#Ozone face wash

[ozone-ayurvedics]

A morning face wash removes excess oil and preps your skin for the day, while a night wash clears dirt, makeup, and pollutants. Both are essential for maintaining a fresh, healthy complexion. A proper cleansing routine helps balance oil, prevent breakouts, and keep your skin glowing around the clock.

[mapofsouthdakota]

Caleb’s headcanon -

The Vanguard

Synopsis: You’re waiting for Caleb to come home from work. He’s working overtime. Again. Caleb’s so done with work stealing his precious moments with you. So. Done.

Details: Mid/2000ish w. Superduper sexually frustrated Colonel Caleb goes dom. This is lust, not a spec of romance (imo). Explicit and lewd language. Biting. (Not exactly dry) humping lol. Filthy stuff. Schmutt. 18+ content. You are warned. I also rly recommend the track linked below. It was my muse.

Drenched homecoming

Skyhaven, Caleb’s place, you

The dim glow of the city filters through the rain-streaked windows, painting ghostly patterns against the walls. The air is thick with the scent of petrichor, a whisper of ozone lingering from the storm outside. You check the time—Caleb is late.

A sigh slips from your lips as you peel your shirt over your head, fingers ghosting over your bare skin as the chill of the room nips at your flesh. The bathroom light hums softly, casting a muted halo around the tiles as steam curls from the shower. The water cascades down, promising warmth, comfort—a distraction from the empty space where Caleb should be.

You step inside, tilting your head back beneath the heat, allowing it to wash away the lingering ache of longing. Eyes flutter shut. The city buzzes beyond the glass, and for now, you let yourself melt into the moment, unaware of the storm about to step through the door.

——————————————————————————

The Fleet, Administrative wing, Caleb

The meeting drags. The words being spoken blur into meaningless noise, a dull, monotonous drone that grates against his patience like sandpaper. Caleb sits at the long table, one gloved hand curled into a fist against his jaw, his fingers pressing into his temple as he fights the urge to exhale his frustration.

He doesn’t bother masking his disinterest. His violet eyes are heavy-lidded, sharp with irritation, flicking to the clock every few minutes with a growing sense of agitation. Every wasted second is another moment stolen from you—another moment he could have had you beneath him, panting, pliant, warm.

Caleb’s jaw tenses as his mind wanders—wanders to the thought of peeling you out of whatever you’re wearing, pressing you into the mattress, sinking his teeth into that soft, sensitive spot on your throat just to hear the sound you make. His fingers twitch against the leather of his gloves. The heat coiling low in his stomach is dangerous, restless, sharp-edged and gnawing.

With a sharp breath, he jerks his gloved hand up to his mouth, sinking his teeth into the worn leather, biting down hard in a desperate attempt to ground himself, to snap out of it. But it does nothing. The pressure, the taste of leather, the scent of his own skin—it only fuels it. Only makes it worse.

It’s unbearable. The hunger. The ache. The sheer, maddening need riding him raw.

And yet, here he sits. In this damn room. Listening to things that don’t matter, faces that blur together, voices that drone on, oblivious to the fire burning inside of him.

He shifts in his seat, muscles taut with restrained energy, the simmering frustration bleeding into something darker—sharper. It fuels his irritation, the urge to snap at the next person who so much as looks at him the wrong way. He’s so done.

Then someone addresses him directly.

“Colonel?”

His head snaps up, eyes dark, smoldering. The officer stiffens. Caleb holds his gaze for a fraction too long before muttering, clipped and razor-sharp, “What.”

The word alone is enough to send a ripple of unease through the room. Silence stretches, thick and uneasy, before someone quickly fills it with a half-hearted attempt at a summary. Caleb barely hears it. His patience is a thread stretched taut, ready to snap.

When the meeting is finally adjourned, he doesn’t wait. Doesn’t linger. Doesn’t breathe.

He pushes up from his chair, the scrape of it against the floor a sharp punctuation to his irritation. Shrugging into his coat, he mutters, voice low and laced with something venomous, “Next time? Find someone else to waste their damn night.”

The officers shift, uneasy, but no one speaks. No one stops him.

Instead, as he storms out, the whispers begin.

“What’s gotten into him lately?” — “He used to live for this. —Now it’s like he doesn’t care.” — “The Colonel never used to mind overtime…”

Caleb hears it all. And he’s had enough.

If they knew—if they fucking knew—the sheer agony thrumming in his veins, the way his body is throbbing with restless hunger, the way his skin aches to be pressed against yours, they wouldn’t dare say a word.

He shoves the door open, stepping out into the night.

The rain hammers against him the second he steps outside, soaking through fabric, sliding in cold rivulets down the tense lines of his body—but Caleb doesn’t react. Doesn’t slow. Doesn’t even consider reaching for his umbrella.

There’s no point.

Because the second he steps through that door, he’s going to strip you bare, press you into the nearest surface, and neither of you will be needing clothes for a long, long time.

His boots strike the pavement in a steady, ruthless rhythm, his strides long, unrelenting, driven by nothing but sheer force of will. The city around him is a blur—smears of neon reflecting in the rain-slicked streets, hazy figures moving beneath the glow of dim streetlights, the muffled hum of distant voices drowned beneath the storm. It’s all meaningless, all irrelevant.

His mind is elsewhere.

On you.

On what’s waiting for him at home.

Fingers flex at his sides, hands twitching, restless, as tension coils tight in his spine—thick, unbearable, molten in its intensity. A sharp, involuntary tic jerks through his neck, a brief but violent snap of muscle, like his own body is rebelling against the pressure building inside. His head tilts for the barest second before snapping back, jaw clenching, breath harsh. The uniform clings, soaked and heavy, but the heat raging beneath his skin makes it feel like he’s burning from the inside out. That fever has been festering all day, burrowing deep into muscle, riding him raw—an unrelenting fire he can’t outrun.

The rain does nothing to cool him—if anything, it feeds the fire, stoking the hunger, the frustration, the raw, unchecked need burning beneath his skin.

His breath is shallow, uneven, fraying at the edges as his thoughts loop like a broken reel, spiraling further and further into the gutter—dark, visceral, explicit.

The way your breath will stutter when the wet leather glides over your skin—cold, slick, unforgiving. It ghosts over your stomach, your thighs, everywhere except where you need him most. Dripping. Teasing. Denying. Each deliberate stroke leaves a trail of sensation, a wicked contrast between damp chill and the heat pooling low in your belly.

He’ll take his time, savor every shiver, every helpless twitch of your body as it tenses under his touch. Keep you on edge—gasping, trembling—until frustration spills from your lips in broken, desperate pleas. Beg for it. That’s what he wants. Not just your surrender—your complete and utter undoing.

But relief won’t come. Not yet. Not until he’s stripped you down to nothing but raw, aching need. Until every thought, every breath, every fractured whimper is drenched in him. He’ll push, torment, tease—drag you deeper until you forget anything existed before his touch, before his voice, before the sharp, unbearable hunger he’s buried in you. And even then, it won’t be enough. Because Caleb doesn’t just want you needy. Doesn’t just want you aching. He wants you wrecked. Shattered. Bent until you break, until the only thing left in your world is him.

To squirm beneath his touch the way he’s been squirming in his own skin all fucking day.

And when you finally do—when your moans dissolve into cries, when you arch into him with reckless abandon, when you scream his name, over and over and over again, begging, sobbing, pleading for him to give you what only he can—he will.

His touch. His weight. His teeth, his hands, his cock.

Caleb will brand you so deeply you’ll feel him for days, hear his voice in your head, taste him on your tongue, wear his marks like a second skin.

He will give you everything. Every. Last. Inch.

Fuck.

His breath is ragged, labored, his vision blurred around the edges, his pulse pounding so violently he can feel it in his teeth. He rounds another corner, faster now, his body coiled so tight it aches. His uniform is drenched, his coat heavy, his bangs slicked against his forehead with rain, but none of it matters.

He’s surprised the rain doesn’t steam off him by now.

He’s hard. Fuck—he’s been hard since this morning. The pillow talk, the warmth of your body tangled with his, the soft kisses and lingering touches—but that was then. That was before the hours of restraint, the wasted time, the damned overtime that tore him away from you.

Just a little more.

Another turn.

He’s so close.

Then, finally, he reaches his destination.

And the second he steps inside—he hears it.

The sound of running water.

His breath stills.

You’re already in the shower. Water trailing down your skin, heat curling around you. Already wet. Already naked.

Then, a slow, guttural growl rumbles from his chest.

“Change of plans, huh?”

Another sharp jolt snaps through Caleb’s neck—a sudden, involuntary tic, a crack in his control. His body is fraying at the edges, barely holding back the storm.

“I can work with that.”

He doesn’t waste another second.

You. Are. His.

——————————————————————————

Skyhaven, Caleb’s place, you

The shower door swings open without warning.

Steam spills into the dimly lit bathroom, curling around Caleb as he steps inside, his breath ragged, his violet eyes dark with hunger. Rain still clings to him, sliding in slow rivulets down his jaw, catching in the damp strands of his ashen-brown hair. His black colonel’s uniform is soaked through, insignias glinting dully beneath the dim glow of the overhead light. The heavy fabric clings to his frame, molding to the sharp angles of his shoulders, the rigid tension in his body making it clear—he has been waiting for this moment all day and all night.

You barely have time to react before he’s on you.

A gloved hand snaps around your wrist, pinning it against the cool, wet tile. The leather is ice-cold against your overheated skin, the contrast sending a shiver racing down your spine. His breath is hot, uneven, his lips ghosting just over your pulse.

Then he bites.

Teeth sink into the tender spot where your neck meets your shoulder—deep, claiming, a growl rumbling through his chest as his jaw tightens. He doesn’t ease up, doesn’t release you. Caleb holds you there, pinned beneath his mouth, his tongue flicking against the fresh mark before he sucks, slow and unrelenting, determined to leave proof of his hunger on your skin.

His hips grind into you, slow at first, taunting, the hard press of his arousal thick and searing even through the soaked, unyielding fabric of his uniform. Each roll of his hips drives heat deeper into your core, every deliberate motion sending a shudder up your spine, tearing the breath from your lungs. The friction is unbearable—a slow, torturous drag that leaves you gasping, dizzy, lost.

His grip on your wrists tightens against the tile, unforgiving, unrelenting. Had he let go—had he given you even the slightest freedom—you’d be clawing at his uniform, desperate to strip him bare, to feel him without the cruel barrier of wet fabric between you. But he doesn’t let you. Doesn’t allow you the satisfaction.

Instead, he forces you to take it, to feel every agonizing second of his hunger in the way his hips roll against you, pressing, teasing, owning. Caleb’s feral, completely unraveled, need bleeding from every inch of him and soaking into you with each devastating thrust.

His breath is ragged, hot against your throat, a deep, guttural growl rolling through his chest as his gloved fingers scrape along your ribs, gripping, possessive, holding you in place as if he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

But you’re not going anywhere.

Then, with agonizing slowness, he pulls back.

Caleb’s lips graze the shell of your ear, his voice hoarse, ruined, thick with something dark and desperate.

“I’m home.”

Writer’s note: Fuqit. I saw your answers in the poll so here is something that I’ve had marinating for a while. Tadaaa my take on Colonel Caleb dom schmutt. It’s kinda a tease ikik. I’ll get to it in the series I’m working on atm. (We all know he’s a big softie too, I’m just confident that this is a canon for Caleb when he’s all fed up with work. The song is peak Caleb coded btw.) Okey then, thank you for reading 🫶🏻

If you liked this I’ve just published chapter I-IV of a series with some potential!

[inmyheaddd]

✦ bloodshed, crimson clover - percy jackson x reader

summary: where you and percy are in a battle, but you suddenly find yourself severely injured, despite trying to power through it, and percy is not willing to leave your side the entire time. or: how percy "loyalty is my fatal flaw" jackson reacts when you're hurt wc: 2k warnings: mentions of blood, fighting in battle, kissing

the battlefield was pure chaos. swords clashing, monsters snarling, the sharp tang of blood and ozone swirling thick in the air. you barely had time to think, moving on sheer instinct, dodging, striking, and breathing through the pain when you felt hellhound claws rake across your side. 

you kept at it, battling the monsters with percy somewhere 50 or so metres away, surrounded by his own person hurricane. your side started to suddenly sting more, and soon enough, it was a burning, sizzling sensation you couldn’t ignore.

your brain was running through a million thoughts as you continued to move and attack without thinking— pushing back with your shield, and then slashing through with your sword, turning and ducking. was this because of the hellhound scratch? why had you let it scratch you in the first place? why weren’t you paying more attention? 

you risked a look downwards for a second, and saw part of your armour broken off, and underneath, your orange camp shirt having 3 distinct tears through it,— claw marks, and your skin bright red underneath. 

you forced yourself to think straight, and continued to fight. you’d worry about yourself later, you had a battle to win. 

after you smashed your shield into a dracanae’s stomach, you swung your sword right through it’s middle and disintegrated it.

but you also simultaneously ended up using the very last of your energy.

you stumbled backwards, staggering, then you hit the ground hard, the impact knocking the air from your lungs. you heard your armour and weapons clatter about you, and then everything felt... slow. blurry. 

your fingers trembled as you patted around feebly, trying—failing—to push yourself up. your head only fell backwards again. 

the shouts around you blurred into static, you heard a yell, louder than the rest, and then—

“no!” a shout, “no, no, no—"

percy.

he was kneeling beside you with his hands were on you in an instant— shaking, picking up your arms and turning your face gently to look if your head was injured, adjusting your armour, at one point— they just hovered over you, trembling, like he didn’t know what to do. 

his breathing was sharp and uneven. “perce—“ you started, but he wasn’t listening.

“you’re not— you, i can’t,” he stammered, “you can’t die on me.” 

you tried to laugh, but it came out more like a wheeze. “i’m not dead yet.”

“don’t say that, gods, don’t say that." percy snapped, but it sounded more like a genuine plea. his jaw was clenched so tight it looked like it hurt. “where are you hurt?”

you blinked up at him, a little dazed, the soaring pain finally catching up to you. “it’s fine,” you deflected, “i’ll be fine."

“there is blood seeping through your shirt, you are not fine," he muttered, and looked at your torso one more time, this time, finding the wound. 

slowly and carefully, percy moved your shirt just enough to see the wound. his entire face fell, washing over with something dark, then he cursed under his breath. 

“how… how bad is it?” you mumbled. his eyes were panicked, and when he didn’t answer for a moment, you tried to lift your head and take a look for yourself, groaning in pain in the process. 

“don’t look at it.” percy said, his hand running over your hair, his words a comfort in the chaos all around. “it’ll only make you feel worse.” his voice was hoarse, worn out, but he still tried to comfort you and stay calm for your sake. 

you still felt dizzy, and through the blurriness of your vision you could still see faint figures slashing their swords and fighting. your head was throbbing. 

“i…” you chuckled weakly, your head lolling back on the ground. “nothing could make me feel worse right now.”

percy’s expression held no humour despite your laugh, his lips rolled inwards and his hands still trembling as they moved over your hair. 

suddenly he turned back and looked behind him. he yelled, “clarisse! get your cabin and the apollo kids, and bring up the attack! you know what to do!” his voice cut through the chaos, sharp, “i’m getting her out of here.”

