#Icarus flies too close to the sun gets burned then drowns

[uninspired-choatic-angel]

Anytime Regulus and James were together, Barty and Evan would call Regulus Icarus. James would pester Reg why, but he never gave him an answer. He goes and asks Sirius, who figures it out immediately and runs off to find Reg because when he first introduced James to Reg, he said, "You're best friends with the literal embodiment of the sun."

[yanderenightmare]

ooooh what kinda mythic creatures are the jjk boys?

Gojo, Sukuna, Toji

TW: implied noncon, yandere, the supernatural?

gn reader

Gojo Satoru Hybrid between angel and human

His hair is pearlescent and so are his wings—soft feathers, sharper than blades when he wants them to be. His halo can only be spotted when the sun shines extra bright—like a ring of stardust slowly orbiting his crown.

He doesn’t know his parents, nor which one of them was the angel. But it’s not something he cares much about. People call him Icarus, and he tries to live up to it the way he drowns himself in another’s embrace every new night—never the same one.

Never the same one until you. Another hybrid. No part of Angel, though…

He falls in love with it—all of it—the points of your teeth, the tiny horns that protrude from your hairline, the slim tail adorned with that pretty arrowhead, and the equally sharp look in your eyes as you glare at him with disgust.

He wants to know more. Do have markings in unseen places? How far does your tongue stretch, and is it split down the middle like with a snake? Is it venomous? Is it sweet? Does your skin burn to the touch like the sun does when he flies too close? Or will it be warm and soft and pliable?

He and his angel eyes freak you out. You advise him to leave you alone, the point of your tail threatening to slice his throat open. You’ve been shunned enough by humans—you don’t need to add a snooty angel boy to the fray. 

But then he calls you beautiful. And no one’s called you beautiful before.

Ryomen Sukuna Hellhound

The few times humans have dared try to tame him have all been devasting days of fire and death. Silly humans, thinking they can make him do his bidding like another mutt on a leash—he’ll make them all burn.

But then there’s you. You’re not like the other humans. You don’t come to him with any intention of collaring him. Instead, you have your hands folded together in prayer—sweet scripture leaves your lips, soothing his singed skin until it stops burning.

You wear holy robes and a kind smile on your face, you don’t avert your eyes even as he glares at you with the embers in his own, even as he growls and bares teeth. You don’t ignore him when he speaks, either, even when his tongue comes out split through the middle and all his words reek of smoke. You bathe him in holy water and rinse the soot out of his fur—telling him he’s a good boy.

He feels no desire to bite your hand as you pet his head and stroke his ears—he just ends up wagging his tail. But then again… he is still a hellhound. And you should know better than to feed monsters in the dark…

He leaves his room in the chapel and sniffs yours out—nothing, not even so much as a seal on your door to keep him out. You have too much faith. Your door creaks open, but you remain peacefully asleep—all soft snores as he mounts you with drool dripping down his canines…

Fushiguro Toji Hunter

Rumor has it that something far worse than ogres and trolls travel the forest. Beware of the hunter—all you little nymphs, fauns, and fairies. Some say he’ll stuff you in a bag and sell you, while others argue it’s his appetite that makes him hunt—some even mean it’s just for sport, that he’ll kill and stuff you and mount your head on the wall.

You, a poor forest nymph, are unfortunate enough to get yourself caught in one of his nets. You’re a crying little mess by the time he comes around—begging him not to sell or eat or skin or harvest your wings, barely breathing between the words.

He chuckles and promises you he won’t do any of that stuff, but the smile on his face is enough to convince you he’s possessed by some sort of demon. And as he hauls you up on his shoulder and starts carrying you further into those places you’ve never dared venture, into the thicker parts of the forest where the trees all seem riddled with some type of disease—you can’t help but believe all those rumors you’d heard.

He tells you that his snares and nets are meant for rodents and that he didn’t think fae-folk were dumb enough to get themselves caught by them as he starts cutting into the net to free you—only, he doesn’t stop at the net—but goes for your slik garb next. Whistling as he bares your pretty skin while pinning your small wrists above you in one meaty hand.

His grin is sharper than his knife when he advises you not to struggle, saying he would feel awful if he were to accidentally cut you.

♡ Nanami, Fushiguro, Naoya ♡ JUJUTSU KAISEN masterlist

[honestlyfrance]

( oranges in october )

You’d think that just because he had wings and he flies, that makes him an Icarus. Icarus fell to his death. He did not resurface, he did not live beyond that power. Sam Wilson soared high into the missiles of war and came back battered and red, dripping love and death as he stands in the aftermath of it all. You think he was an Icarus when he was actually Apollo. Anyone who gets too close to him falls to the ocean waves, then sooner than later, he’s left singing eulogies as his heart rattles in a cage.

He’s sadness in a bottle. He’s got a lot of baggage, and it took so much of him to figure out how he was going to carry it.

If you ever wondered why tragedy is always romanticized, it was because the red was too much, and what else is there to do? They made songs out of the fallen and poems from their last breaths. Sam Wilson gasped, “Let him live. Let me catch him,” and his arms caught the air that whisked Riley away. He only had a few regrets.

Sam’s thoughts ran that day. He wondered what would have happened if he did catch him. Would Riley say some ridiculous remark, or would he be shaken, overcome with the trauma of near-death? Would Riley cry, or would he be quiet, forever empty? Would Sam never have left the Air Force or would he be more careful, a never-ending feeling of death following him? It was no use anyway. All that Sam thinks of was What if I never met Riley? What if Sam never loved a man so much his death shattered his very soul. He’s battered. Gold can’t glue him back together. He’s seen so much red, it’s bleeding in his heart.

