildchartedwaters

[tadpolesonalgae]

Vampire!Poly-batboys x reader: Mercy, Devil - Part 2

A/N: The poly part two to the vampire fic is here! Hope you enjoy!!

Warning: Vampirism, poly!batboys, blood, biting

Word Count: 4,154

-Part 1-

——————————————————————————————————————————————

Thunder rolls across the perpetually stormy sky, his castle seemingly gifted with its own unique weather system. Rain lashes at the windows, criss-crossed with diamond-shaped indentations upon the glass, streaked with icy water. Lightning cracks across the dark, heavy clouds, flashing with startling light, briefly illuminating the chambers you’ve been returned to.

You swallow heavily, rousing from an empty sleep, fatigue weighing on bone marrow as you push up from the bed. The pearls have gone, replaced by a pale blue nightgown and memories of the evening you stumbled into the castle return. Right into the beast’s jaws.

Fingers trace over your throat, pockmarked with tiny puncture wounds, skin aching around the slightly swollen marks. Memories of the fear and alarm upon feeling those gleaming incisors skating across your neck rush in, the overpowering strength of his hands on your body, shoving your head to the side so he could drink deeper. The hot spill of blood as it dripped down over collar bones, the mad frenzy in previously sharp and clear eyes. He’d seemed utterly undone, at the mercy of his own hunger as he’d fed.

Your pulse spikes in your chest, fear diluting in your lifestream, breathing deepening as you hastily peer around the room. Searching for something that could possibly help keep the beast off of you. It’s a stupid thought, you know that—why would he have the means to his demise so readily available? In his own home, no less. That would be idiotic.

“Sleep well?” A low, silken voice asks, making you scream, flinching back as you snap your head to the doorway. He’d entered on completely silent feet—the door hadn’t even made a sound. “Now, now. There’s no need for that,” he chides soothingly, “you’re alive and well. No need for theatrics.” But your nails are practically tearing at the sheets with how tight you’re gripping them. Something like him—something that drinks the blood of women, relishing in draining away their youth—can be nothing but pure evil. Hell incarnate.

“Stay away from me,” you grit out lowly, back pressed against the plush cushioning of the headboard. “You have no power over me. Let me leave.”

He’s quiet for a moment, watching you intently, before lowering his head, a mix between a sigh and a laugh huffing from his lips. Raises gleaming violet to pierce into you, as if able to pin you to the bed with a glance alone. “I’m afraid I won’t be doing that,” he says amicably, still in that velvety voice of his, like satin brushing teasingly across your skin. “You see, little devil, I have lived centuries in this world. Travelled far and wide, sampled a number of women and men alike, and yet I’ve never once come across a taste quite as exquisite as yours.” Protectively, you raise your palm to your throat, as if blocking the skin from his view may serve a chance for freedom—or undo what he’s already found.

“Because of that,” he continues leisurely, as if he hasn’t turned your life upside down within the span of a breath. “I will be keeping you for myself, here, in my castle. Is everything clear?” You blink, dread sluicing through your veins.

“I’m not— You can’t do that.” You splutter quietly, incredulity and fear drenching your tone in horror. “I’m a living person. You can’t just lock me up. That’s— That’s wrong.” You manage to whisper, too shocked to bellow.

“You don’t have a choice here. Well, not one you’d like,” he muses idly, hands sliding into the pockets of his dark, tailored trousers. “What is it?” You grit out anyway, attempting to conceal your trembling fingers.

The charming smile fades from his elegant mouth, slipping into something blank and unreadable. “Either, you can agree to my generous offer and remain mine in this castle,” he says, voice turning to freezing silk, prowling toward you in the low thunderous light. “Or, I can take my final drink now, and let you pass on into the next world—or rather, into the next half world.” He reaches the edge of the bed, but you’re too terrified to move.

Even as he pulls his hand from the neatly stitched pocket of his dark trousers, you remain still. Petrified, until his icy hand settles on your throat, thumb and index finger pressing to the soft sides beneath your jaw, tilting your head to him. “You should know: I would not be kind if you forced me to turn you,” he murmurs tenderly, leaning over the bed, bracing his forearm against the headboard. “You are quite to my tastes,” he says softly, lowly, “I would hate to see you become a servant, instead of what you could be.”

“And what is that?” You manage to ask shakily, forcefully pushing yourself as deep into the headboard as you can.

Glittering violet briefly scans your features, then the edges of his mouth are curving, dipping down to nose at your throat. Sharp, piercing teeth graze the shell of your ear. “Cared for,” he answers, cold lips brushing the erogenous skin, fingers flexing around your neck. “Desired,” he murmurs softly, dipping lower, skimming the erratic pulse of your life force. “Cherished.”

Incisors scrape, and you flinch, muscles contracting with fear.

He pulls back, staring down at you from not even a breath away.

“So, my dear,” he muses, “what will it be?”

You stare at him, eyes widened, pupils no-doubt dilated with fear. You swallow thickly, overwhelmed by the intensity of him, the heaviness of his presence, the dominating sense of self rolling from his powerful figure. Pulse spikes with the thought him ending your life—would the rightness of thwarting him be worth an eternity of obeying his word? At the mercy of his absolute power?

“You wouldn’t ever taste my blood again if you turned me,” you rasp, trying to force the tremors from your voice. “You’d lose the exact thing you’re trying to gain.” Sharp eyes flash, his jaw working at your brazen answer. “Are you sure you want to test that, little devil?” He asks, voice rougher than before, anger and hunger kindling in his eyes. “I’m offering you a life of comfort and care in exchange for your compliance. Anyone can see you’re gaining much more than I am out of this agreement.”

“Which is exactly why I know you won’t turn me,” you return shakily. “Why give so much for something so unimportant, right?”

A muscle feathers in his jaw, then he’s pushing away from you roughly. “You’re being foolish,” he warns, eyes glittering with hunger. “Maybe I won’t turn you, but I believe you’re somehow forgetting I don’t need your permission to take what I want.” His fingers flex at his sides, shoulders rolling subtly before he’s sliding hands into his pockets. As if to calm the urge to pin you down and drink.

You stiffen in your place. Reconsidering his offer. If you refuse, but he decides to take anyway, where will you be kept? In some subterranean dungeon, left to lie and rot on a damp pallet of hay? Locked in some long-forgotten room, only allowed out when he wants to feed?

Rhysand senses your doubt, honing in on it like the beast he is, able to smell the indecision. “Think about it,” he says calmly, earlier hunger banished, not a trace to be found. “I have some visitors to see to, but will be back this evening for your answer,” he smiles politely, turning for the door but pausing at the threshold. “If you need a reminder of what it feels like…” You could swear his eyes darken with glee at the way your muscles contract, legs pressing together as you remain huddled to the head of the bed.

“Until tonight, then,” he grins, gleaming white teeth glittering in the low light. The door sweeps to a close behind him, leaving you alone with a choice to make. A sense of impending doom weighing in your blood.

————

You have to get out. It’s the only viable solution.

You don’t want to be stuck as a glorified chicken for the rest of your life—used until you’ve grown too old, then devoured entirely. You have no preferable choice, so you’ll have to make your own, and escaping seems like a pretty good idea.

Easing down a breath, you swing your legs over the edge of the bed, the pale blue cotton of your nightgown swishing softly at bare ankles. Peering around the room, you search for anything that could be used as a weapon against a…whatever he is. Some blood-sucking devil.

The neatly preserved figure of gleaming armour catches your gaze—if a weapon is to be lying about somewhere, surely it would be here? With a spark of hope in your chest, you creep forward on what you hope are quiet feet. Not that you should be too concerned. Despite how silently he can move, the castle seemed intimidating in size, and you doubt he’d be able to pick up footsteps from so much as a corridor away.

Your pulse spikes as you eye the short scabbard wrapped over the waist of the armour, slightly shaky fingers pulling on the string to move it around. There’s a handle poking from it’s top, and your heart stumbles in your chest. With trembling hands, you pull the string loose, tying it instead around your own waist, thumbing the blade free experimentally. It’s so clear you can make out the gleaming wetness to wide, frightened eyes.

Breathing deeply, you return the blade to its new home at your hip, tip-toeing for the door, hoping he will have left it unlocked. Underestimating your drive to keep your own pathing. You will not have choice taken away from you.

The handle turns, and the door swings open on well-oiled hinges.

A cool wave of relief sweeps over you, pulling it open to peer down the long, stretching hallways either side. Nothing out-of-the-ordinary to be found. Except maybe the blood-red carpeting. You should have realised how strange it was, how macabre the whole setup is. Maybe it’s a lovely colour, but not one you slather your entire house in, let alone a whole castle.

Shaking your head, you slip out over the threshold, silently bringing the door to a close at your back, before making your way down the stretching hallway. You move silently, keeping to the edges of the carpeted floor—as if you’d be able to hide from him. In the pale gown, you stick out like freezing blue lips in a rose garden.

Following the path he had taken you to dinner, you manage to relocate the entrance hall, heart beating wildly in your chest, eyes darting left and right frenetically, searching for movement. It’s an open stretch. Once you’re out there, you’ll have to go straight for the door. There’s nowhere to hide yourself once you step out into the hallway.

You take in a steady breath, then step out into the open.

Silently, you make your way as swiftly as possible down the curving case, feet padding softly along the well-polished boards, trying to keep sound to a minimum. The heavy-looking door looms before you, menacingly staring as you approach. Hairs raise at the nape of your neck, but you push away the apprehension, hands shaking as you reach for the knob.

It doesn’t shift.

You try pulling, but nothing.

You twist it harder, using both your hands, but to no avail.

Mentally you curse—you’d hoped it would be unlocked like last time. He’s seemingly taken some precautions, then. You’ll need to find another way out, or maybe the keys… Where would keys be?

They could be anywhere, you realise despairingly, and in a castle this large, you don’t have the time to spend painstakingly searching for them. You’ll have to find another exit. Every home has a backdoor, there must at least be one for the servants he mentioned—there’s no way they’d be allowed entrance through this hall.

“Who are you?”

You scream, jolting away from the voice, turning to find a man at your side—he’d been completely silent, just like Rhysand. You stumble back, hands shaking at your sides as you take in his towering figure. Wearing dark leather, surrounded by the glowing red of the castle, he cuts a terrifying silhouette. With black hair that come to his shoulders, and the eyes that feel like they can pierce straight through bone, you can feel in your blood he’s the same creature as the Lord.

The blade at your hip weighs heavily, but you know from a single look there’s no way you’d be able to do anything with it. You’re more likely to end up slicing yourself open, dripping over the blood-red carpet.

His lips part in an almost wolfish grin as he takes you in properly. “Oh, I see,” he drawls, stepping closer. “You’re one of Rhys’, aren’t you?”

“Please…” you breathe, heat building behind your eyes. “I don’t—…I just want to leave…” Lungs spasm with fear, and his nostrils flare delicately, before taking a step back. The man raises his arms placatingly, exposing his palms in a sign of peace. “I’m not stopping you,” he says lowly, still baring his teeth in a smile.

Your tongue swipes out to wet your lips, staggering a step back hesitantly, then another. Never taking your eyes from his hulking figure.

Your muscles involuntarily contract with soul-deep fear as a blood-curdling snarl rips through the castle’s interiors. A wave of bone-crushing terror smacks into you, like a flash of lightening followed by the roll of thunder as something dark pulses through the building. The man’s smile widens at the sound, turning a little feral. “Better be on your way,” he warns roughly, voice like gravel. “Before the beast catches you.”

Heart pounding, you spin on your feet and run.

You could swear his low chuckle follows on your heels as you sprint from the room, nearly stumbling over your own toes as you pass over carpets and rugs, running through doorways and dodging around rich, plush armchairs and large, heavy instruments. Fire crackles in one room but you have no time for pause, feeling that power closing in no matter how far you run.

Feet slam on the polished wood of floorboards, and you spot an open door down the stretching corridor. Without care for noise, you dart inside, snapping the door to a close, hurriedly taking in your surroundings—it’s a frighteningly large library. Cases of books tower on wide-set shelves, neatly stacked but tightly packed, perfect to hide within.

Not giving it a second thought, you make for the towering furniture, darting between the aisles as quickly and as quietly as possible, keeping your eyes wide for any sign of movement. If you can just wait until you feel this cloying power pass, you can try venturing out again.

You think back over the conversation which must have been in the morning if he said he would return at night. He’d said he’d had guests to see to—that man must have been one of them, but how many are there? Are they all like him? They must be. Unless they bring humans along with them? What if there are more beasts prowling the halls for you now that signal has practically shot lightening into anything capable of breathing within the castle?

“You aren’t supposed to be in here.”