“go do what you have to, jackson!” clarisse shouted, glancing back for a moment. “i don’t care. we’ll hold up fine.” you heard her grunt, disintegrating an empousa with her spear. 

you couldn’t bear to keep your eyes open anymore, your head falling back on the ground, lolling to the side slightly. 

percy cursed frantically, and you heard him asking you to open your eyes, to please open your eyes, but all you could manage were mumbles and groans of, “i cant,” as you weakly shook your head. 

then, he suddenly whistled— a new york taxi cab whistle that was so loud and so familiar that it made you flutter your eyes open. 

a few heartbeats later, the sound of massive wings filled the air. 

you noticed the number of enemies were going down, all of them too preoccupied with the raging demigods to bat a second eye at the pegasus or even think about attacking.

blackjack landed in a flurry of dark feathers, his large eyes scanning the scene and locking onto percy.

he whinnied loudly, and percy shook his head from his kneeling position next to you. 

“i know. i know it’s bad, man!” he yelled frustratedly, running a hand through his hair roughly. “i’m sorry, i— just get us there. now.”

another neigh, and suddenly percy was standing up and then scooping you up, holding you close to his chest. 

“percy,” you croaked out, and his eyes were immediately on yours. “i— you can’t… you can’t just ditch the battle.” you mumbled, forcing the words out through your sore throat. 

percy’s hair was sweaty, his face grimy, his breathing heavy, his sea green eyes set determinedly, and you swore he had never looked so handsome. 

he let out a sharp laugh with absolutely no humour in it, “watch me.”

— 

you were leaning fully against percy as you flew on the pegasus’ back, one of his arms were wrapped around your waist, with his other hand gripping blackjacks rein. 

you were queasy, but you kept telling yourself to hold on, and that the ride would be over soon, but the throbbing in your head and side, the way your whole body seemed to overpower your rational thinking. 

all you wanted to do was close your eyes. 

"hey, hey, hey, you can stay awake, you got this, we’re almost there.” percy’s voice was tight, rough around the edges. "keep your eyes open. talk to me."

you managed out a weak huff, forcing your eyes open. "’bout what?"

"anything.” he begged, “how much you love flying with blackjack. how much you hate my reckless decision-making skills. just—just keep talking."

you tilted your head back, turning slightly and blinking up at him. your eyelids were unbelievably heavy. "reckless decision-making skills…” your eyes shut for a long second. “that… that needs work.”

percy let out a relieved, breathless laugh, “yeah?” he nodded fervently, “good. good. then stay awake and tell me how to work on it.” 

you wanted to make some comment, maybe roll your eyes a little, but your body was so tired.

percy’s face fell again, his eyes flickering all over your face in panic as his hand came up to brush your cheek. “don’t do that. don’t fade out on me."

"not fading," you muttered. "just... tired."

“you’ll sleep when we get you all fixed up, but not now. you can’t shut off now.” his thumb moved in circles against your cheek, gentle despite the panic still evident in his voice. "just—stay with me. please."

you sighed, eyes slipping shut for half a second before his voice brought you back.

his voice cracked, “please."

the desperation in his voice made your chest ache more than the wound did.

"okay," you whispered. "m’with you."

—

will solace was looking at your wound as you lay down, and you could hear percy pacing. 

his shoes scuffed against the floor, back and forth, back and forth, and you could practically feel the anxiety radiating off him in waves.

“percy,” will said, exasperated but patient. “you can go back to the battle. they need you.”

percy’s steps faltered, but he didn’t stop. when he spoke, his voice was fraying at the edges. “i don’t— i need—” he dragged a hand through his already-messy hair. “i need to know that she’s safe.”

“she will be,” will promised, his voice steady. “i can guarantee it, but in the meantime, you can go back.”

percy let out a breath, like he wanted to believe that, like he almost did, but something in him wouldn’t let go. “i’ll stay. i know the other campers can hold up on their own. they’re strong.” he ran his hands over his face, “and— and besides, the enemy was small by the time we left with blackjack. i’m staying.” 

you stood up to prove a point, which wasn’t the wisest decision, and you tried to walk towards percy. you managed 2 steps, but he was by your side in an instant.

his expression softened the second he took you in. “i can’t believe this is happening.” he shook his head, “i should’ve—”

“—percy,” you interjected, your voice weary, “there’s nothing you could’ve possibly done,” you rasped, the words taking more energy than they should have. “please. go.”

his jaw clenched. his eyes, stormy and sad, with his eyebrows furrowing up. “how can i go when you’re…” his voice crackled as his eyes travelled over you, “when you look like this?”

you huffed a weak laugh, “gee, thanks.”

but his expression didn’t waver, and your laugh faded. “percy,” you said, but he simply shook his head. 

will cut through the silence of your staring match, and you tore your gaze to him. “it looks like a hellhound scratch, but it’s somehow poisoned. it’ll heal in less than an hour, 2 at max.”

you turned back to percy, who was still watching you like you might disappear if he so much as blinked. “percy. see? it’ll be fine... i’ll be fine. will knows what he’s doing, so go.”

he swallowed hard, hesitating for a second longer before exhaling sharply. “i’m coming back to you.”

you nodded, taking hold of his hand. “i’ll be here.”

something flickered in his eyes at that—doubt, maybe, or something close to it. 

his eyes held yours, and you knew that he wouldn’t leave if you stayed looking at each other like that for even a moment longer. “perce… you have to.”  you whispered.

percy nodded weakly, and hand brushed against your cheek, warm and grounding. 

his other hand came to cup your face, then he leaned down, pressing the softest of kisses to your forehead.

and after that, he was gone.

—

less than an hour later, like will said, you were feeling all better. you talked with will when he wasn’t busy with another camper, and he asked how nico was doing, if he was hurt. 

“last i saw, he was perfectly fine.” you told him earnestly, “besides, if he was hurt, he’d be here right now.” 

will shook his head with a chuckle, “he’s so stubborn, he wouldn’t come if he had broken all his limbs.” 

“will,” you deadpanned, then let out a laugh, “you’re here; he would come for a paper cut.”

it felt nice to laugh, and the conversation was fun, but your attention wasn’t fully there, because your mind kept wandering back to one thing— one person: percy. 

another half hour later, you were sitting all alone as will went to go heal other hurt campers.

you dwelled in your loneliness and your thoughts for a little while, but suddenly, percy burst through the doors. 

his breathing was heavy and ragged and his head turned as he scanned the room, finally coming to a halt when he spotted you. 

you were sitting up against the pillows. the moment you locked eyes, he let out a long exhale, and he stood frozen for a moment.

you immediately stood up, your heartbeat in your ears.

you barely had time to react before he was at your side, pressing a hand against your cheek, then your shoulder, then his eyes were raking all over you like he was checking for himself that you were still there, still okay.

his dark brows were all scrunched up with worry, but it all faded the second he met your gaze. “you’re…”

“yeah. i know.” you murmured, lips quirking up at the corners as you tilted your head to the side coyly. “i told you i’d be fine.”

his lips flickered into a smile at that. 

percy looked down at his hands, which were awkwardly hovering above your waist, like he didn’t know if it was alright to hug you— incase you were still hurt. 

your heart warmed at that thought, at his thoughtfulness.

he brought his gaze back up to you and you rolled your eyes playfully, which made a sheepish grin grow on his face.  

you flung your arms around his neck fiercely, and immediately, percy sighed as his arms just as fiercely wrapped around your middle, pulling you close. 

his hand was grasping at your shirt like he was clinging onto the fact that you were really there.

you stayed like that for a moment, and you felt his erratic heartbeat in his chest. you didn’t realise how fast yours was beating as well, until pressed a kiss to your hair, then another, then another, and muttered, “never doing that again.”

your heartbeat went even faster, and you grinned even though he couldn’t see it. “what, me getting attacked by a hellhound?” you chuckled, “i don’t plan on it.”

“no, me,” he pulled back from the hug, just enough to meet your eyes. his eyes  were fixed on yours, “leaving you.”

you realised you didn’t feel your heartbeat didn’t pick up this time, because if anything, you were more relaxed with him than you were with anything else in the entire world. 

you rolled your eyes but leaned into him anyway, your arms still wrapped around his neck. “you’re dramatic.”

he smiled at you— a real genuine smile and not one of his smirks, and you knew a part of him was relieved you were back in your usual banter. 

a hand came up to brush a hair out of your face. his eyes scanned all over your face, fixed on your lips for a moment, then flickered to your eyes and asked a silent question.

you answered by leaning in and kissing him. your hands slid down from around his arms, down to his chest, and he kissed you slow and gentle, like he was grounding himself in the fact that you were here, safe, with him. like he had to make sure you knew, too.

when he pulled back, he didn’t go far, his forehead once again resting against yours.

his lips twitched, and then he kissed you again— simply savouring in the fact that he could.

taglist: @lovethornes @littlemissmentallyunstable @midiosaamor @maybxlle @imaseabear @sheisntyou @off-to-the-r4ces @anintellectualintellectual @wish-i-were-heather @hxress23 @hermesenthusiast

[fratttymatty]

All Bleached Up

(All characters are 18+)

It was a crisp Saturday morning when five friends—Eli, Max, Simon, Oliver, and Noah—ambled toward "Luminous Lux Spa" in downtown Portland. The group, all 25 years old, shared many commonalities. They were unabashed nerds, fanatical about RPGs, sci-fi marathons, and lengthy debates about quantum mechanics over artisanal coffee. Athleticism had never been their thing, nor was blending into the mainstream. Each identified as gay, content with their identities, but also mutually perplexed by how the world so often seemed to pass them by.

The spa trip had been Simon’s idea, a whimsical response to an internet ad promising “transformative rejuvenation” through luxury hair treatments. The rest of the group laughed it off at first, but as they joked about who would look best with frosted tips, the plan stuck. Bleaching their hair sounded fun and absurd—an ironic experiment to kickstart the new year.

As they checked into the spa, an elegant attendant guided them toward a sleek, dimly lit room that smelled faintly of lavender and ozone. They each settled into cushioned chairs as hair stylists went to work on their heads. The bleaching process began, with foils and thick pastes applied liberally. There was a sense of giddy rebellion as they watched their dark locks begin to lighten.

None of them could have guessed what was coming next.

The first oddity was the heat. As the bleach set in, each of them began to feel an intense warmth—not painful, but almost electrical, like a current buzzing just beneath their scalps. Simon, who had been midway through explaining the intricacies of a D&D subclass, suddenly stopped speaking. His usually quick, articulate thoughts felt… fuzzy. Across the room, Oliver scratched his arm and mumbled something about feeling “kinda... weird.”

Then it hit them all at once. A blinding white flash filled the room, and the world seemed to tilt sideways. In an instant, the chairs beneath them felt too small, their clothes too tight. Muscles swelled, skin smoothed, and voices deepened in a chorus of surprised groans. By the time the light faded, the five friends were unrecognizable.

Eli, now Ethan, blinked in the mirror and grinned. His newly muscular frame filled out his formerly baggy hoodie, and he grinned as he caught sight of his mullet. The messy layers cascaded down the back of his neck, while the front stayed perfectly tousled. He ran a hand through it, noticing how soft it felt, then flexed his bicep for no reason other than how cool it looked. “Bro, this is... sick,” he said, his voice several octaves lower and tinged with confidence he’d never known before.

Max, now Mason, was already admiring his buzzcut. The clean, sharp lines accentuated his chiselled jaw and strong cheekbones. He stood up and stretched, marvelling at how tall he suddenly was. “Dude, I feel... awesome,” he laughed, the word “awesome” rolling off his tongue like a mantra.

Simon had become Shawn. His short, straight middle part framed his now angular face perfectly. He tilted his head from side to side, checking out his reflection and smirking. “Yo, I look hot,” he said, running his fingers through the soft, silky strands of his new hair.

Oliver, now Cody, had traded his glasses and wiry frame for a broad chest and messy, spiked hair. He ruffled it playfully, delighted by how effortlessly cool it looked. “This is, like, next-level,” he said, his former eloquence replaced with a casual, almost lazy cadence.

Finally, Noah—now Nate— his platinum-blonde hair—wavy and flowing with a casually styled middle part—gave him the look of a model straight out of a teen drama “Hell yeah,” he said, flexing his shoulders and cracking his neck. “I look like a beast.”

As they stared at their reflections, a strange calm washed over them. Their former selves—nerdy, awkward, gay 25-year-olds—felt like distant memories, as if they’d read about those lives in some book they barely remembered. The idea of going back didn’t even cross their minds. Why would it? This was so much better.

When they left the spa, the group barely recognized the world around them—or maybe the world didn’t recognize them. Their old habits and quirks had melted away, replaced by the easy swagger of high school jocks who owned every room they walked into.

Ethan, the leader of the group, quickly found himself the captain of the high school soccer team. His wavy, platinum hair and sculpted jawline made him the talk of the school, and it wasn’t long before he started dating Maia, a bubbly blonde cheerleader who adored how confident and protective he was. She was a total ditz, always giggling and clinging to his arm, but Ethan didn’t mind. They were perfect together.

Mason, with his buzzcut and sharp edges, joined the wrestling team, where his natural strength and newfound aggression made him unstoppable. He caught the eye of Brittany, a loud, flirtatious cheerleader with a penchant for blowing pink bubblegum. Brittany adored how strong Mason was and constantly bragged about him to her squad. The two became inseparable, their conversations rarely deep but always full of laughter.

Shawn’s sleek, short middle part and smoldering gaze earned him the nickname “Pretty Boy.” He became the go-to guy for advice on dating (despite never thinking too hard about it himself) and ended up with Tiffany, an overly dramatic cheerleader who spent most of her time obsessing over her nails and selfies. Shawn found her giggles and constant texting endearing and loved how she’d lean on him during lunch.

Cody’s messy spikes gave him a carefree, rebellious vibe that made him a magnet for attention. He became the star quarterback, and his cocky grin was enough to win over Jessica, the ditziest of all the cheerleaders, who rarely remembered what class she had next. She loved cheering for him from the sidelines, and Cody thought her cluelessness was adorable.

Nate, with his mullet and devil-may-care attitude, joined the skateboarding crowd. He started dating Amber, a thrill-seeking blonde cheerleader whose giggles always followed her daring stunts. She wasn’t the brightest, but she matched Nate’s chaotic energy perfectly, and the two were constantly laughing as they pulled off ridiculous pranks.

By the end of the week, the five friends had fully embraced their new lives. They had no memory of “Eli,” “Max,” “Simon,” “Oliver,” or “Noah,” and even if they did, it wouldn’t have mattered. Their days were now filled with sports practices, bonfires, and parties, not late-night coding sessions or board games.

The spa had delivered on its promise: transformative rejuvenation. It just happened to transform them into something they never could have expected—and they wouldn’t have it any other way.

[frostbitebakery]

WILL YOU PLEASE RING IN YOUR DESTRUCTION

surrender au

“Genera—“

Obi-Wan is already on his feet and running before a sickening crack cuts off the trooper’s warning.

Cody is hot on his heels, does not let the red lightning rumbling down from the sky freeze his movements even if his thoughts blank for the slice of a second.

He skids to a halt, blaster already drawn, ozone burning through his senses. He registers Obi-Wan lowering his hand—

“Cody, I want every man to back away fifty feet. Close the perimeter but don’t interfere unless I say so.”

That’s not Obi-Wan. Washed out and grey, veins prominent and red and broken. But it’s the same face, underneath it all. The not Obi-Wan sighs in disappointment at— fuck- fuck, that’s Wooley’s paint, Wooley’s body lying on its stomach, visor staring up at the sky.

“Are you alright?” There’s a soldier, back towards them, heavily armed, and voice too, too familiar for comfort.

The facsimile smiles ruefully. “I’m fine,” he reassures as if he hasn’t just killed— “He was so loud.”

“Cody,” Obi-Wan, his one, says and he remembers his orders.

