#At least I don’t have to touch the goop anymore!! so not the worst!

[mcnuggyy]

I somehow ended up w this very specific kind of t-gel that’s meant to specifically be applied to your armpits and I just had to email my doc about it to clarify cause no wayyyy my PITS???? 😭😭😭 I’ve heard so many things saying to never put t on your pits, balls, tits, or penis?? Like??? Are you sureeee?? But yeah this specific brand is one of the rare instances where it’s meant to be put on there like a straight up deodorant 😭😭😭

[hahanamegobrrrr]

Discussions

This is a part two to this post. It was supposed to just be a oneshot but has turned into an au in my brain where Virgil is a lee, and Logan isn't in the t community but thinks it's absolutely adorable and is very willing to tickle Virgil loads.

1207 words

This is a tickle fic! (this is more talking than actual tickling, but still :P)

----

So, Virgil was in a bit of a lee mood at the moment. Like, a MEGA lee mood. It had been a couple weeks after Logan had tickled him for that first time. There had been several times since that first time where Virgil had asked Logan to tickle him. It was REALLY weird at first, with neither of them really knowing what they were doing. Virgil basically had to take Logan step-by-step through anything he wanted to happen, which was really flustering. But soon Logan got the hang of it, at least to the point that Virgil could ask to be tickled and wouldn’t need to act like an instruction manual anymore.

But this time, Virgil was in a MUCH worse lee mood. He didn’t feel like the normal softer stuff they’d both gotten used to would work this time. So, Virgil decided he’d talk to Logan about it. Talking had gotten them this far, it certainly couldn’t hurt at least.

Virgil made his way to Logan’s room. Standing outside the door, he knocked twice before Logan opened it.

“Hello, Virgil. What can I do for you?” Logan greeted him with a small smile.

“Can I come in?”

“Well of course.”

Virgil came into Logan’s room, and immediately flopped down onto his bed.

“So, I want you to like. Do the Thing.” Virgil said, already feeling slightly flustered. Logan made a noise of understanding, sitting on the bed next to him.

“Alright. Is there any particular place you’d like me to start?” Logan asked, already scanning over Virgil’s body in a way that made him feel all sorts of things.

“Yes. Could you do my belly?” Virgil asked, feeling a swarm of butterflies as Logan quirked an eyebrow.

“Really? Right at the start?” Logan asked. They both knew after some exploration that his tummy was by far his worst spot, at least that they’d discovered. They usually saved it for last, and only for a minute as a grand finale.

“Well, I kinda am in *more* of a lee mood than usual. And I’d like it if this time was more, uh, intense.” Virgil stammered, feeling his blush rise as he spoke. Why did it have to be such a big deal for him to talk about, huh?? Why couldn’t he just be confident in this and not have to trip over his words so much?

“Ah, okay.” Logan hummed. “Just tell me whenever you want to stop, ok? Since you are so sensitive there. I don’t want to go too far by accident.” Virgil’s poor little gay heart. It melted into simply goop after hearing how careful Logan wanted to be, to make sure not to hurt him.

“Yeah, I will.” Virgil replied.

“Alright, I’m going to start now,” Logan said, hesitating for a second before lifting up Virgil’s shirt. This alone led to another wave of butterflies. And then the fingers touched down on the skin, resulting in the now-familiar tingling sparks. Virgil immediately fell into giggles. For now, Logan was just gently skimming and scribbling the way they were both used to. And this was amazing, but after about 30 seconds, Virgil could tell he wanted- no, *needed* more. And Logan seemed to be thinking the same thing, because he asked, “So, how exactly do you think I can tickle you more effectively? We know from previous attempts that rougher tickles simply hurt you.”

Virgil actually wasn’t sure. Part of it was probably that it was hard to think with Logan’s continued scribbling on his tummy and sides. But how *could* they make it more ticklish without hurting? Virgil then had a thought. A horrible, awful thought that he cursed his brain for thinking. It would certainly amplify the tickles. But was he really desperate enough to give Logan this power?? ….Yes. Yes he was.

“Uhum, what i-if you. T-teaheased me.” Virgil choked out past the giggles. That was certainly not an easy thing to say out loud. He could see the cogs in Logan’s brain turning. Then there was the lightbulb.

“Ah! I remember reading about this. Verbal teasing adding to the feeling of being flustered and therefore increasing ticklishness.” Logan said, going into info mode.

Virgil spluttered at this, his blush absolutely skyrocketing into uncharted territory. “Y-you read up on this shit??” 

“Yes, of course I did Virgil. Did you really not expect me to even passively research something that means so much to you?” Logan stopped his scribbling fingers and stood up, the lightbulb expression back on his face. Virgil was somewhat shocked by the sudden loss of contact, and it took his brain a second to process what had happened.

“What- why’d you stop??” Virgil asked, already mourning the absence of even the soft tickles.

“You said you enjoy consuming written tickle content, correct?” Logan asked.

“Uh, yeah?” Virgil said, still confused.

“If you would share some of your favorite content with me, I can read it and try to emulate that. This would allow me to have a direct look at the kinds of things you’d prefer, as well as give me a sort of guide to work off of. I can do research!” Logan was now looking at him excitedly.

Virgil kind of just. Stopped working for a second. It made sense! It made perfect sense. But also, the thought of sharing his *favorite tickle fics* with *anyone* was mortifying. But this was Logan he was talking about, and it would greatly benefit Virgil in the future.

“Well, ok. It does make sense.” And so their session was paused, replaced instead with Virgil going through his tumblr likes and ao3 bookmarks to reluctantly send all his favorite, most flustering fics to Logan. As he searched, Logan would read any new fic as it got sent, making noises of affirmation whenever he came across something noteworthy.

"So, would you enjoy this type of teasing then, Virgil?" Logan asked, showing the phone to Virgil who almost immediately blushed.

The teases were along the lines of:

-"awwwwww, you're so cute like this."

-"Please? Please what? Please more tickles? Well of course."

-"You just love this, don't you?"

-"I'm gonna tickle-tickle-tickle you, and there's nothing you can do about it >:)"

A very strained, flustered noise came out of Virgil's throat just imagining Logan teasing him like that.

"Uh. Yeah. Like that. I mean, these are all my favorite fics so it's pretty safe to say anything you find will be fine with me. Otherwise it wouldn't be my favorite," Virgil admitted, deciding that the blanket was now the most interesting thing in the entire world, actually.

“That does make sense,” Logan said with a smile. “The common themes I am seeing in most of these teases are acknowledging the cuteness of reactions, and instilling a feeling of slight helplessness. Does that seem accurate?”

Virgil nodded. “Yeah, seems about right.” It was surprisingly getting easier to talk about this with Logan. Definitely *not* easy, but easier.

“So, do you want me to attempt to tickle you while also using these teasing techniques?” Logan asked, leaning closer to Virgil.

The blush that had died down on Virgil’s face had returned. “Yes PLEASE.”

Logan laughed at the eagerness. “Well, let us proceed then.”

[sdottkrames]

A Spoonful of Sugar

A Percabeth Fic

@comfortember prompt 13: Baking

Summary: Percy and Annabeth discover a sweet way to cope with their nightmares.

Notes: This fic was definitely inspired by this art by @viria. Thank you for the inspiration, lovely!

I know there has been a lot of discourse about Viria’s art and the skin tones she chose for Percy and Annabeth. I just liked how cute Percy looked in an apron with all kinds of batter on his face, and the sweet kiss from Annabeth, so I’m not trying to make any kind of statement, alright? Please only positive comments and such; no discourse! 💜 thank you! I love you all!

Read on AO3: Here

It started at camp, after Gaea had been defeated. They were there for a few weeks to help clean up, patch up campers, figure out relationships with their new, Roman cousins. 

The Greek demigods invite their Roman pseudo siblings to join them at their tables for dinner, and give them all tours of the camp. Reyna is given Praetorship again, her actions forgiven in the face of her heroism. Things are going surprisingly well, and despite the gravity of what they had all faced, it’s the most relaxed everyone has felt in a long while.

Then night falls.

Percy wakes up, a scream in his throat, his hand fumbling for riptide instinctively before he realizes where he is.

His chest heaves as he tries to get enough air to clear his head and get the smell of Tartarus out of his nose. The light from the fountain his father gave him is comforting, but not enough. His skin itches, the walls are too close, the cabin too quiet...he needs to get out. 

He decides to go to the lake. As he pulls on a sweatshirt, he feels something in the pocket and remembers that someone (one of the Demeter kids who’d taken up baking, he thinks) had given him a brownie earlier that day. He shrugs and quietly closes the door behind himself. 

Sneaking past the harpies isn’t nearly as scary to Percy anymore, however, his heart does stutter a little when he realizes the docks at the lake aren’t vacant like he’d expected, his hand automatically reaching for the pen in his pocket. But then he recognizes the blonde princess curls.

“Hey,” he says, abandoning his flip flops and sitting down next to her, his toes almost touching the water.

“Hey.”

“I couldn’t sleep.”

“Me either.”

They fall silent.

There are moments that words don’t reach; luckily, they don’t need words. The brush of Annabeth’s shoulder tells Percy that he’s not alone. And when he puts his arm around her, she knows it means thank you and I’m here for you, too.

Wordlessly, he pulls out the brownie and offers her half as he holds her close, and the quiet moment stretches on for almost an infinity. Just the moon, a brownie, and two broken demigods.

***

Months later, Percy startles awake again, but it isn’t his own panic that’s awoken him this time. Annabeth’s hand thumps his chest as she moves sharply in bed, her eyes moving wildly under her closed eyelids.

They’re in Percy’s mom’s apartment now. After that tearful reunion, nobody was keen to be separated again that summer, and Sally was perfectly happy to let Percy and Annabeth share a bed with the promise of no funny business and an open door (much to Percy’s embarrassment). 

Percy is especially grateful for that as he battles his own nightmares. Annabeth is the quickest way for him to calm down, and he is equally grateful that he can return the favor.

“Annabeth,” he calls, running a finger gently down her cheek. “Annabeth, wake up, wise girl. It’s just a dream.”

Although the nightmares aren’t getting any easier, coming back from them seems to be. She wakes up pretty quickly, and Percy holds her to him the way he knows she loves best. 

“I can’t go back to sleep,” she whispers after a little while. 

Percy hums. “Want to go raid the kitchen?” he suggests, remembering the brownie.

Annabeth nods after a moment, and slowly disentangles herself from his arms and the sheets, and they slip out of his room and into the small kitchen down the hall. 

The soft light and the cold floor beneath her bare feet are strangely calming, and Annabeth lets out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. She leans against the counter and watches as Percy moves about the kitchen, cupboards opening and closing softly as he looks for something to eat. She lets herself be calmed by the sight of him, breathing, alive, and here. With her.

Percy finds the blue cookies his mom made earlier, and fills two glasses with milk to go with them. Annabeth smiles gratefully at him when he hands her her portion.

They sit together, quietly eating their midnight snack (well, 3 AM snack, according to the small clock on the microwave). Annabeth hums contentedly as the chocolate hits her tongue. Something about homemade chocolate chip cookies finds its way into her very soul and comforts even the farthest, darkest part. 

And thus, a tradition is born. Nightmares mean brownies. Or cookies. Or cake. Whatever they can get their hands on, so long as it’s sweet. When they get married and buy their own apartment, they keep their kitchen well stocked with baked goodies and supplies to make whatever they’re in the mood for.

One morning, after a particularly rough night, Percy wakes up before Annabeth and sneaks out of the bed, careful not to disturb his wife. 

Once in the kitchen, he pulls out the flour, eggs, blueberries, baking powder, everything he needs to make blueberry muffins, which had been Annabeth’s go to nightmare sweet for the last month.