Muscles go taut, stomach tightening as cold dread ices your skin.

You turn rigidly on your heel, coming to face another man, wreathed in darkness. Silky hair gleamed in the low library light, his sharp hazel eyes pinning you to the spot with a single look. You shake your head, managing a single wobbly steps back, before he’s slowly prowling forward, gaze trained on you like he’s finally locked in on his prey.

Turning, you stumble away, running back through the tall cases, now understanding their disadvantage. He can’t see you, but you also can’t see him. Fighting your growing terror, you break from the shelves, running toward a door that will no doubt only lead you deeper into the castle, separate from the one you came in from. But he appears before you in a blur of shadow, and you smack into the stone-like muscle of his chest—utterly freezing, utterly lifeless. Death wreathed in darkness.

You still in your spot, staring up into sharp, predatory eyes with visible terror, vaguely remembering the blade at your hip.

“What are you doing here?” He asks lowly, hands kept casually at his sides, but you don’t doubt he could strike at any moment should the desire take him. “I— Please,” you beg, internally screaming for your body to move, to turn and run from the beast before you clad in the skin of an angel. “Just let me go,” you breathe shakily, stumbling back.

The man watches you silently, coldly. “You know that’s not going to happen,” he says shortly, “either you can obey and I’ll escort you back to your room, or you can make this painful.” Your eyes widen, pressure building quickly, the blade practically searing into your skin. If you comply, you’ll probably be locked up. You’ll never escape, and choice will have been taken from you. But if you fight… Even against something as terrifying as him… It will be on your own terms.

But you’re not a fighter—at least, not in the face of this particular beast. The best you can do it run.

You spin on your heel, turning for the door, but a stone-cold hand has already gripped your shoulder and you cry out in pain. His hold is like ice, stern and unforgiving. “Fine,” he mutters, making to—

“Hold on, Az,” that voice drawls, pure terror slicing through your stomach.

One was impossible enough, but two? There’s no way. You’re going to die.

The man—Az, he’d said—stops, his grip lightening by a fraction. “She’s Rhys’, Cass. We should return her.” Muscle trembles beneath his grip, neck craning to turn to spot the other man at your back, having come in through the hallway. He shrugs nonchalantly, as if the warning gleam in the shadowy one’s eyes doesn’t bother him. “That’s his fault for letting her out,” he drawls, coming to stand closer behind you. Too close.

His hazel eyes drop to yours, that wolfish smile breaking across his lips. “Besides,” he says lowly, “you know he only keeps the good ones around for more than one meal.” The man—Cass—steps closer, hands going to your waist as he lowers to your throat, pulse spiking as he noses along the smooth expanse. “This is it,” he mumbles, lips brushing your skin. “This is what I picked up, Az. She smells so good.” He pulls away, pulling your hair to the side, exposing the bare top of your shoulder and you tense, remembering how little clothing you’re wearing. How unprotective it is. “Go on,” he urges quietly, “give her a try.”

Az narrows his eyes, but relents, curiosity getting the better of him. Spine turns rigid as he dips down, nosing along the column of your throat, feeling the trembling pulse of your life-force beneath his mouth. You hear the sound of him inhaling, scenting your skin, before pulling away. “See?” The man at your back drawls. “I’ve got a good nose for these things. I told you I smelled something delicious.”

“Rhys has good taste,” the other answers flatly, “unlike some people, Cassian.” Still, his eyes remain on your throat for a little too long for your comfort.

Cassian doesn’t seem bothered by the jab, instead raising one of his hands from your hip to trace along the stuttering pulse of your heart, grazing down your neck. “I bet she tastes good,” he murmurs, and you can feel the weight of his gaze alone, hairs prickling beneath its intensity. “Cass,” the man at your front warns, voice low and cold. “She’s Rhys’. He won’t like it if you decide to put your grubby teeth all over her.”

Cassian pays him no mind, and Az’s grip on you tightens, pulling you toward him, aiming to distract the other. “When was the last time you drank?” He asks distastefully. Cassian shrugs again, “I assumed Rhys would provide a meal, and since he has such good taste,” he says pointedly, “I thought I’d enjoy myself.”

Another beastly snarl rips through the halls of the castle, and Cassian muffles a low chuckle. The man before doesn’t seem to find it as funny, the shadows at his back darkening. “What did you do this time, Az?” The man asks, lips curved with mirth.

“You’re the one who said you wanted to slip away,” Az hisses in a flash of canines. That deadly thrum of power intensifies, and you realise it must mean Rhysand is approaching. Whatever Az had done, the illusion’s over. It feels like he’s already right outside the door.

“Are you going to drink, or not?” Cassian asks, rough fingers slipping beneath the neckline of your gown, thumbing at the soft buttons at your front, slowly un-popping them in order to move the fabric out of the way of his teeth. “I don’t want to share Rhys’ meal,” Az says, a note of distaste to his words.

“Why not? It wasn’t a problem a couple of centuries ago,” Cassian drawls, challenge in his tone. “What happened? Spend a few decades fawning over a woman and suddenly all taste for adventure’s gone?” He scoffs, the taunt clear in his deep voice. “You’ve lost your touch, brother. You’re getting soft.”

A warning snarl drags from the other man’s throat, hazel eyes flicking to the door.

But Cassian sees his chance, head dipping down, incisors piercing your throat, biting down and spilling blood. Your lips part in a scream, paralysed as his venom enters your body, making your limbs feel heavy and clunky.

“Cassian,” Az hisses roughly, forcefully ripping him from you. Pain stings through your shoulder and collar bones, the only thing keeping you up being the hand at your hip and the chest at your front. Pressure wells behind your eyes at the ache, blood trickling down your skin. “What’s gotten into you? One scent catches your attention and suddenly centuries of discipline dissolves?” He snarls lowly, aware of the pulsing power that’s filling the room.

Cassian’s silent, but you can feel his body begin to tremble at your back. Fear drenches your skin as his grip tightens on you with the same display of inhumane strength Rhys had shown after his initial bite. Weakly you try to press closer to the man before you, but his attention is now trained on the blood beading at your throat, the puncture wounds already sealing over.

Terrifying hunger fills the dark hazel of his eyes, and you want to shrink away.

“You’ve got to try her, Az,” Cassian rasps at your back, voice low and strained. “Fuck, that’s the best I’ve ever had.” Wide eyes lock with hazel, silent and pleading. You’d take being returned to that room over this easily, no doubt in your mind.

The dark, raging power grows closer, reaching it’s peak. He’s right there.

Az’s lip curls back for a moment, but then he’s forcing the neckline of your gown over your shoulder, tearing at the lovely cotton in favour of piercing his canines into the softness of your neck. Your head tips back, falling into Cassian as your lips part in a soundless scream, rounding into a pained shape as he drinks, his own venom sinking into you.

Already dizziness is taking over you, but then Cassian is curving over you again, mouth parting, incisors sliding back into your skin with a now pleasurable pain. Arms go limp at your sides as their bloodlust wraps around you, completely overpowered by their hunger as hands grip and grope at your skin.

Tears push from your lashes, dripping down your cheeks as the ecstasy spins your mind, wickedly turning the pain into something soft and blissful. Making you want them to drink deeper, wanting to have their teeth in you, to put their hands across your body.

Darkness explodes through the room, rage blasting through the soft warmth of lust, pulling you from the jaws of vampiric seduction.

The world tilts a little as they pull away, but without the adrenaline of their venom you feel weak. Like you’re unable to go on.

The last thing you remember is the fierce grip on your hips, the possessive touch over your back and shoulders as icy violet brings the night to its crescendo.

Then everything explodes in glittering black.

——————————————————————————————————————————————

general taglist: @myheartfollower @tcris2020 @mali22 @amygdtjhddzvb @sfhsgrad-blog @needylilgal022 @hannzoaks

az taglist: @azrielshadows1nger @jurdanpotter @positivewitch @nightcourt-daydreaming @vanderlinde @marvelouslovely-barnes @v3lv3tf0x @kalulakunundrum @vellichor01

#poly!bat boys #poly!batboys x reader #poly!fic #vampire au #vampire!rhysand #vampire!azriel #vampire!cassian #mercy devil

[chronically-ghosted]

I always thought the scene from Deadpool was hot where he and Vanessa are having hot sex mixed with food on Thanksgiving.

Maybe that with Joel or Javier P?

Ahhh, anon. this has been stewing in my brain since you sent it. And I know you said thanksgiving, but the line in this happened in, like, a single scene after the thanksgiving one! please forgive my timing!

kiss me ‘till I’m warm

rating: T

Pairing: jaiver peña x f!reader

word count: 1.6K

summary: a very drunk javi has something he wants to share with you.

warnings/tags: mentions of alcohol, drunkenness, one stupid joke, the absurdity of someone drunk off their ass trying to flirt, light kissing on body parts, references to smut, but ultimately this is fluffy as hell

a/n: wishing all of you a great start to your week as december plods along! shout out to the incredible @saradika for the divider!

🤍Masterlist

Javier Peña is a giggly drunk. 

Not all the time, mind you, not always. Depends on the liquor, his mood, and what he’s had to eat that day – if anything at all. But given the right circumstances and the stars align, once in a blue moon, Javier blushes and giggles like a fourteen year old with a first crush. 

Now, that might come as a surprise to anyone who has seen him lurking around the hallways of the American Embassy, scowling and smelling of stale cigarettes. The women he used to visit would swear up and down that Javier Peña was not a giggly drunk, having seen him knock back a drink or two, or three, or five. Certainly, all the narcos he’d rounded up and captured would be rather offended to hear that about the man who sent them to prison. It would shock them all to hear that, in the end, it was eggnog. Eggnog, the creamy, thick holiday drink that in terms of calories and sugar blew every other frappuccino out of the water – it was eggnog that turned Javier’s world upside down. From frown-set smokestack, to someone who wanders into his girlfriend’s bedroom after her office party and nearly blows his knee out on the bed frame. 

“Javier, honey, are you okay?” You scramble towards where he tripped, expecting either blood or for him to be knocked on conscious. But instead, you just see fluff. White fluff. White fluff that proceeds red velvet, more fluff, and then thick dark hair. 

Javier stands up, grinning from ear to ear. He stretches his arms wide, his white undershirt thin on his chest. He arches further, revealing a dusting of hair below the hem of his shirt that disappears into the waistband of his jeans. Well, when his pants are buttoned.

“Tada!” he beams. You roll your eyes and he giggles, following you on his hands and knees as you crawl back to your spot by the pillows. You had come in here to get some lotion for your hands and despite your insistence that he does not leave the couch, he stumbled in after you.

“Pero, mi amor,” he pouts when he sits on his knees behind you, “te fuiste.”

“You poor thing,” you frown at him over your shoulder as you rub the lotion into your hands, then your knees. His eyes bob between your tits through your sleep shirt and your circular motions over your skin. You narrow your eyes at him when his mouth goes slack and his eyes dark. “Oh, absolutely not, Javier. You are drunk as a skunk and about two minutes away from passing out.”

He rolls his eyes and leans forward, wobbling slightly as he crawls towards you. “Please?���

“No.”

“¿Por favor?” 

“No!”

You frown, suspicious, when he chuckles as he loosely grabs you by the ankles, thumbs pressed in below the knot of bone. His shirt is loose enough you can see down the collar to his tanned chest. It’s not like the idea isn’t enticing, but you’d only seen him this drunk once before after the Christmas party at Steve and Connie’s two years ago. He made the same proposition back then and when he went to lie down on the floor to take his pants off, you looked over the bed to find him passed out, spread eagle and only his belt undone. 

“Bien, bien,” he waves his hand in the air, the cotton ball of his Santa hat falling over his eyes, “pero tengo un chiste para ti.”

Another sign that Javier had reached the point of no return: he spoke much more in Spanish and the words blurred together, as if sticking on top of each other. 

You eye him with faux annoyance when he uses your legs to pull himself in between your ankles. He kisses the tops of your knees, his palms warm beneath the weight of your calf muscles. Giddy and care-free until he wakes up with a pounding headache, drunk Javier is something you always cherished, because it is one of the few times he can be care-free. Relaxed. You are the only person he lets see him like this and you would protect that vulnerability with everything in your heart.

“Javier.” He hums, his teeth against your knee and dropping lower. His eyes are closed and his breathing’s changed. “I think you had something you wanted to tell me.”

He blinks, open mouth freezing on the bone of your calf. “Right. Yeah. Of course, mi vida.” 

That heady, blurred look of desire on his face melts away almost as fast as it came on. He presses the arch of his nose against your other knee, giggling, as he readjusts his feet under him. 

“Okay, okay,” he sniffs, sits up, and looks at you with bleary, water-y brown eyes. “Steve told it to me, so if you don’t think it’s funny, it’s his fault.” 