They buried an empty coffin.

Maybe if he had never let himself love then he wouldn’t get hurt. If Sam never let himself be vulnerable, maybe he could think of death as a missing person. Gone from your world, but somewhere out there living their best life, now that would be quite the belief. Sam wouldn’t have to spend so many nights alone if he had only let himself believe that. What if I never met him? He thinks that he would be better off okay.

It’s selfish, he knows, but seeing it happen and pretend it never did was something awfully wrong to him. It was like driving through an empty highway in the dark, speeding by with your headlights the only source of light, and suddenly by your right, you see the mangled corpse of some dead thing on the side of the road. You were too late, you couldn’t stop now or turn back around. It was dream-like, it always was. Sam couldn’t turn back and save it. It was like he didn’t know him anymore.

He’s screaming in his head because Riley wasn’t supposed to die young. That man had ambitions and plans. The world hadn’t had the right to do something so cruel.

If anyone tried to touch his hand, it would only go through. Sam couldn’t feel himself as he mourned. It’s all falling apart.

The thing is, it wasn’t just Riley. It was everyone who ever tried to be close to him. He’s a grown man whose most feared words were still, “Your mother isn’t coming home” and he wouldn’t even know how to begin to explain it. He knows he doesn’t owe an explanation about his grievances, but the thing that terrifies himself is the fact that he can’t even begin to explain anything. Sam can’t say how much he loved these people to even begin to comprehend how much it hurts. It’s a pool of love that drained itself every time he tried to do so. He can’t reach the seafloor.

Sometimes he thinks his remorse is just an overreaction, and then he becomes numb to the point it’s his normal to grieve this deeply.

He’s trying. He’s trying so hard. Please believe him when he says it.

He sees himself break and he doesn't even know what from. He's falling so slow he braces for the impact before he even brought out his wings. God, he’s trying, believe him when he says it.

Sam knows he's shattered. He's looking like a lost cause. Like a bruise pressed every time he sees it, he's screaming for the ache. He wants to live but at the same time, he wants every tear he shed to drown him. Heaven sighs at their angel, and Sam's going down like Babylon.

He's lonely, after the war. He's curled into his sheets as if everything was too loud to look at. He left the Air Force then he's looking up into the sky, wondering if every pararescue was an angel in disguise. Sam’s eyes were tired and he wished for a kiss goodnight.

Forgive him. He's sad and lonely. He wants to romanticize every single quiver of life before he loses it.

Goddamn, how he loses it. Sam walked alone on the pavement and dropped his umbrella, feels the first drop of rain on his cheek like a lover's kiss. And, oh, he's gone mad — mad with loneliness. He wants to kiss the sun all of the sudden but his tongue tasted like ashes from the war he died to escape from. He's losing his mind deciding if he's allowed to love again, and now he's shattered as he thinks about it.

Is a kiss any less lovely if it had been a different set of lips? Sam's turned to Shakespeare just wondering about it. He's still trying, believe him. It's just that the wounds on his back ran deeper than the trenches in the ocean and no one seemed to want to even acknowledge the depths of it. No one wanted a scar so deep they'd have to fill it with love to dig out the doubt.

War made poor boys angry and Sam might be one of them, he doesn't know. The pull of heaven’s light is enough to blind him but he knows the books, don't trust his own faith as much as he's used to. He's praying blindly and confesses as if he's got the right to in the first place.

If repentance was a kiss, Sam wouldn't even think he'd deserve to think about it.

He moves sluggish but that’s what depression does to you. It takes all of his might to even hold his niece in his arms without crying and then his sister's whispering in his ear, "I love you, Sam, but don't you ever hurt yourself." He finds himself in front of the VA Hospital in D.C. and suddenly he’s crying in the car as he drives home afterward. It was like an ocean wave cleansed his soul, but the shore was still a mess, he knew as much, but he'd watched the water ebb and flow for as long as the day burns bright.

There are years of healing after that, and he knows he’s trying, believes it some days but sometimes he forgets. It felt like eons finding help. Sam tells himself that war kept chasing him when in reality he just misses it, jumps at the first sight of danger, and follows it through the depths of hell. It wasn’t his fault — no one’s fault really. Who was to predict that Sam would be an Avenger?

No one thinks that what he does is like war, but Sam could sense the familiarity. He’s soaring into the sky and he’s kicking helicopters by the tail. He’s following orders and sending them out, back on a team so different from his own that it grounds him into reality. This isn’t war, he thinks, it’s just what your body wants you to think.

Sometimes he’s falling and he feels like he’s in another dream. Other times, he’s dreaming and he screams. But he knew that he shouldn’t regret what he had lost, all he needed was to take care of what he has now before he loses it later. You know, Natasha Romanoff once said that he was the embodiment of the present, so aware of your surroundings, you pick out exit strategies as if you made the floorplan. You don’t think of how the past is haunting you or even think of what you could have.

I’m trying to get through the day, he says to himself and her. Little things like these keep me okay.

Years pass and he finds what he could have had a little too late. He appreciated what he had had with his closest friends but he feels like pouring alcohol on a wound that never truly healed. Sam finds out Natasha was gone and he breaks even further, grief becoming too much of a permanent thing in his life.

He's singing Ave Maria as he's dying.

( read more on AO3 )

[passionbooties]

title: i bet you taste like gold  rating: t  pairing: raihan/leon  summary: raihan's never been afraid of the chase. because in the end, he always knew he'd be the winner. that all crashes when the reward at the end of the chase is leon: the one man raihan has always lost to.OR five times raihan has mentioned or shown that he likes leon, and the one time leon finally gets it.

can be read on: ao3!

read under cut ! 