The soldier sighs, gently takes one of the not Obi-Wan’s - precisely scarred, what happened - hand in his own gloved one and squeezes.

Activating the battalion frequency is second nature by now. “Perimeter 50 feet from hostiles. Do not engage. Wait on the General’s orders. I repeat, do not engage until further notice.”

“You’re starting negotiations somewhat abruptly,” the soldier scolds with a smile in his voice.

His Obi-Wan takes a step forward, hands vanishing in his robes.

“He’s trying to find the difference,” the— the wrong— yellow eyes flick over the soldier’s shoulder at his General, a bright smile blooming on dry lips - the utterly wrong Obi-Wan— “Oh…”

The soldier turns around like an afterthought, like there aren’t dozens of blasters and a Jedi Master focused on him. A cybernetic eye whirrs, scar tissue tight and just as familiar as the voice’s cadence. An unimpressed look washes over Cody and he can feel his hackles rise despite himself, swallowing up the fear of what-ifs turning all too real.

With a twist and turn the wrong Obi-Wan, the Sith, is around Cody’s doppelgänger, the cane sharply digging into the ground.

“General, behind me,” the soldier orders, is promptly ignored in favor mad yellow eyes digging into Obi-Wan.

“You’re so Light,” the Sith whispers to himself, taking another step forward to Cody’s General.

The soldier - Cody will deal with the implications of it all, but later - snags an arm around the Sith’s waist and pushes him behind the bulk of his body, careful and practiced. He musters Obi-Wan noncommittally. “Is he what you’re looking for?”

“Cody, they’re all so Light.”

The soldier nods, hand drifting towards - Obi-Wan’s, what the hells - the lightsaber clipped to his chestplate.

“Thank you,” Obi-Wan, Cody’s, says with a polite incline of his head, “we do try not to succumb to the Dark Side around here. It’s splendid for my youthful looks, evidently.”

The Sith smiles in cracked stretches, takes a step forward like a moth to a flame until he bumps into the soldier’s outstretched arm. “Would you like to discuss your surrender, General Kenobi?”

Obi-Wan folds his hands behind his back, his own smile going tight, and Cody sees the hand signals. “Over a cup of tea, perhaps?”

[thebunnednun]

For you

Pairing: Katsuki Bakugou x Reader

Summary: "My life is always better with you in it."

Katsuki's life really would be if you hadn't jumped in front of him.

Request: Found here.

The battlefield was a wasteland—once a city, now reduced to rubble.

Shattered concrete and twisted steel framed the scene of devastation, the remnants of skyscrapers lying in crumbling piles.

Heavy with smoke and ash, the sky was a sickly gray, and every breath felt like inhaling fire. Explosions echoed in the distance, like thunder rolling through the earth, but all you could focus on was the looming figure of Shigaraki.

He stood amidst the chaos like a nightmare come to life, his decayed fingers twitching with the promise of death. His grin was twisted, his eyes cold and dead despite the frenzy around him. The ground beneath his feet crumbled into dust, the very air around him feeling heavy with decay, as if everything he touched was fated to fall apart.

Screams rang out from somewhere, the city below was full of chaos and destruction. The sharp smell of burnt ozone and blood mixed with the nauseating stench of decay—Shigaraki’s touch spreading its corrosive influence.

You were barely holding on, your breaths ragged and uneven, eyes locked on Katsuki as he prepared to charge at Shigaraki once again.

His sweat-slicked hair clung to his forehead, dirt and blood staining his usual fiery expression. His movements were sluggish—he was running on fumes. Each explosion from his palms faltered, a shadow of their usual strength.

‘Katsuki!’

Your eyes locked on him, heart racing as you watched him push his battered body beyond its limits. His breaths came in shallow gasps, his chest rising and falling erratically, blood streaking down his arms from wounds he had no time to tend to. His hands were charred, trembling with the effort it took to summon even the smallest of explosions, but he kept going, his fierce determination burning brighter than his injuries.

You could see it—the blood dripping from his hands, the slight shake in his knees. He wouldn’t last much longer.

And Shigaraki knew it too.

With a twisted grin, Shigaraki raised his hand, the decaying aura sparking around him as his fingers outstretched toward your boyfriend. 

"Time to die, Katsuki Bakugou."

Time slowed.

He wasn’t fast enough this time. You could see it—the moment Shigaraki’s eyes gleamed with recognition, the sick satisfaction of knowing Katsuki was about to fall. Your heart pounded in your chest, an overwhelming sense of dread washing over you. You didn’t think. 

You couldn’t think.

In that moment, all you saw was Katsuki standing there, vulnerable, facing a death he didn’t deserve. 

Before you could think, your legs had already launched you forward, your heartbeat thundering in your ears. Time slowed to a crawl, every second stretching out in agonizing detail as Shigaraki's decayed hand shot toward Katsuki, the sheer force of it warping the air. Your voice tore from your throat, but it was drowned in the chaos.

“Katsuki!” 

Without a second thought, you launched yourself between them, throwing up a barrier of crimson energy, your body moving before your mind could catch up. You barely registered the crackle of crimson energy that flared from your fingertips, instinctively separating them.

Red light surged from you, forming a shimmering dome of protection, but even you knew it wouldn’t hold. Shigaraki’s raw power collided with your shield, and for a brief moment, the world was reduced to a blinding clash of red and gray.

The world trembled as Shigaraki’s decayed fist smashed into your shield. The barrier crackled, and you could feel it faltering. A shudder ran through you, pain lancing up your arm as you braced for the full force of the hit. The shield cracked, fragments of red energy bursting into the air like glass.

Then the barrier shattered.

The sound was deafening, like glass exploding into a million shards, and then there was pain—unimaginable pain. Shigaraki’s blow landed squarely on your arm, crushing bone and flesh like they were made of paper. The force of it sent shockwaves through your body, your ribs cracking as the blow slammed into your chest, knocking the air from your lungs.

You were weightless for a moment, suspended in the air like a limp doll before gravity seized you, and you hurtled backward, smashing into a crumbling wall with enough force to send debris flying in every direction.

And Shigaraki’s blow connected with you.

Your arm crumpled under the force, bones cracking like brittle wood as his attack crushed into your chest. The impact ripped the breath from your lungs, sending you crashing back, skidding across the ground until you slammed into a pile of debris.

‘Pain.’ 

That’s all you felt. A sharp, burning pain that made it hard to breathe, your vision blurring as blood trickled from your lips. You heard Katsuki’s scream, distant and muffled, like it was coming from underwater.

You heard Katsuki scream your name, but his voice felt distant, as if the world was muffled by the ringing in your ears. Darkness crept at the edges of your vision, blood filling your mouth as you gasped for air, each breath shallow and ragged. Your entire body throbbed, every nerve alight with agony, but even through the pain, your mind clung to one thought—

‘He’s safe.’

Through the haze of agony, you could see him running toward you, his face contorted with a mixture of anger and fear—fear you’d never seen on him before. His hands trembled as he dropped to his knees beside you, trying to pull you into his arms without hurting you further.

"Why the hell did you do that?!" 

His voice cracked, betraying the fear that lay beneath his anger. His eyes searched your face, as if trying to hold on to every detail, as if afraid that you’d disappear the moment he looked away. He was pressing down on your chest, but it didn’t stop the warmth of your blood from pooling beneath you or slipping through his fingers. You tried to laugh, but it came out as a wheeze. 

"Couldn't... let you die." You gasped for air, wincing as another wave of pain surged through your chest. You managed a weak smile, looking up at him through half-lidded eyes. Your lips trembling as you coughed, tasting the metallic tang of blood. 

"Couldn't... let you die." 

Your voice was barely more than a whisper, each word a struggle. Despite the agony, you managed a soft, lopsided smile, your hand weakly reaching for his. "We both know... you’d do the same."

"Besides... I’m stronger... when you’re safe."

"Shut up," he muttered, his voice thick with frustration. His grip on your hand was tight, almost painfully so, as if he could anchor you to the world through sheer fucking will alone. His hand was shaking as he pressed harder on your wound, blood staining his palms. 

"Don’t say that. You're not... you're not supposed to get hurt like this!"

You blinked up at him, your vision swimming as the world began to tilt. "You’re safe... so it’s okay."

But it wasn’t okay.

“Fuck,” he growled, though his voice was softer now, his forehead pressed against yours, the heat of his skin a stark contrast to the cold creeping through your body. 

"You're not dying, ya hear me? You can’t."

Shigaraki’s voice cut through the air again, dark and mocking. “How touching. Sacrificing yourself for someone weaker than you.”

Katsuki tensed, his hands clenching into fists. You could feel the heat of his rage boiling beneath his skin, his entire body vibrating with barely restrained fury. "Shut up!" he roared, his voice tearing through the battlefield. But he was shaking, and you could tell—

he was scared.

"Kats..." Your voice was barely a whisper, but it got his attention. You tried to push yourself up, your body screaming in protest, but you forced it. "I’m... not done yet."

The energy within you stirred, burning hotter and hotter, wild and uncontrollable. You could feel it coursing through your veins, the red light surrounding you growing brighter, warping the very air around you. This was the full potential of your quirk—a dangerous, volatile force tied to your emotions. And right now, with everything on the line, you were willing to risk everything.

But it came with a cost.

Your heart pounded in your chest, the energy writhing inside you, threatening to consume you entirely. Every time you pushed it this far, you felt a little more of yourself slip away, the power darkening your thoughts, twisting your mind. But you didn’t care. 

Not now.

With a final surge of strength, you jumped up and ran. You unleashed a pulse of crimson energy, sending Shigaraki flying backward. The ground beneath him crumbled as your quirk warped reality itself, distorting everything around you. Your body trembled under the weight of the power you were wielding, but you kept going, forcing Shigaraki back with every ounce of strength you had left.

But your vision was going dark, your limbs heavy. You could feel the corruption setting in, the darkness tugging at the edges of your mind.

In the midst of your fading consciousness, something deep within you stirred. The raw power of your quirk, the energy that had always been just beyond your reach, was now surging forward, fueled by desperation, by love, by pain.

You could feel it, like a wildfire racing through your veins, burning brighter and hotter with every passing second.

Scarlet energy crackled at your fingertips, your entire body thrumming with power. It swirled around you, dark and menacing, tendrils of crimson light warping the air as the sheer force of it distorted reality itself. This was the full potential of your quirk, the untapped well of power you had always been too afraid to unleash.

But now, with everything on the line, you didn’t care.

It felt like the world was collapsing in on itself as your power surged. The ground beneath you trembled, the air thick with tension as you rose to your feet, every step leaving a crack in the earth beneath you. The energy pulsed from you in waves, your vision blurring as the strain of it began to take its toll.

You knew what this meant. You knew what would happen if you used this much power—if you let it consume you. But all that mattered was that Katsuki lived.

With a primal scream, you unleashed the full force of your quirk, a torrent of scarlet light exploding from your body, slamming into Shigaraki and sending him flying back, the ground disintegrating in his wake. The air rippled with the intensity of your power, warping the space around you as reality itself seemed to bend under the pressure.

But your body couldn’t handle it. You could feel the corruption setting in—the darkness that came with overusing your quirk, the way it clawed at your mind, twisting your thoughts. Your vision flickered, black spots dancing at the edges of your sight as your strength drained away.

Through the haze of pain, you saw him—Katsuki running toward you, his expression raw and desperate in a way you had never seen before. You fall to your knees in agony, your bones feeling like they were being ripped from your hot flesh and eroded into nothing. You could feel the wound in your chest opening further.

His eyes were wide, panic stark in their depths, his breaths coming in sharp, uneven bursts as he skidded to his knees beside you. His hand hovered over your broken form, trembling, uncertain of where to touch without causing more pain.

And then everything went black.

The next thing you knew, you were being cradled in Katsuki’s arms. His face was blurry, but you could make out the frantic expression, the wild look in his eyes as he held you close.

"Stay with me,"

He pleaded, his voice cracking. You could feel his hands trembling as he secured your broken arm, as if holding you tight enough would stop you from slipping away. 

You could feel the tremble in his arms as he tried to press down on the wound in your chest, the blood staining his fingers. His hands were shaking, his breath hitching in his throat, and you could hear the faintest quiver in his voice—a crack in the armor he always wore.

"You can’t die here, damn it!"

Your lips twitched into a faint smile, even through the pain. "You’re yelling again," you whispered, your voice barely audible. 

"I’m not going... anywhere."

He didn’t respond, just pressed his forehead against yours, his breath shaky. The chaos of the battle had faded into the background, but all you could focus on was the warmth of his touch, his soul wrapped around you like a lifeline.

The energy within you flickered, ebbing away as you slipped into unconsciousness, feeling Katsuki’s presence anchoring you to reality.

“I love you. Please don’t go. Don’t leave me here.”

The world was quiet when you awoke. The sterile, antiseptic smell of the hospital greeted your senses, the sharp contrast to the battlefield jarring in its serenity. You blinked slowly, your body feeling impossibly heavy, the weight of bandages pressing against your chest and arm. Your mouth was dry, and your head throbbed with a dull ache, but the pain that had once been overwhelming was now just a distant echo.

You were alive.

You blinked groggily, turning your head to the side. It took a moment for your eyes to focus, but when they did, you saw him. Katsuki was sitting slouched in a chair beside your bed, his arms crossed over his chest, head bowed slightly as if he’d been waiting for hours. His face was pale, shadows dark under his eyes, and his hair was messier than usual, like he hadn’t slept in days.

His hand, however, was still wrapped around yours, his grip firm even in sleep.

A small smile tugged at your lips. You squeezed his hand gently.

"Hey," 

You croaked, your voice hoarse. Katsuki jolted awake, his red eyes wide with surprise, quickly masking the fear that had flashed in them. Relief then washed over his face, though he quickly scowled, masking any softness. His brows furrowed, and his grip on your hand tightened as he leaned closer, his lips pressed into a thin line. 

"You’re awake," he muttered, the relief in his voice palpable even though he tried to hide it.

"Looks like you... ended up protecting me after all," you teased, your voice weak and horace but laced with warmth.

“Stop that,” he grumbled, his eyes flicking away for a moment before settling back on you. But the hard edge to his words was gone, replaced by something softer, something vulnerable. His hand never left yours, his warm thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles. 

“Just... don’t do something that stupid again.”

Your smile grew, though it hurt to do so. You could feel the exhaustion pulling at you, the warmth of his presence making your eyelids heavy. Katsuki glanced up from your joint hands to squeeze your smaller one in his rough palm. 

The look he gave you was one of complete nakedness and transparency. It was just you and him right now and forget everyone else. 

"I couldn’t let you die," he whispered. 

There’s nothing here to ease the quiet except the beep of the machines you’re connected to and the hum of the monitor he’s hooked up to. You want to open your mouth and tell him everything was fine but something inside your tummy pulled at you to just let him talk so you did. 

"You make everything... feel better."

You didn’t respond right away, but Katsuki caught the faintest twitch of your lips—just enough to let him know you heard him.

"Shut up," he muttered, sitting up straight, but his hand never left yours. He glanced away, his jaw clenched. "Just... rest, idiot."

You chuckled softly, the sound weak but warm. "You make everything right, you know that?"

He didn’t respond, but the faintest hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his lips. 

Neither of you had to say a word. The silence between you felt full, a soft understanding that words could never quite capture. Your eyes met his, and in that shared gaze, you knew—everything you had been through, all the pain, the fear, the sacrifice—it was worth it.

No words were necessary. In the quiet of that sterile hospital room, amidst the beeping machines and distant echoes of footsteps, you both knew what the other was thinking. There was no need to say it aloud.