Except this time as he beat the batter, he flicked his wrist stronger than he intended, and a poof of flour flies up and delicately coats his face. 

Groaning and wiping the powder out of his eyes, Percy pushes on and ends up with a blue batter that tastes good, and carefully pours it into the muffin tins. Or most of it, at least. There are sticky blue globs on his cheek and definitely some in his hair, but it’s worth it for muffins!

Percy had planned to take breakfast to Annabeth, but as he cleans up, he feels a kiss on his cheek. He smiles, but it changes into a protest as Annabeth sticks her tongue out and licks some batter off his face.

“That’s gross, Annabeth!” he groans, but pulls her into a hug. “I was hoping to surprise you with breakfast in bed.”

“You’re sweet, Percy. Thank you. The batter tastes delicious, but are you sure you managed to get any in the oven?” 

“Oh, ye of little faith,” Percy teases as he sneaks his hand into the bowl on the counter behind Annabeth’s back, and swipes some of the blue batter. With a grin, he wipes it onto Annabeth's nose. 

She shrieks and jumps away, and pretty soon they’re chasing each other through their little apartment, yelling and laughing and making a general mess of everything. The promise of hot muffins and cold milk pull them from their antics, and they eventually make their way back to the kitchen, chests heaving slightly, breathless grins wide on their faces. Percy throws his arm around Annabeth’s shoulder and kisses her head. She sighs and leans into him, her brief spurt of energy fading as she allows Percy to lead her to the table.

They are quiet as they eat the muffins, and Annabeth’s eyes continue to droop as she lets out a yawn.

“Well, good thing it’s a Saturday. Why don’t you go shower, get the blue goop off of yourself, and we’ll spend a lazy day in bed.”

“No!” she says quickly, her eyes wide. She drops her eyes as she plays with the edge of the tablecloth, the flower one Percy’s mom had given them when they moved in together. “I just don’t want to go back to bed,” she finally says, her voice soft. Percy understands.

“Well, wise girl, how about we hang out in the living room instead?”

Annabeth nods at that, looking grateful.

While Annabeth showers, Percy gathers the softest blanket they own and Annabeth’s stuffed Owl, Archimedes. A stack of DVDs, and a pile of Annabeth’s favorite comfort foods are soon added as well.

When she emerges, Annabeth is wearing a soft pair of grey sweatpants and an even softer smile. “Looks perfect. You’re turn to use the shower. You’re not getting any blue goop on my owl!”

“You better not start without me!” Percy calls over his shoulder as he stands and heads toward the bathroom, dropping a kiss to her head as he passes.

When he returns, Annabeth is on the couch, her knees up against her chest, holding tightly to Archimedes. Percy joins her, and Annabeth squishes up against his side

“It was a combination,” she says after a few beats of silence. Percy doesn’t need to ask her what she’s talking about. “They kept going from Tartarus to Kronos to waking up and you being gone.” 

Percy can feel her breathing hitch as she is thrust all over again into the worst moments of their lives.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, and his heart aches when her shoulders begin to shake, and he can’t say or do more to help. It wouldn’t make a difference. So, he just squeezes her closer, and she comes willingly, unfurling a little and shifting so she’s practically sitting in his lap. 

“Percy, I’m so tired,” she says, her voice thick with tears.

There really are no words, so Percy tightens his hold, willing the love that he has for her and the peace he wishes he could give her to wrap around her heart and calm her down. Slowly, slowly, slowly, her shoulders still and he can feel her breaths come more even. He doesn’t let go until she sits up slightly, her eyes and cheeks red.

Percy gestures to the pile of movies to distract her. “It’s your turn to pick.”

Annabeth decides on Lady and the Tramp, and they snuggle in to watch the movie. She digs into the Reece’s Percy added from the stash he knows she keeps in the nightstand (she hoards them like they’re ambrosia) and the two relax into each other, the soft light from the TV and the sweet music creating a bubble of temporary peace that neither of them want to leave.

It isn’t perfect. There will still be many days with nightmares and tears, but they know that they will always have each other and their nightmare dessert tradition to make it a little sweeter.

[dothwrites]

@redridinghood03 requested Destiel baking together with a flour war. <3

---

It’s an odd sort of life for a hunter when the worst catastrophe of the day is finding Cas trying to do things in the kitchen. 

“Thought we agreed that you weren’t going to experiment anymore,” Dean says, cautiously, because it’s 11am, which is still an hour before Cas is considered fully human. Antagonizing Cas at this hour, when a quick glance at the coffee maker tells him that the former angel is only a cup and a half deep, is a ballsy measure, but Dean didn’t get to his advanced age by playing safe. “Or that you would at least bring along an adventure buddy.” 

Cas doesn’t deign to look at him as he studies the flour spread out across the countertop with toddler like intensity. 

“Dean, when the ancestors of humanity’s ancestors were still swimming in the oceans, I was already a garrison commander,” Castiel says, and yeah, Dean made him mad. That’s a definite pissy tone in his voice. 

“All right grouchy, no need to brag.” 

Cas just grunts at him. Throwing caution to the winds, Dean creeps forward, enough that he can see the sad looking lump of...something...in the mixing bowl. 

“So uh...we’re having...” Dean’s nose wrinkles as he looks at the greyish lump congealing in the stainless steel bowl. He feels as though he should look away, just so this monstrosity can pass from the world in some kind of peace. At his elbow, he can feel the slow burn of Cas’ irritation. “Gruel?” he finally guesses. 

“I’ll just clean it up,” Cas says. 

Thing is, Dean loves ruffling Cas’ metaphorical feathers. He loves the look that Cas gets on him, like a cat who’s just been sprayed in the face with a squirt gun and holds a grudge over it. There’s something so delightful about seeing Castiel, badass former angel of the Lord, snapping and snarling because Dean changed the channel or moved his book or inconvenienced him in any way, shape, or form. 

He’d hoped for that pissy little reaction. What he gets is so much worse. Cas’ voice is resigned as he turns to the pathetic huddle of failure in front of him. The disappointment clear in the slump of his spine rubs against some half-healed, raw spot of Dean’s, until he’s rushing forward and catching the cold goop in his hands. It’s simultaneously lumpy and unnaturally smooth and he bites back the automatic gag as the soft, sticky mess oozes through the spaces in his fingers. 

“Maybe we can save this,” he tries. It’s a pipe-dream--This is obviously beyond saving, but anything to make that disappointed look disappear from Cas’ face. “What were you trying to make anyway?” 

Cas’ face gets that squinty, shifty look that it does when he’s trying to figure out the best way to slide around the relevant facts. Out of all of humanity’s little quirks, Dean wishes that Cas hadn’t taken to lying like a duck to water, but the good news is, for the most part, Cas is pretty fucking obvious when he decides to throw a little lie in the mix. 

Case in point: right fucking now. 

“A pastry dish,” Cas finally lands on. 

Dean can’t stop his snort, which is not a good thing, because all that does is serve to piss Cas off even further. Dean asks, around his own little helpless burbles of laughter and Cas’ half-snarl, “A pastry dish? Cas, you know that making pastry is like...well, it’s hard,” he finishes lamely, Cas’ glare finally getting to him. He bumps his hips into Cas’, ignores the little shiver of delight that he gets from the action and takes Cas’ place at the counter. “You don’t do anything by halves,” Dean murmurs.

It all makes sense now: the flour, the butter, the eggs, even the sodden lump of hopeful dough in the bowl. The only thing that Dean can’t understand is why Cas would wake up with the burning need to turn contestant on a baking show. As a human, Cas is vulnerable to whims, but this is stranger than most. 

“All right.” Dean rolls up his sleeves and surveys the countertop, same way he used to look at the weapons stashed in the back of the Impala. “Tell me what we’re dealing with.” 

“I was going to make it myself.” There’s something petulant in Cas’ tone, which Dean would normally roll right over (another bit of humanity that Dean wishes Cas hadn’t caught onto so quickly was the idea of stubbornness) but what makes him stop is the ragged, raw edge of something else. He doesn’t know what it is, but it’s not just a whim, like he originally thought. For whatever reason, Cas has decided that making this stupid pastry thing matters. 

“I know.” Dean dares to lean into Cas’ space, touch his shoulder to Cas’. Something about the contact relaxes them both, lets a little breath of fresh air into the room. “But no offense, you’re going to need some help. I’m here, I’m willing...Let’s just get it done.” 

The look on Cas’ face says that he’s not thrilled with Dean’s logic, but that he also doesn’t see a logical alternative. So Dean listens as Cas rattles off the ingredients that he’ll need (human or not, Castiel has a mind like a steel trap, which comes in damn handy most times) and the basic instructions. 

The flour hits the bowl with a soft whump and sends up a little cloud everywhere. Dean blinks through it, wiping away the bit that’s gotten on his cheeks. He rubs his fingers together before he looks over at Cas. 

“Oh hell,” he says around his laughter, “you’ve got...” 

A fine patina of flour sits on Cas’ hair, nose, and shoulders. It looks like he’s been in through a snowstorm or that he has the worst case of dandruff ever. Dean can’t help but laugh because the overly dignified stare that Cas tries to defend himself with doesn’t help relieve the ridiculousness of the situation. Instead, it just adds to it, like watching a cat trying to recover its lost dignity. 

Dean’s chuckles morph into outright laughter, becoming louder and more uncontrolled the more that Castiel tries to pull his cloak of dignity around him. Finally, Cas’ facade and patience both snap and he does that which Dean was not expecting him to do. 

Dean sputters around the sudden face full of flour, spitting clouds of white away from his mouth as he snorts in small bursts. He blinks to clear his vision and looks at Cas. Cas’ face is a mixture of satisfaction, horror at his own daring, and slowly but surely, delight. As Dean watches, the sheer joy eclipses everything else, until Cas is grinning, huge and wide and gummy, before he starts to laugh. 

He’s heard Cas chuckle before, short little huffs through his nose and, rarer than a blue moon, an occasional short bark of amusement (usually at Dean’s expense, but sometimes they watch funny stuff on TV). But this is the first time that he’s ever heard Cas laugh, a full bodied sound that comes up deep from the diaphragm and explodes through the kitchen, rich and warm and infectious enough that soon, Dean’s laughing along with him.  

“Asshole,” he says, gasping around his laughs as he seizes a handful of flour and tosses it in Cas’ general direction. It falls well short of him, but the intention was clear, and suddenly, like children, they’re chasing each other around the kitchen, dodging over and under tables and countertops, throwing flour. 

Castiel may have been the commander of an angelic garrison for thousands of years, but Dean’s an older brother. There was only ever one way that this was going to end.

It ends with Cas cornered against the fridge, hands empty as Dean advances on him, bag of flour in hand. “Dean,” Cas tries, holding his hands out in what Dean supposes is supposed to be reconciliation. “Dean, there’s no need for...Look at the kitchen, it’s already a mess...”

“Yes it is.” Dean’s cheeks hurt from smiling so hard. “And whose fault is that, Castiel?” 

Cas’ face shifts from a poor attempt at pleading to his smitey expression, eyes narrowed and mouth pressed into a flat line. “You started it,” he says, flatly, uncompromising. 

“Did I?” Dean asks, calm and sedate as he dumps half the bag over Cas’ head. 

After the dust settles (it turned out to be a kamikaze attack, the flour dust got Dean as well as Cas), they slump onto the floor, still huffing with breathless laughter. Dean’s shoulder presses into Cas’ and his fingers are tangled through Cas’. He decides to leave them there. 

“So what were you making?” Dean asks. Whatever it was, it’s long beyond salvaging now. He supposes that after they clean up, they can either try for Take 3 or, they can just do what they probably should have done to begin with, which is to go down to Lebanon’s bakery and buy whatever it is that Cas had a hankering for. 

Cas slants his eyes at him. “Well, it was March 14th, so I was trying to honor that occasion.” 