You nod and then he taps the inside of your thigh with two fingers.

“If your left leg is Thanksgiving y tu pierna derecha es Navidad,” he outright gropes your other thigh, his slur worsening, mouth full of damp, gummy cotton balls. “Can I visit you entre días festivos?

Javier Peña raises a single eyebrow at you, as if he had been the first one to discover pick up lines, perfected the art of flirting, and discovered he had the ritz to seduce any woman in the world all in one night. His hands tighten in the meat of your inner thighs as he pushes them apart, his chest pressing forward, down, into you. With surprising dexterity and stability, he crawls between your open legs, hands firm as they plant on either side of your head. He’s still wearing that infuriatingly smug grin, his hips rolling forward until you feel the scrape of the teeth of his jeans on your thigh.

“What do you say, baby?” his teeth edge the rim of your ear, “¿p-p-puedo –,”

He full-on snorts in your ear, suddenly overcome with giggles and you jerk away. “Javi!”

You pinch his waist and he flops over on to the other side of the bed, his face turning red as he howls with laughter. His Santa hat pushed up over his forehead, the back of his hair sticking up from where he’s nestled against the pillows, Javier clutches his sides as he rolls back and forth. 

You sit up, smiling, and watch the man you love enjoy himself for once. Sure, he could (and did, often) get lost in sex, but this is different. Your mother always said there was something healing about laughter, about feeling safe enough to close your eyes around another person, and Javier had spent far too long with his eyes wide open. 

Tears are streaming down his cheeks by the time you pluck the Santa hat off his head and kiss his forehead. Giggles trickling down, he curls onto his side, his bare feet seemingly so large on your covers. You stroke his cheek, your thumb brushing the corner of his mustache, and the last giggle fades to a hum. He closes his eyes, cheeks pink, his head turning ever so slightly towards your touch.

“Do you need some water, baby?”

“Mhm hmm.” 

Kissing him on his nose, you slide off the bed and go towards the kitchen. After filling up a glass from the filter, you turn off the lights, check the front door, and close the blinds. But when you come back to your bedroom, the golden light of your bedside lamp the only glow left in the entire apartment, you know instantly he’s already asleep. Javier lies still curled up on his side, his wide shoulders curled in, the white expanse of his t-shirt rising and falling with each breath. 

You didn’t know him very well the first time you slept together, but the night he stayed over, all the way until the morning light broke through your shutters, you knew it had been an extraordinary step for him. 

Now he sleeps in your bed, unguarded and unburdened, as much as he can. 

You put the glass of water on his side of the bed and gently ease him onto his back. His arm slithers over his torso as his shoulder collides with the mattress, his matted hair where the hat sat in a line stiff against his forehead. 

In his more morose moments, Javier announced he was getting old. His back hurt, his eyesight was shit, and he swears he spots more and more gray hairs in the mirror every day. 

But, when he’s like this, when he’s Javi not Javier, when he’s just yours and no one else’s, he is the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. 

A hand pressed to his warm chest, you lean forward and kiss his cheek.

“Merry Christmas, baby,” you whisper against his skin. He stirs, but doesn’t open his eyes.

Sliding your earrings out of their posts and into the little dish beside your bed, you glance at him one more time before turning off the light. The room is dark, warm, and in the emptiness you can hear him breathing. 

The shape of him is more familiar to you than your own, able to trace his profile with nothing but memory, so without searching, as though reaching for a piece of yourself, you intertwine your hand with his. 

His fingers twitch and the sound of his breathing slows. 

In the absence of every other sense, you are overwhelmed by the weight of his palm in yours, the soothing rock of the rise and fall of his chest, your ears tuned to his every sigh, every noise –

In the absence of everything else, you listen to him inhale –

“Merry Christmas, baby.” 

– and exhale. 

#merry thanksgiving nonsense 2023 #javier peña #javier pena x reader #javier pena x you #javier pena fluff #javi peña #javier pena #javier pena fanfiction

[randomwriteronline]

"Ah! You're one of those," a voice came to his ears.

Nuparu turned to find a tall Gaquri standing at the entrance, looking at him curiously.

"I am a Toa," he corrected.

The other nodded: "Yes, I do know that. Forgot the name is all. You're a, uh... Ko?"

"Onu."

"Hm! My mistake. Which element is that, again?"

"Earth. Do you need something?" the inventor cut their small talk short, lightly tapping a tool similar to a wrench against the skeletal frame of what appeared to be a heavily modded chariot: "I'm working on a project."

"You know where Berix is?" the Gaquri asked. He raised an arm: an interesting weapon, with a jagged light blue blade at one end and some kind of projectile mechanism attached to the handle, dangled from it casually. "Wanted to drop this off to him. The thornax launcher's been jamming up more often and I know that boy can make it work like a charm again."

"He's getting parts," Nuparu answered. His eyes rested once more on the blade and he added, tilting his head intrigued: "You can leave it here if you want."

"So you can study some original Bara Magna manufacturing?" the other joked.

"It's not really my field, but it looks remarkable."

He watched the organic being laugh heartily as he approached - with a fairly heavy limp, he noticed: "Remarkable! Now that's a bit of an exaggeration, kid. I made these from some bones, whatever viable scraps I could find from wrecks of the Core War, and a few patches across the years when I could afford it. It's held together by spit and whatever Ackar's friend did to make it spurt water."

"From what I understand, spit doesn't seem like a good adhesive."

"That's what we say here to mean something's parts are real shoddily connected together."

"Hm! Like dried mud. Or aluminum sheet."

"That's the idea. Ah, where should I put this, anyhow?"

"There is fine. What's with your leg?"

The Gaquri gave a grimace: "Nothing much - just my knee acting up," he replied, patting the guilty joint. "Something must have gotten rusted. It happens."

Even through the lack of expression of his mask Nuparu treated him to a baffled look.

"What?"

"Organic parts don't rust," the Toa sputtered. "At least, ours don't."

The other eyed the tendons and muscles peeking through black armor, and his lips perked up in a little smile.

Without a word he placed his weapon on the least cluttered corner of Berix's work desk before redirecting his now free hands to the side of the faulty knee, messing with what appeared to be the graceless stitching of a large wound: his fingers sank deftly into it and pried through the gaps enough to loosen the whole thing, and before the less organic being's flabbergasted eyes pulled down the fake skin and meat to reveal a fully mechanical joint, complete with pistons and springs and even what seemed like wires.

"Don't worry," he chuckled with a wave, "Ours don't either. But most crusty old Glatorian like me haven't been completely flesh and bone in a long time."

If the inventor's attention had been piqued before, he was completely captivated now. He was leaning on his seat towards him, vehicle project all but forgotten, intently studying as many details of the prosthesis as he could see from that distance.

His eager interest made the other laugh again: "Why all that surprise! Don't you see something like this on you every day?"

"Yes, but I'm not you!"

"And what's that mean?"

"You're all flesh! And meat! And skin! How does that work?"

The Gaquri considered something for a moment. "If you can get me a seat and figure out what's wrong with it, I'll be glad to let you have a closer look," he offered at last.

Nuparu pulled the stool from right under himself so fast that he fell on his ass.

He then placed it down with extreme care and patted it insistently.

The other barely held back a snort.

His implant hadn't caused this much of a scene since the first day it had been up and functional.

"The name's Tarix, anyhow," he introduced himself as he sat down a little heavily. "Since you'll be rummaging knuckle-deep through the insides of my leg for the next thirty minutes."

"Hm," Nuparu replied as he kneeled until his mask was all but grazing the joint.

Tarix waited a dozen seconds, and added: "You got one too, Toa?"

"One what?"

"Name."

"Nuparu."

"I see. Ah - nope, nope, don't-" his fingers quickly pinched the mechanical being's and lifted them away from the scarified tissue binding the meat to the metal: "That's real flesh, don't peel that - the nerves still work, you'd put me through the pains of Plude."

"What's that?"

"You folks have a place in your lore built just to torture you forever?"

"Yes, Karzhani. I've been there."

"Huh. Well, I've been to Plude too back when it still existed, and I'll just say that the only good thing the Lord of Sand might've done was collapsing it on itself. So, you get what I mean about the pain."

"Hm. Yes, I can imagine. But how do I - see, to check the individual parts, I'd need to pull them off..."

"Oh - hold it, let me just..."

Angling his leg in an uncomfortable position and hunching down with a hiss, the Glatorian set to work carefully pulling screws loose with the help of an empty pipe he'd fetched from his pocket. The small parts dangled from their sockets without falling, just distant enough from the point the metal touched to allow the top and bottom pieces to be pulled apart without needing to pull the much more easy to lose components out of the whole.

"Hold the calf a moment, will you?" he muttered with the pipe now stuck between his teeth. Nuparu complied, holding the lower half of the leg still as Tarix worked his magic on the inner wires. At last, satisfied, he unfurled his back up once more and puffed satisfied: "There, pull."

When the Toa did so, the prosthesis came apart as easily as a house of cards. Suddenly, in the mechanical palm was a whole calf, still warm with life and undoubtedly organic.

Tarix watched genuinely amused as Nuparu tested the ankle in his hands and on the ground, miming an attempt at a walk as though playing with a very concerning doll with nothing short of pure unadultered fascination.

He posed it as if stuck in a sprint: "Can you feel this?"

"Not a single thing," the Glatorian replied. He patted the metallic femur's exposed head: "And neither can I here. The connections are all in the wires, they go right into the nerves, see? So long as they're apart I can't feel crap anywhere from over here," and he pointed to the flesh that stopped around the middle of his thigh "To the rest of the leg underneath. Not that I should be able to, frankly, if we wanted to abide by nature's whims, but luckily for me us Spherus Magna natives never cared much for that."

Nuparu hummed: "How'd you get it like this, anyways?"

"Oh," the Glatorian shrugged as though it were the most normal thing in the world, "Blew up."

"It just exploded?"

"Not by itself, of course, someone shot the whole thing out of me."

The Toa treated him to an appalled look.

Tarix waved a hand harshly, chewing on his unlit pipe: "The Core War was absolutely barbaric, kid! I've witnessed stuff I wouldn't wish on a Skrall. When I saw that half you've got there in your hand fly over my head as gracefully as the ugliest bird known to any being with eyes, I thought I was going to die of shock like a Mountain Striker with a broken wing. I still have no clue how I managed to keep awake through the bloodloss and pain long enough for the fixers to figure out I was still alive enough to be taken down to the medic."

Nuparu regarded the half of a limb in his grasp with newfound horror and fascination. A whole portion of leg, shot right out... He wasn't sure if even the Vortixx could have had something capable of doing that. Oh, sure, they had plenty of possibly worse things, but even the most blunt tended to have slightly more complex effects than just 'blows a chunk off of you'.

And the fact that they had managed to rebuild the broken joint and connected it to the rest of the nervous system was nothing short of miraculous, compared to the same thing done on a mechanical being - whose organic components regenerate, too.

"And all Glatorian have something like this?"

"Us older ones, yes," the other nodded. He watched with a sort of lazy interest as the Toa turned his attention to the mechanism of his prosthesis, checking for damage as he had promised. "The rookies tend to have the usual stuff, thank goodness - scars, plaques, maybe a limb, some fingers..."

"Fingers?"

"Yes, some of them. They tend to nip 'em a lot during training, you know, when they start to get the hang of it and stop holding their weapons like they're gonna grow a mouth and bite them - they cut tendons often those first few times. Or just the whole thing."

"Really?"

He chuckled, playfully waving his fingers: "Gresh keeps losing them. If you look closely you can tell which phalanxes are still his."

"I thought he was good at fighting."

"He is. He's just young. And a little too brash at times."

Nuparu hummed, moving onto the piece of implant attached to his thigh: "You mentioned limbs, too," he noted absentmindedly: "Is that also common, during training?"

"Losing them? Oh no, that happens out in the desert. Or, used to happen... Well, the desert's still out there, just smaller, so I guess - point is, you'll sooner get one cut off by a Bone Hunter or chewed up by a Vorox than find a fellow Glatorian who'll do that to you, on purpose or not. We made sure to try and avoid that sort of thing when we made the rules for the job."

"And plaques?"

"Oh, these," and he tapped some strange metallic protrusions on the top of his legs, on the side of his arms, and on his shoulders. "Nothing special, they keep armor in place. Easier than having to strap it on. We install them when we come of age."

Their shape was somewhat familiar: "Berix has them too, I think."

"I think everybody gets them - Agori, Glatorian, Skrall..."

"They are pretty useful," the Toa nodded.

He couldn't really imagine how they could have managed to stick armor to themselves otherwise. Maybe through some cloth? But then it might chafe their joints, and they'd have to find a way to insert it in the metal anyways...