I. 

“Damn, we lost again! But ya did good, Duraludon.” Raihan calls back his Pokémon. Rotom flies around to snap photos of the moment. Because even though Raihan lost, he’s still handsome. And there’s something his followers love about his pouts after defeat-a beauty found in the pain, sort of thing. 

He looks upward, to Leon’s smiling face. As brilliant as the sun while he laughs with his partner, Charizard. “Another win for the great champion of Galar!” Leon is so confident , so sure of himself, but so pure. His boasts never come off cocky. Only mere facts that the entirety of Galar have written into their history books as gospel truths. “But it’s to be expected. After all, I’m unbeatable.”

“Yeah, for now.” Raihan snorts, but there’s no derision. No anger. Only this unsettling warmth that seeps into his bones the more he looks at Leon’s smile and continues comparing him to the sun. Bright, orbiting, so expansive and heat-filled that ignoring him was impossible.

Not that Raihan ever tried. He’d been captured by Leon long ago… 

“I was close, though!” Raihan continues, striding over to meet Leon on the other side of the pitch. “Duraludon nearly had your Charizard begging for mercy.”

Leon barks out a burst of laughter, Charizard following suit. “Yeah sure! If that’s what you want to call it, we can work with that.” Raihan rolls his eyes while Leon keeps laughing and laughing. And Raihan’s stomach keeps tumbling and twisting into knots. 

Leon’s laughter is one of his favorite sounds. Better than any music Raihan’s ever listened to. 

Rotom whirrs by, bumping into Raihan’s cheek. A subtle reminder to get his life together and not drool so much over his longtime rival and friend. Right, good. 

“Well,” Raihan works his jaw, adjusting his posture to come off as casual-and not monumental or anything of the sort to show how much impact he wanted his words to convey. “If you were anyone else, I’d definitely try to throw hands. So you’re lucky that I like you so much.”

So much. So much more than any harboring feelings of platonic platitudes he carried for the other people in his life. His heart rate never sped up so viciously as it did around the champion. His thoughts were never consumed by anyone else other than Leon. 

It was horrific. Raihan wanted to scream.

His nerves became static, but Leon doesn’t seem to catch onto his words. Not really, not to their significance. But the smile he gives Raihan is soft, dare he say intimate, and Raihan has to hold back-for now-the urge to pull Leon by his cape and kiss him.

Instead Leon says, “I like you too.” 

And it’s not the same.

Raihan feels the heat dissipate and a weight drop, deep. Then comes the sandstorm. Obscuring the flash of disappointment from breaking through to the surface on Raihan’s face. 

Then they’re swarmed by fans who happened to oversee their battle. Quick as a standard, covering up their tracks, asking Raihan and Leon for photos and autographs of their league cards. Leon, the beloved Champion, falls into the steps of his role. Signs the cards and strikes his pose and sprinkles advice for budding trainers. 

Raihan follows suit. Slips on his little mask and uses Rotom to take a bunch of photos with his fans. 

If every so often, Raihan peeked over to catch Leon laughing with the kids or striking his pose, embracing the spotlight he made with ease, then so be it. 

It was hard to ignore the sun when it shone so close, so brilliantly, anyways. 

  II.

Raihan can’t remember when he fell. 

But he knows it was a graceful fall. A sudden snowstorm that drowned him in the feeling of attachment and yearning and longing for Leon that resonated a powerful chord one day when Raihan least expected it. 

All the leaders of Galar knew about his one-sided affections, except Leon of course.

It had almost become a joke. A running bet among the leaders about how much longer Raihan would skirt around before he finally lost his patience and straight up proposed. Others wondered about the opposite: how much longer would it take until Leon finally noticed?

Both bets ended in similar fashions: whatever the outcome was, it wouldn’t happen anytime soon.

Really, Raihan was somewhat coping with the fact that he was enamored by his best friend and greatest rival who was also, simultaneously, the most powerful trainer in all of Galar.

And the biggest idiot in all of Galar. 

But that’s what was so charming . 

And Raihan really, honestly, should have seen it coming. Leon attracted everyone. He was lion like. Prideful in his strength while caring a sort of regality that made others want to follow him. Raihan always chased after him from the start. To become better than him, to surpass him in the race and become champion. 

Then somehow, someway, the chase ended in a plunge. And Raihan was diving face down into a rainstorm of emotional attachment. 

While he may not remember when the feelings took root, he remembers vividly the first time he ever let it slip to Raihan about his feelings. 

They were eating dinner at Bob’s Your Uncle. Raihan was snapping photos and Leon was making funny faces. Their food was gone by this point, but conversation didn’t stop. It never stopped between them. Leon always had stories to share about challengers who came for advice, for a battle, for a moment to bask in his presence. Raihan was always dishing out strategies, new ways to utilize the elements for his team’s advantage, better ways to craft synergy between his Pokemon in their double battles. 

They were always talking and talking, bouncing back and forth, cracking jokes. Then Leon got called over by the manager and Raihan waves him off, because what is a Champion if not at the beck and call of their people, and as he watches them interact he thinks to himself how Leon looks like a king-cape aside.

Broad shoulders, a strong back, his shoulders squared. Everything in Leon’s stance is that of someone fit to rule. Fit to command. Fit to oversee. Fit to love . Strong and sturdy, a foundation that Raihan found himself wanting to utterly wreck and destroy beneath him.

Then his face got all red. His cheeks burned, a hot scorching sun across the expanse of his face. His eyes wide as he looks at Leon walking back over to him with a bottle of wine and two glasses. On the house from the manager for the two of them being such loyal customers. 