‘I am safe here.’

‘I have you.’

And that was more than enough.

Taglist for Bakugou: @elarakive, @thealtofvalleyxdoodles, @raendarkfaerie If you wanna be added lemme know!

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Be sure to check out my other works and leave likes and comments, they really help. I have a post war Aizawa x Prohero/Teacher Reader here in the master list. I also have a Pro Hero! Bakugou x Sugar Baby fic.

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See you soon my loves!!

(｡･ω･｡)ﾉ♡

[sassenach77yle]

7x12 “Carnal Knowledge”

The haze had thickened into steel-gray clouds, coming purposefully up the river, muttering with thunder. I took a deep, lung-filling whiff of ozone and then another, of his skin. I detected the basic male animal, very appetizing in itself, but he seemed to have acquired a rather unusual—though savory—bouquet in addition: a faint whiff of sausage, the strong bitter scent of cabbage, and . . . yes, mustard, underlaid with something oddly spicy. I sniffed again, repressing the urge to lick him. “You smell like—” “I smell like a large plate of choucroute garnie,” he interrupted, with a slight grimace. “Give me a moment; I’ll have a wash.” He made as though to get up and go toward the river, and I reached out and seized him by the arm. He looked at me for a moment, then drew a deep breath and, reaching slowly out in turn, pulled me against him. I didn’t resist. In fact, my own arms went round him in reflex, and we both sighed in unison, in the sheer relief of embrace. I would have been quite content to sit there forever, breathing the musky, dusty, cabbage-laced smell of him and listening to the thump of his heart under my ear. All the things we’d said—all the things that had happened—hovered in the air around us like the cloud of troubles from Pandora’s box,—but for this one moment, there was nothing but each other. After a bit, his hand moved, smoothing the loose, damp curls behind my ear. He cleared his throat and shifted a little, drawing himself up, and I reluctantly let go of him, though I left my hand on his thigh. “I wish to say something,” he said, in the tone of one making a formal statement before a court. My heart had quieted while he held me; now it fluttered in renewed agitation. “What?” I sounded so apprehensive that he laughed. Only a breath, but he did laugh, and I was able to breathe again. He took my hand firmly and held it, looking into my eyes. “I don’t say that I dinna mind this, because I do. And I don’t say that I’ll no make a fuss about it later, because I likely will. But what I do say is that there is nothing in this world or the next that can take ye from me—or me from you.” He raised one brow. “D’ye disagree?” “Oh, no,” I said fervently. He breathed again, and his shoulders came down a fraction of an inch. “Well, that’s good, because it wouldna do ye any good if ye did. Just the one question,” he said.

“Are ye my wife?”

“Of course I am,” I said, in utter astonishment. “How could I not be?”

His face changed then; he drew a huge breath and took me into his arms. I embraced him, hard, and together we let out a great sigh, settling with it, his head bending over mine, kissing my hair, my face turned into his shoulder, openmouthed at the neck of his open shirt, our knees slowly giving way in mutual relief, so that we knelt in the fresh-turned earth, clinging together, rooted like a tree, leaf-tossed and multi-limbed but sharing one single solid trunk.

The first drops of rain began to fall.

HIS FACE WAS open now and his eyes clear blue and free of trouble—for the moment, at least. “Where is there a bed? I need to be naked with ye.” I was entirely in sympathy with this proposition, but the question took me momentarily aback.[...]

glanced at the river, wondering whether, after all, a nice, sheltering bush—but it was late in the afternoon, cloudy, and the gnats and mosquitoes were hanging in small carnivorous clouds of their own beneath the trees. Jamie stooped suddenly and swept me up in his arms.

“I’ll find a place.”

THERE WAS A wooden thump as he kicked open the door of the new potting shed, and suddenly we were in a light-streaked darkness smelling of sun-warmed boards, earth, water, damp clay, and plants.

“What, here?” It was abundantly clear that he wasn’t seeking privacy for the purpose of further inquiry, discussion, or reproach. For that matter, my own question was largely rhetorical. He stood me on my feet, turned me about, and began undoing my laces. I could feel his breath on the bare skin of my neck, and the tiny hairs there shivered.

“Are you—” I began, only to be interrupted by a terse “Hush.” I hushed. I could hear then what he’d heard: the Bartrams, in conversation with each other. They were some distance away, though—on the back porch of the house, I thought, screened from the river path by a thick hedge of English yew. “I don’t think they can hear us,” I said, though I lowered my voice.

“I’ve done wi’ talking,” he whispered, and, leaning forward, closed his teeth gently on the nape of my exposed neck.

“Hush,” he said again, though mildly. I hadn’t actually said anything, and the sound I’d made was too high-pitched to draw the attention of anything save a passing bat. I exhaled strongly through my nose and heard him chuckle deep in his throat. My stays came loose, and cool air flooded through the damp muslin of my shift. He paused, one hand on the tapes of my petticoats, to reach round with the other and gently lift one breast, heavy and free, thumb rubbing the nipple, hard and round as a cherry stone. I made another sound, this one lower-pitched.

I thought vaguely how fortunate it was that he was left-handed, as that was the hand nimbly engaged in undoing the tapes of my skirts. These fell in a swishing heap round my feet, and I had a sudden vision—as his hand left my breast and the shift whiffed up round my ears—of Young Mr. Bartram suddenly realizing a dire need to pot up a batch of rosemary seedlings. The shock probably wouldn’t kill him, but . . .

“May as well be hung for sheep as lambs,” Jamie said, having evidently divined my thought from the fact that I’d turned round and was shielding my more private bits in the manner of Botticelli’s Venus. “And I’ll have ye naked.”

He grinned at me, whipped off his own dirt-streaked shirt—he’d thrown off his coat when he set me down—and yanked down his breeks without pausing to undo the flies.

He was thin enough to make this possible; the breeches hung on his hipbones, barely staying up by themselves, and I saw the shadow of his ribs beneath his skin as he bent to shed his stockings.

He straightened and I put a hand on his chest. It was damp and warm, and the ruddy hairs prickled into gooseflesh at my touch. I could smell the hot, eager scent of him, even over the agricultural fug of the shed and the lingering smell of cabbage.

“Not so fast,” I whispered.

He made a Scottish sound of interrogation, reaching for me, and I dug my fingers into the muscle of his breast.

“I want a kiss first.”

He put his mouth against my ear and both hands firmly on my bottom. “Are ye in a position to make demands, d’ye think?” he whispered, tightening his grasp. I caught the faint barb in that. “Yes, I bloody am,” I said, and adjusted my own grip somewhat lower. He wouldn’t be attracting any bats, I thought.

We were eyeball-to-eyeball, clasped and breathing each other’s breath, close enough to see the smallest nuance of expression, even in the dimness. I saw the seriousness that underlay the laughter—and the doubt beneath the bravado.

“I am your wife,” I whispered, my lips brushing his.

“I ken that,” he said, very softly, and kissed me. Softly. Then closed his eyes and brushed his lips across my face, not so much kissing as feeling the contours of cheekbone and brow, of jaw and the tender skin below the ear, seeking to know me again past skin and breath, to know me to the blood and bone, to the heart that beat beneath.

I made a small sound and tried to find his mouth with my own, pressing against him, bare bodies cool and damp, hair rasping sweetly, and the lovely firmness of him rolling between us. He wouldn’t let me kiss him, though. His hand gripped the tail of my hair at the base of my neck, cupping my head, the other hand pursuing the same game of blind man’s buff. There was a rattling thump; I had backed into a potting bench, setting a tray of tiny seedling pots to vibrating, the spicy leaves of sweet basil trembling in agitation. Jamie pushed the tray aside with one hand, then grasped me by the elbows and lifted me onto the bench.

“Now,” he said, half breathless. “I must have ye now.” He did, and I ceased caring whether there were splinters in the bench or not.

I wrapped my legs round him and he laid me flat and leaned over me, hands braced on the bench, with a sound halfway between bliss and pain. He moved slowly in me and I gasped. The rain had grown from a patter to a ringing din on the tin roof of the shed, covering any sounds I might make, and a good thing, too, I thought dimly. The air had cooled but was full of moisture; our skins were slick, and heat sprang up where flesh touched flesh. He was slow, deliberate, and I arched my back, urging him. In response, he took me by the shoulders, bent lower, and kissed me lightly, barely moving. “I willna do it,” he whispered, and held tight when I struggled against him, trying vainly to goad him into the violent response I wished—I needed. “Won’t do what?” I was gasping. “I willna punish ye for it,” he said, so softly I could barely hear him, close as he was. “I’ll not do that, d’ye hear?” “I don’t frigging want you to punish me, you bastard.” I grunted with effort, my shoulder joints creaking as I tried to break free of his grasp. “I want you to . . . God, you know what I want!” “Aye, I do.” His hand left my shoulder and cupped beneath my buttock, touching the flesh of our joining, stretched and slippery. I made a small sound of surrender, and my knees loosened. He pulled back, then came back into me, strongly enough that I gave a small, high-pitched cry of relief.

“Ask me to your bed,” he said, breathless, hands on my arms. “I shall come to ye. For that matter—I shall come, whether ye ask it or no. But remember, Sassenach—I am your man; I serve ye as I will.” “Do,” I said. “Please do. Jamie, I want you so!” He seized my ars* in both hands, hard enough to leave bruises, and I arched up into him, grasping, hands sliding on his sweat-slick skin.

“God, Claire, I need ye!”

Rain was roaring on the tin roof now, and lightning struck close by, blue-white and sharp with ozone. We rode it together, forked and light-blind, breathless, and the thunder rolled through our bones.

24 WELCOME COOLNESS IN THE HEAT, COMFORT IN THE MIDST OF WOE ~ Written in My Own Heart's Blood

[trombonechurchill]

Tidbit Tuesday!

Turns out to get unstuck I just had to wait till it was 3am on a worknight and suddenly I can write again. Anyway, here's a lil more of Movie Star! Tommy AU for you guys. Things are going well. Don't worry :)

"Things with Abby were… Simpler," Tommy says (Unfair, the nastier voice in his brain supplies). "And I'm what? Complicated?" Evan asks sharply. Tommy has to turn away from the fragile thing he can see in Evan's face. "Yes, Evan, you are," Tommy says, voice soft as if that will gentle the blow at all. "I only just got back into the public eye, I can't go around flaunting every- Every shiny bauble that catches my eye to the press." "Is that what you think I am?" Evan's voice is quiet too, but contains none of the soft edges Tommy had been trying to ply him with. It's quiet before disaster hits, before lightning strikes. Tommy thinks he can smell ozone. "No, Evan," Tommy huffs, scrubbing a hand down his face. There's a reason people pay him to read words off scripts and not write them. "You're amazing, you are, but let's be real for a second here." Tommy motions between the two of them, eyes pleading. "Where do you see this thing going? I had fun but really, I'm not the 2.5 kids and a dog forever kind of guy for you. I'm the late nights and not seeing each other for months at a time sort of guy. I'm the sneaking you out fire exits at hotels guy. The can't hold hands in public guy. No one should have to put up with that, you don't need to put up with that." "It's easier, for both us, to just call it while we're ahead, right?" Tommy finishes, glancing warily at Evan. He's clenching and unclenching his hands and Tommy wonders if he's imagining strangling him. Tommy can see the headlines now "Washed up Actor Throttled to Death by Jilted Lover". That'd be one way to get his agent off his back he thinks darkly.

No pressure tagging @daniwib, @leashybebes, @thatmexisaurusrex, @911varietyposts, @setmeatopthepyre, and of course @fake-mouthstatic if you guys have anything you wanna share 💖

[novlr]

Hi, can you write a paragraph about rain? Can you also give tips on describing nature? Thank you.

Rain can evoke a range of emotions and associations, from the childlike joy of splashing in puddles to the melancholy of grey skies mirroring a character’s mood. But while we’ve all experienced stormy weather, capturing its essence on the page can be surprisingly tricky. Here are some tips to help you write about rain in a way that will make a splash with your readers. (You can also adapt this advice to almost any nature description, but we will try to put out a separate post on more general nature advice at a later date.)

How does it look?

Use vivid adjectives to describe how the rain looks at different times of day and in different conditions.

Mention the angle the rain is falling at. Is it falling straight down? Angled? or even sideways?

Describe the size and shape of the raindrops – are they small and needle-like or large and heavy?

Note if the rain is clear or if it’s tinged grey or yellow from pollution.

Does the rain form puddles, streams, or mini-rivers as it flows?

Describe any ripples, splashes, or concentric circles the rain makes when hitting surfaces.

How does it sound?

Use onomatopoeia like “pitter-patter,” “tapping,” “drumming,” “plinking,” or “hissing” to mimic the sound.

Show the surfaces the rain hits and how that changes the noise — a “clattering” on windows, a “thumping” on the roof, a “plopping” in puddles

Describe the overall volume, from a soft “murmuring” or “whispering” to a loud “pounding” or “roaring”.

Note any variations or patterns in the sound, like a steady drone vs. syncopated rhythms.

How does the sound fill a space? Does it echo? Reverberate? Or is it dampened and muffled?

Describe how the noise of the rain interacts with other ambient sounds in the scene.

How does it feel and smell?

Describe the temperature of the rain and how it feels on the skin. Is it cool and refreshing or shockingly cold?

Describe the tactile sensations, like wetness, dripping, soaking, or chilly dampness.

Note how the rain changes the air, making it humid, misty, or heavy and saturated.

Describe the smell of the rain, which can be clean and fresh, dusty, earthy, or laden with ozone.

Describe how it feels to be out in the rain — are characters getting drenched to the bone or finding shelter?

Use metaphors to compare the feeling to other sensations, like tears on the face or a massage.

What mood and atmosphere does it evoke?

Use the rain to set the overall tone and mood you want to evoke, from gloomy and sad to peaceful and cleansing.

Show how the rain affects the setting, like making colours more vivid or obscuring things with mist.

Describe how the lighting changes, with skies darkening or a glistening sheen over everything.

Describe how the rain makes characters feel emotionally as well as physically.

Use the rain as a symbol or metaphor to mirror the characters’ mental states or the themes of the story.

Show how the rain transforms the world, slowing things down or washing things away, and how characters react to that.

Positive story descriptions

Rain can bring a sense of renewal, growth, and life to the world.

There is a cosy feeling of being inside looking out at the rain, safe and warm.

Rain can make everything glisten and gleam in the light, looking fresh and new.

Show the soothing, hypnotic quality of the rhythmic patter of raindrops.

Rain can be invigorating, energising, and joyful.

Rain can symbolise a fresh start, washing away the old to begin a new chapter.

Negative story descriptions

Rain can create a sense of melancholy, isolation, or loneliness

Rain can be an obstacle or hindrance, slowing characters down or forcing them to change plans.

There is a chilling, bone-deep cold that comes from being soaked in the rain.

Describe the bleak, colourless world that seems to exist when the sky is endlessly grey and stormy.

Show how the rain can feel oppressive, like a heavy weight pushing down on everything.

Describe how the rain can make the world feel dreary, soggy, and depressing, sapping energy and vitality.

Helpful vocabulary

Use words like deluge, downpour, torrent, cloudburst, hammering, lashing, pelting, battering, or thrumming to describe heavy, intense rain.

Try terms like drizzle, mist, sprinkle, shower for lighter rain.

Describe rain-soaked things as drenched, saturated, sodden, waterlogged.

Describe how rain dimples or stipples surfaces.

Gutters may babble, gush, trickle or overflow with rain.

Puddles can slosh, ripple, or reflect like mirrors.