He hummed thoughtfully, wracking his brain as he tried at once to figure out both the logistics of putting armor on fully organic beings and whatever was wrong with the implant.

So concentrated he was that he actually jumped a little when the pipe gently smacked his shoulder.

Tarix had a strange look on his face as he pointed down at a spot on his prosthesis: "Don't - it's nothing to be worried about yet, just, watch it," he warned, "That coil there you've got near your index, she's real frisky. Won't be a problem now that it's taken apart, but when you stick it back together you'd better avoid even just so much as grazing it - it'll pull my calf back at top speeds to kick my ass. Been like that since the start."

"Oh! Sounds painful."

"It is!"

With a hand already rummaging through a box of springs, Nuparu offered: "Since I'm here already, I could replace that..."

"Ah, there's no need really," the Glatorian quickly stopped him.

"But it's a liability."

"If it's out in the open like this, yeah, but - well, when it's covered it's a lot more manageable, and the wires-"

"It's still a malfunction. I can fix that without any trouble."

"I get it, but it's - I - hm! Let me explain. See, when - if I cover it up, see, with my-"

"The fake flesh?"

"Yes, that - it still jerks back if touched, but not as hard, you get me?"

"But it still does."

"Yes, and here's the - the thing is, I also have my nerves connected, right? Right, and when the coil gets touched and makes my leg jerk, it... Er... See - have you ever - hm! Hmm-hm. Hold on. Do you... Is there something that you know is not good for your body, but when you do it it just feels nice?"

"No."

"Alright, this complicates things."

"Oh! Oh, no, wait - when I cut metal with a saw, I like to keep myself as close to the sparks as possible so they can hit me because they tingle. It's fun. Do you mean like that?"

"Eeeh, close enough! That's what's going on with that coil."

"It tingles?"

"It... Uh... Sure, let's. Call it that."

The change in tone was weird, and he seemed to be somewhat embarrassed about having brought the subject up.

Now, in regards to asking personal questions, Nuparu tended to be as uninterested in other beings' private matter as much as a Kofo-Jaga is in lightstones.

However, this was directly related to the machinations of an impressive, if a little primitive, handmade mechanical joint.

So yes, he would have loved to pry.

The mental manifestation of Turaga Whenua repeatedly smacking him over the head with his drilling staff was currently the only thing keeping him from inquiring on any activities Tarix might have enjoyed dabbling in outside of his work hours, but luckily for the Glatorian that singular imaginary scenario was also an extremely effective deterrent for any Matoran or Toa that had ever at some point of their lives resided in Onu-Koro.

As such, the Toa just shrugged and diverted his attention onto the object the Gaquri was now nervously twisting in his hand: "What's that, by the way?"

The total swerve in subject matter destabilized the Glatorian briefly. He looked down at his fingers, then back at the Toa.

"A pipe?" he replied.

Nuparu squinted at it a little better: "That does not look like a pipe." he decreted.

Tarix lifted an eyebrow, curiously: "It's just an Agori pipe."

"That's not a pipe," the inventor insisted.

"And how should a proper Toa pipe look like, then?"

"Matoran pipe, maybe-" the Toa scoffed, rolling his eyes and making the other chuckle a bit while the mechanical hands went right back to checking on his implant in the midst of his correction: "First of all, it's far too small to be of any proper use; second, that seems to be made of wood, which is the worst material for this kind of thing - even if you could fit that tiny piece in a proper hydraulic system, long time usage will lend it to rot and come apart much faster, which is why we used to trade iron with Le-Koro to avoid the whole village from caving in on--"

"Oh!" Tarix interrupted him all of a sudden, smacking the object on his palm with a hollow sound: "Oh, you meant - no no no, it's not that type of pipe! It's a, uh -- pipa! Nagele! Sghitt!"

"Don't curse at me, please."

"I'm not cursing at you, it's just different names for this! You really don't have a word for-?" then he cut himself off as he seemed to remind himself of something evidently obvious: "Ah - well, I mean, you don't have a mouth, of course you can't smoke..."

"Yes we do."

"You do?"

"Yes? How else would we hold our masks?"

Tarix blinked, briefly wondered if he should have asked, and decided it didn't matter: "But you don't smoke? At all?"

"No? Unless we get catastrophically overheated or are set on fire," Nuparu replied as he attached the disjointed calf into the thigh again. "Both of which in all fairness have happened before. Not very often, but they have happened."

"No, I meant... Ah, hold it, hold it..."

He stuck the unlit pipe back in his mouth, puffing out nothing a few times with a thoughtful expression on his face.

"See - it's a bit like the coil and the sparks again, the matter with smoking," he decided to start explaining: "There's certain plants, if you dry them and burn them well, that make really pleasant smoke."

"How is smoke pleasant?" the Toa muttered.

"The smell can be," the Gaquri shrugged, "And the taste too. Wait-" and he gently knocked the foot of the pipe on the top of the Volitak before the inventor could interrupt him again "-Wait a second, I can't very well clear this up if you keep cutting in. Alright, so the bigger part here, the bowl we call it - you need to press the dried plants in here and light them up, only a little before the whole thing burns up; once they're charred nicely, you inhale through the shank, and then you puff it back out. That's how the smoke gets in your mouth and you can taste it."

"And how does it taste, then?"

"Ah, depends on what you smoke," was the whistful answer. "Same goes for the smell. The Lebori have a certain bark that gets real flexible when wet - they make whole pipes with it, they burn up real well, but it's a bit too sour for me. Before the Shattering there used to be a type of kelp I liked, and Kiina said they had River Eyes up near the Dormus that made some terribly sweet smoke."

"River Eyes?"

"It's a flower! Small, round, blue, and it grows on river banks. Never got to try them, though, and it's better I don't go around asking for some with the lungs I've got. Like I said, smoking's the same as the coil and the sparks: feels good to do, but it's bad for the body."

Nuparu hummed deeply, rummaging inside the knee as he handled the hanging wires carefully.

"I think I figured out the problem," he announced.

At that Tarix perked up: "Rust?"

"One piston has developed a limestone growth that makes it much harder to move properly, and as a result one of the springs is bent out of shape and chafes right against the nerve."

"Ah! Well, damn. You can get limestone in there?"

"If it's humid enough, it can build up over time."

"Hm... Alright, I guess all those years sweating in arenas and whatnot were bound to do the trick eventually."

"Also there was rust."

"Hm. Where?"

"Three screws. I changed them already."

"Wait, really? When?"

"While you were talking about the Core War."

"Huh! You're quick. And quiet."

The Toa shrugged: "I like working."

He pulled the prosthesis apart for a second time, laying the calf down on the floor. He then leaned back to search through a tool box brimming with bits and pieces - bolts, nuts, coils, springs, and all sorts of other things - with what his mask's stillness still managed to convey as a focused furrowed brow, evidently still thinking about what course of action to take now that he had pinpointed the anomaly to fix.

Changing his mind, he stood up and made his way to one of the various piles of junk and assorted more or less useful knicknacks to start looking for something in there instead.

"Speaking of the Core War," he said, implying he wanted to start a conversation but without really adding to that sentence.

Tarix waited a few minutes, puffing out in silence while watching him shift towels or bottles until he found what he was looking for (a clean enough rag and flask containing a murky liquid), before figuring that he was waiting for some kind of permission to continue on the admittedly not particularly pleasant topic: "Yes?"

"You said other older Glatorians also got implants like this from it."

"I implied it, but yes, that's the case."

The Toa hummed as he settled back before him: "And they're all knees, like yours?"

"You want to ask what their own prosthesis are?"

At that, he got no response.

"You can, by the way," Tarix reassured him, "It's been a damn long time by now, it doesn't hurt as much as say, eighty hundred years ago. We've been living like this long enough to joke about the whole thing and whatnot."

Nuparu mumbled something indistict as he soaked up the rag and began scraping the limestone off of the metal with it.

"Don't act all shy now, kid! As I said, it's no trouble." the Glatorian repeated. A sly smile curled the corners of his lip: "You can't get embarrassed like this every time you have to ask about new possible clients, you know," he jokingly reprimanded him, "Otherwise you'll have a hard time getting any."

"I don't want to be paid!" the Toa replied. "I'm just curious, is all! This is... Well, I didn't expect it to be something you'd have."

"Oh, don't worry, not everybody's missing a whole chunk of leg like me," Tarix chuckled. "We Glatorian like to keep ourselves distinct from one another."

"In implant too?"

"Of course! Let me think, now..."

He inhaled a long breath through his pipe, leaning back a little as the kid continued on with his work, and exhaled with a whistle.

"So, let's see - Vastus, he's got a good chunk of his lower spine replaced and, oh, 'bout three quarters of his intestines," he began: "Kiina had her hip crushed and put back together, and that should be... Ah, nope, nope, half of her left hand and the whole ulna too. Telluris I haven't see in a long while now, but unless he's figured out how to place his brain in a tin can I'd bet his head's all that's left. Certavus, bless his memory, I don't think he had a single original organ left by the end, and Gelu's got bionic feet - one foot, one leg, right, a whole leg, so then Strakk was the one who got his eye shot out and his nose crushed. And the jaw, of course. I don't remember if it was him or Malum who cracked his head but I do think it was him, because Malum had the femur that got split in half and it worsened with that problem with his ribcage where the metal was corroding and messing with his blood... Which is why he had to get his marrow replaced in his leg later on. Oh, and Ackar also had to... Ah, wait, which one was it? Right, right. Ackar, poor guy, his back itself is worse than a Plude street but his real problem's his right shoulder blade, which got essentially pulverized - I was there, ghastly sight - so they had to replace the whole thing, and that was bad enough; but then, and this is the fucked thing, the implant actively degraded the rest of the arm, so he had to keep replacing bits and pieces of it until it was just completely gone."

Nuparu lifted his head, eyes wide and flabbergasted: "The fixing made it worse?"

"It did! He kept having trouble moving it."

"How?"

Tarix raised his shoulders: "Beats me," he replied just as baffled. "It's a common thing for Tapyri, honestly. It's hard to tell if the material's bad quality or has trouble with the heat. Perditus too - after he got half his leg replaced, the damn thing somehow managed to melt halfways and left him limping almost worse than he would if he just didn't have it."

"And he can't replace it?"

"It's grafted onto the bone and the muscle has grown over it. They'd have to carve the whole thing out with it, it's just not worth it."

The Toa stared at him positively appalled.

"That is horrid," he spat, punctuating the adjective with a harsh yank of his hand over the faulty piston, thus launching a loosened piece of limestone to skid across the floor.

"You're tellin' me, kid."

"That's - it's inadmissible. It's insane."

"And I haven't told you about the Agori."

"What about the Agori? Were they fighting too? Do they-?"

"No, not fighting, usually - it's something we got in common with your lot: we're basically the same species, but we are much bigger and they're much nimbler. So you had us larger folk tearing one another to bits properly, while they tended to work as scouts if they weren't busy trying to put us back in one piece."

The Gaquri interrupted himself to stretch his arms up, pulling one towards his head.

The movement produced a loud 'crock!' roughly around the height of his shoulder, followed by much softer pops crackling all the way up towards his wrist as it twisted.

Satisfied with the sound (which instead made the inventor a little uneasy considering their conversation), he moved to massage the sides of his spine with his knuckles, rolling his neck: it seemed to make a curious ticking noise in place of a meatier sound, filling in the quick pauses of Nuparu's rag scrubbing the limestone away.

At last he puffed into his unlit pipe: "If you look at the older ones - the Agori, I mean - you'll see they've got less lower half than upper."

"That makes no sense."

"It does if you don't count implants. We've got them a bit everywhere, I told you, but an Agori with an arm prosthesis is a real rarity. They've got them mostly between their soles and the top of their hipbones."

"And why's that?"

"It's 'cause the lucky ones stepped on mines."

The Toa hummed thoughtfully.

He did not raise his eyes from the almost clean piston: "And the unlucky ones?"

"Well, we were trained to aim for either the neck or the head."

Ah.

Those certainly had been unlucky.

For every thing Toa and Glatorians seemed to have in common, a complete opposite came around. To imagine a Toa willingly kill was already hard, though not impossible - the Mahri themselves had been met with the chance to do so once or twice, and it had been tantalizing to say the least; but to envision a group of his brothers and sisters being not only instructed but even trained to kill, and especially to kill Matoran...

Well, he was glad he did not live in that kind of world.

"That's just how life is," Tarix sighed in the end. "Nobody wins. They've got their metal hips, and I've got my leg held together by wires and pistons. And an artificial diaphragm."

That snapped Nuparu out of his unpleasant musings: "A what?"