When Leon sat down, he immediately asked, “What’s wrong?”

“I like-” Raihan nearly bit his tongue. Leon blinked and Raihan couldn’t believe he almost confessed. Almost said I like you. I like you. So much, so much that I'm going to be swallowed whole and I had no idea this was going to happen. 

“You like…?”

“Like-that we can use your Champion status to get free drinks, yeah.” Raihan lied easily, smoothly. Ignored the burnt taste on his tongue from his lie. Leon, thankfully, didn’t ask further. They shared drinks and went back to their conversation but this time Raihan couldn’t help but think Leon was the sun, over and over again, and how much he wanted to become an Icarus-scorched by his touch. 

III.

“Honestly, just kiss him.” 

“I’ve thought about that multiple times, Ness.” 

Nessa folds her arms and leans back against the back of the booth, “Super surprised you haven’t gone full dragon mode and slobbered him silly with kisses, at this point. You’re normally much more straightforward with your conquests.”

Raihan rolls his eyes while Rotom snickers. “I’ll bring out the screwdriver on you,” he threatened but that only made Rotom whir and snicker louder. Gremlin. Raihan meets Nessa’s pointed gave, brilliantly blue and as fearsome as the ocean. 

Which he needed, because Raihan was tired of bullshitting himself. Nessa was absolutely correct that Raihan wasn’t being himself. Not really, anyways. Raihan has confidence in his looks, his reputation, and overall swagger that he carries like a crown upon his head. He’s just as notorious, if not just as famous, as Leon-the only man to come close to someone Leon considered a rival. He can get anyone-he knows he can get anyone. 

Usually it only took a smile in their direction, a flash of fang, a flex of muscle, a whisper in their ear covered in husk, sprinkled with secrets they could make between the two of them under bright moonlight and starless skies-yet all those tricks and tactics fell utterly short at Leon’s feet. 

All Leon had to do was exist in the same space and time as Raihan and Raihan forgot how simple it was to breathe.

“Oh wow,” Nessa exhales with a whistle, reaching for more of her shake. She takes a pointed slurp. “You’ve got it bad , mate.”

“Shut up,” Raihan growls, but it sounds pitiful even to his own ears. 

Nessa smirks with her straw still in her mouth, “Listen, I love Leon. Truly do, but the man is only focused on one thing: winning. I don’t think I’ve ever heard him even utter words like dating or love-they’re just too out of his orbit.” 

“You think I don’t know that? The man’s got a bad case of one track mind and he’s barreling down that track at breakneck speeds.” Raihan goes for one of her fries because he needs comfort food and Nessa pinches his hand. “Ow! Rude, Ness.”

“Rai. Call him up and ask him out on a date. Then he can buy you fries.”

“I’ve considered that.”

“And?”

“And… what?”

“Let’s not play the who’s more dense game. Be the forward Raihan I know you can be and ask him out. What are you so afraid of?”

Ah, there it is. What was Raihan afraid of? And truly, what has he to lose? Everything comes snapping at him, fangs and claws at his neck. He never hesitated before. Never, because they were calculated wins. He knew with the people in his past he could obtain them, and obtain them easily. They were games where his outcome always ended with him as the winner. 

But that changed with Leon. Not once, not ever, had Raihan been even close to winning against Leon. Perhaps that spiral of losses had downward dove into Raihan believing he’d lose to Leon in this too. 

Raihan swore and Nessa simply shook her head. “Do what you need to do, Rai. But… if you ask me, I don’t think your chances of success are as low as you think they are.”

Raihan looks up at that. Sees the mischievous glint in Nessa’s eyes and a snow swirl of hope spike up in his chest. “What makes you say that?”

Nessa snorts and finishes off the last of her milkshake before she stands up, “The stars,” she answers impishly before she skips off to the bathroom. Leaving Raihan to stew and mutter and contemplate and go simply mad over her cryptic language. 

Later that night, he texts Leon. Asking a simple question: What would you do if I said I liked you?

He gets a response about thirty minutes later and nearly cries. 

Well of course I’d tell you I like you too. Haha, why what’s going on :P?

IV.

Raihan isn’t avoiding Leon. 

No, he’s simply busy.

He has a gym to run after all. And Pokemon to train. Food to eat and places to explore. The wild area’s raid dens were popping off more often recently. So of course Raihan had to go and explore. See if there were any new dragon Pokemon he could catch, or Pokemon in general to battle against. 

Sure, Leon would text him and Rotom would get all up in Raihan’s face whenever he did. But suddenly, Raihan couldn’t read anymore and to force himself to learn a skill he no longer had would be madness. So he refused to do so!

He was, in fact, avoiding Leon.

But his pride would never allow him to admit that. 

Raihan’s able to pull this off for about three weeks when his luck runs out. 

“Raihan!” Leon’s voice carries across the pitch of Hammerlocke stadium. Raihan stops his training with Flygon and Torkoal, nearly jumping from his skin. 

Shit. Fuck. Shit. Flygon and Torkoal are giving him knowing looks and Raihan’s incredibly close to asking them both to set him ablaze with a flamethrower. 

“Finally!” Leon runs over, all smiles and sunlight and Raihan wants to dig himself into the ground. “I’ve been trying to get a hold of you all week, yeah? Where have you been? Why haven’t you answered any of my messages?”

Raihan tilts his head. Makes his stance casual, hands in his pocket and words coming out with a drawl. “Been busy, mate. Got a gym to run and all that jazz.”

Leon looks at him strangely. And his sunlight starts to turn harsh. “Right… well, my mum’s grilling up a barbecue tonight. I was wondering if you wanted to come by and hang. I texted you and didn’t get a response. So I thought it’d be easier to just come in person!”