Raindrops may bead up, roll, or slide down windows, leaves and other surfaces.

Adjectives like windswept, blustery, driving, relentless, or unceasing can evoke a storm.

The air may feel close, clammy, sticky, or muggy from humidity.

Petrichor is the earthy scent released when rain falls on dry soil.

Slickers, macs, wellies, brollies, and goloshes are rain gear that can add character details.

After a storm, the world may seem scoured, quenched, drenched, or newly baptised.

[ozone-ayurvedics]

Discover how Acne Check Face Wash helps prevent breakouts by deeply cleansing pores, controlling excess oil, and reducing bacteria for clearer, healthier skin

[pandorxxx]

Search & Rescue(Chapter 2)

Lo’ak x Omatikayan fem reader (all aged up)

Warnings: Cursing, Angst, mentions of depression, fluff, oral, p in v, spitting, creampie, soft-dom lo’ak.

Synopsis: Lo’ak has a bit of a reputation that he’s been trying so hard to break out of. He just needs the right girl to come and rescue him. Looks like he found her tonight.

For the best reading experience: listen to Ozone by Chase Atlantic or Search and Rescue by Drake

“Yess lo’ak! Right there!” You whined, gripping the sheets as he sent you hard/firm strokes from behind. Clapping sounds so loud that you feared people could hear.

“Mhm, you feel me baby?” He moaned, watching the source of pleasure before smacking your ass. You nodded, throwing your head down on the cot to arch your back for him.

“Shit, just like that! Don’t fucking move!” He growled, wrapping your hair around his forearm. He sped up his pace, making sure to smash against your sweet spot with every deep stroke.

“Baby, y-you’re gonna make me fucking cum!” You screamed, muffled by the sheets beneath you. “Oh yeah? Go ahead, mama. Cum on this dick, I know you want to.” He chuckled, smacking your ass a few more times before gripping your hips, bringing you back to meet his thrusts. Your mouth fell agape, and your eyes rolled back in pleasure.

“Mmm fuck, im cumming!!!” You let out a high pitched scream, letting your eyes fall shut…waking up from your wet dream. You sat up lazily, wincing from your pounding headache.

“Goodmorning, my little screamer.” Lo’ak said sarcastically, sharpening his knife in the corner. You grimaced, eyes narrowed from the sun pouring in.

“Huh?” You asked in a confused tone, going to shift your legs to the side of the cot. “How was your….dream?” He asked, still razor focused on knife. That’s when you realized that he heard everything, and a wave of embarrassment washed over you.

“Shit, you heard?” You asked hesitatingly, running your hands through your hair in frustration. “I think everyone heard. They probably think I’m in here giving you the best dick of your life.” He joked, standing to his feet. You let out a stressful sigh, hiding your face in your dainty hands.

“Umm I- I should go.” You stuttered, standing up swiftly before grabbing your cloths off of the floor. You went to walk past him and he picked you up, placing you on the table behind him.

“Not until you eat something. I brought you breakfast. I kinda figured you would miss it, and I was right.” He smiled, grabbing a price of fruit off of the plate, holding it up to your mouth. You hesitated at first, but finally opened your mouth for him to place the fruit in. You started to chew slowly, staring into his golden eyes.

“I umm- went by your hut today. Grabbed some cloths for you. Your comb and hair accessories too. I didn’t know what you wanted, so I grabbed some options.” He spoke sweetly, pointing to your items on the drawer behind you. You were shocked, never in a million years did you think he was even capable of picking out an outfit for any woman.

“You know I’m leaving, right? You didn’t have to do this.” You chuckled, watching him bring another piece of fruit up to your mouth.

“About that. I was hoping you’d stay with me again, tonight? We can even go to the party together.” He confessed, watching you lick his fingertips clean after you ate the piece of fruit. You looked up at him in confusion, chewing slowly.

“You… w-want me to stay here again? Why?” You asked, eyeing him up and down. He rolled his eyes, stepping closer to stand between your legs. So close that his loincloth rubbed against your bare cunt, shielded by his huge T-shirt.

“If it’s not already painfully obvious. I like you, dumbass.” He spoke lowly, placing his hands on either sides of your thighs. Your breathing hitched, and your core began to heat up in arousal. His eyes were glued on yours, looking at you with nothing but interest.

“I’m not fucking you, lo’ak.” You said, voice shaky as you watched his lips come closer to yours, hoping that he would close the gap in between you two. “I’m not fucking you, y/n.” He smirked, glancing down at your lips before meeting your eye contact again.

“Why not?” You asked, completely tranced by his closeness. You glanced at his large arms, engulfing your thighs. Then to his broad chest, trailing all the way down to his chiseled abs before meeting his gaze again.

“Because you’re not ready.” He replied. “Ready for what?” You spat. He dropped his head, chuckling before looking back up at you.

“I’ve gotta go. Go get yourself cleaned up. I’ll be back later on tonight. Then we can go to the party.” He smiled, backing up from between your legs, walking over to his bow, placing it across his chest.

“You’re just gonna leave me here? What do you suppose I do?” You shouted, watching him walk towards the hut door.

“Just stay your pretty ass here! I’ll be back later on!” He shouted, walking out of the door before shutting it behind him.

“Ugghhh! LO’AK!” You shouted in frustration before the room fell silent. You looked around, noticing the bottle cans you missed from last night, and the drawer with cloths falling out. Probably from when lo’ak picked out cloths for himself this morning.

“He’s such a fucking pig.” You whispered to yourself, rolling your eyes before hoping off of the table. You took this time to deep clean his hut. Grabbing buckets of water and towels to wipe dirty areas. Hand washing his dirty cloths, fixing the sheets on his cot. You picked up all of the garbage on the ground, and organized all of his accessories.

After you were done, you walked to the nearby stream, taking your morning shower. Ridding yourself of all the makeup and body glitter from the night before. You spent most of the day in lo’aks hut, desperately waiting for him to come back. In your free time, you did your hair in 2 Dutch braids, decorating them with the hair accessories lo’ak brought for you earlier.

It was starting to get dark, and you were expecting lo’ak any second. You sat on the floor in-front of his mirror, doing your make up and applying the same body glitter from last night.

“Hey, pretty girl.” Lo’ak spoke in an exhaustion as he limped to the neatly made cot. You snapped your head at him, scanning his bruised body, wombs patched up and cured with yalnabark.

“Lo’ak, what the hell?” You shouted in concern, standing swiftly before darting over to him. He sat on the edge of the cot with his head hung low. You kneeled before him, taking his bow from around his chest, removing his necklace and other accessories.“You wanna tell me what the fuck happened?” You looked up at him, his hair hanging in front of his face.

“Thanator.” He replied. “You’re lying.” You spoke sternly, pushing the strands of hair behind his ear. He sighed loudly, meeting your gaze.

“I got into a fight.” He replied, clenching and unclenching his jaw in anger. You hit his chest hard, however, it didn’t even phase him.

“Why?! Why do you continue to get yourself into trouble?!!!” You shouted, eyebrows furrowed as you awaited an answer.

“Doesn’t matter.” He shook his head. “Tell me, or I leave.” You spat, pointing in the direction of the door. He looked into your eyes, looking for any sign of you joking. Finding none, he finally came clean. “Some guys were talking about you, inappropriately. And it pissed me off.” He confessed.

“So you fought all of them???” You asked with a slight whiny tone, hoping he didn’t fight multiple men for you.

“You’re damn right! And I’d do it again. No one talks about you the way they did! NO ONE!” He growled, angered to the point of no return.

“Ok, ok. Just calm down, please.” You stood, wrapping your small arms around his head, bringing him to your chest. He instantly wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you in between his legs. And without a second to spare, he finally let it all out, weeping loudly in your arms.“I know. It’s ok, lo’ak. Let it out.” You comforted him, rubbing his back as he clung to you tightly.

“I-It hurts so bad, y/n. I-I don’t know what’s going on with me.” He whimpered, tears falling down to your chest. “I’m just so fucking tired. I can’t do this shit anymore.” His voice became lifeless, shaking his head in defeat against your chest.

“No, don’t talk like that. you- we are going to get through this. And I’m not going anywhere. I’m here for you, lo’ak. Always and forever, no matter what. Do you hear me?” You spoke softly, caressing his head, blinking back tears as you’d never seen him like this.

It hurt your heart to know that behind the facade, he was struggling. Struggling with his identity, struggling with his relationship with women, struggling with alcohol, struggling to find reasons to wake up everyday. And then there you were, with him every step of the way. In the past 24 hours, you’d seen more

of him than anyone ever has. Seen him at his absolute lowest. Yet and still, you didn’t run away like every other girl. Instead, you listened to him with no judgment, held him close to your heart.

“Mhm.” He whimpered, sniffling against your chest. You bent down again, wiping his face dry. “I-I’m sorry if I’m scaring you. Just please…don’t leave me.” He whispered weakly, eyes red from his emotional breakdown.

“I wasn’t planning on it. I’m here to stay.” You smiled, voice shaky as you held back tears. And that was the moment he knew that you were the one. He had a feeling before, but the way you were willing to stick by his side, flaws and all solidified it for him. His emotions got the best of him, and he swiftly picked you up off of the ground, placing you on the bed gently before he hovered over your small frame.

“I guess we’re not going to the party tonight?” You spoke breathily, heart beating at the speed of light as you waited for his next move.

“Nope.” His voice was low and deep. He shook his head with a smirk. You smirked back.“I’m not fucking you, lo’ak.” You joked, this time hoping that he would give in.

“You don’t have to. Just lay here and look pretty for me.” He said, licking his lips before bending down, french kissing your neck. You gasped, immediately feeling that tingling sensation in your core. He kissed your neck sloppily, moving down to your chest.

“You better not play me.” You moaned, throwing your head back. He grabbed both of your hands, pinning them above your head.

“I won’t, I swear on my life.” He spoke breathily between kisses. He slid down to his knees in front of you before sliding your loincloth off of your legs. Then he went for your thigh-band embroidered with gorgeous crystals. He flashed his fangs at you before attaching them to the band, sliding it off of you like he had been dying to do ever since he laid eyes on you.

“You trust me?” He asked, grabbing the band out of his mouth, staring at you as if you were his last meal. “Mhm!” You hummed, nodding your head frantically.

“Hold out your wrists.” He commanded, and you obliged immediately. He proceeded to wrap your thigh-band around your wrists firmly, just enough to securing you. “Too tight?” He asked, pulling you closer to him by your thighs. You shook your head no, desperately waiting for his next move.

He bent down in between your legs, pulling them over his shoulders. He looked into your eyes hungrily as he started off with kitty licking your clit, just to see how you’d react. You completely lost it, back bowing to the cot as you let out a high pitched moan. And that was all he need to know. “Mmm you’re a virgin, huh?” He spoke lowly, before tongue kissing your cunt.

“H-How can you tell?” You moaned, focusing on the soft kisses he planted on your throbbing clit.“You’re so sensitive, like you’ve never been touched before.” He hummed into your cunt, sending jolts of electricity up your spine. He backed up, spitting on your clit before going back to work on you.

“Mmm yes!” You moaned, screwing your face in pleasure. “Look at me.” He growled, flicking your clit with his tongue. You looked down, locking eyes with him as he devoured you whole. That scene alone was driving you crazy, and he knew it.

“Lo’ak I-I think!-“ you whimpered, tears blurring your vision. Your legs started to shake around his head, and you felt your stomach muscles tighten.

“You’re gonna cum.” He mumbled against your clit. “Go ahead, cum in my fucking mouth. I wanna taste you.” He growled before sucking on your clit like a pacifier.

“I-I think I’m cumming, lo’ak!” You screamed before releasing your juices onto his tongue, and he guzzled them greedily.

“Fuuck!” You screamed sharply, as you reached the very peek of pleasure. Your breathing was heavy as you finally calmed down. Lo’ak sucked your sensitive clit one last time before detaching completely. Standing up in between your trembling legs.

“You feeling ok?” He asked, walking to his drawer to grab a towel. You watched him intently as he walked back to you, wiping your core and inner thighs gently. He was learning how to be a gentleman for you, and it made you hot. You wanted nothing more than for him to fuck you senseless. “What are you doing?” You asked in a confused tone. He smirked, glaring at you will wiping you clean.

“I’m cleaning you.” He replied. “No I mean- I thought we were going to-“ you started before he cut you off. “I wanna do things differently with you. I wasn’t going to do anything you weren’t comfortable with.” He confessed, throwing the towel to the side. You sat up, shifting to your knees in-front of him, wrists still tied together.

“And the fact that you’re willing to wait for me shows me all I need to see. So I’m begging you…please. Please fuck me lo’ak. I need you.” You rambled, looking up into his eyes desperately. His ears perked up, mouth agape with shock.

He grabbed your wrists, holding them close to his heart before kissing your knuckles. “The things you do to me…” he spoke lowly, chuckling against your dainty hands. “Let’s just wait, y/n. I want your first time to be special.” He explained, going to caress your head. You backed away before he could.

“All I need is you. That’s special enough.” You spoke sensual, turning around to bend over in-front of him. You let your head find comfort on the cot as you spread your legs farther apart, exposing your dripping cunt to him.

“Give it to me, lo’ak. I’m so fucking needy for you. I can’t help it anymore.” He watched the whole scene unfold in-front of him with intent. His tail wagged quickly behind him, looking down at your glory, practically sitting on a platter all for him.

“Shit…” was all he could say. Running his hands down his face as you backed up into him. Your bare cunt rubbing against his growing bulge. This provided the right amount of friction for you, causing you to let out a series of soft moans.

“All you wanna do is fuck me. What about “hello” or “how are you”.” He joked, smacking your ass hard, causing you to wince in pain.

“Yeah yeah. Just give it to me..Pleaaasseee?!” Your whines muffled by the cot. He rolled his eyes, before smirking slightly.

“And here I thought you were a good girl. But deep down, when it’s all said and done. You’re really just a fucking slut.” He explained, untying his loincloth from around his hip, letting it drop to the ground beneath him. His cock sprung up, hitting your bare cunt in the process, causing you to moan at the friction. Beads of precum dripping to your ass, gliding down to your aching hole. It was such a beautiful site for him.

“It’s no coming back from this, mama. Once I give you this dick, you’ll be fucking hooked, I promise you that.” He growled, jerking his cock in the direction of your cunt. His words had you hooked already. He knew exactly what to say to have you wrapped around his finger.

“Mmm, lo’ak! Put it in me!” You cried desperately, pushing back onto him again. He chuckled at your desperation before lining up with your cunt, sinking it into you slowly, inch by inch.

“Fuuuck! I’ll move in a second. Just want you to get used to me first.” He moaned, watching you screw your face in absolute pleasure, whimpering and squirming around under him.

“No, lo’ak I��m ready! Fuck me! fuck me! fuck me!” You screamed, throwing your ass back on him, immediately finding the relief you were looking for. He was completely dumbfounded, watching you use him for your own pleasure.

“Mhmm! “Im not fucking you, lo’ak”…. Does that ring a bell, baby?” He spoke sensually, smacking your ass. He deemed it a good time to start meeting you halfway, thrusting into you firmly. Your eyes rolled back, smiling deliriously as your moans rippled with every hard stroke.

“Yesss! Keep fucking me just like that. I-it’s so *thrust* fucking *thrust* gooood!!” You whined, tears threatening to fall as you gnawed on the sheets deliriously. He watched you fall apart right before his eyes. And it sent him over the edge. He moaned loudly with you, throwing his head back as he drilled deeply into you.