It takes Dean a minute to link the pieces together. “A pie,” he finally comes up with. “You were...you were trying to bake a pie.” 

“In honor of the day,” Cas says, seriously as if Pi Day were an internationally recognized day of mourning and not a fun coincidence that high school teachers all over the country seized. 

Dean’s still not done putting the pieces together. “You were making a pie because...” The last piece slots into place and Dean’s cheeks heat, at the same time as a grin starts to spread across his face. “Cas, were you making a pie for me?”

Cas is definitely looking shifty now, his fingers twitching underneath Dean’s as he starts to brush at the flour covering his jeans. Dean doesn’t let him pull away and laces his fingers tightly with Cas’. He doesn’t push or prod, because he’s learned through painful experimentation that pushing Cas too fast and too far beyond his comfort zone ends in nothing more than a snapped Fuck off Dean at best and a slapped ear at worst, but he also doesn’t let Cas pull away. Because Dean also knows that, while Cas aspires to be a world-class liar, there’s nothing he craves more than the truth. From everyone, but most often, himself. 

“It’s possible,” Cas begins, belligerence covering up something pale and vulnerable, “that, since it was already associated with the day, and since I knew that it was your favorite dessert, that it could be thought that I was making the pie for you--”

“You were going to make me a pie,” Dean breathes, just before he puts a hand on Cas’ cheek to tilt his head towards him. He checks Cas’ eyes, a silent is this ok and the look he gets from Cas screams full speed ahead, so Dean leans forward. 

Absurd that after all this time, what it takes is a failed pie and a kitchen doused in flour. But, Dean thinks, before Cas’ lips meet his and then he’s not thinking about much at all, much like pie crust, it’s usually not about the individual ingredients, but more the process and the sum of its parts. 

---

Later, curled up in his bed, satisfaction and bliss still humming through his veins, Dean nuzzles at the underside of Cas’ jaw, stubble prickling alongside his nose and cheeks. “Was there something that we forgot to do?” he asks, voice heavy and thick with impending sleep. “Feels like we’re missing something.” 

“Don’t know.” Cas’ arm curves over Dean’s waist and settles possessively on the small of his back. Miles and miles of skin are pressed against his and Dean loves it, would bottle this feeling and take hits off of it like a junkie if he could. “Sleep now. Worry later.” 

“Yeah,” Dean yawns, already halfway gone. Cas is right. Whatever it is that they’re missing, they can figure it out after a nap. 

That’s his last thought, at least until he hears the Sam’s shrill, “What the hell?” coming from the kitchen. 

Oh, Dean thinks, remembering the flour covering almost every inch of the kitchen, as well as the incriminating patterns made in said flour, as well as the obvious articles of clothing left in the kitchen. 

That’s what we forgot to do.

Then he sleeps. 

[cutesuki--bakugou]

Sea Legs

Sea Legs

Ch. 6 - Legs

Boku No Hero Academia / My Hero Academia Quirkless, Mermaid, Modern AU

Rating: Explicit | Excessive Fluff, Blood, Wounds, Nudity, Sex, Cursing and Vulgar Language

Genre: Romance / Humor / Angst

Main Pairing: Katsuki Bakugou x Koge Naegi (oc)

A trip to her grandmothers beachfront home was something that Koge had done every year of her life. This time, an unlikely discovery would change her life forever. Who knew explaining how to be a human could be so hard.

Four days had passed, and much to Koge’s surprise, Bakugou’s wound had already begun to close up with no signs of infection or damage. Although he could swim with limited pain, there was something that continued to worry Koge. It seemed as if he were only getting more lethargic, with occasional complaints of a tight chest and headaches. Though, when Koge tried to express her worry, he shot her down, saying that he was still just recovering from all the physical effort and trauma he had been through that day. It made sense, so for now, she allowed him to make the choices concerning his recovery.

“You don’t think you can make it home yet?” Koge asked as she worked on peeling an orange, placing the skin in her lap as she pulled it free. Laying beside her on his back, Bakugou shook his head, fiddling with one of the ornaments that hung off his necklace. It was a large tooth, one he had claimed had been from a Great White, a trophy from one of his first hard kills. “I don’t think so. I get tired just rolling over. I think I need at least another day or two. What weird thing are you eating, now?” Bakugou let the necklace fall into place, turning his attention to the orange in her hands.

“It’s an orange. Want to try some?” Koge pulled off a section, handing it towards him. Face scrunching up in mild disgust, Bakugou shook his head, rolling over to make his way back to the pool. “No, I’m feeling kinda sick to my stomach.”

Watching closely as he dove into the pool, Koge couldn’t help but frown, finding all these symptoms odd. It was hard for her to pinpoint what was causing them, but she was positive it couldn’t be from what he had gone through. With a sigh, she ate the orange piece instead, scooting closer to the edge of the pool to talk to him easier. “So, you told me you’d tell me more about you. There’s something I haven’t asked yet that I’m really curious about.”

Bakugou only grunted in response, not positive or negative, currently floating about on his back.

“How old are you?”

“I turn twenty one in about a month. According to how you people celebrate birth, at least. You?”  “I’ll be twenty two in November--”

“What?!” Bakugou suddenly snapped, shocking Koge so badly that she dropped some of the orange peel into the water. “You’re older than me?!”

“Uh, yes?” Koge couldn’t resist giggling at his reaction, leaning over a bit to see where the peel had gone so she could fetch it out. “Does that offend your sensitive ego?” Grumbling, Bakugou moved closer, snatching the peel and shoving it back onto her lap for her. “I don’t have a sensitive ego. I just can’t fucking believe that you’re older than me, on top of all the other shit you can do that I can’t.”

“Like what? Thank you for getting that, by the way.”

“Like walking,” He didn’t bother responding to her thanks, too into his ranting. “I can read, but I can’t write like you can. You can sing! That’s a big fucking deal back home, everyone can sing but me. Almost. Singing is like… if you can’t do it, then you’re broken or some shit.”

“You’re not broken, Katsuki.” Koge ate another piece of the orange, waving it around in the air a bit as she tried to think. “It’s just… I mean, there has to be things you can do that other people can’t. You can kill an Orca, right? I bet that’s hard. They’re really big.” Her praise calmed him a bit, one of his hands reaching up to touch the teeth around his neck. Still, she could see that he was struggling with whatever insecurities had made him so upset, and she had found it best to not push those buttons. He had a tendency to shut down when he got truly angry, going to the bottom of the pool to not return for hours. It was more like a childish tantrum that annoyed her, but she couldn’t know the root of the problem after just knowing him for a few days.

“Damn right I can.” Bakugou boasted, resting his arms up onto the edge of the pool by her legs. Crossing them, he rested his head down with a yawn. “I’m bored.”

“I know. Sorry, there’s nothing I can really do about it. There’s no internet out here, so I can’t show you anything else on my phone that I don’t have saved. Maybe you should sleep, you look really tired.” In that moment of looking down at him, something caught her eye. With a clear view of his shoulders and upper back, she could see what looked to be hives or blisters covering his skin in patches, varying in size. “Katsuki, does your skin itch?”

“Eh? Yeah, a little, but whatever.”

“No whatever, you literally have hives or something on your back.”

“The fuck is that?” Turning his head a bit, he was able to see some on his shoulder, reaching back to touch them lightly. “Shit, I’ve never had those before. They sting.”

“Don’t touch them. Come up out of the water for a while.” She put the remainder of the orange and the peel off to the side, standing to adjust his blanket into a better position. With a sigh, Bakugou followed instruction, though Koge noticed that he struggled to pull himself from the water.

“I’m worried about what’s going on with you, I don’t think this should be happening. Is there something wrong with the water?” Koge knelt down beside him once he was lying still to observe his back closer, finding that the rash had covered most of his back. Bakugou shook his head, which once again was resting on his arms. “No, it’s fine from what I can tell. If the water was bad I would have had a reaction to it way sooner. And I’ve been in dirty water before, this hasn’t happened.” There was little to no concern in his voice, masked by exhaustion.

“I’m going to go to he house to see if there is something I can find to treat this. Just… stay out of the water. Please.” Koge didn’t wait for a response before she was out of the cave and jogging down the beach, worry swimming around in her mind. What could that possibly be from? Headaches, hives, trouble breathing, and lethargy? Damn it, what did I do wrong?

Nearly sick to her stomach by the time she reached the house, she began to dig through her grandmothers wide collection of medication and first aid supplies. Glad that the elderly woman was asleep, Koge was able to search with no interruptions, soon finding an antihistamine for allergic reactions. As she read the back of the box, realization began to creep over her, like spiders prickling along her skin. “Allergic reaction… He’s allergic to… Ah damn it, the stupid painkillers!”

Koge slammed the box of weak medication back into the bin, bringing her hands up to bury her fingers in her hair out of frustration. “Shit, shit, shit! I’m so stupid. What could I give him from here that might help?”

As she stared into the bin, the frustration began to crush her confidence, ruining any chances of her making a rational decision. No, I can’t do this anymore. I can’t just pick something and hope it works. What if he’s allergic to that, too?! I could have totally destroyed his inside or something by giving him those pills! He has to see a real doctor.

But how would that be possible? Bakugou isn’t fully human, there’s no way in hell that she can get him up to the house or get a doctor to go see him in the cave.

There’s no option… If he can’t go home, he’s going to have to have legs so I can help him. I’ll never talk him into that!

Starting to feel defeated, Koge put the bin of medications away before making her way back down to the beach. Jogging, she could only imagine the worst, from internal bleeding to rupturing organs, suffocating from a coughing fit or seizures. Now, she had no idea if any of that was even going to happen, but she couldn’t stop her stressed out mind from imagining it all.

Then, there was a sound. Something that couldn’t have been a part of her imagination. Or was it? A pained screaming, lost within the sounds of the waves, a voice so recognizable that it instantly sent Koge’s blood running cold. She went from jogging to running at full speed in an instant, ignoring the painful tightness of her chest brought on by panic. As she got closer to the cave, the agonized screaming had faded to loud cursing and sharp, short cries of frustration. What could be going on in there was something she refused to even take a second to comprehend, leaping over rocks and shrubbery until she breached the mouth of the cave.

“Katsuki, are you okay--”

Koge was cut short by the shock of what she was looking at, entire body frozen and cold as ice, even as a hot sweat dripped down her neck. Bakugou was still where she had left him, sitting in a pile of shimmering orange and red goop, clutching his…

Legs.

Why did he have legs.

“K-Katsuki--” This time, his pained hiss cut her off, completely ignoring her as he vigorously rubbed up and down his left shin and calf. “Fuck, fuck, fuck that hurts! Damn it!” Getting over the initial shock, Koge slowly made her way closer, swallowing the lump that had grown in her throat. “Katsuki, what happened?”

Finally acknowledging her presence, Bakugou shot a glare up towards her before focusing back down on his legs, gripping and massaging his calf. “I guess my body decided it needed to be human. Fucking defensive survival shit I can’t control.” His rubbing was interrupted by the need to cough, bringing a closed fist up to his mouth to cough into the side of it. Koge could hear the wheezing and the tightness each time he attempted to breath in, as if his airways were constricted. This immediately brought her back to the problem at hand, kneeling down beside him. “I know what’s going on with you. It’s those painkillers, you’re allergic to them. You have to see a human doctor right away.”

“What?!” Bakugou barked at her, moving his hands to rub his other leg. “I’m not doing that shit, no fucking way. I’m fine!”

“Well if your body decided to change then you’re obviously not! Don’t be stubborn about this! You already can’t hardly breathe and you have hives all over you. I bet you have a headache too.”

“One so bad I can barely see.”

“Exactly! Please let me take you up to the house. My grandma has a doctor on call for anything, I know that he’ll come up here to see you if she asks.” Koges eyes were drawn to his hands, which continued to rub and squeeze his legs. “Why are you doing that?”