He’s so earnest. And so pure. So straightforward and just. Raihan’s heart squeezes, and aches. Every nerve in his body is snarling at him to confess. To unleash all the truth at Leon’s feet and hope for the best. To not let the fear of losing, again, so visceral, stop him from pursuing the golden man he craves. 

Tell him you like him. Say it over and over until it penetrates the thick fog of obliviousness. Let him know over and over again how you crave the taste of his mouth. Want to run your nails down his back. Want to feel his surety and strength in the palm of your hands. How much you want to-

Rotom softly whirs beside him, having popped out to scope the scene. Flygon and Torkoal are looking at him, encouraging him to say something. To speak. Even if his voice shatters. 

Yet, fear is stronger. 

Fear wins. 

“Can’t tonight,” ashes in his mouth-and the taste makes him sick as he continues. “I’ve already made plans.” he turns on his heel, lowering his visor so it shades his eyes. Leon could pierce through him, easily, and Raihan would rather die than have Leon see how pathetic he feels written all over his face. 

Before Leon can say anything Raihan calls back Torkoal and makes Rotom go into his pocket. Then he climbs onto Flygon and tells it to take him to the Wild Area. Flygon hesitates, for a second. Looks back to Leon and softly hums before taking off with Raihan. 

The mighty tamer of dragons, a coward when it comes to feelings.

Laughable. 

V.

The next time Raihan and Leon meet their world is unfurling at the seams.

Falling apart in bright columns of purple light.

The Darkest Day , Chairman Rose calls it. To save us all! To protect the future of Galar! 

“He’s gone utterly insane,” Raihan hisses as the clouds above them turn pitch black and turbulent. The other leaders and challengers were doing their best to calm the masses and get them to safety. Raihan’s already making plans to go to Hammerlocke so he can go down to the power plant and beat some sense into Chairman Rose himself. 

“I have to stop him,” Leon says from beside him. Raihan is reminded immediately how this is the first time in about a month that they’ve existed in the same space. They had a brief crossing in the locker room before the Championship Cup but it had been tense, and Raihan had kept himself short.

Time apart did his feelings no good. They festered like bacteria, crawling under the ground he tried to firmly pack like worms. Horribly gnawing away at his heart until Leon and the guilt he felt over their last meeting was all he his thoughts consumed. 

“Leon,” Raihan says, the name dropping effortlessly out of his mouth before it can be stopped. Leon glances over at him, his mouth ready to move until the ground starts to shake at their feet.  Crackling, gurgling with ancient energy. “Leon, move!”

Raihan’s body works faster. He pushes Leon out of the way as the earth cracks by their feet. A giant burst of purple energy, raw and vicious, shoots up into the sky. There’s screaming, and the scattering of feet. Dust floats in the air and rubble lays around them. 

Raihan swears again, coughing as the dust settles. He pushes himself upwards, when he realizes the position their in. Leon is sprawled underneath him. Raihan’s on top. And Raihan hates, hates the sort of images that-Leon’s looking at him. And Raihan can read every single emotion behind his eyes-the anger and hurt and surprise and shock and joy and-

“Raihan,” Leon says quietly. Raihan’s snapped out of his thoughts as the world continues to collapse around them. “Are you alright?”

“I,” Raihan works his jaw, tries to make the words come out. “Yeah. Yeah I am. You?”

Leon’s still looking at him, still searching. And for once, just this time, Raihan lets himself be seen. Be pierced. Be examined and looked. Let’s the lion scrape away at the ground until there’s nothing but bare bones of emotion that Raihan can’t really hide from anymore. 

There’s a few seconds that passes, then Leon closes his eyes and exhale deeply. “Help me up, please.”

Raihan does so, robotically. The two stand and stare at each other, a minute more, before Leon steps into Raihan’s space. 

“You can’t go without backup,” Raihan starts. “You’re the Champion and all, I get that. But not even you-”

“I can,” Leon interjects, and he’s so close. So close and so sure, unwavering, Raihan doesn’t know how he thought he could run away from Leon when his gravitational pull was so deep. “And I’ll be back. Safe, and sound, so that when I come back, we can talk.”

“We can-?” Raihan’s words are swallowed whole by Leon’s lips on his. 

Leon kisses the way he battles-sure, strong, and forward. It’s clumsy as all hell though, and Raihan hates the little choking noise he makes in surprise from it all. But Leon tastes like gold, with dirt, with liquid heat. 

Leon pulls back, and his eyes are hooded. But his lips are pulled into the brightest grin as their foreheads touch in the middle of the chaos. 

“Yes, we need to talk. We have a lot to go over." And then, a beat later and with a goofy grin to seal the deal, Leon says, "I talked to Nessa.”

Raihan’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline. “What did she say-”

“That you like me." Leon says effortlessly. "And that I’m as dense as a house of bricks. And she’s right, I am dense. But she also told me that I need to tell you that yes, Raihan, I like you too.”

Raihan is rooted. Cemented to the ground and Leon just gives him his soft smile, his confident gaze, and Raihan shoots forward to kiss him again. Sharply, one more time before letting go. One more time to make sure it’s real. 

“Brilliant. Absolutely fucking brilliant ,” he wants to laugh in hysterics but now, now is not the time. And this was not the place nor the setting he envisioned where this moment would finally come. “Yes. Okay. We will talk. After we save the world… be safe, Leon.”

“Always, Raihan.” 

[ussgallifrey]

America's Suitehearts

✦ Summary: Life on the run rarely lived up to the glamour that was portrayed.