"That one wasn't the war's fault, though - well, it was, but it came in later. See, I had some sharpnel that got stuck in there but nobody noticed, and then one day I got a shove in the wrong spot during a match and just stopped breathing. So I had to get a mechanical one, and when I have to put myself under any sort of strain I need to hook myself up to an oxygen supplier to make sure it doesn't collapse under the effort - you know, that tube thing you might have seen on me, sort of like yours."

"Your gills?"

"I..." the Gaquri briefly did a double take. "You call those gills?"

"Yes?"

They blinked at each other briefly.

"Yeah," Tarix conceded, "Yeah, I guess those would be gills for you folks, huh. Makes sense."

"What was it that you had to replace?"

"My diaphragm."

"What is that?"

"... The muscle?"

"Which muscle?"

"The... The one that makes the... Lungs? Work? I understood you did have lungs?"

"Lungs work on their own."

"No they do not?"

"Yes they do. They are muscles."

"No they are not??"

Before Nuparu could further argue his point by lifting his chest plate and forcing Tarix to behold the disquieting spectacle offered by his very much clearly autonomously moving lungs, the unmistakeable noise of a small variety of hollow brass objects gracelessly crashing on the floor and being hurriedly chased after by stomping feet attracted their attention elsewhere.

Berix did not notice them as immediately as they noticed him, since he was busy making his entrance on all fours as he scrambled to pick up a bunch of scrap metal that had spilled from his arms.

The other two beings made no sound as they watched him curse to himself after stepping on a rogue bolt. They decided to simply observe him in silence much like an equipe of entomologists observes a particularly frenetic spider panicking for some kind of fault in its web, making no motion to lend the young Agori any help as he crawled along the ground to collect the scattered pieces of his scavenged treasure of junk.

It was particularly fascinating when he accidentally shoved several bolts in his mouth to the point of almost stuffing his cheeks with them, realized his mistake, and spat them in what looked like an exhaust pipe.

He almost cried when they fell out of it and rolled away again.

Then he lifted his eyes briefly to the other two silent beings in the room and failed to recognize them.

Meaning he then proceded to jump almost three whole bio straight in the air once he figured there were people looking at him - landing on a screw.

"FUCK!" he whimpered.

Tarix waved: "Hello to you."

"Do you need help?" Nuparu asked with a notable delay.

The Agori kneeled to the ground and skidded across it: "No no no, I'm good! I'm good, I'm - hey, hi, Tarix, hi, when did-? What are you-? Uh," he said nervously as he tried to catch as many nuts and springs as possible, "What is going on there? Is it, did I interrupt or, should- should I leave? Again? Should I leave again?"

"Nuparu's fixing my leg."

At that Berix snapped his head with a deafening gasp to look directly at him, the most betrayed expression to ever grace his face plaster across it.

"But I wanted to do that!" he cried out in anguish like a desert fox cub experiencing the horrors of its mother's tongue bath for the first time: "I told you I could do it, I- I replaced Gresh's ribs and, and I fixed his lungs when the Skrall got him and he hasn't had problems with them since, I told you I could do it, I'm good at fixing-!"

"I know that, and Gresh told me you did real well," the older Gaquri stopped him, "But - don't take it personally, kid, you're good and all, but when it comes to my leg I only trust you as far as I can throw you and believe me, it ain't far."

"But then why does he get to do it!" Berix wailed, pointing at Nuparu still scrubbing off the limestone.

"He's got a whole body like this, I'd imagine he knows what to do."

"But I know what to do too!"

"I told you, I'd rather have a specialist on it."

The Toa briefly wondered if being a descendant of the Water Tribe had something to do with how outstandingly wet Berix could will his eyes to look, or if it was just a specifically Berix thing.

Mabe it was an Agori defense mechanism. After all, it would have been pretty hard to want to hurt something that appeared to be the personification of the verbs 'to whimper', 'to whine', 'to sob', and last but not least 'to wail'.

Whatever the origin of such an expression of anguish, Tarix was not immune to its effects: "Oh, don't be like that," he finally pleaded with a tired but guilty tone, and pointed off to the cluttered desk not too far away: "There, I've got something for you too, alright? I came in 'cause my Thornax launcher's busted and you're the best with 'em. Could you fix that for me? Pretty please?"

That was enough to light the younger being's face up again.

With the sort of excited thin howling laugh that a mischievous ghost might have, he scuttled away to the mess of a table that was the headquarters for most of his projects: onto it he dumped the rest of his scraps, not caring even in the slightest that it only helped to worsen the general situation he already had going on as he was already completely absorbed by the thought of the inner mechanics of the weapon at hand.

The perfectly good chair right beside him thoroughly ignored in favor of sitting on the ground in a curled position that would have made a shrimp suggest booking an osteopathic appointment, he immediately started tinkering around to figure what the problem was with the drive and precision of a blood hound.

That had been perhaps one of the best things their unplanned collaboration had brought Nuparu - aside from all the knick-knacks and thingamajigs and vehicles and tools he'd been able to make or just plan out with the Agori, of course. Watching Berix work on something was such a fun and fascinating experience: his intensity gave his body language a sort of visceral desperation that contrasted his careful fumbling motions, pulling pieces apart with his scarred skeletal fingers and letting them fall all around him as though discarded carelessly - yet he somehow always knew where to search when he needed them again, and if in the middle of his fixer's frenzy you asked him for a specific nut or a gear he could pick it up without even looking, always on the first try. The thunderous act of creation and its rhythmic symphony played on rough instruments whisked the both of them away from the world at large, but when the Toa managed to pull himself back to reality (whether done or stumped or just in need of a break) it was enjoyable if not just all-together mesmerizing to observe the other hard at work on his own project.

A loud bang was not enough to deter him from the launcher either.

The equally loud voice that followed with an exasperated bark did, however: "BERIX! THE DOOR!"

"RIGHT! RIGHT- RIGHT, HOLD ON!" he squeaked hurriedly, abandoning (with a little more care) the weapon to scuttle away as fast as he could to the entrance of their laboratory.

The figure that emerged from the held open door replied to his rambling apologies by grunting every few steps - not without reason, seeing as they were carrying the carcass of an older model of chariot intertwined with some other mean of transport that had clearly gotten lodged sideways in its back, trying to balance the hellish thing on their shoulders in a way not too dissimilar to how a shepherd might carry a too small Mahi tired from a day of running wildly.

The mess of a car accident was dropped rather gracelessly onto the first largest spot of floor available; freed from their herculean weight, the being sighed and pulled back their arms, making the rather dull metal vertebrae poking from their skin creak in a somewhat unsettling fashion.

Nuparu briefly wondered if they were encrusted in limestone too.

They sort of looked like it.

Hm.

Now he had to wonder if it was a common yet not very well-known problem for organic beings with mechanical implants. Maybe it had to do with an excessive production of sweat?

While he was busy pondering that, Tarix grinned at the sight: "Hello, my beautiful wife who sucks at killing me," he crooned lovingly.

Vastus turned to him with a smirk, thin feathers raised and brows slightly furrowed in a manner that was much more fond than annoyed: "Hello, my beautiful husband who can't aim for shit," he replied; upon noticing the Toa kneeled before him, he cheekily added: "Committing adultery, I see?"

His partner wheezed a loud gurgling laugh: "Twelve thousand years we've been married! Twelve thousand years and now you mistake me for Gelu!"

"For who?"

"What, you haven't heard about--?"

"NOT IN FRONT OF MY PROJECTS!" Berix shrieked.

The Lebori chuckled - it was a strange sound, some kind of hiccuping hiss - and reached out to rub his hand all over the younger Gaquri's head; the kid swiveled away from him with a soft rattling noise as his annoyed trembling arms shook his scales against one another, face contorting into a piqued grimace, and returned to the launcher to tinker the other two away from his conscious perception.

"And where'd you get that?" the Glatorian inquired, pointing at it with his chin as it was common to do in his tribe and getting no answer.

"It's mine," his husband reassured him, "He's fixing it."

"Jammed again?"

"Seems like it."

"Bet you just didn't clean it properly."

"You don't know that."

"But I'm right," Vastus teased him as he approached to steal the pipe from his mouth. "And over here, what's going on?"

"He's fixin' up my leg. Nuparu, by the way, that's his name - he's a, ah, Ko- nope, Onu-Toa, he said - thought it was rust but I had limestone in it."

"We can get limestone?"

"Might be the sweating," Nuparu interrupted them suddenly. He fixed his unmoving mask onto the Lebori: "Can you turn around, please?"

Tarix snorted at the other's brief baffled blink: "Hey now, kid, I get you've put your hands in me and all, but you shouldn't go around just checking my wife out like that!"

"NOT! IN FRONT! OF THE PROJECTS!"

The Toa looked between the three of them with no clue what any of them was going on about: "I thought there might have been crusts on the vertebrae," he explained. "Since I have the solvent at hand already, I could handle that already if it's the case..."

"That's what they all say," the Gaquri snickered.

His confusion was palpable.

Vastus flicked a playful finger at his husband's head, warning him: "Berix is gonna kick you out at this rate... But I'm sure it's just some dust, kid, nothing to worry about."

"It still would not hurt to do a simple visual check."

"He's right," Tarix interjected while trying to snatch his pipe back and failing: "Maybe you've been building up a limestone deposit this whole time without knowing it."

"I don't have limestone."

"You don't know that."

Vastus smirked at him as he turned around for Nuparu to check: "But I'm right."

"You can't keep answering that and get away with it."

"I can if I'm always right."

The inventor gave a high pitched hum: "False alarm. That's just dust," he confirmed.

A triumphant grin briefly met the Gaquri's eyes as he rolled them.

Nuparu reached into a box to pull out a short variety of springs in order to compare their size with that of the one that had been bent by the affected piston, now cleaned and hopefully ready to work smoothly; careful not to dislodge anything else, he carefully pried the ill piece out and hooked up its replacement.

Satisfied with how the procedure had done, he pulled himself back a little and announced: "I have another question."

"Shoot," Tarix answered instantly.

"What do 'wife' and 'husband' mean, exactly?"

A hot second of silence passed in which the Glatorian regretted opening his mouth.

He glanced at Vastus.

His wife glanced back.

The quiet persisted.

"We're married," he answered lamely at last.

The question he dreaded slapped him in the face with outstanding punctuality: "And what does that mean?"

Having had his fun of seeing his husband's best full-body impression of a yam turning exponentially smaller when fried to a crisp piece of coal, the Lebori finally intervened: "You folks have contracts?"

"We do."

"Marriage is a contract between people where you become part of one other's family. And tribe, if you're from different ones like us."

A vacuous gaze met his explanation.

"Alright, what's confusing you?"

"The 'becoming part of' thing."

Vastus shrugged, his feathers puffing out for a moment before returning flat in a way similar to how certain avian Rahi did before starting a very long song: "It means we become relatives," he tried again. "Here, look - Tarix is a Gaquri and I'm a Lebori, so my family and hers come from different tribes. By marrying me she became a sort of honorary member of the Jungle tribe, and everybody treats her almost as though she was my brother, or my cousin; in the same manner, I became an honorary member of the Water tribe and I'm treated like her sister or cousin."

"So... It's sort of like assembling a team?" Nuparu tilted his head, puzzled: "There's no need for a contract for that. All Toa consider each other siblings already."

The other clicked his tongue as though he'd bitten it by accident: "I shouldn't have used that metaphor," he muttered.

"Why not?"

"First of all marrying your actual blood-siblings is frowned upon."

"Why? What's a blood-sibling?"

"I'll tell you when you're older. Secondly, I can assure you marriage is nothing like siblinghood."

At that, the Toa frowned: "It sounds the same to me."

"Your knee and Tarix's look the same to me, too," Vastus argued: "They're both made of metal, so they're the same thing."

"They really aren't." then he blinked, bright eyes flashing briefly, looked to the ceiling to recollect his thought, gave a loud hum, and met his gaze again: "I see your point."

The Glatorian smiled: "Good kid."

"Back to the point - how do 'wife' and 'husband' fit with all that?"

"That's just how you call someone who's married."

"So they're synonyms?"

"Yes, pretty much."

The answer seemed to satisfy the inventor greatly.

"I'm learning so much about your species today," he commented in a giddy tone. He returned to the discarded robot calf on the floor, dusting off its mechanical parts to make sure not even small amounts of debris would interefere with its functions; just as he plucked it back into the bulk of the implant, he looked again at the two Glatorian and told them with complete and total earnestness: "You know, if you were significantly smaller, quadrupedal, perhaps vaguely insectoid and incapable of speech, Turaga Whenua would have the best day of his life writing down and trying to decypher your absolutely incomprehensible habits."