“They’re fucking tingling and it hurts!”

“Your blood is working your way through them, I’m sure they need circulation. Here, lay them down flat. Now lean back for a seco-” The shriek that interrupted her was completely involuntary, her body reacting to what she saw just as instantly as her voice did. Like lightning, she spun around and covered her face, which was so on fire she was sure her nose must have begun bleeding. “Oh my god, Katsuki, put something over yourself!”

“Eh? What’s the deal?” He sounded genuinely confused, if not seriously annoyed, and Koge couldn’t believe she was about to have to explain common decency to him. “You… You can’t sit around with your penis hanging out. Just, put something over yourself, please.”

“Oh. That’s right, you humans are all sensitive to being naked. It’s just my dick.”

“Cover it up!!” 

[hamilton-one-shots]

Hamilton High School AU 14

(I'll do my best to start answering asks soon, but I wish my mom would give us a heads up before taking us places so I could know to write instead of do nothing)

Not knowing that John didn't get to see his siblings everyday, Lafayette began to ask Alexander why he had to skip school to celebrate their birthday when Thomas tricked him into signing up for the play. Lafayette frowned, he knew his brother wasn't meant for the stage, and quickly had an idea. "Actually, sir, that isn't the problem. Alexander is busy almost everyday after school and wouldn't be able to be in the play I'd gladly take his place."

It wasn't his best lie, but Lafayette knew it would work. He wasn't the smartest student, but he was an outspoken one and teachers loved him. So, Eacker crossed out Alexander's name. "Alright. No problem."

Alexander didn't even get a chance to argue. Sure, he hated Jefferson, but sending in Laf instead?.. [U didnt hav 2 do tat, u no] He wrote to him.

Lafayette nodded. [I wanted to.] He didn't care that it meant having to spend time in the same building as Jefferson for that much longer. Alexander was being targeted and he wasn't going to let it work. [You'd do it for me.]

Alexander frowned and faced forward, noticing Jefferson out of the corner of his eye staring at his notebook. He slammed it shut and held it to his chest defensively. That wasn't just a notebook to Alexander. He'd had it for years and it was where he did all of his doodling and wrote some of his most private thoughts, ever since he was a kid. He'd brought it with him from Nevis all those years ago.

At the end of the class, Thomas looked expectantly at Alexander. "I still haven't gotten that thank you, Lexi."

Alexander shuddered and ignored him, leaving the room with Lafayette. "I really wish John didn't have to go tomorrow..."

"I know... I can tell you really need him right now..."

Alexander nodded, his brother sighing.

"Well... At least you're not going to be alone. You still have me and Herc. We're not John, but you're not alone."

Alexander nodded. "Thanks..."

"I'll see you later." Lafayette went into his next class, one where he had to deal with Jefferson alone.

Alexander waved and silently wished him luck, then checked his phone as it dinged, smiling as he saw a text from John, but frowning a bit at the message.

[Hey, baby <3 Sorry, but I forgot to remind you to take your medicine this morning.] John was the only reason that he'd been taking his pills so regularly and he knew it. [If you take it now, I'll give you a surprise.]

John really could make Alexander smile, no matter what. [Wut kind of supris?]

[You'll see]

Alexander chuckled and took a bottle of water and his pills out from his backpack, staring down at them for a few seconds before popping a pill out of the capsule and swallowing it as fast as humanly possible, chasing it down with a flood of water. He hated that stupid pill. He was too conscious of the effects it had on his brain to not to. Only a second after he put the bottles back in his backpack, John appeared at his side, his sour expression turning into a bright smile.

"Hey, baby. I came to walk you to class." John kissed his cheek and walked with him, though it was a short distance away. Once they reached his classroom, John turned Alexander around and pinned his back against the wall, then kissed him passionately. When he pulled away, a playful grin spread across his face and he kissed Alexander's nose. "I hope you enjoyed your surprise. I'll see you at lunch." He let him go and began walking towards his own class, Alexander watching him all the way down the hall. Once he reached the end, John turned and blew him a kiss.

Alexander felt like he was going to melt into a pile of lovey dovey goop. He wobbled into class and plopped down in a seat next to Herc. After a few minutes, he finally floated back into the real world.

"Alex?"

Apparently, Herc had been trying to contact him the whole time.

"Wha..?"

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah. I just... I saw John before class." After a few seconds, he began smirking. "Are you okay?" he shot back, referencing the many hickeys that decorated his neck like freckles decorated John's skin.

Hercules blushed and shifted his scarf a bit. "Is it that obvious?.."

"No, not that obvious. Thank you for looking after Laf."

For the first time in a long time, Alexander made Hercules smile.

The rest of the class didn't go so well for him, though. Alexander was uncharacteristically quiet, that was the first thing Hercules noticed. The next thing he saw was the expression on Alexander's face, the stress that was eating at him. It wasn't good. So, he did what made the most sense and texted John.

[Hey, whats up with Alex? He's all stressed and dazed.]

John wasn't paying attention in class anyways, surprise surprise, so he texted back. [Idk, it may be Jefferson. He was acting all weird with him first period.] He would've been furious if he found out that Jefferson was flirting with Alexander after what he did to him, not that he would know.

[Makes sense...] Hercules put his phone away and turned to Alexander. "You don't have to tell me anything. Just know that me and Laf and John are here to listen when you need it."

"I need to talk to John.." Alexander whined quietly. His mind was flooded with worries. If he wasn't worrying about how Jefferson was treating him, he was worried about how Laf was being treated. Worried about taking his medication. Worried about his anger and wanting to fight. Worried about hurting John.

Lafayette had his own worries. He sat across the room from Thomas, despite the fact that he was purposely sitting where he always sat, and tried his best to ignore him.

But Thomas wasn't blind. He knew that Lafayette was avoiding him. When there was only a few minutes left in class, the teacher let everyone have free time, so he got up and sat down right beside Lafayette, trapping him. "Oh, come on. If we're going to be in that play together, we might as well try to get along. Besides," he grinned, "you look great in that skirt."

Lafayette was not going to be so easily shaken. He took out his notebook and paid attention to the lesson, not without responding to Jefferson's taunting. "I have absolutely no interest in trying to get along with the worst excuse of a man I've ever met. Now, I would appreciate it if you moved your eyes from my legs and onto another seat because I'm not going to deal with your pathetic excuse for flirting this whole time."

Thomas tutted. "I'm glad to see your attitude hasn't changed, princess," he grumbled, referencing their last meeting at Herc's shop. "Whatever. I'm not after you anymore, anyways. Alexander, on the other hand... It would've been interesting being in that play with him. And it would've been a good way for him to get rid of all of that... energy." He toyed with that last word, hiding the true meaning behind it.

Oh, hell no. Thomas could say all he wanted to Lafayette, but there was no way that he was going to let him anywhere near his brother. Lafayette was far too tempted to grab Jefferson by the collar and shout at him until he got it through his thick skull that Alexander was too good for him, but he was above that. Besides, he had a reputation to maintain in the classroom. "I'm glad to hear I was able to shake off a parasite like you, but I do hope you don't mean my brother. You repulse him just as much as you do me and he is in a relationship with the person who could easily kick your ass." He shrugged and put his notebook away, pulling out a tube of lipgloss and touching up the layer that he was already wearing to show Jefferson that he didn't affect him. "Whoever you're after, I wish them the best of luck because with your tasteless comments and your so called 'flirting', they are going to need it."

For once, Thomas felt himself getting frustrated. But, no matter. Two could play at that game, but Thomas knew he was better. "What's the matter, Laf? Got your panties in a twist because someone else is getting the attention for once? Looking at you, you probably knew that your brother would steal the spotlight." Thomas had a talent for knowing exactly how to tear someone down. "I can tell you feel threatened by the way you're going around in that skirt, showing off your legs like some two bit whore." He glanced at Laf's increasingly distressed face. "I bet you put out on the first date. No wonder Mulligan worked to beat me to you. We all know you're an easy fuck." He got up and went to the teacher's desk, getting a pass and leaving to the bathroom. This was an intricate plan and this wasn't even the most fun part. In order to get to the core of his plan, he needed to cause a disturbance between the rest.

Lafayette felt his heart drop and felt his whole body shake, emotions flashing through him. The most prominent one, though, was anger. He was angry at Thomas for saying that about him, he was angry at him for accusing Hercules of such a repulsive thing. But he was also mad at himself. Because Thomas was right. The same night that Hercules had asked him out, Lafayette had 'put out' as Jefferson had put it.

As soon as the bell rang, Lafayette went to the bathroom, glad to see that Jefferson wasn't there, and locked himself in a stall, bawling his eyes out. He had his own reservations with sex when it came to anyone he didn't love and trust as much as Hercules, but Jefferson's words hit him hard. He didn't even realize that a few minutes had passed until someone came into the bathroom, calling his name.

"Laf?.. Is that you?"

Laf got up and got out of the stall, looking at John as he stood there, his eyes red and puffy from crying.

"Oh, Laf... What happened?.."

He didn't answer, but let himself fall into John's open arms and cried on his shoulder, not caring how awkward it was with the height difference.

John let him cry for a minute before looking at him. "I need a name."

"Jefferson.." he sniffled. "He said I was a whore and guessed that Herc and I had sex early in our relationship. He said I'm easy.."

John frowned and looked at Lafayette sternly. "Listen to me, you are not easy, do you understand me? You love Hercules and Herc loves you and you know it. He just wants to get under your skin because he's just mad that someone as beautiful as you rejected him, but you won't let that happen because you're a strong man, do you understand me?"

"Yes sir." Lafayette nodded and stood up straight up, wiping his eyes and fixing his hair.

"That's my boy." John smiled and walked with him to the cafeteria.

Alexander looked down at his untouched sandwich. John was late. John was never late.

"Are you going to eat that or set it on fire?" Hercules joked, surprised when Alexander actually pushed the sandwich in his direction. He shook his head and pushed it back.

"Look who I found." John and Laf sat with their boyfriends.

Alexander's eyes lit up and he scooted a bit closer to John, though nobody could deny that something seemed off there. Lafayette's eyes were still a bit puffy and his eyes a bit pink. He bit his tongue. He hadn't seen Lafayette cry in years.

[lunagalemaster]

Day 5: Moment in Time

(Lol I’m just using DannyMay prompts at this point to write. It’s way too late for that, but why not?) 

Based in my Master of Space AU 

Warnings: Gore warning, main character death, death by melting, fire

Pt 1 of 2 

It was so quick.

Play by play, Tucker could remember that day like it was one of those stupid flip books he made in elementary school. Waking up. School. Laughing about some stupid thing (he doesn’t remember what exactly, but he remembers Sam glaring at the both of them). Danny’s ghost sense going off…….

Then the school exploded.

From there the world was as coherent as a shaky camera in one of those action movies. Danny protected them with a barrier. Sam got out her hidden weapon. Tucker? Well, Tucker did his best and looked to get everyone he could out. He wasn’t much of a fighter, at least, not in a typical sense. He was more of a strategist than anything.

Tucker wondered if things would have turned out differently if he stayed behind. Somehow he doubted it, but he couldn’t help but think-

It was chaos. The three acted on instinct. Danny transformed and swept to find the ghost who did it, Sam ran down the hallway, and Tucker kept his eyes out for the other kids. There was shouting, people running around, screaming. Despite the fact ghost attacks were ten times more common than fire drills, people panicked every single damn time. It made it difficult to navigate. Teenagers screaming and running and trying to keep away from the fire and smoke. Bits of the ceiling falling on their heads, and students shielded their heads with their backpacks. Teachers tried to keep calm and lead everyone out, but it wasn’t even a few minutes into the chaos before they were simply dragging as many kids as they could before booking it out of their for their lives.