✦ Pairing: Steve Rogers x Female Reader

✦ Warnings: Minor violence, basic medical procedures

✦ Word Count: 3.5k

The mission went south almost immediately after the doors to the abandoned warehouse were opened. Life on the run rarely afforded the luxuries of such insurance as having readily available back-up. And while one half of the team remained in the public eye - or under house arrest in two cases - you valiantly remained at his side. And that was the Achilles heel of the situation.

Louisiana summer rained down with a vengeance that a New York upbringing left you rather unprepared for. The open windows of the beater truck - with its broken air conditioning, of course - drove over the hazy black-top rivers of backcountry vastness. Kicking up dust and rocks as it sped through empty farmland. Natasha and Sam had dipped over to New Mexico for intel while you remained at his side.

And you certainly hadn't planned on anything happening in their absence - hoping to reclaim a moment of reprieve, if you will, between running and fighting and clawing to survive. But between the diner off the main road and the blatantly out-of-place men congregating in the corner booth, his mind had easily been made up.

Scarfing down the greasy breakfast behind a low baseball cap. Your legs propped up on his lap under the table. Swirling the straw through the ice water - droplets forming on the side of the glass and running down your finger as you glanced up at your companion behind hooded eyes. Sugar-sweet syrup coating the tongue that poked out to swipe your lips.

His demeanor gave nothing away, though he was clearly listening in on their conversation - super-hearing comes in handy more often than not. And with the group abruptly leaving, it only took a moment to throw some crumpled-up dollars down and head to the door. 

Under the pretense of looking at travel brochures and carefully displayed pies under the fingerprint-smeared glass case, you were able to follow the car's path. With enough distance put in place, you hopped in the passenger seat and took off after them. The ride was silent outside of the steady thrum of the tires and occasional creak of the engine.

Words, conversations, long heartfelt declarations were rare and far in-between these days. There was no need, let alone time for them. If the split hadn't happened, maybe you would be on a date in the park. Hands looped around his waist as he drove through the streets of the city on his motorcycle. Lounging happily on the plush couch at the compound with the rest of the team. 

But that wasn't your life anymore.

And he felt that guilt every day with it. Despite your reassurances those first few weeks, the wall had slowly slipped in place. Now, almost a year into this vagrant nomadic lifestyle, it was rare to see that golden-haired man you had first fallen for. Summer love and cherry-sweet as innocent touches and flirtations grew. Turned to magma, gunpowder, tantalizingly ice-cold bitter love.

His stoicism hides the grief well. The guilt that eats away at him each night, with a burn only you can soothe with feather-light fingers on his brow and lips. Occasionally his gaze will be drawn from the road to you and then you might see the spark in his eyes, but only for a flash of a moment. A hand might dare to squeeze your thigh, but not much else.

Darling, sweetheart, babydoll. Puppy dog love, teasing cautious going steady cupcake baby love. No more.

Before this, he would have demanded a larger team for the mission. But now, now he was reckless. Even where you were concerned, despite his best intentions. And with no shield to his name, it was even more disturbing to witness. The fearless charge of Icarus and Ares. Out for blood and flying too close to the sun, to a death, he seemed to welcome more often than naught.

The sure thing, across all lines of low-level criminals, is their repetitive nature. Barely ready guards at the entrance easily pushed aside. The next, startled shouting and untrained shooting. It doesn't take much to disarm them at this point, not with all the practice you've had lately. Even tiresome in some regards. How boring, only AR-15s? Surely, even these guys could manage something more interesting - something more challenging.

And of course, after wading through a group of guards, there's the split option. Left or right, up or down. Either way will lead to something of value - their boss or their goods. Sometimes illegal arms, sometimes drugs, and the worst of times people.

This is not one of those times, luckily. He takes the upper floor on a hunch of finding the man in charge. And you descend the rickety metal steps to the basement without so much as a spare glance each other's way. There'll be time for that later, in a motel off the beaten path, bandaging each other up, trading long kisses and reassuring caresses.

Under flickering caged lights, you find the cargo. Spilling over, barely contained or organized. Three pallets in total, probably worth a pretty penny to a crime lord higher up on the food chain. 

An easy anonymous tip to local authorities will have it cleared up by the weekend as most cases went for you these days.

Barely subtle footsteps have you pivoting and ducking a badly thrown punch. The guard stumbles with the momentum of his swing, at least a hundred and fifty pounds of muscle on you. But you're quick on your feet in comparison, darting around him in such a way as to wear him down. Any punch you deliver will be worthless on his mass anyway.

He lunges forward, trying to sweep you up into his arms. You jump onto his forearm and wrap yourself around his back, arms going tight around his neck as you settle on his broad shoulders. The guard flails, trying to bring you down, but you just hold tight.

This leads to you being pounded into a wall. And somehow, he has enough air left to fumble for a broken off pipe, which he then tries to hit you with but to little avail.

Finally, he succumbs and slowly collapses forward onto the dirty concrete floor with a heavy thud. Standing with a stretch, you feel the bruises already forming and hope to god that that'll be the worst of it. Giving the unconscious man a kick in the head for good measure, you're ready to wrap this up and meet up with your partner when you hear it.

A distant little puff of air. Followed by creaking and groaning and then -

You run for the stairs as the illuminated hallway starts to cave in from the explosion. The walls crumble and break as the dust flies Your heart races with adrenaline as you slide towards the metal staircase, only for it to collapse in a heap of rusted iron. Who the hell has a self-destruct button anyway? It was almost comical. And maybe you'd laugh and scoff if the roof and upper floors weren't starting to fall down.