That was the highest compliment an Onu-Matoran from the island of Mata Nui could bestow upon someone.

It was not categorizable as such by perhaps any other being in the entire universe, considering the source of such an idiom had been cut off from all other known civilizations and it was generally not considered particularly flattering to be told that you would make for a great petri dish for one's paternal figure to microscope if you were any less sentient, but luckily his tone did manage to properly convey the positive nature of his otherwise insane sentence.

So instead of knocking his head off with roundhouse kick, Tarix and Vastus smiled awkwardly in an attempt at not laughing in his face and just replied: "Thanks."

His Volitak did not have a mouth, but Nuparu's grin was blinding.

Berix chose that moment to shriek triumphantly.

"Fixed!" he declared, Thornax launcher hoisted into the air like it was the second making of the Element Lords.

The older Gaquri turned to him with eyes wide: "What, already?"

"It was encrusted with Thornax juice!"

Not even the time to feel bashful about such a silly and easy to fix thing hindering his battling performance so much that his wife was already leaning down into his line of sight with a smirk so wide that he could have just bitten his whole head off with it.

"What did I say?" he teased.

Tarix sighed, a weary smile on his face: "You cannot keep getting away with this."

"Yes I can," Vastus gloated, "If I'm always right."

#bionicle #nuparu #tarix #berix #vastus #random writing #body horror tw #mutilation tw #essentially tarix talks a lot about the core war and how most of the old glatorians have some kind of prosthesis #not very fun!!! but what can you do #this is first and foremost a silly fic again btw. i love writing silly bionicle fics. except when i beat them all with a shovel ofc #also vastus briefly uses she/her pronouns for tarix bc those are another set his husband's cool with. to me theyre t4t #was supposed to be slightly longer but i think thats a good place to end #anyways if you see this consider reblogging the financial aid post made by my pal cantankerouscanuck bc hell need that #but yeah tarix n nuparu talking while fixing up a prosthetic implant fic be upon you

[obsessivevoidkitten]

Shark Baited Ooh La La! Pt. 1

Yandere Goblin Shark Merman x Purple Firefish Merman Reader (CW: Rape, stalking, kidnapping, oviposition, general yandere behavior, rope, biting, male reader, mermen, dacryphilia, a horrible title for which I will not apologize) Word Count: 1.7k (This was not beta read so there may be some minor mistakes. I fully intended to do a gender neutral reader, but unlike a human reader the positions for merfolk sex are more complicated because there is a tail without legs. So I apologize. I do not apologize for the title. I do intend for there to be 1 or 2 more parts to this fic but idk when I will get to them.) Part 2 can be found here: Shark Baited Ooh La La! Pt. 2

You were a purple firefish merman, your entire village existed in a massive wondrous sea cave beneath a coral reef. All manner of glowing shells, stones, and crystals illuminated the vast space, the massive fields of giant aquatic mushrooms (a saltwater variant of Psathyrella aquatica, no doubt) that your people cultivated for food gave off soft light in hues of red, blue and purple. Even your species of merpeople had evolved with shimmering bio-luminescent patterns on your necks, collar bones, and tails.

 And the coral reef above your village was equally beautiful with every color of fish, coral, and seaweed. It was common for your people to spend time hanging out in the reef to enjoy the sun and harvest a lot of your food from here, in a sustainable way of course.  But despite it still being near one of the two main cave entrances and still full of coral and places to hide it was strongly recommended by the elders of the village to never stray to the edge of the reef. And you always listened, but today you saw something shimmering in the distance and you couldn’t resist seeing what it was.  And besides, never once in your entire life had the reef been assaulted or invaded, you could not remember the magical perimeter alarm ever once going off except in scheduled drills. And even if it did go off you could swim back fast, you really wanted to see the shiny bauble that had caught your eyes.  Oh! It was a large shiny gold coin, probably washed up from a human wreck or something. It filled the palm of your hand and you were transfixed admiring the pattern and how it shimmered in the sunlight. You put it in your satchel and realized you were a good bit farther from the cave entrance than you had realized. You were probably even past the perimeter alarm’s radius, you were sure you were safe but… you were still nervous being so near the open water.  You turned to head back but suddenly something grabbed a hold of your arm and pulled you backwards.  “Ha! I knew if I left that gold there it would get your attention eventually!!” It was a rough, deep voice. And the person it belonged to was several feet larger than you. A goblin shark merman! Shoulder length blue hair, blood red eyes, he had a pinkish skin tone, but his arm and tail fins were deep red with blue tips. He grinned at you, showing off his multiple rows of razor sharp teeth. The teeth of a predator. “L-let go of me!!” You flailed, twisted, and turned, but nothing you did could get you free of the muscular shark man’s clawed hand as he pulled you towards him.  “Counter proposal: I don’t let you go and you stop fucking resisting.” He pulled out some rope and, although you struggled, still easily bound your arms behind your back and tied them to your tail making you utterly unable to swim.  “I don’t want to be eaten!!” You thrashed and squirmed as if your life depended on it, because you fully believed that it did.  “Are you stupid? Do you think I would go through all this trouble of baiting you just for food? Stalking you for weeks and learning you like shining baubles then waiting for hours each day for you to notice the coin? I am not going to eat you,” He held you tight against his broad chest and whispered in your ear, “I’m going to fuck you.” “I don’t want that either!!!” You redoubled your efforts to squirm out of the restraints and his grasp.    “Because the ropes really scream “I care what you want” don’t they?” He chuckled as if it were the most natural thing in the world to tie up someone against their will.  You were completely powerless as he pulled you towards the open ocean and away from the only home you had ever known.  On the way he tried to make small talk with you, introducing himself as Damian. You told him your name and he laughed at you, joking that it sounded like a human name.  He must have swam with you in his arms for a couple hours before finally arriving at his den, a small and somewhat secluded sea cave. Your entire body was a limp noodle, exhausted from your increasingly feeble struggles. And your voice was strained from yelling, sobbing, and pleading. He laid you down on his bed, which was half of a hollowed out giant clam shell with a squishy gel-like filling to sleep on.  “I’m glad I finally have a breeding bitch~” He grinned menacingly looking down at you as you lay helplessly in his bed. “You’re so cute, I bet you feel so tight and warm inside don’t cha?” He lay beside you and untied you, but kept you in his ironclad grip.  “C’mere baby boy.” Damian roughly pulled you on top of him, your back to his chest, grinding against your ass as he held you close and licked your cheek, but you were far too exhausted to do much more than weakly squirm in his grasp. Though with his strength you doubted you could do much even at full energy. “You smell so gooood (Y/N). Mmmm. My (Y/N) all mine~” The shark man rubbed his hands all over your body, hungrily exploring every inch of you. Tears were streaming down your cheeks and he slowly licked them up (merfolk tears are not so watery like human tears, they’re more slime like so they would be visible underwater). “Mmm (Y/N) You’re so pathetically adorable when you’re scared~”  You could feel something large, warm, slimy, and hard prod against your asshole as your captor fondled your crotch until your cock slid out.  “Stop! I don’t want this!” You were shaking in fear despite your prick stubbornly betraying you.  “But I do,” Damian growled into your ear. “And you’ll look so cute all knocked up with my eggs!” He nipped your earlobe possessively, careful not to bite too hard. He rubbed his large prick against your hole, smearing viscous precum all over your entrance, his claws digging painfully into your hips. And with no further preparation or stretching or care for your pleasure he dove his dick right into your warm depths. It slid in easily enough with his own homemade lube covering it and your hole, but it hurt. You thrashed to the best of your ability as it felt like you would be split from the inside out.  Damian, however, felt only bliss. Your inner folds were so tight and hot, and he fit you so well, this was proof you were meant to be his property. His baby boy to kiss, and love, and punish, and train, and fuck, and fill to the brim with babies.  “Pl-please stop, it hurts!” Your voice was high, whiny, and strained. Why was this happening to you? You were a decent person, surely you didn’t deserve this brutality.  “I don’t care cutie~ You feel way too good to just stop, just relax and it won’t hurt as much.” Despite his uncaring words he did, very slightly, slow down a bit and thrust a little more gently. Though this may have just been to make sure he didn’t cum too fast.  “Get off of me!” You elbowed him, and although it did nothing to harm or dislodge him out of your hole, it did annoy him.  “JUST LET ME FUCKING ENJOY THIS!,” he snarled as he yanked your hair back with terrifying ferocity and bit into your shoulder, not enough to permanently harm you, but it definitely drew blood. “You’re my cumdump whether or not you like it, and accepting that would make things much easier on you.”  You trembled and sobbed, your shoulder hurting from being bitten, but you didn’t say another word or offer anymore physical resistance. He smiled at your obedience and licked the bite wound comfortingly, all the while still pounding away into your hole. “Such a good boy for me~ I knew you could behave,” The shark cooed into your ear softly before returning to soothing the bite mark with soft kisses.  “For being such a good little bitch for me I’ll make sure you feel good too.” He slowed his pace and made sure to hit your prostate gently as he slowly stroked your cock. Your voice hitched and you whimpered softly, despite your fear and lack of consent your body was all to eager to feel something pleasurable. You instinctively humped into his hand.  “Oh~ You like that don’t you my sweet little dartfish?” He kissed and licked your cheek. “Mmm, so sweet. I love you so much (Y/N), I’ll never let you leave me.” All you could do was whimper in pain and pleasure as all the built up stimulation finally brought you to orgasm into his hand. Damian brought his seed covered hand to his mouth and licked it clean, the salty-sweet flavor taking him over the edge as he slid into you as deeply as he could, stopping his thrusts and shuddering as he deposited several large eggs into you. You gasped as your belly bulged out. He simply held you in that position for a while as he panted before pulling out and flipping you over so that you faced him, holding you close to his chest.  “Fuck I love you (Y/N). I love you. I love you. I love you.” He kissed your forehead after each repetition of his amorous declaration. “You’re my precious little breeding bitch~” Damian pressed his lips to yours and kissed you deeply with unexpected tenderness.  The shark rubbed the side of your tummy and looked at you as if you were the most beautiful site in the world which, to him, you were.  “My eggs are in there. God, (Y/N) you look so nice like this filled up with my babies.” Damian hugged you tightly, pressing you into his chest. The obsessed shark rubbed your back lazily with one hand and cupped your butt with the other, he remained like that for a long time, but eventually his grip loosened when he fell asleep contently.    Now might be your only chance to escape...

#yandere monster #yandere x reader #yandere teratophilia #male yandere x male reader #monster boyfriend #my oc #my oc damian #merman oc #yandere merman #male reader #yandere terato #my OCs

[mists-reading-nook]

Another world.

Part two,yay!

Slight gore warning!

Gone. His entire livelihood is gone. His home is gone. His family,friends,everyone. Everyone but her. Her safety came above his,she had to stay alive at all costs.

Walking through the familiar forest,weaving through the thick foliage. You travel through this quiet world. Not a sound in the air,not even a gust of wind. Darkness lurks in every corner,under every bush and leaf. Finally,you make it to the place where leaves turn to rock,where grass yields to stone.

Turning around one last time,you look at the slowly closing Sumeru. What happened here? Who wrote that warning?

The dark greens and greys and blues and blacks of the forest transfix you,and you can’t look away,even as your feet move backwards. Your stupor is broken by something soft under your shoe.

It’s another notebook. You pick it up,flipping through it. It’s longer this time.

“We’re out now. We are mostly unscathed,but she’s scared now. I admit I was a bit snippy,trying to get her out,but this is like nothing I’ve ever seen before. Everyone is gone,nothing is familiar. The akedemyia was no help,as expected. But even they’re gone now.

We’re heading to liyue. It’ll be safe as we try to navigate this new problem. At least,that’s what I can hope. I need help,I can hardly do this on my own. “

There’s another page after that,this time it’s messy and scrawled in handwriting worse than in the first note.

“It’s not safe here either. I don’t know how it spread here but it did and we need to run.

Liyue is not safe.

One of them got me,but she’s safe. As long as she’s safe,I can do this. As long as she’s ok,I’m willing to die.

I’ll be ok,there’s no point in panicking.

[There’s a note at the bottom,in big, hastily scribbled letters.]

This is a warning to any and all sumeru survivors.

Liyue is not safe.

I don’t think anywhere is.”

You drop the unsigned book to the floor, hearing wailing coming from below. Carefully,in fear of what you may find,you climb down the broken,rickety wooden figure. What it had once been,you weren’t sure. The underneath of it was the interest anyway.

There’s a man there. Propped up on some rocks,with his eyes glased over. The wailing comes from his wide open mouth. His jaw was hanging from his face by a bone. His eyes are wide,and they look at you. It feels like he’s looking past you,through your clothes and through your skin. He couldn’t see you. Or at the very least,he didn’t know he was seeing you.