“Shit baby! Let me see your wrists.” He moaned, watching you shift around slightly to expose your wrists to him. He untied you quickly, throwing the restraints across the room.

“Fuuuck!” You whined, reaching around to grab your cheeks, spreading them wide for him. He took this as an opportunity to stick his tongue out, letting his saliva glide down in between your folds. You turned your head, meeting his lustful gaze.

“Lo’ak, I fucking love youuuu!” You whined, moans staggered from his hard thrusts. He bit his lip, staring at your screwed face. “I love you more!” He moaned, jaw clenched as he watched your eyes roll back.

“N-Never leave me. Ok?” He grunted, grabbing your arm, and you clung to his arm as well. You two stared into each others eyes, as he tried to blink back tears, his emotions getting the best of him again. He didn’t know what you were doing to him, but he loved it. He had never felt this way about any other girl.

“I-I’m not going anywhere, baby! I promise!” You cried, feeling that familiar sensation from earlier. The eye contact had your stomach doing backflips, and you just couldn’t quite explain the way you felt for him. You didn’t know what he had done to you, but you couldn’t get enough. This moment that you two shared was indescribable. He couldn’t help but let his tears fall, biting his lip as he watched you share the same exact reaction. Tears blurring your vision as you let out a series of moans, maintaining the most dangerous eye contact. The type of eye contact that could make you fall In love, and you two were falling deep.

“I love you, y/n. I love you so fucking much!” He cried, voice shaky as he sped up the pace slighty. “I-I love you too!” You moaned before your legs started shaking beneath you.

“Cum with me, y/n. I know you’re just as close as me. I can feel it!” He grunted, smacking your ass once more. He felt his stomach tighten, signaling that he was going to cum any second.

“In me, please? I need it.” You whimpered, feeling his swollen tip slam against your sweet spot. His eyes widened at your request.

“You sure, my love?” He spoke breathily, focusing on his in coming orgasm. You nodded frantically, shutting your eyes tightly as you started to shake violently underneath him.

“OH MY- FUCK LO’AK! IM CUMMING!!!” You screamed, every stroke revealing his cream coated cock. “Shit, Me too! Me too!” He whimpered, before his jaw dropped. His thrusts became sloppy, releasing his seed inside of you, filling you up just how you asked him to.

“Mmm yesss, so good lo’ak!” You hummed, feeling his seed leak into your empty womb. You two came down from your highs, breathing hard as your sweaty bodies collapsed. You shifted around to face him. You both stared at each other, with new found love lingering in the air.

“Come here.” He chuckled lazily, gripping your neck before kissing you passionately. And you two kept this same energy all night. Fucking each other for hours and hours until you both finally crashed.

- - -

“LO’AK WHAT THE FUCK?” Echoing screams muffled in your mind, waking you up from your sleep. Your eyes squinted from the morning sun as you grimaced.

“LO’AK! ARE YOU FUCKING SERIOUS? WHO IS THIS BITCH IN YOUR BED?” A clearly angry voice shouted, waking you up completely. You saw a girl standing over you two. She went to hit him, immediately waking him up.

“WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING HERE? GET OUT!” He shouted, halting her attempts to hit him as he held her wrists together.

“W-What’s going on?” You spoke groggily, watching the entire scene unfold in-front of you. “Why are you in his FUCKING BED!” The girl hissed at you. Your eyes widened, wrapping the sheets around your naked body.

“I-I didn’t know you two were together.” You whispered, completely heartbroken. Your eye contact shifted between him and the girl he was holding onto for dear life, trying to stop her from hitting him.

“WE’RE NOT TOGETHER Y/N, I SWEAR ON MY LIFE! SHES JUST FUCKING CRAZY!” He growled, shifting off of the bed to push her out of the hut. It was a slight struggle before he pushed her out completely, shutting the door in her face. He faced the door for some time, knowing exactly what your reaction would be when he turned around.

“Y/n…I know what this looks like-“ he started before you cut him off. “No.” you spoke, voice shaky from your incoming breakdown. He turned around, darting over to you before kneeling next to the cot.

“Y/n, I swear! Me and that girl are not together! We had a one night stand a couple of weeks ago and that was it! I swear baby, please!” He rambled, tears streaming down his face.

“I-I’ve gotta go.” You whimpered, wiping tears from your puffy eyes. You pushed passed him, putting your cloths on swiftly before grabbing the rest of your things.

“Y/n, please! You said you’d never leave me, just let me explain. I-I can’t lose you. I CANT!” He cried, kneeling down in front of you. You stood before him, so confused on how you felt. A part of you knew it wasn’t his fault, but you just couldn’t take it. She wouldn’t be the last girl you had to deal with, and you knew that. You didn’t know if you were strong enough to deal with that. So you chose not to…

“I-I just need time to think. I can’t do this right now, lo’ak.” You spoke, barely above a whisper. “Please…” he whimpered, reaching out for your hand before you backed up from his embrace. Completely shattering his heart.

“I-…goodbye lo’ak.” You whispered before turning around, darting out of the hut door, not even looking back as you walked to your own hut.

And there he was. Just as empty, if not more, As the day you found him. And just like that, the cycle starts over…

Taglist: @number1gal @loak-bae @tiredmamaissy @neytirishottie @viajaeger @terrorthewolf @lethargicluv @reyzzsostellar @m0nst3rfk3r @agelsully @jakescumdump @wekiamo @st-cass @cleardonutangelwagon @tsireqas @satanlovedays @afro-hispwriter @thecutieyahia @urfavgirlmakenna @fanboyluvr @iameatingmyhair @secretflowerobservation @violet-19999 @neteyamsprincess @xreadersstuff @sweetllamaparadise @lia-nath @sullymenrhot @dotheyevenknowmars @xdbluesky @slay-nt @domino-x3-blog @ladylovegood-69 @itssomeonereading @sweetirilly @skxawngmia @downbadforloak @loaks-tanhi @loaksbabyy

[aamputation]

A Heavy Interlude

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The rain patters loudly against the window panes of the tiny apartment, falling from the sky with fervor in sheets thick enough to obscure vision. The skies are dark with clouds, heavy and looming where they loom ominously on the horizon. The scents of petrichor and ozone have hung heavy in the air all day, lurking like a jump scare one knows is coming but cannot avoid. It has left everything feeling tense and on edge—unpleasant and lingering, not unlike the scent of musty old cigarette smoke clinging to one’s clothing no matter how many times it runs through the wash. It’s blessedly dry and warm inside the small apartment, but the mess revealed within is beginning to accumulate to a level that blatantly inhibits basic functions, haven risen undoubtedly to the level of a den of distracted depression. It’s a painfully accurate reflection of the sole occupant’s state of mind—said occupant is currently sinking further into the cushions on the old couch as though attempting to assimilate with the half-disintegrating fibers.

It’s been three days since the last showdown with Villain.

It had been a big one, huge and dramatic, rife with bloody noses, shouting and snarls, gritted teeth and blackened eyes. Villain always has these grandiose plans, masterfully orchestrated with them at the helm like the most elegant of conductors. Quite frankly, a part of the Hero is always impressed by the sheer number of layers and overarching complexity of each of these schemes—the contingencies stacked high, accounting for nearly every potential hiccup. Villain’s mind is a gorgeous thing, deadly in its own right. They’d battled it out, neck and neck for nearly eighteen hours, a cat-and-mouse game where the Hero fought to dismantle the intricate web Villain had weaved, culminating in a fight that Hero had barely squeaked out a win in, (and suspects that Villain had let them win even now) breathless and shamefully awed by the indomitable adversary. The bruises still haven’t faded where they stain knuckles purple and yellow, painful with the right pressure. The Authority was concerned by the Hero’s apathy in the aftermath and had assigned mandatory leave. No complaints were lodged, which only served to assure Them that something was wrong. They aren’t, per se. Just not in the way They assume.

There’s been no word. 

Villain vanished into the aether—bloody, ferocious, and beautiful in their defiance even in the face of such defeat. Since the start of covert parleys that fill the Hero with far more joy and warmth than is probably acceptable by societal standards, Villain has consistently gotten word to the Hero that they’re safe and recovering after the encounters and within twenty four hours of the retreat, but this time, there’s been nothing but radio silence. Bandaged fingers clench into the soft fabric of the jogger sweatpants covering thick, muscular thighs as the Hero inhales sharply. This is uncharted territory. Feeling like this is absolutely ridiculous, and completely unacceptable.

According to The Authority, it’s a Hero’s Duty to worry about those they’ve sworn to protect, but... Heroes aren’t supposed to worry about the Villains they fight, the criminals they catch… the adversaries they put down. And yet, the Hero sits here, filled to the brim with fear for someone society would condemn a Hero in a heartbeat for caring for. A Hero, concerned about—fearing for—a Villain? Unheard of; a joke that’s so tragic no one would even laugh about it. Blood spills across taste buds as white teeth split open chapped, worried lips after the many hours of anxious biting finally have worn through the tender, sensitive flesh.

A mug of tea sits on a cork coaster atop the coffee table, long gone cold. The Hero stares blankly at the visage reflected back in the black, blank screen of the TV mounted on the wall across from the couch. Dark purple bruises circle dead eyes, sallow cheeks and a barren expression close companions on the pallid face that stares back. It’s a fitting look, the Hero thinks absently, for someone so pathetic and weak. It’s a blatant reminder of how deeply getting to know the Villain as more than just an adversary—humanizing the nemesis—has irrevocably changed the Hero, and the jury is still out on whether or not that shift in perception is for the better or worse.

Unfolding slowly from the couch, sore muscles screaming with the effort, the Hero stands vacantly in the living room like a shell of a robot, idling vacantly until the upload commands are received. Loosely-limbed and exhausted on emotional, mental, and physical levels, the Hero exhales slowly in a rattling sigh, blinking dull green eyes sluggishly, bruised lids heavy with fatigue.

A quiet knock against the glass breaks the muted silence of the apartment, echoing in the space alongside the white noise of the rain.

It startles the Hero, empty green eyes sparking to life. Immediately shooting towards the large window where the sound originated from, bruised and bandaged hands cling to the sill, shaking with the surge of adrenaline. Squinting into the darkness cast by the stormy atmosphere, the Hero presses bandaged fingers against the pane, only seeing the water-blurred yellow headlights of cars driving by in the distance. About to give up, having imagined it all, a large shape moves in the shadows against the wall of the apartment building. Gaze snapping in that direction, the Hero catches a flicker of violet flashing through the darkness briefly before it vanishes into the blackness.

Heart racing, the Hero throws open the window and the screen, half crawling out into the late night downpour, the cold rain running rivulets down rounded cheekbones and dripping from a ski-slope nose.

“Villain?!” the stage whisper is ringed with hope and desperation, “you there?”

“Keep it down, Hero,” the reply gusts by the Hero’s ear, the warm air raising gooseflesh up both arms. “No need for you to wake the entire neighborhood.”

“Oh thank god,” the Hero gasps, slipping back inside, the relief palpable as muscles immediately untense. Heart racing beneath the worn gray sweatshirt, the fabric across the shoulders saturated and dark with rainwater, the Hero runs to the linen closet. Deft, bruised hands grab towels haphazardly, rushing back to the living room. That same heart stutters at the sight of Villain perched in the open window, lounging like some sort of feline—or perhaps a gargoyle. One knee is pulled up towards their chest while the other is bent over the sill and dangling down towards the floor, the toe of their boot flat against the wood floors. They splay just enough to pull their trousers tight across their strong thighs, their spine making an elegant curve for the eye to follow, arched in a manner that is altogether far too seductive. Violet, angular eyes peer out from that sharp face, ash-blonde hair hanging nearly two shades darker and soaked across their forehead. A hand runs through the strands, pushing it back from their face as they keep that smoldering gaze locked on the Hero.

All at once, the Hero forgets how to breathe.

“Are you going to share those towels or are they all for you, darling?” Villain drawls, those shapely lips curling up into a devastating smirk.

Sputtering, face flaming, the Hero unceremoniously thrusts several of the towels at the smirking Villain, immediately retreating. It’s as though the heart beneath these ribs is trying its hardest to break free and fly away. The Hero watches as Villain towels off their soft blonde hair and their warm, brown skin. It’s clear they’re being careful passing over the mottled bruising the Hero is only just now noticing on the exposed areas of their mostly-covered body. Guilt rises hot and seething in a suddenly nauseous gut, and the room immediately feels far too small. Snatching up the cold mug off the coffee table, the Hero skitters into the small kitchen and sets the kettle on to brew more tea for two. 

So focused on the task of preparing a warm beverage for the guest, stewing in guilt and self-hatred, the Hero misses the soft padded footsteps of Villain as they follow into the kitchen.

“You’ve got a pretty cute place here, Hero,” Villain purrs, warm breath gusting auburn hair slightly with each spoken word, “although it seems you might need a bit of a hand tidying up. Shall I?”

“No, no–stop, it’s fine, you don’t have to do that!” the Hero sputters, embarrassed by the state of the apartment, the hot flush of blood filling pale cheeks both annoying and inevitable. Villain always seems to know how to reduce the Hero to a blushing, flustered mess. Something about the way their voice resonates in that broad chest, the richness of their tone just conjures goosebumps and dangerously aroused shivers. They move with purpose, sheer confidence—it’s not quite swagger, but self-assurance. Villain knows themself, isn’t ashamed of who they are and is never going to apologize for being themself. It’s far more attractive than the Hero wants to admit. As embarrassing as it is to accept, just existing in Villain’s presence is quite frankly less of an annoyance and more of a welcome delight with each passing day. The Hero has no idea what that says about what’s happened to the rigid morals that used to exist like a shield.

Villain raises one of those impeccable eyebrows, piercing eyes locking onto the Hero’s face with a laser focus that makes the Hero swallow with nerves. They take a step closer, crowding the Hero against the lower cabinets, the curve of the redhead’s back pressing against the edge of the countertops. The motion exaggerates the arch in the Hero’s spine and causes a rush of breathlessness, long eyelashes fluttering against flushed cheekbones as a soft gasp escapes on an exhalation. Bruised knuckles go white where hands have a death grip on the edge of the counter.

Villain’s face is right against the Hero’s, cheek to cheek—soft lips caressing the lobe of the Hero’s ear, words no louder than a whisper as they speak.

“And what if I wanted to help you? What then, my darling Hero? Would you… stop me?”

The whistling of the kettle disguises the whimper that escapes chapped, bitten lips, and the Hero uses it as cover to break out of the gentle pin Villain has. Quivering with unused potential and aching with desire, the Hero pours the hot water over the tea bags and starts the mental timer for a proper steep.

“You truly are a dutiful host, darling.”

Villain’s voice is soft, affectionate—the seductive tone no longer present. The Hero is surprisingly disappointed at the loss, glancing sneakily at the statuesque figure leaning against the counter like a model straight out of a fantasy. Once again, gloved hands drag slowly through damp blonde strands, pushing it back from a bronze forehead, violet eyes shut as an angular jaw tilts upwards with the motion. There’s absolutely zero intentional seduction in the action, but it’s unbearably sexy regardless. All at once, the Hero despises how effortless it all is for Villain. How easy it is for them to just be so damn attractive, in everything they do, all the time. Biting a lip that still tastes a bit of blood, the Hero watches Villain straighten themself back out, some of their ash-blonde hair slipping back across their forehead, dark violet eyes sliding back in Hero’s direction.

“What tea have you decided on?”

“A-Ah, just a simple decaf Lady Gray…”

Villain hums, the sound like a rich, velvet rumbling caress against the Hero’s eardrums. It’s unfair how easily Villain is able to just… to be so damn sexy.