Tucker didn’t know what much else had happened. Smoke clouded his memories, and whenever he tried to dredge up specifcs, all he could remember was screams ringing in his ears, fear pounding in his heart, and the distinct feeling of irritation towards the chaos around him.

What he did remember clearly was the pseudo aftermath.

A ghost he’d never seen before.

Sam shooting at the strays around them.

Danny fighting with all his might.

And then a spear of fire going straight through his friend’s chest, as the crowd around him gasped as one.

He didn’t know who screamed first. It may have been him, Sam, the crowd. Paulina could have as well, but at the moment, he didn’t really give a fuck about what she thought. Everything went in slow motion as the weapon went through his chest. He froze midair, and Tucker if he could would have done anything to see his face. Or maybe it was a blessing in disguise. He didn’t know.

All he saw was the flaming spear rip up his best friend’s back and it teared his jumpsuit piece by piece until it reached the tender flesh from underneath. Danny floated downward, struggling to keep up, as the stupid ghost smirked dangerously at his opponent, sharp teeth and a wicked smile, as his eyes flashed gleefully at the mess he made of Phantom.

The fire continued to tear at Danny’s skin, and try as he might, there was nothing he could do to phase, bend, or twist his form around the hooked in weapon. He just pulled and pulled as the ghost reeled him in like a fish and even as he saw Sam or someone blast at the giant beast of a ghost, the shots reflected off its skin like it was nothing and all Tucker could hear was its deep laughter ringing mockingly in his ears.

Danny got the laughed in, even if it cost him.

Danny got to scream too.

What was going in his head, Tucker didn’t know. Probably something stupid sense of righteousness to protect everyone like it was his last breath. He….he didn’t think he would live, Tucker had to think, because if he did, he would have used a lot less energy.

The wail broke out and rippled through the air. It broke the school, the buildings around it, and whatever was remaining of the street beyond. The ghost was gone, at least, they couldn’t find what was left of it or its spear.

Tucker couldn’t give two shits about the ghost because he was running to catch his friend, as he saw him plummet to the ground like a burning comet.

A loud crash. More gasps from the crowd. Sam ran right beside him, and Tucker can’t remember if it was her or him shouting Danny’s name. The world blurred until it was only the three of them, Tucker and Sam practically hurling themselves onto the cracked asphalt to pull Danny out of the rubble.

At least try to. As the two stumbled over large the chunks of cement blocking their way, Tucker felt his stomach drop with every passing second he stared helplessly at his best friend, the image burned in his mind forever.

Burned, emblazoned, seared, funny how these words created definites, yet real fire destroyed everything it touched.

Danny was on the ground, gasping, body spasming inward on itself. He looked to be trying to hold himself together, hand pressing into his chest to stop the growing puddle of ectoplasm that kept flowing terrifyingly out him. However, even as he tried to stop the flow, there seemed to be nothing he could do. It was then Tucker realized that there was a loud hissing noise erupting from Danny. He thought it was just the sounds of pipelines bursting from the battle, but no.

Not when he could see the screaming steam bursting from the middle of his chest. The fire spear was long gone and the heat seemed to already be dying away. Yet, the heat from the wound tore straight into Danny...right through his ice core.

Danny once tried describing what seeing Dani melt had been like. Face scrunched up and face ashen, he explained in a quiet voice, not quite looking at them, ‘...you know how after you get caught in a storm? ...It looked kind of like that, expect with a lot less water and just....her….it looked like puddles of paint until it hit the floor. And then you realize, that’s her. That isn’t water, goop, or anything, that’s a person, and the first urge you get is to try to stick them back together.

‘And the worst part? You can’t. They have to do it themselves, and all I could do was just...watch and believe she’s strong enough to keep it all together long enough to get someone who could do something.’

Watching Danny melt was everything and more than what he described. Because while they all knew at the end of the day Dani was safe and exploring the world somewhere, the same couldn’t be said of his best friend.

While Sam was calling out to the crowd, she missed how Danny’s grip left her. The way  his hand melted away, falling to the ground into the growing pool of ectoplasm. His skin bubbled in a swirling heated mass of color and decay that smelled of burning flesh and something spicy.

Danny tried to smile back at Tucker. His lips quirked for a second, but even he wasn’t strong enough to keep up the act. He didn’t, couldn’t scream, his mouth went agape, as steam erupted from his mouth. His hair fell against in a single mass before molding into his face. Eyes wide and staring vacantly into the distance, his hair melted against the electric green, creating even more sparks and pooling down, down, down…

Black melted into white, while bright green tore through his skin. Tucker couldn’t tell where his legs began, where his hands were, or even where his torso was anymore. Everything became a mesh of ectoplasm and burning, heated flesh.

By the time Sam looked back, Tucker couldn’t hold Danny’s hand anymore. There was nothing to hold, nothing left except a steaming pile of ectoplasm and the ectoplasm covered blisters on Tucker’s skin.

OoOoOoOoOo

“Were you two close in this universe?” Astral asked quietly, as the Core’s death fade away from the time mirrors. He turned to Clockwork, watching him carefully. He seemed to preoccupied to look back.

Clockwork gripped his staff tighter. “Yes,” he whispered just as quietly. He sounded pained, “Not as close as some, but… yes, close.” He paused for a moment, staring at the time mirrors with narrowed eyes. Astral shifted in the air awkwardly, eyeing windows before looking back. He didn’t particularly know what to do exactly or how to comfort him, but he’d let Clockwork have his moment to grief.

“Thank you, for being here,” Clockwork finally said. He let out a long sigh and turned to Astral, “I know you don’t have a particular fondness for the Cores, but-”

Astral waved him off.  “Don’t worry about it. This is about him. It’s about you.”

“Yes, but the universal energy,” Clockwork insisted.

“It all can be regulated in universe. It’ll be a little bit of a headache, not gonna lie.” Actually a big one, which throbbed painfully through his entire body, not to mention the huge inward pain after the Core’s sudden death. Not that he was going to tell Clockwork any of this. He smirked at the Time Master. “But I’ll make do.”

“...So will you stay for a bit?”  

Astral shrugged. He shifted around to lay on his back in the air, legs crossed and hands behind his head. “As long as it doesn’t matter to the timeline, I think I can pencil you in for a little while.”

Clockwork closed his eyes tightly, gripping his staff with even more force. For some reason that little remark affected him more than it really should have. Before Astral could ask, however, his lips curled into a smile, and he said with a huge sound of relief, “Thank you, my friend.”

Astral squirmed and looked away awkwardly. “Hey, no prob, Timmy Time Lord,” he said quickly, “It’d be kind of an asshole to leave you with just the one eyed floating blobs for company after all this, especially after a death like that. Well, even more of an asshole than usual,” he conceded with a mutter.

Clockwork’s laugh wasn’t booming or even that happy. It was soft, amused, something he’d hear every time Astral did something particularly quirky or Clockwork found endearing. It was… normal, or as normal as their dynamic got.

So, despite the circumstances, Astral counted that as a win.  

He just hoped the headache would go away sometime soon.

Part 2 is going to be on Day 19: Angst

[sonnets-and-snowdrops]

Saiyuki Inktober 2017, Day 2 - “Past and Present”

Fandom: Saiyuki Pairing: A teeny, tiny sprinkle of 58 cuteness Rating: Parental guidance suggested. Unless you’re Gojyo, in which case, parental figures are, like, the least ideal people imaginable for coping with the content of this fic. (But in all seriousness, this fic does include mentions of physical and verbal abuse, as well as some mildly descriptive violence, and mentions of bodily fluids.) Word Count: Approx. 2k seriously why the heck can I not write short pieces gahhhhh one of these days mark my many, many words Author’s Note: Once again, I’m sorry for the ludicrous delay here BUT I’VE GOT WIFI IN MY PLACE NOW HECK YEEEEAAAAAHH DO A HAPPY DANCE WITH ME PEOPLE but yeah I also apologize again if this is kinda meh, still been busy with moving-in shenanigans

The guy who came up with the idea of putting one foot in front of the other must have been a stupid-ass motherfucker, Gojyo decides. He spits - or, he tries to, anyway - and a glob of foul-looking, brownish-reddish goop shoots sideways out of his mouth and dribbles down his chin before it drops to the ground, mixing with the gloomy, gloopy, late-night, rain-soaked mud. “Shoulda known,” he slurs aloud, to no one in particular. “Shitty trajectory, am I right?”

He is right, as it happens. Gojyo’s swelling face is pressed firmly against the loose-packed dirt of the path that leads away from the bad part of town, where he’d spent the past several hours gambling with the local gents and admiring the local ladies - and, his squirming stomach reminds him, knocking back the local spirits at a borderline breakneck rate. He’d lost the last round of seven-card stud, and neither he nor his woefully empty pockets had particularly felt like paying up. And so, he’d slapped the most charming smile he could manage onto his villainous visage, and he’d tried to sweet-talk his way out of his unfortunate circumstances.

It had been a pretty effective tactic, all things considered.

One of the guys at the bar had shrugged, and had asked Gojyo if he’d be willing to offer something else as payment. That had made Gojyo a little nervous, as was to be expected; but thanks to years of ingrained street-smarts, he’d managed to check himself before reflexively drawing his arms behind his back to cover his ass with his grubby hands. The guy had laughed, big and loud - he must have seen how shit-scared Gojyo was of the mere idea of someone making him pay up in that particular fashion - and he’d shaken his shaggy head, saying “Ain’t nothin’ much, Gojyo-san. I’ve just been wantin’ to punch that pretty face of yours for a long damn time.”

He must have blacked out at some point. Maybe it was the drinks, or maybe it was the pain, or maybe it was a finicky combination of the two. Heck, maybe it even had something to do with the wild, distant laughter bouncing around inside his thick, half-youkai skull - “I can’t stand to look at you,” came an all-too-familiar voice, hysterical and high-pitched, between blows, between the bouts of laughter - “I can’t - I CAN’T!” - an all-too-familiar series of punches to the gut and slaps upside the head had followed - if he’s honest, he wasn’t even sure who was hitting him anymore. It could have been the guys at the bar, beating the crap out of him for always being down on his luck financially but inexplicably up on his luck romantically - “How the fuck does a guy like you bag all those chicks, huh?” he distinctly remembers one leery voice sneering. “A dirtbag like you? I can’t believe it, man!” - or it could have been a woman who had been cold and dead for years and years, who never thought twice about raising her clawed hands to a little kid - “I can’t stand to look at you,” said the woman - “I can’t fuckin’ believe it, man!” said the guy - someone slugged him in the kidney, and he went down, hard, knees first - “I can’t stand it!” - he felt like he was on some kind of fucked-up merry-go-round, his world was spinning so gods-damned fast - “I can’t believe it!”- “I can’t STAND it!” - “I can’t” - “I can’t” - “I CAN’T” - “I CAN’T - !”

And then, somehow, he’d made it outside.

He’d found himself staggering, stumbling, stupid, towards home, in the bleak, black rain.

Of course, he remembers thinking. On a night like tonight, of course it was raining.

So, Gojyo had done the only thing he could do: he’d focused on putting one foot in front of the other, and steering his sorry ass towards home. Trouble was, when you were drunk off your face and reeling from just having been treated like a half-human punching bag, putting one foot in front of the other was a pretty harebrained thing to try and do.

As Gojyo quickly discovered.