As sheets of metal and concrete cascade in an ungodly horror, bits of wires and metal and wood coming down on top of you, blinding your sight with clouds of debris. You scramble, coughing and hacking, trying to find your way as quickly as possible. If you can make it to the doorframe, a support beam. If you can just -

"Agh," you gasp, only to struggle to even cough. 

You can't see anything and your chest aches, you can't breathe and you're struggling, you can't - oh, it hurts. It hurts so damn bad.

Asses, goddammit, remember your training.

Unable to see, feeling trapped under a heavy blanket of darkness, you reach out, only to immediately come in contact with something solid. You try to push, with your hands, with your chest, and even with your legs - but nothing happens besides a sharp shot of pain. Burning like molten metal as it sears through your arm. Traveling right through your veins, screaming ahead like a locomotive before colliding with your brain as fireworks and shrapnel explode behind your eyes.

You try to call out, but it feels like you have a mouthful of dirt. Spitting furiously, you finally manage to croak out, "St-eve."

Hoping, praying that he's okay, that he can hear you at all.

"Steve!" Your voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper.

Concrete crumbles and breaks off in the distance, something muffled and far away. A sense of being underwater, at the bottom of the ocean. Drowning, down down down. And then -

"Sweetheart?!"

Your senses flood with relief, head falling back to the ground as you attempt to scream back, "Steve!"

Sheetrock and slabs of concrete are pulled and thrown until a halo of sunlight breaks through the darkness. You shield your eyes from the onslaught as a sigh of relief catches your attention. Carefully squinting against the light, his face comes into view. Bloodied and bruised. Blue eyes shining with something desperate and wide with terror.

"Just a second, baby. Almost got you."

He grunts and heaves until he's down at your side. And from there, he pushes against the slab that has you pinned down. Groan turning to a feral scream as he shoves the broken-off piece of flooring from your aching body.

And then he's kneeling at your side, assessing the damage. Fingers tracing your face with absolute fear.

"Fuck, sweetheart," he crumbles with a drop of broad shoulders, head bowed in anger. But not at you - never at you.

"Hey, Cap," you manage with a weak smile. Your mouth stings with iron - thick and heavy as it coats your tongue. 

He resigns himself with a nod, hands moving under your head and legs as he lifts you up - cradling you carefully against his chest. 

You hack and wheeze as more debris flies, filling the air with clouds of dust. It stings your senses, blinds your vision even further. 

Steve tucks your head in closer to his chest, "Come on, baby. Let's get you out of here."

The journey to the truck is a complete blur. But the wail of sirens in the distance spurs him on as he floors the gas. Your head jostles roughly against the window as the smoldering warehouse disappears in a plume of smoke in the mirror.

And then you notice the hand holding yours. Fingers entwined, resting on your leg. Gaze traveling up the dirty arm, past the open cuts, to the concerned face of your love. Eyes focused on the road, but every ounce of fear still gracing his features.

From there, things get even hazier. There's a voice in your ear. But it's distant and far too insistent. The dark seems welcoming and easier, tugging you down into the depths of unconsciousness. Into the void where even nightmares can't reach you.

"Hnnng."

You feel immediate agitation as you try to snuggle further into the pillow. Another tug on your arm has you groaning, but it's quickly followed by a sudden yelp as your eyes shoot open and you struggle to sit up.

"The fuck was - what are you doing?!"

Steve eyes you carefully before giving a gentle push on your shoulder, forcing you back down onto the bed.

"Stay still," he murmurs. Gathering the rag in his hand as he gently blots at the festering wound on your left arm. One you hadn't really had the chance to notice earlier.

You watch him, methodical in his movements. All of you were, unfortunately, rather used to home-nursing by now. Evac wasn't an option on your table anymore. The best you could do sometimes was a bottle of whiskey and a makeshift tourniquet until a real professional could be sought out. Not that you minded when it was you, of course. But being on the other end, watching the one you love being treated? It was a completely different battlefield.

"What happened?" Your voice comes out sluggish and rough.

Blue eyes briefly meet yours before dabbing the rag in Isopropyl alcohol and continuing on with the deep cut. Hands moving slowly, feather-light as you wince from the sting.

"Homemade bomb."

You grind your teeth before managing, "No shit?"

A sliver of a smirk appears. And then you spot the needle in his hand.

"Oh, come on. How bad is it - "

Sitting up to bring your arm into view - oh, yeah. It was that bad. Without another word, you lie back down.

He's efficient, you'll give him that. Suturing like a pro, tying it off in a small knot before dropping a kiss to the untouched skin right next to the stitches.

As he moves on to other, far smaller cuts and bruises, you're able to take in the room. Another motel, another day. Bright orange walls with grungy white popcorn ceilings. And you swear the picture by the bathroom was in a place you stayed at three weeks back as well.

"Where are we?"

He doesn't even look up from where he's examining your ankle, "Thirteen miles from the Texas border."

Giving a little nod, "You made good time."

Your foot is carefully lowered onto a stack of folded white towels, elevated enough where it isn't uncomfortable. And then he's moving up your body, hovering above you with hands positioned on either side of your head.

"Well," he starts. "I had precious cargo."

Fighting the urge to roll your eyes, "Still cheesy. I appreciate it in these trying times."

His eyes flicker with something reminiscent of easier times. "Thought you would."

Warm lips, chapped lips, scabbed over and still holding a hint of blood, meet together. Careful, veering on gentle. Desperation slowly slips in. Fear bubbling up from the mission rears its head as Steve takes the lead in deepening the kiss. Tongue darting out to pull the pain from you. Mingling and twirling with your own. Hands eager and ready to roam and claim. But as you go to reach up to his hair, a sharp inhale has you reeling.