“Another minute of brew time, then. I trust you’ll remove the tea bags, my dear?”

At the Hero’s affirmative nod, Villain pushes off from where they’ve lounged easily against the kitchen counter and starts picking up the bits of trash scattered around the apartment. The Hero wants to protest, the tongue behind white teeth feels like it is suddenly far too big, too clumsy and unusable. Watching with wide green eyes, the Hero witnesses the efficiency with which Villain tidies the mess the Hero has made over the past few days, tossing trash into the bin and gathering the collection of water cups from the various places around the apartment to migrate back to the kitchen sink.

“Thank you… you didn’t have to do that, you know.”

Villain smiles, a crooked little thing that makes the traitorous heart living beneath sturdy ribs flutter wildly in reaction. “I am well aware, my dear Hero.”

Flushing, the Hero turns a flustered gaze back to the tea. Removing the tea bags is easy, as is pulling out the box of sugar cubes and the milk from the fridge. Setting both on the counter next to the mugs, the Hero pushes the mug across the counter towards Villain, still feeling bashful. Quickly dropping in two sugar cubes and a splash of milk, the tea is a welcome distraction. The blush has yet to dissipate.

“Thank you, darling,” Villain says, affection dripping from every word like thick, viscous honey. The Hero can’t look up from the beverage held in the death grip of bandaged hands, swallowing another sip of milky, sweet tea. The sounds of a spoon clinking the sides of a mug and the rain against the building are the only sounds in the apartment, Villain and Hero standing less than two feet apart in the small kitchen of the Hero’s apartment.

The Hero swallows, nervous.

“I do hope you don’t consider this an imposition, my dear,” Villain says quietly, a hesitance to their tone that the Hero isn’t used to hearing from them, “but I am not unfamiliar with mess and the implications that sometimes go along with it. So, forgive me if I am off base, but. Are you… alright?”

The Hero’s head jerks up, green eyes widening to stare in shock. Villain shifts slightly, violet eyes sliding off to the side, unable to maintain eye contact. Their body language is… unsure, those strong shoulders curled inward as though they’re trying to make their already tall, impressive presence smaller somehow. Long, gloved fingers fidget against the rim of their mug and the buckles of the harness spanning their broad chest. They look… they look shy.

“I…” the Hero swallows, taking a breath before continuing, “I didn’t hear from you like I normally do. I was… worried.”

Villain raises their chin, elegant, slanted violet eyes widening in surprise while full lips part in a soft ‘o’ shape. A very subtle flush blooms across the tops of angular, defined cheekbones, making them look young.

“You were?”

The Hero frowns, brow furrowing. “Of course I was. Why wouldn’t I be?”

Villain looks away, suddenly tense. A muscle in their cheek jumps as they clench their jaw, and the Hero fights the impulse to reach out and brush it away.

“I do try not to delude myself, my dear. As fond as I have become of you, the fact remains that you remain firmly on the side of the angels and I…” a self-depreciating chuckle escapes their chest, “I am very much not, darling."

Their exhale is soft, gossamer in the rain-quiet apartment. "I wasn’t born to be soft and quiet. I was supposed to make the world shake and shatter at my fingertips. You were born to save it.”

The Hero is offended on Villain’s behalf, “So-fucking-what?”

Villain blinks rapidly, clearly taken aback by the ferociously spat response.

“Who gives a shit about sides or whatever? Side of the angels? What the fuck does that even mean, Villain?” the Hero snaps, slugging down the entire contents of the mug clenched in bandaged hands. The ceramic gets slammed down onto the counter with enough force that the handle cracks clean off, but the Hero hardly notices. “I may have to fight you because of my job, but you—the you that is separate from the occupation—are my friend, dammit! Of course I’m going to worry about you when I don’t hear from you in over forty eight hours! I beat the ever-loving shit out of you, Villain! Why did you let me beat you so badly?” The Hero feels the burn of tears in the back of the throat, eyes tight with the effort of holding them back. “If you keep being this careless, one of these times you’re not going to be able to walk away at all!”

Villain’s head tilts as they gaze down at the Hero, a warm expression settling over their face, affection plain in their violet eyes. Tension bleeds out of their body all at once and the Hero just feels more frustrated at the reaction. Why don’t they understand? They matter! Why aren’t they taking this seriously?

“Isn’t that the entire point of our relationship, my dear?” they murmur, smiling gently. “You’re supposed to put a permanent stop to my schemes. That is your goal, isn’t it?”

The Hero stops breathing.

“I’ve always known, darling. You agreed to our parleys because you hoped I’d slip up, reveal something you could use to your advantage.” They chuckle again, the sound so sad to the Hero’s ears. “Well, your greatest advantage was making me grow to care for you.”

Villain takes a step forward, directly in front of the still, breathless Hero, one gloved hand reaching out to caress along the curve of a pale jawline with the tenderest of touches. The affection in their eyes makes an already fluttering heart race wildly beneath ivory ribs.

“I’d probably still adore you with your hands around my throat,” they say, such a violent statement somehow sounding so unbearably romantic that the Hero feels dizzy with it all. 

“You will always be the victor, my beloved. Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side. Somewhere along the way, you ruined me without even trying. Sentiment for you I have in spades.”

“I never had the chance to be soft,” VIllain murmurs, their face inching closer and closer to the Hero’s, those gorgeous violet eyes half lidded and overflowing with far too many emotions to name. “I was always bloody knuckles and shards of glass, burying myself in my science and technology and donning it like armor.”

Their breath smells like tea and the Hero can’t help but want to taste it from their mouth; to lick the remnants from their teeth and tongue. Villain grows even closer and the Hero’s eyelashes flutter, breath shallow and shaky.

“I wanted people to be afraid of hurting me,” their lips ghost against the Hero’s with each murmured word, “and it worked. Instead of being afraid, I became something to fear.”

“I…” the Hero whispers breathlessly, “I’m not afraid.”

“You should be, darling,” Villain purrs, lips blatantly dancing against the Hero’s in what can only be a pseudo-kiss. “I’m not the good guy, remember?” They back away, violet eyes dark with emotion and—oh shit—desire. They lick their lips, crowding the Hero further against the countertops, trailing their mouth up the column of the Hero’s throat to pause at the shell of the Hero’s ear, whispering, “I’m the selfish one. I take what I want, I do what I want. And I don’t do the right thing.”

“You’re important to me, you piece of shit,” the Hero raggedly breathes out, aiming for a casual joke and missing by miles. Shaking with held-back desire, it all comes spilling out like a breaking dam.

“You constantly don’t do the right thing, Villain, and yet… I trust you completely.”

A sharp inhalation. Then, whispered,

“... you do realize that this is going to end very, very badly..?”

“Shut. Up.” The Hero hisses, battered hands snapping out and fisting bandaged fingers into long, ash-blonde hair, pulling a breathless gasp from the Villain. Gloved hands clutch to the Hero’s hips, tight enough that the Hero knows there will be bruises, especially where their robotic right hand clenches on the left hip.

“I want you to confess to me every terrible thing you’ve done and then let me adore you anyway,” the Hero snarls, “And maybe, just maybe, it won’t end badly, and go horribly right instead.”

The kiss is sudden, sharp, and ferocious; demanding in its intensity. No longer a Hero and a Villain, the two clutch at each other in the tiny apartment kitchen, desperate for each other and finally allowed to take.

It’s perfect.

And it’s everything.

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My designs for Villain and Hero found [ here ]

shout out to adornedwithlight for the reblog banner & barbed wire divider

[nomelwelloy]

Legolss drabble / imagine | Legolas x reader

☆彡

Legolas nimbly dismounts his horse, giving it a soft pat as he hands it over to the stable hand, before he navigates the winding streets of the White City, up steep flights of stairs, weaving through fish markets and stone gardens, until he reaches the shopping streets and dips into the jeweller’s store.

You look up at the rattle of the door chime and a smile blooms on your face, as does a warm feeling in your chest. “Legolas,”

“Darling,” he says with a quiet rush of air, like the sight of you has stolen his breath. His smile mirrors yours, and his eyes shine. “My apologies for the wait,” he pads around the counter, peering at your workstation. He touches your shoulder, desperate for the slightest connection to you even while you’re in the midst of work, yet cautious enough of your task at hand.

When you secure the final ringlet to the headband, however, it is swiftly set aside to crush him in your arms.

Almost like a competition, Legolas squeezes you as tightly, taking a deep breath as he presses his face into your shoulder. You do the same, tightening your hold while he waltzes the two of you into the middle of the shop, doing a little spin on the spot.

He smells of fresh earth and jasmine and ozone, but his hair carries the slightest hint of his citrus-scented wash. This tugs at your heart, and you’re suddenly hit with immense nostalgia; brief flashes of memories in Mirkwood, of days spent lounging in bed, sparring and racing one another through the forest’s twisting, ancient trees, and stargazing by those said trees, sometimes falling asleep to her soothing winds and quiet lullaby. Legolas would watch over you when you do, his hands soft on your hair in absentminded ministrations.

You sigh into his neck. “I’ve missed you,”

You can feel his smile, and his hand comes up to the back of your neck, stroking fondly. “As did I,” he brushes over your lips with his own. “My love,” he presses a littler firmer. “My starlight,” Legolas steals another breath, his mouth moving ardently against yours. “Meleth nin,”

You melt against him before you even know it, going weak in the knees when that familiar term of endearment slips past his lips. You’ve ached to hear it for months, imagined it on lonely nights and busy days until finally, your lover is before you, quelling the absolute longing you didn’t know was so intense, until he stepped through the door.

Your eyes are closed, relishing in his warmth when you hear a noise from outside. Cracking open one eye, your face flushes when you see one of your regulars knocking the glass window, a teasing grin plastered into her face. You instantly move away, groaning inwardly with a little wave, and you are already begging for the floor to open up and swallow you whole right there.

“Hello, hello!”

The door jingles, and Legolas turns, naturally placing himself between you and her. “Good afternoon,”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt such a sweet moment,” she giggles, pressing a hand to her mouth. “I just wanted to check on that order I placed,” she gestured, “the hair piece?”

You clear your throat and straighten yourself, going behind the counter to retrieve the package. “Here,” you pass it to her and receive her payment. “Just in time for the festival too,” you add, but her arching grin makes it difficult for you to continue being polite.

“Oh yes,” she glances between the two of you with another sweet smile, “Everyone will be there, it’s going to be wonderful!” she hugs the package to her chest. “It’s about to start! Don’t want to be late,” she turns to Legolas before she leaves, shooting him another grin. “It was so lovely to meet you, I’ll see you two later!”

When the door finally shuts, you groan, cursing quietly, much to Legolas’s amusement.

“She… she’s a bit of a gossip,” you explain, head in your hands. “Always nosying about other people’s lives…” you huff in exasperation. “Oh, she’ll have the time of her life with this!”

“We cannot let her have all the fun.” Legolas grabs your hand and he twirls you on the spot. “Shall we go too? I even brought the tunic you liked,”

You feign a gasp. “You came all prepared! How devious!”

Legolas laughs, pressing a kiss to your temple, gently rocking you sideways in a little dance. “It has been too long,”

You hum in agreement, letting a brief silence settle as you consider the idea of going, of all this time and distance you’ve spent apart, waiting and making do with irregular letters and quiet longing.

You feel the adrenaline begin to build in your veins, and with a firm resolve you twirl Legolas around, catching him close to you. “It is decided! A festival we shall go, and a gift I have prepared, for my princely elf.”

The handmade circlet that rests upon his head is perhaps your finest work to date: Thin silver curling gently in ornamental half ellipses upon his forehead, encasing a small round moonstone in the center, metal curving around it like vines. It’s random moments throughout the night when you dance and drink and laugh yourselves silly until your stomachs hurt, and Legolas has to catch you before you trip over yourself, when the circlet catches the light and reflects the same soft shine in his gaze towards you. It is stirring, and it makes the months of waiting and yearning all seem like a foggy memory, now that you are back in each others arms.

☆彡

a/n: more of an idea dump that just kept going until it became this! I am not entirely clear on the city’s layout and have written it very generically but I find it quite fun to come up with things esp given it’s awesome structure?? hope you enjoyed reading it though! (also thank you for all the love on the most recent Legolas drabble ;; <3333)

[tunnelofdusk]

jjk ficlet: gego, a/b/o, dubious consent

wc: 1234 words

Yaga Masamichi has no delusions about his role—he sends children to die. They call him sensei as he teaches them how to kill—how to maim. It is for the greater good and he teaches these children to find purpose in the lives they will save with their power. 

Masamichi teaches his children to kill curses and curse users. They are not meant to hurt each other and yet, Masamichi listens as Gojō Satoru fiercely defends his new alpha. 

“He didn’t know I was in heat. It’s not his fault,” Gojō says. 

But he did know. I told him. 

Helplessly, Masamichi stares at Getō Suguru’s unlined face. The gentle curve to his mouth makes Masamichi wonder where he went wrong in teaching him. The magnitude of this betrayal could break Gojō, who is already disillusioned by the fiasco of the Star Plasma Vessel incident, and Getō knows this. How placid his eyes are—daring Masamichi to shatter his own student to pieces. 

—

Dried blood splatter flakes off the curve of Getō Suguru’s jaw as he enters Yaga-sensei’s office for a preliminary debrief of his assignment. He smiles and more blood flakes off. It itches his skin but his hands still stay loose at his sides. There is blood beneath his fingernails, tinting them pink. 

Yaga-sensei waves a dismissive hand when Suguru’s eyes flicker down to the red-flaked carpet. “How did it go?” he asks. Seated behind his desk as Suguru stands at attention, he idly shuffles a pile of papers. 

“I executed the curse user,” Suguru says. “Unfortunately, his hostage didn’t survive the fight.”

The deepening frown on Yaga-sensei’s face is not an unfamiliar sight, but Suguru does not care. His casualties grow higher and the higher-ups stay silent as long as their dirty work gets done. The death of a monkey here and there has no impact upon the world of jujutsu sorcerers. What does the lion care about the ant? 

(“Jujutsu exists to protect non-jujutsu sorcerers.” How naïve.)

“He was just a kid,” Yaga-sensei murmurs. 

So was I.

“I’ll hand in my report tomorrow, sensei,” Suguru says. He is still smiling, muscles aching,  and blood is still flaking off his face—a decaying mask disguising nothing. 

“Ah, fine. Wash up…Would it have killed you to have at least cleaned up a bit before you came in?” Yaga-sensei grumbles.

“Hey, at least I’m not like Satoru. You can barely get a debrief out of him,” Suguru says wryly. 

Yaga-sensei shifts in his seat. “Speaking of Gojō-kun,” he says, “be careful. He just went into heat.”

All the muscles in Suguru’s body tense for a fleeting moment. Under Yaga-sensei’s sharpening gaze, he relaxes and smiles. “I always am careful,” he says as his canines begin to ache. Nowhere near his own rut, and yet, venom pools bitter in his mouth.

Yaga-sensei dismisses Suguru with a few words, and the smile sloughs off Suguru’s face once he exits Yaga’s office. Be careful, Yaga says. Be careful. Suguru is tired of caring—of caring so deeply that he hollows himself out. Ever since Amanai’s murder, he and Satoru exist on parallel paths as the higher-ups bury them under curses and curse users to kill and kill and kill—

The scent of ozone suffuses the air outside Satoru’s door, escaping its imperfect seal. Instinct has led Suguru here. He wonders if Satoru can smell him, heat and cursed energy elevating his senses to inhumanity. After all, only jujutsu sorcerers still atavistically bear alpha and omega traits—the primitive world of surviving amongst predator and prey reflected in their monstrosity. The life of a jujutsu sorcerer is about survival and bearing offspring to propagate bloodshed.