The wailing grows louder.

The body of this man,covered in moss and twirling vines,was worn and red. His arms were covered in scratch marks. Blood pooled from them like a waterfall,falling down the arm and onto the floor below.

What was this?

The wailing grows louder.

Who was this? What was their story,why were they sitting like this? What had happened to them..?

The wailing grows louder.

The wailing grows louder.

The wailing grows louder.

Run.

You need to run.

The wailing grows louder.

Your feet take you far. Far away from the man,away from Sumeru. You didn’t know this place,didn’t know where you were going,but your feet take you there anyway.

When you finally make it out of that stone graveyard,when your feet finally land on soft ground,you look up.

Liyue is not safe.

The wailing grows louder.

#accidentally posted this to my dark blog I can’t #sagau #genshin impact #genshin infection au #who’s writing the letters? #if you saw the accidental name drop in part one no u didn’t! #I love making these little guys suffer :3

[eddiebabygirldiaz]

Several Sentences Sunday

tagged by @watchyourbuck @honestlydarkprincess @spotsandsocks @rewritetheending @monsterrae1 @exhuastedpigeon @thekristen999 @captain-hen @wikiangela @daffi-990 @giddyupbuck

paint sex is gonna be finished either today or tomorrow, hooray! so here's some more of the smutty softness that took me like 35K to get to

Blue that is just a couple shades darker than what is covering their skin consumes Eddie’s vision, blinking down at him with a hazy heat and shimmering like watery sunlight pouring through glass that’s been stained blue. “Okay,” Buck says gently, coming forward to kiss Eddie’s lips, his cheeks, the underside of his chin, and then right above the mark he made. Buck braces a hand on the ground and spreads his knees further apart so he can lean back and then he pushes Eddie’s shirt up until it’s bunched around his collarbones. A wicked grin stretches across Buck’s lips, wild and untamed and broad, digging into his cheeks in a way that shouldn’t be cute but is, and it stays in place as he bows his back and leans down to bite at Eddie’s side right over his ribs. Eddie gasps, a shiver tearing through him that’s as hot as his blood and as slick as the paint coating the length of his back. The curve of Buck’s smile over one of the most sensitive places on Eddie’s body is almost unbearably intimate and Eddie can do nothing but clutch at Buck’s shoulders as he continues his assault, licking over Eddie’s skin and biting him hard enough that it’s just on the edge of too painful. “I love you right here,” Buck says quietly, lustfully, reverently. “I love this part of you.” A whining laugh bursts out of Eddie. “It’s just my side, baby.” He glances down to see Buck shake his head, his curls jostling slightly with the movement. “No. No, it’s beautiful.” Buck looks up at him from beneath his eyelashes, a dangerously coy expression splattered across his face, more stark and bright than the paint on their skin. “This slope right here,” Buck continues, dragging the tip of his tongue between two of Eddie’s ribs. “The indent of your muscle stretching over your bones. The way it’s so sensitive. The fact that I can feel your pulse so bright and strong against my hands or mouth. Almost like your heart is trying to break out and bleed all over me.”

tagging @elvensorceress @spaceprincessem @hippolotamus @shortsighted-owl @callaplums @anxieteandbiscuits @diazass @bucks118 @lover-of-mine @housewifebuck @bigfootsmom @heartshapedvows @911onabc @diazblunt @transboybuckley @forthewolves @eddiediaztho @cowboy-buck @hoodie-buck @thewolvesof1998 @messyhairdiaz @devirnis @eowon @wildlife4life @bekkachaos @sibylsleaves @loserdiaz @buddierights @gayedmundodiaz @folk-fae @paranoidbean @princessfbi and anyone else who wants to share!

#and now begins the desperate search for a title uggghhhhh #buddie #buddie fic #paint sex fic #eddie diaz #evan buck buckley #911 #ryan writes #seven sentence sunday

[ronearoundblindly]

Threadbare (4)

Steve Rogers x Fashion Designer!Reader

Part Four: Necking Region (see previous or series)

Summary: Chaos erupts at your Spring Show, but Steve is right there...at your feet.

Warnings for canon-level violence, Tony Stark's sass (obvi), kithes, and one hella-badass AND fluffy Reader! WC 4259

For you, handsome.

Handsome? Steve can work with that.

Even in the fresh dark, he schools his face in hopes to hide the nerves fluttering beneath his skin. Steve is determined to talk to you after the show, and he won’t get waylaid like in the fall. He’ll order three of everything that crosses the stage just to spend time with you again.

Quality time.

That he pays for.

Shoot, is he making it weird? Is that better than lying?

The music cue is deafening, and Steve jumps almost imperceptibly in his seat. 

Yikes, he’s a nervous wreck. He adjust the collar of his shirt, clearing his throat in the split second while the noise is drowned out and the place is still dark, but when the lights come back up, Steve Rogers’ heart stops.

It’s like…it’s like he’s looking into the past through one of Wanda’s magic visions.

His heart swells even as his chest tightens. There’s a sharp tingle behind his sinuses but he can’t look away. He blinks away the discomfort. 

Each silhouette triggers a long lost memory because they’re him. You would have seen him.

He remembers buying children’s clothes sometimes. For a long time, his ma resewed every seam in every pair of slacks. After she died, he just rolled up the hem and tightened his belt.

Of course, your models look nothing like that. They look striking and regal. They are meant to be seen. He can tell by their faces they want to be seen in your clothes, and Steve’s proud to even know you.

He grew up stuffing newspaper in his shoes. Now, your name and men who look like him—like he used to—will be in the newspaper. You’ll be on the cover for this.

Steve compulsively sweeps his hand over his hair and his eyes fall to his lap, concealing a dopey smile. He thinks this is the single most fantastic surprise of his life…

Then he sees the tenth model.

A slight, blond man in a crisp, collarless white shirt, navy jacket, and red pants struts down the platform, and the audience goes nuts. He’s certain a monitor would register his heart completely stopping for the entire walk, but Steve can only feel right now. He can’t think. His unfocused eyes wonder to the shadow where you were before, but he can’t even see.

The group does a whole second, swift run-through, but he’s not there anymore.

You emerge in this red, white, and blue masterpiece of a gown, perfectly complimenting the coloring of the last model, and Steve’s mind, body, and soul are on fire.

He watches you cup the face of your model and beam a wide smile, leaning down to him. You kiss that slight man’s cheek, and Steve has an out-of-body—or original-body—experience that shudders his large frame. 

His mind runs away, picturing working and relaxing beside you for all things, sketching, reading, resting, but he’s little again and your face is exactly the same. You don’t look at him any differently. He’s just Steve, either way, both ways, any way, and always. 

It’s only when the person next to him bumps Steve that he, too, pops off his seat for your standing ovation. He gets lost in the joy written all over your face, clapping his hands so hard his palms sting, but he will cheer you on until he’s worn them to the bone just to—

Your face falls as the underlying noise changes in the venue.

He knows that sound.

Steve understood why flashbulb photography triggered veterans like gunfire, but nowadays there’s no mistaking the difference. Those are bullets, and someone is pointing guns directly into your event space.

The room is already in complete chaos when Steve turns toward the intrusion. Guests scatter everywhere in every direction, some so disoriented they run at the shots.

Steve whips out his phone and yells over the din for F.R.I.D.A.Y to call emergency services, police and medical, to his location, then starts what should be an easy, ten-foot journey, but you’re practically across an ocean.

The music hasn’t stopped. People closest to the neck of the stage are still clapping, unsuspecting of the crowd knocking them down in search of two stage doors locked from the other side.

Something is off though because nothing Steve sees is impacted until he swivels back, shoved off kilter by two terrified women who tilt his gaze higher.

The panels of sheer fabric he thought were moody decor are fielding bullets like baseballs in a practice net. He’s never witnessed anything quite like it, but at least it means Steve has time to get to you. He has to move you off the stage so you aren’t so easy of a target.

Smacked around like a pinball in high speed machine, Steve hastily rushes to the rose-rimmed platform, barely missing your ankle in his reach and shouting for your attention.

He thinks you’ve heard when you spin, but it’s too late. Someone has breeched the protective panels, and any temporary structures throughout the venue start exploding from a hailstorm of semi-automatic fire.

Steve checks that the stage doors have been unlocked. Guests are getting out, but the bottleneck is slow. Your models are stuck on the stage, their path blocked by fallen scaffolding and sparking lights. You need to get the hell down, so he raises a hand to call for you again.

And then…

And then there’s an enormous arch of navy and red, centered by the glowing star on your chest.

And then a bullet streaks across the silvery mesh on your stomach.

A gunman has come around your shield, and Steve’s seeing red—well, more red—as he scans to see you unharmed.

Screw that guy.

Steve vaults over the stage, decks the gunman square in the jaw, and waits till the limp body rests motionless against a fallen chair.

He looks up to see you, not smiling but not upset. You’re waving for the trapped models to come closer to the barrier before meeting Steve’s eyes.

“Go get ‘em.“ You pull at the cuff of your filigreed sleeve, ticking your head to signal Steve should, too. “You’re dressed for it.”

He studies the buttons on his jacket, those unique ones at his wrists that hold concentric circles like his shield…or so he thought. Now he realizes, they aren’t just buttons; they are activation buttons.

He grabs his forearms to press both, feeling a gentle tingle spread.

His eyes snap back up to yours.

“Oh.”

You wink at him before all automated function of his body takes over, and Steve runs headlong for the goons with guns, wearing naught but a shockingly-useful suit separate and the ghost of his same goofy smile.

You think he’s handsome.

 Steve tucks and rolls behind one fabric screen, clocking the location of one gunman by the muzzle flare through the fabric. He rushes and drops one—two—three more until he sees a small grouping split off from a masked man’s side.

It’s Richard Fisk in a shock-white suit and with completely obscured face, but it’s absolutely ‘The Rose’ with a perfect blood-red bloom stuffed in his lapel.

The goons will stop if the boss goes down, Steve knows. He’s seen it a hundred times before, so he grabs the sidearm of the man he just leveled and fires at Fisk’s leg.

The bullet lands exactly where intended but hits like no more than a crowd-suppressant beanbag.

“Is that the best you can do, Captain?”

Great. You made Fisk a bulletproof suit, too.

Steve jumps behind the nearest screen, losing ground but crouching beside one of the other unconscious gunmen. A can of tear gas is strapped to the guy’s chest, and Steve just acts.

Fisk howls like a banshee, ripping the bizarre purple and black striped mask off his face to gasp for air and cough.

The Rose laughs, cocky and taunting. “You brought morals to a gunfight. You don’t even have your frisbee.”

Fisk sprays bullets randomly in the direction from which he saw the canister fly, and Steve sprints, sliding on his knees all the way to Fisk’s feet, arms up and shoved together as if he’s wearing his Wakandan guards. He feels some rounds bounce off his chest, hardly slowing him down, but the sound of bullets as they ricochet off his sleeves is intense. No doubt, Fisk would have landed multiple kill shots.

Armed police file in the entrance and scream for the goons to put their weapons down and their hands up.

Another coughing fit pauses Fisk’s assault. Steve chances opening his arms and swings immediately for the sneering, twisted face above him.

The man spins with the concussive force. Just before Fisk collapses in a makeshift bed of hot ammo shells and cold rose petals, Steve stands and adjusts his jacket.

“No—“ his hand smoothes over pristine and unfrayed midnight “—but I brought style.”

Iron Man swoops in to land on the other side of Richard Fisk’s body.

“Damn it, I didn’t get that on video. Can we reset and you say that line again?”

“Tony,” Steve warns.

“What?! It was so good, buddy. No seriously, I’m proud of that—“ Steve turns to check on you, watching the fabric of your skirt flutter back down to drape across the runway “—dare I say it’s my influence. I want proof you—“

“Tony,” Steve shouts again. Finally, the music is turned off from the media console.

“All clear,” Tony yells with his hands cupping his mouth. “Where’s your ‘girlfriend?’” He relaxes his arms after air-quoting and gives Steve a once-over. “Don’t think I don’t know you cut me in line for that.” 

Steve fiddles with his cuffs, attempting to swallow a blush and failing. He presses the buttons again. The tingling stops.

Tony frowns, pointing an accusatory finger as he watches Steve shrug. “That’s favoritism, and I thought you were better than that.” He turns deeper into the venue, screaming, “Sheers! You good?”

There’s no audible answer, so the pair make their way past the decimated decor.

Titanium boots crunch against the floor. “Looks more like my first dates than yours.”

“For the love of god, Tony, please…” but Steve is suddenly engrossed, rounding one last screen to see your models and several guests nervously huddled at your legs, your arms reaching out to comfort each and every one.