His ankles got all twisted up beneath him somehow, and he’d ended up facedown in the slop of the road, frustrated, fatigued, and feeling more than a little bit like the entire contents of his stomach was about to come spewing out through his big mouth. “S’not even how people walk,” Gojyo had moaned weakly as he felt his body thud to the ground, for what wasn’t even the first time that night. “Feet go more side-by-side than that, gods damn it… stupid fuckin’ guidelines, not helpful at all…”

The worst part is, he isn’t even that far away from home. All he has to do is haul his wretched, wrecked self up from the ground and traipse the half a mile to his battered door.  There’s a cold shower waiting for him behind that door, and a soft bed. There’s a fresh pack of cigarettes somewhere, one that hasn’t been soaked through by the rain. In the morning, there’ll be cheap whiskey and hot coffee (in that order) to take the edge off. Gojyo knows all of these things. And, if he’s honest, Gojyo wants all of these things, too.

But, just a little bit more, he wants to close his eyes.

And so, he does.

The next thing he knows, someone’s nudging him, and they won’t stop. He feels hands shaking his shoulders and grasping at his upper arms. He starts awake, and by reflex, he seizes up, clenching his fists and tightening his abs, readying his body for another beating - “Cut it out,” he tries to scream, but the words gets stuck in his scratchy throat -

“Gojyo,” says a voice.

Gojyo hesitates.

He knows that voice.

He’s sure he does.

But - but how - and why -

“Please,” the voice continues, “stay still, if you can manage it. You’ll hurt yourself even more if you thrash around like that.”

“…Hakkai?”

“Yes.”

“How - h-how the fuck did you - ”

“It’s four in the morning, and you hadn’t returned. I was curious.”

“Been out that late before, y’know.”

“Yes.” Even through his stupor, Gojyo can hear Hakkai hesitate. “The rain,” he says, finally. His voice has gone high and tight. “I couldn’t sleep. I took a walk. I found you here.”

“Mm,” is how Gojyo replies to that. In part, it’s because he doesn’t want to press the matter any further, and in part, it’s because that’s all he has the energy to say.

“We need to get you home,” comes Hakkai’s voice again. “I won’t ask what happened now, but you’re in terrible shape.” He pauses. “How do you feel?” he asks.

Gojyo laughs, a weary, broken sound. “How d’ya think I feel?!” he answers gleefully. “I feel like shit!”

“Do you think you can walk?”

“Do you think I can walk?”

“I don’t know, Gojyo. That’s why I asked.”

Gojyo laughs again. He shoves himself up onto one shoulder, leaning clumsily sideways so that he can look his roommate in the face - but a wave of nausea sweeps over him, and he hangs his head again. “I dunno, man,” he answers honestly. “I could try, but it’ll be one hell of a long shot. I kinda get the feeling that I’d take two steps, and the next thing we’d know, my guts would end up all over the road.”

At that, Hakkai goes strangely silent.

“What?” Gojyo says, lifting his head again, deciding that the roiling in his stomach might be briefly worth enduring. “What’d I say?”

Abruptly, Hakkai shakes his head. “Nothing,” he replies. “Nothing at all.”

“I said something, didn’t I?”

“No.”

“Look, you - you don’t have to haul my ass back, man - it ain’t your job or nothin’ - ”

“If your guts do end up all over the road,” Hakkai says, his voice clipped and quick, “let’s call it returning the favor, shall we?’

At that, Gojyo stops.

“Oh,” he says.

He really can be an idiot sometimes.

“Shit,” Gojyo mumbles. “I’m sorry, Hakkai. That - that wasn’t a guilt-trip thing, I swear - ”

“If it was, you’d be perfectly entitled, you know.”

“I - yeah, maybe, but - “

“Gojyo - I was only - “

“That’s not my style, man - I didn’t mean to - ”

“Hush, Gojyo. I believe you.” Hakkai’s face softens, just a little - not enough that Gojyo feels completely comfortable, but a little - and he nods his acceptance. Oh, Gojyo realizes, belatedly. That ‘entitled’ thing was his version of a joke. “It’s all right,” Hakkai says gently. “I understand that that isn’t what you meant.”

“Shit,” Gojyo says again, gritting his teeth and forcing the words out. “Shit, Hakkai - I’m sorry - ”

“I just told you, Gojyo - it’s all right - ”

But Gojyo shakes his head. “Not for that,” he says, and he hears the resignation that tinges his voice as he speaks.

“Oh?”

Gojyo cringes.

“For this.”

And with that, Gojyo promptly empties his stomach onto the road, right in front of the man whose life he never really meant to save - the man who became the roommate he never really planned to have. Still, Gojyo can’t help but feel a little thankful. What are the odds, after all, that he’d end up sharing his digs with just the kind of guy who takes weird, late-night walks at desperate times like these?

When it’s over, and when Gojyo can think straight again, he recognizes the feeling of firm, strong hands on his back. For the first time in a long, long while, he doesn’t get all tense when he senses the touch. He cracks his eyes open and glances up, and he sees Hakkai, silhouetted and pale, gazing almost sympathetically down at his fallen companion. “Thank you,” Gojyo says, softly.

“It’s my pleasure.”

“Heh. Doubt it.”

“Well,” Hakkai replies, “perhaps I’m using the word ‘pleasure’ a bit generously in this instance. Still,” he says, laying one slender hand upon his own stomach, “I won’t pretend I don’t have a debt to pay.”

“Forget it, man.”

“Gojyo - ”

“I mean it,” Gojyo says, giving Hakkai what he hopes is a fierce and determined stare - though, he recognizes that his odds are slim, given what he looks like at the moment. “Don’t worry about it, okay?”

“But - ”

“Just shut up and accept the fact that I’m grateful to you for this, would ya?” Gojyo snickers. “Talk about going above and beyond the call of duty. For real, man.”

“Gojyo, I really can’t - ”

“Look,” Gojyo says, figuring he’ll give this just one last try before he throws in the towel altogether. “I get that you feel indebted to me. Fine. That ain’t gonna go away any time soon, and I get that. But listen - we live in the here and now, don’t we, Hakkai?” Weirdly, it’s important to him that Hakkai actually answers this question. He waits, and when Hakkai says nothing, he repeats himself. “Don’t we?”

Hakkai nods, somber and steady.

“Yeah,” Gojyo says, finally, finally satisfied. “We do. So let it go, okay?” And he gives Hakkai one last, lopsided smile before he lets his face fall back into the mud. “What’s past is past,” he concludes proudly, “and you just watched me puke.”

[higuchimon]

[fanfic]  Morning Meeting

Characters:  Ken, Daisuke, Takeru, Iori||Pairing:  Ken x Daisuke/Daisuke x Ken Word Count:  3,004||Chapter Count:  1/1 Notes:  College AU.  Absolutely smut and pain and Kaiser-free.  There is an attack pancake, of sorts, though. Summary:  Ken hasn't met his fourth roommate for more than a handful of minutes. He doesn't even know the redhead's name. But that's all about to change...with a pancake on Ken's head.

Ken pulled the pillow over his head and tried not to listen to any of the sounds drifting through.  He needed a thicker pillow.  If anyone had <I>ever</I> told him that sharing an apartment with three other people would have been so noisy – especially in the morning when he really needed his sleep – he wouldn’t have bothered.

And still the noises trailed in.

He hadn’t lived here more than a couple of weeks and he mostly recognized his apartment-mates on sight.  Takeru was the blond who wanted to be a writer, Iori was the brunet who spent just a bit more time in the study of swordplay than most people did in this day and age – not that Ken could really protest because he studied judo himself – and the third…

The third Ken could only identify as the redhead, because most of the time their schedules didn’t cross enough for Ken to spend more than a few minutes with him, and most of the time the third guy was doing something that made anyone in the area facepalm.  Ken hadn’t ever met someone who could pull that often as much as this guy could and did.

The noises weren’t quieting down.  Ken ground his teeth and grabbed for another pillow.  He had to <I>study</I>.  He wasn’t going to get the grades his brother did without working for it.  Osamu could get good grades just by walking by a class.  <I>He</I> had to study.

No sleep, no studying.  He refused to avoid sleep.  That wouldn’t do him any good at all.  He’d seen that the hard way.

The noise kept on going.  He thought it might even be getting louder.

He was going to have to get up.  He didn’t want to.  But unless he asked them, they weren’t going to stay quiet, and that meant he wouldn’t get his sleep and that meant that he wasn’t going to pass the next couple of tests.

He wasn’t going to let <I>that</i> happen.  Not on <I>his</i> life.

Ken drew in several deep breaths in the hopes that this would help him.  He at least managed to roll out of bed and find his bedroom slippers.  He ran a hand through his hair, knowing it would be a lot spikier than he preferred wearing it.  He had the <I>worst</i> bed-hair.  People told him more than once that he kind of looked like his big brother when he first got out of bed.

He’d never seen it himself.

But now he stalked his way out of his tiny room and toward the noise, that only got louder now that he didn’t have the insulating pillows and closed doors between him and it.  That made him even more annoyed.  

“All right, say it again.”  Takeru’s voice was the first one he recognized.  “How did you do it?”

“I told you already!  Three times, already!”  That one he didn’t recognize.  Clearly the other roommate, the one who wasn’t Iori.

“Yes, but I didn’t believe you the first three times myself.”  That was Iori.

Whatever was going on, part of Ken started to want to know what it was.  The rest of him just wanted them all to shut up or take their argument somewhere else.

The kitchen didn’t have a door to it.  Ken stalked through the opening with all the fury of a slammed door anyway.  He’d always had a knack for drama and he put it to full use right now.

“I am trying to sleep,” he snarled, his voice low and dark and full of rage.

He always got like that when he missed out on his sleep.  Osamu teased him more than once that if he didn’t get his afternoon nap, he spent most of his time snapping at anyone who got in his way.

Ken wasn’t going to argue that point.  It was, after all, correct.

All three of them turned toward him.  Takeru and Iori looked more than a little surprised.  The third…

This was really the first time that he’d seen their other roommate and been anywhere close to a mental condition to really let his looks or his name sink into him.

He was a redhead; Ken recalled that much.  He had deep warm eyes like cinnamon and a mouth that was wide open, either because he’d been about to say something or just in shock at someone stalking into the kitchen as if he owned it.

Ken technically rented it, just like the rest of them.  That was good enough for Ken.

Ken now set his hands on his hips and glared even harder.  “I’m trying to sleep,” he repeated.  He didn’t think he needed to say anything else.  Iori and Takeru tried to stammer something but he just shook his head.

But the third one moved closer.  “Uh, sorry about that.  It was kind of my fault.”  He waved one hand as if that would help explain anything.  

Ken didn’t care.  “Whatever it was, don’t do it again.”

Takeru and Iori were looking up at the ceiling.  So was the other guy.  Ken knew he’d been told his name, but it wasn’t coming to mind, not right now.  

Maybe if he got some more sleep.

He turned on his heel, intending a dramatic departure to go back to bed and forget this happened for another couple of hours. At least he so intended until something wet and goopy fell on his head.  He stopped where he was.  He reached up to touch it with the tips of his fingers.  Then he turned around.

“Why is there an uncooked pancake on my head?”

Takeru coughed.  “That’s what we were yelling about.  Daisuke was making breakfast and he kind of got a little overenthusiastic.”

Ken’s eyes cut over to the redhead:  Daisuke.

“I want this pancake off my head.”  He also wanted to pretend this morning hadn’t happened and maybe meet Daisuke under better circumstances.

Because Daisuke was cute.  Very cute.  Especially when he looked like he wanted to melt into the floor under his feet.

Daisuke hurried over and tugged the pancake off before it could actually start dripping into Ken’s face, babbling apologies the whole way.  Ken just shook his head, reaching up to see how badly he needed a shower.  He usually preferred to clean up in the evening, but he wasn’t going back to bed with pancake batter in his hair.

He was going to need a shower.  A nice long hot one.

He might not even be able to get back to sleep at this point.  If he’d slept all the way he would’ve been fine.  But now he’d woken up.  He’d gotten out of bed.  He’d interacted with people.  He would have to take a shower.  Not only did all of that eat up precious sleeping time, but by the time he got back to sleep anyway, it would more than likely be time for him to get up anyway.