The welcomed weight and warmth of his body is gone in an instant as he sits up, carefully holding your arm in the palm of his calloused hand.

He studies it for a moment, "Wasn't sure if it was - " a slight pull has you wincing with a wave of pain.

Sitting back, Steve rubs at the back of his head, " You, uh, wanna take a shower?"

Strong and demanding gives way to strangely innocent at the mention of you being unclothed. But you take it in stride. Beckoning him back with your good hand.

"Only if you help me, Captain."

In simpler days, it was fun. Something exciting and bold and downright erotic. Now, it's convenience and comfort. Slipping out of torn and bloodied clothes, easing pants down and toeing off boots. Watching each other undress down to the barest of forms. The shapes and grooves never change. The injuries do, spackling the skin in strange new patterns.

Steve, as always, looks worse for wear underneath his civvies. He'll heal by tomorrow, where you'll have a nice limp for a few more days. A sling for much longer.

He gets the water going. The old faucet groans and creaks as a dribble of water trickles out. The shower pressure isn't right, but it's hot and he's there helping you into the tiny white tub. Holding you steady by the waist as he takes the first burst of water.

You let your good hand wander up to ruffle his hair - so much longer than you had ever seen before. It grows dark under the pelt of the showerhead. Droplets cascade along the edges of his face, dripping down his beard, before landing on your nose.

He takes great pleasure in the feel of your hand on his scalp. Working a lather in with the complimentary soap, digging your fingers in to get the remaining dirt and debris from his golden mane. 

His head dips back into the stream. Your fingers travel down, following the bulge of shoulder and bicep. The swell of forearm, the broad plain of chest. And then you're spun around and a wave of pleasure falls over you with the spray of water.

A bottle uncaps and then strong fingers are easing their way through your hair. Gently pulling and pushing and digging a lather in. Your head falls to his chest as he holds you against him. Soapy hands press in along your back, easing the aches of the mission from your body. Leaving a trail of kisses along your shoulders.

You linger as long as the water allows. And then Steve's helping you back out onto the cold white tile floor. Carefully drying your body down with the scratchy towels. He does a quick dry for himself before scooping you up and carrying you back into the main room. You feel lightheaded by the action.

Another version of yourself might have blushed. Another version of Steve would have found the entire thing downright scandalous to be walking around like that. Completely naked with his girl in his arms. My how the times had changed. As if this was the most daring thing you'd done together.

He pulls the sheets back on the bed before setting you down. The comforter, which had a few fresh bloodstains mixed in with the hideous floral green print, is quickly rolled down. With your back against the headboard, Steve props your right leg back up on a pillow. Fingers careful and light trace the smooth skin of your bare leg. Lips press down on your knee, calf, the top of your foot, trying to ease that pain in the way only a lover can.

Steve momentarily gets up in search of his duffle bag. A bit of rummaging produces the roll of bandages and medical tape. The entire experience of watching your partner wrap your ankle is something that just warms your very soul. It's so incredibly domestic and sweet. Domestic for you two, that is.

Your arm will have to wait. He'll, no doubt, be making a supply run after you fall asleep. Some quick meals, a sling, more condoms. Definitely more of those.

He finishes with a kiss to the fresh wrapping.  Sliding down the bed, pulling the pillows with you to rest your head on, Steve moves in beside you - pulling the covers with him.

It's still early enough in the night for the setting sun to break through the white vertical blinds. You leave the TV off for the meantime. Mr. Serious will be keeping a more watchful eye as you recover and therefore will force himself to stay away from the news (in your presence, anyway).

The thrumming AC is welcome in the humid room. Between the lingering heat from the shower and the near-constant furnace temperature radiating from Steve. The sheets are crisp and cool, the twinges of pain fade as the comfort of having him right there, holding, caressing, bringing you down.

"'m sorry," he admits with a whisper against your neck, nose nuzzled in tight.

Your fingers glide slowly up and down the forearm draped across your stomach, "Hush. I'm not accepting apologies for things out of your control right now."

You can feel his eyes open, he's probably trying to stare you down, but you remain happily in the dark of your closed eyelids.

"Sweetheart," it's deep and throaty, a heavy husk of gruffness trying to break the spell.

There's a quick pinch to his arm and a following hiss of displeasure. 

He's unrelenting in his unending self-guilt, so you force your eyes open and catch the worried sea of blue.

"I mean it, Steven. You're gonna give me a headache. So, can you just shut up and hold me?"

It's like an order. And he only takes them from one person now, so he obliges. Framing his body around you, but being mindful of your elevated foot and pained arm.

You can't stand to see him so stuck in his own neverending thoughts, the worry sits right on his brow for all to see. With your right hand, you drag a fingertip over his cheek. Along the curve of his lips, the rough hair of his beard. The damp mane of gold deserves the carding of your fingers. He relaxes into it, the tight stretch of lines ease on his face as you feel the thrum of his heart.

It's comforting as always. It sings, I'm here and I'm not leaving you. For now, it's something to focus on. Something to draw you down into the heavy drape of sleep. He'll be here when you wake, probably fully healed too. But he'll watch after you, care for you until it's time to move on. Another city, another mission.

But it's just the way your lives run now. And you wouldn't trade it for anything. So, with the warm musk of your golden hero love settling in, you allow yourself the luxury of falling asleep in his arms.

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[izzyarden]

KICKING MY FEET AND SCREAMING

Anytime Regulus and James were together, Barty and Evan would call Regulus Icarus. James would pester Reg why, but he never gave him an answer. He goes and asks Sirius, who figures it out immediately and runs off to find Reg because when he first introduced James to Reg, he said, "You're best friends with the literal embodiment of the sun."