So strong. So soft. That’s you. That’s what you create.

“Hey,” you say with a huge breath and a soft sweet smile as Steve approaches.

He makes his way straight to your feet and holds out his hands. “Hey.”

“Hey?” Tony blurts, watching Steve lift you down by the waist like a princess. “Hey?? Yeah, sure. Cool. I love being upstaged. It’s not like I didn’t offer to fund this shit a year ago—“

“Language,” you and Steve say simultaneously.

“—or anything. No big deal.” Tony scoffs. “When else would I be perfectly within my rights to swear? We have to talk about this is my point.” He waves his gauntlet in the general area of you and clucks his tongue.

“Any other day, Stark.”

Tony, however, doesn’t need others to be as amused as he is. “Admit it. I’m an inspiration.”

“To find alternatives? To find feasible, reproducible options?” You break away from Steve’s grasp to step closer to Tony. “Yes, I did that. We can’t all be covered in nanotech.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s cost prohibitive,” you rage.

Steve stands ready to catch you, seeing the way your energy wilts after each sentence and that you can’t keep your hand up without them shaking.

Tony snorts. “What? Speak english.”

“Speak average,” you whip back, but before a staring contest can ensue, Abby pounces to swing you into a hug.

“I’m so glad you’re okay!”

You’re distracted by your assistant while Steve scopes out the venue, noting the triage area and cops beginning to take statements from unharmed guests.

Knowing Steve will ask, Tony interjects. “No major injuries. Mostly just bruises and sprains from people trampling each other.”

That’s incredible considering the pools of spent shells all on one particular side of those tall panels. They must be made of the same material—

“Stop fondling, Tony.” Steve smacks his friend’s hands off your skirts.

“I’ll have you know I’m fondling in the interest of science,” his friend hisses comically. He does drop the fabric though. “Fine. Then I’ll just be taking your jacket as payment.”

“Payment for what?”

“Letting you escort the lady home and bypassing the lovely, lengthy interviews the boys in blue are gonna want.“

It takes Steve all of three seconds to consider.

“Deal,” he agrees, imagining that with a crowd this size, you’d be busy until the wee hours of the morning, wringing your hands as you repeat yourself a dozen times, wrapped in a wool blanket, exhausted. He shrugs off the blazer quickly before any of the other officers come to speak with you and tucks one arm around yours to tell you the plan.

Abby encourages the escape.

Steve’s thrilled he did not walk to the event. He took a car in order to line up in the red carpet procession—as awful as he finds the practice—and luckily, the driver is still ready and able to maneuver the vehicle past a sea of police cruisers.

Seeing as most of your bodice and sleeves are sheer, you curl inward for warmth instead of lean against the cool leather of the backseat. Normally, Steve would offer his jacket, but in lieu of any decent layers to peel off for you, he drapes his arm over your shoulders. The flashing red and blue lights fade in the distance as you sink comfortably against his chest.

“So…” Steve starts, quiet and casual, “Tony wasn’t supposed to know you’d already sold Richard Fisk a bulletproof suit, huh?”

He can see your eyes are still open, staring out the window, but you don’t respond right away.

“Originally, I’d basically made a very thin kevlar, and that…wasn’t the end goal, so I made a few suits for a steep price to try for, well, what you saw tonight. Stark isn’t exactly subtle.” You shift an accusatory glance up to Steve momentarily. “Three days after Dominica delivered Fisk’s first suit, none other than the Tony Stark comes into my store asking questions. He tried to get me to develop under Stark Industries, wanted my work to be exclusive—and I’m sure completely under his own brand—so I said no. This was all spoken in hypotheticals, mind you. ‘Hypothetically,’ if I worked for him, the mob couldn’t get me, and ‘hypothetically,’ he could help speed my research along. He tried a few different times, too. I thought he was parading you in as bait at first.”

“You thought I was…what?”

“I thought Stark brought in the cute guy who looks perfect in my designs as some sort of dangling carrot to work for him.”

Steve’s floored.

“When did you know I wasn’t a plant?”

“Oh, one second after seeing your face. Nobody with an agenda is that good at looking clueless.”

He’d be offended if it weren’t entirely true. Steve had absolutely zero idea what to do or say being fitted and consulted on for civilian clothes, and he thought he was supposed to be meeting a man that whole time. However, he would not put it past Tony to have intended he be bait with no warning, and in fact, this would count as the greatest ‘long game’ Stark has ever played. Steve wouldn’t have needed more incentive to get close to you.

“Yeah, I invented the stuff,” you continue with a shrug and a yawn, “but he doesn’t own me and I like designing all sorts of things. I think that’s…”

Your voice trails off before Steve prods. “What?”

“I think that’s why he goaded me about my typical line. I told him I wouldn’t be pigeonholed into dressing superheroes, so I would look like a hypocrite if I still only made clothes for—“ you sit up and fake a deep, arrogant voice “—shiny, blond beefcakes.”

Steve’s hand slaps his forehead. Tony absolutely used those exact words.

“So I engineered the stuff alone and overhauled my entire collection in the last two weeks. That’s what Stark does, right? Control you without really controlling you.”

“It’s called being manipulative, and he and I have had several conversations about it,” Steve grumbles.

You’ve hit a second wind of energy but fiddle with your lap before asking, “what did you think of the show?”

Steve sits up straighter and clears his throat.

“Ya know,” you quickly interject, “prior to it becoming the Battle of Skylight Square.”

Just as Steve opens his mouth the car stops. The driver announces you’ve arrived at the atelier and thus your upstairs apartment.

Steve steps out and realizes the police car usually stationed at the curb is no longer there, likely called away to the scene earlier. He dismisses his driver for the evening and makes the executive decision to stay as your guard the rest of the night.

You shuffle to the front door, exclaiming that the real piece de resistance of your gown is your pockets from which you brandish your keys. Steve’s grateful you’re animated (if a little loopy) and distracted while his mind scurries to form words.

He can’t express what he saw and felt when he looked on that stage, so he hums in agreement with your rant on pockets and follows behind you, hands on your hips as you struggle to walk up the staircase.

You pause on the first step and peek at him over your shoulder.

“So…’Button,’ huh?”

He blushes furiously and focuses on your balance when you won’t. The dress train is long enough to require he lift it so he can see the stairs beneath his own feet. You two climb slowly.

“Well,” Steve blusters, repositioning the layers so one of his hands on your hip sits under your own hand that lifts the front bustle, “‘Handsome,’ right?”

One step up. You snort. “You say that like it’s odd that I’m attracted to you, but I think I thoroughly proved that tonight, mister.”

Another step up, and you’re about three-quarters of the way there.

Steve can’t hold back anymore though, not even till the top of one flight.

He uses his grip to spin you around and nudges his foot under your skirts, rising to the stair just below you. You’ve dropped all else and grabbed onto him for balance, cupping his cheeks like he saw you do earlier tonight. You have to lean down to him as his whole being screams ‘let me kiss you.’

Steve has a distinctly in-body experience, all his imaginings of touching a woman so sweetly and in exactly the way he would have a century ago come to fruition right there.

With a hard-working girl after a fight with a bully, just as it should be.

He loses track of his hands amongst the tangled yards of your dress, but your lips are soft and perfect. He ascends a few inches more by way of his tip toes and clings to the railing for balance. Steve has the fleeting thought that he might inadvertently be yanking you toward him with a palm over your ass—not on it because he can barely tell there is even a body part there—so he moves his hand up for assurances. Up is safer. Up is more gentlemanly. He teeters both on his toes and on the cusp of gentlemanly given how lost Steve is in devouring you.

Stunning and innovative as they are, your skirts are prohibitively fluffy, and Steve feels more and more of your weight resting on him, those last dregs of adrenaline draining away. He pulls back, ghosting a peck on your still eagerly pursed lips.

“Let’s get you comfy, Button,” he husks, rolling his thumb back and forth between what he now realizes are your shoulder blades.

You nod, your forehead against his, and although he’d normally think it forward, his desire to take care of you wins out, deliberately finding your thigh to coax your legs around him.

He carries you the rest of the way, nearly tripping but laughing the whole journey. “Sure it saved some people,” he jokes, “but then ‘bout took me down, so…”

He deposits you by your closet and goes to make you a very sweet herbal tea while you change. He’s surprised when you emerge dressed down with sweats for him in hand. 

“Menswear designer,” you remind him simply.

Even though it was never technically real until this moment, Steve falls back into the routine of kissing your temple so easily as he passes off the mug and heads to the tiny bathroom. 

When he returns though, you have a familiar thousand-mile stare.

He tries to change the subject, to get you talking about something other than today, tonight, and tomorrow. He draws a blank until the shuffle of paper sounds beneath his hand. It just so happens that on your dining table—or should he say, your work desk?—is a sketch for his Gala outfit. 

“Would you come with me?”

You hum softly in question.

“I mean, as my date. Will you go on a date with me? To this Hellfire thing?” 

The distance in your eyes shrinks until it’s just him and you. A smile blooms across your strained face.

“Yes. I’d like that,” you say softly before taking a huge breath that seems to physically toss weight off your hunched form. “Whatever shall I wear though…”

“Not to give you extra work,” Steve chuckles back, “but I know this great designer.”

You laugh into your tea, both hands around the ceramic, holding on for dear life.

“Should I open a window? You probably could use some more fresh air,” he offers. 

“Oh, they’re painted shut, possibly since before I was born, but we could go to the roof?” 

He’s not sure if that’s a commentary on you finding him lurking up there last week, but it’s a fine idea nonetheless. “Chairs?” 

You look around and counter. “Pillows?”

Steve takes another moment to think while you gather, and he ends up holding several cushions and your tea. As you both continue up the much tinier staircase to the access door, something occurs to him. 

“Wait, did you give me a prototype that was untested?”

You laugh nervously. “Um—“ you use your butt to open the door “—well, see, if anyone’s gonna be fine should a bulletproof and bullet repellant material fail, it’ll be a super soldier, right?” 

“So I was your guinea pig?!”

“I’m sorry,” you burst sarcastically. “You got a free, custom jacket—which you chose to wear to my show, might I add—and what would you have had ready without my ‘untested prototype?’” 

Steve makes doe eyes in the dark, ambient light pollution. “I just thought you cared about my safety there for a minute…” 

“I cared for everyone’s safety,” you chirp in retaliation for his heavy guilting. “I made those panels just in case, but I was never, ever going to cancel my whole show on the assumption Fisk would pull a stunt like that. Forgive me for not living my life in fear of what that lunatic, second-rate kingpin might do!” 

He shrugs at that, dropping his pillows in a makeshift seat pattern right beside yours. “Fair point.” 

There’s a comfortable silence while you sip your cooling tea. 

“Should have made myself one,” Steve laments in a soft breath. 

“Sweet, chivalrous beefcake,” you whisper, shaking your head. 

“Tony really said that, didn’t he?” 

“I think he wanted me to know he is my competition for your affection.”

“You aren’t…” Steve stops himself. He was going to say you and Tony are not competitors at all, but that isn’t true on multiple levels. He swivels to scoop up your legs and settle them over his lap, just like he used to on the couch at the Tower, and you squeak, clutching your sloshing tea. One of his hands circles your hip to rest at the top of one leg. The other lands at the strip of bare skin where your sweats don’t touch the ankle of your slip-on shoes. His pinky flicks over the fleece lining, rounding out his mental measurements of your body. For now.

“There is no competition,” his concludes in a low, deep tone. “You win.”

You stare up at him with glassy eyes now, in awe of something he can’t see but hopes to earn. This time it’s your expression that pleads for him, and he leans in for another lingering, thorough kiss.

Steve licks the sweet taste off his lips. “Should’ve made another tea,” he repeats.

Your eyes open again slowly, sleepily, reminding him of that daydream of waking up next to you and breakfast in bed.

He sneaks another peck before you can forms words.

“Is this a bad time to tell you…that I forgot my keys and the door shut all the way?”

Steve looks over incredulously at that stupid exit and sighs, scratching his jaw.

“It’s, uh, about as bad as—“ he debates admitting what he’s about to “—well, I can, I mean I could get us back in, but…” He glances over the side of the building. “How do you feel about sleeping with a window open, or rather, no window?”

@supraveng @1950schick @patzammit @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @yiiiikesmish @bucky-fricking-barnes-reads @fallinallinmendes @deandreamernp @shelbygeek @rogersideup @eyebagsanonymous @trudy-shams @saranghaey @darsynia @femefetalelevelingup

[Last Part]

A/N: probably not as well edited as it should be, but meh, I'm too excited to release this out into the wild! Comments, keysmashes, and asks always welcome. Thank you for reading!

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