This just did not look like one of his better days.

“Look, I’m sorry,”  Daisuke said, his back to Ken as he dumped the pancake remains in the trashcan.  “I cook when I get nervous.”

A stress cooker.  Just what he needed in his life.  

A cute stress cooker.  He’d encountered worse people to spend any amount of time with.

“What are you nervous about at this hour?”  Ken wasn’t sure of how much he wanted to know, but the question came nevertheless.

“I’ve got a test later and I’m not sure if I’m ready for it,”  Daisuke confessed.  He glanced toward Ken, then blinked, eyes going beyond him.  “Where’d they go?”

Ken turned to see Takeru and Iori were no longer there.  He tried to breathe.  “I think they went back to bed.”  Jerks.  Doing what he couldn’t, since their classes started later than his.

Not that he wouldn’t have done the same thing if their positions had been reversed.

“I really am sorry,”  Daisuke said.  Ken looked back at him the moment he started talking.

Their eyes met.

Whatever Daisuke was saying, he stumbled to a halt, the words choking in his throat, his cheeks flaming red, and he ducked his head, staring now at the floor.

Ken could feel heat creeping up his own cheeks, and he swallows, trying to make sense of this and not knowing anything else to say but, “It’s all right.  You weren’t doing it on purpose.”  At least he hoped not.  

He swallowed.  “I’ll be back.”

He didn’t wait for a moment but hurried to the shower, not wanting to be seen in the blue shorts he sleeps in and with pancake goop drying in his hair.  Not anymore.

He showered.  He scrubbed from top to bottom and then carefully combed his hair until it was back in the style he preferred, looking less like a wild man and more like a civilized human being.  He even got dressed.  He’d get by without sleep.  As much as he disliked it, he’d done it before and he knew that he would do it again.

There was someone to talk to.  Someone he’d never talked to and yet even with those few words exchanged, he felt like they were just kind of picking up from a start he didn’t remember having.

By the time that he made it back into the kitchen, Daisuke had cleaned up all of the mess and even finished a proper breakfast.  If one liked pancakes, that was.

“I made some for you,”  he said, as soon as Ken was in the kitchen again.  He hesitated.  “I didn’t know if you’d want some, but...”

Ken smiled.  No sooner did the expression appear on his lips than Daisuke relaxed.

“I’ve never had them, but I don’t mind trying.”  He’d never been much for Western-style cooking, but after all of this, he thought it would do no harm.  

The two of them sat down and started eating.  Daisuke still had pancake mix stains, not just on his cheeks and lips, but on his arms and shirt as well.  Ken wasn’t sure if he wanted to brush them off or just stare at them.

He’d never, ever in his life experienced anything like what being around Daisuke made him feel.  He’d dated a few people over the years, but nothing all that seriously.  His goal of being an architect came first.  So he’d focused on his sleep and his studies and whatever minor bits of relaxation he couldn’t actually put off, and as far as he was concerned, that had been more than enough.

Until he met this pair of amazing eyes that went on forever and laughed and he didn’t feel as if they were laughing at him, but invited him to share the joke, even if he didn’t know what the joke was.

They talked.  Ken couldn’t have said who asked all the questions.  They took turns and he learned.  Daisuke was taking mostly business classes with a few extra courses in home economics and cooking:  his goal was to start a ramen chain of his own one day.  He hadn’t decided between having a solid physical store that was in one place or between a portable cart.

“When I was a kid, I liked the idea of going from place to place,” he said, tracing a finger in his pancake syrup.  “But the more I think about it, the more I’m not sure how that would work with building up a clientele and being able to stay dry.”

Ken nodded; being dry would be a major factor in his choice of where to eat.  There was something to be said for watching rain or snow fall behind the safety of four walls as well.

Before he knew it, he’d offered to sketch out a few ideas for a potential shop structure.  Daisuke's eyes lit up at once.

“That would be amazing!  Takeru says you’re really, really good at that kind of thing!”

Ken’s cheeks tinged a bit pink once again and he ducked his head.  “I’ve always liked the idea of building things.  Creating things.”  

“I’ll make you some of my very best ramen,”  Daisuke promised.  “You like ramen don’t you?”  

“Sure.”  He’d never had anything made for him, not like this.  Not by someone like Daisuke.

He didn’t think he’d ever met anyone like Daisuke in the first place.  This guy was one of a kind.  

Ken liked the idea of that.  To know someone who was that unique, that rare, that special.  

“It’ll be the best ramen.  Just you wait and see!”  Daisuke promised, and Ken smiled.

“I don’t doubt you at all.”

Daisuke wanted to throw every bit of ramen he’d made into the trash and start over.  

“This is just not going to work,” he groaned, staring at the noodles in front of him.  They weren’t good enough.  They could never be good enough.

Takeru lounged in the living room, close enough to the kitchen so he could hear Daisuke’s complaining and snicker at him.  The two of them had known each other since they were eleven and Takeru knew every complaint Daisuke had about his skills in cooking.

“Should I call big brother so he can lend a hand?”  Takeru teased.  Daisuke jerked upward at that.

“Don’t you even think about it!”

Takeru’s big brother wasn’t the kind of professional cook that Daisuke wanted to be.  What he was, was a musician, one of the best in the country – if not the world, if one asked Takeru.  But he still knew how to cook and he made certain he and his band-mates didn’t survive off of fast food while they toured around.

He’d tasted Daisuke’s food before.  Daisuke had no idea of what he thought about it, because he’d never been able to stick around long enough to find out.  Sure, Takeru <i>said</I> he liked it, but that wasn’t necessarily true.

The idea of someone like Ishida Yamato tasting his attempts to make ramen for Ichijouji Ken sent chills all through Daisuke, and not the good kind that looking at Ken sparked off.

He’d seen Ken before in the apartment, but he hadn’t really paid much attention to him.  Their schedules made it difficult for them to spend more than a handful of minutes around each other, so he just hadn’t thought about it.

Until the day he’d tried to make pancakes, ended up with one on the ceiling, gotten into an argument with Takeru and Iori over it, and then Ken stepped in there, and everything changed.

He wanted to say things to Ken.  He wanted to do things with Ken.  He wanted to try every rare recipe he could get his hands on and see if Ken liked them.  He wanted to go to movies with Ken and to go on long walks and talk to him, find out even more than they’d somehow failed to talk about the few times they’d had time to talk to one another since that morning.

Now that they’d met one another, Daisuke couldn’t imagine his life without Ken in it.  He’d never believed in soulmates but if such a thing <I>did</I> exist, maybe Ken…

No, he couldn’t be that lucky.  If the world were kinder to him, then maybe…

Well, it wasn’t, and he would have to deal with it.  He would spend what time he could with Ken now and they’d go their separate ways, even if Ken really did design a building for his future ramen restaurant.  He would pay for it and say thank you and they’d drift apart over the years.

That was what happened.  He’d gotten used to it.

With a deep sigh he pulled his attention back to the ingredients and started to sort through it all one more time with the intent of making the best ramen that he ever had.  This was for Ken.

Ken hadn’t strangled him for tossing a pancake on the ceiling and said pancake falling onto his head.

Ken deserved the very best.  So Daisuke was going to make sure he had it.

By the time Ken came back into the apartment, he looked ready to fall over where he stood and not move another inch until morning.  Daisuke hurried over right away to guide him to the nearest couch.  Takeru and Iori were out somewhere doing whatever it was they did when they weren’t at home and were out together.

Daisuke hadn’t ever asked.  He wasn’t sure if he wanted to know.

“I’ve got the ramen,”  he said once he thought Ken was aware enough to listen.  “Are you hungry?”

Ken blinked a time or two, then nodded.  “I don’t have the plans drawn up yet, though...”  He trailed off as if he expected Daisuke to put the ramen away with that.

Daisuke, of course, did not.  He just made certain he had a good steaming hot bowl of dinner ready.

“That’s okay.  Maybe this’ll help?”

He brought the ramen in on a tray, along with some of the green tea he knew Ken liked.  Their schedules still conflicted more than they didn’t, but he’d made a point to have all of this ready tonight.  He’d probably regret doing this instead of studying or sleeping, but he didn’t care.

Ken tasted it carefully, his eyes slowly lighting up more and more as the flavors sank into him.  He flashed a brilliant smile toward Daisuke.

“This is delicious!  What do you call it?  I mean… other than ramen?”

Daisuke blushed a deep cherry red at that.  “Just ramen, right now.  I might think up a name for it later.  But you really like it?”

Ken gave him a very deep and serious look.  “I love it.”  He finished his bowl in just a few minutes, with every indication of having told the absolute truth.  Then he asked what almost every chef and cook in the world loved to hear.

“May I have some more, please?”

Daisuke’s heart pattered with delight.  “All you want. All you have to do is ask.” The End Notes:  Well, the way to a man’s heart...

[buckyskorpion]

Do Something Bad, Too - Part 4

Pairing: Alpha!Bucky x Omega!Reader

Summary: It’s like every single Alpha on the planet won’t rest until they’ve confessed their eternal wish for you to mother their children, and it’s getting old. Luckily, that’s a problem Bucky might be able to fix.

Warnings: language, a/b/o dynamics, nsfw content (aka orgasms)

A/N: its finally here! sorry for taking like 30000 years but i got there in the end! happy new year, happy holidays, i hope everyone is well and i hope you enjoy this part!

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

When you were in the army, you decided that you would never, ever chose an Alpha as a mate. You were surrounded by the worst kind day in day out - and, sure, when you moved companies nobody knew you were an omega thanks to the suppressants, but that just meant they felt like they could say all their shitty opinions about omegas in front of you as if you wouldn’t be offended.

In your opinion, 99% of Alphas were pigs and had zero respect for you no matter how successful you were, or how many suppressants you took. The past few weeks, however, have made you seriously reconsider that percentile.

It was down right unnerving how much comfort you found in Bucky’s scent all over you. When you were stressed at work you could just a deep breath in and be settled and focused once more. You’ve never slept better than with your head under the sheets, surrounded by the smell of him so it’s almost like he’s right beside you. It’s strange and you sort of hate it, except that it’s one of the best things that’s ever happened to you because finally, you’re being left alone.

“You seem happier,” Nat comments around a mouthful of salad. It’s one of the rare times she isn’t catching you between missions so you can actually leave the Tower for lunch. You find yourself thinking about Kotoro’s Japanese restaurant more than you’re enjoying your panini, and hardly register Nat’s comment at all.

“Hmm? Oh,” you say, blinking back to the table. Nat smirks around a sip of water and you try not to blush. “Um, yeah. It’s been a lot easier at work since we hired the new guy. I’m not doing two people’s jobs anymore, so.”

“You know that’s not what I meant,” Nat says. You study your next bite of panini very, very seriously and let Nat stare at the top of your head.

“It helps,” you concede. “I’m not being harassed every other day. But- I don’t know. It’s weird. I’ve never been a very… omega-y omega and now it’s like, I’m going crazy because I don’t know where Bucky is or when I’m going to see him again and it’s so stupid because I haven’t even known him for that long. I just feel so irrational.”

Nat chews her salad and sits with that for a few, gut-wrenching seconds. Then she swallows and asks, “Have you spoken to Bucky recently?”

“No,” you say, and try not to make it sound whiny but from Nat’s eyebrow raise, you suspect you didn’t succeed. “He said to come find him when it ‘got bad’ again. I don’t want to make him uncomfortable, so. I’m waiting.”

“идиоты,” Nat mutters under her breath, which sounds very much like ‘idiot.’ She stabs a piece of lettuce aggressively and says, louder, “Do I have to do everything for you two?”

“What do you mean?” you ask, bristling at her comment even though you don’t know why. “I’m the one putting Bucky in a really shitty position and making him do this, I shouldn’t go pushing the boundaries he’s clearly set.”