Suguru lingers outside Satoru’s door, jaw ever so slightly unhinged and exposing glistening canines. He could never forget the taste of Satoru’s skin, the scent of him, the sight of him flushed with his first heat and the way Satoru had almost been his until Yaga had stumbled upon them—juvenile scents turning acrid with the first bloom of maturity. And now Suguru and Satoru haven’t talked to each other in days…

A soft keen ensnares Suguru’s attention and he splays a palm across the door. One movement and he could change the trajectory of their lives. Satoru will leave Suguru behind if things continue as they are. Is it so wrong of Suguru to do what is best for them? Poor Satoru—too powerful, too pretty, too arrogant to be left alone. They will isolate Satoru in a cage of his own making and Satoru will let them—is letting them. 

You’re my best friend, Satoru had said, trying to cajole Suguru into another Digimon marathon. And Suguru had burned with the indignity of it all—a fire in the pit of his chest where longing blows sweetly on dormant coals. Best friend? Suguru spends his nights lying in bed and listening to Satoru’s nightly routines as if awaiting the sun to set in his sight. He now knows him only by the sound of him—the creak of his bed as he collapses in a mess of limbs and the sweet exhales of his burdened body. 

You left me and never gave me the chance to catch up, Suguru whispers.

“Suguru?” Satoru says hoarsely. His bare feet audibly pad across the floor and Suguru knows that the distance between them only relies on this flimsy door. The social contract of jujutsu sorcerers—the polite fiction that doors and locks can keep each other out when they regularly break concrete and warp metal with their human bodies. 

“Satoru,” Suguru dares to croon, hot breath fanning across the door—so close is he. “I thought we were going to watch Digimon tonight?”

“...Digimon?” Satoru says. 

The shakiness of Satoru’s voice incites Suguru’s heart to beat quicker and quicker in anticipation—a hawk catching sight of a lame rabbit and preparing to swoop down. They are on the edge of precipice, but heat disables Satoru’s mental faculties—none of his wit and charm maneuvering him out of this situation. Only Suguru knows the pheromonal danger blooming in this moment.

“Satoru, let me in,” Suguru says. “We’ll watch Digmon like you promised.”

“I…promised?” Satoru says haltingly. He pants softly at the conclusion of his words, like a dog dying of heat. A bitch.

“Satoru,” Suguru croons. You know me, the undertones promise. Deliberately, he pulls down the collar of his shirt and rolls his sleeves back to bare his scent glands. The scent of sandalwood fills the air—heavy and redolent. There is nobody else on this floor; there is nobody to accuse him of manipulating an omega in heat with the scent of a trusted alpha. Even now, Satoru knows who his alpha is. How beautifully he responds.

“Suguru,” Satoru exhales. He opens the door.

Out of heat, Satoru is a beauty—all long limbs, long lashes, pouty mouth, and bratty behavior. In heat—Satoru is just as Suguru remembers from that fateful few months ago in the gymnasium. Satoru’s first heat had struck like lightning, illuminating the fertile, febrile nature of his body. The flush of his skin, the soft part of his mouth, the grace of his body surrendering…the scent of him…the taste of him…the curve of his mouth…the dip of his waist…the flesh of his hips…the curve of his ass…skin upon skin upon skin upon—

Satoru’s first heat had triggered Suguru’s first rut.

Now, Suguru does not have the excuse of his rut for the actions he takes. 

[mayashesfly]

Gathering the Pixels Left Behind

Relationship: Valentino/Vox, Valentino & Vox, One-sided Alastor/Vox, RadioSilence Tags: Soft Valentino, Fluff, Angst, (Emotional) Hurt/Comfort, Nightmares, Post-Sex, Post-Coital Cuddling, Sharing a Bed

After a wonderful night with Valentino in his arms, Vox can't help but fall asleep in contentment. While Valentino thinks about how much Vox was running himself ragged ever since the Radio Demon's disappearance. ...his dream started off so well... So imagine Valentino's shock upon seeing the nightmare Vox was having on his screen. And the emotions and vulnerability that came with it.

Read on AO3

"Dreams rarely make sense" "Yet so, I stayed"

━━━━━━━━━

The post-sex bliss washed over Valentino as he sighed in contentment, smiling softly to himself as he cuddled with the out of sorts tv demon. Still loading up as his fans whirled from the exertion, shoulders lax as Valentino looked him over.

For all the horrid things Valentino is, these times with Vox is the only time he enjoyed the post-sex scene as he waits for his partner to slowly resurface from his brains getting fucked out.

Valentino hummed in contentment as he traced the edges of Vox's physique. Careful not to touch anymore of his erogenous parts. His pale blue skin contrasted nicely with his cyan gills. Broad shoulders thinning to a nice snatchy waist and a soft cute belly.

Vox looked beautiful like this, unchained from his perfect pristine appearance. The nearly ever present smile. The unending scowl from stress. Too riled up and kept taut that Valentino couldn't help but want to unravel what kept him so restrained.

Once upon a time, dear Vox wasn't nearly as controlling with himself and his surroundings.

Though that was a time of transition. A time without much power.

He had always gotten the feeling Vox wanted more than power. More than attention.

Whether or not that shy little boy from before was all an act, he didn't know. All he knew now was how much he clung to control.

And oh, how desperately Valentino wanted Vox to give up control just for him. To finally let go and just be.

These times were just like that. Vox pliant underneath his fingers and caress. Fans whirling in overdrive as that beautiful shade of red graced his screen, his blush beating to the sound of his own heart. Crying out his name as his voice glitched and buffered, reaching a high only he would allow Valentino to see.

(Perhaps that's just a daydream, as surely Vox has used his service once a few times himself. He wouldn't blame him)

Vox's screen finally flickered back to life. Light dim from the tired bliss as his blurry face stared at Valentino with a soft smile. His fans slowing to a more contented whirl, almost like a purr.

"Wow..." He simply said as he studied Valentino's face with his own eyes. Noting the soft grin he graced him with as his hand rested on Vox's bare chest, in between his dark blue buttons.

"Had a good time, mi amor?" He asked, eyes half-lidded as he stared into his bright blue eyes before slowly trailing down to his relaxed smile.

A flicker of amusement crossed his flushed face. "Yeah... I did" He replied. Before he slowly leaned up, cupping Valentino's chin gently as their mouths softly intertwined.

There was no tongue. No heat. No rush.

As Valentino slowly melted in such gentleness. Their breaths melding into one another as he took in the wonderful scent of ozone and pheromones.

When they parted, Vox had a wonderful grin on his screen. Eyes half-closed with a self-satisfied smile as he asked deeply, "Satisfied?"

Valentino squeaked sweetly in agreement, wrapping all of his arms around Vox. His wings draping over the both of them as they cuddled. "Yes"

Their eyes slowly fell down, closing shut as they basked in each other's presence. Listening to each other's slow breaths and heartbeats before drifting off to sleep.

━━━━━━━━━

Vox dreamed of gentle mornings, slow mornings as he didn't need to rise and shine early to broadcast. Smiling softly to himself as he admired his partner's work. The smell of freshly cooked meat and vegetables permeating through the air with the sweet smell of smoke.

Bright smiles and gentle laughter as they banter. Talking about themself and each other before exchanging kisses. Some soft turning into heated as tongues pressed together and his back meets the counter.

The taste of pheromones and liquor. And blood.

His chin being propped up with gentle fingers as he stared up towards his partner. Content with watching their beautiful smile grow before diving in.

Cane and hooves tapping on the floor before the cool microphone meets his chin. Head heavy but buzzing with delight that he could float off into heaven.

Red smoke. Red suit. Black antennas. Black ears.

The soft and intense gaze.

He melts under.

His heart full of affection as he stared at his lover. Cupping their chin gently as he moved away their hair. Their hand holding his.

"Mi amor"

"My good pal"

Smoke billows as their eyes half-closed. A content smile gracing their lips as they stared at him. Grip tightening.

Before the shadows fade. Disappearing with the wind.

A slow creep of dread clutched his heart as he looked around his surroundings getting darker and darker. The lingering touch becoming cold.

He shivered from the cold. Billions of eyes staring at him unseen in the darkness, judging him.

"Alastor?" His voice called out in the darkness.

"Alastor? Where are you?" Vox called out again, voice wavering in the dead silence. Shaking as he took a blind step.

Static rang in his ears. In his head. In his chest.

He ran.

"ALASTOR!!!!!"

He looked around in the darkness in panic. Breath heaving in exhaustion as his fans whirled in overdrive.

"ALASTOR WHERE ARE YOU?!!!!"

He felt the broken lines gathering in his screen as he tried not to tear up. Voice warbling as his throat filled with static.

No no no no no... He couldn't be gone! He coUlDN'T BE GONE!!!! HE COULDN'T BE GONE!!!!!

"ALASTOR!!!! PLEASE ANSWER ME!!!!!!" Please be alive. Please be alive. Please be aLiVE     

He paused upon seeing it.

A trail of red... leading to.... something.....

His screen blacking out as he stares at the striking color.

No.... it couldn't be.....

He follows the red road.

Screen blank as he merely walks.

And walks. And walks. And walks. And walks. And walks and walks and walks and walks and walks and sees      

Him.

━━━━━━━━━

Valentino slowly blinks awake as a soft light encompassed the room.

He smiled softly as he stared at his partner's screen. Unsurprised to see a soft domestic scene gracing his screen.

It was blurry, a myriad of colors and pictures. Almost like a watercolor painting that shifted and changed with the wind and way of water.

It was quite surprising seeing his partner dream of something so domestic at first.

He was always such a workaholic. Barely having any time for breaks or even eat a proper meal. Resorting to cans of Volts and bowls of Voot Loops to get through the day. Not stopping by once as he moved from meeting to meeting, appearance to appearance, broadcast to broadcast, and surveillance in just one day.

He closed his eyes, allowing Vox the privacy of his mind. He was just content knowing that Vox was having a good dream. Hell knows he needs it, after all.

Valentino drifted off to sleep yet again until he felt Vox shift in his sleep. Bleary and confused, Valentino peaked out an eye to look at his partner turning in his sleep.

His breaths were uneven. Heaving as he turned his head. His fans whirling in overdrive. Mumbling to himself as streaks of dead pixels started to appear on his face.

Valentino sat up. Eyes wide as a single sob wracked through his voice box. "Al    no"

More and more lines gathered at his face as his screen seems to break apart in lines. Valentino tried not to look at the scene behind the dead pixels as he tried to carefully shake Vox awake.

"Vox     wake up. Wake up! It's just a dream!" A desperate trill entered his throat as he tries to wake Vox up from his nightmare.

Still he saw the red color that caused his nightmare. Caused the gathering of lines of dead pixels in place of his tears.

A flash of anger struck his heart as he thought about that ugly radio demon. How dare he just up and disappear after hurting him and destroying Vox.

(His antenna still throb in phantom pain)

And now here he is, gathering the pieces Vox foolishly let himself be ripped away by the Radio Demon.

"v-Al.... i'm so sorry......"

His fury disappears as his heart throbs for his partner.

He stops shaking him awake as he carefully held his chin.

Freezing, Vox stopped shaking as he slowly falls limp in his touch.

Relaxing, Val could barely see his face from all the dead pixels. But still he whispers softly, "It's okay, Vox... I'm here. Val is here. It was just a dream"

His thumb rubbed Vox's screen as if he was trying to wipe away his tears. But it did nothing towards the dead pixels still decorating his screen.

A wave went through the pixels as Vox slowly croaked out, "Val...?"

His voice warbled in radiowaves. And Val couldn't help but chuckle, teary-eyed. "Seems like my sleeping beauty finally woke up"

Waves continued to move through his screen as the dead pixels slowly disappear with each one. "Val, I can't see you"

"Pixels, my dear" He informed, slowly lifting his hand from his face to rest it on his shoulder instead as he tried not to breath outloud in relief.

He never likes having to deal with Vox's nightmares...

"Oh..."

His voice sounded out so small. Probably embarrassed to know Valentino saw him like that.

"I'm so sorry"

Valentino huffed in exasperation. "There's nothing to be sorry about, mi amor. I can understand if my flat-faced prince needs to cry sometimes"

Till this day, Valentino was honestly surprised when Vox admitted to him that was how he cried. It warmed his heart that he trusted him as much as it crushed him.

There was so many dead pixels. So many dead pixels within the dead silence of radio and static.

He swears he won't do the same.

(Although Valentino was nothing but unable to keep his word.

At least he stayed. )

[tornadotame]

𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 𝐓𝐎 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐄 𝐀𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐊𝐀𝐓𝐄

WHAT THEY LOOK LIKE. standing at 5’6”, kate’s build can be described as deceptively delicate. with long legs and arms, thin wrists, and not much in terms of curves, she holds a wiry sort of strength, built from a childhood of farm-chores and a young adulthood of hefting around at times heavy meteorological equipment. her hair’s natural shade is a dark golden brown, though she’s been lightening it for years. it’s thick, and holds a gentle wave when she doesn’t straighten it. very large, very dark brown eyes framed with thick lashes peer out of a somewhat sharply formed face, with a pointed nose, squared off chin, high cheekbones and ears that are a touch prominent. her mouth is wide in her face, with a lower lip slightly more full than the upper, often slicked with a hint of sheer pink lipstick.

kate doesn’t tan, she freckles and burns, so she wears sunscreen religiously and can occasionally look very washed-out and pale.

one thing most do notice about kate, especially when wearing shorts or sundresses, is the long, prominent scar dragging down her left thigh, caused by flying debris, cut deep enough to reach bone. starting just below her hip, and ending an inch or so above her knee, she has only recently started showing it, though the injury is five years old. she also has smaller scars littered across her body, and a botched stick-&-poke tattoo in the shape of a twister on her ribs, just below her right breast.

WHAT THEY SMELL LIKE. kate has a preference for clean, fresh scents. bergamot and citrus, patchouli and fresh grass, that sort. she enjoys wearing rain by clean when it comes to perfume, and likes lemon scented shampoos and soaps. coffee and cigarette smoke also clings faintly to her, as well as hay and old wood whenever she’s back home in sapulpa. when she’s out in the field damp earth, grass and ozone tends to linger on her clothes, mixed with sweat.

WHAT THEY TASTE LIKE. sweet tea, coffee and mint. she’s trying to quit smoking, a habit she picked up in her years living in new york, so she’s frequently chewing gum or sucking on mints or guzzling caffeine. she isn’t picky when it comes to alcohol, she tried the assortment of cocktails and high-end drinks when she was in the city and going out on perfunctory friday nights with co-workers, but she genuinely just prefers beer.

WHAT THEY SOUND LIKE. kate worked hard to mask her natural oaklahoman accent, to avoid people asking her where she was from, so at times her voice can come across a touch flat and emotionless. but it slips out regardless when she’s back home, especially when talking with other southerners. the elongated vowels, the slight drawl. her voice is a touch breathy and girlish, though she can easily turn sharp and blunt in a snap.

WHAT THEY FEEL LIKE. kate has poor circulation in her legs, especially her left, so her feet are almost always cold. her hands though, are small and warm, with faint scars on her palms from her nails digging into them when she held onto the overpass during the ef5. she does keep her nails trimmed neat and short, and uses hand cream religiously so her skin doesn’t crack. she’s very lean, somewhat bony to the touch, and the scar on her thigh feels knotted and raised. when kate hugs someone, she holds on for dear life, throwing her entire heart and soul into it, and it shows.