“And what if he’s thinking the same thing about you?” Nat snaps, glaring at you. “Honestly, it’s like you’re in highschool. Did it ever occur to you that Bucky is a grown ass man who can’t actually be ‘made’ to do anything he doesn’t want to?”

You frown, panini long forgotten as you glare back at Natasha. Your face is starting to get hot as an irrational stab of anger hits you right in the chest. “I know that, I’m not an idiot. But he’s doing it because he’s a nice person, not because he wants to have lunch with me every other weekday and go to fucking IKEA like we do.”

“Right, he doesn’t want anything like our relationship,” Nat says. “That’s the point!”

“And how would you know?” you cry, dangerously close to yelling. Your skin feels like it’s on fire, the edges of your vision hazy, and it’s not like you to get this mad this fast but you’re about to lose it. “Why would he tell you? It’s between me and him, not you, and he’s made it perfectly clear where he stands so why don’t you-“

“(Y/N),” Nat says. The panic in her voice makes you stop short, taking in her wide, blown pupils and clenched fist around her fork.

“What?” you ask, just as a wave of dizziness hits you out of nowhere. “Holy shit. I’m so fucking hot right now, is that just me?”

“Yes,” Nat says through gritted teeth. Her nostrils flare as she says, “You’re going into heat.”

“What?!”  you practically scream, but as soon as she says it everything makes sense. The irrational anger, the possessiveness, the fucking 1000 degree fever you’re running. Since you’ve come off the suppressants you haven't been in heat - they fuck with your hormones enough that it takes a few months to a year for everything to settle down and a normal cycle to take effect.

“I can smell it,” Nat hisses. “You have to get out of here before the entire Alpha population of New York finds you.”

“Right,” you say, but your vision is glassy and your head is all over the place. You don’t really want to leave Nat, even though you know that’s just some weird omega instinct to stay near an Alpha. “Leaving. Nat, I-“

“I know,” she says, flapping her hand at you. “Now go. Not to your apartment, it’s not secure enough. Take this.”

She forces her Tower keycard into your hand and you stare at it blankly, struggling to comprehend around the waves of heat assaulting you. Dumbly, you ask, “Your apartment?”

“At the Tower,” Nat confirms. “You’ll be safe in there. Get FRIDAY to lock the door and you’ll be fine. But you have to go now, before it gets worse.”

“Yes,” you say, nodding at Nat. She’s using her Alpha voice on you even though she knows you hate that, but it gets you away from the table and out the door so you figure you’ll forgive her.

The world is too bright and too loud as you make your way back to the Tower. People are starting to stare at you - at least, you think they are but you’re not really sure of anything with the way your head is ringing. It’s good that you spend 99% of your time at work because you get to the Tower on autopilot, stumbling into a lift and slumping against the wall as soon as the doors close.

“Ms (Y/L/N), I see you have Ms Romanoff’s keycard. Do you wish to go to her residential floor?” FRIDAY says, startling you into opening your eyes (when you didn’t even know you closed them).

“Yes,” you say, your voice croaky. God, you need to throw up. “Her apartment. I need- no, no, wait. I-“

“Your heat signature is off the charts,” FRIDAY says, calm and soothing as your brain scrambles for something solid to hold onto. “I recommend human intervention.”

Everything feels not-good. The elevator is spinning, your stomach is somewhere in your throat and your muscles are starting to cramp and ache. You haven’t been through a heat cycle in a long, long time and you forgot how bad it was - or maybe this time around is just worse because it’s been years. You barely register the elevator starting to move, or FRIDAY saying, “Would you like to go to Mr Barnes’ floor? He is in the Tower and can assist you.”

“Bucky,” you say, tongue heavy and brain a pile of goop in your head. And god, now all you want is him - you can still smell him on you but it’s not enough, it never was, you feel yourself burn impossibly hotter all over like you’re going crazy without him. But he doesn’t want that. You try to say, “No, wait, wait- I can’t-“ but the words either never made it past your lips or FRIDAY just ignored you, because soon enough the elevator doors are sliding open onto Bucky’s residential floor.

The scent of him is instantaneous and overwhelming, like your senses are on high-alert for it and you can feel it rising off the carpet or something. Bucky is nowhere to be seen and you're paralysed, struck dumb by how good he smells and how much every cell in your body wants, so you just slide a little further down the wall and try to breathe.

Bucky must be able to smell you too - obviously, you’re probably pumping pheromones out like a factory - because he comes skidding down the hall, freezing at the opposite end of the room to the elevator and staring at you with wide, blown-black eyes. At the sight of him you actually whimper, and a little bit of the tension in your muscles ease. It’s so pathetically stupid but for the life of you, you can’t remember why coming here was a bad idea.

“(Y/N), what-“ Bucky starts, his voice a rough growl that seems to surprise even him. You scrabble at the walls for something to hold on to but there’s nothing - you end up just digging your fingernails into the grooves of the metal plates and squeezing your eyes shut.

“I’m sorry, I can’t- Bucky,” but everything is white noise and fire and the floor isn’t solid underneath you and neither are the walls, you can’t focus, the only real thing is the sweet, sweat-sticky scent of Bucky that’s getting stronger as he crosses the room to crouch down beside you.

“(Y/N),” he says again, confusion and arousal making him sound gruff and almost angry. He cups your cheek in his calloused palm and oh god, those nerve endings go off like fire flares at finally, blissfully being touched. You can’t help the almost pained gasp that rips out your chest or the way your back arches off the wall, a zing of pure, overwhelming pleasure zipping straight down your spine.

Bucky huffs a concerned sound, shuffling closer to you on his knees and strokes his thumb over your cheek. It’s still embarrassing when you moan at the catch of his rough skin on yours, but mostly it just feels too good for you to care. You feel crazy and feverish but so good now that you’re with Bucky, touching your skin and lifting you up against his chest and taking over where your frenzied brain can’t seem to function.

He carries you to the couch, but instead of leaving you there like you expect him to because you know that this is too much, that you’ve crossed the boundaries he set up and put him in the worst place ever - he sits down with you in his lap, curled up and face buried in the side of his neck. He smells the best there, like warm honey, and it’s everywhere. You nuzzle closer and cling to his shirt, shifting so you’re straddling his waist and can burrow further into the soft skin where his shoulder meets his throat.

“Hey,” Bucky says, stroking a hand through your hair to try and get your attention. You make an agreeing sound but that’s all - right now, words are not your friends. Bucky humphs, his chest moving against your body, and says “It’s your heat, huh, honey. How long s’it been, now?”

You muffle a pained noise into his shoulder and shake your head, somehow wiggling yourself closer so you're pressed flush against his body. Through an uncooperative, heavy tongue you manage, “It hurts.”

You feel the growl in Bucky’s chest more than you hear it, and the thrill of pleasure when he grips the nape of your neck and lifts your head to look at him makes you feel dizzy for a second. His hands on you, his thick thighs under your body, his voice right in your ear and his smell, fuck, you’re drowning in it and it’s all too much. Bucky looks right in your eyes, so dark you can barely see the blue anymore, and it might just be the heat talking but you think he looks just as hurt as you feel.

“I know it does, I’m sorry,” Bucky says, and it’s not what you want to hear. You whimper, twisting your head in his grasp to bite at the sensitive skin on his inner wrist, but he just digs his fingernails into your neck and makes a warning sound in the back of his throat. That sound snaps though you all the way to your toes and you stop, squirming on his lap and unable to look away from his eyes.

“I can’t,” Bucky says, low and forceful. It’s not good enough. You feel insane with the amount of Bucky you're getting but it’s still not enough. Fumbling and heat-slow, like moving through syrup, you try and grab for his belt buckle and you do feel metal against your skin, but it’s his left hand grabbing your wrist and stopping you. Again, Bucky says, “I can’t. Remember what you said? You’d hate yourself if you did this with me, now, when you’re not in control. I won’t.”

Ugh, you hate your past self and you hate Bucky for being such a good person - except you don’t, and it’s just as frustrating as your apocalyptically desperate need for Bucky’s dick. You don’t bother holding back your whine, slumping forward so Bucky is left to hold you up against him with a hand on your back, smoothing circles through the fabric of your shirt. You tuck your nose back into the side of his neck, the smell so good for a second you can’t help but rock your hips into his lap.

At the movement, Bucky’s fingers clench against your back. You think he’s going to get mad at you, an apology on the tip of your tongue, but instead you feel his metal palm settle on your thigh and slide up, stopping to rest just under the hem of your flowy skirt. The cold metal is so soothing on your feverish skin you actually moan, the sound muffled into Bucky’s skin but still obvious. His hand is just so close and you need it, you need it so bad you might die with it, you-

“You want that, don’t you? To come,” Bucky asks, his voice so rough and low you can hardly hear it even with his mouth right next to your ear - except for how it seems to resonate through your entire body, like you’ve never listened to anything else in your life. And it’s embarrassing, because here you are falling apart while Bucky remains in control. You press your face closer to Bucky, hoping he can’t feel or smell your humiliation, but of course he does. He hums and says, “C’mon, you can admit it. You don’t think I already know? I can smell it on you so strong, honey, it’s driving me crazy.”

Bucky grips your thigh, sudden and tight. You stiffen, keening at the pressure so you hardly notice Bucky lifting and adjusting you so you’re straddling just one of his thighs. Bucky uses both hands to bunch your skirt up near your hips so the thin fabric of your underwear is the only thing between your aching cunt and his jeans. It feels so good you almost feel like crying and, like he can tell, Bucky smooths his palms up and down your thighs and shushes you.

“You’re ok,” he coos. He lets his nails dig a little into your skin as he slides his hands up and down your skin, and the bite of it has you arching back as your hips stutter forward, completely out of your control. Every little thing feels like liquid fire and it’s almost too much - almost.

Bucky hums again, low in his chest, and says, “That’s it, huh? That feel good? You can keep going honey, that’s ok. Just to take the edge off. You’ll feel better, c’mon.”

Bucky’s flesh hand slides around to your lower back, under the fabric of your shirt, and starts to slowly guide you in rocking down onto his thigh. You grip his shoulders tightly, fingers digging in as bolts of pleasure spark up your body from the rough denim on your sensitive, dripping cunt. It almost hurts, but in a way that’s so good you’re seeing stars as you fuck yourself on Bucky’s thigh, shameless and completely drowning in the Alpha underneath you.

“Yeah, there you go,” Bucky murmurs, and when your hazy, star-struck eyes finally focus on his face he’s looking at you almost in awe. You clench your fingers around his shoulders and make a pitiful moaning sound, rolling your hips faster and harder against Bucky’s muscular thigh. Bucky says, “Just like that, honey, you’re doing so good. So good for me, just a little bit more-“

When you come, it slams into you like a clap of lightning - so sudden and bright your whole body locks up and your scream of pleasure-pain dies in your open mouth. Bucky holds onto you, hands digging into your skin and voice incoherent but soothing to your ringing ears. Everything comes back to you slow, like you’re seeing it underwater - Bucky’s face, his red lips moving around words you can’t understand, the feeling in your toes.

You must pass out, or go to sleep, or a mixture of the two because you only come to when you’re cradled in Bucky’s arms, going somewhere. He looks down at you, shushes you, tells you to go back to sleep. You do.

When you wake up, you’re swaddled on Nat’s couch by a blanket and Bucky’s red henley, a pair of his sweatpants rolled up on your hips. You feel groggy as you blink awake, and it takes you a minute to register your washed and folded clothes on the coffee table. And you might smell like him and you might be dressed in his clothes and your muscles might ache from one of the best orgasms of your life which he created, but you’re still alone. It takes you no time at all to figure that out, and the hurt doesn't ever go away.

Part 5

~~~

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